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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 17 days ago

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The Tiger & The Moon

Pairing: Circus performer! Kwon Soonyoung x Artist! F. Reader

Wordcount: 12.7K

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Slight Bodyworship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames - Reassurances and clear consent (this is incredibly soft lovemaking)

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

It’s the sound of drums that draws you in.

Not hunger, though that gnaws in your stomach like it always does. Not the wind, though it hisses cold through the hem of your tattered skirt. Not even the need for safety—because that’s something you stopped believing in the moment your legs carried you across the city’s edge, away from the suffocating perfume and filthy hands of the brothel.

It’s the drums. Low. Rhythmic. Hypnotic.

You stumble across a dew-drenched field just past midnight, led only by the flickering glow of distant lanterns and the echo of music that feels like something ancient. It beats like a second heart inside you. Ahead, the tents bloom like massive, sleeping flowers—red and gold, navy and cream—sprawling beneath the stars in messy rows.

A travelling circus.

You’ve heard stories, of course. Dancers who bend like willow trees, men who swallow swords, tigers that leap through hoops of fire. But in the city, in the brothel, dreams were things beaten out of you with the back of a hand. Here, dreams seem to shimmer above the grass like fireflies.

You hover at the edge of the makeshift grounds, wrapped in a stolen cloak two sizes too big, fingers curled into the sleeves. You don’t belong here. You know that.

But then the drumbeat quickens, and something else begins—something theatrical and alive. A cheer from the crowd. The hush of anticipation. And the metallic snap of spotlights flooding the massive tent’s entrance.

You slip through the shadows, heart racing, eyes darting. No one sees you. No one cares to. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.

You crouch behind crates stacked near the back of the tent—costumes, ropes, props—and peer through a narrow flap left ajar. The scent of sawdust and sweat curls in the air, but it’s not unpleasant. Not like the sweet, rotting perfume they used to force on your skin.

Inside, the ringmaster stands in the centre, announcing acts with a booming voice and a sharp smile, cracking his whip-like punctuation. The audience roars as a woman juggles knives on horseback, her braid flying behind her. A man in glittering blue dives through a column of fire.

You watch, wide-eyed, breathless.

But then he appears.

Not from the center. No. From the shadows. From the ceiling. He swings down from a rope like gravity never applied to him at all—legs bent, body twisting midair, tiger stripes painted onto his chest in glittering gold and black.

You forget to breathe.

He’s wearing nothing but loose black pants, his shoulders flexing with each spin. His movements are sharp, primal, choreographed to the beat of the drums. When he lands, the entire tent goes silent, as if waiting for him to roar.

And he does. Not with sound. With movement.

A flip. A clawing gesture. A slide across the floor that ends with him kneeling, hand outstretched toward the crowd. They erupt.

Your pencil is in your hand before you realise it.

You pull a crumpled sheet of paper from your pocket and begin to sketch, hands working almost on instinct. Curves. Angles. His shoulders. The grace. You don’t think. You just draw.

And then his gaze flicks sideways, right to where you are hidden.

Your fingers still. Your chest goes tight. You convince yourself he doesn’t see you through the curtain of crates and outfits.

His eyes are impossibly warm and impossibly dark. And for a second—just a second—he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t grin. He just looks.

But then he’s gone again, dancing, spinning, leaping into the air as if the moment never happened. You watch him until the lights dim, the applause roars, and the ringmaster calls for the next act.

You don’t realise your drawing is finished until your pencil slips out of your grip.

Hours pass. You stay hidden.

When the crowd finally disperses and the lights begin to dim, you sneak through the back of the grounds—quiet as a shadow—until you find an empty wagon stacked with boxes. You curl into it, pulling your knees to your chest, using the cloak as a blanket. Your fingers still smell like pencil lead. You close your eyes.

And then a voice startles you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

It’s his voice. Rough. Low. Accented in something lazy and teasing.

Your eyes fly open. He stands at the opening of the wagon, still shirtless, a towel around his shoulders and a smirk on his lips. His hair is damp.

“You know that, right?”

You sit up sharply, preparing to bolt. But he raises his hands in surrender.

“Hey—hey. Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He tilts his head. “You were watching me earlier.”

You stay silent. He saw you? He steps closer.

“You’re not a thief, are you? You don’t look like the type to steal. Except maybe hearts. But that’s a performer thing, too.” His grin widens. “Unless you’re here to audition. In that case, great hiding spot. But we don’t usually hire ghosts.”

You speak for the first time in what feels like days. “I’m not a ghost.” He pauses. Cocks his head, like a tiger curious about a mouse.

“No. I don’t think you are.” You glance at the door. He follows your gaze.

“If I was going to turn you in, I would’ve done it already. The ringmaster doesn’t like strays. But me? I’m a sucker for sad eyes and good timing.” You don’t answer.

He hops up into the wagon without asking. You flinch. He notices. The grin falters for just a moment.

“Sorry. I’ll stay over here.” He drops onto a crate across from you, towel still looped around his neck, eyes scanning you with less mischief now and more curiosity. “What’s your name?”

You shake your head.

“No name? Mysterious. I like it.” He leans back and stretches his arms behind him. “Alright, no-name. You look cold. And like you haven’t eaten in a while. You planning on sleeping out here all night?”

You blink. “I have nowhere else to go.”

He studies you for a long time. “Fine. You can stay in my wagon. Just for tonight. I won’t touch you. I talk a lot, but I’m not a creep.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re probably better off there than out here, where Rigo might see you.”

You hesitate.

“You trust me?” he asks. You shake your head.

He laughs. Loud and unashamed. It startles you. “Good. That’s smart. But I’ll still offer.” He hops down and gestures. “Come on, Moon.”

“Moon?”

“You didn’t give me a name, so I gave you one.” His eyes soften. “You look like the moon tonight. Pale. Quiet. Far away from all of us.”

You say nothing, but you follow him.

You tell yourself it’s because anything is better than the cold.

The inside of his wagon smells like lemon oil and dust.

Not in a bad way—just lived-in, like someone’s been here too long without changing anything. Crumpled shirts hang from hooks, performance pants tossed over a stool, and a tiny mirror edged with fairy lights blinks at you from the wall. There’s a faded photo stuck in one corner—him as a boy, maybe fifteen, grinning with his arm around a tiger statue.

You hover at the threshold.

“It’s not much, but it’s warmer than outside,” he says, flicking the light on with a sharp click. “You can take the bed.”

You shake your head immediately.

“Come on. I’ve slept in worse places. The hay pile behind the giraffe cart? Unbelievable back support.” He grins again. He does that a lot, it seems—too easily. Too brightly. You don’t trust it.

You settle into the corner farthest from the door, your cloak pulled tight. He doesn’t push. He just throws himself onto the small bench under the window and crosses his arms behind his head like he hasn’t just invited a total stranger into his home.

“I’m Soonyoung, by the way,” he says. “But everyone calls me Hoshi.”

You don’t reply.

“‘Hoshi’ means ‘star’ in Japanese. My mom called me that when I was little.” He lifts a shoulder. “Thought it sounded cooler on posters than ‘Kwon Soonyoung the dancing idiot,’ so I kept it.”

Still, you don’t speak. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your name, not your trust.

He shifts, observing you. His tone changes—softens.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I know what it’s like to… want to disappear for a while.”

You watch the way he fiddles with a gold ring on his pinky finger. It’s shaped like tiger fangs. Sharp. Delicate. Probably fake.

“Everyone here’s running from something. That’s kind of the circus’s thing, isn’t it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You run away, you join the show, and suddenly you’re someone else. Someone shinier. Safer.”

He lays back again with a sigh that sounds too tired for someone who laughs so much.

“I’m happy here.”

The words hit the floor between you with a dull thud. You don’t believe him.

The next few nights pass in a hush of repetition.

You wake in silence, hide during the day, and slip out only when it’s dark enough not to be seen. Hoshi smuggles you small pieces of fruit, leftover meat pies, and, once, a package of coloured pencils he claims he “borrowed indefinitely.” You nod your thanks, never quite sure what to do with his kindness.

He talks a lot.

About the time he tried tightrope walking and fell into the cotton candy machine. About the fire-breather who accidentally singed her own eyebrows. About the night a tiger escaped its cage and wandered into his wagon like it owned the place.

“I offered it my dinner. We’ve been cool ever since.”

You don’t laugh, but your mouth twitches. He notices. He always notices.

You stay hidden, but he never questions it. Never asks you to explain. And each night, when the music starts and the big top floods with light, you creep to your place behind the crates and watch him come alive.

He moves like he’s been set on fire and only the rhythm can put him out. Like if he stops dancing, he’ll vanish.

You draw him every time. The curve of his spine, the snap of his arms, the wildness in his grin when he lands a perfect flip.

You sketch until your fingers ache.

Until you know him by lines alone.

It happens five nights in.

You can’t sleep. The roof drips, the blankets itch, and something inside you is restless. Hoshi had told you he’d be late—extra rehearsals, he said. You slip from the wagon quietly, boots soft in the mud, coat pulled tight around your frame. The circus grounds are mostly dark—tents closed, wagons locked, fire pits reduced to embers.

You walk past a row of cages—empty now—and head toward the supply wagons when you hear it.

“You said it’d be done by now.”

It’s Hoshi’s voice. You freeze and duck behind a barrel.

“And I said the debt doesn’t clear just because you’re popular,” replies another voice—older, crueller. “You still owe me three hundred thousand. You want to leave, Soonyoung? Pay up. Until then, I own your name. Your act. Your body.”

"I’m trying. I’m performing every damn night—”

"And drinking away your cut by morning.”

"That’s not—”

"Don’t lie to me.”

You peer around the edge. Rigo—the ringmaster—stands with his back to you. Hoshi is in front of him, shirtless again, glitter smeared down his jawline. He looks smaller. Angrier.

“You said I’d be free by the Paris tour,” Hoshi mutters.

“And maybe you will be. If you keep earning.” Rigo steps closer. “But if you try to leave early, if you even think about running—I’ll find you. And I’ll break every bone you use to dance.”

Silence.

“Don’t forget who gave you a stage when the world laughed you off it.”

The ringmaster walks away. Hoshi stays still for a long time, fists clenched, chest heaving. When he finally turns, you’re already gone.

Hoshi comes back late that night, humming some off-key melody, sweat dripping from the nape of his neck.

“Moon, I brought—hey, you okay?”

You’re sitting on the floor, paper and pencils scattered around you. One sketch lies in your lap, the most detailed one yet.

You don’t answer. You just hand it to him. He looks down.

A tiger in a cage.

Its shoulders are hunched, not in fear, but in exhaustion. Its paws are bruised. Its tail is curled tight against the bars. But its eyes… its eyes are still burning.

He blinks. “Is this… me?”

You look up at him. And for once, you don’t hide the sadness in your face. “You’re not happy here.”

He doesn’t smile this time. He just kneels down slowly beside you, gaze never leaving the drawing. He places it gently on the bench, then leans back on his heels.

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not.”

One morning, without warning, he throws a scarf at your face.

“You need air,” Hoshi says, grinning as he pulls on his boots. “And you’re gonna get it.”

You flinch when the scarf hits your cheek, even though it doesn’t hurt. He notices. His grin falters but doesn’t fade completely.

“You’ll come with me. I’ll show you around. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve been living in my wagon rent-free.”

You hesitate. Fear creeps into your stomach like spoiled wine. If they find out what you are—who you were—there’s no telling what Rigo will do. Or worse, who he might call.

Hoshi holds out his hand. Open. Steady.

“I’ll tell them you’re the new sketch artist. That the boss approved it. No one questions my mouth anymore. Too loud to argue with.”

You don’t take his hand, but you follow him anyway.

The circus in the daylight is nothing like the spectacle at night.

The glitter is dulled. The costumes hang in long rows on wires, limp and sequined. Elephants bathe lazily near buckets of water, and smoke curls from frying pans where breakfast burns on open fires.

You walk closely behind Hoshi, the scarf clutched tight around your neck, chin tucked low into the fabric. He’s all motion and brightness—waving, laughing, tossing casual greetings around.

“Morning, Andrei!”

"Hey, Mira! Save me a biscuit this time!”

People nod. Smile. Some glare. He doesn’t seem to care.

When he finally introduces you, it’s with a flippant gesture and a wink. “This is Moon. She’s our new sketch artist. Bit shy, but brilliant. Like a raccoon with talent.”

You keep your eyes down. Offer a small nod. Most people nod back with vague disinterest—too tired or too wary to care. Some squint.

A few notice the tension in your shoulders.

One of the acrobats—a tall, wiry man named Luca with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smile—lingers. He steps close. Too close.

“Didn’t know we were letting in strays now,” he says, eyeing you like a spider eyes a fly. “You get her off the street, Hoshi? Or also into your bed?”

The words land sharp and cold. You stiffen. Hoshi goes quiet.

Then he steps between you and Luca, shoulders squared. His voice loses its brightness.

“Watch your mouth.”

Luca raises an eyebrow, smirking, as he walks off.

“I’m just saying—Rigo won’t like it when he finds out you’re hiding runaways. You know how he feels about… damaged goods.”

That word—damaged—splits something open inside your chest.

You turn away, hands shaking, throat closing around the ache that’s been building since you stepped out of the shadows.

“He’s got the personality of spoiled cabbage,” Hoshi mutters as he catches up to you. “Ignore him.”

But you’re already spiralling.

As the tour continues, a juggler brushes too close behind you. A fire breather claps a hand on your shoulder in greeting, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been burned. Hoshi sees it. Every time.

When you finally slip away after dinner, you think no one notices.

You sit behind the main tent, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your ribs like you’re trying to keep your bones from shattering. The sounds of rehearsal echo nearby—drums, whip cracks, the creak of wires overhead—but they feel far away.

Your breathing’s shallow. Your cheeks are damp with fallen tears. You hate how familiar this feeling is.

Powerless. Exposed. Vulnerable.

You thought you were past this. Thought the circus would be different.

A shadow moves in the corner of your vision.

You tense, expecting harsh words, maybe worse—but it’s just Hoshi.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ask what happened.

He just sits cross-legged beside you, arms resting on his knees, not touching. Not pressing. Just breathing beside you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to share the same air with someone breaking.

You wait for questions. There are none. The minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the tent or the distant bray of a donkey.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your breath evens out.

And then—“I hate his guts.”

Hoshi’s voice is low. You glance at him.

“Luca,” he adds, as if it needs clarification. “Always sniffing around like he’s the ringleader’s favourite pet. I’m gonna replace his shampoo with glue one of these days.”

Your laugh comes unexpectedly. A real one. Crooked. Barely there. But it’s enough. He grins, but not in a triumphant way. In a relieved one.

“Better. That suits you more than silence, Moon.”

You don’t reply.

But when he rises and offers his hand again, you take it.

And when the two of you curl up that night in opposite corners of the wagon—backs to each other—there’s something binding in the silence.

And you sleep. For the first time in years.

You’ve never had someone bring you gifts before.

Not ones that weren’t dripping in expectation. Not ones that didn’t come with strings wrapped around your throat.

But Hoshi doesn’t tie bows around his kindness. He just… offers.

First, it’s a bundle of dried flowers—pressed and quirky, the kind that only bloom in colder months. He drops them beside your sketchpad one morning with a wink and a shrug.

“Found them near the trapeze wagon. Figured you might like dead things that look pretty.”

You don’t react. But you take them.

Then it’s a tin of coloured charcoal blocks—half-used, dull at the tips, but vibrant in your hands. The reds are bright, the blues deep. You don’t ask where he got them.

“Artist tools for my artistic shadow,” he says. “Now you can sketch me with proper flair. Make me taller, okay?”

Later, two perfectly peeled oranges, tucked in a napkin.

“You don’t eat enough,” he says, plopping beside you on the wagon step, his shoulder close but not touching. “You’re gonna float away at this rate. Then who’ll sketch my dramatic death leaps?”

You split one in half and hand it back to him without a word. He grins. Like he always does.

That night, he lights a candle in the middle of the wagon and sets it between you. The wax pools golden, flickering against the walls, throwing soft shadows across his face.

He talks while you draw. He always talks.

About his tiger routine, and how he once landed wrong and cracked two ribs but didn’t tell anyone. About a show in Prague where the audience threw roses—and one pair of underwear—onto the stage. About the time the tightrope snapped mid-performance and the crowd thought it was part of the act.

“I stuck the landing, though. Obviously.”

You glance at him.

“Barely broke my ankle. Ten out of ten.” He winks.

Your hand pauses on the page. A laugh itches in your throat but doesn’t come out.

“You’re hard to crack, Moon,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “I’m trying not to pry, I swear. But sometimes I look at you, and it’s like... I dunno. Like you’re made of glass, but all the sharp parts are turned inward.”

The candle flickers. So do you. He doesn’t ask anything else that night. Just hums while you sketch.

You don’t show him the drawing, but he smiles like you did.

You start watching him at night.

When the circus sleeps, and only the stars keep time, you slip out barefoot and perch behind the tent. He practices long after the others have stopped. Moves with a fever in his body, like he’s chasing something no one else can see.

Tonight, his shirt is discarded in a heap on the floor, and sweat slicks his spine as he flips, lands, stretches—again and again. No music. Just the beat of his breath and the slap of his feet against the pallet floors.

He stumbles. Not hard, but enough that he swears under his breath. You hear it—“Shit.”—followed by the dull sound of him sitting heavily on the edge of the platform.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

Then—“Moon?”

You freeze. He turns toward your hiding place, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

“You always watch from the dark, don’t you?”

You don’t move. But he doesn’t seem upset.

“I don’t mind,” he says, softer now. “Just wish I knew what you saw when you looked at me.”

You step into the candlelight. Not fully. Just enough to be seen.

He smiles, but it’s tired. Raw.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly. “Not running. Just… stepping out. Free. New city. New name.”

You say nothing.

He looks down at his hands.

“I wanted Paris.”

The words are quieter now. Less Hoshi, more Soonyoung.

“I used to dream about it every night. Dancing in Montmartre. On a stage that mattered. I wanted to be someone people wrote about. Someone remembered.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Instead, I sold my soul to a man who locks animals in cages and calls it art.”

You take another step forward. He doesn’t look at you. Just continues to stare at his palms.

“I owe him too much. Money. Time. My best years. I perform, and he lets me breathe. That’s the deal. That’s the cage.”

Your heart twists. Because you understand. More than he knows.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “I think I could just disappear. Walk out into the night and never stop walking. But then I remember—no one would come looking.” He says it with a crooked smile.

Your voice is rough when you speak. Barely a whisper. But it slices through the night like a thread of silver.

“I would.”

He freezes. His head lifts. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

You’re not sure why you said it. Or maybe you are. Perhaps you’ve known since the first time he called you Moon and smiled like he meant it.

The silence that follows is the kind that lands heavily on your skin.

“Say that again,” he breathes.

You shake your head. He doesn’t ask again.

Instead, he stands. Walks over. Stops a step away. You brace—but he doesn’t touch you. He sits down beside you. Cross-legged in the dirt.

Like he did the other night. No questions. No explanations.

Just two lonely things pretending—for a moment—that they are not alone.

They call it The Velvet Night.

Once a month, the circus throws a masquerade for its wealthiest patrons—aristocrats in velvet, merchants with too many rings and not enough kindness, and strangers with mouths that never smile unless they’re closing a deal. The ringmaster loves them, of course. Their wallets are heavier than their morals, and they pay for illusions like addicts pay for Nirvana.

Tonight, the tents are lined with gold silk. Wine flows like water. Lanterns flicker from every beam and rope. The world smells like roses, sweat, and something sour beneath.

You spend the day in the costuming wagon, where Mira and the others chatter and laugh around you, unaware—or uncaring—that your hands shake every time you touch lace or ribbon. The feel of silk between your fingers makes your stomach turn. It reminds you of curtains. Of rooms that locked from the outside.

You sew quietly. You keep your head down.

Hoshi pops in at one point, barefoot and smiling. “Moon,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come watch tonight. I’ve got a new finish. It’s dramatic as hell. Might pull a muscle for it.”

You nod. He winks and disappears.

Night falls; the masquerade begins.

You don’t risk going near the centre tent where the patrons gather, but from a side flap, you catch glimpses. Silk gowns. Flashing jewelry. Glasses filled with golden liquid. Painted lips and empty laughter.

You know this kind of party. The kind where you aren’t a person—just something to look at, to own, to touch if no one’s watching. Your stomach turns.

Still, you stay. Because Hoshi is in there. And for reasons you can’t name, you need to see him. You lean against a pole, hidden in the dark, mask in your hand, breath held.

And then he steps into the ring.

He wears black tonight. A fitted, sleeveless top that sparkles under the lights and tight pants that hug the strength in his legs. His face is hidden behind a white and gold mask that glints with each movement.

Every turn, every snap of his limbs is poetry. He spins for them. Leaps for them. Smiles for them. And none of them know how much it costs him.

You know. You see it in the way his shoulders dip just a fraction too low when the music fades. How his chest rises with effort, not excitement.

And then— It happens.

A woman in red—older, tall, with lips the colour of blood—pulls him in with her fingertips. She slips folded bills into the waistband of his pants. Laughs. Says something you can’t hear.

And he—He kisses her hand. Grinning. Flashing that perfect, practised smile.

You stagger back as if struck. The breath leaves you in a rush.

You turn before you can see anything else and walk—fast—into the darkness behind the wagons.

You don’t stop walking until your legs shake.

You end up behind the animal cages, near the row of hay bales where the fire breathers warm up in the mornings. No one comes here at night. It’s too quiet, too far from the music and the masks.

You sit. And the tears come.

You don’t mean to cry. Not like this. Not because of him. Not because he kissed someone’s hand and smiled like it meant something. But it pulls at a memory buried so deep inside you, you had almost forgotten about it.

You curl your knees up. Bury your face in your arms. Try to pretend you’re somewhere else. But the memory creeps in anyway.

Men with cold rings and even colder hands. A room that smelled like wine and roses. The sharp click of heels. The way they’d touch your face like you weren’t even there.

Used. Brushed aside. Forgotten. Always forgotten.

You thought it might be different here. And that makes you hate yourself more.

“Moon?”

Your body jolts, instinct screaming hide—but it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Hoshi approaches slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal.

“I saw you leave. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “Can I… sit?”

You nod without looking up. He lowers himself onto the hay beside you, hands between his knees, gaze turned away. Silence stretches.

Then, in a voice you barely recognize as your own—“They used to make us smile, too.”

He stills.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But the words keep spilling out, hoarse and thin, like something cracked inside you and finally let loose.

“At the brothel. We were supposed to laugh. Greet them like old friends. Let them touch us. Call it work. Call it love.”

You swallow hard. “They paid for what they took. That made it okay, they said.”

The air grows heavier with every word you whisper.

“Some of them liked it when we cried. Said it made us look real.” You feel your hands shake in your lap.

“I learned not to cry. Not to move. Not to exist, if I could help it.”

You finally look up. And he’s watching you. Not with pity. Not even with shock. Just quiet, fierce grief. Tears fill his eyes but don’t quite fall.

“Moon,” he whispers.

You flinch when he reaches out. His hand hovers near yours. But he stops.

“Can I hold you?” he asks.

Your throat closes. Your nod is barely a twitch. But he sees it.

He wraps his arms around you. Not tightly. Not hungrily. Just… safely. You don’t know the last time someone held you like this. Not to use. Not to consume. Just to be there.

He doesn’t fill the silence with apologies or, promises or empty words.

He just breathes. You feel his chest rise and fall. Feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. His hand rubs gentle, slow circles across your back—no pressure. Just presence.

You cry again. This time, without shame.

And he stays.

The circus rolls into another town. Another foggy field. Another string of faceless patrons with fat wallets and vacant eyes. You’ve stopped caring where you are. All that matters is the tent. The rope lights. The sketches you leave scattered across Hoshi’s wagon table.

You sketch him constantly now. Not just onstage.

As he braids Mira’s hair between acts. As he sleeps curled on his side, hand under his cheek. As he rubs ointment onto his bruised knees.

Your pencils know the shape of his body like religion.

One night, you wait behind the curtain as the show ends.

He finishes his routine, glittering and breathless, but tonight, he’s a half-second off. His landings are sharp, but not as sharp as they should be. His final pose holds less punch, like his mind is somewhere else.

And Rigo notices.

As the crowd erupts into applause, the ringmaster stalks over to him like a storm cloud.

“What the hell was that?” Rigo snaps, grabbing Hoshi’s arm before he’s fully off-stage.

“It was fine,” Hoshi mutters, panting slightly.

“No. It was distracted. Sloppy. You’re better than that—so what’s got your head up your ass lately?”

Hoshi wrenches his arm free, jaw clenched. He sees you, just over Rigo’s shoulder, and his eyes soften for half a second.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” he offers.

“Then wake up,” Rigo growls. “You don’t get tired. You get perfect. That’s the deal.”

He walks off before Hoshi can reply.

You slip back into the shadows, heart hammering. The guilt feels sudden. Sharp. You wonder if you’re the reason his landings aren’t clean anymore.

You wonder if you’re unravelling him.

That night, you sit together outside the wagon.

The stars are unusually bright—clear for once, not clouded by fog or smoke. Hoshi sits beside you, hands clasped in front of his knees, chin resting on them. You watch the wind curl through his hair.

“We’re going to Paris next month,” he says suddenly.

You glance at him.

“It’s our biggest show. Rigo’s been hyping it for years. We’ll be at the Palais Garnier, if you can believe it.” He laughs once. “Me. In a building with gold ceilings. What a joke.”

You nudge your shoulder against his gently. He sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“After the Paris show. Slipping out during the night. Starting over. No more debt. No more cages. Just a train. A map. A backpack. I’ve saved enough. Barely, but enough.” He finally turns his head toward you. His voice is quieter now. More vulnerable. “I want you to come with me.”

You freeze.

His eyes search yours—not pleading, but open.

“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. But I trust you.” A beat. “You’re the first real thing I’ve found in years, Moon.”

You stare at him, and your heart twists.

Because you want to say yes. You want to leave.

But part of you still believes you’re a shadow. Something cursed. You don’t want to ruin whatever light he has left.

So you lower your gaze.

He just whispers, “Think about it.”

You don’t sleep that night.

And by morning, everything has changed.

Hoshi bursts into the wagon, jaw tight, eyes furious.

“He knows.”

The words are like ice in your veins.

“Rigo. He knows about you.”

You rise slowly, heart pounding. “How?”

"Luca.” His mouth twists. “Little bastard must’ve told him last night. He told Rigo everything. That you’re not crew. That you’ve been staying in my wagon.”

You swallow hard. He sees your fear. Tries to soften it.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll—”

A voice cuts through the air like a whip.

“So this is the little stray.”

Rigo stands at the entrance, dressed in dark green and gold, his ringmaster cane tapping ominously against the threshold.

You shrink back. Rigo steps into the wagon like he owns it. Because he does.

“No name. No papers. No protection. You know what that makes you, sweetheart?” His voice drips like poison. “Sellable.”

Hoshi steps between you, blocking Rigo’s path.

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”

Rigo lifts a brow.

“Brave words for someone still owing me two hundred grand.”

"Take me instead,” Hoshi spits. “Whatever it is you want from her, I’ll do it. I’ll clean cages. Dance double. Fucking wear a leash if you want—just don’t touch her.”

You’re trembling.

Rigo narrows his eyes. Then—without warning—he strikes.

A backhand. Brutal. Fast.

Hoshi stumbles back with a choked sound, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth.

You scream. Instinct. Terror. Rage.

You move forward, but Hoshi lifts a hand, even through the pain.

“Stay back.”

"You want to keep her?” Rigo sneers. “Fine. She’s your debt now. Double it. Four hundred grand. Pay it, or I send her back to the brothel myself.”

He turns, storming out as the door slams shut behind him.

And the silence that follows is deafening.

You wait until Hoshi falls asleep in his bunk—after you’ve cleaned the blood from his lip and kissed his forehead so softly he doesn’t stir—to leave. You pack nothing. Take nothing.

Just your cloak, your boots, and a sketchbook filled with drawings of him.

You run. To protect him. To protect yourself.

He might hate you for leaving, but that’s a price you’re willing to pay.

You don’t know the name of the city you end up in.

The circus had stopped on the edge of somewhere cold, grey, faceless—one of those in-between places that no one dreams about and no one stays in unless they have nowhere else to go.

You walk around with your cloak pulled tight, eyes darting with every step you take. No one notices you. That’s good. That’s the goal.

Disappear. Blend in. Be nothing again.

It’s easier than it should be.

By mid-afternoon, your stomach is growling with hunger.

You pass a street market where vendors shout over one another, hands waving, eyes hawk-sharp. You linger near a bread stall. Time it. When the seller turns his back to argue with a customer, you slide a roll off the edge of the cart and disappear into the crowd.

You do the same with an apple not long after. Your hands still shake when you tuck it into your pocket. But your feet don’t stop moving.

You’ve learned that survival means guilt becomes background noise.

That night, it rains.

You find shelter beneath a wide stone bridge, its arch stretching over a river that smells of metal and sewage. You press your back to the cold wall, knees drawn up, the stolen bread long gone. The apple you save for tomorrow.

You watch the raindrops trace lines across the river’s surface and pretend you’re okay. You’re not. You miss the wagon. The scent of lemon oil and warm blankets. The candle he lit each night—flickering against wood-panelled walls. You miss him.

The way he called you Moon like it was sacred. The way he let you be quiet without demanding answers. The way he looked at you like you weren’t broken.

You don’t allow yourself to cry.

You just press your forehead to your knees and breathe through the ache of everything.

The next morning, you wake soaked, sore, and starving.

You spend the day trying to find a way out.

You walk into a café, asking if they need help in the back. They glance at your dirty clothes and shake their heads.

You try a laundry service. A florist. A small bookshop with dusty windows.

Every time:

“We’re not hiring.”

"No experience?”

"Come back another day.”

You leave each time with your head lower than before.

By sundown, your apple is gone, and your coin purse is empty. You can feel the panic start to creep in again—sharp, familiar, suffocating.

You turn a corner, not even sure where you’re going, and walk faster.

You’re trying to think, trying to plan, when you hear it.

“Angel?”

The name slices through the air like a whip. You haven’t heard that in a long time.

“Angel, is that you?”

Across the street, under a flickering lamp post, stands a man in a long coat with a hat pulled low around his eyes. Older. Heavy. His mouth curls into a grin you know too well.

“Thought I’d recognise that little walk anywhere. Been years, but damn. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Your heart launches itself into your throat. You turn and keep walking.

“Don’t be like that, Angel!” he calls louder. “Come say hi to an old friend!”

You walk faster.

“Come on, you remember me, don’t you? You used to like me. Said I was your favourite.”

That sets you off. Your feet slam against the pavement. Your eyes scan for an escape. Shops are closed. The street is empty. You don’t dare look back.

“ANGEL!”

The shout becomes a bark. A threat. You start running.

Your breath comes out sharp and ragged. Your boots slip on the slick stones. You round a corner, then another. Behind you, footsteps thunder.

He’s chasing you.

And this time, it’s not for a transaction. You stumble past an alley and are about to keep going when a hand grabs your arm.

You scream—but another hand clamps over your mouth, and you’re yanked into the shadows and dragged underneath a rusted fire escape.

Your body thrashes until you hear the voice.

“Shh. It’s me.” Your blood stills.

“Moon. It’s me.” The voice presses against your ear like a balm. “It’s me. It’s Hoshi.”

You don’t believe it—not for a second—until you turn your head and see his eyes in the dark. Wide. Familiar.

And then footsteps pass.

“Angel! Where the fuck did you go?”

You go rigid. Hoshi’s arm around your waist tightens just a little. His other hand stays over your mouth, steady but gentle. You both breathe as silently as you can.

“I know you’re out here!” the man shouts, voice slurring now. “You can run, but I will find you. You’re mine, you little—”

The words cut off as his footsteps fade down the street.

You wait. Long after he’s gone. Until the only sound left is the wind shaking loose a gutter pipe above you.

Hoshi finally lowers his hand. You suck in a breath like you haven’t in hours. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers tremble as you look at him—really look at him.

He’s soaked. Panting. His shirt is half untucked. Eyes brimming with worry.

“You—how—what are you doing here?” you whisper.

He exhales through a shaky laugh.

“Looking for you, obviously.”

You stare, stunned. “How did you find me?”

"You’re not exactly subtle when you run away in the middle of the night with nothing but your coat.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the sketch you made the first night you saw him. The one you left behind.

“I figured you wouldn’t go far.” His voice is softer now. “And I couldn’t—” He breaks off. Looks down. “I couldn’t let you leave like that.”

Your throat is thick. Your hands curl at your sides.

“But Rigo—he’ll kill you if you keep protecting me. He said—”

"I don’t care what he said.” His voice sharpens. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll work twice as hard. I’ll sell my ring, my shoes, I don’t care. I’ll dance until my legs break.” He steps closer. “But I’m not letting you disappear again.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He keeps going.

“You said once that you would come looking for me.” His hand brushes your sleeve. “So now I’ve come looking for you.”

You don’t mean to. You don’t plan it.

But you step forward, fists balling into his shirt, and you crash into him like the sky’s falling.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his chest.

He melts around you instantly. His arms wrap around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

“I’ve got you now,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, Moon.”

The wagon looks exactly as you left it.

Your coat drapes over the corner of the bench, the coloured charcoals still lay scattered across the table beside a stack of half-finished sketches. The candle is fresh now, a new stub melting quietly in the jar you used to stare at every night.

You sit down in the same spot you slept in for weeks, staring at the flame until your hands stop shaking.

Hoshi hovers like he’s afraid you might vanish again. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t take his eyes off you either. You don’t mind. For once, it’s comforting. A tether instead of a chain.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

The circus moves two days later.

Another town. Another dirt lot. Another field where fog clings low and the ringmaster’s voice cuts through the morning like a cleaver.

No one knows you’re back except for Mira and the twins from the rigging crew, who catch glimpses of you slipping into Hoshi’s wagon at odd hours. They don’t say anything.

Hoshi’s return, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment he sets foot near the main tent, Rigo is on him.

“Gone two nights,” the ringmaster growls through gritted teeth. “Two full shows missed without a word.”

"I was scouting a location. Spoke to the fire-breather about it weeks ago,” Hoshi lies smoothly, with just enough annoyance in his tone to pass for truth.

You listen from behind a canvas divider, heart in your throat.

Luca stands nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look smug.

Rigo eyes Hoshi but doesn’t press.

“If it happens again,” he says, voice dropping, “I’ll have another very interesting conversation with a friend of mine back in the city. Runs a brothel. Says he’s been looking for one of his girls. Thought she’d vanished. Sad story.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You leave again without permission,” Rigo continues, “and I’ll be sure to point him in the direction of our last stop. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

Hoshi says nothing. But his fists are clenched. You can see it even from here. The trap is set.

And there is nothing either of you can do.

Because if he leaves, you’ll be taken back.

And if he stays, he’ll be ruined.

When he finds you later, you act as if you haven’t heard anything. You reassure him, a smile gracing your lips that doesn’t reach your eyes. “All good. Nothing to worry about.”

On your way to the next stop, Hoshi tells you he wants to debut something new.

“A solo,” he explains, eyes lit up. “But not just me. I want it to be our piece.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Your sketches,” he explains, stepping closer. “You capture me better than any mirror ever could. I want to bring that version of me to the stage.”

You hesitate, he notices.

“Come on, Moon. We’ll choreograph it together. In secret. It’ll be just ours.”

You nod. Because how could you not?

You spend nights in empty tents and behind curtains, moving with him. Not dancing, not really—but guiding. Sketchbook in hand, you draw each frame. Each leap. Each reach. He watches your eyes more than your lines, and listens when you say “Again”. It becomes something else. Something that belongs to both of you. Not the circus. Not Rigo. Just you.

The night of the performance, he doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing.

He steps into the center ring in silence, no music at first. The crowd murmurs. Rigo frowns from his usual spot near the edge of the tent but says nothing.

Then the lights dim. A spotlight blooms. And Hoshi begins to move.

It’s slower than his usual routines. Less about spectacle, more about story. Every line of his body carries emotion—grief, yearning, rage, release. He uses space like it’s water, shifting in and out of it with the grace of something both wild and controlled.

You watch from the shadows, breath caught. Because this—this is not a cage.

This is art. This is flight. This is freedom.

He ends on his knees, back arched, chest heaving, arms thrown wide like he’s asking to be struck by lightning.

And for the first time in months, the audience is silent.

Then—Thunderous applause. They stand. They shout.

Yet, Rigo doesn’t smile.

While you help Mira gather some of the costume bins behind the dressing tent, you hear voices again.

You duck behind a rack of sequined jackets, crouching low.

“What was that tonight?” Rigo snaps. “That wasn’t the act we approved.”

"You said as long as he performs, you don’t care what it looks like,” Luca mutters.

“I said I want obedience. That little stunt was defiance dressed up in glitter.”

A pause. Then—

“How much does he owe you again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rigo growls. “I’ll change the amount however I want. Interest, late shows, fines. He’ll never pay it off. That’s the point.”

“And if he tries to leave again?”

"We remind him what happens to little strays who don’t know their place.”

You don’t hear the rest. You’re already slipping away, eyes wide, chest tight.

Hoshi doesn’t know. He thinks the debt is manageable. That there’s an end to it. But there isn’t. There never was.

The next city is louder than the last.

Cobbled streets overflow with carriages and clamour. Street performers clog every corner. Posters for the circus flutter on every lamppost.

You help him dress backstage that evening, hands tightening the clasps of his costume as he stretches his arms above his head. He hums off-key, as usual, pretending not to wince when his shoulder cracks.

“Nervous?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Always,” he says with a grin, though the tremor beneath it betrays him. “But it helps that I know you’ll be watching.”

You smile. It’s faint. But real.

He cups your chin with one gloved hand, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorise you again. You lean into his palm before he can pull it away.

“Come back to me after,” you murmur.

“Always.”

You don’t see the man in the suit approach him.

You don’t hear the words exchanged at the edge of the ring after the show when the lights are dimming, and the crowd is dispersing.

You don’t see the glint of a silver card passed from one palm to another.

But Luca does. And that’s enough.

Hoshi returns later than usual that night.

You’re in the wagon, seated cross-legged on the bench, one of his shirts in your lap. Mending it. Or pretending to. Every sound outside sends your heart leaping.

When the door finally creaks open, you look up—and freeze.

He’s pale. His mouth is drawn tight. He walks like he’s trying not to breathe too deep.

“You’re late,” you whisper, rising quickly.

“Got caught in the crowd,” he replies, his voice hoarse.

You cross the floor in two strides and reach for his arm. He jerks it back instinctively. Your heart drops.

“What happened?”

"Nothing, Moon. Really. I’m just tired.”

You narrow your eyes, and you step closer.

He won’t meet your gaze.

“Take off your shirt.”

"What? No, I—”

"Take. It. Off.”

His jaw tightens.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you add, softer now. “Not here.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the hem and pulls the shirt over his head.

Bruises bloom like dark petals across his ribs and chest. Long, red welts streak across his back—angry, raised, and recent. Some are still bleeding. Others already begin to purple.

“Rigo,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Hoshi says nothing. Just stands there, eyes closed, like he’s waiting for you to flinch away.

Instead, you reach out. Your fingers brush gently across one of the bruises, barely touching. He hisses softly—but not from pain.

“He beat you.”

"It’s not the first time.”

"Because of me?”

"No.” His eyes flash open, fierce. “Not because of you. Because I might’ve had a way out. Because someone else saw what I could be, and he can’t stand that.”

"A scout?”

He nods.

“Asked if I was under contract. Told me he’d seen my last two performances. Said I had something rare.” He swallows. “I didn’t even say yes. I just took his card.”

You don’t need to ask what happened next.

Your stomach churns. Rage bubbles in your throat, bitter and thick.

“I’ll kill him,” you whisper. “I swear to god, I’ll kill him.”

"It’s nothing.”

"Don’t say that.”

He finally looks up.

And it’s you he sees now—not the artist, not the runaway—but the woman who’s watched him from the shadows every night since he met her.

“This place will kill you before it frees you,” you say.

“Then what do we do?"

Your hands reach for his.

“We burn it down.”

It begins with Mira.

You approach her first. The seamstress with needles tucked into her bun and burns on her fingers. You show her Hoshi’s bruises. You don’t say a word. Just let her see. She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then she nods.

“It’s about time.”

Then Andrei.

The tall, silent strongman with eyes like storm clouds and a permanent frown. He’d always been kind to Hoshi. Had once given you half a sandwich without asking why you were hiding behind crates.

He listens. He nods once. Then he spits on the ground.

“I’ll handle the locks.”

Then, the twins—Illya and Ivan.

Aerialists with matching red hair and scars on their ankles from the silk ropes. They’d grown up in the circus. Their parents hadn’t been as lucky.

When Hoshi tells them the plan, they glance at each other—then smile, cold and sharp.

“We’ll give them a show they’ll never forget,” Illya says.

“And if Rigo ends up gagged in a lion cage, well…” Ivan shrugs. “Oops.”

It becomes something more than revenge. It becomes a rebellion.

One by one, performers start pulling their weight for Hoshi, stalling for him, hiding you in plain sight.

You and Hoshi begin mapping out everything.

You sketch the grounds, mark the weak points, the tent poles soaked in oil, the ropes fraying after years of neglect.

Hoshi studies fire escapes like choreography. Practices his flips in silence. His eyes burn with purpose again.

And every night on your way to Paris, before the candle goes out, you sleep with your hand in his.

The Palais Garnier gleams like a dream—its chandeliers sparkle, marble stairs echo with polished footsteps, and every guest inside wears something that costs more than your entire life.

It is Paris. And tonight, the circus burns.

You stand just outside the main tent, your body cloaked in dark rain-slick fabric, the matchbox clenched in your hand.

The performers pass around each other like whispers—disguised in their roles, eyes meeting in split seconds of silent code. Tonight isn’t a performance. It’s a war.

Mira helped you lace your boots extra tight. Andrei handed you the rope soaked in kerosene. Illya gave you a pocket knife, “just in case.”

No one says goodbye.

You’re not sure if that’s superstition, or fear.

Across the field, on the opposite end of the canvas, Hoshi slips into the beast tent. You catch one last glimpse of him. His white and silver costume shimmers against the lighting. No mask. Just his face, taut with focus, damp hair clinging to his temples.

He looks back once. His eyes find yours. And you nod.

Then, he vanishes into the shadows.

Inside the ring, the final act is about to begin.

The guests—drunk on champagne and artificial wonder—roar in their seats. Rigo stands just behind the curtain, adjusting his cuffs and sipping dark liquor from a cut-crystal glass. His cane, tiger-head-topped and gold-plated, rests against his thigh.

“They think they’ve seen a show already,” he smirks to Luca. “Wait ‘til the beast steps out. Solomon’s presence raises the price of the ticket by tenfold.”

"Are you sure it’s wise?” Luca murmurs. “He was twitchy this morning.”

“They’re all twitchy before a crowd.” Rigo scoffs. “That’s what makes them pliable. And Soonyoung knows better than to disappoint me again.”

He chuckles, cruel and smug. “Besides, the tiger knows who owns him.”

You circle the outer rim of the tent now, fingers trembling as you reach the section Mira marked in chalk—just behind the main structure, near a weak seam in the canvas wall. It’s here you strike the match.

The sulfur flares with a hiss, gold against the grey.

The flame eats the rope greedily.

The wind carries the flames faster than expected, wrapping around the edge of the tent. The fire is elegant at first—just a shimmer. A flickering glow.

Then, the fuel kicks in. And the tent goes up like a furnace.

Inside, Rigo freezes mid-sip.

The crowd begins to murmur—then shout.

“What the—” he barks, turning toward the entrance. The smoke has reached the curtains. Flames curl upward in waves.

“Someone put that out! What’s happening?!”

Luca runs out with two other crew members. Chaos explodes like firecrackers. Chairs overturn. Guests push toward exits, masks slipping from sweat-soaked faces.

Then, a roar splits the air, but it doesn’t come from the crowd.

It’s deeper. Wilder. Rigo pales.

“That’s not possible.”

He turns— and sees the gate of Solomon’s cage wide open.

The chain lies coiled on the ground.

“No. No, no, no—WHERE IS HE?! WHO LET HIM OUT?!”

He stumbles back as the tiger emerges.

Solomon moves slowly at first, padding across the ring with terrifying grace. He is not panicked. He is not afraid. He is free.

The audience flees. Performers scatter.

And in the centre of the smoke and madness, Rigo stands—frozen. His cane shakes in his grip.

“Easy now,” he whispers, stepping backwards. “You’re trained. You know me. You know your master.”

But Solomon does not stop.

He snarls low as his eyes gleam with something cold. You watch from outside the tent, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Rigo lifts his cane like it’s a sword.

“You obey me!”

And then Solomon pounces.

The cane flies from Rigo’s hand as claws tear through his coat and skin. Rigo screams—a high, broken sound that echoes like a death rattle inside the inferno. He stumbles to the floor, arms flailing, trying to crawl, trying to beg, but Solomon bites down.

The tent is fully ablaze now.

A final scream is lost in the roar of collapsing canvas and shattering beams.

And just like that—Rigo is gone.

There’s only one last thing left to do.

You reach his wagon on the far edge of the circus grounds.

It’s massive—more like a carriage fit for royalty than a travelling performer’s quarters. The door, somehow, is unlocked.

Of course, it is. Overconfidence always did follow arrogance.

You slip inside and close the door silently behind you. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and expensive cologne. The velvet drapes are half-drawn.

You move quickly.

The room is cluttered—brass fixtures, crystal glasses, boxes of cigars. But your eyes are sharp now, your purpose clearer than fear. You open drawers. Tear through desk cabinets. Rifling past letters, ledgers, and a pile of guest receipts.

Nothing.

Then—you find it.

A narrow cabinet beneath the liquor shelf. Locked. You pry it open with the tip of your knife.

Inside, you find a thick stack of bound papers, folders, and cash.

You search quickly until your fingers close around one with a name written in thick black ink across the top.

Kwon Soonyoung.

You grab it. Beneath it is a yellowed envelope, fat with bills—more than you’ve ever seen in one place.

You shove both into a satchel, sling it over your shoulder and turn toward the door.

“Going somewhere, Angel?”

Luca stands in the doorway, his face dirty with ash and smoke, eyes wide with fury.

“You stupid, stupid bitch.”

Meanwhile, Hoshi is running.

Rain pelts down in sharp slashes. His chest heaves as he pushes through the brush and out toward the clearing.

The rendezvous point, where you should already be.

He drops the bags—his and yours—by the base of the tree where you promised to meet.

“Moon?” he calls. Nothing.

“Moon!” Still nothing.

He turns, scanning the tree line, frantic.

Mira appears first, drenched and panting, dragging a case of costumes behind her. Then Andrei, carrying one of the twins—Illya, maybe—with blood on his shirt. Ivan stumbles in next, singed and coughing.

One by one, they arrive. Except you.

Back in the wagon, Luca steps inside and slams the door behind him. “You think you can just destroy us and walk away?” He bellows. “You think he’s free? He’ll never be free. Not from this. Not from what he is.”

You stand your ground even though your body is already coiled like a spring.

“Rigo owned that tiger,” Luca spits. “He made all of this. You think you’re better than us? You think you’re something because Hoshi likes you?”

He spits the words like it’s poison.

“You’re still just a broken whore who’s good at looking sad.”

You don’t have time to answer.

He lunges.

His hand strikes your face first—hard, open-palmed, knocking you into the desk. Pain blooms across your cheekbone.

Before you can recover, he kicks you in the side. You cry out and crumple against the cabinet.

“You ruined everything,” he growls, dragging you up by your hair. “He could have had a future. We all could. But no—you had to make it about you.”

You thrash, kicking. Your elbow connects with his ribs, but he punches you in the stomach. Air flies out of your lungs. Your vision swims.

You hit the floor hard.

Then—you see it. The brass tiger paperweight on the edge of the desk.

You lunge for it.

“You think you can beat me?” he snarls, dragging you once more. “You can’t even fight.”

You close your fingers around the cold metal.

And without thinking, you swing.

The sound of impact is dull and sickening. Bone cracks. Luca stumbles backward, stunned, blood pouring from his temple.

He sways, then crashes to the floor.

The smoke is crawling into the wagon now. The wood slowly engulfing into flames.

You grab the satchel, stagger to your feet, your ribs screaming in protest. The velvet curtains are alight.

You throw open the door, choking, stumbling into the open air. And run.

Hoshi is pacing.

“She should be here.”

"Maybe she went a different way,” Mira suggests gently.

“No. We had a plan.”

Then—movement.

You burst through the trees, soaked in blood and soot, your dress torn, your lip split.

Hoshi turns and runs to you.

“Moon—Moon, what the hell happened?”

He cups your face, frantic, hands shaking.

“Are you okay? What—did someone—”

"I’m okay.” You gasp. “I’m okay. But we have to go. Now.”

You hold up the satchel. “I have it. Your contract. The money. Everything.”

His eyes widen.

“You went back.”

You nod once. Then: “Train. Now.”

You run.

The entire company—burned, bruised, breathless—runs together through the wet fields, dragging bags and trunks and instruments and cages. You help Andrei lift Illya. Hoshi carries your satchel when your arms give out. Mira wraps a scarf around your bleeding arm without a word.

In the distance, you hear a whistle.

The tracks shimmer in the dark.

An old freight train rumbles past, slow and moaning.

You run faster.

Hoshi helps Mira up. You push Illya into the cart. Andrei hoists Ivan. Hoshi jumps up next, then turns and grabs you.

Your knees almost buckle from exhaustion—but his arms are around you, pulling you in.

The doors close. The train rolls on.

And as the last glow of the fire dies behind you—you are free.

The train groans against the tracks, the kind of sound that settles into your bones like an old ache. It’s been three days since the fire. Three days since the circus ceased to exist. Three days since Rigo’s scream was swallowed by a blaze you lit with your own hands.

You haven’t spoken about it.

Not with Hoshi. Not with anyone.

The others are gone now, scattering like embers from a dying flame. Andrei leapt off at a sleepy station near the border, chasing rumours of a woman who once promised him she would wait. The twins disappeared into fog-cloaked hills, saying something about a cousin’s vineyard and never setting foot in a tent again. Mira kissed you both goodbye, said Paris was too heavy and lacework was lighter.

Now, it’s just the two of you in an empty freight car, rocking slowly toward the south. The sea, maybe. Or some small town with cheap rent and no haunting past for either of you.

The silence between you grows louder with every mile.

Hoshi crouches in front of you, his hands gently pressing a warm cloth to your cheek. The swelling has gone down, but the purple bruising still blooms over your ribs, your jaw, and your hip. He’s been nursing you like this every day, his fingers careful, his voice low.

But tonight, you’re both too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“Stop fidgeting,” he mutters, dipping the cloth in a tin cup of boiled water.

“I’m not.”

“You say that right before you wince.”

"That’s because you’re hurting me.”

He sighs, but there’s a flicker of something under the breath—something sharp and coiled.

“I’m trying to help, Moon.”

"I didn’t ask you to.”

It slips out colder than you intend, and the moment you say it, you regret it. His hand stills on your skin.

You flinch, not from pain but from the look in his eyes.

He stands slowly, tossing the cloth aside.

“You don’t have to bite me every time I get too close.”

"I’m not—”

"Yes, you are.”

He steps back, the space between you stretching like a chasm.

“Every time I try to touch you, really touch you, you act like I’m going to burn you alive.”

"That’s not fair.”

"Neither is the fact that I haven’t slept in three nights wondering if you’ll be gone when I wake up.”

That stuns you.

The candlelight flickers. Rain begins to tap softly on the metal roof above.

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.

“I know you’re scared, Moon. God, I know. But I’m scared, too. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what this is.”

You want to say something. You do. But the words are stuck in your throat.

He turns away slightly, his voice quieter now.

“And I’m starting to think you’ll leave now that I’m not something to fix.”

That breaks something in you.

“So that’s what you think this is?” you whisper. “That I stayed because you were broken?”

His silence says enough.

You stand, even though your ribs scream. You move closer until there are only inches between you and the man in front of you.

“I’ve never stayed for anyone, Soonyoung. Not once.”

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Your voice shakes when you speak next.

“But I want to stay with you. Every day.”

The words hang in the air between you, trembling like your breath.

Hoshi’s eyes search yours—wide, stunned, reverent. Like you just handed him a whole galaxy and asked him to hold it.

Then, slowly, carefully, he steps toward you, his hand lifting to your cheek.

And his lips finally meet yours.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, but you don’t. You melt.

The kiss deepens, slow and aching. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer as he backs you gently toward the soft pile of blankets laid out on the freight car floor.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.

“Don’t,” you breathe, voice small. “Please. Just—don’t.”

Soonyoung kisses you again, slower this time. Fuller. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth from scratch. His hands stay at your waist, not roaming, not demanding. You press your chest into his, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.

You whimper when he grazes your lip with his teeth.

His thumb strokes over your hip.

“Still okay?”

"Yes.”

He unbuttons your shirt slowly, each pop of a button a small act of worship. He kisses your shoulder as it slips off, trailing warmth in his wake. You’re trembling—but not from fear.

His eyes drink you in as he pushes the fabric down your arms.

“You’re so—” he swallows. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

You flush, chest tightening.

You’re not used to this. Not this kind of looking. Not this kind of wanting.

He kneels in front of you like one would at an altar, before his hands softly remove your pants.

When you’re bare in front of him, shivering in only your underwear, he leans forward—pressing his lips gently to the bruises on your ribs. Your stomach. The cut on your collarbone.

“You survived so much,” he murmurs. “And you’re still here.”

You bite your lip, fighting tears.

“I want to make you feel good, Soonyoung,” you whisper. “I want to—”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

You blink.

“You don’t have to give anything tonight. You don’t owe me pleasure, Moon. You never did.”

"But—”

"Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says softly. “Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”

You shudder as he leans in again.

“You deserve to be worshipped, not used.”

He gently instructs you to lay back on the blanket, your hair fanning out like a halo. His lips trail along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Every kiss is slow, like he’s savouring you. Every glance between kisses makes you ache deeper.

When he finally pulls off his shirt, you see the bruises still healing across his ribs, and your breath catches. You reach out, kissing the darkest one.

“You got this for me.”

“I’d do it again.”

His hand slips between your thighs, fingertips brushing the cotton of your underwear.

“Can I?”

You nod, voice caught in your throat.

He eases the fabric down, then settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be.

The first touch of his fingers against your clit is gentle. Careful.

He strokes between your folds, collecting your building juices and learning every gasp that leaves your mouth, every arch of your back, every shiver of your hips. He watches you with the same expression he wears on stage—focused, present, enchanted.

And when he slides a finger inside your wet heat, his mouth meets your breast, kissing, sucking, syncing the rhythm of his tongue with the one from his fingers.

You reach for him—needing him closer, needing his weight, his heat.

“Soonyoung—please—”

He groans against your skin.

“You feel like heaven.”

Your pleasure builds slowly, like a tide rising, until you’re trembling beneath him, and the world is spinning behind your eyelids. His fingers continue their steady push and pull inside of you as his thumb gently flicks your clit.

You don’t even realise when you fall.

You suddenly cry out his name, shaking, as waves of pleasure ripple through you, raw and real and overwhelming.

Hoshi guides you through it, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your jaw.

When the aftershocks fade, you pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”

He hesitates.

“Are you sure?”

"I’ve never been more sure.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time. Your bodies slide together, skin to skin, as he removes his pants. His hard cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. He doesn’t break eye contact when he guides his tip to your entrance and pushes into you. You gasp softly, your legs falling open wider to make space for him. He stills halfway through, his brows drawn in concentration, the corded muscles of his arms shaking where he holds himself above you.

“You’re okay?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whisper, overwhelmed by the stretch of him within your walls, by the way your heart cracks wide open under the weight of being cared for.

“You feel like… fuck, Moon. You feel like home.”

He finally bottoms out with a groan, hips pressing flush to yours. Your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips at the feeling.

He doesn’t move at first. Just lets you adjust. Your hands trace his spine, nails dragging lightly. His breath is ragged against your neck.

When you lift your hips, he takes it as permission.

He moves. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

The friction sparks something deep in you, something raw and tender. Your body arches into him, chasing each slow grind of his hips.

He kisses your lips again.

“You’re so good,” he breathes. “So perfect. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair as he thrusts deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside of you, you never bothered to search for.

The rhythm builds—deliberate and measured, but full of heat. He rolls his hips against you, his body moving like a dance, like the final act of a performance meant only for you. Each thrust pushes in just right, pulling soft, gasping moans from your throat.

“Soonyoung—please—don’t stop.”

"I won’t. I’m right here.”

You cling to him, overwhelmed by the pleasure building in waves again, dizzy from the closeness, from the way he never looks away from you. His forehead presses to yours. Your lips brush as you breathe each other in.

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your aching bundle of nerves again and circling it gently with his fingers. You cry out at the combined sensation, your hips jerking, pleasure blooming fast and deep.

“Come for me, Moon,” he whispers. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You shatter beneath him—back arching, a sob torn from your throat, the orgasm rippling through you so hard it steals your breath. Your whole body trembles, tears spilling from your eyes.

Soonyoung kisses them away.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”

Your walls cramp around him with your orgasm, and he groans—a low, desperate sound—and thrusts faster, his hips losing their rhythm as he chases the edge as well.

"I love you,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “I love you, I love you, I—”

And then he comes too, with a shudder and a cry against your skin, his come pouring into you, his body collapsing into yours.

You wrap your arms around him as he trembles through the aftershocks, your hands stroking his back, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

You simply hold each other, sweat-slick and breathless and ruined in the most sacred way.

And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—those eyes soft with everything he doesn’t know how to say—you whisper, “You’re mine now.”

He smiles.

The sea is quieter in the mornings.

You like to think it’s listening.

The breeze carries the scent of salt and citrus, the sky soft with watercolour light. Your little studio stands just beyond the dunes, tucked beneath an olive tree that’s older than you’ll ever be. The walls are whitewashed and cracked in places, but the inside is alive—with your brushstrokes, with the stories only colour can tell.

You painted the studio walls with everything you couldn’t say. A tiger in flight. A girl with stars in her hair. Fire that doesn’t burn but frees.

Soonyoung says it feels like walking into your soul.

He still calls you Moon.

Even now. Even after all this time. Even when your given name hangs on your business sign in elegant cursive: Galerie de Lune.

You laugh now, more than you cry. Not because everything is easy, but because it’s no longer unbearable.

Soonyoung teaches dance in the community hall just down the road. Most days, he brings home sand in his shoes and glitter on his neck from the children, who insist on decorating him like he’s part of the show.

He teaches them rhythm, footwork, and how to roar on stage without fear.

“No one can take your voice if you learn how to use it,” he tells them, tapping their chests where their hearts beat bold and wild. “Even when it shakes.”

Sometimes, you watch through the open windows as he twirls a girl in pigtails or lifts a boy with stage fright into the air until he forgets to be afraid. You still can’t believe he’s real.

Sometimes you touch his back in the middle of the night just to make sure he’s still there.

The bed is a little fuller now.

There’s a child who curls up between you most nights, her little body warm and soft and full of questions. She has a gap in her teeth and a temper that rivals thunder. She calls him Papa and you Maman and insists she was a tiger in her past life.

You might just believe her.

The adoption wasn’t easy. Your body, marked by things you never asked for, couldn’t carry life without danger. It broke you once, quietly and completely, in the dark of a hospital room. But he never blamed you. Not for a second.

He only kissed your tears and whispered, “Then we’ll find the child who’s already waiting for us.”

You did. And she is perfect.

Sometimes you still flinch in your sleep. Sometimes he still wakes from dreams of iron bars and snapping chains, sweat beading on his skin, whispering names he never told you.

But it’s not like before.

You soothe each other back down, palms on hearts, kisses against temples. The panic no longer owns you. It visits. It passes.

You have anchors now. You’ve built a world where no one owns you. Where no one watches from behind velvet curtains. Where no one pays to touch you, or beats you for dancing too slow.

Here, in this quiet coastal town with your studio and his stage and a child that carries light in their palms—you are finally free.

And you are still in love.

Tonight, the stars are out.

You sit on the porch with your sketchbook, legs tucked beneath you, your child asleep inside. Hoshi brings you tea and a kiss on your cheek, still sweaty from rehearsal, his shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.

“Whatcha drawing, Moon?”

"You.”

"Again?” he laughs.

“Always.”

He sits down beside you, thigh pressed to yours, gaze fixed on the dark waves in the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly, he says, “Do you ever think about the fire?”

"Sometimes.”

"Do you regret it?”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “No. It saved you.”

"It burned everything down.”

"Only what needed to die.”

He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. “You rebuilt me.”

"No,” you whisper. “You just finally had room to bloom.”

He hums, content. And as the tide laps against the shore, you realize something so simple it nearly brings you to tears.

You are safe. You are free. You are loved.

And your tiger still sleeps beside you.

A/N: Don't ask me where this came from, I have no idea. Did I cry while writing it? Yes. Am I also incredibly proud of it? Yes. Anyway, hope you enjoy and that it breaks your heart like it did mine. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 17 days ago

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hii! I just read The Tiger & The Moon and it was like one of the best fics I've ever read, but when I tried to leave a comment or like it, it gave me error. Has the fic been deleted? It was seriously so beautiful, I really enjoyed reading it so I got a little sad thinking that other people won’t be able to read it. Thank you so much for your hard work, have a great day/night!! ♡

Hi anonie! 👋🏼

Yes, that was my fault. I accidentally deleted it instead of editing it. But I reuploaded it again, you'll find it here.

Thank you so much for your kind words, and I'm glad you enjoyed it! I hope it will reach more people, because I'm actually kind of proud of this one as well. 💟

#anonie #anon asks #TT&TM

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 19 days ago

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THE PIRATE CHEOL FIC HDJDFKDK

love me a good ol’ royalty vs. jaded captain to begrudged crewmates to lovers storyline. it’s a mandatory plot device in all pirate au’s atp

i think this is actually the first time i’ve seen odysseus’s journey version of sirens portrayed in a fanfic (at least i’m pretty sure) and reader locking in by securing everyone to the mast and saving hao >>> i just love when women 🥰🥰 i feel like in the future, cheol will brag that his wife once knocked him out cold to save his life and people will be like ‘blink if you need help ??!’

the rest of the crew is so real for having a betting pool about if and when they were gonna fuck it out. my poor innocent chan saying ‘about damn time’ at the end when they kissed like jdjdjdk sweetie lemme hold your hand as hoshi tells you the things he’s seen …

Hi sweetness!

I was honestly hoping I'd get another message from you, and damn, I couldn't be happier. 🤭

A good pirate AU always rubs me the right way, so I couldn't pass up on writing one for my main man.

Concerning the sirens: originally, they were heavily inspired by the sirens from the movie, but I did want to give a slight twist to them and incorporate some POTC aspects, as well as my own. But I'm glad you noticed! Women in power will always be THE vibe. And a supportive husband? Ugh, I love. 😩

I kind of wanted to enlarge the crew's characters/personalities based on what we see from them in real life, but I also wanted to make Chan a bit more "green" than he is. Hoshi will definitely need to explain to him how the birds and bees work, and he might divulge what that woman in Cádiz did to him. 👀

But anyway, thank you again for your detailed review! It means a lot to me as a creator and writer to see people actually take the time to read and react to what I put out. So, I love you, just so you know. 💟

(PS: I'm currently writing a Mingyu CEO fic, think: contract lovers, fake dating, lots of miscommunication, idiots to lovers basically. I hope you'll read that too once it's out!)

#story feedback #toc #the sweetest

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 19 days ago

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The Tides of Chaos

Pairing: Pirate! Choi Seungcheol x Princess! F. Reader

Wordcount: 23.0K

Playlist: 'i always kinda knew you'd be the death of me' - Artemas | 'Swim' - Chase Atlantic | 'Sirens' - Nylo | 'do you really want to hurt me?' - Nessa Barrett | 'Taste' - Ari Abdul

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. and M. receiving) - Fingering - Nipple play - Slight body worship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Soft Dom! Seungcheol - Use of petnames - Praise kink - Slight choking

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

The Chimera cuts through the water like a dagger, her mahogany hull gleaming beneath the fading sun, sails taut with the Eastern wind. Just beyond the curve of the horizon, the city of Syracuse glimmers—a golden crown on the edge of the world, encircled by high cliff walls, bustling piers, and a towering lighthouse whose peak pulses faintly with a strange, ethereal glow.

Seungcheol leans against the railing of the upper deck, arms crossed over his broad chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The salt wind tousles his dark hair as his gaze settles on the lighthouse in the distance, its beacon like a slow heartbeat in the night. Behind him, the ship creaks and hums with life—his crew, his brothers, scurrying about with the chaotic energy of those who have lived too long on the edge of the law.

“You’re staring at it like it’s a woman,” Mingyu drawls behind him, arms folded as he climbs the short stairs to the quarterdeck. His long coat flaps behind him, half open over a sweat-stained shirt, hands already working a coin between his fingers. Seungcheol smirks but doesn’t look away. “That light’s worth more than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve clearly never met the wrong kind.” Soonyoung’s voice chimes in as he lifts himself up from below deck with a musket in one hand and a half-peeled orange in the other. “I knew a girl in Cádiz who nearly robbed me blind. Took my boots and my dignity.”

“Didn’t you say she married you first?” Wonwoo murmurs, barely glancing up from the map he’s unrolling on a barrel by the mast. His long fingers smooth the parchment with the reverence of a monk handling scripture. “Details,” Soonyoung mutters, plopping down beside him and tearing into his orange with more aggression than necessary. “Are we really doing this?” Chan’s voice cuts through the banter. He’s perched on a crate, still a little wide-eyed, grease smudges on his cheek from fiddling with the rigging, a wrench still tucked into his belt—the youngest of the crew, but no less capable. Seungcheol finally turns. “Aye,” he says. “We are.”

He strides down the steps, boots heavy on the deck. The crew naturally circles around—the Chimera’s heart pulsing with anticipation. Seungcheol plants himself in front of the map, stabbing a finger at the intricate image drawn in careful ink. “This is what we're after. The Book of Peace. It’s not just treasure. It’s practically holy. It was created before recorded time, by the first kings to seal an accord between the cities. Some believe it holds the very soul of harmony. That book is peace... and peace has a price.”

“That sounds like a curse waiting to happen,” Mingyu says. He glances at Seungcheol with a lazy grin. “How exactly do you steal a symbol of universal peace without pissing off every crowned head on the continent?”

“Easy,” Seungcheol replies without missing a beat. “We do it fast.” The others chuckle, but it’s Soonyoung who leans forward, his eyes glinting with excitement. “You’ve got a plan, then? Tell me it involves explosions. Please tell me it involves explosions.”

“Not this time,” Seungcheol replies. “We can’t afford chaos. We need timing. Precision. Grace.”

“So… not our speciality,” Chan pipes up, “Got it.” The crew laughs, and even Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle. Then he turns, his tone shifting. “The Book of Peace,” he begins, drawing a curved dagger from his belt and using it to trace lines in the map Wonwoo laid out, “is being moved from the Lighthouse of Syracuse to the Castle of Twelve. That’s our window. Security will be split—half guarding the docks, the other protecting the Kings. It’s the only time that the relic won’t be behind divine iron and twenty feet of stone.”

Minghao, who has been silent up in the crow’s nest, swings down with effortless grace and lands beside him. He’s quiet by nature, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, his tunic stitched with foreign symbols no one else can read.“We can’t storm the procession,” Minghao says softly. “They’ll expect trouble from outside the walls.” Seungcheol grins, full of teeth and madness. “Who said anything about storming?”

He flicks open a hidden compartment beneath the map barrel and pulls out a stack of folded garments—rich silks, polished buttons, embroidered vests. “We go in.” A beat of silence. Then—

“You want us to waltz into a Kings’ gala dressed like noblemen?” Mingyu laughs. “Not like noblemen,” Seungcheol says, rolling his eyes. “Like honoured guests. The guest list includes ambassadors from the outlying islands. And thanks to a certain barmaid in Messina who owed me a favour…” He produces a sealed envelope, the red wax glinting in the lantern light. “We’ve got their names.”

“And how, exactly,” Wonwoo says dryly, “are we supposed to impersonate nobility without anyone noticing our lack of... I don’t know… manners, refinement, the general ability to not stab someone over a spilt drink?”

“Speak for yourself,” Soonyoung snorts. “I’m extremely refined.” Chan groans. “You eat soup with a fork.” Seungcheol lifts a hand. “Enough. We’ll split roles. Mingyu and I go in first and distract the royal guards at the reception point. Minghao sneaks around back to unlock the secondary gate. Soonyoung guards the exit with Chan. Wonwoo will track the book’s movement from above using his maps and signal system. The moment they break from the lighthouse…”

He slams his fist on the map. “…we take it.”

“And then—Fiji.” Mingyu stretches his arms above his head and exhales like he’s already there. “White sands, sun for days. And no more jobs.”

“And umbrella drinks,” Soonyoung sighs. “Pineapple ones. With little swords.”

“I just want to sleep on a bed that isn’t swaying,” Chan groans, stretching his back. “Or full of rats.” The crew falls quiet at that. The waves slap against the hull like a ticking clock.

Then, Seungcheol leans in, breaking the silence. “Let’s steal a goddamn relic, then.”

Seungcheol adjusts the collar of his brocade jacket, resisting the urge to pull at the itchy fabric. It’s too fine, too clean, too stiff. He’s used to salt-worn shirts, wind-swept pants, and freedom. This? This feels like a noose in expensive thread. Beside him, Mingyu looks just as uncomfortable in his dark green doublet, but damn if he doesn’t wear it well. His hair’s swept back, a little neater than usual, and a ceremonial sword hangs at his hip—purely decorative, though it makes him look every inch the prince he isn’t. They move through the palace gates seamlessly, their falsified credentials passing without question. The guards don’t look twice—too distracted by the dozens of nobles arriving in droves, chatter echoing through the marble halls like waves against stone.

Inside, it’s another world.

The ballroom is lit with crystalline chandeliers that hang like captured stars. Gold trim glitters along the walls, every edge carved with symbols of the Twelve Cities. Platters overflow with delicacies—pomegranate-glazed roast fowl, lavender cakes, spiced lamb skewers, and enough wine to drown an army. Nobles and royals in gem-coloured fabrics swirl across the floor to the hum of lyres and flutes. Seungcheol walks slower than he should, taking it all in. “You seeing this?” Mingyu mutters beside him, voice low as they stroll past a statue of a god holding scales and a sceptre. “I see it,” Seungcheol replies, voice harder than expected.

It’s obscene.

The kind of wealth he’s never touched. The kind that could feed five villages for a year, but instead sits here, polished and powdered and perfectly indifferent. His jaw tightens. He grew up scraping fish guts from barrels. He knows the taste of hunger and the thirst for water. And now he’s in a palace where gold lines the plates and no one has calluses on their hands. Seungcheol inhales, the scent of roses and patchouli almost choking. “Wealth like this could feed every dockside orphan from here to Argos,” he mutters. “You getting sentimental on me, Captain?” Mingyu asks, his voice teasing but quiet, careful. Seungcheol shakes his head. “Just remembering what it’s like to be hungry.” He forces a smirk, scanning the room.

“Eyes on the guards,” he says. “We don’t have much time.” They move casually, pausing at tables, offering nods to passing nobles, and exchanging a few pleasant lies. Seungcheol counts—twelve guards inside the ballroom. Four more at the main door. Two by the arch leading back to the gallery where the Book will be displayed. Another pair flanking the massive marble stairs.

Twenty. And those are just the visible ones. Mingyu taps the rim of his goblet, a silent signal. He’s seen the same. Seungcheol’s eyes flicker to the high windows, where he knows Wonwoo is perched somewhere above, watching with hawk-like precision, drawing every detail into that steel trap of a mind. Farther behind the palace, Minghao slips along the garden’s edge like a ghost, searching for the latch to the side gate. And Soonyoung? He waits in the alley, blade hidden, eyes alert. Chan watches from the exit path with his nervous heart in his throat. It’s all going smoothly.

Until—

“Seungcheol?”

The voice stops him mid-step. No. It can’t be. He turns. And for the first time in ten years, he comes face-to-face with a ghost from a better time.

Joshua.

His childhood best friend. His brother in all but blood. And the reason he once believed in goodness. Dressed in ceremonial blue and gold, sword at his hip, medallion at his chest—he looks every bit the crown prince Seungcheol knew he would become. Joshua’s face lights up. “Gods, it is you.” Seungcheol stares for a second too long, then quickly pulls on a grin. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Joshua laughs, stepping in and wrapping him in a firm, brief hug. Seungcheol hesitates—just for a moment—before clapping his old friend on the back. “Head of the royal guard now?” Seungcheol asks as they pull apart. “Didn’t think you’d still be chasing rules.”

“Someone has to keep Syracuse from crumbling,” Joshua replies with a chuckle. “And you? Still chasing trouble?”

“Chasing myths,” Seungcheol says with a smirk. “Heard the Book was real. Had to see it with my own eyes.”

Joshua perks up with pride. “You’re in luck. Tonight, it passes through the city before it returns to the vault. And I’ve been entrusted with its protection.”

Seungcheol’s stomach twists. Of all the people. He doesn’t let it show. “I feel safer already.” Mingyu appears at his side, ever punctual, ever perceptive. His eyes flicker from Joshua to Seungcheol in quiet curiosity. “Joshua, this is Mingyu,” Seungcheol says quickly, voice light. “Old friend. One of the few people who still puts up with me.” Joshua laughs. “He must be either brave or stupid.”

“Definitely stupid,” Seungcheol replies with a smirk. Joshua looks like he’s about to make another joke, when suddenly, his eyes light up. “You have to meet someone,” he says, excitement bursting across his features. “She’s here tonight. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”

You turn at the sound of Joshua’s voice.

You already know you’ll have to be gracious. You’ve done this before—smiled for visiting nobles, curtsied for fussy kings, exchanged pleasantries with fat, red-faced merchants smelling of cloves and greed. The mask is familiar. Comfortable. Tonight you wear it again.

Your gown is seafoam blue, embroidered with silver thread along the bodice and sleeves, fitted perfectly by your handmaidens hours before. Your hair is swept back in elegant waves, fastened with pearls and a diadem from your late mother’s collection. You look every inch the Princess of Mdina—polished, serene, composed.

But your eyes betray you. Because as you turn fully, you see him.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, effortlessly handsome in the most unruly way—he doesn’t look like a nobleman. His coat is fine, yes, tailored and dark, but it fits him like it resents him. His sleeves are too tight around his biceps. His hair, though combed, has clearly fought back. His jaw is cut from something unrelenting, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—dark and assessing, settle on you like you’re a storm he saw coming and ran toward anyway.

Joshua’s voice is warm as he goes to stand beside you. “This is Seungcheol. My childhood best friend.” Your spine straightens just a little more. The pirate, you think, though, of course, he isn’t introduced that way. No one would dare. Not in this room.

Still, you’ve heard the stories. Joshua told you over candlelight, in those rare moments between duties. A boy from the slums of the lower districts. A dreamer, a fighter. Wild. Loyal. Fearless. And foolish. You tilt your chin, expression practised and polite. “So you’re the infamous one.”

He grins slowly, like your words are a flirtation instead of a challenge. “Infamous? I was under the impression Joshua painted me as heroic.”

“He did,” you say. “But heroes don’t usually get chased by guards on rooftops.” He laughs—full-bodied and warm. “That’s when I was young. I’ve grown into a respectable man.” You arch a brow. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” His smile doesn’t waver, but you see the flicker in his eyes.

A spark you recognise because you’ve had it yourself before—on the rare nights you snuck out through the servants’ corridors and climbed the cliffs alone. When you looked at the stars and wondered what the rest of the world tastes like. Intrigue, curiosity, recklessness. He looks like all of those things combined. And you hate him for it.

“Seungcheol,” Joshua says with a grin, “this is—”

“The Princess of Mdina,” Seungcheol finishes for him, his eyes never leaving yours. “you must be the one who stole Joshua’s heart.” You hold his gaze. “It wasn’t a difficult theft. He left the gates open.” Joshua chuckles beside you, his hand resting lightly on your back. Seungcheol’s smile tightens at the corners. “Well, I suppose every treasure finds its keeper eventually.” You raise a brow. “I didn’t realise pirates cared for court gossip.” He chuckles. “I didn’t realise princesses believed everything they were told.”

“You don’t seem as particularly impressive in person as in the stories,” you say. His voice is lower now. “Don’t worry, Princess. I don’t find you all that impressive either.” Joshua barks a laugh between you, oblivious to the tension blooming like storm clouds. He pulls you closer to his side.

“Gods, I forgot how quick you both are with your words,” he says, clearly entertained. “I might regret this already.” You smile at Joshua and let your hand rest lightly on his arm. He leans in and kisses your cheek, and you respond with practised affection.

Seungcheol feels something shift in his chest at the sight of Joshua so at peace. Guilt that tastes like bile on his tongue. He can’t do it. He can’t steal the Book.

He covers the turmoil with a smile and steps back. “It’s good to see you, Joshua. Really.”

“And you, old friend,” Joshua says sincerely. “It’s been too long.”

Suddenly, the horns sound across the ballroom, breaking the moment. “The Book is on the move.”

The room shifts. The mood tightens. Guards begin to take position along the corridors, and the music slows to a ceremonial cadence. Seungcheol turns, walking away without another word. Mingyu hesitates for a beat, watching the expression darken behind his captain’s eyes, then follows.

You watch him go.

The celebration carries on behind them like a fading dream—laughter echoes, glasses clink, music fades into a low hum. Outside the grand ballroom, the city of Syracuse holds its breath. The crowd has shifted, no longer drunk on wine but on wonder.

Seungcheol and Mingyu step into the open air, blending into the velvet-clad nobles and wide-eyed onlookers gathered along the procession route. The night is still, save for the rhythmic march of guards escorting the artefact.

A floating platform glides along the ancient path from the lighthouse to the palace, suspended by hidden mechanisms and lit from within. The Book sits in its centre—radiant and pulsing, casting light like liquid silver across the cobbled streets and alabaster towers.

It is beautiful. Too beautiful.

Seungcheol watches it come closer, not moving. His jaw is set, arms loosely crossed, and his expression unreadable. Mingyu doesn’t take his eyes off him. “You’re quiet,” he says. Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away.

He watches the Book. Watches how people react to it, how they fall into silence, how they reach out as if basking in divinity itself. Then, quietly: “Just thinking.” Mingyu studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “We’re not doing this, are we?” It’s not a question. It’s a truth spoken simply. Seungcheol lets out a long breath, his eyes never leaving the procession.

“No.”

Mingyu doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to. He’s known Seungcheol long enough to read him like a compass—when his needle shifts, you follow the pull. He claps Seungcheol on the back with a dry smile. “I’ll get the others. We’ll be at the Chimera by the time you make peace with whatever existential crisis you’re having.” Seungcheol huffs a laugh despite himself. “Thanks, Gyu.” Mingyu turns, disappearing into the crowd.

Seungcheol walks away, through alleys bathed in soft torchlight. Through winding streets that once knew his bare feet as a boy. The energy of the city presses in around him—gasping citizens pointing at the glow of the Book, songs half-sung from balconies, little children perched on crates to glimpse history. And yet, he feels utterly apart from it all.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe nowhere. Maybe home—if he still had such a thing. The cobblestones glisten faintly under the magic light. Somewhere distant, the platform continues to float, its precious cargo slowly making its way to the palace vault.

That’s when he hears it. A voice, low and smooth, curling like smoke around the silence. “You look troubled, Captain.”

He stops.

A woman stands in the alley ahead of him, just beyond the reach of the lanternlight. Her gown is dark, glinting only faintly, like ink catching fire. Her hair spills down her back, long and black and impossibly still despite the breeze. But it’s her eyes—unblinking and shimmering silver—that set every nerve in Seungcheol on edge.

He immediately straightens. “Who are you?” he asks, cold but calm. The woman takes a slow step forward, lips curling into something that’s almost a smile. “I’m someone who sees more than most.” Seungcheol narrows his gaze. “That’s not a name.”

“Call me Cordia.”

The name rings no bells. Still, there is something about her—it’s as though the shadows themselves lean in to listen when she speaks. She circles him now, like a vulture, and he turns to keep her in his periphery. “It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” she muses, tilting her head toward the distant glow of the Book. “Such a curious little artefact. Sacred, yes. But mostly forgotten. The Kings worship it, lock it in a tower, drag it around like a trophy—but do they use it?”

Seungcheol says nothing.

“Of course they don’t,” she goes on, “because to use it would mean sharing. And power, real power, is never shared freely.”

“What’s your point?”

She stops in front of him and tilts her head. “My point, darling Seungcheol, is that there are men—rare men—who remember what it’s like to have nothing. Who understand what it means to claw their way from the gutter. Men who might look at that Book and think: why not me?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you think you know.”“Oh, but you do.” Her smile turns razor-sharp. “I know about the Chimera. I know about your map. Your crew. The side gate. The window between guard rotations. I know about your plan.”

His blood turns cold. She steps closer, eyes gleaming. “And I know... you abandoned it.” He stands his ground, steel in his voice now. “Some things aren’t worth the risk.” Cordia’s mouth curls, displeased. “Shame. I thought you were different.”

She starts to walk again, circling. “I thought, perhaps, the tides had sent me a man with a little spine. A little hunger. But no, just another good boy with a guilty conscience and a lost heart.” Seungcheol’s temper flares. “Say what you came to say. Then leave.” She stops behind him. He can feel her breath on his neck.

“I only came to say this, Captain…” Her voice drops. “You may not want the Book anymore. But someone else does. And now? There’s no stopping what’s begun.”

He whirls around—But the alley is empty.

He exhales, shaking his head—And then suddenly, the light vanishes, plunging the city into darkness. An unnatural shadow floods the streets—cloaking the buildings, extinguishing the torches, silencing the celebration with fear. Screams echo faintly in the distance. Metal clatters. Hooves strike stone.

Seungcheol stands frozen, heart hammering.

And then he hears it—boots. Fast, heavy, purposeful. Down the hill they come—torches flaring now, drawn swords gleaming, the Royal Guard flooding through the street.“There! That’s him!” one of them shouts. “The thief—get him!”

“What?” Seungcheol growls, but it’s too late. They’re on him. He runs. He vaults over a barrel and ducks into a corridor—but there are too many. They circle him, corner him against a wall, blades drawn.

He draws his sword, breathing hard, furious and confused. “I didn’t touch it!” They don’t care. Steel clashes. Seungcheol fights hard—but it’s four against one. Then six. Then eight. A strike to the ribs. His sword knocked from his hand. A kick to his knee. He stumbles towards the ground.

As the guards pin his arms behind his back and shackle his hands, Seungcheol spits blood and glares up at the guard in front of him. “What the hell is going on?” he growls.

“You’re under arrest,” the guard snarls. “By order of the King of Syracuse. For the theft of the Book of Peace.”

Inside the war room, panic simmers beneath the opulence. A great round table rests at the centre, its surface carved with the seal of the Twelve Cities. Candles burn low, flickering against the emerald drapery and golden tapestries, their light now feeble, as if even fire itself is uncertain.

The Kings sit in their ornate chairs, a storm of arguments building with each breath.

“It’s unthinkable—how could the Book simply vanish from under our noses?!”

“Was it magic? Sabotage? We had twenty men on the procession!”

“This will break the Accord if word gets out—our cities will riot—”

The voices blur, colliding into each other like waves in a tempest. Joshua stands near the edge of the table, fists clenched behind his back, doing everything in his power not to explode.

You sit beside him, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your face carefully composed. You’ve done this before—watched politics unfold like plays, each man posturing louder than the last. But never like this. Never with someone you knew on trial. And never with someone you have come to care about standing in the crossfire.

Joshua opens his mouth to speak—again—but the King of Syracuse slams his ringed fist against the marble, making everyone go silent. “Don’t defend him, Joshua. Not him. Not that piece of dockside scum you dared to drag into our home.”

Joshua flinches ever so slightly.

The King—his father—is red in the face, spit gathering at the corner of his mouth as he begins to pace around the table like a lion whose pride has been insulted.

“From the moment I laid eyes on that gutter-born child, I knew he’d be trouble. Following you like a stray dog through the streets. Filling your head with rebellion, dragging you into fights, sneaking you out of the palace—scandalising you. I should have banished him from Syracuse then and there. But no. You begged me to spare him.”

Joshua’s jaw tightens, but he stays quiet.

“And now you see what he’s done. Ten years he vanishes, and suddenly he returns not with apology or shame, but with deceit. He hides behind fine clothes and false names. He slips into our palace, mocks our hospitality, and steals the holiest artefact this continent has ever known.”

Across the table, one of the older kings from the Southern Isles clears his throat, trying to interject with a calmer voice. “Perhaps we should focus on recovering the Book—”

“The Book is gone!” the King of Syracuse roars. “And you want to waste time on a scavenger hunt? Our alliance means nothing now that the artefact is lost. That light protected us all—and now the skies are dark, and we are vulnerable. This is war. This is sabotage. And we must punish those who betray our trust.”

You steal a glance at Joshua. He’s barely breathing. The tension in his shoulders has locked him in place. The King slams his hand on the table again. “He is guilty. If that criminal does not return the Book himself, then he will be executed by the terms of the Accord. As will any who shelter him.”

Joshua finally speaks, quiet but firm. “He didn’t take it.”

The King turns on him, sneering. “You’re still deluded. Still loyal to some childhood fantasy. But this isn’t a boyhood story, son. This is treason. And if he doesn’t bring the Book back, he will die for it.”

Joshua takes a step forward. “Then let me speak to him.”

“What?”

“Let me speak to him,” Joshua repeats, louder. “I’ll find out what happened. I’ll get the truth. And if he has it—if there’s any chance he can return it—I’ll make sure he does.”

The chamber is deathly silent. Then the King narrows his eyes, his voice dripping with disdain. “And what if he doesn’t? What if you’re wrong? What if he vanishes again, like he did ten years ago?”

Joshua doesn’t hesitate. He stares his father down, unwavering. “Then you can execute me in his place.” Your breath catches.

The room erupts in chaos—shouts from multiple kings, cries of outrage, murmurs of disbelief. You don’t hear them. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Joshua, the man who always carried duty like a second skin, just signed his life away in defence of someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade. Someone the rest of the realm would see hanged without blinking. You can’t make sense of it.

The King leans back, stunned by his son’s rebellion. The air shifts. You see it in Joshua’s face—he’s made peace with it. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the chamber, pushing open the heavy oak doors and vanishing into the stone corridors beyond.

You rise instantly. “Princess—” one of the older kings starts. But you don’t hear him either. Your legs are already moving, your silk skirts flittering over the stone as you rush out of the room and into the shadows that chase Joshua’s retreat.

He’s halfway down the torchlit hall when you catch up. “Joshua, wait—” He doesn’t stop. You jog to match his stride, reaching out to catch his arm. “Please. Just talk to me.” He stops at the end of the corridor, finally turning.

His face is tired. Not physically. But in the soul-deep way, that only comes from being forced to choose between love and loyalty. “You don’t understand,” he says softly. You stare at him. “Then help me. Help me understand why you’re ready to die for a man who’s been nothing but a ghost in your life for the past ten years.”

His mouth parts slightly. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Because he saved my life once, too. When we were boys. When no one else did.” You blink. “That was a long time ago.”

“And I still owe him for it.” Your lips press together, heart twisting painfully. You want to argue. You want to shout that this is foolish, that he’s risking everything—not just his life, but yours too. If he dies, you are nothing.

Not just by custom. But by contract. No husband. No alliance. No worth. Your father will disown you. You’ll be sent back to Mdina in disgrace. You will be a daughter who failed to become a queen, a woman with no crown and no value. Joshua is not just your fiancé. He is your freedom in a different form.

But you also see it. The conviction. The man he’s become. The same loyalty that made you believe in him in the first place.

The very reason you agreed to marry him at all.

Your voice is quieter now. “Then what happens if you’re wrong?” Joshua looks at you with eyes that seem older than they should be. “Then I die for someone I once called a brother. And I die knowing I didn’t abandon him when the world already had.”

You stand there, frozen, as he turns again and disappears down the corridor, heading for the prison wing buried beneath the palace. You can’t let him go through with it. You can’t let him risk your future, and his. Not without doing something.

So you make a decision.

The walls are damp. Cold seeps through the cracks in the stone, curling into Seungcheol’s skin. The cell is small—just large enough for him to stretch out his legs and feel the edges of his confinement. The air smells of iron, mildew, and rot, like time itself has decayed in here, and no one bothered to notice.

A single candle flickers near the far wall, its stubby wax body melting slowly into the cracked floor. Its light barely touches the edges of the darkness, casting long, restless shadows on the walls. But Seungcheol doesn’t move. He sits slumped against the back wall, legs drawn up and arms resting over his knees, the thick iron shackles around his wrists still biting into the raw skin beneath.

His lip is split. There’s a bruise blossoming along his jaw. His ribs ache when he breathes too deeply. But the pain isn’t what bothers him. What bothers him is the silence. The silence and the impossible question he can’t stop asking himself:

How did it come to this?

He closes his eyes, letting the weight of everything press in. He hadn’t even done it. He hadn’t lifted a finger toward that damn Book, hadn’t stolen it, hadn’t broken a single lock or cast a single shadow in the direction of the artefact. He’d walked away. For once, he’d walked away. And still, the world managed to throw him in a cell for a crime he didn’t commit.

A dry, humourless breath escapes him. He lifts his gaze toward the barred window, narrow and high up the wall, no bigger than a ship’s porthole. Through it, far in the distance, across the quiet water of the harbour—there she is.

The Chimera. Docked and still.

Even from here, he can make out the curve of her hull, the low-slung sails folded neatly, the faintest flicker of a lantern swinging on the quarterdeck. His boys hadn’t abandoned him. If the Chimera still waited, it meant Mingyu, Wonwoo, Minghao, Soonyoung, and Chan were out there. Planning. Watching. Trusting him. And—more importantly—it meant none of them had done it either. That truth is the only thing keeping his chest from caving in.

The sound of distant boots echoes in the hallway, but he ignores it. Another guard, maybe. Another jeer. A muttered insult. They’ve been taunting him all night, calling him “the thief of peace,” laughing about what the gallows will feel like. He doesn’t rise to it.

Then—

The candle sputters violently. Its flame dances, then vanishes, snuffed out by an unnatural gust of wind that seems to creep under the door and swirl around him. The darkness swallows the room whole. His head snaps up. And there—where there was once only shadow—stands her.

Cordia.

The same dark gown. The same honey-slick voice. Her eyes gleam faintly in the black. Seungcheol’s mouth twists. “Of fucking course.” Cordia smirks, unaffected by his bitterness. “You always did have excellent timing, Captain.” He doesn’t move, but the muscles in his shoulders coil like a drawn bow. “It was you.”

“You catch on quick,” she purrs, circling him with leisurely steps. He stares up at her, fury churning under his skin. “You set me up.”

“I encouraged fate.”

“You framed me!” he growls, pushing himself upright despite the shackles and pain. “Why?” Cordia lets out a laugh that is far too amused, far too pleased. “Because this is what I do, Seungcheol.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

She walks along the edges of the cell, trailing her fingertips along the wall like she’s admiring art. Seungcheol watches her every movement, every tilt of her head, trying to find something human behind that smirk. But there’s nothing.

“You play the martyr well,” she says suddenly. “But let’s not pretend you were some innocent lamb. You were going to steal it. You were going to take the Book and sell it to the highest bidder.” Seungcheol falls silent. Because she’s not wrong. Cordia raises a brow. “No rebuttal, Captain?”

“Plans change.” His voice is low.

She laughs again. “No. You changed.” Her tone is mocking now. “Is that what this is? A pirate with a heart? Spare me.”Seungcheol clenches his jaw. “You got what you wanted. Why are you here?” Cordia stops pacing. She steps toward him, close now. Closer than he likes. “Because, darling,” she whispers, “the game has only just begun.” His brow furrows.

“What?”

“You can fix this. You can clear your name. Redeem that soft little soul you’re pretending not to have.” He laughs dryly. “From this hellhole I'm currently in? Yeah, right.” She slips a dagger from somewhere beneath her bodice and holds it lightly, like a lover. Then, in one smooth movement, she presses the tip to her chest and draws a cross over where her heart would be.

“Cross my heart,” she says with mock solemnity. “I’m not lying.”

Seungcheol stares at her, unimpressed. “And you expect me to believe anything that comes out of that mouth of yours?” Cordia tuts. “You’re not very trusting for someone about to die.” He growls. “Then say it. What’s the deal?”

She leans in, her smile curling like smoke. “Ten days. That’s what you have—ten days to retrieve the Book and return it to Syracuse. You’ll travel to the edge of the world. You’ll face challenges along the way—but a sailor of your talents should manage.” He narrows his eyes. “And what’s the catch?” Cordia pauses.

Her tone drops into something colder. Harder. “If you fail—if you don’t return in time, or if you fail to return the Book—Prince Joshua dies in your place.”

The silence in the cell deepens and becomes almost physical. Seungcheol stares at her, stunned. “What?”

“He vouched for you,” she says, almost gleeful. “He stood before the kings. Put his life on the line. Said he’d die if you didn’t come through.” Seungcheol’s chest tightens painfully. “That idiot...” Cordia shrugs. “It’s touching, really. But the clock’s ticking.”

He looks down at his shackles and his bruised wrists. Then back at her. “Why does any of this matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” she says breezily. “But a deal’s a deal. And now, it’s yours. If you want it.” Footsteps sound not far away. Steady. Familiar. Cordia turns toward the shadows, lips curling into a wicked grin. “Sounds like your prince is coming.”

“Wait—” Seungcheol steps forward.

She laughs one last time. “Make the right choice, Seungcheol.”

And then, just like before, she vanishes—disappearing into the darkness like she was never there.

The Chimera rocks gently in the harbour; her sails still furled but alive with anticipation. The sea, always humming, feels quieter tonight—like it’s waiting.

On deck, boots pound against worn planks as Seungcheol climbs aboard, battered, bruised, and brooding. The moonlight spills over his shoulders, highlighting the blood on his shirt, the dirt on his skin, and the fire still burning behind his eyes.

The moment his feet hit the main deck, his crew swarms him.

“What the hell happened?” Soonyoung is the first to pounce, eyes wide. “We heard the commotion from the alley—then guards running everywhere—then you vanished!”

Minghao leans against the mast, arms folded, but his voice is sharp. “You didn’t follow the plan. We were ready, and then, nothing.”

“Who stole the Book?” Wonwoo asks, stepping down from the rigging. His map still clutched in one hand. “If it wasn’t us, then who beat us to it?”

“How the hell did you get caught?” Chan blurts, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice.

“And more importantly—” Mingyu cuts through them all, arms crossed, jaw tense, “how did you escape?”

Seungcheol raises a hand, his voice calm but with an edge of finality. “Enough.”

Silence falls like a wave. Seungcheol scans each of their faces—their loyalty, their questions, their expectations. He’s not ready to speak. Not on everything. Not yet. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “It’s not our problem.” Murmurs stir again, but his following words silence them entirely.

“Mingyu,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Set sail for Fiji.” Seungcheol begins walking toward his quarters without a glance back. “It’s about time we retired.”

The door to his private quarters creaks open, the warm scent of cedar and sea salt welcoming him back to the only space that still feels like his. He exhales, slow and sharp, his shoulders slumping with the weight of everything he hasn’t said as he closes the door.

Cold steel presses to his throat from behind. His entire body stills.

“Move, and I’ll open your neck from ear to ear.”

He exhales through his nose, more annoyed than surprised. “What is it with women trying to kill me tonight?” he mutters. You shove him back a step, enough for him to turn without disarming you, though the dagger remains raised between you.

He looks you over, unimpressed. “Hello, Princess.”

“You’re going to find the Book of Peace,” you say, voice low and hard, “and you’re going to return it. Now.” He blinks. And then he laughs. A humourless, deep, exhausted laugh that makes you want to punch him. “I’m not doing anything, sweetheart,” he says. “It’s not my problem.”

“Not your—?!” you snap, stepping forward. “Joshua took your place! He stood before the kings, before his father, and gave his life to buy you time!” The change in him is instant. His jaw tightens. His posture straightens. But his anger matches yours.

“I didn’t ask him to do that!”

“But he did, Seungcheol. He did. He stood up for you, and if you walk away now, he’ll die for it.”

You’re shouting. You didn’t mean to. But you can’t help it. The words claw their way out of your chest. “And if the Book is not returned, the Accord falls apart. Chaos will follow. Syracuse will burn. What then? Do you sail off into the sun with your crew and let your city fall to pieces behind you?

He glares up at you. “My city? The same city that threw me to the streets as a child? A city that branded me trash and turned its back the first time I stumbled? I owe Syracuse nothing. I owe the kings nothing. They were ready to string me up the second the lights went out.”

“Then prove them wrong!” you scream.

“Why?!” His voice booms now, rising with his frustration. “So I can play the hero while they spit on my name anyway? You want me to die for honour? For duty? Those words are worth nothing to people like me!”

Your chest is heaving, and your voice cuts sharper now. “Because some of us don’t have the luxury of running away!” His head snaps toward you.

“I grew up hearing stories of men like you—pirates who stood against kings, who fought with honour, who chose courage over cowardice. And now I meet you, and all I see is a man who wants to quit. Who hides behind excuses instead of doing the right thing.”

He scowls. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, I do.” You glare at him, stepping toe-to-toe now, chest burning. “I saw it the moment I met you. That cocky grin? That swagger? It’s all smoke. You’re not a hero. You’re a coward. A selfish man who hides behind charm so no one sees the empty core.”

He says nothing. You spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you look over your shoulder, disgusted.

“I wonder what your crew would think of you if they knew the truth.”

And that—that—snaps something in him.

In a blur, he crosses the room and slams his hand against the wall, blocking your path. You whirl around, dagger raised, but he doesn’t flinch. “You talk about sacrifice like you know it,” he says lowly. “But you’re not doing this for Joshua. You’re doing this to save yourself. Your position. Your title. Because if he dies, you lose everything.”

Your breath hitches.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You’re just like me, Princess. Two sides of the same damn coin.”

“No,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Because at least I’m doing something about it.” He steps closer to you, cornering you, his breath hot against your cheek as his eyes lock on yours.

“And if I agree,” he murmurs, “if I bring back the Book and save your darling little fiancé... what do I get in return?”

You don’t break eye contact as you reach slowly into your pouch and withdraw the small bag tied to your hip. You loosen the knot and let the contents fall into his palm.

Red diamonds. Dozens of them.

He stares at them for a long moment. Then his lips curl. A grin spreads across his face—feral, cocky, and very much alive. “Well, Princess,” he murmurs, “you should’ve just said you were hiring a pirate.”

He spins and bursts out of the cabin like a storm unchained. You follow him, stunned, as he bounds up to the deck and shouts over the wind. “Change of plans!” he bellows.

The crew—all half-lounging, half-arguing—whip around in confusion. “We’re going after the Book.”

Soonyoung’s mouth drops open. “Wait, what?” Mingyu steps forward. “Where is it?” Seungcheol grins.“ At world’s end.”

Chaos ensues.

“Are you serious?”

“How the hell do we get there?”

“Why are we listening to you again?”

Soonyoung finally shouts over the din, pointing behind Seungcheol. “Uh—Captain? Who’s the lady?”

Seungcheol turns back, and all eyes follow his gaze as they land on you—still standing a little stiff in the centre of the deck, the dagger now sheathed under your cloak. “This, is our newest passenger.”

Then his eyes glint with something darker. Something amusing and very inconvenient.

“She’ll be joining us on the voyage.”

You’ve only spent two days at sea, but it feels like a different life entirely.

Gone are the corseted dresses and laced bodices, the polished silver combs and pearl-dusted shoes. You wear loose breeches now—weathered, a little too long, rolled at the ankles—and a white shirt you stole from a chest in the hold, sleeves tied up above your elbows. Your hair whips freely in the salt air, unbound for the first time in years.

There’s grime beneath your fingernails. Rope burns on your palms. A sun-kissed glow settling into your skin.

You’ve never felt so alive.

The ship rocks beneath your feet, wild and rhythmic, the sails groaning with each gust. The wind is a constant companion—slapping, roaring, tangling your hair. And while you’re still finding your footing (literally and figuratively), the crew has embraced you far more quickly than you expected.

Soonyoung, the loudest of them, has resorted to clinging to you like an overeager puppy. He insists on calling you ‘My Lady’ in the most dramatic, theatrical tone possible, and makes a great show of saluting you every time you pass him on deck.

Chan, the youngest, practically beams every time you ask him a question about knots or sails. He follows Soonyoung’s lead in treating you like royalty—but with a kind of awe that makes you smile instead of bristle.

Minghao and Wonwoo are more reserved, both of them often keeping to themselves or murmuring quietly in the shadow of the sails. But they nod when you speak, sometimes offering calm corrections or quiet insight. Minghao surprised you yesterday by handing you a fig he’d somehow smuggled on board, simply saying, “You looked homesick.”

But not everyone has been welcoming.

From the wheel, Seungcheol watches you like a storm brewing on the horizon.

Every time you laugh with the crew, his brows pull tighter. Every time you roll up your sleeves to help scrub the deck, he mutters under his breath. Every time Soonyoung teaches you something new and ridiculous—like the hidden flamethrowers rigged beneath the starboard hull—Seungcheol sighs dramatically and mutters something about “idiots with too much enthusiasm.”

You try to ignore him. Most of the time, you succeed. But when you don’t—you argue. Loudly.

So loudly, the entire crew stops what they’re doing to listen. And now, on the second day, you find yourself once again at the centre of their amusement.

“Princess, let me show you how the harpoons work!” Soonyoung had grinned this morning, gripping your wrist before you could protest. “They’re hidden in the front of the ship. Serrated, retractable, brilliant.”

Chan, walking close behind, had added, “We rarely use them unless something with teeth comes after us.”

You had blinked at that. “What kind of something with teeth?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Soonyoung had said brightly. “Come on, my Lady! You’ll love this!”

They seem to delight in your confusion and wonder at every new piece of the ship, and they show you everything. Every trapdoor. Every hidden blade. Every half-working cannon.

Even the ones Seungcheol hasn’t touched in years.

You’re standing on the forecastle of the ship now, leaning over a concealed loading mechanism as Soonyoung animatedly describes the best way to ignite the twin-fire barrels when—

“You’d break your wrist trying to fire it like that.”

You glance down sharply.

Seungcheol stands at the bottom of the steps; one hand braced on the wooden beam, his brow arched like he’s just caught a child lying. Soonyoung snorts and mumbles something about checking on the sails, practically skipping down the stairs to leave you alone.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like I’m trying to shoot it.”

“You said it was ready,” Seungcheol replies, ascending slowly. “And it’s not. If you load the powder before locking the rotation pin, it misfires and tears the recoil plate clean off.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him. “You must be a joy at parties.” He steps into the space beside you, inspecting the weapon with a critical eye. “You’re the one who wants to play sailor. Don’t complain when someone points out you’re playing it wrong.”

“I wasn’t playing anything,” you say coolly. “I was listening. Which is what you could try doing once in a while.” Seungcheol scoffs, straightening. “Hard to listen when you never stop talking.”

You take a sharp breath, and just like that—you’re off. “You could just say thank you. You know, for me, trying to help.”

“You could stay out of things you don’t understand.”

“I’m learning—”

“Then learn quietly.”

The crew is practically holding their breath. Mingyu’s behind the wheel, keeping the ship’s course steady, smirking like this is the best entertainment he’s had in months. You step closer. “Why don’t you just admit you don’t like that I’m here?”

He scoffs. “What gave you that idea? The way you flirt with my crew every chance you get or the way you pretend to know everything after only two days on the water?”

“I’ve done no such thing—”

“Oh right, and I’m blind.”

You’re about to shoot back—something scathing, probably—when Mingyu raises his voice and interrupts flatly:

“Not to ruin the foreplay, but you might want to look ahead.”

You and Seungcheol whip your heads simultaneously.

A narrow opening in a line of towering cliffs—grey, jagged, and half-submerged in churning waters approaches you. Mist curls along the rocks, and sunken ship masts jut from the waves. The cavern walls are just wide enough for a ship to pass through, maybe.

Wonwoo squints from his perch near the quarterdeck. “Shipwreck’s Grotto.”

“Place gives me the creeps,” Chan mutters. “It should,” Minghao says. “Half the legends say no one makes it out the other side.”

You glance towards Seungcheol.

His jaw is tight. He turns, addressing the crew as he makes his way towards the wheel. You follow behind him silently. “Alright, boys,” he calls, voice clear and hard. “Drop the sails. Ready the rudder. We go in nice and easy.”

You swallow hard, the wind catching your hair. Soonyoung murmurs, “We’re going through that?”

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Only way forward,” he says.

The ship moves slowly under the measured hand of its captain. Her mahogany hull cuts carefully through the water, threading between reef and rock. Above, seagulls cry, but even their calls seem distant, swallowed by the dense fog coiling through the cavernous stone walls. The only real sound is the rhythmic drip of condensation falling from the overhangs, the occasional creak of rope, and the splash of waves against splintered wood.

Minghao’s voice rings out, low but steady. “Reef to port. Five meters. Sharp shelf ahead.”

His silhouette perches from the crow’s nest, legs hooked around the crossbeam, his spyglass flashing with the faintest light as he scans ahead.

Seungcheol stands behind the wheel; his entire body braced with tension. The lines of his jaw are tight, his grip white-knuckled. You stand to his right, your fingers brushing the hilt of your dagger at your hip—more for reassurance than necessity. Mingyu is on his left, arms folded, eyes flicking between the rocks and the horizon.

No one speaks.

The grotto is sacred in its stillness—a graveyard of ships and stories.

You pass the first wreck after fifteen minutes. A small cutter, no name visible, her mast snapped like a twig. The hull is cracked in half, one side suspended on a jagged stone, the other submerged. Torn sails drift like ghostly banners beneath the surface.

“Gods,” Chan whispers from the lower deck, eyes wide.

“There’s more,” Minghao calls again. “A whole fleet—dead ahead.” And indeed, as the Chimera crawls forward, the graveyard reveals itself. A merchant ship, barnacle-crusted and canted sideways. A war galleon, its cannons rusted and useless, ribs broken open like a carcass. A half-burned skiff tangled in the limbs of another, their final collision frozen in time.

You feel it in your bones—this place is wrong.

Seungcheol barks an order—“Trim the foresail, two degrees starboard. Watch the reef under the bow.”—and the men obey. His voice cuts through the fog with precision, and the ship shifts just in time to avoid a jagged outcrop lurking beneath the surface.

You watch him. For all his scowls and grumbling and sharp-edged arrogance, he’s in his element here. As he charts the way through a corridor of destruction, his presence pulses beside you—commanding, tangible, frustrating.

The air grows heavier. The mist thicker.

And then—You hear it. A whisper, tucked beneath the creak of the hull and the lapping of waves.

A melody.

It doesn’t make sense at first. It could be the wind. The groan of old wood. You brush it off. But it comes again.

A few soft notes, drifting upward like bubbles from the deep. It’s not music exactly, but something close—a kind of calling.

You turn slowly, looking out across the water.

Mist clings to the surface in swirling patches. Light plays tricks here—turning shadows into shapes and reflections into illusions. You narrow your eyes. Just beneath the waves, something moves. A shimmer of silver, gone as quickly as it came. You blink.

The music—if it is music—is louder now. It’s still not clear, but it’s beautiful. Ethereal. It pulls at something in you, something distant. You shake it off.

You turn back to the helm—and freeze. Seungcheol is slumped over the wheel. His hands no longer hold the handles, and his posture is slackened. His eyes are far away. Unfocused. Glazed with a sheen of awe, as if he’s staring into a dream, not the rotting shipwrecks ahead.

“Seungcheol?” you ask, your voice low. He doesn’t respond. You step closer. “Captain?” Still nothing. You reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. It’s rock-solid—tense and unmoving.

Voices. Singing. Soft, lilting harmonies that weave into one another, are beckoning. Your blood runs cold.

You run to the rail, lean over, and that’s when you see them.

Figures in the water. Pale, otherworldly, gliding just beneath the surface. Long hair fanning out behind them like ink in water, eyes glowing faintly beneath the waves.

Sirens.

You don’t think. You act.

The only thing you can hear now is your own breath—ragged, quick, almost desperate. The melodies rise in waves, crashing over the crew in pulses. And they fall, one by one. Not physically, but mentally. Pulled under the spell.

You reach for the wheel, grabbing it with both hands, the polished wood slick beneath your touch. The ship has already veered off-course, inching dangerously close to a spire of rock waiting like a fang to tear through the hull. You spin the wheel hard—your shoulders scream with the force—and the ship groans in protest. The hull misses the stone by a breath, scraping along the jagged edge with a deafening screech.

Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“Get it together,” you mutter to yourself, blinking the sweat from your lashes. The ship pitches under your feet as it glides forward. You grab hold of the spokes for balance as you scan the deck.

The crew is drifting—towards the edges.

You spot Soonyoung first, eyes glazed, a hand outstretched as if reaching for something just out of view. You grab the nearest length of coiled rope and sprint toward him. “Not today,” you hiss, looping the rope around his waist and yanking it tight, tying it off to the mainmast. He doesn’t fight you. He doesn’t even see you. He just keeps humming to himself, leaning with the sway of the song like a child in a lullaby.

You do the same with Chan, catching him just as one foot lifts onto the railing. He stares into the water with such adoration it makes your stomach turn. A siren surfaces a few meters off the starboard side, her mouth half-open in song, her eyes eerily void of life. You tie him off. Tight. Firm. You shout his name to wake him—nothing.

Wonwoo is slumped near a barrel, his book forgotten, his fingers twitching faintly to the rhythm of the melody. Mingyu is halfway to the prow, his hands limp at his sides. You tug him back by the loops of his pants, and he stumbles with a surprised grunt—but doesn’t react.

You secure them all to the mast, fashioning a web of knots in the chaos, your fingers bleeding against the rope. There’s no time to feel it.

The ship shudders again, scraping another submerged frame. You turn back and race to the helm. You spin the wheel again, the wood grating beneath your grip. The bow turns slowly, but it turns—avoiding a splintered mast impaled on a reef.

And then—A shadow moves beside you.

Seungcheol.

He’s walking down the stairs of the quarterdeck towards the side railing, his steps slow but sure, his eyes empty.

“Seungcheol!” you shout, but he doesn’t hear you. He moves like a man being called home. You leap down the steps two at a time and reach him just as his hands touch the rail, and he starts to hoist himself up. You grab his collar and yank him backwards.

He stumbles, surprised, blinking. But the trance still lingers. He stares at you like you’re not quite real.

“Snap out of it,” you grit out, pushing him against the wall of the cabin. You turn to head back to the helm—there’s no time to waste—

But his hand shoots out and pulls you back. Before you can react, his lips crash on yours.

You gasp, the surprise of it ripping the breath from your lungs. His mouth is fierce, desperate, all wild edges and instinct. His hands are at your waist, his mouth claiming yours. And despite yourself—despite everything—you melt into it. Your fingers curl into his shirt. You lean in. And gods help you, you kiss him back.

It’s fire. Heat. Tongue. Teeth. Unspoken fury. Unspoken want.

But suddenly, you remember where you are and who you’re kissing. You rip away. Your fist flies on its own accord, and it lands square on his jaw.

Seungcheol drops like a stone, knocked out cold.

Your breath is ragged as you stare down at him, trembling. What in the gods’ names—

But there’s no time.

The bow misses another reef by inches—but the hull clips it. The ship lurches, wood cracking. You run to steady her, but she’s wounded.

Suddenly, a scream rings out. You spin, eyes flying to the crow’s nest.

Minghao. You see the rope slacken. Then his body falls. “No—!”

You race to the rail as he crashes into the water with a splash. For a second, he’s still—then he’s flailing. Awake. But a siren is already approaching, gliding fast, her eyes locked on her prey.

You remember Soonyoung’s harpoon.

You dash to the foredeck, fingers flying over the latches of the weapon. You aim, inhale—fire. The harpoon slices through the mist, striking the water just as the siren reaches Minghao. He sees it and grabs the rope.

You throw your whole body weight onto the crank, activating the recoil system. The rope whines under pressure. Inch by inch, you pull him back toward the ship. The siren lashes out, claws raking through the water, just missing his leg. With a final pull, Minghao crashes onto the deck, gasping, eyes wide with fear and clarity.

You collapse beside him, your heart beating so loud it drowns out everything else. For a moment, you just lie there, winded, soaked, and shaking.

Then, your eyes find the wheel again. “Shit.” You stagger to your feet, dragging Minghao with you. “Can you stand?” He nods, coughing. “Yeah. Yeah, I can steer.”

Together, you limp to the helm. He takes the wheel while you shout directions, dodging the last gauntlet of stone and wreckage. The Chimera slams through the remnants of an old galleon’s hull with a crack, the wood splintering against the bow.

You burst out of the grotto’s mouth, the water opening up wide again, blue and endless. The ship is damaged. Her hull is scraped, and her sails are torn. But she floats. You lean over the rail, sucking in air as your lungs finally relax.

And somewhere on the floor, Seungcheol groans and stirs awake.

The men awaken slowly. One by one, groggy and confused, they blink into the sunlight.

“Ugh… what happened?” Chan mumbles as he wrestles with the rope tying him to the mast. Soonyoung blinks up at the sail, completely unfazed by the fact that he’s trussed like a holiday ham. “Was it rum? Did we hit the good casks again?”

“Wait,” Wonwoo mutters, tugging free. “Why are we tied up?”

Minghao leans weakly against the wheel, drenched and pale, but he’s breathing, and that’s all you care about.

The crew untangles themselves in a chorus of grunts and confusion, stumbling across the deck. Mingyu, dazed, rubs the back of his neck and looks around. “Where’s Seungcheol?”

The man in question is sitting up against the wall near the stairs, touching his jaw gingerly. His brows are furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of whatever fragments the sirens' spell didn’t erase.

Soonyoung squints at him. “He’s not tied up. Was it him who saved us?”

“Would make sense,” Chan adds, already beaming. “He’s the captain, after all.”

Then, a voice cuts through the rising chatter, calm but loud, carrying the weight of quiet authority. “It wasn’t him.” Everyone turns.

Minghao clears his throat and pushes off the wheel. “It was the Princess.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to speak up—as far as you knew, he is pretty reserved, comfortable in the shadows, not speaking unless spoken to.

Soonyoung gawks at you. “Princess—you. You saved us?” You nod slowly, not quite ready for the way they all light up at that piece of information.

“You tied us up?” Chan exclaims, both horrified and awed. “That’s—wow. Amazing.”

“She shot a harpoon at a siren,” Minghao confirms. “Pulled me out of the water. Just in time.”

“Damn,” Soonyoung whistles, clutching his heart. “I think I’m in love.” You let out a breathless laugh, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “Please, it was just—”

“—heroic,” Chan cuts in.

“Brilliant,” Wonwoo nods.

They swarm you in a chorus of praise, clapping you on the back, asking questions all at once. You smile, flustered but proud.

Until, of course, the storm cloud re-enters.

“My hand-carved railing,” Seungcheol’s voice suddenly booms from the starboard side. “Gone. Shattered.”

“What the—” You mumble.

“And the hull,” Seungcheol barrels on, stalking the deck with his arms thrown up. “My beautiful mahogany hull—scraped! Do you know how long it took me to sand that by hand? Chan, did you see the gouge?!”

“Oh boy,” Wonwoo mutters, exchanging a look with Mingyu. Mingyu folds his arms and smirks. “Ten silvers says she doesn’t let him finish his next sentence.”

“You’re on,” Wonwoo says.

You step forward, arms crossed, not hearing the murmurs of the crew. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Seungcheol spins to face you. “What?”

“You’re seriously yelling about cosmetic damage when you’d all be fish food if I hadn’t stepped in?”

“I’m yelling because my ship looks like it got chewed up and spit out by a Kraken!”

“And yet—” you gesture dramatically, “she’s still floating. You’re welcome.”

“I never asked you to save me,” he growls, jaw tense.

“No, you were too busy trying to kiss a siren to ask me for anything! Oh, but it wasn’t a siren, was it?” That shuts him up for half a second. His eyes narrow, and the muscle in his jaw jumps. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“That much was obvious,” you snap.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this ship myself—”

“For what? Daring to be useful?” you shoot back, stepping into his space. “God forbid the delicate balance of testosterone on this ship gets upset by a woman actually doing something right!”

“You crashed through a royal galleon!”

“I saved your life!”

You’re nose to nose now, practically vibrating with rage. His eyes are molten, dark and burning with the same fire that sparked the first time you met. You hate how handsome he is when he’s angry. You hate that he kissed you, and you felt something.

“Honestly,” you snap, “you are the most boorish and pigheaded man I have ever met!” His eyes flash.

“Princess,” he mocks, “I’ve seen the high-born boys your type hangs around with. I’m the only man you’ve ever met.”

You let out a shriek of frustration and stomp your foot. “Ugh!”

You spin on your heel and march toward the cabin door, slamming it shut behind you so hard the wood rattles in its hinges.

The silence on deck is deafening. Seungcheol turns back to face his crew, fists still clenched from his outburst. Six pairs of eyes are locked on him with unimpressed expressions ranging from judgmental to deeply disappointed. He blinks. “What?”

Soonyoung crosses his arms. “You could say thank you, Captain.” “Yeah,” Chan adds. “She saved us all. You could at least act like you have manners.” Minghao sighs. “Unbelievable.”

Seungcheol mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “goddamn woman,” and stalks toward your cabin.

He knocks once. You fling the door open. “What?” He scowls. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Fine. I won’t.”

You slam the door again.

Back on deck, Seungcheol breathes out once through his nose. “Well?” he asks, throwing his arms up. Minghao shrugs. “Could’ve used a bit more sincerity.”

Seungcheol glares at them all. “Whatever. Mingyu, find the nearest island. We need to fix the damn ship.”

As Mingyu steps toward the wheel, Soonyoung sidles up to Chan. “I ship them.”

“Same,” Chan nods.

“They’re gonna kill each other first,” Wonwoo adds.

“Wanna bet?”

“Always.”

You’ve never seen a ship come back to life so fast.

After a quick stop at a small, uncharted island to gather wood, sealant, and rigging parts, it only took two days for the Chimera to look almost as good as new. The hull still bears scratches, and the sails have a few new tears, but morale is oddly high. Everyone is doing their part—scrubbing, sawing, hammering, knotting, sealing. And you? You’re elbow-deep in tar, laughing with Soonyoung as you try to patch a crack in the starboard railing.

“You’re not bad with your hands, Princess,” he teases, handing you a brush. You raise an eyebrow, dipping it into the thick black tar. “And you’re not as annoying when your mouth is shut.” He barks a laugh, utterly delighted. “Ooh, she’s spicy today.”

Across the deck, Chan lets out a long whistle. “Careful, hyung, she already survived sirens. You might not be so lucky.”

You grin at them both, trying your best to ignore the weight you feel behind your back. That brooding, glowering, impossible weight in the shape of one Choi Seungcheol.

Ever since the grotto, since that kiss—and the furious argument that followed—he’s barely spoken to you. Avoids you like the plague. Unless he’s making some smart-ass remark, of course.

But that’s fine. You’ve got better things to focus on.

Wonwoo actually asked for your opinion yesterday on a course route—“You’ve got a sharp eye, might as well use it,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Minghao taught you how to tie a bowline knot. Chan insisted on bringing you extra water rations as you scrubbed the deck. And Soonyoung, gods help him, has taken to calling you Captain Princess.

You pretend it’s annoying. It’s not.

Which makes Seungcheol’s reactions all the more confusing. He’s been sniping at the crew left and right like a wounded bear.

“Soonyoung, if you’ve got time to flirt, you’ve got time to check the damn ropes.”

“Wonwoo, she’s not your first mate, she doesn’t need your damn charts.”

It’s exhausting. And worse, none of them even take him seriously anymore. They just roll their eyes and laugh him off.

What you don’t know is that while you’re still patching up the railing with Soonyoung, Mingyu sneaks up on Seungcheol, his voice low and teasing. “You’re jealous,”

Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.”

“They’re not focused. We’re sailing into unknown waters. This isn’t a game.”

Mingyu turns toward him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’ve had your crew flirting in taverns and stealing ladies’ hearts for years, and now you’re mad because Chan called her pretty?” Seungcheol glares. “She’s not part of the crew.”

“She’s the reason any of us are still alive.”

That shuts him up. Mingyu’s voice softens. “Whatever this is… deal with it. Before it consumes you.”

But Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He watches the horizon.

You, meanwhile, are cleaning your hands off with a rag when something shifts in the air.

Where the sky was painted in warm gold and soft blue, it now bleeds grey. Fast. Clouds roll in. The wind picks up so sharply you nearly lose your footing.

“Hey—” Chan shouts from across the deck. “Is anyone seeing that?” Thunder cracks overhead. The water darkens. You squint at the sky. “That wasn’t there five minutes ago.” Soonyoung’s smile falters. “Feels... wrong.”

Minghao climbs down from the crow’s nest, eyes narrowed. “There was no storm indicated this far south. This isn’t natural.”

You see Seungcheol’s figure, already moving into action, barking orders in that deep, commanding voice. “Tighten the ropes—drop half the sails. Minghao, check the compass. Chan, prepare the storm rigging.”

Everyone’s rushing now, hands on sails, feet racing across the deck. You grab a rope and instinctively help Soonyoung fasten it. “Is this another challenge?” you ask, breathless.

He nods grimly. “It has to be. Storms don’t rise like that unless something calls them.”

The sky rips apart.

Thunder explodes above your head, and the Chimera lurches violently beneath your feet as the first true wave of the storm crashes into her hull. You stumble, catching yourself on a rope, heart racing in your chest as the wind screams around you.

“Hold the sails! Batten down everything that moves!” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the chaos, barely audible over the howl of the wind. “Brace yourselves!”

You look to the others—Minghao already scaling up the mast, Chan clinging to the rigging, Soonyoung barking orders and running lines. Everyone’s in action, fluid and fierce. You mimic their movements, tying knots, steadying loose items, and gripping any anchor point you can find. But panic prickles at the edges of your throat.

This storm isn’t natural. You feel it in your bones.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You whip around to see Mingyu, rain slicking his hair flat against his forehead, concern etched into every line of his face. “You should go below deck—ride it out in your cabin. This isn’t just a squall, Princess.”

“If they can handle it, so can I,” you shout back, voice trembling slightly despite your resolve. Mingyu hesitates, eyes flicking toward Seungcheol. His jaw tightens. “Alright. Just stay sharp.” You nod once and return to the chaos.

Rain begins in earnest now, slicing sideways through the wind, soaking every inch of you in seconds. You’re drenched, shivering, boots slipping across the deck, hair sticking to your face.

Still, you stay.

Seungcheol is still at the wheel, knuckles white around the handles, shirt plastered to his chest, jaw locked tight. His gaze flickers to you, once, twice—his expression unreadable in the flicker of lightning. But it lingers.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

“Maelstrom!” Soonyoung shouts as the sea splits open.

Your eyes follow the direction of his trembling hand.

A great swirling vortex opens just ahead— deep and wide, churning with impossible violence. The water doesn’t move naturally—it spins with an eerie cadence, as though summoned by something ancient, something furious.

“Hard to starboard!” Seungcheol yells. He spins the wheel violently, trying to angle the ship away from the pull of the current.

It’s not enough. The ship begins to drag sideways, inch by inch, into the spiral. “Throw everything we don’t need overboard! We’re too heavy!”

Mingyu leaps toward the mainsail. You rush to help the others who have moved below deck—boxes, crates, barrels, anything not bolted down is passed along and hurled into the sea with panicked shouts and splashes that vanish into the stormy swirl.

The ship jolts again, water flooding over the railing. You sprint across the deck, nearly slipping, carrying what you can and tossing it over the edge.

And then it happens. One of the crates—a heavy box of scrap metal—catches on your foot. The rope slithers around your ankle and then tightens with sudden force as the crate slides across the deck, pulled over the railing by the ship’s tilt. Before you can cry out, it yanks you off your feet, face slamming into the soaked wood, pain blooming across your cheekbone.

You scream as your body is dragged backwards, feet first, the deck rushing by beneath you until your arms latch—barely—onto the railing. Your body already half overboard, legs dangling above the abyss.

“Arghhh!”

Seungcheol’s voice pierces the roar of the storm. “PRINCESS!”

And then he’s moving.

You see him abandon the wheel, Mingyu diving in to take his place without hesitation. Seungcheol barrels across the deck, boots skidding, eyes locked on yours with something that looks far too much like fear.

“I can’t hold on!” you cry, your voice breaking. The railing is slippery. Your strength is fading. “Don’t you dare let go,” he growls, dropping to his knees beside you. He grabs your arm and tries to pull—but the rope tugs you again, your hand slipping. “You’ll go over too!” Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “Like hell, I will.”

Then—without hesitation—he grabs his dagger, clenches it between his teeth, and climbs over the side of the ship.

Rain is slamming into his back, the waves crashing over him, but he reaches you. “I’ve got you,” he shouts, pulling the dagger free. Your voice breaks. “I’m scared.” Seungcheol’s movements falter for half a second. Then he growls, “I know. But I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Seungcheol cuts the rope, over and over, until it finally snaps free. The sudden release sends your body plummeting as your fingers lose their grip.

But you don’t fall into the sea. Seungcheol reaches out and clutches you to him, one arm locking around your waist, the other gripping the ladder in front of him. You wrap your arms around his neck instinctively, sobbing now.

“It’s okay, darling,” he mutters roughly, mouth by your ear. “You’re safe.” You pull back, just slightly, your eyes meeting his in the torrential downpour. “Thank you,” you whisper. His gaze softens. And for the briefest heartbeat, he whispers back, “Anytime.”

He hoists you both upward, muscle and willpower carrying you until you crash onto the deck once more. The two of you collapse in a heap of limbs, gasping, drenched, rain battering down.

But you’re alive.

You stare at him for a long moment, his face so close to yours, the adrenaline still pumping in your veins. His hair is soaked, brow creased—but he’s looking at you with something akin to relief.

Then Mingyu’s voice pierces the haze. “Cheol! We need you!”

You both snap out of it.

The storm dissapears as quickly as it came.

The roar of wind and water settles into a hushed murmur. Rain trickles to a stop. The sky peels open, dusky purple bleeds into soft orange and navy at the edges.

You stand on legs that barely feel like they belong to you. Shaky. Damp. Numb. The wood beneath your boots creaks and shifts with the gentle sway of the ship, no longer at war with the sea. No more maelstrom. No more screaming.

Around you, the crew slowly reorients themselves. Soonyoung rests his hands on his knees, panting. Wonwoo slouches against the railing. Chan leans back and exhales one long, broken breath. Minghao is seated on the deck, soaked through, running a hand through his wet hair. His eyes meet yours briefly. He gives you the faintest nod.

You’ve never seen men so strong, so wild, suddenly look so... human.

On the quarterdeck, Seungcheol is holding the wheel like it might still rip from his hands. Mingyu claps a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?” Seungcheol nods once, sharp. “We’re out.”

“You did good,” Mingyu says, and then—because he’s Mingyu—he adds, “Told you she wasn’t just a pretty face.” Seungcheol gives him a sidelong glare, his jaw working before he huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m just saying—if this is you pretending not to care about her, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”

Seungcheol grunts, but doesn’t argue. He turns his gaze back to the deck. At you. And you feel it like a tether tugging at your chest. You meet his gaze. He doesn’t look away. Everything else blurs: the crew, the remnants of the storm, the creaking ship.

It’s just you and him.

You, standing with seawater still dripping from your hair, your shirt sticking to your skin, your lip sore from where you bit it in panic. Him, forearms tense and shoulders set, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, eyes unreadable, but softened—a storm in his own right.

Mingyu steps in, subtle as always. “I’ll take over. Go.” Seungcheol raises a brow. “Go where?” Mingyu just smirks, hands already moving to the handles. “Go.” There’s a beat of resistance. But then Seungcheol pushes away, descending the stairs.

He stops just in front of you. Close enough that the heat of his body, still radiating from adrenaline and effort, warms your chilled skin.

You lift your hand. It’s steady, palm open, and fingers stretched toward him.

He stares at it for a moment, brows knitting together, as if it’s a puzzle he doesn’t quite know how to solve. You raise your eyebrows, the barest edge of a smirk playing on your lips. You wiggle your fingers slightly, urging. He blinks once before chuckling low in his throat.

Then, he takes it.

His hand is warm. Calloused. Larger than yours, his grasp firm but soft. His palm envelops yours, and for a moment, your breath catches—not from fear, not from shock, but something else entirely.

“Hello,” you say with mock formality. “I’m the princess who doesn’t know how to stay below deck, apparently.” That draws a real laugh from him. His smile is a little too pleased. His fingers tighten just slightly. “Seungcheol,” he replies, the word dipping low in his chest. “Captain of the Chimera. Horrible temper. Worse manners.”

“Yes, I noticed.” His mouth twitches. Your fingers linger in his. Just a bit too long. You look up at him, and you see none of the biting, brooding edge he usually shows. Just Seungcheol. Just the man who saved you from the sea like you weighed nothing. You cough lightly, clearing your throat as you gently extract your hand. Your face is hot. “I should clean up.”

“Right,” he says, still smiling. You nod and turn.

The men are suspiciously quiet as you pass—Chan nods his head softly, Soonyoung smiles brightly, and Wonwoo mutters something half-intelligible about “stormproof royalty.”

You flash a quick smile their way, half-formed, half-distracted. But your mind is still reeling. Your boots squelch as you approach your cabin. Your hand wraps around the brass handle, ready to go inside, but something—something instinctive—makes you glance back.

There he is.

Still standing in the middle of the deck, watching you like you’ve unravelled something inside him. Like he can’t stop looking, even if he tried. You inhale deeply and slip inside, the door shutting softly behind you.

And your heart—traitorous, fluttering thing—won’t stop pounding.

You can’t sleep.

Not from the cold, not from the rocking of the ship, not even from the aches that linger in your body after the storm. It’s something deeper. Something woven into your chest and bones and memory. The kind of thing that no amount of time beneath a blanket can soothe. So you dress quietly, wrap a shawl around your shoulders, and slip out of your cabin.

The deck is slick from the rain, shining faintly under the glow of the stars—more brilliant than you’ve ever seen them. Clear and cold and endless. You make your way toward the foredeck, your bare feet almost silent against the planks as the soft snores of the crew travel upwards from below. The wind is cooler out here, brushing through your hair and tugging at your shawl. You let it.

You close your eyes and… breathe.

The sea tonight is nothing like the one that tried to kill you earlier. Tonight, it’s still. Endless. The sky meets the horizon in a velvet embrace, and for a moment, you forget the chaos. The Book. The weight on your shoulders.

You don’t hear him until he speaks. “Can’t sleep?” You jolt, spinning toward the voice. But your tension eases the second you recognise him.

Seungcheol.

He stands a few feet behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, his hair slightly mussed from sleep—or the attempt of it. His voice is low, quiet enough to let the silence breathe between his words. You nod faintly, offering a ghost of a smile. “You either?” He steps closer, just enough to stand beside you as he leans on the railing, mirroring your stance. “Not tonight.”

His voice carries a kind of tiredness that extends beyond physical exhaustion. You recognise it. You feel it, too.

For a while, neither of you speak. You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because he saved your life. Maybe because you saw something behind his eyes when he held you. Maybe it’s just the hour—the strange truth of midnight, when secrets don’t feel so heavy.

“I fell in love with the sea when I was eight.”

He glances at you, curious. You keep your eyes on the endless abyss. “The palace walls in Mdina were too high to see the water. But there was one tower, this crumbling old thing the guards had stopped patrolling. I figured out how to climb it. There was a ledge on the roof. And from there… I could narrowly see the sea.”

You smile faintly, remembering. “I used to watch the ships. They looked like tiny ants, just dots. But I made up stories about them. I used to pretend I was on one of them. That I wasn’t a girl in a dress being groomed for court. I was a sailor. A pirate. A hero.”

He nods, slowly. “For me, it was the docks.” You look at him again. His voice is softer than usual. “I grew up in the lower district of Syracuse. Slums, really. My mother cleaned houses. My father died young. I used to scoop up fish guts at the port to make ends meet. Smelled like rot every damn day.”

He chuckles, a little bitter.

“But the sailors… they were different. They had stories. Gold teeth. Worn hands. Laughs like thunder. I used to watch them and think, ‘Maybe I could be like that.’ Maybe I didn’t have to stay where I was.” He smiles, but it’s a sad thing. “I wanted that life. Not the guts and coins—the freedom. The idea that you could leave. That you could choose who you wanted to be.”

Your heart twists.

“Then I met Joshua.” His voice drops further. “He was different. He didn’t treat me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his boot. He taught me how to read. I taught him how to climb walls and steal apples.”

That makes you laugh, even though your throat is tight.

“But the king hated me. Always did. Thought I was corrupting his perfect son. I guess in his eyes, I did.”

You want to say something. But you don’t. You let him speak.

“One day, we did something stupid. There was this abandoned building near the market—a half-finished palace, supposed to be part of some expansion. We climbed it. Dared each other to go higher. Joshua fell. Part of the roof caved in.”

His hands flex on the railing. “I pulled him out. But someone had to answer for it. The building collapsed. They blamed me.” He exhales slowly. “The King would’ve ruined me. Maybe worse. So I left before he could.”

You step closer. His eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move. You can see the weight in them—the shadow of old scars he’s never let anyone see. You reach out and gently take his hand in yours. He tenses, just for a second. But then his shoulders ease. You lift your other hand to his face, fingers brushing lightly along his jaw, turning him to face you. He lets you.

“After the book was stolen,” you say quietly, “The King said horrible things about you. I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought—maybe you deserved it.” His brow twitches, but you go on. “But he’s wrong.” Your voice is firmer now.

“You’re not what he says. You’re good, Seungcheol. You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, yes—but you didn’t hesitate to save Joshua all those years ago. And you didn’t hesitate to save me.” He huffs a small laugh. “Even when you were annoyed with me.” You smile softly. “Even then.”

There’s silence again, but it’s warm now. Comforting. Seungcheol’s eyes flutter closed for a second, his face leaning slightly into your touch. When he opens them again, they’re locked onto yours. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Princess.” His voice is low, hoarse. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

Before you can speak, he closes the space between you. His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You don’t resist. You don’t want to.

And then his lips are on yours.

It's nothing like before—nothing like that trance-induced kiss during the siren’s song. This one is real. All-consuming. It feels like every second of tension, every argument, every half-glance, and silent heartbeat between you two has built up to this moment.

You clutch him, fingers tangling in his hair as his hands slide around your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. You gasp into his mouth just as his hands slip lower—down your sides, over your hips, and finally, they settle on your bare ass. His breath hitches at the feel of your skin, his fingers tightening reflexively as he realizes what you’re wearing.

Or rather—what you’re not. No pants. No underwear. His groan reverberates through his chest, and it sparks heat through your core. You nip at his bottom lip, suck on it lightly, and feel the slight tremble in his breath.

But then, he pulls away. Not completely—his forehead still brushes against yours, his hands are still on your skin, his breath fanning across your lips. But something has shifted. You feel the hesitation before he speaks, the uncertainty tucked behind his usual bravado.

“I want you, Princess.” His whispers hoarsly, his thumbs rubbing small circles over your tailbone. “God, I want you. But—”

You blink up at him. “But what?” you whisper, your voice breathless from the kiss.

He sighs. “I’m not—” He swallows. “You’re promised to someone else. I’m—” He trails off. “I’m not what you were supposed to have. I don’t want to be the thing you regret. The man who ruins your perfect little royal life.” His words are quiet, but you can feel the weight in them—the insecurity.

You lift your hand and press your fingers to his lips, silencing him. His eyes flicker up to yours, uncertain, soft, searching. “That marriage,” you say, “was arranged five years ago. I never had a say in it. It was politics. An alliance. A duty.” Your eyes don't leave his. “I care for Joshua, I do. I don’t want him to die. But I don’t…” Your voice lowers. “I don’t long for him.”

He stares at you, unmoving, his hands gripping your hips like you might slip away. You lean in closer. “But I do, with you. I want you.” You kiss him again, and that’s what finally breaks him.

He growls softly against your mouth before gripping your thighs, and lifting you effortlessly. You gasp, giggling at the sudden motion as he carries you toward his cabin. The door swings open with a bang as his shoulder knocks it open, then slams it closed behind him with his foot. Inside, the space is dim and warm, filled with the scent of salt and leather, and something uniquely him.

He kisses you like he’s been starving, pressing against you, devouring every sigh and gasp you release. He spins you both before lowering himself onto his bed, you straddling his lap.

The room is cluttered with maps, artefacts, weapons—chaotic but oddly personal. You don’t care. It feels like him.

Your shirt is the only thing concealing your naked flesh. He unbuttons it—one, two, three—leaving kisses along every patch of newly exposed skin. His mouth lingers at your collarbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your neck. And then your shirt is open.

You shiver as the cool air hits your skin, but the feeling disappears the second his mouth wraps around your nipple. Your head tips back, a soft moan escaping your throat as your fingers tangle in his hair again. He groans as you arch into him, and his hands begin their slow, reverent path—skimming your thighs, your hips, your waist. One hand cups your breast, the other trails lower.

He finds your pussy and hisses through his teeth. “You’re soaked.”

You grind against him in response, your heat pressing against the hard length of his cock, straining through the fabric of his pants. “Seungcheol,” you whimper, shifting your hips. “Please…” He looks up at you, chest heaving, lips red and swollen from kissing. “You’re sure?” he whispers, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.” His mouth claims yours again, rougher this time. Needier.

And finally—finally—his fingers press against your clit. You moan into his mouth. Two of his fingers slide inside your wet heat, slow but deep. The stretch to your walls steals your breath, your body clenching around him instinctively.

“Fuck, Princess,” he groans against your neck, “you feel—” He cuts himself off with a growl as he thrusts his fingers again, and again. His mouth returns to your abandoned nipple, suckling, licking, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you’re writhing in his lap.

Your hips grind in rhythm with his hand. One of yours is still in his hair, but you slip the other past the waistband of his pants. Your fingers find him there—hot, hard, throbbing in your palm, his tip leaking precum.

“Shit—” He moans into your skin when you wrap your hand around his cock, matching your movements to the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The sensations overwhelm you—his mouth on your breast, his fingers working inside you, your own hand wrapped around the length of him, the quiet, desperate sounds he makes just for you. You don’t last long. Your body begins to quake, your hips stuttering.

“I’m—Seungcheol—” you gasp. His other hand grips your thigh as he presses his thumb firmly to your clit, rubbing short, hard circles over it. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Let go for me.”

And you do. You come with a sharp cry, the world shattering around you. Your grip on his member fluttering slightly.

Your body clenches around his fingers as you tremble, shaking in his lap while he continues to move his fingers inside you slowly, helping you ride it out. His mouth finds its way to your shoulder, murmuring something you can’t quite hear over the blood roaring in your ears.

Seungcheol’s fingers slip out of you slowly, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room—a slick, wet squelch that makes your body shudder. He brings his hand up without hesitation, the pads of his fingers glistening with your juices, and then—he sucks them into his mouth.

You watch, breath caught in your throat as his eyes flutter shut, a low groan vibrating in his chest. His cheeks hollow slightly as he licks them clean, dragging his tongue between his fingers.

“Delicious,” he mutters hoarsely.

You stifle a moan, biting your lower lip. Heat burns at the base of your spine. Gods, this man.

Your hand is still wrapped around his length—thick and throbbing in your palm, his tip slick with precum. He twitches in your palm, the veins on his shaft pulsing.

Slowly, you give his cock a firm stroke from base to tip. Then another. You pause at his tip, run your thumb along the slit, gather the moisture there, and spread it down his shaft. He groans again, his hips twitching slightly, breath hitching.

“Shit—” he hisses.

Your strokes become firmer and more deliberate. Your other hand drifts up his stomach, exploring every inch of his skin—feeling the way his abs clench and how his skin jumps beneath your touch.

His mouth leaves a trail of fire along your skin—down your collarbone, along the swell of your chest, up your neck. When he pulls back, you can see the flush painting his skin, the way his jaw trembles with restraint.

“You’re going to make me come,” he pants, looking at you like he’s never seen anything more devastatingly perfect. “Fuck, baby, you are—unreal.” You don’t stop. You just smirk. “That’s the idea.”

You grip his cock tighter, twisting your wrist slightly at the end of each stroke, dragging your palm over his head with calculated pressure. His hips start to buck, chasing the sensation. His breath is ragged. His forehead falls to your shoulder.

Suddenly, his hands shoot out, grabbing you by the hips. You yelp, breathless with laughter, as he flips you both over, laying you flat on the mattress under him. His hair is mussed, his chest heaving, and his cock—straining against his pants—is nestled between your thighs, pressing hotly against your entrance.

He chuckles breathlessly as he looks down at you. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

Your shirt is tossed somewhere over your head. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his waistband, shoving his pants down with a little too much urgency. He chuckles again, sitting up briefly to kick them off the rest of the way.

“Impatient?”

“Desperate.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. His cock slides along your folds, slick and hot, and it makes both of you stutter, gasping against each other’s mouths, as his tip catches on your clit.

He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, just enough to line himself up at your entrance. His eyes search yours, asking the question again—but not with words. And you answer him with a nod, small but certain.

Then—he pushes in.

The rhythm he sets isn’t gentle. It’s deliberate. Powerful. Deep, rolling thrusts that send jolts of sensation ricocheting through your spine. You gasp, your head falling back against the mattress as he fills you, again and again, harder each time. His breath is warm against your neck, his body tight above yours, every muscle in him working to give you pleasure.

“God, baby,” he growls against your ear, voice raw. “So tight—so fucking good.”

You whimper beneath him, your nails digging into the hard planes of his back as you cling to him, every thrust making you feel like you’re unravelling.

“Cheol—”

“That’s it,” he hisses, kissing your jaw. “Say my name. Say it again.”

“Cheol—fuck, yes—”

His hips slam into yours again, harder this time, and a loud moan escapes you. He swallows it with another kiss—it’s messy, perfect.

He adjusts his angle, one hand slides upward—first across your ribs, then higher, until his palm wraps gently around your throat. He squeezes gently. His fingers press against your vein, his thumb brushing your jaw, your pulse beating steady beneath his palm. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once.

“Too much?” he asks.

You shake your head slowly, biting your lip. “No,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His other hand slides down your body until he’s between your thighs again. His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that counter the pace of his thrusts. You shudder beneath him, crying out his name again, and he groans in return.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fuck, baby, you’re driving me crazy.”

His fingers circle in rhythm with his thrusts, the pressure building unbearably fast. It’s too much, too good—the heat of his body flush against yours, his breath on your skin, his cock sliding in and out of you with aching precision.

“You’re so good,” he groans, his voice cracking as he starts to lose control. “You take me so well. Look at you, wrapped around me like you were made for this.”

You can’t help it—you cry out, a desperate sound from deep in your chest. He’s hitting every place inside you that drives you wild, and his fingers are moving faster now, chasing the climax that’s rising too quickly.

Suddenly, his other hand grabs your leg, lifts it, and hooks it over his shoulder. He thrusts again, and the new angle makes you see stars. His cock is even deeper, stretching out your walls.

You swear aloud, a high, choked moan, as your hands fly to his biceps, clutching him like a lifeline. He fucks into you hard, deep, relentless, hitting that spot inside you with every powerful stroke.

“Right there, huh?” he pants, eyes locked to your face, drinking in every expression like it’s salvation. “You gonna come again for me, baby?” You nod frantically, incoherent with pleasure. He’s everywhere—his mouth on your neck, his hand on your clit, his body pounding into yours like he’s trying to fuse you together.

“Please—Cheol—”

Your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure. He doesn’t stop. “Come for me. Let me feel you, Princess.” And you do. It crashes into you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed, thighs trembling, mouth parting in a silent scream. Your vision blurs, the breath ripped from your lungs as your climax pulses through you, wave after devastating wave. Seungcheol groans low in his throat as your walls clamp down on him like a vice.

“Shit—fuck—” He stutters inside you, his rhythm faltering as the tight squeeze of your pussy sends him hurtling after you. His hand clenches your thigh tighter. One last thrust—and he comes with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the quiet tremble of your bodies still clinging to the aftershocks. He lowers your leg from his shoulder gently, his palm stroking down the back of your thigh. Your hands find his face. You run your fingertips along his jaw, tracing the line of it, soft and slow. He turns his face to kiss your palm, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your digits.

Then they open again—and you look at each other. You both chuckle at the same time.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

“Hey,” he replies, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you’ve been talking. Hours maybe. The sun has long since gone up, and you’ve laughed more in the last stretch of time than you have in years.

“Wait, wait—” you say, still laughing, grabbing the wrist that’s been stroking your side so his fingers stop distracting you. “You’re telling me you got your entire crew banned from a tavern... for winning too much?”

Seungcheol smirks, scratching the back of his head as if caught red-handed. “It wasn’t my fault they didn’t notice Minghao was using marked cards. I just happened to collect the winnings.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that now, but you’d have taken your cut too.”

You scoff, pushing at his shoulder, though your smile doesn’t waver. He catches your hand easily, presses a kiss to the inside of your palm, and doesn’t let go. The touch makes your breath catch.

“Alright then, your turn.” He leans back again, watching you with that unreadable glint in his eye. “We’ve covered your rebellious rooftop climbs and your hatred of court shoes. What else don’t you like?” You hum, pretending to think. “Hmm. Peaches. Overrated. Sweet and slimy. They remind me of Duke Alberon’s awful moustache.”

Seungcheol bursts out laughing, his whole body shaking beside you. “I am never going to eat a peach again without seeing that man’s ratty little face, thank you for that.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud, smug at his reaction. His hand slides from your stomach to your thigh, lazily stroking the skin again, and you don’t stop him. “I like this,” you murmur after a moment, your voice quieter now. “Talking. With you.” His expression softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. That is, until the door slams open.

“Hey, Cap—” Soonyoung’s voice booms into the room before his body does, stomping in without knocking. “The mist’s rolled in heavy, and Mingyu adjusted course, Wonwoo says if we keep east by southeast, we’ll—”

Soonyoung blinks once. Then again. His eyes dart from you— naked and lazily sprawled across the bed—to Seungcheol, shirtless, clearly dishevelled, and unmistakably not alone.

“I—” His jaw opens, but no sound comes out. You raise an amused eyebrow and tuck the blanket a little higher over your body. Seungcheol, on the other hand, is not nearly so composed.

“Get out!” he barks, grabbing a nearby pillow and hurling it with precision at Soonyoung’s head. The poor man yelps as it smacks into his face.

“I didn’t see anything!” Soonyoung squeaks, hands flailing as he turns around hastily. “I swear! Nothing at all—except her legs, and maybe a bit of—okay, I’m going!”

“Soonyoung!” Seungcheol snaps, now using his hand to shield your chest like his body alone could restore your modesty.

“I’m going! I’m going!” Soonyoung yells back, already halfway through the door. “But Mingyu said he needs you at the helm like now. There’s fog and a current and—and I’ll just go!”

The door slams shut behind him. For a moment, the room is still. Then your laughter bubbles up. You can’t hold it back even if you try. “That was—” you start between breaths, “the most mortified I’ve ever seen anyone in my life.” Seungcheol groans and slumps back against the headboard, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s gonna tell everyone, isn’t he?”

“Oh, without question,” you say, nudging his side. “The betting pool has probably reopened already.”

“Betting pool?”

“Please. They were definitely wagering when we’d fall into bed.”

Seungcheol drops his head against your stomach, groaning dramatically. “This crew is going to be unbearable.”

“Hmm.” You run your fingers through his hair slowly, scratching lightly at his scalp. “You’re just mad they were right.” You feel the warmth of his smile pressed against your belly, even as he pretends to sulk. “I can’t believe Soonyoung saw your boobs,” he mumbles. You grin. “And I’m pretty sure I traumatised him.”

Seungcheol exhales a quiet laugh through his nose and shakes his head as he sits up. The warmth of his body leaves your side, but you don’t mind—not when you get the view that’s in front of you. You watch him stretch lazily, muscles flexing as he reaches up before grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. Then he steps into his pants, tying the drawstring with practised ease. His back muscles ripple with every movement, and you don’t hide the way your eyes roam freely across the expanse of his torso.

He catches your gaze and smirks, glancing at you from over his shoulder.

“You staring, Princess?” he taunts, the smugness practically dripping from his voice. You smirk, stretching languidly on the bed. “Obviously. Wouldn’t want to waste the view.” That earns you a laugh. He finishes fastening the last button of his shirt and turns back to you, raking his gaze down the curve of your body, still on full display under the lazy fall of the blanket.

Then, without warning, he strides over to your side of the bed. His hand comes down with a swift, playful smack against your bare ass cheek.

“Up,” he says, voice low and commanding but tinged with amusement. “If I have to go face Mingyu and the crew after last night, you’re not getting out of it either.”

You yelp more out of surprise than pain, narrowing your eyes at him as you sit up. “I was perfectly content right here, actually.” He grins, stepping back as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “Well, now you can be content getting dressed. And preferably before Soonyoung bursts in again.”

You scoff but move to your feet anyway as he tosses you some undergarments from the floor without even trying to hide the smirk on his face. You catch them midair. “Thanks, Captain.”

He steps closer again, slower this time. One hand catches your chin, thumb brushing along your jawline as his eyes flicker over your face. “Try not to look too smug out there,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Or they’ll start placing bets on when I’ll marry you.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart skipping—but you smirk instead of answering. “Then maybe you should kiss me goodbye properly.” Seungcheol stares for a beat—then grins like a devil before pulling you into him, crashing his mouth to yours.

“Get dressed, Princess,” he rasps, eyes lingering. “Before I change my mind.” And with that, he walks to the door, grabbing his coat. He’s halfway through opening it when he glances back.

“Five minutes. Or I’m coming back for you.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The mist swallows everything.

You don’t even see it at first—just a soft shift in the air as you step out of Seungcheol’s cabin. You’d expected teasing whistles or knowing grins, maybe a few sly comments from Mingyu or Chan. Instead, silence meets you. A quiet so thick it pulls the breath from your lungs. The Chimera is cloaked in a pale grey fog, dense and unmoving, the deck slick with dew and the sails limp in the breathless air.

Your eyes move quickly, scanning the ship. No one is looking at you—not because they’re being polite, but because every man is on edge. Focused. Alert. Like something’s about to happen.

Above you, Minghao stands in the crow’s nest, his thin frame just barely visible through the thick veil of mist. He’s rotating slowly, scanning with a spyglass in one hand and a compass in the other. Every few minutes, he mutters something, too quiet to carry. Soonyoung and Chan move carefully near the weapons stash, inventorying each item with tight mouths and nervous hands. Their usual playfulness has been swallowed whole by the fog.

You walk further along the deck, your boots quiet on the wood, until you spot them—Seungcheol and Wonwoo near the main mast, crouched low over a spread of maps and books. Wonwoo is muttering frantically, his fingers darting between pages, eyes wild with thought. Seungcheol is tense. His broad shoulders are hunched, eyes narrowed, and jaw tight.

You move beside him quietly, and when your hand grazes his bicep, he startles before looking up. The hard line of his shoulders eases at the sight of you. His hand comes to rest on your waist, the weight of it grounding. He squeezes softly. You do the same in return. “Morning,” you say gently. “Afternoon,” Wonwoo corrects immediately, eyes not leaving the yellowed page he’s turned to.

You smile faintly and lean in to study the map, tilting your head as you glance from it to the thick book in his other hand. The letters are unfamiliar—twisting, ancient shapes carved in what looks more like inked bone than any written language.

Wonwoo’s voice picks up. “It doesn’t make sense—nothing does—but it’s all here, I know it is. I’ve read the entire Codex of the Four Winds twice now, and all the references to Tartarus, to the ferryway—Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius—it’s all pointing here. But I can’t decode the meaning of it. It’s like, like the pieces are there, but the puzzle’s missing half its edges—”

“Breathe, Wonwoo,” Seungcheol says quietly, trying not to snap. Wonwoo exhales sharply through his nose, flipping another page. “Do you know what the poets of Andelos called it? The place beyond the fog? The Cradle of the Dead. And every single account, no matter how fantastical, mentions a waterfall. But not a normal one. A falling of stars. Water going up and down, as if the sky and sea mirror each other.” Your brow furrows. “As above, so below.” Wonwoo snaps his head toward you, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

You kneel beside them now, brushing your fingers lightly over a different page. “There was a book in Mdina. An old one. Verses of the Vanished. I read it when I was nine and had nightmares for weeks. It mentioned a veil of silence, a place past the final sea where time collapses, and stars sink beneath the water.” Wonwoo is nodding quickly. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. But how do we find it?”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “you don’t. Maybe it finds you.” The mist swirls closer around the ship, like it heard you. Mingyu leaves the helm and strides toward you, his boots thudding heavily. “It’s getting worse,” he says. “Visibility’s almost zero. The current’s off too—subtle, but it’s pulling.”

“We’re near it,” Wonwoo mutters. “I know it.”

Mingyu looks down at the pages, then over at you and Seungcheol. “He’s been at this since dawn.” Seungcheol reaches out and flips a corner of the map. “Wonwoo, you said something about the water falling up. What if it’s not a place we sail into, but something that pulls us in?”

“Like a gate?” you ask. “Or a crossing,” Mingyu adds. Wonwoo slams his book shut. “It could be anything. That’s the problem.”

Silence falls again.

You glance up toward the crow’s nest. Minghao hasn’t moved, but now he’s gripping the rail tighter. You hear his voice float down, quiet and unsure. “Captain?” Seungcheol looks up. “What is it?”

Minghao slowly turns his spyglass. “I… don’t know.”

Wonwoo’s breath catches. “It’s beginning.”

The sound hits first.

A low, guttural rumble that shakes the air. It begins deep below deck, in the bones of the ship, before rolling up through the planks and ropes and sails. You freeze, eyes narrowing toward the horizon—or what should be the horizon—but the mist is too thick, the light too dim.

Then, as if guided by some unseen hand, the mist begins to pull away. It unfurls slowly at first, like curtains parting on a stage, but it quickly gives way to something utterly impossible.

There, ahead of you, rises a waterfall. Not falling. Rising.

A great column of water, impossibly wide, impossibly tall, rushes skyward, curling into the clouds above. Spray bursts from the base of it in violent gusts, catching the late afternoon light in prismatic flashes. You blink. “What the—” The words are half-formed before they’re lost in the roar of the ocean.

Seungcheol moves instantly.

“Raise the sails!” he shouts, already sprinting toward the helm. “To your stations! Man the lines! Chan—get those sails ready for shift, now!” Mingyu’s already right behind him, racing to the helm. “We’ll be in it within minutes if we stay this course!” The crew explodes into motion. Minghao descends swiftly from the crow’s nest. Soonyoung and Chan tear across the deck. Even Wonwoo doesn’t look up from the open book on his lap, only flips another page with frantic energy.

You remain frozen—just for a heartbeat.

Until Seungcheol turns toward you. “Princess”, he points, eyes blazing. “To the port lines. Watch the tension; call if we’re drifting!” He’s giving you a task. For the first time since you’ve boarded the Chimera, he’s treating you not as cargo, not as a complication, not even as a lover—but as crew.

You nod firmly. “Aye, Captain.”

You run, the wind lashing your hair around your face. Your feet are sure beneath you, heart pounding, and you grab the rope with firm hands, joining Soonyoung and Chan without hesitation. You glance once over your shoulder—Seungcheol is watching. And when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. Pride. You see it in his eyes.

“Steady!” he shouts. “We’re almost at the pull!”

The wind screams louder. The sound of the waterfall is deafening. The closer you get, the more the air warps and howls. Hair and clothes whip around every which way. Sails strain under pressure. The Chimera groans beneath you like it’s fighting not to be torn apart.

“It’s not just a waterfall!” he yells over the sound. “It’s a threshold! A crossing point—between realms! As above, so below—it’s—” “Wonwoo!” Seungcheol cuts in sharply. “What happens when we go through?”

“I don’t know!” Wonwoo shouts back, desperation in his voice. “No one ever has!” You don’t hear the end of that sentence because that’s when it begins.

A tendril of smoke.

No—not smoke. Something darker. Slick and slow, it creeps across the surface of the sea, winding around the hull of the Chimera. More follow—dozens. Hundreds. They rise like grasping hands, curling toward the deck.

“Captain…” Chan breathes, stepping back from one of the ropes, eyes wide. Minghao calls out from above. “Smoke! From the water!”

“Cordia,” Seungcheol breathes, barely a whisper.

“Seungcheol?” you call out, your voice trembling now.

His head snaps up. For the first time in this madness, his expression fractures. “Get to me!” he yells.

You don’t hesitate. You run—but before you can reach him— The mist turns black. The tendrils strike.

And the world goes dark.

You wake to the taste of ash in your mouth.

Your body feels heavy—every bone weighed down, every muscle groaning in protest as consciousness claws its way to the surface. The air is cold and wet, and the first thing you feel is a strange texture under your hands: gritty, soft, but wrong. You open your eyes.

Black sand.

You blink against the dim light. A haze clings to the air, the world around you coated in an eerie hue between shadow and flame. Ancient ruins loom ahead, crumbling columns and broken statues half-sunken into the sand. A river pulses in the distance—thick, dark, and slow, like black ink. The air hums with something foul and powerful.

You turn your head. Seungcheol is lying beside you. He groans softly as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before his eyes snap to you. “You okay?” His voice is hoarse. “I think so,” you murmur, looking around again. “Where are we?”

But you already know. You feel it in your bones.

“Tartarus,” he says, confirming it.

You sit up with a wince. The black sand clings to your skin. Seungcheol instinctively pulls you closer, shielding your body with his as you both rise to your feet. The river’s distant pulse echoes like a heartbeat. And then the smoke returns. It billows from the earth, curling and creeping toward you until the very air feels thick with it. From it, she comes.

Cordia.

She glides forward, her form half-shadow, half-woman. She circles the ruins before settling on a broken, throne-like seat made of obsidian stone. Her long fingers drum against the armrest as she regards you both with a smile too wide, too cold.

“Congratulations,” she purrs. “You made it.”

Her voice is sickly sweet. “No one ever has before. Well… not alive, anyway.”

Seungcheol squares his shoulders. “Give me the book,” he demands. “I fulfilled my end of the deal.”

Cordia blinks at him once. And then laughs. It is a terrible sound, echoing off every ruin, slithering into your skin. “Oh, darling,” she coos. “What makes you think I have it?”

Seungcheol’s expression tightens. “You stole it. You framed me. So you could have me executed.” Cordia interrupts with a smirk. “You?” Her voice turns mocking as she slinks closer. “It was never about you.”

Realization dawns on his face—horror blooming in his eyes.

“Joshua.”

Cordia grins. “Now you’re catching up.”

She circles you both like a vulture. “The golden prince. The next king of Syracuse. So noble. So predictable. I knew he’d take your place, just as I knew you’d run. And then—chaos. Twelve cities. No heir. No peace. No order. Glorious, isn’t it?”

She trails her fingers over a broken statue, sharp nails dragging against the stone. “He couldn’t help himself, could he? Defending you without hesitation. And you—” she turns to Seungcheol, “—you couldn’t help but betray him.”

Seungcheol’s voice is sharp. “I didn’t betray Joshua. I came for the book.” Cordia chuckles, walking toward you. You feel her presence behind your back.

“Oh, but you did betray him,” she hums. “You stole his fiancée.”

With a sharp motion, she pushes you forward, making you stumble into Seungcheol’s arms. Cordia tilts her head.

“Look at her, Seungcheol. Joshua isn’t even in his grave yet, and you’ve already claimed her.” Her voice is gleeful. “Or did ‘that’s my girl’ not mean anything to you?”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. You can feel the tension radiating from him. Cordia steps closer, her voice now a whisper. “Face it, pirate. Your heart is as black as mine.”

“No,” you finally speak up. You face her. “You’re wrong. You don’t know what’s in his heart.” Cordia’s eyes flash. She chuckles once. And then her smile fades. “Oh, but I do,” she says, her voice cold as stone. “And most importantly… so does he.”

Seungcheol’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “You’re wrong.” Cordia rolls her eyes. “Fine. Want to bet?”

And then it appears—the book. Suspended in midair, cradled by smoke. Glowing faintly with ancient magic.

“Two choices, Seungcheol.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “One: Take the book. Return it to Syracuse. Save the heir. Save the alliance. Watch her marry Joshua, as promised. You restore your honour and lose the girl.”

You freeze.

“Or,” she continues, “Two: Refuse the book. Let Joshua die. Watch Syracuse fall. And sail away to paradise with the love of your life.”

Your eyes lock with Seungcheol’s. The look you give him is a plea and a promise all at once—don’t leave me. He stares at you for what feels like an eternity, agony etched into every line of his face. The war behind his eyes. The sorrow. The weight.

He loves you. But his heart is cracked open for the first time.

Then he turns to Cordia. And speaks. “...Let her marry Joshua.”

Cordia’s eyes narrow. Her smile fades. “Liar,” she hisses. “You could never let go of a treasure once it was yours.”

The book disappears.

“No—!” you cry, stepping forward, but Cordia is already fading, her face twisted in triumph.

Seungcheol grabs your hand just as the smoke rushes in again, tendrils wrapping around your legs, your waist, and your arms.

Cordia’s voice echoes as the world goes black again: “You’ll see… we always are what we choose.”

You gasp as your feet hit solid ground, stumbling forward as the world stops spinning. Black sand is replaced by cobblestone, and pulsing smoke is traded for stagnant city air thick with tension. You blink up—recognising the narrow curve of the harbour road, the looming cliffs, and the ancient colonnades of Syracuse’s port.

Seungcheol lands beside you with a grunt, steadying himself with one hand on the uneven stone. His eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings, the shadows, the distant sound of a crowd gathering near the square.

You both realise what day it is as you hear the bell—Joshua’s execution day.

“Oh gods,” you whisper.

You grab Seungcheol’s wrist and pull him into the narrow alley between two warehouses, pressing his back against the wall. The city might be grieving, but the guards will still be out—especially today. “You can’t be seen,” you whisper urgently. “We don’t have the book. If they find you now—”

“I know,” Seungcheol murmurs. His voice is calm. Too calm.

“I’ll talk to them,” you push. “I’ll go to the kings myself. I’ll tell them everything. That it was Cordia, that we got to Tartarus—”

“They won’t believe you,” he cuts in, voice cracking.

“They will. They have to.” You step closer, chest heaving. “They won’t kill Joshua if I tell them what we saw. If I tell them—if I make them understand.”

He looks down at you. And you feel it. A shift in the air between you.

“No,” you breathe.

“I can’t let you take the fall for this.”

“And I won’t let you—” your voice breaks. “No. No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare, Seungcheol—”

His hands come up, gently framing your face, thumbs stroking beneath your eyes as he places his forehead against yours. “You have to leave the city,” you whisper quickly, desperately. “We’ll go. Wherever you want. Right now. Just—just, please. Let’s run. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

He smiles softly, and that’s what undoes you. That smile. Tender. Wistful. “I can’t do that either,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You shake your head. “No. No, please. You’re not doing this.” Tears burn behind your eyes. But he’s already pulling away. And you know. You know.

Seungcheol has made up his mind. He’s going to take Joshua’s place.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, fists grabbing the front of his shirt. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“No, you don’t.” Your hands fist in his shirt. “I love you. I love you, and if you walk out of this alley, I will never be whole again.”

His breath shudders. And then he whispers: “But could you love a man who would run away?”

You want to scream yes. You want to say I don’t care, that love should be enough, that you’d throw Syracuse to the gods if it meant keeping him safe.

But you know what he means. He couldn’t live with himself if he ran. He’s never been the kind of man who takes the easy road. He never could.

The tears spill over your cheeks. “Don’t do this,” you plead, broken. “Don’t leave me. I belong with you.”

His face crumples, his own tears finally falling. And then he lets go. He takes a step back. Another.

You try to grab him, but he’s already out of reach. Already walking out into the gloom-filled street, into the path of soldiers making their way toward the square.

And then—he stops. He turns back to you, tears streaking his face, mouth curved in the saddest smile you’ve ever seen.

“For the first time in my life,” he chuckles emptily, “I wish I was someone else.”

Your breath catches.

“I wish I was someone worthy of you.”

The sharp clatter of boots echoes down the cobblestones.

“Hey—!”

Three guards spot him immediately. Recognise him.

Seungcheol lifts his hands slowly, not resisting as they rush him. You scream his name, but it’s drowned out by the sound of steel and shouting.

They seize him and drag him away.

Your legs give out from under you, the grief slamming into you like a wave. But just before your knees hit the cobblestones—Strong arms wrap around you.

Mingyu.

His chest presses against your back, one arm around your middle, holding you upright, the other around your shoulder, shielding your trembling frame. You feel him shush you gently, but it’s broken, because he is crying too. Silent tears streak down his face as he watches his captain—his brother—being dragged away like a criminal.

You sob, your hands clutching his arms, unable to speak. Unable to breathe. Mingyu’s voice is thick. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, Princess.”

But nothing can stop the image from burning into your mind. Seungcheol, dragged into the fog of a city that forgot him. Head held high. Heartbroken.

The square is deathly still when they drag him in.

You see the moment he steps onto the square—his hands bound in chains, his jaw locked in that stubborn defiance you’ve come to know too well. He walks with that same confident gait, even though there’s no wind in his sails anymore. Even though he’s walking toward death.

Mingyu’s arm presses around your shoulders more tightly. Chan and Soonyoung hold their ground beside you, and even Minghao and Wonwoo have joined now, the five of them forming a silent, protective wall around you. But your focus is only on one man.

The crowd ripples with whispers as he passes—the pirate returns. The traitor dares to show his face. Where’s the Book? Did he come to beg for mercy?

But Seungcheol isn’t begging.

His eyes are fixed ahead, never faltering. Not even when he spots the platform of the Twelve Kings—gilded thrones stacked in a crescent high above the square. Not even when his gaze lands on Joshua.

He stands shackled near the edge of the platform, clothes rumpled, his shoulders hunched from the weight of days in captivity. You can see the flicker in his eyes when he spots Seungcheol. First confusion, then rising hope—But then his gaze drops to Seungcheol’s hands. No book in sight. Joshua’s expression crumbles.

But Seungcheol doesn’t stop. He’s led to the centre of the platform below the Kings, behind the ornate shadow of the execution block. The chains at his wrists clink as they force him to stand alone, surrounded by guards.

Then, the King of Syracuse rises.

He stands before his throne, draped in deep blue ceremonial robes, his silver crown catching the light of the pale, cloud-choked sky. His face is stern—no, cold. Cruel. And his voice cuts through the silence like steel.

“Choi Seungcheol,” he begins, voice echoing across the square, “you are brought before the Crowned Council of the Twelve Cities, accused of treason most foul. The theft of the sacred Book of Peace and the attempted destruction of our alliance.”

The King steps closer, looking down at him like one might a rat scurrying in the gutter. “You were given a pardon once, pirate—a chance to walk among kings. You spit on it. And now, you crawl back here in chains like a dog seeking a master’s mercy.”

Still, Seungcheol says nothing.

The King sneers. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

He looks up then. Seungcheol’s voice is quiet, but it carries. Measured. Steady.

“I take full responsibility for the course I’ve chosen,” he says. “I accept whatever sentence the Council deems fit.”

Gasps spread through the crowd, but the King only laughs—a cold, humourless sound.

“And what course was that, pirate?” he snaps. “My son claims you didn’t steal the Book, yet it vanished the moment you returned to the city. And now you return without it. Do you expect us to believe in your honour?”

“I expect nothing,” Seungcheol says simply. “I don’t ask for forgiveness. Only that you let the innocent walk free.” His eyes flick to Joshua, just once.

“He wasn’t part of this. Let him go.”

Across the square, Joshua’s eyes widen.

He steps forward slightly—chained though he is—and looks down at Seungcheol with something like dawning realisation.

He came back for me.

The King narrows his eyes.

“How noble of you,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You who fled in the dead of night like a coward. Who let your blood brother be imprisoned while you wandered free. You think claiming responsibility now will wash you clean?”

The King sneers. “There is no redemption for you, Seungcheol. You’ve already chosen your fate.”

Then he lifts a hand. “Release the prince.”

A pair of guards move to Joshua’s side. The chains fall from his wrists with a dull clatter, and for a moment, Joshua just stands there, stunned.

Then he sees you.

He sees the clothes you wear—still half-pirate, half-Seungcheol’s. He sees the tears on your cheeks. The way your entire soul seems pinned to the man at the block.

He smiles sadly.

The guards seize Seungcheol again, forcing him to kneel.

Your breath hitches violently as they press his chest against the worn wood of the chopping block.

The executioner steps forward, masked and silent, a massive blade in his gloved hands.

The King raises his voice for the final time.

“Seungcheol, former captain of The Chimera, for the crimes of treason, betrayal, and sacrilege against the Twelve Cities, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Seungcheol closes his eyes as the executioner lifts the blade.

The blade is coming down.

Chan grips your shoulder. Mingyu holds your waist tighter. You bury your face into Soonyoung’s chest, unable to look.

But then— a sound like thunder.

You open your eyes just in time to see it — the blade, fractured mid-air, split into a thousand pieces. The metal clatters uselessly across the stone. The executioner stumbles back, horrified.

Suddenly, the smoke comes. It spills over the steps, hissing as it touches the ground. Shadows twist in unnatural shapes. She steps from it.

Cordia.

Seungcheol stumbles to his feet, eyes locked on her as the guards around him recoil in instinctive terror.

“Cordia,” he breathes. Her lips curl into a smile, sharp as a blade.

“Well, well,” she purrs, circling him. “So it worked. A last-second rescue. Just in time for the drama. Quite the scene, wouldn’t you say?”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “Why are you here?”

“Why?” she echoes, spinning lightly until she perches on the wooden base of the executioner’s platform. Her fingers steeple together. “Because, unfortunately for me, you held up your end of the bargain.”

He stiffens.

“You came,” she continues, teeth gleaming. “You fulfilled your impossible task. And now, by the rules of the oath I made to you in that wretched cell, I have to keep my word.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flicker downward—to the faint, glowing cross on her chest. The mark. The promise.

His mouth parts slightly. Realisation dawning. “You can’t let them kill me.”

Cordia scowls, her lips thinning into a vicious sneer. “No, pirate, I can’t.”

The silence is deafening.

Cordia stands, flinging her arms open as black smoke bursts from the ground around her, swirling once, twice — and then condensing.

The Book of Peace.

Floating in the air like it was never lost.

Gasps echo through the square. Even the Kings are on their feet now.

Cordia glares at Seungcheol.

Seungcheol lifts his chin, watching her.

“Do you have any idea how close I came?” she spits. “One more day. One more lie. One more little betrayal, and the cities would’ve crumbled like dominoes. Syracuse would’ve fallen. Joshua would be dead. And you? You’d be just another pirate with blood on his hands and no compass to guide him.”

Her eyes flick to you in the crowd, narrowing.

“But no,” she says, quieter now. “You had to change. For her.”

Seungcheol takes a step forward slowly.

“And now you’re here,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers. “Because a promise is a promise.”

Cordia’s head tilts. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re no hero. You still betrayed your friend. You stole his future. You might not have stolen the Book, but you took her.”

Her hand sweeps toward the crowd, towards you.

Seungcheol’s gaze snaps to where you stand.

You don’t need to speak. Everything you need to say is in your eyes.

Cordia snarls. “You’re no different than me, Captain. Just another liar clutching at something that doesn’t belong to him.”

Seungcheol turns back to her, a small, tired smile curving his lips.

“You know,” he says softly, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever beaten someone like you.”

Cordia freezes.

“I survived your challenges. I entered Tartarus. I gave up the girl. I faced the blade. And here I stand,” he murmurs. “Looks like I outplayed you.”

Her eyes flash. But she knows. The mark glows brighter now, a divine seal binding her to her word. With a snarl of fury, the smoke whips around her again, and the Book floats forward.

Seungcheol’s arm reaches out, his fingers wrapping around it just before it drops. Cordia’s eyes are pure fire. “Enjoy your little victory, pirate. I’ll get my chaos somewhere else.”

And in one last swirl of smoke — she’s gone.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Then Seungcheol turns. Joshua, still nearby, approaches slowly.

Seungcheol looks at the Book in his hands, then at him.

“It’s yours,” he says, extending it.

Joshua takes it carefully, his expression unreadable.

There’s a long moment where he just stares at it, running a thumb over its carved edge. Then he glances back at Seungcheol.

“You got your treasure back,” Seungcheol says, trying for a smirk, but it lands crooked. Joshua looks past him—to you, before turning his gaze back to him.

“Looks like you found some, too,” Joshua replies quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He looks down, overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For believing in me.”

Joshua only nods. “It’s the least I could do.”

Seungcheol glances at the artefact. “Use it well,” he murmurs. “When you become king someday… make it worth something.”

Joshua’s grip tightens. Then, with a breath, he steps forward and opens the Book.

The light explodes. Blinding, radiant, pure.

It pours over the city like a tide, driving out the shadow, painting stone and sky in colours so vibrant it feels like the first day of creation. The clouds scatter. The sun returns. Flowers bloom in cracks along the walls.

And all you can do is stare as the world comes back to life.

And the man who saved it stands at the centre of it all.

The Chimera sways gently in the harbour of Syracuse, her sails rolled tight and her hull gleaming with a fresh coat of tar. Dockhands and palace servants had swarmed the ship earlier that morning, unloading barrels of salted meat, crates of fruit and wine, bundles of new linens, and enough gold to make a dragon blush.

The King of Syracuse, for all his pride and disdain, had come through in the end—Joshua made sure of it. A debt repaid in coin, jewels, and an official pardon carved into parchment and sealed in royal wax.

Seungcheol walks across the deck with sure, measured steps, hands tucked behind his back as he surveys his men and his ship. He’s never seen her look better. The wood gleams, the ropes are neatly coiled, and his crew is laughing. Alive.

Mingyu leans lazily against the helm, tossing a peeled orange slice into Chan’s open mouth. Soonyoung is checking the tension in the sails with exaggerated flair, and Wonwoo—unsurprisingly—is sitting cross-legged near the gunwale, rereading a book they all swore he’d already memorized.

“Oi, Chan!” Seungcheol calls, pointing to the uneven crates. “If you stack that any higher, you’re going overboard with them.”

“Relax, hyung!” Chan chirps. “I tied them.”

“Like you tied the dinghy last time, and it floated off?”

Laughter echoes. Soonyoung snickers while Mingyu shakes his head, lounging smugly.

Just as Seungcheol opens his mouth to continue scolding, something thunks heavily onto his head.

He flinches, already turning with a scowl. “Minghao! I thought I told you—”

“Wasn’t me, Captain,” Minghao replies from near the foremast, barely glancing up from his map as he smiles. “Try higher.”

Seungcheol squints and cranes his head back.

Up in the crow’s nest, a familiar silhouette grins down at him, hair tousled by the wind, one arm looped around the mast. Your shirt’s tucked in lopsided, and your boots have seen better days, but you’ve never looked better.

“Thought you might need someone competent keeping lookout,” You call.

Seungcheol’s face breaks into a full smile, sunlight warming every line. “That so?”

Before he can say anything else, you swing effortlessly down the ropes. You land squarely in front of him with a thud and a slight bounce, and before he can even steady himself, you jump up in his arms.

He catches you easily, hands firm around your waist. “You always make an entrance,” he murmurs.

You smirk, hooking your arms around his neck. “You always look like you need one.”

He laughs, leaning in close. “You think you’re ready to join my crew, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you tease, pressing closer. “What are the dangers of sailing with the infamous Captain Choi?”

“Oh, let’s see,” Seungcheol hums, trailing his hands up your back. “Terrible food. Terrifying storms. Occasional gods of chaos. And a captain who gets distracted by pretty girls in crow’s nests.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Unforgiving waters.”

“I’m a strong swimmer.”

“Unruly crew.”

“I’ll whip them into shape.”

Seungcheol grins, pulling you flush against him. “You’re hired.” Your eyes sparkle. “That easy?” He leans in, voice low. “I’ve seen what you can do.”

Your lips meet before another word can be said—slow, smiling, deep. The kiss is full of promise and freedom and all the things you haven’t had a name for yet, not until he almost died. Around you, the crew lets out a round of whooping cheers.

Chan whoops the loudest. “About damn time!”

Soonyoung claps his hands. “So, when’s the wedding?”

Mingyu shouts down from the helm, cutting through the noise, “Alright, Captain! Where to now?”

Seungcheol looks down at you, arms still around your waist.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “I thought we were going to Fiji?”

Seungcheol raises a brow. “Fiji’s nice...”

“But?”

He smirks. “What about another adventure instead?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“I say lead the way, Captain.”

A/N: Another idea I've had in my head for a very long time. Took a bit longer to write but I'm really proud of it. Thank you to those who joined in the poll and chose Seungcheol as the MMC. Hope you enjoy! 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

#400 notes celebration!

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 20 days ago

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Can u write something like minho ff mafia au of minho and reader arranged marriage trope where they need to give an heir as soon as possible and need to follow the gamily tradition of having s-x on the first night smutty fluffy like they were in love with each other but didnt confess on the fist night means honeymoon the reader says i luv u aftet being intimate and minho also confesses but someone kidnaps reader and there is so bloody but minho saves the reader can u also add maybe shower sex and thigh riding and if u write so plz tag me

Hi sweetness! 👋🏼

Thank you for your message. Sadly my requests are currently closed, I'm working on a few projects of my own I want to finish first. 💟

#ask

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 21 days ago