pixiespitzz

[pixiespitzz]

THE EMBER PROPHECY (PART II)

here’s part two! its long again sorry not sorry simon “riley” ghost/you word count: around 4.9k i think idk mdni, 18+. warnings: violence, severe patriarchal society, abuse, blood, sexual content, idk there’s more probably. its a dark fantasy part i here

"A fox at a child’s side, a mask watching from the dark, a sparrow that will not fly free—tell me, which of them is safest to trust?"

The forest clearing was still, as if it were holding its breath. 

Your knife stayed raised, his bowstring stayed taut, each second stretching impossibly thin, ready to snap and spill blood.

The grinning one - the brunette with the lilting accent - chuckled, eyes flicking between you and his companion. He raised his hands in show of ease, but really, there was nothing easy in his grey-blue gaze.

“Alright then. Nobody’s hurt, nobody’s dead, yeah? That’s a start.” He tipped his chin at the soot smeared across your clothes, the ash dusting your little sister’s cheeks. “You’re running, aye? From that village?"

You didn’t answer him, too focus on the man glaring you down.

The masked man shifted slightly; the silver of bone along the cheek of his skull mask catching a cold flicker of firelight bleeding up from the valley. “They’ll just slow us down.”

The loud one shot him a bewildered look. “Shite Ghost. She’s got a bairn with her.”

“Not my problem.”

His words landed like a hammer, splintering through the fragile guard you'd been clinging to. For a moment, you couldn't move, couldn't breathe, the sound of your pulse crowding your ears. Lissa pressed closer to you, small fingers biting at the sleeve of your tunic, anchoring herself as much as you.

You were about ready to reassure her until you felt her whole body go taut, brown eyes fixed on something beyond you. The focus in her gaze almost chilled you more than either of the men's words did. It was unwavering, intent, as if she was listening to a voice you couldn't hear.

You followed her gaze.  From the underbrush, greenery shifted - branches rustling though no wind stirred them, shadows seemed to bend in ways they shouldn't. Then it emerged. And you almost cursed out loud.

A russet-furred fox with sharp eyes stepped with an uncanny calm into the clearing. Its plumed tail curled around its paws. It didn't flinch at the sound of their voices. It didn't shy at the sight of the men armed and wary. It only watched - still and deliberate - its stare cutting through the ring of silence like a blade.

It didn't look towards your pack where the few scraps of food you had were.

Didn't look at you.

Not the men either.

At Lissa.

Her lips were moving in soundless whispers as she stared at the creature as if she was speaking to it in a language too soft for human ears. For one mad heartbeat, you swore the fox cocked its head as if it was listening to her, as though whatever words she was muttering belong to it and it alone. It didn’t run. It didn’t even blink. It only stayed sitting there, just a quiet witness to what was unfolding.

“Keep your eyes forward, little girl.” The masked man cut across the hush, voice sharp as a blade splitting bone.

Lissa’s body jolted, flinching hard as she clutched at you again. Heat flared up your spine, words spilling out before you had enough sense to bite them back.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” you snapped, teeth bared, green eyes narrowing on the skull-faced shadow across from you. “She’s a child, not your quarry to hunt.”

You weren’t sure where that sudden bit of bravery, that rush of defiance came from - why your tongue dared sharpen itself against a man who looked like death made flesh - but it tumbled out anyway, mouth as reckless as it had been since you were small.

His head tilted at the edge of your outburst. Pale blue eyes fixed on yours over the mask. Unbothered. His intense gaze pinned you as though he could pee back every thought you'd ever tried to hide.

The air stretched taut once again around the two of you until a sharp laugh cracked though it, once again breaking silence like glass. The friendlier man stepped forward once with a deliberate swagger, clapping his hands together. The sudden burst of sound made Lissa jump.

"A bold one, aren't ye, lass?" he said, eyes glinting. "Right then - let's try names before he scares you both stiff, yeah?" He dipped his head in mock formality, smile widening. "Johnny MacTavish, but everyone calls me Soap."

You were sure you hadn’t heard him right. “...Soap?”

“Aye.” He rocked back on his heels, grin easy. “From the way I slip out o’ things. Trouble, fights. The gallows, once or twice. Never sticks. Like I’ve been dipped head to toe in the stuff.”

Behind the mask, the marksman made a low sound—maybe a laugh, maybe just breath caught in his throat. Hard to tell.

Your lip tugged into a small smirk before you could help it. “Seems fitting. You sound like someone who wriggles out of messes others would die stuttering in.”

Soap barked a delighted laugh. “Sharp tongue, this one.” With a quick jerk of his chin toward the other man, he added, “That rude bastard is Ghost. Don’t like goin’ by his given name; keep it simple.”

Your chin lifted. “Sparrow,” you said steadily. “Not much fond of my own name either. And this—” you tightened your arm around the small girl pressed into your side, “—is Lissa. My sister.”

“Well then, Sparrow and Lissa,” Soap said, still grinning but with something measured in his eyes now. “In my professional opinion, you trail along. At least ‘til we’re out of this mess. You’re quick, I’ll give you that, but luck alone’s a fickle shield.”

“They’re liabilities, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice cut in flat, final, like steel dragged across stone. He didn’t even look at you when he said it—like the judgment was already carved.

“Maybe,” Soap shrugged, unbothered. “But I’ll take my chances.” His grin tilted sharper as he threw Ghost a look. “You’ve a real knack for makin’ friends, eh? I thought I was the difficult one here.”

Ghost’s bowstring groaned under his grip, the wood straining. His gaze pinned you through the hollow sockets of the mask, pale eyes unblinking. You met it head-on, knife steady in your hand though your heart thrashed against your ribs. Lissa pressed herself harder into your side, hiding her face.

The standoff stretched thin, brittle as glass until Ghost finally exhaled through the mask, a sound like wind dragged over frozen stone. “They stay,” he said at last. “Not because I trust them. Not because they’re worth the risk. This is on you, Johnny. Their blood is yours to carry.”

Soap laughed again, quick and irreverent, though his eyes flickered with something quieter. “Aye. That’ll do.”

Ghost lowered the bow with deliberate slowness, slinging it across his back. He turned without another word, shoulders broad and immovable as he slipped into the dark treeline. “Keep up,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Or stay out of my way.”

The hush he left behind felt heavier than the threat.

Soap winked at you. “Best follow, lassies. He won’t say it, but if he meant to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

You fell into step behind him, as though there were any real choice. The forest closed around you in shades of black and green, branches knitting overhead like a cage. Ghost moved through it like he belonged to it, silent and precise, each step a blade sliding into its sheath.

You, by contrast, betrayed yourself with every movement. Snapping twigs, scuffing damp leaves no matter how you tried to soften your tread. Lissa clung to your hand, pale fingers stark against the shadows.

The “path” wasn’t a path at all. Ghost carved one: bramble and thorn tugging at your clothes, wet roots rising like ribs underfoot, stones slick with moss. His pace was brisk. Something too slow for a hunter, too fast for anyone untrained. It dawned on you quick enough though, he was testing you. Every sharp incline, every treacherous drop, every stretch of brush was chosen. You were being measured, weighed, pushed.

Fucking bastard.

You hauled Lissa over a fallen log before she ate dirt, jaw aching with how hard you clenched your teeth. But you kept up. Mostly.

Your tongue, however, was harder to leash. When Soap joked about getting lost, your reply snapped out like a whip before you could stop it. Later, when Ghost raised a gloved hand for silence, you muttered under your breath, “Wasn’t even talking to you, mask.”

His head turned at that, slow and deliberate. The stare that met you was glacial, stripping you down to bare bone. You held it, though your stomach coiled tight.

Soap, mercifully, slowed his pace to match Lissa’s. He crouched once, showing her where to plant her feet on slick stone, voice softer than you’d yet heard from him. She even smiled—quick and fragile, there and gone.

When Soap straightened, his gaze slid back to you. His whistle was low as his eyes caught on the knife in your grip. “That steel’s seen better days, eh? Broken blade, boy’s trousers, no escort…” He tutted, grin easy, but the weight behind it was not.

Lissa stiffened at once, her small hand crushing yours tighter. She knew the law. Knew the price of breaking it. Knew you both had broken it ten times over.

Your chest burned. “Not my problem,” you spat, voice sharp enough to cut. But the words tasted like ash, and Soap’s glance told you he heard the lie in them as well as you did.

Ghost’s voice cut through then, flat as iron. “The law doesn’t vanish because you’ve run from it. Walk into the wrong hands dressed like that… they’ll call you an outlaw, even without that knife. And they’d be right.”

Soap lifted a hand slightly, easing the edge off Ghost’s words. “Och, don’t go scowlin’ now. If every lad or lass who bent the law swung from the noose, Fenrith’d be emptier than a winter granary. Only priests and rats would be left, and the rats would starve.”

His chin jerked toward the distant horizon, where the sky bruised with smoke. “That your village, then? They finally lit a torch against their own?”

Ghost didn’t spare you a second. “What happened?”

You opened your mouth, but Lissa’s voice came first—fragile as glass. “There was screaming… Mother’s voice… and the men in silver with fire… they were taking every—”

“Lis.” You dropped into a crouch, cutting her off quick, gathering her face against your shoulder. “Not right now, little shadow.”

Her lips pressed thin, trembling, but she nodded. Her eyes shone too bright, and she hid them against your side, small shoulders shivering.

Soap’s smile faltered, replaced by a weight that dragged his features taut. He watched her, jaw ticking once before he muttered, low, “Aye. Figured it was bad.”

Ghost said nothing. But the way he watched—mask angled down, body still as stone—spoke louder than words. He’d heard. He’d understood. But he didn’t press, and somehow that silence cut deeper than questions.

The quiet after was brittle, like glass stretched thin. Even the birds seemed to have fled, their song strangled from the trees. The forest felt too wide, too close all at once, every branch a set of fingers reaching. Lissa clung harder to you, every rustle in the underbrush too sharp in your ears.

It was Soap who caught the first sign. He dropped to a crouch, brushing soil aside with practiced care. “Tracks,” he murmured.

You leaned over, eyes narrowing. Three-pronged impressions gouged deep into the damp earth. Wide and splayed, ending in hooked points.

Too heavy for wolves. Too sharp for deer.

Soap traced the edge with his finger, lips pressed in a grim line. “Drakes.”

The word seemed to still the air itself.

Ghost crouched beside him, one hand brushing the marks, then shifting to the gouges carved into a nearby root. His bow slid from his shoulder without a word, string creaking as he drew it taut, testing. His eyes flicked once to you, unreadable, before turning back to the treeline.

The forest was no longer merely shadowed. It was listening.

Your breath hitched. You’d grown up on stories of such beasts—Father’s low voice by firelight, half-drunk ballads in smoky taverns, the kind of wild fairy tales mothers used to frighten children into obedience. But never this close. Never real.

Lissa’s grip crushed your hand, bones grinding together. Her whimper was soft, desperate, a plea she didn’t have the words to form as tears spilled hot across her cheeks.

“Stay on your guard,” Ghost ordered, his voice iron-flat.

The words landed just in time.

The underbrush ahead shuddered, leaves twitching like the forest itself had inhaled. The air pressed heavy against your lungs, thick with musk and heat. Then the first one emerged.

And then another. And another. And another.

Four drakes.

Not towering titans of legend, no vast wings blotting out the moon—but terrible all the same. Each one stretched long as a hound, shoulders rolling with lean muscle beneath scales that shimmered gray-green to bronze when the light caught. Their wings, stunted and leathery, folded tight against their ridged spines. Their jaws hung low and wet, each hooked tooth slick with spit that pattered onto the ground. Where it landed, the grass hissed, curling black.

Soap swore under his breath. “Well, fuck me sideways…” His grin was gone, replaced by something thinner, sharper.

Ghost didn’t waste words. His bow was already up, string drawn, the arrow tip steady as stone. His mask shifted fractionally—just enough for you to know his eyes weren’t on the drakes. They were on you, measuring.

You tightened your grip on your knife. Your father’s blade suddenly felt pitiful against scales and teeth. But there was no choice. You adjusted your stance, shielding Lissa half-behind you, though her soft sobs betrayed your thin armor of calm.

The nearest drake tilted its head, lips curling back to reveal its gums, a low rasp building in its throat. The others followed, the sound rippling through the clearing like tinder catching flame. Their bodies shifted in tandem, shoulders lowering, claws flexing against the damp earth.

They were about to spring.

Their eyes fixed on you first. Gold-ringed, slit-pupiled, alien.

Lissa’s tears spilled over silently, streaking her cheeks as she pressed harder into your side, your shirt muffling her frantic sniffles. You couldn’t look away, even with fear clawing at your ribs, even with every instinct screaming to run. You had dreamed of this once. Whispered visions spun from Father’s stories at the hearth, creatures made of shadow and fire. Dreams that had thrilled you in the hush of childhood nights. Now they were here. Alive. Breathing. Watching.

Awe burned in your chest just as sharp as terror. But the strangest thing of all was how they moved when their gazes shifted. Not toward Soap, who stood tensed beside you, one hand ghosting the hilt of his sword. Not at Lissa, small and unthreatening in her grief.

At him.

Ghost hadn’t moved. He stood with the bow half-drawn, an arrow nocked and steady, his mask blank in the mottled light. The drakes’ growls faltered as their attention fastened on him. Their eyes—feral, gleaming—studied him with an intensity that raised every hair on your arms.

It wasn’t hostility. It wasn’t fear. It was something else.

They lowered their ridged heads, nostrils flaring as though tasting the air around him. Soap’s eyes flicked sharply from them to Ghost, his jaw tight, teeth clenched. For once it seemed like he had no words.

The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

The beasts did not charge. They circled instead, scales rasping softly against underbrush, taloned feet whispering over the leaves. One drifted so close you felt the heat bleed from its hide, the musky stench of it coating your tongue. Lissa broke then, loud, trembling sobs shaking through her as she crumpled fully against you. You held her close though your own legs ached to bolt.

Soap shifted half a pace forward, squaring himself between you and the drakes. His sword-hand still hovered, never quite drawing steel. He knew as well as you. The moment a blade flashed, those jaws would start snapping in defense.

But the drakes were barely watching you. Their attention circled back, always, to him.

Ghost never flinched. He stood as if carved from stone, bow now resting easier in his grip, arrow still nocked but no tension in his shoulders. The mask gave nothing. The silence in him was deafening.

The drakes slowed. One bared its hooked teeth, a guttural rasp rumbling low, but the moment Ghost tilted his head, weight shifting subtly, the sound died in its throat like a flame doused in ash. Another padded closer still, dipping its muzzle toward him, scales catching the dimming light. Its posture shifted—lowering. Almost… deferential.

A chill raced down your spine.

This was not fear. Not dominance. It was stranger than either.

It was recognition.

The four lingered only moments more. Then, as if bound by some unseen thread, they turned as one. No growls. No warning. Just silence, and the whisper of talons against earth as they melted back into the trees.

The forest swallowed them. The only trace left behind was the sour musk in the air and the pounding of your heart.

No one spoke. Not yet.

Soap finally exhaled, rough and shaky. “Well,” he muttered, voice low. “Never'll fuckin' get used to that."

Ghost said nothing. He only lowered his bow, slow, deliberate, his mask unreadable as ever. But you swore—just for a heartbeat—you felt his gaze slide your way before vanishing again into that faceless void.

Your heart thudded violently against your ribs, every beat echoing in your skull. Lissa’s tiny hand dug into yours, nails pressing into your palm, desperate and unrelenting. Soap let out a low, uneven breath, muttering something under it that you couldn’t quite make out, his eyes fixed on the spot the drakes had vanished into.

Finally, Ghost moved. One slow, deliberate step forward, the sound of his boots muted against the leaf litter. Tension coiled around him like a shadow ready to strike. For a heartbeat, his mask tilted just so, his gaze flicking toward you. The weight of it, cold, unreadable, and heavy, pinned you in place. Then, just as suddenly, it shifted back to the underbrush, as if the creatures had never been there.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The rigid set of his shoulders. The calm that had bent the drakes’ movements like water around stone. You couldn’t reconcile it.

Words slipped from your mouth before thought could intervene, laced with pure confusion and awe. “Why… why did they do that?” Your voice cracked in the hush of the forest, startling even yourself.

Lissa hiccupped softly against your chest. Soap shot you a glance sharp enough to burn, warning clear in the set of his jaw. There was no hiding it. You’d seen something beyond explanation.

Ghost’s mask turned, the hollow black sockets finding you like twin voids, assessing, weighing. Nothing but the sheer, silent gravity of his presence. A long moment stretched, thick and oppressive, before he pivoted and resumed forward motion, each step calm, deliberate, final.

“Keep moving.” The words were clipped, final—like a door slamming shut on any further inquiry.

Soap muttered another curse under his breath, then let his hand fall awkwardly onto Lissa’s hair, smoothing it down in quiet comfort. “Ye’ll be alright, wee lass,” he murmured, but even he didn’t dare meet Ghost’s gaze.

You swallowed hard, still pinned by the memory of those drakes’ eyes and Ghost’s unflinching presence, before taking a careful step after him.

The forest seemed…different now. Heavier. Watching.

The silence that followed wasn’t the same as before. It carried weight now. Questions you weren’t allowed to ask, answers you weren’t sure you wanted to hear. The forest itself seemed to lean in, listening.

By the time Ghost finally called a halt to set up camp, dusk had bled into the trees, staining them purple and black. Shadows pooled thick in the hollows between trunks, and the night-song of the forest swelled—chirping insects, croaking frogs, and the low, distant grumble of something larger moving unseen.

You sank to your knees with a muffled groan, Lissa letting go of your arms to slump heavily against you in the grass, small shoulders trembling. Her hair clung damp to her cheeks, her wide eyes glassy and haunted by the memory of the drakes.

Soap dropped his pack with a thump beside her, clapping a hand gently on her bony shoulder. “Don’t worry, lass. I’ll fetch some firewood.” He muttered something about the forest’s gifts before slipping into the shadows, his presence receding like a warm ember.

Ghost didn’t bother with the easy chatter or soft levity that Soap carried. He moved silently, already shaping a defensible hollow among the trees, precise and deliberate. His eyes scanned the darkness like knives through smoke, every shadow measured, every rustle noted.

You dared to stretch your legs, muscles stiff and quivering with relief, when his voice cut through the clearing—flat, measured, unnervingly calm.

“You hold that knife all wrong.”

He wasn’t looking at you, yet the weight of the words pressed against your spine. His gaze rested on a stick he was sharpening into a spike; the rasp of steel against wood punctuated the air like a second heartbeat.

“It’ll fall apart in your hand before you get a strike in.”

Even in that simple instruction, there was a certainty that left no room for argument. Ghost’s attention, detached yet absolute, seemed to press in on you and Lissa, a quiet reminder that this forest, these creatures, and the night itself were not to be taken lightly.

Your head snapped up, fingers tightening around the broken hilt of the blade. “I’m doing the best I can,” you snapped, voice sharp as flint. “Not that anyone back home would’ve ever let me. First Law’s very clear on that, isn’t it?”

His head tilted, pale blue eyes catching the dim light. “Not my problem,” he murmured, tone cold and final.

“Not your problem?” you echoed, incredulous, voice rising. “You just stand there, watching us try to survive like this is some twisted, fucking game.”

He didn’t answer, as if words were rarely worth his effort. The silence that stretched between you was sharp, like a knife scraping across stone.

Frustration coiled tight in your spine, climbing higher with every shuddering breath until it nearly choked you. You drove the broken hunting blade into the earth with a metallic thunk, the vibration jolting up your arm like an echo of your anger. Your gaze snapped upward, locking on him, unflinching and accusatory.

“I’m trying to keep her alive,” you spat, each word edged like steel. “And you—whoever the hell you even are—you should damn well know better than to just stand there and watch us.”

Ghost’s voice cut through then, sharper than the wind threading through the trees. “You’ll get us all killed if you fumble.”

Heat surged in your chest. “I won’t fumble,” you shot back, indignation bristling in every syllable. “I am not a child. I might not know how to fight—yet—but that doesn’t mean I can’t hold my own in other ways.”

The forest seemed to tighten around you in response, silence stretching thick as fog. His gaze lingered, unreadable beneath that mask of shadow and stillness. At last, he spoke, quiet and measured:

“…We’ll see.”

The argument might have stretched on endlessly if you’d let it, words ricocheting sharp and bitter until neither of you had anything left—but then, a familiar voice cut through the taut air, breaking it like stone shattering glass.

“Right, firewood, food, camp,” Soap muttered his checklist under his breath as he pushed through the underbrush, arms cradling a bundle of brittle branches. He cocked a brow at the obvious tension between the two of you, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Fenrith’s teeth, already at each other’s throats? We’ve not even shared a fire yet. Thought it’d take at least a week before the bickering started.”

“Not bickering,” you muttered, heat rising to your cheeks despite your words.

“Testing,” Ghost corrected flatly, placing the freshly honed spike beside him.

The word struck harder than any shout, hanging in the air like a verdict. Testing. As if you were nothing more than a brittle shard of scrap metal in his hands. Like you were something to bend, stress, and snap. Words clawed at your throat, burning and ready, but you swallowed them down. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not now. Instead, you let out a sharp huff, dragging your knees up with exaggerated defiance, your green eyes fixed on him like blades.

Soap rolled his eyes at the display before dropping down beside your sister with a theatrical grunt. His smile was as easy as ever, though there was a sharper glint beneath it when his gaze flicked toward her. With a playful nudge of his elbow, he leaned closer. “Gotta make sure the wee lass here gets the first bite, eh? Gotta keep spirits up.”

Lissa’s lit up, weary eyes sparkling with quiet delight at his tone. She watched him, transfixed as he began arranging the branches, coaxing a fire to life with practiced hands. When the flames caught, crackling and spitting sparks into the dusk, her small, exhausted frame instinctively sagged against his side, like she'd found a place to rest.

The sight stole the breath from your chest. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Tension uncoiled slowly as you watched her sink into that fragile pocket of comfort. For the first time all day, some of the weight pressing against your chest seemed to lift.

A sudden rustle stirred in the shadows drew your attention, hand flying to the broken knife at your side. Soap glanced toward the sound, curiosity outweighing caution, while Ghost’s only acknowledgement was a subtle shift of his weight, predator-still, as if he already knew what to expect.

Two pale, unblinking eyes glimmered from the darkness, catching the firelight like shards of glass. Not startled or chaotic, but deliberate and measured.

The fox. Again.

It stepped forward, each paw silent on the forest floor, tail sweeping low like a brushstroke of intent. Its fur, a burnished red-orange, shimmered almost siler at the edges as it caught the firelight giving it an almost ethereal, uncanny air. It paused at the edge of the clearing, eyes locked on Lissa, unafraid of the humans or fire.

It didn’t dart in, it didn’t circle. It waited. Watching.

Lissa’s exhaustion evaporated as if it had never existed. She scrambled forward with wide, breathless eyes, whispering, “It came back!” Her small hands stretched toward it instinctively.

Your chest tightened, an uneasy chill racing down your spine, surging towards her side as you grabbed her wrist. “It’s wild, little shadow. Stay back.”

But the fox tilted its head slightly, as if it recognized her. Not merely a wild animal—it regarded her with a strange, almost knowing intelligence, one paw lifted mid-step, patient and purposeful. And then, when your gaze flicked to Ghost, a shiver ran through you. Even from this distance, it was as if the creature acknowledged him too, pausing for the briefest heartbeat before returning its full attention to Lissa.

Your sister’s laughter bubbled out, soft and awed, and for a moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath, caught in the hush between the firelight and the fox’s unspoken deliberation.

Lissa slipped free of your grasp, crouching low to the ground, small hands trembling with anticipation. Her arms stretched toward the creature, fingers quivering. Her lips moved again in those silent words that no one else could hear. The fox froze, ears flicking sharply toward her as if it understood. Then, against all natural reason, it stepped forward once again, paws soundless on the earth. Its nose brushed against her palm, and your stomach plummeted. You pictured every unseen threat hidden beneath that beautiful fur—the rot, the sickness, the sharp teeth.

“Lissa!” Your voice cracked, sharp and urgent. “I said don’t touch it.”

Ghost tilted his head, eyes narrowing beneath the mask. His gaze didn’t go toward the fox. It remained razor-fixed on Lissa - on the subtle movements of her lips, the strange, silent words forming. He said nothing, as always, but the weight of his attention was enough to make your chest tighten.

Soap, by contrast, crouched easily at her level, an amused hum escaping him. “Well, I’ll be. Wee thing’s taken a liking to her.”

You ground your teeth, fighting the urge to swat his arm. “Don’t encourage her, Soap. It’s still wild. It could bite.”

“I dunno, Sparrow,” he said, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, grin curling like he was watching a private show. “Looks tame to me.”

Before you could intervene further, Lissa had dug into her pack with frantic fingers, producing a small, precious scrap of bread crust. Triumph flared across her face as she held it toward the creature. “Here. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

You drew a sharp breath, nearly lunging for her wrist. Frustration roared under your skin. “Lissa, no! That’s our food—”

“It’s mine,” she snapped back, fierce as you’d ever heard her, thrusting the crust forward. The fox sniffed delicately before plucking it from her fingers. Lissa laughed, bright and unrestrained, delight spilling across her dirt-streaked face. For the first time since the village burned, she seemed untouchably, irrepressibly alive.

You exhaled, tension easing just slightly, and crouched until you were eye-level with her. Gently, you caught her wrist, tugging her focus away from the animal. “Enough,” you murmured, firm but soft. “We don’t have scraps to spare. And it doesn’t belong here with us. Come away from it.”

“No!” Lissa yanked against your grip, brow furrowed, voice rising with unyielding defiance. “It’s my fox. It came back for me, so it’s mine!”

Your jaw clenched. What followed was a whispered battle of sisterly will stretching into eternity—reason against fire, authority against stubbornness. She parried every reasonable argument you had with the unshakable certainty only a child could wield.

Off to the side, Soap’s shoulders shook with muffled laughter, hand pressed over his mouth to stifle it. “She’s got more backbone than half the men I’ve ever fought beside,” he muttered, amusement glinting in his eyes.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut, teeth gritted, ready to snap something back—when sudden pain lanced through your finger. You hissed, jerking your hand away.

The fox had nipped you. Quick. Precise. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to make its point. A warning, clear and unyielding.

In the next heartbeat, it darted back to Lissa’s side, tail curling protectively around her small leg. She smirked triumphantly, eyes flicking from your stinging finger to your face, as if the verdict had already been handed down with teeth. With a soft, defiant hum, she hugged the creature closer, claiming it as hers.

Soap outright laughed this time, shaking his head. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a guardian, lass,” he said warmly. “Beast’s made its choice. I say let her keep the fox—never know, might be good luck.”

Your jaw tightened in quiet defeat. You hated doing this. Hated upsetting your sister. Hated the way her joy dimmed whenever you pushed her too hard. But this? This was different.

First, the drakes, circling strangely around Ghost—whose own presence was just as unfathomable. Now, a fox had claimed Lissa, settling at her heel as though drawn by something only she could conjure. Too much to be random. Unease and wonder coiled in your chest, pressing tight against your ribs.

Ghost’s subtle movement across the fire drew your attention. He leaned forward slightly, mask angled toward Lissa and the small, ember-bright animal. His voice was quiet, measured, but final. “It’s clearly not going anywhere. No choice but to accept it.”

You swallowed, holding his gaze for the briefest moment before looking away, giving a reluctant nod. Relief and frustration tangled in your mind, but for now, the fox stayed. Its eyes, glinting in the firelight, seemed almost sentient, as if it understood more than any of you.

By the time the flames had burned to a steady bed of coals, the smell of roasted rabbit lingered heavy in the air. Soap had proven himself quick-handed with the snares, stringing up the catch and cooking it before your stomach had even growled. Only blackened bones remained now, split open for the marrow.

You had eaten sparingly, pushing the best cuts into your sister’s hands. She devoured them with messy satisfaction, grease gleaming on her cheeks, a sly grin tugging at her lips as though she’d won more than a meal tonight.

It was well past moonrise when you finally coaxed Lissa beneath the lean-to, fashioned by the three adults with lashed branches and canvas. She was already half-asleep before her head touched the bedroll—Ghost’s bedroll, which he had shoved toward her with a gruff mutter about staying up to keeping watch anyway. The fox curled up tight against her torso, tail rising and falling in rhythm with her breathing.

The sight twisted something tight in your gut. Gratitude for its presence warred with irritation at its intrusion. You weren’t sure whether to thank the creature for soothing her or to drive it off before it got too comfortable.

You lingered, brushing a strand of tangled hair from your sister’s brow. The motion was tender, but your thoughts slipped backward—flashes of fire, your father’s shout swallowed by smoke, your mother’s face half-lit by flame, your brother’s cry cut short. Were they alive somewhere, or already ashes on the wind by Malric’s hand?

The not-knowing hollowed you out. Grief pressed sharp and suffocating against your ribs until hot tears slid free, silent and searing. You wiped them away quickly, as if sorrow itself might wake her.

She stirred, murmuring half-formed words caught between dream and shadow. Your throat tightened. You bent low, holding her close, clinging to her warmth as though it tethered you to something real. You needed her as much as she needed you—perhaps more. There was something in her presence, fragile yet stubborn, that seemed larger than either of you, as though the night itself bent softer around her.

Pressing your lips lightly against the crown of her head, you whispered, voice raw and raspy, “I’ve got you, little shadow. Always.”

Reluctantly, you let her go, tugging the blanket higher around her shoulders. The fox, a dark coil of fur, stirred only to curl tighter against her side. Its ember-bright eyes opened for a heartbeat, watching you with that uncanny stillness, before sliding shut again. You exhaled quietly, dragging a sleeve against your damp cheeks before rising.

The firelight beckoned, flickering gold against the trees where the men sat in low conversation. Their shadows stretched long across the forest floor, bending and warping like they belonged to something larger, older than the trees themselves.

You crossed to them, lowering yourself near the flames. Ghost’s mask shifted almost imperceptibly, just enough to tell you that he had noticed your approach. That single glance, held a fraction longer than it should have, pressed against you like ice—an unspoken question. Or a warning. You weren’t sure which.

Ever the tension breaker, Soap leaned back, crooked grin warming his features, nudging the space beside him with a boot. “’Bout time ye joined us, lass. Thought ye’d dozed off same as the wee one.”

You managed a faint smile, grateful for the effort, though your chest felt heavy. Sitting here, away from the steady rise and fall of your sister’s breathing, there was no shield. No buffer. Only the campfire, the watchful eyes of two men, and the weight of truths unspoken.

The night pressed close, heavy and expectant, as if it too waited—patient, watchful—for the questions Ghost and Soap would ask, and the answers you weren’t ready to give.

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THE EMBER PROPHECY (PART I)

here's part one! it's a little long, needed that good ole world building before gettin' into it. enjoy! simon "riley" ghost/you word count: around 5k mdni, 18+. warnings: violence, severe patriarchal society, abuse, blood, sexual content, idk there's more probably. its a dark fantasy intro here part ii here

“You thought you were escaping the fire. Instead, you stumbled straight into the bowstring.”

“I’m not marrying some stranger!”

The words ripped out of your throat before you could even think about it. They hung sharp in the air between the three of you. 

Your father’s eyes burned, flaring with the kind of fire that smothered every argument before it began. “You don’t have a choice.”

You turned desperately to your mother, who was perched at the edge of the table like a trapped bird herself. “Mother, please. I can’t marry him. Not now. It’s not fair.”

Your mother’s lips trembled, her gaze falling to her lap. She gave no answer - only the wet sheen of unshed tears. 

You knew why.

She remembered. She remembered being whisked off like cattle to a man she’d never spoken to, never loved. 

She’d been one of the fortunate ones though. Your father never raised a hand to her, never forced her into silence or shadow. Unlike so many women in the kingdom, she had been allowed to just exist, maybe not free, but at least safe and skin clear of bruises.

But safe just wasn’t enough for you.

“I don’t even know of anyone named Jarrin!” you snapped, attention whirling back towards your father. “How can you expect me to make this vow with someone I’ve never even met?”

“You may not know him, but I do.” His tone was flat, immovable stone. “He’s a good lad, strong and loyal. Has a big estate with lots of land, good money. It’s a good match for you.”

Your arms folded across your chest as your chest as you sank back into your rickety wooden chair, incredulous.

You knew the laws. You’d grown up with their shackles rattling around your ankles like every other girl in the kingdom. But something in you rebelled against it - something fierce, something wild. You were not made to wear a husband’s name like a chain.

“Why now?” you demanded, voice trembling with anger. “With your… y’know…,” you gestured to the empty space where your father’s lower left leg should have been, a stump that ended just above where his knee should be. “ The harvest won’t bring itself in.”

“Why now?” his voice sharpened as he repeated her words. He shoved himself up from his chair, ignoring his crutch leaning nearby as he hobbled toward the hearth. Your stomach dropped as he ripped the parchment hanging above it free.

The First Law.

He slammed it down before, the parchment older than you, ink faded into claw-marks of authority. You didn’t need to read it. Couldn’t even if you wanted to. You’d had the words grilled into you since childhood.

“First Law!” he roared, jabbing the page with a crooked, calloused finger. “Even after all these years, I still have to remind you?” He raised the paper high, reciting it like a curse.

“Tenant One: Women are not to leave their homes unless escorted by husband, father, or brother and never farther than the neighboring villages.

Tenant Two: Women are forbidden any form of education.

Tenant Three: Women may not hunt, fight, or touch weapons. Nor may they wear the dress of men, nor armor of any kind.

Tenant Four: unmarried women may not approach the palace nor the king-”

You reached for his arm, desperate to stop his tangent. “Father, I know the First Law-”

He just cut you off, voice rising. “Tenant Five: women must be matched and married by the end of their twenty-fourth year. The day after the ceremony, the husband must send confirmation to the king.”

He slammed the parchment back onto the table, glaring at you as if the words themselves should burn obedience into your skin.

“Sparrow,” he said, voice hard as iron. “You are twenty four. We have delayed as long as we could, but there is no more avoiding it now.”

The name stung as much as the decree.

Sparrow.

He had called you that since you were a little girl, the nickname born of scorn. Always flitting where you didn’t belong, always singing, or talking in your case, when silence was demanding.

Your younger brother Dominik had laughed the first time he'd heard it- our little Sparrow - the bird too restless to stay caged. You had hated it, so of course it stuck. Hell, you’re called that more than your actual birth name.

 But now, in some twisted way, it fit you.  Because a sparrow still had wings.

And wings were meant to fly.

“I don’t want this,” you whispered, fingers absently toying with a loose thread on your skirt.

Your mother’s shaky voice finally broke in, but not to your defense. “Please, listen to your father. He knows what's best for us.”

“No!” Your voice cracked into something raw and dangerous. “What’s best for me isn’t warming some stranger’s bed. I want to go to the palace. To work the dragon stables. To train. Just like you did, Father, before Lapis-”

“Sparrow.” His voice cut in like a low growl, a warning. “What did you just say?”

You froze. You knew saying the dragon’s name was a mistake, a cheap shot. You knew it'd piss him off if you said it. Knew you should’ve shut your mouth before it flew out.

He rose like a storm, the mention of dragons felt like a curse on his ears. “How many times must I tell you?! You are to never speak of those beasts again. Not under this roof!”

Your anger surged hot and reckless. “It’s not fair! Dominik gets to start Dragon Knight training next month while I’m sentenced to a life of cooking and birthing children! What about me? What about what I want? I’d rather run to the Weeping Pyres and tame Anadox myself than go through with this mess!”

“Anadox?!” your father bellowed, face flushing red. “Anadox is a butcher, girl. She kills humans for sport. If  you so much as set foot near those cursed mountains-” his fist slammed into the table, sending the flowers your little sister collected earlier crashing to the floor, vase shattering into glittering shards. “Swear it! Swear to me you’ll never go near them!”

Your heart pounded, fury, defiance and fear clashing in your veins. You nodded, words tumbling out in a shaky whisper. “Fine. I swear. I swear I’ll never go.”

But even as you said it, you knew it was a lie.

Because sparrows are not meant to be caged.

There was an agonizing silence between father and daughter. The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound filling the suffocating space. At long last, he sighed and his voice softened; though his eyes remained sharp, almost pleading. “Sparrow, listen to me. Of all the tenants in the First Law, the last is the most merciless.”

He reached for the parchment again, his calloused fingers trembling slightly as he smoothed it flat. His lips shaped around the words like they were poison. 

“Tenant Six: Under absolutely no circumstances are women permitted near dragons.” When the final syllable left his mouth, he lowered the parchment slowly, as if the words themselves carried enough weight to crush you.

“The punishment for breaking any point of the law,” he continued, voice low. “Is execution at Hollow Bastion. And depending on which part of the law you break…. A slow death. Torture, until the very end.”

Your throat tightened. “But Father-”

He shook his head, “No buts.” His voice dropped to a careful whisper as he raised a finger to his lips. “Please, Sparrow. You must understand. Lord Malric has waited years to see me ruined. He’s watching - waiting for me to stumble, for my family to break the Law. If he cannot strike me directly, he will strike through you and your siblings. One wrong step, and he’ll be at the door with a writ of punishment.”

His weary sight carried the weight of defeat and sorrow as he continued. “He despises me, my girl. That means he hates you too. If it were up to him, I’m sure he’d have us all thrown into the Bastion.”

Your mother cut in again, voice firm now. “He’s right, my love. Malric is a cruel, evil man. It would tarnish our family’s reputation if he came here because of you.”

Now that really pissed you off. 

Your fury snapped toward her, leveling her with a scalding glare. “Reputation? Fucking reputation?! “ Your voice began to raise sharply, “That’s what you’re worried about? Father’s standing with the king? What about me? What about what I want?”

“What about you?!” Your father thundered, temper sparking anew. His face was flushed a bright red, veins standing stark as they pulsed around his temples. He looked like anger personified.

“I don’t want this!” You shouted back, your hands balled into fists. “I will not be bartered away like livestock. It isn’t fair!”

Father inhaled sharply, slamming his fist back down on the table so hard the wood shuddered. “Fair? What do you know about fair?” His voice cracked with years of bitterness. 

“Was it fair when my dragon turned on me and ate half my fuckin’ leg?  Was it fair when Malric was promoted above me, got the credit of the victory because I could no longer fight?  Life isn’t fair, Sparrow. Never has been.”

Your blood was boiling, anger flaring like wildfire. “I’m not doing this-!”

“You do not have a choice!” His voice lashed out like a whip.  

Then, quieter, cold and merciless: “You will do as your mother and I say. By next spring, you will marry this boy. It is the First Law. To defy it is to die.”

You met his gaze, fire meeting fire.

“So just like that? The king hates us and we should bow our heads and thank him for our chains? Blindly follow? That’s not justice, it's not honor and you know it. It’s pure rot.”

 Your chair scraped back violently as you shoved yourself to your feet. It toppled behind you with a crash.  “I won’t do it,” you spat out again, the words burning in your throat. “I don’t care if it’s the First Law. I will not do it.”

Their faces - your mother’s pale and stricken, your father’s blazing red with fury - blurred as you turned your back to them. You stormed out of the cottage, door slamming behind. Your pulse was roaring in your ears like the windows of a caged bird desperate to break free.

Outside, you raced past your younger sister, Lissa, who was chasing the chickens around the yard like she could actually hear them. You ignored her squeals of laughter and kept running, feet pounding through the dirt until you hit the grain field. 

It was late in the season at this point and all of the tall stalks of wheat rose well above your head. Your skirts hissed through the brittle, drying wheat, eerily sounding like a sigh. It was as if the fields themselves were grieving with you.You didn’t care, just ran harder.

You couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t believe your parents would do this to you. To them, it was ‘honorable’ - to marry you off to some dull boy from the next village over. To you, it was a life sentence. You wanted dragons, not a husband. A blade, not a baby. You wanted the stables, the scales, the fire.

By the time your lungs burned and your legs ached, you slowed, your skirt dragging and chest heaving. You pushed deeper into the field until you reached the edge of your family’s land. Beyond, the Weeping Pyre mountains clawed into the sky, jagged and sharp against the late sun.  You sank into the grass and glared at them like they’d somehow plotted this whole mess.

This was your place. Your only spot where you could think. The only spot where, on blessed days, you might catch a glimpse of Anadox, wild and untamed, whirling in the skies over the mountains.

Suddenly, you hear a small voice call out your first name. You nearly jumped out of your skin. Lissa’s flushed little face popped through the wheat field. “What’re you doing out here?” she asked between sniffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

You groaned teasingly, rolling your green eyes at her. “Following me again? You’d make a better hound than sister.”

“I heard you guys shouting before,” she said quickly, her honey-brown eyes watering. “Then you ran out here, so I followed. Don’t be mad at me, okay?”

You softened, exhaling as you looked at her. Lissa had been your shadow since she could walk, always trailing after you like a half-sized echo with messy blonde hair.

Truth was, you didn’t mind at all. Not really.  There wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do for this little girl.

“I’m not mad at you,” you said, patting the grass beside you. “Come sit, little shadow.”

She plopped down and you slung an arm around her bony shoulders. 

“I was shouting because Mother and Father made me…very cross.”

Lissa’s eyes rounded, wide with curiosity. “What did they do?”

“They’ve... well, arranged a marriage for me,” you muttered bitterly, the words feeling like venom on your tongue. “Some boy from some other village nearby. Next spring, I’m supposed to go off and marry him.”

Her jaw dropped, those tears now threatening to spill. “What? N-No! You can’t leave!”

“It seems I have to, Lis," you said with a hollow, pained laugh. “It’s the law, remember? Praise to the king and his brilliant rules.”

“Then I’ll go too!” Lissa announced fiercely, arms crossed like a general. “They won’t split us apart!”

“Lis…” You tried to smile but it broke somewhere in the middle. “Mother needs you here. The chickens, the kittens, the goats - half the animals like you better than anyone else here. Who’s going to count all the new kittens in spring if you run off with me?”

Her lip wobbled. “But I don’t want you to go.”

You tilted your head back towards the mountain. “Yeah. Me neither.”

For a while, you both sat quietly, enjoying each others’ company as the grain field and wild grass swayed in the breeze beside you.

Finally, you pointed. “See that ridge up there? The Weeping Pyres. Anadox lives there. She’s free. But us? We’re not. The king makes sure of that.”

“Why?” Lissa asked simply. “What’d we do?”

“Us?” You gave another humorless little laugh. ”Nothing. He’s always hated women. Maybe he can’t stand the thought of women having a spine. Guess it must run in the family - his father hated us too, and his father before him, and his before him. A generational talent of hatred.”

Lissa scowled, looking back toward the mountain like it held the answer. “Then maybe we should go there instead.”

You squeezed her closer, not sure whether to laugh or cry at her childish certainty.

Maybe she wasn’t wrong, maybe there was nowhere left but the mountains. What would it be like to live free? To choose? To belong to no one but yourself. Your chest ached. The law said you had no choice, but something like a humming in your very bones kept telling you otherwise. 

The sun bled lower, staining the sky red. You stood reluctantly. “Come on, little shadow. We gotta get back before Mother starts to worry, yeah?”

Lissa nodded as she got to her feet, but suddenly pointed skyward, eyes wide. “Look!”

Your gaze snapped up towards the clouds. A massive shadow cut the sky, wings wide enough to swallow the setting sun.

“Anadox…” you breathed. All thoughts of arranged marriage vanished as the dragon soared above the valley, each beat of her wings echoing freedom. 

“When I was your age,” you start softly, “Before Father’s accident with Lapis, he told me once he worked under the man who had bonded with Anadox. Said that she and her master were basically unstoppable in battle.” You grabbed a stalk of grain, swinging it like a sword toward Lissa until she squealed. “Until one day, they weren’t.”

“That’s when she went wild, right?” Lissa asked, ducking behind you with a giggle as you poked at her. 

“Exactly. When her master died, Anadox lost her mind. Went feral. Killed soldiers from both sides before vanishing up there. The king still sends knights after her sometimes, but…” you ginned faintly, eyes on the soaring silhouette of the beast. “Anadox always wins.”

Lissa’s brown eyes went huge. “You think they’ll ever catch her?”

“Not a chance, she’s smarter than they are, then they’ll ever be.” You let your voice drop lower, conspiratorial.  “Smarter than all of them put together. Rumor has it, not just dragons dwell up there. That there are shadows roaming in the peaks. That once a knight tried to bind with a dragon there and failed. They say he still walks up there. Some say he’s cursed, a shadow no one dares to follow. Maybe he keeps her safe. Or maybe he’s waiting.”

Lissa clutched tightly at your sleeve, half-thrilled, half-terrified. You ruffled her blonde hair, laughing softly at her reaction.  “Don’t worry, bug. If he’s real, I bet he doesn’t really bother with chickens.”

Together you turned back toward the fading light, though your eyes lingered on the mountain one last time.

You didn’t say it out loud, but the thought was sharp and undeniable.

I’ll find another way.

Walking side by side, you held on to your little sister’s hand, only half-listening to her light chatter about wildflowers and birdsongs as you walked back towards home.

Your mind was elsewhere, locked on the same though that’s been gnawing at you for weeks. No matter what your parents said, no matter what they wanted, you would never let yourself be forced into marriage. Never let Lissa be forced into that fate either.

“Sis, do you smell that?” Lissa’s soft voice broke into the storm of your thoughts.

You froze.

Smoke.

Acrid and heavy, riding the wind. Your gaze snapped ahead to the horizon, where thick, gray plumes bled into the late evening sky. Your stomach dropped like stone, heartbeat thundering in your ears. “That looks like it’s coming from home,” you breathed, tugging her behind you as you picked up the pace. “Shadow - come on!”

The two of you ran, bare feet pounding against the field path, smoke clawing at your throats the closer you drew. When the wheat broke into the clearing near the cottage, you skidded to a halt.

Voices. Raised and angry. And beneath them - your mother’s scream.

Instinct took over at the shrill sound. 

You dropped to the ground, dragging Lissa down with you. “Stay down!” you hissed.

“Ow-you’re hurting me-!”

You slapped your hand gently but firmly over your sister's mouth, pressing your lips to your ear. “Listen to me, Lissa. Something’s wrong. You cannot make a sound. Do you hear me? Not. A. Sound.”

Her wide, frightened eyes locked with yours and she didn’t argue. She nodded, trembling.

“Good,” you whispered, easing your hand away. “Stay low, stay with me. Whatever you see - do not scream.” You pulled her forward, crawling through the tall stalks of grain as the world opened in front of you.

And you swear it felt like the world as you knew it had ended.

Your cottage was an inferno. Not just yours - nearly every roof in the village was ablaze, orange fire devouring wood as smoke painted the sky black.

Knights stood in the clearing, their polished silver armor reflecting the molten firelight, turning them into towering, gilded specters. They were loading villagers, your friends and neighbors, into caged wagons. At the center was your younger brother, Dominik, held tight in a soldier’s grip. Your father too, pinned between armored men, his one leg buckling under the weight of their restraint. Your mother wept, her cries torn from her throat as more soldiers held her.

A single knight stepped forward, carrying a long staff crowned with a crimson banner. The crest of the king whipped idly in the fire’s heat. And before them all - 

Lord Malric.

You had never seen him in person, only heard about him from your father’s bitter stories. But you knew it was him the moment your eyes found him.  His armor gleamed brighter than any other, every inch polished and adorned with medals he had clawed his way into earning. His movements oozed with practiced arrogance. His voice as it cut through the roar of the fire at his men was smooth with venom.

“Malric,” you hear your father spit out, voice raw. “I’ve already served the king. I gave him my leg - my life! My duty to him is finished. It was finished the moment he had me discharged.”

“One’s duty to the king is never finished,” Malric sneered, wagging an armored finger in your father’s face like a schoolmaster scolding a child, looking at him like he was a fool for believing otherwise.

“But the harvest,” your father cried out, desperate. “If we don’t bring it in this harvest, the whole village will starve-”

 Malric cut him off smoothly, simply. “There will be no harvest for you.”

Beside you, Lissa’s small fist pressed into her mouth, muffling her cries. You squeezed her hand tightly. You weren’t sure if it was more for her or yourself at this point.

Malric leaned close, his shadow falling across your father’s weary face. “You, your wife and your son will come to the palace. A war stirs in the east, and the king calls his knights back to service.”

“Then take me,” your father said fiercely. “Take me if you must. But not my boy - he isn’t trained yet, he’s to go start training next month. He can serve the King and country then.  Just please, not my family. Just leave them be.”

“Your son will fight,” Malric said flatly. “And you will serve as well if you want to see him live long enough to grow a beard.”

Your father’s jaw trembled.

Malric’s smile continued to spread beneath his helm at your father's growing frustration. “As for your daughters…”

Your chest tightened.

“They are not coming to the palace. I will see to that myself. They will be personally escorted by me to Hollow Bastion.” Your mother’s scream tore through the night at his words. “No! Not the Bastion! That's for murderers, criminals! Please, my little girl, she’s just a child-!”

“Unmarried girls go to the Bastion,” Malric replied, almost lazily. “That is the king’s will.”

“Lissa is nine!” your mother cried and begged. “And Sparrow - she has a match! A lad from the next village, we can hold the ceremony today-”

“No, no.” Malric cut her off, voice dripping with amusement. “Too late for that. Unmarried, and they go. Stop whining, you foolish woman. Unless you want to join them yourself.”

Your brother, only three years younger than you cried out this time, raw with fury. “Leave them alone! They’ve done nothing wrong-!”

Malric turned, studied him, and without warning struck him across the face with an armored hand. The sharp edge of his gauntlet split skin instantly, blood flashing red in the firelight.

Dominik staggered, but stood tall again, defiant. Always unbending, even as blood ran from the corner of his mouth..

“Have no delusions, boy,” Malric hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Your sisters are mine to deliver. My orders are absolute. Keep resisting, and I’ll see you all rot beside them.”

He turned to bark orders to his men. ”The girls have to be close, start with that barn. Scour the fields. Burn it all if you must. Draw them out. Find them.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs before everything in you turned to ice.

One of the knights had stopped on his way to the barn, head tilting. His gaze was sweeping the field. Landed straight on you, no mistaking it.

Fuck.

His finger lifted, pointing. “My lord - there! I think that’s her!”

Time froze.

Your mother’s cry, Dom’s desperate shout. 

But it was your father’s voice, louder than the fire, louder than it all:

“Run, Sparrow! Take Lissa! GO!”

The world snapped back into motion, Malric shouted something you didn't catch and knights were suddenly thundering toward the field.

You lunged, darting toward Lissa, seizing her small hand as you yanked her up.  “C’mon, little Shadow! We’ve gotta move!”

And you ran.

The fire was everywhere. Smoke clawed your lungs as you dragged Lissa through the tall grass, both of your skirts snagging on every thorn, every broken branch. Behind you - the thunder of boots. Shouts. Steel ringing against steel as knights crashed through the fields.

“This way!” you gasped, yanking your sister down a narrow path between the burning cottages. Hear licked at your skin, your hair sticking to your sweaty face, chest heaving.

“Sparrow! My feet -” Lisa whimpered, her little legs stumbling to keep up with your longer strides. 

They both were running through this hell barefooted, each rock sharp, sparks hot as they landed on exposed skin, twigs and thorns cutting the soles of their feet.

“Don’t stop!” You hoisted her by the arm, half carrying her when her legs threatened to give out. “Do you hear me? We can’t stop. We stop, we die!”

An arrow suddenly hissed past your ear, missing the cartilage there by mere centimeters. 

You flinched, throwing yourself and Lissa behind the collapsed frame of a fence. The shaft of the arrow buried itself into the dirt a few inches away.

“They’re ahead of us!” a knight roared somewhere behind them, “Cut them off!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

They were closing the net.

You shoved Lissa through a small gap in the smoldering fence, ignoring the hot splinters digging into your skin as you crawled after her.  Together, you sprinted into the tree line, deeper into choking black smoke as you used it as cover.  

Branches whipped your face. Your lungs burned with each inhale. Every step dragged your skirts heavier with ash and dirt. Behind you, the knights crashed after. Sure, their speed was weighed down by armor, but they were damn relentless.

“We won’t make it-” Lissa began to choke out sobs.

“Yes we will!” Your throat tore with the words as you forced her onwards. “We will, little shadow, do you hear me?”

A knight suddenly burst through the brush to your left, blade glinting in the firelight. You screamed sharp and guttural, shoving Lissa behind you. 

Crack.

A flaming branch collapsed from above, splitting the air between you and the knight. He cursed, armor sparking as the fire bit at him. You didn’t wait, didn’t waste a moment. You hauled Lissa into the darkness of the treeline, heart rattling like it would break free from your ribs. 

The chase seemed endless. Fire. Smoke. Shouts closing in, then finally falling behind.

At long last, when your legs felt like they were ready to snap, silence began to stretch. The knights’ clamor faded. The nearby woods had swallowed you for now.

You collapsed against a large oak tree, dragging your sister into your arms. Both of you were shaking.

“They’ll come back,” you rasped, more to yourself than her. “At first light. They’ll come looking again.”

“We don’t have food…or water…” Lissa whispered, voice impossibly small. 

Her bare feet were cut and bleeding, her nightdress torn.

You clenched your jaw, tasting blood from biting your tongue. She was right. 

You had nothing. No knife, no pack. Not even boots.

Just smoke in your lungs, bare feet, and your sister safe in your arms.

Tomorrow, you’d have to risk it. Circle back to the ruins of the village. Try to salvage something.

 If Malric’s men don’t find you first.

By morning, the village was still bleeding. Smoke clawed the sky in black spirals, the stench of charred wood and flesh sunk into your lungs until it felt like poison.

You kept Lissa close, her small hand locked in yours, dragging her once again through ash and ruin, as though speed alone could keep her from seeing what was left of the neighbors she used to wave to, the kids she used to play with. The animals she loved dearly. What was left of your home.

The cottage was half-collapsed, one wall still glowing red with embers, beams snapping and hissing as they gave way. Your chest twisted painfully, but you forced yourself inside the broken shell.

You couldn’t afford grief. Not right now, not yet. Not until Lissa was somewhere safe.

“Stay by the door,” you ordered, voice low and edged with something sharp. Lissa obeyed, though her wide brown eyes flicked between you and the smoke. You clawed through what the fire hadn’t devoured. The skirts around your hips and legs were already ruined, caked in mud, soot, snagged from running. Dresses and skirts wouldn’t get you far in the wilderness anyways. You knew that much. 

You yanked open the chest at the foot of your younger brother’s bed, coughing smoke inhalation. His old clothes were way too big for Lissa, probably would only be slightly oversized on you. Cloth was cloth. You shoved a tunic and a pair of pants into a half burned pack, an old pair of small boots in your arms. Dominik’s, he’d grown out of them last summer.

“Here,” you tossed boots toward Lissa. “Put those on.”

“T-they’re Dom’s…” she whispered, as if it mattered.

You held back an annoyed grunt, softening her tone. “Then run fast enough in them to make him proud, yeah?”

You pulled on a tunic yourself, belting it down with rope and squeezed into a pair of your Father’s old pants. There was something in the pocket - his half broken hunting knife. You could praise the gods for the luck. The weight of the dull blade in your hand steadied you for a heartbeat - then shouts of knights in the distance sent any sort of that steadiness shattering.

You snatched up whatever else you could: a flask for water, a bit of dried meat and bread crusts that thankfully hadn’t been burned, and a leather satchel. It was nothing. Nowhere near enough. But it was all you had.  The sound of hooves cracked the silence. “Go,” you hissed, shoving Lissa gently toward the back door.

The two of you bolted, slipping through smoke and ruined alleyways until the village was behind you, until only the dark line of the forest at the base of the Weeping Pyres waited ahead. 

The giant trees loomed like teeth, shadows seemed to swallow the light. 

Better monsters you didn’t know than the ones knight-shaped ones currently hunting you down, right?

Branches whipped at your face as you forced a path deeper into the forest. At one point, Lissa stumbled with an echoing cry and you dragged her back up to her feet, urging her to keep moving. Your heart was pounding so loud it seemed to drown out the whole world.

You didn’t notice the silence at first, didn’t notice the way the forest had seemed to go completely still. At least, not until the arrow hissed past your face, embedding itself in the bark and hair’s breadth away from your head. 

Lissa screamed at the top of her lungs. You jerked her behind you out of habit, that half-broken knife raised.

"Don't move."

From the shadows, he stepped out. Broad. Tall. Masked and cloaked in black with his hood drawn up. The mask was mostly blackened leather, rough-stitched and worn, but across his right cheek a pale fragment of something harder had been worked into it. Bone, maybe - or something like it. It caught the light with a strange sheen, out of place, like it didn't belong to the mask at all. A bow was still steady in his hands. His presence felt like a blade at your throat before you’d even spoken a word.

“You’re far from safe ground.”

HIs voice was low, gravelly and rough, distorted lightly from the fabric of the mask.

And that sounded like a threat wrapped in casual words.

You let out a scoff at his comment, baring your teeth. “Brilliant. Maybe next time you’ll tell me that the water's wet?”

Lissa tugged at your sleeve hard, brown eyes full of pure fear. "Don't..." she whimpered, too scared to even spare another glance at the masked figure in front of them.

His head tilted, eyes like pale ice they met yours over the mask. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just looked at you as though he were weighing your soul on the edge of a blade. 

Most people cowered at him, but you? 

You bit back.

That was new.

Next to you, Lissa was clutching your arm tightly, her whole body trembling. You didn’t dare look away from the man in the mask.

Then another voice broke through, sharp with amusement as it cracked the tension.

“Easy, Ghost. You’ll scare the poor things to death.”

A second man emerged from the tree line, grinning with wild eyes with a blade at his hip. He looked between you and the masked man, a chuckle spilling out of his mouth. “Well, would you look at that? Thought ya bagged a deer or somethin’ for us, mate. Turns out it’s just a lass with sharper fangs than you and a wee bairn tugging at her sleeve.”

You didn’t lower your knife. The masked one didn’t lower his bow.

The arrow glinted, steady and unyielding.

Somewhere deep inside, the air shifted - almost like the world has been waiting for this very moment.

taglist <3

@bluefans-blog @little-mini-me-world @malufenixx

[pixiespitzz]

THE EMBER PROPHECY (INTRO)

been cookin' this simon "ghost" riley/you for a hot minute now. here's a lil intro to test the waters :) mdni, 18+. warnings: violence, severe patriarchal society, abuse, blood, sexual content, idk there's more probably. its a dark fantasy PART I HERE

“When sisters rise, the land shall burn and mend in dragon fire. One marked by flame will walk beside them— half man, half grave, a bridge between ruin and rebirth.”

The prophecy has been whispered for centuries, forbidden to speak, feared to be true.

And now it stirs in the shadows of a world built to crush you.

You've spent your life confined by laws meant to keep you alive, not free. Women are forbidden near weapons, forbidden near dragons, forbidden from education, forbidden from leaving their homes without escort. Women in the Kingdom of Fenrith are not meant to fight.

Break any of these laws? Your execution will be made swift - a calculated warning to any of those brave or suicidal enough to try. Marriage and children are women's only path while the men march and dragons fly to war to die for a king who sits in gold and silk, funding bloodshed from his throne. Your life belongs to a kingdom that fears the power you do not yet understand.

But rules were never made for you.

You are Sparrow, and you will not bow.

When war comes to Fenrith, it does so with fire and iron. Your village burns, your parents are dragged away. Your little sister clings to your side as soldiers hunt you through smoke-choked streets. You run.

Through forests, cliffs, and darkness. Each steps a fight for survival, each breath like a razor against your lungs. Flee from the world that seeks to cage you. Every shadow could be death, every sound the echo of pursuit from the king's soldiers.

Then you meet them - two men carved from shadow and chaos. One, cursed by fire. Scarred and haunted, rumored to be marked by a dragon itself, feared by the creatures even. He's deadly and measure with every movement. The other is reckless, unyielding and lethal. Bound by instinct to protect. They will teach you to survive. To fight. To bleed.

And perhaps bend the world to your will.

And above it all, waiting in the high mountains where storms scream and legends sleep, waits Anadox. Dragon of nightmares, fire incarnate, merciless and wild. Legends say she's killed armies and will not hesitate to do so again. No human survives her. No one maybe except those marked by destiny.

Something's changing in the air, something older than memory - like a whisper of fate beginning to burn through the world and sear the skies. Like a prophecy beginning to come to fruition.

Run. Fight. Survive. Burn everything that stands in your way.

Because prophecy does not ask.

It demands.

[pixiespitzz]

I've talked a lot about girldad!Simon, but can I interest you all in girldad!John Price CW: None, it's literally just fluff.

John was searching everywhere in the house for it - his pride and joy - his hat.

Looking under the sofa, on the coat rack, in your shared bedroom, in the kitchen cupboards, huffing and puffing about how he's going to be late to a debrief that had been planned weeks in advance. He stopped in the centre of the kitchen, hands in his short, brown hair, thick fingers pressed into his temples.

Again, he asked you, "you sure ya haven't seen it, cherub?"

You shook your head, "No. I told you, the last i saw of it was when it was on the washing hamper after I washed your uniform... and that was somethin' like a month ago." You went on to say as you poured juice into a sippy cup, "you've got others."

"I know that... it's jus'-" he answered, pursing his lips as he turned his head to the side, rubbing his chin.

You heard the socked feet of your daughter before you saw her, noticing the tension in the brow of your husband easing as a chuckle rumbled in your husbands chest. The sound had you craning your neck to see your daughter: pyjama shirt turned inside out, one pant leg rolled up to her knee.

And in her hand was her brown bear: Cappy, as she'd affectionately named him.

She'd gotten it on her third birthday when you and John had taken her to build-a-bear, running past the dresses and frills all for the sake of dressing the bear in an army uniform. When asked, she pointed at John and exclaimed, "It's daddy! So... So he's here, all the time!"

One thing she'd been keen to point out was the fact that, in the shop, they had no hat like John's. And, just like her father, she took matters into her own hands (quite literally), as you noticed that, on the head of her bear, was John's beloved hat.

Crouching down, he welcomed your daughter into the room with a hug, murmuring 'good morning' as she wrapped her little arms around his neck, the bear trapped between the pair of them as they embraced, and when he pulled away, he pulled the cuff of her pant down. "Don't suppose you've seen daddy's hat, have you, peach?"

She blinked, glancing at her bear. "'S Cappy's hat now," she said, a mischievous grin forming on her face, "he said likes it."

"An' what about daddy, hm?" asked the man, cocking his head to the side. "Daddy likes that hat too... don't suppose me an' Cappy can share, ey?"

You watched the cogs turning in her head, and she turned the stuffed animal to face her as though to consult him like the accused would their lawyer. Their meeting ended quickly, and with an enthusiastic nod, she turned the teddy outwards to her father, holding it out to him.

"He said okay! As long as me an' him can have one of your other hats."

Taking the hat off the head of the bear, and placing it on his own, he rose from where he was crouched, holding his hand out to her. She took hold of it, little hand wrapping around two of his fingers. You knew the invitation of your daughter's was to keep him from leaving the house, saw the glint in her eyes that she'd get when John would leave, and you knew he did too.

In spite of that, and the meeting he'd been rushing around the house in preparation of moments prior, he led her out of the kitchen and said, "Daddy'll find ya both a good hat, peach, don't worry."

Masterlist

[pixiespitzz]

Simon "Ghost" Riley | Call of Duty Comic

[pixiespitzz]

SHADOWS WE KEEP (PART III)

mdni, 18+, simon "ghost" riley/reader part ii here ao3

Present day, Task Force 141 Forward Base  POV: Grace "Vex" Dumas

The heat clung to her skin like a second layer, thick and relentless.

Even inside the concrete shell of the base, with the wheezing air-condition fighting a losing battle and the floor sweating humidity, it was too much. Grace tugged her hair up in to a knot at the top of her head, trying not to think about how many day's they'd been grounded, stuck waiting for the next mission lead.

Nothing worse than waiting. And Grace hated waiting.

Soap strolled into the rec room, shirt still damp from a cold rinse, towel slung casually over his shoulder. "You're pacing, Grace."

Grace stopped mid-step, hands on her hips. "Am not."

"Are too."

"Prove it" she shot.

He didn't say a word, just pointed down at the floor.

Small, damp footprints, back and forth. Over and over. The humidity on the floor betrayed her.

Grace scowled, "Snitch."

Gaz glanced up from his laptop from the couch, a smirk on his face. "You always this twitchy when we're not blowing things up?"

Grace didn't bother looking his way when she answered. "I like motion."

"You mean chaos."

"Same difference."

Gaz laughed, "Remind me to never let you touch the mission planner."

Grace flopped into the chair opposite of him, legs kicked up. She sipped a bottle of cold water like it was whiskey. Ghost was at the far end of the room again, arm's folded absorbed in whatever Ghost-y things he did on his tablet. He hadn't said a word all day, no one really expected him too. It was par for the course.

But Grace felt him like always. That quiet burn beneath her skin. He wasn't watching her exactly. But his awareness wrapped around her like a wire fence - present, controlled, tense. She was used to being looked at, being sized up. But Ghost listened. With his whole damn body, like he was waiting for her to slip up. Or worse, waiting for the mistake she'd already made. She bit the inside of her cheek and said nothing.

As if on cue, the door opened. 

Price stepped in, pulling of his gloves. A gust of desert wind followed him through the door, cutting through the stale heat of the rec room.

"Mission in forty-eight. Border op in Romania. Full briefing will be in a few hours, I'll let you know. Until then, sharpen your gear, not your teeth."

Soap raised a brow. "You sure about that last one?"

Price ignored him and instead gave Grace a look. She offered him a shrug and a harmless smile back. But that look - it sparked a memory. Pulled her back to the first time she'd met Price. Before she was 141. Before anything was decided.

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

FLASHBACK - Paris, Six Months Ago - POV GRACE

The tea was cold by the time she touched it.

Price hadn't spoken yet. He just watched her across the small table in that way people like him did - weight in the silence, judgement in the heavy pause. Her file sat between them. Thick, dark labeled. Half of it probably would be redacted if she ever touched a military op.

Grace stared down at her hands, unusually still. "I assume you read it," she gestured to the file.

Price nodded, "I have." Simple. 

"...And?"

"I want to hear it from you."

Her chest tightened, something between resentment and fear, but she pushed it down. She had agreed to do this. To meet with him. To be looked at this way. 

So she started, raw and honest.

"I was taken in at twelve years old. Orphaned. My mom was American, dad was Moroccan. I had family in both countries, but I guess no one wanted the kid of a political activist who got in a car too drunk to drive, killing himself and his wife in an accident. I was a mouthy brat. Fast hands. Ended up in France. Marseille, to be exact. Got into some street-level shit. Juvenile crime. That's where they found me."

"They?" Price asked, like he didn't read the answer in her file just before.

She smiled bitterly. "La Guilde. That's what they called themselves. Black market intelligence ring with a taste for theatrics. Old money meets new war. They trained me, raised me. Fed me stories about family, loyalty. Taught me the art of killing - knives, guns, toxins, faces, extraction. I bought into all of it. I was my handler's chosen protege, that's what she'd call me. She molded me into what she thought would be a perfect assassin."

She paused then, taking a sip of the cold tea.

Tasted like ash.

"I met a man there, Elias." She continued, "He was like me, just born into it instead. We... we ended up falling in love. Not the stupid teenage shit. It worked well for a year or two, until it didn't. He saw through it - the guild - way sooner than I did. He told me things I didn't want to her, things I wasn't ready to hear. He told me about who we really worked for, what we were really protecting for La Guilde. It wasn't just the hit contracts we did from horrible people with too much money. It was child trafficking, arms deals, all the horrible shit you can think of, they were doing behind the scenes, only higher ups were involved. That was what we enabled."

"What happened after he told you that?" Price asked gently.

Grace's eyes flicked up to his, raw and glassy.

"They told me he was a mole. That he betrayed us. Told me what he was saying was a lie - showed me supposed proof to make me believe that he betrayed us. They told me that I was the one who needed to...handle it." Her voice cracked, "And so I did."

The pause after that cracked open like a ribcage.

"I killed him, Captain."

Price said nothing, but his jaw clenched.

She kept going, "And then... I found out he wasn't a mole. He was... just an inconvenience. A fucked up loyalty test."

Grace let the weight settle. Then, quieter, "I tried to run. But they weren't about to let their 'chosen protege' go. They invested too much time and effort into me. They hunted me. So I hunted back. I spent years trying to make them bleed. I ended up taking freelance assassin work - not because I wanted to. But it was all I knew, it was all I grew up around. I became what they groomed me to be. Just not for them anymore."

"Until the CIA found you" Price added on.

"Until I let them find me. I've been on the run for years now, trained to blend in, how to disguise myself. How to go off the radar. I don't think it was an accident I got your government friends find me."

He nodded once, not in approval, just... understanding. "So, why say yes to meeting me about 141? About working with a team after all this time by yourself?"

She blinked.

He went on, "Laswell offered you protection for intel on your old guild. Resources. You could've stayed hidden, you said so yourself. Why agree to 141?

Her answer was simple, no hesitation. "Because, Captain Price, I'm so tired of doing this alone."

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

BACK TO PRESENT - 141 REC ROOM - GRACE POV

The memory faded as she cleaned her blade. Same rhythm, same focus. It was like muscle memory was the only thing that kept her grounded when her mind drifted. From the corner of the room, Ghost's gravelly, Manchurian voice finally cut through. "Your form's off."

Always with the damn criticism.

Grace blinked, looking up. He was standing closer than usual, his eyes on the blade in her hands. "Excuse me?"

"You're polishing the edge, not the tip." 

She frowned, looking down. Damn him - he was right. She adjusted her grip with an over dramatic sigh. "You always this helpful?"

"You always this distracted?" Ghost countered.

The question hit harder than she expected. She said nothing. Just turned back to her blade. 

He didn't move, didn't leave either. 

A few moments passed. 

When she looked up again, he as still watching her. Quiet, calculating. Something unreadable in his eyes. 

But she saw it anyway. He wanted to ask - about her past. About why she looked like something was still bleeding inside of her. 

But he didn't. Ghost never asked, not out loud.

But Grace knew.

She knew they were both still bleeding from wounds they didn't talk about. 

[pixiespitzz]

random request but roach and ghost munching on fries together

fries n burmgers

[pixiespitzz]

SHADOWS WE KEEP (PT. II)

mdni, 18+, simon "ghost" riley/reader PART I here PART III here ao3

the real beginning. Grace has already been with 141 a couple months. Trust is building. Routines are setting. But Ghost? Still circling. Still watching. Still remembering.

Eastern Slovakia — Perimeter Compound - GRACE "VEX" DUMAS POV

The compound was quiet. 

Too quiet.

Grace crouched behind the husk of a rusted out truck, cold seeping through her knees, sweat prickling the back of her shoulder blades. The knife in her hand was slick in her glove, black pain flaking on the hilt. She shifted her grip, just breathing, listening.

Two sets of boots. Heavy. Mercenaries, not guards. Confident. Cocky. Predictable.

Mistake.

She waited for one heartbeat, it felt too long.

Then she moved. Sliding from her cover, slicing the first man's throat before his rifle even cleared his chest. He choked, crumpled to the ground. The second spun fast, faster than most, but not fast enough. Her knee slammed into his gut; her knife punched between his ribs. A wet gasp, froth rising red with blood on his lips. He hit the ground, crawling at nothing while his lungs collapsed.

She stayed there until his last breath left him. She wiped the blade clean on his shirt, straightened and tapped her comm. "Clear."

"Copy that," Captain Price's voice came through, calm as a church bell. "Vex, regroup at the entry point. Ghost's clearing the west corridor."

She clicked her comm twice for acknowledgement. She stepped over the bodies without looking back.

Blood. Bone.

Nothing she hadn't seen before.

Nothing she hadn't done before.

Still, it stuck to the skin a little longer each time,

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

MISSION SAFEHOUSE - LATER - GRACE "VEX" DUMAS POV

The safehouse was quiet in the way only a team of killers could make it. Settled, exhausted, but still keyed-up enough to put a bullet through the door if the hinges groaned wrong.

Soap broke the silence first, throwing himself onto the battered sofa like it owed him rent. "Remind me never to bet against you in close quarters again, Vex."

Grace peeled her tac vest off with a grunt. "Was that even a bet? I saw your face when I volunteered to do that hallway run."

"I was supporting you with strategic pessimism."

She snorted at that, catching Gaz's grin from the kitchenette. 

Ghost sat in the far corner by the window, mask still on, arms crossed. Watching. He was always watching. He didn't speak, didn't need to.

She knew he'd seen her work - had her in his sights through his rifle scope the moment she drove her blade home on the last merc. What she didn't know was whether he approved, or thought she'd been reckless. She cracked open an energy drink that tasted like sugar and battery acid and took a swig.

"You're quiet tonight." Gaz said, perched on the edge of the table.

"Bit of a migraine, long day. All that murder." Soap arched a brow. "You get migraines?"

"You don't?"

"I figured your blood was just liquid audacity made out of caffeine and attitude"

She smirked. "That a compliment, MacTavish?"

He laughed, "...We'll call it an observation."

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

TWO HOURS LATER

The moonlight spilled through cracked blinds of the safehouse, cutting the tile floor into sharp slats of silver moonlight. Grace lingered by the window, letting the quiet settle into her bones. She didn't hear Ghost until he was right behind her, two steps away, silent as a shadow.

"Nice of you to speak to me," She said without turning, dry as sandpaper.

"I speak when it matters."

She huffed. "Mm. So never, then."

He was silent for a moment.

Then, "You took a risk in that hallway."

"Calculated, Ghost."

"You were alone."

"So were they" Grace countered.

Another pause. She felt the heat of his stare at the back of her shoulder.

"You enjoy it?" HIs tone was unreadable, but there was weight under it- like a test.

She turned slightly, just enough for her profile to catch the moonlight, her lips twitching into something what wasn't quite a smile. "Do you?"

He didn't answer that. 

Instead he said quietly, "You're good. Too good."

She caught that one. "You say that like it's a threat."

"I say that because it is."

That made her turn fully, leaning back against the window frame. Her arms crossed against her chest, hazel eyes catching his dark gaze.

"You afraid of me, Lieutenant?"

"No."

"Then what is it? I've been here a few months now. You barely look at me, acknowledge me. Never. You never talk unless you're lecturing me."

"I'm not here to make friends." His response was cold, clipped.

"I am not asking you to." Her voice was steady. Too steady.

That needled Ghost. Interest, irritation, and something unnamed tightening in his chest. He stepped forward once, not close enough to touch, but close enough for the air between them to change. Snap-tight, like a tripwire.

She didn't move.

"Go to bed, Vex."

"I'm not tired."

"Then close your eyes and fake it."

Her brow rose slow. "That an order?"

A beat passed then he turned away, walking out the room.

No answer.

FLASH BACK - THREE MONTHS AGO - LT SIMON "GHOST" RILEY POV

She moved like she belonged here. That was the first problem.

Most operators - especially the kind dragged out of classified files stamped with assassin, expendable, watch closely - walked into the 141 with with their backs tight and their mouths tighter. They didn't banter with Soap. Didn't argue with Laswell. Didn't lean across the ops table like they were settling into a booth at a bar.

But Grace Dumas, or Vex, which was apparently her name of whatever classified hell Price pulled her out of, she walked in like a fuse already lit. Like she knew exactly how close the room was to blowing, and didn't give a single fuck.

Ghost clocked her immediately. Didn't like it. Didn't like her. Didn't say anything. Not at first.

Their first op with her was a mess from the start, not any fault of their own. 

Intel came in late. Target shifted. Backup missed their signal. Just a shitshow, really.

But Grace?

She adapted too fast. She didn't wait for a new plan. She didn't check with the chain of command, that move in particular really irritated Ghost. She just moved.

Ghost was on overwatch, sniper sight lined on the entry, when she slid into the shadows. Silent. Fluid. A ghost without the mask. One sentry dropped without a sound. A flick of her wrist. The faint gleam of a silver blade stained red in the moonlight. 

No hesitation. No noise.

That wasn't training, not military. That was muscle memory born in darker places. 

She was out before Soap had even breached the opposite wall. Their target was alive. Barely.

At exfil, Soap clapped her on the back, grinning like she'd just won them a medal. Gaz gave a nod. Price grunted approval. Ghost just watched. Watched his team warm up to her. Felt it turn his stomach.

Back at the safehouse that same night, the start of Ghost's own routine of criticizing her began.

She was halfway out of her gear when he found her that night. Gloves off, jacket loose. A thin scratch cut across her collarbone, blood dried and flaky at the edge of her tanktop.

"Something you need, Lieutenant?" 

"You didn't wait for the call." His voice was flat, edged. 

"Didn't need to." She ran a cloth along her blade, cleaning it steady and slow.

He scoffed. "That is not how we operate."

Now she looked at him, stared at him as she said, "The mission was bleeding through the seams, Lieutenant" she snarked, "We were going to lose the target."

"You made a call without orders."

"I made the right call."

There it was again, certainty with an edge of defiance. He stepped closer, boots loud on the concrete floor. "You're new, Vex."

She looked at him like he was stupid, eyebrow raised. "I've noticed."

"You don't get to break formation because it feels right."

She smiled - sharp enough to cut, venomous. "And yet, here we are."

They both stared at each other, unblinking.

"I don't trust you." He said simply.

"You're not supposed to. Not yet."

"Then why are you acting like 141 is your team?" His gravelly voice had bite to it now, annoyance and irritation bubbling at the seams.

"Because, Ghost. I'm already bleeding for it."

That shut him up. He backed off, storming out of the room to his quarters, leaving her there.

 Later, he sat by the window, Smoke curling from a cigarette between his gloved fingers. A shadow passed down the hallway. Grace's shadow. Light steps, humming something faintly - in French maybe?

He wondered, and not for the first time, what the hell it was Price saw in her.

END FLASHBACK

https://archiveofourown.org/works/68908571/chapters/178513306

[pixiespitzz]

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[pixiespitzz]

the baby is a mess.

a glorious, strawberry-stained, unapologetically chaotic mess.

chubby fists full of crushed fruit, cheeks stained red like a tiny dionysus on a sugar high. the kid is perched in the front of a shopping trolley, squealing with unfiltered joy as she squishes another berry against her lips and then—perhaps in a fit of generosity—smears it into her father's shirt. you coo.

coo, like something soft and maternal has cracked open inside you, and simon watches it happen in real time—watches you light up like you’ve just witnessed the first sunrise in human history. “oh my god,” you whisper, slowing your pace beside him. “look at her. look at her face.”

simon is already looking.

he can’t not look.

that baby is a walking portrait of everything he doesn’t have and everything he’s been trying not to want.

the pink sneakers with velcro straps. the milk-drunk eyes. the chubby elbow rolls. the cartoon rabbit on her bib, now stained a bloody red from berry carnage. she's a masterpiece of mess and joy, and simon’s knees suddenly feel like they've gone soft.

he’s staring. hard.

“si,” you tease, nudging him. “don’t gawk.”

“'m not gawkin',” he lies, mouth dry. “just… watchin’. 'lil gremlin’s got a good arm.”

as if to prove point, the baby flings half a strawberry across the market lane with frightening accuracy. it lands near the produce stall. she shrieks with delight.

you laugh. and something in simon cracks.

he can see it, clear as anything: your laugh at the kitchen table, a baby in your lap, sticky fingers tugging at your shirt, the sound of little feet slapping down the hall in the morning.

simon's not just looking at a baby.

he’s looking at a blueprint for the life he’s never let himself build.

and suddenly, he wants it so badly he could scream. “bloody hell,” he mutters, turning away like the sight physically pains him. “she’s killin’ me.”

you tilt your head. “what’s that, soldier?”

he looks at you with the wide, haunted eyes of a man on the edge. “i want one.”

you blink. “a strawberry?”

“no,” he rasps. “a baby.”

[pixiespitzz]

I like to think that, unless you truly insisted on having one, Simon wouldn’t be the type of guy to buy you a wedding ring

Not because he doesn’t think you deserve one, and not because he doesn’t want to spend the rest of your lives together

But he remembers how his dad always held the premise of “the ring” above his mums head

How on the rare days when she’d argue back at her husband, he’d grab her wrist, waving her hand about while pointing at the ring he’d given her once upon a lifetime ago, shouting about how it meant she belonged to him, had no right talking back to him, how it meant she had to do as he said or else

So while some little girls might dream of one day having a sparkling diamond slipped onto their finger, the idea of doing the same with you never quite sat exactly right with Simon

Instead, he considers the dog tags hanging around your neck, the same ones he slipped over your head the first night you kissed him, the ones with his name inscribed onto the metal to forever hang against your chest, warmed by your heart and your love, to be more than enough

Just as you make him feel like he’s more than enough

[pixiespitzz]

Johnny Mactavish never changed your name as his next of kin. You might still be married, but you haven’t been together for a few years now.

Everything changes though as you get the call, the bullet to his head and you’re the first person they contact. Mrs Mactavish, it’s strange to hear that. Johnny’s been dragging his heels about signing the divorce papers, blaming it on his work.

You promised him in sickness and health, so you sit beside his bed as he’s laying in the hospital and you sign the necessary paperwork for his operations. Stick around to help him settle back into his flat, not the shared place you sold. You tell him a flat is more better suited for his recovery. There’s little splinters of you scattered around his home. Wedding photo still framed on his bedside table and his wedding ring strung around his neck, with his gold chain and cross. Your rosemary beads dangling from the bedpost, where he lays his head. He still sleeps on the left side, the empty space to his right waiting for you. He’s sick of waking up to the absence of you, it’s haunts him each night.

Months pass and he’s still convinced you’re both happily married. He asks you where your rings are, you can’t bring yourself to wear them again. They’re still by the sink in the bathroom, small wooden box that Johnny made for you when you first moved in with him. You see the way his sapphire eyes linger on your hand, his fingers brushing over yours as he wonders why there’s no indent of the weight of gold circling them.

Little do you know that’s he holding on to you. Never lost his memories of you leaving him or the final divorce papers stowed away in the Captains office. This is his do over, his chance to make up for the times he wasn’t there. You were happy once and he can make you happy again. He just needs a chance.

The bullet might have been divine intervention, a road back to you. A blessing in disguise as you hold his hand and help him regain his sense of self. Show him that life’s worth living again. The only way he’s going back to the military is if you leave him a second time.

Johnny’ll do anything to get you to stay. Even if that means forgetting a fraction of time. Glossing over the ache of his chest when he returned to a half bare home and a goodbye letter.

No more goodbyes, he’ll make sure of it.

[pixiespitzz]

simon riley talking to your unborn baby thinking you’re asleep.

it’s close to one in the morning when the front door shuts.

you’re already in bed, lights off, curled on your side with the blanket pulled up to your shoulders. the house is quiet except for the low creak of floorboards under his weight—those slow, careful steps he only makes when he’s trying not to wake you.

he doesn’t turn on the light. you hear the muted clink of his watch landing on the nightstand, the low scrape of fabric as he pulls his shirt over his head. his breathing is even, but there’s something in it—a heaviness, like the day’s still clinging to his ribs.

the mattress dips when he sits down beside you. for a moment, you think he’s just going to leave it at that: a soft kiss to your temple, his fingertips brushing a stray piece of hair from your face.

but then he shifts. slides down slowly, easing himself flat on his stomach beside you until his face is level with your small bump.

his hand comes first—warm, steady—resting just above your navel. his thumb traces lazy, almost unconscious arcs against the thin cotton of your sleep shirt.

he breathes in. holds it.

“hey, little one,” he murmurs, voice low, almost shy. “it’s your dad.”

the words feel heavier than they should, like he’s not used to hearing himself say them.

“i don’t know if you can hear me yet. or if you’ll even care, later. but… i figure i should start somewhere.” his head tips forward slightly, forehead brushing your stomach. “i’m not good at this. talking. and i wasn’t supposed to be a dad. me and your mum… we didn’t think it was for us.”

his palm spreads wider, protective, almost possessive.

“then she told me about you, and—” he breaks off with a short exhale. “—and suddenly it’s all i can think about. you. her. what it’s gonna take to keep you both safe.”

his voice hardens for a moment, just enough to hear the soldier in him. “there’s a lot out there i don’t want anywhere near you. things i’ve done, things i’ve seen. they stay with me, but they won’t touch you. not while i’ve got breath in me.”

he pauses, long enough for the quiet to fill in.

“truth is, i’m scared.” the admission is almost a whisper. “scared i won’t be enough. scared i’ll go out there one day and… not come back.”

his breathing stutters—just slightly—and you feel the first warm drop of a tear sink through the fabric into your skin. then another.

“but i’ll try,” he says, voice breaking soft. “every time. i’ll come home. i’ll be here.”

he leans in, pressing his lips to the curve of your stomach. it’s not just a kiss—it lingers, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it.

“love you,” he whispers. “both of you.”

when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. he pushes himself up the bed again, curling in behind you, one arm sliding snugly around your waist. his hand comes to rest over your stomach, warm and grounding.

you keep your breathing even, eyes closed, letting him believe you’re still asleep.

but your chest aches with the knowledge that you’ve just heard a side of him the rest of the world will never touch.

[pixiespitzz]

mdni - 18+ only - simon “ghost” riley/reader part ii here ao3

SHADOWS WE KEEP (PART I)

It was the way she walked in like she’d always been there.

Confident, not cocky.

Eyes too sharp, smile too calm. Like she knew something everyone else didn’t.

She didn’t salute when she met him.

Didn’t flinch when she clocked the skull mask.

Didn’t act like she had something to prove—but did, anyway, every time she moved, spoke, fought, breathed.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

At first, Ghost had her filed away as a risk. Too unpredictable. Too young. Too untethered. Laswell vouched for her, Price nodded along, and Ghost stayed silent. He trusted them, but trust didn’t make him blind. There was something off about her.

Not bad.

Just... volatile.

Contained in that too-small body with too-pretty features and too-quick tongue.

When she moved, it was with assassin’s grace. The real kind. Not trained. Bred. Fluid, decisive, surgical. Not the kind of precision you got from military schooling or even black ops experience—no, hers came from something older. Deeper. Ghost had seen killers in every shade and flag, but Grace was something else. There was a hum in the air when she got serious. Like a switch flipped and all the warmth evaporated.

And she was warm. That was the other thing.

Off the field, she was sunshine in a landmine field. Quick to laugh. Quicker to clap back. Had a mouth on her that would’ve gotten anyone else knocked down a rank or sent packing.

But somehow... not her.

Price tolerated it. Soap encouraged it. Gaz liked her. The rest of the task force already had inside jokes with her by week two.

And Ghost?

Ghost avoided her.

Not that she noticed. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. Either way, he stayed out of her orbit. Watched from the edges. Watched too long, sometimes.

She carried blades like they were extensions of her fingers.

Handled tight hallways like water slipping through cracks.

Got in, got out, minimal damage—unless she wanted otherwise. That’s what unnerved him.

She could be clean.

But sometimes she chose messy. Bloody. Personal.

That was what told him she wasn’t just efficient.

She was dangerous.

And Ghost? Ghost didn’t mind dangerous. He was dangerous. But she was the kind that asked questions. Pushed buttons. Called him on shit no one else dared to. One time, he’d muttered something about her being sloppy with an extraction, and she’d looked at him with those fox-sharp eyes and said:

“Sloppy? I watched you take out two tangos in a stairwell by throwing one at the other. Please.”

And he had nothing to say to that.

Except that she was right.

There were times she got under his skin, and he hated it. Because he couldn’t pinpoint the how. He’d slept with women before, fucked through grief and silence and long deployments. Detached, simple. But Grace? She wasn’t quiet. Wasn’t careful. And wasn’t the type to go away quietly afterward.

She was chaos—grinning and scarred and barefoot in the safehouse kitchen at 2AM, pouring vodka into cereal.

He should’ve ignored her. Written her off.

Instead, he noticed things.

Like how she never looked away from a corpse—not even one she made herself.

Or how she stared too long at windows she wasn’t standing near.

Or the way her hands sometimes shook just after a mission, but only when she thought no one saw.

And maybe that’s what fucked with him the most.

Because Ghost didn’t believe in empathy.

Didn’t believe in soft.

But there was something in her cracks. Something real. Something she never tried to hide.

And he hated that it made him wonder.

Hated that she was the only one on the team who didn’t try to get closer to him.

Didn’t treat him like a mystery or a challenge or a monster.

She just treated him like a person.

A quiet, strange one.

And that? That might’ve been the most dangerous part of all.

So, he did what he always did with danger:

Locked it down. Shut it out. Stayed on mission.

Didn’t stop his eyes from drifting to where she stood, though.

Didn’t stop the way his pulse kicked up when her laugh echoed down the corridor.

Didn’t stop anything.

But maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t realized yet…

It had already started.

[pixiespitzz]

CAPTAIN !! WAKE UP YOUR LIEUTENANT IS COMPROMISED !!

The promised continuation of my last post 🥳