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plvt0-booked · 1 day ago

Text

THIS

AND THIS SONG

FOR WHEN THAT DAY COMES.

THE DAY HE WILL BE DIFFERENT.

THE DAY HE ASKS THE RIDDLE.

I WILL LEGIT SING THIS WHOLE DAMN MUSICAL.

(I have fallen in love with this series, I've been checking daily for an update. )

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 27

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Shadow Milk Cookie still held your hand under the table, his fingers a calm, steady presence against your palm as conversation shifted toward the end of semester ceremony.

The buzz of it filled every corridor of the Academy. Students whispering about formalities and changes, about what would become of the Spire now that it had accepted its first cohort. And about him, of course.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him with something bordering on suspicion. “So… the ceremony,” you began, your tone casual perhaps too casual. “Are the rumors true?”

Shadow Milk Cookie turned his head ever so slightly, golden eyes meeting yours with the faintest glint of amusement. “Which rumors are we entertaining now?”

You raised a brow. “The ones about you getting a new outfit. Some kind of ceremonial uniform for your new title.”

There was a moment of pause. Then, smoothly, “Yes. I’ve been informed that I will be receiving ‘adjusted ceremonial robes’ to signify my new role as the Fount of Knowledge.”

Chai Latte Cookie perked up immediately. “Adjusted? Does that mean no more” she made a vague gesture toward her own head, “hat?”

You glanced sideways at him again, mischief flickering in your eyes. “Please tell me you’re not wearing that hat again.”

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a faint exhale close to a sigh, closer still to a laugh. “There will be no hat,” he said dryly. “It has been… retired.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted into his cup. “A moment of silence for the tragic end of academia’s strangest fashion choice.”

Chai Latte giggled. “Oh, thank the stars.” You tapped your fingers against your knee, trying not to grin too openly. “So what’s replacing it? A golden scroll? A floating quill? A philosophical aura of superiority?”

He lifted a brow, perfectly composed. “A crown.”

That made you blink. “A crown?”

“A modest one,” he clarified. “After… negotiation.” Earl Grey Cookie looked vaguely impressed. “You negotiated the dimensions of a crown?”

Shadow Milk inclined his head. “They were insistent on something ostentatious. I insisted on functionality.”

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned in, grinning. “Admit it, you just didn’t want someone making fun of it.” A pause.

Shadow Milk’s gaze slid toward you for half a heartbeat, then back to his cup. “Perhaps I was… persuaded.”

You choked slightly on your drink. Chai Latte gasped, scandalized. “Wait, regardless of the new outfit you got him to give up the giant ornate hat, negotiating for a smaller crown?!”

“I didn’t mean to!” you sputtered. “I mean regarding the hat I just said it looked like something an alchemist would wear to hide their shame!”

Earl Grey looked over the rim of his cup, serene. “That sounds very much like something you’d say.”

“I didn’t think he’d listen!” But he had. You realized that now he had listened. Not just to the teasing jabs or the complaints about the hat, but to you.

Always, in quiet ways you hadn’t realized until now. You looked at him again, and for a split second, your thoughts veered wondering not just what the crown would look like, but if he actually had more than one set of his usual clothes.

If there was some enchanted closet filled with identical outfits or if… he really wore the same one every day. You didn’t ask. It felt too personal. Besides, some mysteries were better left unsolved.

Instead, you leaned back and smiled faintly, resting your chin on your hand. “Well. I hope you know, whatever they dress you in, I’m still going to recognize you the same.”

He glanced at you, and though his expression didn’t shift much, there was something softer behind his eyes. “Good,” he said simply. “Because I have no intention of changing.” And beneath the table, his fingers gave yours a gentle squeeze an unspoken truth, shared just between you.

You squeezed his hand slightly, teasing, voice low and laced with mischief. “But what if one day you do change?” you asked, letting the question hang. “How would I recognize you then?”

His cup touched the saucer with a soft, decisive clink. Across the table, Chai Latte Cookie glanced up, sensing the shift in tone.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, midway through stealing another pastry, froze. Earl Grey Cookie didn’t move, but you caught the way he watched the two of you with subtle curiosity always reading the air.

Shadow Milk tilted his head just a little, enough for a strand of starlit hair to fall across his cheek. His gaze met yours directly, something slow and deep flickering in his eyes like the calm before a tide changed. “If I were to change,” he said quietly, “I imagine you’d still find me.”

You blinked. “Even if the outfit vanished,” he continued, “if the titles faded, and the stars refused to answer me… I suspect you’d know.” You stared, not quite breathing. “And if not by sight,” he added, more gently now, “then by the way I still look for you first when the room gets loud. By the way I never quite know peace until I hear you laugh.”

Your lips parted, unsure whether to grin or cry or melt into the stone floor altogether. Somewhere to your left, Chai Latte made a sound like a choked squeal and buried her face in her hands.

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned across the table, whispering to Earl Grey Cookie, “This is so unfair. My standards are ruined. Forever.”

Earl Grey merely sipped his tea and murmured, “It’s about time they spoke plainly.” You meanwhile were busy short-circuiting.

“I was joking,” you finally managed to say, voice breathy and not at all convincing.

“I know,” Shadow Milk said softly, his smile almost secretive. “But I wasn’t.”

You turned slightly in your seat, knees angled toward him, elbow propped lazily on the table though your expression was anything but casual. You were close shoulders nearly touching. The soft hum of conversation in the dining hall had dulled into white noise around you, your focus narrowed entirely to the way Shadow Milk Cookie’s hand curled around his teacup and the thoughtful set of his mouth.

“But really,” you murmured, nudging his arm gently with yours. “What if everything changes? What if one day I see someone who looks nothing like you? No title, no theatrical riddles…”

His brow arched faintly at that. “…How would I know?” you pressed, voice softer now.

“Just give me one sure way. Something only you would do. So that no matter what, I’d recognize you.” He didn’t answer right away. The request landed with more weight than you’d anticipated.

You watched it settle into him and watched his eyes drift slightly downward, not in avoidance but in concentration. He didn’t rush.

Shadow Milk Cookie never rushed when it came to truths. His fingers stilled against his teacup, and the furrow in his brow deepened just a fraction. Then, after a long moment, he exhaled.

“If I were to vanish into another face,” he began slowly, voice like velvet pressed into thought, “into another name, another shape, if memory, time, or circumstance ever pulled me too far from you…” You held your breath. “…I would leave behind a question.”

You blinked. “A… question?” He nodded. “A single riddle. One no scholar would ever know but you. One that wouldn’t feel like a riddle at all, just a familiar curiosity only you would find comforting.”

You stared at him, mouth parting slightly. “Something like…” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with private knowing.

“If a star forgets the sky it once called home… where would it go looking for itself again?” You went still.

“That’s how you’d know,” he said softly. “If someone ever asked you that anywhere, in any form you’d know it was me.”

Your heart ached. Not in pain just in that strange, full way that came with being seen so clearly it almost hurt. You swallowed hard. “…That’s really unfair, you know.” He turned to face you more fully, the distance between you vanishing in an instant, his gaze locked on yours.

“How so?”

“Because now I have to remember that forever,” you said, laughing weakly, trying to keep your voice steady. “And what if I mess it up? What if I forget, or-”

“You won’t,” he said. There was no hesitation. And you believed him. Even if everything else one day changed, even if time unraveled the shape of what you were now, you’d remember that. You’d know.

Chai Latte Cookie had been pretending not to be so invested…emphasis on pretending. From across the table, where she’d been casually sipping her tea and quietly rearranging everyone’s leftover fruit slices into smiley faces, her entire demeanor changed the moment she caught wind of that line.

Her cup clattered softly onto its saucer. “Oh my gods,” she breathed.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who’d been about to steal one of her grape eyes, paused mid-reach. “What now?”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she clutched the front of his sleeve like the world had just tilted sideways. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, eyes shining with equal parts amazement and disbelief. “Did you hear what he just said?”

“I mean, I was sort of paying attention, yeah?”

“That wasn’t just poetic,” Chai continued breathlessly, practically trembling as she leaned into Hazelnut Biscotti’s side. “That was transcendent. That was celestial. That was star-level devotion!”

Hazelnut Biscotti winced as she grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “He said he’d leave a riddle just for them! A soul-coded password across realms and forms! Who even does that?!”

“Apparently he does,” Earl Grey Cookie murmured from the side, sipping his tea without comment, though even his usually stoic expression had cracked into something vaguely impressed.

Chai Latte looked at you, eyes practically misting over. “You absolute fool,” she wailed, affectionately dramatic. “How could you not see it before? How could you look at a man who speaks in cosmological riddles meant only for you and not realize he’s already carved your name into the stars?”

“Okay,” you mumbled, cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t that-”

“No,” she interrupted, pointing a grape at you as if delivering divine judgment. “No downplaying. Don’t you dare. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life, and I once saw two ghost-cursed lovers reunite at the gates of the Nightmare Archive.”

You blinked. “That was… weirdly specific.”

“I cried for days.” You laughed despite yourself, watching as Chai Latte curled dramatically into Hazelnut Biscotti’s side again, who despite pretending to be unfazed gently patted her shoulder with a snack still in hand.

“I mean,” she sniffed, voice still muffled, “it doesn’t even matter if he changes. Because let’s be honest…” She deadpanned “Do you really think he’s capable of not being the most ridiculously devoted version of himself? He’d probably still wear the same outfit and talk like a sentient prophecy even if he turned into a bird.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d be an annoying bird,” Hazelnut Biscotti added with a smirk. “One that judges you from a bookshelf.”

Chai wiped her eyes dramatically. “Exactly. So don’t worry, stargazer.” She beamed at you through slightly glassy eyes and emphasizing the nickname that was most given just to mess with you. “He’s already chosen you.”

You opened your mouth to argue. And then closed it again. Because… she was right. Maybe you had known all along. You just hadn’t dared to believe it. Not until recently.

You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, heart fluttering with a softness that pulsed beneath your ribs like a slow, steady spell. His gaze met yours quiet, watchful, and filled with that ever-present patience that had come to feel like home.

You could still feel the phantom weight of his words from moments ago how he’d given you a way to find him, even in other forms, other lifetimes. As if the universe itself couldn’t hide him from you.

And you smiled. “I’m glad you chose me,” you said softly, sincerity threading every syllable. His expression barely shifted but the warmth behind his eyes, the subtle lift of his brow, the faintest flicker of something like relief that passed through him it said everything.

“Oh my god!” Chai Latte Cookie screeched, grabbing Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie by the shoulders as though she were about to ascend. “Did you hear that?! Did you hear it?! They just said they said they were glad he chose them! That’s- that’s-!”

“Romance incarnate?” Hazelnut Biscotti offered, only mildly amused as he let her shake him like a leaf in the wind.

“YES,” she wailed. “This is why I never stopped teasing you!” she cried, directing the full force of her dramatics at you now. “Because I knew! I KNEW this was real and tragic and beautiful and messy and I lived for it!”

You groaned, half-laughing, hiding your face in your hands again. “Chai”

“No, no, let me feel this!” she said, one hand over her heart, the other dramatically fanning her face. “You don’t understand. Every time I teased you, I was planting seeds of destiny. I nurtured your love with the power of mischief! You should be thanking me!”

“You’re being so normal right now,” Earl Grey Cookie deadpanned.

“Let her have this,” Hazelnut Biscotti muttered, still being clung to. Chai, utterly unbothered, turned to Shadow Milk Cookie with red-carpet-level flair. “And you, my celestial scholar, if you ever hurt them, I will cry in public and make it your problem.”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t blink. “Then I suppose I shall endeavor to prevent such suffering… for your sake.”

“Oh stars, he’s just as bad!” Chai wailed again, leaning so far into Hazelnut Biscotti you weren’t sure she’d recover. But you didn’t stop smiling.

Not as your friends collapsed back into familiar chatter, not as the magic of the moment settled between you and Shadow Milk Cookie like a quiet truth.

You hadn’t always known where this path would lead but standing here now, surrounded by the chaos of your friends and the steadiness of the one who chose you…You were starting to believe you didn’t need a name for it. Just this. Just now. Just him.

Chai Latte Cookie sighed dreamily, still leaning dramatically into Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie’s side, her expression flushed with the weight of imagined poetry. “As much as I desperately want to stay here and soak in this whirlwind of academic romance…”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie gave her a look. “You mean meddle.”

“Same difference,” she chirped, waving him off. “The point is we should probably give you two some space.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Chai gave you a look so knowing it bordered on scandalous. “Come on. Don’t act surprised. You think we didn’t notice the way you were looking at him just now? That little ‘I’m glad you chose me’ moment? My soul left my body.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie stood with a groan, brushing imaginary crumbs off his sleeves. “She’s not gonna shut up about this until graduation, is she?”

“Absolutely not,” Chai Latte Cookie said cheerfully, already taking his arm as she pulled herself up. You turned to Earl Grey Cookie, the last still seated.

He hesitated, fingers still curled lightly around his teacup. His eyes flicked between you and Shadow Milk Cookie, unreadable for a second. Then he exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, and gave a small nod. “If you need anything… send word. To me or Hazelnut Biscotti. We’ll come.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who had taken one step away, paused and shot Earl Grey Cookie a half-glare, half-wince.

He leaned in slightly, muttering low enough that only Earl could hear, “Stop being so overprotective, you're going to ignite a fire that’s already being put out.” Earl raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his gaze lingering just long enough to show he understood.

“You two done whispering secrets?” Chai Latte Cookie sing-songed.

“We're good,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grumbled, straightening.

Earl Grey Cookie gave you one final nod. “Truly. Just send for us.” Then, like the coordinated chaos they always were, your friends peeled away, their laughter already echoing through the corridor as Chai poked and prodded Hazelnut about pastry betrayals and Earl Grey attempted to herd them with quiet dignity.

The space left behind was quieter but not empty. Just… yours. Shadow Milk Cookie turned toward you with a soft breath, one brow raised, gaze still warm.

“Alone at last,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. You leaned back slightly on the now mostly-empty bench, watching as your friends disappeared around the corner in their usual flurry of banter and bickering.

The last of their voices faded beneath the ambient murmurs of the dining hall a crowd that had most certainly not missed the way you’d sat beside the Sage of Truth like you belonged there.

“I mean…” you began, glancing sideways at him. “It wasn’t that bad. Sure, more chaotic than usual. But honestly? It was good. Really good.”

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a long sigh, one gloved hand rising to rub lightly at his temple. “Good for you, perhaps. I’m still recovering from the verbal whiplash.” You stifled a laugh.

“I had fun, however,” he added after a beat, voice softer. “If that wasn’t already clear.”

“It kind of was.”

“I am… not used to this,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the now-vacated seats, still warm with presence. “This… whirlwind of emotion. The overlapping dialogues. The unfiltered teasing. I understand you’re protective of them, and they of you, but” he paused, exhaling, “it is… exhausting.”

You looked at him carefully, searching for any sign that he regretted coming. But he wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t shutting down.

He was just being honest. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he added quickly, gaze flicking back to you. “It was… unfamiliar. But not unwelcome. To be included like that.”

You smiled, heart warm. “They did it for me. Not because you’re the Sage of Truth. Just because you’re… something to me.”

He didn’t answer right away, but the slight tilt of his head and the softening of his shoulders said more than words could. Still, his eyes lingered in the direction Earl Grey had gone. “And… is Earl Grey Cookie always that overprotective with you?”

he asked, the question so casual you could practically see the quotation marks around it.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly too quickly, returning to rubbing slow circles at his temple like he could wipe the thought away. You grinned, leaning forward with your elbow on the table.

“Were you jealous?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You watched his silence with an amused sparkle in your eye. “You were.”

“I merely observed,” he said, dignified but flat, “that his hands lingered longer than strictly necessary.”

You snorted. “It’s not a crime to find grounding in someone who’s known me since childhood,” you said, resting your chin on your palm. “Besides… you’re the one I-” You hesitated, then finished more softly, “chose to sit beside.”

He looked at you then, the tension in his brow easing into something quieter. Still, the dining hall’s buzz hadn’t quite let you go.

You could feel the stares, hear the hushes the whispers blooming like ivy along the walls. You glanced away, uneasy for the first time that day. “They’re all wondering,” you murmured.

“Let them,” Shadow Milk Cookie replied, without hesitation. “They have nothing but questions. We have… whatever this is.”

You looked at him again, and the warmth of his expression tired as he might’ve been, settled something in your chest. And for a moment, the stares didn’t matter. The whispers didn’t matter. You were simply there. With him. In the quiet left behind. You smiled. “So,” you said, nudging his elbow lightly, “how many more shared meals with my chaotic friends do you think you’ll survive?” He sighed again, but this time, there was something almost amused in it.

“…One at a time,” he muttered.

You laughed. “That’s fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie caught the slight shift in your shoulders the way your voice dipped lower, hesitant, almost too soft to hear above the quiet murmur of the dining hall.

“…Can we go somewhere else?” you asked, fingers nervously tracing the rim of your teacup. “I don’t mind staying here, I just”

You glanced around subtly, not wanting to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they’d been noticed. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking. The eyes. Even if I can pretend for a while.”

He didn’t follow your gaze. He didn’t need to. The attention was obvious. There was no hiding the way the atmosphere had shifted once your friends had left and the seat beside the Sage of Truth remained occupied by you.

No one said anything aloud, but curiosity clung to the air like fog. For a moment, he was quiet. Then, gently, so much so it almost startled you, his hand reached across the table. Not to grab. Not to hold. Just to touch, fingers brushing yours in a way that grounded more than it startled.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, voice low and steady. “Not for me. Not for anyone.” You looked down at his hand, then up into his gaze calm, unwavering, certain in a way only he could be.

“I’ve withstood years of scrutiny, endless speculation, and truths that once cracked the world open,” he murmured. “But this?”

His thumb ghosted across your knuckles. “Us? I would bear tenfold the weight if it meant you could walk beside me without fear.”

Your breath caught. The din of the dining hall faded, muffled by the intimacy of the moment. He tilted his head slightly. “But if you wish to leave… we can. Say the word.” You hesitated, heart skipping just once.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s go.” He rose in one graceful motion, offering his hand without a single glance toward the lingering onlookers. As if none of them mattered. As if you were the only one who did. And maybe, in that moment you were. You took his hand.

For the first time, in full view of the Academy’s whispers and wonderings, you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers found his, lacing with care, and still he didn’t look back. Not once.

He walked forward with that same quiet certainty he always carried, his coattails trailing behind him, the scent of parchment and old ink lingering faintly as you slipped through the arching halls together. The dining hall’s murmurs faded behind you, but the thrum in your chest didn’t ease. You walked in silence for a while, turning into the quieter wings of the Academy, where the stone corridors grew older and the air softer, hushed by centuries of scholars who had wandered them before.

Only then did you speak. “…You’re really not worried?”

His stride didn’t falter. “About what?”

You glanced away, voice low. “This. Us. The way people looked when we stood up back there. The things they’re probably saying now.”

He didn’t respond. You tried to laugh, but it came out thinner than intended. “I mean, you’re you. You have… a reputation. A place here. People admire you, they quote you, they rely on you to be above all this. You’re the Sage of Truth. And I’m just…”

You trailed off. The echo of your own words made your stomach twist. “I just… I don’t want people to think less of you because of me. I know how that sounds,” you added quickly, “and I know it’s not fair to assume, but it’s just if anyone started to think that you’re distracted or being careless, or if something happened that made it look like this meant less to you, or too much-” You were rambling now. The thoughts poured out faster than you could contain them, clumsy, unfiltered.

“I’m not saying I regret anything. I don’t. But you’ve spent your whole life being someone the entire Academy looks up to. And I don’t want to be the reason they start to look twice. Not because I think they matter, but because you do.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he stopped walking. You stopped with him, uncertain, but he didn’t let go of your hand. His expression was calm, serious, but not heavy.

“You think I’ve lived this long,” he began, “shouldering the weight of knowledge, of scrutiny, of truth itself… only to falter at the idea that someone might talk?”

His voice wasn’t sharp. Just quiet. Unshakably certain. “I have been dissected in lecture halls, debated by minds brighter than fire, misunderstood, misquoted, dismissed, and exalted in the same breath.” He lifted your hand gently, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“But I have never let others decide the value of what I hold close.” You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry.

“I don’t think you understand just how much of yourself you offer,” you murmured.

“How much you mean to people here.” He looked at you fully then, the flickering lantern light catching in the gold threads of his sleeves and the soft blue of his gaze.

“And you think that offering less of myself would make me greater?” You didn’t answer.

“Let them wonder,” he said. “Let them whisper. If their truths are so fragile they fracture at the sight of mine… they were never truths at all.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure how he could say something so simple and yet leave your entire chest feeling cracked open. And then, softer, almost like a secret between you

“I will not lose myself by choosing you.” It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t a line spoken for effect. It was just truth, spoken as he always did with unwavering conviction. You didn’t feel the need to question it.

The two of you slipped through the quiet corridors like a secret carried by dusk.

Past the celestial archways, down the scholar’s wing where the golden lanterns burned slower and quieter, where footsteps softened against the worn stone, and voices if they ever spoke knew to hush themselves. Your hand still rested in his. The gesture was steady now, your grip looser, the tension easing little by little with each step you took further from the gazes left behind in the dining hall.

By the time you reached the door, his door your nerves had circled back in full. The carved constellations on the wood shimmered faintly, like they too recognized you now. Familiar. Recurring.

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. It was his space, ancient and deliberate. The door opened for him on its own, a faint pulse of magic rippling through the frame as if it bowed to his presence.

You stepped in after him, eyes drifting across the countless tomes, artifacts, and carefully arranged scrolls that lined the walls. The room smelled like parchment and starlight if such a thing had a scent, and something warm, like aged wood left out under moonlight. He gestured wordlessly toward your usual seat across from his. But this time, you hesitated.

“…Could I maybe sit next to you?” you asked, barely louder than the rustle of pages still drifting from somewhere in the room. His head turned toward you, just slightly, gaze unreadable. You added, quickly, “Not to be a distraction, I just… I think I might follow better if I can see what you’re doing up close.”

He said nothing. So, tentatively, you grabbed your chair, fingers curling under the edge, and started to drag it around the table toward him. The legs squeaked across the floor in protest.

Then, before you could reach halfway, your chair moved on its own. It glided soundless across the polished stone and stopped gently right beside him. Close enough that you could read the script on his notes if you leaned in. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his sleeves.

You blinked, startled. “Wait did you…?”

He hummed, opening one of the tomes with the same calm he always wore. “You seemed to be struggling.”

You turned toward him, still processing. “You could do that the whole time?” His tone remained smooth, almost amused. “Of course.”

“But last time, I practically had to carry the chair around the desk.” A flicker of amusement danced at the corner of his mouth. “You never asked.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So you let me struggle with it?”

“I was curious to see how long you’d persist,” Your mouth parted in disbelief, and you lightly smacked your hand against your forehead. “Unbelievable.”

Then, more softly, and without thinking, “What else can you do?” That made him pause. Not for long just a heartbeat but long enough that you noticed it.

“You’re the Sage of Truth,” you added, half-playful but not really joking. “You’re one of the most powerful scholars in the entire Academy. If you can move chairs without even blinking, then I can’t imagine what else you’re hiding.”

He looked at you then, at last. The glow of the desk lamp caught the reflection in his mismatched eyes, one blue, the other a beautiful gold, like knowledge and the unknown woven together.

“I have spent years studying the weave of magic, the architecture of knowledge, and the shape of reality itself,” he said.

“Yes, I can bend the elements. I can fold space if I must. I can summon starlight and silence with the same breath.” He leaned forward, voice lowering just slightly, not out of secrecy but gravity.

“But the most difficult thing I have done lately…” His gaze lingered on yours, unreadable. “…is trying to explain spell theory to someone who keeps doubting their own brilliance.”

You froze. Your heart stuttered. “…That’s not fair,” you mumbled, eyes darting down toward your notes. “No,” he agreed gently. “It isn’t.”

The silence that followed was warm. Heavy, but not oppressive like a blanket you were still adjusting to. You adjusted slightly in the chair he’d so graciously placed beside his. He made no effort to shift away, to reclaim his space. If anything, he welcomed your proximity without ever needing to say it.

You stared down at the parchment in front of you smooth, unmarred by your usual frantic ink strokes. His notes were immaculate, the diagrams elegant, precise. You caught yourself tracing one with your finger, careful not to smudge it. A sigil looped into itself like an orbit, pulling your thoughts inward along with it. “Can you shapeshift?” The question tumbled out of you before you’d fully decided to ask.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s quill paused mid-line. You glanced sideways at him, only half sheepish. “You just moved a whole chair like it was nothing. And yesterday, you corrected three different things on my page before I even showed you the page. You bend light, silence, space. So… shapeshifting? That’s not a leap, right?”

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he rested the quill across the inkwell with quiet precision, then folded his hands atop the parchment. “You are aware,” he said slowly, “that shapeshifting is not merely a novelty.”

You shrugged, lips quirking. “You say that like you didn’t just telekinetically scoot a chair across the room because I was making too much noise.”

He exhaled through his nose something close to a laugh, if he allowed himself such undignified things. “It is a discipline,” he said, tilting his head ever so slightly. “One that requires precise attunement between one’s sense of self and the arcane framework of transformation.”

“…So you can.” His mouth twitched. “Yes.” You blinked. “Just like that?”

“There is no ‘just’ about it,” he replied, but there was no real admonishment in his tone. “The first time I attempted it, I lost my voice for three days and temporarily forgot the alphabet.” You covered your mouth, barely stifling your laughter. “You forgot the alphabet?”

“I remembered it later. Backwards.” You snorted, the sound echoing embarrassingly in the otherwise quiet room.

“That’s incredible. Horrifying, but incredible.” He turned to you then, that unreadable gaze softening if only a little. “I have not attempted it in some time. There is little need, and many… consequences, when it is done improperly.”

“Still,” you said, turning to face him fully, your expression openly curious now, “you’ve done it. I’ve only read about it in theory. Most scholars treat it like a myth impossible unless you're touched by some ancient force or bound by jam magic or something wild like that. But you…”

You trailed off, eyes still searching his. “You just can.” He regarded you for a long moment, then said quietly, “Much becomes possible when one stops telling themselves what is not.”

The words settled into your chest like weight and warmth at once. You looked down at the notes again, the symbols that had felt impossibly complex just days ago. They still were. You still didn’t understand half of what he’d written. But suddenly, that didn’t seem like a wall it felt like a path. One you might actually walk.

One you were already walking. “You’re not going to shapeshift now, are you?” you asked, a bit more lightly. “I would prefer not to transform into a desk lamp in front of you,” he said with perfectly straight delivery. You smiled quietly and reluctantly. “Fair.”

You let your fingers skim the edge of his desk, still marveling at how close you were allowed to be at how natural it felt to sit here beside him, as if the centuries of scholarly silence in this room had made space just for you.

Your thoughts spun, full of quiet wonder and a thousand unasked questions, but one in particular itched at your curiosity. Still half-draped over the parchment, you turned toward him, eyes wide with the beginnings of something dangerously close to awe.

“…Wait,” you said slowly, “can you shapeshift into a different person?” Shadow Milk Cookie did not look up from his notes. “In theory.”

“Like… a full disguise?” you pressed, voice softer now, but undeniably more alive. “Could you look completely different? Sound different?”

He finally lifted his gaze, and the look he gave you was… unreadable. As always. But there was a spark behind it, an almost imperceptible gleam of amusement at your obvious interest. You leaned in, unable to stop yourself.

“Have you done it before? You have, haven’t you?” He didn't answer. Not directly. Which was as good as a yes. You blinked, startled by the mental image forming in your head. “You could’ve walked through the Academy and no one would’ve known it was you. You could’ve sat in a lecture, or oh gone to the dining hall without people staring the whole time. That’s incredible.”

The words tumbled out before you could filter them. “Would you-could you show me?” There was a pause.

Then you caught yourself. You sat up straighter, cleared your throat, and immediately looked away. “Never mind. That’s-never mind. Forget I asked. It’s fine.”

Dignity. A fragile, flickering thing. He was still watching you, you could feel it, but he said nothing. You braved a glance. His expression was unreadable again but softer than before. A knowing sort of silence. Like he could do it, probably even without standing. Like he would, if you asked again.

But he didn’t tease. He didn’t say a word. And somehow, that was worse. You exhaled, trying to look busy, trying not to think about what it might be like to see someone else in his place to hear his voice from a stranger’s face.

“…You’re terrifying,” you muttered under your breath.

“Still,” he replied without looking up, “you remain seated beside me.” You made a strangled noise in the back of your throat and turned sharply back to the parchment. For your own dignity’s sake, you did not speak again for a full three minutes.

You stayed quiet for exactly three minutes.

Which, considering the swirl of thoughts ricocheting through your head, was an act of monumental restraint. But eventually even as your eyes flicked between the complex diagrams on the parchment and the steady movement of Shadow Milk Cookie’s quill you couldn’t help yourself. “…That would be so cool.”

He didn’t glance up, but you could feel the subtle pause in his motion. You leaned forward, chin resting lightly in your hand. “To just… change the way you look. Just because. No spells, no glamours, not an illusion but real. Tangible. That’s… amazing.”

His tone, when it came, was even. “It has its uses.” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “Could you… become a woman?”

His writing stilled completely this time. “I mean-” you rushed, hands lifting as if to catch the question and stuff it back in your mouth, “not right now. I’m just curious. You said you could change your form completely. So… could you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned his gaze to you, patient and unblinking. You faltered, looking away. “That would be incredible. Like… becoming someone else entirely, even for a little while. To see how the world looks at you differently. To see what you would look like.”

You paused, biting your bottom lip. “I was going to ask if you’d show me,” you admitted, face warming, “just once. Just so I could see. But then I realized that’s probably weird. So I’m not asking. I mean I was asking. But I’m not now.” Silence. You sighed. “I’m digging a hole, aren’t I.”

“A deep one,” he said calmly. “Though I’m impressed by how quickly.”

You groaned quietly and buried your face in your hands for a moment. “Forget it. Pretend I said nothing.” But you didn’t really want to let it go. Not yet. You peeked at him between your fingers, voice quieter now.

“Is that… is that why you don’t do it often? Because it feels like lying? Pretending to be someone you’re not?” His expression didn’t shift much but it didn’t need to. There was something in his stillness that gave you pause.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Partially.”

That surprised you. He turned his gaze toward the far bookshelf, where soft blue sigils pulsed like a quiet heartbeat. “To alter form is not merely to change appearance,” he said. “It requires the reshaping of self. The adjustment of voice, movement, weight, presence. It becomes easier to forget what is real. What is yours. And what was only borrowed.”

You listened, quiet now. “I do not lie,” he said simply. “Even when I could. Especially then.”

“…Because you’re the Sage of Truth.” He stared at you with a look, as if to say exactly. You sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in.

Then, almost without thinking, you whispered, “But… if it’s not lying. Like if you’re not using it to deceive, then maybe it’s not wrong.” His gaze found yours again. Something gentler there now. Not agreement. Not argument. Just… interest.

“You are curious,” he said. You nodded. “It’s just if I had that kind of power, I’d want to know what it’s like to be… everything. Everyone. Not to fool anyone. Just… to understand.” You hesitated. “To know what else I could be.”

He watched you for a long, long moment. And then, very quietly, he said, “Perhaps… one day.” And your heart stuttered like a secret had just been offered, tucked between his words like a folded page in an ancient book, waiting to be read.

You stared at him.

Not in the way you usually did when you were trying to follow his explanations, or pretending not to notice the way his voice dipped when he got caught up in thought. Not in the way you caught glimpses of him during lectures from the back row, scribbling his theorems in sharp, fluid strokes with the same grace he used to tear your logic apart. This was different.

You tilted your head, gaze softening as you studied the arch of his cheekbones, the delicate precision of his fingers as they returned to the page.

His features were already… beautiful. Refined. Thoughtful. There was an effortless elegance to him like he was carved from the same stillness as the night sky itself. You genuinely tried to imagine what he’d look like differently.

Sharper jaw softened. Shoulders a little narrower. Hair pinned up or let loose in long, astral waves. The clothes the same…no, maybe not. A different cut, perhaps. Same celestial embroidery, but traced along a different frame.

Still poised. Still composed. Still him. You squinted slightly. “I think I can picture it.”

He glanced up at you, mildly. “Ah.” You blinked, realizing you’d said it aloud.

“I wasn’t! I mean, I wasn’t trying to picture it, I just… you know, you said it was possible, and now I can’t not wonder what you’d look like.” You paused. “That sounds weird.”

“It does,” he agreed without missing a beat. You huffed and sank a little lower in your seat, fingers fiddling with the edge of the parchment. “Well, now I’m curious and mildly horrified by my own imagination, so thank you for that.”

He didn’t respond immediately. But something in the line of his mouth hinted at quiet amusement. You dared another glance at him. “Would you still talk the same?”

His gaze slid to you steady, unreadable. “I imagine the voice would change,” he said. “Cadence, tone, presence. But the truth would remain the same.”

You blinked. “Of course it would,” you murmured. Because of course he would say that. Still, you couldn’t help it. Your eyes drifted back to his features already graceful in ways you couldn’t explain, already walking some fine line between myth and scholar and something too vast for either.

You imagined the same gaze behind longer lashes. The same smile, but curved in a slightly different shape. The same voice no, not the same, but still his saying something that left your thoughts in disarray.

You bit your lip, looking away. “I think you’d be… terrifying.” He hummed. “Only as terrifying as I am now, I hope.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s the problem.”

He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. And you didn’t stop thinking about it. Not really. You were quiet again but not the kind of quiet that meant you were done asking questions. He knew that. He always knew. You sat there beside him, still half-lost in thought, eyes on the parchment but your mind drifting far beyond it. You weren’t even pretending to read anymore. Not really.

Then, you softly spoke up. “What else can you do?” He glanced sideways at you. You didn’t meet his gaze. You were still staring at the page, as though the question wasn’t meant to land too heavily. But it did.

“I mean,” you continued, a little bolder now, “you can shapeshift. You can move furniture with a thought. You’ve probably memorized half the Nightmare Archive, and I’m pretty sure you once stopped someone’s ink from spilling mid-air and reversed the stain on their robes.”

You finally turned to him. “So what else? What else can you do that you just… don’t?” He considered you. Not in the usual way that academic, thoughtful narrowing of his eyes when weighing an idea. Like he was trying to decide how much of himself to place in your hands.

“There is much I am capable of,” he said, voice level. “But very little I find necessary.”

You blinked, unsure what you expected, but somehow that wasn’t it. “I am not interested in spectacle,” he added. “Power is not worth much if it eclipses the very people I wish to reach.”

“…Eclipses?” He turned his eyes back to the parchment. “I could levitate,” he said plainly. You blinked again. “You what?”

“Levitate,” he repeated. “Easily. Effortlessly.” Your eyes widened. “And you don’t?!”

“No.”

“Why not?! That’s so so cool! You could float into a room and everyone would just know you’re the Sage of Truth. Not that they don’t already, but-!”

He raised a brow. “Exactly.” You faltered. He continued, “I do not need to hover above the ground to make my presence known. More importantly, I do not wish to place myself so high that I no longer feel reachable.”

Your breath caught. Oh. You looked at him again and it struck you how often he chose stillness over grandeur, presence over performance.

How he walked with quiet steps, sat at eye-level, answered your scattered questions without ever making you feel foolish.

“You think… levitating would make you seem out of reach,” you said, more softly now. He nodded once. “It is not power that makes one respected. It is how one wields it.”

You were quiet again. Not because you had nothing to say this time but because something in your chest had gone very, very still. And then, almost as an afterthought:

“…So… you’re telling me you’ve been walking this whole time. When you could have been floating.”

“I will walk for centuries,” he replied, not looking up. “I can continue a while longer.” You stared at him. “…You’re ridiculous,” you said, half-laughing. He glanced at you one brow raised, not unkindly. “Again, you remain beside me.”

You smiled, helpless against it. “Yeah I suppose I do.” You leaned back slightly in your chair, the weight of his words still lingering, but already your thoughts were shifting restless, mischievous. The parchment between you lay untouched. The notes, diagrams, and spells sat waiting, but your focus had long since wandered from the ink.

Truthfully, you had no intention of revisiting spell theory today.

Not because you didn’t need to.

But because you’d been sitting through Almond Custard Cookie’s lecture earlier, caught between half-sketched notes and a mind that couldn’t seem to land anywhere useful. You already knew you’d absorbed more from that hour of droning monotony than you had the last three practice sessions combined. So why not… use your time wisely?

You glanced at the Sage beside you, who was carefully adjusting the position of a crystalline magnifier without glancing up.

“Do you think time has a taste?” you asked, casually.

He didn’t look at you. “No.”

You tapped your finger thoughtfully against the desk. “But if it did, would it be more like burnt sugar? Or something cold? Maybe iron.”

“You are not serious.”

“I might be.”

He finally lifted his gaze just a fraction, enough for you to catch the brief flicker of disbelief.

You grinned. “What about shadows? If a shadow had weight, do you think you could pick it up? Like, peel it off the wall and fold it in your pocket?”

“That would violate at least three natural laws,” he replied, “and several codes of campus conduct.”

“But could you do it?”

“No.”

“But what if you really, really wanted to?”

“No.”

You hummed, undeterred. “What’s your opinion on cursed forks?”

He paused. “That is not a real classification.”

“Okay, but should it be?”

A breath. Measured. Silent. Not quite a sigh but it teetered on the edge of one.

You smiled wider. “What if the moon is just a big eye and we’re in denial?”

“Then denial,” he said smoothly, “is the least of your problems.”

You were beaming now, delighted. Not by the answers though those were entertaining in their own dry, exacting way but by how far you could go. How long you could press before the Sage of Truth, who had debated archmages and outlasted eldritch storms of cognition, would finally crack.

“Do you think ghosts get offended if you walk through them on purpose?”

He didn’t blink. “Only the theatrical ones.”

“Are you offended when people walk through your lectures mentally?”

He turned to you fully now, expression calm, unreadable, but there was something in the set of his mouth something dangerously close to a smirk.

“That depends,” he said slowly, “on whether they come to my office hours seeking guidance… or entertainment.”

You straightened up like a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. “Who’s to say I’m not doing both?”

“Indeed,” he murmured, returning to his notes. “Perhaps I’ll start testing for comprehension mid-riddle.”

You squinted at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“You are welcome to find out.”

The air between you held a subtle charge now like the beginning of a storm made of wit instead of thunder. You leaned closer, chin in your palm, smile curling at the edges of your lips.

Challenge accepted. You weren’t sure when exactly it happened.

One moment, you were testing his patience with questions you had no business asking questions about the philosophical implications of sentient shadows, about whether constellations could be rearranged like furniture if someone tried hard enough, about whether forbidden spells had feelings about being forbidden.

He had fielded each one with unnerving poise, answering without so much as a raised brow, every retort calmly measured, never quite giving you the satisfaction of cracking that collected facade.

And then you asked “If someone dreamt of a spell like, it came to them fully formed in a dream would that count as plagiarism if it already exists in another plane?”

There was a pause.

A longer one this time.

Shadow Milk Cookie lowered his quill. Slowly.

“You’re asking,” he said, voice unhurried, “if unconscious thought, which one cannot claim to have constructed through intention or study, has the same scholarly ownership as consciously crafted magic?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Um. Yeah? I guess?”

“Then allow me to reframe.” He steepled his fingers, the light from the desklamp catching the gold edges of his sleeves. “If a spell comes to you in a dream, are you its author? Or merely the vessel through which it traveled?”

Your eyes widened, mind stumbling to catch up. “Wait, I didn’t mean”

“Does inspiration absolve one of authorship? Or is it only through understanding, through repetition and mastery, that creation becomes real?”

You straightened in your seat. “Well, if you use it without knowing why it works, that’s dangerous, right?”

“Indeed. But dangerous knowledge is still knowledge. And what of those who share the same revelation in different corners of the world? If two scholars dream the same spell, is the truth theirs equally?”

“I” You hesitated, frowning. “That depends. Were they both influenced by the same source? If it’s a shared memory from some ancestral magic, then maybe it does belong to both of them.”

“Then you admit it’s possible for truth to manifest independently through different minds.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And yet,” he said, tilting his head, “you asked if dream-born magic was plagiarism.”

You gawked at him. “You’re twisting my words!”

He arched a brow. “I am following them.”

You leaned in, now fully engaged, hands animated. “Okay, but that assumes the dreamer didn’t learn it beforehand and forget. What if they read about it once, years ago, and their subconscious is just recycling it?”

“Then intent becomes the measure,” he replied evenly. “But intention is notoriously difficult to prove especially when memory fails.”

“So you’re saying there is no answer?”

“I am saying,” he said, folding his hands once more, “that the question you posed in jest has weight. And that if you wish to treat nonsense as philosophy, you must be prepared for the responsibility of engaging with it.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Somehow, in the span of five minutes, you had been tricked guided, really into a fully fledged academic debate.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“…Are you proud of this?”

He didn’t smile.

But he did say, in that maddeningly calm voice: “I find it… enlightening.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead to the desk with a quiet thump.

And from somewhere beside you, you heard the faintest breath of amusement so soft it might’ve been imagined.

But you knew better. You didn’t lift your head right away.

Not because you were embarrassed though the thump of your forehead meeting the desk echoed with more drama than you intended but because you were thinking. Hard. You couldn’t let him win this easily. Not when you’d been the one to start the game. Not when you could feel the shift in the air, the kind of quiet that happens just before something changes.

He thought he’d steered the conversation back into his realm, into his carefully ruled systems of logic and layered philosophical precision. But you had something he didn’t.

You were willing to be ridiculous.

You lifted your head slowly, brow furrowed in faux seriousness, eyes narrowing just slightly as you stared him down.

“Alright,” you said, voice calm, collected. “Let’s say a spell is born in a dream. The caster uses it, unaware it already existed. The result is identical to something written a century ago. But the caster didn’t know that.”

He tilted his head, watching.

You continued, “Now if they go on to teach it, to claim it, to build on it… are they a liar?”

His gaze sharpened, just a little. “Not if they believe it is theirs.”

“But what if their belief is rooted in a lie? Not one they told but one they were told?”

He paused.

You leaned forward. “Say someone erased the original record. Altered the texts. Buried the memory. The truth is gone, and now this new caster, completely unaware, is praised for innovation.”

You folded your arms. “So. Who holds the truth then? The one who first discovered it? Or the one who remembers it?”

He studied you quiet, calculating.

“I see your point,” he said. “But you are equating ignorance with deceit.”

“I’m equating truth with who tells the story,” you shot back, now on a roll. “You said it yourself intent is hard to prove. So how do we know a truth is true if it’s passed through a hundred uncertain mouths before it reaches us?”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You seized the moment.

“What if the Sage of Truth,” you said, eyes glinting, “has built his name on truths told by liars? On conclusions passed down by biased minds? Even if you corrected the language, even if you refined the spellwork, what if the foundation is still cracked?”

He stared at you.

Not with offense.

Not even with disbelief.

But with that rare, sharpened stillness that meant you’d gotten to him. Even just a little.

You leaned back in your chair, triumphant. “Maybe truth is just a prettier form of deceit. One that sounds more palatable when spoken by someone eloquent. Someone like you.”

A long pause.

“…Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your grin widened. “Did I just make the Sage of Truth question one of his core beliefs?”

“No,” he said calmly.

You deflated slightly.

“But,” he continued, eyes still on you, “you have demonstrated something far more dangerous.”

Your brow rose. “What?”

He leaned forward slowly, voice low.

“You have proven that you’re capable of challenging a truth by mimicking the structure of it enough to create doubt.” A pause. “Which means, were you less honest, and more invested in persuasion than clarity… you would be very difficult to argue against.”

You blinked. “Was that a compliment?”

“That,” he said, finally soft, amused, and a little too proud, “was a warning.”

And you weren’t entirely sure if that made you want to argue more…or smile like you'd won something you hadn’t meant to claim. You tilted your head, still half-smiling caught somewhere between pleased and confused. His words hung in the air, and you replayed them once. Twice.

“…A warning?” you echoed.

Your brow furrowed. “Why would that be a warning?”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he regarded you with that maddening calm of his like he was already four steps ahead of this conversation and simply waiting for you to catch up.

You shifted in your chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you saying you don’t want me to argue like that?”

“I did not say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He closed the tome in front of him with deliberate grace, fingers folding lightly atop its cover. “You have the mind of a scholar,” he said. “Restless. Quick. Willing to chase the shape of a question even if the ground beneath it is uncertain.”

You blinked.

“That is admirable,” he continued. “But also dangerous. Because a sharp mind that does not ground itself in intention… can unravel truth just as easily as it reveals it.”

You stared at him. The smile was gone now not out of hurt, but out of attention. He had spoken softly, but the weight of it settled into your chest like a stone dropped into still water.

He didn’t look harsh. Or disappointed. Just… honest.

“You mean I could be dangerous,” you said slowly, testing the words.

“I mean you could be persuasive,” he replied. “Persuasive enough that you might lead others without meaning to. Or worse persuade yourself.”

You didn’t answer.

He went on, voice lower now gentler.

“There is power in being able to twist an idea. Even in jest. But there is also responsibility in knowing when not to.”

You looked down at the desk, tracing a thumb along the edge of the parchment.

“…You think I wouldn’t know when to stop?”

“I think,” he said softly, “you are still learning what you are capable of.”

And there it was again that same steadiness, that same truth-speaking tone that never scolded, never shamed… only revealed.

You didn’t speak for a while. You weren’t upset not really. But something about what he’d said sat with you. Tugged at the corners of your thoughts.

Then, after a pause “So… is this the part where you tell me to stop asking dumb questions during tutoring?”

“No,” he said, without hesitation.

You blinked.

“This is the part,” he added, “where I begin writing them down for later discussion.”

He reached for a fresh page of parchment smiling looking pleased. Not the teasing smile. One you interpreted as.

I see you.

And you are worth the effort.

You watched him write.

For a moment, you let the silence settle. Not because you had nothing to say but because something about what he’d said stuck. The idea that you could be dangerous. That your questions weren’t just distractions, or games to test his patience, but sparks something he might carry with him.

You tapped your fingers lightly on the desk, thinking.

“…I don’t think you could ever lose to deceit,” you said quietly.

He didn’t look up.

You continued, “You’re you. You know too much. You’d see through it. You’d feel it before it even took root.” You looked over at him, more serious now than you intended. “You have enough truth in you to recognize a lie before it even finishes forming.”

His pen paused just slightly.

But you were already fidgeting, lips pressing together like you regretted saying something so honest out loud. The weight of it pressed down too heavily on your chest. So, like you always did when things got a little too close to real you pivoted.

“Unless,” you said suddenly, “the deceit came from a sentient muffin. Like, one that could rewrite history through crumbs.”

A beat.

He looked up at you slowly.

You met his gaze, dead serious. “How would you even prepare for that? What if it weaponized frosting?”

Silence.

His expression was unreadable.

You smiled innocently. “Just asking for research purposes.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly. Not in disapproval. In quiet recognition. Like he could see what you were doing, and maybe even deep down understood why.

He didn’t call you out.

Didn’t drag you back to the previous moment, or make you sit with the weight of your own sincerity.

He simply said, “The frosting would need to be laced with temporal magic. Otherwise, it would be too sweet to anchor historical revision.”

You gaped at him. “You’re engaging with this?”

“You brought the muffin,” he said, returning to his writing. “I’m simply considering the battlefield.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh, the tension in your chest loosening like thread unspooling.

Maybe he did know the truth.

And maybe he knew when to let it rest.

You let the muffin debate go, for now. Mostly because he was too good at it and also because the image of him seriously counter-strategizing against a frosting-wielding pastry was starting to unravel your composure.

But your curiosity didn’t settle. In fact, now that you’d steered him off-course, it only flared brighter.

Your gaze flicked toward him again steady, focused, annoyingly unreadable as ever, like the concept of flustered had barely touched him.

You decided to change that.

“So,” you began casually, stretching your arms behind your head. “Do you wear pajamas?”

The quill didn’t stop moving.

You kept going. “Like, do you sleep in your Sage of Truth outfit? The high collar? The hat?”

Still no reaction. His expression didn’t shift.

You leaned a little closer. “Be honest. Do you have a closet full of the exact same outfit? Just five identical sets of the same dramatic outfit? Or do you enchant the same one every night to repair itself?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Okay, but do you ever wear anything else?” you asked. “Like, do you own normal clothes? Casual ones? Have you ever worn a hoodie?”

“I do not see how this is relevant to spell theory,” he said without looking up.

You grinned. Now you were getting somewhere.

“It’s not,” you replied. “But I’m invested now.”

He sighed very softly. Barely there. But there.

“So you do sleep in this.”

“I did not say that.”

“Oh, so there’s a different outfit for sleeping? What is it? A silk robe? Do you own luxurious scholar pajamas? Do they have constellations embroidered on the sleeves?”

“I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”

You gasped. “So you do have scholar pajamas!”

He paused.

That was all the confirmation you needed.

“Are they navy blue?” you pressed, delighted. “Midnight-themed? Do they shimmer when the moonlight hits them? Are there moon phases sewn into the hem?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Do you sleep with the hat on?” you added, voice rising with mock incredulity. “Or is that a daytime-only kind of Sage thing?”

“Stars above…”

“Do you ever take the outfit off at all? Are they bound to you? Is that the source of your power? If you take them off do you cease to be the Sage of Truth? Is it like a magical girl transformation but reversed?”

He turned to you, finally, with the thinnest blade of exasperation in his gaze.

You grinned like you’d just won a war.

“Are you truly this determined to derail our spontaneous study session?” he asked, voice perfectly dry.

“Oh, I’m not derailing anything,” you said brightly. “I’m investigating. You’re the most enigmatic person in the Academy and it’s honestly suspicious. I’m trying to be thorough.”

“Thorough,” he repeated.

You nodded. “A good scholar asks questions, right?”

He stared at you.

You stared right back.

Then, with utmost seriousness, you added: “…Does your coat have pockets?”

That did it.

His eyes closed for a long, steady breath, and when they opened again, he gave you a look that said, I have answered riddles from crying apprentices, debated headmasters into silence, and outlasted three hours locked in a library with insufferable scholars but you will be my undoing.

You beamed. He stared at you.

Not with anger. Not even with true frustration. Just that deep, silent, measured stillness he used when someone had challenged a principle of logic, or when a scholar misquoted an ancient theorem so badly it physically pained him.

Which only made you press further.

“So you’re not going to tell me if the hat comes off when you sleep?”

Silence.

“Because now I’m imagining you just lying there, completely still, clothes perfectly pressed, hat on, hands folded like you’re about to wake up and recite a prophecy.”

Still silence.

“And I mean that with all the respect in the world,” you added helpfully. “But also, you’d be so uncomfortable. It would explain the permanent posture. Do you even have a bed? Or do you meditate in a chair surrounded by floating scrolls?”

He blinked once. Slowly.

You clutched your hands together in faux pleading. “Do you sleep on a sugar cloud? Is it made of truth vapor? Are your dreams alphabetized by theme?”

His head tilted, just slightly. “Do you plan to ask every personal question imaginable today?”

“Obviously.”

His sigh was quieter than a breeze but more dramatic than thunder. He resumed writing but his movements were sharper now. More precise. Like he was focusing harder in protest.

You leaned your chin into your palm. “What about shoes? Are they enchanted to follow the Moonstone’s orbit? Do they come off? Have you ever worn boots?”

He didn’t answer.

“You have a favorite set of clothes, don’t you?”

No answer.

“Do you name them?”

Still no answer.

“…Are they sentient?”

He finally looked at you.

That was progress.

You blinked innocently. “If they are sentient, that would explain a lot. The way they always catch the light dramatically. The fact they never wrinkle. The suspicious timing whenever you arrive in lecture halls.”

“Do you realize,” he said very quietly, “that I could silence this room with a word?”

You sat back in mock horror. “You’d silence me?”

“You’re attempting to extract classified robe data from a national figurehead.”

You paused. “So you are a national figurehead?”

His lips pressed into a flat line.

You leaned forward, triumph blooming. “So you do have a favorite set.”

He looked heavenward for strength.

You smiled, the kind that meant you were nowhere near finished. “I just want to know you,” you said, honestly this time. “And clearly, you won’t tell me voluntarily.”

“That is correct.”

“So I’ll just keep guessing.”

He picked up his quill again, deliberately slow. “Then let me offer this: every time you ask a question like that, I will assign you an additional footnote to explain the underlying arcane theory.”

You stared at him.

He did not blink.

“…You wouldn’t.”

“I have already begun,” he said, dipping his quill in ink.

You leaned back in your chair, frowning.

“…Are the footnotes handwritten?”

“Yes.”

“…In ancient script?”

“Naturally.”

You groaned and let your head fall to the desk again.

He resumed writing quiet, calm, unbothered.

But you could see it now, just at the corner of his mouth.

The smallest hint of a smile. You lifted your head from the desk with the exaggerated slowness of someone rising from the ashes of scholarly tragedy. One hand braced dramatically against your heart.

“You wound me,” you whispered, voice thick with theatrical despair.

He didn’t look up.

You slid off the chair with a quiet thump and shuffled dramatically toward him, falling to your knees like a character in a five-act tragedy. Then, with great ceremony, you clasped his hand in both of yours.

“Please,” you begged, clutching his fingers like he held the final thread of your academic fate. “Sage. Oh wise, noble, needlessly composed Sage of Truth. Spare me from the horror of handwritten ancient script footnotes.”

He didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch of surprise. His gaze remained on his parchment, quill poised as if considering whether he should draw a very serious rune or a very petty line through your name.

You doubled down.

“I was young. Reckless. Curious.” You squeezed his hand gently. “I didn’t understand the depth of your cruelty. Of your methods. Please have mercy on a scholar who simply wished to know if your hat ever leaves your head while resting.”

Still, no reaction.

You squinted up at him. “Do you not feel my sincerity?”

“I feel many things,” he said, finally glancing down at you. “None of which resemble sympathy.”

You gasped.

“You’ve become inhuman,” you accused. “You’ve spent too long among the constellations and forgotten the touch of mortal empathy.”

He withdrew his hand calmly, setting it back on the desk. “If you’re finished attempting to avoid the assignment-”

“I surrender,” you cried, pressing your forehead to the hem of his robe like a dramatic supplicant. “Assign the footnotes. Curse my pen. Brand me with the ink of academia. But know this”

He waited.

You looked up at him with a solemn expression, utterly serious.

“one day, I will find out if your coat has embroidery on the inside, too.”

His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly.

You smiled.

The war, clearly, was not over. You slowly rose from the floor less dramatically now, your flair for theatrical groveling giving way to something quieter. Something a little more real.

You brushed your hands against your robes and returned to your seat beside him, the wood creaking softly as you settled. The joke still lingered in the air, light and teasing, but your smile faltered around the edges.

And then, without looking at him:

“…Sometimes I really wonder what it is you saw in me.”

Your voice was soft now genuine in a way that didn’t try to hide behind questions or flourishes or games.

You looked down at the desk, fingers fidgeting slightly against the parchment. “I mean, look at me. I ask if your hat sleeps with you. I derail entire sessions with nonsense. I pry and push and argue. Personally, if I met me… I’d find me a little off-putting.”

The last part came with a half-hearted smile, like it was meant to sound like a joke.

But it didn’t land like one.

Not entirely.

And beside you, Shadow Milk Cookie stilled not in that usual, unreadable silence, but in a quiet that felt aware. Present.

He didn't speak right away.

Instead, he placed his quill down with care, turning toward you fully. His gaze settled on you, unwavering, as if trying to peer through the noise of what you’d just said to reach the place it came from.

And when he spoke, it was soft.

Measured. Unshaken.

“I saw someone who asked questions no one else dared to.”

You looked at him, startled.

“I saw someone who did not pretend to understand when they didn’t, who spoke even when their voice wavered, who let their curiosity carry them past their fear.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You did not seek me out to impress me. You didn’t want to prove your worth.”

His eyes held yours.

“You only ever wanted to learn.”

A pause.

“And that,” he said, quieter now, “is what makes you remarkable.”

Your breath caught. Words gathered at the back of your throat, but none made it out.

He turned back to his parchment without another word, lifting his quill again with the same calm, steady hand.

But just before ink touched paper, he added softly, without looking at you:

“And for the record… I don’t mind the questions.”

A beat.

“They remind me that I’m still allowed to be me.”

And for a moment, you couldn’t tell if the warmth blooming in your chest was embarrassment… or something gentler. Something that made you feel like maybe you were never off-putting at all. The rest of your “tutoring” session passed in a blur though whether it was from the heat lingering in your cheeks or the sheer effort of forcing your brain to process spell theory after a pseudo-philosophical meltdown about pajamas and truth, you weren’t sure.

Shadow Milk Cookie resumed his role as tutor with little ceremony. No mention of your dramatic kneeling or the accidental soul-bearing that had happened in the span of five chaotic minutes. He simply returned to the text, referencing obscure theory with casual ease, guiding your attention when it drifted, clarifying only when you asked. His presence, as always, was calm and unwavering. Comforting in a way you still didn’t quite know how to name

A/N I'm not sure if I love this chapter but I've already written the next 3 chapters so to avoid writing anything wrong and ruining pacing I'm keeping it as is.

Also update: I'M MARRIED NOW/j but no seriously my wifi was so bad recently and it was probably because of the heavy rainstorm last week with strong winds.

I start my first day of work tomorrow so excited to get back on the grind exams went well and I've kept my good gpa <3!!!!

oh and I'll look at my inbox tomorrow there is some wonderful art I can't wait to share with everyone!!! My moots are so talented it's such a joy to see the art!!! I know I'm a little behind on my inbox so sorry about that y'all

Anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

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