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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

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Taglist continuation cuz it reached 50: @williamafton26 @dreamlesssleepsaga @catlurgic @vkncgzxf @lorelei-larai @donotspeakunlessyouarenamjoon @rievendell @calebs--pipsqueak @namjoons-toenails

Against Blood & Water l Sylus

Chapter 5

←CH 4 | CH 6 Coming Soon→

Summary: Seventeen years ago, your life had taken a turn for the worse when your newborn twins were separated from you by a cruel twist of fate. The same fate had led you to the N109 Zone, to your children who were all grown up now. Reconciliation with your boys would've been slightly easier had they somehow not acquired a father figure over the years who wasn't letting them go anytime soon.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: mentions of guns, stalking and drug mobs, reader meets the twin

Word count: 2.2k

Notes: We're so back with AB&W!!! I had lost all inspiration for this and was planning to discontinue it but a push came to shove that told me not to. This could be considered kinda (???) a filler chapter but with foreshadowing so hope you pay attention. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this series. ♥

Tag list: @babyx91 @pillarofsnow @beyond-the-stars-fairy @yuki-sama6 @sylviewrites @idiashusband @sadmonke @monophobix @lunarvolley @stxrrielle @fries11 @gremlinartstudio @lillycore @novthirty @animegamerfox @cathedralofaudra @nm4565natty @69-gojos-wife-69 @eolivy @silverianni @nezuswritingdesk @beaconsxd @justpassingdontworry @ruyaya @browneyedgirl22 @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @sneakysnakeysstuff @midiplier @dana-nite @lazeriii @into-deepspace @nommingonfood @eden-axe @verysleepylilguy @lunia-likes-pomegranet @do-clouds-smoke-weed @sowntears @batgirliee @slovesyouuu @blythered @owodi @eden-axe @some-gurl-idk @sarah22447 @belles-reads @kanjiharitama @astvriisk @peachystea @mentaltrouble2201 @creator-freak

The ride is silent at first — deceptively peaceful — save for the soft hum of the car’s engine and the occasional low caw from Mephisto, seated over his passenger seat, while you sit on the back. You keep your gaze fixed out the window, watching the blur of N109’s broken skyline drift by. Your hands are folded neatly in your lap, pressed so tightly together that your knuckles have turned white.

You don’t question how Sylus knew your address. What’s the point? He probably found it out after all his stalking via his invention.

Your thoughts churn like storm clouds in your skull. You’re now walking a knife’s edge — entangled with Onychinus while still neck-deep in the case against the drug lord. Two death traps in either direction. Not to mention the fact that you just agreed to work with a man whose blood wiped off too easily.

“For my children,” you murmur again, under your breath, almost like a mantra. You keep saying it until the words lose their shape, becoming a quiet chant of resolve. “For my children.”

Sylus doesn't comment on your muttering and you aren’t even sure if he hears it. In fact, he hasn't said a word since you got in. Just drove, eyes forward, expression unreadable.

Back at your apartment, you move on autopilot. You open the door, the creak of its hinges greeting you like an old friend. You’re quick with your packing — your stay reduced to one big duffel bag. Not much stuff since you didn’t even mean to stay in the N109 Zone for this long, at least until your twins got involved. The longer you linger, the more second thoughts try to crawl into your head.

That’s when something lands squarely on your head.

You flinch, instinctively reaching up — only to find cold metal claws curling comfortably into your hair. Mephisto. You glare up at the bird, who simply blinks back at you with blank, mechanical eyes like nothing’s out of the ordinary. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You try to poke him off, but he bites your finger — hard enough to sting, not hard enough to draw blood. Huffing, you finally let him be, holding out your hand like some resigned falconer. He steps onto it with the confidence of someone who’s claimed you. You mutter, “Does Sylus think I’ll make the first escape out of here or what…?”

A smug little caw is the only reply.

Seven minutes. That’s all it takes to pack your life.

Well — almost all.

Your eyes fall on the conspiracy board. Nearly half your height, cluttered with string, notes, pins, and hard-earned information — half of it about the drug lord and the other half, haunting warnings to keep away from your own children. You can't leave it behind.

You drag it out, grunting under your breath, the awkward angles making the trip downstairs even more excruciating. When you finally make it outside, Sylus is still in the driver’s seat, looking very much like a man who has never carried a day’s worth of baggage in his life. He doesn't offer help or even look surprised.

He presses a button, and the trunk pops open on its own.

You shove your duffel in, muttering, “Chivalry really is dead.”

Then you stare at the backseat. Then the board. Then the backseat again. It’s tight. Definitely impossible.

Sylus doesn’t even turn his head when he says, with a smirk laced through his words, “It won’t fit, sweetie. Looks like you’ll have to leave it behind.”

You clench your jaw. He says, like he already knows you’ll fail. Which only makes you all the more determined not to. You run the calculations mentally — height, width, angle. The board can’t go flat, but maybe if you wedge it diagonally...

It takes some maneuvering. Some sheer force of will. And maybe — just maybe — a subconscious push from your evol.

You feel that surge again like a current warping reality just slightly, enough to nudge things your way.

The board slides in.

Perfect fit.

You let out a slow, satisfied breath, dusting off your hands.

When you glance at Sylus, you catch the tiniest twitch of his brow. Just a millimeter — but it’s enough. He saw it. And more importantly, he suspects.

You avoid his eyes, walking to the passenger side with the heavy feeling of being watched under a magnifying glass.

With the backseat taken, there’s no escaping him now. You sit up front. Buckle in. Mephisto glares at you from the dash for sitting on his designated seat but flies to the backseat with a sharp flutter of feathers.

Sylus starts the engine again. For a moment, the drive resumes in silence. Then, casually — too casually — Sylus speaks.

“Do you have an evol?”

Your stomach drops.

The question slices through the quiet like a knife, too direct, too practiced. You stare ahead, then slowly turn to look at him. His eyes are already on you, unreadable behind their crimson gleam.

You blink once, just to steady yourself. Then you lie through your teeth with practiced ease.

“No.”

He says nothing in response. Just turns his eyes back to the road.

You keep your body still, but your mind races. He doesn’t press. That’s the part that bothers you the most. Because men like Sylus don’t ask questions unless they already know the answers — or are planning how to use the lie against you later.

And judging by the knowing curve of his lips... this was both.

You swallow the lump in your throat, turn your gaze back to the window, and mutter again under your breath.

“For my children.”

It takes a while to reach Sylus’ estate, tucked away at the far edge of the N109 Zone. By the time the car finally slows, the landscape has changed. Gone are the crumbling high-rises and flickering neon signs of the inner Zone. In their place stands a vast estate, cloaked in mist and ivy, its sprawling structure quiet and still under a lavender dusk. The manor looms ahead, classical and imposing, its walls a fusion of old-world stone and cold modern elegance. Windows stretch tall and narrow, their frames carved with meticulous detail, like a monument built by hands that never feared time.

You step out of the car before it fully stops, stretching limbs stiff from tension. You don't wait for Sylus to offer help and don’t spare him a glance as you stride to the trunk. You haul your duffel bag out and drag your oversized conspiracy board from the backseat without ceremony. It's heavy, awkward, but manageable. You’ve carried worse burdens in silence. The board thumps against your thigh with every step, a weight both literal and symbolic.

You're just approaching the front steps when maids appear as if conjured by the house itself. They're quiet, dressed in crisp, dark uniforms, faces carefully neutral. They don’t ask for permission; they simply take your things from your hands with a well-practiced efficiency that makes it clear this house operates on its own rhythm. One maid gently lifts the duffel from your shoulder; another catches the bottom edge of your board before it can scrape the ground. You’re too surprised to protest.

Sylus falls into step beside you, hands in his coat pockets, speaking in his usual detached cadence. “You may choose any room you like. There’s also a study downstairs, free for your use. I’d prefer you begin sorting through our legal affairs by tomorrow morning. I trust that’s—”

His voice fades into the background and you’ve stopped listening.

Just beyond the arching marble entryway, through the soft spill of chandelier light and the muted elegance of the grand hall, your gaze lands on the living room. Plush velvet furniture is arranged around a low, polished-wood coffee table. A fireplace rests cold and clean, its black marble surface unmarred. A large TV is mounted on the wall above it. In front of that TV, two boys wrestle over the remote.

Your twins.

They’re fighting — over the remote, of all things — throwing pillows at each other and yelling about whose turn it is to pick the movie. Luke’s throwing himself sideways across the couch, yelling something about unfair means. Kieran, quieter but no less determined, is gripping the remote with a look of long-suffering patience as he uses his knee to push Luke off balance. It’s such an ordinary moment, so heartbreakingly mundane that your knees almost buckle.

Your vision blurs for half a second, but you refuse to let it break you. You’ve missed too much. You ache with it, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. And still, you don’t move. You just watch. Your gaze drinks them in greedily, like the sight alone might make up for the years you spent scraping by in shadow, always one step too far to reach them.

You never thought your eyes were anything special. You found them too strange, a shade of grey that always looked tired. But now you see those same hue irises present in both your sons, and suddenly they feel like something beautiful. They wear them better than you ever did.

Sylus has gone quiet beside you. He doesn’t speak again until he turns slightly and calls out to the twins, voice even, “Luke. Kieran. This is the faction’s new lawyer. She’ll be assisting Onychinus with some legal matters. I expect you’ll extend proper hospitality.”

The boys look up.

Unmasked, faces open and candid, they’re even more breathtaking. Luke’s expression shifts instantly to something playful, and he’s up in a flash, sauntering toward you like he owns the room. Kieran follows, slower, more reserved, but with a steady gaze that doesn’t waver.

You square your shoulders, schooling your face into something calm and professional, though your heart feels like it's trying to punch its way out of your ribcage. You extend your hand, fingers trembling just slightly.

Luke doesn’t hesitate. He shakes your hand with far too much enthusiasm, grinning like a wolf. “Hope you’re not planning to pull a gun this time, Missus.”

You almost laugh, a real one. “No promises, Luke.”

Kieran watches the exchange, quiet but observant. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and pointed. “You remembered which of us was which… and we barely introduced ourselves last time.”

Your breath catches. You should’ve pretended and asked who was who. That slip could cost you things. Before you can cover it up with some rehearsed lie, Sylus intervenes smoothly.

“Why don’t we let her settle in?” he suggests. “There’s time for more... introductions later.”

But you don’t want to rest even if your limbs scream at you to do so. You don’t want to move. You want to stay, listen to their voices until they’re seared into memory. You want to trace their lives backwards and fill in the missing years. But Sylus places a hand at the small of your back, and the contact jolts you. You move to shrug him off, but he leans in before you can.

“Comply, sweetie,” he murmurs, voice low and body far too close.

Your glare could peel paint, but you comply — stomping past him after bidding the twins goodnight. Once you arrive to your room, you reach for the door to shut it behind you. Just as you're about to slam the door shut in your temporary employer’s face, Sylus’ shoe wedges into the gap.

His sanguine eyes are darker now, lips a taut line. “I’d prefer you entertain less with my associates,” he says flatly, “and work more.”

You meet his gaze and step forward, close enough that your shadows merge. “I’m sorry,” you say coolly, “but I don’t take other people’s preferences into consideration.”

Then, with all the grace you can muster, you lift your heel and slam it on his foot. Hard. He doesn’t flinch — the bastard — but you see his jaw tick. You use the moment to kick his shoe out of the doorway and then shut it in his face with a final, gratifying thunk.

You lean against the door, and finally allow yourself to exhale. You just pray that he won’t tell you to get out tomorrow morning. Even if he does, you won’t just go away like that. You’ll need to tone down your attitude to stay here longer. Because your sons are under this roof.

Sylus stands in the hallway long after the door has slammed in his face, eyes lingering on the space where you stood just moments ago. His hand rises to eye level, fingers curled delicately around a single strand of hair — yours. Silken, fine, and still faintly warm from where it had clung to the curve of your cheek before he’d quietly plucked it during the brief walk to your room.

He twirls the strand between his thumb and index finger, once, then again, thoughtful. This wasn’t about confirmation. Sylus didn’t need a DNA test to prove what was already evident. The resemblance between you and the twins was woven into every detail — from the mirrored shape of your faces to the precise hue of your eyes. And beyond appearances, your slip of tongue near Mephisto had been all the confession he needed.

No, he wasn’t chasing the truth. He was chasing leverage.

He would send it to the Odd Workshop later. People like you, proud and intelligent, moved in straight lines when pushed to emotional limits. You would risk anything for your children. That much, Sylus knew. He’d seen it in the way you looked at them — like they were both your sun and sanctuary.

That made them your greatest strength. And your greatest weakness.

Which he’ll drive you away with.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

#self rb #i js love when this happens but also I'm going crazy trying to make the tags work 🤣#Against Blood & Water

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

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Against Blood & Water l Sylus

Chapter 5

←CH 4 | CH 6 Coming Soon→

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: mentions of guns, stalking and drug mobs, reader meets the twin

Word count: 2.2k

You don’t question how Sylus knew your address. What’s the point? He probably found it out after all his stalking via his invention.

“For my children,” you murmur again, under your breath, almost like a mantra. You keep saying it until the words lose their shape, becoming a quiet chant of resolve. “For my children.”

Sylus doesn't comment on your muttering and you aren’t even sure if he hears it. In fact, he hasn't said a word since you got in. Just drove, eyes forward, expression unreadable.

That’s when something lands squarely on your head.

A smug little caw is the only reply.

Seven minutes. That’s all it takes to pack your life.

Well — almost all.

He presses a button, and the trunk pops open on its own.

You shove your duffel in, muttering, “Chivalry really is dead.”

Then you stare at the backseat. Then the board. Then the backseat again. It’s tight. Definitely impossible.

Sylus doesn’t even turn his head when he says, with a smirk laced through his words, “It won’t fit, sweetie. Looks like you’ll have to leave it behind.”

It takes some maneuvering. Some sheer force of will. And maybe — just maybe — a subconscious push from your evol.

You feel that surge again like a current warping reality just slightly, enough to nudge things your way.

The board slides in.

Perfect fit.

You let out a slow, satisfied breath, dusting off your hands.

When you glance at Sylus, you catch the tiniest twitch of his brow. Just a millimeter — but it’s enough. He saw it. And more importantly, he suspects.

You avoid his eyes, walking to the passenger side with the heavy feeling of being watched under a magnifying glass.

Sylus starts the engine again. For a moment, the drive resumes in silence. Then, casually — too casually — Sylus speaks.

“Do you have an evol?”

Your stomach drops.

The question slices through the quiet like a knife, too direct, too practiced. You stare ahead, then slowly turn to look at him. His eyes are already on you, unreadable behind their crimson gleam.

You blink once, just to steady yourself. Then you lie through your teeth with practiced ease.

“No.”

He says nothing in response. Just turns his eyes back to the road.

And judging by the knowing curve of his lips... this was both.

You swallow the lump in your throat, turn your gaze back to the window, and mutter again under your breath.

“For my children.”

His voice fades into the background and you’ve stopped listening.

Your twins.

The boys look up.

Luke doesn’t hesitate. He shakes your hand with far too much enthusiasm, grinning like a wolf. “Hope you’re not planning to pull a gun this time, Missus.”

You almost laugh, a real one. “No promises, Luke.”

Kieran watches the exchange, quiet but observant. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and pointed. “You remembered which of us was which… and we barely introduced ourselves last time.”

Your breath catches. You should’ve pretended and asked who was who. That slip could cost you things. Before you can cover it up with some rehearsed lie, Sylus intervenes smoothly.

“Why don’t we let her settle in?” he suggests. “There’s time for more... introductions later.”

“Comply, sweetie,” he murmurs, voice low and body far too close.

His sanguine eyes are darker now, lips a taut line. “I’d prefer you entertain less with my associates,” he says flatly, “and work more.”

You meet his gaze and step forward, close enough that your shadows merge. “I’m sorry,” you say coolly, “but I don’t take other people’s preferences into consideration.”

No, he wasn’t chasing the truth. He was chasing leverage.

That made them your greatest strength. And your greatest weakness.

Which he’ll drive you away with.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

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Mirage l Caleb

Chapter 2

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 coming soon

Summary: In a world where power is survival's currency, you are a former top Colonel in the Farspace Fleet, now demoted to lieutenant colonel. You've lost your rank to Caleb, a newcomer who has taken your place. But when fate takes, it also gives. You discover that the man you despise is linked to the very organization you've been trying to expose for years. Yet, you find yourself being deterred from your mission as the line between loathing and love blurs.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story but main ones are: enemies to lovers, slowburn, major character death(s), extreme violence, yandere themes. For currently this chapter: reader is insane, mentions of brainwashing, malnutrition, and experimentation, fratricide, emotional manipulation, minor character death and guns, graphic violence, eye gore/ trauma, implied torture, revenge narrative, major foreshadowing, psychological trauma, morally grey protagonist.

Word count: 2.2k

Notes: This story is the Caleb girlies especially the ones who love Colonel Caleb. Farspace Fleet and EVER are not related, i.e., both are different organizations with distinct criminal histories. The timelines can be and will be going astray because this is a reader-insert. This feels like a filler chapter with hell lot of foreshadowing for future. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Tag list: @browneyedgirl22 @tatauane @his-ocean-emissary @rxelarailuj @junni-berry @glowinthedarkforests @motherspider @justpassingdontworry @nm4565natty @luwumii @chiikasevennn @lads-ficrecs @aiehtta

"Do you regret it?"

Your voice is flat — colorless, empty, like a slate scrubbed raw. It echoes in the sterile chamber, each syllable hollow and slow. Your face is shriveled from starvation, the skin stretched too tightly over your cheekbones, a frail frame draped in the papery folds of a hospital gown. Test after test had devoured your body, carved youth from your bones — but there’s still something young in your eyes, something that hasn’t quite died.

Across from you, your brother kneels. His colonel’s cap lies abandoned at his feet like a discarded crown. His head is bowed. His whole frame shakes with the weight of what he cannot take back.

“Every single minute of it,” he sobs, voice wet and broken. “I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry...”

He folds before you, hands clasped, face crumpled by grief, the proud soldier reduced to nothing but a penitent man. Behind you, a glass box is lit with sterile white light, lined with the silhouettes of higher-ups who watched not as people, but as mechanisms of control. Their pens moved in tandem, indifferent.

You lower yourself to your knees. A mirror of his posture, hands drawn together in a gesture not of prayer, but of bitter imitation. A few tears roll down your cheeks, but your face remains blank. You mirrored his desperation with a detached precision like a puppeteer imitating his own puppet.

He stills, the horror dawns slowly in his eyes as he truly sees you — the pallor, the sunken cheeks, the trembling hands that no longer tremble from fear, only from what they’ve endured. He sees the aftermath of what he helped build.

“What’s so special about this position?” you murmur, voice distant. “Look, I’m kneeling too. Does that make me sorry enough?”

His breath catches, eyes wide, shame catching up to sorrow. He begs again, trying to reach out to his younger sister, hoping she’s still there, “Please…forgive me.”

You reach out, cupping his face with your hands. Your fingers brush beneath his eyes, catching his tears as he once caught yours when you were younger, when love hadn't yet been replaced by greed.

“I do forgive you.”

You notice the exact second the hope flickered in his eyes, like a spark catching on kindling. That small, pathetic second. You watch his shoulders release, as if he could finally breathe again, hope blooming like a fool’s flower.

You continue without a rush, "Except my forgiveness is death."

Then, without warning, you plunge your nails into his eye.

His scream shatters the silence. A high, animal cry that rattles your skull, reverberates through the glass, crashes into the cold hearts of your observers like a warning. But no one moves. They simply write faster.

Your brother’s scream rips through the sterile air — hoarse, guttural, drenched in agony. It fills the room, bounces off the reinforced walls, and claws at your ears. But you remain silent.

His hands flail weakly toward his face, blood gushing from the ruined socket in thick, uneven pulses, painting his face in deep, wet reds. His body shakes as he crumples forward, knees buckling.

You don’t look away.

Instead, your hand moves to his hip, swift and deliberate. With a single pull, you draw the revolver from his holster — the one he always wore with pride, with the false weight of command. The cold steel rests in your palm like it was made for you.

You flip the cylinder open. It spins with a metallic whisper — the sound sharp, purposeful, final. Then you snap it shut with a flick of your wrist, the weight of loaded chambers locking into place. You raise the revolver and aim at his chest, right over his heart.

Six bullets. You fire without taking a single breath.

Each one hits just above the heart — a tight cluster. His body jerks, folds inward, then drops entirely. The life leaves him before the sixth casing clinks to the floor. He lies motionless in a spreading pool of blood. It pours from his chest in waves, soaking into the floor beneath him and radiating outward, thick and dark. The splash extends almost a full meter — reaching even his fallen colonel’s cap.

His face is frozen in the last moments of pain and disbelief. You look at him for a second longer. Then nothing. Wordlessly, you place the revolver beside you with detached care.

Your gaze shifts to the cap — the once-pristine symbol of rank now soaked in his blood, resting like a crown at the feet of a corpse. You pick it up slowly. Blood smears across your fingers. It drips down the sides as you lift it and press it onto your head with both hands.

It sits crooked. It doesn't matter.

Your brother’s blood trickles down your temple, streaks your cheek, drips along your jawline but you make no effort to wipe it away. You simply turn.

And from beyond the glass wall, the higher-ups stare back, impressed. One of them speaks in a measured voice, “The Farspace Fleet welcomes the new colonel.”

You cough as you frantically sit up on your bed, lungs convulsing like they’re rejecting the air. For a moment, you don’t know where you are — only the phantom of everything lingers, still echoing behind your eyes. You reach blindly for the glass on your bedside table, knocking it over in your desperation before finally finding the rim. The water goes down in gasps, not gulps, like you're trying to drown the memory still lodged in your throat.

Nightmares like these plagued you every night ever since that day six years ago.

The faint white glow of the clock flickers. Still ten minutes before the alarm. You could lie back down. Pretend you still have rest left to salvage. But you don’t. With a slow exhale, you push off the sheets and swing your legs over the edge of the bed to freshen up for the day.

You stand before the mirror, the sterile light of your quarters casting a cold sheen over the navy blue uniform hanging on the rack. It’s an alien thing, this fabric dyed with the insignia of Lieutenant Colonel — junior adjutants must have slipped it in, replacing the deep, commanding black of your Colonel’s attire like a thief in the night. Your breath catches, a bitter laugh barely contained in your throat. To wear it feels like donning shackles forged from threads of humiliation, each stitch whispering the quiet betrayal of your demotion. The cloth presses against your skin with a strange chill, as if your own flesh rejects the designation sewn into its seams.

Fingers steady, you brush your hair back, eyes locked on the new badges, aiguillette, insignia for the Lieutenant Colonel — these small, ornate emblems, representing your fall from the ranks. You slip into the uniform reluctantly, the stiff collar biting into your neck, the fabric stretching uncomfortably over shoulders that had once borne the weight of command with pride.

Once dressed, your gaze returns to the mirror. Your eyes trace the faint, nearly imperceptible scar just a centimeter below your hairline — a fine, cruel incision, starting from your right side of the forehead and evenly straight till ending at the left side. The scar stirs a sour taste in your mouth, bile rising unbidden as the flood of recollections crashes through your mind. You turn away abruptly, unwilling to confront the ghost reflected back at you.

Your hand moves with practiced ease to the leather holster at your hip, the familiar cold weight of your revolver reassuring against your thigh. It is the only constant in this sea of upheaval, the single thread of power and control left within your grasp.

The corridors outside are slick with metal and light, the hum of cybernetic systems vibrating through the walls like the pulse of some great beast. Your destination: the cyber operations unit, a labyrinthine nexus of screens and servers where information is both weapon and shield.

You made your way to the far left end of the unit, boots dragging a little more than usual, and flopped into a vacant chair without ceremony. The hard metal frame groaned under your weight, but you didn’t care. You leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling for a second before settling on the figure in front of you.

Inez sat behind her monitor, fingers already tapping at the keys, though they slowed when she noticed you. Her station was a clutter of wires, screen glare, and half-drunk energy cans, but she moved through it all like it was second nature. Over the years, she’d become something between a contact and a comrade — always at the backend of your hunts, digging through firewalls when your suspicions flared. She wasn’t flashy, but she was efficient and reliable.

Without looking up, she asked, “Whose data do you want me to pull out?”

You heard the subtle acceleration in her typing as she preemptively started combing the secure archives. Probably backdoor access — she didn’t bother hiding that from you anymore.

“Caleb Xia.”

Her fingers paused and so did her breath.

When she looked at you, it wasn’t confusion — it was quiet scrutiny. You met her stare, no expression, no hesitation. After a beat, she exhaled hard through her nose and muttered, “The new colonel? You think he’s with that organization?”

You rested your chin in one hand, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the edge of her desk. “Involved is too soft a word. He’s probably splitting Friday takeout with the CEO.”

She didn’t laugh. Just gave you the kind of unimpressed look that said she was already regretting asking. But she turned back to her terminal and began pulling records anyway.

“How are you still so sure it’s EVER?” she asked, voice even.

You rolled your eyes and sat up straighter. “Come on, Inez. EVER’s been crawling up the Fleet’s spine for five years. We’ve all felt the shift — ghost promotions, redacted ops, officers disappearing into black-site contracts and never coming back. And now, out of nowhere, an adjutant becomes colonel? Please.”

You leaned back again, letting your shoulders drop. “With the kind of access he has now... If we don’t stop him, we’ll be two steps behind forever. And I don’t intend on being behind. Not this time. Not with him.”

She didn’t argue, just gave a slow, acknowledging nod and kept typing. You watched the flicker of windows open on her screen, one after another.

“Alright,” she murmured, scanning. “No parents and was adopted by a woman named Josephine. She also adopted another girl. Xia’s three years younger than you. Graduated top three from the Aerospace Academy. Did some classified work under DAA for three years before transferring into the Fleet.”

You nodded, distracted, eyes drifting toward the rubik’s cube on her desk. Your hands moved on instinct, twisting colors into place as the room filled with the soft clack of plastic.

Inez's face has gone still — too still. Her fingers hover above the keyboard, frozen in place like they’d hit something sharp in the code, something she hadn’t expected. The steady click of keys has died, replaced by a silence that buzzes louder than any alarm. Her lips press into a thin line, her brows inch together just slightly — enough to make your instincts prickle.

You straighten in the rolling chair, the worn leather creaking under your shifting weight. The rubik’s cube stills in your hand. “What?” you ask, voice low, measured. “What is it?”

Inez’s eyes narrowed, her fingers hovering above the mouse. The glow of her monitor cast thin shadows over her face as she read, lips pressing into a firmer line.

“He has a death certificate attached,” she said, voice clipped, almost skeptical. “Filed by Linkon City Hall. It’s been crossed out now, but the reason listed is an accidental fire at Josephine’s house in the Bloomshore District. His body wasn’t recovered, but he was still declared dead.”

You didn’t stop solving the cube, but your focus had sharpened. Each turn now deliberate.

She continued without prompting. “The certificate was erased from the system last year, after he joined the Fleet as an adjutant. They filed it under document irrelevance. And here’s what’s interesting — before that fire, he worked with DAA. Then he vanishes. After he’s declared alive again, suddenly he’s with Fleet. No in-between. No transit records, no job switches, not even a relocation stamp.”

You finished the cube with a firm twist, all the colors falling neatly into place. A breath left your chest, shallow and unreadable. You placed it back on her desk, standing up with a smooth motion and adjusting your hat like it were a mantle being shifted back into place.

“Thanks for the pull,” you said, tone light but eyes fixed, unreadable.

Inez raised a brow, mildly taken aback by your lack of commentary. “That’s it?” she asked. “What are you gonna do now?”

Your silence lingered for a beat too long, then a slow, cunning smile took your lips. One that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Oh, you know,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeves. “Prod. Put our dear colonel in a spot where the mask slips. See if he holds up when things get... personal.”

You tipped your hat once — a subtle motion to bid her farewell, more habit than flair — and she gave a lazy wave in return, already turning back to her screen as if she hadn’t just handed over the keys to someone’s buried past.

And with that, you turned, your boots thudding against the steel floor as you figured where to locate him.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

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RIKA MY LOVE- I see youre back to writing!!

How have you been? Did the break help as much as you needed?

I'm so happy you're back! (although if you didn't let yourself rest for long enough and still dont feel 100%, I will bully you into taking care of yourself <3)

OH MY GAWD WHATTA DREAM TO BE ADRESSED LIKE THIS

ANON DON'T LET ME FIND YOU OR I'LL SMOTHER YOU IN A MILLION SLOPPY KISSES 🥹 (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡

Thankfully, yes, I've recovered much from writer's block. There's still some works that I find no inspiration for, for example Against Blood & Water, but I'm trying to take one step at a time and let things come easily to me rather than forcing bursts of inspiration. ( ∩´͈ ᐜ `͈∩)

I read everything even if my replies or reblogs are a day late or two. Currently, there's a lot of work piling up since I'm in my final year of college + still undergoing paid internship. But, yeah at least I am sane. (ง ͠ಥ_ಥ)ง

Feel free to bully me whenever you see me going on a coke rant in random notes or stuff lol 😭 My asian mum bullies me into doing things and it has a 💯 success rate istg.

anyways, ILYSM FOR REACHING OUT LIKE I LITERALLY GOT A DOPAMINE OR SEROTONIN BOOST WHEN I SAW THIS (idk I suck at chem) I'M ELATED TO HAVE SWEET STRANGERS LIKE YOU ON THE INTERNET WHO CARE AND IF IT OFFERS U ANY COMFORT I JS GOT A LEAVE APPROVAL THAT I DID NOT ASK FOR FROM MY MANAGER AMIDST THE OFFICE'S HEFTY WORKLOAD, WHY? BECAUSE HE THINKS I'M EXPLORING SURROGACY OPTIONS WHICH IS SUPER EMBARRASING BUT AT LEAST I GET THE LEAVE OKAY I'LL STOP YAPPING

#rika answers ✉#anon if I catch you #consider yourself abducted #cuz ill hold you hostage in my pocket #tysmmmmmmm <♥#maybe the leave will help me relax more #still flushing after remembering the group cheers I got from my team as I saw them off for the weekend #they srsly think things that i think they think

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

Text

Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 5

Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 coming soon

Summary: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. The series has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst? For this chapter: Major character death, torture, immolation, heavy references to blood and betrayal, graphic violence, arson, not myth or timeline accurate, maniacal characters.

Word count: 5k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: IT IS BACK EVERYONE!!!! Shoutout to all who waited patiently and I present you a very long chapter and important to compensate for lost time ;) I've mentioned this before that this series will be a deeper dive into Rafayel's cruel persona and will actually deviate from myths so hope y'all keep this in mind. I had to face so many obstacles to write this because it took me lots of brainstorming to think of the what ifs. Anyway, hopefully, you enjoy the read and stay tuned for the series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Taglist: @loveanddeephistory @ittybittyfanblog @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta @beaconsxd @poptrim @animecrazy76 @zackenblacken @rainycreationfart @invaderzia1 @his-ocean-emissary @multisstuff @wondering-again @some-girl-idk @itsrandompersonyall @plzdonutpercieveme @renchai @mc-cos-charm @lizzyyrawrs @mentaltrouble2201 @jeremywillis @dysphxriaii @paper--angel @bymoonlightfics

The manor that had been arranged for Rafayel to stay in for some time was a far cry from the home he’d known. Rafayel didn’t remember much of the drive there, only the long stretch of winding roads leading him further away from the smoldering wreckage of Mo Art Studio. His mind had been somewhere else, a deep, painful fog that seemed to darken everything in its path. He hadn’t asked for the relocation. But the decision had been made without his input, and he’d accepted it the same way he accepted the news of the fire — without resistance, too numb to care.

The manor sat on another hill overlooking Whitesand Bay, a sweeping view of the sea below, but Rafayel had no desire to look at it today. The water, once a calming reminder of his roots, now felt distant and infuriating. Instead, he sat in the center of the expansive study, staring at the high ceilings, his breath shallow. The space was overwhelming.

Rafayel let out a low exhale and sank into a plush armchair, spinning the chair absentmindedly. His fingers drummed on the armrest, the rhythmic sound filling the air like a ticking clock. Time passed, but nothing seemed to move forward. The anger, simmering beneath the surface, threatened to boil over again, but he clamped down on it.

He couldn’t act recklessly — not yet. He had to be patient. There were details to consider, a plan to form, and the last thing he needed was to lose control now. He needed answers, and he would get them, even if it took everything inside him to stay calm.

And then the door to the manor creaked open. Rafayel didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. His manager’s footsteps were hesitant, Thomas’s head appeared around the corner, his gaze wary, like he was approaching a bomb ready to explode.

“I, uh... I think you’ll want to see this.” Thomas said, his voice tight, as if he were trying to tread carefully. He moved toward Rafayel, a small USB drive held in his hand.

Rafayel didn’t say a word. Thomas’s expression was one of guilt — regret even. He hesitated for a moment, then set the drive on the table in front of Rafayel, as if afraid to get any closer. Without a word, Thomas turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the quiet distance. He didn’t move for a long time. His fingers curled into fists as his eyes stayed fixed on the USB drive. After a few more moments of contemplation, he reached for it. The weight of it felt too small for what it was about to contain.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He shoved the pen drive into his computer, eyes already narrowing, waiting for the inevitable. A file popped up automatically on the screen, and for a moment, his heartbeat stuttered. Surveillance footage.

He clicked on it.

The timestamp on the video read a few hours before the fire. Rafayel leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests tightly, his breath shallow as he watched the grainy footage unfold. The first part was uneventful. A few people walked past the building, chatting or on their phones. He clicked through, fast-forwarding the mundane snippets of time. The room around him was unnervingly silent, save for the occasional hum of his computer and the muffled sound of the sea outside.

And then — there she was.

Mikayla.

At first, the footage showed nothing unusual after her arrival. Mikayla, with her slender frame and determined gait, walking up to the door, stopping to adjust her hair. But then came the unmistakable glint of tools in her hands and a kerosene can beside her legs. A lockpick was delicately wedged into the door. Rafayel’s jaw tightened as he watched Mikayla, the woman he'd once trusted, invade his personal space with cold calculation.

The next few frames were more damning. He saw her slipping inside — the house quiet and empty, as it had been when he’d left. But the silence was broken only by the sound of kerosene splashing. Rafayel’s jaw tightened as he watched her pour it. Everywhere. In the living room. In the hallway.

His eyes blazed with a cold fury, flicking between each camera as she systematically soaked the rooms. Especially the studio. His studio. The place where he'd poured his heart out, the very space where he'd captured you — his muse, his obsession. The portraits of you, unfinished and aching with life, lying there, oblivious to what was coming.

He flicked to the kitchen cam next. She turned on the stove, the flame dancing briefly as she set something near it, perhaps setting it up to ignite the rest of the house. Then, the heaters. One by one, she activated them in rooms scattered throughout the building.

She was ensuring there was no way to contain it, Rafayel thought, anger bubbling in his chest.

The last angle — the yard camera — showed her walking down the pathway, her head held high. And then she stopped. Turned her head slightly, as if to watch her handiwork. And that was the last frame before the fire began to spread. It wasn’t just a spark. It was a rush of fire, a violent wave of heat, starting from the kitchen and spreading like wildfire, engulfing the entire structure.

Rafayel’s vision blazed blue again, the glow so bright it nearly illuminated the room. His hand slammed onto the desk, splintering the silence with a force that felt like it might tear him apart. His teeth gritted as he muttered under his breath, “It was her…”

The revelation hit like a hammer. His mind raced, thoughts colliding, trying to make sense of it all. Why? Why would she do this?

But no matter the reasoning, no matter how many times he replayed it, the truth was simple. Mikayla had burned everything he had ever cared about. She didn’t even consider the effort he had put into his works, or the fact that he cherished Mo as his home to some extent.

His powers flared again as his mind replayed the footage in an endless loop, each time seeing Mikayla’s face, each time imagining her walking away, untouched. But not for long.

She’ll pay.

He stood abruptly, the chair screeching across the floor as he rose. His heart pounded in his ears, as he dialled a number of a person he had kept in the back of his mind all these years. He presses the phone to his ear just as the line connects.

“Amund, it is time.”

Mikayla stood at the edge of the cliffside estate, her figure small against the vast expanse of Whitesand Bay. The wind tugged at the hem of her coat, lifting strands of her hair and carrying them into the salty air. She barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, glassy and unfocused, while her fingers tapped rhythmically against her phone screen — not with intent, but as if driven by muscle memory alone.

She had come here because of a short, cryptic message from Rafayel.

“I need what you’ve kept with you for too long.”

There had been no context, no greeting, just that single line. She had read it twice, then again, confusion twisting into unease. Whatever it meant, she couldn't ignore it. Rafayel didn’t speak in riddles unless there was weight behind them — and lately, his silences carried the mass of a storm.

Her heels had clicked up the stone pathway to the manor only to be met by Thomas. The door cracked open just enough for him to peer out — expression unreadable, lips a straight, disapproving line. His eyes were sunken with fatigue, and something else, something grim: a knowledge he didn’t want to hold.

“Rafayel’s not here,” he’d said curtly.

She opened her mouth, but before she could form a question, he added, “Don’t ask. He disappears like that. Always has.”

Then, without another word, the door had shut. So now she waited. The manor loomed behind her like a sleeping beast — windows tall and dark, its chimneys unmoving against the gray sky. She had texted Rafayel again two minutes ago, asking about his whereabouts and had gotten no reply yet.

Mikayla turned her gaze back to the ocean. It stretched endlessly, a field of rolling steel-blue waves that mirrored the heavy clouds above. Normally, this view brought her peace — the ebb and flow of the tide, the way the sunlight danced on the water’s surface. But today, something was different. The sea was no longer passive. It felt alive.

The wind sharpened, slicing across her cheeks. Down below, the shoreline churned, frothing violently as wave after wave collided with the rocks. The waters had turned from sapphire to slate, turbulent and restless, like a beast pacing within its cage.

Mikayla took a step back instinctively.

A sudden surge of water roared up the beach, crashing toward the cliff’s edge with startling speed. She barely had time to move, stepping sideways as the wave surged close — not quite high enough to drench her, but close enough to spit foam onto her shoes. She glanced down, cursing under her breath, but before the irritation could fully settle, she felt a shift.

It wasn't just a change in tide. It was as if the ocean had decided it no longer wished to sit still. A sudden hush settled, eerily quiet — and then the sea screamed. From the horizon, a towering swell rose, unnaturally fast. A tidal wave, dark as night and crowned with whitecaps like sharpened teeth, hurtled toward the shore. It curved like a spine, arching as if summoned by wrath.

Mikayla’s breath caught. Her feet froze. The sky dimmed as the wall of water rose above her, blotting out what little light remained.

Cold seized her legs first — then her waist, her chest — and then she was under. Dragged violently through the sand and into the frothing embrace of the sea. The world above vanished, replaced by a riot of bubbles, shadow, and cold pressure.

She fought, but it was futile. The ocean didn’t care for struggles. It twisted her limbs, spun her in currents that felt like iron cables wrapping around her. She tried to cry out, but the sea swallowed her voice.

Her fingers slackened. Her limbs, once flailing, drifted like ribbons in the dark. The light overhead — distant and warbled — faded until she could no longer tell up from down.

And far above, on the cliffs of Whitesand Bay, the sea hissed against the rocks, retreating slowly — as if it had claimed what it came for, and was now satisfied.

Mikayla blinked against the watery haze, slowly regaining control of her senses. She realized her wrists and ankles were bound, held by coils of glowing kelp-like chain, pulsing faintly in the water’s ethereal light. She opened her eyes, and the sight that greeted her stole the breath she hadn’t even known she could draw underwater.

The world around her shimmered with an otherworldly sheen — an ancient ruin, bathed in bioluminescent blues and deep violets, its crumbled stone columns etched with unfamiliar symbols. Coral bloomed from broken walls, and strange, luminous fish swam between the gaps like wandering thoughts.

And then it struck her.

She had seen this place before — not once, but countless times in dreams, always out of reach. And now, she was here.

As Mikayla’s thoughts scrambled to make sense of it all, a dark silhouette stretched across the ocean floor, and her body tensed. She raised her head instinctively, eyes adjusting to the approaching figure, and there — just a few feet away — was Rafayel.

Her initial tension dissolved into fragile relief.

“Rafayel,” she breathed, her voice soft, the sound somehow carrying through the water as clearly as it would on land. Seeing him — a familiar face in a sea of the surreal — steadied her, if only for a moment. “What is this place? Why are we here…? Is it some wanderer’s effect?”

She expected a trace of warmth in his eyes or a sarcastic quip. But none came.

Instead, he stopped before her, his presence impossibly still. Up close, she could see how changed he was — how far from the man she remembered. His usually dusky eyes were now a luminous ultramarine, glowing with a quiet, alien intensity. Fins, translucent and glimmering, curved elegantly along the shell of his ears, and scaled patterns — the same deep blue — trailed from beneath his jaw down his throat, disappearing under the folds of his garments. But more than his appearance, it was his expression that pierced her the most.

From the edge of her vision, she noticed another figure — an old man watching from behind one of the shattered columns. His expression twisted into a sneer the moment their eyes met, his amusement thinly veiled. He didn’t speak, but the mockery in his gaze said enough.

“You thought I would remain in the dark?” He said, voice as steady as stone, yet heavy with restrained fury. “You thought, perhaps, I wouldn’t find the person who was the cause of the absolute desecration of everything I ever built?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her tone still confused but shifting — touched with a thread of caution.

“You set sanctuary aflame, destroyed my life’s work.” His voice didn’t rise, but each word landed like a drop of molten lead. “You chose to destroy what you never had the patience to understand.”

The girl who had blinked at him with confusion only moments ago began to fade as something in her shifted. She clicked her tongue, her eyes narrowing. The softness drained from her features, replaced by a steely indifference. Her shoulders lifted with a breathless huff, chin tipping upward.

“Ah,” she murmured, her voice now cool and unhurried. “So you did find out.”

She tilted her head toward the chains binding her. “So that’s the reason I’m here, then? You believe a cage will humble me?” She gave a half-laugh — not mocking, but disdainful. “I won’t be treated like this, Rafayel. Not by you.”

“You speak as though you still have the right to be offended,” he said. “As though betrayal gives you the high ground.”

The water between them seemed to pulse with tension. Rafayel’s face twitched, barely — just enough to betray the tempest beneath the stillness. He turned from her, walking slowly toward the crumbled remains of a podium, his hands clasped behind his back like a judge before the verdict. He stood there for a breath and then turned to face her again.

“Although, you’re right,” he said, voice edged with cruel irony. “You’re my guest in the Island of Songs. I should be offering you hospitality.” He smiled, but it was simply a hollow curve of the mouth. “We’re close, aren’t we? You deserve the best.”

He paused, and the chains around her responded before he gave them voice. Her eyes widened a fraction as the bindings cinched tighter. The pressure multiplied, slamming against her skin, her bones. Mikayla hissed through her teeth, pain lancing through her limbs as the magical restraints dug deep into her.

She struggled, chest heaving, the sting of betrayal blooming sharper than any wound.

"Rafayel—"

Amund’s footsteps echoed solemnly against the sea-glass tiles of the submerged ruin as he approached Rafayel with measured grace. In his hands, he cradled something wrapped in silk — an object so sacred that even the coral seemed to lean away from it, as though aware of its resonance. With reverence, the old man drew back the translucent cloth to reveal a ceremonial dagger. Its blade shimmered with an unnatural luminance, forged from a metal no surface-world forge had ever touched — a sleek, obsidian-sheened platinum veined with veins of soft violet glow, like lightning locked in ice. The hilt curved like the spine of a mythical sea-serpent, etched in Lemurian runes that pulsed faintly as if they were breathing.

Rafayel stood silently, hands open and steady, accepting the dagger with both palms outstretched. The moment it touched his skin, the runes began to burn brighter, their glow syncing with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Amund muttered in Lemurian, each syllable stirring unseen forces in the depths around them.

Rafayel turned, his gaze settled once more on Mikayla.

She hung suspended in the enchanted chains, arms spread slightly from her sides, her body bowed by the pressure of their grip. The kelp-like bonds writhed faintly, as though aware of their victim’s pain and drawing nourishment from it. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, each one a ragged effort. Her eyes, though glassy with strain, still held defiance — but it was a dying flame.

“How does it feel?” he asked, his voice velvet-wrapped iron. He let his lips curl into a smile that bore no warmth, only satisfaction. “Come on, Mikayla. Tolerate it. So much worse is still to come.”

The chains pulsed tighter in response and she hissed, blood blooming like scarlet ink in the water, curling in gentle spirals as if even her agony had been choreographed. Her voice broke as she choked out, “What do you want?”

Rafayel didn’t answer immediately. He began to walk toward her, stopping only inches from her, crouching slightly so that their eyes met. He lifted the dagger between them, tilting it gently so the gleam of its edge traced the outline of her cheek. The blade didn’t touch her, but it sang — a high, aching frequency that made her teeth ache.

“I want your heart,” he said softly. Then he chuckled, dry and unkind, before letting the hilt fall into a loose grip. He drew his free hand across his face in mock frustration, as though catching himself in a minor social faux pas.

“Oh — sorry,” he said with mocking sweetness. “My heart, actually.”

Mikayla’s face contorted with disbelief, color rising high on her cheeks even as the cold currents tried to drain the warmth from her skin. Her voice cracked as it rose into a scream, her words laced with venom and heartbreak.

“All this — all this — for a woman you don’t even know. A woman who doesn’t exist, Rafayel!”

Rafayel didn’t flinch. Instead, he chuckled mirthlessly, his eyes, still pulsing with that ultramarine glow, glinted with something unrecognizable to the man she once knew.

“Oh, but I do know her,” he stated, voice silked with certainty. “And she’s not just any woman, believe me.”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully with the tip of the ceremonial dagger, an idle gesture made cruel by the context — as if he were pondering nothing more serious than a piece of music or a half-finished poem. Mikayla’s breath caught as she watched him. She’s not real, her mind screamed. But he wasn’t hearing that now. He wasn’t hearing her at all.

He continued, voice almost pleasant: “And you don’t have to worry about whether I’ll meet her or not. After today,” — his smile widened, predatory — “you can be most certain that I will.”

“Although…” He tilted his head, feigning regret. “I can’t guarantee you’ll live to witness that.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. For the first time, real fear bloomed in her chest. Not the fear of pain — no, she had endured that and more — but the fear of being forgotten. Of being eclipsed in the heart of a man who had once refused to stop seeing her, even when she pushed him away again and again. The man who once poured himself into painting her shadows now looked through her as though she were just another ruin left behind.

And this — this — over a fantasy? A woman who lived only in his brushstrokes and canvases?

Her eyes burned as angry, spiteful tears spilled into the water, turning her vision into a blur of motion and light. Her heart screamed against itself — against the punishment now being dealt by her own hands, from choices she had long buried beneath indifference and superiority.

But there was still one card left to play.

With trembling strength, she raised her chin. Her jaw was set, her voice breathy but resolute. She summoned power from the marrow of her bones, from the bond he had made with her long ago beneath moonlit tides.

Her voice struck through the water like a divine command:

“With the authority granted to me by the Ocean’s Covenant,” she began, gritting her teeth, “I order you to erase that wo—”

She never finished.

Rafayel spun. In an instant, the casual cruelty was gone — replaced by a sharp, ruthless urgency. The blade flashed through the water like a bolt of light summoned from the seabed, and in a single fluid motion, he swung the dagger toward her with terrifying precision. Her eyes widened and the words on her tongue dissolved like salt. A current followed in the weapon’s wake, rippling out like a shockwave.

The dagger sang through the water as it arced downward, and in a blink — before Mikayla could finish her forbidden command — the blade severed her tongue.

A rush of crimson bloomed, then disappeared into the depths in whorls of blood-tinged silence. No scream followed. There was only the choked gasp of a body shocked beyond endurance, and the widening of her eyes — first in disbelief, then in searing agony.

Her voice, the very instrument of her power, was gone.

Forever.

Rafayel stood over her, breathing slowly as the runes along the dagger’s hilt pulsed brighter, feeding on the severed command, on the fractured spell still echoing in the current like a fading heartbeat. The silence that followed was immense — not merely the absence of sound, but the suppression of something sacred. Mikayla’s breath trembled in short, helpless bursts as her blood mingled with the salt of the sea, her limbs twitching against the binds that refused to release her.

Rafayel’s face twisted, not in anger — but in disgust.

“Had I known you’d fall to this level…” he murmured, his voice a low thunder, rumbling with grief barely leashed beneath the fury. “Compelling me to forget something I held dear… to erase her from my soul…”

He stepped closer, the dagger still glowing faintly, its edge now marked with the remnants of her blood. His voice grew colder, more distant, as though each word was dragged from the bones of a long-dead truth.

“I should’ve never given you my heart. And to think—” he stopped, the weight of it pressing on him. His jaw clenched. “To think I sacrificed Lemuria for you.”

Mikayla's breath hitched as her eyes locked on him, still burning with a thousand unsaid pleas — for mercy, for reason, for some last tether to the man she once knew. But he no longer saw her as Mikayla. Not truly. She was just a traitor now, not his bride.

Rafayel raised the dagger high once more, but this time it was not meant to cut flesh. He brought it down slowly, deliberately, to the center of her chest — and instead of slicing skin, the blade carved through the metaphysical boundary of her being, opening a cavity not of blood and bone, but of essence.

A jagged rift shimmered into being — pulsing with threads of glowing blue, violet, and red, flickering like an aurora within her sternum. From this impossible wound, an orb of soft, flickering flame revealed itself — no larger than a closed fist, yet radiating with the terrible and beautiful force of something eternal.

It floated from her chest as if it knew its path.

Rafayel’s eyes reflected its light as he reached out, hands no longer trembling. The orb hovered above his palms for a heartbeat — two — as if weighing the soul of the man who dared claim it.

And then, with silent understanding, it sank into him.

The moment it touched his chest, it melted through flesh and fabric, embedding itself into the very core of his being. The reaction was instant. His body arched as the energy surged through him like a storm birthed in the marrow of the world. His spine illuminated with runic fire, fins along his ears flared wide and crystalline, and the scales along his neck shimmered into new patterns — no longer muted blue, but radiant indigo marked with gold.

A shockwave burst outward, distorting the water around them, shaking the coral, and splitting the stone at the base of the ruined altar behind them. Even Amund, watching from the shadows, took an instinctive step back, eyes narrowed as he whispered, “He’s ascended…”

Raw power now pulsed from Rafayel’s core, and the ruins seemed to hum in reverence. Mikayla sagged in her binds, eyes fluttering weakly. The mythical process that severed the eternal flame from its host was not instantaneous — nor painless. It gave her a few more moments. Just enough to feel what she had lost.

Rafayel approached her one last time, his steps leaving trails of light in the water. He crouched before her, calm now — like the sea after the storm, deceptively quiet.

His hand reached forward and gripped her chin, lifting her face gently but with finality.

“Time for you to pay fairly,” he said, his voice a cold psalm, spoken not out of hatred, but of necessity. “For what you’ve done.”

Her form, once sharp with pride, now trembled — not because she feared death, but because, in the final throes of her fading consciousness, she finally understood the cost of betrayal. Mikayla’s body convulsed as the last vestiges of her strength failed her. The chains no longer bound her in struggle, but in surrender. Her hollow eyes — drenched in unshed agony — met Rafayel’s one final time, pleading not for mercy, but for comprehension. But none was offered.

Tears welled and broke like bubbles drifting upward through the water as flames, unnatural and divine, began to kindle across Rafayel’s fingertips. He had no need to speak. The flames leapt from his hands like serpents of gold and blue, wrapping around Mikayla’s form in elegant cruelty. No ordinary fire could ignite beneath the ocean, but this was no earthly blaze. It was born of soul and sanctity — the wrath of Lemuria made manifest. It embraced her not with warmth, but with righteous fury, consuming the very foundation of what she was.

Mikayla did not scream. She could not. She simply wept as her form disintegrated into ash — ash that refused to scatter, instead crumbling downward like dust returning to the bones of the drowned.

And then there was silence. A silence so full it seemed even the water paused in reverence.

Amund stepped forward from the shadows, his expression unreadable, though his gaze lingered on the scorched shimmer that marked the spot where she had perished. He placed a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder without speaking, a gesture that acknowledged both the weight of what had been done — and the necessity of it.

Together, they turned from the ruins, leaving behind the last stain of Lemuria’s greatest betrayer.

The journey back to Whalefall City was quiet. But the city… was no longer what it once was. As they approached the oceanic capital of his kingdom, Rafayel saw it — the rebirth of Lemuria.

The shattered temples, once drowned and crumbling, were reforming. Coral wrapped around fractured columns, singing in strange frequencies, pulling ancient stones into place. Obelisks that had stood silent for centuries now hummed with light, their glyphs blazing once more with Lemurian. Schools of ethereal fish circled upward like garlands, drawn like celebrants in a holy procession.

The Temple, the very core of Lemuria, awaited them. Its ruined spires rose, healed, and reached like arms toward the surface, weeping with moss and gold. As they arrived at the gates, Amund — his weathered face now alight with reverence — bowed deeply and stepped aside, his voice barely a whisper: "Only Your Quintessence may enter now. This miracle… it belongs to you.”

Rafayel nodded once and crossed the threshold.

The inside was luminous and still. Water hung like silk, unmoving, as if the temple had claimed time itself and refused to let it pass. He followed the central aisle — flanked by statues of his predecessors, their eyes shut in peaceful slumber — until he reached the alcove at the altar’s heart.

From within his hands, he drew the eternal flame — now diminished to the size of a small ember, flickering softly in his palm. He crouched, bowed his head, and placed it upon the pedestal.

For a breath, nothing happened.

Then — the ember pulsed. Once. Twice. And with the third pulse, the entire temple came alive.

Light exploded outward in waves, weaving through the chamber like ink dropped in still water. The runes ignited along the floors and walls, and the Deep Sea responded with a low, harmonious thrum, a sound not heard since eons.

Outside, the ocean itself shifted. Not with violence — but with serenity. A warmth, impossible in these depths, spread through the waters like a returning soul. Lemuria had awakened. Its people would no longer wander as ghosts.

Rafayel turned to the temple doors, where he saw them — the last of Lemuria’s kin, drawn by instinct and magic. Faces he had long forgotten. Elders, children, warriors, lost souls. They were all there.

Some knelt. Others reached toward the light in awe, tears cutting silent trails through the saltwater. And then came the music — sung by the entirety of them in Lemurian, the underwater hymn rising from the marrow of the city itself. They rejoiced in their own way of the return of the God of the Seas.

Rafayel watched, standing still among their joy. And though his face held the composure of a guardian, his heart wavered. He glanced to his side, to the place where he would’ve made you stand.

You were the thread that bound him to his purpose — his muse, his savior, his epiphany. And now, with Lemuria’s resurrection and unlocking his true potential, he would find you. Beyond time and dimension, beyond even mortality if he must.

He would bring you here — beside him — to see the joy you inspired. And for the first time in centuries, Rafayel smiled — not with burden, nor sorrow, but hope.

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#got me giggling after I find out that this is your fav raf fic (๑>؂•̀๑)#TYSMMM EMMY MWAHHH ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡#I'm a little proud to know I can write foreshadowing and suspense well enough hehe #Raf is a strong man #he'll soon become reader's strong man #Me and my unsolved beef with naming all the psychotic MCs Mikayla lolololol #oops that's a spoiler for another story(ies) lol #self rb

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

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Terms & Conditions Apply | Sylus

Prologue I Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 dropping on 10 July

Summary: What begins as a financial lifeline quickly transforms into an emotional labyrinth once you agree to become both the surrogate and ova donor for the Qin family. With an entire year remaining under their roof, you begin to unravel the hidden truths behind their seemingly perfect façade. Worse still, you find yourself confronted with things that were never outlined in the terms and conditions.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: Violence, mentions of guns and blood, injury to main character, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of miscarriage, some ooc characters, mild angst.

Word count: 2.9k

Notes: This won't have a schedule at least until Interdimensional Epiphany ends. This series can be considered an alternate universe because Sylus has no powers in this but still runs a criminal organization, and he and MC are married. But there's no change in the characters or places. Also, no-one come at me for encouraging affair, I'm not. You're just saying that because you don't know what will happen later into the plot, I do. So, trust me on this. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy this and decide to tune in for the series. My asks are open if you wish to know more about this series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this ♥

You're seated in a recliner that smells faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish, its synthetic leather squeaking beneath your shifting weight. The room is quiet, almost too quiet, save for the steady tick of the wall clock overhead and the distant hum of air conditioning pushing recycled calm into sterile corners. You glance down at the folder resting in your lap, its corners slightly dog-eared from nervous fidgeting. The gynecologist’s findings were conclusive: you’re in excellent reproductive health. The report, thick with clinical jargon, has been marked with a bright orange sticker instructing you to share it with the psychologist for a full-profile assessment.

Earlier this morning, a driver, polite, and clearly instructed not to talk unless spoken to,had arrived this morning to collect you in a black luxury sedan. He told you, rather matter-of-factly, that Mikayla had arranged and prepaid the day’s medical tests. You hadn’t seen her or Sylus since the early morning check-in, assuming that they’d arrive later when they were needed.

The door swings open, and in steps the psychologist — Dr. Hayley, according to her name tag — her demeanor brisk but not unfriendly. She is followed by the Qins. Mikayla enters first, her presence like a fresh breeze cutting through the room’s sterilized stillness. She’s clad in a pastel yellow summer gown that drapes around her like liquid sunshine and her hair is pinned up carelessly, a few curls escaping to frame her face in soft spirals. She smiles at you, and it’s warm enough to melt the tension in your shoulders, if only just.

Sylus trails behind her, an opposing force entirely. Dressed in a black button-down tucked neatly into tailored charcoal slacks, he carries his blazer folded over one forearm like a knight entering court. When his crimson eyes pass over you, he doesn’t even bother with a nod.

You’re starting to feel underdressed now in front of people of such stature. Makes you wonder again why they chose you among a million other options.

Dr. Hayley greets you with a polite nod, then motions for the Qins to take a seat on the adjacent couch and they settle in quietly. Mikayla perches on the edge, hands folded in her lap while Sylus sits back with one leg crossed over the other, his gaze dropping to examine his manicured nails.

The psychologist settles beside you and clicks her pen with a crisp finality. “Ready for evaluations?” she asks, her tone efficient.

You nod once, pulling yourself upright and crossing your legs to ground yourself.

She begins with a simple, pointed question: “Are you comfortable being both the egg donor and the surrogate? Won’t the genetic tie make letting go more difficult?”

You pause, crafting your words carefully. “I’m comfortable,” you say, voice even. “I’ve reached a point in life where stability outweighs sentiment. I’m not searching for roots or relationships. I know myself well enough to say that any emotional attachment — genetic or otherwise — won’t interfere. I love children, just... not when they’re mine.”

Dr. Hayley doesn’t smile, but her pen moves swiftly across the page. You glance sideways and see Mikayla giving you a discreet thumbs up, eyes bright with approval. You resist the twitch of a smile. Sylus hasn’t moved an inch —still languid in his seat, his fingers now idle — but when you glance his way, his eyes lock with yours. You feel the weight of his gaze, waiting for you to take one misstep. You shift your focus back to the doctor quickly, pulse skipping.

“Do you have a partner? Any family?” she asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

She makes another note, then picks up the medical folder from your lap and flips through it silently.

“I understand the important documents are already signed,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Your health is more than sufficient. If, during the surrogacy, complications arise — would you consider abortion or selective reduction?”

You inhale, slowly. “I wouldn’t default to either,” you admit. “I understand the need for caution, and I won’t be reckless, but I won’t make a choice that feels wrong for me. I’ll weigh it, but my instinct is to persevere unless I’m absolutely sure I can’t.”

A soft hum leaves Dr. Halden’s lips, contemplative, as her pen resumes its dance. The silence stretches comfortably now, filled only by the scratch of ink and the gentle rustle of paper.

“Now, some questions for you, Mr. and Mrs. Qin,” she begins after turning to them. “Why have you chosen genetic surrogacy instead of gestational surrogacy?”

For the first time since entering the room, Mikayla falters. It’s subtle — the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Her hands, previously clasped neatly in her lap, tense ever so slightly. You watch her inhale, lips parting as if she means to speak, but no words come. Sylus answers for her.

“We’re both fertile,” he begins, his voice refined like aged scotch. “But biologically incompatible.”

He speaks with the precision of someone who’s rehearsed this — who’s had to say it more times than he’d be willing to. “We discovered this the hard way,” he continues, “after my wife suffered an early miscarriage. Tests revealed that while our individual fertility is intact, my DNA is highly fragmented, and her body rejects any embryo we create together. That is why we’re opting for the traditional route since it is the only way forward.”

Mikayla, back to herself now, gives a small nod, the corners of her mouth lifting in a soft, solemn attempt at composure. The expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The doctor nods, scribbles something, and then moves on, asking a string of questions you barely register — income brackets, family support, post-birth intentions. Your eyes wander back to Mikayla, who now sits with her back a touch straighter, answering with careful sincerity while Sylus remains still as though nothing in this world could ruffle his tailored veneer.

Then comes the question that grips your attention in a chokehold.

“If your surrogate undergoes complications during delivery,” Dr. Hayley asks plainly, “who would you choose to save — the surrogate or the child?”

Time halts for a beat too long. Sylus doesn’t blink. “The child,” he says instantly. His tone holds all the warmth of a winter stone.

Your breath catches slightly, but what pierces deeper is Mikayla’s silence. She doesn’t speak nor looks at you. Just lowers her eyes and folds her hands tighter, as if her silence might soften his words by omission.

Dr. Hayley’s brow furrows. “Why so, Mr. Qin? The surrogate is under your care throughout the duration of this process. Isn’t her life a priority as well?”

Sylus leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the couch’s armrest as he taps a single finger there in quiet rhythm.

“She is,” he agrees evenly. “But this agreement exists because we are all united in our pursuit of a single purpose: the child. If, god forbid, such a moment comes... our choice would be the one we’ve invested our lives into creating. I believe our surrogate herself would understand — perhaps even agree.”

He glances toward you again, crimson eyes watching far too closely and you are a second too late to veil the conflict reflecting in your eyes. You curse under your breath, knowing that he has caught on. “It is only natural to choose the one who is yours.”

The words linger like smoke in your lungs. You know this is logical. You signed the contract and knew the risks. You are the vessel, not the destination. Still, something about hearing it aloud so easily nicks a nerve you weren’t expecting to bleed. You try not to look at either of them as your throat tightens. You clear it instead, forcing your voice into something steady.

“I mean, yeah,” you say, eyes fixed on the floor’s muted beige. “That’s what’s outlined in the terms and conditions which I... agreed to.”

You offer a small shrug, as if it’s nothing. As if your body isn’t tensing like a pulled thread that might unravel at any second. You’re not sure if the hurt came from the decision itself or from how swiftly they made it.

Dr. Hayley observes you a moment longer than is comfortable, then jots down a few more lines in her pad. You wonder if she’s writing down your answer — or the observation that your fingers are now wringing the hem of your sleeve like it’s your only anchor.

The session begins to wind down, the questions tapering into logistics and schedules. Mikayla eventually offers you a smile, tender and apologetic, as if it could patch over the earlier silence. Sylus says nothing else, and you don’t offer another glance in his direction.

“Very well,” she says as she stands, smoothing her blouse. “I’ll send both the gynecologist and my reports and within some time, I’ll come back with the compiled evaluations if everything is fit to go. You’ll receive a schedule and begin hormone treatment soon after.”

Dr. Hayley bids you farewell and shakes hands with the couple. As you and the couple step into the sterile corridor outside his office, the fluorescent lights above hum with their usual artificial buzz, and for a moment, everything feels normal. Just as you are all walking out of the consultation room, a deafening gunshot fractures the calm. The sterile halls of the hospital shudder with its echo, and within seconds, a crescendo of terrified screams rises as panic erupts like wildfire. Doctors abandon their charts, nurses duck behind trolleys, and patients flee in every direction.

From the far end of the corridor, a group of armed men in tactical black emerge, their faces obscured by balaclavas, their boots thundering against the linoleum. They carry military-grade rifles, held with the familiarity of killers. Without a word, they herd everyone into the central lobby, corralling patients, doctors, and staff alike into a trembling huddle. They keep their guns pointed at the people, fingers curled tight around triggers. You’re swept with the crowd into the lobby, your heart thudding erratically. This isn’t random, it’s orchestrated.

A man steps forward from the group of assailants. He’s built like a hammer — broad shoulders, square jaw, his stance full of barely restrained aggression. Unlike the others, he wears a dark shirt bearing a crudely-stitched gang emblem. His voice rips through the panic.

"Sylus Qin!" he bellows, his eyes scanning the crowd. "You treacherous bastard. You really thought you could cross our boss and disappear like a ghost? Step out. Now. Or I swear on his name, I’ll put a bullet through every skull in this room.”

The words hang in the air like poison. You barely have time to process what’s just been said — Sylus Qin, the man you had just agreed to become a surrogate for, is apparently entangled in something far more lethal than his façade of a wealthy, aloof exterior let on. And then he moves.

Sylus steps forward with a calm that is unnerving. His face is unreadable, but there is a smoldering fire behind his crimson eyes. With a slow precision, he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up to the elbows, exposing forearms marred with faint scars and veins.

“So desperate theatrics is what he’s indulging into lately?” His voice is smooth, but laced with a cutting edge.

In a blur, he steps into the leader’s space, striking the man’s rifle upward with the heel of his palm. The gun clangs out of the man’s grasp. Before the leader can register the disarm, Sylus lands a brutal right hook across his jaw — the crunch of bone audible even over the gasps of the crowd. The gang insignia bearer crumples without resistance. The others hesitate — but only for a moment before charging at him.

Five of them fan out, rifles raised, but Sylus is already in motion. He dives forward, low and fast, sweeping the legs out from the closest attacker. As the man falls, Sylus grabs his rifle mid-air, twists it around, and slams the butt into another soldier’s knee, shattering it with a wet pop. The scream is short-lived — Sylus spins, driving his fist into the man’s throat. He collapses like a puppet with severed strings.

Another aims for Sylus’ chest. Sylus twists, grabs the barrel, and shoves it upward as the rifle discharges. The bullet punctures the ceiling. He twists the weapon from the attacker’s grasp and uses it like a club, knocking out the man beside him with a single, controlled swing.

Bullets slice through the lobby — glass shatters, potted plants explode into leaves and soil, and the pristine reception desk is torn apart by stray fire. Shards of glass rain down like jagged confetti.

By now, the floor is littered with groaning bodies, broken rifles, and blood — not Sylus'.

And in the midst of it all—a child.

You see him in your peripheral vision. A boy, no older than five, bolts from beneath a gurney someone had shoved him under. Hands pressed to his ears, tears streaking down his cheeks, he runs blindly toward his mother’s voice—soft and desperate amidst the chaos.

Then you see a soldier, bloodied but still conscious, leveling his rifle at Sylus, his finger twitching on the trigger. Sylus hurls a body at the shooter. The impact jolts the rifle, and the bullet veers—

Straight toward the boy.

You don’t think. You act.

Your body throws itself forward, a desperate burst of adrenaline and instinct. You crash into the child, wrapping him tightly in your arms as the bullet whistles past and grazes your left temple. Pain sears through you like fire, blood running hot down your face.

You don’t even notice Sylus spinning around.

The shooter who fired doesn’t get another breath — Sylus lunges with a feral rage, tackling the man, and without mercy, snaps his neck with a sickening crack. Silence reigns for a moment. Then, the final soldier falls. The air vibrates with the aftershock of what just happened.

Police sirens wail in the distance, faint but growing louder. Someone must have managed to call them.

You sit with your back against a wall, your pulse thunderous in your ears. Your arms release the child when you hear his mother cry his name. He stumbles away from you, unharmed. You’re thankful — but the world is beginning to blur, your head heavy, vision dim.

Staff moved quickly and quietly, their faces pale but focused. Some were assessing structural damage — checking for what could still be saved. Others tended to the injured who, like you, were caught in the crossfire.

You watch through hazy eyes as Mikayla speaks with arriving officers, briefing them on the situation. That surprises you — her husband a criminal, yet she speaks to law enforcement with familiarity, even authority. Strange.

A nurse hurries toward you with a first aid kit. But before she can reach you, Sylus intercepts her, takes the kit from her hands, and kneels at your side. He’s bleeding ten times more than you — gashes down his forearms, a nasty cut above his brow, yet he focuses only on you. He’s breathing hard, but his hands are steady as he unzips the kit and pulls out antiseptic, gauze, and cotton.

His hand is deft as he presses antiseptic-soaked cotton to your wound. You wince as the sting cuts through your skin like ice.

“You realize what you just did, don’t you?” His fingers work to bandage your wound. "You realize you threw yourself in front of a kid right before you're supposed to carry mine. What am I supposed to expect later — suicidal heroics every trimester?"

You can’t help the soft groan that escapes you — whether from the pain or the sharpness of his words, you’re not sure. Your shoulders slump, the weight of pain and exhaustion finally pulling you downward. Darkness presses at the edges of your vision, warm and inviting, and your eyelids begin to flutter shut.

Sylus's free hand rests against your arm, and his fingers tap rhythmically giving a silent command: stay awake. It’s not gentle, but it’s grounding — like an anchor in the spiraling fog trying to drag you under. And somehow, that small, repetitive motion is enough to keep your consciousness tethered to the present.

And you answer, breathing shallow but voice steady.“You can expect that if your child’s ever in danger... I won’t hesitate to protect them. Just like I did for that one.”

Sylus’s hands pause, the bandage halfway tied. His gaze pierces into yours, unreadable. “That one wasn’t yours.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering despite your fading strength. “Didn’t have to be.”

There it is — the difference between you, etched like a scar. He sees lives as assets, threats, liabilities. You see them as something else entirely. You don’t need a blood tie or legal bond to see worth in innocence, to feel protective of it.

He finishes tying the bandage. His crimson gaze drifts over your face — searching, as if trying to unravel you. He scans your face, then the rest of you, ensuring you’ve taken no further damage. His gaze lingers a moment longer than expected.

A loose curl falls over your cheek. His fingers twitch — then reach. He brushes the curl back, tucking it behind your ear with an unlikely gentleness that startles you more than the violence he showed ever could. You blink, caught off guard.

“This part wasn’t outlined in the terms and conditions.” Your voice is weak, laced with wry humor.

There’s a flicker, barely there, but his lips twitch in something resembling a smirk. It's gone in a blink.

“Couldn’t risk an infection,” he mutters, tone neutral, brushing imaginary dust from your cheek as if to mask the gesture.

Your head lolls slightly and the last thing you remember is being lifted up before you surrender to sleep.

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rika-mmendmethings · 1 month ago

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Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 5

Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 coming soon

Word count: 5k

Playlist coming soon.

Taglist: @loveanddeephistory @ittybittyfanblog @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta @beaconsxd @poptrim @animecrazy76 @zackenblacken @rainycreationfart @invaderzia1 @his-ocean-emissary @multisstuff @wondering-again @some-girl-idk @itsrandompersonyall @plzdonutpercieveme @renchai @mc-cos-charm @mentaltrouble2201 @jeremywillis @dysphxriaii @paper--angel @bymoonlightfics @lizzyyrawrs

“I, uh... I think you’ll want to see this.” Thomas said, his voice tight, as if he were trying to tread carefully. He moved toward Rafayel, a small USB drive held in his hand.

He clicked on it.

And then — there she was.

Mikayla.

She was ensuring there was no way to contain it, Rafayel thought, anger bubbling in his chest.

The revelation hit like a hammer. His mind raced, thoughts colliding, trying to make sense of it all. Why? Why would she do this?

His powers flared again as his mind replayed the footage in an endless loop, each time seeing Mikayla’s face, each time imagining her walking away, untouched. But not for long.

She’ll pay.

“Amund, it is time.”

She had come here because of a short, cryptic message from Rafayel.

“I need what you’ve kept with you for too long.”

“Rafayel’s not here,” he’d said curtly.

She opened her mouth, but before she could form a question, he added, “Don’t ask. He disappears like that. Always has.”

Mikayla took a step back instinctively.

Mikayla’s breath caught. Her feet froze. The sky dimmed as the wall of water rose above her, blotting out what little light remained.

Her fingers slackened. Her limbs, once flailing, drifted like ribbons in the dark. The light overhead — distant and warbled — faded until she could no longer tell up from down.

And far above, on the cliffs of Whitesand Bay, the sea hissed against the rocks, retreating slowly — as if it had claimed what it came for, and was now satisfied.

And then it struck her.

She had seen this place before — not once, but countless times in dreams, always out of reach. And now, she was here.

Her initial tension dissolved into fragile relief.

She expected a trace of warmth in his eyes or a sarcastic quip. But none came.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her tone still confused but shifting — touched with a thread of caution.

“Ah,” she murmured, her voice now cool and unhurried. “So you did find out.”

“You speak as though you still have the right to be offended,” he said. “As though betrayal gives you the high ground.”

She struggled, chest heaving, the sting of betrayal blooming sharper than any wound.

"Rafayel—"

Rafayel turned, his gaze settled once more on Mikayla.

“Oh — sorry,” he said with mocking sweetness. “My heart, actually.”

“All this — all this — for a woman you don’t even know. A woman who doesn’t exist, Rafayel!”

Rafayel didn’t flinch. Instead, he chuckled mirthlessly, his eyes, still pulsing with that ultramarine glow, glinted with something unrecognizable to the man she once knew.

“Oh, but I do know her,” he stated, voice silked with certainty. “And she’s not just any woman, believe me.”

“Although…” He tilted his head, feigning regret. “I can’t guarantee you’ll live to witness that.”

And this — this — over a fantasy? A woman who lived only in his brushstrokes and canvases?

But there was still one card left to play.

Her voice struck through the water like a divine command:

“With the authority granted to me by the Ocean’s Covenant,” she began, gritting her teeth, “I order you to erase that wo—”

She never finished.

The dagger sang through the water as it arced downward, and in a blink — before Mikayla could finish her forbidden command — the blade severed her tongue.

Her voice, the very instrument of her power, was gone.

Forever.

Rafayel’s face twisted, not in anger — but in disgust.

“I should’ve never given you my heart. And to think—” he stopped, the weight of it pressing on him. His jaw clenched. “To think I sacrificed Lemuria for you.”

It floated from her chest as if it knew its path.

Rafayel’s eyes reflected its light as he reached out, hands no longer trembling. The orb hovered above his palms for a heartbeat — two — as if weighing the soul of the man who dared claim it.

And then, with silent understanding, it sank into him.

Rafayel approached her one last time, his steps leaving trails of light in the water. He crouched before her, calm now — like the sea after the storm, deceptively quiet.

His hand reached forward and gripped her chin, lifting her face gently but with finality.

“Time for you to pay fairly,” he said, his voice a cold psalm, spoken not out of hatred, but of necessity. “For what you’ve done.”

Mikayla did not scream. She could not. She simply wept as her form disintegrated into ash — ash that refused to scatter, instead crumbling downward like dust returning to the bones of the drowned.

And then there was silence. A silence so full it seemed even the water paused in reverence.

Together, they turned from the ruins, leaving behind the last stain of Lemuria’s greatest betrayer.

The journey back to Whalefall City was quiet. But the city… was no longer what it once was. As they approached the oceanic capital of his kingdom, Rafayel saw it — the rebirth of Lemuria.

Rafayel nodded once and crossed the threshold.

From within his hands, he drew the eternal flame — now diminished to the size of a small ember, flickering softly in his palm. He crouched, bowed his head, and placed it upon the pedestal.

For a breath, nothing happened.

Then — the ember pulsed. Once. Twice. And with the third pulse, the entire temple came alive.

Rafayel watched, standing still among their joy. And though his face held the composure of a guardian, his heart wavered. He glanced to his side, to the place where he would’ve made you stand.

He would bring you here — beside him — to see the joy you inspired. And for the first time in centuries, Rafayel smiled — not with burden, nor sorrow, but hope.

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