#Intriguing Historical Events

[doomies1]

Dive into the depths of history in just 60 seconds! 🕰️ This YouTube Short takes you on a gripping journey through time, unraveling one of history's most intriguing unsolved mysteries. With engaging visuals and captivating storytelling, we explore theories and clues that have puzzled historians for years. What secrets does the past hold? What really happened in this historical enigma? Join us as we attempt to piece together the puzzle of the past in a thrilling one-minute adventure. 🔍 Like, subscribe, and comment your theories below! Stay tuned for more historical mysteries and short, fascinating looks into the past. #MysteryShort, #HistoricalMystery, #UnsolvedHistory, #HistoryLovers, #IntriguingPast, #Shorts, #HistoryInAMinute, #Storytelling, #VisualStorytelling, #EducationalShorts, #PastMysteries, #HistoryBuff

[lindensea]

So far The Bird King by G. Willow Wilson isn't an instant favorite of mine, but it is good and it has so many fantastic elements going for it:

Historical fantasy set at the fall of Al-Andalus that takes the history part seriously

Nuanced look at religion (both Islam and Christianity) in a historical context

Platonic m/f best friend duo

Really compelling antagonist

Beautiful writing and thoughts

Some kind of allegorical journey perhaps?? If so I'm super into it

Very pretty descriptions

Kinda weird

I'm a little over halfway done, but impressed so far.

[sybbi]

I'm outlining an au for funsies and realizing the rules for this alternate universe have removed it so far from canon I've nearly rubbed the serial number off by accident

[solxamber]

Hiii!! first time requesting and I absolutely love your white rabbit and angel one, but what about a jellyfish mc with the octavinelle trio and diasomnia group? Where their head empty an airhead but is actually really smart but gets distracted easily.

Octavinelle + Diasomnia with Airhead! Jellyfish! Reader

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul was prepared for almost anything—except you. At first, your airheaded nature confounded him. You’d stare blankly into space during conversations, occasionally blurting out unrelated thoughts like, “Do you think stars get lonely?” or “What’s the difference between squid ink and octopus ink?”

To Azul, you seemed like an easy mark. Someone too scattered to notice loopholes in contracts or the fine print. But the first time he tried to rope you into a deal, you stared at the contract for an uncomfortably long time, then pointed out five contradictory clauses and suggested a more efficient way to write it.

Azul had never been so humiliated yet so intrigued. How could someone so spacey also be so sharp? He began inviting you to the Mostro Lounge under the guise of needing “assistance,” but it was just an excuse to pick your brain.

He’d grumble when you got distracted mid-conversation to follow a particularly shiny object, but he found himself watching you with a mix of exasperation and fondness. Your unconventional intelligence challenged him, and your whimsical nature softened the edges of his ambition.

Jade Leech

Jade found your airheadedness endlessly entertaining. At first, he mistook it for naivety, but when you casually corrected one of his mushroom classifications while admiring a random shell, he realized there was much more to you.

You fascinated him. The way your attention flitted from one thing to another like a butterfly, yet you still managed to come up with solutions to problems no one else could. Jade often tested your intelligence by subtly steering conversations into complex topics, only for you to surprise him with insightful answers delivered in the most absentminded tone.

“Jade, did you know the anglerfish has a symbiotic relationship with bacteria for its light?” you’d say, staring off into the distance. And just like that, Jade’s carefully laid plan to throw you off would unravel.

He enjoyed the unpredictability you brought into his life. Your head-empty demeanor paired with startling intelligence kept him on his toes, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Floyd Leech

“Oh, Shrimpy’s got no brain cells, huh?” That was Floyd’s first impression of you, and for a while, he treated you like his personal amusement. He’d throw random questions your way just to see what absurd answer you’d come up with.

But the day you absentmindedly explained the physics behind the Mostro Lounge’s faulty pipe system and how to fix it? Floyd was floored. His mouth hung open for a good five seconds before he burst out laughing. “You’re a sneaky little jellyfish, aren’t ya?”

From then on, Floyd decided you were his favorite. He’d sling an arm around your shoulders and drag you around, showing you off like his prize catch. “Shrimpy’s dumb-smart,” he’d declare to anyone who’d listen, grinning ear to ear.

He loved how unpredictable you were, never knowing if you’d say something brilliant or completely off-the-wall. Floyd thrived on chaos, and you were the perfect mix of calm airhead and hidden genius to keep him entertained. He might tease you endlessly, but deep down, he adored you for being unapologetically yourself.

Malleus Draconia

When Malleus first met you, he found your airheaded nature oddly calming. Unlike others, you didn’t seem intimidated by his presence. Instead, you’d blink at him in wide-eyed wonder before blurting out random thoughts like, “If dragons hoard treasure, do they also have snack stashes?”

At first, Malleus assumed your absentmindedness was due to a lack of understanding. But during one of your meandering conversations, you casually corrected his misconceptions about a historical event—one even he hadn't noticed. He realized you weren’t just carefree; you were deeply knowledgeable in your own peculiar way.

Your ability to switch between whimsical musings and sharp observations fascinated him. He found himself seeking you out for your unique perspective, even if you occasionally got distracted by a passing butterfly mid-discussion.

“Child of Man, you are quite… unique,” he’d say with a soft smile, finding solace in your unorthodox approach to life.

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia thought you were adorable. Your head-empty demeanor reminded him of the carefree youths he’d seen in his centuries of life. He’d often pop out of nowhere to startle you, laughing when you gasped and then immediately got distracted by a question like, “Why is it called a jump scare if I didn’t jump?”

But it didn’t take long for Lilia to notice the flashes of brilliance hidden behind your seemingly aimless chatter. You’d drop profound insights into conversations as if they were afterthoughts, leaving him pleasantly surprised.

“Oh-ho! You’re sharper than you let on, aren’t you?” he’d tease, ruffling your hair affectionately.

He loved how unpredictable you were, and he often encouraged your tangents just to see where your mind would wander. To Lilia, you were a delightful enigma—one that made his long life all the more entertaining.

Silver

Silver appreciates your calm presence, even if he sometimes struggled to keep up with your wandering thoughts. He’d sit quietly as you mused about the stars or wondered if birds dream, finding your voice soothing no matter how odd the topic.

He initially thought you were simply a kind but scatterbrained individual. However, when you offhandedly helped him improve his sword stance with an unexpectedly insightful comment, he realized there was more to you than met the eye.

“You notice things most people overlook,” he said, his tone soft with admiration. From then on, he started paying closer attention to your words, knowing they often carried hidden wisdom.

Silver respected your unique way of thinking and found comfort in your presence, even when you got distracted mid-sentence. To him, you were a gentle yet brilliant soul, someone who brought unexpected light into his life.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was baffled by you. At first, he couldn’t fathom how someone so easily distracted could survive at Night Raven College, much less so many Overblots. He’d often lecture you, only for you to nod absentmindedly and then ask something completely unrelated, like, “Do crocodiles ever get lonely?”

It drove him up the wall. He thought you lacked focus, which was unacceptable to him. But then, during a heated argument about magical theory, you calmly pointed out a flaw in his reasoning that left him speechless.

Sebek stared at you, wide-eyed, before clearing his throat and crossing his arms. “Hmph! I see you’re not as oblivious as you appear,” he muttered, trying to mask his begrudging respect.

Despite his initial frustrations, Sebek grew to admire your hidden intelligence. He’d still scold you for your airheaded tendencies, but deep down, he appreciated your unique perspective and the unexpected wisdom you brought to the table.

Masterlist

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Mini Guide to Crafting Compelling Royal Characters for Fiction Writers

Creating royal characters can be both exciting and challenging. These regal figures often play pivotal roles in stories, capturing readers' imaginations with their power, privilege, and the weight of responsibility they carry. Whether you're writing historical fiction, fantasy, or contemporary novels featuring monarchs, this comprehensive (mini) guide will help you develop authentic, multi-dimensional royal characters that will resonate with your readers.

Understanding the Basics of Royalty

Before diving into character creation, it's essential to have a solid grasp of what royalty entails. Royalty typically refers to members of a ruling family, including kings, queens, princes, princesses, and other nobles within a monarchical system. These individuals are often born into their roles, though some may ascend to power through marriage or other means.

Key aspects to consider:

Hierarchy and succession

Royal duties and responsibilities

Protocol and etiquette

The concept of divine right (in some cultures)

The relationship between royalty and their subjects

Remember, while these elements are common in many royal systems, you have the creative freedom to adapt or reimagine them for your fictional world.

Developing Your Royal Character's Background

Every character, royal or not, needs a rich backstory. For royal characters, this background is particularly crucial as it shapes their worldview, values, and decision-making processes.

Consider the following:

a) Lineage: What is your character's family history? Are they from a long-standing dynasty or a newly established royal house?

b) Upbringing: How were they raised? Were they groomed for leadership from birth, or did they have a more sheltered upbringing?

c) Education: What kind of education did they receive? Was it formal, focusing on statecraft and diplomacy, or more well-rounded?

d) Relationships: How do they relate to their family members, courtiers, and subjects?

e) Personal experiences: What significant events have shaped their character and outlook on life?

Crafting a Unique Personality

Avoid the trap of creating one-dimensional royal stereotypes. Your character should be as complex and nuanced as any other well-developed protagonist or antagonist.

Consider these aspects:

a) Strengths and weaknesses: What are your character's admirable qualities? What flaws do they struggle with?

b) Motivations: What drives them? Is it a sense of duty, personal ambition, or something else entirely?

c) Internal conflicts: What personal struggles do they face? How do these conflicts affect their rule and relationships?

d) Hobbies and interests: What passions do they pursue outside of their royal duties?

e) Sense of humor: How do they express humor, if at all? Is it dry wit, sarcasm, or something else?

Balancing Power and Vulnerability

One of the most intriguing aspects of royal characters is the juxtaposition between their immense power and their human vulnerabilities. This balance can create compelling internal and external conflicts for your character.

Consider:

The weight of responsibility and its impact on their personal life

The isolation that often comes with a royal position

The constant scrutiny they face from the public and court

The struggle between personal desires and duty to the crown

Creating a Believable Royal World

Your royal character doesn't exist in a vacuum (I hope not). They're part of a larger royal ecosystem that includes family members, advisors, courtiers, and subjects. Developing this world adds depth and authenticity to your story.

Key elements to consider:

Court dynamics and politics

Relationships with other noble houses or kingdoms

The role of advisors and how they influence decisions

Traditions and customs specific to your royal setting

The economic and social structure of the kingdom

Addressing the Challenges of Royal Life

Royal characters face unique challenges that can drive your plot and character development. Some common themes include:

a) Succession disputes b) Balancing personal happiness with duty c) Navigating political alliances and conflicts d) Managing public opinion and maintaining legitimacy e) Dealing with threats to their rule or life

Use these challenges to create tension and drive your story forward while revealing more about your character's personality and values.

The Impact of Historical Context

If you're writing historical fiction or a fantasy inspired by real-world monarchies, it's crucial to consider the historical context. Research the time period and culture you're drawing from to ensure authenticity in your character's behavior, beliefs, and challenges.

Key areas to research:

Social norms and expectations of the time

Political systems and power structures

Technology and its impact on governance

Religious beliefs and their influence on royalty

Gender roles and how they affect royal duties and succession

Avoiding Common Pitfalls

When creating royal characters, be mindful of these common mistakes:

a) Making them too perfect or too villainous b) Ignoring the realities of royal life (e.g., lack of privacy, constant duties) c) Overlooking the impact of their decisions on their subjects d) Failing to show growth or change over the course of the story e) Relying too heavily on stereotypes or clichés

Incorporating Royal Etiquette and Protocol

Royal characters often adhere to strict codes of conduct and protocol. While you don't need to become an expert in royal etiquette, incorporating some of these elements can add authenticity to your story:

Forms of address (Your Majesty, Your Highness, etc.)

Court ceremonies and rituals

Dress codes and regalia

Rules of precedence in social situations

Diplomatic protocols when interacting with other royals or dignitaries

Exploring Different Types of Royal Characters

Remember that not all royal characters need to be ruling monarchs. Consider exploring other royal roles, such as:

The rebel prince or princess who rejects their royal duties

The reluctant heir thrust into power unexpectedly

The exiled royal fighting to reclaim their throne

The royal spouse adapting to life in the palace

The illegitimate child discovering their royal heritage

Each of these archetypes offers unique storytelling opportunities and challenges for character development.

Balancing Historical Accuracy and Creative License

If you're writing historical fiction featuring real royalty, you'll need to strike a balance between historical accuracy and creative interpretation. While it's important to respect known facts and timelines, you also have the freedom to explore the inner lives and motivations of these historical figures.

Tips for balancing accuracy and creativity:

Thoroughly research the historical figure and their time period

Clearly differentiate between historical fact and fictional interpretation

Use author's notes to explain any significant departures from known history

Focus on filling in the gaps in the historical record rather than contradicting established facts

Developing Royal Character Arcs

Like any well-rounded character, your royal protagonist should undergo growth and change throughout your story. Consider how their experiences might challenge their beliefs, alter their perspective, or force them to confront their flaws.

Possible character arcs for royal characters:

From naive idealist to pragmatic ruler

From reluctant heir to confident leader

From isolated monarch to connected leader who understands their subjects

From power-hungry tyrant to benevolent ruler (or vice versa)

Remember, character growth doesn't always have to be positive. Sometimes, the most compelling stories involve characters who face moral decline or tragic falls from grace.

Remember, while the trappings of royalty may be grand, at their core, your royal characters are still human. They love, fear, hope, and struggle like anyone else. It's this humanity, set against the backdrop of power and responsibility, that makes royal characters so fascinating to read and write about.

Happy writing, - Rin T

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

[luna-azzurra]

Exploring Character Backstory

1. Start with the essentials: Begin by outlining the basic information about your character's past, such as their family background, upbringing, education, and early experiences. Consider their cultural, social, and economic background, as these factors can shape their worldview and values.

2. Identify key events and milestones: Determine significant events or milestones in your character's life that have had a profound impact on them. These could include positive or negative experiences, such as the loss of a loved one, a major achievement, a traumatic incident, or a life-changing decision. These events help shape your character's personality, fears, and aspirations.

3. Examine formative relationships: Explore the relationships your character has had with their family, friends, mentors, or romantic partners. How have these relationships influenced them? What role models or influences have shaped their values, beliefs, and behavior? Relationships can provide insight into your character's vulnerabilities, strengths, and emotional attachments.

4. Dig into their beliefs and values: Understand what your character believes in and values. Examine their moral compass, political views, religious beliefs, or philosophical outlook. Consider how their beliefs might clash or align with the conflicts they encounter in the story. This will create depth and authenticity in their character development.

5. Uncover secrets and hidden aspects: Delve into your character's secrets, hidden desires, or aspects of their past that they prefer to keep hidden. Secrets can create internal conflicts, fuel character growth, and add intrigue to the story. They can also reveal vulnerabilities or flaws that make your character more relatable and complex.

6. Consider the impact of societal factors: Explore how societal factors such as gender, race, class, or historical context have influenced your character's experiences and identity. These factors can shape their struggles, opportunities, and perspectives. Understanding the societal context in which your character exists adds layers of depth to their backstory.

7. Connect the backstory to the main story: Once you have explored the character's backstory, identify how it relates to the main story. Determine how their past experiences, relationships, or traumas influence their present motivations, conflicts, and goals. This connection will ensure that the backstory serves a purpose in the narrative and contributes to the character's growth.

8. Use backstory selectively: While backstory is essential for understanding your character, avoid excessive exposition or information dumping. Introduce elements of the backstory gradually, through dialogue, memories, or subtle hints. This helps maintain reader interest and allows the character's past to unfold organically throughout the story.

Remember, not all aspects of the character's backstory need to be explicitly mentioned in the narrative. It's important to choose and reveal elements that have the most significant impact on the character's present circumstances and development.

[theplotmage]

How to Get Started with Worldbuilding for Fantasy Writers

Hey fellow writers!

Worldbuilding can feel like a Herculean task, but it’s one of the most rewarding parts of creating a fantasy novel. If you're getting stuck, Here are some tips that have helped me, and I hope they’ll help you too!

Start with the Basics

Geography

- Map out the physical layout of your world. Think about continents, countries, cities, and natural features like mountains, rivers, and forests.

Climate and Ecosystems

- What are the climate zones and ecosystems like? How do they shape the lives of your inhabitants?

Create a History

Origins

- Dive into how your world came into existence. Are there creation myths or ancient civilizations that set the stage?

Major Events

- Outline key historical events. Wars, alliances, discoveries, and disasters can add so much depth.

Develop Cultures and Societies

Cultures

- Craft diverse cultures with unique customs, traditions, and values. What do they wear? What do they eat? How do they express themselves through art?

Social Structure

- Define the social hierarchy. Who holds power? What are the roles of different classes or groups?

Establish Magic and Technology

Magic System

- Set the rules and limitations of magic. Who can use it? How does it work? What are its costs and consequences?

Technology

- Decide on the level of technological advancement. Is your world medieval with swords and castles, or does it have steampunk elements?

Design Political and Economic Systems

Governments

- Create various forms of government. Are there kingdoms, republics, or empires? How do they interact?

Economy

- Define the economic systems. What are the main industries and trade routes? How do people earn a living?

Build Religions and Beliefs

Religions

- Develop religions and belief systems. Who are the gods or deities? What are the rituals and holy sites?

Myths and Legends

- Craft myths and legends that influence the culture and behavior of your characters.

Craft Unique Flora and Fauna

Creatures

- Invent unique creatures that inhabit your world. Consider their habitats, behaviors, and interactions with humans.

Plants

- Design plants with special properties. Are there magical herbs or dangerous plants?

Incorporate Conflict and Tension

Internal Conflicts

- Think about internal conflicts within societies, such as class struggles, political intrigue, or religious disputes.

External Conflicts

- Consider external threats like invading armies, natural disasters, or magical catastrophes.

Use Maps and Visual Aids

Maps

- Create maps to visualize your world. This helps you keep track of locations and distances.

Visual References

- Use images or sketches to inspire and flesh out your world.

Stay Consistent

Consistency

- Keep track of the details to maintain consistency. Use a worldbuilding bible or document to record important information.

Feedback

- Share your world with others and get feedback. Sometimes fresh eyes can spot inconsistencies or offer new ideas.

Let Your Characters Explore

Character Perspective

- Develop your world through the eyes of your characters. How do they interact with their environment? What do they know or believe about their world?

Be Flexible

Adapt and Evolve

- Be open to changing aspects of your world as your story develops. Sometimes the best ideas come during the writing process.

[theseinfernalangels]

A Lesson in Stealing (Kisses?) - Ridoc Gamlyn

Synopsis: The entire Iron Squad can’t seem to get a grasp on this historical event that seems practically impossible. You’re not even part of their class, but good thing you know a thing or two about stealing!

Includes: Fluff, little suggestiveness, Iron Squad shenanigans, Reader and Ridoc have a lowkey FWB deal going on, etc. Takes place in Iron Flame.

A/N: AUGH I’m down bad for Ridoc and Faelyn. No notes, perfect couple. I also live for Sawyer calling first-years “kid” as a means of making fun of them.

You’re crouched in the corner of the study hall, balancing Tips and Tricks on Advancing Your Signet on your thighs, when you hear a groan of exasperation from the other side of the chamber. Unfortunately, you know exactly who that is by the mere sound of it — Ridoc. And if he’s here, his squad is here. If his squad is here, they won’t leave his side because everyone knows that the Iron Squad clings to each other harder than a stack of burrs connected by syrup.

“I just don’t get it,” comes Rhiannon’s frustrated voice. “How could they have stolen it in just five minutes? And when there were guards all over the place, too? That sounds like bullshit, to me.”

Murmurs of agreement rise through the air, and you tilt your head. Stealing? Call you predictable, but now you’re plain intrigued. Stealing comes a bit…naturally for you; you don’t even know what the book is about, but you start mentally reviewing the best methods of concealment for a large heist.

Distract the guards. Slip into holding chamber and fill up every pocket you can. Replace the weight so that it doesn’t trigger an alarm of some kind. If anyone asks—

The sound of your name being called makes your head snap up from your corner spot. Violet — bless her little heart, she bothered to remember your name — has taken notice of you and is motioning for you to come over. Huh. Weird. You’re not the only other cadet in here — but, you notice, you are the only first-year. You stand, your knees cracking a little from being crouched for too long, and raise an eyebrow, leaning against the adjoined walls. “Can I help you?”

“Well, look who it is.” Ridoc puts on a charming little grin and waves. You raise your hand in greeting, nodding to Rhiannon and Sawyer. “My dream girl, coming to save our asses once again.”

“If I’m your dream girl, you’re doomed, Gamlyn,” you scoff. The back and forth between you two is nothing new; while you’re certainly not a couple by any means, and you’re definitely not exclusive, the two of you are drawn to each other like gunpowder and flame — absolutely fucking explosive.

Vi smiles warmly at you, grabbing your attention. “Sorry. I just…We’re doing this report, right, and they mentioned this super big heist, so—“

“So you wanted me to help you because I’m good at stealing, shit,” you abruptly finish her sentence for her. You weren’t even offended by the implications of her words. They were true, anyway; it was only a couple of months ago that you’d shared with them that you used to have a little bit of a criminal streak and stole things as a child.

“No offense taken,” you add hastily, once you realize Violet looked a little ashamed of her words once they left her mouth. “It’ll take more than the truth to kill me, Sorrengail.”

She looks like she has something to say to that when Sawyer cuts her off, nodding to you. “Sit down, kid. At this rate, we might be here for a while.”

You shake your head and prop yourself up against the table. “No thanks,” you decline dryly. “I’m okay, old man.”

Ridoc scoots his seat outward a little, the chair creaking in protest under him. He gestures to himself with his usual festering gleam in his eye and opens his mouth as if to speak. You realize what he’s about to say and catch him before the breath can even start leaving his mouth.

“If you seriously suggest that I sit on your lap, I’ll find you and stab you in your sleep.”

Violet and Rhiannon bust out laughing, and Sawyer grins, pointing his thumb at his best friend as if to say, Get a load of this guy.

Ridoc doesn’t even miss a beat, that little twinkle in his eye only growing a tad more mischievous. 

“You know my door is always open for you,” he drawls, “but c’mon, Fox. There aren’t any chairs left, and I heard your knees crack from all the way over here, and I’ve been around Vi long enough to know that your joints are probably killing you. Sit down.”

He’s right, unfortunately. The joints of your knees ache a little from standing up so fast, but you also hate to lose your metaphorical footing here; you punch him in his bicep before taking your place on one of his thighs. His pretty lips dip into a pout and he grabs you by the hips, gently dragging you to be sat more comfortably on his lap. You look back at Violet expectantly. “You were saying?”

Rhiannon snorts and rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath, something akin to, “Little pair of nightmares.” Violet ignores her and pushes her book towards you so that you can peer down at the pages. 

“This is from The Successes and Failures of King Carlon the Strong,” she starts. “Basically, he sent one of his personal spies to ransack another kingdom, but the heist should have been impossible. The other kingdom had thousands of guards, an advanced security system that we can’t even recreate today, and he got in and out without a trace.”

“And,” Ridoc adds, tracing one of his pointer fingers along the edge of your hip. “They didn’t even know things were stolen until about a month after. It says there was hardly any preparation on the thief’s part, but I think that’s bullshit.”

You think back to your earlier notes of the situation and begin reading the text. Quickly, you realize it’s set up like a math problem. Eugh.

In the year 366 AU, King Carlon the Strong (328 AU— 392 AU) sent his chief spymaster, Bronson Dillory (340 AU — 366 AU), to the kingdom of Poromiel to steal one of the most prized objects of their king: The heirloom necklace of his late wife, Queen-Consort Vella Ateridi. Dillory entered the prized chamber at dusk with seemingly no actual plans. The time he returned to Navarre was never recorded, although it is widely accepted information that he was in and out of the room in five minutes. The necklace’s absence was not discovered until one month later. It should be noted that Poromish security systems have been more advanced than Navarre’s for centuries, relying on magic to determine an object’s protection. How did Bronson Dillory accomplish this task? Brainstorm and describe in detail. 

You tilt your head, deep in thought. “Well,” you start, “if it were me, I’d do it in between guard shifts. If they’re disorganized, then they can’t get their shit together to stop you. So, he comes in around dusk, when the old guards are gone and the new ones have yet to return.”

“Couldn’t they hear him?” Ridoc questions, his fingers messing with the ends of your hair while Violet starts scribbling your ideas on a small card. It’s a valiant struggle on your end to try and ignore his hands. “I mean, if you’re sneaking into a heavily-guarded death trap, you’d think they could hear someone sneaking in.”

“Unless he came in through a window,” Sawyer interjects. “Climbed up the walls with a couple of knives like Vi did on the Gauntlet and hoisted himself in. It’s messy, but it’s plausible.”

“But someone could’ve seen him that way.” Rhiannon frowns. “It wasn’t dark out yet; I’d guess it was around 7 p.m. at that point, maybe 6 if we’re feeling generous.”

You glance over at Violet, whose brow is furrowed in concentration. “Unless he had an invisibility signet or something. Do you know if he was a rider?”

Vi blinks and then snatches the book back, combing through the pages like a wolf on the hunt. She sits back and reads for a moment or two before she shakes her head. “He was a rider, but it doesn’t mention his signet.”

You lean back a little into Ridoc’s chest. For an ice-wielder, he’s ironically warm, and the hand that he’s (not so subtly) got locked on to one of your hips doesn’t make it better. If you ask him later, he’ll probably tell you that he was just ‘helping you stay upright.’

Please. You know him better than that.

“C’mon, Fox,” he urges you, his lips not far from your ear. “You’re the sneakiest bastard of all of us. How the hell do you steal a necklace without getting caught?”

You hold back a smile. “So, he’s a rider with an unknown signet. He gets in and out without being caught, and nothing is noticed until a month later.” You pause for a beat or two. “Either he went in and replaced the necklace with a similar one, or…Maybe he found a material similar to the necklace?”

Violet begins scribbling random notes on her little piece of paper, murmuring mostly to herself “Similar properties. Necklace is made of iron and diamonds. ‘Nother copy. But then how…?”

Sawyer blinks at her, now hunched a little and stewing in her thoughts. “How do you know what the necklace is made of?”

Violet shrugs. “Diamonds are diamonds, and the necklace is rusted in the picture. Steel and silver don’t rust, and this picture clearly shows some sort of damage to the jewelry.”

You snort. “Aren’t you a metallurgist, Sawyer? You think you’d know this shit.”

He scowls in your direction. “It’s a picture, Fox. Cut me some slack here.”

“No slack cut,” Ridoc cuts in, and Sawyer huffs a little before shoving him. You feel his other hand come up to balance you before he sticks his tongue out at Sawyer. “Hey, watch it! You’ll hurt the woman, dammit!”

Rhiannon snaps her fingers impatiently. “Shut up, both of you. This is due tomorrow, and I’m not failing this just because you’re stupid.”

You hold back a grin and continue to rattle off whatever comes to your mind. “Okay. So, this guy’s the spymaster, and he’s a rider, so he definitely flew in on a dragon and was close enough to channel. There’s just no way he could’ve done it all completely by himself.”

A loud thud draws your attention back to Violet, who closes the textbook and looks almost…triumphant, with a smug little smile on her face that tells you flat-out that she knows the answer.

“Figure he’s an illusionist,” she says. “He could disguise his dragon, himself, distract the guards, and then keep a projection of the necklace until he physically couldn’t anymore.” She opens the book back up to the original page and taps on the dates. “That’s why he died the same year. He must have burned himself out so badly for the mission that he died.”

You stare at her for a moment before a funny little smile graces your lips, and you slow clap.

“Damn, Sorrengail,” you appraise. “They really aren’t exaggerating when they say you’re a genius, huh?”

She meets your eyes in confusion. “Who’s been saying that?”

Ridoc huffs from behind you. “Just about fucking everyone, Vi. Get with the program.”

She smiles sheepishly, the silver ends of her hair making her little blush stand out more. “Fair enough.” Then she turns to you, her eyes shining. “Thanks, by the way,” she tells you. “I knew it wasn’t a coincidence that you happened to be here.”

She makes it sound like the gods themselves sent you on some holy mission to help them with their Navarrian History homework, and you can’t help the little snort that leaves you.

“Sure,” you reply. “Glad my criminal expertise was good enough for the gods to send me to be your personal homework guide.”

A collective groan surrounds the table, and Ridoc pinches the skin of your thigh.

“Criminal expertise?” He echoes in amusement. “Sweetheart, being a kleptomaniac as a kid doesn’t mean you have a criminal record. You just liked to take shit.” He traces along the part of your outer thigh for emphasis, where your little tattoo rests secretly.

“Unless you’re secretly a war criminal,” Sawyer suggests. “Anything worth confessing, kid?”

You raise your hands innocently. “Get me a lawyer first, and then I’ll talk.”

The squad laughs, their voices echoing around the walls of the study halls like bells. Rhiannon pushes herself to her feet and grabs Violet by the arm. 

“We’re leaving, lovebirds,” she announces. For a minute, you think she’s referring to Sawyer and Ridoc, but once the former appears by the door, you understand her words immediately. You flip her off as they leave — slightly miffed, but also grateful for her ability to read the room (and your inability to get a room).

Ridoc shifts under you as if also understanding what’s happening — and you know damn well he’s grinning from ear to ear. He leans up so you’re pressed right against him, his voice quieter as he gently latches his lips on your shoulder.

“You’re so smart,” he murmurs reverently against your skin. “An adorable godsdamn trickster, you are.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and you lean into his warmth a little more.

“And yet,” you purr, “you still manage to like me, even though I’m up to no good.”

“No shit.” He brushes your hair away from your neck and presses a languid kiss right against your pulse point, setting your skin on fire and coating it in pure ice all at once. “That’s why I like you. You’re a little firecracker.”

You chuckle, a little breathless all of a sudden, ghosting your fingers over his forearms before you move your head a little. “But what would you say if I make something explode, or destroy something? That wouldn’t be good.”

His response comes easily, as always. “You’d look hot as fuck. I’d tell you to do it anyway.”

[fl100r]

♡JEALOUS KING♡

Katsuki 𝖡𝖺����𝗎𝗀𝗈𝗎 𝗑 Top! 𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

WARNINGS: SMUT with plot, Bakugou teasing u, cream pie, male orgasm, blowjob, standing sex, public sex, degrading Bakugou.

-King Bakugou x Butler! reader.. world in a historical fantasy setting, being gay is a scandal might get killed if u gex say, so Bakugou want to suck M/N's cock but gets cock blocked. ages: Bakugou (25), M/N (27)

"I love you.."

"my apology dawg, the world kinda homophobic rn."

"so what? I'm gay for you."

"were gonna get cancelled no cap lil bro."

"Just put ur cock in my mouth bro."

︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭

You and Prince Bakugou have been childhood friends for as long as you can remember. His mother visits your orphanage often, donating funds to support your education. Bakugou noticed you immediately when you first met. You were the quietest person he had ever encountered, rarely showing any emotions, even to him. One day, during an event his mother was hosting, where orphans and other children from the kingdom competed in fun challenges, there was a two-person team competition. Without hesitation, Bakugou grabbed your arm. You had been standing by the food table, quietly enjoying your favorite snacks.

"Old hag! I want to team up with him!" Bakugou shouted, raising your hand as he held it up. "But I don’t want to join," you mumbled, confused.

"Too bad! You're joining anyway!" Bakugou glared at you, leaving no room for argument. He didn’t even know why he wanted to team up with you—he just felt some strange connection, like there was something about you that intrigued him. The competition turned out to be a boat race. Bakugou sat in front, his expression irritated as usual, while you were seated at the back. Your stomach grumbled, still craving more food. You absentmindedly grabbed the paddles on either side of you, glancing back toward the food table one last time. Before you could dwell on it, the horn blared, signaling the start of the race. Bakugou surged forward, paddling furiously, far outpacing you. It was clear he was practically carrying the team through the competition, while you struggled to keep up.

You ended up doing nothing during the race, leaving Bakugou to handle everything on his own. Naturally, he won, and he jumped up in excitement, shouting about how he was the best.

As you tried to head back to the food area, Bakugou grabbed the collar of your shirt, pulling you back to his side. He threw an arm around your neck, holding you in a loose headlock. "Ahaha! You're all just extras compared to me and my sidekick!" he boasted, grinning widely. Irritated, you sighed. "Erm... can you please let me go?" you asked, turning your head toward him. Bakugou looked down at you, only to freeze when he realized how close your face was to his. His cheeks flushed slightly as he stared at you.

You managed to slip away from Bakugou’s hold, leaving him behind in the boat, still a bit flustered. Without saying a word, you casually walked over to the food table, grabbing a plate and piling it with your favorite snacks. As Bakugou stood there, frozen and flushed, still processing the moment, you made your way back to the orphanage, seemingly unfazed by the entire ordeal.

✦───── ❝ Years Later ❞ ─────✦

"Your Majesty, please wake up. You still have paperwork from last night," you said as you opened the curtains, letting the morning sunlight flood into Bakugou's room.

"Son of a bitch..." Bakugou grumbled, turning away from the sunlight and refusing to face the open curtains. The insult was clearly aimed at you. "I don’t have a mother, so I wouldn’t know if she is a bitch or not, sir," you replied calmly. "Anyway, sir, please get up." Before you could finish, Bakugou reached out and grabbed your collar, still lying down as he pulled you closer. "Listen here, you tea towel tyrant! I don’t care about the paperwork from last night—it’s already irritating me! Now leave me alone before I have your head chopped off!" Bakugou growled, his face now uncomfortably close to yours. You wrinkled your nose and muttered, "Ugh… sir, your morning breath… I’m sorry." Bakugou’s face flushed in embarrassment, and he swung a punch in frustration. You quickly backed away, dodging just in time.

"Sorry, sir, for stating a simple fact, but you really do need to get ready," you said. "I’ll start your bath." You walked into his bathroom, turning on the golden faucet and letting the tub fill with water. While the tub filled, you went into his bedroom and sorted through his closet, picking out clothes for him. After selecting his outfit, Bakugou entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. "I'll prepare breakfast, sir!" you called out as you made your way down the gorgeous hallway. Statues of Bakugou’s ancestors lined the walls, and you passed by them on your way to the kitchen.

As you chatted with the chef, who was busy preparing Bakugou’s excellent breakfast, you busied yourself in the kitchen, making tea for him. Once the meal was ready, you carried it to the long dining table where Bakugou had already seated himself in the far chair. You placed his meal in front of him and poured a cup of tea, setting it down beside his plate.

You motioned to the other servants to assist Bakugou while you began to walk away. However, as you started to leave, Bakugou tugged on the black suit you were wearing from behind his chair, where he was eating his breakfast. "No, you stay here," he said firmly. You tried to protest, but Bakugou was insistent. As you waited for Bakugou to finish his breakfast, you motioned to the other servants to take over your chores. You knew that since you became his butler, Bakugou didn’t want you to leave his side, so you had to find ways to manage your tasks while remaining close to him.

One of the butlers handed you a stack of envelopes, which you took and began to read aloud for Bakugou while he continued eating his breakfast. "Sir, there’s an invitation from the Todoroki royal family. They’re hosting a celebration ball for the crowning of Shoto Todoroki, the youngest sibling of the Todoroki family. You should consider going—" Bakugou cut you off, his eyebrows furrowing as he sipped his tea. "No. I’m not going to some stupid coronation."

You tried to convince him, but Bakugou wouldn’t budge. His temper was well-known, and despite your efforts, he remained adamant. You knew that aligning with the Todoroki family or showing them some respect could be beneficial, especially given his many enemies. Ever since his parents had died a few years ago, Bakugou’s demeanor had only worsened, making him even more difficult to manage.

You rubbed your temples in frustration. "Maybe… sigh, I could come with you, sir. The ball is tonight. I can clear my schedule if that’s fine with you—"Bakugou cut you off but, of course, he agreed. He then went about his daily routine, snapping his fingers to motion you to follow him. You sighed, following him like an irritated dog.

One of Bakugou's routines was horse racing in the woods near his castle. As he mounted his usual horse, you sat at a nearby table, lost in your thoughts while watching him. Suddenly, Bakugou’s voice cut through your reverie. "Hey, peasant! Come over here!" Bakugou yelled, summoning you to join him. As you approached, he handed you some gear that looked like it was meant for horseback riding. "Sir, I can’t ride a horse," you said, holding up the gear. Bakugou climbed onto his horse and replied, "You’re riding with me. Put on the gear and get back behind me." He looked at you with his usual furrowed eyebrows, always seeming annoyed.

You sighed again and put on the gear. As you tried to climb onto the horse, you managed to successfully get on and position yourself behind Bakugou. However, just as you settled in, Bakugou grabbed your shirt and pulled you closer to him, forcing you into close contact with him.

You tried to get comfortable, but before you could, Bakugou kicked the horse into motion. The sudden movement shocked you, and you instinctively looked for something to hold onto—anything other than Bakugou. But as you started to slip, you had no choice.

You quickly wrapped one arm around Bakugou’s waist, your face pressed against his left shoulder. Glancing to Bakugou, you noticed him smirking, as if he knew this was going to happen all along. You glanced around and realized just how deep into the forest you were. The horse started to slow down, eventually coming to a stop. You tried to remove your arm from around Bakugou’s waist, but before you could, he grabbed it, pulling you closer as he leaned back into you. His head was now resting against your chest, making the situation even more awkward at least for you.

You both sat there in silence, Bakugou cuddling against your chest while you looked around, trying to avoid the awkwardness. Bakugou kept squirming, shifting around until he reached for your other arm, wrapping it around himself, pulling you even closer.

For you, it was an incredibly awkward position, but Bakugou seemed unfazed. You kept your gaze fixed on the forest, not wanting to face him. As you noticed the sky deepening into a rich orange, you remembered the ball. "Oh, right, we must get ready for the ba—" you started to say, but before you could finish, you felt something rubbing against your crotch. Your face flushed in embarrassment as you realized it was Bakugou, his body the closest to you. He was rubbing his backside against you, seemingly unaware—or perhaps he just didn’t care. He didn’t say a word, continuing his subtle movements.

"Sir, ugh... stop, you know this is forbidden... ergh," you panted, trying to keep your composure. Bakugou didn’t miss a beat. "What’s forbidden? I’m just sitting, M/N," he said with a smug tone, clearly enjoying the situation. You gritted your teeth. This royal bastard—he knew exactly what he was doing, As you tried to keep your composure, Bakugou reached his hand onto your crotch, rubbing even harder.

You panted softly, trying to regain your breath when you heard a distant voice.

"Your Majesty! Where are you? You need to get ready for the ball!" one of the maids called out, her voice echoing through the forest.

Bakugou immediately stopped and, with a quick motion, urged his horse to head back toward the castle. Once you reached the stables, Bakugou dismounted with ease.

"Get M/N ready too. He’s coming with me," Bakugou commanded, still smirking as he walked off.

"Sir, M/N, can you get off the horse?" the maid asked hesitantly.

You cut her off, "Go inside. I’ll go in when I’m ready," you said, still sitting on the horse. This bastard got you hard. Embarrassed, you hesitated to get off, not wanting the maids or other servants to notice your situation—especially since they loved to gossip.

He’s going to get you killed someday.

✦───── ❝At The Ball ❞ ─────✦

“Presenting the new king of the Frostflame Empire! Shoto Todoroki!”

The ball was in full swing, with everyone dancing and chatting. Bakugou was mingling with his friends, while you stood in the corner with the other servants.

“M/N!” a familiar voice called out. It was Midoriya.

“Hello, Sir Midoriya—” you began, but Midoriya cut you off with a nervous laugh. “Oh, come on... you don’t need to call me that, ahah.”

Even though you and Midoriya had been childhood friends and remained close, his status as a hero made you feel compelled to address him formally. To this day, you still considered him a friend.

“Midoriya, how’ve you been lately?” you asked.

Izuku was momentarily surprised by the change of subject but quickly responded with enthusiasm. “Great! I recently got engaged to Uraraka!”

As you continued talking, you found yourself smiling at one of Izuku’s funny jokes. You missed your friends from the orphanage and felt a pinch of nostalgia. However, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching you intensely. You tried to brush it off, but before you could think much of it.

Bakugou suddenly stepped between you and Midoriya. “What the hell are you doing, Deku!” he shouted.

Izuku looked surprised. “W-What?? I was just talking to—”

Bakugou cut him off, continuing to argue and insult the nervous hero despite Midoriya’s attempts to defuse the situation.

Seeing the commotion, you quickly intervened, pulling Bakugou away from the scene and guiding him into a large, empty hallway. “Sir! What are you doing?! You know people are going to gossip about this—especially talking like that to everyone’s favorite hero! Have you lost your mind?!” you yelled at him quietly, trying to keep the confrontation discreet.

"I've been trying to keep your image from getting destroyed! You seriously can't just calm down for one second, sir? Fucking hell..." you said, frustration evident as you covered your face with both palms. You didn't notice Bakugou had already dropped to his knees and was trying to get your belt off. "Sir, what the fuck are you doing now?" you demanded, bewildered by his sudden action. "What does it look like, dumbass?" Bakugou retorted, successfully removing your belt and now zipping down your zipper. pulling out your cock out, started to lick it up and down. You panted in frustration, at the same time feeling aroused.

As you looked around your surroundings, trying to see if anyone was watching this scene, you turned around until— Bakugou took your cock fully into his mouth, him gagging on it. This made you even more frustrated. "You fucking bastard—" you said, grabbing Bakugou’s blonde hair and pulling him closer to your cock, God his mouth is warm. You thought as he sucked your cock faster, holding your hips as you put your hand onto a wall to support you as Bakugou went faster.

"Augh.. goddamn it, you're gonna get me killed.." you said to him as he sucks your cock faster, basically begging you to cum inside his mouth. "Augh!- Fuck.." as you climax filling Bakugou's mouth with your semen. You panted, sweat already beading on your forehead.

As you look at Bakugou, he has your semen on his cheeks as he tries to get all of it into his mouth don't wanting it to be wasted, "Get up…" you said to Bakugou. He stood up, but before he could say anything, you grabbed his neck and pinned him to the wall beside you, pressing your lips against his. He struggled a bit, but eventually, he calmed down, his hands resting on your shoulders. You pulled away, panting. "Pant… Is this what you want..?" you asked, before kissing him again, but this time more roughly.

You pulled away again, your face now against the side of his neck. You kissed and bit it as you spoke, "I've been trying to survive and not get killed because of your reckless actions, rubbing against me, grabbing my cock without my permission, even sneaking into my room at night just to relieve yourself."

Bakugou’s face blushed the moment you said that last part, clearly embarrassed. He looked away from your eyes, but you grabbed his face, making him look at you. With his eyes watering, he gazed at you. “You seriously frustrate me Sir.." you began to unbuckle his pants, still pinning him onto the wall. as Bakugou's pants dropped on the marbled floor, You turned him around, so now his back was facing you. you put your tip onto his hole, rubbing on it, teasing him as he whimper. "you son of bitch.. please.. eurgh.."You grabbed his neck, pulling his arched back against you. "Come on, sir, that’s not my name. You know it…" rubbing you cock onto Bakugou's hole, teasing him even more as your tip closer to get inside him, "Argh... P-Please M/N.. Sir, please just..- Agh!-" you put your cock inside him. you didn't let him take adjust of your size as you quickly slamming your hips into him. "Argh! Argh! Haah.. M/N-" you covered his mouth with your hand, mumbling him.

“Shut the fuck up, would ya?.. I don’t want both of us to get beheaded because of your moaning, F-Fuck.." As you rested your head on his left shoulder, you look down to his harden cock seeing already white liquid out of his cock. "Did you already fucking cum?.. Goddamn, are you really That pent up? Eheh.. S-Shit.. I'm close.." you grabbed Bakugou's cock, started stroking it fast. You looked at Bakugou’s face, his eyes rolling back and drool already dripping onto your hand. "Disgusting.. you should really see yourself right now.. Sir.." You slightly giggled, "Insulting Midoriya, Argh.. Making a scene, Damaging your already broken Image, for just my cock.." you felt wet in your hand, it's Bakugou's semen, he came again. "Cumming again sir.. F-Fuck.. Get ready for my mine then.." As you pin Bakugou onto the wall harder, you slamming your hips again and again onto him. you feel your climax close, "Argh!...Stand still.. ergh.. G-Goddamn it you're shaking.." you slammed your hips onto Bakugou releasing your semen into him.

Both of you were panting and sweating as you zipped your pants up cleaning yourself up. “Shit… we gotta go, sir, Before someone finds you like this.." You grabbed Bakugou's pants from the floor and put them on him, Bakugou went limp against your chest. “Sir, come on, wake up from your fantasies. We’ve got to go.” He tried to walk but failed, falling into your arms. You sighed. “We’re not doing this again. Ever." you said, "Hey! Not my fault you went rough on me! you Tea Towel Tyrant.. Tch." You grabbed Bakugou and carried him as if he were a damsel in distress. You headed in the direction outside, making your way to the carriage driver. You avoided the ball entrance, where many people were gathered, and took the long way instead.

Don't want any one to know that you just Slammed your hips and Came into your King, "Tch.." you rolled your eyes, avoiding eye contact with Bakugou, just focus on going Home instead.

✦───── ❝In the Carriage ❞ ─────✦

You closed the door behind you and sat beside Bakugou. "Urgh your semen is dripping out of me.." Bakugou said, Looking out the window of the carriage, you were lost in thought. You had just done something so sinful and unforgivable that you were sure you’d be killed if anyone found out about the scene you and your king had just made in that hallway, You kept thinking about it over and over. until Bakugou Touching your clothed cock. You sighed. "Seriously..?" you said, looking at him with disappointment. He avoided eye contact with you, instead staring out the other side of the window where he was sitting.

you rubbed your temples, but didn't move his hand away instead let him be. you get closer to him, and whispered "if you keep doing that, I might just fuck you in front of a mirror." You knew your king very well. You knew he hated seeing his vulnerable self in the mirror. But that didn’t stop him. Instead, he brought himself closer to you, essentially cuddling you.

You sighed, the threat failed at your favor. "What am I gonna do with you Sir.."

✦𓆩♡𓆪Thank you for Reading! 𓆩♡𓆪✦

[mahowaga]

WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — ACT III

SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.

PAIRING: general!nanami kento x princess!reader CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal WC: 10.8k WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism

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🌸 ACT III – THE CROWN ASCENDS

THE CAPITAL OF THE IMPERIAL DISTRICT – MEMORIAL OF THE NORTHERN CAMPAIGN

The sun crests low over the capital, casting long, honey-colored shadows over the tiled rooftops and curved eaves of the imperial district. The sky is too still–washed in pale gold and streaked with threads of pink, like silk stretched too tight across a frame. It is beautiful in the way all things nearing dusk are: solemn, finite, heavy with meaning unspoken.

From where Nanami stands–just behind the palanquin, slightly to the left–the capital looks like a painting rendered in gold leaf and soft charcoal. Stunning. Precise. Unreal.

But nothing in the air feels still. The city is holding its breath.

The Emperor is dying.

The court has not said it–not in words. But the truth clings to the palace like a thick fog. The servants carry it in their downcast eyes. The ministers huddle closer, their robes hissing conspiracies against the floor. The scribes write faster, and the scrolls disappear from shelves before dawn. Stewards dart between wings with sealed documents clutched tightly in hand. The guards’ rotations shift subtly, without being announced. Old alliances begin to tremble.

The center of power is sagging, and everything around it leans in, ready to collapse or consume.

And in the midst of it all–you are being paraded.

They called it a symbol. A comfort. A gesture of continuity.

“Let the people see the Emperor’s youngest daughter,” they had said, behind screens lacquered with dragons and storm clouds. “Let her remind them of the Empire’s elegance, its grace. Let her distract them from their fear.”

But symbols, once loosed, have a way of becoming something else.

You were meant to be ornamental. But the people, it seems, have taken to you.

Not because you offer charm or warmth. Not because you flatter them. Not because you wear beauty like a veil, though you could.

They admire you because you do not lie.

You do not promise bountiful harvests or victories already lost. You do not wrap the Empire’s pain between prose, in poetry. You speak in clean, pared words, like a blade drawn without flourish.

Nanami sees it in the way they look at you–being able to lay eyes on the enigmatic princess of the Empire, who they’ve only ever caught glimpses of during imperial events.

The way the farmers and soldiers listen when you speak. The way the merchants bow–not with fear, but with respect. The way mothers lift their children just slightly higher, as if to let them see you better.

They’ve begun to give you names, whispered between stalls and down quiet alleys.

The People’s Princess.

The Silent Flame.

The Daughter of the Still Winds.

He has heard them all, and he cannot decide whether it warms something inside him, or if it terrifies him.

Nanami shifts slightly, his boots creaking faintly against the cobblestones, a motion so subtle it would escape all but the most trained of eyes. His arms remain folded behind his back in the formal stance of an imperial guard, but his right thumb moves, brushing again and again over the edge of his left knuckle–his unthinking tell, one that betrays tension no matter how stoic his face remains.

They are at the eastern sanctuary today, standing before the towering memorial of the northern campaign. The limestone wall is carved with the names of soldiers lost, polished smooth by wind and time. Nanami can recognize some of them, men he’d stood beside as they fought together, steel against steel. 

The crowd has gathered at the foot of the steps. Some hold incense. Some kneel. Some merely watch.

You stand at the top of the platform, light striking you from behind, turning your figure into a silhouette framed in gold.

You speak. Your voice is clear and low, meant not for applause, but for remembrance.

“You are not forgotten,” you say. “We burn incense, but we remember your names.”

That is all.

No epithets. No praise of the Emperor. No tales of glory.

It is not the speech you were given–Nanami knows this, because he had read it with you. He had stood behind you in the study, watching your eyes flick down the length of the scroll, your face a mask of indifference as you folded it carefully and set it aside.

You had said nothing at the time, but now, here, beneath the open sky and the gaze of the people–your people–you rewrite your place in the empire.

And the people see you.

A woman in the crowd bows. A weathered man–an old soldier with whom Nanami had trained with–lifts his hand to his brow in a slow, deliberate salute. A palace attendant beside Nanami fidgets. The steward shifts on his feet.

Nanami does not move. His eyes remain fixed on you. Not as your shadow. Not even as your sworn guard. But as a man standing at the edge of something vast, wondering if it will collapse or crown you.

You descend the steps without looking back, your gait fluid, the sleeves of your robe brushing softly against your sides. Your face betrays no satisfaction. No triumph. Only resolve. Self-possession.

And beneath that, perhaps–weariness.

He joins you without a word, his footsteps matching yours precisely. He takes his place to your left as you move toward the open gates.

The rest of the guards fall in behind you, forming a protective ring–but the crowd does not surge. No one pushes. No one shouts. They watch. Not as subjects watch royalty.

But as people watch a future they did not know they could believe in.

You both walk for some time in silence.

The avenue beyond the plaza is long, lined with high walls and weeping trees. The leaves shift gently above. Shadows stretch across the path, wrapping you in shifting fragments of light and shade.

You speak first. Low, quiet, just enough for only him to hear.

“They like me.”

He glances at you. Your profile is as calm as ever–lips composed, gaze forward.

“Yes,” he says.

“They’re not meant to.”

He lets the silence elongate, unable to come up with anything productive to say. Nothing that wouldn’t betray where his heart lies. But his right hand flexes again behind his back, a slow curl of gloved fingers and thumb.

Once. Then again.

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t need to. Because you already know.

You were never meant to be seen.

You were meant to stand behind your father. Behind your brother. Behind the history carved in stone and steel.

But the people are not blind. They see you. And he does too.

Not as the Emperor’s daughter. Not as a risk to be monitored. Not even as a duty.

He sees you as something else entirely. Something he does not yet dare name, though his chest aches at the thought of speaking it.

EASTERN WING – BETWEEN THE HALLS AND CORRIDORS

The palace swallows the both of you whole.

You pass beneath the carved arch of the southern gate, its twin dragons coiling into the sky, their open jaws forever fixed in an expression of silent judgement. The sun no longer follows you. The world behind the wall–its warmth, its clarity, the people’s eyes and voices–is gone.

Inside, it is all shadow.

Your footsteps echo across the polished stone, smooth from centuries of tread. The corridors rise high around you both, vast and quiet, the ceilings stretching into darkened beams etched with gold. The air inside is cooler, but it carries its own weight: the scent of burning incense, old paper, and something deeper–the smell of secrets held too long.

You walk in silence. Not the comfortable kind. Not yet.

Nanami follows at the appointed distance. Three steps behind. Just close enough that if danger struck, he could intercept it. Just far enough that the space between you and him might still be called professional.

He no longer feels like a soldier, however. Not when you walk in front of him like this.

You move with composure, but there’s a tightness in your shoulders–a wire pulled taut beneath silk. Your robes ripple as you walk, the layered fabric swishing at your feet, across the dark stone. You do not look back. You do not ask if he is still there.

You don’t need to.

He always is.

You pass through a side corridor lined with paper screens. Painted cranes fly across the panels in delicate brushstrokes, their wings frozen mid-beat. Light filters in through latticed windows, carving golden patterns across the floor like the bars of a cage.

Your voice breaks the silence–quiet, even, but close enough to catch him.

“You’re silent.”

Nanami’s eyes flick toward you. He hesitates. Then answers, low and controlled. “Only listening, Princess.”

You turn slightly–not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to tilt your head in his direction. “To whom?”

He looks at you then. For a moment too long.

“To you,” he replies.

You don’t smile, but the air shifts between the both of you.

The silence that follows is thicker now. Denser. Like velvet held too tightly in the throat.

Your voice changes–drier, amused in that sharp, quiet way of yours. “Then you know I didn’t recite a word of their speech.”

“I noticed.”

“They’ll be furious.”

“Yes.”

That’s all he says. Not a word more. But the corners of your lips twitch–not in mockery. In approval.

You start walking, and for a while it is calm, but threaded with tension. You finally slow near a carved column, letting your fingers trail along the edge of the marble, tracing the grooves absentmindedly.

“And you?” you ask.

He pauses, startled by the question’s softness.

You don’t clarify–he knows what you mean.

He doesn’t answer right away. He never does. His hand flexes behind his back–right thumb rubbing slowly over the knuckle of his left hand, once, twice, again–his oldest tell.

“I think,” he says finally, “they forgot the difference between a voice raised for applause and a voice that matters.”

You stop. Your hand stills against the column. Your eyes find his.

He sees it happen. The flicker. Recognition.

And something almost like warmth. Like water pooling just beneath ice.

The moment stretches–precarious, probing, delicate.

Then you blink, and the shutters fall back into place. Your gaze slips away, but not before he catches a glimpse–you heard him. And worse: you believed him.

He walks with you until you reach the corridor leading to your quarters, where few others walk, where the light fades faster and the hush feels sacred.

The air feels quieter here, as though sound has been asked to wait outside.

You slow, and so does he. Then you turn toward him. Fully now. Not with half-angled glances or oblique gestures. You face him–spine straight, hands folded at your front, your robes shimmering likes smoke. The lantern light catches on your cheekbones, on the subtle red that rims your eyes, a regal echo of fire. Your mouth is unreadable. Your eyes, far less so.

There is no softness in your gaze. No cruelty either. Just clarity. The kind that makes men confess. Or fall to their knees.

“Do you think I’m dangerous, General?”

You do not ask it gently, but with the edge of something sharper beneath–something forged, not fragile.

Once again, the question halts him. Not because he doesn’t have an answer. But because he has too many.

You watch him. Still. Patient. That patience is more unsettling than any of your demands could be.

He breathes once through his nose–an attempt to regain control.

“I think you are…” he begins, then stops. Adjusts. “Capable.”

Your eyes narrow.

“That’s a soldier’s answer,” you say flatly.

A pause. You don’t move, don’t blink. You keep your eyes pinned to him like a knife driven into flesh.

He softens his voice. Minor. “I think you see more than most,” he says. “You speak less. You feel deeper than you let them see.”

You say nothing, so he continues, voice lower. Intimate in its restraint.

“I think the men who call you dangerous are the ones who know you see them too clearly.”

This invokes a reaction.

Your breath catches–barely. A flutter in your throat. Your lips part slightly, then press together again. You do not look away.

Neither does he.

Something passes between you both then, yet again, unspoken and undeniable. But too tangible to ignore. It’s been building for too long to pretend otherwise. Not tension. Something deeper. Thicker. Like oil waiting for a flame.

Your next words are soft, but not gentle.

You step forward. It is not a misstep. Not an accident. You choose the space between you both, and narrow it.

He doesn’t retreat. Can’t.

“I wonder sometimes,” you murmur, your voice softer, not to soothe, but to strike more precisely, “if you’re here because they trust you…”

Your gaze drops–not coyly, not shyly–but like a hand checking the weight of a weapon. Your eyes flick over the broad line of his shoulders, drift down the slope of his chest, to his belt, to the curl of fingers at his side. One hand is clenched–the skin whitening beneath the pressure.

You see it. He knows you do.

Your eyes return to his.

“Or because they know I would.”

The words bloom in the space between, opening like a wound. It is devastating.

Nanami stops breathing completely. He stands so still that even the soft rustle of your sleeves feels louder than his pulse. The air presses in so hard that his lungs burn. But he does not move.

You don’t flinch. And for one impossible moment, it feels as though you’re seeing him fully–not as a soldier. Not even as a man. But as something in between. Something caught.

Because you don’t know the truth. Not yet. But you’re standing on its edge.

And the worst, most damning part of it is that you’re right.

They did choose him for this. He was sent because they knew you might look at him and not see the blade in his silence. Because you might trust him. Because you might lower your guard and speak and come to believe that he was yours.

And he let you.

His hands twitch at his sides. His knuckles tighten against the leather. There is a scream somewhere deep in his bones, muffled beneath years of command, but rising regardless.

He wants to tell you. That you’re right. That he was sent to watch you. To control you. That every conversation, every walk through the garden, every unspoken glance across silk and stone and dusk–was not allowed, not earned, but engineered.

That he was the leash.

Still is.

He wants to explain. To defend himself. To say that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. That it began as a task. That it should have stayed a task. But that something inside him broke the day you asked if he would stop you from falling.

And yet–his voice does not come. The words turn to ash in his throat, and in his silence, you find the answer.

It cuts across your features with slow, surgical grace. Not anger. Not betrayal. Not yet.

Just understanding.

And behind that, something worse: disappointment. Hurt, in the way people do when they realize they were right to guard themselves all along.

You watch him a moment longer.

You step back. Smoothly. Without drama. Without scorn.

Just enough to remind him of what you’re retreating into–distance, decorum, walls.

The same walls you had started, slowly, painstakingly, to lower.

“I’m going to change,” you say. Your voice is neutral, lacking warmth now. Lacks invitation. Lacks everything that had been there seconds ago.

“Wait outside.”

Nanami bows his head. Stiffly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You turn, the sweep of your robes brushing across the polished floor, a rustle of silk and unspoken betrayal.

The carved doors ahead of you part easily. They do not slam. They close slowly, almost respectfully. But the click as they shut is deafening.

He remains, staring at the door long after it has closed.

He feels the hush return to the corridor like a pressure. The foxes painted on the nearby screen stare back at him through inked fire. The incense in the hall has long since burned away, but he smells it anyway–like memory, sharp and lingering.

His chest rises slowly. Then falls. He presses the pad of his thumb against the bone of his knuckle, harder now. The pain anchors him. The ache tells him he is still standing.

He closes his eyes.

He can’t stand here much longer. Not like this. Not in the shape of the lie you almost uncovered.

You are dangerous.

Not because you conspire. Not because you stir rebellion.

No, you are dangerous because he loves you.

And that is something he can neither name–

–nor survive.

NORTHERN WING – 断ち音の間 (THE CHAMBER OF SEVERED ECHOES)

The chamber is cold.

Not the cold of weather, but of something older–something institutional. The kind that lives in stone. In walls that have seen too much and learned never to speak of it.

The hearth, unlit. The air dry. The curtains drawn tightly closed. There is no draft, no breeze–yet the chill moves through the room like a presence, a quiet sentinel breathing down the back of Nanami’s neck as he kneels.

He is dressed for formality today, forgoing his uniform of sky blue–he is dressed in crimson and black, gold trim glinting faintly where the lantern light finds it. The folds of his cloak settle around him like blood that’s already dried.

He kneels with one fist pressed to the floor, his head bowed low, spine straight, shoulders still.

Tension coils beneath the surface of him, belying his facade of calm.

He can feel it. His body is betraying him in small, silent ways.

The quiet shifting of his jaw. The flex and curl of his right thumb, pressing against the bone of his knuckle again and again beneath the concealment of his sash. The slow ache behind his eyes–not from pain, but from the weight of holding back everything he is not allowed to say.

The Emperor has not spoken yet. Nanami does not look up.

The silence stretches. It always does. That is part of the theatre. A blade is sharpened by waiting.

And then, at last, the old man speaks.

“She is drawing too much attention.”

Nanami still does not lift his head.

The words come not as command, not as curiosity–but as condemnation. Quiet and bitter. An accusation carved into the bones of the room.

The Emperor’s voice continues, thinner than before but no less sharp. “When we sent her to the people, it was to reassure them. Not to elevate her.”

His breath catches before he speaks. Not from uncertainty, but control.

“She speaks carefully,” Nanami says evenly. “She has never implied–”

“Don’t play the fool.”

It is the Crown Prince who interrupts.

His voice is smoother than his father’s–younger, silk instead of gravel–but it cuts just the same. Laced with a different kind of venom. Colder. More polished. The tone of a man used to hiding knives behind wine and ceremony.

“You’ve heard what they call her.”

Nanami does lift his head now–slightly. Just enough for his golden eyes to rise, to meet the Prince’s.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch as he meets the Prince’s eyes.

“They call her what they see.”

It is not defiance. It is the truth.

The Prince’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns away. The movement is fluid, but it’s a retreat, in miniature.

The Emperor breathes again. A shallow, wheezing inhale.

“She will not be adored,” he says. His voice is like ash now. Bitter, brittle. “It must stop.”

Nanami’s shoulders tense, barely visible–but it is enough to pull faintly at the fabric of his uniform. He can feel it: the sweat cooling at the back of his neck. The burn of restraint behind his ribs.

“She is not defiant,” he says again. “She speaks plainly. She comforts without flattery. That is not sedition.”

The Prince steps closer. His steps echo–slow, deliberate. He circles behind Nanami like a lion might circle a chained dog, watching to see if the beast will snap its leash.

“You will curtail her appearances,” the Emperor says.

The words fall with weight.

“She will not speak without approval. She will not visit the barracks. She will not walk the gardens unless summoned. She will not attend another ceremony unless instructed.”

Each command hits Nanami like a blow to the chest.

Not because it’s hard to carry out, but because it means he’ll have to look you in the eyes when he does.

“She will remember,” the Emperor says softly, “that she is not to be worshipped.”

Not to be worshipped.

The words reverberate, low and cruel, like a sneer wrapped in silk.

Nanami’s hand clenches beneath the folds of his sash. He can’t help it.

The phrase lands on his skin like poison. And what’s worse–he knows why it unsettles him.

Because he has seen the people bow lower to you than to their ministers. He has watched farmers press their fingers to their brows in silent salute when you speak. He has felt the stillness that falls across a square when your voice carries across it–not because it’s loud, but because it’s true.

You don’t speak to be heard.

You speak to mean something.

And the people have noticed.

So has he.

And now they fear you for it.

They want you silenced not because you rebel, but because you resonate.

“She is your daughter,” Nanami says quietly, unable to stop himself.

The Crown Prince halts behind him. The air stills. The Emperor does not move.

“She is not my heir,” he replies.

There is no fury in the words. Only finality.

The Crown Prince steps forward, closer now. “You were placed at her side for this reason,” he says. “We trusted you to keep her within bounds.”

His tone is calm, but Nanami can hear the underlying tension. The dormant threat in the word trusted.

He remembers your voice–cool and low, just days ago:

I wonder sometimes, if you’re here because they trust you, or because they know I would.

The words cut through him all over again. He remembers the look in your eyes–the first flicker of betrayal. The soft wariness behind the shield.

He remembers that you are starting to suspect. And he remembers, too, that he has no defense if you ask outright.

His is your shadow. And your spy.

The thought coils through his gut like iron heated too long in the fire.

“You will obey,” the Emperor says at last.

And then, after a beat:

“Or you will be removed.”

Nanami closes his eyes. It is only for half a second, but in that half second, he sees you. Not as the Princess. Not as his charge, but rather as you are, the last time he walked behind you through the garden, your voice soft as the wind:

They heard truth. That is all.

And beneath it: the ache in your shoulders. The way your fingers brushed the petals of a blossom you would not let fall. The quiet hunger in your eyes, not for power–but for agency.

He opens his eyes again.

The room is still cold. His thumb presses once more against the bone of his knuckle, hard enough now to leave a faint ache.

And he speaks. Level. Controlled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ QUARTERS

The orders still echo in his ears as he walks.

She will not walk the gardens unless summoned.

She will not speak without approval.

She will remember she is not to be worshipped.

You will obey.

His body carries him through the palace corridors, but his mind lags somewhere behind–dragging through the dust of that cold chamber, where two men who share your blood plotted to silence you like you were nothing more than a flame grown too tall in the wind.

His heart pounds louder with every step.

He tells himself to breathe. It doesn’t work.

By the time he reaches the east wing, the last of the sunlight has fled the windows. Only lantern light remains, flickering low along the corridor walls, bathing the tapestries in uneven shades of copper and shadow.

Your door is already open. That in itself is strange.

You never leave it open–not without cause.

Nanami approaches slowly, his boots nearly silent on the polished floor.

And then he sees you.

You stand just inside, beside the low table, dressed not for court but for evening–the gray robes again, soft and plain, bound neatly at your waist. Your hair is pinned loosely tonight, a single silver ornament glinting where the light touches it.

You turn when you hear him. Carefully.

Your expression is calm. But it is a crafted calm. Deliberate. Distant. As if you already know what he’s come to say.

“General Kento,” you greet, voice steady.

He bows his head. “Your Highness.”

You study him, not for the first time. Your gaze lingers a little longer than necessary on his face, then on the tension in his shoulders, the slight curl of his gloved fingers. Your eyes flick to the door behind him.

Then, with a breath softer than silk:

“Escort me to the garden.”

The request is quiet, but it’s not tentative. You aren’t asking for his opinion. You’re telling him what you want.

And until today, he would have obeyed without hesitation.

His throat tightens. The orders return like iron pressed to the back of his neck.

She will not walk the gardens unless summoned.

His silence stretches.

You lift an eyebrow–slightly, elegantly. “General?”

Nanami breathes in, and the words burn on their way out. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

You don’t blink. He can feel your stillness intensify.

“I wasn’t aware I required your permission,” you reply.

Your voice isn’t sharpened, but the temperature of the air seems to drop around you all the same.

Nanami straightens. “It’s not a matter of permission, Your Highness. I have been instructed…”

He trails off.

Coward. Say it.

Your eyes narrow. “By whom?”

He hesitates. “The Emperor. The Crown Prince.”

A beat. Then another.

He watches it happen. The exact moment your suspicion becomes certainty.

Your chin lifts slightly, not in pride, but in that particular kind of restraint you wear when you’re swallowing something bitter. Your fingers curl at your sides–not in anger, but in calculation.

“I see.”

You turn away from him, walking toward the window. Your movement is graceful, unhurried, but there’s a coldness in the sweep of your robes, in the silence you drag behind you like a shadow.

You do not speak for a long time. Neither does he.

He can feel the entire weight of the space between you both widening like a chasm. Not in distance. But in silence. In what isn’t being said.

When you finally speak, your back is still to him.

Your voice is quiet. Almost too quiet.

“You used to tell me when something changed.”

Nanami closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough for guilt to fill every hollow place inside him.

“This change wasn’t mine to share.”

You turn to face him again. The lantern light catches your eyes. They shine like glass held over embers.

“I trusted you,” you say.

Three words. Nothing more. Not even a tremble in your voice, but he feels them like a sword to the gut.

He takes a half step forward before he realizes what he’s doing. He stops himself. His hands clench.

“I still protect you,” he says. And it sounds pathetic. Even to him.

Your lips part. Then close again. You don’t answer. You don’t have to, because this–this betrayal–isn’t about protection. Not anymore.

It’s about containment. And you know it.

“Is there anywhere I can go?” you ask, not looking at him now, but past him, toward the shadowed corridor.

Your voice is cold. Not cruel. But cold in a way he’s never heard from you before. It feels like ice filling the space where something used to be warm.

“Only within the east wing,” he says quietly. “For now.”

A pause.

You nod. Once. As if memorizing a fact you intend to use later. “Then I’ll remain here.”

Nanami doesn’t move. “Do you need anything?” he asks.

You turn back to your window. “No.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t bow. He only turns and leaves.

The door closes softly behind him. And he does not return to his post immediately.

He leans against the outer wall just beyond your chamber, on hand pressed flat to the cool stone again. His breathing is ragged. Controlled. But only just.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t accuse him. That’s what made it worse.

Because silence, from you, was never apathy. It was final.

He slides down to sit just beneath the window where you still stand, listening to nothing and everything. Light flickers faintly through the paper panes above his head.

He hears no sound from inside. Only the wind outside, curling around the courtyard. And his own thoughts, loud and merciless.

She trusted you.

And you kept her caged.

Not with walls.

But with silence.

He closes his eyes.

He loves you. He knows that now.

And when you find out what else he’s kept from you–when you realize what he was sent to do–

You will never forgive him.

And he will not deserve it if you do.

EASTERN WING – 静かの庭 (THE GARDEN OF TRANQUILITY)

For three days, they do not speak unless required. And even then, it is never more than necessary.

Your voice, when it comes, is precise and polite. “General Nanami, the scrolls, please.” “You may inform the kitchen I’m ready.” “Escort me only to the corridor.” Each word clipped clean. Not cold. Worse–distant. Formal. Detached.

You say his title as if it were a stranger’s name. He does not correct you. Because he has no right to.

You have not asked what you suspect. You do not confront him. You do not press.

But that is your way. You do not speak until the blade is already at the throat.

You are quieter than usual, and that silence hangs between you both like smoke in a closed room–thick, invisible, and impossible to breathe around.

He watches you with care. Too much care. The way you avoid his eyes when you speak. The way your footsteps echo sharper on the stone. The way your hands, always still, now twitch ever so slightly when you are left alone too long in thought.

You are unraveling.

And it is his fault.

Not because you know it yet, but because he can no longer lie to you without trembling.

He moves like a man condemned.

Each morning, he wakes knowing he is the blade they placed behind your ribs. And each night, he dreams of your eyes the moment you will finally see it.

Still, he stands outside your chambers. Still, he walks three paces behind. Still, he listens for your breath when you fall asleep, so low and slow that only someone who listens because he loves you would notice.

He watches you guard your heart again.

And this time, he is not the one protecting it. He is the one it is being protected from.

It begins, as these things always do, in silence.

Not absence of sound–but the weight of sound unspoken. Of words withheld too long, stretched too tightly between two people who have stopped pretending not to know what’s coming.

The sun has already slipped beneath the spires of the palace, casting its final haze across lacquered rooflines like blood fading into silk. The air hums faintly with the heat still clinging to the stone, but it’s cooler here in the east wind. The wind picks up now and then, tugging gently at the banners above the arched walkway, making the garden lanterns tremble in their hooks.

Nanami steps from the outer corridor into the courtyard, boots landing soft as breath on the polished stone.

He sees you instantly.

You stand near the far edge of the garden, half in shadow, your robes tied high and tight at the waist–not for ceremony, but for movement. Your arms are crossed, sleeves gathered, your silhouette etched sharply against the fading gold of the sky.

You don’t move when he enters. Don’t move. But you know he’s there.

Everyone knows when Nanami enters a room. Not because he draws attention, but because he pulls it away–silence gathering around him like gravity, steady and still. And yet now, here, in this particular silence, he feels incredibly exposed.

Like a blade drawn too long from its sheath.

You turn. Slowly.

Your eyes find him at once. No hesitation. No warmth. Just clarity, and something far more dangerous beneath it.

Not suspicion. Certainty.

“General,” you say.

The title should be a tether. It feels like a sword at his throat.

“I’d like to walk.”

Your voice is soft, but deliberate. Your tone is the kind that offers no room for interrogation.

He opens his mouth.

The words come unbidden–you’re not permitted, it’s against orders, please don’t ask me–but they die before they can even reach his tongue. Because the way you look at him–the stillness of your body, the sharp set of your shoulders, the pale flame burning behind your eyes–

You are not asking. You are daring. And he cannot deny you.

Not here. Not now. Not with the edge of your trust already bleeding.

“I’ll escort you,” he says quietly.

The words taste like ash.

You turn and begin walking before he finishes.

He follows. One pace behind. Always behind.

You walk with him through the Garden of Tranquility, and it has never felt less deserving of its name.

The gravel path crunches softly beneath his feet, lined with wind-swept pines and ancient plum trees, their heavy blossoms falling like snow. Lanterns sway in the breeze, their light scattered across the stones like the shimmer of broken glass.

Nanami’s steps are steady. Trained. But inside, his heart slams against his ribs like a fist trying to escape. He wants to speak. To say something–anything–that might pull you back from the cliff you’re standing on.

But he knows better. This is no moment for half-truths.

You will not be softened.

You walk ahead, your back straight, head high. You don’t look at him. Don’t speak. But your silence is louder than any scream.

She knows.

And still, he cannot speak. Because what would he say? That he never wanted to be your leash? That he followed orders because he didn’t know he would fall for you? That he lied to protect you and now it’s too late to untangle the truth from the betrayal?

You would see through it. Of course you would.

You reach the koi pond–the same place where you had once asked him to pluck a blossom for you. Where your fingers brushed his hand and he felt, for one fleeting breath, like he was more than steel and silence.

Now, the pond lies still. The water is dark. The blossoms have begun to fall.

You stop at its edge. Nanami halts behind you.

You do not speak at first.

The air stretches taut between you both.

Then, finally:

“Tell me something, General.”

Your voice is low, even, but it cuts straight through him.

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens. His hands flex at his sides. He can already feel the shape of your next words.

You turn your head slowly, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

“Were you always meant to be at my side?”

His breath catches.

There’s no way to lie gently. Not now. Not with the fury already behind your question. And still, he remains silent.

You face him fully now. Moonlight casts pale silver across your cheekbones, your mouth, the line of your brow. Your eyes shine–not with tears. But with heat.

With rage.

The kind of rage that simmers not from hate, but from heartbreak.

“A guard,” you say, voice trembling now–not with weakness, but with force held back, “does not keep secrets from the one they protect.”

Your gaze sharpens.

“A spy does.”

The words strike. He flinches. Just barely, but you see it, and your voice sharpens in turn.

“You knew,” you breathe, stepping forward, “when they sent me to speak in the square. When the people began to listen. When my brother smiled too much and the ministers whispered behind curtains. You knew I was being used.”

He opens his mouth again. Still nothing.

You step closer. The distance between you and him is but a breath now.

“And all that time, you stood beside me. Said nothing. Watched.”

The fury is rising now. Your composure is cracking. Your control slipping.

“You let me trust you.”

Your voice falters. Breaks.

Nanami’s throat clenches. He steps forward. You see it. You react like he’s drawn his sword, and step back. Quick, sharp, deliberate.

“Don’t.”

One word. It stops him dead.

“Don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not if you’re going to lie again.”

The tremble in your voice is no longer hidden.

“I asked you once,” you say, your tone like splintered glass. “If you would stop me from doing something reckless. If I ordered you to let me go.”

Your eyes meet his–and they burn.

“You didn’t say then,” you whisper, “that you already had.”

The silence afterward is too long. Too loud.

Nanami wants to speak. He has to. But nothing he says will change what’s already happened.

You stare at him. Fury twists your shoulders tight, chin high, fingers curled in the fabric of your robe like you’re holding yourself together by will alone.

“I want the truth,” you say. Steady. Devastating.

And then, slowly–coldly:

“Tell me what I was to you, General.”

Not who.

What.

The garden holds its breath.

The koi pond ripples faintly, the surface catching fragments of moonlight, warped and trembling. Lanterns sway, their dim flames reflected in your eyes.

You stand before him like a blade–poised, honed, and finally unsheathed.

“Tell me,” you repeat, “what I was to you, General.”

Your voice is sharp as silk torn cleanly down the middle. Not soft. Not cold. Fatal.

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know how. Because if he says what’s true–that you were supposed to be a risk assessment, a liability, a volatile variable to be watched and restrained–he will kill whatever thread remains between you both.

And if he says what he feels–

It will come too late. Too hollow. Too selfish.

You stare at him, your hands now tighter than ever at your sides. Your fingers are shaking. Just barely, but he notices. It’s the first sign of breakage. Not weakness, but impact.

“You stood there,” you say, voice rising, “every day. You watched me breathe. You watched me bleed. You–”

Your words catch. You close your mouth, swallow hard, and speak again. Louder. Faster.

“You stood beside me when they sent me to speak to crowds I didn’t want to face. You stood behind me when they dressed me up and pushed me forward like a puppet. And when I asked you–when I begged you for the truth behind their silence–”

You stop again. Your eyes close. Just for a second.

When they open, they burn like fire trapped in glass.

“You said nothing.”

Nanami’s voice finally comes. Low. Hoarse.

“I wanted to protect you.”

Your breath stutters. “Protect me?”

“I never meant–”

“Never meant what?” you snap. “To deceive me? To report on me behind closed doors? To be the hand that held the chain around my throat?”

He flinches like you struck him. And in a way, you have.

“I never wanted this,” he says again, softer now. “I never wanted to be a part of what they–”

“But you were,” you spit.

The sound of it hits like thunder in the still garden.

“You were, Kento.”

He flinches at the name. Not because you say it–but because you use it now.

Weaponized.

“You knew what they feared,” you say. “You knew what they planned. And you said nothing.”

“I tried to keep you safe.”

You laugh. A single, bitter exhale. No humor in it.

“You tried to keep me quiet.”

The words strike deep. Not because they’re cruel. Because they are true.

Nanami’s hands clench at his sides. His chest feels too tight. His throat aches with all the things he never said, never let himself feel.

He looks at you now–not as a Princess. Not as his charge.

But as the woman he loves.

Your face is pale in the moonlight. Your eyes are fierce and wounded, rimmed in tears that haven’t yet fallen. Your jaw is clenched, proud. Unyielding.

She is beautiful.

And she is breaking.

Because of me.

“I didn’t want to report on you,” he says, each word pulled from his lungs like wire. “I didn’t want to contain you. I–”

Your voice cuts through his yet again.

“But you did.” Then, quieter, “You still do.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.

“I disobeyed them,” he says slowly. “Every day, after I began to understand who you were. I lied to the Emperor. To your brother. I told them you were passive. Obedient.”

“And that makes this better?” you snap.

“No,” he says.

The word hangs in the air. Simple. Final.

“It doesn’t.”

You look away, shaking your head slowly, your hands still clenched.

“I trusted you,” you murmur again.

“I know.”

“No–you don’t,” you say, your voice rising again. “You don’t know what that meant.”

The air between the two of you is thick and unbearable.

“Do you know how many people I’ve trusted in my life?”

You hold up your fingers.

“Two.”

A beat.

“My mother. And you.”

Nanami sways. Just slightly, but he feels it. Like the ground has shifted underfoot.

You step forward again–not to close the distance, but to end it.

“You were supposed to be mine,” you say. “The one thing in that palace I didn’t have to question. The one person I could speak to without watching my own words.”

“I was,” he whispers.

“No.” You shake your head. “You were never mine. You were theirs. You were always theirs.”

Your voice is trembling now. Cracking. “I looked for you. When I didn’t trust the others. When I needed to feel like I wasn’t losing myself.”

“I saw you,” he says, desperate now. “I still do.”

You go still. “That’s what makes it worse.”

The silence that follows is absolute. No birds. No breeze. Only the soft plink of water at the koi pond behind.

He steps toward you. Very slowly. Your breath catches. You don’t move.

He reaches out, but he doesn’t touch you. He stops just short, because he knows–

If he touches you now, you will break in two.

And he might never forgive himself.

Instead, his voice drops, soft as crushed velvet. He says your name.

You close your eyes. When they open, they shine with unshed tears.

“I will never forgive you,” you whisper.

Your voice is soft. And final. And true.

Then you turn, and walk away.

Nanami doesn’t follow. He cannot. Not this time.

He stays in the garden long after you are gone. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

The koi stir in the pond. The lanterns burn low. And behind his ribs, the ache blooms.

She trusted you.

And you destroyed her.

The part of him that was once only duty is gone.

Only love remains.

Too late. Too broken. Too silent.

IN BETWEEN WINGS – NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

You do not summon him. Not that morning. Not the next. Not the one after.

And yet, he comes. Dressed as always in the azure-and-silver uniform of the Imperial Guard, his cape trimmed in gold, his sword polished, his gloves tight against his skin as if to contain everything he cannot.

He takes his place at your door at dawn, as he always has.

But this time, the light doesn’t reach him. He truly is a shadow.

The corridor outside your chambers is long and still. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and old parchment. Dust hangs unmoving in the sunbeams pouring through the high lattice windows. Servants pass him in silence, their eyes lowered. None dare to ask why the Princess has not stepped outside.

But they all feel it. That the air has changed. Not with noise. With tension. With silence sharpened into a deadly blade.

He does not knock. He does not ask to enter. He simply waits.

And behind the door, behind the carved lacquered panels, he knows–you are there. Awake. Alive. And keeping every breath from him like a secret.

It is the afternoon before the spring rains when you reappear in public.

You do not tell him you are going. The steward delivers the order in writing:

The Princess will make her appearance at the Temple of the Nine Banners to offer incense for the dying Emperor. She will wear silver, and she will not speak more than is required.

Nanami dresses for ceremony. He says nothing when he meets you at the gate.

You wear pearl-gray silk and a comb of white jade in your hair. Your sleeves trail like mist behind you as you walk, head high, eyes forward, a marble figure draped in the shape of poise.

And you never once look at him. Not as you walk the path lined with red-lacquered columns. Not as you kneel at the altar. Not as you rise, your offering made, the incense smoke curling like ghosts toward the temple eaves.

But he watches you.

Every step. Every twitch of your fingers. Every breath held just a moment too long.

You don’t falter. But he knows where to look now. He knows how to see you. And what he sees breaks him.

Not because you are angry. Because you are still. Because you have taken the pain he caused and locked it deep behind your ribs, behind a wall even he cannot scale. And you will carry it there, wordless and alone.

That night, the lanterns outside your quarters flicker in their brass hooks, dimming with the wind.

Nanami stands at his post, as he always has. But this time, he leans–just slightly–against the carved stone that frames the doorway. Not from fatigue, but from something heavier.

He cannot breathe the same way anymore.

Not here. Not knowing you are inside, one wall away, and will never ask for him again.

The old rhythm is broken. You used to step to the threshold before retiring, say his name low and quiet, ask some hypothetical question as if you weren’t speaking of yourself.

He used to wait for it. Used to watch you linger, your hand brushing the doorframe, as if considering something before retreating into the safety of silence.

But now? Now there is only distance.

The candlelight behind the paper screen is faint. He stares at it like he could will you into speaking. Into forgiving.

You do not come.

The silence that follows him is not empty. It is punishment.

Two days later, he escorts you to the Hall of Imperial Petitions for an audience.

Your steps are precise. Your hair is swept up in intricate coils held with ornate pins. The soldiers salute as you pass with him.

You return none of it.

You say nothing as you pass through the winding halls, past corridors lined with ancient murals, the tapestries whispering in the wind from the courtyard beyond.

Nanami walks behind you.

The space between you and him–always the same three paces–has never felt so far.

You do not falter, but your silence presses against his chest like a weight. Each step forward feels like an echo of the last time you turned your back to him–that final burning look in the garden.

He wonders if you will ever look at him again. Not with love. Just recognition. He wonders if you see him now the way you see the marble statues along the colonnade: unmoving. Unforgivable.

He returns to the barracks that night after midnight. The walls there are plain. Unadorned. The small oil lamp flickers in the corner.

He doesn’t remove his armor. He sits on the edge of his sleeping platform, still in full dress, the weight of it pressing into his spine.

He is not tired. Not even angry. He is–empty.

Like a blade that has snapped mid-swing.

His hands rest on his thighs. He stares at the floor for a long time. Then, finally, slowly, he pulls of his glove. His right hand. The one you touched first.

He stares at the creases in his palm, the slight ache in the knuckle from when he used to press it too hard out of habit.

It looks the same. He knows it’s not. Because you held it once. And now, he will never know if it could have meant something more.

He curls it into a fist. And bows his head.

He will not beg. He will not speak. But if you ever call for him again–just once–he will come.

Because the only thing left of the man they made him to be is the part of him that still kneels when you enter the room.

SOUTHERN WING – 昇旗の庭 (COURTYARD OF RISING BANNERS)

The bells do not ring when the Emperor dies.

There is no toll to mark the end of a reign. No voice raised in sorrow. No black banners descending like silk from the towers. No procession to march his body through the avenues he once claimed as arteries of divine rule.

Instead, the silence comes first. Not the reverent kind reserved for death. Not mourning.

The other kind. The kind that creeps. That folds into the stone.

The kind of silence Nanami knows from battlefields–when the wind dies before the arrows fall, when the enemy holds their breath just before they breach the walls.

He stands at the edge of the lower courtyard, beside the central plum tree, when he hears it.

Not an announcement. Not a whisper. Not even words. Just the absence of sound.

The servants that pass move too quickly. Too quietly. A steward drops a scroll and does not retrieve it. Two guards adjust their spears but avoid meeting each other’s eyes. The courtiers that were laughing in the shade an hour ago now speak in clusters, backs to the wind, heads bowed not in reverence but in calculation.

Something has ended, and no one dares be the first to name it.

The message finally reaches him by way of a junior officer from the western barracks. The boy is pale, breathing too fast.

“The Emperor,” he says, struggling to take a breath, “has passed.”

Passed. Not died. Not collapsed. Not gasped his final breath in the warmthless dark of his golden bed.

Passed. As if he drifted. As if power had not just been torn from the body of a dying god and given to something much colder.

Nanami nods once. There is nothing to say.

He watches the officer leave, vanishing into the turning tide of the court. Then, he looks upward, past the flowering trees and tiled roofs, to the upper balcony of the Tower of Jade, where he sees the Crown Prince–no, the new Emperor–draped in black and gold.

He is not weeping. He is not bowed in grief. He is standing at the edge of the railing, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the courtyards as if this had always been his palace, his court, his sky.

And perhaps it had.

Perhaps, Nanami thinks, this was always the ending the old Emperor was too proud to see.

NORTHERN WING – 天命の殿 (THE HALL OF HEAVEN’S MANDATE)

By the time Nanami returns to the eastern wing, the palace is no longer the one he knows. The very air feels heavier, like storm clouds pressing down, as if the palace itself senses the shift in power. The corridor–once echoing with laughter and the soft rustle of silk–now feel hollow, vast, and waiting.

He walks past columns carved with phoenixes, their eyes seeming to watch his every move. The scent of sandalwood is stronger here, laced with something bitter beneath it. Fear, perhaps. Or something like it.

The guards outside your chambers are no longer the same men. He notices immediately. Their stances are too sharp. Their gazes flick to him with veiled suspicion. He knows these are not your guards. They are not loyal to you. They are loyal to the new Emperor.

The lacquered doors are closed.

He does not knock. He waits, silent in the golden hush of evening, the lanterns painting the hallway in long strips of amber light. His heart beats slowly but heavily, like a drum sounded underwater. He doesn’t know what he wants from this moment. Not forgiveness. He does not deserve it. But perhaps acknowledgement. A glance. A word.

The hinges finally groan. The door eases open with quiet precision. You step out.

You wear ash-gray silk, unembellished and heavy. The fabric falls in clean lines, severe and cold, save for the single silver pin anchoring in your hair–a willow branch, delicate but unbending. Your eyes are lined not with kohl but with shadow. Your posture is flawless. Your presence, formidable.

To anyone else, you might look like a woman deep in mourning. But Nanami sees you clearly.

You are not broken. You are braced. You are a blade being unsheathed.

And still–god help him–he finds you beautiful.

Not the type of beauty spun from gold or draped in silk, but something truer. Elemental. Your silence is no longer passive. It is a choice. A weapon.

You meet his eyes. And he sees nothing there. No welcome. No fire. Not even anger. Only distance.

He bows low, lower than he has for anyone. He would only do it for you.

“Your Highness. The Emperor has summoned you to the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate.”

You step through the doorway, the scent of plum blossoms clinging faintly to your robes. Your movement is as fluid as always, but there is something much harder beneath it now–an edge that had not been there before.

“So he has,” you reply, your voice cool, each syllable shaped like glass.

He walks at your side, but every step feels like a widening chasm. The space between you is not physical. It is everything said and unsaid.

He wants to speak. God, he wants to say something. Anything to close the distance. To offer you a piece of the truth you can hold onto. Something to soften the shape of what he has become in your eyes.

But nothing comes. His mouth is full of ash.

He shakes his head slightly, not enough for you to notice. He must try.

“You should not be made to face him alone.”

You don’t look at him. “I am not alone. I am merely surrounded.”

The words strike deep. So precise. So sharp. You always knew where to aim.

Perhaps you do mean it. Perhaps you don’t. Either way, it lands the same.

You pass beneath the arch of the inner cloister, its painted dragons coiled in endless battle across the ceiling. The floor glows with the light of low lanterns, their flames flickering as you walk through, Nanami following, obedient.

You do not look up. You have seen these dragons all your life. You know exactly what they protect. And what they don’t.

Nanami’s voice is quieter now, heavy with the ache of words long held back. “If he speaks to you of marriage, or exile, or restriction–”

“He will,” you interrupt.

He stops walking. You don’t.

“Princess,” he pleads, the title feeling wrong on his tongue now, too formal, too far. His voice drops to something raw. “There are things I wish you would let me say.”

You slow, your profile cut in the flickering light. Then you turn your head, just enough to let your words slip free without the courtesy of a glance.

“Then you should have said them before.”

And you walk ahead, your silhouette stretching long and thin across the stone, haloed by the warmth of flame and the bite of silence.

He follows. He always does. But every step is agony now, each footfall echoing like the toll of a bell that marks the death of something too quiet to be given a name.

Ahead, the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate towers over you both, its gilded doors carved with phoenixes in flight, its high eaves braced against the sky.

It does not feel like a place of judgement. It feels like a place of endings. And the throne behind those doors–the one that once belonged to a dying man–is no longer empty.

The Hall of Heaven’s Mandate yawns open before you, vast and echoing, it’s gilded doors parting like a mouth preparing to swallow you both whole. Light streams through the high windows, stained crimson and gold, casting warped patterns across the polished floor like fire crawling up from the underworld.

Everything is still. Not reverent. Not quiet. Expectant.

Nanami steps in behind you, his boots soundless against the marble. You walk forward with the poise of a woman born to walk through fire. Each step is deliberate. The silk of your robes hisses with the movement, sharp as blade being drawn.

The new Emperor sits upon the throne. He is dressed in mourning black trimmed with imperial gold, a polished circlet resting on his brow like a cage. He lounges as though born to the seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest–not with impatience, but with calculation.

There are ministers arrayed along the sides of the hall. Silent. Watching.

You stop at the prescribed distance, and bow–just enough to be correct. Nothing more.

“Your Majesty,” you say.

Nanami remains a step behind you. His hands are folded behind his back, his gaze forward. But his focus is on you. Always you.

The Emperor smiles. It is a thin thing, lacking charm. “Sister. You are pale. Does grief weigh heavy upon you at last?”

“Grief,” you say, “is not a cloak I wear for display.”

The room does not move. Rather, it tightens.

The Emperor leans forward slightly. “Then let us speak plainly. The old world is gone. I am its successor. And you, sister, must now serve it.”

Your chin lifts. Barely. “Have I not always served the Empire?”

“You have served yourself,” he replies, a hiss. “And it has been tolerated. Because our father–for all his flaws–was patient. I am not.”

The words land like stones. Nanami does not move. But his jaw tenses. His thumb presses against the inside of his glove.

“You will be married,” the Emperor says. “The northern alliance demands it. The agreement has already been written. The envoy arrives within the next two weeks.”

You do not flinch. “To whom,” you ask, “am I being sacrificed?”

The Emperor smiles again. “To a man of title. Of strength. And of hunger. He will put a son in you by winter. And he will keep your tongue where it belongs.”

The room holds its breath. Nanami’s hand curls into a fist behind his back. Every instinct in him screams to move. To speak. To act.

But he cannot.

You do not look back at him. Your voice is steady.

“You will not live long enough to see that son born.”

A silence deeper than death spills over the hall. The Emperor’s gaze sharpens, but he says nothing. And Nanami, beside you, breathes in deeply–because in that moment, he realizes that you will never submit. Not to the Empire. Not to fear. Not even to him. And god help him, he loves you for it.

The Emperor does not rise. His hands–adorned with the fresh symbols of coronation, rings of authority pressed too tightly onto aging fingers–grip the lion-carved armrest of the throne with the weight of performance. The flick of his fingers is casual. Dismissive. Dripping with the confidence of a man who now believes himself untouchable and his sister nothing more than a broodmare.

“You may go,” he says, his voice calm. Too calm. As though you have already ceased to matter. As if you didn’t just tell him he would meet his undoing soon.

You incline your head, your composure absolute. There is no tremble in your hands, no flicker in your gaze. You are every inch the daughter of an emperor–even one now gone to ash. But beneath that veil of restraint, Nanami sees it. The steel. The fire carefully banked. The blade kept sheathed, for now.

You do not turn to him. Instead, your gaze shifts–sideways.

And then he sees the other guard. Not your attendant. Not your man. A stranger in imperial black, trimmed in gold. A Crown loyalist. One of the Emperor’s chosen shadows.

Nanami’s replacement.

“He will escort you back,” the Emperor says.

The words fall with the sound of metal drawn across cold marble.

Nanami doesn’t move, but something inside him fractures. Not with a sound, but with a certainty.

You offer no protest. You don’t question the command. Your silence, as always, is a deadly thing. You simply turn. Walk.

Past Nanami. Without a glance.

Each step is flawless. Fluid. This shimmer of your robe is like wind across frost. You walk like you have already buried every illusion you once held. And you do not look back. Not once.

The guard followed you like a shadow born from a different sun.

The doors close. Their great weight echoes through the Hall of Heaven’s Mandate, reverberating through stone and silence like a slow heartbeat.

Nanami stands alone, the ministers having filed out after the princess.

The quiet that follows is profound. It is not peace. It is aftermath.

The room is too bright. Too polished. Every gilded edge shines like a lie.

The new Emperor does not rise immediately. He watches Nanami with the faint smile of a man who believes himself already victorious. When he finally stands, he descends the dais slowly, like a man descending from divinity to offer wisdom to a lesser being.

“You care for her,” he says. Not a question.

Nanami remains motionless, staring straight ahead. He does not speak. He does not need to. The absence of a response says everything.

The Emperor circles him now, like a wolf circling a tethered beast. “You were placed at her side to report, to restrain, to remind her of her limits. Not to fall under her spell.”

His voice lowers, dripping with distaste. “Not to watch her like she was something sacred.”

Nanami breathes in. The air tastes wrong.

The Emperor stops before him, just shy of confrontation.

“You disobey in silence, General. In stillness. In all the little ways you think go unnoticed. But I notice.”

Nanami’s fists curl behind his back, beneath his cape. His shoulders are tight, rigid with effort. The fabric of his gloves strains against the pressure of his grip. He holds every breath in his chest like a dam.

“She will be married,” the Emperor says, more softly now, but no less threatening. “To a man with teeth. A man who will make her pliable. Who will teach her the humility our father failed to instill.”

The words are meant to provoke. They succeed. Nanami’s jaw tenses. His eyes narrow, fractionally.

But he does not speak. Because if he speaks now, it will not be words. It will be war.

The Emperor leans in. “And if you interfere–if I catch even a whisper of hesitation in you again–I will have you executed. Quietly. Without spectacle. You will vanish like smoke. And she will never even hear your name again.”

Nanami does not flinch. He bows. But it is not submission. It is ritual. It is armor. It is the final breath before battle.

He turns and leaves.

Each step is deliberate. Controlled. Every footfall echoes louder than the last, because something in him is shattering.

No. Not shattering–changing.

The oath he took to the Emperor died with the man now buried in a sealed crypt. He does not serve this new tyrant. He does not serve this court of jackals and parasites.

He serves the Empire. And you–

You are the Empire.

In your silence, there is vision. In your poise, there is power. In your defiance, there is a future worth bleeding for.

He will not let you be dragged away, married off, shackled like livestock sent to secure borders.

You are not a pawn. You are the blade. And he is no longer the leash. He is the shield.

Even if it costs him his life.

A/N: we love a yearner in this house (art by ykRRR23 on X)

[im-subtextsexual]

I’m glad so many people picked up on the vibes between Eloise and Cressida. Not a ship I ever considered before, but the tension was palpable. I’ve been a Queer Eloise truther since reading the books. Her portrayal on the show only made it more obvious in my mind. I didn’t think the writers would ever go there, but the set up is just so explicit, now I’m not sure. I don’t think they’d actually make Eloise / Cressida canon, but I do think they’re testing the waters for wlw Eloise. And it makes perfect sense. 

First off, the character is queer (I’ll hold off from labeling her a lesbian outright, because there’s definitely room for other identities like bi, demi, ace…. etc.) Even in the books. I legitimately think Julia Quinn accidentally wrote a sapphic character and then didn’t know what to do with her. So what we got is “To Sir Phillip, With Love”, widely considered to be one of the worst in the series. Believe me, if there’s any story that could stand to deviate from the books, it’s this one. And the story could so easily be adapted to a wlw romance, it would be a wasted opportunity not to do it. Like… the story would be better if they tweaked it to fit a queer canon. AND it could be done in a historically accurate way to shut up the naysayers that “a lesbian storyline wouldn’t fit in this universe.” How? Allow me to explain.

*SPOILERS FOR BRIDGERTON SERIES BOOK 5*

In the book, Eloise strikes up a correspondence with Sir Phillip Crane. Yes, THAT Phillip, the one currently married to Marina from season 1&2. Marina kills herself because she can’t stand to be married to Phillip and deal with their children in the wake of her lover / his brother’s death. His initial interest in Eloise is to find a mother for his children. She is intrigued by his intelligence and decides she doesn't want to be alone, but isn’t necessarily eager to marry or have a family. Due to romance novel shenanigans, she runs away to Phillip's house and is forced to marry him. Even as they grow to kind of love each other, it's far from some grand romance. It’s the very definition of “settling”. The most interesting part is the narrative structure of their story being told through letters in the beginning. We could keep all that, but make it gay. 

*Imagine*

Eloise meets some dapper gentlemen new to the marriage mart. We’ll call him Emmett. Very little is known about Emmett and his family as they keep largely to themselves at their estate in the countryside. The only thing that’s widely known is the family suffered a tragic accident where the man of the house and his oldest daughter died, leaving his son (the other twin) to take on the responsibility of rank and title very early. Emmet is making a rare appearance in London to find a wife (there are rumors of stipulations in his inheritance requiring a match). ALL the debutantes are fawning over him because he’s mysterious and extraordinarily good-looking. One might even say “pretty”… To everyone’s great surprise the season’s most eligible bachelor takes a special interest in Eloise after overhearing her talking about her disdain for the social convention of marriage, and how she would only consider it if it were an in-name-only, marriage of convenience. Emmett strikes up a conversation with Eloise and she is taken by his humor, wit and shockingly deep empathy for the limitations society puts on women. They continue to gravitate to each other through the first few events of the season, but Emmett has to return home suddenly because of a family emergency. Eloise is shocked to find herself disappointed, but they promise to write. Cue the correspondence romance.

Eloise grows more and more smitten with Emmett every letter she receives, but still has the same reservations about marriage especially when she thinks of the intimacy a relationship like that would require. When Emmett hints that he may want more than friendship, Eloise's feelings get the better of her and she goes to visit Emmett unannounced. He is shocked to see her, but let's her stay and she gets to know his mother and two younger sisters. The Bridgertons go looking for Eloise, worried something has happened to her. When she is found to have been staying for days in an unwed man's home without a chaperone, the potential scandal causes Anthony to force Eloise and Emmett to marry. Surprisingly, Emmett actually agrees so Eloise does too (all of this is essentially what happens in the book).

Eloise confesses to Emmett that she's nervous/resistant to physical intimacy, but he assures her they never have to be together that way. In fact, he would prefer the marriage of convenience they always talked about. Eloise is relieved until their kiss at the wedding sparks an attraction she wasn't expecting. They spend the first month or so of their marriage sleeping in separate rooms, enjoying each other's company, and letting the tension build. One night, Eloise's control and curiosity finally snaps and she goes to Emmett's room to initiate a physical relationship. She catches Emmett off guard in his sleeping clothes which makes it VERY clear... Emmett is a woman (cliffhanger of episode 4, and where we deviate from book canon to make it queer).

After the initial shock, Eloise allows her new "husband" to explain. Emmett is really Emma, the daughter believed to have died in a carriage accident with her father so many years ago. It was her twin brother that actually died, but since there were no other male heirs, Emma's family fortune would have gone to a distant uncle who is cruel and abusive. To save them of that fate, Emma's mother conspired with the local coroner to make it look like Emma was the one who died, so "Emmett" could inherit everything. Emma has been living as Emmett ever since, successfully keeping up the deception by keeping a low profile in society. The only reason Emma came to London that year is because her uncle died, and a cousin had come around asking questions hoping to inherit. She thought getting married would help secure her identity as Emmett and the cousin would back off. At first Eloise is outraged. She feels betrayed by Emma's duplicity, and is terrified if any of this ever got out everyone they know would be ruined forever. She agrees to keep the secret to save her family's reputation, but shuns Emma. Eventually, Emma (already aware that she's in love with Eloise) attempts to make amends and Eloise is charmed enough that she relaxes back into the relationship they had before the Big Reveal. The only problem is the attraction is still there, even more so now that Eloise knows the truth. Things come to a head, and they go at it Bridgerton style.

Emma and Eloise live happily in a true marriage for a bit until Cressida and Penelope come for a visit. They both find out about Emma, but are sworn to secrecy. Pen easily swears her loyalty (having already suspected Eloise), but Cressida is sickened. In a rage, she threatens to out them all, and storms back to London. Eloise follows her and begs Cressida to keep the secret, and tries to explain why the "wrong" feelings she has for Emma are very right for her. To Eloise's surprise, Cressida isn't upset about what she's doing with Emma, but who she's doing it with. She didn't know what they're doing was an option; that she was an option. Cressida confesses that if she'd known a life with Eloise was a choice she could make, it's the life she would have chosen. Eloise lets Cressida down easy by explaining they didn't have that choice. Everyone in the ton knows who they are. The only reason her relationship with Emma works is because of the ruse that allows Emma to be Emmett. Cressida takes this in stride, and vows to keep the secret, but her mother overhears and causes the biggest scandal London Society has ever seen.

The Bridgertons and a few friends (like Lady Danbury) are as understanding as possible, but the rest of the ton is rabid. Things escalate to the point where Emma and Eloise have to appear before the Queen. Emma pleads her case about pretending to save her family, and insists that Eloise didn't know until well after they were married so she's innocent. Eloise can't help herself and gets on her soapbox about the way society limits women, and that the Queen should understand their plight. Shockingly, she does. She annuls their "marriage" (because they didn't consummate anything... RIGHT?!) but she agrees to let Emma control her family's estate until one of her sisters produces a male heir. After that, she and Eloise will receive a pension from the Crown so they can live independently (the real Queen Charlotte actually did this for suspected historical sapphic couple The Ladies of Llangollen). Since Emma and Eloise would never be able to find husbands now, they decide that they'll just be two spinsters growing old together in their house in the countryside. You know... just two gal pals. No one believes that shit, but they rarely interact with the ton, so they're largely left alone to live as they please.

Happy ending, close to canon, historically accurate, and super gay. It's not that hard. You're welcome.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Ruratanian Romance

Ever been to the European nation of Ruratania? No? It doesn't exist. Ruratanian Romance is a genre that takes place in a typically small fictional European country.

Getting to Know the Genre

The first Ruritanian novel of its kind was the 1894 "The Prisoner of Zenda" by Anthony Hope. Ruritanian Romance usually take place within the contemporary but there is no reason you can't apply it within a historical setting. The common themes of the genre revolve around the lives of the royal family or nobility of the region, culture clash, political intrigue, the balance of love and duty and adventure. The genre tends to feature people travelling to the nation for the first time and finding a romantic partner or the return of a lost/unknown heir and the villains tend to be corrupt nobles or politicians looking to cash in on the nation's beautiful settings or steal the throne.

Building a Small European Nation

The beauty of Europe is that while every country is unique it shares a history and cultural aspects with their neighbour. To build a small European nation, you need to know the history of its neighbours and how it effected your new nation. Ruritanian nations end to be more idealised, focusing on the more romantic sides of Europe - fine historical buildings, beautiful nature and very modern and progressive cultures and governments. You will need to decide what political structure your nation has, what are its symbols, languages spoken, population size, resources, geographical features etc. I have more under my #worldbuilding.

Culture of your Ruratanian Nation

No matter where you are in Europe, you will experience another nation's culture alongside your own. Whether you're listening to German techno in a French nightclub or eating an Irish Spice Bag in Latvia, the culture of your neighbours bleed through to your own. If your nation lies near France, they may share similarities in language or if they are by Italy they may share similar cuisine. If your nation is in the Balkans, they will have a more Slavic culture than the West. But it's not all spice bags and techno beats, Europe is like one big family and every country has its buddies and rivals. Rivalry can be formed by history or differences in culture and it doesn't mean that the countries and their people will be beating each other up. It's rivalry that involves making fun of one another or cheering when they lose a football match (Remember kids, it's not about who wins it's that England lose) . I have a post on culture under that hashtag.

History

You should know the history of your little nation. And because it's surrounded by real nations, you can easily fit that into your new nation. Did Napoleon ever visit? Did they ever get into a scrap with a country beside them? Which country do they have a rivalry with? Why? Pay attention to where you want to place your nation. Genovia - probably the best known of recent examples - is situated between France and Italy on the Cote d'Azur. Genovian history features the Visigoths and WWII. Your history of this nation doesn't have to be complete of course, mainly readers will be sated with a brief mention of a historical event here and there that will suspend their belief a little.

West is West, East is East

The two halves of Europe, the East and West are vastly different culturally though they share similarities. These differences are due to the Roman Empire having more influence in the West and later, the isolation of East and West in the Cold War. Languages in the East have Baltic, Slavic roots while the Western language family derive from the Romance languages. Western Europe has a long historical trend of faster industrialisation and modernisation while the East tended develop at slower rates. East Europe has a much lower cost of living. The West tends to follow Catholic and Protestant denominations while the Orthodox Church has more influence in the East. Infrastructure evolves faster in the West but the East has a strong relationship with its folk history and culture. The Western governments are often divided between two polar opposite schools of thoughts. Some countries of East Europe have had history of corrupt governments and harsh regimes, like some Western countries. The East has a strong work ethic and communities tend to support each other more while in the West individualism is encouraged and the work-life balance is prioritised. There is a distinct feel of East or West Europe that your Ruritanian nation will emulate.

[thepromptfoundry]

The Prompt Foundry will be kicking off the new year with Genreuary: A Genre Exploration Extravaganza!

We all have our favorite genres and it's always fun to explore new ones! That's what Genreuary is all about—make something to celebrate your favorite examples of some classic genres, try your hand at creating original work of your own in genres you've never played in before, or run with the excuse to stick your blorbos in some genre-swap AUs!

If you use this list, please tag me here @thepromptfoundry, I’d love to see your writing and art!

Feel free to combine different days' prompts with each other, or combine them with other events! Use your favorite characters from media, make some OCs, give us some academic analysis, make art that's all vibes, whatever tickles your fancy.

Respond to as many prompts as you want or as interest you, don’t worry about missing or skipping any. Remember, this is supposed to be fun!

If you have any questions or musings, check our FAQ, and if you don't find your answer, shoot me an ask.

Plain text list below the cut:

1 Suburban Sitcom 2 Urban Fantasy 3 Steampunk 4 Regency Romance 5 Magical Girl 6 Political Drama 7 Slasher Horror 8 Detective Noir 9 Gothic Romance 10 Time Travel Adventure 11 Post-Apocalyptic Survival 12 Dysfunctional Family Drama 13 Sword and Sorcery High Fantasy 14 Isekai 15 Contemporary Slice of Life 16 Historical War Drama 17 Cyberpunk 18 Spy Thriller 19 Investigation Procedural 20 Courtroom Drama 21 Paranormal Romance 22 Courtly Drama 23 Gothic Horror 24 Western 25 Courtly Intrigue 26 Workplace Comedy 27 Starship Adventure 28 Boarding School Drama 29 Alien Invasion Sci Fi 30 Disaster Thriller 31 Communal Living Sitcom

[emotionalmotionsicknessxx]

Immersive Phantom Newspaper Ru-veal

Got up off my butt and went to the old Lee Art Shop, the location of the impending immersive Phantom of the Opera. Some newspapers are newspapers, some are phantom musical related, and some are "1800s" papers about the events of Phantom! I know a few other people in the phandom are sharing some images and I'd like to share some too!!

WE GOT PERSIA MENTION!!! *airhorn* we got potential FLEEP??? FLEEP DE CAHGNY??? and is the gossip column implying that RIK is staying at the HOLIDAY INN EXPRESS??? IDK I am bored and transcribing the articles below so you dont have to squint at your computer screen AHH

Panic at the Opera Populaire! Shocking Events Last Night at the Premiere of Il Muto.

[Image of the grand foyer of the Garnier]

What was to be a triumphant evening at the Opera Populaire dissolved into utter chaos last night, as the premier of Il Muto was marred by a series of ghastly and inexplicable occurrences.

The performance began in splendid fashion, with the ever radiant Carlotta Giudicelli commanding the stage. However, to the horror of all in attendance, her voice suddenly failed mid-aria, replaced by a grotesque croak more befitting a creature of the marshes than the prima donna of Paris. The stunned audience had scarcely recovered from this distressing spectable when Monsier Firmin, in an attempt to salvage the evening, had announced that Christine Daae would assume the role.

Gossip in the Gloaming: Mysterious Visitor at the Hotel De Sens?

The arrival of an enigmatic figure at the historic Hotel de Sens has set tongues wagging among the city's most observant. Cloaked in heavy velvet and moving with deliberate grace, this shadowy guest has been seen only at dusk, slipping through the grand entrance without a word. Servants refuse to speak on the matter, save to say that a particular suite has been reserved for an extended stay, with strict instructions that no visitors are to be received.

Spectulation abounds -- some insist the visitor is a foreign noble in secret exile, while others whisper of a celebrated actress seeking refuse from a scandal. A particularly imaginative tale suggests a former statesman fallen from faovr, waiting out the winter behind closed doors. Whatever the truth, the mystery only deepens: a single candle is seen flicking in an upper window long after midnight, and a black carriage, unmarked and silent, arrives at irregular hours. Who among our readers might uncover the truth?

VANISHED! WITHOUT A WORD! (Guys is this philippe whats happening)

For nearly a fornight, a certain well-known gentleman - whose name, were it printed here, would send a shock through the most respectable salons, has been conspicuously absent from his usual haunts. While it is not uncommon for men of a certain temperament to disappear from view now and then, this particular absence has been met with rather more concern than usual. The cafes and private clubs where he once held court have noted his empty chair, and certain ladies of the Faubourg Saint-Honore have been left puzzling over unanswered letters.

Theories regarding his whereabouts have begun to circulate, each more intriguing than the last. Some suggest an unexpected trip to London, perhaps to settle debts - or to escape them. Others murmur of a duel, discreetly arranged and regrettably concluded. A more dramatic version of events claims that he has eloped with a woman of unsuitable rank, though none can name the supposed lady. Whatever the truth may be, his absence has left an undeniable voice in the city's intrigues, and one can only wonder when - or if - he shall return.

SHAHS LABYRINTH: [obscured] OR REALITY?

For centuries, travelers returning from the lands of the East have carried with them stories of wonders beyond imagining - tales of cities that gleam like jewels beneath the shadows of palaces where fountains flow with rosewater, of treasures hidden deep within the chambers of forgotten kinds. But amid these takes, there is one that has persisted, shrouded in mystery and intrigue. It is that, somewhere within the vast empire of the Shah of Persia there stands a labyrinth of mirrors, a maze so bewildering, enchantingly deceptive, that none who may ever be certain of the path they walk. This marvel, if it exists, is rumored to be within the confines of the royal palace of Golestan, or perhaps deeper still, within the secret halls of the pleasure retreat known only to the Shah's closest confidants. Those who claim to have seen it whisper of endless corridors lined with mirrors of the purest silver, so perfectly polished that one loses all distinction between what is real and what is mere reflection. Doors vanish into glass, walls stretch on into infinity, and in the very heart of the labyrinth - if indeed there is a heart - there is said to be a chamber where the Shah himself, surrounded by his own shimmering reflections, communes in solitude, as if among a thousand ghosts of himself.

What purpose does such a place serve? Some say it was built as a test of wit and perception, a challenge to those courtiers and ambassadors daring enough to navigate its paths. Others insist that it is a prison in disguise, where rivals of the Shah are condemned to wander, endlessly searching for an exit that does not exist. And then there are those who claim a more mystical purpose - that the labyrinth is a place of secret knowledge, a geometric puzzle designed not merely to confound the senses but to elevate the mind. They point to the ancient Persian fascination with light and reflection, to the teachings of scholars who have long sought wisdom in the interplay of reality and illusion.

Yet for all these tales, no Westerner has ever seen the labyrinth with his own eyes - at least, none who have returned to tell the tale. The court of the Shah remains an impenetrable domain, ruled by custom, intrigue, and suspicion. Even those few Europeans who have been granted an audience with Persia's sovereign have found their movements within the palace strictly controlled. To wander unbidden through its halls would be an offense punishable by death.

POSITIONS OFFERED (LETS PLAY SPOT THE RIK)

Discreet assistant sought

A gentleman of means requires a confidential secretary, capable of discretion and fluent in both French and Persian. [Obscured] may be required. Knowledge of cipher correspondence advantageous. Apply in writing, M.L .,Poste Restante, Paris.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Thank you so much for your amazing work :) Do you know any AUs with one of them as a writer or editor or librarian or something that relates to books (but not the typical bookshop)? Thank you!!! :)

Hi! We have #writer aziraphale and #writer crowley tags. Here are more fics in which they work with books...

New in Town by orphan_account (T)

Aziraphale runs a library in a small english town where not much happens. He is, however, quite intrigued by the beautiful person who just came to town. It doesn't help that the stranger likes to frequent his library quite a bit.

Between a Book and a Hard Place by LCwrites (E)

After a very enjoyable one-night stand, A. Z. Fell and A. J. Crowley go separate ways, though memories of each other linger. More than they ought to, considering it was nothing but a casual encounter and they won't meet again. How fortunate for them that their respective work is keeping them busy. Having one of his more salacious novels turned into an audio book should be enough of a distraction for Aziraphale. As should be getting to narrate one of the famous M. Cortese's porn books – pardon: historical erotica – for Crowley.

As Yet Untitled by badwolfgirlicouldkissyou (E)

Aziraphale Fell is a number one best-selling author, despite his lack of self confidence and desire to hide from the public eye. Whilst fighting off his anxiety disorder at the premiere of his first novel's feature film adaptation, he meets an enigmatic, mysterious photographer who seems to only have eyes for him. Can they navigate their newfound bond? Or will past trauma and current obstacles get in their way?

Work of Heart by WickedWriter (T)

Aziraphale loved his volunteer duties at the library, he was able to surround himself with books and find a comfortable routine. He even made friends with the people who worked there, which helped to fight off the loneliness that settled into his life. All due to one change in his usual routine, Aziraphale met Crowley‒ a fellow volunteer‒ who was almost the opposite of him in every way. Crowley was flashy and boisterous, and the children who attended his reading circle absolutely adored him. Although Aziraphale really wished he’d pick something other than horror stories to read to them.

Editor's Note by ghostrat (M)

A.J. Crowley, best selling author of action thrillers and sci-fi dramas, wants to try his hand at romance. When writer's block rears its ugly head, his editor and literary agent suggests a romantic writer's retreat in a last-ditch effort to meet his deadline. Aziraphale can be a miracle worker at times, but there's no way a reclusive month away will spark all the romance he needs to finish... Editor AU: In which two of the least romantic men on earth try to write a romance novel.

Write A Way by AngieWords (E)

Azira Fell and AJ Crowley are both successful authors in their own right, invited to speak at the same national book festival. Despite a falling out a couple of years ago, they've never actually met in person - so this event is going to be excruciatingly awkward for both of them. Right? As it happens, and unbeknownst to them, it seems they share a love of a certain TV show... and being very active parts of its fandom (yep, it's Fanfic Writer Crowley and Fanfic Reader Aziraphale time!)

- Mod D

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Mystical Items & Objects

A Quick Guide to Creating Fictional Items

STEP 1: Give Your Item Purpose 

Crafting memorable items and artifacts demands purpose and intention.

And luckily for writers, there are countless routes you can take.

Symbolism: Embed deeper meaning with an item that represents your story’s themes, like a shattered mirror in a narrative about fractured realities or identities.

MacGuffin: Introduce items that ignite the central conflict or quest, becoming the catalyst for your story’s unfolding events.

Enhancement or Protection: Equip characters with items that empower their abilities or shield them from peril, exemplified by a cloak granting invisibility in dire situations.

Foreshadowing: Introduce an item early on that will play a crucial role later, subtly hinting at its significance without giving everything away.

Progression: Propel the plot or character development with items that carry them from one stage to the next, such as a mystical map revealing hidden worlds.

Misleading (Red Herring): Employ an item to divert attention, creating suspense and keeping readers on their toes with false leads or assumptions.

By carefully considering these categories, you can ensure that your item serves a meaningful role in your narrative.

STEP 2: Give Your Item a Backstory

Delving into the past of your fictional item adds layers to its meaning and significance, creating a story of its own that complements the main plot.

Consider the creator: was it forged by ancient beings, crafted in a moment of desperation, or is its origin shrouded in mystery?

Reflect on its journey: has it been a catalyst in significant historical events, or perhaps changed hands through various intriguing characters?

Ponder its mythology: what tales and legends has it spawned, and how do they influence those who encounter it?

By carving out a detailed history, your fictional item evolves from a mere object to a vital and captivating component of your narrative.

STEP 3: Describe Your Item

The ability to create a clear and compelling mental image of your fictional item in the minds of your readers is paramount. Examples:

The Lament Configuration from Hellraiser boasts an ornate gold filigree, clearly harboring dark magic.

In contrast, the Alethiometer from His Dark Materials seems simple enough, yet hides its ability to unveil cosmic truths.

Meanwhile, the black monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey stands as a minimalist enigma, prompting viewers to question its purpose.

A memorable item can create a lasting impact, ensuring your story resonates with the audience long after they've turned the final page or the credits have rolled.

STEP 4: Consider Its Powers and Limitations

Navigating the balance of power and limitation is crucial when conceptualizing a fictional item.

Explore its strength and scope: What phenomenal feats can it perform, and where does its influence wane?

Understand its accessibility: Who is deemed worthy or capable of wielding such power, and what proficiency or awareness is necessary?

Acknowledge the stakes: Are there perils or repercussions tied to its usage?

By defining these aspects clearly, your item becomes a well-integrated, credible element of your world.

NOTE: Steer clear of making your item omnipotent to maintain narrative tension, and adhere to established rules (i.e. limitations) to prevent inconsistencies.

STEP 5: Give It a Name

The final touch in bringing your fictional item to life is bestowing upon it a fitting name.

Opt for the classic and straightforward: think “The Amulet of Fate,” aligning directly with its purpose or powers.

If you’re feeling whimsical, embrace the quirky—think of the real-world “whatchamacallit” candy bar or the playful “thingamajig”.

Or, simply state it as it is, calling a sword a sword (especially for mundane magical items where you may not want to reveal their powers).

Should you choose a particularly unique name, ensure you provide enough context for readers to grasp its significance.

ADVANCED TECHNIQUES

Now that you've laid the foundational work, elevate your item from intriguing to unforgettable by considering the following:

Mix and Match Types. By intertwining the ordinary with the extraordinary, your item takes on a life of its own and sets itself apart with ease.

Build Lore Around It. Trace your item’s journey to acknowledge how time has warped perceptions or fostered myths and misconceptions.

Use History and Mythology as Inspiration. Enrich your story by pulling from history and mythology, tapping into a wellspring of real-world intrigue.

Ultimately, do what best works for you as the writer. You may rearrange some of these steps, and tweak them to suit your writing process and style.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References More: On Mystical Items & Objects