#Spectral Existence

[tartppola]

Does anyone know what the timeline of the TWST main story is??? iirc Heartslabyul takes place in September before Ace’s birthday. Actually I think Prologue & Heartslabyul spans at least a week at max 😭😭

Savanaclaw is probably Late October… purely bcs I don’t think they’d do a school festival so early into the year

Octavinelle is like November-> Early December to me bcs it’s the midterm exam period, & idt they’d do exams right after a festival, but who knows…

Scarabia’s over winter break so December ->January

Pomefiore is probably??? somewhere around January as well?? Because I remember it was still snowing from the cutscene that Prefect has with Kalim abt his disappointment on not being a main singer. I’m betting on Late January at earliest. And Ignihyde takes place literally the night after Pomefiore 😭😭😭 This is also just guesswork based on how far up north the Sage’s Isle is, I assume the winters last longer there.

As for Diasomnia I got no clue at all 💔💔 all ik is that it should be getting warmer bcs of the reactions the characters have towards Malleus causing snow & winds to pick up… I used to think it was March but it probably isn’t 😭

if anyone would like to refute/add onto anything please feel free to do so!! This is all just guesswork 🙏🙏🙏

[spectralmindset]

What's your stance on "endo-systems"?

My stance is “what the hap is fuckening” I have literally no clue man

Syscourse terrifies me and I would prefer to never even touch it

[mpsansy]

What would have happened if J.T. was never an asshole?

He would’ve been a good son, brother, and husband to another lady.

Ideally would’ve loved to talk to his brothers and send them letters about his work and perhaps even share a few jokes or two with Franklin & Silvester. Definitely wouldn’t hate Simon and would be so happy to see his big brother have a blooming relationship with an adventurous woman. Not to mention seeing two kids hanging by Simon’s side. Giggling happily.

….

Casper would probably exist, but look different from how he is now

[sysig]

Transitive grief (Patreon)

Bonus:

The human is practically throwing himself at DAX! Where was this when ZEX was still around!

Voyeur

[partyswirl]

i only win balatro when my hand sucks

lucky cat was juggler when i won i just bought it to discover it. but seriously what is this...... what is happening... holographic acrobat...the situation is dire

[lord-squiggletits]

I know there are as many religious good guys as there are religious bad guys in IDW, but I think I pinned down the reason why it feels like the most prominent religious figures are all bad guys and it's pretty much due to the worldbuilding.

Maybe my memory of the comics is just really bad, but the religious worldbuilding in IDW is....kind of trash honestly. I'm not sure there's a single religion or religious custom that doesn't exist solely to further the plot along. Like, it's one thing for the Camiens to worship the Primes and that causes a lot of stuff in exRID/OP, but what does that worship actually look like? What are their holidays, customs, religious texts? What about "spectralism" which basically the only thing we know about is the Festival of the Lost Light and some hippie color coding and aura shit? Like sure, there are characters who are religious and their beliefs come into play sometimes, but it honestly feels (especially in MTMTE) more like their religiousness only exists when it's relevant to the plot and it's just kinda. Disappointing eh. Lacking in worldbuilding. Plus the more religious a character is the more it's written as their entire personality and the driving force making them evil so it just kinda made me cringe to read honestly.

[potatoesandsunshine]

do we think they have pianos in tlovm

[entering--hyperspace]

I feel like im on a wild goose chase of figuring out what the fuck spectral magic is exactly but the most likely answer is that there is no solid answer and thus I make my own lore

[foldingfittedsheets]

It started with cantrips, which is why it took people a while to notice. The first few events were people on the news talking about how they’d been needing a light and then suddenly they’d waved a hand and said words and there was light. No one really believed them but as more reports were verified suddenly more people came forward with even less believable stories of what everyone really didn’t want to call magic. Even though it was pretty obviously magic. Spectral floating hands grabbing things that were out of reach, whispered messages that reached their friend seated too far away to hear them.

An EMT who whispered a word and suddenly saved a dying man.

Then the darker stories started filtering in. 

Words spoken in anger causing explosions. Poison spewing forth from a hand gesture. One person gave a retort so witty that someone was hospitalized. 

Everyone was scared, but the nerds started to figure it out fastest. It sure wasn’t the scientists who were doing the equivalent of crying on the floor in the fetal position in their respective labs while reports poured in globally of these occurrences. A growing movement online started spreading lists. They had all the blessings people might have gotten and regardless of how many people scoffed no one could really deny that every instance of magic correlated to a website listing the cantrips in Dungeons and Dragons. People pooled their collective resources to help quantify what was happening and facts started to emerge.

Everybody got one. You had to be at least thirteen to use the magic. That pretty much summed up the only other common denominators. Otherwise it seemed completely random, the magic didn’t line up with any existing character traits. You just unlocked one piece of magic each. People with aggressive cantrips were almost loaded up into camps for suddenly being so dangerous- however many hit points real humans had it was apparently not a big number. A lot more deaths occurred than anyone could feasibly track and the global population panicked.

The legislation for the camps got struck down. There were riots and confusion and for a while everything was pretty chaotic. Firebolts and Eldritch Blasts went off from sheer exuberance as much as anything else. Amidst the rioting were people just living their lives, not using their cantrips. It took a while for things to settle down, but humans can get used to most anything if given enough time.

Almost everybody scanned the list to figure out which they got, but someone with Chill Touch just enjoyed frostier beverages than most even if it made you think about death more to drink something after the skeleton hand had been wrapped around it. At least it looked cool. Most people didn’t really do anything other than play around. A youtuber who had gotten Shape Water suddenly surged in popularity as she pivoted her channel to creating beautiful patterns with colored water. Other online personalities quickly followed and those with combat focused magic set up backyard target practice to show off. Some fires resulted as well as numerous noise complaints and a law was passed limiting where people could practice magic. It was virtually unenforceable but the people in charge were trying to keep a grip on the situation.

Noticeably the largest subset of the population that used their magic were those who had gotten Spare the Dying. Every government turned out the call that such individuals would receive a generous stipend for taking to the hospitals and stabilizing the sick and injured. Death rates dropped substantially, but it was still only a cantrip. Cancer marched on, but many got to live after miraculous recoveries.

Months passed and things started to become a little more normal. There were still debates about what had caused it and how to regulate magic but day to day life settled down. Speculations over what the long term ramifications would be continued as well as why those cantrips. Wizards of the Coast refused to comment for the first six months, closing its doors to the rioting and keeping them closed. At the end of six months they abruptly published a new line of cantrip cards with all kinds of utility and no combat usage whatsoever. The internet exploded and the government wasn’t pleased, but nothing happened. No one got any new magic. People wondered if those under thirteen would manifest the new stuff, but no one did. They just blew out their thirteenth birthday candles and got handed a cantrip like everyone else. 

A year later a mechanic in rural Canada was peering into the engine of a busted car. He realized he needed some lubricant and instead of reaching for his can he waved a hand and splattered the car with Grease that had burst from his hand. He was a calm sort of fellow so he called up the local news and said there was more magic. They asked first what cantrip he had- folks who received Prestidigitation had made a number of false alarms on receiving additional magic. The mechanic told them his cantrip was Infestation which he’d never had cause to use after figuring it out. 

The press descended and demanded a demonstration. Most people had read up on the basic rules of magic at that point, so everyone understood when the mechanic said they’d have to wait until the next day. A media storm went up the next day with headlines blaring that first level magic had been unlocked after the passing of the lunar new year. 

A wide contingent had been waiting for this opportunity. The spell list went out again amidst less panic but more chaos. There was a rash of identity thefts no could trace and eventually people realized Disguise Self posed a significant challenge to daily life. Celebrities had trouble convincing people they were who they said as random citizens took their faces on numerous joyrides. A scandal broke when it turned out an A list actor had hired someone else to play them while they went on vacation but the details were kept very hush hush.

Hospitals called out desperately for anyone with healing magic and most of those blessed with Cure Wounds and Healing Word answered. People with Goodberry formed community food kitchens and for the first time it seemed like hunger could actually be eliminated. Veterinary offices and zoos made special positions for those who could cast Animal Friendship and Speak with Animals.

A celebrity chef hit the jackpot with Purify Food and Drink and made a whole spinoff series where she went dumpster diving and made five star meals out of rotting leftovers. Several people changed careers entirely to lend their services to study ancient texts with Comprehend Languages. Even one hour a day led to huge leaps in discovery and understanding of ancient civilizations. 

A small murmur of worry followed the new influx of skills and power. What would happen when more magic was unlocked? The amount of people now running around with dangerous combat spells was even greater than before. Would people have to worry about necromancy? New crimes were being invented faster than laws could keep up as magic was put to novel and interesting uses. 

A year passed and everyone waited with bated breath for the lunar new year, but nothing happened. 

But I’m pretty sure I figured it out. We got handed cantrips. And we waited a year for first level spells. I’m pretty sure it’s one more year, and then things will really start to get interesting.

Inspired by this poll. If you enjoyed my writing consider leaving a tip on my Ko-fi!

[rosemaryhoney27]

Gotham's Sunshine child part 5

“The Day the Sun Went Dark”

It started with the eclipse.

A rare, total one, the kind that turned Gotham’s already dim skies into something unnatural. Shadows sharpened. Streetlights flickered. A hush settled over the city like it was holding its breath.

And Joker— Well, Joker looked at the sky and saw an opportunity.

Bruce was already on edge.

So were the others. Tim had pulled up emergency protocols. Oracle flagged Joker chatter on the darknet—gibberish mixed with phrases like “paint the moon black” and “snuff out the spark.”

Jason said what they were all thinking:

“…He’s going after Danny.”

Joker had learned just enough to be dangerous. Rumors of a boy the city adored. A kid who glowed with goodness and had every crime ring too afraid or too grateful to touch. A child who wasn’t just protected by Gotham’s underworld—but by its shadows.

So naturally, Joker decided to make it a joke.

A sick one.

He waited until the eclipse was total. Until Danny was walking back from a Narrows clinic, having just dropped off a box of donated socks. No backup. No witnesses.

Just him.

And the dark.

The Bat-Family wasn’t fast enough.

Not this time.

They were minutes late.

Danny was gone.

When he woke up, the world smelled like copper and chemicals. The floor beneath him was cold. Chains rattled. Lightbulbs buzzed.

“Wakey wakey, Little Light,” Joker sing-songed from the edge of a makeshift operating table, fingers twitching with barely restrained glee. “Do you know who you are?”

Danny looked up, groggy and blinking.

Then still.

Then—

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Joker leaned in. “Tell me, then. Because everyone else seems to think you’re special. Sunshine Child, right? Gotham’s golden boy? Well, guess what—sunshine doesn’t exist without shadows.”

Danny didn’t flinch.

Didn’t panic.

Didn’t scream.

He just sat there.

Silent.

Still.

And then— something shifted.

It was slow.

The air dropped ten degrees. The buzzing lightbulbs crackled. Shadows grew longer, deeper—like they were watching. Waiting.

And Danny’s shoulders slumped.

When he finally looked up at Joker, the glow in his eyes was not sunlight.

It was ice.

“You made a mistake,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper.

Joker laughed. “Ooooh, scary. Did I break the sun?”

Danny’s next words were cold enough to silence the room:

“No. You eclipsed it.”

Outside, in the city, it started to snow.

In August.

Frost crawled up windows. Electrical grids shorted. Spectral energy readings spiked so hard that Constantine choked on his tea three cities over and muttered, “Oh, bollocks.”

The Bat-Family was mid-search when Barbara gasped.

“Guys,” she said through the comms. “He’s going ghost.”

Inside the warehouse, Danny’s chains shattered like glass.

The boy who had smiled at muggers, shared soup with thieves, and taught math to gang kids—

Floated.

His eyes glowed with eldritch green light.

The temperature dropped with every word.

“You hurt Gotham’s people. You used my name. You tried to twist it.”

Joker backed away. For the first time in years—he was confused. Not afraid. Confused.

“Wh—what are you?”

Danny didn’t grin.

Didn’t monologue.

He just unleashed.

The explosion of spectral energy tore through the building. Screams filled the air—not just Joker’s, but the echoes of every soul he’d ever scarred.

By the time the Bat-Fam arrived, the warehouse looked haunted.

Frozen graffiti on the walls.

Chains hanging midair.

Joker? Curled in a fetal position, babbling nonsense, his smile gone.

And Danny?

He stood in the center of it all.

Floating. Glowing. Crying.

“…I didn’t want to,” he whispered.

Bruce caught him as he collapsed.

It took three days for Danny to wake up again.

He expected panic. Anger. Rejection.

Instead, he opened his eyes to find Jason sitting at his bedside, polishing a crowbar and humming.

“Yo.”

Danny blinked. “…Am I in trouble?”

Jason scoffed. “Kid, you scared Joker into therapy. I think we owe you a medal.”

Later, Bruce came in. Quiet. Calm.

“Danny,” he said, “you didn’t lose control. You protected yourself. And this city.”

Danny’s voice was barely a murmur. “But the eclipse—what I felt—I didn’t even know I could do that.”

Bruce rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not just our Sunshine,” he said. “You’re our shield.”

Gotham whispered, after that day.

That the boy who once smiled through everything had a storm inside him.

But they didn’t fear it.

They respected it.

Because when the sun went dark—

Danny Fenton shone brighter.

[julymusings]

PORTRAIT

jason hates taking photos. it's a shame you find him so beautiful.

Jason Todd isn’t one to take pictures. Standing there with a fake smile, posing for a deceptively happy vignette of an unhappy reality feels awkward. He never knows what to do with his hands. He doesn’t like the way his face translates through the lens; the green of his eyes glows just this side of too spectral, his broad, stocky frame towers over that of his siblings, and the scars on his face bring memories of a darker time, an intentional carelessness for his life he used to carry. He leans away when others huddle together to smile. Pretends to notice something behind him when caught in the background of the lens.

Enter you. Only capable of looking at him with hearts in your eyes. Serving on a silver platter what he used to starve and scavenge for in dimly lit bars on the lips of women who only saw him as something to sink their teeth into and then spit out, never sticking around for longer than one night. Jason feasted at first, he’ll admit, stuffing himself to sickness on your unconditional adoration until it was almost too much to bear.

You take pictures of him and gush over them, telling him how pretty he is. How he belongs in a museum. He never believed you, never bothering to actually look at the pictures you take. But pretty soon he’s everywhere; you set him as your lock screen and screensaver, and print photos to frame on your bedside table. When your storage is maxed out, you steal Jason’s phone to flood his camera roll, and he finds that he keeps going back to stare at the photos you take. Selfies where you kiss his cheek and his mouth curves upward just enough to transform him from brooding to disarming; portraits where he looks, not at the camera, but just beyond and his eyes crinkle, the tips of his sharp canines peeking out over his bottom lip. He looks…different. Better. He starts to believe the things you tell him; his beauty is ancient. Michelangelo himself carved the contours of his body. The Trojans and the Greeks fought for a decade over him.

But what is it about this camera, he wonders, that makes his appearance digestible? Is it the way you frame him front and center, the backlighting sun rays extending in all directions behind him, encircling him with a holiness he doesn’t deserve? The scenery against which you capture him, busy nighttime streets under city lights, just dark enough to smooth out his rough edges? 

Or maybe it’s just you. Seeing himself from your point of view. Seeing himself as yours. His hooked nose, crooked from being broken one too many times, belongs to you for the early mornings when you trace down the bridge, around his lips, and up his jaw, drawing a portrait with your fingertips. His unruly hair, with streaks of white that make him stick out like a sore thumb, exists only for you to run your fingers through when he lays his head in your lap. His scars are for you to kiss on those difficult days until he can bear to look in the mirror again. He wants nothing more than to be a museum of all things you.

Jason Todd isn’t one to take pictures. But when you ask so nicely, showering him with compliments and promises of thank-you-kisses later on, how can he say no?

why are we as a society still striving for more definition and higher quality photos for anything other than, like, x-ray imaging and space exploration. I don't want 8k ultra-max hd in my phone that highlights every hair and pore and eye bag i want grainy and dark and fuzzy because it makes me look hotter and that's a fact. rant over

anyway he's so pretty i wanna take candids of him and kiss his face and squeeze his huge ti-*GUNSHOTS*

this is gonna be my last post for the next few weeks because i have finals. see you on the other side🫡 (born to be a farmer on a remote island, forced to study STEM) i'll be on requests as soon as i'm back trust

[nerdygirlramblings]

a continuation of my ancient gods drabble

In the days following your sacrifice, the rains abated enough for the ground to begin to recover from years of want. Cool mud formed where only cracks had existed, and the once fallow fields began to take on life once more. You sent up a prayer to Gaz and a thanks, for clearly without his intercession there would be no ground in which Tav's harvest could take root. Word comes to the village that fighting is slowly ceasing as warriors make their way home to plant the soon to be ready fields. You thank both Jon and the god of death for sparing your people further devastation.

The morning after your sacrifice you kept to your house, unsure of what to make of the new marks on your skin. By the time you finally ventured out to see the people, it was clear to them a change had been wrought in you. It wasn't simply the marks they could see but a distant way in which you carried yourself, part of them still but separate now. They approached you with more caution, wary yet full of wonder. No one knew exactly what you had done, and even you weren't clear on what had happened that night, but the people knew that you were going to try to save them. And all that mattered to them was that something worked. So when you approached the village elders with your request to build new shrines to those ancient gods, no one felt they could deny you, whether out of obligation to you or true belief in what you were talking about.

Slowly, four new shrines are erected in the space between where houses stop and the fields and scrubland start. You work hard to ensure what is built matches the images in the ancient texts as best as possible. Gaz's altar is a simple, sturdy table. For Jon, you convince the smith to shape broken weapons into an altar. A few of your people willingly donate pieces of their beds or old cradles for Tav's altar. You do not seek real bones for the altar of the god of death, hopeful the carvings you create to mimic bone is enough.

Before your sacrifice, you used to help members of the village with their chores. Now your people leave you to work on the shrines and give thanks to the gods who saved them.

Every night, you sleep fitfully, waking to fragments of dreams that feel more and more real. The taste of blood, thick and metallic, clings to the back of your throat. The scent of herbs and spices floats off your clothes. Your thighs shake with exertion as you move about the village. Unmistakable purpling bruises wreath your neck.

Each time you dream, the scenes seem to blend and blur one into the other. Spectral skeletons gather at the edge of the battlefield. The clash and clang of swords sounds in the distance while you gorge yourself on roasted meats. The scents of fresh bread and ripe fruit are carried on the wind as you're fucked into the warm ground.

Whispers chase you into wakefulness, murmurs about "worship" and "growing stronger" and a clear "our wife." None of it makes sense. But you cannot shake the feeling that something more is coming, that another change, greater than that which has already occurred, is on the horizon.

more

series masterlist | main masterlist

[demonic0angel]

DP x DC: Alfred dies, and becomes a ghost. Being a responsible sort, he has Batman call up the expert in ghosts, Danny Phantom to help explain his new condition.

Phantom politely clapped his hands. "Welp. You're a 100% certified ghost!"

Batman stared. "... I'm sorry, what?"

Phantom gestured to Alfred, who was glowing green and floating as he set out the tea and teacups.

Phantom received one with a quiet thanks and he took a sip of the tea with obvious enjoyment. "He's a ghost. You said he died, right? He must have had such a strong obsession that it tethered him to the mortal plane. His core is pretty well-developed, most likely because he experienced so many moments of death and spent so much time around the dead. It also helps that Gotham City is prone to spirits and ghosts, especially since Lady Gotham likes you and your family so much. All of it means that because Alfred died here, around you guys, he became a ghost."

The amount of information Phantom gave almost made Batman's head spin.

"So... what now? Do we need to do anything?"

Phantom smiled and dipped his head before shaking it. He turned to Alfred. "I'll write you a permit and some time in the next two weeks, you should go to the Ghost Zone to ask for an audience with the King. Usually, ghosts aren't allowed in the mortal realm, but since you're only to stay in the Wayne Manor, I'll allow it as a favor to Batman. Still, it's best that you at least make it official for easier paperwork."

Alfred nodded curtly, rubbing his spectral fingers together.

Batman visibly softened and looked at Phantom with a grateful look. "Thank you."

Phantom smiled. "No problem! Thank you for taking care of my siblings."

Batman blinked. What siblings?

Before he could ask, Phantom blipped out of existence.

Batman stared at the spot where he used to be before he turned to Alfred. "... do we know what siblings he's talking about?"

Alfred nodded. "I have an idea."

Batman waited for an answer. There was none. Alfred continued to set up the refreshments for Bruce, who sighed and took a scone.

Well, he supposed he'd have to ask his children for answers.

[zhelin-thames]

Wayne Family Game Night Chaos Edition

pev / next Masterpost

Wayne Manor – Game Night, 7:03 PM Dick: Okay! It’s family bonding time! I brought board games, snacks, and emotional trauma suppression! Jason: cracking soda Great, now I can pretend I like you all. Danny: This feels like a cult meeting. Tim: It kind of is. Just wait till Bruce brings out Monopoly. Danny: visibly recoils You people play Monopoly willingly? Bruce: It teaches strategy and the illusion of control. Danny: I’m calling CPS.

Game: UNO – 7:14 PM Cass: silent, stacking +4s like a Bond villain Steph: She’s gonna murder someone. Danny: She’s got that “final boss” energy. Tim: That’s why she’s my favorite sibling. Jason: Rude. Danny: You say that like I’m not literally your sibling. Jason: …crap.

Game: Charades – 8:05 PM Tim (acting): gestures wildly Danny: “Ghost attack!” Tim: Yes! Dick: squinting I can’t tell if that’s just what Danny looks like on a Tuesday. Bruce: You didn’t even look at the card. Danny: Twin telepathy. Damian: There is no scientific evidence supporting twin telepathy. Danny: Oh, honey. My existence already breaks five laws of thermodynamics. Let us have this. Damian: …Fair.

Game: Monopoly – 9:02 PM Tucker (FaceTiming In): NO. NOOOOO. Bernard (also on call): SAVE YOURSELVES. Jason: Why are your boyfriends calling during game night? Danny: Because they sensed a disturbance in the force. Tim: We promised we’d text if Monopoly ever got pulled out. Tucker: I saw a candle flicker and knew something dark had begun. Bernard: We’re lighting a protection circle. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

Meanwhile, at the table: Bruce: I will trade you Baltic Avenue and three utilities for Boardwalk. Danny: visibly vibrating with rage That’s not even CLOSE to a fair— Jason: OH NO HE’S CHANNELING HIS GHOST ENERGY. Tim: grabbing a blanket Someone wrap him! He’s gonna go spectral! Alfred: I’ll bring calming tea.

Group Chat: ChaosSupportNetwork (Tucker, Bernard, Danny, Tim) Danny: Monopoly ended when I phased the game board into another dimension. Tucker: King sh*t. Tim: Bruce said that was “unorthodox conflict resolution” and I am now grounded from real estate. Bernard: Worth it. Danny: Absolutely worth it.

[mahalachives]

Part 4: The Thread That Would Not Break

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Darkness claimed you completely as the last strands of the mating bond began to snap.

The pain was exquisite—each golden thread breaking with the force of a lightning strike through your chest.

Your consciousness floated in the liminal space between worlds, untethered and drifting.

Then, distantly, you felt it—a tug toward your old life.

The steady beep of hospital monitors, the antiseptic smell, the scratchy sheets against your skin. Your real body, waiting for you to return.

The sensation grew stronger, pulling you away from Prythian, away from magic and immortality and heartbreak.

Home.

You were going home.

But as your soul began to slide away, another pull—stronger, more insistent—wrapped around you.

The mating bond, refusing to be severed completely. It burned through the darkness, a golden lifeline refusing to let you go.

In its place. Murky water, illuminated with an eerie blue-green glow.

The Azure Pool.

You were floating beneath the surface, your body limp and unresponsive, hair drifting around your face like flame underwater. The cold pressed in from all sides, a crushing weight that seemed to compress your very soul.

Then. Strong arms pulling you upward, breaking the surface.

The shock of air against your wet skin. Being dragged to shore, your waterlogged body laid out on soft grass. The sensation was so vivid you could feel individual blades of grass pressing against your back, the rough texture of wet leather against your skin, the cool autumn air raising goosebumps along your arms.

Your perspective shifted, and suddenly you could see yourself—pale, lips blue, utterly still—and above you, Azriel.

The shadowsinger knelt over your body, his face a mask of desperate concentration.

No words escaped him, but his shadows betrayed his anguish, writhing in frantic patterns around him like living embodiments of grief.

They formed jagged, panicked shapes, reaching into your mouth, your nose, as if trying to pull the water out by force. Water dripped from his hair, his wings, his leathers—he'd dived in after you without hesitation.

He tilted your head back, pinched your nose, and sealed his mouth over yours, breathing air into your unresponsive lungs. The contrast was shocking—his lips warm despite the cold water, firm and insistent against yours.

His eyes never closed, fixed on your face with fierce intensity that belied his usual emotional control. He pulled back, pressed hard against your chest in rhythmic compressions, then returned to breathe for you again.

The raw emotion on his face—normally so controlled, so emotionless—was staggering.

Gone was the cold, professional mask.

In its place was naked fear, desperate determination, and something else, something that made your non-existent heart twist painfully in your spectral chest.

Again he pressed his mouth to yours, breathing life into you.

Again the compressions, harder now, desperate.

His wings trembled with the effort, water still cascading from them in silver droplets that caught the strange light of the pool. His shadows were extensions of his fear, probing your airways, massaging your heart through your ribcage, working in tandem with his physical efforts to revive you.

And through it all, the mating bond—that golden thread you'd tried so hard to sever—pulsed weakly between your bodies.

With each compression, each breath, it glowed a little stronger, a beacon in the growing darkness. It was a living thing, fighting for its own survival as desperately as Azriel fought for yours.

You could feel it now—a tugging sensation deep in your soul, pulling you back toward your abandoned body.

Back toward him.

The connection was tangible, a golden lifeline stretching between the hospital and the Azure Pool, between your two separate existences.

Let go, a quiet voice whispered in your mind. Let go and return to your real life.

But the golden thread pulled harder, more insistently.

The pain in your chest intensified, no longer the dull ache of something severed but the sharp, immediate agony of something fighting to reconnect.

It was demanding a choice—stay or go, live or die, belong or remain forever adrift between worlds.

On the shore, Azriel paused his compressions, his face twisting with something beyond despair. His shoulders slumped, his hands falling away from your chest.

For the first time since you'd met him, his emotions were written plainly across his face—grief, denial, rage, and beneath it all, a terrible, aching loss that made your spectral heart break for him.

Come back, the bond seemed to whisper. Not his voice. Not yours. Something else entirely, ancient and powerful. Come back.

The hospital room flickered around you, growing fainter with each beat of your heart. The beeping of the monitors slowed, fading to distant echoes. Reality itself seemed to hang in the balance, waiting for your decision.

Stay or go, the voice whispered. Choose.

The golden thread pulsed once more, brighter than before, stretching between your chest and his. It was no longer just a connection—it was a choice, a path back to a life you'd abandoned, to a world where you might, against all odds, belong.

Choose.

Time seemed to stop as you considered. Your human life was safe, known, logical. Your family, your career, your future—all waiting for you back in that hospital bed.

But it felt distant now, insubstantial compared to the vivid reality of Azriel's grief, the cool press of grass against your back. The mating bond thrummed between you, more real than anything you'd ever experienced in your human life.

You reached for the thread—not to sever it this time, but to follow it home.

To him.

Pain exploded through your body, a burning rush that filled every nerve ending. It was as if every cell was simultaneously dying and being reborn, rearranged according to some new pattern that accommodated both worlds, both lives, both versions of yourself.

You gasped, choking, water flooding from your mouth as your lungs spasmed violently.

Your eyes flew open to find Azriel's face hovering above yours, his expression transforming from grief to shock to something else entirely.

Fury.

His hazel eyes, rimmed with red blazed with barely contained rage.

His jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscles working beneath his skin. His shadows whipped around him in violent patterns, no longer reaching for you but forming sharp, dangerous shapes that reflected the storm of emotions he refused to voice.

You coughed again, more water expelling from your lungs in a painful rush that burned your throat and chest.

You tried to speak, to explain, to apologize. "Az—"

He cut you off, not with words but with a look so fierce it stole what little breath you'd regained. The temperature around you dropped several degrees, as if his anger had physically chilled the air.

Without a sound, he gathered you into his arms and stood, wings unfurling to their full, impressive span.

You had just enough time to register that his entire body was trembling—with relief or rage, you couldn't tell—before he launched into the sky, carrying you away from the pool that had almost claimed your life. The wind whipped past your face, cold and bracing after the warmth of his arms.

The golden thread between you pulsed stronger now, solid and real—a connection you could no longer deny or escape. It hummed with a strange harmony, as if finally satisfied that its two halves were once again united.

The world fell away beneath you, trees and land shrinking rapidly as Azriel carried you higher and higher. The wind rushed past, stealing what little breath you'd regained. You instinctively curled closer to his chest, seeking warmth against the biting cold of high altitude.

He flew in silence, his arms like iron bands around your shivering form. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, a metronome counting the seconds of this unexpected reprieve. You didn't dare speak, afraid that any word might break whatever fragile thing had compelled him to save you.

As the miles fell away beneath his powerful wings, your thoughts swirled in confusion.

Why had he come for you? How had he known where to find you? And most importantly—why did he care whether you lived or died when he had made it so abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you?

The mating bond offered no answers, only a steady pulse of shared life between you.

When the Autumn Court came into view, its forests ablaze with eternal fall, Azriel began to descend. The castle rose from the horizon, amber windows glowing like cat's eyes in the fading light. Servants moved through the gardens, their copper-colored uniforms distinctive even from this height.

Azriel's descent was rapid but controlled, bringing you down with practiced precision at the edge of the formal gardens. The moment his feet touched earth, a cry went up from the nearest guards.

"The Lady has returned!" "Call the healers!" "An Illyrian warrior!"

Weapons were drawn, arrows nocked, and fire bloomed in Autumn Fae palms. The scent of aggression spiked in the air, sharp and metallic.

Azriel ignored them all, striding forward with you still cradled against his chest. His wings remained half-spread, a threatening display that made the guards hesitate despite their numbers. His shadows writhed around him, reaching like tentacles into the spaces between guards, testing for threats.

"Stand down," he commanded, his voice pitched low but carrying with undeniable authority. "Your Lady needs assistance."

Something in his tone—or perhaps the sight of you, pale and shivering in his arms—made the guards lower their weapons fractionally. They parted reluctantly, creating a path toward a stone platform in the center of the garden.

As Azriel carried you forward, servants began to appear—drawn by the commotion or perhaps alerted by the guards. Among them was Briar, her copper-brown hair escaping its pins as she ran toward you.

"My lady!" she cried, her face draining of color as she took in your soaked clothing and blue-tinged lips. "What happened? Are you—"

She froze as Azriel's shadows curled toward her, a silent warning. The shadowsinger laid you gently on the stone platform, his movements careful despite the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Blankets," he ordered, not looking away from you. "Dry clothes. Healer."

The servants scattered immediately, rushing to obey despite the unprecedented situation of taking orders from a Night Court warrior in the heart of Autumn territory. Only Briar remained, hovering anxiously at the edge of the platform.

"She needs a healer," she said, her voice trembling slightly but firm.

Azriel's only acknowledgment was a slight incline of his head, but it was enough. Briar turned and ran toward the castle, calling for healers as she went.

As the garden emptied of all but a few distant guards, Azriel finally straightened to his full height. His wings folded behind him with deliberate precision, each movement controlled and measured. His face remained expressionless as he stared down at you, water still dripping from his leathers onto the stone beside your head.

He turned to leave without a word, his back a rigid line of barely contained emotion.

"Wait," you croaked, the word painful in your raw throat.

He paused, his body tensing further, but didn't turn.

"Please," you whispered.

Slowly, agonizingly, he turned back to face you.

The sight of him stole what little breath you'd managed to recover. His face was a study in controlled fury—jaw clenched, eyes blazing with golden fire, shadows writhing around him in agitated patterns.

But beneath the anger, barely visible but unmistakable, was fear.

He had been afraid.

"What," he asked, each word precise and deadly calm, "were you doing in that lake?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

The mating bond flared between you, carrying emotions too complex to name. The truth lodged in your throat, but you swallowed it back. He wouldn't understand—or worse, he would think you mad. Either way, it would give him more reason to reject you.

Instead, tears welled in your eyes, spilling over to track down your already wet cheeks. The sight of them made Azriel's shadows still briefly before surging forward, as if they had a will of their own.

"Why do you care?" you asked, your voice cracking painfully. "You made it perfectly clear you want nothing to do with me."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

The temperature around you plummeted as his shadows expanded, filling the space with their cold presence.

"Is that what this was?" he demanded, taking a step closer to the platform. "Some kind of desperate bid for attention?"

The accusation in his voice ignited something in your chest—a spark of anger that quickly blazed into fury. Despite the pain, you pushed yourself up to sitting, glaring at him through tear-filled eyes.

"You think I tried to kill myself because of you?" Your voice rose, cracking on the last word. "Your arrogance truly knows no bounds, shadowsinger."

The pink bunnies appeared without warning, materializing from thin air around your clenched fists. They were different this time—not the playful creatures from before, but twisted, angry things with flames for eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. They hopped agitatedly around you, leaving scorch marks on the stone.

Azriel's eyes widened fractionally, his shadows pulling back as if surprised by this display of power.

"Then explain," he pressed, his voice dangerously soft. "Why would the Lady of the Autumn Court be drowning herself in a magical lake?"

"I don't answer to you," you hissed, the words tearing from your throat. One of the flame bunnies leapt toward him, dissipating against the wall of shadows he instinctively raised. "I don't answer to anyone in this godforsaken place!"

More bunnies materialized, bouncing frantically around you as your control slipped. Small fires bloomed where they landed, smoking holes in the immaculate garden.

"Everyone hates me for things I never did!" you continued, your voice breaking. "For actions I never took! For a person I've never been!"

Azriel went completely still, even his shadows freezing in place. "What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't understand," you rasped, tears flowing freely now. "No one does."

One of the flame bunnies hopped onto your lap, nuzzling against your stomach. Despite everything, the sight was so absurd that a hiccuping sob-laugh escaped you.

"Why should you care if I died?" you whispered, stroking the fiery creature with trembling fingers. "It would solve your problem, wouldn't it? No more unwanted mate. No more reminder of... whatever it is about me that you hate so much."

The quiet that followed was absolute.

Even the flame bunnies stilled, sensing the gravity of the moment. Azriel remained motionless, his face unreadable, his shadows pulled tight around him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "You truly believe that's what I want?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you asked bitterly. "You've made your disgust perfectly clear."

Something shifted in his expression then—not softening, exactly, but changing. His shadows stirred restlessly, reaching toward you before he pulled them back.

"You crossed territories, winnowed to an Illyrian war camp, and confronted a warrior centuries older than you... to say goodbye before trying to drown yourself." His voice was flat, but his eyes burned with unreadable emotion.

"The bond wouldn't let me go without saying goodbye," you whispered. "It hurt too much."

Azriel took a single step closer, his movements predatory and precise.

"And did it occur to you," he asked, his voice deceptively soft, "that there might be a reason for that?"

Before you could answer, servants reappeared with blankets and a steaming mug.

They hesitated at the sight of your flaming bunnies, but Briar pushed forward bravely, draping a thick blanket around your shoulders and pressing the mug into your hands.

"Drink, my lady," she urged, casting nervous glances at Azriel. "The healers are coming."

You sipped obediently, the hot tea burning your raw throat but spreading welcome warmth through your chest. The flame bunnies began to fade, one by one, as your emotions stabilized.

Azriel watched this all in silence, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

His shadows, however, stretched toward you again, as if testing the truth of your words through touch.

When the healers arrived, bustling with efficiency and concern, Azriel stepped back. His wings shifted behind him, preparing for flight.

"This isn't finished," he said quietly, his words meant for you alone. "We will speak again."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. But it was something—a promise, however reluctant, that this wasn't the end.

The mating bond hummed between you, no longer fighting but settling, a golden thread connecting two souls across an impossible divide.

As Azriel launched himself skyward, his powerful wings carrying him swiftly away, you felt something unfamiliar bloom in your chest.

Hope.

Small, fragile, but undeniably there—like the first green shoot after a forest fire.

Whatever came next, you were still here. Still alive. Still bound to this world, this court, this shadowsinger who had pulled you from the depths despite everything.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Sunlight filtered through amber-stained glass, painting warm patterns across your bed as you stared at the ceiling of your chamber.

The healers had done their work efficiently—lungs cleared, temperature restored, physical damage repaired. But they couldn't heal the confusion swirling in your mind like the shadows that had enveloped you at the lake.

You'd failed. Again.

The mating bond had tethered you to this world with unrelenting tenacity, refusing to let you escape back to your real life.

And Azriel—cold, furious Azriel—had physically dragged you from the waters that might have been your passage home.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," you muttered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. "I should never have gone to say goodbye."

Your flame magic responded to your agitation, small pink rabbits materializing on your bedspread. One hopped onto your chest, its fiery weight oddly comforting as it nuzzled against your collarbone.

"Next time," you told the rabbit seriously, "I'll avoid magical lakes. Maybe a cliff? Or poison—something fast-acting that can't be treated." You frowned, considering your options. "Perhaps if I got far enough away from Prythian entirely... somewhere across the sea where no one could find me in time."

The rabbit tilted its flaming head, ears twitching as if confused by your morbid planning session.

"Don't look at me like that," you scolded. "You're literally made of fire. You have no survival instinct whatsoever."

The rabbit responded by multiplying, and suddenly six small flame bunnies were bouncing on your bed, leaving charred paw prints on the silk sheets.

"Great," you sighed. "More evidence of my deteriorating mental state."

You brushed halfheartedly at a smoking spot on your pillowcase.

The rumors had already spread throughout the castle—the Lady of Autumn, found half-drowned by a Night Court shadowsinger. The whispers followed you even here, in your private chambers.

"She tried to kill herself because of the mating bond rejection... the shame was too much... she's even more unstable than before..."

If only they knew the truth—that you weren't trying to die, just trying to get home.

That this body, this court, this entire world wasn't yours to begin with.

A knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

Briar entered without waiting for a response, her face pinched with worry. She took one look at the flame rabbits desecrating your bedding and her eyes widened.

"My lady, perhaps it would be best to... disperse your little friends before your audience?"

"Audience?" you repeated, sitting up so quickly that two rabbits tumbled off the bed with indignant squeaks. "What audience?"

Briar's hands twisted nervously in her apron. "Lord Beron has commanded your presence immediately. In the Great Hall."

Your stomach dropped faster than a flame bunny falling off a bed. "Lord Beron? My... father? He's back from the Dawn Court already?"

"The High Lord returned the moment he heard about the... incident." Briar's voice dropped to a whisper. "Lord Eris is with him. And your brothers."

"All of them?" you asked, your voice climbing an octave higher. "How many brothers do I have again?"

Briar gave you a strange look. "Five, my lady. Though... Lord Lucien is at the Spring Court."

"Right. Of course. Five brothers. Totally knew that." You ran a hand through your hair, trying to calm your racing heart. "And they're all... angry?"

"I wouldn't presume to know the High Lord's emotions," Briar replied diplomatically, though her expression said otherwise.

You groaned, flopping back onto your pillows. "He's furious, isn't he?"

"The word 'incandescent' was used by one of the guards," Briar admitted. "Along with 'apocalyptic' and 'preparing the torture chambers.'"

"Torture chambers?!" you squeaked.

"That may have been an exaggeration," Briar conceded, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "But Lord Beron is... displeased. The involvement of the Night Court in Autumn Court matters has always been a sensitive issue."

"It wasn't Azriel's fault," you protested automatically. "He was just... being a decent person."

Even as you said it, you wondered why the shadowsinger had saved you. After his cold dismissal, his formal rejection of the bond—why had he followed you? How had he known where you'd gone?

"My lady," Briar interrupted your racing thoughts, "Lord Beron is waiting. It would be... unwise to delay."

"Right." You took a deep breath, banishing the flame rabbits with a flick of your wrist. Most of them disappeared in puffs of smoke. One particularly stubborn bunny remained, glaring at you reproachfully from the foot of your bed.

"Oh, for—fine, you can stay," you told it, "But no setting anything important on fire."

The bunny made a smug little hop.

Briar watched this exchange with a mixture of concern and bemusement. "Perhaps it would be best if your... friend... remained here?"

"Probably," you agreed, scooping up the creature and depositing it on your pillow. "Be good," you instructed. "No arson."

The bunny yawned, tiny flames flickering between its teeth.

With a deep, steadying breath, you followed Briar from your chambers toward what would surely be the most awkward family meeting in the history of dysfunctional immortal families.

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court was aptly named—a vast, imposing space with vaulted ceilings that seemed to capture sunlight and transmute it into liquid gold.

Fall leaves perpetually drifted from the ceiling, disappearing before they reached the ground. The effect was both beautiful and disorienting—an eternal autumn suspended in time.

At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of polished wood, sat Lord Beron on his throne of living flame. The fire never seemed to burn him, though it cast his already severe features into harsh relief, highlighting the cold cruelty in his eyes.

Beside him stood Eris, immaculate as always, his auburn hair gleaming like burnished copper in the firelight. His expression was carefully neutral, though you caught a flicker of... something... in his eyes as you approached.

Three other males flanked the throne—your "brothers," apparently. They shared Eris's coloring to varying degrees, though none possessed his lethal grace or cunning intelligence. Their expressions ranged from bored disinterest to poorly concealed amusement at your predicament.

You approached the dais on legs that felt increasingly unstable. The walk seemed interminable, each step echoing ominously against the marble floor.

The court had gathered to witness your humiliation—dozens of Autumn Fae lining the walls, their whispers a susurration like wind through dry leaves.

"So," Lord Beron said when you finally reached the foot of the dais. His voice was deceptively soft, but fire flickered at his fingertips—a warning of the rage barely contained beneath his calm facade. "My only daughter seeks to drown herself rather than bear the shame of rejection from a Night Court bastard."

Your cheeks burned. "It wasn't like that," you began, then stopped. How could you possibly explain the truth?

"Then enlighten us," Beron continued, leaning forward slightly, his throne's flames rising in response to his agitation. "What exactly 'was it like'?"

Words failed you.

Every explanation sounded like madness, even in your own head. I'm actually a human nursing student possessing your daughter's body and I was trying to drown myself to get back to my world hardly seemed like something that would improve this situation.

"The bond," you said finally, the partial truth easier than outright lies. "It... hurt. I wasn't thinking clearly."

One of your brothers—the one with the cruelest smirk—laughed softly. "Poor sister, so devastated by that shadow-loving mongrel's rejection that she tried to end herself. How pathetically romantic."

You bristled, pink sparks dancing at your fingertips. "You don't understand what it feels like."

"Neither do you," Eris cut in smoothly, drawing all eyes to him. "The bond formed mere days ago. The pain of rejection, while significant, would hardly drive someone with your particular... temperament... to suicide."

You tensed at the calculated precision of his words. Eris was too observant, too clever by far. He knew something wasn't right.

"Unless," he continued, his amber eyes never leaving yours, "there are other factors at play?"

A tense silence fell over the hall.

"What factors could possibly drive a High Fae of the Autumn Court to such desperation?" Beron asked, his gaze burning into you. "What weakness have you discovered in yourself, daughter, that would bring such shame upon our house?"

You straightened your spine, meeting his gaze despite the fear that threatened to choke you.

"No weakness, Father. Only clarity." The words came unbidden, but as you spoke them, you realized their truth. "I've lived... differently... these past days. Seen things from a new perspective. The person I was before—"

"Is the person you are," Beron interrupted coldly. "Whatever temporary madness has overtaken you, I suggest you master it quickly."

"And if I can't?" you challenged, surprising yourself with your boldness.

Beron's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps the Autumn Court requires a different Lady."

The threat hung in the air, clear and deadly. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the precarious nature of your position. If Beron discovered the truth—that his daughter's body now housed a foreign soul—what would he do?

"The mating bond complicates matters," Eris observed, his voice neutral. "Death would not resolve the issue. It would only create a diplomatic incident with the Night Court."

"The Night Court," Beron spat, flames briefly engulfing his throne. "That shadowsinger dared to enter our territory without permission. To touch what belongs to the Autumn Court."

"He saved my life," you pointed out, then immediately regretted it as Beron's gaze sharpened on you.

"A life you were attempting to end," he countered. "Perhaps you should thank me instead for not letting him keep what he retrieved."

Your brothers snickered, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves.

"What I don't understand," said the youngest-looking brother, his tone falsely casual, "is why the shadowsinger bothered at all. If he rejected the bond, why save her?"

It was a good question—one that had plagued you since you'd awakened in your chambers.

Hope fluttered traitorously in your chest before you ruthlessly squashed it. No, Azriel had made his feelings perfectly clear. Whatever had driven him to save you, it wasn't acceptance of the bond.

"Regardless," Beron said dismissively, "the matter is settled. You will remain in the castle under guard until I determine you are no longer a danger to yourself or the reputation of this court. You will not attempt to contact the Night Court or its representatives. You will not leave your chambers without an escort. And you will cease this... undignified emotional display immediately."

As if in direct defiance of his orders, a small pink flame bunny chose that exact moment to materialize on your shoulder. It squeaked indignantly at Beron, tiny fiery ears laid flat against its head.

A collective gasp swept through the hall.

One of your brothers cursed. Eris looked briefly skyward, as if praying for patience. And Beron... Beron's expression was one of such appalled disbelief that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing hysterically.

"What," Beron said with deadly precision, "is that?"

"A rabbit," you replied, your voice impressively steady. "Made of fire. Pink fire, specifically."

"I can see that," Beron hissed. "Why is it on your shoulder?"

You considered several responses, discarding each as too flippant or too honest. Finally, you settled on, "It seems to like me?"

"Destroy that... abomination... immediately," Beron commanded, fire flaring at his fingertips.

The bunny, apparently sensing the threat, multiplied. Suddenly, three pink flame rabbits sat on your shoulders and head, all glaring defiantly at the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort came from the direction of Eris, though his face remained carefully blank when you glanced his way.

"I don't think they like being called abominations," you observed mildly, as one of the bunnies started grooming its flaming ears with particular vigor, as if preparing for battle.

"Enough!" Beron roared, rising from his throne in a surge of power that sent flames dancing across the dais. "You will remember your place, daughter, or I will remind you of it in ways you will not enjoy."

The bunnies, displaying more wisdom than their creator, promptly disappeared in puffs of smoke.

All except one—the original, stubborn bunny—which darted into your hair to hide.

"Yes, Father," you said, lowering your eyes in a show of submission that you didn't feel. "I understand."

"I doubt that," Beron replied coldly. "But you will. Guards, escort my daughter to her chambers. She is not to leave without my express permission."

As the guards stepped forward to flank you, you risked one last glance at Eris.

What you did know was that you were now a prisoner in this court, in this body, in this life. The mating bond had anchored you to this world against your will, and now Beron had ensured you couldn't try again to escape it.

As you were escorted from the hall, the tiny flame bunny peeked out from your hair, its warm weight a strange comfort against your scalp.

"Well," you whispered to it as the doors closed behind you, "that could have gone worse."

The bunny sneezed, sending a small shower of sparks cascading over your shoulders.

"Okay, fine," you amended. "It was a complete disaster. But look on the bright side—at least we're not dead."

The bunny gave you a look that suggested it remained unconvinced of the advantages of your continued existence in this world.

"Yeah," you sighed as the guards marched you toward your gilded prison. "I'm not so sure either.”

Three days passed in luxurious imprisonment.

Your chambers, while beautiful, had become a gilded cage—every exit guarded, every window watched. The servants who brought your meals were different each time, preventing you from forming alliances.

Even Briar had been reassigned, replaced by an older female with iron-gray hair and a perpetual frown who refused to engage in conversation.

Your only companion was the stubborn pink flame bunny, who had taken up permanent residence on your pillow.

You'd named him Ember, for lack of a better option, and found yourself talking to him with increasing frequency as isolation wore on your nerves.

"What do you think, Ember?" you asked, pacing the length of your chamber for the hundredth time that morning. "Is drowning still the best option, or should I consider something more creative? Self-immolation would be ironic, given the whole fire magic thing."

Ember squeaked disapprovingly, his tiny flame ears flattening against his head.

"Fine, no self-immolation," you conceded. "Though it might give Beron a heart attack, which would be a bonus."

A knock at your door interrupted your morbid planning session.

You expected the sour-faced servant with your midday meal, but instead found Eris leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Plotting patricide, sister? How delightfully traditional of you."

"Eris," you greeted cautiously. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. And here I thought we were developing such a lovely sibling rapport."

Ember, sensing a potential threat, hopped onto your shoulder and puffed himself up to approximately twice his tiny size, looking like an angry cotton ball made of fire.

"Is that..." Eris squinted at the flame bunny. "Is that thing wearing a little crown?"

You glanced at Ember, who indeed had fashioned himself a miniature crown of pink flames. "He's going through a monarchy phase. I think he's planning a coup."

"Against whom, exactly?"

"Me, presumably. Though Beron should watch his back. Ember has ambitions."

Eris blinked, then let out a startled laugh. "You know, if you'd shown this sense of humor centuries ago, family dinners would have been considerably more entertaining."

"I'll be sure to bring my comedy routine to the next one," you said dryly. "Assuming I'm ever allowed out of this room again."

Eris sauntered into your chamber, inspecting your living conditions with casual interest. "That depends entirely on Father's mood, which has been spectacularly foul lately. The Night Court isn't helping matters."

Your heart skipped. "The Night Court?"

"Mmm," Eris confirmed, picking up a delicate figurine from your dresser and examining it with excessive attention. "They've been rather... insistent... about certain matters."

"What matters?" you asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperately interested.

Eris replaced the figurine, turning to face you with a gleam in his amber eyes. "You, primarily. Or more specifically, access to you."

The mating bond thrummed beneath your breastbone, responding to even this oblique reference to Azriel. "What do you mean, access?"

"The shadowsinger has been particularly vocal," Eris said, watching your reaction closely. "Demanding an audience, threatening various creative consequences should his request be denied. He's quite inventive with his threats, I must say. Something about anatomically improbable locations for certain body parts."

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. "And what did Beron say to these... requests?"

"He suggested the shadowsinger perform several physically impossible acts involving his own wings before bursting into literal flames." Eris grinned. "The diplomatic correspondence has been most entertaining. I've been keeping copies for posterity."

"You're enjoying this," you accused.

"Immensely," he admitted without a hint of shame. "It's been centuries since anyone challenged Father so directly. I find it refreshing."

"So he denied the request?"

"With such colorful language that three scribes resigned on the spot." Eris stretched languidly, completely at ease. "The poor messengers had to be escorted from the premises under guard to prevent spontaneous combustion."

Your shoulders slumped slightly. "So that's it? Request denied, end of story?"

"Did you expect something else?" Eris raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps a daring rescue? The shadowsinger swooping in through your window to carry you away in his strong, scarred arms?"

"Of course not," you huffed, though the image sent an unwelcome thrill through you. "I just thought..."

"That I might help?" Eris finished, his expression shifting to something more calculating. "Arrange some clandestine meeting? Risk Father's wrath for the sake of your star-crossed romance?"

"No," you lied.

"Good," Eris said cheerfully. "Because I wouldn't. He may be a tyrant, but he's a predictable one. The shadowsinger, with his shadows and secrets, is an unknown variable I'm not inclined to trust."

Ember chose that moment to hop onto Eris's shoulder and sneeze, sending a shower of tiny pink sparks cascading over his immaculate jacket.

"By the Cauldron!" Eris yelped, brushing frantically at the sparks. "Call off your flaming vermin!"

Ember looked utterly pleased with himself as he returned to your shoulder, making a sound suspiciously like a snicker.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "He does that when he senses dishonesty."

"Dishonesty?" Eris scoffed, still checking his jacket for scorch marks. "I'm being perfectly transparent for once in my immortal life."

"So you're not here to gloat? To let me know precisely what I'm missing because I'm trapped in this room while Azriel attempts to communicate with me?"

"Well, I wouldn't say gloat," Eris demurred. "Perhaps 'revel in your misfortune' would be more accurate."

"Get out," you said without heat.

"Gladly," he replied, backing toward the door. "Your pet is a menace."

Ember puffed up his flaming chest with pride.

You stared at the door for a long moment, disappointment settling heavily in your chest.

You'd harbored a secret hope that Eris might help, might see some advantage in facilitating a meeting between you and Azriel.

But it seemed even he had his limits when it came to defying Beron.

Ember nuzzled against your cheek, offering wordless comfort. You scratched him gently behind one flaming ear, grateful for his presence despite his occasional pyromania.

"It's fine," you told him, though your voice lacked conviction. "It's not like I expected anything else."

But you had.

Despite everything—the rejection, the coldness, the fury—some part of you had hoped. Had believed that Azriel might try to reach you, might want to explain, might offer... something.

Understanding, perhaps. Or at the very least, closure.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the autumn forests that stretched beyond the castle walls. The trees were impossibly vibrant, their leaves never falling despite the perpetual autumn. You pressed your palm against the glass, feeling the cool barrier between you and freedom.

The mating bond had been restless these past days, tugging and pulsing in your chest as if trying to communicate.

You'd tried to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there, but in quiet moments like this, its presence was undeniable.

As night fell, casting long shadows across your chambers, the pain began again. It always hurt more at night, as if darkness somehow strengthened the bond's pull. A deep, hollow ache that radiated from your chest outward, like a phantom limb crying out for reconnection.

You curled on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself as if you could physically hold the pain at bay.

This wasn't the sharp, immediate agony of rejection—that had faded after the first day. This was something more insidious, a persistent reminder of what was missing, what had been denied.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you stared into the darkness. You weren't even sure who or what you were crying for—yourself, trapped in a body and a world not your own? The bond, straining across distance and denial? Azriel, who had saved your life only to disappear?

"I want to go home," you whispered into the darkness, the words catching on a sob. "I just want to go home."

But even as you said it, you weren't entirely sure where "home" was anymore. The hospital room with its beeping monitors and antiseptic smell felt increasingly distant, like a half-remembered dream.

This body, this world, this life—as strange and unwelcome as they had been—were becoming familiar in ways that terrified you.

And then there was the bond.

The golden thread that connected you to Azriel, that had pulled you back from death, that ached now with a pain both foreign and intimate. It was part of you now, whether you wanted it or not.

Ember curled against your neck, his warmth a small comfort against the tears that continued to fall. You stroked his tiny form absently, finding solace in the simple connection.

"What am I going to do, Ember?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "I can't stay here, like this, forever. But I can't seem to leave either."

The flame bunny had no answers, only wordless comfort as the night deepened around you and the mating bond continued its relentless pull toward someone who had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

Exhausted by grief and pain, you eventually drifted into uneasy sleep, tears still damp on your cheeks and the golden thread of the bond still pulsing, reaching, connecting you to a shadowsinger who remained as distant and unreachable as the stars themselves.

In your dreams, shadows danced at the edges of your vision, reaching for you with tentative, tender touches before retreating into darkness. And beneath it all, a voice—deep and resonant—whispered words you couldn't quite catch, couldn't quite understand.

Family dinner in the Autumn Court was a lavish, tense affair.

Servants moved silently around the massive mahogany table, placing dishes of succulent game and autumn vegetables before the royal family. The air smelled of cinnamon and smoke, undercut with the acrid scent of tension.

Beron sat at the head of the table, his flame crown burning higher than usual. Eris occupied his right hand, while your three other brothers filled the remaining seats. You sat at the far end, as distant from Beron as the table allowed—a deliberate placement that emphasized your current standing.

Ember had been firmly instructed to remain in your chambers, though you could feel his indignant warmth through your mental connection. He was definitely sulking about missing the meal.

"The Dawn Court negotiations progress favorably," Eris was saying, his voice precisely modulated to hide any actual opinion on the matter. "Lady Nuan has agreed to consider our proposal regarding the eastern trade routes."

Beron merely grunted, tearing into a pheasant with more force than necessary. His mood, never pleasant, had deteriorated further since your "incident" at the lake.

"Perhaps our sister could assist with negotiations," your youngest brother suggested, malice gleaming in his eyes. "I hear drowning makes one uniquely qualified for diplomatic matters."

Eris shot him a warning glance, but the damage was done.

"Indeed," Beron said coldly. "Perhaps my daughter would care to explain how her recent behavior has affected our standing with other courts? The Night Court, in particular, seems unusually interested in our affairs of late."

The mating bond flared at the mention of the Night Court, sending warmth through your chest despite your anxiety.

"I hardly think my personal matters are relevant to court politics," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Beron's flames intensified. "Everything about you is relevant to court politics. You are the Lady of Autumn. Your... indiscretions... reflect on us all."

"Indiscretions?" You couldn't help the indignation that crept into your voice. "Is that what we're calling near-death experiences now?"

"Watch your tone," Beron warned, fire dancing between his fingers.

You should have heeded the warning. Should have lowered your eyes and apologized.

But the days of imprisonment, the pain of the bond, the constant dismissal of your feelings—all of it bubbled up inside you like magma seeking release.

"My tone is the least of your concerns," you said, setting down your fork with deliberate precision. "Perhaps you should worry more about why your daughter tried to drown herself rather than how it looks politically."

The table went silent. Even the servants froze, horror evident in their carefully averted gazes.

"What did you say to me?" Beron's voice was deadly quiet.

"You heard me." The words tumbled out, unstoppable now. "You don't care that I was drowning. You only care how it reflects on you—that a Night Court warrior had to save me because my own family couldn't be bothered to notice I was missing."

Pink flames flickered at your fingertips, responding to your emotions. One of your brothers edged his chair away from the table.

Beron rose slowly, his power filling the room like a physical pressure. The candles flared, casting grotesque shadows across his face.

"You forget yourself, daughter," he said, flames now engulfing his hand as he stepped around the table toward you. "Perhaps you need a reminder of who and what you are."

You should have been afraid.

The rational part of your brain screamed danger. But something else—something stubborn and defiant—refused to cower.

"I know exactly what I am," you replied, rising to meet him. "And it isn't this."

Beron's hand raised, flames licking higher, ready to strike—

The dining hall doors exploded inward with enough force to rattle the silverware.

Cold night air rushed in, extinguishing candles and dimming the fire in the hearths. Shadows poured across the threshold, swift and purposeful.

And then they were there—Rhysand, High Lord of Night, flanked by his general and his shadowsinger. Power rolled before them like a midnight tide, dark and ancient and unstoppable.

"Apologies for the dramatic entrance," Rhysand said smoothly, though his violet eyes were hard as gems. "Your guards seemed reluctant to announce us."

But your attention wasn't on Rhysand. It was fixed entirely on Azriel.

The shadowsinger stood slightly to Rhysand's left, his wings tucked neatly against his back, his face an expressionless mask. But his shadows—his shadows told a different story. They writhed and reached, coiling toward Beron's still-raised hand with unmistakable threat.

"Lower your hand, Lord Beron," Azriel said, his voice quiet but carrying easily through the silent hall. The temperature plummeted with each word. "Now."

The command was delivered with such deadly calm that even Beron hesitated. Fire still danced around his fingers, but his arm lowered slightly.

"How dare you enter my court unannounced," Beron hissed, his rage momentarily redirected. "This intrusion—"

"Is nothing compared to what would happen if you touched her," Azriel interrupted, his shadows stretching across the floor between you and Beron.

They formed a barrier—insubstantial yet somehow more solid than stone.

The mating bond sang between you, responding to his defense with a rush of warmth that left you momentarily breathless.

Azriel's gaze finally shifted to you, his eyes assessing, cataloging—checking for injury, you realized with a start.

And for now, that was enough.

Author’s Note:

Thank you for diving into this emotional rollercoaster with me! This chapter nearly broke me-Azriel’s rage, our girl’s grief, and the chaos of flaming bunnies… I hope it left your heart aching (in the best way). As always, thank you for reading. 💛 More drama, healing, and accidental arson to come.

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[zeizeizeizei]

Unpopular Alucard Headcanons 🦇

🦇 His heartbeat is unnaturally slow

Being a dhampir, his body doesn’t function like a human’s. His heart beats maybe once every few minutes, and when he meditates or sleeps deeply, it slows to an almost undetectable level. This makes it easy for people to mistake him for dead if they don’t know better.

🦇 Despite his regal demeanor, he can be incredibly stubborn

He gets this from both of his parents. While he is generally composed, he can be surprisingly headstrong when he believes he is right.

🦇 He secretly enjoys being around people but isolates himself out of guilt

While many see him as a lone figure, he actually enjoys companionship but feels unworthy of it due to his lineage and the weight of his past.

🦇 He sometimes forgets what his own voice sounds like

Spending long periods alone in the castle means Alucard can go days, weeks, or even months without speaking. Sometimes, when he finally does, his voice comes out quieter than expected, or he startles himself by how deep it is.

🦇 He has never truly celebrated his birthday

While he knows the day he was born, it has never been a day of joy for him. His mother may have marked the occasion with warmth, but after her death, he stopped acknowledging it altogether. He wonders if Dracula ever remembered.

🦇 He used to sing as a child but no longer does

Lisa encouraged him to sing when he was young, and his voice was light and pure. However, after losing his mother, he never found the heart to sing again. He still hums absentmindedly when lost in thought, though he never realizes he’s doing it.

🦇 His laugh is rare, but it's hauntingly beautiful

Alucard rarely laughs, but when he does, it’s light and musical, almost as if he’s forgotten how to express joy. It has an eerie, mesmerizing quality, as if for just a moment, the weight of centuries is lifted from his shoulders.

🦇 He doesn’t need to breathe, but he does anyway

His body doesn’t require oxygen in the same way humans do, but he still breathes out of habit. If he concentrates, he can go completely still, like a statue, for days without any movement.

🦇 His presence subtly affects the environment

When he walks into a room, candles flicker. The air gets cooler when he’s deep in thought. Even when he’s not using magic, something about him bends the space around him slightly, like reality itself acknowledges his unnatural nature.

🦇 His eyes glow in the dark

In dim lighting, his golden eyes reflect ambient light like a predator’s, making them glow faintly. In absolute darkness, they shimmer unnaturally, giving him an almost spectral appearance. It’s one of the reasons he avoids letting people see him at night.

🦇 He sleeps curled up, like a child

When he sleeps, especially during moments of vulnerability, he instinctively curls in on himself, as if trying to protect himself from something unseen.

🦇 He doesn’t hate his father—but he cannot forgive him either

Despite everything, Alucard still loves his father in a complicated, painful way. He understands Dracula’s grief, but he cannot forgive the destruction he caused.

🦇 He doesn’t like killing, but he is terrifying when he does

Unlike his father, Alucard does not take joy in battle. He fights with precision and restraint, but when truly enraged, he unleashes a level of destruction that unsettles even himself.

🦇 He is both afraid of and drawn to the idea of companionship

He craves connection but fears what it could mean. He has lost everyone he has ever cared for—what if he loses them again? What if he is meant to be alone forever?

🦇 He has considered letting himself die

The thought has crossed his mind more than once. The idea of fading away, of ending the lonely existence he has been trapped in. But something, some tiny ember of his mother’s voice, always tells him to keep going.

🦇 His hands shake when he’s deeply emotional

Whether it’s anger, grief, or overwhelming sorrow, his body betrays him in subtle ways. His fingers tremble, his breath hitches, and for a brief moment, the composed prince looks like a lost boy.

🦇 He can smell emotions

His sense of smell isn’t just sharp—it’s supernatural. He can pick up traces of emotions like fear, anger, or sorrow as subtle shifts in scent, which is why he’s eerily good at reading people even when they try to hide their true feelings.

🦇 He wonders what his mother would think of him now

More than anything, he wishes Lisa could see him—not just as the boy she raised, but as the man he has become. Would she be proud? Would she be sad? He will never know, and that is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

Source: my 🍑

Enjoy.