#Symbolic Stewards | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

prythianpages · 7 months ago

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Hopelessly Devoted | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader x Azriel | You're hopelessly devoted to Azriel, suspecting he’s your true love. Meanwhile, Eris is hopelessly longing after you. aka Eris being your mate but you're too infatuated with Az to notice.

warnings: slight angst, reader being a bit delulu

*also disclaimer that I am no expert in astrology and my knowledge is usually what I gathered from friends or tiktok so if I'm wrong, please correct me but do it nicely pls bc I am sensitive lol*

a/n: I wasn't sure whether to include Az or not in the pairing but I liked the idea of leaving this fic up to your interpretation. Anyway, happy reading! <3

As you entered the Night Court’s observatory, you traced your fingers along the edge of the great celestial map laid before you. You could feel the soft hum of magic beneath your fingertips, still smell the faintest hint of sage–a remnant of your father’s last ritual here. For centuries, your father has served as the Night Court’s astrologer. He’s guided and advised High Lord Rhysand and on occasion, Keir, the steward of the Court of Nightmares.

Above you, constellations and planets danced across the domed ceiling, the stars gleaming as though they were ready to whisper secrets just for you. You took a deep breath, centering yourself, and placed a palm flat against the massive zodiac wheel etched onto the floor. It began to glow, a warm golden light tracing symbols of the zodiacs and planets.

“Stars above and stars below, reveal the path I seek to know,” you quietly murmured.

The markings on the wheel shifted in response, aligning and realigning with clicking sounds, the warm golden light following. Then, your own chart had appeared, shimmering above you. It was a translucent web of stars and planets connected by silvery lines. You’ve read your birth chart many times, become so familiar with it that you knew it by heart even.

But tonight, you needed the extra reassurance. So you looked up, watching as the planets moved slowly. Your heartbeat a little faster as you spotted Jupiter making transit through your seventh house. The promise of growth, abundance, luck and most important of all, love filled the air.

You slipped a small vial from the hidden pocket of your cobalt blue dress. The words Love Potion No.9 gleamed on the glass, the dark red liquid swirling. It was the enchanted perfume you’d bought from a witch last week—a little love potion designed to make you irresistibly alluring to your soulmate.

You felt a bit foolish, seeking a witch for guidance on love of all matters. Witches were frowned upon in the Court of Nightmares, after all. But impatience had finally nudged you to venture beyond the court’s dark mountain and into the surrounding forests, in search of someone who could help.

“Seek the one who walks between light and shadow with a mask of cool indifference, where fire meets the edge of night. There your heart shall find its match,” she had told you as she handed you the enchanted perfume.

Her words had only confirmed what you had been suspecting for years, centuries even.

Azriel was your soulmate.

Azriel, the very embodiment of cool indifference, wore a mask of stoicism in the Court of Nightmares, just as High Lord Rhysand did. But his hazel eyes always seemed to burn with a hidden fire. And when you were alone with him, away from the cold nobility of the Night Court, Azriel would let that mask slip, revealing a kinder side that laughed and smiled with you. He was your friend and not only did he literally walk among shadows, he wielded them. It had to be him!

And then, there was your birth chart. Your seventh house lay in Taurus—a sign ruled by Venus. With Venus positioned in your twelfth house, everything pointed to the idea that your future soulmate would bring your happiness and pleasure. And since you met Azriel all those years ago during a counseling your father led, happiness had been an emotion you'd grown more familiar with.

The stars couldn’t have given you a clearer message!

There was a flutter in your stomach as you approached Azriel. The two of you had been stealing glances at one another, as you usually did anytime you found yourselves in the same place. He looked as beautiful as ever. As dreamy as ever.

Though your High Lord and High Lady had moved to the center of the ballroom for a dance, he had stayed by the dais. “Hello,” you greeted him with a small smile.

Azriel turned to you, that mask of his slipping for just a brief moment to smile back at you. He took the extra wine glass in your hold, murmuring a small thanks. He turned his head back to the dance floor, attentive to his High Lady’s whereabouts. But he shifted closer to you, the coolness of his shadows caressing your bare arm and you couldn’t help but wonder if the perfume was working.

“You look nice,” he commented.

“Thanks.” A blush rose to your cheeks. You’d taken care to match your dress to the exact shade of his siphons. And he noticed. “So do you.”

“I wear this all the time.” Azriel replied drily, referring to his usual Illyrian leathers.

“Yeah, I know.” You cursed yourself inwardly for the awkward response, then shifted closer, leaning toward him. “Do I smell to you?”

Azriel paused, his shadows brushing close, as if curious themselves. “No,” he said after a moment.

“Oh.” Disappointment seeped into your voice despite your best efforts, and his gaze shifted to you, a hint of a frown in his brows.

“Do you want to smell?”

There’s a teasing edge to his tone, a subtle quirk of his lips. You shook your head, letting out a small, nervous laugh. "No. I just wanted to know if I smelled any…different…,” and then, in a much quieter tone, you murmured, “to you.”

Azriel considered your words. He looked to you in what seemed like permission. You gave a nod of your head and he leaned in, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “You smell the same to me.” At the breath you let out, he quickly added: “which is good by the way. You smell nice.”

“Oh, okay,” you smile, albeit a bit awkwardly, the flutter you had felt in your stomach earlier twisting into a knot.

“Y/n, is everything alright?” Azriel asked softly.

“Yeah, I just thought—” You stopped, not sure how to explain without sounding foolish. It wasn’t like you could admit to feeling disappointed over the lack of reaction from an enchanted perfume you’d spent quite a fortune on. Especially when he was the sole purpose for it. Had the witch scammed you?

Azriel waited for you patiently, concern flashing in his eyes. Maybe the perfume hadn’t worked, but the stars and planets had never led you astray. That still had to mean something, right?

“I’m fine.” You finally said.

“Are you sure?”

The way he was looking at you had warmth creeping up your neck and settling deeper in your cheeks. “Yeah.”

A single shadow curled around Azriel’s ear and in the blink of an eye, his head turned. Your gaze followed his, to where Rhysand and Feyre were standing. Rhysand sent him a slight nod and with a sigh, Azriel returned it.

“Sorry, I have to go.” Azriel said, quickly downing the remaining wine from his glass.

You held out your hand, offering to take it for him.

“Thank you. I’ll be back. Don’t have too much fun without me, alright?”

“I’ll try not to,” you replied.

You watched Azriel disappear into his shadows before turning away from the dais and making your way to the refreshments table. You were eager for a refill on your glass. Perhaps a little more wine would help ease the sting of disappointment. But he’d said he’d be back, hadn’t he?

As you scanned the room, you noticed your father in conversation with one of Keir’s sons and your mother eyeing potential suitors for your older brother. As an elite warrior of the Darkbringers, he had no shortage of admirers, and it was only a matter of time before your mother secured him a match—perfect or not.

You suspected you’d be next on her matchmaking list, so you busied yourself with small talk among familiar ladies. Conversations were always a mind-numbing, the ladies your age exchanging beauty tips that centered around the male’s eye or fawning over this season’s most eligible males. Which this season just so happens to be your brother. Gross. If only they knew him the way you did….

Second to him was Bret—or some equally uninspiring name. A Scorpio, of all things, which clashed miserably with your chart. Not that it mattered. You had no interest in any noble of the Court of Nightmares. Or any male here. Most, if not all, were cruel and narcissists, only viewing females as child bearers and nothing more.

There was a reason why this court was burdened with the title “Nightmares.” And to marry someone from here would mean never waking up from this darkness. No stars to light your night skies, only endless shadow and despair.

So, you’d taken fate into your own hands. You’d turned to your birth chart, hoping the stars would lead you somewhere beyond Hewn City, beyond this never-ending nightmare. And they had. They led you to believe it was Azriel. Azriel, who was not only honorable and single but also, technically, part of the Court of Dreams. He’d been your friend for centuries, seeing you for who you are rather than an object or prize like most males here.

As you sneak away from the conversation, you bump into something–someone. Behind you, a deep voice huffed a low, mocking chuckle. “Easy there, librarian.”

You could recognize that voice anywhere, could recognize the heat radiating from him. It pressed down on you, leaving you simmering with irritation.

“I’m a libra, not a librarian.” You bit out. It hasn’t even been a minute and already you were exhausted by the searing presence behind you. “And besides, to you, it’s Lady Y/N.”

When you turned, you found Eris looming over you. His amber eyes gleamed with a familiar, infuriating mischief. He gave you that signature smirk of his, the one that made his sharp features all the more arrogant. “Such a harsh tone. Hardly fitting for a Lady.”

Your gaze hardened into a glare, only to have it stray toward a movement across the ballroom. A flicker of shadow caught your attention, and your heart gave a small, hopeful jump as your gaze softened. There he was—Azriel.

He had returned to the ballroom…but he hadn’t returned to you…

Eris raised a glass to his lips, amber eyes flicking lazily between you and Azriel. “Disappointment doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not disappointed.” You muttered hastily.

He gave a scoff, his smirk widening with dark amusement. “Please. I can practically feel it.”

“Liar,” you shot back.

“Azriel said he’d find me again and unlike you, he’s a male of his word,” you continued, not sure why you were telling Eris this. “He’s…”

Your words trailed off as you watched Azriel, who stood next to Nesta and Elain. He laughed–actually laughed!-- at something Elain had said, shadows absent from his frame as his focus remained solely on her. You couldn’t miss the soft smile playing on his lips, nor the warmth in his gaze. Did he do that with every female he knew? You thought he reserved that just for you…

The bubble in your chest slowly deflated.

“Keep dreaming,” Eris huffed out. He seemed to take special pleasure in your reaction. It prompted your cheeks to flush but this time, with irritation.

“Oh, go away, you prick,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?" he replied, leaning closer, his sharp gaze burning into you. You missed the flash of longing in his amber eyes, too focused on Azriel. Or the way the words that had been on the tip of his tongue faltered as your scent suddenly overwhelmed him, his breath hitching slightly.

"You smell.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mumbled absently.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, his voice gruff and pupils flaring. “You smell different tonight…good...”

You blinked, barely processing his words. Was he actually being nice to you? In all the years you’ve known him, he’s always had snark remark after snark remark for you. The way it would roll smoothly off his tongue always left you wondering if he’d rehearse them for his visits to the Court of Nightmares.

You fidgeted, fingers grazing your wine glass as you cast a hesitant glance back at Azriel. Your chest tightened as he remained engrossed in conversation with Elain. Turn around, please. But he hadn’t even looked your way once.

Eris stepped in front of you, drawing your attention back to him. His gaze roamed over you, your dress. He took in the shade and he knew why you had chosen it–and for whom. "You know," he said, his gaze lingering on your face. "Red suits you far better.”

“And there he is, you’re back…”

"I’m serious. This—" He gestured to your gown with a slight grimace, his fingers brushing the silk fabric in disappointment. "This color washes you out. Red would bring out the color of your eyes…”

Your jaw clenched but you remained silent, refusing to admit that his words stirred something within you. Eris was insufferable, arrogant, and yet you couldn't deny his eye for detail. He, after all, was always dressed impeccably in the finest Autumn attire. But you would never give him the satisfaction of admitting he might be right.

His smirk widened, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Do you want to know another thing?”

“No,” you said immediately.

But he leaned in anyway, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re hopelessly devoted to a male who doesn’t even look your way.”

Your mouth opened, brows furrowing in protest, but he went on. His smirk softened, fading into a half-smile. One that didn’t reach his eyes, dimming the fire that usually burned so brightly there. And then, in a much quieter, reluctant tone, he murmured, “And I am no different, it seems.”

"But…" You stammered, resisting the urge to steal another glance at Azriel. "He does look my way…sometimes.”

Eris’s smile faded, his expression tightening. A flicker of pain crossed his face. So brief, you almost thought you imagined it. "You’re delusional.”

“And you’re insufferable.” You scoffed, heart pounding.

“Better than being a fool.”

The mocking tone was there but the usual sharpness had been softened by a strange, subtle sadness. Was this… pity?

You swallowed, lifting your chin defiantly. “The stars wouldn’t lie to me,” you said, though the conviction in your voice wavered. “He’s the one for me.”`

You met his eyes then and Eris held your gaze. His amber eyes warm and molten, the intensity of his stare prickling at your skin. An unsettling flutter erupted in your stomach, rising to your chest. A feeling you quickly dismissed when you felt something cool brush against your arm.

“Is he bothering you, y/n?”

Eris scoffed at the sudden presence beside you. It sickened him to see that sweet, adoring look on your face, the triumphant gleam in your eyes as you looked up at Azriel. The sight made Eris grit his teeth. His instincts roared at him, the fire in his veins was scorching.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, realizing both males were waiting for your answer. “No,” you said but the way you shifted to stand behind Azriel said otherwise.

Azriel’s gaze hardened as he looked toward Eris. “Stay away from her,” he seethed.

A low growl rumbled from Eris’s chest as he took a step forward, his amber eyes flaring with rage. Though not as tall as Azriel, he seemed to tower over him at this moment. His teeth flashed as his lips curled into a snarl. “I do not take orders from bastards like you.”

Azriel’s wings tensed, threatening to unfurl and the movement of his shadows quickened. Like a storm ready to unfold. But before it could, you placed a hand on his arm. Right over one of his glowing siphons that seemed to be growing hotter and hotter, daring to match the fire coursing through Eris’s veins.

“Az, don’t,” you told him gently, not wanting to draw any attention to the three of you. You felt his muscles ease under your touch, his shadows brushing over your hand in agreement.

Eris’s gaze dropped to your hand on Azriel’s arm, his expression darkening into something unreadable. He exhaled sharply, turning his head as though trying to shake off whatever thought had crossed his mind.

When he looked back, his features had shifted into his usual cool mask, that infuriating smirk sliding back into place. He looked right at you.

“When you wake up from this deranged dream of yours, come find me.”

You watched him, feeling a strange, unwelcome tug in your chest as he turned to leave. Perhaps, one day you’d realize that the enchanted perfume you had bought was not a scam.

And that the male you searched through the stars and planets for was not the one standing beside you, but the one who’d just walked away.

a/n: sorry if you're not a libra, I just thought it'd be funny for Eris to purposely say reader's sign wrong as he knows astrology is a huge influence on her.

[series masterlist]

[Eris masterlist]

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits15, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris x y/n #eris fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x y/n #acotar fanfiction

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leaf-in-a-flower-garden · 13 days ago

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:3c

doodles again

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mahowaga · 9 days ago

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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)

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reality-detective · 4 days ago

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🇺🇸 Nothing Is What It Seems: Trump, Symbolism & the Flag

I have learned through the last few years, that in Trump’s world, nothing is ever just optics. His words often carry hidden meanings. His actions; parades, flags, positioning, are deliberate signals. They may seem casual, but they are not.

Interpreting them isn’t easy, but when viewed through the lens of history, timing, and symbolism, they reveal a pattern. The past week offers one of the clearest examples of this:

Flag Day Parade – June 14, 2025

Trump oversaw the 250th anniversary parade of the U.S. Army on Flag Day. At the height of the ceremony, he was handed a folded American flag—flown over the Capitol and delivered by a Golden Knight parachutist who descended in a free fall.

That phrase—“free fall”—may seem purely technical, but in a symbolic context it carries weight: a controlled descent from above, a return to earth. A flag once elevated in the sky is now placed back in the hands of its rightful stewards.

As the flag was presented, Melania stepped in front of Trump. Like a Queen shielding her King, it was a visual shift—subtle, but loaded. In chess, the Queen is power, strategy, and protection.

Flagpole Installation – June 18, 2025

Just days later, Trump funded and installed two 100-foot flagpoles on the White House lawns. He said:

“This is something they should have done 200 years ago.”

Until then, the White House had only ever flown the flag from the rooftop, but these new poles are different. They rise from the ground—from the soil of the Republic. The message is clear: the flag no longer floats above the people; it stands with them.

This is the flag of We the People.

Why “200 Years Ago”? — 1825

In 1825, Andrew Jackson won both the electoral and popular vote. But Congress handed the presidency to John Quincy Adams through a backroom deal. Jackson called it the “Corrupt Bargain.” It was America’s first openly fraudulent election.

That same year also marked the end of the Founding generation and the beginning of entrenched elite control.

Trump’s reference to “200 years ago” was no accident. He’s pointing to the moment the people lost their voice and signaling a reversal.

In just a few days, Trump orchestrated a deliberate sequence:

– A military flag delivered by air

– A Queen’s move on the national stage

– Two flagpoles anchored in the people’s ground

– A reference to the Republic’s first great betrayal

This wasn’t theatre. It was a declaration.

The flag is back where it belongs.

The people are back in the picture.

The Republic is being reset. 🤔

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yerimacoustic · 7 months ago

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𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚🤍𝙟𝙤𝙨𝙝𝙪𝙖 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

↳ ❝ 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣 ❞

summary: after the princess falls mysteriously ill, joshua, born with powers no one else in the palace knows about, becomes her caretaker.

content warnings: joshua x female reader, fantasy/regency au, steward/secret sorcerer!joshua x princess!reader, friends to lovers, deep conversations, yearning, mentions of illness, cursing, reader’s family has a lot of lore, secrets, more tags to come! joshua and reader are both in their early twenties btw

notes: this is a teaser for an upcoming joshua fic! full fic is here please interact if you like it!

lavish parties were a common occurrence at the palace, and birthdays were no exception. although your own birthday had been celebrated a handful of times, you still never quite got used to all of the attention. to the spotlight. and now that you were finally of marrying age, there was an added pressure, as potential suitors most likely filled the audience.

after what felt like hours of dancing, polite conversing and forcing smiles, your mother had pulled you aside. after explaining that she wanted to present your gift in private, she eagerly watched you untie the tiny pink ribbon encircling the red box that fit perfectly in the palm of your hand. a gold, heart shaped locket lay inside, shining in the candlelight despite being an ancient heirloom.

the necklace had been passed down from generation to generation for centuries. your mother felt there was no need to explain the sentimental value the necklace held, instead stating that she had been eagerly awaiting this day since the moment you were born. suddenly, you felt silly wondering if she was pulling you aside to offer some comforting words of assurance.

no pressure.

actually, once the thin chain found its way around your neck, it felt as if it bore an actual weight on your shoulders. after all, you knew fully well what it symbolized- as the eldest daughter, you would be taking the throne one day. and as you began to take another turn around the dance floor, you came to the stunning realization that this was no ordinary birthday party.

you weren’t exactly sure if your corset was too tight or if a mysterious figure was suddenly sucking all the air out of the room- either way, it felt as if the walls were closing in on you. once you felt that enough backs were turned on you, you shuffled towards the nearest french doors. once they were closed behind you and you were met with the bitter winter air, you let out a prolonged sigh.

with your palms resting flat on the ledge you looked up to the stars, finding comfort in the way they seemed to shine so brightly that night in particular. you quickly became fixated on the patterns and puzzles in the sky, wishing that you could pluck them off of the dark blanket like small diamonds. music gently began to ring through the air as the doors behind you carefully swung open and closed in a brisk motion. even so, you didn’t bother to look back and greet your visitor.

you were expecting the visitor to be one of your family members, maybe even your lady’s maid. holding back a sigh, you closed your eyes and spoke in a delicate tone, “i’ll be back inside in a moment.”

“no pressure,” a familiar voice behind you spoke. your eyes went wide upon hearing the man’s silky cadence and you, of course, were pleasantly surprised that it was probably the last person you expected to visit you.

you turned around to see joshua standing close to the two doors, as if he was awaiting your permission to come closer. he was quick to bow politely once your eyes were locked, earning a gentle scoff from you, “please- there’s no need for formalities. we’re not in public.”

he took a quick look behind him, reaffirming that there still were, in fact, lacy curtains covering the barred windows on the doors. a sheepish smile that seemed to light up the air between you two was sent in your direction before he stepped carefully towards you. “forgive me for disturbing you- but i wanted to ask if.. the princess was doing alright?”

you chuckled upon hearing his gentle tone and watching him approach you in the same timid manner. “well- the princess is doing as well as expected, under the circumstances. let’s just put it at that.”

this time it was the young steward’s turn to chuckle, mirroring your position and resting both hands on the balcony’s ledge. “the majority of the guests may not have noticed your strained expressions, princess, but i did.” he paused, looking over to you with a smile that instantly warmed your heart with reassurance. “if you ever need someone to talk to-”

“thank you.” gently cutting him off, you moved your hand to rest on top of his. an already shuddered breath caught in your throat once your eyes met again and a heated blush scattered across his cheeks. a similar warmth grew within your own cheekbones, prompting you to raise your free hand upwards to let your fingertips graze the area.

“you’re welcome,” he whispered to you, unable to break away from your gaze for even a moment. never in his wildest dreams did he expect to share a moment like this with you, the princess, someone he had stolen secret glances at in crowded ballrooms and halls for as long as he could remember.

the two of you were both raised in the palace, after all. so close yet so far- until now.

and yet, he didn’t dare to move another inch. even if his free hand was aching to brush delicately through your curls, or along the curve of your jawline.. “princess..?”

“yes?” you asked with a slight strain in your tone. after all, you unknowingly held a similar line of thinking as joshua’s. you always considered the steward to be a handsome man, but never knew the great details of his beauty until that moment, as you stood closer to him than you ever had before.

he had been wrestling with the dilemma of what to tell you since he’d plucked up the courage to walk through those doors. that much was evident by the way he quietly cleared his throat, pausing abruptly before speaking again, “i.. just want you to know that everything’s going to be alright. you’re going to be a wonderful leader someday.”

you weren’t sure what you were expecting (or hoping) him to say, but his beautiful words provided you with much needed reassurance. suddenly.. the prospects of becoming queen didn’t seem so daunting, now knowing that he would be there to support you.

“you’re so.. sweet,” you thought out loud shamelessly.

“you sound surprised,” his smile widened as he let out a gentle laugh.

“no, not surprised- just-” you bowed your head and chuckled sheepishly. “i suppose i should have taken more time to get to know you. we did technically grow up together, after all.”

“well..better late than never.” the young man’s attention averted towards your intertwined hands on the ledge, his smile growing fainter. as if he was stuck in quiet contemplation. suddenly, snowflakes began to gently fall. it was beautiful, picturesque, the way they fell and gently twinkled in the starlight.

joshua couldn’t help but laugh as he watched some of the powdery snowflakes attach to your hair, finally leaning in to the prompting to brush through the silky strands. “don’t want your hair getting too wet,” he chuckled sweetly.

“of course not,” you giggled quietly in return and stepped closer, allowing him to brush his fingers through your locks in an attempt to rid the small crystals. his gentle movements continued until your hair was pushed behind your shoulder, exposing a part of your collarbone to the cold. “joshua, i-”

“y/n!” your brother swung the doors open, prompting the two of you to take a step backwards and unlace your hands. jeonghan’s gaze shifted between both of you, the guilty parties, as he folded his arms across his chest. but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that reassured you he wouldn’t tell your secret.

“what is it?” you groaned, annoyed that a wonderful moment was interrupted by your brother, of all people.

“mother and father are wondering where you’ve been, of course,” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow in your direction. “they sent me to look for you. i suggest you get a move on before they start looking, themselves.”

you made no attempt to disguise your annoyance, rolling your eyes before brushing through your hair once more for good measure. “i suppose you’re right.”

before too long, jeonghan had made his way back inside the ballroom, slamming the door shut behind him in a quick attempt to reunite with his dancing partner. you stole one more glance at the burgundy-haired man standing at the ledge after crossing to the french doors, smiling gently to him, “thank you again.”

“i’ll be seeing you again soon.” he watched carefully as you stepped back into the ballroom, focusing on your figure until the lace in the window clouded his vision. a confused sigh escaped his parted lips, and just as he looked up at the sky, the snowflakes stopped falling. for unbeknownst to you, there was more to this young steward than met the eye.

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kizziahblog · 11 days ago

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❓ Questions About the AI‑Bitcoin Recursion Thesis

AI as Oracle: Interpreting the recursion of memory and thought in the Bitcoin lattice. Over recent weeks, Kizziah.Blog has published a suite of foundational essays and AI prompts framing a new architecture of cognition built on the interplay between: Bitcoin as externalized, irreversible memory AI as adaptive, recursive interpretation Recursive inscriptions and prompts acting as feedback…

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#AI Bitcoin Recursion Thesis #AI Prompt #Bitcoin as Memory #Bitcoin inscriptions #cognitive lattice #DrSNiPs #Kizziah.Blog #recursive AI #Symbolic Stewards #Trust Architecture

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coatl-cuddles · 9 months ago

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" WIP DELETE LATER 🤪🤪🤪" ok who gaf?

#me i gaf #anyways wip #ill finish this eventually #keyword #eventually #but i got other stuff to do #so for now here's Hopeful Steward with his staff because i am sorry #but why arent we all talking about how his staff is basically the symbol of the king #and hes the dusk ember #and knows spells #which means hes probably an enchantment kid #and also HE HAS A STAFF THAT MIRRORS DAWN EMBERS POWERS #sky magic is color coded #sky assigns colors to the prophecy elements #gives alef all 4 #and hopeful stewards ultimate form is a form where hes an enchanter with a spell staff #and his colors represent water fire earth and 'purple'#(idk the basic enchantment color idk im a fake fan)#also Sky: NEVER ELABORATES #like????????????#anyways its 3:43am #take the ramblings of a mad woman and go #sky cotl #wip #hopeful steward #dusk ember #sky children of the light #this is a lot of tags for something youre deleting later SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUDDUP #ok gn pookies ily #my art

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witsserviceablesubstitute · 1 year ago

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More Dark Rise and Dark Heir thoughts:

My prediction is that Will isn't a reliable narrator about his past self and the text is deliberately misleading about the relationship between Sarcean and the Light. Bait and switch foils are some of Pacat's favourite narrative tools and i'd be surprised (and honestly a bit angry) if it was as simple as the Dark King (with all his queer symbolism) equates to evil and the Lady (with all her Christian iconography) equates to good.

The biggest example of 'unreliable narrator Will' is how he already believes he's evil and that people are right to abuse and want to kill him. As we see with how all his thoughts about his mother in Dark Rise are loving, magnanimous, and illustrating a desire to avenge her death. Then in Dark Heir the reader discovered how abusive she was because of her belief in his 'innate evil'.

The point is, though, that Will isn't innately evil. No one is. Eleanor never had the right to treat baby Will as she did. Just as the Stewards never had the right to treat James as appallingly as they did. No one had the right to abuse and try to kill them. The Stewards created their own villain by treating James like a villain and that same principle applies to how everyone is treating Will.

Sarcean in his pov isn't good, but neither is he evil. He is Will. He's observant, artful, sneaky, scheming, smart, and uncommunicative. He's heartbreakingly loyal to those he loves. He rewards loyalty to him even if they turn on him later. He's ruthless and overly aware of how others perceive him. He craves control. He's obsessively and irrevocably in love with Anharion. I don't think Sarcean is some evil self separate from Will, Will keeps making all Sarcean's mistakes because they are, fundamentally, the same. I do think Will coming into himself and making better decisions will be in his accepting that Sarcean is not a separate person at all.

#dark rise #dark heir #will kempen #cs pacat #sarcean #dark rise spoilers #dark heir spoilers #these books strongly remind me of the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation #for some reason

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marwyn · 2 months ago

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About Harrenhal… It is often suggested that the castle punishes ambition and resists possession. I think that the so-called curse may not lie in the place itself, but in the kind of people who hold it, and the relationship they impose upon it. Harrenhal emerged from violence, constructed by enslaved workers under Harren the Black, whose lineage was annihilated in the dragonfire that engulfed the castle. That legacy of domination, cruelty, and ruin is etched into Harrenhal's foundations. Those who come after and attempt to reclaim/use it through similar means often meet violent ends. I think it punishes those who repeat the pattern of violent extraction that created it. House Strong, by contrast, does not appear to be undone by the castle. Instead, they function as a lineage of caretakers/mediators, not in a physical or restorative sense, but through relational, political, and symbolic continuity. They do not try to rebuild Harrenhal, nor do they wield it as a symbol of dominance. They seem to coexist with it, living within the ruin, not in opposition to it. As a result, they appear largely unaffected by the castle’s destabilizing narrative pattern. It’s only when Daemon starts trying to 'claim' Harrenhal that the visions begin. Simon is the only one who pulls Daemon out of his trance-like state, so he may act as a literal mediator between space and psyche. Alys, on the other hand, seems to shape Harrenhal’s atmosphere as its intermediary. She guides, maybe even imposes, the visions Daemon experiences. Interestingly, the Strong occupy roles across generations, emphasizing proximity, containment, and institutional service rather than overt displays of power. Larys is narratively framed as an anomaly: a deliberate break from the family's established pattern of stewardship/servitude, marked instead by manipulation and destruction. When Aemond executes the last of the Strongs of Harrenhal (though Lucamore Strong’s descendants may still exist elsewhere), the lineage of stewards is extinguished. The castle passes into the hands of outsiders motivated by violence. From then on, Harrenhal resumes its familiar cycle of chaos, vacancy, and symbolic rot. And no Simon Strong to bring back/wake up Aemond from the visionshorrors he might experience....At least, that is my take...

Wonderfully thoughtful analysis, thank you!

It is often suggested that the castle punishes ambition and resists possession. I think that the so-called curse may not lie in the place itself, but in the kind of people who hold it, and the relationship they impose upon it.

I really like the idea that to set eyes on possessing Harrenhal is to meet the gaze of the abyss.

That legacy of domination, cruelty, and ruin is etched into Harrenhal's foundations. […] House Strong, by contrast, does not appear to be undone by the castle.

While (most) of the Strongs are not graspingly ambitious, I do think the show at least is making the case that cruelty and pride contribute to their downfall. In S1 E6 Larys plays into the existing superstitions by arranging for his own father and elder brother to be destroyed in a fire there at Harrenhal, and in S2 E6 he tells Aegon that when he was born his father blamed his disability on dark magic cast by “a member of [their] household,” presumably Alys. I cannot imagine that which followed was at all pleasant for her or Larys, and I’m reminded of D. Marcel DeCoste’s argument that much of the destruction wreaked by Littlefinger is “the bloody ramifications of [Hoster Tully’s] rejection of Baelish’s otherness”, as neither Larys nor Littlefinger are warriors but have contrived to kill in order to improve their own stations and exact revenge for the wounds of their childhoods, and both have been Lord of Harrenhal. Simon tells Daemon in S2 E3 that “Larys Clubfoot is no lord of [his]”, and while he proceeds to share his (correct) suspicions that his nephew was behind the deaths of Lyonel and Harwin, his use of that epithet suggests an antipathy deriving at least partially from ableism, and so I’m curious to see if the show’s treatment of Aemond’s decision to execute Simon and the other trueborn Strongs while sparing Alys will shed more light on the family’s past. It’s perhaps also worth noting that neither Larys, Daemon, nor Aemond survives the Dance, and while Alys’s ultimate fate is unknown, her possession of Harrenhal as its “witch queen” and the alleged widow of Aemond and mother of their trueborn son isn’t exactly unambitious, so I wonder if she eventually came to a premature end as well.

#ask #harrenhal #house of the dragon #larys strong #alys rivers #simon strong

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istaricelebelasse · 1 year ago

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There is a horn. It is nothing special, made from the tusk of some beast that Aredhel barely even recalls felling.

There had been many such beasts on The Ice after all.

The horn had found its way into her luggage and over so many restless nights watching over little Idril she had made it.

It does not compare to those that The Hunt had used in Aman, bound as it is with scant strips of leather and metalwork repurposed from a necklace that she could not wear on The Ice.

But it is hers. And it is precious, in a strange way.

She does not take it when she leaves her brother’s city. It remains, untouched, in her rooms.

It watches as she slowly fades from a poison bestowed by her husband.

The horn is given to her son, yet he has no use for it. A love of hunting and the great outdoors was not anything she passed on to her only child.

It is gifted to another, to a child borne of his cousin, a more precious gift than perhaps his cousin realises.

(One of the few pieces he has of his mother. A wish and a warning and an apology all at once.)

Somehow it survives the Fall. Somehow it ends up in Sirion.

It does not burn in the destruction. Nor is it taken by the Sons of Feanor as they take their hostages.

It lies, abandoned on the floor, until the King comes (too late) to the aid of the city.

There are too few survivors, but they can ill afford to leave any supplies behind. And besides, Gil-Galad can recall his cousin placing a strange solemn honour upon the hunting horn.

It sits, unused, until the Sons of Earendil are returned to their king, whereupon it, aged and yet bearing a presence is returned to them.

There is little argument over which of them gets that piece of their father when it is time for them to separate. The elder twin takes it, as he took their foster father’s sword. The younger is content with a silver harp and the book of their mother’s herblore.

Elros takes it with him. A symbol of his House, and honour for his heir to bear.

Down it goes, down down down the generations until there is little but a drop of Numenorian blood left in its bearer.

It crosses oceans and continents and Ages of the World, survives battles and sieges and the falls of Great Cities and Great Kings until all that is left is a Steward upon his throne sending a son to find answers for a dream.

Finally, on the shores of a river, overlooked by statues of the Kings of Old, the horn is blown for the last time.

It is blown to summon aid, to draw attention, to allow those it’s bearer would protect the chance to escape.

It takes three arrows to take down the horn’s bearer, and the Falls of Rauros to finally grant the horn rest.

The Horn of Aredhel Maeglin Earendil Elros Numenor Gondor is no more.

#horn of Gondor #silmarillion #lotr #aredhel #maeglin #earendil #elros #boromir #silm fic

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 years ago

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Hi Whimsy🖤

I'm new here and this is my first ask so I'm sorry if I haven't done this right. If you're comfortable with it and are able to can I get a Prince Nuada x chubby f!reader enemies to lovers anything (with nsfw if you're fine with that).

You have full reign over the direction and themes of this, anything is appreciated!

Thank you for your time🌻

Hello! Now this is something that actually deserves a full multi-part fic, so I thought of coming up with a detailed outline for the moment. I hope you like it!

“A prince’s regard”

Pairing: Prince Nuada x chubby F! reader (Human | Second person POV)

Themes: Enemies to lovers | Soft | NSFW

Wordcount: 2.2k words

Summary: As part of a greater plan to encourage peace and understanding between humans and elves, a lottery is held for elves and humans to live amongst each other. You’re one of them, and the elf you are paired off with during the lotter is none other than Nuada himself.

A/n: If anyone wants to make use of these I say go for it, but please tag me if you do.

Minors DNI | 🔞 | You are responsible for the media you consume

🍃As part of a peace treaty with mortals, King Balor proposed an exchange of culture and knowledge between the two former warring races. Selected humans would live amongst the elves as attendants, handmaidens, stewards, and students, and elves would do the same with humans.

🍃A lottery is organized and monitored by the BPRD to stop parties with vested interests from meddling and upsetting the delicate balance of such a hard-won peace. Offices spread all over the world turn into lottery centers, and any elf or mortal wishing to add their name to the list is encouraged to do so.

🍃The numbers may not have been record-breaking, but enough elves and humans registered all the same. Your name was one of them. You did it on a dare, and with your friends, thinking nothing would ever come out of it.

🍃When the announcements start, you join the others in front of the TV, listening to names being called out, along with the names of families and individuals they would be paired with. Your name was not called on the first day. It was not called on the second or third day either. It was disappointing, to be sure, but you made peace with it. The days passed, with more and more names being announced. Then, after a fortnight had passed, you listened, dumbfounded, while your own name was announced to the world in crisp words. You were even more astounded when you found that you were being paired off with none other than the crown prince of Bethmoora himself.

🍃Your friends take you shopping as you would be moving into a series of abandoned railway tunnels he had converted into a luxurious palace. No one has seen the inside of it except for his father and sister, and the handful of attendants that served him.

🍃You’re nervous. Not just because you would be living with elven royalty, but also because Nuada is well known for hating humans.

🍃The prince was cold and aloof when you walked in through thick wooden doors full of strange symbols carved into them. “For protection,” Princess Nuala said, “against any evil that tries to make its way inside.”

🍃She was exceedingly warm where her twin is not, asking dozens of questions about your life, your friends, your family, everything. Nuala helped you settle into your new rooms and then showed you around the vast network of tunnels and chambers her brother called home. Everything was dimly lit, because that was how he liked it. There were sculptures and priceless works of art everywhere, hundreds upon hundreds of candles, thick, plush carpets, and the library was unlike anything you had ever seen.

“Do not touch anything.” He hissed, startling you. Nuada had walked up to you without making a sound. It was more than a little unnerving that he could do such a thing. “These treasures are priceless, and I will not see them sullied by mortal hands such as yours.”

Nuala apologized profusely. “Some of the sculptures you see here belonged to our mother,” she went on to explain after he disappeared down another corridor. “And my brother is quite attached to them.”

She did not say more on the matter, and she took you to her own rooms and hosted you to a light supper. At least, that was what she called it. An elaborate meal had been laid out in the dining room of her apartment. During dinner, Nuala informed she had to return to the BPRD, as her true home was there, with Abe. She would visit from time to time, but her place was elsewhere. Your heart sank, for it meant you would have to be alone with Nuada.

“Do not fret,” she urged. “My brother has a good heart; it is just that he guards it so fiercely. Give him time, y/n. He will come around. Mr. Wink will be here as well, so you will not want for company.”

“That’s comforting,” you tell yourself. Mr. Wink was large and imposing and spoke in a language you did not understand, and his loyalty would always belong to Nuada. Still, you made peace with Nuala’s leaving, and enjoyed the rest of your dinner.

🍃During the course of the subsequent days and weeks, Nuada would go out of his way to avoid you. He dined by himself, trained by himself, and kept to his own chambers when he was not needed elsewhere. If, by chance, you did run into him, he would respond with a curt grunt before walking away. If you came upon him training, he would order you to leave him in peace. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, he would walk out of a room if you walked into it. It stung. What made it worse was knowing your stay had to last a full year before a change in placement could be requested. And that made you wretched, because the end of that year was still a long way off. Resentment took root, and you slowly began to loathe the prince for making living with him so hard.

🍃Mr. Wink, on the other hand, was surprisingly nicer, allowing you to join him while he used the mechanical toys that kept him entertained, watching TV with you, and even letting you read to him once in a while. He went so far as to ask through Nuala for you to help him learn your language.

It was a trial. Truly, it was a trial. Mr. Wink was a creature of fixed habits, and modern languages were strange to his ears. Once, he nearly flipped over a table in frustration. You had to keep to your sofa and hide your giggles while he ranted and raved and declared, through Nuala during her next visit, that human languages were languages born from the pits of hell.

“They may be languages from the pits of hell,” you tell him, “but you still need to learn. Come on. You can do this.”

The lessons continued. And Nuada’s avoidance of you continued as well.

🍃“Why do you always avoid me?” You finally mustered your courage and confronted him after breakfast. “I know you are not all that happy about it, but do you have to go out of your way to make me feel unwelcome?”

“Because you are mortal,” he rasped sharply. “That alone is enough. Now leave me. I have better things to do with my time.”

🍃And so it continued, until one dark November night, when an injured Mr. Wink brought him home, covered in wounds. A raid had gone wrong, you were told. Hellboy had taken it into his head to charge straight into a hive of tooth fairies, the largest that had been found in North America. Many in the team were injured, and Nuada was one of those who were worse off. Doctors from the Bureau came over and did the best they could. You had to see to his care after they left, as Nuala could not leave the BPRD. She too had suffered the same harm, even though she never left the facility.

For several days, Nuada slipped in and out of consciousness. You wanted to let him struggle out of spite, but seeing him helpless and weak convinced you to do otherwise. You changed his dressing, gave him bed baths to clean him up, and even changed his clothes. You avoided looking at the scars that marred an otherwise near-perfect body. It would be rude to do so, you tell yourself. He would not like being gawked at.

You brushed his hair and then read to him before making yourself comfortable on a nearby pillowed bench that served as your bed. Sometimes, you would find him looking at you with a strange expression in his eyes while you went about looking after him. You didn’t know what to make of it.

🍃“You must eat something, my prince,” you insisted one evening, holding a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “Just a spoonful. Please.”

Nuada’s appetite had deserted him, and you had to feed him his meals. He fussed and grumbled and muttered choice words in the language of his people, but he would yield to your entreaties in the end and make himself eat. It started with a spoonful, and then another, and another. Finally, when he was strong enough, he could eat properly.

🍃Then he started to talk. It’s about the little things at first: the meal before him, his sister’s wellbeing, and your lessons with Mr. Wink.

“He speaks very highly of you,” he confessed, much to your surprise. “He says you treat him with respect.”

“Do other elves treat him with respect?”

“No,” he replied. "Trolls are seen as, how do you mortals put it?" Nuada searched for the right word. "Oh yes. As the knuckledraggers of my world. Mr. Wink is a remnant of a more primitive age and, therefore, unworthy of true respect in the eyes of many. Besides my sister and myself, you are the only one who is openly kind to him."

"You are kind to him, and yet you treat me with scorn," you sighed.

The prince said nothing. He grew quiet and thoughtful. You take it as a sign to clear his tray and leave.

🍃Life with him became easier after that. While he rested, Nuada spoke of all the things he had seen and all the wondrous creatures he had met. You listened to his tales with rapt attention, for few mortals knew of such things. Finally, he opened up about his hatred for humans and why he allowed it to fester in his heart for so long.

“They killed my mother,” he spat. “When father left for war, mother traveled with him. She would stay at camp while he took off for the battlefield. He thought he had no cause for worry, for it was an unwritten rule, you see, for a military camp to be left untouched even during the height of fighting. There could be women and children present. Humans did not care for that. As soon as father’s warriors were out of sight, they attacked the camp. My mother… let us just say she did not survive.”

You did not know what to say, except for "I'm sorry.” Nuada smiled sadly and patted your hand.

“Tis not your fault,” he countered. “And it is I who should be apologizing." Nuada paused, and hesitated. "You have been nothing but considerate of my wishes the entire time, and you went out of your way to take care of me even after how I behaved in the beginning. I am ashamed of myself and must beg for your forgiveness.”

🍃Forgiveness would take a while, but Nuada did all that he could to make amends. He even invited you to accompany him to a great feast as his honored guest. That gave you pause, for while Nuada was lithe and graceful and everything a mighty warrior ought to be, you thought yourself to be the opposite of it all and told him so.

“Everyone would compare me to the other ladies,” you agonized after changing into yet another gown, one that was so soft it felt like you were clothed in nothing but air. “I cannot go looking like this.”

“No one will compare you to others,” he insisted. Nuada came into your rooms after wondering what was taking you so long. “They would not dare do so. Besides, there is nothing to give you cause for concern. Like your hair, for example. It looks beautiful the way you have arranged it.”

A flash of heat crept up your throat. No one had complimented you like this before. “It is?”

“Indeed.” Nuada came closer. “And that dress. How artfully it clings to your body. You have made a wise choice with your garments, y/n.”

“Oh.” Now your cheeks were aflame. “You’re not lying? You really like how I look?

“As my sister would tell you, lying is not something I excel at.” He grew bolder, and brushed his hand over your hip, your waist. “Soft,” he murmured. “Even softer than your dress.”

His touch was electrifying. And he was right. Lying was not something he was skilled at. You saw it with your own eyes—how he could not even pretend to be gracious in the beginning. You flushed and looked away, unsure of what to do or say. Nuada reached over and lifted your chin, making you meet his gaze.

“Did I go too far?” He murmured softly.

“No,” you mumbled. “I… I just didn’t expect such attention from someone like you. You are the crown prince. You’re dashing and skilled, and you're the greatest warrior among your people. And I… I am me.”

He went quiet for a while, as if he were thinking. “Then give me the chance to show you how you are so much more than what you believe yourself to be,” he proposed. “Can you do that, y/n? Give me such a chance?”

He was holding out his hand, his eyes bright and determined. But there was something else in those vivid golden-yellow eyes of his. Something more than determination. It tugged at you and drew you in.

He is trying, you think to yourself. He is really trying. And would it be awful to be at the receiving end of his affections?

You decided it would not be so awful after all and placed your hand in his.

tags: @nupppuff @thepjofanqueen

#prince nuada #prince nuada imagine #prince nuada x reader #nuada x reader #nuada imagine #nuada silverlance #hellboy #hellboy imagine #x reader #reader insert #reader insert request

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