#vil schoenheit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strawberry-bubblef · 2 days ago

Note

the post about the great seven made me think of a lot of things, but I now only remember one ╥﹏╥

Could I request the dormleaders with a reader that's immortal, and is the great sevens child ? Like for example, reader is the child of the queen of hearts

Feel free to ignore this lol ^_^

Dormleaders with an immortal!s/o that is the child of the great seven

Riddle Rosehearts

“You may be the child of the Queen... but you are nothing like her. And thank the Great Seven for that.”

No one remembers your name.

Once, it echoed through marble halls and velvet chambers, sewn into tapestries and whispered with reverence or fear. But when the Queen of Hearts died, everything that was hers was buried with her: her name, her reign… and you.

You were never crowned. Never introduced to the world. A shadow behind red curtains, a secret hidden even from her most loyal court. Perhaps she was trying to protect you. Or perhaps she knew the world would never accept a child raised by her.

You fled the Queendom the night it fell,when her court turned on itself and the roses bled. You remember the scent of scorched velvet, the last trembling lullaby she sang when she tucked you in that final night.

And then… nothing. Just centuries. Drifting.

You don’t know why you stopped aging. Maybe it’s the magic in your blood. Maybe it’s the curse of royalty. You wandered, studied, observed. Watched Heartslabyul rise in her image,flawed, rigid, hollow.

You didn’t plan to return. You didn’t even know how.

But the mirror chose you. Dragged you into a world echoing with her legacy. And now, you walk Night Raven College’s halls like a ghost wearing flesh, your past stitched beneath your skin, every step retracing memories that no one else remembers.

When you first arrive at Night Raven College, Riddle treats you like a wildcard,mildly irritating, overly cryptic, far too relaxed for someone claiming to know the Queen of Hearts' laws so intimately. To him, you're a contradiction. How could someone speak of Heartslabyul's customs with such precision, and yet flout them with the casual grace of someone who’s memorized every loophole?

You quote ancient laws in fluent Old Queendom dialect. You tie your cravat in the royal fashion,her fashion. And one day, when you're late to a dorm meeting, you offer an apology he recognizes, word for word, from a speech the Queen herself once gave to Parliament.

He doesn’t confront you at first. No, Riddle does what he always does. He observes, watches, collects evidence like petals pressed into the pages of his memory. You’re infuriatingly poised, with that slow, knowing smile. You rarely show emotion in public, but there’s an elegance to you that feels eerily timeless.

And then one day, he sees it.

You’re alone in the rose maze. Crying, not out of sadness, but from some invisible, ancient grief. A single red petal rests in your hand, crushed between your fingers. You whisper something he can't hear, but he knows it's not meant for this era.

He steps forward too loudly, and you stiffen.

“Who are you?” he demands, voice low and trembling. “Really.”

You turn, tired. Not annoyed. Just... worn down.

“I told you,” you say, voice soft. “I’m the child of the Queen of Hearts.”

Riddle doesn’t believe you.

At least, not at first.

But the proof starts stacking: the way you predict ceremonial patterns he hasn’t even memorized yet. The way you refer to royal events like you were there. The way you slip and say “when she was alive” with too much weight behind it.

He confronts you again. This time, behind closed doors, arms folded tight.

“You expect me to believe you’re centuries old? That you were born of one of the most famous monarchs in Twisted Wonderland’s history?”

“No,” you say calmly. “I don’t expect you to believe anything.”

“…But it’s the truth.”

You meet his eyes,his furious, brilliant eyes and something in you aches. He looks just like one of the Queen’s pages. The same fire. The same hunger for order. But the fear in him is new.

He’s afraid you’re right.

“…She wasn’t who they said she was,” you whisper. “Not always. She was terrifying, yes. Powerful. Cold. But she held me like I was porcelain, kissed my forehead every night before I slept. She taught me that rules were how she kept her heart from breaking again.”

Riddle stares. Unmoving.

“You knew her…” he says. Not a question. A quiet surrender.

You nod.

“But she died, Riddle. They all do. I’ve watched kingdoms rise and fall. Watched laws be rewritten. Watched people try to become her, wear her like a title. And every time, they fail.”

Then you look at him, gaze unwavering. “Even you.”

That hits him. Hard.

He’s spent years trying to be a perfect heir for his mother. To learn that he will never be enough in her eyes cuts deep. But deeper still is the quiet horror in your expression when you say it. You're not judging him. You're begging him not to become what she was.

“Why are you here?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But if I’m going to be immortal, I want to at least feel like I'm living.”

And that… is something Riddle understands more than he wants to.

From then on, he starts treating you differently.

At first, he’s hesitant. Unsure. But the more you talk, the more he sees the scars hidden beneath your stillness. You tell him stories of palace life. Of your mother’s sharpness, her loneliness, her ambition. Of the moment you realized you would outlive everyone and she was already gone.

He listens to you in the quiet hours between classes. Starts sneaking you teas he thinks you might have tasted in the court. Lets you revise the rules, not to manipulate them, but to restore the humanity lost in them.

You, who were once raised as a symbol, now walk beside him not as a relic, but as a person. A strange one. A sad one. But someone who understands what it's like to have your identity shaped by someone else's legacy.

And Riddle, for all his perfectionism, finds something freeing in your honesty. In your quiet wisdom. In your unflinching view of the past.

He asks you once:

“If she were here now… what would she think of me?”

You answer truthfully, gently, “She’d see you as a threat. Because you’re trying to do what she couldn’t,rule with kindness.”

He doesn’t cry. But he looks away.

You take his hand, fingers cool against his trembling ones.

And in that moment, immortal or not, past or future aside, Riddle Rosehearts is simply a boy.

And you are simply someone who understands.

Leona Kingscholar

"You come from the King… but you aren’t his echo. And maybe that’s the greatest blessing of all."

They called him the second son, the shadow beneath a golden crown.

But long before Falena was declared heir, before the pride lands of Sunset Savanna settled into peace under a careful rule there was you.

You weren’t born into the Kingscholar line. You were born into the original one.

The First Bloodline. The one that history erased you like you were a stain on the throne.

Your father, the King of Beasts, wasn’t just a ruler,he was a storm in a lion’s skin. Cunning. Unrivaled. Feared. And you were the child he kept hidden, not out of shame, but out of protection. His enemies were many. His politics ruthless. You were a secret too valuable to let out into the open.

But then he vanished.

Some say he was killed. Others believe he was betrayed by his own council. But you? You were only a child when they tore you from the palace and declared the bloodline broken.

The nobility chose another branch to carry the throne,one less “cursed,” more “obedient.”

The Kingscholars.

You were never mentioned again.

Until now.

You cross paths with Leona after a skirmish in the Spelldrive field. Dirt still on his cheek, sand in his boots, he snarls at you as you walk past, eyes narrowing like a lion scenting a rival on his territory.

"You walk like you own the place."

You don’t even look at him when you say, “I did. Once.”

He scoffs. “Right.”

But the words lodge in him like a thorn. And later,after too many coincidences, after hearing you speak in royal dialects that no one outside palace walls should know,he corners you behind the botanical garden greenhouse.

“You’re not from here. But you know too much.”

You exhale. The silence after that is long. Heavy.

Then: “I was born before the throne ever touched your bloodline.”

He stares. “You’re saying…?”

“My bloodline ruled before the Kingscholars were chosen.”

Leona scoffs the moment the words leave your mouth.

“Child of the King of Beasts? Right.” His arms fold, tail flicking with sharp annoyance. “Next thing you’ll tell me, you’re here to reclaim the throne.”

You don’t even blink. Just tilt your head slightly, expression calm.

“I’m not here for a throne.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“To exist,” you answer simply. “I’ve done enough hiding.”

Leona narrows his eyes. He’s not stupid,he can see the way you carry yourself. Proud. Collected. Like someone who’s had centuries to learn how to wear masks. But that doesn’t mean he’ll believe you. Not without proof.

“Fine. You’ve got five seconds to make me care,” he growls. “Or I walk.”

You pause.

Then, from under your coat, you pull something on a chain,worn, but gleaming faintly in the light. A pendant.

It’s shaped like a lion’s head. Old, far older than anything in Sunset Savanna’s current monarchy. The eyes are carved from faded sunstone, and around the mane are markings,etched in a script that hasn’t been taught in generations.

Leona’s scoff dies on his lips.

“…Where’d you get that?” His voice is quiet now. Sharp.

You don’t hand it to him. Your fingers curl around it instinctively.

“It was my father’s,” you say, gently. “The last thing I have of him.”

Leona takes a slow step forward, staring.

“I’ve seen that design. Once. In the sealed royal archive. Back when I still gave a damn.”

You nod. “You’d only see it once. The crest of the First King before the Kingscholars.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

“…You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“And you’ve been hiding this,why?”

“Because it’s not a crown,” you say quietly. “It’s grief. It’s centuries of watching others wear his name, rewrite his story, and erase me from it. I didn’t want to rule. I just wanted my father back.”

Leona’s jaw clenches. There’s something raw in his eyes. Familiar.

“…They erased me too,” he mutters. “The second son. Always in the background.”

You nod. “Then maybe you understand.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, eyes flickering to the pendant again.

“…You keep that,” he says eventually, gruff. “I don’t need it.”

“I wasn’t giving it to you.”

“Tch. Fine.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he speaks, softer this time:

“So… what are you gonna do now?”

You exhale. “Live, I guess. For him. For me.”

Another silence.

Then, with a huff, Leona turns on his heel.

“You coming or not?”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the greenhouse. I’m not gonna sit around thinking about history all day. But if you wanna talk legacy or whatever… I’ll listen.”

You smile faintly, fingers still tight around the pendant.

“…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he grumbles again. “Just don’t vanish.”

“I already did. Not doing it again.”

And somehow, as the sun filters down on the golden plains beyond the dorm, there’s a strange, quiet peace in the air,two ghosts of old royalty, still learning how to be people.

Azul Ashengrotto

"Born of the Sea Witch, yet so far from her shadow… and honestly, the world is better for it.

Everyone knows who you are.

There’s no secret to your identity. The Sea Witch’s heir, that title follows you like the tide, carved into every introduction, every sideways glance. Most students keep their distance, unsure whether to bow or bolt. And Azul… Azul doesn’t know what to do with you at all.

Because he revered her.

Studied every scrap of her legend, built his entire image from the pieces of her legacy. Her cunning, her ambition, her raw, terrifying brilliance, Azul built the Lounge with those values in mind. But then you arrive. You, who could command a room with a breath and haven’t. You, who could claim dominion over the sea and haven’t.

You don't need to speak loudly,people listen anyway. You don’t bargain like a predator,people offer things to you freely. You carry your heritage like a pearl: luminous, heavy, and impossible to ignore.

Azul tries to treat you like anyone else.

He fails.

You step into the Lounge and every glass seems to hush. You give advice to Jade that he actually takes. Floyd calls you “Little Queenie” and follows your directions with that rare, dangerous glint of respect.

Azul is torn between admiration and envy.

Until one night, when he finally dares to ask.

“You don’t act like her,” he says quietly. “Why?”

You pause, hands stilling over a half-folded letter. “You mean like the stories?”

He nods.

You smile softly, something like nostalgia darkening your gaze. “My mother was… magnificent. The world remembers her power. I remember her songs.”

He’s silent. You continue.

“She taught me that power should be earned, not stolen. That knowledge is the real currency of the sea. She gave me her voice, not just to speak but to listen.”

You open your palm, revealing a small, polished nautilus shell,golden and glimmering, humming faintly with stored magic. “This is all I have left of her. And it’s enough.”

Azul stares at it. He’s never seen anything like it. Never felt anything like it. Power, ancient and soft. Not cold. Not cruel. Just vast.

“I admired her,” he whispers.

“So did I,” you reply, not missing a beat. “But I am not her. I could never be. And the ocean… doesn’t need a second Sea Witch. It needs something new.”

That’s when Azul sees it.

You could have built an empire. Could have drowned this school in your magic and crowned yourself without resistance. But instead, you chose something gentler. Something wiser. Influence without intimidation. Intelligence without cruelty.

And he realizes,painfully, humbly, that you have everything he wants to be. But you’ve already grown beyond the shadow of your legacy.

He watches you slip the shell back into its velvet pouch, tucking it away inside your coat like a promise.

“You may be the child of the Sea Witch,” he says, almost breathless.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

A beat of silence.

“And thank the Great Seven for that.”

You give him a long look. Thoughtful. Unreadable. But then your expression softens, and your voice dips low and personal, like a lullaby meant only for him.

“I’m not her,” you repeat, stepping closer, “but I still know how to make wishes come true.”

Azul's breath catches. You reach up and gently cup his cheek ,the motion graceful, tender, intentional. His glasses fog just a little from how close you are.

"And what if mine’s already come true?" he murmurs.

“Then you’d better hold on to it,” you whisper, “before I swim away.”

And this time, Azul doesn’t try to be like anyone else.

He just holds your hand.

Kalim Al Asim

"Though you carry the blood of the Sorcerer of the Sand, you are nothing like him and that, in itself, is a gift."

Everyone knows who you are.

When you arrive at Night Raven College, the whispers don’t stop. The child of Jafar, the legendary sorcerer from the sands, the one who wielded dark magic and commanded the winds, it’s a title that carries weight. Most students are cautious, staying on the sidelines, unsure whether to smile or bow in respect. After all, Jafar’s influence was legendary, his ambition was terrifying, and his downfall? Well, it’s still a cautionary tale.

But you? You’re nothing like him.

Kalim notices that immediately. It’s one of the first things he learns about you. You’re not cold like your father. You don’t speak in cryptic riddles or draw power from ancient relics. You don’t even seem interested in the wealth or the control he had. You just… exist. And Kalim, for all his brightness and enthusiasm, can’t help but be fascinated by you.

You’re mysterious, yet open. You don’t flaunt your magic, and you certainly don’t try to intimidate others. You smile when you need to. You laugh. You cry, even. And you have this air about you, a quiet elegance, as if you were made to rule, but chose not to. He can’t help but find it captivating.

On the surface, Kalim is an open book. He’s cheerful, full of life, quick to embrace people, quick to trust, quick to love. But you? You keep your emotions locked away, always playing the role of the calm, collected individual, hiding all the things you feel under a polished, neutral facade.

One day, after a particularly intense school event where everyone’s on edge, Kalim finds you alone in the desert garden, sitting cross-legged beneath the stars. You’re holding a small glass vial, the one your father once kept on his person, filled with a grain of sand that never seems to settle.

“What’s this?” Kalim asks, plopping down next to you without hesitation, his voice full of curiosity.

You glance at him, your face unreadable. Then, you slowly open the vial, letting the sand inside drift slowly, the grains twinkling in the moonlight. “A piece of something that’s gone,” you say softly. “A piece of him.”

For the first time, Kalim feels the weight in your words. He’s seen the way you carry yourself, how you’re both haunted by and detached from your father’s legacy. He knows you’re not here to claim power or revenge, but there’s something else in you,something bittersweet.

Kalim watches you closely, then gently nudges your arm with his.

“Hey,” he says with his usual enthusiasm, “It’s okay, you know. You don’t have to carry all of that by yourself.”

You blink, surprised by his straightforwardness. Kalim, in his warmth and innocence, doesn’t seem to understand the weight you carry. But maybe that’s what makes him so special, he doesn’t carry that same burden. Maybe he can lighten your load, even if just for a little while.

“I’m not him,” you murmur quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never be him. But people expect me to be, and sometimes, it’s just easier to let them think that.”

Kalim tilts his head, clearly not understanding. He watches you for a long moment, before his face brightens with his usual, radiant smile.

“Why not show them who you really are, then?” he suggests, his voice teasing but gentle. “I mean, you’re you, right? And that’s way more interesting than some old sorcerer’s name, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard by his confidence. Kalim’s words are so simple, so pure , yet they feel like a revelation. Maybe you could live for yourself, without the shadow of your father looming over your every move.

Kalim scoots closer, his smile softening, his eyes sparkling with kindness. He gently takes your hand in his, his fingers warm, a stark contrast to the cool, distant air that’s always surrounded you.

“I know it’s tough,” he says softly, “but you don’t have to be that person anymore. You don’t have to live up to anyone else’s expectations. You get to choose who you are.”

Your heart skips a beat. For a moment, you feel the cracks in your walls start to show. Kalim isn’t afraid of your past. He doesn’t look at you like a reflection of your father. He just sees you. And in that moment, you wonder if it’s possible to finally start living on your own terms.

“I think…” you start, your voice soft but gaining strength, “I think I might just try that.”

Kalim’s smile widens, his eyes lighting up. He moves closer, and for the first time, you allow yourself to lean into someone without fear of what they might think.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m here for you, okay?”

And when he wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something new to hold onto. Not the legacy of the Sorcerer of the Sand, but something far more precious: your own future.

And as Kalim’s infectious laughter fills the air, you let yourself believe that, for the first time, you might just be ready to walk away from the past and forge your own path.

Vil Schoenheit

“You may carry the blood of the Fairest Queen… but your beauty shines in ways even she could never claim.”

Everyone knows your name.

It’s spoken with reverence across Night Raven College’s halls, embroidered on silk and memory both:

the heir of the Fairest Queen.

Your presence is like walking history but not something dusty or forgotten. You are a living embodiment of grace, refinement, and an impossible, devastating beauty that the world thought it had lost when the Queen’s mirror finally cracked.

The Fairest Queen was not simply beautiful.

She was an icon. A legend. A dream.

And you, you are her continuation.

No one knows exactly where you’ve been all these years. Some say you were hidden away to protect you from jealous enemies. Others whisper that after the Queen’s death, you chose exile, unable to live in a world without her. Whatever the truth, when the Dark Mirror summoned you to Night Raven College, the world held its breath.

Especially Vil Schoenheit.

Vil, who grew up studying the Fairest Queen’s philosophies like sacred scripture.

Vil, who shaped himself in the image of perfection she defined.

For Vil, meeting you is like meeting a star plucked from the heavens. No,worse. You aren’t just a star.

You are the night sky itself.

And he will not disgrace himself before you.

The first time your paths cross, you’re standing in the courtyard, a soft breeze stirring your clothes. Everything about you is effortless, the way you hold your posture, the tilt of your head, the calm, poised patience in your eyes. You look as though you were born to be admired.

Vil approaches,his steps are silent. Controlled.

He bows,not exaggeratedly, but perfectly, with a hand over his heart.

“Your Highness,” he murmurs. “It’s an honor.”

You smile, a small thing, but it lights you from within. Vil feels a rush of warmth, a heady, dizzying awe he hasn’t experienced since the first time he saw the Fairest Queen’s portrait.

“You don't have to call me that,” you say gently.

“But I choose to,” Vil replies, his voice low and steady.

Because to him, you are royalty not merely by blood, but by right.

He studies you shamelessly. Not to find flaws,no, he knows there are none.

Rather, he drinks in your existence the way an artist would, memorizing the way sunlight halos around you, the regal way you incline your head, the serene confidence in every breath.

Vil has spent his whole life pursuing beauty, striving to become something greater, something untouchable. Yet standing before you, he realizes:

You were born as the standard he’s been chasing all along.

Over time, Vil's respect only deepens.

He listens when you speak, genuinely attentive.

He offers you only the finest,handpicked skin-care products, rare imported teas, elegant gifts that speak of thought rather than extravagance.

He doesn’t flatter you meaninglessly; he gives the kind of honest praise that means everything coming from someone like him.

“You move with grace unmatched.” he murmurs one evening after a Dorm Assembly. “It’s as if the world bends itself to your will, simply to be worthy of your touch.”

And somehow, you never let it change you.

You are kind, but not naïve. Beautiful, but not arrogant. You carry your lineage with dignity, not pride.

And so Vil watches you. Studies you. Learns from you. Not as a rival. Not even as a mentor.

As something rarer.

As an equal he desperately hopes to be worthy of standing beside.

One night, when the stars hang low and silver over the horizon, Vil finally says it aloud.

“You could command the whole world to kneel,” he says softly, when the two of you are alone on the balcony of Pomefiore. “Yet you choose to walk among us.”

You tilt your head, amused. “And would you kneel for me, Vil?”

The question is playful. Teasing.

But Vil, proud and unyielding Vil Schoenheit, sinks gracefully onto one knee without hesitation.

“For you,” he says, voice like velvet and iron, “I already have.

And somehow, the knowledge of it doesn't make you feel more powerful.

It makes you feel seen.

Truly, fully seen.

Not just as the Fairest Queen's child.

But as you.

Idia Shroud

"You may be the child of the King of the Underworld… but you don't have to follow his path."

The first time Idia hears about you, he nearly chokes on his snack.

The child of Hades?!

The actual King of the Underworld?!

A real life demigod roaming the halls of NRC like it’s NBD?!

It’s the kind of thing that sounds like the premise of a high-level RPG questline,not something that actually happens in real life. But there you are, flesh and blood (and... well, probably something even more mystical), walking through the halls with an aura of death and ancient power so thick it almost glitches the atmosphere around you.

Most students are terrified of you.

Or obsessed with you.

Idia?

He’s hiding behind a pillar, peeking at you like you're some kind of ultra-rare mob he's too scared to approach.

He’s absolutely fascinated, of course.

You don’t strut around like you own the place (even though, technically, being the heir to the Underworld, you probably could).

You're oddly down-to-earth. Quiet. Almost reserved.

And that? That makes it even worse for Idia’s poor heart.

He overthinks every possible interaction with you for weeks. He even drafts multiple conversation scripts on his tablet,ranging from “cool aloof mysterious type” to “friendly casual gamer type” but never uses a single one because just thinking about talking to you makes him want to disintegrate into pixel dust.

You, however, notice him almost immediately.

Not because he’s super subtle (he’s not ,bright flaming hair behind a corner isn’t exactly stealthy) but because you can sense things most mortals can’t.

And Idia? Idia’s aura is like a beacon ,pulsing with intense, chaotic energy barely held together by layers of anxiety.

One day, when he’s hiding (badly) in the library, you finally corner him.

"You’re good at sneaking around the living," you say casually, leaning over the back of his chair.

Idia nearly dies on the spot (pun intended). His hair flares up bright pink, his tablet clatters to the ground, and he whirls around like a caught anime protagonist.

"ACK—!! I-I-I wasn’t staring!! I was just—researching!! Buffs intelligence +10!!! It’s not creepy, I swear!!" he stammers, practically vibrating with panic.

You just blink at him, expression unreadable, then... smile.

"Relax," you say, voice low and a little amused. "I don’t bite."

Idia freezes like a lagging game character.

He’s convinced he’s hallucinating.

You, literal royalty of the underworld are TALKING to him. Casually. Like it’s normal. Like he's normal.

From there, it’s a slow, awkward, chaotic friendship that blossoms into something deeper.

You’re one of the few people who understand when Idia talks about souls, afterlife theories, and obscure mythos.

And when you finally confess, it's clumsy, adorable, and very, very Idia:

"I-I know you could like... have literally anyone... or summon a loyal legion of, like, skeleton admirers or whatever... b-but uh... if you ever wanna, like, uh, game with me or whatever, I promise to only lose most of the time and...and maybe, uh, not die of happiness if you smiled at me again...?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head, reaching out to gently tap his forehead with your finger.

"You’re an idiot," you say affectionately. "But you're my idiot now."

If Idia could, he’d be on the floor, blue-screened from sheer joy.

Instead, he just short-circuits with a shy, wide, stunned grin,the kind only you get to see.

Malleus Draconia

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy… but you don't want to be like her.”

Everyone knows who you are.

Whispers trail behind you like mist: The heir to the Thorn Fairy. The last legacy of the fairest queen. In Diasomnia, you are regarded almost with reverence. In the halls of Night Raven College, where lineage means everything and legends walk in flesh and bone, you are already immortalized.

And to Malleus Draconia,you are more than that.

You are a living bridge to the one he reveres most.

The Thorn Fairy, the untouchable queen, the mistress of thorns and dreams and undying majesty.

The one whose wisdom shaped kingdoms.

The one whose power commanded storms and silence alike.

Malleus is enthralled by you from the start.

He watches you with an intensity few dare withstand, caught between awe and aching loneliness. You do not command attention,you draw it, effortlessly, as if the air itself leans toward you.

And you, for all your lineage, carry none of the cruelty history once feared.

You walk gently where others would conquer.

You speak thoughtfully where others would decree.

You smile softly where others would sneer.

It confounds him.

And yet, it delights him.

One evening, beneath a withering tree in the Diasomnia gardens, he finally approaches you, green eyes catching the silver of the stars in their depths.

“You are different from her,” Malleus says, not accusing,almost... wondering.

You look at him then, and your expression is so full of something ancient and mournful that it stills the breath in his lungs.

“My mother,” you say, voice quiet, “was majesty incarnate. Her beauty, her wrath, her sorrow… they shaped the very lands you and I walk upon.”

You reach into the folds of your cloak, and Malleus watches with sharp, expectant eyes as you withdraw a simple object, a thorn, long and blackened, gleaming like obsidian. You hold it as one would hold a relic, reverently.

“This is all I have left of her," you whisper. "One thorn. One fragment of the forest she once called her own."

The thorn hums faintly in your palm, old magic stirring like a sleeping dragon.

Malleus lowers his gaze, his heart a storm of emotion.

He had idolized her, the stories, the grandeur, the tragedy but you had known her. You had been loved by her.

“I am not her," you say at last. "I will never be her. I was not made to rule through fear or flame. I was made to remember."

The thorn vanishes back into the folds of your cloak, your hand brushing over your chest like a silent vow.

Malleus steps closer, the gravity between you almost suffocating.

“You may be the child of the Thorn Fairy…” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“…but you are nothing like her.”

He bows his head slightly, a rare gesture of deep, genuine respect.

He finds a companion.

A kindred soul.