zeyris-daydreams

[zeyris-daydreams]

Jade Dragon’s Iron-Clad Camellias [4]

Dan Feng x Reader 

[ao3] or #df-camellia on my profile! I post faster on ao3…

The embers crackled in the air, floating out of the furnace; burning bright, and dying shortly after when the fuel was spent, left to fall apart in wind or descend onto the cold ground.

Your eyes held a fire to them, mirrored from the roaring furnace situated to the side of you. Shock was quickly replaced not by fear, but heat. Mild irritation seeping from your fingertips, up your arms; fire pouring in your veins straight to your heart.

Dan Feng stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “How curious.”

The High Elder of Vidyadhara took a measured, peaceful stride, approaching a half-finished artistic statement laid upon a further away shelf. His fingers moved over the cold metal, and his eyes lingered on the tools in front. “The great long-lived smith… seems awfully ephemeral.”

He picked up the unfinished work, turning it in his hands. I was a not yet polished sword, a rough piece of undone craft.

Your jaw tightened. You turned to him fully, and spoke; voice unwavering as a sky, confident.

“You had no right to sneak in here.”

Dan Feng moved slowly, unhurriedly, keeping you in the corner of his vision. He conveniently ignored your words, as he did all else. The metal was set down from his hand, where he soon approached the rack of weapons—ones you seemed to have finished.

”This is where the legend works, is it?” He mused, bright eyes flicking to you once, before back to the items on the rack. His finger grazed the hilt of a sword, thoughtfully—as if appraising the craftsmanship, all the while carrying a tone of mockery.

You were forced to keep an eye on him, each move circling closer to the centre, where you stood. He kept you in his vision, approaching the flames that much closer to you; his arm was neatly folded behind him

The warm flames bathed him, clashing against the cool tone of his appearance and his person—warmth which simply didn’t belong on his face. Long fingers wrapped around a cooling blade from the quenching vat, pulling it out to inspect the molten sheen.

Smiths usually worked at a few blades at a time—even if blades weren’t the only thing you created. However, due to the special inclusions in your own craft, the items were created at a pace much slower.

Still, being reduced to nighttime recently, you had no choice but to rush it.

It didn’t escape his gaze regardless, thinned out pupils scanning the shimmering heen of the surface. He could see the faint reflection due to the wet layer. “A fine weapon. And yet…”

His face tilted in thought, gaze flicking to you sharply. “Not the work of a Celestinae.”

Dan Feng turned to face you, stepping that much closer to the anvil you held onto—but you stood your ground, following his movement with your gaze. The cooled off blade was lowered, still sitting comfortably within his hand.

“So what if I am the smith?”

Lack of reaction seemed to sharpen his curiosity, the edge of it pointed directly at you. ”Brave for a liar. Tell me, how long did you think this deception would last?”

Your fingers pressed into the iron that much harsher, feeling the bite of the cold part of it—your mouth opened, but his voice cut into your reply instead.

”No need to explain. I can see it for myself.” His hand gestured to the weapon you were working at moments prior, still spread out on the anvil. His eyes lacked interest in a manner faux and see through, unbothered by whatever might’ve gone through your mind.

Dan Feng’s free hand remained pointed to the weapon, his two digits moving with lack of care—the metal moved slightly, raising off the anvil. Soon after, with a careless flick of his wrist, it sped off towards the vat. The splash of it was short lived—droplets sizzling where they touched the fire, evaporating from the heat.

His eyes scanned the forge, and he sidestepped, leaving your peripheral vision. You were faintly aware of the hot air now, aware of the situation you were in. The roots of anger overrode the roots of fear however, and before you could turn around, you felt your hair stand on its ends, a cold shiver down your spine.

Dan Feng was close, not touching, yet enough to feel his presence behind. He leaned over, the lock of his dark hair tickling the side of your cheek—his voice smooth, soft, and all the more dangerous.

“If I hadn’t found you tonight, would you have ever told me?”

There was no time for an answer, nor the time to process the event. “No matter. The truth is in the steel.” A sharp clank broke you away from the many thoughts you had, the cooled off blade was thrown onto the anvil right in front of you.

“Show me. Prove to me you are what you claim to be.”

He straightened soon after, taking a step to reside at your side, at enough of a distance. Dan Feng’s green eyes were lidded with amusement, arms crossed loosely—entertained, but still sharp in expectations.

You swallowed the thick saliva that pooled in your throat, staring at the blade—you didn’t move at first, eyes narrowing.

You’d thrust this half-done work into his chest if you could; it would deal great damage to a vidyadhara. Embedded as all your work might've been, it was not finished—and therefore, you could not hope to kill him. To try would be to deal as much of a pain as a paper cut.

”Go on,” his voice was silken, smooth but edged like steel within your central vision. Dan Feng repeated himself, as if offering you another take at his painstakingly irritating ode. “If you are truly the smith, then prove it.”

Your hand on the anvil twitched, and so did your eye. A deep sense of loathing coiled inside of you, and your hand slid to the hilt of the blade, gripping at it to cool off your temper.

This was but a deliberate test, not of the blade, no—of you.

Grip on the hilt tightened, not from doubt or fear. If you were one thing, it was confident in your abilities. This all—all of this you had by willpower and skill alone. Without help of ones like him, without grovelling. This; this all was yours.

You simmered not with doubt, but with frustration.

Actions speak louder than words, the metal still warm in your palm: words are a waste, something his kind would not comprehend. Actions were what shaped the world, not idle whispers or promises. Dan Feng’s eyes were trained on you, watching with utmost curiosity.

In one swift motion, the blade was thrown into the flames. Sparks flared, sizzling—the vidyadhara raised an eyebrow.

The metal needed to heat, and so you leaned against the anvil, not sparing him a glance. Acutely aware of his gaze, you focused on the dance of flames instead, submitting to your internal monologue. Your palm was closed, the thumb lightly running over the scar on your hand—a cruel reminder of what it took to get to this place.

A reminder of sacrifice and punishment for it, similarly to the scar on your calf. Whenever it got warm, the old wounds became irritated—it felt as though they burned, despite lack of any actual threat.

Yet you persisted. No longer would an immortal halt or push back your work—not before, and not again.

The heat finished licking at the steel, and soon after you moved—the motion so sharp it caused Dan Feng to falter momentarily. Yet he wasn’t the focus, and so you seized the tongs, stepping to the furnace to take the blade.

In a motion sure and seamless, it was brought to the anvil. Another hand reached for the hammer, fingers closing around its body—and then it was raised.

You thought of why you were here. You reminisced over the days long forgotten, and the many nights you hid in pursuit of your passion. The many nights which shaped motivation—sharp as a knife, unrelenting, cutting through any obstacle. Flying past the ones who wished to obstruct you, stabbing right into the target.

The hammer was swung downward, the similar echo sounding out, again. And again. And again—each strike filled with force, deliberate. Not only purpose, but anger, pouring out your hands through the extension of you—the tools.

Metal gave way to form not through words but actions and skill, honed over years of hard and honest to Lan work.

The High Elder’s stance faltered. He would’ve thought otherwise—at least, he hoped that pushing you to the edge would force you to deny. At best a stammered excuse is what he assumed would happen, yet the course was different.

Not apology, nor denial—what he received was a performance. And more irritatingly, he was impressed.

—

Dan Feng did not seem in a rush. He leisurely stepped around the forge, stopping once he seemed to have discovered a new viewpoint. Despite the awareness of his gaze on you, it seemed nothing could break your concentration—the metal was repositioned, before it was struck, again and again.

The vidyadhara did not interrupt the performance; he knew he would be ignored—proven by the absence of reaction at the smallest of his comments. Dan Feng was left to satisfy himself with the show. You never aimed to impress him, however; you did not need the validation of a lizard either.

You were not Dan Feng, and you were not immortal.

The blade was cooled and reheated, all the while you efficiently swapped the weapons around, using all the time between blades to continue the other ones once they were ready–it took hours, and yet, your fluid work made it feel like moments.

The high elder noticed a routine within your work, from your ease in changing between each craft to the awareness you seemed to hold towards their stage. There was no regret in your movement, furthering your expertise—how many times you’ve practiced this order, and how many times you’ve learnt it.

He allowed himself to lean at a workbench when the initial blade was laid down for the final time, his eyes feeling dry from the heat in the air. He blinked. Dan Feng found himself growing weary, and yet it was not him who worked.

You looked at him subtly as you prepared the grindstone, irritation painting on your features. His mouth was behind his sleeve, but from the movement you could see well—he was yawning.

High Elder’s green eyes met yours, narrowing in response to your irritated gaze. You merely looked back towards the blade instead, scoffing.

”What?”

Dan Feng’s question echoed against the forge but was left unanswered. The metal in your hand was shaped with the grindstone, getting rid of the major imperfections—creases where there should be none, microscopic chips which nullified the blade’s value.

Continued movement of your hands paired with the ambience of the forge allowed you to persist in ignorant bliss, pulling you away from thoughts of what would happen after this—of what could happen.

You angled your hands skilfully each time the edge was grinded, shaping it to your liking—very much like a sculptor freeing the art from the thick stone; comparison formed in Dan Feng’s mind, yet not spoken aloud.

The blade took shape, gratefully moulding underneath your fingertips like clay. It sprung to life and shimmered, and when it was polished—it looked even better. The surface, rough and textured, was slowly getting subdued. Each stroke of the polishing stone evened it out, giving its untamed and fiery temper a more mellow profile—eventually, from a rough looking metal, it became something beautiful.

Dan Feng’s eyes moved over to the closed off window for a brief moment—the faint shine behind the wood signaling an early hour. He contemplated the choice he could make. This was akin to artistry—this was the skill of making. Of creating.

”Tales tell that your weapons never hold decor. Tell me, why is that?”

When his eyes finally returned to you, it was easy enough to see—you, attaching a simple handle, the plainest one imaginable. Why exactly have your works shone?

Your eyes were lidded as you finally straightened from the blade. “It is unnecessary. Useless embellishment will not stop someone’s death.”

Dan Feng pretended to mull the words over, but finally leaned away from the workbench. The blade looked simple, and yet—for some reason, the work was still sought after. “They say that it's easier to destroy mara-stricken with those. Is that true?”

A blade from the weapon rack was picked up by the vidyadhara’s hand, and he weighed it in his hand; you could see he wasn’t really sure about his choice of action. But it did not matter.

“Maybe.”

With a final swipe of a rag you pulled the blade in front of you, presenting it. Dan Feng stepped over, fingers wrapping around the newly installed handle.

With the scrutiny of an elder, he looked to the steel’s surface, the heat of fire dimly reflecting in the polished metal—he could see his own reflection in it, as though he leaned over a lake's surface.

“A fine display,” He mused, his voice calm and tranquil, an edge of distant thunder upon a cloud-clad sea.

“But tell me—“

Dan Feng moved it in his hand slightly, testing it out. It seemed nearly weightless in his grasp, and he finally faced you, taking a step back. “Can you wield what you make?”

His mood for questioning did not end, it seemed—the weight of the brand new weapon in his hand was thrown to you. You stilled, breath steadied as your hand caught the blade. It laid comfortably within your palm like an extension of yourself, the handle still warmth from the previous work—no question slipped past the threshold of your lip.

You did not ask what he might’ve meant, for you already knew.

The weight of your body shifted into readiness, and Dan Feng had the audacity to smirk, pointing the blade he held at you. “Come on, Yingxing. What good is a chef with no taste?”

You rolled your wrist to test the weight of the blade, eyes intently on it for seconds, before you snapped your eyes towards him.

Provocation was above you, and despite his words adding olive to the fire, you took one deliberate step—enough to be in proximity, the blade swung as precisely as if it were your own bone and flesh. Metal cut through the air, aimed directly at him, with no hesitation whatsoever; confident that it demanded to be taken seriously, not as a mere threat.

Dan Feng’s sword blocked it out, and they clashed with a clank which reverberated through your ears. His other arm remained behind his back—was he thinking he needed to even your chances out?

Your blade slipped aside, and you grit your teeth, blocking his attack soon after. And then you hit again, the body of the weapon stopping shy of his neck. Your eyes widened—narrowed as quickly, feet digging into the wooden panels to push your body weight into it.

His hand caught it, yet he did not appear to feel threatened. The steel halted inches away from his throat, and it did not move further than that.

The time seemed to have been stopped, the crackling of the fire not heard through the sound of your pulse ringing in your ears. Your gazes locked—and you stared at him with determination, with challenge—observing his thinned out pupils.

Slowly, deliberately—he released the blade.

His hand, unharmed, withdrew, the tension between you humming, and the weight of unspoken acknowledgement setting within his gaze.

”I see,” Dan Feng murmured, recognising something genuine—something true and real instead of deceit. The vidyadhara exhaled, and yet the corners of his lips curled slightly in amusement.

“Perhaps you are not entirely unworthy.”

Just like that he turned and left—leaving you standing in the firelight and in the morning air.

[zeyris-daydreams]

Hello everyone!

Id like to make a statement.

While I understand the confusion and suddenness of this all, I will not be finishing Jade Dragons camellias

HOWEVER, I’ll release a document going over the storyline from start to finish. I am a busy student of internal country security, add to that my other duties and hyperfixations. I’ll work on the doc to deliver it in a fairytale format, and go over all the symbolisms I haven’t managed to add due to… not writing! In due time as I am in exam season. I hope this brings solace to those who want to know how the story ends?

[zeyris-daydreams]

Why do i get flooded by notifications from Tumblr long after I've decided it's not worth it?

[zeyris-daydreams]

Zeyrissss when Jade Dragon’s Iron-Clad Camellias chapter update?🥺

🥺 As soon as possible hopefully... Recently I've been posting on AO3 for shadowvanilla :') I have a chapter in the making ahahahah but I've been doubting my ability to properly get the stuff across... I really hope to finish it though 😭 sorry for the delays lovelies

[zeyris-daydreams]

Lust, Love, and the Sweet, Sweet Burn: Writing Romance That Makes Readers Feel

Let’s talk romance—specifically the kind that makes readers scream into pillows, clutch their chests, and whisper “just kiss already” at the page. Whether you're a seasoned romance author or just dipping your toes into the love pool, there's one golden truth to remember: good romance is about *tension*. And tension lives in the delicious space between lust and love.

First Comes Lust…

Lust is that electric charge between characters. It’s the stolen glances, the way one of them notices the other's hands or voice or the way they lean in a little too close when they talk. Lust is immediate. It’s instinctual. And let’s be honest, it’s fun as hell to write.

But if you stop there—if all your characters do is pine and make out and pine some more—you risk making it all surface-level. Lust is the spark, but it’s not the whole fire.

Then Comes Love (Eventually)

Love, real love, is slower. It’s about trust, vulnerability, and seeing the other person fully—flaws, baggage, weird hobbies and all—and still leaning in. It happens in the quiet moments: making tea for someone who's had a bad day, remembering how they take their coffee, watching them geek out about something they care about. That’s where readers fall with your characters.

The magic is in the shift—when your characters go from “I want to kiss you until my brain falls out” to “I’d burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe.” It doesn’t happen all at once. And that’s where the slow burn comes in.

Ah, the Slow Burn: Delicious Torture

Slow burn romance is a masterclass in delayed gratification. It's all about restraint. You’re letting readers live in the tension—the almost-touches, the lingering stares, the confessions that never quite happen. And every time the characters get this close to admitting their feelings or acting on them and then don’t? Readers get more hooked.

But here’s the key: something has to be progressing. Slow burn doesn’t mean nothing happens. It means everything matters. 

Every moment builds the foundation. Every emotional beat gets us one step closer to that glorious payoff.

Think of it like cooking over a low flame. You’re letting the flavors deepen. So when the first kiss finally lands? It’s earned. It’s fireworks. It matters.

Tips for Writing a Killer Slow Burn

- Give them obstacles. Emotional baggage, clashing goals, external threats—give your characters legit reasons not to jump into bed right away.

- Let them see each other. Intimacy isn’t just physical. Let your characters learn each other’s fears, dreams, scars.

- Build micro-tension. Hands grazing. One of them patching the other up after a fight. A joke that turns into a confession. Let every small moment do work.

- Make the payoff worth it. When they finally get together—make it satisfying. Let it feel like the culmination of everything they’ve been through.

Don’t Just Make Them Hot—Make Them Real

It’s easy to write about two people who are attracted to each other. What’s harder—and infinitely more rewarding—is writing two people who choose each other. Who grow, change, fight, make up, and fall deeper the whole time.

So go ahead. Light the match. Let them burn slowly. And when your readers are begging for that kiss? That’s how you know you’ve done it right.

[zeyris-daydreams]

For the anon

Not scared of blood ! 🌀

Yan!Xiao x Reader

Xiao doesn't care about the issue of your bleeding. Or rather he finds enjoyment in the nature of your body.

Warnings: concealed kink for blood (Xiao), period fingering, overall mentions of period, afab reader, kidnapping, non-con(?)

[---------♡---------]

Xiao was a little annoyed with your constant disappearance into the depths of that cursed bathroom. Most of the days you were obedient enough to stay put and let him simply be in your presence, but the entire day, even when he was gone, you did nothing but sit in that tightly knit space. It was confusing really, was a confined room really better than the presence of your abductor?

Maybe you were trying to put up a rebellion. That's what Xiao thought, alas it was a little bit too late for that. He wouldn't have thought however you'd act up as late as a month and a half into your captivity.

So he stood near the bathroom doors, knocking at them yet again. And yet again, you scoffed. "Leave me alone."

It was embarrassing, how he demanded answers and yet you were too ashamed to answer. You being there was in no way consensual, but you already learned to be passive rather than offensive towards his advances; despite his frame, Xiao was much stronger. Whether you let him take you or not, the end was always the same. At that point you reserved your energy, so it was quite surprising for the yaksha to find out that you were avoiding his advances the whole day.

You easily learned that Xiao had a rather specific way of expression. You'd never take him as that kind of a guy, but you rarely were left alone. Whether it was him awkwardly trying to sit in your presence, or him trying to show affection, it simply felt unnatural. As if he wanted to, but there was some barrier. Either that or Xiao really didn't know how to behave.

You could understand the weirdness of it all if not for the fact you weren't here willingly, each and every attempt at getting away shunned and dismissed. Your opinion was reduced to one of insignificance. So even when he took you like a feral beast, you simply took it; you stood no chance.

"If something is wrong, you can just tell me" Xiao's voice broke the silence again, ripping you from any thoughts of evading the situation.

Truth be told, you were on your period. And you couldn't tell him either.

Xiao didn't seem to express any care of whether or not you'd be pregnant, and you were grateful you finally bled. That meant you were in fact saved for another couple of weeks, and still; you didn't plan in advance on how to break it to him.

You didn't want him to ask for any products hygiene wise, nor did you fancy him asking why you're bleeding from your vagina. Xiao already didn't understand mortals and their social cues, so he wouldn't understand that either. "I feel a little sick, it's fine."

"If that is your attempt at some sort of rebellion, then put it to an end. I may still revoke your privilege of being alone in the bathroom"

That sounded about right. It took you a good week to even behave enough to be allowed here alone. You groaned loudly, elbows leaned on your knees as your face buried in your hands. "Xiao, please. I'm not lying, I really do feel sick."

He didn't really answer, the knob of the doors turning. "Okay wait don't- don't come in. I will- I will come out."

You hurriedly made up some short, temporary solution of putting a folded bandage into your underwear, taking another moment to quickly get to the doors, dressed thankfully. When you opened them, Xiao's hand quickly found purchase on your arm, firmly tugging you out before slamming the doors shut. He didn't really take any time to pin you to the wooden surfaced, face burying in your neck to press rough kisses on your skin.

Not surprising really, Xiao was rather high maintenance. You were lucky if he left you alone for more than a day, especially if he was killing beforehand. You didn't even try to justify his sick need for intercourse by some adrenaline related correlations. "Wwait Xiao we- we can't today-"

"Why? What makes you think you're one to decide that?"

It seemed you really had no choice but to say it, shakily inhaling. "Xiao, I'm on my period"

It wasn't the time for any kind of sex education despite his confused expression when he pulled back. You would assume he really had no idea what you meant. "That means I'm- I'm bleeding from- my.. private parts and- it kind of hurts, we can't really-.."

You were stumbling over your own words, Xiao seemed almost displeased. But not with the newfound fact. "Do you take me for an idiot of sorts?"

"I'm not lying."

Xiao was.. faintly aware of the concept. He did hear it being briefly mentioned over the course of all the years he lived, but he simply assumed it's a light issue. After all, how much could a mortal bleed before it was concerning? It couldn't be that bad. And it wasn't like Xiao was scared of a little blood.

"... Even if that is the case" he started, clearly not taking that excuse. You maybe assumed you'd catch a break. "That doesn't change a thing" he pulled away from you briefly, grip on your wrist tight as he tugged you along to the shared room.

You felt like you couldn't convince him at that point. "It literally does- we can't do that-"

At that the yaksha simply clicked his tongue, and once you arrived at the chosen destination he shamelessly pushed you back on the bed, and thankfully for him, he was already on top of you before you could really get up.

It wasn't like he allowed you to wear much to begin with, so without any further ado you felt him grip at the edge of your underwear. You hissed as best as you could; giving him a kick.

Xiao means swiftness you recalled, maybe that's why he blocked the hit before it even landed. "Stop moving around for once."

"Why can't you understand we- can't!"

Maybe as a woman you had a sense of shame. Maybe you just wanted a break. And maybe because Xiao wasn't a human (and a man) he didn't feel the sense of wrongness in this. "We can't because there's- blood- you need to understand that–"

"I witness blood daily. Some minor issue of this sort isn't bothersome to me, I'm not scared of blood." Before you protested any further he already had your underwear down to your knees. Your cheeks felt hotter than the sun itself by then. He did see you naked before, but the fact that he shouldn't be doing it this time around was even more humiliating. "Well it isn't about you-!"

Xiao really didn't care about that mortal shame of yours. It was sweet until it wasn't, and he grunted instead. "you're acting like it's some sort of tragedy. Quit it" your thighs were already spread before you could have a chance to try and keep them shut, his face buried in your neck as he kissed it.

Xiao wasn't that experienced, but he was observant. It wasn't hard to learn what were the things he should be doing and what were the things that he should avoid. You tried to tell him no one last time, but you already felt his fingers around your entrance.

It felt filthy. And reasonably so, after all who in their right mind would allow that? Not only would everything stain, you simply learned not to be that outward about the issue of menstruation; Xiao's shamelessness sparked a sense of second hand embarrassment.

You faintly heard his breathing hitch, but before you registered he already bit your shoulder, index finger easily sliding around the clit. "ffuCking hell- last warning Xiao-"

Giving it a few rubs he easily sank his fingers into your entrance, not even hiding the reaction of surprise.

Maybe it was a bit shocking to Xiao. Sure, it was blood, so it was reasonable it was all so easy. But when he pulled back he noticed the sight of the blood on his hand as he began to thrust his digits into you. Any sounds you made got lost in the process, eye twitching with each move his hand made.

He didn't know why.. It felt so strange. He didn't really hurt you, but for some reason seeing you bloodied on his hand- or maybe it was just the fact there was blood involved?

Was it because he wasn't supposed to be doing that? Xiao didn't know why the strange feeling in him sparked. "H-Nh Xi-xiao n-no.."

It was difficult to be assertive with how well his digits rubbed your insides, fingertips skillfully curling against the soft spot around the start of your heat with each thrust. "Stop whining." He just couldn't help but lean to you again to bite your shoulder, maybe to hide his face at the same time, the other hand taking your wrists to keep them above your head. It was a means of not only rendering you immobile, but a means of reinforcing dominance. With each tiny sound you made he found it harder to hold it together, the pace picking up. Still. As much as he tried to avoid looking, his gaze fell down again to watch his fingers, swallowing. It shouldn't be.. that appealing to him. Xiao realised he might've developed a thing for blood after all; he wasn't sure why.

Watching his fingers disappear into you was arousing. Adding the blood to the mix.. it was a dangerous combination for Xiao to cope with. Especially with how it made him feel, length painfully strained against his bottoms.

The adeptus couldn't bring himself to stop even when you tried to tip your hips away from him, only moving his fingers into you faster, ignoring the fact you'd need to change the bedding later, as his single minded brain didn't realise he might need a towel. It didn't matter to Xiao in the end. "Fuck-"

He didn't curse often that's for sure. Maybe the whole situation had him out of it, movements automatic until he felt you tighten. Only then did he seem to control himself enough to go faster. Your pleading from earlier only then did come to him. "HHha- X-Xiao-" you wanted to cry from shame by then, hating the way your core went tense because of him. He only watched as your face twisted in pleasure when you came, fingers slowly coming to stop before he pulled them away. He stared at them for a good moment in silence, your cheeks growing even redder. Not because you found it hot; but because of shame.

Needless to say it didn't end at that. And maybe you were surprised to see that this time around, you didn't get a single day of a break.

[zeyris-daydreams]

i dont know if this is part of a mandela effect, but im sure enough that its not to come and ask you.

i still remember it, maybe it was over a year ago now. a xiao post of yours, the one that made me follow you. something between the lines of 'he finds entertainment in the nature of your being,' or something of the like. blood. yeah, stuff like that. ive never been able to get it out of my head, however, the day i went back to read it again it was gone.

maybe its silly, but even though its no longer available to read, thanks for writing it.

the memory is slightly fuzzy, and i hope it was your post, really, to save me an embarrassment, haha. even if it wasnt yours tho, okay, hope youre doing well, and please, take care once again.

Omg. 😭 Help this was the period blood one. I think I've taken it down, though I can reblog it if I didn't—I truly don't know if I still have it. Truth be told I've been embarrassed about it ;; but it really warms my heart to know someone had it in their mind all this time .. tysm...

[zeyris-daydreams]

Semblance of Venetian Mirror Caused By Silver Thrown On Water

Dan Feng x reader, somewhat sweet.

Hearty and carefree laughs filled the empty spaces of the night air, distinct chatter and voices—clink of porcelain against porcelain. An occasional cuss when a drink was spilled, followed by a splash of liquid against the warm ground. A whine—a cackle, a complaint dispelled by a shove.

The rustling of company was distinct, soft as it carried through the air to you. Concealed by a tree, you looked at your blade, the faint moonlight allowing you to see the edges of your expression. Neutral and uncaring all the same, as it was years ago—as it was what made the receptors pick you.

Then, an unnatural beat of silence, the group of five lingering in nothing but the buzz of night for a brief moment, and so you put your knife underneath your belt again.

“My shadow—“ a snicker, something so unnatural and uncannily carefree. His voice was soft, speech slurred. “Come join us, surely you must… be lonely there?”

Spark of irritation ignited in you, a sigh leaving your lips like steam from a stove, and you pushed off the dark bark. With a step you turned around, moving over towards the commotion.

The five sat on a blanket underneath the dark sky, the material all but straight—folded at the edges from their movement and their joy, a basket opened with its guts all spread out upon the blue sheet.

Snacks and food were half finished, the most important part of their night course being the alcohol—on a wooden board for stability, safe from the uneven ground and the tricky grass. Yet some of it was spilled anyway.

The shadow of the tree slowly slipped off you, revealing your face like a lover’s body in the late morning, yet your eyes were as cold as a gravestone—unfeeling, long gone, concealing whatever may hide under the thick soil.

Your robes were dark, not prolonged and pronounced as your High Elder’s—instead, they were made to be easy, not draw attention. To remain hidden, to be concealed, to keep the world unaware of your presence.

Yet not this time.

Their eyes rested upon you soon after, but there was only one person whom you looked at—his turquoise eyes on you similarly as he sat at an angle. One knee was pulled to his chest, arm resting on it as his hand supported his chin. The other held a cup, worryingly tilted, as if the alcohol could spill any second.

”High Elder, I do not believe the receptors will be pleased to hear this.”

Dan Feng’s mouth twitched a little, into the softest smirk. He looked bright as the moon, with a quality of cold glow. Yet the demeanor was different.

”The night is still young—is it not?”

”It is past midnight.”

His expression fell into a pitiful frown, and the Foxian lady next to him wrapped her arm around his shoulder, pulling him along. Her other arm was around Yingxing’s muscular frame, and she held them, swaying side to side.

The smith grumbled, yet did not resist, and neither did Dan Feng, head hanging low.

“Rivers aren’t the same day by day—“ her soft voice broke with a hic. “We can have fun sometime else I say!”

The poetic streak caused Dan Feng to hum, looking to her for a moment to carry on the dialogue. He didn’t want to go back yet—not from here, where he could be himself, and not a High Elder. Where he could be seen, not regarded.

”As evening comes and… and the moon shines down, all that’s left is to..” he trailed off, his brows furrowed in concentration. Dan Feng’s mouth opened, but your tongue cut in, a sharp shard into flesh.

”—Say goodbye. Come, now.”

The grass bent under your heavy boot as you finally stepped close enough, reaching your hand out to the Vidyadhara. It seemed the rest felt too awkward to defend their friend, Jing Yuan’s gaze averted to something on the blanket. And then Jingliu, who mumbled to herself while staring at her cup, red eyes narrowed in a feeling which seemed quite immaterial.

Dan Feng whined, his eyes meeting yours pitifully, looking up at you. You curled your fingers twice, gesturing for him to finally get it together—and so he relented, taking your hand.

Of course he didn’t make your job easier—he never did, as a petulant child, a stubborn kid wanting to put their foot down, wavering at authority.

How pathetic, he was the High Elder.

With a strong grip on his hand you pulled him to his feet and he stumbled, nearly knocking at the bottle with his shoe. Baiheng let out a squeak, grabbing onto it to salvage it—slipping forward, her hand missing the goal as she ended up falling over.

Spread out on the blanket, she snickered at her predicament.

The Vidyadhara looked back, a hiss leaving when he felt his body pulled forth—your grip on his friend was unrelenting, but he waved to his friends anyway, like a dog wagging his tail from happiness or excitement. Then again in this context from the positivity he experienced, not which he was yet to feel.

You looked ahead, not bothering to think back—the destination wasn’t far, but if not you, Dan Feng would probably forget himself again, and then cause issues for you once more.

Because while he was the High Elder, you were his shadow, and the receptors would have your head for his inability to perform his tasks in the morning.

Dan Feng didn’t complain, not at all, walking with weak legs after you—occasionally swaying. He never fought, and you were that much grateful for any compliance. Yet as the gates were approached, and the hallways showed into sight, his pace was coming to a gradual slow—each step more prolonged and dragged out than the other.

He kept his head down, the light from the inside bothersome. And then he stopped entirely, moments before the doors to his chambers would come into view. His tail flicked a few times, subtle unease—or irritation.

Your steps halted as well, not from your own willingness, rather from sudden resistance. With the softest of frowns you looked behind your shoulder, to then turn around fully.

His hand slipped from yours, sluggishly, and his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall with his side. Dan Feng’s face was tilted.

“What’s the point?” The High Elder mused out into space. His voice carried a soft waver, and underlying current thumming beneath the cold hard ground—so physical and palpable you could drink it from his glowing eyes.

Your being was unwavering as it was before, just as his was during the day. “The point of what, High Elder?”

Something about your speech seemed to hurt—as a prick of broken glass in his finger when he leaned into a window to see the outside, and his expression was similarly pained, accompanied by a whine, the softest sound and tune you could’ve missed.

“Everything…” he sighed, eyelids falling shut as he tilted his head back for the moment. As you tried to take his hand again, he withdrew it, hiding it beneath his arm. “Why are we here? Just… to suffer. Just to suffer.”

Oh.

Your brow raised, hand soon resting upon your hip. The Vidyadhara continued.

”The days aren’t the same.. like rivers they aren’t—“ Once more a string of thoughts you wouldn’t decode while sober, once more a litany. The High Elder seemed strange recently, like an unsmoothened and unbrushed fur coat, spiking and sticking together like hair upon his forehead in the very moment.

”They…are different. Not for me, no—it’s the same. Whether I sleep now or later, it’s the same.”

You disregarded his faltering to drunken babbling, and reached beneath his arm to grab his wrist.

”Hey—“ his voice was cut as you pulled him along, a step—and then you opened the doors of his chamber, dragging him along inside. You had no time for this, similarly how you had no time to entertain him. Dan Feng would sleep, and then be back to normal. He always ripped at the edges when he drank, and yet this time was different. The High Elder did not try to keep his fuzz inside himself, neither did he try to re-sew the ripped threads.

As you snapped your fingers two times, the lanterns and lamps of the room came alight. With a tug you pulled the High Elder inside and he stumbled along, watching the doors fall close behind himself. The tips of your fingers were pressed flush to his skin in an unyielding grip, feeling the faint thum of his veins beneath. Quickened pulse, it was second nature to check.

Despite his flushed face, his skin was colder, having soaked in the soft cruelty of the chilly night breeze, and all the regrets and sorrow he might’ve felt. You felt as though you were touching glass.

”Tell me...” he mused, swaying on his feet lightly as he looked at you—eyes filled with something—something you did not have the dictionary to name, the front of his hair was as disheveled as his heart. His eyes were reflecting the many smaller lamps present in the room. “What do you guard so fiercely, my mirror?”

The question slipped past his lips like a feather, slowly moving through the air to drop in the floor of your retina; sinking to the bottom of the eyelid where it stuck. Your eye twitched, the duality and power of the question not escaping you.

Soft and orange-yellow light accompanied the words, adding a warm quality to the neutrally coloured room. The air seemed warmer than it actually was, wrapping around the moment,

You chose to pretend this was but a drunken babble, stepping over to the bedding, and he followed, he had no choice. Just as he had no choice with the salads of thoughts, like papers scattered around that he couldn’t assign to appropriate files—and then the files, which he couldn’t put into cabinets, and he couldn’t lock them away. Not anymore.

”High Elder, I think you’ve had enough for tonight.”

Dan Feng’s eyes were lidded, a finger catching some of your hair, moving round to wrap it around his digit. “I’ve had my fill… yet there’s something else I long for.”

You had half the thought to push him to end it, but the patience you had needed to be unwavering. And then his gaze met yours, a tint of vulnerability within his reddened cheeks.

”Could you do me a favour, my shadow? My mirror?”

The words weren’t a demand befitting a High Elder—a personal touch in them, a private request whispered between two people, far away from eyes which wished to pry him open and study him like a frog.

With a sigh, your stance faltered, and you nodded to him. “What is it, High Elder?”

The words hurt. But the pain on the High Elder’s face quickly faded, his fingers curling around your free hand, bringing it closer to his face. Two of his fingers pressing into your skin, where the river of life was heard through the thick stone. The lock of hair he held fell, unrolling, and your brows knit together, focus flicking from your opened palm to his face.

“Can you…” The Vidyadhara drew the words out, his eyes insistent on eye contact so much it was pitiful—seeking the depths of your eyes, looking beneath the reflective surface.

To who was beneath the glass, to the one who saw and was never seen.

“…Abandon the titles tonight? Could this be just you, and me?”

You blinked, perhaps the High Elder felt feverish. “What do you mean by that, High—“

Dan Feng’s eyes closed, and he finally pressed your palm to his cheek—both hot and cold, head tilting to feel your skin more, nearly nuzzling into it. The contact had your fingers flinch momentarily, and for a reason not yet discovered, you didn’t pull back.

You swallowed thickly. But what was there to do but to listen? Dan Feng looked at you soon after, eyes opening half way to gauge your expression—your reaction.

”I think you should rest for tonight, Dan Feng.”

Your hand met his shoulder, holding it firmly as you pulled him closer to the edge of the bed—but he refused. “You speak of rest, but is such a thing truly for me?” He mused. Dan Feng stood in front of you, the bed right behind you—yet he insisted.

”Does a person rest when their temporary reprieve is sleep?” Dan Feng utters, you’ve let go of his wrist after all—and so his other hand pressed into your palm, holding it that much closer to his jaw.

His hands felt colder against your single one, and yet they gained temperature moment after moment, filling in the more he remained in warmth. Your warmth.

”Is…there a thing like rest, for me?” The soft question continued, and you found no answer. “With… so much to do everyday, with… wellbeing of people on my back, and with constant work.”

The Vidyadhara thought of his words carefully, the alcohol causing his tongue to become untied yet slow, paced—so unlike his mind. Dan Feng’s brain worked on many things at the same time, yet it all felt hazy.

”I don’t cease being a High Elder of Vidyadhara in slumber so, please, my mirror. Let me be me.”

Mirror. Mirror, as you were as he was—and maybe he saw himself in you, in down to earth professionalism and an unyielding iron grip. And maybe in your stubbornness, which he would merely call steadfastness in relation to himself. Because who would understand if not a mirror?

And maybe faces upon water waver, falter, and shift—but you were no water, and neither was he—and he could not bend you.

Something in the glossy surface of your unmoving facade shifted—pronounced by your softened gaze, and the tilt of your hand. Dan Feng traced your palm down, the outer part of it softly pressing onto his cheek, knuckles feeling his skin. He leaned in, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, and he blinked slowly, afraid that the flutter of his eyelashes would send you away. He felt your pulse through his fingers.

The air felt thick and unmovable, weighing—not heavily like a shackle, but like a fog.

As the Vidyadhara’s face slowly moved closer and closer, you leaned back only slightly, and he halted for what felt like seconds. You stepped back. The lamplight reflected in the High Elder’s bright eyes was like stars reflected on a pond, the dark yet long slits like an inverted shine of moonlight. A heartbeat of silence, and he closed his eyes, finally moving forward.

Dan Feng’s body pressed into yours, and as he tipped his head, your feet suddenly hit the edge of the mattress. His sway caused him to crash forward with a hiss. And with him fell your body, the softness doing little to break your fall as you hit the bottom. Another thud right after yours, Dan Feng’s hand ended up near your face, on the side of your head, and his knees on each side of your thighs—just to not crush you.

The Vidyadharas eyes widened for a brief moment, mouth falling open as he blinked once—twice, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, then back. The long, dark hair spilled over his shoulders, shielding your face and his own from some of the outside—from anything daring to break the moment, to pop it like a bubble.

A dry chuckle left him, hand coming to your own, bringing it closer to his lips—feeling the side of it, your skin.

“What is it you guard so fiercely, mirror?” As he too knew what bubbled underneath the surface; the surface which he called his own, which was yours as much as it was his. “I want to see it. Let me see it, let me see you.”

Your breathing hitched, and you swallowed wordlessly. There was a ripple in your surface, and you moved your hand from his mouth to his jaw—knuckle of the index finger tracing his pale skin. Dan Feng inhaled softly, and the outer side of your hand moved down his neck, slowly, softly—

Dan Feng’s face tilted lightly, and your fingers hit the hard edge of his vest—where they halted. His eyes narrowed softly, not in anger, and his mouth curled in a frown. “Don’t stop…” A whine followed.

The Vidyadhara’s fingers curled around your wrist, moving your hand down, until it slipped underneath the robes, touching at his chest—pushing the fabric open, exposing his soul and his heart. Dan Feng’s hand loosened its grip shortly after, and in turn you found yourself moving your hand downward. Hooked index finger touched upon the tied belt, slipping beneath—pulling forward slightly. The material came undone, the edges of it hung low as his clothes opened, tickling your hand in passing.

His pale skin was like a moon’s surface, bright in its own right—a sheen of glow. Yet the faded scars remained, ones from fierce training; subtle as they were healed, and when your knuckles moved down his collarbone, you could feel the occasional dip and the rare texture.

But Dan Feng was not nearly satisfied. His hand moved to your chin, lifting it so that you shifted your gaze from his body to his eyes.

“My cold, unfeeling mirror. Who is the one beyond…?”

And then it happened, and he leaned over with a slight stumble—arm bending at the elbow, which hit the mattress, leaving you caged. But it did not seem to interrupt him much, eyes shifting to a close as his lips finally met yours.

Unmoving, a peck on a statue, and he moved his face back shortly after. The raw emotions reflecting through you were enough, your face tilted as his lips met your jaw, lingering as they slowly shifted down—to your neck, where he lingered. A hum left Dan Feng, his nose tickling your skin as he buried his face there.

The weight of his body suddenly pressed onto you, joints buckling in exhaustion caused by the long and tiring day, accelerated by the great joy of alcohol he indulged in previously—all seemed to have culminated in this very moment.

“Dan—“ He sighed, face nuzzling into your neck a little, moving slightly, just enough to self soothe. Dan Feng’s arm slipped underneath your waist, his breathing calm for a moment. “This—is unprofessional.”

You could feel his mouth move into a smirk, his warm breath tickling your skin, and then the vibration of his voice against your body.

”Maybe, are you going to punish me for it?”

Silence.

”Mirror…” Came his voice, vibrating against your neck. Dan Feng inhaled, a sound akin to a rumble, drawing out when he spoke once more. “Can you keep a secret, my guard? My mirror?”

Your eyes moved to the decorated ceiling, the darkness of his hair tickling your jaw like feathers. The Vidyadhara’s tail flicked lightly, the tip leaning against your leg, his breathing was soft, body so relaxed it was heavy.

But you couldn’t complain.

”My lips are sealed.”

Dan Feng took a moment to think of his next words, musing them over carefully. He let himself slip more to the side, not pressing his full body weight onto you anymore—with a leg draped over your hip, his face and warm breath still hitting your skin. Yet there was strange peace in his demeanour. He could nearly hear and feel your pulse from how close he was to your neck.

“Do you ever feel it…?” The question echoed, High Elder’s lashes tickling you when he closed his eyes. If he felt it, you had to, too. As you were a reflection—no, not a reflection. You were not that which only reflected, you were that which was alike. And if you were like him, you had to feel it too.

Your hand felt as if it moved on his own, moving to rest on his shoulder, sliding down his back. The contact felt strange, and as wrong as it was, you have long put aside the rigid morality.

”The… solitude. You’re made to be my shadow…” he murmured, voice a string, hardly coherent. Sleepy chatter which at first you’d mistake for dream-sewn nonsense. “You surely have to feel it.”

Fingertips touched upon his hair lightly, sliding up to the back of his head. Your fingers slowly pressed to the skin, moving upwards through the hair, the dark night-dimmed locks spilling through your hand.

Soft sigh left the High Elder, and his lips pressed to your neck once more.

In silence you went over his words once more, trying to decode the meaning you already knew. Because if you were a mirror, then you knew what he knew—and if you were one beyond the glass pane, you knew what Dan Feng tried to reflect.

Perhaps you were not a mirror, but resembled one—both of you knew that, yet to call it names so simplified was a mutual understanding. And maybe he felt alone on the pedestal he sat on all this time, but you were his shadow, and you sat there with him.

Your eyes moved down, ears picking up on the soft sound of his breathing, and the silence.

He was asleep.

[zeyris-daydreams]

Would you guys believe me if I said I’m working on 2 Sunday fics 1 Jing yuan fic, a chapter for Dan Feng series and a separate Dan Feng fluff?

[zeyris-daydreams]

Sunday hated you.

An irritation, a grain of sand lodged somewhere in his skull, scratching at the edges of his thoughts. You were the kind of person he should have been able to ignore, an unrestrained thing that moved through the world without care or consequence.

You were loud. Thoughtless. You talked too much, laughed too hard, threw yourself into life without hesitation. You said things that should have been embarrassing, acted on impulse, lived like you didn’t carry a single ounce of shame in your body.

And people loved you for it.

He saw it in the way their eyes lit up when you spoke, in the way they leaned in closer, in the way your presence filled a room like sunlight spilling through open windows.

“It’s amazing,” they’d say.

“you’re just so free.”

That word made his stomach knot.

He had spent his whole life learning to hold back. To control himself, to measure his words, to weigh every action before he took it. He was good. He was disciplined. He did everything right.

And yet,

He told himself it was just frustration.

But then it got worse.

Because suddenly, he was watching for you before he even realized he was doing it. His eyes found you in crowded rooms, tracked the sound of your laughter through the halls, sought out the places you lingered.

He hated you. 

Hated you.

(So why couldn’t he look away?)

The first time you really saw him, you were at a party.

He was there as a representative for Gopher. He didn’t like parties, too much noise, too many people, too much chaos. But you were there, so he was there.

You were in the center of it all, as always, laughing too loudly, leaning in too close, spinning the room around you like you were the axis it all revolved around.

And then,

your gaze flickered.

Landed on him.

You tilted your head, studying him like he was something out of place.

“Do you even like being here?” you asked.

He should have said no. Should have walked away.

But instead, his mouth moved on its own.

“Do you?”

For the first time, you hesitated. It was small, barely there but he saw it.

Then you grinned.

“Touché.”

And just like that, you turned away, the moment slipping between his fingers like sand.

But he stood there, frozen, breath caught in his chest.

Because for the first time,

You had seen him.

And now, he needed you to do it again.

After that, it became unbearable.

You were in his head all the time, your voice curling around his thoughts, your presence a ghost in his lungs.

And the more he thought about you, the angrier he got.

Because you didn’t deserve to be happy.

You were selfish. Reckless. Wrong.

And yet, you had everything he had to get by being everything he was not.

That wasn’t fair.

That wasn’t right.

So he started testing the limits of your awareness. Standing closer. Speaking up when you were near. Watching for the moment your gaze landed on him, the flicker of recognition in your eyes when you realized he was always there.

You didn’t push him away.

And that was your mistake.

The second time you spoke, you were alone.

A rare thing. 

A precious thing.

You were sitting outside, legs stretched out, staring up at the sky.

He didn’t think.

He didn't plan. 

Just moved.

“You look bored,” he said.

You turned your head, blinking up at him. Then, you smiled.

“Didn’t think you were the kind to talk to people like me.”

His pulse was a slow, steady drum in his ears.

“What kind is that?”

You shrugged. “The kind you don’t like.”

The words hit deeper than they should have.

You knew.

You knew.

And you still weren’t afraid.

Instead, you scooted over, patting the space beside you.

An invitation,

He sat down.

And something inside him unraveled.

It should have ended there.

But it didn’t.

Because now you spoke to him first. Now you noticed him. Now you threw him into your world like he belonged there.

And that was the moment he realized,

You weren’t untouchable.

You weren’t above him.

You weren’t a god, weren’t an idol, weren’t something to admire from a distance.

You were flesh and blood.

A person.

A thing.

And things could be taken apart.

Bit by bit.

Piece by piece.

You thought you were free. Thought you were untamed, untouchable, unstoppable.

But you weren’t.

You were just something that hadn’t been caged yet.

And if he couldn’t be you,

Then he would break you,

Take everything that was you.

Until there was nothing left but him.

[zeyris-daydreams]

The Silent Overture ; Yandere!Sunday x reader

Synopsis; Fools put their hands into messes they do not know of. Further than that, said fools then reject the punishment bestowed. Alas all who try to work against Sunday’s good name are such sinners, and yet in your case especially, he found some mercy within his heart. Then again is such mercy better than facing justice in court of law?

Alternatively; Sunday gives you an easy repentance after you dared to try and ruin his image after being commissioned by a faction he’d rather not think of. You are full of ingratitude, like all sinners are. It doesn’t help that a spy like yourself can’t even get the job done.

Short and sweet four-chapter series based upon a dream I had with Sunday as the main actor.

For this one warnings are: implied kidnapping, abuse of power of harmony, improper use of power of harmony, non consensual touching, drugging if you squint, spies.

# 1 ; fugue [tmblr] [ao3]

# 2 ; lethargy [tmblr] [ao3]

# 3 ; masque, # 4 ; epicure [tmblr] [ao3]

[zeyris-daydreams]

I love the silent menace of a yandere that always holds your face when they kiss you. Hands on your jaw, or in your hair, or cradling the back of your head. Sweet, at first. But you try and pull away too early one time and you realise why they do it. For a second or two, they keep you in place. Hands that always seemed so tender suddenly so strong. It's instinct on their part.

Come back here, I'm not done with you.

When they do let you go, you're shaken. Afraid but not wanting to admit it yourself. If they can hold you in a kiss so easily, what else can they do? What else will they do?

It's a warning sign, the earliest one you'll get. If they aren't going to let you go when you pull away, will they ever?

[zeyris-daydreams]

The Silent Overture ; # Masque + Epicure [3/4] + [4/4]

Yandere Sunday x Reader .

Part 3 and 4 of [The Silent Overture]

General synopsis; don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Or do, and suffer the consequences.

Pay attention to the warnings in the link above, reading it will help you understand the events of this story. Stay hydrated, but most importantly, stay elated!

The grand and long hall in front of you reflected the chandelier’s light, casting shadow behind you once you stepped inside. The floor under your feet was an irritating pristine white, polished and nearly freshly cleaned. The tiles were lining the entire surface, up to the very end of the room.

The stage has been set.

Walls around bore the colour of faded and pleasantly ashed sun, burned out and meadowed by the years that had passed; lower half of them dressed in an intricate decor of white plaster, lining the way forward in a way most inviting. Similar to the creamy curtains situated at the windows, heavy and thick, tied to the edges of the window halfway down.

Guests and the hosts mingled together in attempts at political favours, other people remained standing near the wall. Like pillars, supporting the building from falling over in a sense - there always had to be people on the watch, ones who paid attention to the sound and faces.

Glancing at your wrist-watch, you realised the party had already started. The soft hum of music through the air, like perfume upon wind; the speech and talks, like birds chirping about nothing. This was but a business occurrence with members of different families and factions, politics disguised with an attempt at celebration. Like a blanket to flame, shielding the outside from knowing of the raging - yet dying - fire.

Your shoes felt uncomfortable against the soles of your feet - and it would be the first time that you had performed your artistry in such a setting. People of your occupation usually preferred the comfort and embrace of surprise, yet this time, the commission was different. It was like dragging a worm out into the sunlight.

This has never happened before.

You wondered why. Maybe it was to overlook the chessboard, instead of destroying the king from within it, like a chess piece would. That way you could play the pawns yourself—or maybe you were the director this time, and not just an actor.

Disregarding the internal monologue you finally pushed forward, walking by the many tables around you. Each held items of uselessly spent luxury, like alcohol in large containers, or foods not meant to be fulfilling—rather, savoured and enjoyed in a non-gluttonous manner. Drink fountains and showy vases with flowers, giant metal trays with foods lined up wherever your eyes could see it, disgustingly overdone. The decor was purposeless and shallow, like an envelope discarded once the letter was taken out.

Many people of importance gathered at the tables, discussing while holding the alcohol, and the sounds of chatter all around muted your footsteps. Their dress was impressive to say the least, women in their best style, and men in their best and most ironed suits. Your choice of wear blended in most perfectly.

It was another sort of party held by the family - yes. But this one was special. This time, a brand new head of one of the factions would grace the dance floor.

Sunday—or rather, your new target.

The task was indeed simple; arrive, get rid of him, and then leave. That is the job of an assassin, and that is the job of a mercenary who’s paid to ask no questions — you didn’t need more than that.

Your eyes never lingered for long on any of the details—a waitress with a plastered smile caught your eye. She walked around with a tray most perfectly balanced, offering the people around champagne. As she passed by, you reached your hand to grab the glass in passing, continuing on.

Forward with the reconnaissance, you were yet to spot the person of interest. And so for the time being your feet led you towards an abandoned corner of the room, where you could lean against the yellow-washed wall. The drink in your hand was an accessory, and you held it idly, moving the glass slowly. Champagne within the glass swirled along, following like water touched by a paddle, submissive to movement of a boat.

Your gaze didn’t linger on the pink liquid for too long, straying towards the large doors of the entrance. And - aside from the exit further to your left - the only option of entering was the aforementioned entry way.

Despite the fact you felt smug, you couldn’t smirk. Not yet. Not now. Maybe it was one thing to think yourself a mastermind, but you had to hold it in regardless. After this was over, you’d be able to retire - no sane person took on such a mission for a small price. And oh, the money.

Internal self-praise and self-adoration came to a halt as soon as they began, and the target of interest finally graced the place with his high and mighty damned presence. Your gaze lingered somewhere else, enough to keep the silver-blue pawn within the edge of your retina.

He walked through the entrance, as though lowering himself to the level of the guests, standing for a moment. The halovian scanned the surroundings like he would a newspaper, his gaze lingering on the bigger picture present. Sunday didn’t need to look, he took the champagne in a similarly passing manner. Finally - he headed onwards.

You finally took a look at the man, subtly so—your head barely moved to adjust to the new item of focus, after all.

As expected of someone of his standing, he was presentable. He donned something light-coloured as always, a proper suit with design most intricate. Sunday, as Penacony’s most handsome gentleman, made everything look fashionable.

He walked leisurely, greeting the guests, showing off his feathers like a peacock—albeit more in an underlying manner, the value laying in elegance. You were quick to take notice of his observational nature. His gaze was knowing as he looked over the pawns, nothing escaping the full scope of his vision.

It took a spectator to find one, and if the shoes fit…?

His graceful parade came to stop near a table, and from that point he really took a look at all that gathered. Your bottom lip caught against the edge of your teeth, and Sunday scanned the area from that much subtler standing. Your fingertips moved across the neck of the glass, stroking it, akin to comforting an animal before the slaughter, and the other hand tightened its grip on the flat bottom.

Sunday’s gaze fell upon everything, like a not-merciful beam of sunlight, scorching upon the early days of summer, drying the land in its wake. You wanted to go to a beach after this.

He looked over the guests and the tables, as if searching for something — it reminded you of when you looked through paperwork absentmindedly, gazing for keywords and phrases of interest, instead of actually paying attention to the entirety. The halovian’s face was slowly turning as he looked around, the glass still in his grasp. You watched him watch.

And then your eyes met his eyes—and he lingered. You inhaled sharply with as much stillness as you could muster, golden eyes flicking down and up, and his sight met yours again. With an expression most unimpressed he finally averted his gaze.

The hitch in your body didn’t leave immediately. It was nothing special, definitely not; despite his prolonged gaze on you, you had nothing to worry about. For the time being, you were grateful for the wall that supported you—something to lean on. You haven’t done this sort of work in a while. Not in such a setting. So—this was normal.

You hoped your skills weren’t rusty; you hoped that Aha wouldn’t turn you into an example. You hoped this wouldn’t be your last play.

Turning your face to the curtains, you noticed the thick and most likely heavy material, like cream atop a cake. It was fine. It was okay. Your tongue ran over your gums in an attempt to self soothe, but the play continued. He picked a champagne up after all — there would be no difficulty in slipping something into it. Or should you wait till he eats?

You weren’t given clear instructions. As the benefactor stated, it did not matter how, or if it was obvious; what mattered was the bird dropping dead while soaring the sky. Anything after that wasn’t your interest, be it political aspect, or the purpose. You couldn’t find a cell in your body to care.

Reluctantly, your eyes drifted back to Sunday, noticing him speaking with a fellow halovian. They had a good time, and he smiled—occupied it seemed. Your breath slipped out of your throat, slow and measured, just to catch in the flesh of your neck again. Sunday’s eyes flicked to you, once, before his attention was back at the guest. The corners of your mouth lifted in a pained smile. Great.

This was great. This… was fine.

There was no hitch so far(surely), spare for the anxiety of the new situation. The tune transitioned softly into something more lively, but it wasn’t to your taste. Soft piano and strings of violin swimming through the space, but you never admired such melodies; and so you averted your gaze to the sweets on the table near you.

Your heart burned at the idea of pompous rich people enjoying their little expensive servings, and yet you reached for a piece. It was nothing but a treat, a treat you’ve recognised —a vidyadhara skewer.

From your time in Xianzhou Loufu, you recalled this one—a skewer with cheese and expensive meats, arranged from biggest to smallest, the end shapely. To you, it looked more like a siren-skewer, and yet the technicalities of it should be your last concern. Maybe you willed to have another point of focus to divert your attention to—a feeble attempt to calm an ever fiery brain.

The show went on, a stage with props—foods, drinks, the curtains. A stage with actors; people who spoke in passing, ones who stood as though they were props. The alcohol in your hand remained untouched—you never drank on the job.

As unlikely as it was that he would abandon his drink, you had to bid your time. Once the lights of the room dimmed for the later dances, then you’d make your move, as of now the golden shine from above made it feel like committing a crime in broad daylight, the night not yet shielding your actions from exposure.

From the distance you watched as his gloved hand lightly touched the arm of the person he was speaking with, an apologetic smile on Sunday’s face before he stepped forward. Your hair stood on its ends, hand shaking. The liquid in the glass trembled like water before the earthquake, and you stilled yourself by tightening your grip on the glass. He came right at you, with steps as elegant as a swan’s — not that you knew if it was true to nature.

But he was as confident as he was controlled in his slow approach, and he pushed through the crowd easily, a needle weaving through strands. With no difficulty he found himself in front of you. A bold move indeed, one full of certainty; an arrow hitting the mark flawlessly.

As it was, you straightened, keeping a graceful composure. Sunday stepped at your side, and his gaze soon enough went back to the crowd—side by side, you didn’t dare to turn your face to him.

The light-haired man was the one to speak first, however, sparing you the awkwardness; a timed sigh left him. “Fascinating, isn’t it? How a room full of masks can be more revealing than bare faces,”

Your brow nearly shot up. This was no masquerade.

”Tell me, do you enjoy the charade? Or, are you merely playing along?”

The sentence left much to be expected. Regardless, the neutrality of your face remained as water untouched. “We all are actors on the stage of life, and it is Aeons who dictate the tempo of our dance.”

Crypticism to crypticism, Sunday came here with a purpose. To amuse himself, perhaps? But what was a jester good for out of their jester clothes? His face turned to you slowly, taking in your face. With a briefest flick he looked to the champagne you held, and once more his eyes aimed forth: looking merely ahead.

“Admittedly, it is a shame that people aren’t true to themselves even here. Tens upon tens of people, and not a single honest soul.” The halovian murmured, a click of his tongue at the end.

It sounded accusatory, but you knew this game already. As an assassin, you never interacted with the target. This was a strange sort of a path you’ve not taken—underwater, a gradually narrowing cave. And if you swam too deep, you’d get stuck.

The water was shallow for now, reaching to your knees, so you allowed yourself this pleasure. You weren’t a professional diver. “Whatever can I assist you with, mr. Oak?”

Sunday remained quiet initially, digesting the question. His eyes drifted to someone else, someone you couldn’t pinpoint. “Does a person need a reason for conversation?”

The answer was singular, and so you didn’t need to say it. An unspoken truth, and an agreement for.. something. He finally turned to you, and you collected all the courage you had to glance at him.

”May I have the honor of sharing this dance with you?”

Thud, thud, thud. A rush of electricity through the parts of your brain.

“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sunday gave you a patronising smile, golden eyes as attentive as always. “I figured you are indeed worth my time, since you haven’t taken your eyes off me for a second.” He stated, moving his glass of champagne lightly, idly, the music in the background accompanying the flow. He turned his face towards the sheep in front, grazing them as a shepherd does—and then these eyes of gold met yours once more.

On habit you bit the inside of your cheek, pulling at the skin until it felt raw. “Apologies, in this case. I must have zoned out while admiring your choice of sound for this evening.”

His eyes narrowed for a mere moment, the corner of his mouth moving upwards. A knowing look came over him, and you wondered what he may be thinking of. His eyes closed for a moment, eyelashes resting atop his pale cheeks. “Oh, are you calling me boring?”

You shifted your stance lightly, one leg crossed over the other as you leaned back into the wall further. Looking ahead you saw people, their faces a strange blur, yet there was little time to get lost in a sea of thoughts.

“I am certain it is impossible to zone out when my presence is in front of you. I mean, look at me.” You spared the halovian a side glance, his hand lifted just enough to reach the side of his face, and his fingers flicked at the stray lock of silver hair that rested upon his shoulder. You physically held back a scoff.

Perhaps the pompous peacock thought himself to be an extraordinary treat. A poultry fresh from the oven, an exotic meat. You wondered if you could eat a peacock, with the money you’ll get.

At the evidently avoidant lack of reply, he reached a hand out. It was an order which needed no answer or acceptance—and when you’re stuck between an anvil and a hammer, the only way is forward.

The champagne was set down on the nearby table, and you put your hand in his. Sunday squeezed your palm, pulling you away from the wall, alongside himself to the centre of the room, purposeful and swift. The halovian was as elegant as they sang him to be, and you trailed just slightly behind him, weaving through some people—apathetic space for pitiful existence.

A political figure like him would bear the weight of many eyes; some curious and some prying, and he would feel the gaze of many who wished to find a weak spot—why would he pull you into the light?

The echo of his steps faded as he faced you, hand easily repositioning in his new stance as he held your palms together, taking your other one to easily place it atop his shoulder.

Then his gloved hand descended to your waist. The music was slow despite the liveliness still, and you were that grateful for learning to dance days prior. Otherwise you'd be more than done for; an artist needs to always expand their art after all, like an actor always needs to widen their palette.

Abruptly—he moved, and you took a second too long to catch onto his steps. The distance was respectful between the two of you, and it was possible to admire the intricacies of his suit only now, when you were that much closer.

Not that you needed to—it was all a waste.

Despite the annoyance piling in your throat, you forced your expression to remain neutral all the same, not betraying current irritation. This wasn't desirable, but you had to be optimistic. What is life if not time opportune? And what are fools if not ones who take opportunities, like fish take bait?

“Mr. Oak-” you cleared your throat, but you didn't need to catch his attention. It was already on you. “Is it not quite the move to be dancing in this setting?”

Sunday’s footwork was smooth, but the dance was light. Soft and slow, with no rush—leisurely even, to fill one with contentment, albeit short lived. “Why would it be?” His immediate question came, which he answered soon after—with yet another question.

“Do you claim to be someone controversial?” His hand released your waist, the other pulling your palm higher to give you a spin—you obliged like a puppet on a string, much to the distaste of your pride.

“No, still-”

“Then it is not an issue, is it?” The spin came to an end, and his palm met your waist once more.

The logic behind the words was far too convenient. While you never expected a man of his standing to not think, it just felt all too easy. Shutting down your questioning for the second time, you could bet all your jewels that the prideful prick felt smug about something.

You wouldn't let that happen. “It is not, but it should make people wonder, what is it about me that is so special?”

Sunday smiled, his head tilting. He appeared to be having far too much fun with the current setting, and he closed his eyes with an inhale far too calm.

“There may be nothing, what then?”

Well, maybe you weren't an ordinary person in your understanding. But there was one fatal sin you were aware of—the sense of pride. And right now, it was being squashed like a roach under Sunday’s shoe, filthy and demented and truly hideous in its nature. A bug and a vermin, popped open upon a pristine white-tiled floor, staining the surface with greyish-brown organs and mangled intestines, leaving a leftover trace on the bottom of his similarly clean heel.

You breathed in, waiting for a beat, before finally opening your mouth. “If there’s nothing, then there’s nothing.”

Just as you were about to give it up, he let out a soft a hum, the timed movements put out of order abruptly by his pull on your arm, forcing you to step to the side, and he followed your suit, the sound of your shoes moving against the tiles accompanied by the sound of his own, an immediate response to the motion he put you in.

“Not the best dancer, are you?” A mocking chuckle left his throat, and for all the grace and manner before, you could only feel your body follow his movements. Your chest felt heavy, and an unmistakable feeling of hot and cold washed over your skin. Another spin followed, and this time he stopped when you turned to him backwards.

With a rough pull you felt your back crash into his chest, his free hand taking your other palm, busying both of them. Like a mouse in a trap, your pulse raced—eyes so subtly widening. Hands held by Sunday's own like this, your arms were in a cross, and you felt the warmth of his breath right next to your ear from behind. “Then again; a decent actor indeed.”

Nothing around mattered, whether or not people even cared, elites didn't pay much attention to other elites—

Sunday leaned, you could feel his feathers tickle your cheek. He did not look at you, yet somewhere else—somewhere in search of prying eyes, as if this dance was a target for someone else’s arrow.

Target to be seen.

”You know, maybe you are right…”

His hands released yours for a moment; fleeting seconds which weren’t nearly enough to calm the beating of your heart. Sunday’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you along his stride. “I don't truly like this specific composition, while I'm sure the guests enjoy it,” you walked behind him. “it is not my favourite.”

Your brow raised soon after, and the walls around you felt tight out of the sudden—ceiling far too high. “How so? You picked it, didn't you?” Maybe you were getting bold with lack of honorifics, but why would you have to call him a ’mr. Oak,’ or a ’Mr. Sunday’, when he never addressed you as-

Oh.

He has never asked your name.

“Maybe I did, but sometimes you need to appease the masses. I favour melodies more… orchestrated.” Whatever that could've meant slipped your mind completely, your steps after him slightly rushed.

The noise all around blurred into one, a mix of strange ingredients consisting of laughs, idle chatter and music—and the echo of his shoes against the floor, starkly contrasted to the sounds which blended together. The unclear and clear—and that which was not in the shadow, compared to that which is concealed.

Sunday looked to the side, enough to see you in the corner of his vision. And like that you both were near one of the tables—he leaned back against it only slightly, but he didn’t turn his face to you. “Let me tell you a secret, then—“

You leaned back into the table as well, the wood digging into your back as you wrapped your fingers around the edge to conceal the sudden fatigue. Sunday leaned closer to your ear, if only for a beat.

“Far end, do you see the man in navy?”

His words and actions were confusing—who normally goes about conversation like that? As soon as it was said, you tried to look forward, man in navy?

In a far distance, inconspicuous as ever. “Yes, what about it?”

A thump of echo—echo of nothing much, but rustling in the space between your ears.

”I’m sure that is a spy—don’t look too long, though.”

Your heart picked up anew, what was he playing at? Despite the leisure in which he said it, there was an undeniable feeling of unease. “How so?”

”Well—“ Sunday sighed, as if the mere idea of having to explain weighed on his tongue like a burden. “These usually come in pairs, one is a mere distraction, while the other one is the real deal. Since I’m yet to find the former, I’ll assume this is the latter”

Slowly your brows knit together, and he chuckled dryly. “No moment of a breather when you are the Family’s head.”

Your eyes aimed ahead once more, the apparent spy’s gaze averted from the both of you. His words might’ve as well been a play, and you had no reason to tell yourself otherwise. Better yet—what if he knew?

“Regardless—it doesn’t take a while to notice. All you have to do is make yourself known, and see who cares enough to linger; and, if they remain in that state, the answer paints itself.”

A feeling you couldn’t quite identify built in your throat, and you wanted to leave—you could not. The job had to be done. It had to be done.

Was he toying with you?

Sunday’s gaze returned to you as he straightened, more interested this time around. And if anything, it felt like he closed earlier conversation—pulling the curtains to shut off the window, cutting off any insight into all that the sun bathed. “I apologise for saying so much, I realise how strange it must be for a random guest. I have not once asked you, where are you from?”

The answer pushed itself on your tongue, and the nerves from his words rang bells in your chest. Leave, leave, leave.

”Oh, Xianzhou.”

He smiled—-strangely—and looked away. You narrowed your eyes, and once more looked ahead just as he had, somewhere further away than any other object that you could take interest in. Somewhere further than any other person looked. “How did you find yourself so far then?”

”Need for exploration, I suppose.” You murmured, the ever growing sense of something not being quite right persisting, the weight of it so heavy you wished to crumble to your knees.

Sunday nodded, before continuing. “I see, a true adventurer then.”

The silence lingered in the air for a moment, and you were wondering if he had hoped for a different answer—not that you spoke the truth. Xianzhou was merely one of the more automatic choices, not meant to be looked at further than the surface level. A soft thump of a gentle beat echoed in your skull, like a droplet against the otherwise still water—reverberating and echoing. The noise around softened, the music in the background picking up in pace, yet fading.

Something seemed to be on his mind, and he turned to you—and from common courtesy, you too shifted on your heel, looking towards him. Sunday’s halovian wings were neatly folded, not spread out as before—the edges of the wings touching at the sides of his face. “Xianzhou is quite vague though, which ship?”

Of course he would know something about these planets—then again, in a moment of wanting to get him off your tail, you must’ve missed that part. The soft sway of his earrings, everything was all too bright—his halo too reflective. And his similarly soft smile, conversational tone. it blurred slightly. ”Yaoqinq.”

A hum of acknowledgment escaped him.

“Yaoqinq…” Sunday mused, the unbreaking eye contact as infuriating as hypnotising. “Most interesting, how did you travel to Penacony?”

Your hands felt strangely cold, a weird sense of unease following—as if right behind you waited a reaper, with a scythe most sharpened, as though you were being watched from right over your shoulder, the music in the background coming to a conclusion—faint ringing in your ears, the soft tremor in your shoulder.

Sunday saw the confusion paint on your face with masterful strokes, the faint questioning vibrant on your face. Upon seeing the misunderstanding, the halovian titled his head, reaching for a stray glass of red liquid on the table behind. “Ah—Apologies. I mean, how did you find your way here despite the travel ban?”

Then—he turned to you once more, his gaze lingering expectantly, and you felt like you physically shrunk under his eye—the soft twitch of your lips giving it away. He handed you the crimson wine, and you reached for it on instinct. The tremor in your hand, the soft swirl of liquid upon contact; smallest details which didn’t go unnoticed.

”I—“ you began, pulling the glass higher, with little willingness. “I have friends in high places.”

The halovian’s features moved, the amused squint of his eye, before he chuckled. It was easy—a fleeting yet melodic noise, and he shook his head, dismissing the words with a wave of his hand, a gesture so simple, yet with the power to alter the reality itself.

”Your tales are ever so beguiling.”

The echo of background sounded out, but muted, from behind a blanket—and all that was clear was the sound of his voice.

’I’ve always admired those able to blend into the crowd so seamlessly.” He drawled. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while however.”

Your mouth parted, the glass touching the bottom of your lips—the surface felt all too cold against your skin, and you finally took a sip. The red pooled in your mouth, and you placed the half drank wine aside. Your movement did not quite belong to you; lifting of the glass was done by default, even though that was not what you willed. As you looked ahead, people faced you—faced Sunday, features contorting into mush, as if painterly strokes that were put down at random.

And he saw it too, staring right back at them, or right back at someone—briefly, his sun-błazen eyes flicked to the crowd, before burning into you once more; too bright for your liking. You squinted softly, as if that was the most natural course of action.

“I do believe we’ve drawn enough attention for one evening.” His gloved and excessively preened, long digits found yours, seamlessly pulling you forth by your hand—a sensation out of this world, your feet moving on their own. “Let’s take a breath of fresh air, it does seem like it’s too crowded here.”

He led you towards the entrance you arrived from, occasional glances of guests moving your way and it was hard to keep your feet straight. You felt as though you dragged your body, strange unwillingness and non cooperation between the mind and the flesh—and whatever was skeletal. The surroundings and the similar exterior of the doors were all but a flick in your vision, and he rounded out to the left, passing through the garden.

Air in the night was soft, like always in Penacony—mimicking a summer evening despite being a mere dream, like addiction mimics love and lust mimics desire. The decorative lanterns around the exit led the way forth for Sunday, and he has led the way for you.

Your lips parted; no sound came. You blinked once—twice, and not a third time. Only then did your body blink for you.

The guests which seemed to have taken a liking to fresh air were just a smear; a fade, the presence of another person more rare the more you walked—it took minutes, but for what felt like hours, you could’ve sworn you walked a desert at night time. No oasis, your throat felt dry.

The soft moment of nocturnal air concluded as the doors opened, unfamiliar embellishments—was this the entrance? Was this the exit?

Is exit not just an entrance for a fresh start, and is an entrance not a beginning to a new end?

Mixture of background noise condensed into itself—vapour collecting upon a glass window, musing into drops of water; and then they rolled down the smooth surface, into droplets thicker and thicker. The sound of his footsteps against the tiles echoed like liquid, and then the flash of white blinding you entirely.

The light around dimmed once your eyes adjusted, but everything was far too bright; your pupils widened from the sheer responsiveness, and you willed your breath to calm.

Nothing was there. Nothing spare for his voice, coaxing you along—you felt your feet move up, up, up—up the steps, forward, sideways. The world spun, each change of an angle blurring in your brain, like a hastily taken photography, smearing the edges of objects.

“Walk straighter, you’ll bump into something.”

Your body tensed as you stepped—and yet not by your own, the memory of wherever you went long diminished, like fire from a candle.

The painful bright finally stopped, transitioning by a soft click; and then a solace opened, the darkness enveloping you as you walked into it with him, an old friend; this was it. This was it for you, an end, and yet it felt peaceful like all else. Like the choice most rational; like the natural occurrence of life.

Was this meant for you? This felt so comforting. This felt tailored.

You nearly melted with the instincts of your body, your mind almost merging with the will of the Harmony that has taken roots in your cortex.

Almost.

The haze over your mind suddenly vanished, clicked—a switch flicked off the moment that the doors behind him locked, encompassing you in a near darkness. Your widened pupils adjusted easily, taking in the very little light accessible.

State of dreaming being cut off so easily, like the air supply—your skull exploded, shattering and digging its shards into your skin and brain, and you held onto your head with your fingers interlocking your hair—tearing at them to part your tender skin from the pieces of your bone.

Sensation feeling so real it may as well be real, and Sunday needed no verbal prayer, and he did not need to voice his expectations to the Aeons.

The soft sideways sway of your legs crashed you into a dresser, and you sobbed. The heaviness taken off your heart was a curse—a burden from lack of burden; eyes widening and then narrowing, taking in the vague hints from the surroundings.

Room felt thick, the air from it heavy on the lungs. But it was that—no hall, a mere bedroom. With a bed and a closet and a desk and a window, and everything too out of place.

Sunday stepped around you leisurely—right to a small cabinet near the wardrobe, softly slipping off his gloves. He laid them down neatly, one atop the other.

“A true spy would’ve vanished the moment I looked their way.” An airy chuckle followed, a breath of warm air upon the first day of spring; turning just as cold. Just as bitter—sheer disappointment. The audacity.

”Yet, here you are.”

The halovian regarded your nearly hunched over form. “You must’ve been a little too confident in your little performance. How unfortunate—I do not share the sentiment. Still, this is not what theatre is about, is it?”

You swallowed your spit—throat all too dry to accept anything, and so it hurt, as if someone crushed your neck with their heel—or with a brick.

Sunday’s words echoed clearly, cutting through the sound of your heartbeat in your ears—and the ringing of your pulse, the sound of the blood rushing through your veins. The clothes pricked at your skin—needles. They were filled with needles and pins, and the heels of your feet were pierced by rusted steel.

The agony within an agony, and yet his voice remained clear; an echo of a preacher in a church—filled with those who do not repent but those that pretend.

Sunday sighed softly, as if he was at utmost ease—the sound floated rhythmically, melodically even, joining in his next words. He moved on from the cabinet, undoing the buttons on his sleeves slowly, head tilted to watch your trembling figure.

Harmony—the realisation contorted your face into a faint scowl, the muscles not quite yours.

”You feel it, don’t you?” You could swear his mouth moved—and if not for the darkness, you were certain you’d see him grin. “The way the world sways a little too much?”

The halovian’s voice was quiet, but the sound carried right into your mind like a soft streak of ink—then came his coat, slowly sliding off his body. A mere preference, he did not want it to crease before the party was over, and just like the gloves it was set down somewhere.

Where?

”Harmony is a beautiful thing, truly. It bends without breaking—soothes without force.”

Sunday stepped over, arm sliding beneath your arm to hoist you back to your full height; yet you couldn’t shove him. The awareness was there and all you saw with your eyes, and yet the body was not quite yours.

”Regrettably—it is not on your side.” His words carried a mockery.

Your feet dragged uselessly over the soft carpet, before the world tilted—a thump, and then a soft surface underneath you. The ceiling was spinning, round and round, like a carousel.

The world's a stage and Aeons set the tempo.

His figure stood above, and he looked down at you. Sunday’s gaze softened, nearly pitifully. This was a child’s play, and he would’ve expected an Aha’s hedonist to be more equipped against such cheap tricks.

Yet you were responsive to Harmony—unnaturally so.

“Rest, dear actor. You’ve played your part well enough—for a first timer. Alas, I have to take care of the real threat now”

Sunday’s outline was unreadable, paint splashed by water; seeping at the paper, without any clear reason or goal and similarly to such paint did your anger dissipate. And like ink upon a wet sheet—the thoughts you had or might’ve gotten spread out thinly, not to be recollected.

As your eyes moved to a slow and inevitable, gradual close; his last words rang out like lullaby.

“Don’t worry. No one needs to know.”

———

Epicure ;

You sat with pride, Lady Bonajade swirling the drink she held slowly. Sat at a luxurious room of this caliber with her—you discussed.

“How do you want me to do it?”

Jade smiled knowingly at the question, leaning her chin against her hand—ever sharp and calculating eyes stuck to your figure. “I have no set requirement, dear.” Her voice was silken, but you were no fool. “Make it look staged or like an accident—it matters to me not. Most important is to get the job done, and while usually I am a picky person, this time I trust your judgement.”

Whatever that has meant, and if you could even trust a Masked Fool—you weren’t one to remind her that life played its cards in a way most Elatious. Because your elation cost money, and no fun came for free.

(And once, people who revered Nanook never aimed for self destruction—and so Destruction turned a blind eye to them. And Aha does not wish for happiness and joy to be for fame or money—and those who profit strive for hedonism.)

”If you so desire,” to put this choice into the hands of someone who has not worked for her before; very bold. But you got paid at the end of the day, so what did it matter? “Though I must warn you, Lady Bonajade, that fate has the most hilarious cards.”

The corner of her lip only moved slightly, and she closed her eyes. “I am well aware. Which is why we need someone who is able to identify such joker cards.”

You nodded. And then it was done. And then, it was the banquet

[zeyris-daydreams]

Jade Dragon’s Iron-Clad Camellias [3]

Dan Feng x Reader 

[ao3] or #df-camellia on my profile!

There are things which you always finish first, mostly those you don’t enjoy.

Buying groceries could prove hard at times, and so you were reduced to three locations ran mostly by servants of richer Xianzhou natives. You had time in recent days to come by, given the newly remade schedule of your work—something rather pleasing. Seeing your own, despite the differences, was as comforting as it could be infuriating.

Metals and ores needed for forgery were more accessible than back then, thanks to the image of the figure you’ve created; life was slowly mellowing out, certain things just needed to be dealt with faster than the other ones. Groceries before your hobbies, and then gathering before forging.

The new spear was what proved to be a nuisance.

A weapon of this caliber could take months to be done(proven by the many weapons you’ve created since owning the forgery), then again Dan Feng was offering what he claimed to be a special sort of treatment. And, despite his constant pestering about the smith, the weapon was slowly being finalised.

It would be easier -and faster- if he didn’t insist on intruding. You could not let anyone see you work—not only were you not Yingxing, you also didn’t have a license; something that could only be signed off by an immortal supervisor. While technically Yingxing was such a figure, he could not help you. After all he would have to come and present himself to authorities, something he couldn’t possibly execute from the confines of your skull.

The sound of bristles echoed and muffled your thoughts as you swept away the leftover pieces of metal chiseled the night before, the floor creaking after each step you took. The dim light long became your friend, eyes having adjusted over the years of darkness—each sweep of the broom cleared some of the wooden floor, although it was stained beyond repair.

You didn’t bother washing it anymore.

The sound of your sweeping and your footsteps was joined by a soft ring floating through air, its voice as annoying as it was soothing. You only tipped your head towards the entrance, and Dan Feng’s face softly tilted towards the upper corner of the doorframe.

”One was not aware of a bell before.” He noted, and he was correct. The bell was but a recent development, after tiring days of tolerating his presence.

You were made aware of his figure thanks to the small item you've made at least—that was the intention. Making yourself stand properly, you leaned the broom against the darkened wall of the forgery, keeping your hand on it still. The furnace did not spit heat today. All the fire in the room was the fire in your mind.

“We are closed. Cleaning day.”

The Vidyadhara glanced at you, at your broom, and then towards the furnace. “While One’s weapon is queued up?”

You took a deeper breath in, hand tightening against the item. It was rough to the touch, a new broom not yet smoothened down. The wood bit into your skin unpleasantly—irritating the scarred inside of your palm, knuckles nearly turning white.

“I don't question Master’s choices.” You lied through your teeth. Working on the new spear proved to be difficult due to constant intrusions, and you've long decided to not work at it during daytime. It appeared that you really would not come back to your natural schedule unless the weapon was done. You’d have Dan Feng off your shoulder.

That's precisely why nothing was prepared for forging. The tools hung like they were hanging before, everything as clean as it could be in those conditions—only a fool would believe any craft was done today.

Dan Feng nodded. “That's a shame. Ask on One's behalf about the state of the spear then,” he spoke as clear as ever, tone commanding. It made you want to get out of your skin. “One shall gather the news next time.”

For a High Elder of Vidyadhara, power was all that mattered. Same went for Dan Feng, both because of his need for combat, and for the preceptor’s need for authority.

The question lingered on the tip of your tongue, falling out unintentionally.

“High Elder, why show up personally?”

It was something he did not expect to be asked.

You knew what he must've believed himself to be, Inhabitant Lunar Dan Feng—the Higher Elder of Xianzhou Loufu’s Vidyadhara, or some even more elaborate of a title.

He had servants at his side, and he was of importance according to other immortals of Xianzhou. So, why show? Why try to put in all this effort?

You bit the inside of your cheek, the bastard must've thought that he was lowering himself to the people's level by coming here. He must've assumed authority, did he believe doing that would bring his weapon any more effort?

“It is a serious matter for One.” Was all he said.

Alas, a client is a client.

—

The news of the forgery spread like water after the tsunami, reaching the ears of the Scalegorge Waterscape, and the Sea Palace.

New talents in Loufu were nothing unseen. Within his life, the High Elder witnessed the rise and fall of many; spare for this one. Weapons which are unique and not mass produced, tailored. Swift and merciless, especially against dealing with those mara struck.

Weapons which hurt.

No ordinary person could afford such a commision—novel yet expensive, another part which seemed to tickle his already hoarding-oriented senses. After a reconnaissance ordered by the High Elder, he was informed that the forgery did not accept all commissions, either.

An exclusive treat indeed—something elusive, uncommon. Right for the Vidyadhara’s taste; considering the many items lining the Palace and the ‘gardens’, he simply could not think otherwise.

A rare pearl within his necklace of many, something so simple, yet necessary.

The High Elder was faintly aware of his tendencies to have and wield. Such is the fate of a Vidyadhara after all; leftover traces from their Draconic predecessor, little quirks and needs which could show right away, or take a timeline to unravel.

One of those traits for Dan Feng was his inability to tolerate certain things; rejection, events out of his control and especially—whatever it is that he cannot have, cannot know.

Whoever Yingxing believed himself to be, he could not be as important as to omit the High Elder’s gaze. And so, once a servant delivered the news, Dan Feng felt.. strange. Years have passed since someone last declined the offer made in his might and benevolence—it was unthinkable to even consider it happening.

“His assistant has said—“

The Vidyadhara pulled his hand up, his sleeve spilling downwards to pool at his elbow.

”It does not matter, then. You’re dismissed.”

Curt and to the point, but Dan Feng needed no explanation. His invitation to meet in the palace was rejected, and now he was left to figure out exactly what went wrong. Something akin to burn in his chest, a heat in his veins and a tight grip on his mind. The Vidyadhara was unable to identify what the feeling was, and as such chose to resolve the matter personally.

After mulling over it for longer than necessary, he rose from the carved seat, leaving the hall. The walk towards the exit was lined with high ceilings and plasters lining the edges, pillars and tiles. The surrounding area—usually lined with turquoise—shimmered in many different colours, each window composed of thousands of shards. Parts of it bore a different shade, stuck together with gold-like metal.

His steps echoed, and he didn’t face the many decorations, and he didn’t stop to appreciate the doors either, pushing through till the sun temporarily blinded him. Dan Feng’s pupils thinned visibly. If the smith refused to meet him, he would stoop down to meet his level.

Persistence always paid off. Something preceptors taught him, and something he learned himself. To have is to persist, be it in hard work or otherwise—Dan Feng was no stranger to that.

But how long can you throw the bait, if the fish learned what it is?

He has tried before, through extending an invitation by his own servant. And then he went as far as to extend an invitation through an assistant, having to leave Scalegorge Waterscape solely to do it. He, in his expensive silks and thick fragrances, has come and found nothing that he looked for—something that didn’t improve no matter his frequent visits. Catching the smith off guard proved to be futile.

The High Elder was a moderately busy man. Managing the affairs of Vidyadhara and controlling the council of preceptors, paired with seeking an utmost appropriate weapon. He was used to reaping results, and for the first time in forever he was left with neither results, nor the strange ease he felt when getting them—the more he tried, the more it evaded him.

Day after day of him trying, his focus was no longer the weapon.

It was the elusive figure of a mystical smith. Because Celestinae and Foxians might have given up—but not him. Not a vidyadhara, and certainly not the High Elder who oversaw everything relating to the affairs of his people; especially not Dan Feng, whose first and foremost trait was not just ambition, but determination.

From results came a thrill, and this time, it was not here. Something so obvious that he was used to; tilling the land brings fruits most ripe and sweet, but the flowers withered before their transformation, leaving Dan Feng to look at the petals scattering in the winds.

Enough was enough.

A man who had what he wanted, was a man who never let things slip. Be it minor crimes, or antiques from ancient eras left by his predecessors. Dan Feng remembered how he felt then—when he was entrusted with the relics of Vidyadhara. A heavy stone from his heart, thrown off temporarily.

And now it was back, weighing not just as stone, but as a boulder.

He’d find that little Celestinae smith and teach them a firm lesson of subordination. No one rejects High Elder’s request; not another Vidyadhara, not a Foxians, and definitely not a Xianzhou native.

With the need for justice came his shift. Dan Feng no longer only cared about the weapon; a man so picky and hard to please—no, he did not need the weapon. He needed something he could not have, something far more pleasing than a spear. He needed Yingxing—and, once he had him, then he’d get his weapon.

The more Yingxing ignored his appeals, the more firm in his goals he became. Because who are you to reject your High Elder’s request? As if he was nothing—as if he did not matter.

It took time to find space for extracurricular activities, but he was no stranger to waiting for his trap to catch. It would not be enough to have a third party drag the smith to his feet for judgement; it was personal now, after all the chances he’s been given.

Dan Feng could bet his tail and a horn that this was deliberate.

With an excuse of a simple stroll, the High Elder descended from Scalegorge Waterscape to the Loufu’s main area.

The streets were spacious, occasional buzzing of the lanterns being the only thing that accompanied his steps over the wooden surface. He stood out like a beacon in his white vest and long sleeves, the night sky clear yet dark all the same. It was better on his eyes at least, and he could comfortably look around without having to squint. If it was up to him, he’d rather be nocturnal.

On his way to the forge he noticed many things, one being the absence of light in people's windows, and the lack of their colour. So unlike his, plain and see through. It was late—a load of time after midnight, but he didn’t know how much exactly.

Another thing was the trinkets, usually laid out near the doors, conveniently hidden in shadows—his palace was always full of light, even at night. Then again—this was the common folk he was dealing with.

Third, and likely most agitating, was the sound from the forge. Just as he had expected—if Yingxing never shows up during daytime and yet the progress is made, it must mean he works when no eyes can see.

Truly a cunning subject he was.

His steps were light, something hot bubbling in his chest, and his eyes involuntarily narrowed the more he thought about it. Despite the closed windows, the light—although weak, was fairly visible. And frankly, the echo of metal against metal was enough to prove his theory.

Dan Feng has thought about this for many days, weeks. Maybe even a month. Has it been a month already? More? He never counted time, why would he?

His approach was measured, stepping shy of the entrance, as if sliding between the grass in wait for the prey to make a move. All that was left for the snake to do was to slip inside. His hand slightly shifted towards the handle. And as always before, he twisted it, his touch delicate—to seamlessly open without a sound.

Dan Feng’s brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the doors. He gave it one more go, but they did not move, and the bell did not ring.

His throat felt tight, and for a moment an overwhelming feeling overtook his mind, creating something akin to a thought spaghetti, where he could no longer see where each string started and began.

The doors were locked.

Not only personal anymore, no, this was deliberately directed. His fingers slowly tightened against the knob, his knuckles turning paler than they were before. High Elder’s eye twitched.

He was no stranger to trickery, and while he wished things were easier, they evidently weren’t.

With a sharp move his other hand moved behind his head, long fingers gripping onto the metal hairpin that held parts of his hair. The black locks spilled free, perfectly straight despite their former confinement, going over his shoulders, while some neatly fell onto his back, covering the intricate design of his clothes.

He did come here with a purpose—if he was to show himself to the ever-elusive smith, he needed to look his best. Perhaps out of the sheer need to establish an authority, even if it was first meant to be an outer one; it would be useless to try and show it through actions, Yingxing clearly had no care for his status.

Dan Feng’s eyes lingered on the long pin, looking at its design, the branches sticking out from the end to create a pattern of a tree, accompanied with gemstone flowers at the ends. For a moment his gaze lingered.

The High Elder refused to think about it more than necessary. He shoved the sharp end of the pin right into the lock, a simple lock really—thick and rusty, aged. No later than that he let go of the knob, pointing his straightened palm parallel to the doors, turning it. Being the High Elder of vidyadhara gave him many tricks indeed, perhaps this would be considered abuse of power.

But the preceptors weren’t there to nag over his ear like old consorts, and a soft click was all he heard, right before—

The half of the hairpin that stuck out of the lock suddenly tilted downward with a ring, the metal which Dan Feng hadn’t realised to be fragile was now snapped. His eyes widened, and his fingers twitched, palm slowly curling into a fist.

Parting with one of his favourite hairpins wasn’t something he expected today. But, if it had to be sacrificed, then he had no regrets—well, it wasn’t all done for.

Yingxing owed him this; a repair would not be difficult.

Dan Feng pulled the metal out of the lock, holding it in his hand. And then he stared at the doors, ones he knew were unlocked, and he hesitated.

His chest felt a little tight, and something he hasn’t felt in a while bloomed in his mind. Last time it happened, he was still quite a youngling, boarding a Starskiff for the very first time in order to learn it. It wasn’t a sense of fear, but a sense of excitement. An eagerness to explore, to feel the unknown.

The High elder felt similar now, but he hesitated. He hesitated because it was too easy. He hesitated because it almost felt like cheating. This was no feat at all, and if anyone saw him on the street right now, he’d become a laughing stock. His mind whispered a simple answer; desperate.

His eyes narrowed once more; no, no. Why should he care? He is Imbibitor Lunae, the High Elder of Vidyadhara. He is Dan Feng.

With a final inhale he twisted the handle slowly, pushing the doors open. His hand shot up, using his innate talent of Cloudhymn to silence the bell before it even moved. The first thing he felt was the rise of temperature.

Near darkness, spare for the furnace and the light that hot metal emitted. The shadows around Dan Feng flickered like a candle’s flame, an occasional crackle accompanying the otherwise rhythmic thudding. Sharp noise, again and again, no longer dulled by the doors. Metal against metal, and the smith did not hear nor see him.

The air was thick with heat, weighing down on his lungs as he pressed on, his steps slow and deliberate until he finally saw the other end of the forge, where all the noise started. Where the artist was hammering, robed in tradition and dressed in work and mysticism, with an imposing stature deserving that of a smith. A man lost in the heat of work and ambition—surrounded by embers and flame.

Yet this is not what he saw—his eyes widened in bewildered surprise.

The assistant. Alone. Hammering away—measured and precise, unfaltering and confident. The Vidyadhara remained silent, his hand moving to the wall so he could seamlessly lean into it, melting into the shadow.

Each move was filled with confidence, hammer pulled upwards just to crash down again, over and over, timed. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing or regret. He watched each motion—not wasted, not random, but utterly and truly purposeful.

Dan Feng would’ve assumed the assistant to merely play with metal when the true smith was gone—a theory shattered instantaneously when the assistant turned the metal over to continue their craft.

Not clumsiness he expected no, it was skill and precision. Dedication you only get after many times of practice—efficiency.

Dan Feng felt a spark of fire in his throat, burning at it like an amber, his eyes narrowing from mild irritation. He’s been tricked—many times. Because you were no mere messenger. You were the smith.

And as his feelings simmered, he allowed them, his eyes not once leaving the figure in front of him. The anger inside Dan Feng made way for intrigue, and instead of speaking up like he should’ve, he left his lips sealed for what felt like a moment too long.

But he could no longer. High Elder pushed off the wall, taking a deliberate step into the light. No later than after he has spoken, your shoulders tensed. The hammer wasn’t raised for another strike, the upper half of your body twisting just enough to see him.

”Yingxing.”

[zeyris-daydreams]

Jade Dragon’s Iron-Clad Camellias [3]

Dan Feng x Reader 

[ao3] or #df-camellia on my profile!

There are things which you always finish first, mostly those you don’t enjoy.

Buying groceries could prove hard at times, and so you were reduced to three locations ran mostly by servants of richer Xianzhou natives. You had time in recent days to come by, given the newly remade schedule of your work—something rather pleasing. Seeing your own, despite the differences, was as comforting as it could be infuriating.

Metals and ores needed for forgery were more accessible than back then, thanks to the image of the figure you’ve created; life was slowly mellowing out, certain things just needed to be dealt with faster than the other ones. Groceries before your hobbies, and then gathering before forging.

The new spear was what proved to be a nuisance.

A weapon of this caliber could take months to be done(proven by the many weapons you’ve created since owning the forgery), then again Dan Feng was offering what he claimed to be a special sort of treatment. And, despite his constant pestering about the smith, the weapon was slowly being finalised.

It would be easier -and faster- if he didn’t insist on intruding. You could not let anyone see you work—not only were you not Yingxing, you also didn’t have a license; something that could only be signed off by an immortal supervisor. While technically Yingxing was such a figure, he could not help you. After all he would have to come and present himself to authorities, something he couldn’t possibly execute from the confines of your skull.

The sound of bristles echoed and muffled your thoughts as you swept away the leftover pieces of metal chiseled the night before, the floor creaking after each step you took. The dim light long became your friend, eyes having adjusted over the years of darkness—each sweep of the broom cleared some of the wooden floor, although it was stained beyond repair.

You didn’t bother washing it anymore.

The sound of your sweeping and your footsteps was joined by a soft ring floating through air, its voice as annoying as it was soothing. You only tipped your head towards the entrance, and Dan Feng’s face softly tilted towards the upper corner of the doorframe.

”One was not aware of a bell before.” He noted, and he was correct. The bell was but a recent development, after tiring days of tolerating his presence.

You were made aware of his figure thanks to the small item you've made at least—that was the intention. Making yourself stand properly, you leaned the broom against the darkened wall of the forgery, keeping your hand on it still. The furnace did not spit heat today. All the fire in the room was the fire in your mind.

“We are closed. Cleaning day.”

The Vidyadhara glanced at you, at your broom, and then towards the furnace. “While One’s weapon is queued up?”

You took a deeper breath in, hand tightening against the item. It was rough to the touch, a new broom not yet smoothened down. The wood bit into your skin unpleasantly—irritating the scarred inside of your palm, knuckles nearly turning white.

“I don't question Master’s choices.” You lied through your teeth. Working on the new spear proved to be difficult due to constant intrusions, and you've long decided to not work at it during daytime. It appeared that you really would not come back to your natural schedule unless the weapon was done. You’d have Dan Feng off your shoulder.

That's precisely why nothing was prepared for forging. The tools hung like they were hanging before, everything as clean as it could be in those conditions—only a fool would believe any craft was done today.

Dan Feng nodded. “That's a shame. Ask on One's behalf about the state of the spear then,” he spoke as clear as ever, tone commanding. It made you want to get out of your skin. “One shall gather the news next time.”

For a High Elder of Vidyadhara, power was all that mattered. Same went for Dan Feng, both because of his need for combat, and for the preceptor’s need for authority.

The question lingered on the tip of your tongue, falling out unintentionally.

“High Elder, why show up personally?”

It was something he did not expect to be asked.

You knew what he must've believed himself to be, Inhabitant Lunar Dan Feng—the Higher Elder of Xianzhou Loufu’s Vidyadhara, or some even more elaborate of a title.

He had servants at his side, and he was of importance according to other immortals of Xianzhou. So, why show? Why try to put in all this effort?

You bit the inside of your cheek, the bastard must've thought that he was lowering himself to the people's level by coming here. He must've assumed authority, did he believe doing that would bring his weapon any more effort?

“It is a serious matter for One.” Was all he said.

Alas, a client is a client.

—

The news of the forgery spread like water after the tsunami, reaching the ears of the Scalegorge Waterscape, and the Sea Palace.

New talents in Loufu were nothing unseen. Within his life, the High Elder witnessed the rise and fall of many; spare for this one. Weapons which are unique and not mass produced, tailored. Swift and merciless, especially against dealing with those mara struck.

Weapons which hurt.

No ordinary person could afford such a commision—novel yet expensive, another part which seemed to tickle his already hoarding-oriented senses. After a reconnaissance ordered by the High Elder, he was informed that the forgery did not accept all commissions, either.

An exclusive treat indeed—something elusive, uncommon. Right for the Vidyadhara’s taste; considering the many items lining the Palace and the ‘gardens’, he simply could not think otherwise.

A rare pearl within his necklace of many, something so simple, yet necessary.

The High Elder was faintly aware of his tendencies to have and wield. Such is the fate of a Vidyadhara after all; leftover traces from their Draconic predecessor, little quirks and needs which could show right away, or take a timeline to unravel.

One of those traits for Dan Feng was his inability to tolerate certain things; rejection, events out of his control and especially—whatever it is that he cannot have, cannot know.

Whoever Yingxing believed himself to be, he could not be as important as to omit the High Elder’s gaze. And so, once a servant delivered the news, Dan Feng felt.. strange. Years have passed since someone last declined the offer made in his might and benevolence—it was unthinkable to even consider it happening.

“His assistant has said—“

The Vidyadhara pulled his hand up, his sleeve spilling downwards to pool at his elbow.

”It does not matter, then. You’re dismissed.”

Curt and to the point, but Dan Feng needed no explanation. His invitation to meet in the palace was rejected, and now he was left to figure out exactly what went wrong. Something akin to burn in his chest, a heat in his veins and a tight grip on his mind. The Vidyadhara was unable to identify what the feeling was, and as such chose to resolve the matter personally.

After mulling over it for longer than necessary, he rose from the carved seat, leaving the hall. The walk towards the exit was lined with high ceilings and plasters lining the edges, pillars and tiles. The surrounding area—usually lined with turquoise—shimmered in many different colours, each window composed of thousands of shards. Parts of it bore a different shade, stuck together with gold-like metal.

His steps echoed, and he didn’t face the many decorations, and he didn’t stop to appreciate the doors either, pushing through till the sun temporarily blinded him. Dan Feng’s pupils thinned visibly. If the smith refused to meet him, he would stoop down to meet his level.

Persistence always paid off. Something preceptors taught him, and something he learned himself. To have is to persist, be it in hard work or otherwise—Dan Feng was no stranger to that.

But how long can you throw the bait, if the fish learned what it is?

He has tried before, through extending an invitation by his own servant. And then he went as far as to extend an invitation through an assistant, having to leave Scalegorge Waterscape solely to do it. He, in his expensive silks and thick fragrances, has come and found nothing that he looked for—something that didn’t improve no matter his frequent visits. Catching the smith off guard proved to be futile.

The High Elder was a moderately busy man. Managing the affairs of Vidyadhara and controlling the council of preceptors, paired with seeking an utmost appropriate weapon. He was used to reaping results, and for the first time in forever he was left with neither results, nor the strange ease he felt when getting them—the more he tried, the more it evaded him.

Day after day of him trying, his focus was no longer the weapon.

It was the elusive figure of a mystical smith. Because Celestinae and Foxians might have given up—but not him. Not a vidyadhara, and certainly not the High Elder who oversaw everything relating to the affairs of his people; especially not Dan Feng, whose first and foremost trait was not just ambition, but determination.

From results came a thrill, and this time, it was not here. Something so obvious that he was used to; tilling the land brings fruits most ripe and sweet, but the flowers withered before their transformation, leaving Dan Feng to look at the petals scattering in the winds.

Enough was enough.

A man who had what he wanted, was a man who never let things slip. Be it minor crimes, or antiques from ancient eras left by his predecessors. Dan Feng remembered how he felt then—when he was entrusted with the relics of Vidyadhara. A heavy stone from his heart, thrown off temporarily.

And now it was back, weighing not just as stone, but as a boulder.

He’d find that little Celestinae smith and teach them a firm lesson of subordination. No one rejects High Elder’s request; not another Vidyadhara, not a Foxians, and definitely not a Xianzhou native.

With the need for justice came his shift. Dan Feng no longer only cared about the weapon; a man so picky and hard to please—no, he did not need the weapon. He needed something he could not have, something far more pleasing than a spear. He needed Yingxing—and, once he had him, then he’d get his weapon.

The more Yingxing ignored his appeals, the more firm in his goals he became. Because who are you to reject your High Elder’s request? As if he was nothing—as if he did not matter.

It took time to find space for extracurricular activities, but he was no stranger to waiting for his trap to catch. It would not be enough to have a third party drag the smith to his feet for judgement; it was personal now, after all the chances he’s been given.

Dan Feng could bet his tail and a horn that this was deliberate.

With an excuse of a simple stroll, the High Elder descended from Scalegorge Waterscape to the Loufu’s main area.

The streets were spacious, occasional buzzing of the lanterns being the only thing that accompanied his steps over the wooden surface. He stood out like a beacon in his white vest and long sleeves, the night sky clear yet dark all the same. It was better on his eyes at least, and he could comfortably look around without having to squint. If it was up to him, he’d rather be nocturnal.

On his way to the forge he noticed many things, one being the absence of light in people's windows, and the lack of their colour. So unlike his, plain and see through. It was late—a load of time after midnight, but he didn’t know how much exactly.

Another thing was the trinkets, usually laid out near the doors, conveniently hidden in shadows—his palace was always full of light, even at night. Then again—this was the common folk he was dealing with.

Third, and likely most agitating, was the sound from the forge. Just as he had expected—if Yingxing never shows up during daytime and yet the progress is made, it must mean he works when no eyes can see.

Truly a cunning subject he was.

His steps were light, something hot bubbling in his chest, and his eyes involuntarily narrowed the more he thought about it. Despite the closed windows, the light—although weak, was fairly visible. And frankly, the echo of metal against metal was enough to prove his theory.

Dan Feng has thought about this for many days, weeks. Maybe even a month. Has it been a month already? More? He never counted time, why would he?

His approach was measured, stepping shy of the entrance, as if sliding between the grass in wait for the prey to make a move. All that was left for the snake to do was to slip inside. His hand slightly shifted towards the handle. And as always before, he twisted it, his touch delicate—to seamlessly open without a sound.

Dan Feng’s brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the doors. He gave it one more go, but they did not move, and the bell did not ring.

His throat felt tight, and for a moment an overwhelming feeling overtook his mind, creating something akin to a thought spaghetti, where he could no longer see where each string started and began.

The doors were locked.

Not only personal anymore, no, this was deliberately directed. His fingers slowly tightened against the knob, his knuckles turning paler than they were before. High Elder’s eye twitched.

He was no stranger to trickery, and while he wished things were easier, they evidently weren’t.

With a sharp move his other hand moved behind his head, long fingers gripping onto the metal hairpin that held parts of his hair. The black locks spilled free, perfectly straight despite their former confinement, going over his shoulders, while some neatly fell onto his back, covering the intricate design of his clothes.

He did come here with a purpose—if he was to show himself to the ever-elusive smith, he needed to look his best. Perhaps out of the sheer need to establish an authority, even if it was first meant to be an outer one; it would be useless to try and show it through actions, Yingxing clearly had no care for his status.

Dan Feng’s eyes lingered on the long pin, looking at its design, the branches sticking out from the end to create a pattern of a tree, accompanied with gemstone flowers at the ends. For a moment his gaze lingered.

The High Elder refused to think about it more than necessary. He shoved the sharp end of the pin right into the lock, a simple lock really—thick and rusty, aged. No later than that he let go of the knob, pointing his straightened palm parallel to the doors, turning it. Being the High Elder of vidyadhara gave him many tricks indeed, perhaps this would be considered abuse of power.

But the preceptors weren’t there to nag over his ear like old consorts, and a soft click was all he heard, right before—

The half of the hairpin that stuck out of the lock suddenly tilted downward with a ring, the metal which Dan Feng hadn’t realised to be fragile was now snapped. His eyes widened, and his fingers twitched, palm slowly curling into a fist.

Parting with one of his favourite hairpins wasn’t something he expected today. But, if it had to be sacrificed, then he had no regrets—well, it wasn’t all done for.

Yingxing owed him this; a repair would not be difficult.

Dan Feng pulled the metal out of the lock, holding it in his hand. And then he stared at the doors, ones he knew were unlocked, and he hesitated.

His chest felt a little tight, and something he hasn’t felt in a while bloomed in his mind. Last time it happened, he was still quite a youngling, boarding a Starskiff for the very first time in order to learn it. It wasn’t a sense of fear, but a sense of excitement. An eagerness to explore, to feel the unknown.

The High elder felt similar now, but he hesitated. He hesitated because it was too easy. He hesitated because it almost felt like cheating. This was no feat at all, and if anyone saw him on the street right now, he’d become a laughing stock. His mind whispered a simple answer; desperate.

His eyes narrowed once more; no, no. Why should he care? He is Imbibitor Lunae, the High Elder of Vidyadhara. He is Dan Feng.

With a final inhale he twisted the handle slowly, pushing the doors open. His hand shot up, using his innate talent of Cloudhymn to silence the bell before it even moved. The first thing he felt was the rise of temperature.

Near darkness, spare for the furnace and the light that hot metal emitted. The shadows around Dan Feng flickered like a candle’s flame, an occasional crackle accompanying the otherwise rhythmic thudding. Sharp noise, again and again, no longer dulled by the doors. Metal against metal, and the smith did not hear nor see him.

The air was thick with heat, weighing down on his lungs as he pressed on, his steps slow and deliberate until he finally saw the other end of the forge, where all the noise started. Where the artist was hammering, robed in tradition and dressed in work and mysticism, with an imposing stature deserving that of a smith. A man lost in the heat of work and ambition—surrounded by embers and flame.

Yet this is not what he saw—his eyes widened in bewildered surprise.

The assistant. Alone. Hammering away—measured and precise, unfaltering and confident. The Vidyadhara remained silent, his hand moving to the wall so he could seamlessly lean into it, melting into the shadow.

Each move was filled with confidence, hammer pulled upwards just to crash down again, over and over, timed. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing or regret. He watched each motion—not wasted, not random, but utterly and truly purposeful.

Dan Feng would’ve assumed the assistant to merely play with metal when the true smith was gone—a theory shattered instantaneously when the assistant turned the metal over to continue their craft.

Not clumsiness he expected no, it was skill and precision. Dedication you only get after many times of practice—efficiency.

Dan Feng felt a spark of fire in his throat, burning at it like an amber, his eyes narrowing from mild irritation. He’s been tricked—many times. Because you were no mere messenger. You were the smith.

And as his feelings simmered, he allowed them, his eyes not once leaving the figure in front of him. The anger inside Dan Feng made way for intrigue, and instead of speaking up like he should’ve, he left his lips sealed for what felt like a moment too long.

But he could no longer. High Elder pushed off the wall, taking a deliberate step into the light. No later than after he has spoken, your shoulders tensed. The hammer wasn’t raised for another strike, the upper half of your body twisting just enough to see him.

”Yingxing.”

[zeyris-daydreams]

thank you for the camellias series!! you’re really feeding us dan feng enjoyers 😋

Hello !!! Omg hdhdfhhfhf yeah you're so right this series is going to be LONG though as I've already figured out every single step of it. It's going to be so good. me feeding myself and the other 3 Dan Feng enjoyers fr 😭

[zeyris-daydreams]

// mind the tags.

Being with Anaxagoras was no different than being a carefully placed test subject ; or rather, a carefully placed observation subject. He was a chrysos heir full of denial, but the fate didn't waltz around him, and so he met you.

Aglaea, as the one who strode in footsteps of romance titan, was fitting for the cause; Anaxagoras did not agree to her ideas(of an arranged marriage) on a whim, after all. A man like him does not leave things up to a chance, and you certainly weren't worth the gamble. In your eyes, this was arranged and spontaneous—a coincidence that you were the one.

He was far different than Mydei or Phainon in this aspect; Anaxagoras was entirely neutral towards his "fate". For him, to believe in a predetermined outcome was to create it from the threads with your fingers; a self fulfilling prophecy—he equated it to causing a war from belief that said war would come to pass.

People always strive for familiar and the safe, and sometimes—in efforts to prevent a catastrophy, they themselves cause it. Anaxagoras never left things for a chance and he never allowed well-timed coincidences to poison his mind either.

Given his observant and encompassing nature, very little evaded his sharp eye—

He cradled your face in his hands, tilting it. The feeling of discomfort was there, subtle enough yet present by the furrow of your eyebrows, or the soft trembling of your lip.

Anaxagoras didn't merely appreciate you, to be with him was to be under a scientists watchful scalpel—and he dissected you like a subject fitting for his blade. "Anaxagoras—" the name slipped from your lips, and yet you could not follow it up with anything.

His head tilted, and you could feel his stare pierce through your skin, right into the muscle, where he split it to reveal the bones and the bare and the nerves and your mind. It was only his look, and yet it felt like something far more violating.

"Yes?"

You swallowed, but before you could say anything Anaxagoras leaned up close, his lips gently brushing against your cheekbone. "Your eyebrows are uneven."

Despite how many times you've had this conversation, it seemed he did not relent. Then again he learned since then—that you did not appreciate his observant nature as much as you claimed to do. "It's cute."

If you were to do the same to him, he wouldn't care. Because frankly, Anaxagoras did not comment in bad faith. The little things that made you, be you, he wished to pick apart and lay out on the table—he wanted to study you, what makes you be you, what allows you to exist.

Your eyes narrowed in irritation, but most of all the feeling of an intrusion—a needle so thin it pricked right underneath your skin, and you could not tear it out.

The sage's face moved back, his thumb lightly brushing against your jaw. His 'inspections' felt more intrusive than appreciative, and it was easy to conclude the statements to carry a negative connotation. Then again, this was merely how Anaxagoras was—he commented on every step within his research field, and he commented on every step now.

He opened his mouth more than necessary before as well—the feeling of his hands on you in a heated moment between husband and wife, soured by the "Your breasts are uneven." that slipped out of his mouth. The way he ran his fingers down your body other times, voicing his observation of a mole he hadn't seen before. The slow stroke of Anaxagoras' finger down your nose, humming of it's shape.

Anaxagoras had to be observant, and regardless of what you assumed of his comments, it did not change the nature of them. You were still you—the one he had picked out. The one unknowing to the nature of the choice he made. He wanted to chisel out his mind in your shape, to commit everything to memory—was he a good sage if he could not do as much?

Things had to be shaped—that's why Anaxagoras did not believe in fate. He did not believe in prophecies nor predetermined outcomes, because with his mind and hand, he woven the threads that bound you to him. This was not a fate's play, and he would refuse to let it reap the praise for his own labour.

You were his because he made it so—do not let the idea of a 'fated meeting' fool you. Alas, you were not privy to the concept.

[Mydei] [Phainon] [Aglaea in writing…] [Full masterlist]