Cursed Cola

Now is the part where you dub me a hypocrite. Thankfully I am not there in person to receive your ire. 

I cannot say I am surprised. I have come to expect that of you. When there is a task to be done, you throw yourself into it with the kind of focus that would put many seasoned officers to shame. It would be impressive, if it were not also so worrying.

This mentality is not one born of circumstance. I imagine you’ve always been the stubborn sort. It’s a shame we did not meet as children. I’m rather curious how far your tenacity traces back to your roots. 

You know very well what I am about to say, I think. That you cannot keep going forever without rest. That a mind works better when it is allowed to recover. That even the strongest among us are not meant to carry every burden alone. You say these things to the newer recruits often enough, and I have seen you say them to the heroes as well. You are always the first to remind everyone else to eat, to sleep, to step away from their work before they are worn thin.

And yet when it is your own turn, you seem determined to ignore every word of your own advice.

I know the war leaves little room for ease. I know there are expectations placed upon you that would be unfair to ask of anyone, much less someone who was thrust into this role without choice. Still, no one expects you to become a perfect tactician in a single night, and no one expects you to bear Askr’s future alone.

We are grateful to you. Truly. More than I have the words to say.

We are grateful for your skill, yes, but more than that, for the thought and care you put into every decision. You do not need to become a product of those tomes to belong in Askyr. You already are as the summoner we all look to.

…There is another reason I am writing, though it is somewhat harder to say plainly.

I would like to invite you to lunch tomorrow.

Not in the dining hall, where everyone is coming and going and there is always some matter or other interrupting a peaceful meal. I mean in the courtyard, if the weather is kind. I asked Anna to help me gather a small spread, nothing elaborate, just enough for the two of us to sit quietly for a while. I thought it might be a welcome change from books and battle maps and all the noise that follows you so faithfully these days.

When I made the request, I realized something rather embarrassing.

I do not know your favorite food.

Or your favorite color, for that matter.

I know many things about you, of course. I know the way your eyes sharpen when you are considering something important. I know how quickly you notice what others miss. I know that you are patient in ways that are easy to overlook, and more stubborn than you ever admit. I know that you will always go out of your way to help someone in need, even if doing so means neglecting yourself. I know that you idle in the auditorium pews when you grow anxious and that you are the one leaving bushels of lavender in the barracks’ sauna for our heroes. 

But there are still so many simple things I do not know. Things I should know.

It feels strange to admit that. I think I have been afraid to ask too much about your home. I never wanted to say something that might bring you pain or homesickness. And yet, selfishly, I want to know more. About where you came from. About what your life was like before Askr. About the things you miss, and the things you loved. If you are willing to tell me, I would like to listen. And if you would rather not, then I will understand that too. Even now, I cannot help but feel that there are parts of your life I have no right to touch unless you offer them first.

And yet…I want to know them.

Not out of idle curiosity. Not because I think I am owed them. Simply because you matter to me, and I would like to understand you better than I do now.

If you ever speak of where you came from, I will listen. If you never wish to, I will not press you. I only hope you will not think me presumptuous for asking. I know there are wounds that do not close just because one has found a new place to stand.

You owe us nothing, Kiran. You were pulled from your home and brought here without your choice. That is not something I forget, even when the rest of the world is demanding and unkind. My sister and I, and this kingdom as well, are in your debt far more than you are in ours. If there is anything at all I can do to make this life easier for you, then please tell me. I know you are likely to refuse, as you always do when I ask. But I will continue to ask regardless, because I want you to remember that you are cared for here. I may not always say such things as openly as I should, but I mean them. Every time.

You have done so much for Askr. For Sharena, for our heroes, for me. You have given us your time, your effort, your patience, and your trust. More than once, I have found myself wondering how I am meant to lead at all without you beside me. It is a selfish thought, perhaps. But it is the truth.

I do not say that only because you are our Summoner.

I say it because I care for you.

Because I notice when you are tired, even when you try to hide it. Because I think of you long after our work is done. Because there are moments when you stand beside me, grounding when this life falters, and I find myself wishing the world would grant us just a little more time together — for it is with you that I find myself at peace.

I am not always good at saying these things. That much you know already. But if there is anything I hope you understand, it is this: you are not merely useful to us. You are not simply a strategist, or a summoned ally, or someone we depend upon in war.

You are important to Askyr. To me. 

So please. Come to the courtyard tomorrow. Let yourself sit for a while. Let me learn something small and ordinary about you, something as simple as a favorite food or a color you like. Let me give you, even briefly, some part of the normal life you have had to set aside since arriving here.

Allow me to show you what Askyr has to offer beyond the walls of your study. The good in which you are fighting for alongside us. 

And if you should choose to stay a little longer than planned, I would welcome your company. As I always will. 

With gratitude, and more affection than I can safely admit through this quill,

Alfonse

This arrangement did not particularly bother Periša Apate Vivarićia, who would be returning home along with the overzealous droves. At most he concerned himself with the lounge no longer offering a quiet reprieve during closed season, and yet that meant little when he would be far from campus. 

As such, he went unconcerned. Barely spared the notice tacked on the welcome board a thought when he passed through.

He sat in one of the back booths where the lighting was dimmer and the noise of the lounge softened into a pleasant hush, one gloved hand steadying a page of alchemy notes while the other moved a pen with practiced precision across his homework. The dish he ordered sat half-finished beside him, exactly to his taste. Rich in spice, carefully prepared, and mercifully free of any ‘ingredients’ that had to be questioned. 

There were many places on campus where one might study.

The library was overcrowded. The courtyard was drafty. The dormitory common rooms were never truly without incident with all these fresheyed first-years mucking about, and Periša found Pomefiore’s seating tasteful yet hardly comfortable. Each loveseat was much too narrow to stretch a leg, let alone free his tail from its glamour. 

Here, however, he could work in peace while still having the exquisite benefit of Jade Leech’s presence nearby whenever the merman decided to haunt the waitstaff floor. It was a convenience Periša had long since learned to appreciate, even if the man himself remained a source of endless irritation.

A source of endless, polished irritation.

The booths were also quite roomy. Ashengrotto is not one to skimp on ambiance, that is for sure. 

Periša’s pen paused as a shadow fell across the table. 

“Good evening,Vivarićia.” Jade’s voice was smooth as ever, carrying the kind of politeness that only sharpened the threat beneath it. “I thought you might appreciate a special complimentary item from tonight’s limited menu. We hope you will consider an extension of our good will, as one of Mostro Lounge’s esteemed regulars.”

Periša lifted his gaze slowly, the faintest smile already plastered on as he primly set the pen aside. “How considerate of you, Leech.”

Jade set a cup before him with infuriating care, pinky on the table as a cushion for the landing. Steam curled upward in delicate ribbons, carrying an earthy scent that was almost—almost—pleasant.

Periša’s eyes flicked to the drink, noting its deep tawny shade, then back to Jade. “I am presently occupied. Perhaps you may leave it for another client at my behest.”

“You wound me.” Jade’s smile was all silk and pointed teeth. “I do wonder what could possibly make you so suspicious of a complimentary offering.”

Periša folded one hand over his notes, subsequently covering the answer key. “Your ‘gilded’ reputation, perhaps?”

Jade’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, though his expression did not otherwise shift. “Then you are fortunate I am generous, as I am that one of your stature does not abide by rumors.”

“I feel bad taking food when I am so well fed,” Periša replied lightly, making a display through taking a small bite off his plate. “How about we share instead? Give me a sip for taste, and take the rest for yourself come the end of your shift.”

Jade looked at him for one long, deliberate moment.

Then, with a showman’s composure, he reached into his teller’s apron, produced a metal straw, and took a sip from the cup himself.

Periša’s smile tightened at the cheeklines. 

Jade held his gaze as he set the straw aside, entirely too satisfied with himself. “Well? I assure you it is not poisonous.”

Jade’s blatant disregard for subtlety, more than anything, made Periša want to throw the drink at him.

Instead, he took the cup by its rim with steady hands and brought it to his lips. The first sip hit his tongue. 

Bitter.

Heavens above. Unforgivably, offensively bitter.

Periša swallowed with admirable restraint, set the cup down, and reached for his napkin with the air of someone merely correcting a minor inconvenience. He dabbed once at the corner of his mouth as though the taste had only been a disappointment.

Inside, he was already plotting Jade’s demise in great detail. As well as a note to rinse his mouth thoroughly once back in the safe confines of Pomefiore. 

Jade’s eyes gleamed. “Your reactions are the most rewarding. As always,Vivarićia.”

“I am certain I was breathtaking,” Periša replied without missing a beat.

“That is not the word I would use.”

“How tragic,” Periša attempted to school his irritation, lifting his pen. “You do so detest being wrong.”

Jade rested one hand on the edge of the booth, leaning just enough to invade the space without fully entering it. “The drink is infused with reishi. Mushroom of immortality, some call it. Its effects should assist with sleep and relaxation.”

Periša glanced at the cup again, nose curling through one twitch,  then back to Jade’s pleased glint. “How generous. You have made a habit of offering me things you believe will improve my condition. I wonder whether I should be touched, or concerned.”

“You should be grateful.”

“I was. Albeit the flavor pallet might consider finding work in assasination. It’s come further than most to claiming my head.”

Jade’s mouth curved, pleased with himself. “Perhaps your palate is simply unrefined.”

Periša just his chin forwards, stopping just before his antler claimed Jade’s golden eye. “And perhaps your mushrooms require better testing before you attempt to pass them off as hospitality.”

“The lounge’s patrons seem to enjoy them well enough.”

“That is because they are unaware of the perpetrator behind their preparation.”

Jade hummed, then let his gaze drift, deliberately, to the delicate antler curving from Periša’s forehead, unbothered by its proximity. “Your horns have lost some of their gleam since your first year. Stress does that, I hear. How unfortunate."

The insult was subtle enough that anyone else might have mistaken it for concern.

Periša did not.

His smile remained in place, but it sharpened by degrees. “How observant of you.”

“It is in my nature.”

“So I have noticed.” He tilted his head, blue eyes bright with false sweetness. “And here I thought you spent time studying only your mushrooms.”

“For example,” Jade murmured, ignoring him entirely “I know that when someone hides their discomfort well enough, they often have to compensate elsewhere.”

Periša looked at him for a long moment, then dipped his head with elegant mock appreciation. “Your ability to create such an elaborate theory is truly inspiring. Night Raven could do with a proper psychologist. Do contact me should you require a referral letter.”

Jade’s expression barely changed.

Periša’s confidence grew. “But I recommend thickening the gold paint you have covered yourself with beforehand. I can still see the scratches.”

A pause.

Then, like silk, “I do not know what you mean.”

“Of course you do.”

Jade straightened, and for one brief second the lounge bluelights caught on his iris’ and made him look unreadable. “If you wish to obtain a regular supply of this tea, you may strike a deal with Azul. There will, naturally, be a fee.”

Periša glanced at the cup once more and made no move to touch it again. “How mercenary.”

“You are in no position to criticize, dear customer.”

“I am always in a position to criticize as a future monarch,” Periša said. “It is one of my finer talents, honed from when I was a mere babe.”

Jade gave a quiet, almost amused exhale, though he said nothing more. The lack of reply was, oddly enough, more disquieting than any comeback would have been.

Periša returned to his work, though his hand was no longer entirely steady. The bitterness still lingered on his tongue, and he was unwilling to give Jade the satisfaction of seeing him abandon his meal over it.

So he wrote.

And because he was still bothered and in line with airing criticisms, he chose his next words with little care.

“It is a shame,” he said after a moment, not looking up from the page, “that you will never be able to study the flora and fauna of the Apple Alps in any meaningful capacity.”

Jade’s gaze slid toward him.

Periša continued, his tone mild and almost regretful. “With how poor the Mountain Lovers Club is, and how few members it can claim, I cannot imagine you will ever manage the funds for such a journey. Let alone obtain access to the preservations closed to tourists and the public.”

He finally looked up, that calm smile still in place.

“Truly,” Periša said, each word polished and sweet as spun glass, “it is a pity you cannot see the woodlands and cliffs of my home country. There are rare species of flora that only grow on native land, after all, and propagation has been forbidden for centuries. Yes. A pity indeed.”

Jade said nothing in reply. 

The silence that followed settled between them like a held breath.

Periša watched him for a reaction, but Jade only reached out, set a bill neatly on the table beside Periša’s notes, and inclined his head by a precise, ninety degrees.

“The lounge will be closing soon,” he said, “Please take care to not forget any belongings in the booth before departure, and do consider us for your dining needs in the future. Rest well, Vivarićia.” 

Then he turned on his heel and left to resume his duties, his expression as composed as if nothing had happened at all.

Periša stared after him for a beat longer than he cared to admit.

That was unusual.

Jade always replied with the last word. Always countered. Always turned every exchange into another contest. As it was for the past dozen weeks Periša’d made this booth a makeshift studyhall when alternatives struck tiresome. 

Periša looked down at the bill, then at the cup of reishi tea that had already condemned itself to the trash the moment it touched his tongue.

Yet he reached out, thumbed the rim for a lapse in judgement, and stupidly gagged over that bitter flavor for a second time in the same night. 

With that, he put the interaction out of his mind. His homework still needed finishing, and the taste on his tongue was a distraction he had no intention of granting more attention than necessary.

So he bent his head and continued writing, leaving the strange absence in Jade’s response unexplored for the moment.

For now, it was enough to know that Jade Leech had managed, once again, to annoy him thoroughly before Periša returned to the Alps where every interaction was terribly dull. 

Surrounded by students rushing to collect their belongings and grow one night closer to their vacation, Periša found himself stalling for the opposite. 

—-

The trail into the Apple Alps Royal Reservoir began with an extensive warning from the groundskeepers and, in Jade’s case, an immediate invitation to ignore it.

Periša had not spoken much since they passed through the preservation entrance.

That was, in all likelihood, a mercy on both parties invovled.

He was dressed in layers of protective gear chosen with the sort of precision one usually reserved for military expeditions and stormchasers: sturdy boots laced tightly, reinforced leather gloves, a fitted cloak, and a hood adjusted to keep the cold from catching in his plumes or snagging over his antlers. It suited the mountainside well enough, though he looked every inch a young prince forced into the role of unwilling guide rather than an eager traveler.

Jade, by contrast, seemed entirely too pleased with himself and decked out in Night Raven’s ‘Mountain Lovers’ uniform. Sans his collection basket and other trinkets that did not pass a security check.

He stopped every ten paces to photograph something—an unusual stone formation, a cluster of moss on the rock face, a patch of lichen, the bark pattern of an old alpine tree. When he was not taking notes in the small logbook he had brought with him, he was peering with intense focus at the landscape as though the mountain itself was something he could shrink and pocket for the travel home. 

Periša drew a breath through his nose, yet did not sigh. He did not allow his ‘companion’ the pleasure of that victory. 

Within the Apple Alps, his country’s entrance protocol had been relayed in explicit detail. Before travel, upon arrival, at dinner the night before, and once again on the path beyond where civilization inhabits. No samples. No propagation. No taking stones, no leaves, no spores, no fragments tucked away in pockets with the excuse of later examination. They were welcome to observe. They were welcome to study. They were not, under any circumstance, to remove anything from the grounds. Royal or not. 

It was, Periša thought with a private and bitter sort of satisfaction, the sort of rule that existed because someone long before him had been foolish enough to break it.

Nature in the Apple Alps did not tolerate carelessness or man’s selfish intervention. A single piece taken from the wrong place could become the first pebble in a landslide of consequences. The reserve was not merely scenery, not merely a tourist attraction for careless visitors to admire. It was a living balance, protected by law and by the patient, often thankless labor of generations. Under the jurisdiction of all Vivarićia before him, as well as his subjects. 

And Periša would not bend that law for Jade Leech, no matter how charming his interest in the lands might appear on the surface. 

Periša  had to bargain for visitation access alone. Favors exchanged with councilmen he could scarcely recall the names of, promises made in formal language and polished smiles, and a day in the reserve secured without the proper escort that should have accompanied any visitor of Jade’s kind and curiosity. He had woken before dawn to make certain the arrangements were held. He had slipped a note beneath his guard Elysia’s bedroom door with just enough explanation to prevent a crisis and not enough time for her to intercept them.

Had he told her in advance, they would have been followed.

Had they been followed, the quiet of the reserve would have been disturbed.

And though Periša would never say it aloud, there was another, more inconvenient truth beneath all of that annoyance.

He wanted this.

Not the paperwork, certainly. Not the favors. Not Jade’s smug sense of triumph or the sensation of having been maneuvered into a personal excursion under the guise of research.

But time.

Time with Jade that did not involve Azul’s prices or the Monstro Lounge’s narrow booths or the perpetual shape of their arguments confined to the same familiar walls. Time away from NRC, away from the constant audience of students and obligations, away from the careful performance Periša maintained around everyone else. Time separate from the weight of duty he’d shepherd during what most others his age considered a month of leisure. 

Although, if he had to endure a hike of all things with Jade Leech, then he would at least refuse to make it easy.

So when Jade paused again to scribble in his notebook, Periša kept walking down nature’s path.

“Your pace suggests impatience,” Jade said after a moment, jogging before falling back into step beside him.

Periša did not look at him. “Your observations are extraordinary. I’m merely leaving you to them.”

“I do try to appreciate the world in all its splendor. Proper documentation takes time.”

“I can tell.”

Jade’s amusement carried in the chill morning air. “You seem displeased.”

Periša’s blue eyes slid toward him at last, unimpressed as they fought past a thorny bush. “What gave you that impression?”

“An expression that leaves little room for the imagination? You are slipping, Vivarićia. A pufferfish could hide its emotions better.”

“Perhaps it is merely my face that troubles you. Should you wish to look away, I dismiss you to live in the wilds.”

“That would be unfortunate for me. You are quite a vision when properly irritated.”

Periša huffed once, soft enough that anyone else might have mistaken it for a breath rather than an answer. “You are enjoying yourself far too much at this hour.”

“Am I?”

“You have stopped precisely enough times to record every pebble between here and the entrance. I had assumed that was obvious.”

Jade tilted his head, and the motion made the lenses of his glasses catch the pale morning light. “This reserve is extraordinarily well maintained. It would be remiss of me not to document what I can. As crown prince, should you not be pleased that someone is enthralled by your homeland’s beauty?”

Periša’s smile thinned. “Document, yes. By all means. Take, no.”

A beat.

Then Jade glanced at him with carefully cultivated innocence. “I am aware of the restrictions.”

“There is no harm in a review, should the knowledge lose its freshness.” 

Periša let that lie in the air for several steps. Their boots crunched over frost-touched dirt as the trail curved upward, the trees growing denser, older, and darker with each rise in elevation. The air changed gradually too, turning cleaner the further they go from mankind, carrying the faint scent of wet stone and running water somewhere ahead.

The higher they climbed, the more the world seemed to narrow around them. Pine branches arched overhead. Pale lichen clung to bark. Small alpine flowers emerged in stubborn pockets between the roots, fragile as painted glass. Beyond the trees, the mountains themselves loomed like a wall built by something ancient and patient.

Periša knew every contour of this land.

Jade knew only enough to be an observer

And, regrettably, perhaps enough to be impressed. Periša found himself struggling to hold his morning grouchiness. He found his composure slipping as they walked, along with his glamour. The height of Periša’s wings began to prod against his cloak before he called them back to be hidden. 

Jadelooked at everything with that maddening expression of engaged curiosity, the sort that made it difficult to tell whether he was calculating, admiring, or preparing to lecture at Periša’s expense. It was infuriating. It was also, in a manner Periša would have disapproved of if asked directly, a little satisfying.

At least the effort extended to bring Jade here went with someone benefiting. 

Ahead, the path narrowed where the slope began to steepen. To their right, a drop opened between the trees, where the sound of water grew louder and a waterfall cut white through the dark stone below. Mist drifted faintly upward in the cold air.

Jade’s gaze followed it. “This part of the reserve is more beautiful than I expected.”

Periša arched his brow. “You expected ugliness?”

“I expected something grander than your word could convey.”

“You are most welcome,” Periša rolled his eyes, and though his voice remained smooth, there was a faint edge beneath it now. “It required a great deal of effort to grant you the privilege of seeing it.”

Jade’s eyes flicked to him, his lips in a thin line. “I am aware.”

Periša finally looked at him fully then, and the expression on his face was too composed to be called angry at being blackmailed, which in itself should have been alarming. “Are you, now?”

There it was again—that tiny, unreadable pause. While a chatterbox currently, Periša could not say the same for the week spent between his last visit to Monstro Lounge and the “request” (blackmail) that led to him bringing Jade to his homeland. He did not like being uncertain about Jade Leech, which meant he disliked the feeling almost as much as he disliked Jade himself.

A breeze moved through the trees, stirring the ends of Periša’s hair. He glanced ahead, studying the curve of the trail and the way the cliffside opened into frost-bright air. The waterfall mist had gathered in a thin veil across the stones, and somewhere beyond it, the mountain path ascended toward colder heights.

He heard the faint rustle of cloth.

Not from himself.

He did not turn his head.

“Put that back,” Periša said, flatly and without looking.

The silence that followed was immediate and telltale.

Slowly, with a mixture of patience and exasperation that suggested he had expected to be caught, Jade withdrew his hand from near the side of a tree and held still.

Between his fingers was a sliver of bark.

Periša continued onwards alone.

“Put it back,” he repeated over his shoulder. “You are not smuggling souvenirs out of my homeland like a child with sticky fingers.”

Jade’s voice, when it came, was mild. “It is only a fragment. I was only going to examine it once we breaked for lunch.”

“You can examine it with your eyes, Leech.”

Jade gave a soft hum that suggested he found this unreasonable in some private and deeply irritating way. “You are very astute to my actions. Should I dare be flattered?”

At last Periša glanced over, the movement slow and deliberate. His smile was beautiful in the way polished knives were beautiful. “And you are standing on sacred ground while attempting to place your fingers on my country’s protected ecology. I would advise you to avoid testing how particular I can become.”

Jade looked at him for a second longer, then, with exaggerated calm, returned the bark to the tree where it belonged.

Periša watched the motion carefully before continuing up the trail, leaving Jade to fall into step beside him once more.

The mist from the waterfall caught at the edges of his cloak. The colder air sharpened every breath. The path ahead climbed toward the mountainside, and the reserve grew quieter around them, as though the land itself were listening.

Periša kept his gaze forward.

—

By the time the sun had climbed high enough to warm the upper paths, the reserve had begun to change.

The cold still lingered in the shadows, but where the morning light pooled over the stone and branches, the world brightened into glowing detail; silver frost melting from pine needles, water flashing where it threaded through the rocks, pale blossoms opening toward the sun as though they had been waiting for permission. Wildlife stirred as creatures awoke and the night owls tucked away in their homes until dusk. The mountains did not soften in daylight, but they revealed themselves more fully to those who admired, and Periša moved through them as if he belonged to the terrain as naturally as the roots and wind.

Jade took notice that he was accompanied by a living encyclopedia.

He continued to stop at intervals, though the pauses were now shorter, less focused on collecting and more on observing. He would crouch near a patch of low-growing foxglove, then glance up at Periša with a question already prepared. Jade would note the call of a bird overhead, the pattern of moss along the stone, the shape of a leaf curling in the cold, and Periša would answer each one with disconcerting ease.

“That one grows nearest to the stream because it prefers the mineral content in the runoff.”

“No, that species does not bloom this early unless the frost recedes prematurely.”

“Those markings on the bark are not damaged; they are a sign the tree is healthy and old.”

“The reserve’s ecology depends on elevation, moisture, and how the slopes catch light in each season.”

Jade had expected knowledge to a degree, certainly. Periša was a prince, and princes were often taught enough to speak convincingly about the land they would inherit.

Jade did not expect the intimacy, nor the knowledge of hidden paths and walkways only someone who’d navigated these grounds hundreds of times could know.

Not the fluent precision. Not the quiet certainty in every answer. Not the way Periša could glance at a patch of ground and identify three plant species, the habits of two birds, and the reason a particular rock formation had split the way it had over generations of weather and water.

It was, Jade thought with faint irritation at his own lack of knowledge, almost as if Periša had grown up here. In the trees. Not the palace walls or walkways of Peak O'Paun, under strict eye.

Periša, walking a half step ahead with his hands folded behind his back, caught Jade’s bewildered look out of the corner of his eye.

“You appear surprised, Leech.”

Jade’s mouth curved. “Should I not be? Your knowledge is equivalent to a well-red botanist.”

Periša glanced toward the slope above them, where a line of pale flowers clung to a ledge just beyond the trail. “You should not. It is my country.”

“That explains the pride. It does not explain the depth.”

Periša’s expression remained composed, but the corner of his mouth shifted just slightly. “Would it disappoint you to learn I am not merely ornamental?”

“Quite the opposite,” Jade said.

That made Periša pause.

Only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. He turned his head slowly, blue eyes cool and measured, and found Jade looking at him with an aim to pacify.

The faintest flush of color touched the tips of Periša’s ears before he dismissed it with practiced dignity. “How gracious of you, Leech.”

Jade took out his notebook and wrote something down. “You know these mountains far better than I expected. Are they truly as well-guarded as you’ve led me to believe?”

Periša continued walking, yet slowed for Jade to brush his shoulder. “I’ve spoken no lies since we’ve met.”

“Yes, but that does not include omission. There is much to be shared between us as friends, wouldn’t you agree?”

Periša glanced at him again, the expression in his eyes almost amused. “Few are friends to the crown, and those who consider themselves to be are mere jesters in disguise.”

“I am merely considering the possibility that you have been withholding information.”

“From you?” Periša asked, with a smile so sweet it could have been mistaken for innocence by someone less familiar with him. “Perish the thought.”

Jade’s gaze sharpened. “An admission.”

“It was not.”

“Then perhaps an implication.”

Periša let out a quiet breath that was not quite a laugh. “You do enjoy making everything into a contest.”

“You make it very easy; most submit early on. I do like the occasional challenge.”

The path turned at a bend where the trees thinned, opening onto a broad overlook of the lower valley. From this height Periša could easily glide down to the streets of Peak O'Paun if he didn’t have baggage over six-feet on his heel

Morning light spilled over the distant slopes in soft gold, catching on the water below and turning the stream into a ribbon of glass. From here the reserve seemed endless, the mountain ridges folding into one another in layers of green, gray, and snow-bright stone.

Jade stopped to look.

Periša did not interrupt his moment.

It was a rare thing, seeing someone – or rather something –  else silence Jade Leech without trying. Periša watched the sharp line of his profile, the careful attention in his eyes, and felt a strange, private satisfaction bloom in his chest.

Curiosity suited Jade. Awe beguiled him. It made him look less like a predator and more like what he truly was beneath all the polished cleverness; someone endlessly searching for the shape of life he could not yet hold.

Periša had little mercy to spare for most people.

For this moment, perhaps, he spared a little.

Jade lowered his sketchbook at last. “You learned all this from your childhood studies, then?”

Periša’s gaze remained on the valley. “Partialy.”

“And the rest?”

For a moment, Periša did not answer. The unspoken understanding that this view was not mere circumstance, but a scene Periša orchestrated through knowing just where to look and when. Then he folded his hands more neatly behind his back and said, “I snuck out here far more than I ought to have as a child.”

Jade’s brows lifted.

Periša went on as though discussing the weather. “You may look at me as though I have committed a scandal. I was young. Curious. Difficult to supervise. A nightmare with mere nubs for wings with which to soar.”

“That is an interesting phrase for a crown prince to use about himself.”

“One must remain accurate.”

Jade’s lips twitched. “And no one noticed?”

“Oh, they noticed.” Periša’s smile sharpened with a touch of old mischief. “They simply did not manage to catch me.”

That earned him a longer look from Jade, a piece of new information earned. “You were a troublesome child. I should have guessed.”

“I was a determined child as well. Had I not been then you would not be standing here right now. Neither would you be in these woods.”

Jade’s eyes glinted. “The distinction seems thin.”

“It is the distinction that matters when separating one who will lead and one who will merely preside. My people do not live in the Apple Alps. We are this land, and so I give it my fair due.”

Periša turned then, just enough to meet his gaze directly. The light caught on the subtle shimmer in his hair, on the twilight tones of his plumes and antlers, on the calm confidence that sat naturally on him like a well-made cloak.

“I was taught the names of these plants before I was old enough to understand why some were protected and others were not,” he said. “I learned where the deer crossed in winter, where the nests were hidden in spring, where the cliffs opened into sheltered ground that tourists were never permitted to see. I was reprimanded often. Not always effectively.”

Jade was quiet, listening.

Periša’s smile softened by the smallest amount. “If I am to govern this land one day, I cannot afford to know it only from documents and formal reports. The mountains do not care for ceremony. They require attention.”

“That is a surprisingly practical view. Yet another surprise from you, Vivarićia”

“It is a necessary one.”

The wind moved across the overlook, stirring the ends of Periša’s hair and carrying the scent of wet stone and pine. Below them, the stream flashed in the light. Somewhere farther off, a bird called from the trees.

—

Jade paused beside a narrow seam in the stone where the bark of an ancient marrow tree had split from age and weather, exposing a slow, amber-green seep of sap that clung to the trunk in translucent strands.

He stared at it with open interest, one gloved hand resting against his logbook as he bent closer to examine the color.

“No specimen I have studied looks quite like this,” he murmured.

The sap glimmered under the pale mountain light, not gold like resin nor pale like ordinary pitch, but something stranger—a vivid green with a depth to it, as though the forest itself had somehow been distilled into liquid form. It dripped in patient beads down the bark, catching on the grooves before sliding to the moss below.

Jade’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Periša, standing a short distance behind him, watched the line of his shoulders and the focused set of his expression with a private and thoroughly unwelcome fondness.

He caught himself smiling.

It was a dangerous thing, that.

Jade, as if sensing the shift in the air, glanced over one shoulder. “You seem amused and yet I’ve spoken little. Is this where our adventure turns into a psychological horror?”

Periša’s smile vanished with impeccable speed and replaced itself with something poised he’d picked up from his housewarden’s etiquette lessons. “Your observational skills remain excellent, even when  surrounded by far more interesting specimens than I.”

Jade dared to roll his eyes and glanced down at his notebook.

Then he clicked his tongue softly.

He had run out of paper.

Periša saw the exact moment the realization settled, because Jade’s expression did the tiniest, most satisfying thing—his brows drew together, utterly frustrated, and his mouth flattened into the faintest line. He turned a page again as though the notebook might, by sheer force of will, reveal more space.

It did not.

Periša should not have enjoyed that nearly as much as he did.

Jade looked once more at the sap, then at the empty last page, and for a moment his gaze took on the sort of distant, considering quality that often preceded some maddeningly clever remark. Periša could practically hear the thought forming. Could his skin suffice? Would a note etched on a sleeve be enough? Perhaps if he—

Periša’s supper lip twitched and he bit down. 

Jade’s gaze dropped to his notebook again, then back to the sap. He looked vexed now, which only made Periša want to smile harder. “I require another sheet.”

“So it would seem.”

There was a beat of silence.

Jade’s expression shifted by the slightest degree, the sort of minute frustration he only allowed himself when he was certain no one else would exploit it too cruelly. He tapped his pen once against the edge of the notebook and murmured, “I suppose I could use the back of a receipt? Allow me a moment to dig through my pack.”

Periša did not answer.

He reached wordlessly into his travel bag, withdrew a spare notebook, and held it out.

Jade blinked.

Then, more slowly than before, he took it.

For a moment he simply looked at Periša, and the absence of a barb in the exchange seemed to unnerve them both in different ways. Periša kept his face carefully composed, though his pulse had jumped at the rare buzzing that had settled between them.

“Thank you,” Jade said.

Just that.

No teasing observation. No sly remark about Periša’s preparedness. No insinuation that he must have anticipated Jade’s overzealous habits.

Only those two words, spoken with surprising sincerity.

Periša’s ears warmed immediately to a plummy russet shade.

It was a foolish response. Irritatingly so. He would have preferred a snide reply. A joke. Anything that would have returned the balance to familiar ground. Instead, Jade’s thank you landed with far more weight than it had any right to, and Periša had to look away before his expression betrayed him.

“You are most welcome,” he said, and was deeply aware that his voice sounded more measured than usual.

Jade flipped open the notebook and resumed his work, pen moving with renewed purpose. “This sap has a novel green tint. I have not seen anything like it in the books at school.”

“Night Raven’s texts do not cover the full botanist’s bibliography as the Isle focuses on comprehensive rather than specialist coursework. You will find better – more informative – scrolls within older countries such as Briar Valley and The Land of The Red Dragon.” 

And the Apple Alps, of course. Although it goes unsaid. 

“Do not sound so pleased at my misfortune.” Jade tut. Whatever tone Perisa carried had been misunderstood, yet he couldn’t find it in him to correct it. 

Periša nearly said, ‘I am not pleased,’ yet pushed it down. 

What he was, in truth, was embarrassed by the sudden urge to do more for his guest.

He could feel it as an almost physical thing, the way his attention kept straying to the pen in Jade’s hand, the empty space beside his notebook, the fact that Jade had accepted his help without needling him for once. Heavens, when did his standards become so elementary that he was pleased by a mere act of neutrality. 

He was definitely crushing hard.

The realization arrived with the terrible calm of a diagnosis.

It annoyed him at once.

Worse, it made him awkward.

Ugh.

This Leech was making him feel awkward. Egads. 

—

The waterfalls of the Apple Alps were bountiful. Yet within this hidden alcove they were not merely beautiful, but almost theatrical with the way nature performed miracles.

Two broad falls plunged side by side from the cliffside, cutting bright white paths through the dark stone where Periša had once, not-so-subtly, bragged about the reserve’s untouched heights. Water thundered downward in silver sheets before breaking into spray against the jagged rocks below, where it gathered in slick pools and threaded into shallow streams over moss-dark stone. Mist rose in a constant veil, climbing into the sky as though the mountain itself were exhaling. The wet cliffs gleamed in the noon light, and every surface seemed to catch the sun differently—some places shining like polished marble, others shadowed and cool beneath the overhangs where more dangerous ivy clung stubbornly to the stone.

By noon, the climb and the walking and the constant stopping had caught up to Periša in ways he had no intention of admitting out loud. He was not so volatile as he was as a youth on the run. His posture remained composed, his expression smooth, but the faint drag in his steps had become difficult to ignore if one knew what to look for. Jade, unfortunately, always knew what to look for.

So when they reached the waterside and found a cluster of cracked rocks near the base of the falls, it was Jade who suggested a break.

“We should rest here a while,” he said, adjusting his collar as he looked out over the spray. “I would prefer to make proper use of my pass rather than rush through the reserve.” 

Periša’s expression remained politely neutral. “How thoughtful of you.”

Jade glanced at him sidelong. “You sound unconvinced.”

“I am simply admiring your devotion to timeliness.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“It is certainly not what I call your tendency to loiter. No, not at all.”

Jade’s mouth curved, and he settled down on one of the flatter stones with deliberate ease. Periša followed more slowly, choosing a neighboring rock that had cracked at the edge but was still tolerably dry. The mist touched his hair and scales in a fine cool veil, and the sound of the falls filled the space between them, loud enough to soften the silence without erasing it.

Periša sat with his back straight and his hands resting lightly in his lap, as though he had merely chosen to enjoy the scenery rather than collapse into it. Against his better judgement, he felt his tail and wings expand out from hiding and stretch for release. 

He was not so fortunate as to feel rested, however. 

His thoughts, unhelpfully, drifted toward the obligations waiting for him after this excursion ended. He would need to return to the palace with a report for his family. He would need to explain, in a manner suitably diplomatic, why he had spent the day escorting Jade Leech – an unknown mer from the Coral Sea – through protected land under relaxed security. He would need to reassure Elysia that the arrangements had remained under control, which was technically true if one ignored Jade’s habit of touching things he ought not to touch and Periša’s own increasingly compromised composure.

And tomorrow, Jade will return to NRC for the remainder of break.

He should feel relieved. Now the Leeth twins effectively had no favors to hold over his head, and his conscience would be clear come the next semester. 

Instead, it lodged somewhere unpleasantly quiet in his chest.

He was still considering how much of the day could be summarized without inviting scandal when something cool pressed into his field of vision.

A thermos lid?

Periša blinked once, then looked up.

Jade was holding it out to him with one hand, expression unreadable save for the expectancy in his eyes. “You have been silent for some time. Please refrain from falling ill while we are far from civilization’s care.”

Periša did not accept the offering. “You’ve become quite obsessed with my voice this morning. Have you never heard that nature is best appreciated in silence?” 

Jade ignored the barb with a patience that suggested either experience or amusement. Likely both considering his twin. “Drink.”

Periša’s gaze dropped to the thermos lid. Then, with a faint narrowing of his eyes, he took it and sniffed cautiously.

Mushroom bisque.

Not the bitter tea from the Monstro Lounge. Not anything suspiciously experimental. This was warm, savory, and rich with earthy depth, carrying a scent that was unexpectedly inviting in the mountain air.

Periša looked at Jade again, skeptical despite himself.

“You may taste it before deciding to become difficult.”

Periša should have asked questions. He should have tested it first, or at least made a remark about Jade’s habit of attempting to win him over with mushrooms in all forms and temperatures.

Instead, he accepted the lid without fuss.

Jade blinked this time, clearly not expecting compliance.

Periša brought the spoonful to his mouth.

The bisque was excellent.

Silky, warm, and layered with flavor in a way that made him pause after the first bite. The mushrooms were rich without being heavy, balanced by herbs that tasted faintly of the mountain itself. There was a depth to it that suggested far more care than he would ever admit to expecting from Jade Leech, and by the second spoonful, the knot of fatigue and irritation in Periša’s chest had loosened by a fraction. He made the decision not to ask when Jade gained access to the palace kitchens or how. 

He ate another bite, then another.

His mood, inconveniently, improved.

It might have been hunger, he thought at first. He had brought dried meats and rationed provisions in case of emergency, but those had been intended for practical use, not for indulging in a meal while seated beside a waterfall on a cracked stone ledge. Perhaps he had simply been more worn out than he had allowed himself to believe.

And yet?

No.

It was not only the food.

It was the warmth of it, the thoughtful preparation, the quiet way Jade offered it without comment or demand. It was the absurdity of the moment, too, the fact that they were here in the open air with mist on their clothes and mountain water thundering beside them, and Jade handed him something meant to comfort rather than provoke for the second time in one day. 

Periša glanced over at him through the veil of falling spray.

Jade sat with one knee bent and one arm resting loosely against it, watching the water as though he had every intention of pretending he couldn’t feel Periša’s gaze. The light caught on his golden eye, on the sharp line of his jaw, on the teal fall of his hair, and Periša found himself thinking with alarming sincerity that Jade looked ethereal under golden light.

He swallowed the last of the bisque, then lowered the thermos lid into his palm with more care than necessary. “This is exquisite. Perhaps a proper substitute for the Lounge’s limited menu item.” 

Jade’s eyes slid to him. “Yes?”

Periša inclined his head in the smallest possible nod. “Your herbal palate has also improved. Ashengrotto may allow you into the kitchens more often.”

That drew a quiet huff of amusement from Jade. “Your praise is always so warm.”

“Do not get greedy, Leech.”

“I would never.”

Periša gave him a sidelong look, then allowed himself a small, measured sip from the lid once more before setting it aside. The mist cooled his face. The roar of the water filled the pauses. His body felt less heavy than it had only moments ago, and his thoughts—though still occupied by the work ahead—no longer felt quite so sharp around the edges.

He looked out over the dual falls, then back toward Jade, and wondered if this sensation could be extended across one more day. Perhaps he was the one getting greedy. 

He had no convenient favor this time, no ready excuse like the Monstro Lounge’s limited menu or Azul’s profit margins. But there was far more to show here than a single trail and a waterfall. There were higher paths, hidden overlooks, protected groves, old stone shrines nestled into the mountain’s folds, and species of flora Jade would never encounter elsewhere. If Periša framed it properly, there could be enough to justify another day in the reserve.

He turned that possibility over in his mind with growing, subtle intent.

Jade was still watching the falls, but Periša suspected he had not missed the change in him. He rarely did. It was one of the more irritating things about him, and one of the more useful.

Periša set his chin in his hand for a moment and regarded him with calm, deliberate appreciation.

“You know,” he said at last, “there are other sections of the reserve farther up the mountain that are not accessible on a single route.”

Jade looked over. “Mm.”

“There are additional crossings, older paths, and several rare growths that do not appear near the lower falls.”

Jade’s expression remained composed, though Periša could see the faint spark of interest immediately. “Is that so?”

“It is indeed.”

“And you are telling me this because…?”

Periša allowed the smallest, most refined smile to touch his mouth. “Because I am feeling generous…and such a tasteful bisque has once again placed me in your debt.”

Periša’s fingers tightened once against the edge of the stone. He could almost feel the shape of the second day already, could almost see the careful way he might present it—another stretch of the reserve, another route, another chance to continue under the guise of research and opportunity. He had no doubt he could make it convincing.

He also had no doubt that Jade would see through him.

That did not mean he would not try.

His gaze drifted back to the man beside him, to the quiet interest in his face and the patience in the set of his shoulders. Periša felt the impossible urge to say something more direct, something less polished, something that might reveal the reason he was so determined to stretch the day out just a little longer.

Instead, he settled for the truth disguised as repayment.

“It would be a waste,” he said, “to end the visit while there is still so much worth seeing.”

Jade’s eyes held his for a long moment.

Then, with maddening calm, he reached for the thermos again and said, “I agree.”

Periša kept his expression steady, though something inside him had shifted all at once.

He turned back toward the waterfall before Jade could read too much into the change in his face, but the warmth in his chest remained. Perhaps it was the bisque. Perhaps it was the mountain air. Perhaps it was simply the fact that Jade had agreed so readily, as if another day here might be worth his time.

Periša knew better than to believe in easy things.

And yet, as the mist rose around them and the falls thundered beside the cracked stones, he found himself hoping that Jade might return another time as well.

Not for the reservoir alone, but for the company. 

And if there is one thing Malleus Draconia has desired selfishly in his long life, it is you. He cares very little for the details. Only that it is the wedding of your dreams and closes with your soul bound to his. 

He attends all planning meetings personally despite his schedule. He didn’t even do that for his coronation, so imagine how the consultants quake as they present their ideas to you with the king right there (A bit in his own head, only paying attention when you are stuck on a choice). He sits beside you during fabric selections, choosing the floral arrangements, signing invitations and virtually every task that he’d not think twice over if you weren’t there.

Insists on tasting desserts and all menu items. Remember the culinary crucible, dear? Oh, how it takes him back. Except now the head patiessiere nearly pees their trousers when he comments on the cake being a bit dry. Honestly. Do these people think he is a monster? 

Across the entire process, he listens carefully to all your comments. The last thing he wants is a choice being swayed because someone devalued your opinion. Nevermind He can be a monster. 

“You’ve glanced at the tulips thrice since the floral samples were brought out, and yet you were quick to agree on roses. Speak up, dearest. Otherwise I shall do it for you.”

Since you have no parents for him to formally ask, Malleus quietly seeks out Grim for your hand instead.

Which … becomes one of the single most confusing moments of Grim’s life. It’s not every day that the big honcho fae bends his head to a direbeast. 

“Grim,” Malleus says, calm and with careful approach, “I would like your permission to marry your companion.” Grim squints at him, puffing up. “And what do I get outta it?” Malleus blinks once. “My gratitude.” “Ain’t enough. What else ya got?” The dragon prince smiles, thin and dangerous in the most charming way. “Do not become greedy, little beast.” Grim immediately straightens, his tail tucked down as his voice wobbles. “...Y-you got it, Your Highness.” 

His initial fear does not dampen Grim’s ego. He tries to milk the situation for everything it’s worth and Malleus allows it. While amusing, the matter is taken seriously. Grim is like your child, in a way. He sure demands your attention like one. 

“I WANT TUNA. PREMIUM TUNA. NONE OF THAT CHEAP CANNED STUFF.” Grim slaps a list of demands on the tabletop, written in barely legible catscratch.  “You bargain boldly for someone so small.”  “YEAH, WELL YOU WANNA MARRY MY HENCHMAN OR NOT?”  

Needless to say that the entire royal guard is horrified to see this beast with fangs bigger than its mouth riding the coat tails of their king. Yet Grim gets everything he wants and pushes the boundary…until he puts in an absurd dowry request and the tap runs dry. 

“No, you may not have partial ownership over the royal treasury.”  “Eh, worth a shot. Can ya blame a guy?” 

The wedding aesthetic is gothic fae, set in Briar Palace with the reception in the main ballroom. 

Endless cathedral arches woven with glowing thorned roses, black candles floating in midair, silver tableware engraved with ancient draconic blessings.

Massive stained glass windows depicting Briar Valley’s royal lineage. Soon your story will earn a place there. 

Music played by a live orchestra for guests to dance — haunting violin melodies mixed with deep choral hymns that vibrate through the palace halls. Only the best in the country.

Your attire is custom-made by royal tailors over several months. Every inch is hand embroidered with protective enchantments woven subtly into the fabric by court mages. For this ceremony, you are given his mother’s crown. As this is the day you become queen. 

Malleus’s ceremonial robes are breathtakingly regal, made of of black silks with dragon scaled embroidered motifs. A high collar that reaches his throat, silver accents, and atop his head an obsidian crown set with emeralds that frame his horns. 

The train of his cloak is so long that attendants have to carry it behind him.

Yet somehow, none of all that adorns him compares to the expression on his face when he sees you.

The ceremony takes place within the palace’s grand cathedral garden at twilight.Briar Valley’s sky glows violet-blue overhead while thousands of floating lanterns illuminate the marble pathways.You are kept separate from Malleus until the ceremony begins due to ancient tradition.

It nearly kills him. Malleus is NOT a patient man once the clock begins to tick with him at the altar. 

Lilia thinks it is hysterical. Of course he does. Being the one to give you away, he’s already seen you many times. He does not understand Malleus’ pain. 

“You’ve waited decades to fall in love, years for her hand, and now you cannot survive a mere six hours?” “I am considering abolishing this custom permanently. For now, I need to temper myself. Not another word.”

When the cathedral doors finally open, every conversation dies instantly.

Malleus turns.

He had expected beauty. He had expected to be moved. He had not expected to feel his mind go quiet. You look so radiant that it becomes almost unbearable to be patient. His expression is composed, because it always is — but the possessive warmth in his eyes gives him away instantly.

He is thinking, very simply, that you look like you were always meant to stand beside him. 

Ethereal.

Untouchable.

His.

The possessiveness that floods his chest is immediate and almost frightening in intensity. He needs the priest to speak faster. He needs everyone to be quiet so he can hear your steps coming closer. Time has never felt so agonizingly slow. 

In his vows, Malleus does not speak lightly when he promises himself to you. Every word feels deliberate, chosen with care, like he is laying down a sacred vow even though he’s making up his speech on the spot. 

He promises not just devotion, but presence. Protection. A future that is no longer measured in solitude. 

“I have lived long enough to know that many things can be admired from a distance,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “You are not one of them. You are the center of my world, the home I return to, the future I choose.” His gloved thumb brushes your knuckles. “I swear to stand beside you in joy and in ruin, in quiet and in raging storms, for as long as this heart of mine still beats.” A beat barely passes before his tone lowers, just between you both. “And if it should ever fail, I will still find my way to you, my one and only love.” 

When he kisses you, it contains all he’s been stowing away since the day began.

For one impossible second, it is as if the entire kingdom vanishes and there is only you, warm in his arms, and the knowledge that this is real. That you are his husband or wife or spouse in the eyes of the world now, but more than that — you are his in every way that matters. 

Then the party begins. 

There is no such thing as subtlety here. The palace opens up into a night of music, dancing, feasting, and enchanted lanterns drifting into the air like captured stars. Guests from Briar Valley mingle with the students and friends you brought from Night Raven, and for once Malleus looks utterly content to simply watch you move through the room, smiling at people, laughing, glowing under the attention. 

Speaking of dancing - It's a tad intimidating for Malleus to dance with his grandmother during the mother/son portion, but all the more worth it to see you spun around by Lilia. Not only did the elder bat step in as the one to give you away before, but as your guardian.

When it’s time to cut the cake – which, to note, is a towering sight meant to feed hundreds – you do not smash the cake into his face, but you do smear a little icing on his cheek, and the entire room collectively freezes for one horrifying second because ‘human dare’? Surely there are some noblemen that don’t know Malleus well who expect divorce right there. How foolish of them, really. 

Malleus only laughs, low and delighted, and calmly eats the icing off his cheek. He doesn’t return the favor, but a few flustering words are exchanged between the couple that guests aren’t privy to. 

There is no garter tradition. Absolutely not. Not if he has any say in it. The concept of another man reaching for your leg on your wedding day is not something Malleus is willing to entertain, no matter how ceremonial anyone claims it is. The answer is a very polite, very final no. 

At the height of the party, he listens to toasts offered by those closest to you both and lets the evening simmer before offering the closing note in his own words. 

When he stands, glass raised and a presence that quiets the crowds, he finds it in himself to indulge in all who’ve gathered beyond your little happy bubble. 

“Tonight,” Malleus says, lifting his glass, “I am reminded that even the longest roads may lead somewhere wondrous.” His gaze turns to you, and everything else fades. “I thank you all for bearing witness to this day, and I thank fate for bringing me to one who makes eternity feel short.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “To my beloved — may your every dawn be bright, and may you never doubt that you are cherished beyond measure. To us.” 

The following day, you’re together on the route to the Scalding Sands. 

It is not just a getaway; it is a return. Memories of walking the streets of Silk City and tinkering with which souvenirs to bring home. How liberating it was. He enjoys the trip there almost as much as the stay itself, because it carries the memory of you both as students — younger, less certain of each other, but already orbiting one another in ways neither of you could fully explain at the time. He wants to recreate that feeling, but now with no distance between you at all. 

He arranges a secluded stay where your status can go unrecognized where you can enjoy the novelty, the food, the stars, and the quiet without interruption. There are evening walks, private dinners, and long moments where he simply sits with you, listening to you talk about anything and everything while the desert wind carries you both above the weight of life. 

Afterward, you settle in Briar Valley. Now King and Queen. Yet more importantly, now a family. The living quarters no longer feel like a place he inhabits through birthright. Because the truth of it, in his mind? Is that the palace was never home until you arrived. 

Your wedding isn’t a spectacle. If anything, it’s an elopement…but a pre-planned elopement? Certainly not a whim. After all, he’d proposed in the past. It’s just that the matter of setting a date never came…until now. No better time than the present, no?

Lilia could make it into a grand spectacle if he wanted to. He has the connections, the charm, and more than enough history to justify anything from a moonlit courtly affair to a hundred-dragon parade. But when it comes to marrying you, he does not see the point in making it bigger than the love itself.

To him, the important part is not the crowd. It is the fact that it is you. So the wedding becomes something small, sweet, and quiet — a decision made with a smile and no unnecessary fuss. Just a gut feeling and enough coin in his back pocket to make something special. 

It happens barely a year after you graduate from Night Raven, while Lilia is still getting his teaching license and you’re out finding what role you want in life. No hurry about it, either.

You, Lilia, Grim, and Silver are on what is supposed to be a ‘family’ vacation (sans. two very miffed gentlemen stuck doing their work back home)  to the Land of the Red Dragon; and somewhere between sightseeing, trying novelties, and Lilia deciding the moment feels right, the “trip” becomes an impromptu wedding. No warning. No giant announcement. Just a very casual, whimsical decision that leaves everyone else scrambling to catch up (yourself included).

“Ah…all the views in this city would make lovely wedding venue options, don’t you agree? Aha! I’m glad to hear it! Let’s be off then!” Before you can blink twice, he’s snatched you by the wrist and begun prattling on to a shopkeep about purchasing a bouquet of wildflowers. 

He is delighted by the prospect. You’re only half-surprised because, honestly,he’s always pulling last-second surprises like this. 

The ceremony is put together in less than a day. Somewhere scenic, private, and beautiful in that understated way Lilia loves — maybe beside a quiet shrine, maybe in a garden with trees hanging heavy with blossoms, maybe on a playhouse terrace where the wind moves through fairy lights and the moonlight catches your wedding bands. No priest. No one in attendance, really, other than yourselves. Silver and Grim are off souvenir shopping and will be back just in time for dinner.

It feels simple, but not empty. It's intimate, like the world alone has been given the privilege of watching something precious happen. One of the softer moments in an old general’s life. 

Cool lilac and plum florals, woven ribbons, warm wood cradling your wings, a crumpled linen cloth under your feet., fresh greenery tucked behind your ear and in his breastpocket, and a small spread set with local dishes. Ordered from the restaurant you’d eaten at the night prior, even though Lilia tried his darndest to gain access to your lodgings kitchen. 

Your clothes are rented from a local tailor as well. Nothing extravagant or fancy. In truth, Lilia would have been satisfied getting married in the cleanest article in his suitcase. Yet the thought of seeing you in a rented Qipao was too tempting. Silver lets you borrow his blue handkerchief to fill three of the superstition requirements (old, blue, and borrowed). You buy a cheap cosmetic cubic zirconia tiara for something new. Lilia takes great pleasure in setting the gaudy thing on your head, encouraging you to play princess for the night. 

When you step out from the changing booth, his lips pull on reflex. It’s been six-hundred-some years since his fangs felt too big for his mouth. 

Not because he is surprised — he already knew you would look ravishing — but because seeing you there, ready to become his, hits him in that little, devastating place in his chest where he keeps all his most precious memories tucked away safely.

Lilia is playful by nature, but this moment strips that away just enough to show how deeply he feels it. You are radiant. You are real. And you are standing there about to choose him over and over again. 

For a moment, he thinks of how fortunate he truly is. He has seven hundred years of memories. He is about to create more. There are many men he led to their deaths, who did not get to experience a fraction of what life had to offer beyond their blades and camaraderie. 

Now, give him a twirl? Great. Now a kiss, maybe three. 

“Ohhoho,” he chuckles while hovering circles around you, right before flipping upside down and stealing a nip at your nose. “There you are, dove! I was wondering when you would arrive and ruin my composure.” Magenta eyes glint cheekily when you ask, “You had composure to begin with?” He takes your chin between thumb and index, shamelessly admiring you from head to toe. “A little,” his finger pinch with a millimeter left between them,” Yet you have stolen it from me, you minx.” 

That night, standing arm in arm, he slides your wedding ring into place and holds your hand in both his own. Here, in this faraway land, there are no bounds. Only two people, choosing to go through time together. 

“I have wandered a great many roads,” he says, eyes glimmering on you, “and I have learned that the prettiest ones are not always the easiest. They are often an illusion.” A soft smile touches his mouth as he slips the ring over your finger. “But you? You make every path worth following.Should this be a trance, it is one I never intend to wake from.” He folds his palm over yours and offers you his bare finger in turn. “I vow to laugh with you, to guard your heart when you are tired, more so when you are full with life, and to keep choosing you come every sunrise and to lay with you each sunset. ” 

When he kisses you, it is but a brush. The complete opposite of his usual passion and cheeky excitement. There is a sweetness to it that feels almost unfair, because it is also full of decades’ worth of feeling he has never once rushed. In that moment, he is thinking about how lucky he is, yes — but more than that, how amused he is that something so simple could make his whole life feel rounded..

Now…back at home, there are two very displeased fae. The king of Briar Valley has done well to temper his emotions since being crowned, and yet thunder rained from the heavens the night your family vacation ended. Not only did he miss an adventure to the Land of The Red Dragon, but the wedding between his father-figure and best friend? 

Mm. Yes. Malleus is happy for you two loves, but step aside. Give him an evening to simmer because he’s been planning what gift to give you both since the engagement and now it is ruined. 

Sebek is no better. Congratulations are in order, but they’re spoken through grit teeth and blazing jealousy that both Silver and Grim got to partake in the merriment first 

Needless to say, a reception is held back at your home in Briar forest. The small cottage you share with Lilia becomes quite the crowded hub. 

It is intimate and warm and full of familiar faces both new and old. The cottage becomes the heart of it all, with blue torchlight in the trees, mismatched lawn chairs brought out for guests, little plates of finger food shared between friends, and decorations that look like they were gathered from the forest itself. Which…they were. Acorn strands, floral adornment from your garden, etc. Nothing you both did not already own. 

Lilia…bless his heart, tries to make the wedding cake himself. You stop him before he can. Firmly. Lovingly. Because yes, you trust his intentions, but you are not entirely sure you trust a Lilia Vanrouge wedding cake to be…edible. It’s bad enough that you’ve had to replace the oven twice since moving in together. 

“Lilia…darling, why don’t we order from Clover Bakery? Trey already sent an RSVP and I do love their honeycomb cake. This is a special day, why not let someone else do the labor?”  Lilia, knuckle deep in what you think is squid-ink icing, looks at you before grabbing a random bottle off the spice rack and dumping a third of the contents.  “Nonsense! A handmade cake is precisely what our wedding needs. It shows how grateful we are for our guests sharing in the merriment!”  “Ah…haha,” you can only nod and begin to think of ways his cake can be hidden from the guests, “you make a fair point. Uhm. How about we do both? The more the better, right?”  "Good thinking!"

Your first dance together is suave and a bit all over the place. He tries to cast a little levitation spell but his magic isn't quite what it used to be. What does warm his heart is Silver stepping in during the parent/child portion, as Lilia doesn't have a parent to join in for...reasons. Malleus wanted this honor with you, but it's Grim who takes the mantle. Although our beloved kitty does regret it during the trade off, when Lilia's spinning him in circles by his front paws and one slack grip from sending Grim right into the banquet table.

While the party is relatively relaxed and more akin to a reunion if anything else…he does take the time to offer a toast. Coincidentally after the cake was cut and people seemed to flock to the outskirts where they might feed the local wildlife. He stands with a glass in hand, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who just pulled off a surprise wedding. 

“Well,” Lilia says, lifting his glass with a grin, “this is rather wonderful, isn’t it? It would be far better if I could recognize your lovely faces, but alas. These eyes aren’t so sharp after a glass or six of wine.” A few people laugh. He lets them. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate the two of us, and for not fainting from shock when we decided to make this official in the middle of a family trip.” He turns toward you, and his smile softens into something far more tender. “To my dearest…thank you for choosing this path with me, even though you deserve every grand thing the world could offer. I promise to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it.” His eyes gleam. “Now, drink up! We are married...ah, but not too much. I fear the wildlife might have a bit too much fun should you all pass out drunk in the shrubbery, kehehe~ ” 

The following week? You’re both screaming in a wooden barrel down a waterfall in the Sunset Savannah. Just because the wedding occurred on vacation, does not mean you shouldn’t enjoy a proper honeymoon. 

Thrill rides, enormous slides, lazy rivers, wave pools, splash zones, and enough noise and color to make it feel like the most chaotic, exciting honeymoon imaginable. It is exactly the sort of place that lets Lilia be ridiculous in the best possible way. This time just the two of you. Hopefully Grim hasn’t burned the cottage down, but you both can worry about it later. 

Ashura's inn was running on the warm side today. Loud in the comfortable way, not the 'there are six voices in my ear and they all sound miles off' kind of way.

The smell of stew and fresh bread clung to the air, and Reth was leaning over the chef’s counter with a knife in one hand, a cutting board under the other, and just enough attention to work on his mincing technique while ruminating over the same thoughts that invade his mind every day.

Tish was doing better. She'd just stopped in to grab 'brain fuel' for her and Jel to munch while getting creative. His debt to the cartel was paid. Had been, for months now. Although he still felt the kick to check if Zeki dropped off any packages for him to deliver. Reth's eye always strayed to the usual drop point when on break. Although his nerves hadn't yet conjured an illusion of some new contract to bind him.

Reth runs through his mental checks. He slept about four hours the night before. Which was good by his standards. Sifuu hadn't started another bar fight, thank dragon. Last week Tish had to replace three stools.

Ashura even mentioned giving him a small raise the other night. Never said why, but Reth could piece it together. A hint about 'getting him signed up a bank account so he could save for the future' here, another about keeping a bit of spending money to 'take his partner in crime on a date' there.

Speaking of, he got to see you earlier in the morning. Apparently you were off to the Royal Highlands on some special Order business with Subira. Reth was still waiting for her to put him in cuffs for his work with Zeki, but he was happy you were starting to get some answers about the whole 'humans popping up out of nowhere' business. Even if he barely understood most of it. Maybe with his newfound freedom, he could help out somehow and repay a bit of what you've done for him.

That is if he could convince Jina to teach him about humanity. There aren't many books in the library. He checked.

All Reth cared about was your happiness on that front, and you looked thrilled to explore the Royal Highlands. So he packed up a portion of hearty vegetable soup with a sliced baguette, kissed your cheek, and sent you off with the comfort of knowing you still hadn't realized how much of a mistake he was.

Everything was good. Pushing up sundrops, really.

The worst of life, the ugly, grinding, humiliating worst of it, was supposed to be over.

So why is there this...foreboding gloom hanging over his head? Why can't he just be happy?

He still didn’t know what to do.

Freedom felt too much like standing in an empty room and waiting for the door to open again.

“Reth, can I get one chappa masala to go?” someone called from nearby the hearth, and he lifted his head with practiced ease, ready with some lazy reply. The usual two-finger salute before getting a fresh order slip.

It was in that moment that time seemed to slow down. They say that seconds can feel like years when tragedy strikes, and he believed it. Felt it back when his parents never came home, when Tish's condition worsened, when he sat to let these dragon forsaken runes be carved into his skin with nothing to dull the pain.

Just because Reth's used to it, doesn't mean he's prepared. Never.

Shouting burst outside the inn's open doors, followed by heavy footfalls running up the outer stairway. The sudden scrape of urgency breaking through the heavy evening.

Reth frowned, knife pausing in his grip.

Through the swinging doorway came Subira’s commanding voice, sharp with alarm.

“Chayne—!? Chayne, I need you!”

Her panic cut through the inn like a blade.

Reth straightened to attention, stew forgotten despite needing a stir.

Across the room, Ashura was already moving, foregoing the steps down from his podium with one hop and rushing out with the kind of speed that showed he was still a trained solider even in his silver years. Reth caught the expression on his face for only a second — focused, grim, assertive — and then the inner doors banged behind him.

“What should I — ?” Reth started, but the offer died in his throat.

He should stay. He knew that. The inn was his post right now with Ashura gone. His job. His responsibility. He had a dozen plates halfway done, patrons still seated, and every sensible part of him knew he ought to keep his head down and his hands busy.

Instead he moved, leaping over the counter with one arm.

Because Subira sounded scared for the first time since she arrived in Kilma and he knew. Deep down, Reth could only think of one thing that might shake the Watcher and force her back from the Highlands investigation prematurely.

Because Chayne was not in the tavern taking his usual nighttime tea, which meant he'd been stalled by something far worse than a stubbed toe.

Because somewhere in the back of Reth’s mind, the part of him that spent too many years always braced for impact already started to say 'I told you so'.

The new breed of bad was here and peace was just an illusion.

The thing that strikes when you get comfortable.

He stepped out onto the porch just in time to see Chayne hurrying across the road, robes swaying in his wake, expression intent and troubled. Reth’s stomach dropped before he even looked past him.

Subira stood near the path, breathless, dirtied, and tense from the temples down, and in her arms —

For one endless second, Reth’s mind refused to understand what he was seeing. His gut was right.

You.

Limp in her arms. Face pale beneath the dirt and surface bruising. Your body draped in a way that made something cold and violent lurch through his chest.

Not dead. Not yet. He knew that because he would have known if you were already gone, wouldn’t he? He had to know that on sight at least. He had to be right.

But you looked so broken. Not at all like the sweet cheek he kissed just that morning, flushed under his attention and giving him the buzzy feeling that made each day something worth tackling.

Rather than those butterflies, all Reth feels right now are parasites eating at his stomach. He'll never be able to smell stew again.

Subira was saying something rushed before Chayne gestured down the road. She gave a curt nod before taking off in the direction of the healer's pavilion with you stolen away with her. Reth watches your head bob over her forearm and waits for your eyes to open. She disappears before they can.

Ashura’s voice cut in low and steady. Someone else was speaking too, maybe, but Reth couldn’t make sense of it. The sounds came at him from far away, like he’d slipped beneath the surface of a Lake Kilma and was hearing life through dense water.

He stayed rooted on the porch.

Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t make his legs work.

It was absurd, really. He carried trays full of hot food through crowded rooms, ducked knives and egos and the occasional exploding temper, survived enough terrible days to know how to keep a face on. He should be useful. He should be doing something.

Instead he was standing there like an idiot.

Dragon, why was he such an idiot.

His fingers twitched in the air, grasping at nothing.

No.

Not now. Not ever, really.

Not after everything.

Not after the cartel.

Not after Tish.

Not after all the nights he’d lain awake with the kind of dread that never really leaves, only changes shape. Not after resigning to be nothing, just to get a cruel taste of what freedom looks like. It had your face, your scent, your voice, your laugh, your touch, your...

Not after he had started, impossibly, to think maybe he could have a life that was just his life, and not a countdown to pay his due.

His gaze stayed fixed on the spot Subira once stood. You were here and not here. A body. A breathing thing. A person. The sight of you struck him in some old, buried place where hope and fear were tangled together so tightly he couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

This was it, wasn’t it?

This was the price.

Every small joy, every stolen laugh, every half-remembered moment of feeling safe in with your hand in his, of hearing you tease him through the storage room door, of seeing your face across the counter and thinking, against all reason, that maybe he could keep this. Maybe he could keep you.

He hadn't deserved any of it.

That thought came suddenly, sharp as a hook beneath the ribs.

All the things you had given him. All the new chances. The security. The patience. The way you looked at him like he was not a problem to solve or a burden to bear, but a person. He had not earned it. Not properly. Not nearly enough. He had not said the things he should have said. He had not thanked you enough. Hadn’t told you how often he thought of you when the night got too quiet, or how much lighter the world felt when you walked into the inn, or how he had started measuring days by the possibility of seeing you again.

Reth thought there would be time.

He thought he could be clever about it. Play it cool. Let things develop in their own time.

Dragon, there's never time. What made him think there would be now, when the universe was set to punish him for the sin of getting used to happiness.

His chest tightened so suddenly it hurt.

No, he thought again, but this time it was smaller. More frightened. Childish, almost. Like the voice in his head belonged to someone much more lanky, reading a report from the coastguard about a ship lost to the tides.

He didn't remember taking a still breath.

He didn't remember when his hands started shaking. Only that the air felt thicker.

“Reth.”

A rich, commanding voice, snapped straight through the haze.

Reth blinked hard, and the scene shifted into focus by degrees. Ashura was in front of him now, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other steadying him before he could even realize he was unsteady. His brow was furrowed with concern, the kind that came from someone who already made a dozen hard decisions before noon and still had room left to worry about other people.

“Hey,” Ashura said, low and even. “Listen to me.”

Reth stared at him, empty-headed.

Ashura’s grip tightened gently. “You need to hold down the inn for me, alright? I have to get Chayne what he needs but I'll be right back. Chayne will take care of them, okay? Just breathe and wait for me here.”

Your name carried weight across every syllable as Ashura spoke. If anyone knew the sinking feeling of half your heart being torn out, it was Kilma's gentlest innkeeper.

Reth swallowed, throat thick, grating, and useless. He could hear nothing clearly except the pounding of his own pulse.

Ashura said something else then, an apology maybe, or an explanation, but it washed over him without meaning. Reth barely registered the words. What he registered was the pressure of Ashura’s hands on his shoulders, the certainty in his voice, the fact that someone was still telling him what to do because he had not yet fallen apart enough to be spared responsibility.

Hold down the inn.

Yes. Right. Of course.

Useful. Be useful. Keep moving.

It was the only thing he knew how to reach for.

“Yeah,” he said, and the word came out thin. Crooked. “Yeah. Fine. Go. You can count on me."

Ashura searched Reth's face for one more second, as if he might object, and then nodded sharply. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

He let go and was gone almost immediately, already turning toward Chayne’s house at a speed Reth was sure would aggravate Ashura's bad knee later on. He'd only gather enough to care later, when this was over. It had to be over at some point.

Reth stood there a moment longer, staring after him, not because he was calm but because he had nothing left to do with his body. His hands felt far away. His legs felt borrowed. Everything inside him had gone still in the way a room goes still after lightning strikes nearby.

Then the world lurched back into motion.

Inside the inn, a chair scraped. Someone asked a question. A murmur of concern spread through the room, but Reth could not hear the words. He turned mechanically, like a puppet being tugged by a string, and went back in on legs that didn’t quite belong to him.

The smell of burning stew hit him again, warm and unbearable. He jumped the counter to turn off the burner.

His cutting board sat where he’d left it. The knife, too. The vegetables. The dirty bar rag hung on its hook. Ordinary things. Things that had no right continuing to exist while the rest of his world split open.

Reth put his hands on the counter and stared down at them.

He was still shaking.

He tightened his jaw.

Nope. Not here. Not now.

He picked up the knife and pulled out strip chaapa. Got to cubing it and grabbed an order ticket. Because what else was there? Because if he stopped, the image of you in Subira’s arms would keep replaying itself, over and over, and the breaking sound in his chest would turn into something messier and harder to hide.

A customer spoke to him and he answered automatically. Somebody asked if the tea was ready and he nodded. Another voice. Another plate. Another task. Another attempt to drag the world back into a shape that made sense.

But inside, he was still on the porch.

Still watching. Thinking.

I'm such an idiot.

I knew better.

I should've asked Jina sooner, should've asked Subira for details, should've begged them to stay - made an excuse. Been there.

Please.

Dragon, Pheonix, whoever you are ... if you're there.

Please.

Don't take them from me.

The word lodged in him like a splinter. Please let them live. Please let Chayne be able to fix this. Please let there be something in this world stronger than all the bad things waiting their turn.

Please don't let him lose the one person who's become the center of his life without him noticing until it was already too late.

And if there were gods—if there were any kind of listening power at all, any mercy tucked away behind the stars—then now. Now would be a very good time to prove it.

Because Reth could not do this again.

Could not stand by another bedside and wait for a voice to say there was nothing more to be done.

Could not hold himself together with jokes and flour and duty while the person he loved slipped out of reach.

Could not.

He pressed his fingers into the counter until his knuckles ached and kept his face angled just so, because the customers still needed feeding and the inn still needed him and if he looked too closely at anyone he was certain he would break. Their lingering eyes suggest they expect him to, and he won't slip.

But inside, where no one could see him, he was already broken.

Hassian:

Hassian considered himself one who exists with peace. In harmony with the world he inhabits. Yet that does not mean he is comfortable enough to take tranquility for granted. To exist in peace.

No.

Hassian is intimately aware that every day is different from the last, and that one's life can be ripped mercilessly out from its roots if there are roots lain down to do so.

While it is by the dragon's grace that he has comforts to lose, it is also by his cruelest will that those we cherish can be stolen for no reason other than circumstance.

It is not fear that claims Hassian. Not even grief. Of that he holds nestled between his seventh and eighth ribs, an urge to persist. It is not blood or hunger or the ache of long winters spent whittling in his grove and longer hunts as the game thins. Those were familiar changes.

Honest uprootings. The world had always been full of sharp edges, and he learned young how to move between them.

But peace?

Peace felt like standing on unfamiliar ground and being told not to brace for it to crumble. Hassian could not find it in himself to slip into peace.

Until now.

For a few hours, he had everything he would ever need in the palm of his hand. Every root lain in his garden, tucked safe under the ground, making their beds in Kilma’s soil as they should have twenty years ago.

Taylin. Mama. By some miracle, the Dragon returned her to Sifuu and him. Rather she was never claimed in the first place. For twenty years, she was just out of reach.

Yet he did not care to let that thought sink. None of it mattered.

Not when she was here with them now.

Alive.

Breathing.

Resting in the healer's pavillion after Chayne’s careful hands cleaned the worst of her wounds, after the impossible had become real and the ground cracked open just enough to let life sprout new roots. Sifuu hadn't let go of Taylin once she returned to herself, and Ulfie — who had been a stranger only yesterday and now felt like a new root in Hassian's family — stayed close too, quiet and watchful in a way Hassian recognized. Tau curled at the boys feet and waited his turn for pets.

The five of them sat together in that passing moment, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Hassian's heart was not divided by loss.

It's become whole.

Even the open room seemed different for it. Smaller, perhaps. Warmer. Medicinal herbs never had such a welcoming aroma. Or maybe that appreciation was only the shape of his own disbelief.

There was so much to catch up on.

So much to learn.

So much to unlearn, too, from all the years he spent carrying the weight of a mama-shaped absence and calling it strength. And yet there was something gentle in it, too. Taylin looking at him like she was memorizing his face. Taking in all he'd become, yet still seeing the image of her little boy who'd look at the stars with hope.

Sifuu sat beside her, steady as stone. Barely holding back from sharing every little detail of their lives these years and straining not to ask Tailyn for her story. Not yet.

For a short while, the world felt almost complete. Only missing one piece to make the picture whole.

Just think of the human and they shall always come, just as Hassian's grown used to.

So he waits.

He waits.

He takes in these otherwise perfect, terribly short, hours.

He waits and he trusts you'll seek him out once your work is through.

Tau's head lifts at the sound of rushed footfalls, and Hassian can't help the twitch of his lip. Like clockwork. They're a bit frantic and lighter than your usual stride but it has been an eventful day. No one is entirely predictable, as you've proven time and time again.

He waits a little more.

And by dragon, if Hassian could take back the summons, the thought of you, then he'd do anything to make it so.

At first, he thought it was only another fevered trick of exhaustion.

You were with him only hours before, standing at his hip with that certainty of yours that guides a hunt to finish, alive and smiling and warm with a heart on your sleeve that makes him feel as though the world had one less thing to question. Even if you were full of them every day.

Your eyes, glazed with tears of happiness for his family reunited, and a brush to his arm brace as if to say 'Go. I've got it from here. Be with them'. He wouldn't have left you alone in the middle of unfamiliar territory under any other circumstance.

Yet even then, he should have lingered just a moment beyond that silent exchange. To ensure the security of whatever task you'd throw yourself into without him. Based on the trials set to gain access to that ancient mansion, he saw first hand that it would be neither simple or safe.

Yet you always pull a miracle. His mama come home is a prime example.

No matter what trouble you got yourself mixed up in - of which, Hassian is certain there are many he's unaware - you always find him later on, come the end of each day.

Later.

A word that only seemed solid enough to trust because of you.

When Subira came rushing into the infirmary, Hassian's first thought was annoyance at the interruption. With the way Tau perked, Hassian was certain it would be you rushing up the path. Emotions may have rattled the hunter's instincts, but his pluumehound's senses were never wrong.

His second thought was a vague, dreadful understanding that something was terribly wrong. Watchers are trained to maintain their calm under distress and yet one well-ordained is missing her footing.

His third thought, broaching reflexes dulled by everything that had already happened that day, stalled to static at the body clutched in her arms.

To the battered, limp shape of you.

For one long second Hassian's mind refused to name what he saw.

Then his gaze drifted to the hollow lavender tint under your eyes, a shade he knew did not belong on human skin, and so he tried to look away. Yet every inch of flesh was caked in dirt, soot, and splotches of maroon that he once again could not dare to name.

Is it true that humans bleed the same as Majiri? Of course they do.

So why, like a child who once thought the stars held all answers, could he not grasp the metal stench clinging to you.

Subira’s urgency murdered the peace Hassian no longer found himself in. Chayne had already stood, already crossed the threshold, already commanding with the wisdom of someone who had no room for panic because panic would help no one. Sifuu let go of Taylin's hand for the first time. The empty cot beside them was cleared.

Your head rolled to face him as Subira laid your body down. He expected your eyes to sliver open, your hand to reach for him from where it draped useless off the bedside.

Hassian felt Tau's muzzle nudge into his open palm, and it was enough for him to let go of pointless expectation. Peace wasn't even with him anymore. It abandoned them all.

Then, he moved.

Every little detail he allowed to exist without thought now assaulted him. He remembers the truth behind herbal scents in the air and clean cloth cut to strips, the meaning behind each creak under his feet, the harsh, terrible fact that these cots meant for healing can also hold bodies too broken to merely be resting.

A house of hope, can just as easily become a house of woe. One cannot exist without the other.

Balance of scales, the realist in him thought.

He got his mama back, and in the same day he would lose you.

His life had been perfect for a few short hours. That's more then most get. He could ask the dragon to take him instead, but it would do no good.

Nature does not bargain.

It demands its due.

It takes and takes and takes until one dared to think they've been spared. It takes them too. No one escapes in the end.

And now there was only this.

Your blood. Your bruises. He wraps your fingers in gauze and lets his fingers stray to your wrist. A pulse, but weak. Not the thrum of a hummingbird he was so used to counting when your skin was offered to him willingly.

Your spirit fading, with him hopeless to stop it. Hassian knew before Chayne spoke the words.

Hassian could feel the old instinct rising in him, the one that had kept him alive in the wilds, the one that had taught him to track the signs of danger before it struck. But danger this time was not something he could hunt. Could not shoot. Could not chase through the trees or stand between with bow in hand.

"Tell me what to do, Chayne. Anything. Anything at all, and it is yours."

The look in his Shepp's eye conveyed the answer Hassian knew to be true. 'There is nothing we can do, but wait' yet for all the patience he had when stalking prey, Hassian could not muster a drop of it.

Chayne must sense that he needs an order. A direction. He gives an order for materials from his house.

Hassian obeys.

Chayne asks him to escort Ulfie to Tamala's in Upper Bahari. The child shouldn't be alone right now. Hassian obeys, he barely spares her a look once the boy is indoors.

Change your bandages. He obeys. Deliver tonics for other patients. He obeys.

Anything to stay moving. Anything to keep from looking too closely at the shape of your face. Anything to keep from admitting that the feeling in his chest was not anger, though it was close to it, and not fear, though fear had its claws deep in him.

It was the awful, naked knowledge that he had just gotten you.

Just gotten this life.

Just begun to imagine a future where there would be more of you in it. Where he had a hearth to call his own and a family to sit around it.

And how each day that passes, the chance of that future fades with you.

No.

The thought came with violence Hassian rarely embodied.

No.

His jaw tightened hard enough to ache.

Please.

He had not meant to think the word, or to beg. Begging never helped when Taylin disappered. No one answered -- that's wrong. Twenty years it took but someone finally answered. It wasn't a god either. It was you.

So if he was going to beg, and plead, and cry. Let his voice break through, raw and unguarded, leaving him more exposed than any would could. If he was going to submit himself to prayer.

Then Hassian would pray to you. To reach wherever your spirit walks.

Please do not leave me.

Please do not become another absence.

Please do not become another loss I must learn to survive.

I can't live without my heart, and it beats with you.

Hassian holds your hand in his until the sun rises, and until it sets. Willing his words to reach you as he reads from books and recites poems he once thought would never reach your ears. Yet unless Chayne needs him to or his mothers voices carry enough for talk, he remains where your spirit can feel him calling.

Because if there was any strength in him at all, it would be used now in service of keeping you away from the stars. Your story is not ready to be written among them. Not yet. Not without him.

Nai'o

By the time Nai’o made it home, it was well past two in the morning.

The Elderwoods was left behind him, the long dark roads and leaning signposts finally left in the care of the moon. He checked them all. Tightened what needed tightening. Marked what needed marking. The kind of work that made his shoulders ache and his eyes blur a little by the end of it, but which still left him feeling useful, and being useful had always been the easiest way for him to sleep soundly.

The barn smelled like hay and work and the faint comfort of home. He cleaned up there the way he always did, moving on muscle memory more than thought, and by the time he pushed open the front door of the farmhouse, his body was asking (more like demanding) for sleep.

He expected quiet and toed off his boots carefully after sparing a quick look at Auni’s treehouse.

Maybe Ma’s awake with another book she pretended not to be too invested in. Maybe the soft creak of the old house settling around him as he walked the floor seams. Maybe Pa snoring so loudly upstairs that Nai’o would roll his eyes and smile despite himself.

What Nai’o did not expect was both of his parents sitting in the little living room without any light, locked in quiet conversation until he crossed the threshold. Both Ma and Pa looked right at him and he felt like he was 13, caught sneaking out to throw rocks at Kenyatta’s window all o er again.

Except Nai’o certainly wasn’t 13 anymore and surely hasn’t done anything wrong. Maybe. Not that he knows of?

Ma’s face was carefully composed in the way it only ever was when she was trying very hard not to fall apart. Nai’o can’t remember the last time he saw her like that. Her eyes were rimmed red. Not by much. Just enough to make his stomach drop straight through the floor.

Badruu held his straw hat to his chest, fingers curled around the brim like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

Nai’o stared. His mouth opened, then shut again.

“Aaah,” he said stupidly, because his brain hadn’t yet caught up past getting his boots off. “Hi?”

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

Nai’o looked up just in time to see Auni peeking over the banister, then ducking back out of sight.

That was when Nai’o’s heart started to pound.

Auni was usually asleep by now. He didn’t stay in their shared bedroom anymore, complaining that Nai’o snored too loud. If he was awake here and not in his treehouse, it usually meant he was scared or Ma asked him in.

The thought made a cold little knot twist low in his chest.

“Ma?” Nai’o asked carefully, shifting between them. “Pa?”

Delaila inhaled through her nose, slow and steady. Which, for her, meant this was very serious indeed.

“Is everything okay?” Nai’o asked again, though even he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. “We’re not losing the house, are we?”

His mind immediately went to the worst, but they weren’t behind on payments the last he checked. You helped them meet their quota last month too.

Badruu’s expression only got tighter as he rubbed a soothing hand over Delaila’s back. Why wasn’t anyone talking? What could be worse than losing the house?

Then Auni came tumbling down the stairs in a rush of oversized socks and nerves, nearly missing the last step entirely. He landed in the foyer, blurted your name out in a rush with his hands flying high, “There was an explosion! A bomb! The whole town was freakin' out!” and then froze like he had just run headfirst into a wall.

Nai'o was no better, his mind barely picking the right words out in a fight against exhaustion.

His family knew what you meant to him. They would never make that kind of thing up just to tease him after a long day. Or any day.

Because they loved you too. He knew that as surely as he knew the shape of his own hands. His ma smiled whenever you came by, asked if you'd been eating well up on that hill by yourself. His pa always found some excuse to ask how you were doing, test out a new pun, or send a bit of extra hay for your animals, even when he was busy. Auni thought you were the coolest person in the world and didn't act embarassed to admit it.

And Nai’o...?

Nai’o loved you in the simple, open way that never made much room for pretending otherwise.

You’re family. His future.

You’ve become everything and it almost felt like you’ve always been here. A steady, bright presence in the middle of all the things in his life that could be uncertain. When he saw you, he felt steadier. Better. Like the world was a little less likely to topple over.

The axis was tilting.

His breath left him in one hard, silent rush.

And then the fear became motion.

Nai’o was moving before anybody could catch him.

He was halfway out the door, hopping back into his muddy boots, when his mother called his name, but he didn’t slow down.

He was moving, his exhaustion burned clean away in a single rush of panic so sharp it almost hurt. He didn’t stop to ask for details. Didn’t stop to ask who was with you or whether Chayne had already seen you or what exactly had happened.

You were hurt.

You needed him.

That was all his body understood.

“Nai’o! Dear, hold on just a moment —” his ma started, but he was already at the door.

He heard Pa call after him, something about being careful, something about taking the good lantern, but he was gone before the words could settle. His boots hit the dirt path with a speed that shocked even him, and then he was running through the dark, one thought pounding in time with his steps.

I should have been there.

I should be there.

He’s been out working overtime. Checking the little things people relied on him for because that was what he did best. And while he had been out there, doing his job, doing what he was supposed to do, you were in danger.

That was the part he couldn’t quite fit into his head.

He knew you did important work, even when compared to the other new humans. He knew you were helping the Order, helping the village, doing things that mattered. Your work was so much bigger than him. Not a day passes where Nai'o doesn't wonder what you see in him.

Yet he never thought of that greatness as something to fear. He thought of it as one more reason to admire you. You were brave, and kind, and strong in ways he was still trying to understand.

But now he could feel the shape of that bravery in his chest like a bruise.

Nai'o has seen how people look while they processed loss. When Hodari lost Letha, and his daughter was injured - the two went months without visiting Kilma for anything other than food. When Ashura lost Sabaine, Kilma mourned a good woman. That’s right. Nai’o remembers now. That day was the last time he saw his ma cry so openly.

Nai'o didn't think he would feel that type of loss until his parents met the dragon. He never thought it would be you being carried into the dark like this. Not you, lying still. Not the crying eyes of Kilma meant for you.

Nai’o reached Chayne’s shrine at a speed fast enough that he had to catch himself on the entryway before he stumbled inside.

And there you were.

The world seemed to stop.

For one brief, stupid second, Nai’o forgot how to breathe again even as he gasped to reclaim it.

Ulfie was sitting near your bed, startled by the sound of him coming in too fast and too loud, his face going instantly panic-struck at the sight of Nai’o. Nai’o would apologize later. He would. He’d probably apologize a lot, actually, because the poor kid looked like he might bolt.

But right then, all Nai’o could see was you.

Bandaged. Bruised. Your eyes closed with the same expression you'd take when catching a quick nap on one of the hay bales in the barn.

He wanted them to open. Look at him with that warm expression that told him everything was going to be okay. Open your arms for his daily hug that felt like torture to go without.

His whole body went cold and hot at once.

Dragon, if a hug could heal you, he'd never let you go.

The thing about Nai’o was that he felt everything.

He did not hide it well, and he never really wanted to. When he loved someone, he loved them with his whole chest. When he worried, he shook. When he was happy, everyone heard his hollering. There was no point pretending otherwise.

So when he reached your bedside, all that openness turned into a kind of helpless honesty.

His knees hit the floor before he fully realized he was kneeling.

He took your hand in both of his, like that alone might anchor your spirit here.

His eyes burned terribly. Worse than when Butterball kicked up sand.

Then he blinked hard, but it did not help. Tears spilled anyway, hot and useless and eating at the exhaustion creeping back in the most soul crushing way. He did not care. He could not care. The sight of you like this cracked something clean open in him, and there was no pretending it didn’t hurt like it was his spirit being ripped in two.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, voice shaking around the words. “No, no, no, hey—hey, you’re okay, right? You’re going to be okay.”

He did not know who he was asking.

You. Chayne. The room. The Dragon. Anyone.

His thumb brushed carefully over your hand, as if he could feel for proof there that you were still here. Still warm.

He wanted to say so many things.

That he was sorry he wasn’t there for you.

That he should have come home faster.

That he would have run the whole way back from the Elderwood if he knew.

That he was scared in a way he’s never been scared before, because this wasn’t crops drying out, a broken wheel in the middle of nowhere, or even money running short before the duchess demanded her due payment.

This was you. This was someone he loved lying injured in front of him, and he had no practical skill to fix it.

But he also knew, with the simple certainty of someone who hadn’t yet learned to distrust hope, that you were still here.

And because you were still here, Nai’o could keep believing. Chayne says your spirit is what needs time. That’s fine. He has all of it in the world, just for you.

His tears kept coming, but his voice evens out just enough for him to speak clearly.

“I’m here,” Nai’o whispers, squeezing your hand gently. “I’m here now. I should have been here before, I know, I know, but I’m here now. When you wake up, you can scold me all you want. I'll listen. Promise I will."

His lower lip trembles, and he laughs once in that sad, breathless way people do when they are trying not to cry harder. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he if sleep is what you need then he won’t disturb you.

“I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m right here.” He promises, “When you’re better, we’ll take that trip with Auni into Bahari City. All on me. I was planning to surprise you with it but that’s okay. It would’ve slipped out…you know I can’t keep a secret…”

Behind him, he heard Chayne moving to tend to whomever was in the cot beside you. Heard Ulfie shifting in his seat, before Nai'o felt a small hand pat his shoulder. Heard the quiet, careful sounds of a room full of people doing their best to help.

At some point Kenyatta came in to do her work, but she wasn't shocked to see him sitting there. They shared a weak greeting with each other before she pulled up a stool for him to sit on.

Nai’o felt guilty, relaxing once the pressure was off his knees, but the pinpricks in his calves were the only distraction from how his heart ached.

He only let go of your hand for Kenyatta to check your vitals.

He might not be smartest person in the room. He might not always have the right words. He might be useless to the entire situation — No. He certainly is.

Yet.

Nai’o just needs to be here when you opened your eyes. He can be here for you. He’d sooner abandon his path and sell shoe shines by the sea shore than let you wake up to an empty room.

He’ll make sure you smile and know that everything is going to be okay.

And later, when you were better and he had his voice back and his heart is not rattling around in his ribs like a loose stone, he’ll talk your ears off about how unfair all of this was and how very much he hated seeing you hurt and how he was definitely going to be more annoying about reminding you to be careful from now on. He might've thought you were some type of super human before, but just wait.

He'll hug you longer each day. Take the detour up that hill every night before going home, just to make sure you're safe and taking care of yourself.

Nai’o won't let you forget that he's there, even if he isn't as important to the grand scheme.

But for now, he will hold your hand and wait for you to rest. He won’t go anywhere.

Because you’re family to him in everything but name. That’s only a matter of time to change too.

You carry a shadow that is towering, one that swamps your own in broad daylight. 

Physically, Jade is not clingy in the traditional sense. He is not hanging off your shoulder or demanding affection in public. In fact, he is oddly respectful of your space…which somehow makes him more overbearing? He simply has eyes in the walls. You grow accustomed to the sense of being watched over with time, as he is worse than a helicopter mom at disney world.  

A hand on the small of your back while walking through crowds. Casually steering you away from danger like you are a shopping cart with a broken wheel. If someone becomes too loud or aggressive near you, Jade inserts himself into the situation before you can speak. 

And seven help the sad sack who touches you without permission. 

Jade does not explode like Floyd or bark threats like Leona. No. He politely dismantles people with a shark-took grin. One warning is spoken with that overly pleasant customer service voice and suddenly the entire room feels humid. 

“Oh dear. I’m afraid you seem to have mistaken my partner for someone interested in your attention. How embarrassing for you.” 

People at Mostro Lounge learn very quickly that your name is not one to use carelessly in conversation, unless they want Jade’s attention - and trust me, that is not a fun prize. Gossip in his domain? Unless he thinks it is relatively harmless and might yield a cute reaction from you…nuh-uh-uh. 

Jade understands social warfare better than nearly anyone at NRC. He knows secrets. Everybody has secrets. Azul collects contracts but Jade collects information, and if someone threatens your reputation? Congratulations. They have just volunteered for psychological warfare against a man who enjoys sampling poisonous mushrooms in his free time. Very Mao-Mao from ‘Apothecary Diaries’ core. 

If someone DOES spread rumors about you? They tend to disappear before they gain traction. It is almost magical. One moment there is gossip circulating around NRC and the next the students involved are apologizing to you with sweat dripping down their backs while Jade stands nearby smiling like a proud parent at a piano recital. 

You never find out what he did to make it happen. Snitches get stitches, you can ask whomever you like. No one is about to get on a Leech’s bad side. Especially anyone from the Coral Sea…they like having their gills intact, thank you very much. 

In fact…your social circle seems to thin out. No one you’d miss, certainly. Anyone worth keeping around is already known by you before Jade’s fancy was stuck, after all. He just has a ‘quality’ that keeps bottom feeders away. 

Jade is significantly more possessive than he pretends to be. He acts amused when people flirt with you. Smiles. Tilt his head. You’d think him entirely unbothered, if not for the slight twitch of his lower eyelid. 

Meanwhile he’s mentally ranking the best burial locations on his usual mountain trails. He won’t do it. Just…let him tinker. He can only tolerate so much audacity from these people after all. 

Unlike Floyd’s explosive jealousy, Jade’s comes in the form of increased politeness. That’s how you know he is upset. The sweeter he sounds, the worse the situation is. If someone is heavily flirting with you, Jade becomes attached to your side for the rest of the day. He won’t intrude unless you explicitly ask – discounting the times you’re unaware of his presence – but he does expect you to shrug the plebs off. Make an effort or his ire might have you backed up against a wall later that night. 

Make no comment when he casually mentions your relationship status every three sentences either. Subtly, as he watches the offender making a move on you crumple like the trash they are and evaporate from his sight. Yet…if it continues beyond flirtations? If someone dares to make a vulgar comment at you?

His terrariums gain new fertilizer. 

No, because seriously. There is no situation where he’d let any sort of objectification or crude remark slide. Not interesting. Not funny. The only tolerable admiration is watching bottomfeeders deflate as they realize he’s already got the best pickings of the land. He can and will cut their tongues out. 

“My, what a vulgar thing to say. I do hope for your sake that you simply misspoke…though judging by your expression, I suspect not. How unfortunate. Shall we continue this conversation somewhere private? People do become rather forgetful when they are trying to impress someone who is already spoken for, don’t they? ” 

Jamil Viper 

7/10

Jamil does not WANT to be protective.

That is important to understand first and foremost. 

He already has enough responsibilities. Enough people depending on him. Enough stress. The last thing he needs is another person to worry over and yet somehow…there you are. Sitting comfortably in the center of his thoughts like you pay rent there. Mm. 

Annoying.

Very annoying.

He’s a bit of his own worst nightmare. Jamil finds a partner who is competent insanely attractive. Nothing gets him going like a show of power…but his brain doesn’t have an ‘off’ switch. So he naturally tries to take charge in most situations and has a terrible time letting his guard down. 

Because now he has to think about things like whether you ate today. Whether you got enough sleep. Whether Ace and Grim dragged you into another near death experience. He catches himself scanning crowds for your face automatically and gets irritated every single time he realizes he is doing it.

Just his luck that he’s fallen for the person with the self-preservation skills of a mosquito…ha..haha..hahaha.

Physically, Jamil is surprisingly attentive. Not overbearing, but hyperaware. He notices exhaustion before you say anything. Notices when your social battery dies. Notices when you are forcing yourself to smile through discomfort. He’s used to reading people. 

He is the type to silently pull you away from overwhelming situations under the guise of something casual.

“Come help me with this for a second.”

Suddenly you are outside getting fresh air while he pretends to sweep the outer courtyard. .

Jamil is not loud about protecting you because loud attention is dangerous in his mind. He prefers subtle control over situations. Strategic positioning. Standing between you and someone sketchy without making a scene. Steering conversations away from topics that upset you. Making sure you get back to Ramshackle safely even if he acts like it is an inconvenience.

And yes. He absolutely keeps track of where you are. Give him your phone so he can add you to Life360. Just do it. 

Not in a creepy way. In a “if something happens to you I will have a stress-induced migraine” way. He gets pissed when Grim takes your phone though. The headmaster seriously has you both sharing one? Just…look, take his old one. Don’t tell Kalim either. He’ll 100%% get you the newest model with an unlimited data plan, but Jamil isn’t about to have someone else doing what he can do for you just fine. Especially Kalim.

He especially hates when you wander around NRC late at night alone. This school has entirely too many weirdos, overblot incidents, and students with magical superiority complexes. The moment he finds out you went somewhere dangerous by yourself he is giving you ‘That Look’.

You know the one.

Socially, Jamil is vicious in the pettiest ways possible.

He does not have the authority of someone like Riddle nor the intimidation factor of Leona, so instead he weaponizes competence. If someone is rude to you publicly? Congratulations. Jamil is about to make them look stupid in front of everyone.

Not directly, of course. That would be messy.

But suddenly they are fumbling their words during class presentations because Jamil “helpfully” pointed out inconsistencies in their work. Suddenly they are losing arguments they thought they could win. Suddenly every flaw they have becomes painfully obvious because Jamil knows exactly how to press people until they crack.

He has years of experience surviving court politics. Some random teenager is light work.

The thing is, Jamil gets especially protective over your image because he understands what it feels like to have people make assumptions about you. So rumors? Harassment? People trying to paint you negatively? He…is guilty of doing that to others. 

So he is able to detect the early signs of someone scheming. No one’s ripping at your confidence. He’ll end them.

Not only because he cares about you, but because he genuinely cannot stand unfairness directed toward someone he loves. You become one of the very few people he allows himself to prioritize emotionally and he takes that seriously.

Now jealousy?

…Yeah. Yeah Jamil has issues.

Not outwardly at first. He tries SO hard to play it cool. He tells himself he is being irrational. That you can handle yourself. That he trusts you.

Then he sees someone flirting with you too comfortably and suddenly his eye is twitching.

Jamil’s jealousy manifests through hovering and passive aggression. He starts inserting himself into conversations uninvited. Interrupting. Pulling you away under flimsy excuses. Offering to do things for you before someone else can. Oh, he is burning. That ego he tries to keep under a tarp is coming out at full force. 

And the sass?

Unmatched.

“Oh? You suddenly developed interest in my partner after ignoring them for months? What a fascinating coincidence…sorry, what’s your name again?”

The worst part is that Jamil absolutely notices when people are attracted to you before they even realize it themselves. One lingering glance and he is already annoyed.

He also DESPISES overly touchy people around you. No one gets a pass. Kalim really pisses him off, but he has to bite it down. At least there’s the comfort of knowing it’s strictly platonic but still. 

Your little first-year group? He has so much beef with Ace it isn’t funny. That ******* knows exactly what he’s doing whenever he slings an arm over your shoulder. Floyd? Every basketball practice is one where Jamil is tempted to spike the ball at the back of his head. He tolerates Grim, knowing that the menace is going to be there until the day you both die. 

And if someone thinks to pass a vulgar comment? A cat-call? Mm. Patience isn’t always a virtue. 

Jamil’s entire expression flattens like someone turned his emotions off manually. He gets cold in a way that makes people instinctively backpedal. Unlike some of the others, he is less likely to threaten violence and more likely to verbally flay someone alive with frightening precision.

He knows exactly what insecurities to target too. Doesn’t matter who it is. He can pick them apart in a few short moments. 

“You know, confidence is attractive in moderation. Unfortunately for you, this is just embarrassing.”

Rook Hunt 8.5/10

Dating Rook is like accidentally befriending a very affectionate cryptid.

One day you are minding your business and the next you hear rustling in the trees followed by an enthusiastic Frenchman praising the way sunlight reflects off your hair. There is no such thing as privacy anymore. Not because Rook wishes to control you, but because he genuinely enjoys your existence so much that he cannot help orbiting around you constantly.

He is EVERYWHERE.

The scary thing? Half the time you do not even notice him until he speaks.

“Ah! Trickster! The way you leap away in surprise reminds me of a startled doe. Magnifique!”

Cardiac arrest. Immediate cardiac arrest. He ceases for the rest of the day but then is right back at it the next. 

At first his protectiveness does not even register because Rook treats everything with fascination. He watches everyone. Compliments everyone. Appears out of nowhere for everyone. So naturally, you assume his attention toward you is just part of his personality.

Then you realize he has been tailing you across campus for three hours because you mentioned feeling unsafe walking alone after dark.

Romantic.

Terrifying, but romantic.

This man has the instincts of a hunting dog and the perception of a military drone.

You are never unsafe around him.

Ever.

Physically, Rook is actually extremely protective. Far more than people expect. Underneath all the theatrics and poetry is someone with terrifying awareness of his surroundings. Rook notices danger instantly. The shift in someone’s body language. A suspicious movement in the crowd. The subtle signs someone intends harm.

A student reaching for their pen? He sees it. Someone following you through the halls? Already aware. Suspicious noises outside Ramshackle at night? He is perched somewhere nearby like a Victorian gargoyle with a bow in hand. Sorry Malleus. This one is not fit for your club to study…unless?

Ahem. You genuinely cannot sneak up on this man.

And because of that? Nobody sneaks up on you either.

The issue is that Rook treats protecting you like an act of devotion. He enjoys it. Not in a creepy controlling way but in a “the hunter safeguards what he treasures most” way. 

And unlike some of the others, Rook is willing to get physical FAST if he thinks you are genuinely threatened. People forget that beneath the dramatic monologues and layers of concealer is a man who hunts for fun.

For FUN.

One second someone is getting too aggressive with you. The next Rook is suddenly behind them smiling with their wrist pinned up against their back.

“Ah ah~ I would reconsider your actions, mon trésor’s comfort is far more important to me than your pride.”

The thing about Rook is that he rarely ‘sounds threatening. Which somehow makes him infinitely worse. He says horrifying things with the same tone someone would use to compliment flowers.

And LORD help the poor soul that genuinely hurts you somehow.

Rook becomes the physical manifestation of “I know where you live.” 

His little ‘Oo la la~’ pitch that carries in the wind like fallen leaves suddenly turns into Krampus incarnate. Deep, guttural, and spoken directly into the perpetrator’s ear with a promise for something much worse than a beating with a straw broom and some coal in their stocking. 

“Aha. No. We are not looking at mon coheur in such a manner. You may apologize now, or I will be forced to consider alternative persuasion. Un, deux, toi –” 

Socially, Rook is extreamly supportive rather than controlling. He absolutely hypes you up constantly. Shamelessly….it’s very much the ‘Wear whatever you want, my darling. I know how to fight’ dynamic amped to maximum overdrive. 

He will praise you in front of literally anyone with zero shame. Your intelligence, your beauty, your habits, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh—nothing is safe from his admiration. At first people think it is exaggeration because surely no one can speak this poetically about their partner twenty-four hours a day.

No. He means every word.

The issue is that this also means he becomes deeply offended when others speak poorly of you. Rook values beauty in all forms and to insult someone he treasures? Mon dieu. The audacity.

Rook does not argue normally. He psychoanalyzes people like he is peeling an orange. Someone makes fun of you once and suddenly Rook is smiling thoughtfully while pointing out all the hidden insecurities fueling their behavior.

In front of everyone.

“Oh? Such cruelty toward someone so radiant…could it be envy, perhaps? How unfortunate. To possess eyes capable of witnessing beauty and yet remain unable to appreciate it.”

Murder. Actual murder.

And because Rook is naturally charismatic, people listen to him. He can spin social situations terrifyingly fast. One minute someone is mocking you and the next they are being publicly pitied by half the room while Rook comforts you dramatically like the star actor of a tragedy play.

But jealousy? Hah! Listen. 

Rook is a strange creature because he simultaneously understands why people are attracted to you while also wanting to put them in the ground for acting on it.

He appreciates beauty. Of course others admire you! How could they not? To him your existence is practically artwork.

So when others pursue you, he does not see them as something to dismiss. No. No. He will acknowledge their challenge…and you will find no one more competitive. He wants to win. 

Which means the flirting somehow becomes worse. He is a peacock spreading its feathers while aiming a shotgun with its beak. 

You think one person complimenting you is bad? Congratulations. Rook is now reciting poetry while kissing your hand in front of them with enough intensity to make bystanders uncomfortable.

He becomes unbelievably touchy too. Draping himself over your shoulders. Holding your waist. Tilting your chin toward him while maintaining eye contact with whoever dared flirt with you. If they want you, then they’ll have to offer you better than what he can provide. Which is impossible, because Rook spares no effort in ensuring you have everything you could ever want. 

And if someone says something vulgar about you? 

…they have a ten second head start. 

Rook does not mind admiration, he encourages all beauty to be appreciated, but crude lust disgusts him. In his eyes it reduces something precious into something cheap and tawdry. He takes it personally, like someone smeared mud over a painting. 

He merely teases the brim of his hat, ducks his chin low, and fixes the offender with sharp eyes and the terrifying realization that this man could absolutely hit a bullseye through their skull from fifty yards away.

“You speak of them so carelessly…how terribly sad. To witness something so precious and reduce it to vulgarity. I highly suggest you choose your next words with greater care, monsieur. ”

Lilia Vanrouge

6.5/10

At first glance, Lilia does not seem protective at all.

If anything, he encourages chaos.

Go explore dangerous places! Fight strong opponents! Experience life! Make reckless memories! Half the time it feels like he is actively encouraging your bad decisions while Sebek is somewhere nearby having a stress-induced aneurysm over it.

Lilia is not controlling. Not even remotely. Rather than stop you from pursuing danger, he’s walking into it at your side. 

He does not hover over your shoulder monitoring who you speak to or where you go. He will not cage you up “for your safety” because frankly? That sounds dreadfully boring to him. Lilia fell in love with YOU. Your spirit. Your freedom. Your ability to live fully despite fear.

Why would he take that away?

No, if you are with Lilia then you are expected to spread your wings and enjoy life to its fullest. He wants stories. Excitement. Late night walks, spontaneous adventures, troublemaking, dancing on rooftops because “the moon looks lovely tonight.”

He treats love like something alive. Something meant to grow unrestrained instead of being locked away. He’s waited seven-hundred years for this chance and will not waste a second of it. 

Which honestly makes people underestimate him terribly.

Because while Lilia is not overprotective in everyday situations…

He IS an elder fae. Even those of lower status are raised not to take matters of the heart lightly. Your soul is an extension of his own. 

The man could probably locate you in a foreign country with nothing but a vague description and a prayer. You will be halfway across campus thinking you're alone only to hear his voice from a tree branch.

"My, my. Fancy seeing you here."

He truly is an extension of your person now. While not tethered for centuries, he is quite fond of being a phantom limb of yours. 

Which becomes obvious the moment someone truly threatens you. He does not mince his words or offer mercy to those who threaten his family. Kingscholar was very fortunate to be spared after targeting Malleus during the spelldrive tournament during your first year in wonderland. Remember how brutal Lilia’s words struck. 

There is a massive difference between Lilia finding your recklessness amusing and someone else harming you intentionally. One earns laughter. The other earns silence.

And silence from Lilia Vanrouge is one of the most terrifying things a person can experience.

Because Lilia does not posture.

He does not threaten.

He does not growl warnings or puff out his chest.

He simply decides that someone is dangerous.

Then acts accordingly.

People often forget that beneath the jokes, the gaming addiction, and the culinary war crimes is a former general. A man who spent hundreds of years protecting a royal family through actual conflict. Lilia has survived war. Buried friends. He knows exactly how far he is willing to go for the people he loves. 

Which is as far as his body can take him. Lilia would die for you without hesitation. 

Not in the romanticized “I’d take a bullet for you” way either. In the very literal, non-negotiable sense that he has already accepted the possibility long ago. Loyalty is woven into Lilia so deeply that protecting his loved ones is practically instinctual. 

Which is why anyone who thinks otherwise, dares to even tinker with the thought of harming you, is scheduling an audience with General Vanrouge. 

Socially, Lilia is surprisingly relaxed. He has lived too long to care about petty gossip (although he does enjoy hearing it). Rumors roll off him like water because honestly? Most students at NRC are children to him mentally. Why would he value their opinions over yours?

That being said, he DOES care if the rumors genuinely hurt you.

Not because your reputation reflects on him, but because he cannot stand seeing someone he loves feel isolated or targeted. Lilia knows what loneliness feels like better than most people ever will. He still will not intervene though, not beyond offering a distraction to make you smile. 

Honestly? He finds caring about that sort of thing silly. With time you’ll understand and think the same, of that he’s certain. 

If someone dislikes you, they dislike you.

If someone talks badly about you, then they are showing their own character.

Most of the time he laughs it off. "Mhmm. Are they finished? Goodness, they seem to think about you more than I do."

Now jealousy?

Pshh. Manageable. A dime in a dozen. 

Lilia feels secure in your relationship. He does not panic over every passing flirtation because he trusts you and frankly finds some situations funny. Watching younger students awkwardly attempt to woo you while he sits nearby smiling into his tea is genuinely entertaining to him.

He especially enjoys making them nervous. “Oh? Trying to court my darling? My my, how brave~”

Although he is not against blipping in if harmless flirtations progress to crude vulgarity or a breach of boundaries. Which is unfortunately common with youth that possess egos with more concentrated power than the sun. The moment someone dares to say something genuinely degrading about your person, he eases in with the air of someone far superior and reminds the offender to view a specific chapter in their history textbook. He normally isn’t fond of his pictures in those books, but surely they have their uses. 

And he was trying.

That was the frustrating part. He made the effort to straighten his posture, to smooth the crease between his brows, to push the weariness from his expression so he could greet you with something gentle. Something easy. Something worthy of you.

But you saw through him almost immediately. Standing outside the agreed meeting point, worry in your eyes that should not be there. Not after he’d promised an evening of peace and a meal at that new pasta restaurant you’d been so excited to visit. 

“You look exhausted,” you said, concern soft in your voice. “Silver, did you even stop to change?”

He should have answered honestly. Surely you could see the grass stains on his cuffs.

He knew it the moment your eyes lingered on him, searching his face with that familiar care that always made his chest feel strangely full. Instead, old habits reached him first.

“It is nothing,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “You do not need to worry about it. Shall we go ahead?”

The words were meant to be reassuring, with his little practiced half-smile. 

In his mind, they were. If he could handle it alone, then he would not be placing another burden at your feet. He could bear the strain of training. He could bear his duties. He could bear the quiet pressure of always feeling as though he needed to return kindness with something equally heavy, equally measurable, as though affection itself had to be repaid.

But your expression crumpled.

At first there was only a flicker of surprise, then something more delicate than hurt. 

Something that looked almost like you were pulling away without moving an inch. Silver felt it before he understood his own words, the air between you shifting into something colder, thinner.

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, voice unsteady. “I am asking because I care about you. You keep acting like I am just… someone you have to manage. Is that what this is?

Silver steadied his breathing. One, two, three. Three, two, one. 

Manage.

The word lodged somewhere sharp inside him between the seventh and eighth rib.

That is not what he wanted you to think. Not at all

Never that. And yet when he searched through his own actions, he could not deny how often he made you feel as though your concern belonged in the same category as his responsibilities. A thing to acknowledge, to account for, to settle later once everything else had been handled.

“I am not trying to do that. Please, please believe me,” he said, but even to his own ears the answer sounded too quiet, too late.

You sighed, and the sound did more damage than anger might have.

“Then why won’t you let me in? You can tell me when you are tired. You can tell me when something is wrong. You do not have to keep saying it is fine just because you think you should be strong all the time. If today was too much, then I would have understood.”

Silver looked down at his boots.

Because that was precisely it, wasn’t it?

Strength has always been tied to silence. To endurance. To be useful without complaint. To repay what had been given to him — his father’s care, Malleus’s trust, the quiet faith of the people who allowed him to remain by their side. The life he was never supposed to live. He grew so used to measuring himself by what he could return that he started to believe love worked the same way.

If he was struggling, he should endure it without troubling you.

If you were kind, he should be even kinder in return.

If you cared, he should not ask for more than you offered. Never be selfish. 

The problem is that love was not meant to feel like a weighted scale.

“I did not mean to upset you,” he spoke tenderly, and there was no hiding the strain in his voice. “I only… did not wish to place my burdens on you.”

You folded your arms, though your eyes were still warm in that way that made this conversation so much worse. Your reservations at that restaurant are about to be nulled. 

 “Being with me is not a burden, Silver.”

The words struck with quiet force. You are not a burden. His problems are meant to be shared. This is a relationship. If he wasn’t ready to exchange the good and the bad, then he never should have taken your hand. 

Because he had not said that aloud, yet the train of thought rode on schedule from his mind to your own. 

Somewhere beneath his manners and restraint and careful refusals of your aid, that was exactly what he had been acting as though he believed. That his exhaustion was his alone to hide. That your worry was something he should deflect. That if he could just remain composed, remain useful, remain gentle, then he would not disappoint you.

Instead, he accomplished the opposite.

He took the tenderness in your voice and answered it like a duty. Took your hand as a knight would their liege, rather than a husband might dote on their beloved.

Silver felt his throat tighten. He was no good at this. 

His first instinct was still to explain, to soothe, to smooth the moment over as he always did. But he saw, for the first time perhaps, how that habit could wound just as easily as any harsh word. Not because he was cruel. Because he was distant in the very places he meant to be closest.

And he hated that he had made you feel unwelcome inside his own exhaustion.

“I am sorry,” he said finally, the apology quiet but no less sincere for it. “You were trying to care for me, and I answered you as though your concern was unnecessary. That was unfair to you.” He swallowed once, then continued, slower this time, as if each word had to be chosen with care.  “I think… I have been treating this as though I must always earn my place beside you. As though every moment with you must be repaid properly, or else I am taking too much. But you are not asking me to repay you.” His gaze lifted to meet yours.  “You are only asking me to stay.”

Silver had never been good at wanting things for himself.

It always felt safer to be needed than to be loved. Safer to be useful than vulnerable. Safer to give than to receive. But you were looking at him now as though all you wanted was honesty, and somehow that felt far more difficult than any sword drill he ever endured.

“I do want you to stay,” he stressed, pleading. “Not because I need you to manage. Not because I am repaying anything. Because I… because I enjoy being with you. Because when I am with you, I do not wish to hide.” A pause. Then, because he knew words meant little without the courage to follow them, he added, “I should have told you I was tired. I should have let you know that I was overwhelmed instead of pretending otherwise. I understand now that I made you feel shut out.”

The apology hung between you both, unguarded.

Silver did not rush to fill the silence.

He learned, over time, that some things needed space to breathe. Still, the quiet made him aware of every small thing –  the way his hands had fallen open at his sides, the way your breathing had slowed, the way your face had not turned away from him despite the hurt. This is not a problem born of just one incident. No, this surely has been brewing since the moment you both looked at each other with yearning hearts. 

 “I cannot promise I will be perfect at this immediately,” he admitted. “But I would like to try. I would like to learn how to stop turning my own heart into a duty.” His mouth curved faintly, though there was sadness in it too. What he was promising would be an uphill battle, pushing a boulder with one arm behind his back.   “And if I begin to do it again, I hope you will tell me. Even if it is uncomfortable. Especially if it is uncomfortable.”

The end of that sentence was quiet enough to be mistaken for a plea.

Silver did not reach for you right away.

 He would not make that choice for you. Not after making you feel as though your worry had no place beside him. Instead, he stood there with all the patience he could gather, hands still, expression open, waiting to see whether you would step closer or hold your ground a moment longer.

In the hush that followed, he could only hope you heard what he had finally managed to say…. that he wanted to stop being someone you had to reach for through silence, and start being someone who met you halfway.

…

“I get wet at the thought of you // Being a responsible guy // Treating me like you’re supposed to do // Tears run down my thighs” - Tears, Sabrina Carpenter

Everyone assumes Trey is safe. Dependable. The calm one with gentle hands and patient smiles, the boy who cleans up everyone else’s messes before they even notice they’ve made one. And he lets them believe it, because it’s easier that way. But you know better. You notice the amusement hidden behind his half-lidded gaze, the way he enjoys watching people squirm just a little under his attention. Trey likes being reliable because it gives him control — it means people trust him enough to let their guard down. Especially you.

Trey knows how much power there is in being the one person you never doublt.

“What? You’re looking at me like that again… careful, sweetheart. You make it awfully tempting to bend the rules.”

“All the pills that you take // Violet, blue, green, red - to keep me at arms length don’t work //You try to push me out, but I just find my way back in // Violet, blue, green, red - to keep me out. I win.” - Cinnamon Girl, Lana Del Rey

Cater has spent so long making himself easy to consume. Smiles, selfies, jokes, perfectly curated pieces of himself handed out to everyone around him — enough to keep people entertained, but never enough to let them truly touch him. And then you come along and ruin the balance entirely. You notice the cracks beneath the filters, the moments where his grin strains at the edges, the loneliness he buries under endless distractions. He keeps trying to redirect you back to the surface, laughing things off whenever you get too close, pretending vulnerability is just another joke. But every time you slip past his defenses anyway, there’s a part of him that feels relieved.

Cater pushes because he’s terrified of being known too well and abandoned for it after, yet he can’t stop leaving the door unlocked for you. Maybe that’s why he self-sabotages so often — because if you leave after seeing the real him, at least he can say he expected it. But if you stay? Then maybe, for once, someone chose him and not the version he performs for everyone else.

“You know you’d have an easier time if you just gave up on me already… so why do you keep coming back?”

“How can we go back to be being friends, when we just shared a bed.” - back to friends,sombr

Ace tells himself it just sort of happened. That somewhere between all the bickering, the late-night walks back to Ramshackle, the dumb arguments and easy laughter, things got complicated. But lying awake beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of your body beneath the blankets, he realizes that isn’t true at all. It was never just friendship for him. Maybe he knew it from the first day he decided to get under your skin for no reason other than wanting your attention fixed on him. Maybe that’s why he kept coming back, even when he could’ve walked away a hundred times over. Ace doesn’t really understand when wanting to make you laugh turned into needing to be the person you looked for first, or when teasing you started feeling dangerously close to flirting.

All he knows is that sharing a bed with you — hearing your breathing in the dark, watching you shift sleepily closer without thinking — makes pretending impossible now. Because friends aren’t supposed to want like this. They aren’t supposed to feel their chest ache at the thought of going back to “normal.” And the worst part is that Ace doesn’t think there is a normal to return to. He’s always wanted you. He just finally ran out of ways to joke around it.

“…You ever think maybe I was doomed the second I met you?”

“I’d give you the sun if you asked me. You could have all of the time. You could have the stars and the trees. When dividin’ up the universe. You could have mine.” - J’s Lullaby, Delaney Bailey

Loving you feels almost holy to Deuce. Before you, he spent so much of his life convinced he was inherently wrong somehow — too rough around the edges, too angry, too reckless to ever truly become the kind of person he wanted to be. Everyone told him changing was difficult, that redemption had to be earned piece by piece, but you looked at him like he was already worth believing in. And that changes everything. Because once Deuce lets someone into his heart, he loves with his entire body and soul. There is nothing careful about it. He would give and give until there was nothing left of him if it meant keeping you safe, happy, smiling beside him.

The frightening thing is how easy it feels. One soft glance from you and suddenly every impossible task becomes manageable, every burden worth carrying. He’d hand you the stars without hesitation if you asked, not because he thinks you’d demand it, but because loving you makes him want to offer the universe itself. Somewhere along the way, you became proof that he could be good — not because you fixed him, but because you saw goodness in him before he could see it himself. And now Deuce clings to that faith with everything he has, terrified and grateful all at once, like losing you would mean losing the person he’s trying so hard to become.

“I don’t care how hard it is… if it’s for you, I’ll do it. I swear I will.”

“Pulling your face close, wanting the inmost. // Show me I’m not afraid of you now, I’m not afraid of you now. // Villain and violent. Infant and innocent. // Baby, both arms cradle you now. Both arms cradle you now.” - forwards beckon rebound, adrianne lenker

Leona cannot remember the last time someone touched him gently without wanting something in return. Most people approach him with caution or ambition — fearful of his temper, respectful of his status, eager to gain from his favor. But you touch him like none of those things matter. Your fingers brush over the scar beneath his eye without hesitation, comb lazily through his hair while he rests beside you, trace the sharp lines of his face like you’re memorizing something precious instead of dangerous. And it undoes him more thoroughly than he’ll ever admit aloud. Because beneath all his teeth and claws, beneath the bitterness and exhaustion and violence simmering under his skin, there is a part of him still aching from years of being treated like something second-best. Something too much. Too difficult to hold carefully.

Yet you cradle every fractured piece of him with impossible tenderness, and suddenly Leona finds himself wanting — selfishly, desperately — to keep it. To keep you. He isn’t afraid of you hurting him physically; he knows he could protect himself from almost anyone. What terrifies him is how easily you’ve slipped past every defense he had, how devastating it would be if you decided one day to take your warmth back. So he holds you close in quiet moments, heavy arms wrapped around you possessively, silently promising something you haven’t fully realized yet: no matter how vicious the world becomes, you are safe with him. Always.

“C’mere… quit lookin’ at me like that unless you plan on stayin’. I don’t think I could let you go now even if I tried.”

Bonus because I was torn :p ::

“A little respect for women can get you very very far // Remembering how to use your phone gets me // Oh so, Oh so, Oh so hot!” Tears, Sabrina Carpenter

No one ever disrespects you in his presence. Fiercely protective. One fucking word, one wrong look, and he isn’t fighting but he damn well will put people in their place with a mere glance.

“And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you.” — Somethin' Stupid, Frank and Nancy Sinatra

Ruggie has always survived by knowing exactly where the line is. Don’t get attached. Don’t depend on people more than necessary. Don’t want things you can’t afford to lose. It’s practical, really — the kind of mindset you develop when life has spent years proving that stability is fragile and love doesn’t put food on the table. So whatever this thing between you was supposed to be, it definitely wasn’t meant to become serious. Just easy company. A little flirting. Someone warm to sit beside after a long day. But somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling temporary. And that’s the problem. Because now every laugh you give him feels dangerous, every soft touch settling somewhere deep in his chest where he can’t pry it back out again.

Ruggie hates how badly he wants things from you he has no right asking for — your time, your affection, a future he can barely provide for himself let alone someone else. He knows what he has to offer isn’t glamorous. It’s scraps and side jobs and exhaustion and a life built on barely scraping by. Yet none of that stops him from loving you with a fierceness that catches him off guard every time it slips loose. And maybe that’s why he jokes so much, why he grins and laughs things off before they get too serious — because if he says it plainly, if he admits how deeply he’s fallen, then suddenly there’s something precious enough to lose.

“Shaha… forget I said all that, okay? …Unless you were gonna say it back.”

“A stranger light comes on slowly. // A stranger’s heart without a home. // You put your hands into your head. // And then its smiles cover your heart” - Fade into you, Mazzy Star

For Jack, love is not casual. It never could be. Beastfolk understand instinctively what it means to belong to someone — not in ownership, but in trust, in loyalty, in the quiet certainty that no matter how harsh the world becomes, your pack will return to you at the end of the day. Jack always understood that in theory. He understood duty, protection, commitment. But you make him understand it emotionally for the first time. Slowly, almost without realizing it, you become home to him.

The feeling sneaks up on him in small moments: the way his body relaxes the instant he hears your voice, the instinctive urge to stand between you and anything threatening, the overwhelming calm he feels when you run your fingers through his hair and trace over the scarred, guarded parts of him without fear. There’s something unbearably tender in the way you handle him, like you see the strength in him without being intimidated by it. And in return, Jack holds your heart with almost frightening care. Because wolves do not love halfway. Once someone is considered theirs, they are protected with teeth and soul alike.

“…You don’t have to hold back around me. I’ve got you. I always will.”

“When I saw you I knew you were mine. If you leave, I’ll kill you. But, oh dear, I fear, you’ll kill me first.” - May You Never Forget Me, Temachii

Azul knew loving you would ruin him almost immediately. It was there the moment he first looked at you — that sharp, sinking certainty that you would become dangerous to him in ways no contract or deal could ever protect against. Attraction has never frightened Azul before. Desire is manageable. Predictable. Something he can leverage, contain, twist neatly into his favor. But you slip beneath his defenses too quickly, bypassing every carefully constructed wall he spent years building around himself. And the worst part is that he sees it happening in real time.

He notices how possessive he becomes over your attention, how his smile tightens whenever someone else stands too close to you, how every interaction starts feeling like starvation followed by indulgence. It’s humiliating. Terrifying. Because Azul knows exactly what it means to hand another person the power to destroy you. He spent his childhood learning what cruelty looks like when people discover your weak points. Yet despite all his intelligence, all his caution, he cannot stop himself from reaching for you anyway.

You make him greedy. Not for wealth or influence, but for softer things he has no idea how to ask for properly. Your time. Your affection. Your reassurance. He wants every piece of you tucked safely into his grasp where nobody else can touch it. And beneath that obsession lies something even uglier: fear. Fear that one day you’ll realize how desperate he truly is beneath the polished confidence and silver tongue. Fear that you’ll pull away after he’s already become too dependent on your warmth to survive losing it cleanly. But even knowing that, Azul cannot bring himself to loosen his grip. Because if loving you is fatal, then perhaps he’s already accepted the sentence.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? If you asked for my heart, I’d hand it over willingly...and resent you for how easily you could crush it afterward.”

"Every gesture // Every move that she makes // Makes me feel like never before // Why do I have // This growing need to be beside her" - Strangers Like Me, Phil Collins

Jade has always believed people become predictable eventually. Given enough time, every person reveals their habits, their weaknesses, the exact shape of their desires. It’s one of the reasons he enjoys observing others so much — the slow unraveling fascinates him. But you are different in a way he cannot quite dissect, and that alone is enough to capture his full attention. Every small gesture you make seems to uncover something new inside him, something unfamiliar and strangely exhilarating.

Jade notices all of it. And instead of the usual satisfaction that comes with understanding someone completely, he finds himself wanting more. More conversations. More walks beside you. More mundane little moments strung together until they become something precious. It bewilders him, this growing need to remain close to you even when nothing particularly exciting is happening. Especially then, perhaps. Because for the first time, Jade discovers that intimacy is not merely intrigue or amusement; it is the startling realization that even silence can feel endlessly engaging when shared with the right person.

“How curious… no matter how much time I spend with you, I still find myself wanting more.”

“Two Lovers // Forbidden From One Another// A War Divides Their People // Built A Path To Be Together // Yeah, uh, I forgot the next couple of lines but, uh, then it goes // SECRET TUNNELLLL // SECRET TUNNELLLLL/ THROUGH THE MOUNTAINSSSS // SECRET SECRET SECRET - Jeremy Zuckerman, ATLA

C’mon. Ding, ding, ding - is this thing turned on? *knocking on your brain*. You’re from some weird other world and he’s a eel just swimming in the trenches until you came and he gobbled you right up. He might have a secret tunnel dug under your dorm. You don’t know what he did those three days you were gone. And honestly? Floyd doesn’t really care whether the attachment makes sense or not. He likes you. A lot. Enough that being separated from you too long makes something restless and sharp coil inside him.

He’s spent his whole life bored of people once he figured them out, but you? You’re like a mystery box he keeps digging through, finding new things every time he thinks he’s reached the end. He doesn’t really care that you “shouldn’t” fit together — if anything, that makes it more fun. You became his favorite person in the entire world, and Floyd has never been good at letting go of things he likes.

“Shrimpyyyy, if you disappear on me again, I’m seriously gonna lose it. Maybe I should just keep ya with me forever instead, huh?”

“Kiss me out of the bearded barley. Nightly beside the green, green grass. // Swing, swing, swing the spinning step. // You wear those shoes and I will wear that dress.” - Kiss Me, Sixpence None The Richer

Kalim has spent his entire life surrounded by expectations heavy enough to crush a person. He was born into responsibility before he was ever allowed to simply be a child, raised constantly aware that his life would never fully belong to him. Every meal tasted for poison, every decision watched carefully, every future plan laid out long before he had a say in it. Yet somehow, when he’s with you, all of that fades into the background noise of the world. Loving you feels wonderfully simple in a way nothing else in his life ever has. You don’t look at him and see status or obligation or the heir of the Al-Asim family — you just see Kalim. Loud, affectionate, overly excitable Kalim, who wants to dance with you under lantern light and laugh until his stomach hurts and experience every beautiful thing the world has to offer with your hand in his.

There’s a kind of freedom in that which feels almost miraculous to him. For perhaps the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a plan someone else drafted; it feels like something he might actually get to choose for himself. And if he gets to choose, then he wants you.

“C’mon, dance with me! I wanna make so many happy memories with you that we’ll never be able to count them all.”

“Where did you learn what it means to reciprocate? // And how much can I be expected to tolerate? // So I started to think 'bout the plans I made. The debt unpaid. // And you can't just call a spade a spade. // I watch the moon. Let it run my mood. Can’t stop thinking of you.” - Tek It, Cafune

Jamil has always understood restraint. Not as virtue, but as survival. Every emotion, every desire, every private impulse has had to be measured, trimmed, redirected into something acceptable, something useful. He is used to giving without being given anything equal in return — used to the quiet mathematics of obligation where reciprocation is never guaranteed. So when you enter his life and begin to give without asking for permission, without keeping score, something in him becomes unsettled in a way he cannot easily correct.

It follows him into silence, into duty, into the rare moments he finally has alone beneath the night sky. And there, staring at the moon from his window, he finds himself thinking of you in loops he cannot break out of — not because he wants to lose control, but because part of him has already started to. You become both comfort and complication: the only place his thoughts soften, and the only place they spiral. He tells himself to step back, to maintain distance, to preserve the order he has spent his entire life building… and yet he cannot stop returning to you in his mind.

Love, for Jamil, is not gentle. It is cyclical. It is consuming. It is the unbearable awareness that even freedom from you still feels like belonging to you in some quieter, more dangerous way.

"You’re becoming a problem I don’t know how to solve. Get out of my head....please."

“I started running from the love that you gave me. // ‘Cause I was scared half to death. That all I was chasing. // Was perfect perfection. Thank god it was a lesson.“ - Her, JVKE

Vil has spent his entire life running toward perfection so relentlessly that he forgot what it feels like to simply be seen. Not evaluated. Not ranked. Not compared. Seen. So when you enter his life and look at him without the usual awe that edges into distance or fear, something in him shifts in a way he cannot immediately pinpoint.

At first, he tries to treat you like everything else in his world: something to refine, to understand, to perfect. But you resist that logic entirely. You do not fit into his carefully curated expectations, and worse… you make him question whether those expectations were ever meant to define him at all. Vil runs, not because he does not feel, but because he feels too much when he is with you.

Affection becomes vulnerability. Admiration becomes exposure. Yet even as he distances himself, even as he tells himself that love must be controlled or it becomes ruinous, he finds himself learning something unbearable in its simplicity...perfection was never the point. You are not flawless, and you do not need to be. And somehow, that makes you the most honest thing in his life. He begins to understand that what he was chasing was not perfection itself, but the illusion of being worthy of love through it

“If you can love me like this… then maybe...Mm. Nevermind. These thoughts are best saved for when time stands still long enough to reflect properly."

“We’ll laugh until we think we’ll die // Barefoot on a summer night // Nothing could be sweeter than with you” — Home, Matthew Hall

Epel spent most of his life feeling squeezed into shapes that never fit quite right. Too pretty to be taken seriously, too restrained to act the way he wanted, too trapped beneath everyone else’s expectations to figure out who he actually was underneath all of it.

Before you, Epel thought freedom was having people look at him like he had the power to carry any burden, proving he was tougher than everyone expected him to be. But with you, freedom becomes something he feels rather than what he carries. It’s running barefoot through the orchards back home with your laughter ringing through the summer air, dirt clinging to your ankles while the sunset paints gold across the apple trees. It’s being able to breathe without worrying how he’s being perceived for once. Around you, he doesn’t have to force himself into somebody else’s idea of strength or beauty; he can just be. And maybe that’s why loving you settles so deeply into his bones.

Epel always understood loyalty. He understood hard work, sacrifice, doing right by the people he cared about — but devotion is something entirely different and mature. Devotion is the way he catches himself planning futures with you without even realizing it, but doesn't bactrack. It’s wanting to drag you proudly through his hometown by the hand just so everyone can see the person who makes him happiest. The person who makes him feel whole in a way he didn’t realize he’d been missing.

Epel knows meeting you might’ve been the best thing that ever happened to him, even beyond all the opportunities Night Raven College gave him. You are proof that there was something waiting for him beyond Harveston's boarders he grew up stuck inside, something sweeter than the juciest honeycrisp. And now that he has you, Epel would do just about anything to keep the right to stand at your side.

“Quit smilin’ at me like that, dangit…c'mon, let's go grab supper at the diner before I get an apeitite for somethin' else."

“Starlight. I will be chasing a starlight./ / Until the end of my life. // My life. You electrify my life./ / Let’s conspire to ignite. All the souls that would die just to feel alive. // I’ll never let you go.” - Starlight, muse

To Rook, loving you is not gentle thing . It is all-consuming devotion sharpened into something reverent. He has spent his life admiring beauty from afar, studying it, chasing it, praising it in all its fleeting forms. But you are different from every masterpiece he has ever gazed upon before. You are not simply something to observe; you are something that changed him in return. Your existence ignites him down to the marrow, sets every nerve alight until even speaking your name feels like striking flint against stone. And Rook adores the ache of it. The yearning. The hunger. To him, love should burn. It should inspire madness and poetry and reckless acts of passion all at once.

He watches you grow beneath his attention with fascinated delight, nurturing your confidence, drawing reactions from you nobody else can, molding and encouraging parts of you the world might’ve left untouched otherwise. There is selfishness in it too — a possessive streak hidden beneath all his elegant praise. Because while others may admire you, may bask in your brilliance from afar, Rook alone knows the intimate details of your soul. He alone earns the privilege of touching the fire without being burned away by it. And he guards that privilege fiercely. You are his muse, his greatest hunt, the star he would chase until the end of his life without regret.

“Mon trésor… do you realize what you have done to me? One glance from you and suddenly the entire world pales in comparison.”

“Emotions, what are you doin’? // Oh, don’t you know. Don’t you know you’ll be my ruin? // Emotions, you get me upset // Why make me remember, what I want to forget // I’ve been lonely, lonely too long // Emotions leave me alone” - Emotions, Brenda Lee

Idia wishes desperately that he’d never fallen for you at all. It would’ve been easier if you’d stayed another distant person on a screen somewhere — someone he could admire quietly without ever having to confront the horrible, aching reality of wanting. Because loving you drags every ugly, vulnerable part of him to the surface no matter how hard he tries to bury it again.

But you kept getting closer anyway, slipping past every locked door and defensive joke until suddenly you’re everywhere in his life, woven into his routines and thoughts so deeply he can’t imagine tearing you back out again without losing something vital in the process. And gods, he hates it. Hates the possessiveness curling ugly and desperate inside his chest whenever someone else takes your attention for too long. Hates how badly he wants to keep you hidden away where nothing can touch you but him. Hates that his body reacts to your affection, so painfully human despite all the years he spent trying to detach himself from that kind of vulnerability.

Most of all, he hates what loving him would cost you. Because Idia knows exactly what he is — a cursed bloodline, cursed future, a life shadowed by grief and inevitability.

Choosing him wouldn’t just mean dating some awkward shut-in; it would mean stepping willingly into the orbit of someone fundamentally doomed. And despite how selfishly he craves you, there’s still a part of him horrified by the idea of dragging you down with him. You deserve sunlight and freedom and a life untouched by the rot clinging to the Shroud name. Yet every time he tries to pull away for your sake, you smile at him or say his name softly and all his resolve crumbles instantly. He's so pathetic it isn't a joke anymore. But that’s the cruelest part of all... if you ever looked him in the eyes and chose him anyway, Idia knows he wouldn’t be strong enough to refuse you. So he stays trapped between guilt and desire, clutching his feelings like a wound he can’t stop reopening.

“Y-you seriously need better taste, okay…? ‘Cause if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start believing you actually want this. Want me...and you don't. Trust me, you don't."

“Weren’t we the stars in heaven? Weren’t we the salt in the sea? // Dragon in the new warm mountain. Didn’t you believe in me? // … I wanna kiss, kiss your eyes again. // Wanna witness your eyes looking.” - anything, adrianne lenker

To most people, Malleus is a title before he is a person. A prince, a prodigy, a creature powerful enough to inspire fear long before affection can ever take root. But you met him beneath moonlight without knowing any of that, and instead of recoiling, you smiled at him. Spoke to him. Laughed with him as though he were ordinary. Dared to demand a name from him. That memory settles inside Malleus like something sacred. Perhaps, at first, your ignorance of his identity fascinated him because it allowed him a fleeting taste of normalcy, but what truly captured his heart was the fact that you never changed after learning the truth. Your kindness did not lessen. Your eyes did not harden with fear. If anything, you only looked at him more warmly afterward, and Malleus — still young by Fae standards despite the weight of decades pressing against his shoulders — finds himself hopelessly undone by it.

With you, he feels less like an untouchable heir and more like a young man painfully, desperately in love for the first time. In a life marked constantly by distance and inevitability, you become a beacon calling him back from the loneliness waiting at the edges of his existence. He cherishes every glance you give him because your eyes always hold him gently, reflecting not the monster others expect to see, but someone worthy of companionship, devotion… and now, love. And if fate demanded he endure every lonely year of his life again just to arrive at the moment your hand reached for his, Malleus knows without hesitation that he would.

“My dearest child of man…I would cross every empty age again, just to stand before you once more. So please, continue to observe this world by my side.”

“But there never seems to be enough time // to do the things you want to do once you find them // I’ve looked around enough to know // That you’re the one want to go through time with” — Time in a Bottle, Jim Croce

Lilia has lived long enough to understand how fleeting happiness truly is. Centuries pass in blinks; people come and go like seasons, precious things slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold them. Yet somehow, loving you makes time feel unbearably short all over again. Suddenly every moment matters in ways it hasn’t for years.

He wants everything with you — every first experience you’ve yet to have, every quiet memory waiting to be made, every tiny insignificant moment other people might overlook. He wants to hear your laughter echo through unfamiliar places, wants to dance with you beneath festival lights, wants lazy afternoons and sleepless nights and a thousand years’ worth of stories tucked carefully away where he can revisit them in the afterlife.

And selfishly, he wants to reclaim parts of himself through you too. To redo old memories with your hand in his instead of ghosts. To experience wonder not as a warrior or a general or an ancient fae burdened by history, but simply as someone deeply, hopelessly in love. Lilia does not intend to waste a single second now that he’s found you. The world has taken enough from him already; he refuses to let time steal this too.

“Fufufu… stay with me a little longer this night, won’t you? There are still so many decades worth of memories I wish to make with you.”

“ Look up at the light // This could be a dream or it could be real // Dive into my mind // And don’t come up for air, you won’t need it here” - This could be a dream , Aurora

Silver has always drifted through life as if he were moving through a dream he could never quite remember upon waking. The world feels distant to him at times — blurred at the edges, softened by sleep, untethered from the urgency that seems to guide everyone else. But you make things clear. When you speak, when you smile, when your hand brushes his and anchors him back to the present, he feels something settle that nervous tick to be better.

He cannot breathe right when you are not near, though he would never say it so plainly; it is simply that your absence leaves the air too still, too empty, as though his body has forgotten how to keep going without the sound of you guiding him through it. If he could, he would let you look straight into his mind, past the silence and the sleepiness and the strange half-formed thoughts he rarely knows how to explain, because then you would understand how deeply he has come to rely on your presence. You are not a burden, not a distraction, not something fleeting to wake from — you are another gentle hand the world has placed in his path, and Silver is grateful for you in the quiet, unwavering way he is grateful for dawn.

“Stay with me a little longer… I feel most awake when I’m together with you.”

“Say I wouldn’t care if you walked away // But every time you’re there I’m begging you to stay // And when you come close, I just tremble // And every time, every time you go // It’s like a knife that cuts through my soul” - Only Love Can Hurt Like This, Paloma Faith

For a solider, love is a curse reserved for your worst enemy. It may bolster your resolve but heavens if it does not carve an achilles heel across every square inch of your heart. Your life is not your own. It is that of your Lord. Yet you dare to promise a piece to your love so selfishly. A piece that is not yours to give. Even if so, it is all you have. You can never promise to offer your whole self as they do.

Love is the most blissful wound. Sebek is stuck on an infinite loop, stabbed over and over and over. It hurts to deny you, it hurts to see you, it hurts to feel for you, it hurts to dismiss thoughts of you — it hurts. Love is the most blissful wound. Love is a curse Sebek has found himself struck by, like a mighty lightning bolt. Yet he is nothing if not a battery ready to be charged.