III. Month of Evernight

In the Month of Evernight, the sun grows more dimmer than usual. People and creatures alike fall asleep more easily, and their instincts and emotions replace all thoughts and reasons, making tasks more difficult to complete. The new Time has yet to reveal why they had made this so, but it is for certain that the constant fog in your mind is this month’s doing. 

For some reason unbeknownst to you, you felt more and more compelled to visit the shrines as of late. You were not necessarily one to be considered a religious zealot, but your loyalty to the goddess of romance was not one to be doubted. Every day, you would tend to her shrine with diligent yet gentle care, assuring that the pristine golden roses were upheld to perfection. But recently, it hasn’t just been Aglaea’s shrine that you cared for—the shrines of the Worldbearer and the Lance of Fury called to you now, eager to be seen and heard. And in your kindness, you granted them the same courtesy your patron goddess received. 

It started out as simply maintaining the quartz pillars around them, cleaning the delicate stone with gentle care. But then it evolved into something more attentive, gracing the shrines with offerings and candles just as you would with the goddess of romance.

You couldn’t pinpoint why the shrines now captivated you. You weren’t as religious and devoted as the worshippers of Khaslana, nor were you as much of a warrior as the devotees of Mydeimos. But they seemed to beckon you, coaxing you to them like a siren’s song. The feeling was hardly malicious, too, feeling more like a gentle calling rather than a shout. You suppose that the saying about the Month of Evernight making you become more prone to acting on instinct is true…

You were so steeped in your thoughts as you cleaned the shrine of Strife, you hardly noticed that you had bumped into someone. 

“You ought to watch where you’re going, little disciple. Not everyone who comes to this shrine would be as nice as I am,” a low voice rumbled beside you, though despite their words there was no malice in their tone. You looked around, trying to find the owner of the voice that called out to you before having your gaze finally land on them—or rather, his torso. You had to crane your neck up, up, and up just to finally meet his golden gaze, his arms crossed as a look of what appeared to be a mix of both amusement and stoicism graced his features. 

You didn’t like to ogle at people—you personally thought it was quite rude to stare—but with this stranger? You could hardly help yourself. 

It was like he was blessed by the god of strife himself, firm muscles shaping his body like a living fortress wall. Red markings swirled along his olive skin as though they too lived and breathed, on view for all to see like a proud lion. The descriptive of him being a lion wasn’t far off either, his ash blonde hair tinged with red at the ends like a lion’s mane after gorging itself on a meal. If one were to call this man anything less than divine, you would have rightfully thought them a liar. 

You had only just realized that you were most likely staring at him, as foretold by a look of expectancy on the man’s face. “Ah, please forgive me… I was so engrossed with cleaning the shrines that I hardly noticed anyone else was here…” You mumbled softly, still trying rather hard to not stare at the god of a man in front of you. “Had I known, I would’ve just moved out of your way—” The man merely sighed through his nose, shaking his head as he raised a hand to stop you. Oddly enough, you listened to the silent command. 

“There is no need for apologies from you, little disciple. I cannot fault someone for being as attentive to the gods as you are. If anything, I should be the one apologizing. As such is custom in Kremnos, I must absolve this conflict,” he said smoothly, holding out a gauntleted hand out for you to take. “Let us first introduce ourselves. I am Mydei of Castrum Kremnos, a warrior of sorts. And you are?”

You paused for a moment, taken aback by Mydei’s courteous behavior. You half expected him to tell you off, or even yell at you for being so foolish to even be near him, but this… It intrigued you very much. And so, you took his hand with a gentle tilt of your head as you told him your name. “I must say, Mydei… as much as I am very intrigued by your offer of wanting to make things right, I couldn’t possibly ask that of you. An honest mistake is an honest mistake, no?” You spoke softly, shaking his hand gently before releasing it. “I think we can both apologize to each other in this instance, and since apologies have already been said, I think we are quite even, don’t you?” 

Mydei’s eyes widened ever so slightly, then chuckled. “Quite the diplomat at heart, aren’t you? Alright, I suppose it is even, little disciple. As much as I’d like to contest, I’ve been taught it’s quite rude to deny the wishes of one so beautiful,” he hummed, a barely there smirk as he looked down at you. “Tell me something, though. What would a disciple of Aglaea be doing here, maintaining the shrine of a god so violent and unruly as Strife? I wouldn’t think anyone would wish to be here beside fellow Kremnoans.” 

Mydei had a point, you realized. Romance and Strife were two separate ideals, so it wouldn’t make sense for you to be maintaining this shrine. But even as he said that, a thought formed in your head: one that, in your opinion, would have made the god of reason smile down upon you. “You could consider it odd, I suppose. Truthfully speaking, I don’t know what I’m doing here either,” you mumbled softly, moving to the shrine to gently light a candle. “It is often said that Romance and Strife go hand in hand, I suppose, two sides of the same coin. Strife is a part of Romance, and Romance is always followed by Strife. But to me, the two needn’t be separate halves of a whole. So, I clean the shrine just as I would my Ladyship’s. For the two are inseparable.” 

The Kremnoan stayed silent, as if digesting this newly given thought. “I never took you to be both a diplomat and a philosopher, little disciple. Are you certain Cerydra and Anaxagoras haven’t blessed you as well?” Mydei chuckled, shaking his head as he moved to stand by you by the shrine. “But then again, I suppose I haven’t seen many people be as open minded as you are when it comes to Strife. Too many think that the Lance of Fury is only a burden of war and rage, that it is endless carnage…” Mydei seemed to go quiet for a moment, then shook his head once more as he looked at you. “But you? You seem to know that endless strife is not what I– I mean what Mydeimos wants. You understand that strife is everywhere, but it is up to the individual to brave it. It is up to Mydeimos to be the strife that this world needs, so that others may be at peace.”

A soft bell rang throughout the halls of the collective temple, signifying the beginning of the Lucid Hour. You sighed, getting up from the shine and dusting off your robes. “That must be the lunch bell… Has it really been that long since I started cleaning?” You wondered out loud, moving to face Mydei with a gentle smile. “Nonetheless, it was lovely talking to you, Mydei. Although, I must ask you… Your name is very similar to that of Lord Mydeimos. Is there a connection between the two of you?” 

Mydei froze, looking up at you like a stag caught. “Well… My mother named me after him. Says that I was blessed by him to be a strong warrior one day, and I suppose she was right,” he merely stated, getting up with you and gently offering you his arm. “Let me walk you to lunch. As repayment for earlier.”

Well, you certainly weren’t going to deny that.

“I’m terribly sorry, of what part of ‘let me work my magic’ did the two of you not comprehend? It’s like I say something into one of your ears and it goes out the other!” Aglaea chastised, her hands on her hips like a mother giving a stern talking to her children. And in a way, she certainly was; both Khaslana and Mydeimos stood before her like children who had broken a priceless artifact, shuffling on their feet with shame as they couldn’t stand to look at her. It mattered not if these were gods of unfathomable power, for when faced with Aglaea’s wrath, any god could feel small under her gaze. 

“Not to even mention that you two have started to practically buzz with energy now since they’re cleaning your shrines. Do I need to tell Hyacinthia to ease the winds guiding them to your altars? It certainly seems like it!” Aglaea huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose with a forlorn sigh. “I swear, the things I do for romance to persevere…” 

Khaslana pouted slightly, moving to attempt to placate the goddess. “Look, we’re really sorry, Aglaea… We just— we can’t stand by anymore! It’s obvious that they’re getting lonelier and lonelier by the days, and I don’t know how much more of it I can take,” he pleaded his case, looking down at his lifelong mentor with a gentle frown. “Both Mydeimos and I agree on one thing: we don’t know how long we can last waiting for them when we both know we can care for them. It’s torture.” 

Mydeimos nodded in agreement, albeit it was less convincing with how he tried to seem a bit smaller in the wake of Aglaea’s stern anger. “He has a point, Aglaea. I did my best to follow the plan as well, I truly did. But talking with them today… Never in my long, long life have I seen a soul so understanding and yet so neglected in their wants and needs. I can tell it’s eating away at them from the insides, and we all know what a sickness loneliness is. Would you want that for your disciple, or even yet: would you want that for Anaxa?” 

Aglaea paused, the comment catching her off guard. But she knew, within her golden blood, that Mydeimos was right. Loneliness was a sickness, a sickness that she combatted for the lovers of the world every day and night. What kind of patron goddess would she be if she couldn’t allow her own disciple to overcome this disease? 

The romance goddess sighed, shaking her head before turning to the two other gods. “Alright. You both have a point. I would be a terrible patron if I let my disciple suffer through this plague any longer. Tomorrow, the Month of Cultivation will start. What better time to issue the start of a blossoming romance than at the start of spring?” Aglaea chuckled, moving to gaze over the clouds with a soft gaze, watching you walk about the market. “Cifera has already shown she’s ready to enact the plan, and whether or not my disciple knows that you two are the aliases Phainon and Mydei will be in the hands of fate. That is, if Tribios is willing to make it fate.” 

The two gods seemed to light up with joy. At long last, their beloved will be in their arms? It was a feeling of joy unlike anything felt before. “At long last… I might as well get their room prepared then, shouldn’t I? They deserve only the best, after all,” Khaslana beamed, the halo behind him glowing just a bit brighter. “Though… maybe they’d like to sleep in our bed, Mydeimos?”

The god of strife only sighed, rolling his eyes at his lover’s antics. “I doubt it. Do you know anyone who would want to sleep in the bed of two strange beings who just show up into their lives and say ‘we want you to marry us’?” Mydeimos snorted, crossing his arms with a slight smirk. “Perhaps in time, Deliverer. But let them get used to us, ease into being with us. They are still mortal, after all.” 

After playing at the tavern you peruse the shops of Sumeru with careful eyes, weaving through stalls filled with spices, exotic fruits, silks, and instruments of every shape and tone. Today, your goal is simple: find a case for your lyre.

A gift far too precious to leave unguarded. 

As you run your fingers along a line of handcrafted cases, testing their stitching and fit, a more practical thought settles in: 

You can’t carry every instrument you long to play. Not with your feet still wandering and your pack already heavy. Your enthusiasm might be endless, but your arms are not.

It’s a bittersweet realization. You imagine one day sitting before a grand harp, fingers trembling as they pluck strings you’ve never touched before. Even if it isn’t yours, yet you still dream of hearing that sound under your hands.

You settle on a modest but sturdy case lined with soft green fabric, something that will keep the lyre safe through the roads ahead. As the shopkeeper wraps it, you glance over your shoulder at the other instruments with a wistful smile.

You may not carry them all, but you’ll chase their songs wherever your journey takes you.

One day, you thought.

Your plan had been simple, visit the Zubayr Theater, maybe peek in, maybe even sit in the far back to watch. But like every time before, the guards at the entrance held up a hand, firm but polite. “Full house,” they said. Again. 

And from the excited chatter of the crowd outside, you gathered it was for good reason. The final night of the festival, the grand closing performance.

Of course the theater would be packed. You weren’t the only one turned away, but it didn’t ease the sting.

So, you gave a quiet nod and turned around, making your familiar walk of shame back down the steps, You tried not to dwell on it. Tried not to let your curiosity take over for what made the citizen of Sumeru so excited this past few days.

When you arrived at the tavern, the familiar warmth wrapped around you like a cloak. You greeted the bartender with a smile, nodding to a few patrons who raised their mugs and gave you cheerful waves. 

But tonight, you didn’t unpack your flute. You didn’t pull out your lyre or warm up your voice. Instead, you found a quiet spot near the back and sat down, content to watch someone else step into the light for once. You let the music wash over you, gentle and unfamiliar, your hands cradling a warm drink rather than an instrument.

Tonight, you weren’t the performer. Just a listener.

The soft clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, and the steady rhythm of the musician’s tune all blended into a comforting backdrop as you quietly enjoyed your meal. The warmth of the tavern, familiar and lived-in, wrapped around you like a blanket. It was one of those rare moments of stillness, you greatly enjoy.

And that calm was gently interrupted by a tap on your shoulder.

You turned slightly, looking up to see a young woman standing beside you. Her clothing marked her as a local, flowing fabric in the soft greens and golds typical of Sumeru’s style, adorned with delicate embroidery that hinted at both artistry and practicality.

She smiled politely, tilting her head. “Would you mind if I sit here?”

You offered a soft smile in return, gesturing to the empty seat across from you. “Not at all.”

She sat down with an air of quiet confidence, placing her hands neatly on the table. Though she said nothing at first, her eyes lingered on you with faint curiosity, as if she knew something she wasn’t quite ready to speak aloud. Still, her presence didn’t feel intrusive… only curious, patient, and maybe just a little familiar.

Not wanting to be swallowed by the awkward quiet that had begun to settle, you parted your lips to speak but the young woman beat you to it.

“So,” she asked softly, her eyes studying you with a calm, inquisitive gaze, “how are you finding our nation so far?”

You blinked at the sudden question, then leaned back slightly, humming thoughtfully. Her tone was casual, but her attention was sharp, like someone quietly observing more than just your words. Still, the question was harmless enough.

You gave her a polite smile, one that came naturally. “It’s been great, actually. This is my first time traveling to a foreign land… and so far, I’m really enjoying myself.”

She nodded, almost as if she expected your answer. “I’m glad,” she said simply, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Sumeru can be a strange place for newcomers—especially during a celebration like this. There’s a lot of... noise. But maybe you’ve brought some of your own.”

The comment hung in the air, light but loaded. She said it with a smile, but something in her tone made you wonder just how much she knew.

But you brush past the weight of her words. It would be rude to assume.

You let out a light chuckle, trying to keep the mood pleasant. “Oh! Indeed I have,” you said, a touch of playfulness in your voice. “I’ve been enjoying myself quite a bit, singing and playing for the tavern patrons.” 

You leaned back in your chair, a relaxed smile spreading across your face. “They’ve been rather generous with their coin lately. I must admit, it feels nice... to be appreciated.”

The woman returned your smile with a gentle one of her own, nodding quietly as she listened. “I’m glad,” she replied, her tone sincere. Then, after a short pause, her voice lowered slightly still soft, but now tinged with something more curious. “Though… there have been a few whispers. Rumors, if you will.”

That caught your attention, your expression tightening just slightly before you masked it with a light laugh. “Rumors?” you echoed, feigning amusement while subtly tensing beneath your calm exterior. “Pray tell, what kind of rumor?”

Your tone was playful, but you couldn’t help the flicker of nervousness behind your smile. 

The woman’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes gleamed with a quiet knowing as she leaned in just a little.

“They say there’s a traveler, a traveler that wears a mask” she began, almost conspiratorially, “who sings so beautifully, so soulfully, that their voice could rival their Grace’s.”

Your heart skipped—just once—but you kept your expression smooth.

There was that word again…

Your lips still curled in a half-smile.

“Oh?” you said lightly, laughing under your breath. “That’s quite the compliment. I’m not sure who started that one, but I assure you, I’m just a humble street performer with a cheap flute and a borrowed drum.”

She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her expression. “Maybe so,” she said, “but the rumors persist. The way people describe your music… it’s not just skill. They say it feels divine.”

You looked away for a moment, focusing on the worn wood of the table, the clink of glasses in the background, the sound of the other performer still strumming softly behind you. Anything but her eyes.

You cleared your throat and offered a lopsided grin. “Well, I suppose if the stories bring in more coin, I can’t complain, but—” You grinned wider, cupping your face with both hands in mock flattery. “Oh, you make me blush.”

She chuckled, but didn’t press further. Still, you felt her watching you, not with suspicion, but curiosity. Like she was trying to figure out a puzzle you didn’t even realize you were a part of.

The moment stretched a little too long, so you let your hands fall and leaned forward, fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “You’ve got a sharp look about you,” you said, your tone light but pointed. “Do you make a habit of analyzing wandering musicians?”

Her smile remained, but now it looked a little knowing. “Only the interesting ones,” she replied. “Especially those who don’t seem to realize the ripple they leave behind.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her words. Before you could ask what she meant, she stood, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves.

“It was nice speaking with you,” she said with a polite nod. “I hope I hear your music again soon, maybe at the Zubayr Theater next time.”

You watched her rise with that same unreadable grace, but you weren’t about to let her go without a little flair.

With a dramatic sigh, you slumped back in your seat and clutched your chest. “Leaving already? And here I thought we were building something special,” you said, voice laced with mock heartbreak.

She paused mid-step and turned her head just slightly, a soft chuckle escaping her. “You performers really are full of theatrics,” she said, amused.

You gave her a grin. “It’s part of the charm.”

From her pocket, she pulled a small paper-wrapped bundle and gently placed it on the table in front of you. “For your voice,” she said, “and maybe… a bit of sweetness for the road.”

You blinked at the candied Ajilenakh Nuts, taken aback by the small kindness.

Before you could thank her properly, she simply smiled and slipped back into the crowd with a wave, vanishing between laughter and clinking glasses.

You stared after her for a moment, then looked down at the treat in your hand. A quiet gift, laced with mystery just like everything else tonight.

You popped one into your mouth, chewing slowly as the soft music resumed in the background. Sweet… and warm.

What an odd encounter that was…

✧✧✧✧✧

Nahida stood beneath the soft canopy of Sumeru’s ancient trees, the sunlight threading gold through the leaves like blessings. She had sensed the approach before he arrived—his presence familiar, sharp as ever, but no longer as volatile.

She didn’t look up right away. “I didn’t expect you to visit today.”

“I didn’t come to chat,” came the curt voice of the Wanderer, his arms crossed, expression unreadable as ever.

Nahida turned her gaze to him with her usual calm, curious smile. “Then what brings you here?”

Wordlessly, he produced a folded letter and handed it to her. The paper was of fine quality, sealed with the delicate emblem of a small Inazuman.

She broke the seal and read it.

It was written in careful strokes. They spoke of a mysterious musician—a masked traveler—who had once performed in Inazuma. Their melodies were described as otherworldly, soothing, divine. Birds would gather when they played, the cherry blossoms bloomed brighter, and even the sea breeze softened when the flute began to sing.

“Their presence,” the letter said, “breathed life into the air as if the gods themselves had whispered into the soil. We had not known peace like that in decades.”

Nahida’s brows gently lifted. Her fingers traced the final sentence, which lingered in her mind like an echo:

“We still don’t know their name, only that they left quietly... and the wind hasn’t sounded the same since.”

She looked up at the Wanderer, who stared somewhere off to the side, feigning disinterest.

“Do you believe this is the same traveler?” she asked gently.

“I don’t believe anything,” he snapped, though softer than usual. “But I’ve heard the same music in Sumeru now. Same pull. Same… feeling.”

Nahida’s gaze grew distant again, thoughtful. “Then the pieces are falling into place.”

She folded the letter with care and stood. “Thank you for bringing this.”

The Wanderer huffed and turned away, but paused.

“If they really are what you think they are,” he said without facing her, “then what will you do to the being playing god?”

✧✧✧✧✧

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 3 ✦ Part 5 ✦

“Shshh, shh… Sweetheart, stop stop–don’t wriggling, stop–it’s me! Hey!” He yelped in return when you almost bit his hand off with a scoff, “What?!”

“Don’t do that!” you try to swat his gloved hand away with a pout even though he insisted to stay near you. With how cramped the corner he dragged you to–it’d be difficult to wrestle your way out of here after all, so you fell to defeat as he shook with gentle chuckle, his hands now slid down to your hips and pulled you closer to him.

“Right.. ‘M sorry baby, you know how it is–I’m not supposed to slack off, remember?” He mumbled under his gold-plated mask with an obvious exhausted sigh, leaning his face to the crook of your neck, nuzzling the cold area with the warmth that radiated from his uniform. 

“Why are you here then?” You let out a teasing snicker at his clingy behavior, which earned you a light squeeze on your waist as he let out a soft grumble.

 Although his grumble soon shifted to a pleasant groan when he felt your hands sneaked to the back of his neck, sliding under his armor, onto the undershirt, and gently put pressure on his tense muscle.

“I miss you,” he mumbled like a drunken fool in love as he nuzzled your neck further, hoping to press his lips to your skin through his mask, “Miss my little darling. Miss it when you spoil me. When you kiss me. When y’ hold me.”

He sighed again, keeping his head close as you kept trying to ease up any muscle and soft surface on his body that you can reach without unfastening his uniform.

“Did you miss me too?” He pulled away just enough to look into your eyes. Even through his mask–the desperation in his voice is clear. Seems like work as an IPC worker drains him heavily–specially today.

So you cradled his face carefully in your hands, gave him a reassuring smile, and brushed your lips against the plate of his mask over where his lips are.

“I miss you,” you giggled quietly, “Sorry I haven’t been able to visit. The Nameless has been busy.”

“I know,” he grumbled, burying his face in your neck again after the little kiss, knowing he won’t be able to hold himself from breaking a rule if he let you do more of those. So instead, he opted to squeeze your waist.

“How long until they get suspicious that you’re.. Missing?” You grinned playfully as you feel him getting a little more handsy, the tip of his glove snake under the hem of your shirt, touching your skin, shivering you with the cold of its surface. When you shudder–he let out a content groan and pressed himself further against you.

"apologies for the delay, my prince." you rest a hand over your heart, imbue as much sincerity as you can in the action. "i will ensure that it does not happen again."

you'd never been in the bathhouse before, so it was difficult not to feel like a stumbling fawn. you'd never had any reason to be in this wing of the palace; seeing as you were the prince's knight, and not one of his personal attendants—and yet, you contemplated quietly, this time he'd called specifically for you.

(the thought of it makes you feel strangely special.)

"very well.” he concedes. “you have brought what i asked for?"

"yes, my prince." you nod, hold out your hands over the edge of the pool. present to him upon your palms, folded neatly and perfumed in his favourite scent, the silver silk he uses during his trips to the bathhouse. you wait, expectantly, for the feel of his fingers swiping the washcloth from your hands—and yet, it never comes.

"dorogaya, you do not intend to keep me waiting any longer, i hope?"

you blink, head still lowered out of respect. "i'm sorry, my prince. i do not quite understand."

"eyes up, sweet knight, and clothes off." he says slowly, enunciating each syllable as one does when speaking to a child; "it seems," he sighs softly, "that i am in need of your ministrations tonight."

never one to go against his words, you raise your head, albeit reluctantly. almost immediately, you meet his tar black eyes. his gaze heavy and stifling, as he observes you lazily over his shoulders. you can't help that your attention drifts down to the prominent corded muscles of his back; the strong, solid shape you only just manage to make out through the soft, dreamlike mist.

he smiles at you so kindly, then, as if he is understanding of your appraisal; the curl of his lips feels dangerously close to an invitation to dip into something far deeper than these waters.

"you are already late," his voice, deceptively gentle for how low it is, brings your attention back to the task at hand, and out of your shameful reveries. you swallow nervously, as he turns back; the air in the banya feels colder, then, when your prince's eyes are no longer trained solely on you. "please, luybov moya. do not make me wait any longer."

my love, my love, my love; how gently he calls for you from the water.

the affections fall from his lips like sweet nectar, and you are so helplessly caught in his tenderness that there are no more questions to be asked, even if they weigh heavy on your mind.

your shirt is the first to go. the intricate buttons of your tunic difficult to undo with shaking fingers. trousers, next. stepping out of the fabric as it falls at your feet. working to loosen the lace of your boots.

tentatively, you dip your toes in the water. it's warmer than it looks. a welcome reprieve, though, from the chill of being undressed. the hair on your skin stands on end when the prince speaks up.

"clothes off," he repeats softly, without sparing you so much as a backwards glance. "i will not repeat myself."

"ah," you look down at the flimsy undergarments you still don; the scrap of decency they provide in maintaining a facade of respect in the presence of the tsar's son. thin fabrics that hide the skin on your back, marred by grotesque scars from previous battles waged and lost and won in the name of your beloved prince. and yet—albeit with trembling hands, you reach for the hem. "understood, moy knyaz."

you let yourself sink into the pool, as it envelopes your bare body whole. it's nice, and warm. welcoming, you think to yourself.

you nervously wring the silk in your hands as the gentle undulations of the water naturally push you closer to the prince; and you're silently grateful for the mist of the heavy perfumes and steam that descends over the banya and nips at (as well as obscures) your scarred skin.

perhaps it is because of this veil that it takes you so long to realise your prince is covered in blood.

you still in your movements—taking in the swirling ink-like clouds of deep red in the cerulean water around him; the spray of dark blood over his jaw, and the muscles of his chest; how it drips, thick like sweet nectar, from his hands—held out towards you.

"moya milaya," he murmurs, watching you through low lashes. his eyes are black like heavy tar. you find yourself stuck—sinking into the quiet darkness before you; "won't you purify me?"

you reach out, closer, press the silk against the inside of his wrist, right above his pulse. you delude yourself into thinking you can feel the steady thrum of life through the touch; but all you're met with is his warm skin, slick with blood. it smears when you wipe it, stains the fine fabric of the washcloth.

"your highness, are you—" your eyes flicker up to meet his, but your hands don't slow in their pace as you scrub him free. concern pulls the edges of your heart and everything threatens to unravel in the absence of an answer. "are you alright? were you hurt? has the physician allowed you to—"

"i am fine, sweet knight. the blood," your prince's lips curl into a knowing smile, "none of it is mine."

"i don't understand, moy knyaz. forgive me for my ignorance, but who did—" you blink, desperately searching his impassive face for an answer. "our enemies? conspirators against the tsardom? an assassination attempt? because i was never made aware of—"

he places his hand over your own. the touch is careful and light, merely a suggestion—

you still immediately.

realise, with dawning horror, that you've scrubbed his skin raw. the blood pools in the water, your insistent, frantic efforts leaving the skin of his forearm all angry and hot and red—markers of blossoming pain. tense muscles, and all. the silk looks as if it has been drenched in ink.

"not of the tsardom," the prince says lightly, 'but enemies still; and i already know you were not informed because i ordered it so."

the threads your heart was hanging on by are pulled too strongly, too soon. everything comes apart. a sense of betrayal, and then a deep-rooted shame, washes over you. you swore you would follow this man to the ends of the world; and yet, he does not even trust you in his darkest hours?

you wish to sink into the water and never resurface from its depths. beg, silently, for the fog to swallow you whole beneath the weight of your prince's gaze.

"apologies," you manage shakily. "i have failed to protect you, my prince. i understand that you find me incapable of serving you for any longer. as your humble knight, i shall—"

"hush."

fingers skimming up your neck, resting at your jaw. the impossibly soft way the prince forces you to meet his eyes, so kind in their own right. so full of mercy.

"bednyazhka," he whispers under his breath. you poor thing. "you worry far too much. it will be the cause of your undoing, one day."

"it is worth it for you, moy knyaz. i would gladly lay down my life for you."

"yes," he murmurs. "of course, that is what you would think. a shame.”

"apologies, i..." you frown. "i do not understand."

he smiles ruefully. "no. of course, you do not." his fingers fall from your face, and you find, shamefully, that you mourn the touch far more than you should. instead, they brush against your knuckles; raw from hours of combat training. he runs his thumb over the broken skin. "seven, sweet knight. this is the number of attempts made on your life in the past week."

you had...

you swallow nervously, coming to terms with the news. the urge to say something overwhelms you (strangely, an inclination to defend yourself) but the words evade you. your throat closes up.

you had no idea.

(find solace, at least, in not needing to wonder about the sorry sort of fates they must have met at the hands of this man before you.)

he swipes the washcloth from you, continues speaking in hushed tones; "our enemies grow restless as we prosper. they want nothing more than to hurt me. previously, i have not had to worry about this, because of you."

"and now?" you whisper.

"and now, luybov moya, my enemies rejoice." he takes your trembling hands in his own, inspects the blood from his skin that now stains yours by carefully turning over each and every finger in his palm. "they have found a way to hurt me." he confesses, "because of you."

the touch is feather light. barely even there.

"do you understand, my sweet knight? you are the reason i prosper, and yet, devastatingly so, the sole cause of my ruination."

the gentle undulations of the water around you has lulled you into a false sense of security. you feel safe in this moment, knowing your prince is in such close proximity. the two of you stand close enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours; breaths in sync, breathing the same perfumed air in—and out.

in—and out.

you almost think you've misheard the prince when he speaks again.

"and this is why i have decided," he says softly, "that you will never pick up a sword again."

his words instantly break the fragile tranquility of the moment like a delicate thread that's been pulled at for far too long—an inevitable snap that still manages to hurt. you shake your head, affronted by the mere thought of such an absurd idea.

perhaps this is some sick jest. surely, he must know? the value of your sword? what it means to you?

you swore an oath to protect the tsar's son. it is an insult to your very being should you fail to uphold this royal promise. you have already let him down enough.

"i can not be of no use to you, moy knyaz."

"that will never be the case." he smiles. "i have many uses for you in mind, moya milaya."

how can he say it so affectionately? my sweetheart falling from his lips as he takes from you the one thing you can never bear to part with.

"but i have always fought!" you protest. frantic, desperate laughter bubbles past your lips. it sounds wrong and forced even to your own ears. he drinks it in, all the same. "i have always wanted to protect you. it is my purpose and duty and—"

who am i without it?

"yes, and i will always cherish you for it, but now, your fight is over."

your prince has always been the most beautiful man in the tsardom to you. out of an unwavering loyalty, you have followed him through the darkest snowstorms and to the most desolate battlefields. you have raised flags in his name and stared down the barrel of your gun to an innocent child for his legacy.

despite it all, he has only ever been your prince; and you, his most trusted knight.

in this moment, though?

the man before you is unrecognisable. he has forgotten who you are.

"the purpose of my life is fighting." you repeat, hoping to remind him of what your sword represents; a plea for him to let you keep it. "it is why i live. it is what i promised to forever do, until the very end of my life—i exist to serve you.”

"and you will." the prince assures you keenly, presents you with a reminder of his own. "there are other ways to serve."

ah—

so this is what you've fallen to.

"you cannot do this," you cling to him. dig your nails into his skin, forgetting the sheen of blood that already lies there; like a thin film. some impossible barrier separating your reason from his actions. "please, my prince. you can't."

please don't turn me into an accessory.

"my sweet knight," he gently pries your hands off of his shoulders, brings your wrist to his lips. he kisses away the blood on your skin as if this display of affection will wash you clean of your shame. "there is nothing you can do to stop me. it has already been done."

it dawns on you laughably late. of course, this is the true reason he called you to the bathhouse; why else would he be waiting for you? what other purpose for your presence—when he's never needed anyone else to purify him?

how foolish of you to think yourself an exception. the silk washcloth floats in the pool's water that gently ripples from all your shaking. it takes effort to hold yourself together and string the words you wish to say into anything even remotely sensible.

yet, you fall short, even then.

"why?" your strength is futile; any attempt to wretch your hand out of his hold fails. his fingers stay wrapped in place, careful not to bruise you with their strong hold—yet completely unyielding to your every effort. "i don't understand."

why would you strip me of who i am? why would you strip me of who i have always been?

tendrils of dark blood swirling in the warm water around you, your prince only smiles adoringly in response. his black eyes are so impossibly shallow as he watches you fall apart before him; and yet you find yourself drowning in them all the same.

"why would you do this to me?"

this is the first time you will hear this answer from the prince, but you already know—

(even whilst he peppers dozens of soft, sighing kisses into your wrist and up your arm, over your shoulder and down, down, under)

—you already know it will not be the last.

The dishes at this college are like nothing you've ever tasted. Perhaps it's because many of them are children of royalty, so even the cafeteria food tastes like something out of a king's banquet. The pickiness of their palates is evident in every bite, in every carefully crafted dish. But there are things you find more intriguing than their refined taste; something almost hypnotic about the way they eat, especially when they don't mind you watching.

The scent of something delicious invaded Ramshackle Dorm in the dead of night. You assumed Grim was cooking, as ridiculous as that sounded, but found the little gremlin snoozing soundly beside you. Maybe it was the ghosts? But as you descended the stairs, you found the kitchen empty, devoid of any culinary activity. One glance at the night sky over Sage’s Island told you it was around 3 AM—far too early for breakfast, and far too late for dinner.

You tried to go back to sleep, but the tantalizing scent of roasted meat kept you awake, gnawing at your resolve until you could no longer ignore the hunger pangs twisting your stomach. Leaving Grim behind, you draped the sheets over his body, muttering a promise to return soon. Your curiosity and hunger led you to the cafeteria, which should have been deserted at this hour, but to your surprise…

They were all there. The ones you’ve grown closest to.

They were gathered around a long, elegant table, the atmosphere eerily reminiscent of Mostro Lounge—dim lights casting soft, ominous shadows across their faces. The table was laden with exquisite, expensive cuts of meat, arranged in a feast fit for monsters. And in the center of it all, a massive stack of roasted meat commanded your attention.

It looked…perfect. The tenderloin, you assumed, was butter-soft, with a thick, moist cut that bled a light pink from the center. The outer layer was roasted to a flawless crisp. But something about the presentation unnerved you, a chill creeping up your spine.

The pile of meat looked too much like the carcass of a person. Or a beast, perhaps. It was hard to tell. But you could almost see the outline of a body, as though someone—someone about five or six feet tall—had been subjected to the furnace’s extreme heat, roasted beyond recognition. Was that hair you saw near what should have been the head? Before you could inspect further, a voice called out to you.

"Ah! You're here! Come and join us, Shrimpy!" Floyd’s voice rang out, cheerful and disturbingly eager. His sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light, rows of jagged edges that could tear through flesh with ease. Beside him, Jade chuckled, slicing into a slab of meat with surgical precision, the knife gliding through like it was cutting butter.

Your eyes scanned the gathering. At the head of the table sat Tsunotaro—Malleus, the prince of fae. You frowned, under the impression that he usually is not invited in gatherings like this. But he nodded at you, a small, regal acknowledgment. “I was invited by Lilia,” he explained, his voice low and melodic. You glanced at his plate—a half-eaten steak submerged in a thick, red sauce. The metallic, almost fishy scent wafted up, assaulting your senses.

Before you could react, Lilia appeared beside you, his small hand guiding you to a seat. His right hand held a wine glass filled with a creamy red liquid that clung to the inside of the chalice. You tried to dismiss the fact that it looked too much like blood—thick, viscous blood. Surely, wine wasn’t supposed to look like that, but who were you to judge?

“Bonjour, Trickster! ~” Rook’s voice whispered in your ear, and when you turned, you were met with a sight that made your stomach turn. The smell hit you first—foul, putrid, like a freshly killed animal left to rot. It was too strong, the copper and iron scent so overpowering you had to fight to keep your expression neutral.

You hope your face does not betray the constriction of your throat.

“Rook,” you managed to say, swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise. “What…uhm, what is that?”

Rook laughed, the sound as sharp as the glint in his eyes. “Liver pâté, my dear,” he said, twirling his fork. “If it’s a strong scent, I apologize. It’s from the raw liver I like to eat with the liver pâté.”

Raw…

You tried to ignore the word. Back in your world, people ate raw food—sushi, for instance. So whatever Rook had on his plate was none of your business. At least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself.

“Shishishi, the food is sure delicious, especially when I’m getting it for free!” A voice cackled, startling you. You almost jumped out of your seat at the sight of Ruggie, devouring his meal with a voracious appetite. His sharp teeth ripped through the flesh with ease, tearing the meat from the bone in one swift motion. Red droplets—blood?—splattered across his chin, and you watched in horror as his tongue darted out to lick it clean.

“Oi, Ruggie, have some manners,” Leona growled from beside him, his voice gruff and annoyed. He wasn’t eating, his plate already littered with bones, but he was sipping from a glass filled with a red liquid. You wanted to believe it was wine, but the scent…The scent was as repugnant as the raw liver on Rook’s plate. It was metallic, nauseating

—blood.

A shiver trickled down your spine.

That same scent wafted from Malleus and Lilia’s glasses, clinging to the air like a dark cloud.

“You’re one to talk!” Ruggie retorted, his mouth full of meat. “You’ve never eaten a rat before, Leona-san.”

You blinked. Did you hear him right?

Your train of thought was interrupted by Malleus’s voice from your left.

“Shroud,” the prince of fae said, his tone commanding yet gentle, “drink this and replenish your energy.” You watched as Malleus offered Idia the same drink he was consuming. And to your shock, Idia accepted, his expression one of reluctance.

“I don’t really mind drinking this stuff, but I just don’t like eating much…” The Ignihyde dorm leader mumbled, his voice trailing off. You glanced at his plate—a barely touched piece of ‘steak’ with a small cut in the corner, oozing something you didn’t want to identify.

You could barely breathe as you watched Idia reluctantly take a sip of the viscous liquid from Malleus's chalice. His face remained as pale as ever, though a faint hint of color touched his cheeks. The sight was unsettling, and you couldn't help but feel a creeping sense of dread tightening around your chest.

"Not a fan of solid food?" Jade's voice slithered into your thoughts, pulling you from the trance. His mismatched eyes glinted in the dim light as he calmly sliced through his portion of meat, each movement precise and almost too graceful. "It's an acquired taste," he continued, offering you a smile that somehow did nothing to ease your growing anxiety.

Your gaze shifted to the plate in front of you, untouched and ominously inviting. The stack of meat in the center of the table loomed like a dark specter, its presence a constant reminder of the unease gnawing at your mind. You felt a pressure to partake, to show your acceptance of their world, but every fiber of your being screamed against it.

"Come now," Lilia's playful voice broke through the tension, "you should try it at least once. After all, it's not every day you get to dine with such esteemed company." He winked, the gesture meant to be comforting, but it only made you more wary.

You glanced around the table, noting the expectant gazes directed your way. Floyd’s sharp grin was still fixed on you, his eyes gleaming with mischief, while Ruggie gnawed contentedly on his bone, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Rook, watched you with a keen interest, his fork poised elegantly in his hand.

Leona’s gaze was the most unsettling, though. His amber eyes were half-lidded, seemingly bored, yet there was an intensity in them that made you feel like prey. His fingers drummed lazily on the table, and you couldn’t help but notice the slight curl of his lips, as if he was waiting for you to make a move.

Your gaze drifted across the table, stomach churning with a mix of disgust and dread. The dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance across their faces—no, across their true forms. You blinked, the image wavering as if your mind was trying to shield you from something it wasn’t ready to comprehend.

Floyd’s laughter echoed, a sound that grated against your nerves. For a split second, you saw something else—an elongated, sinuous form, slick with scales, teeth sharper than any blade, rows upon rows of them, stretching endlessly down a gaping maw that promised nothing but pain. You shuddered, the image vanishing as quickly as it appeared, leaving you staring at the harmless, smiling face of the boy who once called you Shrimpy. Jade is no better. You can see the muscles bulging as his back turns, with sharp rows of fins scattered along his spine. If you were behind him right now, you’re certain he would cut you in half.

Your eyes flicked to Ruggie, who was gnawing on the bone of his meal with unabashed relish. But in the periphery of your vision, his form distorted—muscles rippling beneath fur that was too thick, claws that scraped against the table, and a maw that was too wide, too hungry, filled with jagged fangs meant for tearing, ripping, devouring. He glanced up, catching your gaze, and you quickly looked away, the image of the beast-man fading back into the all-too-familiar figure of a mischievous boy. Leona on the other hand, sit still. The image of a lion assessing it's prey. You dare not look at his eyes burning holes through your skull—you feel it.

Idia, who sits apart from the others, his presence a dark shadow at the table. There’s something about him that feels different, even among these monsters. His connection to the underworld is undeniable, a guardian of the boundary between life and death. The flickering blue flames of his hair and the way his eyes pierce through the darkness suggest something far older and more terrifying than any of the others—a being who has seen what lies beyond the veil, and who has perhaps brought a piece of it back with him.

Rook, you cannot even begin to comprehend how a human—like yourself, is able to blend in with them.

But the worst was Malleus. The prince of the fae was calm, serene even, but there was something wrong—horribly wrong. His eyes glowed too brightly, their green hue pulsating with an otherworldly light. And then, for just a moment, you saw what lay beneath that regal facade—a towering figure, wings that stretched endlessly, blotting out the sky, horns that twisted and curled like a crown of dark thorns. His smile was too sharp, too knowing, as if he could see right through you, into the very depths of your soul.

You closed your eyes, refusing to look at anyone anymore.

You tried to swallow your saliva, but your throat was dry, your mouth parched. The air was thick with the scent of blood, the tang of iron clinging to your tongue. They were all looking at you now, waiting, expecting you to take a bite, to join them in this feast.

Lilia’s voice broke the silence, light and playful as ever. “Come now, dear. Don’t be shy. You wouldn’t want to insult your hosts, would you?”

The pressure was unbearable, the weight of their gazes pressing down on you, suffocating you. Your hand trembled as you reached for the fork, the silver glinting in the low light. You knew, deep down, that whatever you saw—whatever you thought you saw—a no mere trick of the light.

They were not like you. They were never like you.

"I," you hope your voice does not shake, "I am full." You nodded, convincing them. You let out a nervous laugh, quickly standing up as you find the place too suffocating. Chair scraping the floor. "I'm fine! Really, I—ah, I need to go back, I have to catch some sleep and Grim is alone."

Floyd is quick to be by your side. His smile, wide and filled with sharp teeth, is unsettling. "Eh, Shrimpy, do you not like the food?" He asks, worry in his voice. You know it's fake: he's mocking you.

"I am good," you say with a strained smile. Please let me go, please, please—

"I insist," Malleus interjects, his voice smooth but commanding. "This is a feast meant for sharing. It would be rude to leave before sampling a morsel."

As if on cue, the others start to close in. Rook leans in closer, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mix of curiosity and amusement. "The flavors are truly exquisite, you know. Not something one should miss out on."

Leona’s gaze is heavy and piercing, his voice low and rumbling. "I’ve seen your kind turn down more robust fare than this. Surely you can handle a small bite."

Your attempts to excuse yourself only seem to stoke their interest further. The way they move, their unnervingly smooth motions, reminds you of predators circling their prey.

You might just be one tonight.

Floyd’s grin widens as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck. "Come on, Shrimpy. Just a taste. I promise it won’t hurt."

The pressure is mounting. They are pushing you to stay, to partake in their feast, and the atmosphere thickens with their silent insistence. Malleus’s eyes bore into you with a knowing gaze, his hand extending with a glass of the viscous red liquid. "Just a sip, if you please."

Every attempt to excuse yourself only seems to make their eyes narrow further, their smiles widen just a little more. The eerie calm of the feast surrounds you.

It is when you see the meat properly that you made up your mind to escape. It is in someone's plate, you do not know who.

It's in the shape of a finger. A charred fingernail dipped in red.

Floyd let out a yelp as you finally push him off of you, your steps quickening as you trace back where you came from: The path to Ramshackle dorm.

You heard Jade reprimand Floyd, the latter angry when you pushed him: How dare you Shrimpy was all you heard before you were out of their sight and you're running back, panting, to your safe space, Ramshackle.

Only to pause as Crowley stands in the steps of your door. His mask drowning the glint of yellow from holes that was supposed to be his eyes.

What... what the fuck.

Crowley approached you slowly, as if he's reaching out to a wounded prey, this is the first time you've ever seen him serious. You take a step back, should you run in the other direction? Where will you escape, Heartslabyul? Will they take you in there?

The headmaster let out a sigh, "My students here at Night Raven should perhaps know kindness from their teacher," he declared dramatically. Then he gave you pouch, full of madol. Thaumarks.

This is a bribe. Crowley is bribing you.

"Our little secret, alright?"

You blinked. What...?

"A little compensation for your troubles, for I am truly kind."

He then disappear, leaving you stunned.

At exactly 3:33 AM, a realization hit you. You are in the company of creatures far more dangerous than you ever imagined, their monstrous forms hidden just beneath the surface. One wrong step, one mistake, it can all come down. Crumbling to pieces.

It is inside when your knees give out, you slide through the door of the Ramshackle, too weak to stand anymore.

This is the truth: you are in the company of creatures mimicking humans, their monstrous forms hidden just beneath the normal exterior. But what terrifies you most is not the thought of what they are—but the thought that, perhaps, they see you as something less than human too.

The truth of what they were—what they really were—lurked just out of reach, like a shadow at the corner of your vision, waiting to pounce the moment you let your guard down.

But you knew better. Something had changed.

And as you sit there, the only protection you have are rotting woods that make up your dorm. You are just within the circle of monstrous beings in their friendly human skins. You are a magic-less, pathetic alien.

For in a world filled with monsters hiding in plain sight, the only question that remained was this:

What would happen when they decided they were tired of pretending?