♡♡♡

Ghosts were no longer human, in voice or appearance. Their voices tended to echo around your head, mere remnants of what they had once been. You closed your book and looked for him but found no physical form had manifested. A somewhat fresh death then.

“You’re dead,” you said.

“Yeah, I got that,” he snapped. “That’s not what I asked. This is a very weird heaven. All these books… did I end up in hell or something?”

You frowned. You rather liked your bookshelves and your carefully curated collection. The dark wood lined the wall of your living room, floor to ceiling with beautiful tomes gathered from passing ships.

It was a nice room as well, warm even with the windows open and thick coastal air drifting in through wide wooden shutters. Sunlight spilled across the tiled floor in broken gold, catching on the edges of low tables and worn rugs.

“That’s quite rude,” you said, keeping your voice neutral as you picked up your drink. “But no, it’s not. I’m afraid you’re currently stuck in the real world so you might need some help moving on. It’s good that you’re aware of your death though.”

“Not like I could miss it,” the voice muttered.

There was a flicker of something in the center of the room and you slotted your bookmark into place, lowering your book onto the table. Bitterness was common. Spirits were people and as much as they bothered you throughout your life, it was honestly your fault that they were stuck here. You felt bad if you didn’t help.

Restless souls normally could roam the seas freely but your devil fruit preferred to chain them to you. Eating that thing was the worst mistake of your life.

“How come you can see me then? Are you dead too?”

“Fortunately, not. But you are bound to my side for now. I’ve eaten something called a devil fruit and mine unfortunately likes to steal lost souls. It’s nothing personal and I have no control over who it grabs. Once you move on, it has no effect on you anymore.”

“Something called a devil fruit?” he asked with a sharp, braying laugh. “Yeah, I know what those are. I can still use mine now. Sort of. It’s not working fully.”

You straightened a little, shifting to sit properly on your couch. Never before had you managed to catch the soul of another devil fruit user nor seen their powers; even the person you bought yours from didn’t show any part of his abilities to you.

“I’m not sure how it works,” you admitted. “Maybe it’s lingering like you are. Once you move on to the next life, it’ll be alright.”

“Well, I don’t want to move on yet. I need to find out if my brother survived first.”

You winced. You’d heard similar requests a hundred times before – never something you could fulfil. So many ghosts came from islands across the sea and their family members lay far beyond your reach. They always took the longest to move on; trapped in an endless what-if spiral as they tried to make peace with not knowing.

“If he didn’t, you’ll see him on the other side,” you said softly.

“That’s not good enough.”

“You can’t leave,” you urged, voice as gentle as you could. “And I’m sorry but holding onto these things will only keep you trapped longer. If you accept what happened and move on, you can let go of the mortal realm.”

“Yeah well, I don’t follow rules.”

“These are hardly rules.”

“Try me. Ow! What is pulling me?”

“A tether.”

“I can burn through this.”

You shrugged and picked up your book again. Sometimes it took them a few hours to realise that you meant it when you said they couldn’t leave. The ghosts you’d spoken to before often said it was akin to an invisible leash, fixing them to your side. It was fine. He’d talk to you again when he’d tried his other options.

It took an hour for him to speak again, his voice almost pained.

“Can you see me or are you ignoring me on purpose?”

“Unless you manifest physically, I can only hear you,” you said. “Think of me as a psychic of sorts. You can only interact with me. You’ll just pass through anything from the living world.”

“How do I take on a physical form?”

“I’m not certain. Sometimes it happens naturally when you stay around for a month but I think you can force it if you really want to. There’s no need though. Nothing changes if I can see you or not.”

“Aw, so you couldn’t see anything I was doing over there?”

“No.”

“That’s annoying because it was pretty cool. You can leave, right? Then take me to my brother. I can’t seem to get out of this room.”

“You’re stuck with me,” you reminded him. “It’s got different limitations. You have maybe fifteen steps in any direction, shorter through walls. That’s what I’ve learned from the others before you.”

“So if your devil fruit hadn’t grabbed me, I could just go there?”

“If my fruit hadn’t grabbed you, you likely wouldn’t even be conscious. Untethered spirits either pass on or they wander aimlessly forever. You wouldn’t have a form or memories.”

“This sucks.”

“Being dead generally does.”

“Okay, then can you go get a newspaper? Somebody has to be reporting this stuff, right?”

You sighed to yourself. It wouldn’t be the worst. You’d wanted to visit the market either way and a newspaper hardly mattered. Hopefully it gave him enough closure that this could be one of those quick visits you got from time to time. Ghosts could get very annoying when you were the only person who could hear them for ages.

“I’ll get you an offering too,” you said as you stood. “Do you have a favourite food?”

“I can eat when I’m dead?”

“If I send it to you. What would you like?”

“Anything spicy. Damn, how long has it been since I’ve eaten?”

The moment you stepped outside, heat settled over your skin; the air thick and sun-soaked, carrying the sharp scent of salt and something sweet frying in oil nearby.

The streets were alive. Buildings painted in faded blues, yellows, and coral reds leaned close together, their balconies strung with drying laundry that swayed lazily in the breeze. Voices overlapped with laughter, bartering, and distant music carried from somewhere deeper in the town.

Palm leaves cast shifting shadows over the cobbled ground, and bright-feathered birds chattered noisily from open shopfronts. Someone called your name. Someone else waved. The rhythm of the place moved around you, constant and familiar.

“That person walked through me.”

“Because you’re dead,” you reminded him. “And as a ghost, they don’t even know you’re there.”

An older woman shouted in greeting and you raised a polite hand to her.

“You’re popular.”

His voice sounded more muted against the drum of the city.

“I can speak to the dead. Many people hope that when their loved ones leave this world, I can provide them with closure.”

“Can you?”

“I can’t control which ghost my devil fruit finds,” you admitted. “But sometimes, even the idea alone is enough for mourning families. If I do see their loved ones, I can pass on messages but a small lie does them no harm if I don’t.”

“Not sure about that. I lost a brother once and I wouldn’t want you to lie to me about it.”

“Well, luckily you wouldn’t know. Where did you die?”

“I…” he paused before answering, as though the name made him on edge. “Marineford.”

You raised a curious eyebrow. Marineford? You’d heard the title in passing, nothing concrete but muttered rumours amongst the crews that visited this island. Government talk was frowned upon in these parts though so you knew little more than the basics.

“Sorry, I don’t know where that is. I tend to avoid the government and world news where I can.”

“Good. You should.”

“This town is the best place for that,” you said. “Our traffic is mainly pirate crews looking for a place to restock.”

“Sounds like I fit right in.”

You turned past the livestock market where large groups of braying animals and bustling merchants quietened him for a bit. Your nose wrinkled as you skirted the edge, boots sticking faintly against the muddied ground. Goats bleated, cages rattled, and merchants shouted over one another, their voices rough from the heat.

You quickened your pace, almost at the spot for the best chili oil you knew of on the island.

“There’s so much meat around here,” he said suddenly. “Luf would love this place. How is my stomach growling when I’m dead?”

“Were you hungry when you died?”

“Yeah, I was starved.”

“Then that’s probably why. I’ll get this offering done quickly.”

“Oi! Seriously, can nobody else hear me?”

“No.”

“Figures.”

Most of your shopping was done in peace though irritatingly the newspaper stand was out of newspapers. You ended up walking to each of your neighbours to ask until the lovely lady next door found one she’d bought that morning

“Big news going on around the world,” she said.

“So I’ve heard,” you answered.

“You seeing many ghosts from all of it?”

“One or two.”

The voice beside you echoed around. “You’ve seen more ghosts than me from Marineford?”

You said goodbye to your neighbour before you answered, stepping away from the worn-wood porch. “No, I haven’t. You’re the first one I’ve gotten in about a month.”

You set the newspaper flat against the wooden counter of your kitchen, smoothing it once with your palm so the pages wouldn’t curl in the humidity.

The kitchen was small but functional. Your clay stove was still warm from earlier and jars of spices lined unevenly along the wall. You moved automatically, lighting the flame, and setting a pan down.

“I can’t touch anything,” he muttered. “But I can sit down. How does that make sense?”

“Little about the world does,” you answered. “I’ll turn the pages as you need.”

You gathered the candles from the shelf, their wax softened from the heat and pressed them into place around the chalk circle etched onto the counter.

Incense next. Thin sticks you struck and waved gently until they caught, smoke curling upward in slow, deliberate spirals. The scent spread quickly, sharp and earthy, cutting through the heavier smells of food and salt.

It had taken you ages to learn how to do this but you found out that even a simple offering could make the dead much calmer.

“Okay, he’s alive,” the voice said. “But…”

His voice cracked and you turned, looking toward the newspaper page that you’d left open when he began to rapidly speak again.

“Wait! Don’t look at that. You said you don’t care about news, right?”

“No, I don’t but if it’s that upsetting –“

“Then just don’t. Don’t read this.”

You hesitated, eyes flashing toward the paper. Curiosity almost got the better of you but you decided it didn’t matter. It was okay. You avoided world politics most of the time and it did wonders for your mental health.

“Alright, I won’t but if your brother is alive, that’s very good news. Maybe after your meal, you can move on.”

“Not a chance.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not unless I’m taking Teach with me.”

You winced and lit the last of the incense. “Vengeance is never good for the soul to hold onto. Chances are revenge won’t be possible.”

That flicker again. You frowned toward it, wondering if that was him. It was certainly new. Almost like the faint glow from a coal left inside an abandoned fireplace. Maybe he was starting to manifest? Weird.

“Revenge is very possible,” he said. “Luf is more than strong enough. If you take me to him, I could talk through you right? I can help. I’ll make it work.”

“If I went running across the world for every ghost I saw, my life would be very tiring,” you said. “Maybe if he’s on an island nearby, I can help but I’m not crossing the sea for you. Where is he?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Well, then I don’t think it’s even possible to find him.”

“I can’t go anywhere until we do.”

“You might be stuck with me for a very long time then.”

“Then I’ll figure out where he is and you can take me to him.”

You smiled at nothing and gestured toward the food on the table. “Come, you should be able to touch this now.”

The plate moved slightly, rocking back and forward as though he was prodding it. You left him to it, stepping past where you presumed he was when something very warm brushed your arm. Startlingly warm. You jumped the second you felt it. It was as though you’d accidentally leaned against your stovetop.

“Wait,” he said. “I felt that. I can touch you?”

That had been him? You nodded slowly, gingerly rubbing the skin on your arm. “As I said, I’m pretty much the only thing you can interact with right now. Unless I do this little ritual, you’re only able to feel me.”

Silence again. You began to make your way to the living room when he spoke.

“Then can I have a favour?”

“It depends.”

“I –” He exhaled sharply. “Forget it. This is stupid.”

You waited. The silence stretched until he spoke again.

“You’re not going to laugh, are you?”

“No.”

More silence before he grumbled, so quietly that you barely heard it. “…I need a hug.”

You tilted your head. That wasn’t one you’d heard often, especially not from a supposedly starving ghost when there was food in front of them. You hesitated, just for a second, before sighing and opening your arms anyway.

You couldn’t see him but you felt him. An overwhelming wave of heat that crashed into you like stepping too close to an open flame.

Your breath caught as something solid reached around you. Arms wrapped over your shoulders, tight and unsteady, like he wasn’t sure how much force to use.

“You’re very warm,” you said, voice thinner than before.

“Yeah. Makes sense.”

You hesitated only a moment before returning it, your hands finding his back and shifting lower when something jagged pricked at your arms. Scars? No, a little too rough for that. Maybe his clothing.

The hug lasted only for a breath before he stepped away. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just haven’t touched anybody in a while.”

You nodded at the air in front of you. “Well, you haven’t eaten either. Enjoy.”

His physical form flickered into existence without warning.

A ghost, sure enough, with the deathly-pale skin and sunken eyes you associated with them, but also with freckles still on his cheeks and a boyish charm to his blood-stained lips. Dark hair fell into his face as he looked down at his own arms, blinking.

Your gaze slipped lower, over his shirtless façade to his chest. There was no question about what had killed him. The hole smouldered. A clean, devastating absence straight through him; its blackened edges still curled faintly with heat.

Your stomach turned and suddenly the smell of food turned to nothing better than bile.

“It’s not funny! I look like an idiot!” you snapped back. “Really, would it be so hard for you to let me walk with my dignity intact?” Sabo gestured to the ground, which was covered in shrapnel, debris, and shattered glass.

“You’re not wearing shoes. As much as I respect your autonomy I’d rather not have you slicing them to ribbons,” Sabo pointed out. You huffed a little – he was right, but you weren’t going to admit it. In all the hubbub of the RA attack, you hadn’t remembered to put on your shoes. You hated wearing those stupid heels and often spent your time barefoot when you could.

“Besides, I doubt you care. And no one you know is here to see it anyway, you let everyone else escape. Oh! I have an idea! I’ll carry you like this instead,” Sabo said with a smile. Before you knew it he maneuvered you so he was carrying you bridal style, clutched tightly to his chest.

“This is worse!” you griped. Though, truth be told, it was a more comfortable position for you. If he insisted on carrying you, it might as well be this way. “Where are you taking me?” you asked, your bare feet dangling. 

“To our ship. Like I said, you’re coming with me. I’m not losing you again,” he said, making his way down to the docks. 

“Obviously. You know that’s not what I meant,” you scoffed as Sabo kept walking. Your estate wasn’t on a large island, so you could already see the RA flagship bobbing in the high tide. You licked your lips nervously – you hoped your servants could still get away. The man carrying you did seem to be Sabo, but you didn’t completely believe everything he told you about the Revolutionary Army. Not that you believed everything the nobles said either, but you didn’t want your servants to bear the brunt of their wrath if you were wrong about the Revolutionary Army.

As Sabo quickly made his way down towards the dock, you didn’t see the ship that your servants had been instructed to board. Perhaps they were still in the cove, waiting for the RA to leave. Either way, you didn’t want them to think they had to remain on the island and wait for your shitty husband to return. You wanted better for them – better than working for your shitty husband on some forgotten island in the middle of nowhere. 

“Sabo, can you do something for me?” you asked, looking him in the face. Your eyes unintentionally focused on the scar on the left side of his face. Your fingers were half raised as if to touch it, but you curled them back into your palm. It wouldn’t do to touch a strange man, no matter if you were childhood friends or not.

“Mmh. Anything for my wife,” he said, his eyes boring into yours. You rolled your eyes – Sabo clearly didn’t have the same concerns you did. 

“Sabo, I’m serious. I know you’re taking me somewhere, but I need you to promise me something,” you said, gripping his shoulder with one hand. Sabo’s eyes roved over your face before he gave you a curt nod.

“I need you to leave a message for the servants. Tell them they are free to leave the island, to stay if they wish, or to join the Revolutionary Army, whatever they want to do. They are all released from their contracts and can take what they wish from the mansion. I don’t want them staying out of fear for what will happen to them either with you or with…” you trailed off, not wanting the words to pass your lips. The less you thought about your lawfully wedded husband, the better.

“The current owner of the estate,” Sabo finished for you. His arms gripped you a little tighter but he didn’t falter in his footsteps. You nodded, stroking and tugging on your earlobe with your fingers. 

“Alright, I can do that. I can tell you don’t believe me about what the RA does –”

“I mean, it’s not that I don’t believe you, but I also thought you were dead for the past decade until about fifteen minutes ago. Things can change quickly, you know?” you interrupted. Even though you didn’t really know Sabo anymore, your heart felt lighter with the hope that he’d be able to save your servants from being stuck on the island. 

“They’re in the cove, right? The hidden one on the far side of the island? I assume that’s where the tunnels under the estate go. I’ll have someone send a message over,” Sabo said, adjusting you a little higher on his arms. 

“How did you know?” you asked, your mouth open in shock. Sabo laughed as he approached the dock.

“This isn’t our first island takeover. We do our due diligence before we come. Besides, who do you think tipped us off that the brutal owner wasn’t here? A few of your servants aren’t as loyal to your ex husband as you think,” he stated, walking down the wooden dock. You were going to remark that he wasn’t your ex when Sabo took a few steps up the gangplank to the RA’s giant ship.

“EEE! BE CAREFUL SABO!” you yelped, twining your arms around his neck. You hadn’t been so near to the water in years, always afraid you were going to drown.

“Whoa, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Sabo asked, gripping you tightly. His head swiveled left and right, but there was nothing to see.

“No, no, not that. I can’t swim. I was just scared you’re gonna drop me,” you explained, holding yourself tightly to his chest. Your face was nestled in the crook of his neck and a long forgotten scent hit your nose. Carnations and cedarwood mixed together and created a scent that had you taking a discreet sniff of his shirt. Sabo took a few steps back onto the dock and pulled you away from his body to look at your face.

“Yes you can, what are you talking about? I don’t remember much but I remember you beating me in a swimming race,” Sabo said, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You shook your head, which made Sabo drop his hand.

“I beat you in every swimming race, you were super slow. But I can’t swim, not anymore. I ate a devil fruit a few years ago,” you said glumly. 

“Oh! How wonderful! What does it do?” Sabo asked, his excitement growing. 

“Nothing good or helpful. It’s a stupid one. I regret eating it,” you said, looking off to the side. You’d found it in the small forest on the estate during one of your daily walks. You had been so excited, thinking it would maybe help you escape from your husband and get out of the terrible life you lived, but it hadn’t done much of anything. You hadn’t even told anyone until now, afraid of what other nobles would say to your husband if anyone found out. Rare devil fruits were excellent to have, but one like yours would bring shame to your husband.

“Come on, then. You can tell me,” Sabo prodded, his hand rubbing up and down the outside of your thigh. You should have told him to stop but it felt too good at the moment. No one had touched you kindly in years; you were completely touch starved. As it was, you wanted to purr like a spoiled cat as he patted you. Why had you wanted him to set you down again?

“You’re gonna laugh,” you pouted as Sabo took a few steps towards the gangplank once more. Your eyes flicked down to the waves lapping at the dock. Being so close to water made you nervous, even if the chance of drowning was so slim.

“Never,” he said, one foot on the plank. You gave him a small frown and narrowed your eyes. Sabo smiled back at you, filling your mind with visions of him as a child doing the same. Your frown broke as you rubbed the back of your neck.

“It was a zoan fruit. I turn into a… well, a giant uh, snail –”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA–”

“YOU SAID YOU WOULDN’T LAUGH!” you yelled, punching his shoulder lightly with your fist.

“It’s so funny though! A giant snail! You could have had any power in the world and you got stuck with being a gastropod!” Sabo said, still laughing. Truthfully, you didn’t mind if Sabo was laughing with you. It felt freeing to finally be able to tell someone about your devil fruit, even if it was completely useless. It was one less secret you had to keep close to your heart.

“I gotta tell Koala, that’s too good,” Sabo said with a happy sigh, starting back up the gangplank. Your arms gripped him tightly, your fingers digging into his skin. In turn, Sabo held you tighter, holding you higher so your ear was by his mouth.

“ ‘M not gonna drop ya. You’re safe right here in my arms. Nothing bad is going to happen to you,” Sabo said softly to you, breaking the joviality of before. You shivered as his sweet words skittered down your spine, his breath tickling your skin. You scrunched your eyes shut as he ascended to the ship, afraid to look down at the water. It was foolish, but you hadn’t really been down to the waterfront since you’d eaten your fruit. 

“We’re on the ship. See? Nothing happened, like I promised you,” Sabo said, his hands loosening their grip on your legs. You cracked open an eye and saw that Sabo had brought you to the main deck of the RA flagship.

“Oi! Who’s that? I thought we weren’t taking anyone,” a female voice said from across the deck as Sabo set you on your feet once more. 

“Koala, come here! There’s someone I want you to meet!” Sabo said excitedly, waving to a short, brunette woman with a puffy hat. She walked over quickly, her eyes narrowed.

“You didn’t kidnap her, did you?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Yes,” you replied.

“No,” Sabo said simultaneously. Sabo slung his arm around your shoulders and pulled you a step closer to his side. You looked up at his face – Sabo was taller than you realized. You had towered over him for a few years as kids, but things had clearly changed.

“Koala, this is my wife, Grace,” Sabo said, gesturing to you.

“What do you mean wife –”

“My name isn’t Grace!” you erupted, pushing his arm off your shoulders to face him. “That’s a nickname you gave me because I fell off the log bridge into the river one time!” you said, poking his chest with your index finger.

“Again, what do you mean wife? What log bridge and river? Sabo, you’re married?” Koala reiterated, scratching her forehead.

“No, we’re not married,” you huffed as Sabo replaced his arm over your shoulders. This had to be the same Sabo you remembered – no one ever pushed your buttons like Sabo was able to.

“We are,” Sabo rebutted, now playing with the ends of your hair. You swatted his hand away but he remained undeterred, his fingers instead shifting to slowly drawing circles on your upper arm.

“It’s nice to meet you, uh, Grace. I’m Koala, one of Sabo’s childhood friends and an officer in the Revolutionary Army,” the brunette explained, offering her hand. You shook it and gave her a smile back. You weren’t going to be rude just because Sabo was annoying you. You were about to answer her when Sabo interrupted you.

“Oh, Grace was also one of my childhood friends. From before the accident. That’s when we got married,” Sabo explained, as if that was a totally logical statement. You gave him a dirty look and pursed your lips in annoyance.

“You remember your childhood? That’s incredible, Sabo! What can you remember –” Koala was speaking but you interrupted her just as Sabo had you. Of course Sabo remembered his childhood. He probably remembered just as much as you did – he’d been there along with Ace and Luffy. You’d ask him about them soon, you were so curious about what happened to them. There hadn’t been any news from the outside world at your home for so long, but surely Ace and Luffy had made their ways as pirates. But first you needed to nip this marriage thing in the bud before Sabo got any other grand ideas about your place in his life.

“Sabo, in case you don’t remember, I’m legally married to someone else. You know, the person you’re currently robbing and ransacking? We kissed once as kids, that doesn’t make us truly married,” you said, giving him a stink eye. Sabo stared back at you, unwavering in his intensity.

“Yes it does. The government is bullshit so what they say doesn’t matter. You’re my wife, Grace. And that’s all there is to it.”

Sabo’s POV

Sabo couldn’t believe it. 

He remembered you.

He remembered only you.

Sabo remembered spending time with you in the forests of Goa, hunting and fighting and  swimming and playing. It was like you had burst into his memories, bringing color where there had only been darkness. There were other shadowy figures on the periphery but he couldn’t place anything about them yet. You said something about others in his past, and he would take the time to dig into that later. For now there was no reason to divulge that his entire childhood was a void in his mind, everything between his parents and Dragon finding him a complete blank.

Except for you.

Sabo didn’t know how it was possible that he had recovered some of his memories of his childhood after so many years without. He also didn’t know how only his solo memories of you had returned, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Clearly, seeing you was the key to it all and he wasn’t going to let you slip through his fingers again. Once he saw you brandishing a metal pipe at him in your stuffy manor, it triggered a flood of memories all at once. He’d nearly dropped to the ground with the overwhelming amount of information that came flooding back but held himself together. Sabo would fall apart later when there wasn’t anything at stake, but for now he’d pretend like nothing was amiss.

“Yes it does. The government is bullshit so what they say doesn’t matter. You’re my wife, Grace. And that’s all there is to it,” Sabo said while looking at you intently. He was framing it somewhat lightheartedly, but he wasn’t joking. Sabo now considered you his wife, as much as if you had been married the previous day in court. Yes, he knew you were legally married to another, but that asshole forfeited his rights to you the moment that Sabo laid eyes on you again. He’d figure out what to do about your soon to be ex-husband in the future. 

He’d known you were still the same person from the moment you saved your servants. Sabo had destroyed many mansions and estates of World Nobles, and none of them had ever given a single thought to their slaves or servants. Not only that, but he’d purposely destroyed that tacky, expensive vase to gauge your reaction. You didn’t even bat an eye, instead keeping your gaze trained on him. They could give you the appearance of a noble lady – and what an appearance that was – but underneath you were the girl he remembered, the one that he truly loved.

And he did love you, Sabo realized as he watched you scowl at him. As a child, Sabo had been completely enamoured with you. It had been the only secret he’d kept close to his heart, afraid that someone (who?) would make fun of him for liking a girl. But Sabo had loved you with all of his boyhood heart. You were strong and courageous and smart and funny and brave, all qualities that he himself wished to have. And that little girl had grown up to be an especially lovely woman, Sabo thought as he looked you up and down. 

“I have a question for you,” Sabo said, dragging his gloved finger across the exposed flesh of your back and shoulders. He didn’t like anything about the noble class, but he would thank whoever it was that made this dress for you. It was rather modest, with a mid calf skirt and a sweetheart neckline, but that only made Sabo’s imagination spark.

“What now? Are you gonna make fun of my fruit again?” you said, rolling your eyes. 

“Oh yeah! Koala, listen to this. Grace–” 

“NOT MY NAME –”

“ – Ate a zoan devil fruit and she turns into a giant snail!” Sabo said, finishing with a bright smile. Koala smiled, though she had the decency not to laugh.

“Oh! Like a giant den den?” Koala asked, tipping her head to the side.

“What’s that?” you asked, scrunching your nose. Sabo blinked – surely everyone knew about den den mushi by now. Though, thinking back, he hadn’t seen any methods of communication at the estate. Maybe your ex-husband took them with him when he traveled. You certainly wouldn’t be the first stranded noble wife he had encountered. 

“You know, those telepathic snails we use for communication?” Sabo offered. Your face cleared of all expression, like you were playing a role of a noble wife. Sabo’s hackles rose – this blankness was something new in you. You were always so expressive when they were kids, what had happened to make you be able to act like this?

“Of course, silly me. I misheard you,” you lied easily. If Sabo hadn’t been a trained spy, he might have missed your tells. You must have become accustomed to lying during the time you and he had been apart, and Sabo wanted to know why. Oh well, one more mystery he’d uncover later when the two of you were alone.

“Hmm…once you show me your Zoan form, we can see if that’s the case,” Sabo offered. Your mouth twisted a little.

“Maybe. I don’t really like being in my Zoan form,” you hedged, crossing your arms and tugging at your earlobe.

“Oh? Why not?” Sabo asked, genuinely curious. “from what I’ve heard, Zoans love being in their counterpart form – or even a hybrid state. Is it because you’re so slimy? Or because you leave a snail trail?” Sabo asked, trying to rile you up. He didn’t know why he said it, it felt like he couldn’t stop himself around you. Your face heated up with his words but you gave no indication that you understood the double entendre. 

“NO. It’s not that. I don’t like it because it’s too loud,” you said, tossing your head. Sabo looked at Koala – she was on to something. She nodded in silent understanding that he wanted her to continue asking you questions. After so many missions together, they understood one another exceedingly well even without verbal communication. 

“What do you mean loud? Like you can hear too much? Or from greater distances?” Koala prompted, taking a few steps closer to you.

“Not exactly. It’s like if you had thousands of people in a room and everyone was talking all at once. Kinda like that. It’s overwhelming,” you said, taking a step backwards and bumping into Sabo’s chest. Were you…retreating? From Koala? Sabo didn’t mind that you were close to him, but he was rather surprised. He couldn’t remember you backing off….well, ever. Not that he remembered much, but it was more than before.

“Alright, makes sense. I’m gonna go below deck, got some things to do before we sail,” Koala said with a wave. She gave a curt nod to Sabo which he returned. If you really were a giant den den, the RA would be able to use your talents for an incredible advantage. You’d have to train of course, and Sabo could aid you with the help of his own devil fruit…but that was for later. Right now Sabo didn’t care about any of that, he needed to find out about his past.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, giving a curtsy. Sabo sniffed out his nose, yet another trapping of the upper class that had been drilled into you. Sabo danced his fingers along your arm, ending by wrapping them loosely around your neck. You shivered as he leaned down to speak softly into your ear, his fingers splaying over your carotid. Your heart beat fast as Sabo blew hot air on the exposed skin of your neck. 

“ Now that we’re alone, I do have one more question for you,” Sabo asked, watching goosebumps rise on your skin.

“Y-yeah?” you stuttered out. 

“You didn’t like wearing underwear when we were kids. Is that still the case?” he whispered. It was true, Sabo rationalized. You really hadn’t liked wearing them, something he had noticed one day. He hadn’t shared that information with anyone (WHO?) but did start letting you climb to the tree house first on days when you wore a skirt. Your eyes opened wide as you slowly turned to face him. Sabo grinned, he was going to be kissing you by the end of the night.

Instead, your arm reared back and you punched him in the nose.

Notes:

Not fear.

Not shock.

Offense.

“How did you get in?”

He looked at you.

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

He had removed his cloak. Without it, he looked even less like something that belonged in your cottage. Tall, broad-shouldered, red hair neat despite the wind outside, dark clothing still marked faintly with flour from your basket.

Your flour.

That helped a little.

“You should choose better locks,” he said.

“You should choose better manners.”

His eyes moved to the bag in your hand.

“Leaving?”

“No. I often carry packed bags from room to room.”

“I would like to speak with you before you throw another basket at me,” he said.

“I’m out of baskets.”

“That is reassuring.”

“I still have plates.”

Something almost like amusement touched his mouth.

In order to prove that Law was innocent, and that his magic truly was doing no harm, but instead, doing good, you had called in a few favors. One of those favors was the addition of a few new rooms onto your shop. 

Law’s new practice was to be a modern medical clinic, with two exam rooms, the larger of the two doubling as a small surgical suite when needed, complete with a small waiting area, a bathroom that also worked as a changing area, and a private office Law could spend his time studying and recording his research in, set to be stocked with the most up-to-date medical textbooks from this continent. The whole building, of course, would be well-lit and maintained with magical crests that he would simply push a bit of mana into to then clean whatever mess had been made. And it even had a whole separate entrance from the rest of the shop! You never had to worry about extra foot traffic again!

It was still wildly expensive, even when you cashed in your favor to the construction mage’s guild, but you didn’t mind. Not if it meant you got your space in the shop back, with no more worries of Law using your paper and your pens and your stool. 

You just really liked the idea of having your stuff back, okay?

Dinner today was a baked egg dish, with the ingredients whisked together. Law, it turned out, had a nasty habit of forgetting to feed himself, and couldn’t be bothered to eat an entire plate with separate sides and portions. And anything that resembled bread– forget about it. So, this had turned you to making casseroles and bakes, just to make sure he would get his daily meals. 

How he had managed to survive to this point amazed you. He hadn’t been like this at all in childhood— not to your memory of him at least— and had eaten everything set before him heartily, even stealing snacks from you when you’d both go foraging together.

To now. When had he gotten so picky? 

The dish was still baking with at least half an hour left until it was done, leaving you to stare at the sending stone. Many of the messages had stopped coming through. But there were still three groups sending you messages repeatedly. Two of whom had stopped within the day, and were currently at your home.

First, which didn’t surprise you at all, was Sanji, who was not at all pleased with your decision to save Law. How did you know this? He had burst into the house about ready to tear your new husband to shreds just two days ago, screaming about how you’d hadn’t answered any of his calls and ready to fight to the bloody death while a very embarrassed Ace walked in behind him, apologizing frantically for his beloved husband’s behavior.

He had since been visiting daily, bringing food and making sure you were alright while also looking down at Law every time he so much as walked by. You also used the time to make sure that the doses for the medication helped his succubus infestation with Ace, checking to make sure it was working. 

Sanji was the closest friend you’d had since Law. You couldn’t bear to lose him, not after everything you’d been through with him. 

“It’s working?” You watch Sanji from behind as he washes the dishes. The blond is humming happily, hair pulled back into a long ponytail. Ace hums happily, playing checkers with Gertrude. “The infestation is receding?”

“Yes, yes, it’s going away. I don’t even hear the annoying bugger anymore,” Sanji waves away your concern. “Now onto dinner–”

“The light priests are also happy with the fact that it’s not manifesting physically anymore!” Ace interrupts his husband, after it seems Gertrude has solidly beaten him. “I’ve been making sure he takes the pills too, along with the teas. It’s much better than it was a year ago.”

“I’ll say,” You murmur, resting your head on your arms from where you’re sitting. Trying to rest at the counter. “Had he been brought to a priest any later…”

“Let's not talk about that, it didn’t happen.” Sanji turns to look at you over his shoulder, smiling calmly. “I’m almost fully better, thanks to you.”

“I was just able to spot the symptoms and give you a few medications I had on hand,” You mumble, closing your eyes. Trying to ignore the sending stone problem. Even as a rather loud thump shook the building. No doubt, the second group— or really, a person— who had been messaging you, and who had since made himself at home, as he usually did. Because once you had opened the door, Luffy no longer needed to message you. 

You stay quiet, even as you hear the footfalls coming up the stairs. Reclaiming the mug on the counter, filled with a sweet, milkfern tea you’d made to help the anxiety you’d been feeling from the sending stone’s final group of people who were still messaging you. And that you hadn’t built up the courage to answer yet. 

“Aw, Traffy, don’t be so angry!”

“I am not angry!” 

Your dear, unlikely husband’s voice echos, followed by another thud, likely Luffy hitting something with his entire body after Law dodged an attempt at physical affection. You promptly chug the rest of the tea in your mug. Especially after you hear the sound of something breaking, and the shattering of a pot.

“Do not try to hug me, you straw-hatted menace to society!”

“Accurate description of my brother.” Ace smiles, holding the warm mug to his lips, not drinking the milkfern tea you’d had, but a spicier, dried-pepper infused blend. He did so adore the tea blends you made, nodding to the tattooed man as he stood at the top of the stairs now, Luffy groaning behind him and picking himself up off the floor of the small landing. “Law. Good to see you.”

“Ace. Always a pleasure.” 

You share a look with Sanji, the two of you rolling your eyes. How stiff! How formal! So polite! The total opposite of Sanji, who would curse Law out if he so much as breathed wrong. Ace and Law always had a bordering-on professional relationship, even after the falling out. Probably due to Ace working with the poor, often advocating for them and providing resources for those who needed it most. He’d often send many people Law’s way, knowing he’d find a way to help them.

“Is dinner–”

“You’ll be served last.” Sanji doesn’t even look up from the dishes. He’s long since finished them by now, but it’s more the principle of ignoring Law that he seems so stubborn to stand by, arms still in the sink, scrubbing away at imaginary scrapers and pans. “So you don’t even need to know when it’s done, your wretched creature.”

“Heh—? I hardly even said anything!” 

Law has his hands in the air, annoyed. Ace takes a deep sip from his cup and levels his husband with a pleading glance to at least try to be polite. Luffy groans from where he is still slumped on the landing. You just sigh, going to help the crumbled boy, getting Gertrude to lift him and the now-broken plant pot that had been sitting there, before letting the plant clamber up your arms, the vines and roots tightening around you. 

“What did we learn, Lu?”

“Aim.” Luffy mutters, staring at Law with the closest expression to evil plotting you’ve ever seen on his face. “And then get the bastard.” 

“No.” You laugh a little, as he sits on the couch like he’s exhausted from some arduous journey. You’re vaguely aware of Law hiding behind you, using you as a shield against Luffy and his planning. “It’s personal space. You should give Law his personal space.” 

“Yes. Leave me alone.” Law starts to say from behind you, with his voice dying down the moment you shoot a withering glare at him. “Or. Do whatever. Yeah. Do whatever. She’s the boss.”

“You owe me a new pot.” You cross your arms tightly, frowning. “Luffy broke it.”

“Why do I owe you….?” Law mutters, before shaking his head again, and just nodding along. “Yeah, figures. I’ll get you a new pot for whatever plant he broke up.”

“Just an extension of Gertrude,” You murmur, walking over to the landing, and rubbing your hands together in a circular motion, as if to shape something in your hands. The pot slowly reshaped itself, the clay knitting back together, though thinner than you’d like. “They’ll be okay, won’t you?” 

The leaves only rattled a little, stretching to tighten around your arm, before you hear a yelp. Gertrude, or the vines of them that were upstairs, had apparently stolen Luffy’s hat, and were now refusing to give it back until Luffy apologized for breaking their pot, which he was stubbornly refusing to do. You’re happy to have your house so full of life. Sanji bickering with Law as he dishes everything while stopping Luffy from reaching over and snagging something directly from the pan. Ace leaning on a closed fist and watching the entire thing. 

All you want is to enjoy this moment. To listen to everything and pretend everything’s okay. 

Gertrude tightens around you, as if sensing your anxiety. 

The final group that has been blowing up your sending stone. Your parents. 

Okay, when you said you hadn’t messaged anyone back, that may have been a small lie. You’d answered them once. 

“Please stop trying to call— I’ll answer when I’m ready,” 

You’d been pleading with them then. And then you’d dropped the stone back into the basin of water, watching as it glowed and made the water burn hot enough to boil and steam, walking away from the basin of water to lay in your bed, covering your ears, as if you could hear your parents crying out to you from where they’d retired to after you’d taken over the family business. 

For just a second, Law looks over at you. Sanji had managed to push him away, focusing more on Luffy rather than trying to continue arguing with him, eventually calling Ace over to help him dish out everything. 

You’re hugging Gertrude to your chest. Their vines have wrapped around you, one of the longer ones circling around the top of your head. And, worst of all, even after all this time, Law can tell by your expression alone you’re stressed about something. 

He could leave you alone, which would be a good idea. Even with all the improvements of the past week and a half. You could be in the same room again, and had even managed to have a few conversations. Mostly just small talk, nothing very deep. Not trying to delve into what exactly had happened to each of you since your falling out, even if he desperately wanted to tell you everything about why he did what he did. Law would wait until you were ready, he didn’t want to cause any more damage to your already precarious relationship. 

Law takes a hesitant step towards you, and when you don’t shy away from him, he speaks quietly. 

“Hey, uhm, are you…. Good?” 

You look up at him. There are tears in your eyes. And you look about ready to just collapse. Just like when your favorite plant had died when you were ten, and he twelve, and you’d just sobbed into his arms, talking about how you’d done your very best to treat the root rot, and how no matter how carefully you’d tried to treat it. The little philodendron had died regardless. 

You sniffled. Gertrude tightened around you before using her vines to pull herself away from you. And you just started to bawl, leaning into him and babbling about a sending stone and a basin of water while he patted your back, surprised by how little prompting it had taken for you to open up. 

“I—I haven’t even called my Mom and Dad back, then the pot broke, a-and I’m so tired, Law! I haven’t slept well for nearly two weeks! And they won’t stop calling!” 

You’re just sobbing into his chest, hands gripping the back of his tunic. The way his hands drift down to your back, rubbing circles and hushing you, carefully lifting you and taking you to your couch. The kitchen has gone quiet. Sanji stands behind the island, frozen from where a square of the eggbake sits on a spatula. Luffy has stopped trying to shove another square in his mouth, watching with his mouth still open wide around the slice he was eating. And Ace only watched. Face neutral, but his gaze soft. 

“Hey,” Law starts, looking over at him. Both of his arms wrapped around you protectively, letting you cry into his chest. “Can you guys get me a cool cloth? I don’t want her eyes to swell, they always do when she cries, it hurts her skin.”

Sanij doesn’t ask why Law knows that still. Ace is the one who actually goes to get a washcloth, while also smacking the back of Luffy’s head to finally get his younger brother to drop the food, returning just a minute later with a cool cloth and a hair clip. 

“She’ll want her hair out of her face, too,” Ace says simply, handing both to Law. Your husband doesn’t respond, only gently placing the cloth against your eyes, listening to you whimper against his chest, curling into a ball and making yourself as small as possible, as if you could hide under him somehow. 

Your hair is clipped up out of your face, and Law just continues to stroke down your back, not saying anything. Just letting you curl against him. When a few more minutes have passed, Law looks to the kitchen, silently pleading with Sanji to bring over a plate so he could try to feed you. And the blond seems to understand him, bringing over the food with everything already cut into bite-sized pieces. 

It’s a labor of love, getting you to eat the first bite. You won’t move your face. Won’t even lift your head, until Gertrude slips a vine under your ear, pulling on it until you turn to scowl at them. You take the food from the fork then, chewing it and then taking the next. Still sniffling pitifully. 

The skin around your eyes is already red and puffy. You don’t flinch when he gently holds the cloth to your eyes with one hand, and feeds you with the other. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Law asks. It feels as if the entire house is holding its breath. 

“No.” You mumble around a bite of food. Your lips start to quiver again. “Yes. I don’t know!”

“That’s okay,” Law lets you push away if you want to. He’s secretly thrilled when you don’t. “It’s okay. Just eat. And keep this cloth against your eyes. Don’t want another repeat of the dead philodendron incident.”

“It was a cute little philodendron!” You can’t help but laugh wetly, keeping the cloth to your eyes. Law grins, even if you can’t see it. 

“I know. It was very cute. But you were in so much pain the next day.”

“I was sad. That’s why it hurt.”

“No, it was because you had rubbed your eyes raw,”  Law corrects gently. You laugh again, and his heart flutters at the sound. He made you laugh!“And I don’t want it to happen again when I’m here to treat it before it gets bad.” 

“Ugh. Doctor-husband. Knowing how to treat things.” 

It’s the first time you’d called him that without loathing and despair when talking to or about him. You’d just used the word husband with him to tease! Acting playful, just after he’d made you laugh! Law really hoped you couldn’t feel how fast his heart was beating. 

“Yep. You’re stuck with me. But, you don’t have to worry about long waits at the office.” Law murmurs. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands now. Should he keep trying to rub your back, or should he stop altogether? He doesn’t want to let you go at all, really, he’d love to keep holding you like this, but the last thing Law wants to do is make you feel uncomfortable. “... better?”

“No.” You press back into his chest. Law’s face is beet red. Luffy is watching the entire scene with his jaw dropped. Sanji has a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. And Ace is smiling softly, as if this is all going according to plan, coming back from the bathroom with a smother hairbrush as well as a heavier blanket from your bedroom. “Not at all. Like, still so, so bad.”

“What’s so bad?” Law asks, tilting his head. Gently nudging you after he tucks a piece of hair out of your face. “C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”

Ace makes a noise as if he knows, and then raises a hand as if to excuse himself. 

“Ace Portgas-Vinsmoke, what do you know?” Sanji’s voice is a low threat, one you’ve heard used too many times when you’re having a wine-night with the blond, and Ace has just blown something up in his workshop.

“Uhm. Well, while I was in the big bathroom, because I wanted to get her a nice washcloth for her eyes, there was this metal basin with water in it. And you know how nosy I can be, so I looked in it! And it had her sending stone in it, it was glowing, and I recognized the runes on it being from her parents—”

“I haven’t called my parents since this entire thing happened. Aside from telling them I wanted space.” You finish miserably, just as the door to the main shop slams open downstairs. Ace winces, taping the tips of his pointer fingers together. 

“I— uhm, may have answered… it…”

The entire gathered group is treated to your mother’s heavenly, outraged voice, while your father and uncles try to calm her. Akainu sounds terrified, even as he walks up the stairs and shoots you, and even Law a look that is pleading for future forgiveness. Kizaru has given up on even trying to reason with his sister-in-law, ducks to kiss your forehead, and then promptly steals a slice of the bake from Sanji. 

Only your father remains. 

“Shakky, beloved, please—“ Rayleigh’s ever calm cadence drifts upwards, as there is the evident pounding of feet on the stairs. 

“Where the FUCK,” Shakky screams, just as her head pops over the railing, “IS MY  DAUGHTER AND MY NEW SON-IN-LAW?!”

She hooks you with an absolutely withering glare that has you pressing further into Law as if that could protect you. Rayleigh finally makes his own appearance, waving tiredly, with a little smile on his face.

“Hello, darling. Mind if I put the kettle on?”

Faded Journal Entry:

Shakky Terra-Silvers, age 58, Earth/Plant Mage, specialized in growing and foraging various plants, former apothecary, now retired. Married to Rayleigh. Sister to Akainu. (Your mother!) 

Sakazuki “Akainu” Terra, age 62. Captain of city guard and an Earth Mage, specializes in physically changing the state of the earth around him into lava and metal. Elder brother of Shakky. Married to Kizaru. (Your uncle!)

Rayleigh Terra-Silvers, age 61. Dad, Earth/Plant Mage, specialized in preparing plants and communicating with plants, former apothecary, now retired. Sworn Brother to the late Roger Gold, father of Ace. (Your father!)

Borsalino “Kizaru” Terra, age 61. Took his husband’s name to cut off his family. Vice-Captain of City Guard and a dual Speed & Light Mage, allowing him to attack swiftly and without mercy. Married to Akainu. (Your Uncle Shiny!)

Law Water D. Trafalger-Terra, age 26. ??? Mage and Doctor. Your former childhood best friend, until a falling out nine years ago due to—[The page is torn past this point, with a small note written in the margins. The handwriting is thin, as though written with… a thread?]

You’re not allowed to know that yet, puppet! Fufufu, how bold to try and find out!

The dock was lively today. Louise took a drag from her cigarette while she watched various workers load the ship she'd be taking. Dockhands hauled food, weapons, and personal items onto the ship at an efficient pace. That was to be expected. Linlin was an impatient woman who loathed tardiness.

Speed was a crucial element to this mission. Not just because Linlin wanted them to return quickly, but due to the extreme danger everyone on board would be in if the wrong people knew who was to be there for the voyage home.

Sakazuki would leave no survivors if he found out what was going on. Sengoku was holding him back for now, but his temper is too unpredictable for that to truly be a guarantee. Especially with how much he hated losing control of anything.

Louise dropped the burnt down nub from her lips and pulled a new cigarette from her pack, lighting it with a practiced ease, and taking a deep drag. This was doing nothing for her nerves, yet she kept smoking cig after cig in hopes that the next one would finally be enough. She never did get the hang of managing stress.

But, really? Who could possibly relax when they had as much on their plate as she does?

Charlotte Linlin sat perched on her throne, consuming pastries at a rate that implied she feared they would be taken from her if she didn't eat fast enough despite that very much not being true. 

She was in a good mood, something that Louise was extremely grateful for. 

“Isn’t this wonderful? I just knew this would all work out one day!” Linlin paused her eating long enough to take a swig of tea. Her eyes drift down to Louise, and she grins, “And to think you doubted that we would ever be able to get our hands on your dear (Y/N).”

“How foolish of me. I should have had more faith in you.” Louise forced a smile and idly sipped at her own tea.

Linlin cackled, slapping her free hand on the arm of her throne, “Yes, exactly! You should know better by now after everything we’ve been through. I always know what I’m talking about.”

That was true in a sense. If she was ever wrong about something, she had a way of brute-forcing the situation back into her being right again. Not that Louise would ever vocalize that thought.

“But even I have to admit that this is different from what I had expected.” Louise’s gaze flitted up at that admission. “Because this is even better than what I had hoped for! Not only am I getting the Will of D into my family, but now this marriage will also create an alliance with the Whitebeard pirates!” Linlin’s feet kicked in the air and she squirmed with excitement at the prospect.

“An alliance? From what I gathered during my conversation with him, he’s only holding onto (Y/N) for the time being because they didn’t want to go back, not because he’s assimilated them into his crew.”

“Louise, darling, what did we just say about you having more faith in me?” Linlin discarded her empty cup and leaned forward, propping up her chin on one fist. “You don’t know Edward like I do. He has a talent for drawing in troubled youth and making them one of his own, and from what I’ve heard about your kid, they’re precisely the kind of person he can’t help but adopt. Mark my words, that kid will be calling him ‘Pops’ by the time you get there.”

She seems awfully sure of herself. Louise looks down at her cup and absent-mindedly swirls the tea around. She supposes that there is hardly anything bad about you finally having a good father figure.

But Whitebeard seeing you as his own will most certainly cause problems. He’s going to want what’s best for you, and Louise isn’t delusional enough to think that what Big Mom wants is what is best for you.

“We should get back on topic, though. Since you’ve been such a useful ally, I’ll let you have some say in the matter.” Linlin sits up straighter, eyes sparkling. “Which of my children do you think (Y/N) would suit best? I think Nougat’s around their age. Or perhaps Pudding?”

Linlin’s nose wrinkles, and she retracts her previous statement, “Well, maybe not Pudding. I don’t want a bunch of three-eyed grandchildren running around.”

The topic makes Louise uncomfortable. She knows full well that you are in no state of mind to be getting thrown into a marriage with zero warning. Not to mention far too young to be reproducing. She purses her lips and tries to come up with an excuse, “It’s hard for me to say… While I’ve been able to get updates on (Y/N) through eavesdropping on Marine transmissions, it’s given me very little insight on their personality. Maybe we could wait until after I’ve brought them here? Then we could see first hand who they get along with best.”

“You want me to wait that long?” Linlin leans back in her seat and crosses her arms, openly pouting at the idea. “But I want to have the wedding shortly after your return, not have to wait however long it takes them to make a decision. It’s been so long since the last wedding, I’ve been looking forward to the cake!”

The last wedding was around six or seven years ago now, to Anana’s father. Rest his soul.

Linlin's eyes widen, and she sits up straighter, “I know! Why don’t you take the decuplets with you?”

“W-What? All of them?”

“Yes! There’s ten of them, so your kid is bound to get along with at least one.” Linlin nods to herself, and Louise knows that means she has already made up her mind on the matter. This situation just got a lot more complicated.

What a mess. Louise stares out at the sea, mulling over how best to go about this. As it stands right now, there isn’t a clear or obvious answer. What she wouldn’t give for Rouge to be here to give her advice. Her sister always knew what to do, even in the worst scenarios.

“I thought you said you were quitting.”

“She's said that like a million times. There's no way you're still believing her when she says it.”

Louise turns her head toward the voices making comments on her life choices. Newji and Allmeg respectively were standing nearby, with Allmeg using Newji as an armrest. Their grins only widen when she gives them her attention.

“I don’t recall asking for either of your opinions.” She exhales smoke, then drops the cigarette butt on the ground and steps on it. “I’m going to quit when we get back.”

The two decuplets before her exchange glances, then lean closer to “whisper” amongst themselves.

Newji holds up a hand to shield his lips from view, “I bet a thousand berry she’ll fail after a week.”

Allmeg snorts and shoots back, “I bet five thousand that she won’t even try.”

“Okay, that’s enough you little smartasses!” Louise leveled them with a glare that she knew full well they weren’t going to take seriously. That’s her fault, she supposes. She always has been soft on them.

True to her assumptions, they only laughed in response to her half-assed attempt to scold them. Rather than being able to focus on these two in particular, her attention is divided by the rest of the decuplets making their way onto the docks. 

Nutmeg and Akimeg come running up to the pier, eyes locked onto the ship with obvious excitement. Nutmeg looks over to her sister, “I can’t believe we’re finally getting to leave Totto Land, this is going to be so much fun!”

Akimeg nods eagerly, “Just think of all the new things we’re going to get to see on this trip!”

Newichi enters the scene, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a scowl on his face, “How are you two looking forward to this? Are you forgetting that one of us is going to have to get married when we come back?”

The comment makes Nutmeg whip around, visibly irritated, “Of course I remember, I’m not stupid!”

“Yeah! Excuse us for trying to make the most out of this!” Akimeg chimes in, siding with her sister.

Newgo trails in behind his oldest brother and tosses in his own opinion on the matter, “I’m with them, we should just focus on having fun in the meantime. We can worry about that later.”

Fuyumeg inserts herself into the conversation, looking unimpressed, “Besides, I don’t get why you’re the one so bent out of shape over this. It’s not like they’re going to choose you of all people.”

“Hey!” Newichi snaps his head in her direction, face flushed with anger to the point of blending in with red hat, “The hell is that supposed to mean?!”

His outburst does nothing to intimidate Fuyumeg, who just smirks and taunts him further, “What? Do you need me to spell it out? I’m saying that no one is going to choose someone with a shitty attitude like yours.”

In the next instant, there’s a clash of metal as a fight breaks out between Newichi and Fuyumeg. Their scythes collide over and over again while the other decuplets cluster around to cheer their preferred sibling on.

“Oh, great. They’re already fighting. This is going to be a long mission.”

Louise looks up, seeing that Cracker has finally arrived and is now grumbling about the situation.

Linlin had decided to send one of her Sweet Commanders along for support, should you encounter trouble. While Louise wasn’t told the specific reason that Cracker was chosen, she can guess it’s because his devil fruit gives him the fighting power of a small army all on his own. He is by no means an easy opponent… though she isn’t confident that a bunch of biscuit soldiers will do much of anything against Admiral Akainu.

Cracker lowers his head until he’s looking down at Louise, “That kid of yours better not give us any grief after all the trouble we’re going through to go get them.”

“They won’t,” Louise’s tone is sharp, not caring for his words. Cracker raises his brows at her comeback, but he doesn’t press further.

Newichi and Fuyumeg are still fighting with each other when Newshi storms up to the crowd gathered around them, his larger stature allowing him to tower over everyone else.

“That’s enough! This is our first mission away from home, we need to make a good impression!” He pauses, waiting for any form of acknowledgement, only to get none. “Are you listening to me? I said that’s enough!”

Still nothing. Newshi grits his teeth in frustration, then looks over to the only person here that is taller than him, “Harumeg, break them up.”

“On it!” Harumeg smiles as she crouches down, then grabs the two brawling teenagers; one in each fist. She holds them up to Newshi triumphantly, “Got them!”

Newshi levels both of them with a glare, trying his damnedest to establish authority, “We need to be on our best behavior for this, not getting into fights before we’ve even made it onto the ship.”

Newichi isn’t even paying attention, instead being far more preoccupied with trying to pry himself out of his sister’s iron-grip. Fuyumeg, at least, actually responds to him. 

“It’s not that big of a deal…” Fuyumeg’s arms are crossed, making her look more annoyed than ashamed. “But, fine. Whatever. I’ll stop.”

“Can’t breathe-” Newichi weakly pushes on Harumeg’s hand, face beginning to look a little blue.

Harumeg gasps and immediately lets him go… from about ten feet in the air. Despite the fact that the rest of his siblings are standing beneath where he’s falling, they all scramble out of the way rather than catching him. He hits the ground with a thud, no doubt knocking out what little air he had left. Harumeg drops down next to her brother, fretting over him.

“Oh, no! Are you okay?! I’m so sorry!” 

Cracker lets out a weary sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t understand how you’re able to be around these kids so much. I’m already getting sick of them.”

“It’s not like we’re psyched that you’re coming along either,” Newsan called up to him. “Why couldn’t we have gotten Katakuri to come with us instead? He’s way cooler.”

Unfortunately, Cracker took the bait without a second thought, “Watch your mouth, you damned brat! Katakuri obviously has better things to do than babysit you little shits!”

“But you don’t? That’s pretty embarrassing,” Newsan let out mischievous giggles at his brother’s expense. Cracker was seething, so Louise took that as her cue to step in.

“Cracker, you’re too old to be falling for their little taunts. Just ignore them.”

That earns her a dirty look, but he does begrudgingly back off from the argument, instead choosing to focus on preparing a suit of armor to disguise himself in for the journey ahead. After a few claps, he looks it over only to scowl when he sees that it’s still incomplete.

“I know I made enough…” His muttering is stopped short by the sound of chewing. He snaps his head in the direction of said noise only to spot the green hat clad decuplet casually eating a snapped off piece of biscuit. 

“Newshi! What do you think you’re doing?! Stop eating my biscuits! They aren’t meant to be food, and definitely not for free!” Cracker waits for a response, only to get none. “Don’t ignore me when I’m talking to you, Newshi!”

“I’m Newshi!” Newshi yelled from over by the ship where he was helping load some of the larger crates. “You aren’t even trying if you’re confusing one of my brothers for me.”

Cracker stopped and stared at the decuplet before him, trying to deduce which one he was. He gives up and looks over at Louise expectantly. Louise sighs, “That’s Newsan.”

At the mention of his name, Newsan finally looks up from his snack, “Hm? What is it?”

“Don’t act innocent! You knew I was talking to you!”

“No, I didn’t. You were clearly talking to Newshi, not me.” Newsan shrugged, then reached out and attempted to snap off another segment from Cracker’s creation. “Hey, can you make these different flavors?”

Louise watches as the interaction devolves into another fight. This is going to be a really long voyage. 

—

Planning a murder required a lot of care and forethought. This wasn’t something you could charge into blindly. Well, you could, but that rarely ends well for the killer. Especially not when the soon-to-be victim has several advantages.

If you’re going to kill Marshall Teach, you’re going to have to be extremely careful. Not only can you not do anything to potentially tip him off to what you’re going to do, but you really need to make certain that none of his crewmates catch wind of your plans. They may be playing nice for now, but you’re sure that will end the second you try to kill one of their own.

One of the most crucial elements to your plan is the element of surprise. Yes, you’re a powerful fighter, but Teach has a significant height and weight advantage. You might have a chance in a direct fight, but you much prefer your odds in a sneak attack where he has no time to react. Speed will also be important, but with that sea stone cuff gone, you have no worries about achieving that. 

He’ll also have to be alone for this to work. You can’t risk one of his crewmates being able to come to his aid. They can’t know about this until he’s already breathed his last breath. Granted, you’ll likely be killed the second they find his body, but that’s a problem for later.

It would seem that this element of your plan was going to be the most difficult part. As you sat on the deck of the Moby Dick watching him, you bitterly took note of Teach’s impressive ability to constantly surround himself with other people. This bastard was never alone. Trying to corner him with no one else around was not going to be an easy task. Especially if he started to get suspicious.

“(Y/N).”

Someone calling your name took you out of your homicidal trance. You look up to see Whitebeard looking at you from his captain’s chair. Despite all of the days you’ve spent aboard this ship, you still weren’t used to being in the presence of an Emperor like this. Though admittedly, the fact that he’s usually seated and hooked up to medical equipment made him feel somehow less risky to be near than the other people on board.

You stiffen under his gaze and sit up straight, “Yes, si- Whitebeard?”

His eyes crinkle in amusement at your almost-slipup, but he didn’t call attention to it this time. “You seem bored, child.”

Being called a child irked you somewhat, but you weren’t about to try and boss around the strongest man in the world and tell him what he can and can’t call you. It’s not really a big deal. At least he didn’t appear to be onto your scheme.

“A little, I guess. I’m not used to having so much free time.” Good, he just thought you looked bored, not murderous. 

“Idle time is good for you. It isn’t natural to always be working.”

That sentiment was certainly not shared by the Marines, who treated someone taking a break from their duties for any reason as borderline treasonous behavior. Pirate ships, or this one at least, appeared to be significantly more lax. It was weird to have an enemy encouraging you to be mindful of your health.

“Although,” Whitebeard continues, “if you really want something to do, I believe Ace could use a hand manning the bilge pumps over there.”

What? You glance over and see Ace effortlessly operating two different pumps at once. A shocking feat given that it usually took four normal people to spin one. He doesn’t look like he’s having any trouble at all, but it feels wrong -not to mention stupid- to not take an order from Whitebeard.

Besides, if you want to get everyone here to trust you enough to allow you to carry out your plan, you’re going to have to play the part of someone that’s warming up to them. You push yourself up onto your feet and nod at Whitebeard, “I can do that. I needed something to do, anyway.”

The bilge pumps are a ways back on the massive ship. Ace, no doubt, didn’t hear that he had help on the way. His back is to you as he turns the wheels responsible for helping to pump water out of the ship. The pumps are huge, definitely requiring a great deal of strength to turn. If you hadn’t had time to recover from all the sea stone exposure, you doubt that you’d be able to assist him.

Once you’re close enough, you call out to the Division Commander, “Hey.” Ace looks over his shoulder at you, eyes widened slightly in surprise. His shock makes sense, you’re pretty sure this is the first time you’ve initiated contact with him.

“Whitebeard told me to come help you. Let me take over one of those.”

“Help me? I don’t really need help with this.” Ace continues working the pumps, showing no sign of relenting.

“Well, I’m already here, so scoot over.” Without giving him a chance to respond, you move forward and shoulder him away from the pump on the right. He loses his grip on the handle, and you quickly replace his hand with both of yours. 

Like you had assumed, this thing was heavy and took a considerable effort to turn. Nothing you couldn’t handle, though. The other marines would always make comments about your unusual strength growing up.

Ace balked initially at you commandeering one of the pumps by force, but seemed to think better or arguing with you and instead focused on working the one you left him with. An awkward silence fell over you two, with only the noise of the pump between you. Normally, you aren’t opposed to bouts of silence, but there was something that had been on your mind regarding Ace.

“So… I don’t suppose you’re the same Ace that Vice Admiral Garp was always complaining about, are you?”

“You know my gramps?” Ace looks over at you, visibly intrigued.

“Yeah, we saw each other here and there. He mostly just used those moments to complain about his family, though.” But he would usually share his rice crackers with you during these exchanges, so you would endure it.

A chuckle escapes Ace, and he shakes his head, “That sounds about right. You should have seen how pissed off he’d get whenever me and Luffy talked about becoming pirates.”

Hearing that name gives you pause, then you feel a warm tide of nostalgia wash over you. “I haven’t seen Luffy in forever. How’s he doing? You two grew up together, right?”

Rather than answering you, your words seem to have caught Ace violently off guard. He lets go of the bilge pump handle, giving it the opportunity to wheel back around and hit his slack jaw dead on. He jerks back from the force of it, but recovers just as quickly.

“You know Luffy?!” He’s pointing at you now and yelling louder than you think is truly necessary even with the pumps going.

His reaction throws you off. Was this good? Bad? You had no idea. You offer a small shrug while taking over his now abandoned pump, not wanting to let it lose its momentum, “I mean, kinda? Garp used to pull me out of training to come play with Luffy back when he was still bringing him around, but we haven’t seen each other since we were little kids.”

“Hang on…” Ace’s eyes narrow, the gears in his brain turning, “You’re that kid Luffy would talk about sometimes! The one with the shitty dad!”

Shitty dad? That’s putting it mildly. Still, you can’t help but find humor in learning how Luffy would refer to Akainu. You huff out a laugh, “Is that how he talked about him? That’s funny.” 

“I guess I’m not surprised, though. The only times Luffy ever saw him was after he’d finally tracked me down and came to drag me back to training.” A smile quirked at your lips as you started reminiscing, “Did he ever tell you about the time he threw a bucket of water at Akainu and tried to run away with me?”

Ace blinks, then grins, “He what?”

“I guess he’d gotten sick of all our hangouts being interrupted by my father. That day when Akainu came by to try and take me back, Luffy used the bucket we’d been making sandcastles with to douse him in water to try and weaken him. Before I could even process what he’d just done, he had grabbed my hand and took off down the beach so we could try to get away and keep playing.” You can still see the dumbstruck look on his face. That might have single-handedly been the most disrespectful thing ever done to him.

Okay, there’s no might about it. That was absolutely the most disrespectful thing ever done to him.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by laughter. Ace is doubled over and cackling. He starts to recover from his laughing fit, “No way! I can’t believe he never told us about that!”

“He didn’t? That’s a shame. It was pretty funny. Even Garp was laughing his ass off.” And also you, though you quickly had to hide it when Akainu finally started to give chase. You did not want him to hear you laughing at him.

As his laughter subsides, he moves to retake his place at the pump next to you, but now his attention is solely on you. “I never would have guessed you two knew each other. I’m gonna have to give him hell next time I see him for keeping those stories secret.”

“Like I said, it’s been a long time.” You’d honestly assumed that he’d forgotten about you by now. A part of you can’t help but feel oddly happy about the fact that Luffy cared enough to tell other people about your time together. You glance over at Ace again, “You never answered my question before. How is he?”

“Oh, right. He’s good. He got a devil fruit, and he’s really made the most of it. You should see him in action with it, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Well, more so than he already was.” His smile widens, and his eyes light up, “He should be setting out on his own soon. Maybe you’ll get to see him again.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.” You wouldn’t be opposed to that, even if he is a pirate. You’ve been around far worse pirates as of late.

Suddenly, a hand settles on your shoulder, and you know it doesn’t belong to Ace since you can see both of his on the lever. A head sporting red hair pops in between you two. Oh. It’s Haruta. An exasperated sigh escapes you at his appearance. He’s definitely about to start saying ridiculous things again. That seems to be his specialty even more than swordfighting is.

“What do you want, Haruta?”

“I was just looking for you so we could spar again, but look at what I found instead!” Haruta wraps each arm around yours and Ace’s necks, forcibly drawing both of you closer. “You two getting along like two peas in a pod! Like family!”

“Ugh! Would you drop that already! We aren’t family!” You stop working the pump to try and pry Haruta’s arm off you.

“But you act and sound just like him!” Haruta spins you around and scrutinizes your face, “You kinda look like him too, honestly.”

“I do not!” You can feel your face heating up from your frustration. You whip your head around to Ace, desperate enough for someone to back you up to resort to even him, “Tell him we’re nothing alike!”

Much to your dismay, Ace looks amused more than anything, though his eyes are lingering on your facial features. For a split second, his smile almost looks like it drops, but it’s back so fast that you’re questioning if you were just seeing things.

“Haruta’s got a point, you are acting a lot like me after I was first brought here.”

“Ace! Don’t side with him!” That damned traitor! And after you were nice and told him a story about his brother!

That’s just what you get for playing nice around a bunch of pirates, you suppose. Mockery, humiliation, and absurd accusations. As if you could be related to someone like him.

Which was why you’d been given orders to babysit Megumi every day since Toji had rejoined the clan. You hadn’t asked any questions and hadn’t been given any additional information about the situation. No one had been happier than Naoya when Toji rejoined the clan, quickly offering you as a babysitter to Megumi. You hadn’t objected, you didn’t mind the work. Even if you had hated kids, you still wouldn’t have objected to anything Naoya said, either in public or in private. 

You weren’t exactly sure what position Toji held in the clan – he didn’t even bear the Zen’in last name. You didn’t know anything about Toji other than that he was incredibly powerful, people went out of their way to avoid annoying him, and that his wife had passed away a few years prior. Toji hadn’t told you any of this, you scarcely said a sentence to him during your time picking up and dropping off Megumi. But Toji was the current source of interest for the gossip mill, so you heard it all anyway. Some of your acquaintances tried asking you about him, but you answered truthfully that you didn’t know anything about him and shut the subject down.

Naoya also had a tremendous deal of respect for the handsome man and often tried to get him to chat, though Toji never did. In your heart of hearts, you suspected he feared Toji as much as he respected him, though you would never say that out loud. Naoya had made it very clear that your life depended on making sure Megumi fared well. 

He hadn’t needed to threaten you though – you genuinely liked the reserved, shy child. Your days with Megumi were spent with walks by the river, adventures in the forests, making crafts, eating snacks, and playing games together. It truly brought you peace to spend your time with the quiet child, your smile returning to your face during the hours you were allowed to spend with him. Once his cursed technique showed, he would be sent to training, but for now he was allowed to remain a child. Megumi was getting close – already four years old – but you secretly hoped he would be a late bloomer so you could spend more time with him before training and elementary school.

You turned to leave – you had to cook additional dishes for Naoya. He would expect more courses than the simple ones you’d made for Toji and Megumi. You’d taken to cooking and leaving dinner for the Fushiguros, so Megumi would have something healthy to eat in the evenings. After all, your instructions from Naoya were clear  – please the Fushiguro family – and you wanted to do your best.You were already trying to remember the ingredients you had at home and determining what you could make with the remaining time until Naoya returned while you walked towards the door.

“You limpin’?” Toji asked, still watching the TV. You forced a laugh, saccharine and flat.

“Ha ha. I apologize, Toji. I banged my ankle while chasing after Megumi this afternoon. I am too clumsy for my own good,” you said, your hands up in front of you defensively.

“No, you didn’t,” Megumi objected clearly while heading towards his room. You gave the spiky-haired child a half hearted frown, putting your hands back in your sleeves.

“In any event, I’ll be by in the morning to collect Megumi,” you said, trying to end the conversation. “Goodbye!”

Shutting the door, you took a deep breath before you began your journey back to your own household. You knew exactly how many breaths, how many steps, how many seconds it would take before you were back home from the Fushiguro household.

Back to your own personal hell. 

Back to your husband Naoya.

At first, you’d been honored to be married to Naoya. After all, the highest aspiration for a woman in the Zen’in clan was to be married and bear male jujutsu sorcerer children. And you were marrying the next leader of the clan, the best a woman could do in her life. On the surface, Naoya was smart, handsome, and strong. Everything a girl could dream of in a husband. Naoya had personally selected you from all the available women in the clan and his proposal to your father had been accepted immediately. Your father had informed you that you’d be married the following day, changing your life forever. You had never been so excited in your life.

How wrong you were.

From the very moment of your wedding ceremony, you’d known there was something wrong with Naoya. From the second he looked at you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was no true emotion behind his eyes. No happiness, no joy, no sympathy, no love. It was like it was all a calculation to him, and you’d won the numbers game he’d done. You kept wanting to wake up from the nightmare, for something to happen, for someone to come bail you out of this mess. But nothing had gone off course, and soon you were officially married to – the new wife of – Naoya Zenin. 

The ceremony itself and dinner afterwards was a blur in your memory. The only thing that you remembered was that during the interminably long dinner speeches, Naoya had reached over to take your hand in his. You looked at him as he smiled softly, and you smiled back. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as you had thought, maybe you just needed to give him a chance. Naoya’s hand squeezed yours so tightly that the bones in your hand cracked, threatening to break.

“Pay attention, Wife. You represent me now,” he whispered, like he had just said something romantic. He let go shortly thereafter to clap. You did the same, even as your hand throbbed. 

Things did not improve from there.

Naoya had taken your virginity roughly that night, not caring that it was your first time. Almost immediately afterwards, he’d gotten up and dressed again, preparing to go out. 

“Where are you going?” you’d whispered, still laying naked in your rumpled marital bed. His come was wet between your thighs, mixed with your blood. You had heard from your friends who had already married that the first time hurt, but you hadn’t expected it to burn and ache so badly. Naoya crossed over to you, looking down at you from above. He backhanded you so hard your head turned, your lip splitting from the force. Blood from your mouth joined the already soiled sheets.

“Know your place,” he said, a cruel smile twisting across his mouth.

A few days later, you were sporting a black eye and a split lip as well as bruises all over your chest and arms. You had wanted to go visit your mother, but Naoya said you were to remain in his household for now to get used to your duties. So you cleaned and cooked for him, and tried your best not to upset your new husband. Naoya came home early that day, much earlier than he had been the previous few. It set you on edge – your hands trembled as you set down his tea in front of him at the low table, prepared just the way he liked it. As Naoya raised his hand, you flinched, making him smile. 

“Do you see this?” Naoya asked quietly, unfurling a scroll he pulled from within his robes. You peered at what he was showing you, your eyebrows scrunched in the middle. It was your official marriage certificate, signed by the Clan leader Naobito as well as Jinichi Zen’in. You nodded your agreement, you knew by now that Naoya didn’t want to hear your voice. 

“Do you know what this means?” he asked. You nodded again. Satisfied, he reached forward and grabbed your jaw in his hand, squeezing it so tightly you knew it would bruise.

“It means I own you,” he said, leaning forward to kiss you. You parted your lips for him, ever obliging to anything he wanted. The kiss began soft, but Naoya soon bit your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. You squeaked in protest, your lip throbbing in pain. Naoya let go and laughed.

“You’re mine now, Wife. Now and forever,” he husked, your blood dripping down his chin.

Ever since your wedding six months prior, your life became smaller and smaller. Sometimes Naoya was sent out on missions, which meant you had time by yourself. You had been granted permission to visit your mother once, after a particularly rough night with Naoya. You supposed it was his way of apologizing. Your mother had sucked in a breath when you appeared at her door with two black eyes and a limp, but she hadn’t said anything about it. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do.

Women of the Zen’in clan endured. 

That’s all there was.

When Naoya was home, you did your best to cater to him and be the wife he wanted. He usually ignored you, and treated you like you were nothing more than another possession he owned. During the nights, you were expected to perform sexual acts with him, no matter how lewd or how you felt about them. You had learned to cry silently, as Naoya didn’t like the sound of your crying. 

Occasionally, Naoya rewarded you with jewelry or other luxuries. You felt it had less to do with you and more to do with how he wanted others to perceive you. He often had you wear your finest clothes when out in public, or tell you to change the way you were dresses to better suit his image. You always did as he said – your life was easier when Naoya was happy. And he had been happier since you’d been tasked with watching Megumi.

For a while.

Except Naoya had somehow come to the insane conclusion that you were sleeping with Toji. Naoya had always been jealous and covetous of you, constantly watching over your interactions. He always questioned you over where you’d gone, what you’d said, who you’d been with – even though you weren’t allowed to leave the Zen’in clan compound without him. Naoya’s possessiveness had caused many fights in the past, but nothing like the intensity of what was currently happening.

Now that you were with Megumi daily, Naoya didn’t hit your face. You assumed this was because either Megumi or Toji would notice and it was shameful for Naoya to have to control his wife. But that didn’t mean Naoya didn’t take it out his jealousy on you in other ways. Nearly every night that week had been a quarrel between you – with Naoya claiming that you were sleeping with Toji and cuckolding him, you crying that it wasn’t true, that you’d never been unfaithful to him, and Naoya injuring you in some way or other until he was satisfied. It had been escalating all week and you didn’t know what the breaking point would be.

You weren’t born with a large amount of cursed energy, or any cursed technique. But you didn’t need to have that skill to know you were in trouble as soon as you opened the door to your house after returning from the Fushiguro’s.

“Hello, Wife,” Naoya said from his sitting chair. One of his feet was on his opposing knee, his hands resting on the armrests of the chair. You stood up impossibly straighter, trying to completely blank your face of all emotions. Naoya had never told you anything directly about his own cursed technique, but it didn’t matter. He was faster and stronger than you’d ever be, regardless of his technique. 

“Good evening, Naoya,” you replied carefully, bowing low to him. You had to tread carefully – you could tell he was in a dangerous mood. There was certainly going to be an issue, you just wanted it to be as minimal as possible.

“And what has my Wife been doing today?” he asked, drumming his well manicured nails against the wood. Nails that you manicured, from which you scrubbed your own blood from night after night after each argument.

“I j-just dropped off Megumi at T-t-t-” you couldn’t make yourself say it, the words were stuck. Your throat was closing up in anticipation of what was to come, you could hardly get a word out.

“Be specific, Wife. Where did you drop off Megumi?” Naoya asked, his fingernails digging into the wood.

“A-at T-toji’s house,” you stammered, swallowing dryly. Naoya smiled, making you cringe backwards. Nothing good happened when Naoya smiled. 

“And what else?” he asked, slowly rising from the chair.

“W-what?” you asked, looking at him, your eyebrows hitched in confusion. “Nothing else, I - I watched Megumi like I always-” 

“Oh, Wife. It’s not a good idea to lie to me, you should know this by now,” Naoya said, stalking slowly towards you. You took a step back for every step he took forward, your breath coming in sharp pants now. 

“I have to keep teaching you this lesson over and over. But then again, you’re quite stupid,” Naoya said, backing you against the wall. Naoya bent over you, his face so close to your own you could feel his breath on your neck as he spoke. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly as you felt a trickle of sweat go down your back. 

“You’ve always been stupid. I just didn’t think you were so unintelligent to think I wouldn’t notice that you were having relations with another man under my nose,” Naoya whispered, slamming his hand on the wall next to your head. You flinched and tried to look down at the ground. 

“No, no. Look at me as you lie to my face. Did you or did you not make Toji dinner?” Naoya asked, his free hand gripping your jaw to tilt your face to his. You looked up at him – your husband, the one who was supposed to protect and cherish you. You knew the other women thought he looked like an angel – but he was your own personal curse. 

“I d-did,” you whispered. A tear slipped down your cheek but you didn’t dare wipe it away. 

“Ah, see, now we’re getting somewhere. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Naoya asked, false sincerity in his tone. You shook your head, silently answering his question. His thumb brushed the tear off your cheek, almost like a caress. Six months prior you would have mistaken this for affection but you knew better now. Naoya was playing with you like a cat plays with a mouse. 

“The last time I left dinner for Megumi, Toji ate it. S-so I started making two dinners so Megumi h-had s-something good to e-eat. I d-didn’t think you’d c-care-” Naoya clicked his tongue, making you jump.

“And you had to go ruin it. Like always. Ruining everything with your foolishness and your lies. I know that’s not why you’re cooking for him. You’re cooking food for him the way a wife cooks food for her husband, yes?” Naoya asked quietly, the soft sound of his words hitting you like a whip.

“N-no, Naoya, that’s not-” you winced as Naoya grabbed your neck with one hand and squeezed. It wasn’t tight enough to completely restrict your breathing, but enough that your hands immediately encircled his forearm. You took shallow, panicked breaths, trying in vain to say his name.

“N-n-hah hah n-”

“You might be a stupid bitch, but I’m certainly not. I know you’re sleeping with Toji, making a fool of me. Everyone is talking about it,” Naoya hissed, his grip tightening. Suddenly there was no air anymore, only the crushing weight of Naoya choking you with his bare hands.

Your fingers clawed his arm, trying uselessly to get him to open his fingers and let you breathe. He lifted you off the floor easily, your windpipe crushed under his hands. In the back of your mind, you always knew Naoya would end you one day. You just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. You kicked your feet uselessly against the wall, this was how you were going to die. 

You had always imaged yourself panicking when Naoya finally killed you, but your mind was calm. And you realized – your life had been a complete waste. You had done everything you were supposed to, been subservient to the Zen’in clan only to be killed by their Golden Boy. At least your torment would finally be over. Your last thought coherent as black crept into your vision was that you hoped Toji would comb Megumi’s hair, otherwise it would become dry and matted again like when you’d first started caring for the boy. 

“Hey, Megumi says he left his stupid stuffed rabbit here. He won’t sleep-” Naoya’s grip on you suddenly relaxed as the door slid open. You dropped to your knees, sucking in deep breaths with your arms planted on the ground.

“Toji! I’m so sorry you had to see that. You’ve been married before, you know what wives are like,” Naoya said with a light laugh. 

“Come in, my wife will find little Megumi’s rabbit while we chat,” Naoya said, beckoning Toji in the house. Now he was all sunshine and bright smiles, like the flip of a switch. You heard Naoya’s missive, so you struggled to stand on shaky legs, your trembling arms clasped in front of you. You could feel Toji’s eyes on you but you didn’t dare look up at him, your eyes focused on the floor below. 

“Go!” Naoya hissed at you, raising his hand towards your face. You flinched back again, which set you into action. You stumbled your way out of the main room, thinking about where you and Megumi had been that day.

“Useless woman,” you heard Naoya scoff as you scurried away to the back porch. You’d done some coloring with Megumi there earlier that afternoon, so that was your best guess. Sure enough, his favorite bunny stuffed animal was there, right where he’d left it. You took it with shaking hands and brought it back to the main living room. 

“Here it is, Toji. I apologize for not giving it to Megumi earlier, it was my mistake,” you said with a deep bow. Maybe you were stupid, like Naoya said. How could you have forgotten Bunbun? Megumi hardly went anywhere without it. Your voice was hoarse from Noaya’s attack but there was nothing to be done about it. You stood up and tried to hand Toji the bunny but he didn’t uncross his arms to reach for it.

“Go give it to him yourself. I’m gonna chat with your husband for a bit. Stay there until I get back, otherwise Megumi’ll be alone and you know the brat doesn’t like that,” Toji said, still leaning casually against the doorframe. 

You peeked up at Toji as he spoke, trying to get a feel for the situation. Toji was relaxed, his arms crossed against his chest like this situation was completely normal. He was even smiling, his sharp canines on full display. But on second glance, Toji’s smile was more a baring of his teeth, a show of aggression. Naoya laughed again, though he seemed unsure of himself. What were you supposed to do?

“Do as Toji says, Wife,” Naoya said, his eyes not leaving Toji. You nodded once, hurrying past Toji carrying the stuffed animal. 

“Yeah, we got a lot to discuss,” you heard Toji say, cracking his knuckles before sliding the door shut.

A few minutes later you were opening the door to Toji’s house. You’d never been here in the night, though you supposed it was the same as in the daytime. There was a small nightlight coming from Megumi’s room but no noise. You went to him quickly and found him curled up in a ball, already asleep. You tucked the bunny in next to Megumi – he was still wearing his day clothes you noted – and covered him with the comforter. You tiptoed back out of the room, careful not to wake him. 

You’d been told to stay in Toji’s house until he came back, but relaxing was out of the question. You felt like jumping out of your own skin, your hands still lightly trembling. Adrenaline was still coursing through your veins and you needed to do something. Looking around, the house was fairly untidy and unkept. You didn’t typically stay in the Fushiguro house, only picking up or dropping off Megumi, so you hadn’t noticed how truly messy it was. 

Since you were waiting until Toji finished speaking to Naoya, you might as well make yourself helpful. No Zen’in liked useless women, after all. You began by picking garbage off the floor, sweeping, and putting things away – just the basic tenets of housekeeping.

You buried yourself in cleaning the house, the familiar tasks bringing peace to your mind even as your aching body screamed for you to rest. The food you’d left for dinner had been eaten – you hoped Megumi had enjoyed what you’d prepared. 

You were just finishing the dishes when there was a sharp rap at the door. You had been so absorbed in your task, you dropped the dish you were holding into the sink full of water. Your eyes snapped to the door sliding open as you held your breath out of reflex, but it was just Toji. He didn’t seem worked up or sweaty, so the conversation probably hadn’t been too intense.

Pulling up your sleeve to retrieve the dish, you quietly let out a long breath. Toji sniffed out his nose in disdain. Looking down, you realized it was probably because he could see your ugly, bruised arms. You quickly grabbed the dish and let your sleeve fall again, not wanting him to see your marks. It was bad enough that he’d seen Naoya and you arguing, you didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further.

Now that Toji was back, your heart had already started pattering again with the thought of returning to your own place. It was nice to have a break, but you knew you’d be going back to Naoya eventually. You could only hope that whatever he and Toji talked about didn’t upset Naoya further, or make your life worse somehow. 

“Place looks nice,” Toji said, looking around as he crossed the main room towards the couch. “You didn’t have to do all that.” You put the final dish on the drying rack and bowed to him.

“It was my pleasure, Toji. Megumi didn’t wake once. I will return home-”

“No, you won’t. You’re staying here tonight,” Toji said, plopping down on the couch. You blinked rapidly, unsure what to say.

“It would be highly improper for me to remain here,” you hedged, squeezing your hands together. 

“Nah,” Toji said, looking over at you. You looked down at the floor, unsure where you stood with him. Maybe he really did want to sleep with you, like Naoya had said. He got up and walked closer to you, his footsteps silent as he padded over. Your shoulders bunched up, but Toji simply opened the fridge to grab a cold drink. You mentally slapped yourself for not offering him one. What a useless, stupid woman you are, you could practically hear Naoya gleefully say in your ear.

“I apologize, Toji, but I really must get back to-”

“To what? To gettin’ your ass beat? Nah, I’m not lettin’ you go back there. I don’t give a shit what the clan tolerates, I don’t fuck with wife beaters,” Toji said, cracking open the plastic bottle of cold green tea. “Besides, uh, Naoya isn’t doing so great himself. It might take them a while to heal him,” he said, a wicked grin across his face. Your eyes opened wide – what was Toji saying?

“Y-you – I – I don’t –” you tried to make sense of the information as your hands balled in your robes. This was all too much for you to take right now. 

“Go sleep in the bed, chill out for the night. I’ll stay on the couch,” Toji ordered, finishing off the tea and crushing the plastic bottle in his hand. 

“I c-couldn’t-”

“Don’t worry about it. I sleep there every night. One more won’t matter,” he said with a shrug, dropping the empty container on the counter. You automatically reached for it, intending to throw it away, but Toji was faster. He grabbed it and tossed it in the garbage before you had a chance to blink. What was Toji’s power? 

You shook despite yourself – you were afraid, confused, and tired. If you slept at Toji’s house, there would be hell to pay. For you, your reputation, for Naoya…but…Naoya had already tried to kill you that same night, so what else did you have to lose? Toji was leaning against the kitchen counter, but his eyes never left you.

“Come on, you got a long day with the brat tomorrow. Go get some sleep. The bed’s new, never been used,” Toji urged.

“A-are you sure?” you asked, wringing your hands. You were asking him just as much as yourself – was this the right thing to do?

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” he said with a shrug, going back to the couch and turning on the TV. You padded over to the only door you hadn’t been behind, a shut screen that had never been open in all the times you’d been by to pick up Megumi. Your hand trembled as you pulled it open.

“And thanks for dinner, it was good. Megumi ate all his too,” Toji said, laying on his side, watching the TV. You blinked, the compliment settling on your skin like a thick, warm blanket. Had Naoya ever thanked you for dinner? You tried to shake your head but it made your neck hurt too much. All of a sudden you felt completely drained, like you’d been switched off. If you were staying with Toji, you were going to have to go to bed soon, there was nothing left in you. 

“Goodnight, Toji,” you said quietly, grasping the doorframe. You took one step in the dark room, half your body inside before you had the presence of mind to add on to your thought.

It was Satoru who had guided the architects with you, standing beside you in meetings where blueprints and scrolls overlapped, his words calm but fierce. “I don’t want to go back to the ancient ways,” he had said, a rare moment of complete sincerity in his voice. “I want a future that remembers the sacred, but lives in the now. No more temples filled with dust. No more rituals that forget the people. I want tradition woven through innovation—honor without sacrifice.” And that’s what was created. The town had electricity, running water, and radiant lights that turned the cobbled streets golden at night. There were hot baths in every home, carefully-built schools with both chalkboards and modern tablets, kitchens that still used cast-iron pots alongside induction stoves, and sacred spaces beside quiet gardens for morning prayers.

Instead of money, the community thrived on something older than coin: trust.

There were markets in the town square, where fresh produce grown from reborn soil was shared freely. Artisans offered hand-carved toys, clothes mended with golden thread, and loaves of warm bread in exchange for help in the garden, a morning of painting shutters, or an evening spent reading stories to children whose parents worked late.

Everyone gave, and so no one lacked.

It was imperfect—but beautifully human.

Of the 152 children who once slept under the high stone roof of your estate, 127 had been placed into homes. Families not by blood, but by love. Adults with cursed energy—some still scarred, some still learning—had come forward with wide hearts and open arms. Some took in three or four children, unable to imagine loving only one. Others who lived alone found joy in becoming a guardian to two siblings, promising to never separate them again and it wasn’t charity. It was devotion. Choice. Healing, passed from hand to hand.

The estate still stood atop the hill like a silent guardian watching over the valley below. There, you remained—with Sukuna and your son, Naoki, now a curious and spirited one-and-a-half-year-old, who never stopped running barefoot through the grass, chasing butterflies and laughing like light itself.

You hadn’t left because your work wasn’t finished.

These twenty-five children—these precious souls—still needed you. They were the quietest ones, the most withdrawn, the ones whose nightmares still woke them screaming. Some still didn’t speak. Others clung to you like you were the only thing tethering them to this new, blooming world and maybe you were.

You didn’t mind.

Each day started early. You’d wake with Naoki snuggled between you and Sukuna, his little fingers curled in your hair. Sukuna was slower in the mornings now, softer, his hand always finding your back, his lips pressing against your temple before he got out of bed to start breakfast or light incense. The halls of the estate were calmer now. Fewer footsteps. But still filled with life. The children here were part of your daily rhythm. You sat with them beneath the willow trees in the garden, telling stories while you helped them learn to write. You showed them how to plant wildflowers in the garden beds, how to hum to the earth when they were sad, how to call birds with seeds in their palms. Naoki followed every child like a little shadow. They loved him—and he loved them. They played with him, helped him walk, and took turns brushing his curls when they grew long. Sukuna watched him with a look in his eyes that could turn whole mountains to ash if anyone dared harm a hair on his head.

There were still moments of grief. Still tears. But joy had become louder.

Utahime came twice a week to teach. Nobara and Kasumi had become her closest aides, and the children adored them. Nobara taught them strength—how to shout their names with pride, how to walk like they mattered. Kasumi taught them patience—gentle reminders, soft laughter, lullabies sung while stroking hair. Even the dungeons, once dark and cursed, had become rooms of safety. Spacious chambers filled with books, beds tucked with quilts, windows cut into the thick walls to let in the sunlight. Everything here was made with love. Not because you told them to, but because they wanted to and some nights, when the lanterns were lit and the air was heavy with jasmine and earth, Sukuna would hold you on the courtyard steps, Naoki asleep on your shoulder, and you’d watch the stars slowly return to skies that had once been blackened by war.

“I never thought I’d see something like this,” he’d whisper, voice thick with something raw. “I never thought we’d have a world like this.”

You’d take his hand and hold it to your heart, where everything still bloomed and you would whisper back— “We haven’t even seen the best of it yet.”

The sun sat low in the sky, casting golden light through the latticework of the eastern courtyard. The estate, quiet and gentle, moved with its usual rhythm: children giggling faintly from the far orchard, birdsong fluttering across the breeze, and the faint clatter of kitchenware in the distance. You were just finishing hanging Naoki’s laundry on the line, the scent of lavender soap still fresh in the fabric, when a sudden, sharp voice rang out.

“No! Leave me alone!” The cry was strangled with fear—not anger. You turned immediately, skirts brushing the garden’s grass as you hurried toward the outer yard where the children often played. There, you saw them—two boys, one standing frozen mid-throw with a leather ball in his hand, the other rigid like a coiled spring. The older boy, tall for fifteen, was trembling. His shoulders hunched forward, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides, shaking as if some invisible force pulled him toward the past. The younger one—maybe nine or ten—looked at you with wide eyes, frightened but not by the boy in front of him. Frightened for him. You approached slowly, your voice like mist over still water.

“Sweetheart… is everything okay?” The younger boy nodded and backed away gently, clutching the ball to his chest. The older boy didn’t speak. His eyes were wild and wet and unfocused. You recognized the look. The kind of look that came from dreams too heavy to wake from. You stepped closer, hands out in front of you like the river approaching the shore. “It’s alright,” you whispered, “you’re safe. Let’s come inside, okay?” For a moment, he didn’t move, but then his jaw clenched, and he gave a small, jerky nod. You led him with slow, steady steps, your presence a quiet tether through the still air. The tea room was warm when you entered—sunlight filtered through the shoji screens, and the faint scent of jasmine hung in the space like a lullaby. You gestured for him to sit on the soft mat near the low table. 

He did, his hands still clenched, resting on his knees, you didn’t speak yet. Not until you’d set the kettle on. Silence was its own kind of balm. When the water began to hum and curl into steam, you pulled out a small wooden box from the shelf and opened it with reverence. Inside, nestled in soft cloth, were blends you’d cultivated yourself—leaves meant to soothe and calm. You chose one made with chamomile and lavender, with a touch of lemon balm, and set to work with the grace of ritual. He was still trembling when you placed the teacup in front of him, his eyes flickering to your hands as if afraid to reach. But you said nothing. You just sat beside him with your own cup and looked out the window, where the trees danced slowly in the wind. “I used to have nightmares every night,” you said softly, as though speaking to the trees.

He looked at you, hesitant.

You sipped your tea, letting the steam kiss your face.

“I used to wake up crying,” you continued. “Sometimes I would scream. There was no one to hold me. No one to tell me it wasn’t real anymore. So it stayed with me, even after I woke.” He blinked quickly, lowering his head. “Was it always that way?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “For a while,” you said, tilting your head. “But then… someone started sitting with me. Every morning. Even when I didn’t want to talk. He would just sit and he made me tea and I started to feel like I could breathe again.” His lips quivered. “Is that Sukuna?” You smiled faintly. “Yes.” The boy finally lifted the cup. It trembled in his hands, but he drank. Slowly. A shudder passed through him, and his shoulders sagged. “I had a nightmare last night,” he murmured, staring into the tea. “It was like I was back there. In that room. With the chains. And the dark. And I could hear my brother screaming. I tried to stop it, but… I couldn’t.” You reached over, placing your hand lightly atop his, thumb brushing over the knuckles.

“I believe you,” you said. “And I’m so proud of you for waking up anyway.” Tears slid down his cheeks, silently. “I’m scared I’ll always feel like this.” You shook your head gently, brushing hair away from his damp face. “You won’t. You feel it now because your soul is strong. Strong enough to remember. Strong enough to heal.” He bowed his head, lips trembling, and whispered, “Thank you.” You didn’t reply.

You just pulled him into your arms, letting his weight fall against you, his tears soak your shoulder. You held him, rocking just slightly, and let the silence speak for both of you. In your lap, he was not a cursed child. He was just a boy who’d survived too much, and needed someone to make him tea in the morning. From the window, Sukuna watched from across the garden, Naoki toddling near his legs, and he said nothing either.

The warmth of the tea still lingered in your palms as you held the older boy close, his body slowly stilling in your embrace. You stroked his hair as his breathing evened out, his face buried against your shoulder, his cup of tea forgotten but no longer needed. Just then, the shoji door creaked open softly, and a tiny voice filled the room. “…Kaito?” You turned your head gently to see a little boy standing in the doorway, maybe seven or eight, with wide amber eyes and dark curls that framed his cherub cheeks. He wore a loose linen shirt tucked into corduroy overalls—his knees scuffed from playing, one hand holding the hem of his sleeve.

“Are you okay?” the little one asked, his voice hesitant, eyes brimming with worry. “Someone said you got upset in the courtyard.” Kaito stiffened in your arms, and you felt him try to withdraw, you cupped his face and whispered, “It’s alright. He just wants to see you.” He nodded, slowly sitting up, wiping his sleeve across his eyes just as his little brother rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Don’t cry anymore,” the boy said firmly, muffled against Kaito’s side. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.” Kaito blinked hard, lifting his hand to run through his brother’s soft curls. “I’m not sad,” he murmured, his voice still cracked, “I’m just… tired sometimes.”

“But you’re not alone,” his brother whispered, stepping back so he could look up at him. “I’m always here. You said you’d protect me, remember?” Kaito gave a fragile smile, the first in days. “I remember, Airi,” he said, using the little one’s name like a soft prayer. “And I still will.” You watched the brothers quietly, your chest warm and aching all at once.

“You know,” you said gently, “even protectors need someone to sit with them when the world feels heavy.” Airi looked up at you, his eyes bright, wise beyond his years. “Can I stay? Just for a little?” You nodded and stood, gesturing for them to sit together. Kaito shifted so that Airi could crawl onto the cushion beside him, their shoulders pressed together as you poured another cup of tea—this one light and floral, with honey for Airi’s small hands and tender tongue. He took the cup delicately, blowing on it like he’d seen the grown-ups do. Then he glanced sideways and whispered, “You still have me, Kaito. Always.” Kaito didn’t reply. But he leaned his head against his little brother’s, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment and in that moment, they weren’t two cursed children cast away by the world. They were two boys in a sunlit tea room, wrapped in warmth, in safety, and in love.

The sky was beginning to blush with the pink hues of early evening when Sukuna found you sitting beneath the plum tree, your eyes half-lidded as you watched the children play in the courtyard, the shadows long behind them. The air smelled of fresh moss and garden roses, your fingers still damp from tending to the jasmine vines. He knelt beside you with a soundless exhale, his crimson gaze sweeping over your tired face, the slight slump of your shoulders, the worn fingertips you pressed idly into your lap. “Come,” he murmured, his voice low and uncharacteristically soft. “You’ve done enough for today.” You turned your head, brows raising slightly. “There’s still—”

“No.” His hand found yours, his thumb brushing your palm in slow, grounding circles. “Uraume can watch Naoki for a little while. You and I need… a moment.” You blinked up at him, lips parting to protest—but the look in his eyes stopped you.

Something in him needed it too.

So you nodded.

He led you by the hand, fingers intertwined, through the shaded corridor that wound through the estate’s west wing. The old bathhouse had been restored with care—its stone floors polished smooth, its walls lined with cedar, a high glass window arching open to the stars above. Steam drifted in curling wisps over the wide basin of hot spring water that shimmered with faint traces of the healing minerals your energy had infused into the earth. Sukuna stepped behind you as you both undressed, his hands gentle, unfastening your robe with reverent care. He pressed his lips to your shoulder before helping you into the warm water, following you in, his sigh a low echo of relief.

You leaned back against him, your spine settling into the firm warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping easily around your waist beneath the surface. His chin dropped onto your shoulder.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Only the sound of water lapping gently against skin, of your breaths slowing in rhythm. “I forget how quiet it used to be,” you whispered eventually, your voice echoing faintly. “Just us. In our little world.” He hummed softly, his fingers rubbing slow circles into your stomach. “It’s still our world,” he murmured, “only bigger. But I miss that quiet, too.” You turned your face to him, nuzzling your cheek against his. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you,” he said. “But I think,” you added, smiling faintly, “we changed together.” He didn’t respond in words—he just kissed the shell of your ear, then your temple, the tip of your nose. His touches were unhurried, like he wasn’t trying to take anything from you, just to give. His affection, his time, his presence. You shifted, turning to face him in the water, your hands on his chest. “You never let yourself rest,” you murmured. “Even now.” He gave a half-smile, dipping his head low enough that your foreheads touched. “Not when I see you fading.”

“I’m not fading,” you whispered, running your thumbs beneath his eyes. “I’m glowing. You just forget to look sometimes.” A soft huff left his chest, equal parts laugh and ache, before he cupped the back of your head and pulled you forward into a kiss. It was languid, sweet, lips gliding over yours like warm silk. There was no urgency, no hunger. Only devotion. Only stillness. The kind of kiss made not from want—but from love. From the promise that you’d never again be without each other. His fingers trailed through your hair, massaging your scalp, and your lashes fluttered closed. You leaned into his touch, letting your body soften into his as you rested in the lap of the man who had once burned the world for you—and now rebuilt it with you, brick by tender brick. “I could stay like this forever,” you murmured sleepily, head tucked beneath his chin. “You will,” he said softly, pulling you closer until the water cradled you both like a womb. “With me. Always.”

Outside, the wind stirred the plum blossoms, scattering a few petals into the water through the open window above—where the stars had begun to watch in silence and inside, the world finally felt still again.

The door to your bedchambers creaked softly as Sukuna pushed it open with his foot, his arm still curled around your waist. The scent of chamomile and sandalwood lingered in the air, as if the room itself had prepared for your return. You were both quiet, the silence not born of tension, but of that sacred stillness that follows a day spent holding one another. Naoki was already nestled with Uraume for the night, allowing the two of you something rare—an evening just for yourselves. No children. No chaos. Just slow breath, and softer hearts.

Sukuna closed the door behind you, the click of the latch echoing like a whispered promise. He looked at you for a moment in the dim glow of lanternlight—eyes drowsy, lips parted in thought, the lines of his body relaxed in a way few had ever seen. He looked tired. Human. Beautiful.

You tugged gently on his robe.

And without words, he followed.

The bed accepted you both like an old friend, the covers still faintly warm from the earlier sun. He pulled you against him, spooning your back, his arm lacing over your waist, cradling your stomach. You could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against your spine. For a while, it was enough. But slowly, you shifted, pressing your hips back just enough for him to feel the invitation. He stilled, his breath catching slightly—then lowered his mouth to your shoulder, kissing the skin there like it was the first time he’d tasted you.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice husky from sleep and restraint, you nodded, whispering, “I want you, just like this. Slow. Soft. Stay with me.” Sukuna turned you over in his arms, slow as moonlight, until he was above you—his weight barely on you, as if he feared crushing the sacredness between you. He kissed you. Not hungrily. Not with urgency. But with reverence.

His lips moved against yours like a prayer.

When he pressed himself inside you, it wasn’t with force or dominance—but with aching gentleness, like a man returning home after a long journey. You gasped, not from surprise, but from how completely he filled you. How warm, how deep. How whole. You held him close as he moved inside you, your fingers trailing up his spine, over the divots of old scars, the markings of a life once drowned in blood. But not anymore. Now, his movements were a lullaby. A rhythm meant not for conquest—but for comfort. For communion. “Suku…” you whispered, your voice breaking like the tide against his neck. He kissed your cheek, then your eyelids, murmuring, “I’ve never known rest like this… only with you…”

Your bodies moved as one, hips swaying in the slow, sensual cadence of love made not from lust, but from trust. From knowing. His pace never faltered, never rushed. It was the kind of love that didn’t need crescendo—only continuation. The room was quiet, save for the soft sighs you spilled into each other’s mouths, the creak of the bed frame, the tender gasps that came with each deep, unhurried thrust. He brushed a hand over your face, cradling your jaw as if to keep you grounded in the moment, as if to say, I’m here. I’m still here.

And when you both reached the peak—there were no cries, no shouts. Just quiet, breathless release, your body curling beneath his as his name fell from your lips like rain on warm earth. He stayed inside you afterward, head buried in the crook of your neck, his breath dancing over your collarbone. You stroked his hair, kissed his temple. “I love you,” you whispered, he didn’t say it back with words, he said it with the way he held you afterward. With the way he reached for the blanket and tucked it around you. With the way he curled his body around yours like a fortress, a shield, a vow and as your eyes fluttered closed, his hand rested over your heart.

The sky was blushing in shades of lavender and rose, the sun slipping low like it, too, wanted to join the celebration. The town square, once a barren patch of earth, now thrummed with life. Lanterns swayed on strings overhead like stars made tame. Wooden booths wrapped around the edges of the square, overflowing with warm food—miso soup, yakitori, sweet red bean buns, and glazed dumplings that shimmered with a hint of honey. A group of musicians played shamisen and flute, the melodies swirling up into the evening like incense. Children with painted cheeks ran barefoot through the garden paths, clutching paper pinwheels and laughing like springtime.

You stepped into the square hand-in-hand with Sukuna, Naoki held securely in your other arm, his tiny fingers clutching the collar of your kimono. Uraume walked beside you, dressed for once in soft earth-tones, their usually pristine silver braid decorated with a single cherry blossom clip—likely placed there by one of the children. The other twenty-five children from the estate followed behind in a loose, excitable parade. They wore the festival yukata gifted to them earlier in the week, some still adjusting their sashes or flower crowns, others already darting off to chase the scent of steamed buns or follow the sounds of taiko drums.

The people of the town—the ones you had healed, sheltered, helped to free—turned toward you with open arms and hearts. They bowed, yes, some with reverence, but more with affection. Respect, not worship. You were not some distant deity tonight. You were their Mother, their guardian, their soft voice in the dark when no one else had listened. A baker rushed forward with sweet rolls filled with plum jam, offering one to Naoki who squealed and bounced in your arms. Sukuna raised a brow but allowed his son to gnaw the soft bread with contentment, keeping one arm around your waist like he always did in crowds. Protective. Grounded. Devoted.

Uraume accepted a skewer of roasted meat with an almost bashful smile, settling onto a bench beside a cluster of children who immediately began telling them stories, jokes, asking questions. You laughed as a group of dancers pulled you gently toward the circle. “No no—!” you cried softly, shaking your head, but your feet were already moving, memories rising of when you danced barefoot in the rain as a girl, Sukuna chasing you across soaked fields, mud splashing your legs. Sukuna stayed near the edge of the circle, arms crossed, watching. His eyes—those molten rubies—followed your every step. There was a shadow of a smile on his lips, not his usual smirk, but something quieter. A tenderness too large for words.

Naoki sat on his father’s shoulders now, clapping his hands to the beat of the drum, shrieking with glee as the music surged and the dancers spun. Eventually, Sukuna stepped forward. Not to dance—not yet—but to catch you as you twirled too close. His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his chin settling on your shoulder. “You look like the moon,” he murmured against your ear, voice like rough velvet.

You leaned back into him, eyes closing, heart full. “And you, my stars.” He chuckled low. “Cheesy.” You nudged him playfully with your elbow. “Let me be romantic.” Naoki laughed above you both, tossing half of his sweet roll down at Sukuna’s head, which landed squarely on the shoulder of his black kimono. Sukuna looked up slowly. “...You’re lucky I love you,” he said to his son. “I’ll get him another one,” you giggled, already stepping away again as the next song started up. Fireflies blinked in the warm air. Someone lit sparklers. A group of children from the estate had started their own game of tag, their yukata fluttering like wings behind them.

Uraume walked over, holding a paper lantern shaped like a koi fish. “For Naoki,” they said, handing it up to Sukuna who took it without comment, his eyes softening slightly. “He’ll probably eat it,” he muttered. “Still worth giving,” Uraume replied. The koi-shaped lantern still swayed in Naoki’s tiny grip, its red scales catching the glow of the firelight as Uraume knelt beside him, helping steady his fingers on the twine. The toddler grinned up at them, the world in his eyes, cheeks dimpled and sticky with plum jam. “That’s it,” Uraume whispered, brushing a soft kiss to his crown. “Now go show your mother.” Naoki turned with a wobbling giggle, toddling the few steps toward you just as your name floated over the music.

“Mother?” You turned from where you had been watching the fireflies, your head now against Sukuna’s shoulder. The voice was young but deepening, the uncertain timbre of a boy on the edge of becoming a man. Kaito stood a few steps away, hands at his sides, eyes wide with nervousness. “I—um,” he scratched the back of his head, cheeks already tinged a shy pink, “do you want to dance with me?” Your lips parted in soft surprise, a smile blooming right after. “I would love to, Kaito.” He blinked, as if not expecting you to say yes so quickly. “Really?”

“Really,” you said warmly, rising to your feet. Kaito held out his hand—awkward, a little too formal, but utterly earnest. You took it with grace, and his blush deepened as he led you toward the lantern-lit square. A soft, slow melody had begun, played gently by the flute and plucked strings, the rhythm of twilight woven in. Sukuna leaned back on his hands, watching as you and Kaito stepped into the circle. Naoki crawled into his lap, humming a little tune, his fingers still gripping the lantern’s string. You let Kaito lead, gently guiding him when he got nervous. He moved carefully, his gaze flicking from your face to his feet and back, but when you gave him a quiet nod, he seemed to settle into the moment. His hands were calloused from helping in the gardens and the kitchens. His heart beat strong, steadying as he danced with the one he called Mother.

“I’ve never danced before,” he admitted quietly. “You’re doing beautifully,” you told him, he looked up then, and you saw it—something healing. A weight lifted. That ache from his dreams, the tremble from that day in the tea room… it was loosening its grip on him and then—

“MOTHER!” A smaller voice cut through the music, clear and gleeful. You turned, just in time to see a little boy—no more than five—racing toward you with arms wide. You laughed, heart bursting open, as he launched into your embrace. You caught him easily, spinning him in the air, his laughter ringing like bells. “I missed you, Mama!” he cried, snuggling into your shoulder. “I missed you too, baby,” you whispered, kissing his cheek. “You’re getting so big!”

“I’m five now!”

“Five?” you gasped. “You were just three a second ago!”

“I grewed fast,” he nodded seriously, Kaito chuckled softly beside you, standing just to your right as you cradled the little boy on your hip.

That was when another voice joined the air, deep and playful— “Well, if this isn’t the prettiest garden I’ve ever walked into.” You turned, and there he was—Satoru Gojo in all his smug glory, his blindfold replaced with dark sunglasses, his snow-white hair a little windswept from the road. Beside him, Shoko gave a small, tired wave, her long coat fluttering behind her as she walked into the square. “You’re late,” Sukuna grumbled without looking up from where he lounged on the blanket.

“Fashionably,” Satoru shot back, already striding toward you. His voice dropped, gentle now as his eyes scanned the crowd of children playing, dancing, laughing. “You’ve really done it, haven’t you? Look at them. Look at all of you.” Then he paused, hand over his heart, bowing just slightly. “Mother Earth,” he said, voice reverent but warm. “And all your children.” The square fell quiet for a moment. The music softened. Heads turned and then cheers erupted.

The children clapped and stomped, laughing, spinning, chanting—"Mother! Mother! Mother!"—as you stood in the center with one child in your arms, one at your side, and a whole village of hearts beating in time with yours. Shoko came forward, brushing her hand down your arm in quiet affection. “You deserve all of it,” she murmured. “Every last bit.” Uraume stood behind you now, Naoki on their hip, lantern swaying between them. Sukuna approached on your other side, hand slipping around your waist, grounding you as always.

You looked up at the lanterns swaying above and you smiled.

The world had broken once.

But now…

Now it bloomed.

end

Two weeks later…

You unwrapped the bandages off your shoulder and your fingertips felt the wound completely healed. It was the first thing you did in the morning. A sigh escaped through your lips, relieved; there was no need to bandage it again. You got ready for a new day in your room, in complete silence so as not to wake the still-sleeping marriage next door. With your phantom stride, you made your way to the kitchen. Stole an apple to keep your stomach from growling later and went out to the garden to begin the morning workout. 

You stretched your muscles, just as Tengen had taught you. The sun was barely making its grand appearance over the mountains, its rays slowly caressing your skin. The freshness of the morning bathed your body, which would soon warm up thanks to the exercise. Stretching was easy for you, all thanks to the years of escaping, infiltrating, and sneaking around that came with the grunge life of a thief.

100 squats, 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and a 10-kilometer run were what you had to do every morning before breakfast. It was repetitive and tiring, but if that was the way you were going to earn your freedom, you would do it. The first 50 push-ups were easy until your arms started to shake, and you felt sweat break out on your shoulder blades.

You stopped as soon as you heard someone's heavy footsteps approaching. It was Tengen, inspecting your form like a curious cat on a rooftop. His eyes were so fixed on you that you could feel part of your body he was carefully scanning. It was one of his favorite flirting tactics. You'd noticed him doing it even with his wives. He'd stare at them until they smiled and blushed. You found it annoying. "Can't I just have a morning alone?" you thought, annoyed.

Tengen still didn't understand why he couldn't win you over. You'd already brought out his best assets: his physique, his strength, and his money, but it didn't seem to work. He'd have to go back to basics: showing off his flamboyant personality. He flexed his powerful arm and swayed his hips as he watched you intently, like a flirty peacock.

You were doing a good job so far. In fact, you were one of the few apprentices who took initiative and did your exercises without him having to ask you to; it was refreshing to see. He knew you had potential to tap into. 

"Maybe I'm better than that, but it's what gives me the freedom I want."

"What kind of freedom do you want?" Tengen's silky voice broke the silence, trying to sound like a wise teacher.

"Do whatever I want, go wherever I want to go, eat whatever I want. You know, freedom." You answered between groans about doing 90 push-ups in a row, annoyed by how desperate he seemed for your attention.

"Can't you do that even if you're married? There are plenty of husbands who are quite permissive, like me, for example." A mischievous smirk graced his lips.

"I don't need anyone's permission." You scoffed at the idea of ​​reporting everything you did with someone. You barely got up from the floor after finishing your push-ups, now you had to run 10 kilometers. "Besides, I want the freedom to love whoever I want."

This gave you a wicked idea. Flirting is a two-player game, and you were very good at it. If Tengen wanted your attention, you'd give it to him, but not in the way he wanted.

“You should understand. You have three beautiful wives who adore you, but this monogamous society doesn’t understand that, right?”

You subtly approached him to place your hands on his chest. Your fingers traced the edges of his haori down to the belt that accentuated his figure. Tengen’s body tensed, stunned by your touch, slow and calculated. 

You stood on tiptoe to reach his ear and whisper, “I want to love hundreds of women. To kiss their sweet lips, fall asleep on their voluptuous breasts, wrap my arms around their waists, open their legs, and devour them whole.”

Tengen’s cheeks flushed crimson at the mental image. He knew exactly how it felt. A sinful act that makes you feel closer to heaven. Imagining you kissing Makio, playing with Suma's breasts, and between Hinatsuru's legs had left him speechless. He should be ashamed of what his mind was capable of creating, but with the way you caressed him, it was very difficult.

You moved your hands up to his broad chest and adjusted the collar of his garment, your thumbs making brief contact with his skin. You leaned wickedly closer to his other ear. "Although, I also want to love hundreds of men, kiss their necks, feel their strong biceps, scratch their backs, ride them… Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

Tengen parted his lips like a thirsty man searching for water; he wasn't used to a woman being so blunt with him. Not even his wives spoke like that, despite being married for many years now. Something long began to escape from between his loose clothing. Feeling it against your pelvis, you stepped back.

“I can’t achieve that if I don’t become a demon slayer first, can I?” You gave him a mischievous smirk before jogging away from him.

“Ye-yeah, th-that’s the spirit!” Tengen stammered, trying to hide how stunned he was from the brief interaction.

The moment you disappeared from his sight, he let out a frustrated sigh. You were cruel for playing with him like that. But Tengen hadn’t lost hope; you had flirted back. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? A hopeful smile crept onto his face. It seemed like he wouldn’t fail the last mission the boss had given him. Tengen turned around and walked awkwardly towards the river. “I need a cold bath.”

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

Running around the town was more relaxing than you thought. The sound of the sea, the seagulls flying overhead, and the people too busy with work to pay attention to you. You were beginning to love coastal towns, now that you didn’t need to steal from them. You took a short break by the dock to watch a boat set sail. What would it be like to travel by boat? What lay beyond the sea? Maybe one day you could explore it. With this conviction in mind, you continued on your way back to the farm.

Breakfast was delicious. You made it with the help of the wives. Little by little, you lost your hatred of cooking for someone else and enjoyed doing it with more people. It was a group activity rather than an act of servitude. It was nice to hear their praise for your skills once the food was ready, a big difference from how they treated you at The Last Drop.

"You look radiant, my beautiful sunset." Tengen flattered Makio at breakfast, holding her hand across the table.

Makio raised her eyebrow sharply. "What do you want?" She grunted between bites.

Usually, Tengen's tactics worked on Suma and Hinatsuru, but never on Makio. Suma and Hinatsuru always did whatever he wanted in exchange for a few sweet words and a kiss, but not Makio. The toughest of wives could always read his intentions, so she only obeyed him if he convinced her. 

You tensed when you realized the situation, but you didn't stop eating. "Maybe I'll open my own restaurant once I save some money," you thought, ignoring the marital argument.

"You know me so well," Tengen said, embarrassed. "I need you to help me train Y/n."

"I thought she was your student," Makio emphasized, annoyed. She really didn't want to train the one who almost stole their husbands.

"But I thought you might be a better opponent for fighting practice," Tengen suggested.

Her eyes lit up with mischief, and she gave you a wicked grin. You nearly choked on your rice in fright. One of the most important skills for being a good thief is knowing when someone's going to beat the shit out of you. "Makio's definitely going to beat the shit out of me," you thought, defeated.

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

After breakfast, Tengen led you to the courtyard to begin a new training session. Suma and Hinatsuru followed behind out of sheer curiosity. First, Tengen asked them to warm up. Makio moved gracefully, like a gazelle, preparing to run through the grass. Unlike you, she had the discipline and dedication of belonging to a large ninja clan. You were starting to get more nervous with each stretch you couldn't do.

"Have you fought before?" Tengen asked.

"A couple of times for food or shelter," you replied.

"You poor thing!" Hinatsuru felt sorry for you. Suma quickly approached to console her great empathy.

"Fine, then this will be a test fight so you can show me what I'll be working with," Tengen explained.

You and Makio approached the center. You raised your fists nervously. It's been a while since you've fought, and the last time you did, it was with a drunk over a plate of food. 

Makio smirked at your poor posture. She cracked her knuckles and launched into the attack. She threw a couple of impressive punches for being a girl. Her blows were so fast that you could only dodge them. She didn't even give you time to breathe, making you retreat with your defense up.

Tengen looked at the poor excuse for a fight completely. Makio completely dominated the space, but your feet moved nimbly. Despite lacking skill, you were agile enough to survive the fight. You had the bases of a demon slayer, as he'd predicted all along.

Makio swung a right hook that caught you square in the cheek. Taking such a hard blow, you stumbled, but you didn't let your defense waver. The furious wife hit you again and again, but you didn't give up. Between each blow, you saw a window of opportunity. You tried to land your first blow of the entire fight, but Makio quickly covered up and landed a right hook that knocked you completely off your feet.

"Ouch!" Suma and Hinatsuru reacted in unison.

"Is that all you've got?!" Makio sneered.

"You wish," you said as you got up from the ground, wiping the trail of blood from your nose.

"That's how I like it! Show me what you're made of!" Makio roared.

"Well, you asked for it…"

You returned to the center to launch yourself at her with your best blow, which landed on his shoulder. Even though she didn't like you, Makio had to admit you had the guts to stand up to her. Not even the other wives lasted that long in a fight; they'd completely abandoned their kunoichi status to become housewives.

You threw a punch that Makio swiftly dodged. She quickly noticed you opened your stance too much, and she stepped into your square to jab you in the chin, knocking you out completely.

"You killed her!" Hinatsuru shrieked, running towards you.

"She'll be fine." Makio defended herself.

"I think you went a little too far this time, but it was a good hit." Tengen congratulated his wife with a kiss on the cheek before walking over to make sure you were okay.

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

You couldn't tell how many minutes had passed. Your head was spinning, and you could barely adjust to the sunlight. You blinked a few times to focus on what was above you: the four most beautiful faces you'd ever seen. Tengen and his wives watched you worriedly, afraid that the final blow had been too much.

"How are you feeling?" Suma asked softly.

"Am I in heaven, or why am I seeing four angels?" you asked in your delirium. Tengen and the girls couldn't help but laugh.

Thanks for reading and happy new year! (super late, but better late than never aye!)

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The firmer your stomach grew, the more territorial he’d become. Your husband quietly intercepted your appointments, and even on occasion, Anna was waved off with mild authority and a look that brooked no argument. 

And truthfully, why would you want to be anywhere else?

Not when Garling held you like this.

He did most of the work, guiding your steps with calm confidence, while your belly rested against his. One of your arms slipped beneath his, reaching up his back to curl into the fabric of his yellow shirt, fingers gathering it as if to anchor yourself there. Your other hand was woven with his, and his thumb traced a slow, absent line along yours again and again, grounding and intimate in a way that made your breath skip.

His free arm curved around your entire back, drawing you in close enough that the idea of proper dancing became faintly absurd. But the intent was obvious. He wanted you pressed against him, stomach to stomach, close enough that he could feel you and the life between you with every careful step.

“It is a very good thing you are coordinated,” you joked as he turned you, tightening your hold just slightly, “As I am certainly not.”

He hummed in response, the sound low and pleased, and dipped his head until his neck brushed your forehead, warm and solid. The scent of him, clean and familiar, wrapped around you.

“You are very graceful, my love,” he said smartly. “But the baby, with its additional weight, did make your balance uncertain.”

“Perhaps it is just the company,” you replied, pulling back just enough to look at him, your tone deliberately cheeky.

“But of course,” he said smoothly, eyes bright as he drew you right back in, his hand firm and certain at your back. “A Figarland always leaves an impression. Especially if they want their pretty wife to smile at them.”

You couldn’t have resisted the flirt if you tried. But you didn’t. You let the sunshine warmth of Garling’s affection flood your body, laying your head on him, smile widening.

A sudden, unmistakable flutter pressed outward from your stomach, sharper than the rolling movements you had grown used to. Your breath caught, the laugh on your lips breaking off into a startled sound as you instinctively stilled.

Garling felt it at the same time.

His hand tightened at your back in reflex, his steps faltering as his gaze snapped down between you. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then his palm shifted, spreading protectively over your stomach as if to confirm what his body already knew.

“…Was that?” he asked, voice lower now, pulling you back an inch.

You laughed, a little breathless, nodding as you covered his hand with yours. You looked up at him, eyes bright with amusement and wonder. “It must indeed be your child,” you said softly. “Seeing as already so determined to make themselves known.”

The sacredness broke all at once, his shoulders easing as he lifted a hand to cover his mouth, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to awe. It lasted only a second before he surrendered to it, his hands returning to your sides as if he could not bear to be parted from you.

Then he laughed. The sound was warm and unguarded, stripped of rank and restraint, and he bent without hesitation to kiss you deeply, reverently, as if gratitude alone might carry everything he did not yet have words for. When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling with yours, his hands steady and sure at your waist.

“Thank you,” he murmured, as if the words were too important to trust to volume. “You are a queen among women, my darling Red.”

And then, with sudden, playful confidence, he straightened and spun you smoothly across the wooden floor, careful and precise despite the flourish. Laughter followed you both as the room seemed to wake again, the dance resuming with joy threaded through every step.

“And you’re buttering me up because you want more kisses,” you said, peeking up at him.

He grinned like a fool.

That must have been the truth, because on the next pivot, he guided you backward into one of the bookcases. You lost a breath with a soft oomph as he stepped in close, a knee sliding between yours to steady you.

“Perhaps something more,” he corrected, his voice low, his hand already drifting toward your skirts. 

You could’ve drawn back or made an excuse, but in that moment, a thought clarified.

The one way to manipulate Garling Figarland was by willingly making love to him. He was so pretty when he moaned for you, so pliant and reasonable when he forgot to think. 

You could use him.

Then you woke with a start.

At first, you panicked, as the room was unfamiliar. Smaller than your own, with lower ceilings. Fewer windows too, and the one you had faced the wrong direction, its light thin and indirect, as if even the sun had been instructed not to linger. For a breathless moment, your body reacted before your mind did, heart hammering, lungs dragging in air like you had been submerged too long.

Your body had remembered something your waking mind, up to this point, refused to indulge. 

Then memory settled in. 

They had moved you weeks ago, quietly and without ceremony, from the rooms that had once been yours to this lesser chamber tucked deeper into the estate. You had been informed it was for your recovery, but it was obviously the kindest way to tell you that you were taking a permanent change, to no longer be considered the lady of the house.

Nearly a month had passed since then.

Your body had healed in the strict, clinical sense. The bruising had faded to sickly yellows and then to nothing at all. The cuts had closed. The soreness had dulled to an ache that only flared when you moved too quickly or slept wrong. On paper, you were well.

The reality was this was your new normal.

The door remained locked unless opened from the outside, servants not openly flaunting their presence, but you heard them anyway, an unspoken presence in the walls, in the careful way footsteps passed your threshold and never paused. The message was clear. You were not trusted to even wander inside the estate. You were not trusted at all.

The words had not been spoken to you directly, but they had been spoken around you, and that was worse. A demotion in status assigned without consent, without acknowledgment, without even the decency of confrontation. 

“The master is upset.”

This too had filtered down in fragments, in whispers caught in hallways. A servant murmured too close to the door before realizing where they stood. And you only had time to hear the gossip. Perhaps they thought you couldn’t hear them, or just didn’t care anymore.

The house servants only came to deliver your food now. Trays placed carefully on the small table near the bed, eyes lowered, movements quick. They apologized in soft, breathless ways, the sort that came more from habit than courage. They were sorry for what had happened to you.

But they were more upset about Joanna.

They spoke her name with a tightness that made your chest ache. She had been whipped alongside several others because it was their negligence that led to the loss of an heir. It was kind punishment for what was done, but also a lesson to anyone who might be tempted to forget their place. 

They did not say your name in the same sentence, but you felt it there anyway, implicit and unavoidable. This was a lesson to you as well. This was in part your fault, because you could not listen. Because you couldn’t sit still and be a good wife. You had everything and just ruined it.

Because of your selfishness, the Master had been embarrassed, and good servants had been whipped. Laid up, fevered, unable to work, unable to stand. The servants did not accuse you outright, but the resentment bled through the sympathy, thin and bitter. They suffered consequences you could not physically bear for them.

You had said nothing in response. What was there to say that would not make it worse? You had sacrificed their safety to save your revolutionary friends. 

So your only trustworthy companions were your slaves.

They were permitted to move freely through the manor in a way you were not, invisible in the way the powerless often are. They brought you books, careful selections meant to occupy the mind without encouraging thought too sharp or too curious. They slept on the floor beside your bed at night, thin pallets laid close together, close enough that you could hear their breathing in the dark.

Ivankov and Ginny had been whipped as well, though to a lesser extent. Just enough to hurt and warn, which was an indication of Garling’s hesitation to punish you too much. More of a sign than he meant to show.

They were more understanding than the rest of the servants. Ivankov joked through clenched teeth, laughter strained but sincere, refusing to let bitterness take root where it could grow teeth. Ginny had said nothing at first, only pressed her lips together and nodded as if she had expected it all along.

She understood nightmares like this too well.

Now Ginny stirred beside your bed, woken by the sound you had not realized you were making. A small, broken sound caught low. Sobbing, quiet and unrestrained, leaking out of you like water through a cracked vessel.

She pushed herself up on one elbow, pink hair loose around her face, eyes immediately soft with concern.

“Hey,” she whispered, reaching for you without thinking.

You turned away and gently pressed her hand back toward her own chest, the motion polite even now, even here. Your voice came out hoarse but steady enough.

“You need not wake,” you said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

Ginny hesitated, clearly torn. She watched you in the dark for a long moment, eyes shining with worry she did not know how to set down, before she slowly lay back again. Even then, her gaze lingered on you, as if she feared that the moment she looked away, you might simply vanish.

You could feel her concern like a weight pressing against your ribs, heavy and inescapable.

You turned your eyes to the wall and forced your breathing to steady, counting each slow inhale until the tremor in your midsection eased. The tears that had spilled earlier cooled against your skin, drying in thin, uncomfortable tracks that made blinking ache.

There was no use in extending her misery by letting her see you lying awake like this, trapped in the same thoughts circling endlessly, but sleep showed no sign of mercy. It hovered just out of reach, close enough to imagine, distant enough to deny you.

Still, you shifted carefully onto your side, turning your back to Ginny so she would not see what the dark concealed poorly. Fresh tears slid soundlessly down your face, soaking into the pillow where no one could witness them.

Hesitantly, she listened.

You lay very still after that, eyes open, body pretending at rest while the night stretched on, indifferent and unyielding.

The rest of the manor was quiet, but it was utterly still outside your room.

Garling sat on the floor, against the door.

The chair had been left untouched against the far wall hours ago, abandoned without conscious thought. Stone was steadier. Colder. He rested his back against it, one knee drawn up, forearm draped loosely over it, fingers slack but tense in the way of a man holding himself together by habit alone.

He had only gotten here an hour ago, but the moment he walked through the doors, he dismissed all the servants and didn’t even bother to shed his cloak.

Instead, he did what he always did. 

He sat outside your door and listened.

Mostly, he listened just to hear anything. But occasionally, if he was clever enough, he found a way to leave early. Then he could catch you reading before bed, teaching your slaves for whatever reason you had. But hearing your voice soothed him.

He didn’t have much hope of catching tonight, being so late, but there’d be another reason to wait. 

Because he’d rather stay up and hear your nightmares rather than face his own. 

Your waking reached him first, a sharp intake of breath that cut clean through the silence, followed by the faint shift of sheets. His body reacted before his thoughts could catch up. Spine straightening. Muscles tightening. Attention narrowed until the world reduced itself to the space beyond the door.

When the sound broke after that, small and fractured, something in his chest drew painfully inward.

But he did not move.

You must learn a lesson, one that would permeate you to your bones. Experience had taught him that only extreme measures would teach someone so headstrong. 

He knew you were stubborn as steel, your will stronger than most when it came to the pull of your conscience. He was still unsure how you had gathered such enormous haki to wreak such damage, but it seemed your own body wilted like a flower exposed to too much sun, and likely not to repeat that feat. 

You seemed mostly disinclined to living much at all, and that is what concerned him. You had become perfectly blank, mimicking the manner of the slaves.

He hated that. Hated you had so perfectly refused to communicate, to let him see even the tiniest sliver of what he loved most about you. The day you refused to tell him why was the closest he’d even come to slapping you.

But doing so would only confirm your own position, and he knew better than to let a minor moment of uncontrolled anger steal victory in this war you were in, and so he sent you away. 

He let you be alone in the quiet. Send you alone before he broke and began to beg. Because the truth was that he wanted to hold you so badly, it made him reflexively seek you in his loneliness. Made him reach for your side of the bed at night, made him linger in your closet to smell your perfume instead of sleep.

He wanted to be near you, but doing so would confirm he was indeed soft for you and had compromised his duty for love.

So he held back.

Reuniting too soon when his own pain was already laid bare would do the opposite of what he wanted. One look at you and he’d reverse every single decision he’d made, and beg you to forgive him. 

But he couldn’t. 

So he set his jaw hard, and his hand curled once against his knee before he forced it to relax again.

A second presence stirred inside the room. A whisper. The quiet repositioning of bodies. He knew without seeing that you’d simply turned away, as you did in his bed when he upset you. But it was your girl slave who’d comforted you, and his jealousy flared. 

God, he wanted to be the one in there.

Was it wrong for him to mourn something that brought him so much joy?

You hadn’t given him any indication or explanation, written no note, nor begged even once for him. You had never been one to entreat, but you hadn’t even cared to explain why.

Why had you done it, after seeming so happy at Pangaea? He couldn’t believe that it was without a trigger, but you shed no clue, giving him no way to explain without sounding worse. Was it something in his office? The papers he found on his desk weren’t unexpected, but what had you seen that had done this? 

Or perhaps, he mused darkly, it had been someone. 

You had only said that one thing—that he’d lied. Did some other Holy Knights or person find you in his office, alone? Tell you some tale, or worse, some half-truth that completely destroyed the wonderful wife you’d become?

Garling couldn’t fathom this world where your promises no longer mattered. He’d trusted so deeply in your goodness that he’d gotten blindsided. Something had happened, and he could see it plain as day; you would not tolerate his inquiries, no matter how he tried. He had failed you and was continuing to fail at resolving this issue.

You wanted to disappear, to be forgotten by him, and it bruised his heart.

Garling always felt so sure he had every right to everything. Every right to do exactly what he wanted to whom he wanted. He was a Celestial Dragon, a god above the world. 

So why couldn’t he have you? 

His teeth pressed together until it hurt.

When your room fell silent again, when your breathing smoothed into something passable as rest, Garling let out a slow breath through his nose. It barely made a sound, but the weight of it sank into his shoulders all the same.

He stayed where he was, reminding himself that this was not over.

You were still his wife. 

He was still Garling Figarland. 

Titles, blood, and authority had not simply evaporated because the situation had turned cruel and tangled. There had to be a path forward. A solution he had not yet seen. A way to return you to your place by his side, with honor intact and accolades to shield you from scrutiny.

Very few options appeared. One in particular seemed promising, but it was not an elegant maneuver. Not something that did not end with your suffering deepening before easing.

He had somewhat known this was his only path forward, but it was cruel. 

Yet, every other method would fail to bind you to him. 

Time slipped by in indistinct stretches, minutes blurring into something longer, until eventually someone gathered enough courage to check on him.

Footsteps approached down the corridor, measured and familiar, careful not to disturb the door or the silence beyond it.

Garling did not look up when Varian stopped beside him. He did not need to. He recognized the pause, the hesitation, the way Varian angled his stance away from the door, as though acknowledging it too directly might be a transgression.

“My lord,” Varian said quietly.

Garling’s gaze remained fixed on the stone at his feet. “My wife is sleeping,” he replied. It was not an answer, but a warning.

Varian inclined his head all the same, voice lower. “The servants are asking whether we may return the Saintess to her room, and then perhaps you may rest together—”

“No,” Garling said at once. Final.

Silence stretched between them. Varian shifted his weight, clearly debating whether to press further. When he finally spoke again, his voice was gentler, threaded with concern he did not often allow himself to.

“Sir, you have not rested this night, or the last,” he said. “And you are expected at Shangra Temple in less than two hours.”

Garling’s mouth curved faintly, without humor. “I am aware,” he replied. At last, he lifted his eyes just enough to glance at Varian. “Are you chiding me, Varian? Perhaps you wish to be whipped too?”

Another pause followed. Garling had spoken Varian’s name fewer than five times in all the years he had served him. To hear it now, spoken so plainly, was its own admission. Something was wrong.

Varian exhaled through his nose, then straightened, bracing himself. “I do not mean to disobey you,” he said carefully, “but my lord, you should rest. At least return to your rooms long enough to bathe. You must preserve your strength and your appearance. You mustn’t let the other Holy Knight see any weakness.”

Garling did not answer. His gaze remained fixed ahead, unblinking, as though looking away might fracture something he was holding together by force alone. Varian frowned despite himself.

Then, softer, easing his tone rather than pressing, he continued, “We will keep sending you updates about the Saintess. I will remain nearby.” He hesitated, then added, “But the Five Elders will not permit you to leave for the West Blue if they believe you are unfit. And while your servants are faithful, if word reaches that you are here…”

Garling gave a single nod, the movement barely perceptible.

“No,” he said quietly. “It had better not, but…” His voice lowered further, stripped of command and edged with something raw. “I need to be near her. Especially after I’ve been to that place. The Elders will not care, so long as I continue to… comply.”

That place.

The words were never spoken aloud, yet Varian understood them all the same. The upper brothel of Mary Geoise. Where beauty was curated like currency, and bodies were arranged for convenience and silence. The most beautiful of slaves for the highest of prices. 

Garling had always kept a low profile of his sexual exploits, mostly outside of Mary Geoise. But notably, he had gone twice a week for nearly a month, and the gossip was endless.

And every time, without fail, he had returned home hollow-eyed and pale, retreated to the corridor outside your door, and remained there until dawn. He often only paused in his own room to vomit. But at midnight, the Master of the House was always seated on the cold stone floor, outside your own, as if penance might be measured in hours spent within arm’s reach of you.

Varian stared at his master for a long time without speaking.

Once, Saint Garling Figarland had been simple.

Predictable in his desires, his routines, his cruelties. A proud, arrogant master who wanted nothing, because nothing had ever been denied to him. Varian had known how to serve that man. He had known when to speak, when to withdraw, when to offer silence like a balm, and when to avert his eyes.

The man before him now was something else entirely.

He was no longer a Celestial Dragon untouched by consequence. He had learned to love, and in doing so, had learned what it meant to lose. Garling Figarland had fallen in love with a woman of the lower world, and that love had made him larger than the role he had been born into. It had stretched him beyond tradition, beyond expectation, beyond what most of Mary Geoise would ever dare to imagine.

And now Garling would never forget it. Never forget what it felt like, that first warmth, like sunlight touching skin that had never known it before. Nothing else would ever warm the hollow his wife’s love had left behind.

How long had it been since Varian himself had felt such light?

Before the Saintess, his servitude had only ever been warm when he held a whip. Even that crude, brutal heat had been fleeting. A bonfire in a snowstorm, quickly swallowed by the cold. The last true warmth he remembered belonged to his youth, before chains, before obedience, before being sold.

Varian did not personally like the Saintess, nor the history she carried with her. But he could not deny the truth of it. The house was better with her in it. 

It lived, Varian thought with a quiet ache. And without her, it would not return to what it had been.

No. It would be worse.

Because if Garling could not reclaim his wife’s love, he would retreat into the shape his bloodline demanded of him. He would become his forefathers reborn. A cold, merciless tyrant who used women as conveniences and saw his children only as extensions of himself, possessions to be refined.

But perhaps it was for the best, inevitable for all Figarlands.  Good men did not endure as Celestial Dragons.

They were ground down by the weight of expectation, punished for softness, corrected for mercy. Love was not a virtue in their world. It was a liability. And so Garling would suffer for having learned it, for daring to remember what warmth felt like after living so long in sanctioned cold.

“I understand, sir,” Varian said at last. His voice was steady, though it cost him something to make it so. “I will have the servants lay out your garb and return for you when the time comes.”

Garling did not acknowledge the words. Orders had already been absorbed, processed, and filed away in the part of him that still knew how to function.

He remained seated on the stone floor, back against the wall, eyes fixed straight ahead, guarding a threshold he was no longer permitted to cross. He told himself, again and again, that this was what it took. That this was the price of taking a bride he wanted. That he could figure out a perfect solution to once again see your smile.

In one hand, he held your wooden comb to his chest.

He prayed that if he repeated it often enough, perhaps one day it would stop feeling like he was begging you to love him again.

It had been three months since you were dragged out of the small, cold room that had served as your punishment.

The blossoms of spring had bloomed in earnest and were now busy being replaced by warmer air and the insistence of summer sunshine. In most places, that meant summer bartering and upcoming festivals. In Mary Geoise, it meant very little on the surface. The climate systems kept the Holy Land at a polite, curated temperature year-round, untouched by anything as vulgar as seasons. But the rain gave it away. It came more often now, fine and persistent, tapping prettily against marble and frosted glass. 

Late May showers had bloomed many pretty June flowers.

The servants had begun moving more these last few days, voices lighter, steps quicker. Doors opened and shut more often. Corridors filled and emptied with purpose instead of routine. It was the sort of restlessness that only preceded something large and official. 

Which meant opportunity.

Ivankov had been permanently called away, only arriving for deliveries. Each glimpse of him was accompanied by the same careless grin and theatrical sigh, as if none of this concerned him in the slightest. You suspect it was in part that he had begun growing taller, and the servants didn't want to risk even the implication of something between a young man and a lonely woman. 

So it was just you and Ginny most afternoons now.

You sat together by the tall window, light filtered through pale curtains, a book open across your laps. At a glance, it was nothing worth confiscating. A cheap romance, its cover already bent and softened from use. You had torn it off yourself, carefully, leaving only the anonymous spine and the promise of something forgettable.

Inside, it was anything but.

Your finger traced a diagram as you spoke in a low voice, barely more than breath. Ginny leaned close, chin in her hands, eyes sharp and focused.

“This part here,” you murmured, “is how they modulate the signal. Den Den Mushi responds best when the frequency is steady. Too much fluctuation, and they panic. That is when the line drops.”

Ginny nodded, committing it to memory. She was frighteningly quick with technology, and even though you’d worked with Den Den for years, her abilities surpassed your own.

You turned the page with the same careful familiarity you had practiced for weeks.

On the right, the romance continued uninterrupted. Lovers circling one another in ornate prose, longing stretched thin across ballrooms and moonlit corridors. It was the sort of story meant to soothe, to distract, to pass the time. On the left, hidden beneath paper thinned by patience and secured with meticulous glue, lay the truth of the book. Schematics inked in tight lines. Notes on radio transmission and signal relays. Detailed observations on Den Den Mushi behavior under stress. Every scrap of it had come from volumes Garling had purchased in a single, careless sweep, declaring the entire bookstore’s stock “suitable” without once examining its contents. He had never noticed what you had quietly salvaged from the pile and reshaped into something dangerous.

You let your finger rest against the page, then tapped lightly.

“If an opportunity appears,” you said, keeping your voice low, “use these numbers first.”

Ginny leaned in close and recited them under her breath. Old contacts. Half-burned lines. Names stripped of meaning unless someone knew how to listen. She repeated them once more, steady and precise, without the slightest hesitation.

When she finished, she did not immediately look up.

“These won’t be very useful up here,” Ginny said after a moment, her tone thoughtful rather than doubtful. “And I can’t imagine Master Figarland taking any slaves out from Mary Geoise with him.”

You inclined your head, acknowledging the truth in it. “You never know when a chance might appear,” you replied. “Opportunities are scarce here, but they are not impossible. As long as you prepare the tools in advance, and have the resolve to act when the moment comes, escape remains within reach.” Your gaze softened as it lingered on her. “I think one day you will find yourself a home. And freedom.”

Silence settled between you, unhurried and heavy with unspoken hope. The rain whispered faintly against the distant glass, and for a brief moment, Mary Geoise felt far away.

“And if they don’t answer?” Ginny asked at last. “What if—”

“Then you wait,” you said, cutting in gently but with unmistakable firmness, refusing to let the fear finish forming. “And you try again. At a different time. In a different place. Never from the same room twice.”

Ginny swallowed. She looked younger than she liked to appear, the weight of it pressing briefly through her composure. Then she nodded, once, resolute.

The plan had begun shortly after your punishment began.

A single Den Den Mushi, smuggled in piece by piece through the painter’s supplies. It was a ridiculous hiding place when you thought about it, nestled among pigments, rags, and brushes that no one ever bothered to inspect closely. Ivankov had laughed until he nearly cried when you showed him, loud and unrestrained, before agreeing to help anyway without a second thought.

It was Ginny who had insisted on operating it.

She had taken to broadcasting messages with the seriousness of a soldier twice her age, posture straight, timing precise, patience unwavering. After the last incident, you had been reluctant to risk anyone else, but Ginny had stood her ground, eyes sharp and unyielding, and you had recognized the same resolve you carried yourself.

Undeniably, it had worked.

You closed the book softly, the sound barely more than a breath in the quiet room. Outside the tall window, rain streaked down the glass, softening the hard lines of the city until Mary Geoise looked almost dreamlike.

Ginny lifted her head then, studying you with an intensity that made your chest constrict. Her eyes were bright, alight with something both dangerous and hopeful, the kind of hope that could get a person killed in this place.

“Do…” she whispered, the word barely formed. “Do you think the Master will let you out again?”

You did not answer.

Instead, you listened. To the rain’s steady insistence. To the faint, faraway movement of servants in the corridors beyond. To the constant, low hum of a place that believed itself unassailable, eternal, beyond consequence.

“I think so,” you said at last. “At some point, he has to fulfill his deal. To create a child for the Five Elders.”

The admission left you more unsettled than you wanted to show. The truth was, it had been almost tranquil not having to face Garling. The distance had dulled the sharpest edges of fear and anticipation alike, both of which would return at his presence. 

The thought had barely settled when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Both you and Ginny moved at once, the practiced choreography of secrecy unfolding without a single whispered instruction. The book disappeared between cushions, and another slid beneath the low table. Spines were aligned, pages smoothed, every trace of disturbance erased. By the time the footsteps slowed outside the door, the room had returned to its carefully cultivated harmlessness.

A knock sounded.

“Saintess.”

Varian.

You rose slowly, a faint prickle of unease crawling up your spine as you cleared your throat and straightened your posture. Ginny stood a half step behind you, eyes alert, watching the door with quiet tension.

Varian entered alone. 

His gaze swept the room in a way that felt assessing, eyes wandering before settling on you. There was something different in his expression. Not kindness, but hesitation, as though he disliked what he had been ordered to say and disliked even more that it fell to him.

“The Master,” he began, then paused, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, “has requested that you be readied for the Pangaea Crystal Ball tonight.”

For a moment, you simply stared at him, certain you had misheard.

“The what?” you asked.

Varian exhaled through his nose. “The Pangaea Crystal Ball,” he repeated, clipped. “One of the largest social gatherings held in Mary Geoise. Attendance from the highest families is expected.”

Your brow furrowed. “I am… surprised. I am allowed to attend balls?”

That earned you a sharp look, but there was something restrained behind it, as if irritation were the safer response to whatever he was truly thinking.

“Surprising or not,” Varian said coolly, “you remain Saint Figarland’s only wife.” He met your gaze squarely now. “Unless you are confined to your deathbed, your attendance is considered mandatory. Even the Five Elders expect it.”

Ginny shifted beside you, confusion flickering across her face. Her eyes darted between you and Varian, clearly trying to make sense of why this was happening at all.

“And if I decline?” you asked carefully.

Varian’s mouth thinned. “Then you invite speculation.” He spoke the word like a warning. “People will grow curious. Inquisitive. Dangerous things, curiosity.”

He glanced briefly toward the door, though the walls themselves might be listening. “At present, the assumption is that you are choosing to remain secluded out of embarrassment. That Saint Figarland’s attentions toward other women have made you unwilling to present yourself.”

The explanation made your stomach knot.

“As long as that belief holds,” Varian continued, voice low, “it keeps eyes elsewhere. If you fail to appear, it raises questions. Questions no one here can afford,” He paused for a moment, “And if you have any regret of how you’ve affected the staff, you will agree.”

Your bravado collapsed. Of all the victims, the staff were the least culpable, but had most certainly borne the brunt of Garling’s anger.

You nodded.

Varian studied you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “Good,” he said at last. “If you present tonight…well, it may… soften certain opinions.”

There was reluctance in his voice, subtle but unmistakable, as if he did not fully believe his own words.

“Are you sure?” You said a little sassily.

“I have no time to argue over this,” he added sharply, reclaiming his usual severity. With an abrupt gesture toward the door, he called, “Joanna.”

She entered at once, and all your snarkiness dissipated.

Joanna did not look at you, but at the floor.

It was the first time you had seen her since the beating, and the new whipping marks were impossible to miss. Red, brutal lines traced her skin wherever fabric failed to conceal them. Even her face bore evidence, faint but unmistakable. Even Ginny’s hand twitched at her side, shock flickering across her expression before she forced it down.

She stood straight, posture perfect, expression distant, as if her injuries were of no consequence, as if pain were simply another condition of service. The way Varian avoided looking at her made your unease deepen.

He spoke again instead, brisk and detached. “Ginny, return to your duties.”

Ginny stiffened, clearly reluctant, her eyes flicking to you and then back to Joanna. Confusion and worry warred across her face, but she lowered her head in obedience. As she turned to leave, her gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary, silently asking a dozen questions she did not dare voice.

You were left with Joanna and Varian.

Without another word, Varian turned and strode down the corridor. Joanna followed at once, falling into step behind him. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, you did the same.

The walk through the house was silent.

No explanations were offered. No reassurances given. The halls you passed through were familiar, yet they felt subtly altered, like time had shifted while you were confined. Servants bowed and averted their eyes as you passed. You could feel their attention like pressure against your skin, restrained but present. 

You tried to speak once, softly, when Varian was far enough ahead.

“I am sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely carrying. “I am so so sorry.”

Joanna did not slow.

She did not turn her head or acknowledge the words in any way. Her face remained carefully blank, gaze fixed forward, as if you had said nothing at all. The silence that followed felt heavier than any rebuke.

Eventually, Varian veered off down another corridor, leaving you alone with her.

She guided you deeper into the estate, her steps sure and unerring, until the architecture shifted to its fuller grandeur in the family wing. The air itself seemed to change, thick with memory.

Your original rooms, the ones connected directly to Garling’s.

The doors opened, and the space greeted you like a ghost. Nothing had been altered. Everything was exactly as you remembered, preserved with meticulous care, like your absence had been a temporary inconvenience rather than a punishment.

Joanna stepped aside as the maids descended.

They moved with grim efficiency. Your clothes were removed without ceremony. Hot water was prepared and kept almost scalding. Cloth against skin became relentless, scrubbing until your body stung and your senses blurred. Every inch of you was washed, polished, corrected, as though they were trying to erase not just dirt, but defiance.

You bit back any sound that might have escaped you.

When they were finished, oils were applied, hair detangled and dressed, skin powdered and smoothed until you scarcely recognized yourself. Layers of fabric followed, fine and constricting, fastened with practiced hands. Jewelry was added last, cool and heavy, a reminder of what you were expected to be.

Through it all, Joanna remained at the periphery of the room.

She, nor did any servant speak to you, and you realized that even if you didn’t mourn being a lady, you mourned the loss of their confidence. They had entrusted so much in you, and you had chosen something they couldn’t understand.

But you could not change any of it. You could not argue, or explain, or make them understand the quiet, twisting discomfort that sat beneath your ribs. And so you did what you had learned to do best in this place.

Instead, you focused on the dress.

The undergarments were thin and impractical, meant more for presentation than comfort, but you ignored them as best you could while the maids worked. Their hands moved efficiently, lifting fabric, tightening laces, smoothing seams. When they finally stepped back, the gown itself was lowered over you with careful reverence, as if it were something sacred.

And in a way, it was.

The fabric shimmered as it settled, layers of sheer material falling like mist over a deep green underlayer that reminded you of pine shadows and distant forests. Diamonds had been embroidered throughout the bodice and skirt, scattered in deliberate constellations that caught the light when you moved. They glimmered like stars pinned to night itself, subtle at first glance, breathtaking when they caught the eye.

It was beautiful.

Painfully so.

The dress hung looser than it should have. Where it should have skimmed your form, it instead had to be discreetly padded, the alterations obvious only to those who knew to look. A quiet testament to weeks of uneaten meals and sleepless nights. The maids adjusted the fit with practiced hands, careful not to comment, careful not to meet your eyes.

Gloves were drawn over your hands, pale and smooth. Heels were slipped onto your feet, elegant and unforgiving. Your hair was arranged with more daring than usual, only pinned a touch and styled to hang loose, but bare your throat and shoulders. Makeup followed, soft but intentional, lending color back to your face, shadowing your eyes in a way that made you look ethereal rather than exhausted.

When they finally stepped back, the mirror showed who you should be: The wife of Garling Figarland. 

She stood tall and luminous, draped in silk and starlight, her expression composed and distant. A woman carved from fantasy rather than flesh and blood, polished until every rough edge had been smoothed away. She looked like a figure meant to be admired from a distance, admired and spoken about in hushed tones, but never questioned too closely.

Beneath the silk and sparkle, beneath the diamonds sewn into the night-dark fabric, you felt unsteady, as if the floor beneath your feet might tilt without warning. One careless step could send everything sliding out from under you. The weight of the gown, the height of the heels, the way the room seemed to hold its breath around you made it difficult to remember how to stand.

But hands were already guiding you forward, the maids ushering you out with quiet urgency. Doors opened and closed behind you in practiced succession as you were led down long, echoing corridors. The sound of your steps followed you, too loud in the hush, until at last the space opened into the evening-darkened foyer.

Varian waited there, along with several other valets.

He stood near the base of the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, posture as rigid as ever. His gaze lifted as you approached, and for the briefest moment, something unreadable crossed his face before it vanished behind professional composure.

It was then that you noticed the main wall was different.

The family paintings had been rehung.

Large, ornate frames gleamed in the low light, freshly polished. Portraits of the Figarland lineage lined the walls once more, restored to prominence. 

And there, placed with deliberate care among them, was the new couple portrait of you and Garling.

Your breath caught.

You had never imagined he would display them now, not after everything. The realization left you stunned, your steps faltering for half a heartbeat as you took it in.

The painting was… beautiful.

The artist had captured something almost unreal. You and Garling stood together, truly looking to belong side by side. He faced the viewer with unmistakable pride, one hand resting possessively yet reverently around your side, his gaze sharp and confident, as if presenting you to the world and daring it to challenge him. And you… You looked happy. Open. Welcoming in a way that felt achingly sincere, offering warmth rather than submission.

The effect was unsettling.

“You like it?” a familiar voice asked, bright with excitement.

The painter stepped forward, nearly bouncing on her heels, eyes shining as she bowed deeply to you. “I was so relieved when Commander Figarland saw the finished pieces. He was very pleased. Extremely pleased,” she added with a small, delighted laugh. “He tipped so generously after viewing the final results. I could hardly believe it.”

She gestured animatedly toward the portrait. “You look wonderful together. Truly. Like you fit.” She hesitated, then leaned in conspiratorially. “And that last, private portrait is finished as well. I think it may be my best work yet—”

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the air like a blade.

Garling stood at the far end of the foyer, his presence immediately overwhelming. The painter startled visibly, her excitement collapsing into nervous obedience as she turned toward him.

“That will be all, artisan,” Garling said coolly. “Be gone.”

She bowed again, hurried this time, and backed away without another word, vanishing down the corridor with the echoes of her enthusiasm abruptly silenced.

The foyer immediately felt colder in her absence.

Garling’s attention settled on you at last, slow and deliberate. His gaze traced the lines of your gown, followed the fall of fabric over your shoulders, and the way the light caught in your hair. You could feel it like a physical weight, assessing not just how you looked, but how carefully your attitude had been reconstructed into something presentable.

He approached without hurry, long strides eating the distance between you. The servants instinctively stepped back, eyes lowered, giving him space as if it were a law of nature. This was the first time he had spoken to you in months, and the realization struck you all at once.

He looked… tired.

Older and drawn in a way you had not seen before. Shadows lingered beneath his eyes, his expression tighter around the mouth, as if sleep had not come easily to him either. One hand was closed around something you could not quite see, metal glinting briefly as his fingers shifted.

When his gaze lifted to meet yours, you looked away. The movement was instinctive, but he seemed displeased with it.

Still, he came to stand beside you and turned his attention to the wall. To the painting.

“It is unfortunate,” Garling said coolly, his voice even and measured, almost conversational, “that life is never as simple as appearances.”

Your throat tightened, the words settling heavier than their casual delivery suggested.

“How easy it is,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the portrait like it were an object of academic interest rather than a declaration of intimacy, “to look at a single image and assume the couple depicted there had no difficulties. No conflict. No private failures.” His mouth curved faintly, the expression devoid of humor. “Artists have a way of lying politely.”

You swallowed, uncertain whether to respond or remain silent, weighing which choice might cost you less. The decision was taken from you before you could act.

His presence closed in, near enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. His fingers brushed your nape as he lifted your hair aside, the motion efficient.

A broken sound escaped you as metal clicked closed.

Your hand rose on instinct, fingers brushing the band now resting at the base of your throat. It was entirely smooth now, without seams.

A collar. 

Your stomach dropped sharply.

Garling clicked his tongue softly, as if noting a minor correction, and spoke with the same calm precision. “It is a new development from an upcoming scientist named Vegapunk. It is a shock collar,” he said. “You will be wearing it until I determine that you are no longer a risk.”

You turned toward him, heart pounding, disbelief flaring hot and immediate. “Did you leash me—”

He met your gaze at last, cold and unmoving.

“You will attend the ball,” Garling continued evenly. “You will smile when addressed. You will not wander. You will not speak out of turn.” His eyes flicked briefly to the collar at your throat before returning to your face. “And you will remember that every courtesy extended to you exists solely because I permit it.”

Your hands curled into the fabric of your gown, fingers tightening until your knuckles blanched. The room seemed to constrict around you, the ceiling pressing lower, the air suddenly thin and difficult to draw into your lungs.

You nodded slowly and looked away.

The motion should have satisfied him. Compliance, however minimal, was an improvement from your usual sass. Instead, something sharp crossed his expression. Dissatisfaction? A faint crease appeared between his brows, like your obedience had not taken the shape he wanted.

A finger slid beneath your chin.

The touch was firm but not rough, guiding your face back toward his with quiet insistence. “Look at me,” he said.

You hesitated, every instinct urging you to keep your gaze averted, but the pressure beneath your chin did not relent. Slowly, unwillingly, you lifted your eyes to his.

You both locked eyes.

His expression softened despite himself. His severity eased, as though seeing you fully had triggered a response he had not intended. The change seemed to irritate him the instant he noticed it. His jaw tightened, the softness curdling into frustration at his own lapse.

“I do not want you miserable,” he said, voice lower now, controlled but edged with something strained. “That serves no purpose.”

You said nothing.

“But as my wife,” he continued, “you are not exempt from accountability. Your actions caused harm. Servants were punished because of your behavior.” His gaze sharpened. “That is not fair. To them, or to me.”

The guilt settled heavily on you.

“So,” he said, more quietly still, “you required a punishment as well. But I don’t want to keep punishing you. I just need you to be good.”

His hand moved then, reaching into his pocket. When it emerged, he was holding your wooden comb. 

The sight of it startled you more than the collar had.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it and guided it into your hair, smoothing a loose section back into place. The gesture was intimate in its familiarity, careful, almost reverent. A subtle offering of peace. Of truce. Of forgiveness softened into care.

But you leaned away, and the refusal was unmistakable.

His hand stilled mid-motion.

“If you wanted a kind, obedient wife,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the tightness in your throat, “you should not have forcibly married a revolutionary.” You met his gaze fully now, no flinching left to you. “And you should not have lied to her when she trusted you.”

The silence that followed was brittle, and each servant pointedly looked inches from fleeing.

The comb remained caught in your hair, neither fully placed nor withdrawn, suspended between what he wanted you to be and what you had always been.

Then something in Garling snapped back into place, and he pulled back. The comb was gone from your hair, reclaimed as decisively as the brief tenderness that had accompanied it.

The faint softness drained from his expression, replaced by sharp composure pulled tight like a blade returned to its sheath. His jaw set. Whatever he had almost allowed himself to feel vanished beneath practiced control.

“Enough,” he said quietly. 

His hand closed around your wrist.

The grip was firm, impersonal, leaving no room for resistance or negotiation. He turned without waiting for your response and tugged you forward, the sudden movement forcing you to stumble a half step before you caught yourself. 

Servants melted out of the way as he pulled you through the foyer, heads bowed, eyes carefully averted. The doors ahead opened at his approach, spilling cool night air into the corridor. Marble gave way to stone beneath your feet as you were dragged outside, the contrast between the warm interior and the open air abrupt enough to steal your breath.

Lanterns burned low along the path, their light reflecting off polished surfaces and casting long, fractured shadows across the grounds. Somewhere in the distance, music swelled faintly, elegant and controlled, the promise of the ball already unfolding without you.

Garling did not slow.

His grip remained tight as he led you forward, not looking back, not acknowledging the way your pulse raced beneath his fingers. Whatever reckoning awaited you now, it would not be delayed.

At the Pangaea Crystal Ball, you were positioned precisely where you were meant to be.

Not beside Garling, but behind him, positioned like a mistress. Close enough to be seen, far enough to be excluded.

The placement was deliberate. You could feel it in the way the staff arranged themselves around you, a careful triangulation of bodies and space that ensured you could not step away, could not linger behind, could not drift to either side without being subtly redirected. Wherever Garling moved, you followed half a pace back, like an accessory rather than a partner.

Like something owned.

The ballroom itself glittered with excess. Crystal chandeliers refracted light into a thousand shimmering fragments. Spring-themed silk and jewels swept past in a blur of color and sound. Laughter rose and fell in polished waves. On the surface, it was everything Mary Geoise prided itself on being.

Beneath it, the tension was palpable.

Most of the nobles here didn’t know the full story of your jailbreak under Pangaea. They only knew what had been allowed to circulate—a careless mistake leading to a small jailbreak entirely resolved by the Holy Knights.

But judging by the way Garling carried himself: aloof, distant, deliberately unaccompanied in spirit if not in body, it would have been easy to assume you had displeased him in some capacity.

Had you cared for their opinions, it would have been excruciating.

Even now, women leaned into Garling’s space without hesitation. Their laughter was too loud, their touches too familiar, hands brushing his arm, fingers lingering as they complimented his attire, his strength, his patience. Their eyes flicked toward you only briefly, calculating, dismissive. Some did not bother to hide their amusement.

Men watched you more openly.

Some with curiosity, some with thinly veiled disdain. Their gazes measured you the way one might inspect a cracked porcelain piece. Trying to determine whether it had been mishandled or simply proven defective. You could almost hear the unspoken question forming behind their eyes.

How badly had you failed? And more importantly, did that failure mean you were… available?

The whispers came openly, no longer bothered with discretion.

A woman murmured to her companion, not bothering to lower her voice. “Well, if she had been more agreeable, perhaps he wouldn’t be seeking comfort elsewhere.”

Another laughed softly. “You know how men are here. They stray when their wives forget their place.”

The words slid over you like oil, meant to stain, to cling. Somewhere behind the polite smiles, someone speculated aloud that Garling’s public indulgences were intentional. A punishment. A message. In Mary Geoise, men took lovers openly, not for pleasure, but for spite.

And you, by their reasoning, had earned it.

You could feel the judgment pressing in from every side. Not just pity, but blame. Your open hostility toward the Shepherd family and their allies had not gone unnoticed. In their eyes, whatever had gone wrong between you and Garling had been inevitable. You were the common denominator. The problem.

Your behavior at the Saintess Shepherd party confirmed that. If there was sympathy, it was thin and fleeting.

And yet, you did not falter.

You kept your posture immaculate, shoulders set, chin level, expression carefully composed. You did not flinch when another woman laughed too loudly at Garling’s side, her hand lingering where it did not belong. You did not look away when eyes lingered on you, assessing and dismissive, weighing your worth as though it were a public commodity. You did not react when the gossip reached you openly, unfiltered, and sharp enough to draw blood.

Not because it did not hurt.

The sight of another woman draped over your husband was deeply disturbing, a deliberate reminder that Garling was openly and actively sleeping with others. The knowledge twisted painfully in your heart, raw and personal, and it hurt far more than you would ever allow them to see.

But you were not petty like these Celestial Dragons.

You had a purpose beyond their cruelty. A purpose beyond this ballroom and its glittering malice. You were going to escape Mary Geoise, and when you did, you would tell Xebec every secret you had learned within these walls. Every weakness. Rot hidden beneath their polished veneer.

It was that resolve that kept you upright. That discipline that stilled the tremor threatening your hands. That stubborn, unyielding will that kept your expression serene even as humiliation tried to carve itself into you.

If they wanted a spectacle, you would not give them one willingly.

You would survive this.

You managed to hold that truth close, clutched tight enough to keep your expression neutral, your posture composed, your breathing even. For a time, it worked. The crowd blurred into noise and movement, the cruelty fading into something distant and manageable.

Then you saw her.

Anna emerged from the sea of bodies like a memory made real, Homing at her side and little Doflamingo held close, bright hair unmistakable even in the crush of finery. The sight struck you harder than anything else that night. You had not realized how much you had missed her until she was suddenly there, living proof of a world that had continued without you.

Garling noticed them too.

He did not acknowledge them properly. Not a greeting. Not a nod. His dismissal was subtle, effortless, devastating. A slight turn of his shoulder. A redirection of attention. A message delivered with perfect Celestial precision.

You felt it like a blow.

Anna faltered for half a heartbeat. You saw it in the way her smile stiffened, the way her grip on Doflamingo tightened. But she did not retreat. Her jaw set, resolve flashing across her face, and after a moment, she tried again, navigating carefully through the crowd until she reached you.

She slipped in close, Doflamingo cradled against her shoulder, Homing hovering uncertainly behind her.

Her eyes searched your face, wide with worry. “I haven’t seen you in months,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

The question unraveled you.

You stepped forward before you could stop yourself and wrapped your arms around her. Around the baby as well, careful of the child’s small body as you held them both close. The familiar warmth nearly broke you. You pressed your face briefly into Anna’s shoulder, breathing her in like proof that something kind still existed.

She stiffened in surprise, then returned the embrace at once.

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured against her hair, voice low. “You shouldn’t speak to me anymore.”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, startled. “What?”

“You should follow your dreams,” you said quickly, hands still resting on her arms like letting go would cost you something vital. “You should see the world. But you must be careful. The lower world doesn’t like Celestial Dragons. They will not be kind to you just because you are curious or gentle.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why are you talking like this?” she asked quietly. “Like you don’t expect to see me again.”

Your throat tightened.

You bent to Doflamingo, brushing a gentle hand through his soft hair, smiling faintly as his small fingers curled around yours with surprising strength. The innocent weight of that trust hit you harder than you expected. You drew both of them close again, holding Anna and the child longer this time, committing the warmth of it to memory, imprinting it somewhere deep enough that it could not be taken from you.

Anna hugged you back fiercely, arms tight around your shoulders, unwilling to let go. When she pulled back just enough to look at you, confusion and worry were written openly across her face, unguarded and earnest in a way that felt almost dangerous in this place.

You did not notice Garling watching until the air itself seemed to shift.

The warmth around you cooled, replaced by a quiet pressure that made your skin prickle. His presence closed in without warning.

“That is enough.”

Garling’s voice cut cleanly through the moment.

His hand came down, firm and final, guiding Doffy back into Anna’s arms without ceremony. There was no gentleness in it, no allowance for hesitation. The interruption was precise, calculated to leave no room for argument.

“Give the child back,” he said flatly.

Anna stiffened, drawing Doflamingo close, her eyes flicking between you and Garling. She opened her mouth, clearly intending to protest.

Garling did not look at you when he spoke next.

“Saintess Donquixote,” he said coolly, “you are not to speak with my wife for the time being.”

The words landed like a slap.

Anna’s face drained of color. “But—”

“That will be all,” he continued, tone leaving no space for negotiation.

Something in you finally cracked.

You straightened, pulse roaring in your ears, the carefully maintained serenity splintering under the weight of it. Your hands trembled despite your efforts to still them.

Separated from Anna with no option but to scream, you turned the other way.

“Excuse me,” you said sharply, the words forced through clenched teeth.

Without waiting for permission, you turned and pushed through the nearest opening in the crowd, skirts gathered just enough to move. You did not look back.

The corridor beyond the ballroom felt suddenly too narrow, its polished walls closing in on you as if the space itself were intent on herding you back inside. Light reflected too brightly off marble and crystal, sharp enough to make your eyes ache. The music from the ballroom followed you, muffled but relentless, its steady rhythm pounding in your head like a second heartbeat you could not escape.

You moved quickly, skirts gathered just enough to keep from stumbling, your breath coming shallow and uneven. You did not stop until you found a side passage and slipped through it, pushing open a narrow door that led outside. Cool night air washed over you as you stepped onto a long exterior balcony, the stone cold beneath your hands. It stretched along the edge of the estate, leading toward one of the many gardens beyond, where hedges and shadow might offer some small mercy.

The night would hide you well enough.

Only then did you let yourself bend.

You leaned over the railing, shoulders shaking as the composure you had fought so hard to maintain finally gave way. Tears came fast and heavy, fat drops slipping down your cheeks. You bowed your head so they would fall harmlessly into the darkness below, careful not to let them streak the delicate fabric of your dress or stain the pale gloves drawn over your hands.

You had endured worse than this.

The collar. The humiliation. The deliberate isolation and mockery. Those were things you could manage. You had learned how to endure punishment, how to swallow pain and keep moving forward.

But losing Anna?

The sudden, enforced severing of the one friendship you had been allowed to keep cut far deeper than any personal punishment ever could. She had been warmth in a place built on coldness, a reminder that kindness still existed. And now, even she had been taken from you.

Your breath paused, a quiet, broken sound lost to the night.

You pressed your forehead against the cool stone of the railing and let the tears fall, grieving not just the loss of your friend, but the growing certainty that anything you loved in this place would always be used against you.

That was when someone came around the corner.

You heard him before you saw him. Uneven footsteps. A careless scrape of leather against stone. The sharp, sour scent of wine reached you a heartbeat later, unmistakable and unwelcome. When he stepped into view, the lantern light caught his face just enough to reveal the red stains on his teeth, careless and ugly, like a child who had not bothered to wipe his mouth.

He had been drinking. That much was obvious. His eyes were fixed on you with the unfocused boldness. His voice cut through the night, too loud and too sharp, carrying none of the restraint this place demanded.

“Girl!”

The word snapped across the balcony, crude and impatient.

You barely reacted at first. Drunk voices were common enough at these gatherings, and for a moment, you chose to treat him like background noise. You kept your back to him, one hand resting on the railing, the other lifting to wipe hastily at your cheeks. You focused on steadying your breathing, on regaining the composure that had slipped from you only moments before.

The night air cooled your skin. The gardens beyond were dark and quiet. You told yourself he would get bored and wander off.

He didn’t.

The man scoffed, clearly offended by your lack of response. “I’m speaking to you,” he said, irritation bleeding into his tone. “Or are you too busy pretending you’re above answering?”

You straightened slowly, more out of obligation than fear. Your fingers curled around the stone railing until the edge bit faintly into your palms. You still did not turn to face him. You kept your gaze angled away, posture dignified, distant.

“Hardly,” you said evenly. “I am not required to respond to being shouted at.”

That seemed to catch him off guard, if only briefly.

He laughed, a short, humorless sound, and took a step closer. The smell of wine followed him, sour and clinging, thick enough to make your stomach tighten. “Oh,” he said, dragging the word out, “so you do speak. How much do you cost, girl?”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, patience thinning. While there were several women at this party for that purpose, it should’ve been obvious you were not one. “I’m not an escort,” you added, calm but firm. “If you’re looking for assistance, you’re in the wrong corridor.”

There was a pause.

Then another laugh, louder this time, tinged with disbelief. “Not for sale?” he repeated, eyes roaming over you now without shame. “Dressed like that, skulking around outside? Name your price, I promise I can pay.”

You finally turned your head just enough to look at him sidelong, your expression cool and unimpressed. “Move along,” you said. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

His smile faltered, offense flashing across his face at being dismissed so plainly. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he snapped, taking another step closer, emboldened by the wine and your refusal to play along. “You should learn your place.”

You simply held his gaze, unblinking and unmoved, the kind of stillness that unsettled men like him because it offered nothing to seize or dominate.

And that was when he reached out.

“You ignore me again, and I’ll assume you’re deaf,” he snapped, the words blurring together just enough to betray the wine on his breath. “It’s rude, you know. Especially from someone in your… position.”

“Do not touch me,” you said sharply.

Too late.

You flinched as his hand closed around your wrist. His grip was firm, but almost lazy, but it froze you all the same, your pulse hammering painfully against his touch.

He tugged hard, pulling you in; his words barely registered.

Then the man was right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, his fingers lingering where they had no right to be. He had begun to lean in, confidence buoyed by alcohol and your silence, emboldened by the idea that no one was watching. His grip shifted, tightening just enough to test whether you would pull away, just enough to see how far he could go.

Then the music from the ballroom faded into nothing. The night air went quiet. Even the man faltered, the movement he had been mid-gesture stalling as something unseen pressed against his awareness.

A shadow stretched across the flagstones.

Your assaulter felt it before he understood it. His hand slackened slightly as he looked up, confusion flickering into dawning dread.

Garling was behind you.

He stood in the balcony doorway, his presence so absolute it bent the moment around him. 

His gaze moved with deliberate precision, first settling on the hand gripping your wrist, then lifting to the man’s face.

Something cold and sharp passed behind Garling’s eyes. Not anger. And then, slowly, his mouth curved into a smile that held no warmth at all.

“Saint Brannick,” Garling said calmly, his voice smooth and controlled, “why are you touching my wife?”

The question landed with terrifying finality, spoken as though it were a simple inquiry rather than a sentence, like the answer did not already exist in the space between them.

Color drained from Brannick’s face. His fingers released you at once, withdrawing with exaggerated care, as if he had only just realized his hand had strayed somewhere lethal. The swagger that had carried him moments before collapsed inward, shoulders rounding, spine stiff with panic as reality finally caught up to him.

“I—Commander Figarland, I—” he stammered, the words tangling uselessly in his mouth beneath the full weight of Garling’s attention.

Garling regarded him coolly. “You must be quite drunk,” he said, his tone mild, almost thoughtful. “Or perhaps you are simply in need of a beating.”

“I only had a drink—I didn’t know—I meant no offense, of course—” Brannick rushed out, too fast, too loud, desperation creeping into every syllable.

Garling stepped closer.

The movement was unhurried, casual, but it stole what little air Brannick seemed to have left.

“Your offense,” Garling said softly, each word placed with surgical precision, “isn’t the wine.”

His hand closed around yours with a gentleness that felt almost obscene in contrast to what had just occurred. His fingers brushed over the place where Brannick had touched you, slow and deliberate, as though erasing the memory of it through repetition alone. Then he turned your palm upward, holding it beneath the lantern light as if you were something fragile, something to be inspected rather than comforted.

With two fingers, he slid your glove free.

The fabric peeled away smoothly, exposing bare skin to the cool night air. His thumb traced once along your wrist, not soothing, not tender, simply precise. He examined the flesh for any sign of damage, any mark that might justify what he was about to do next. 

After a moment, he gave a faint nod.

“Unblemished,” he murmured, the word meant for you alone. Then, raising his voice just enough for him to hear, he added, “That is fortunate.”

He did not strike Brannick.

He did not even look at him again.

Instead, Garling turned his head slightly toward the courtyard entrance, where guards stood rigidly at attention, having neither intervened nor looked away, awaiting instruction with disciplined indifference.

“Saint Brannick is clearly exhausted,” Garling said calmly. “Escort him to the first level of the medical ward. Let him rest. Deeply.” His gaze returned briefly to Brannick, cool and assessing. “He has a long trip ahead of him to a new trading post in the lower world, and it will require whatever wits he still possesses.”

The guards saluted without hesitation.

Brannick’s composure shattered entirely then. He stammered, begged, tried to laugh it off, the sound breaking into something shrill and desperate. None of it mattered. The guards seized him by the arms and began to drag him away, his shoes scraping against the stone. His abandoned wineglass slipped from his grasp and shattered against the flagstones, the sound sharp and final.

When the courtyard finally fell quiet again, Garling did not let go of your hand but turned back to you.

Whatever disdain he’d worn for the encounter was gone now. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, pulling you in, his fingers shifted, deliberately threading through yours until bare skin met bare skin. With his other hand, he folded your discarded glove neatly and slipped it into his pocket.

The gesture made your jaw tighten.

You pulled your hand free and took a step back, reclaiming the space between you. You gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “What do you care?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You are my wife. And not to be touched,” he said, the words edged with heat. “Not by anyone but me.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed, a faint curve of amusement touching your lips.

“What a stirring declaration,” you said lightly, the words polished to a razor’s edge. “Truly inspiring.” You lifted your gaze to his, cool and unflinching. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t wish to be touched by you in particular.”

He stiffened as you stepped away.

“You see, I have rather strong opinions about two things,” you continued, your tone measured but edged with steel. “Sexually transmitted diseases and lies.”

The smile you gave him then was not kind.

For a brief moment, something flashed across his face—irritation, perhaps, or something far more dangerous that skirted the edge of amusement. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he hadn’t yet decided whether to bristle or laugh.

“I know you’re trying to provoke me,” Garling said at last, his voice low and tightly controlled. “But I find it… encouraging that you’ve decided to speak again.” His eyes sharpened, studying you. “Perhaps now you’ll explain why the woman I married, why the woman I last saw pregnant and happy, chose to then break into a prison and set fire to both our lives.”

The words struck like a challenge.

You let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Happy?” you echoed softly. “Is that what you call it?”

His jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt. “You’re changing the subject.”

“And you built a romance out of omission,” you continued, your voice pinching just enough to carry the weight of everything you had swallowed for too long. “You placed me in a gilded cage and expected gratitude for the view.” Your gaze never wavered. “You lied to me, Garling. Repeatedly. You lied—and still took me to your bed while you did it. And now you expect truth?”

His eyes darkened. “And what, precisely, did I lie about?” he asked coolly. “My love for you? My desire to protect you?”

You let out a sharp, humorless breath. “How about your beloved future wife?” you snapped. “The beautiful Kuja? How about the Human Hunt you were very much planning to attend to get her?” Your voice cut harder now. “How about that slave boy you lied about, knowing full well he was going to be slaughtered?”

Garling exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “This,” he said at last, “is precisely why you could not be told.” His voice dropped, measured but edged with irritation. “You were pregnant. Emotional. Unstable.” His gaze flicked downward, assessing. “And look what even fragments of the truth did to you.”

His hand moved toward your midsection, the gesture unconsciously condescending.

You flinched.

The reaction was immediate—and so was his regret. His fingers halted mid-motion, his expression shifting as if he had only just realized what he’d done.

You drew back from him, anger burning cold and steady.

“I would rather be a slave,” you said quietly, every word deliberate, “than participate in such vile destruction.” Your eyes locked onto his. “At least that would be honest. At least that wouldn’t mean pretending the atrocities you enable are something I could live with.”

Garling’s mouth opened, but you didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“I would rather watch you fuck every woman in Mary Geoise,” you said, your voice trembling only slightly, “than allow myself to become complicit in what you do.” You held his gaze without flinching. “Because accepting that life, accepting you, would mean sanctioning it.”

Something unsettled crossed his face. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, stripped of its authority.

“I haven’t,” he said. “Not since you.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, like that is my concern,” you said, shaking your head. “Do not insult me by pretending virtue now.” Your voice tightened despite your effort to keep it steady. “I do not care who you sleep with. Just don’t stand there and lie to me as if that is supposed to mean something.”

His eyes darkened. “I am not lying.”

“And I am not interested,” you shot back. “In believing in you.  Not in this relationship, not in your bed, not in whatever performance you think this is.” You drew in a careful breath. “Do whatever you want. Just don’t pretend it has anything to do with caring about me.”

Something in him snapped.

He moved before you could react, one hand slamming against the building wall beside your head, the other catching your wrist and pinning you there. The impact echoed sharply in the narrow space. His face was inches from yours, fury stripped of all polish.

“I am not lying,” he said through clenched teeth. “And you will not speak to me like that. If you keep—”

You felt the heat of his anger, the force of it, pressing in around you.

“If you keep mouthing off to push me away,” he went on, voice low and shaking, “if you keep pretending our marriage isn’t meaningful, I will prove exactly how much it is. I have had to endure the vilest of situations for you. I will see that you understand you have made both of us suffer.”

His grip tightened, not painful, but unmistakably possessive. You grit your teeth, huffing.

“Vile situations? How unkind you are to the fine establishment you’re required to visit. I’m sure the woman enslaved there has been very understanding, taking your cock—Why, they are required to give a fuck!”

He grabbed you tighter, lowering a hand to his trousers where he was already supporting an impressive tent. You hadn’t the slightest idea why he would be so turned on at the moment.

“Then I will take you to that fine establishment,” he said. “And we both can give those whores a show, because only you could actually do the job. I’ve had to pay off those bitches because I can’t even get hard—not unless I’m with my wife. Even when she’s mad at me, hell, especially when she’s mad, because that means she fucking cares!” 

“I HAVE ALWAYS CARED–”

Before you could finish answering, he kissed you.

It was not gentle, and it was not kind. It was desperate and furious and full of everything he had been holding back. His body pressed against yours, as if seeking proof that you were real, that you were still there. A sharp breath left him when your hands grabbed his instinctively, and for a moment, his control cracked completely.

He grabbed both your arms with his thick hands, raising your hips to be level with his. With one motion, he thrust against your core, the silk doing little to hide the heat between the two of you. 

You yelped.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I can’t—“ he huffed, teeth biting his lip, “Whenever you look at me like I’m dirt—”

He always was a glutton for your glares.

Mouths clashed, nipping at one another, soft lips twisted between teeth. He twisted his tongue, practically shoving it down your throat, and you snarled, but it was swallowed by an even deeper kiss. It was like he was trying to eat you.

Then he thrust hard, right into your most sensitive parts. You gasped at the sensation, electricity alighting within you. But Garling wasn’t about to release you yet and caught the sound with his mouth. His hands pulled you tighter, closer, vanquishing the cool night air.  

Your hand shot down, curling around his hard length, to try and make sense, or at least pause him just enough to regain your head, but it was a misstep. Your sweet grip only added to his ferocity and desire. He used the leverage to propel his motions.

Once, twice, he only thrust three more times before his chin jerked, his member throbbed. You watched his dusky lashes close against his smooth skin, and you almost came at the sound that escaped his husky sex-satisfied throat.

Had he?

The question barely finished forming before you felt him tense, breath hitching sharply against your skin. You startled, instinctively pulling back as wetness soaked your hand, but he did not release you. Instead, his arms tightened, holding you closer, as if letting go would cost him something he could not afford to lose.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“You did not just…” You couldn’t even finish the question.

Garling, without opening his eyes, bowed his head, resting it against the curve of your neck. His breath was uneven, his voice lower than before, stripped of its edge.

“Not even three minutes,” he murmured, bitter and raw all at once. “At least have the decency to pity your chaste husband, before you disparage him.” A short, humorless breath escaped him. “God, I love how beautiful you look when you give a damn. I—I—“

You were wordless, a bit in shock. How did everything always escalate so quickly with Garling? His pretty face made it so damn hard to remember why you needed hate him.

His grip tightened again, not cruelly, but with something dangerously close to desperation. 

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, the word dragged from him, vulnerable and soft. “I lied to you. I just… I just wanted to protect you.”

You huffed, letting him slowly set you down, finding your feet. You had no solid response as he leaned forward, brushing renegade hairs from your face. For a moment, you just felt the heat of his hand and enjoyed the ease of the closeness. 

Just like in your dreams, after intimacy, he became so amiable and temperate. Seeking peace instead of arguing.

He continued, voice low, stripped of bravado. “I knew the Hunt would devastate you. I know you like the lesser beings, having spent so many years among them.” He swallowed, jaw flexing. “But I hate them. Those revolutionaries mistreated you, and while I benefited greatly, they risked you when they sent you here.”

Your eyes widened as he sank to his knees, head tucked into your stomach, pulling your arms to hold him. 

“I convinced myself that by the time the Hunt came again, you would have a child to anchor you. Something to give you enough of an excuse to forgive it.” He gave a hurt laugh, “And it was childish, but when I won, I was going to gift you the Kuja woman. So you’d know that in my eyes, even that woman would never compete with you. Then you would stop questioning me about mistresses and be content.”

You stared at him, stunned, your hands tightening against his arms.

“Garling, you do not understand,” you said, shaking your head. “The Kuja isn’t the issue. The moment Diente told me about you hunting humans, I could no longer willingly be here.” Garling’s arms flexed around your middle, but he didn’t interrupt, “Whether we had a child, whatever you tried to convince me with, murder is something untenable.” Your voice rose, trembling with conviction. “The problem isn’t timing. It is Mary Geoise itself. This cruelty towards people is unacceptable.”

He shook his head sharply, as if refusing to let your words take root, holding you closer.

“You should not be trying to defend slaves,” he said, frustration bleeding through his composure. “This pointless morality you cling to does not apply! You are a Celestial Dragon! A god!” His grip tightened again, not in anger, but in insistence. “Even if you had your revolution, nothing here would change. And I would be worse without you. Colder. Crueler.”

His eyes searched yours, intense and unyielding.

“But if you stayed,” he continued, his voice lowering, urgency threading through it, “if you stood with me—if you committed to me—then we could change things. Slowly. Properly.” His hand flexed on your waist. “Your kindness would reach places cruelty never could. If the wife of Commander Figarland condemns the Human Hunt, then I will not participate. If the leader of the Holy Knights finds it unacceptable, it loses its power. Its spectacle.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, something in your chest aching with a grief too deep for anger.

“Oh, Garling,” you said quietly, sorrow threading every syllable. “I told you the very first night we lay together that I pitied you. And I pity you even more now.”

His expression tightened. 

“Because I know you love me. But told you then that I could not love without equality.” Your voice wavered, but you did not look away. “You may care for me, but you do not respect me. And without that, we will never—”

“Do not speak like that.” He said, tightening his hold. “I worship you.”

You shook your head slowly.

“All of this,” you continued, your voice steady despite the ache beneath it, “comes from you needing me to belong to you. To soften this. To justify my place here. But love is not possession, Garling. And I cannot become part of you just so you can pretend our marriage is worth the pain it causes to exist.”

His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping as he ground his teeth together.

“I will not let you go.”

The words were cruel, but at least they were honest. Petty words from a petty man, spoken like his decree already decided.

“You know you should,” you said softly.

His eyes darkened, not with fury, but with something far more fragile and dangerous. “No,” he replied. “I am still your husband, despite everything.” His voice lowered, roughened by something that sounded too much like fear. “It is my duty and my honor to defend you. To keep you safe. Even if you despise me.” He swallowed. “Even if that means I lock you inside my home, bind you to it, keep you from your own wants and impulses. I would bear that sin gladly.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The night pressed close around you, heavy with unshed words. The distant music from the ball drifted faintly through stone and garden, absurdly gentle compared to the truth unraveling between you. One wrong sentence, one breath too sharp, and something irreparable would break.

“Garling,” you said at last, your voice quiet, almost tender, “I do love you.”

His breath hitched.

“But you must release me,” you continued, your eyes shining but unflinching, “or you must kill me. Because if you keep me like this, it will ruin us both. I will pull you apart piece by piece, not because I wish to, but because you cannot be what I want you to be, and I cannot be what you want me to be.”

His hands curled slowly, fingers tightening as though he were holding you together by force alone.

“You already are who I want,” he said. He looked at you then, truly looked at you, and there was no command left in his gaze. Only loss, and a love so deep and unyielding it had turned inward, sharp enough to wound the one who carried it.

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said quietly. His voice did not waver. “I would search for you in every world, across entire lifetimes, just to make you my wife again.”

The words undid what little distance remained between you.

You stepped into him without thinking, hands finding his shirt, fingers curling into familiar fabric like they had always belonged there, making him rise again. He exhaled against your mouth, a sound halfway between relief and surrender, before he kissed you.

It was slow, aching, weighted with everything you had not said and everything you still could not reconcile.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that single, fragile truth.

Then the door opened.

“—ah.”

Varian froze halfway onto the balcony, eyes snapping up and immediately away again, color rising sharply in his face. He straightened as if struck by lightning, posture snapping into rigid professionalism.

Garling pulled back first, already regaining himself. He clicked his tongue softly, irritation flickering across his features as if the interruption were merely inconvenient rather than mortifying.

Varian cleared his throat. “My apologies,” he said quickly, gaze fixed firmly on a point somewhere over Garling’s shoulder. “I did not intend to intrude. However… Saint Saturn is requesting your presence. Immediately.”

He hesitated, then added, delicately, “It would be advisable if the two of you were not discovered… fraternizing in the gardens.”

Garling exhaled through his nose, composure settling back into place like armor being refastened. “Of course he is,” he muttered darkly.

Varian bowed his head once more. “I will give you a moment,” he said, already retreating with conspicuous care.

The door closed again, leaving the night suddenly too quiet.

Garling looked down at you, something unreadable passing through his eyes, and for just a single heartbeat, he rested his forehead against yours, memorizing the shape of the moment before it slipped away.

“I will have Varian and Joanna take you home,” he said quietly. “Keep your door open, if you will allow me to see you. I will not be angry if you do not, but I wish to be close to you. I wish to continue speaking, to try and find some compromise that will satisfy you.”

The words were gentle, almost tentative, and that alone hurt more than any command ever could have.

You let him go, watching as he left with Varian, likely to change before the meeting. Joanna was at your side shortly after, but you waved her off for a moment, moving to hold the balcony as you stared over the quiet lights of Mary Geoise.

Your mind hurt with the knowledge that whatever love still existed between you, however real and fiercely felt, could not undo what had already been set in motion. Love alone could not make this place kinder. It could not bridge the space between what you were and what he needed you to be.

As he stepped back, you felt with quiet finality that nothing truly good could come again. Yet, heartbreakingly, you both would still love one another regardless of what happened. 

For that reason alone, you had to go.

The balcony overlooked the ballroom like a judgment seat.

Below, chandeliers spilled gold across silk and jewels, laughter rising in smooth, practiced waves. Above it all, the stone balustrade held Saint Garling Figarland and Saint Saturn apart from the noise, from the warmth, from the convenient illusion that any of this was joy rather than display.

Saturn did not look down. His gaze remained fixed on Garling, heavy and evaluative, as though the truth would reveal itself in a shift of posture or a fraction of hesitation if he watched closely enough. The Commander had been less prompt than usual, citing the need to change pants due to an accident with a careless bump and wine.

“Your wife looks healthy,” he said at last, almost idly.

Garling followed his gaze despite himself, eyes dropping to the sea of white and gold and, within it, to you.

You moved through the crowd with measured grace, Varian guiding you with a steady hand at your elbow, Joanna close at your other side. The sparkling silk clung to you in clean, restrained lines, modest by Mary Geoise standards and carefully chosen to flatter all the same. You inclined your head to greetings, accepted murmured compliments, offered polite acknowledgment, and nothing more.

“She is,” Garling said. “The doctor confirms she has recovered physically from the loss.”

“Very good.” Saturn turned back to him then, the idle tone slipping away like a discarded mask. “Then tell me, Commander. Has she begun showing signs of pregnancy? I assume you did not waste time.”

Garling did not pretend to misunderstand. His voice remained even, measured. “I have made attempts. There has been no sign of conception as of yet.”

Saturn exhaled sharply through his nose. “And no new bastards among the slaves either,” he said, irritation creeping in. “You should see to yourself as well, Commander. We expect much from your bloodline. The continuation of your House is not a trivial matter.”

“It is unfortunate,” Garling replied, choosing his words with care, “but my schedule has been… unforgiving. I would rather have fewer complications than many. Between my duties and other objectives—”

Saturn’s gaze hardened. “Are you asking for a schedule adjustment, Commander? It would be more straightforward to bring your wife in and manually implant a fertilized egg.”

Garling waved a hand.

“That is unnecessary. I expect she’ll be expecting again soon,” Garling said. He paused deliberately, then continued before Saturn could interject. “I do have a request.”

That drew Saturn’s full attention back to him.

“My assignment in the West Blue begins soon,” Garling said. “I am requesting that my wife accompany me.”

For a moment, Saturn said nothing. The air between them seemed to stiffen.

“Are you jesting?” Saturn asked quietly. “You wish to remove your revolutionary from Mary Geoise?”

“Yes.”

The word did not waver.

Saturn’s brows drew together, displeasure settling into something colder. “This is an audacious proposal, Commander. Particularly in light of the punishment already decided.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you require a reminder?”

“No,” Garling said at once. “I am well aware of your concerns.”

“Then explain,” Saturn said. “Slowly.”

“My objective remains unchanged,” Garling replied. “The remnants of the revolution are still active. Alder Reves in particular. As long as the revolution's head remains intact, its body will continue to twitch.”

Saturn watched him without blinking.

“I believe it remains strategically sound to follow the original plan,” Garling continued. “Sever the head, and you end not only the present threat, but any future attempt at revival.”

Saturn’s silence lingered, heavy and deliberate, weighing whether Garling’s reasoning had earned him patience… or punishment.

“You must also believe it would leave your wife with nowhere left to retreat,” Saturn said at last. “Tell me, Commander. Would the extermination of her last allies endear her to you? What if she miscarries again?”

Garling gave a small, indifferent shrug. “Endearment is not my objective. Simplicity is. Fewer variables. Fewer illusions of escape will ensure her future compliance. Besides, she will be none the wiser till after the baby comes. Then she’ll learn.”

Saturn scoffed.

He continued without prompting. “There is an additional consideration. The miscarriage here occurred under… less than ideal circumstances. It was a traumatic loss. Stress is not conducive to conception, and at present, Mary Geoise does not look kindly upon my wife. That hostility only compounds the problem. Particularly in light of the rumors regarding her standing. If she gestated outside Mary Geoise, the chances of success would be much higher.”

Saturn glanced down again.

Below them, you paused as someone addressed you. Your hands folded neatly at your waist as you inclined your head in a precise, practiced bow, every movement careful, controlled.

“She appears fine,” Saturn said coolly. “Unaffected.”

“She is a consummate actress, apt at concealing her misery,” Garling replied without hesitation. “She is afraid to grieve openly and invite penalty for it. A change in venue would benefit us both. Privacy. Fewer eyes. Fewer reminders.”

“And far more opportunity to escape,” Saturn said flatly.

Garling inclined his head. “I am aware of the risk.”

“You ask me to believe she would not take it?”

“I ask you to consider her options,” Garling said. “Her revolutionary allies are diminished. Fragmented. Whatever remains lacks coordination. She would have nowhere meaningful to run. And with the tracking collar in place, there would be no margin for error.”

Saturn’s gaze sharpened. “She possesses Conqueror’s Haki. Do you truly believe yourself sufficient to contain her?”

“Her Haki is unstable at best. Untrained,” Garling replied evenly. “I have faced far greater power without difficulty. Still, I would not be alone. There will be guards and trusted servants, enough to address any complication swiftly. And I will also be open to another Knight being placed on standby should intervention become necessary.”

Saturn studied him in silence, eyes keen and calculating, as though stripping the words down to their bones.

“You are very confident,” he said at last. “For a man still on probation with no child.”

Garling glanced down again, just once.

You moved through the crowd below, face serene, gaze unfocused, untouched by the glitter and noise that surrounded you.

“I have complied with every demand placed upon me,” Garling said quietly. “I would hope my continued obedience speaks clearly to my desire to serve only the will of the Great One. If needed, I can ensure her pregnancy before leaving.”

“Very well,” Saturn said. “I will consider it. But she must be expecting before you leave. And if she vanishes down below, if she resists…If she draws attention, she should not—”

“She will not,” Garling cut in, voice steady and absolute. “This is her final chance—I will kill her myself if she attempts to flee.”

“The Great One will not be pleased,” Saturn said, “with this decision. It will be on me to justify it, so tread carefully.”

“More opportunities will present themselves,” Garling replied without hesitation. “I will ensure The Great One remains pleased.”

Saturn’s gaze drifted back to you, lingering with cool appraisal. 

Below them, the orchestra swelled, and the ballroom returned to its endless, glittering rotation, blissfully unaware that a life had just been weighed and deemed replaceable.

“I think,” Saturn said softly, “that I may have underestimated you.” A pause, thin and deliberate. “Very well, Commander. Do as you see fit. But understand this. If your revolutionary wife crosses us again, I will kill her myself.”

It should have been simple to leave the ball.

The crowd was still thick, the Pangaea ballroom alive with noise and motion, but its rhythm had shifted. Wine had loosened tongues and dulled attention. Laughter rang louder, less precise. Attendants hovered close behind their patrons now, glasses at the ready, discreet towels folded over their arms in quiet anticipation. The dance floor remained full, but many of the most esteemed guests had begun to drift away from it. Men peeled off toward the gambling halls in clusters, voices already rising with bravado, while ladies withdrew in elegant knots toward their parlors, silk skirts whispering secrets as they went.

It left the space crowded, but less focused.

Fewer eyes followed you as you moved, fewer whispers clung to your steps.

The edge of the Pangaea ballroom came into view ahead, pillars giving way to the corridor beyond. The air there promised distance from the heat and spectacle, a breath of something almost like relief.

Your shoulders loosened just a fraction as Varian guided you with practiced subtlety, Joanna keeping pace at your other side, her presence a quiet, watchful shield against wandering hands and curious stares.

Almost out.

Then Varian was no longer at your elbow.

The familiar contact vanished in an instant, replaced by the press and sway of bodies closing ranks around you. Someone caught your wrist and tugged you sideways, not hard enough to draw notice, but firm enough to pull you out of the main current of the crowd.

At the same time, there was the scrape of a boot and a careless shove. Joanna was displaced just as abruptly, her momentum broken, and both of them were forced a step aside by a body that had no business inserting itself between them.

With one tug, you were out of the ballroom, down a quieter corridor. 

“Well now,” Sommers Shepherd said pleasantly, sliding into the space Varian had occupied. “That’s better. No need for such barnacles clinging to such a pretty seashell.”

You stopped short, irritation flaring hot and immediate.

“Excuse you,” you said testily.

He looked amused, gaze flicking pointedly to where Varian and Joanna were already trying to recover their positions, trying to find you. “A troublemaker like you shouldn’t let servants herd her about,” he continued lightly. “Makes you look… managed.”

“They were escorting me,” you replied. “Which is their job. Something you might be familiar with if you had ever worked one.”

You stepped to the side, intending to pass him.

He mirrored the movement smoothly, boxing you in with the ease of a man accustomed to being obeyed. He smiled saucily, flipping his orange hair back.

“Oh, come now, Red,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re in a hurry. I’ve missed seeing you.” His smile sharpened. “Your little… episode was far more entertaining than this stupid ball. You really managed to get under Garling's skin. I’ve never seen the bastard so out of sorts. I’m impressed and jealous. You should kiss me, just to see what he’d do.”

You laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You must be out of your mind if you think I have any interest in you.”

“Oh, I know you don’t,” Sommers said lightly. “That’s what makes it fun. Confident women always get under my skin.” His tone dipped. “Especially when they’re married to a prick.”

You raised a brow. “Careful, Saint Shepherd. Jealousy ages men terribly. You can’t afford that.”

His smile thinned, just a touch. “You must be very familiar with jealousy these days, my lady. Every courtesan in Mary Geoise won’t shut up about your husband.”

His gaze dragged deliberately over you, slow and appraising, before he let out a soft, mocking laugh.

“Garling please, Garling Oooo~, harder Garling! Does he always waste so much time making women come?”

Your look was glacial as he moaned. 

He lifted a hand as if to brush something from your face, teasingly close. You knocked his hand away before he could touch you.

His smile widened at your reaction.

“Careful, Saintess Figarland,” he murmured, feigning idle curiosity. “That temper of yours only makes people… curious.” His gaze swept over you again, sharp and invasive. “Tell me—does he really live up to his reputation, or is it all very carefully managed theater?”

You smiled sweetly, the kind that never reached your eyes.

“You’re awfully interested in my husband’s cock. Should he be flattered?” His expression twitched as you continued lightly, “Do you have a crush on Garling and you’re just upset I got there first?”

He scoffed, the sound sharp, but it didn’t quite mask the flash of irritation that crossed his face. “You really are something, Lady Figarland,” he muttered. “A mouth like that would get you into trouble in a real man’s bed.”

“I’m sure you think so,” you replied coolly. “But I suggest you take your fantasies elsewhere. Preferably somewhere without mirrors. I imagine the disappointment would be… easier to endure that way.”

His eyes darkened, then he laughed softly, clearly enjoying himself despite it all.

“That fucking mouth could use a good fucking” he said, adjusting his glasses as if imagining just that.  His gaze lingered on you, calculating. “Shame Figarland is dragging you off to the lower world,” he continued, complaining.

A chill ran down your spine.

You arched a brow. “Oh? The lower world?”

“Tragic, really,” he went on, as if discussing the weather. “If you stay here, I might come to visit. Pass the time.” His smile curdled. “Who knows. Might’ve even given you a new baby—if you could manage to keep one.”

The silence that followed was surgical. Sommers wasn’t particularly clever, but such a topic was very pointedly cruel, and it took real effort to stay composed. You hadn’t even known he’d known.

When you spoke, your voice was calm.

“How generous of you,” you said coolly. “But I don’t make a habit of letting men with fragile egos and wandering hands try to rewrite their inadequacies through me.”

His mouth curved into a slow, unpleasant smile.

You held his gaze, unflinching.

Before he could answer, a familiar presence closed in behind you.

“Saint Shepherd,” Joanna said evenly, having finally located you. “How kindly of you to find my lady, but she must go now.”

Sommers turned, irritation flashing across his face as he ignored her to mock you. “Does House Figarland truly allow its insects to speak with such confidence?”

You exhaled, unimpressed. “I’m tired of this conversation. Goodbye, Saint Shepherd.”

Sommers’ smile lingered, and he didn’t move aside.

“Come now,” he said softly. “Just you and me, Red. Give me something to remember you by. A kiss, perhaps.” His gaze flicked over you, possessive. “I’m sure you’ll be heavy with Figarland’s brat by the time you return. May as well have a good time before another tragic incident.”

Joanna stiffened beside you, cutting in.

“Many apologies,” she said tightly, “but Commander Figarland has instructed that the Saintess return home at once. I must insist.”

Sommers’ hand lifted, ready to remind Joanna of her place, but you moved first.

“That’s enough,” you said, stepping cleanly between them, your voice cool and razor-sharp. “If you’re looking for a fight, Saint Sommers, I suggest you find a child. Someone better suited to your intellect.”

A flicker of real irritation crossed Sommers' face before he could hide it, sharp and ugly, and for a moment, he simply stared at you.

Then he laughed under his breath.

You didn’t wait for whatever he might say next. You turned deliberately, reclaiming the space he had tried to take, and Joanna moved in at once, closing ranks around you with quiet precision.

As you passed, you shoved him back with one firm hand.

He finally yielded, stepping aside at last, though not without a low, mocking sound of displeasure as you passed him.

A moment later, you reached Varian, who had been watching from the edge of the hallway, alert and ready, his hand never far from where he could summon guards if it came to that. When he saw you approach, flanked by Joanna, his shoulders eased.

Instead of escalating, you all moved as one, slipping out of the ballroom and through the halls of Pangaea Castle. The noise faded behind you, swallowed by stone and distance, until at last the doors opened and cool night air washed over your skin.

You and Joanna exhaled at the same time.

“What a terrible man,” Joanna muttered under her breath.

You didn’t hesitate. “He really is.”

“No one likes that bastard,” The words landed before Varian could stop himself. He stiffened immediately, glancing at you as if he had overstepped, then pulled back, posture snapping into careful neutrality. Joanna blinked, clearly surprised.

You tilted your head slightly. “It is just the truth. I cannot imagine how Garling can be around him.”

Varian hesitated, then gave a single nod. “Thank you,” he said quietly, glancing at Joanna. “For that. Saint Shepherd is known to have a hard hand.”

After a beat, his expression tightened, concern threading through his voice. “But… please, stop defending the staff so openly. I understand why you feel compelled to do it. Truly. But your intentions, however good, can invite complications. Dangerous ones.”

Joanna watched you closely, reading your face as the weight of Varian’s warning settled into the cool air between you.

“I have failed you both,” you said at last. “But I will never stand by and let someone be struck in front of me if I can stop it. Not a noble. Not a servant. Not anyone.” Your voice steadied, firmer now. “You shouldn’t thank me for giving you the bare minimum of respect. You should hate me for not doing more.”

“That isn’t true,” Joanna said immediately, a slip of emotion coloring her voice that caught you off guard. “It is our duty to ensure your well-being, my lady.”

As she spoke, she glanced your way, and the movement exposed the fading marks along her skin. The sight of them made your hands curl at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

It wasn’t right. None of it was. Not the marks, not the rules that demanded silence, not the way concern had to be measured and rationed like a luxury. And it certainly wasn’t enough to be wrapped in your stole and ushered back into the carriage as though that alone could smooth the edges of what had just happened.

But you let it pass.

It felt pointless to ask them to understand, even now, even after finding a sliver of common ground with Varian of all people. He had never much liked you. You had always assumed it was dangerous for any servant to approve of a master or mistress like you, someone who wanted more for them than this place allowed.

Because opening that door, acknowledging the wants and dreams that lived beyond Mary Geoise, was its own kind of cruelty.

It invited hope, and here, hope was often the most painful thing of all.

Because if Sommers had been telling the truth—if Garling truly intended to take you beyond Mary Geoise—then it would not be you who bore the brunt of his fury if you ran. It would be them.

Joanna. Ginny. Ivankov. Hell, even Varian. Anyone who had ever hesitated, ever looked the other way, ever helped you breathe a little easier.

So you said nothing as the carriage rolled through the gates. Your hands remained folded neatly in your lap, your expression composed, your thoughts anything but. Joanna helped you down when you arrived, her touch gentler than it had been before, her voice softer, some unspoken forgiveness settling between you.

Her returned kindness hurt more than the cold ever had.

You were brought back to the rooms that connected to Garling’s—rooms that felt too close, too red, too saturated with expectation. Varian departed shortly after, summoned to receive Garling, leaving the air thick with intention.

Joanna helped you out of your outer layers, fingers careful, practiced. You let her take the shimmering dress from your shoulders, let her unfasten clasps and smooth fabric away until you stood in the quiet with only the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

When she moved to guide you toward the bath, you stopped her.

A small shake of your head.

You remained where you were, in nothing but stockings and underclothes, and crossed to the vanity instead. You loosened part of your hair, letting it fall down your back in a rich, unguarded spill.

Joanna watched you in the mirror.

“Tonight?” she asked softly as she stepped closer, lifting her hands to help remove the pins still holding the rest in place. “Are you…?”

You met her eyes in the reflection.

You nodded.

She stilled for a moment, then resumed her work, slower now, gentler. The next pin slid free, catching briefly before releasing your hair in a soft fall over your shoulders. In the mirror, you barely recognized yourself. The underthings were delicate, sheer where they could be, embroidered with small, careful flowers meant to suggest innocence while offering very little of it. They were unmistakable in their purpose. An unspoken signal, an invitation needing no words.

Joanna’s movements slowed further, as if each pass of the comb required deliberation. When she finished, she did not step away at once.

“My lady,” she said quietly. “Master Figarland may have been angry, but he loves you. You do not need to use yourself this way if you are not ready. He knows what the loss did to you.”

You met her eyes in the mirror.

Poor, kind Joanna. All heart, no armor. She carried compassion the way others carried blades, and one day it would be the thing that shattered her.

“Do not question this,” you said steadily, keeping your voice even as you held her gaze. “It has been some time since the… loss. I am quite healed.”

Her brows furrowed, concern deepening rather than easing. She swallowed, then lifted her chin, surprising you with her resolve.

“My lady,” she said softly, “you should not be made to share a bed if you do not wish it.” Her voice trembled, but she continued. “He should at least be seen by the physicians first—”

You reached up and unpinned another section of your hair, letting it fall loose down your back. The movement was slow and final.

Joanna fell silent.

The mirror caught everything: the way your expression didn’t change, the way your hands didn’t shake, the way you had already made your decision long before either of you spoke.

“This isn’t about what I want,” you said quietly. “It’s about what must be done.”

Her lips parted as if to argue again, but no words came. You turned slightly, just enough to meet her eyes in the mirror.

“I would be astonished if the Master weren’t already taking precautions,” you continued evenly. “He is thorough. And I doubt he would risk bringing anything into this house that could endanger an heir.”

Joanna hesitated, then nodded faintly. “I… I overheard him speaking to Varian once. The physician’s injections were not ordinary treatments. They were… potent. Meant to ensure fertility.”

“I know,” you said softly.

Something in her face crumpled at that, closer to grief.

“Do you want to be pregnant again?” she asked, voice catching. “Or is this part of some plan? Because when I look at you now, you look as if you’ve already stepped away from all of this.” Her breath stuttered. “I don’t want you doing this because you think you have to. I want you to have children because you want them. I want you to have a life and—”

Her voice broke.

You reached for her before you could stop yourself, fingers closing gently around her hand. “I cannot leave Mary Geoise until I am.”

Joanna understood immediately, and her entire body went rigid.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I truly am. But if I hesitate now, if I let myself want things, I will hesitate when it matters most.” Your grip tightened briefly. “I will hurt you again. So you shouldn’t forgive me for this.”

She shook her head, tears threatening. “No, my lady. Please. I know you care for him. I see it. The way you look at him, the way he softens around you. You make him better.” She swallowed. “I helped raise him. I know him. If you asked him—truly asked—he would give you anything.”

Slowly, you stood.

“Joanna,” you said gently, lifting a hand to still her. “You have been very kind to me. Kinder than was deserved.”

She looked up at you, confusion and fear warring across her face.

“That is why,” you finished quietly, “you must leave. Do not get involved, and do your tasks without heart.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the connecting door.

Joanna stiffened at once. The softness drained from her expression as duty settled back into place, familiar as armor. She inclined her head, hands folding neatly before her.

“Goodbye, my lady,” she said, voice steady despite everything unsaid.

You watched her go, the door closing softly behind her. For a heartbeat, the room was still. Then the other door creaked open.

Garling stepped inside, fastening the tie of his robe as he did. His hair was still damp from bathing, darkened where water clung to it, the loose strands falling untidily against his shoulders.

 “I have some news that you should find pleasing—“

He was looking down as he spoke, already halfway through the thought, and then he glanced up, then stopped cold.

His gaze caught on you where you stood near the door, the low firelight skimming bare skin, tracing the soft lines left uncovered by deliberate choice. Your hair hung loose around your neck, candles warming your face dreamily.

For a moment, he said nothing at all.

“Oh,” he murmured, color blooming faintly across his cheeks.

The air shifted, thickening with something unspoken. His gaze lingered on you, something hot and unsettled flickering there before he masked it. The door shut softly behind him, the sound carrying far too loudly in the quiet that followed.

The air changed. Thickened. His eyes lingered, something restless flickering there before he schooled it away. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound far too loud in the quiet that followed.

“I… didn’t expect—” He cleared his throat, composure slipping for just a second. “I came to tell you that we can depart. That everything has been approved.”

You tilted your head, letting the firelight catch in your hair as your fingers drifted absently through it.

“Depart?” you asked softly.

Whatever he meant to say next faltered. His hand found the bedframe as he stepped closer, grounding himself, as if the room itself had tilted. The shift of his robe was subtle, but you saw it—the way his control wavered, the way his attention snagged on you and refused to let go.

“Yes,” he said, voice rougher now. “The West Blue. Two weeks from now. You’ll be coming with me.”

His gaze stayed on you.

“We can visit God Valley.”

The fire crackled behind you, warmth brushing your skin.

“God Valley?” you echoed, lifting a finger to the thin band at your throat. The movement was small, thoughtless on the surface. It drew his eyes down anyway.

He swallowed.

“There will still be rules,” he said quickly. “Precautions. The collar remains—”

You shifted, adjusting the band of your stocking, slow enough to be unmistakable. His breath caught. The effect was immediate, written plainly across his face.

He dragged a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. “Gods above,” he muttered. “Must you, when I am trying to speak?”

You smiled then, not sharp, not mocking. Just soft enough to make him hesitate.

You crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, folding your hands in your lap, primed to listen. 

“Go on,” you said quietly.

For a heartbeat, he only stood there, watching you. The firelight caught the tension in his posture, the rigid line of his shoulders, the conflict written plainly across his face. Then he turned away toward the hearth, jaw tightening as though he were bracing himself.

“Minx,” he murmured, the word carrying more than reprimand. There was strain in it now. Something careful. Something afraid.

He drew in a slow breath before speaking again.

“There is… one condition,” he said at last. “Before we leave.” His fingers flexed once at his side. “I need to be certain that you are with child before we depart Mary Geoise. Preferably the traditional option, but the doctors may come if… if you prefer that option.” He ended a little flat, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying this while you were wearing skimpy lingerie before him.

The words hung between you, and he looked deeply guilty, which made the guilt of what you’re were about to do sting a little. He was expecting you to torment and sass him, to let him come and ‘talk’. You’d make him talk and talk while wearing nearly nothing, and when he tries to butter you up, you’d then tell him to leave.

Instead, you smiled. kindly, as if the thought had already settled in you and found no resistance there at all. You inhaled, steadying yourself, then let your shoulders ease, your posture softening in a way he had not seen in months.

“That won’t be a problem,” you said, softly, with no reprimand. “Garling, I want to have your baby.”

He turned sharply, looking like you shot him, mouth open and breath short, searching your face for trickery or mockery. You looked down at your hands for a moment, fingers lacing together in your lap, choosing your words with care.

“I have been thinking about what we talked about…and I need to apologize. I was trying to provoke you,” you admitted quietly. “I wanted a reaction. I wanted to know that I still mattered enough to make you lose control.” You let out a small, self-aware breath. “When I heard about the other woman. That exquisite Kuja woman... I panicked.”

His brow furrowed.

“I lost my head,” you continued. “The pregnancy made everything feel unstable. I felt… disposable. Afraid that I was being replaced before I even understood where I stood. I wanted to see my friends, and when Diente told me where they were…I forgot everything. I hurt you without trying to understand your side of things.”

You lifted your gaze back to him then, eyes steady.

“I am sorry. I… I should have trusted you.”

He stared at you, caught off guard by the candor.

“You apologized,” you went on, voice softening. You rose slowly from the bed and stepped closer, stopping just within his reach.

“I want to believe in you,” you said. “I want to believe we can have a second chance. Not because I am frightened. Not because I am cornered. I want to love you.”

Your hand lifted, resting lightly against his chest, over his heart.

“But because I want this,” you said simply. “I want you. And I want your child.”

His breath caught.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. You felt the shift in him before you saw it, the careful restraint giving way to something unguarded, almost reverent. His hand trembled slightly as it came up to cover yours, where it rested against his chest, holding it there as though afraid you might vanish if he let go.

“You mean that?” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question so much as a hope he was afraid to voice.

You met his gaze and nodded once.

He closed his ruby eyes for a brief moment, as if steadying himself. When he opened them again, something vulnerable lingered there, something that hadn’t been present before.

“May I?” he asked, low and careful, the question carrying more weight than it should have.

You answered by leaning back slightly, guiding him closer with a touch that was deliberately sensual. Your fingers slipped to the tie of his robe, loosening it with practiced ease, and you smiled up at him.

His breath stumbled again as he followed you, hands bracing at your sides, gaze fixed on you as if he was afraid to look away.

And as you drew him closer, as the distance between you vanished, you thought, not without a trace of bitter amusement…

But when it came to you, restraint stopped being a virtue and became a liability.

Varian followed a step behind him, doing his best and looking worn for it, arms full of reports that should never have made it this far up the chain. The servants stationed at the gate straightened at once when Garling approached, faces tight with expectation, bracing themselves for a tongue-lashing and a miserable evening.

Garling was tires, irritable, and already halfway to your bed in his mind.

He had expected to find you there, waiting quietly beneath the sheets, ready to hear the worst of his day, to steady him with soft words and lovemaking if you felt well enough. Instead, when he crossed the threshold of the estate, you were there at the door waiting.

The sight of you shaved the sharpest edge off his temper before he could stop it.

You weren’t making a show of it. Just there, dressed sweetly, hair twisted back simply, looking entirely too innocent for the way your eyes gleamed. Wicked, he thought dimly, with the faintest flicker of complaint that you could look so mischievous and still undo him so completely.

He barely acknowledged the servants before his hand found your waist, firm and familiar, drawing you in with a low sound of relief he did not bother to disguise. The door had scarcely closed behind him when his grip tightened, practiced and certain, pulling you close as though the rest of the world had already ceased to exist.

The servants evaporated.

“Were you awaiting me?”

You tilted your head. “I can stop, if you’re feeling insecure.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Please, don’t, I could use the humbling.”

You laughed softly and let yourself be pulled along, but you shifted your steps just enough to alter his course. You leaned into him instead of resisting, hands settling against his chest, redirecting him with subtle pressure he was far too distracted to question. He was already warm with anticipation, already needy, already convinced he was moments away from what he wanted.

“Garling,” you said lightly, palm pressing to his chest as you reached the threshold of your rooms, “you should put your things down first.”

“It can wait,” he huffed, tugging you closer.

“I insist.”

He rolled his eyes, breath leaving him in something close to a long-suffering sigh, but he indulged you anyway. He always would, especially when you were looking so devious. He let you steer him fully into his own chambers, the door closing behind you with a familiar, private click.

He turned toward you at once, clearly intending to pick up exactly where he’d been interrupted, but he stopped.

There, beside his desk, was a cradle.

He stared at it.

“…What,” he murmured, slow and incredulous, “is this doing here?”

You hummed, sweet and entirely unrepentant, rocking slightly on your heels as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “Oh. That.”

He looked at you. Then at the cradle. Then back at you again, as if checking to see whether you were laughing at him. You weren’t. Your smile was bright, pleased, and unmistakably proud.

“My love,” he said carefully, choosing his words the way he did before battle or judgment, “what, precisely, are you up to?”

“Nothing large,” you replied, nodding with solemn sincerity. “You manage wars and laws all day. I thought you could also manage naps.”

For a long moment, he said nothing at all. His mouth twitched once, twice, the fight clearly lost before it ever began.

Then he laughed. It came out abrupt and genuine, a startled bark of amusement he clearly hadn’t intended, the sound echoing faintly in the room. He stepped away from you at last, crossing to the cradle as if he needed to confirm it was solid and not some clever illusion you had conjured. He rested his hand on the smooth wood, thumb brushing along its edge, shaking his head slowly.

“You defy expectation,” he said, still smiling, the words warm with something dangerously close to affection. “I come home intending to drag my wife to bed, and instead I’m ambushed by baby furniture.”

You grinned, unable to help yourself. “I thought it was celebratory. After all, it’s the first piece of furniture for the baby.”

His gaze softened as he looked back at you, then drifted to the cradle again, something quieter settling into his expression.

“You’ve officially informed the staff,” he said, not a question.

You nodded. “Yes. And had the doctor visit again.” You hesitated only a moment, then added, voice lighter despite the gravity of it, “I’m nearly three months along.”

That did it.

He looked back at you, eyes brightening. He crossed the distance between you without hurry, hands settling at your hips as he studied you with open, almost boyish fondness, as if expecting to see something new simply because the truth felt larger now that it had been spoken aloud.

“So efficient,” he murmured, satisfaction threading his voice. “We were married just before that. Seems that the Figarland seed is insatiable in its propagation.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that right?”

“How industrious of us,” he went on, unmistakably vexing you now. “The city will think I married you because I impregnated you.”

You gave an exasperated chuckle and nudged his chest. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re teasing me—”

“I am delighting in you,” he added smoothly, “Always.”

His hands stayed at your hips, steady and warm, thumbs brushing there with absent tenderness. The teasing never quite erased the seriousness beneath it. He leaned in and pressed a brief, careful kiss to your temple, reverent in a way that still caught you off guard.

“Well,” he added lightly, glancing back at the cradle, “if you’re already this productive, we may as well make it official.”

You raised a brow. “Make what official? Did we forget to file the marriage paperwork?”

He laughed, but gestured vaguely between your adjoining rooms, as though the situation was self-evident. “Let us be done pretending we need separate chambers.”

You blinked. “You want to combine rooms?”

“It is settled,” he said easily. “We will combine rooms. The other can be reworked as a nursery, or storage, whatever you like.” His expression softened into something fond and certain, as if he had just announced the most reasonable decision in the world. “I don’t require space away from you.”

You raised your brows pointedly, a silent reminder that this was not, in fact, a unilateral decree. He smiled, looked away, and very deliberately pretended not to notice.

“Garling.”

He glanced back at the cradle, lips curving faintly, as though it were already conspiring with him. “Come now, beloved,” he said mildly, glancing softly to the cradle. “Have pity on your husband and let me be close when I can. Don’t you want the nursery next door?”

You huffed, smiling. “The official Figarland nursery is already just another door down the hall,” you pointed out. “You are making excuses, so I can’t bar you from my bed if I get angry with you again.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he inclined his head with calm, dignified honesty. “Correct.”

You stared at him.

“I would rather be impaled,” he continued evenly, as though discussing troop deployment, “than endure you being angry enough to bar me from your bed again.”

No drama. No apology. Just the truth, delivered with the solemn gravity of a man solving a strategic problem and arriving at the only acceptable outcome.

You scoffed and shoved him lightly in the chest. “Garling, honestly."

He took the shove as an invitation. In the same motion, he caught you and drew you in, one arm firm at your back while his other hand settled instinctively over your belly, protective and warm, as though it had always belonged there.

“No, don’t brush me off. I need you to know.” He leaned in, smile widening, “I adore you.”

You stilled, caught off guard by the vulnerability threading through the moment.

“Garling—”

He paused at the shift in your tone, caught it instantly, and then pulled you closer, firm and decisive, barring any instinctive retreat before it could take shape.

“No,” he said quietly. “My love. No more sleek evasions or coy diversions.” His voice lowered, steady and unyielding. “I love you. And you need to hear this, not in a moment of alarm, or pleasure, or gratitude. Said as an eternal fact: I love you.”

You pressed your lips together, biting at one as you tried to comprehend how you had arrived here. This naked admission was somehow more mortifying than all your moments in bed combined, because those could be understood. Desire made men reckless. Passion excused intensity.

This did not. This was offered because he believed you doubted him. 

Then he doubled down.

He lifted a hand, gentle but insistent, tilting your face until you had no choice but to look at him.

“Every waking moment,” he said, each word deliberate, “I care for you more than any other single person in existence.” His thumb rested lightly on your jaw, grounding rather than possessive. “You are the heartbeat of my soul. The reason I wake now is to see your face—and to plan how I might make you smile.”

You furrowed your brows, searching his face for exaggeration, for vanity, for anything familiar enough to dismiss.

“I did not marry you willingly,” you said quietly, firmly. “I am not here because of some grand love story, or because we could not bear to be apart.” You swallowed. “You took me. I am your wife, but do not mistake that for agreement.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his gaze remained fixed on yours, steady and unguarded.

“I am at odds with everything in this place,” you continued, your voice even despite the violence of the truth. “With what it stands for. With what it demands.” Your breath caught. “And if I am to survive here, I have to live with the knowledge that my presence is the reason my friends are hurt and otherwise. If not by your hand, then because of the world you guard.”

The words fell between you like something opened too deep to be closed again.

“I pull away because I don’t always know how to meet you halfway,” you said. “Because when I am angry, or afraid of what this is becoming, silence feels safer than speaking.” Your voice lowered. “I do not know if what I say will cost someone else their life. And I cannot carry that again.”

He listened to all of it. The weight. The accusation. The fear. His hold neither tightened nor loosened. He simply remained, present and immovable, taking the truth without deflecting it.

Only when you finished did he draw a slow breath, his hand still warm at your belly, grounding.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I did not give you a choice. I will not claim otherwise.” His thumb stilled, resting there as though he were anchoring himself as much as you. “I cannot pretend I am troubled by the fate of those who threatened Mary Geoise, nor will I ask for your forgiveness.”

The honesty did not strike like a blade. It pressed in instead, relentless and suffocating, painful in its heat, like stepping into a sauna too hot to bear at first, but cleansing all the same, forcing the sickness out through sweat and breath until what remained was only truth.

“I am not built for absolution,” he continued. “Nor for remorse performed to ease another’s conscience.” His gaze did not waver, did not soften. “What I did, I did knowingly. And I would do it again.”

He held your gaze, unwavering.

There was no plea in his eyes. No attempt to justify himself beyond that single, terrible certainty.

“But do not mistake that for indifference to you,” he said. “I see what this ordeal has cost you. I see what I took from you. And I know that when you pull away, it is not simply a punishment—It is survival.”

You swallowed.

“I do not ask you to forgive me now, or even in the near future,” he went on. “But I am begging you to give me a chance. Be furious with me. Be vengeful. Insult me, mock me, harm me, I can bear it.” His voice lowered, roughened just slightly. “But let me prove that I can be better for you. There is little you could ask me that I would not do to secure your happiness.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between you, to the steady rise and fall of his breath and the warmth of his hand.

“You’re very good at convincing people,” you said softly.

“No,” he said, pulling your hand up for a kiss, “I don’t care about anyone else besides you. It’s only you whom I cannot bear to be unhappy.”

He said it without defensiveness. Without evasion. Just the honest, painful, almost humiliating truth.

“I know you do not love me as I love you,” he said quietly. “But I hope that one day your heart may change. That one day, you may even be overjoyed to call me your husband.”

You held each other’s gaze, searching. Your bodies fit together easily, instinctively, but who you were beneath the skin felt like fire and water reaching for one another. Their contact did not merge. It hissed. Steam rose where they touched. Harmony would require a law of nature to bend.

And yet, the softness he showed you was not false.

He had favored you beyond reason. Beyond prudence. He had married you.

That was what left you unmoored.

Why you?

Your face? Your sharp tongue? The color of your hair, convenient for heirs? Or because you were rare in a land of chittering goats, a singular creature in a place that prized sameness? The Celestial Dragons were vain, cruel, and tedious in their excess, but Garling himself was not confined to Mary Geoise for finding women. He could have anyone, women far grander and more beautiful than you.

You did not believe, truly, that you would ever be the only woman in his life. You doubted he even defined fidelity the way others did. Titles and honor may currently be yours, but everything was negotiable.

What was love to a man like Garling Figarland?

 To a Celestial Dragon who cared nothing for anyone or anything besides their own pride and pleasure? To a lineage that valued conquest, legacy, and control above all else?

You would have said it was nothing.

Except his love for you had been something.

It had spared ten lives. It had opened doors that should never have opened. It had bent a system that did not bend. It had protected you from a traitor's death, saved Thorne Maria from a public hanging, safeguarded you against even the Five Elders, because Garling Figarland loved you, and more importantly, wanted you to love him. 

And in that unanswerable contradiction lay the truth of him: he was trying to bind you not with force, nor fear, nor even a child, but with consent because he knew that without it, you would never truly be his.

His gaze searched your face, uncertain in a way you had never seen before.

“Do…do you hate me still?”

You should.

You knew all the reasons why you should. You remembered them often enough, catalogued and sharp, ready to be summoned whenever you needed armor.

But standing there, held against him, his hand steady over your belly, his voice stripped of arrogance and dusted with something raw and unguarded, the truth surfaced before you could stop it.

“No,” you said quietly. “I don’t.”

The admission felt like stepping off a ledge and discovering the ground was closer than you feared.

“Most days,” you added, a faint, crooked edge creeping into your voice, “I even find you… likable. Most days.”

For a heartbeat, he did not react at all. Then something in his face shifted, subtle but unmistakable, as if a tension he had been carrying for far too long had finally loosened its grip. His breath left him in a slow exhale, the sound barely audible.

“Likable,” he repeated, tasting the word.

You huffed softly. “Don’t look so proud. That bar is buried underground.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth, fragile and real. He leaned his forehead briefly against yours, not claiming, not demanding, just resting there as though the weight of himself had grown heavy all at once.

“That is more than I expected,” he admitted.

You laughed. It slipped out of you without thought, light and a little disbelieving, as if you were laughing at the sheer improbability of the moment rather than the man in front of you.

Relief crossed his face so quickly it nearly startled you. His shoulders eased, the rigid line of him loosening in a way you rarely saw. Then his mouth curved, slow and satisfied, like a man who had just won a battle he had not been entirely certain he could survive.

“I love you,” he said again, simply. “Always.” Then, with ruinous timing and unmistakable intent, “Now tell me you find me handsome.”

You blinked. Then you swatted his arm. “Oh, don’t start.”

“Am I a good husband?” he pressed, tone turning smug almost immediately, the vulnerability tucking itself neatly away behind practiced confidence.

“That’s enough,” you said, laughing despite yourself as you swatted him again. “You’re fishing.”

He caught your wrist this time, fingers warm and sure, his smile broad and unapologetic. “Of course I am. Have you looked at yourself? People are beginning to realize I married out of my league.”

You shook your head, muttering something under your breath about unbearable men and oversized egos, but you leaned into him all the same. His laughter brushed warm against your temple, rich and real, vibrating through his chest where you rested.

The cradle sat quietly nearby, an unassuming piece of furniture that somehow made the room feel fuller than it ever had before. For a rare, unguarded moment, the world felt softer around the edges.

Garling broke the stillness first, fingers tightening briefly at your waist before he shifted. “Come,” he said, already turning you with him. “I need to wash the day off, and I wish to continue speaking with you.”

He led you into his bathing room, steam still lingering faintly from an expectant staff. The space was all pale stone like your own, water murmuring as he tested the temperature. He disappeared for a moment only to return, dragging one of the cushioned chairs from the sitting room.

“There,” he said, satisfied, nudging the chair into place beside the bath, close enough to hold hands. “You’ll not stand on my watch.”

You raised a brow at the phrasing, but you obeyed, settling into the cushioned seat as he turned away. He shed the last of his colorful uniform with practiced efficiency, armor and silk set aside in careful order, as though even now habit demanded precision. When he stepped into the bath, the water lapped softly against the stone, steam curling upward as the heat claimed him.

The rigid line of his shoulders eased, and whatever sharp edges the day had left clinging to him began to soften as the warmth seeped in, loosening tension he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. With one dip he let his hair wet, loosening it from it’s gel, and wash free and loose. 

After, he tilted his head, pulling his hair back behind him as he knew you liked, letting you admire the way it emphasized his handsome face. 

“Brush it for me?” He asked softly ,like he had a few other nights. You conceded, moving to grab one of his combs and untangle his hair, sitting again to do so. 

He leaned towards you, his forearms resting along the rim, so you didn’t have to reach quite as much. You softly pulled the brush through wet strands, droplets of water dotting your dress. After a while, he glanced at you over the edge of the bath, expression relaxed.

“The staff,” he said casually, as though asking after inventory or weather. “How did they take the news of our baby?”

You flushed at the wording, pausing your brushing.

Our baby. The possessive jointness of it settled warmly in your chest, a quiet weight that felt… grounding. You hummed, buying yourself a moment, fingers lacing together in your lap as you considered.

“Nervous,” you said finally, taking a section of hair. “Excited. All were trying very hard not to look like they had been waiting for it.” A faint smile tugged at your mouth. “Joanna cried. Twice.”

That earned a low chuckle from him, and he sighed as your fingers brushed against his scalp. “I expected as much. Does the head maid still serve you well?”

“Very much so. Too much at times, but she's a good woman. Don’t even think of changing her.” You warned him, tapping his head with the brush.

He glanced up, smiling. “I’m glad you like her. She was a former maid of my mother's, and has served quietly downstairs for many years. She used to sneak me candy when I was a boy.”

You grinned back. “That would explain her soft spot for you.” He chuckled, “You needn’t worry, all the staff have been careful with me. Doors opened before I reached them. Chairs appearing where I didn’t ask for them.” You rolled your eyes fondly. “Someone tried to help me take down a book from a shelf.”

He snorted. “Reasonable.”

“Not so.” You countered, moving to grab a towel.

His mouth curved as he shifted slightly in the water, one arm lifting to rest more comfortably. “And you?” he asked, quieter now. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” you said honestly, returning, and motioning him to turn, letting you pat dry his hair. “Tired, occasionally irritable, but otherwise fine.” You hesitated, then added, with a wrinkle of your nose, “But honestly, I do not care for your doctor.”

That got his full attention. His brows lifted. “The doctor?”

“She’s… competent,” you allowed. “But she speaks to me like I might shatter if I breathe too deeply. I feel more like a cow than a woman.”

He laughed outright at that, the sound echoing warmly off the stone. “I’ll find another,” he said easily.

You tilted your head. “Female doctors aren’t exactly plentiful.”

“No,” he admitted, unbothered, taking the towel to dry his hands. “They’re rare. Irritatingly so.” He regarded you for a moment, then added, gentler, “Bear with her a little longer. I’ll replace her as soon as I can.”

You sighed, resigned but amused. “Very well. But if she looks at me wrong again, I’m blaming you.”

He smiled, indulgent and fond. “I’ll consider it my burden.”

You laughed, the sound soft and surprised, warmth blooming low in your chest as you watched him soak. Steam blurred the sharper lines of his face, easing the severity the day usually carved into him. He shifted, resting an elbow on the rim of the bath, turning just enough to watch as you adjusted yourself more comfortably in the chair. His gaze followed the movement with habitual attention, not possessive so much as attuned, as though noting your comfort were as natural to him as breathing.

“The slaves you purchased reached the base of the Red Line today,” he said, his tone easing back into something practical, measured, but not cold.

Your head lifted at once. “The mothers?” you asked. “And the babies?”

“All accounted for,” he replied without hesitation. “Together. Clean quarters. Food. Medical oversight.” His mouth curved faintly. “No one has so much as raised a voice at them.”

Something in your chest loosened, just a little.

You looked down at your hands, fingers lacing together, the earlier warmth of laughter sobering into thought. Images rose unbidden: the market, the way eyes had followed you without hope, the strange stillness of people who had learned expectation only led to pain.

“They’ve not been formally released yet,” he continued after a beat. “I thought you might have opinions on where they should be sent.” A pause, deliberate. “When asked, most said they no longer have a home.” He glanced at you, assessing but deferential. “As they are yours, I wished to defer the matter to your judgment.”

The phrasing made you wince. Yours. Ownership reframed as responsibility.

You breathed in slowly, then out. Your thumb traced the seam of your sleeve as you searched for an answer that felt like more than a reaction. Somewhere that was not merely away, but forward. Somewhere they would not be watched, catalogued, considered as mercy cases. Garling listened without interruption, eyes steady on you, letting the silence do its work.

Your gaze lifted at last, meeting his. “They… They could settle in God Valley.”

The name sat between you.

Steam curled through the air as he considered it, expression unreadable for a long moment. Then his brows lifted slightly, not in surprise, but recognition.

“God Valley,” he repeated quietly. His brows lifted slightly in interest.

“It’s distant,” you said, firmer now that the thought had taken shape. “Quiet enough. Fertile. There are communities there that know how to live without drawing notice. They wouldn’t be curiosities. Or dependents.” You swallowed. “Just people.”

He leaned back against the stone, water shifting softly around him, gaze turning inward as calculations clicked into place.

“As you wish. I’ll have it done today.”

You exhaled, relief loosening your shoulders. “Thank you.”

His eyes flicked back to you, steady and unreadable. “This was your mercy. I’m merely executing it.”

“I thank you regardless,” you said, quietly firm.

Garling looked away for a moment, as if adjusting something internal, then spoke again in a tone so even it almost sounded incidental.

“We spoke of my forthcoming visit to the West Blue,” he said. “You did not seem eager to accompany me at the time.” A pause. “However…”

You watched him uneasily.

He leaned back against the stone rim of the bath, water shifting softly, gaze lifting toward the ceiling as he continued, voice thoughtful rather than directive. “I’ve never seen your island, nor do I have any idea how the locals will receive your freed slaves. Though they will have compensation, there is no guarantee of safety. And a resettlement should not rely on distant communication. You may even stay with them as I sail around the West Blue.”

Your brows knit, then rose.

“Alone?” You asked in alarm.

“For a small time, while I am busy. I think it would be wise for you to go and ensure that your wishes have been followed,” he said. “It is your island, and your people. You will rest easier if you see it with your own eyes. And you will know—without needing to trust reports or promises—that I have kept my word.”

You twined your fingers together, tilting your head, studying him. “I am surprised you would allow me beyond Mary Geoise,” you said honestly. “Especially alone. So much so that I can’t help but feel suspicious of your intent.”

He did not bristle.

“You stay will be monitored by guards and staff. All travel would be measured,” he replied calmly. “Carefully planned. No unnecessary strain.” A faint emphasis edged his tone. “And what motive would I have, other than not wanting to be separated too long from my wife?”

You frowned, calculating the numerous reasons he could have.

“The truth,” he continued after a beat, unvarnished, “is that I am a selfish man. I want you to see that I can give you freedom without losing you. That I can keep my word and still stand beside you.” His gaze held yours, steady. “I need you to believe that.” Then, quieter, almost contemplative, he added, “And I cannot help but wonder why you would not wish to return there at all. I suspect it is because you are hiding something from me.”

“I didn’t—” you said, a little too sharply, then checked yourself. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to,” he murmured. “You wear your silences as clearly as your words.” His tone softened, coaxing rather than accusing. “I could promise you safety if you would only stop hiding pieces of yourself from me.”

You looked away, lips pressing together.

“It is not about me hiding,” you said after a moment, forcing the truth out before it could harden into something sharper. “It is about trust. I am unsure whether I can trust my very noble and refined husband to interact politely with people he considers his lessers. People who dislike the World Government.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Are you afraid I will be rude?”

You shot him a look. “I’m afraid you will insulted, then react like a Celestial Dragon.”

His smirk faltered.

“Garling, I’ve seen what happens when you dislike something,” you continued quietly. “You do not need to raise your voice. You are powerful enough simply decide someone shouldn’t exist anymore, and your guards or staff will react.”  Your fingers opened, gesticulating, before you pulled them into your chest. “It would break my heart if my home—if its people—were hurt because of this visit.”

Garling did not answer immediately. The steam curled around him, blurring the sharp lines of his face as he studied you, not with offense, but with something closer to consideration. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured.

“Let me make you a promise,” he said at last. The levity was gone from his voice now. What replaced it was steady, and deliberate by design. “When we visit, I swear not to harm a single villager of God Valley,” he said. “Unless they threaten you first.” He held your gaze. “I cannot promise I will let insults pass without comment, as I am not built that wa, but I can promise restraint.”

He shifted slightly in the bath, water murmuring against stone, and continued without raising his voice.

“I want you to go and be happy. To know that being with me is meaningful, and that it had done enormous good. That way,” he continued, as if outlining a careful itinerary rather than offering something extraordinary, “you may fully enjoy your stay and gather memories that are not tempered by worry or fear of my reaction.” His eyes softened, just slightly. “Memories you can carry back here with you.”

You stared at him, searching his face for the catch.

“That is,” you said slowly, “an unbelievably generous offer.” You shook your head. “And far too trusting. You expect me to believe you letting me be alone doesn’t make you nervous.”

“It does,” he said at once. “I would be a fool if it did not,” he continued. “Which is why I need to ask you something plainly.” His gaze sharpened, not accusing, but intent. “Do you have reason to believe that your revolutionaries would seek you out there?”

You drew in a careful breath, no use pretending ignorance now, though you didn’t look at him.

“I do not know. The other revolutionaries found my ability to use haki useful, but I mostly worked in communications, not in the field. I didn’t have any formal training until Alder decided I need to go to Mary Geoise. Even now, my power is at best variable, and nothing like the Dav—nothing like other haki I’ve seen. Your haki.”

Garling hummed, absorbing that without any visible reaction. His thumb traced a slow, thoughtful line along the back of your hand, more habit than comfort.

“You underestimate yourself, my love,” he said at last. “The nature of you haki alone is invaluable, I can see why they recruited you, though your heart is too king.” His gaze sharpened, not unkind, but assessing. “What astonishes me is that they allowed you anywhere near Mary Geoise with such potential. That was either arrogance or desperation.”

You swallowed, your eyes dropping to the place where your hands rested together over your bump.

“I can assume most revolutionaries didn’t share that sentiment. They didn’t dislike me, but found me immature and lacking in subtly,” you admitted quietly, before giving a strained grin. “I guess they were right. But there’s no doubt that they would see me giving you a child as a betrayal.” Your throat tightened. “I would not blame them for wanting me dead. I am a traitor, a whore unworthy of the title of revolutionary.”

Garling’s expression shifted into consideration. He leaned back slightly, eyes lifting toward the high ceiling as though weighing something vast and abstract.

“Perhaps,” he said eventually, nodding once. “That is possible.”

The answer surprised you. He did not soften it, and you flushed in degradation.

“Such kindness, from the husband who claims to love me–”

“But,” he continued, cutting you off, “the only opinion that has ever truly mattered is your own. I don’t see you that way, my dear.” His voice was calm, almost instructional.

“No?” You asked quietly.

“Tell me,” he went on, “who among your revolutionaries can claim courage against you? None of them has actually made choice that made a difference in the world. The ones who schemed, infiltrated, whispered in shadows, congratulated themselves on moral purity, still send someone younger and more innocent to do their dirty work. Do they deserve to call themselves honorable? Compared to the brave woman who chose to bind herself voluntarily to free the people she loved, do they seem so virtuous?”

You looked up at him, breath caught.

“There is power,” Garling said, steady and precise, “in your choice. To pick standing at the top of the world and choosing mercy, instead of only talking about it. Who your sacrifice has freed has been recorded, documened, and will have a lasting effect.” His fingers closed more firmly around yours. “You being the mother of my children will change Mary Geoise. If your former comrades cannot distinguish between cowardice and strategy, between weakness and unbearable resolve, then they never understood what true revolution begin with.”

His gaze softened, his hand reaching to hold yours

“And if they revile you for it,” he added, “that is not a condemnation of you. It is an indictment of how small their vision truly was.”

You hesitated, the silence stretching just long enough to betray the war inside you. Instinct urged caution. Reason reminded you of everything he was. How fiercely protective he could be. How thoroughly he planned. How little he ever left to chance when it came to you.

“I do not think they would come after me,” you said finally. “They do not have the strength to confront you directly.” Your fingers tightened together in your lap. “But…”

Garling lifted a hand, stopping the rest before it could form. The gesture was gentle, but absolute.

“I did not ask whether you feared them,” he said calmly. “Nor am I concerned with their intentions.” He turned fully toward you then, his attention sharp and undivided. “I am telling you this so there is no misunderstanding. If they move against you in any capacity—”

The words were not spoken in anger, making them heavier.

“I will be done with mercy,” he continued, voice level. “Can you excuse me for breaking our promise if that comes to pass?”

He waited.

You nodded, slow and reluctant, the weight of the answer settling heavy in your chest. “…If it comes to that, yes.”

Garling’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, unreadable, as though he were fixing the expression of your face into memory. You could see the decision made, and the line drawn. Then something in him eased, and he squeezed your hand before letting it go.

Without another word, he shifted, water rippling as he rose. He pulled himself out of the bath in one smooth motion, reaching for a towel and dragging it briskly over his shoulders and hair, unhurried but efficient, already elsewhere in his mind.

“Good,” he said, the severity bleeding away into something lighter. “Now that we’re agreed…”

He crossed the space between you with a playful saunter that felt almost incongruous after the weight of the conversation. Before you could react, his arms were around you, and suddenly you were airborne.

You yelped despite yourself, instinctively clutching at him.

Garling laughed under his breath, warm and indulgent, completely unbothered by your protest. “Careful,” he murmured, adjusting his grip as though you weighed nothing at all. “You will wake the whole estate.”

He turned toward the adjoining chamber, already carrying you away. “Now,” he added, voice low and unmistakably pleased, “let us go to our bed.”

A week later, the morning was loud in the way only Donquixote estates could be. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, diffused by gauze curtains, and the tea between you and Anna steamed gently, untouched for the moment.

You did not regularly attend gatherings beyond the few Anna personally vetted and accompanied you to, a habit that quietly infuriated the upper echelons. They were eager to rally around you, for good or ill, and found themselves repeatedly denied the opportunity. Curiosity curdled into frustration. Speculation festered without an audience.

In the process, Anna became extraordinarily popular. She was the sole sanctioned path to you, the only one trusted to filter invitations, redirect inquiries, and gently, firmly refuse on your behalf. Those who wished to reach you learned quickly that they would have to go through her first.

And Anna, keen-eyed and unbothered, handled it beautifully. You visited one another several times a week, graduallly testing the waters elsewhere. But you both silently agreed her playroom was better, and so often ended up at the Donquixote estate.

Baby Doflamingo sat beside you on the cushioned bench, close enough that his small shoulder pressed into your side. He had long since decided you were safe. He leaned against you with the unthinking confidence of a child who believed you belonged there, one tiny hand absently clutching the edge of your sleeve as he gnawed on a sweet biscuit with fierce concentration.

Anna watched the scene with a fond, knowing smile as she stirred her tea. “You know,” she said lightly, eyes flicking between you and the child at your side, “your husband may have some competition in the future. Doffy is quite enamoured of you. The picture you took together he sleeps with at night.”

You glanced down as the boy.

Doffy looked up at you, fingers sticky with sugar, mouth curved into an unapologetic grin that already carried too much confidence for someone his size. Before you could so much as breathe a warning, he leaned in closer, pressing himself against your side with possessive determination. Then he kissed your arm.

The contact was quick and messy, a child’s unfiltered affection, and when he pulled back, there was a faint dusting of sugar left behind on the pristine white of your uniform. The mark was barely visible.

Anna laughed softly into her teacup.  “He is bold. Doffy, don’t smear your food on your auntie.”

Your smile widened despite yourself, slow and deliberately indulgent. “Lovely boy. Auntie will be sure to come over often.” 

Doffy smiled, and kissed your sleeve again, delighting in the attention

“Oh, you silly son,” she said, clearly exasperated of his distaste for listening to any instructions.

“Hush, it’s nothing.” You tilted your head, studying Doffy with exaggerated seriousness before reaching up to brush your thumb gently across his cheek, wiping away a trace of sugar. You did not bother to worry about the faint kiss marks on your arm.

“Sweet boy,” you murmured to him, voice warm and teasing. “You are leaving evidence, and my husband is a jealous man.”

Doffy only beamed wider, utterly unrepentant, leaning back into your side as if he had won something profound. His eyes glittered with the sort of confidence that suggested he absolutely knew what he was doing and fully intended to do it again. You leaned down to his little head and gave him a sweet kiss that he preened at. 

Anna watched the exchange with open amusement, lips parting as if to make another teasing remark.

Before she could, there was a quick knock on the door, and after it opened quietly.

Joanna slid inside, posture straight, expression carefully neutral. The moment her eyes found you, she inclined her head first, always first.

“Saintesses,” she said, voice measured, “My apologies for cutting into your visit. Commander Figarland has reached out and requested your presence, Saintess Figarland, to attend him at Shangra.”

Doffy’s small hand tightened in the fabric of your sleeve, his scowl immediate and possessive, while Anna’s amusement sharpened into something keen and observant.

You exhaled softly, surprise settling across your shoulders.

As a rule, Garling did his best to give you space during the day. When he returned home most nights, he debriefed you then, recounting his meetings and decisions, including updates on God Valley. Those conversations often came with a dry, incisive critique of anyone who had tested his already limited tolerance. 

But he had never once requested your presence in Shangra. Not once, and it was obvious why. His patience for most of the other Holy Knights bordered on open disdain. You could imagine him not wanting you anywhere near Sommers Shepherd or Diente Doflamingo.

Which made this… unusual. You nodded for a moment, weighing the implications, then inclined your head.

“Very well,” you said after a brief beat, your voice calm and composed, despite the quiet unease threading through your thoughts. “I will come shortly. Would you ready the carriage, Joanna?”

Joanna inclined her head once more, clearly satisfied. She withdrew as silently as she had entered, the door closing behind her with a soft, final click. The moment she was gone, Anna set her cup aside, porcelain touching saucer with deliberate care. Her brows lifted, unmistakable amusement lighting her expression as she looked you over openly now.

“Well,” she said, “that says very little and somehow everything at once.” She leaned back slightly, assessing you with the ease of someone who knew you well. “If Saint Figarland has gone so far as to summon you there, I doubt it is purely logistical. My guess is that he misses you and wants to show you off.”

You did not even attempt to deny it.

“Yes,” you said flatly. “He does probably wants to brag.”

Anna laughed, delighted, the sound warm and unrestrained. 

You carefully braced yourself before shifting, but Doffy huffed indignantly, clearly affronted by the very idea of you leaving. He kicked his heels against the cushion in protest, clutching closer to you as if daring anyone to try to take you away. He made a small, displeased sound, his arms tightening around your sleeve as though sheer will might keep you seated.

Anna rose at once, taking him gently into her arms, clicking her tongue. 

“Doflamingo, be good,” she said quietly, “And 

You smiled faintly in response. Doffy scowled toward the door, already offended by your impending departure, his grip tightening again before Anna managed to ease him fully away.

You brushed your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, murmuring to him even as you rose fully to your feet. He bristled immediately, twisting in Anna’s hold to glare back at you with wounded outrage, as though deeply betrayed.

You leaned down and wrapped them both in a careful, affectionate embrace.

“I will be back soon,” you promised softly.

Doffy pouted, Anna smiled, and then you straightened, already turning toward the door.

It should not have taken long to leave the Donquixote estate, but you were acquainted with many of its members, if not friendly with them. Word traveled quickly through the halls, and as you passed, faces brightened with recognition. Greetings followed you from every direction, some warm, some carefully respectful, others tinged with unmistakable curiosity.

You drew attention without trying to. Servants slowed. Relatives paused mid-conversation. More than a few watched you with open interest, as though you were something rare and unexpected that had wandered into their midst.

You were popular, in your own strange way. Exotic, certainly, with your singular hair color that set you apart at a glance. The Figarland name carried undeniable weight, but so did your own genteel manners. You spoke freely without ever straying into disrespect. You did not pick fights or pit people against one another. You listened when no one expected you to, and you offered kindness without demanding anything in return.

So they trusted you, and they spoke to you.

That trust made them a quiet litmus test for the undercurrents of gossip surrounding your pregnancy. The household had done an excellent job of keeping the truth contained, but a pregnancy this significant could only be hidden for so long. As casual orders were placed and routine purchases made, speculation began to surface in half-formed comments and lowered voices, the kind that stopped short of accusation and lingered instead in implication.

The smallest swell of your belly was unmistakable in sheer dresses. The Celestial Dragon uniform helped. The structured fabric, the high waist, and the careful layering disguised the change just enough that no one beyond the estate could speak with certainty.

You departed the Donquixote estate without ceremony. The gates opened at once, attendants already prepared, the carriage waiting as though it had been summoned the moment Joanna spoke Garling’s name. 

The ride took you straight across the city.

Mary Geoise unfolded around you in pristine layers as the carriage moved through its wide avenues and elevated paths. White stone gleamed beneath the sun, immaculate and cold. Gold filigree caught the light along balconies and spires, every surface polished to perfection. The city was immaculate in the way only something built on suffering could afford to be.

Shangra rose across the river in stark contrast to the surrounding estates, its presence heavier, more martial. You had seen its pale silhouette from a distance countless times. Still, standing before it now, you realized you had underestimated its scale, especially when set against the looming enormity of Pangaea Castle beside it.

Giant marble columns surged upward like upright tombs, bracing vast platforms and enclosed halls stacked with deliberate precision. The structure was stately without warmth, formidable without ornament, designed less to impress than to endure. It looked like a place built to outlast rebellion, weather scrutiny, and crush anything foolish enough to test it.

You first heard the stopping of boots. Many boots, and the low murmur of voices echoing through the stone.

The carriage slowed. You drew a steady breath, hands folding neatly in your lap as the door opened, light spilling across the polished floor. As you stepped down from the carriage, you realized the broad temple hall before you was full. Rows of young men stood arranged in loose formation, some armored, some half-dressed for training, others still bearing the restless energy of teens not yet taught how to stand still properly. Too many eyes turned toward you at once.

They stared with the unmistakable shock of seeing something wholly unexpected a woman to walk into a place that did not often see them. You felt it ripple through them, that split second where discipline lagged behind curiosity.

An attendant approached quickly, flustered in the way of someone who been warned in advance. He bowed low, then looked up, eyes widening slightly at your hair as recognition clicked into place.

“Ah— you must be Saintess Figarland,” he said, voice carrying just enough for the ramble to pick it up.

That was all it took.

The name moved through the trainees like a spark to dry grass. Heads tilted closer together. Whispers bloomed and spread, poorly disguised, full of hurried speculation.

“That’s her—”

“Figarland’s wife—”

“No way! She’s all my mum talks about—”

“My sister’s obsessed with her!”

“I thought she’d never come to Shangra—”

“That prick has a wife?—”

“Damn, the Commander is a lucky guy!

“Yeah she’s hot as—Ouch!”

“Hell, I’d push Sommers off a roof for her—”

You blinked blankly at the cacophony. It was like facing down three dozen talking ferrets. 

“Good Afternoon?” You said politely, and they simultaneously paused. 

Then some of the young men straightened instinctively, scrambling to correct their posture. Others froze outright, caught between awe and the sudden, sinking fear that they were being evaluated without understanding the criteria. You were acutely aware of how out of place you must have looked to them. Not armored. Not armed. Not here to train or to command. A single glance across the courtyard confirmed it. There was no other woman in sight.

“Saintess, if you would—”

The attendant gestured for you to follow, clearly eager to move you through the growing knot of attention. He led you forward, threading a careful path between the trainees, his shoulders tense as though he could feel their eyes burning into his back.

You walked calmly behind him, growing more entertained by the second. As you passed, the whispers shifted, losing cohesion, turning into fragments.

“…that’s her—”

“Did you see—”

“She smells—”

One voice, slightly too loud and far less guarded than the rest, cut through the murmuring.

“She smells really nice. Like flowers, but not my grandma’s.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind you, followed by a hissed reprimand. The attendant visibly flinched, already halfway through an apology that had not yet left his mouth.

You paused, turning just enough to glance back. 

The offender stood frozen, eyes wide, face rapidly turning the color of fresh blood as he realized exactly who had heard him. Several of his fellows looked ready to disown him on the spot.

For a heartbeat, the boys readied for a berating that would inevitably head straight to the Commander. But you didn’t fold your arms and sneer at them.

Instead, you found it instantly, absurdly hilarious.

You laughed.  A soft, genuine sound that broke the tension cleanly in two, once again surprising the boys.

“Well,” you said lightly, amusement warming your voice, “I would hope so.”

A ripple of stunned silence followed, then something like relief. The young man stuttered, clearly unsure whether he had just been spared or quietly condemned. The hush fractured, the whispers did not merely return; they advanced, circling in on you while still, somehow, maintaining a respectful distance. It took you a moment to realize they had effectively blocked your path without meaning to, curiosity overtaking discipline in a way only the very young could manage.

One of the trainees cleared his throat, clearly encouraged by the fact that you had laughed earlier. Another leaned forward, unable to contain himself. The attendant was gently but decisively nudged aside as a small semicircle formed around you, questions bubbling up faster than restraint could keep pace.

“Saintess!” someone blurted, “you are really married to Commander Figarland?”

That earned a sharp elbow from his neighbor. “Idiot, of course she is.”

“But like,” another chimed in immediately, eyes bright with fascination, “actually married? Not political-married?” And that’s when the damn broke.

“And what is he like?” a third asked, far too eager. “Does he yell all the time, or only when people deserve it?”

A hand shot up. “Does he ever smile?”

Another followed, rapid-fire. “Does he really sleep with his hair like that?” A hand motion accompanied it, arching like a moon.

You blinked, caught between astonishment and laughter, lips twitching as you tried and failed to suppress a grin. Of all the things you had expected to happen Shangra, this had not been one of them.

“You know,” someone pressed urgently, leaning in as if this were classified information, “does he wash his hair, or does he just go to bed like that and pat it clean in the morning?”

A snort broke out somewhere behind them, quickly smothered into a cough.

“And does he—” a younger recruit hesitated, then rushed ahead before courage could fail him, “does he know we’re terrified of him, or does he just assume everyone is?”

The attendant looked moments away from fainting. His face had gone pale, eyes darting between you and the trainees as though he were trying to calculate how many careers were ending in real time.

You, on the other hand, lost the plot entirely.

They were just a ring of young men, barely fitting into their too-large uniforms, buzzing with the kind of reckless curiosity that came from being brave enough to ask and young enough not to understand the consequences yet. It was impossible not to find it funny.

You laughed again. Not delicately. Not politely. A genuine, helpless laugh that slipped out before you could stop it, ringing across the courtyard and snapping every bit of attention back to you at once.

The entire cluster froze.

Reality seemed to crash back in all at once. Faces drained of color. Several looked ready to apologize on the spot. One trainee actually clasped his hands together, mouthing what looked very much like a prayer.

“Alright,” you said, lifting a hand to steady yourself, amusement still bright in your voice. Then you sighed, the sound fond rather than exasperated.

“Yes,” you said calmly, “we are actually married.”

A collective inhale swept through the group, smiling widely, ready for mischief.

“Garling does smile,” you continued, eyes glinting with mischief. “Rarely. Usually, when someone has made a very impressive mistake.”

That earned a few startled noises and a ripple of nervous laughter.

“And yes, of course he washes his hair,” you added lightly. “Meticulously. He owns more expensive soaps than most of you own socks.”

The tension broke a little at that. A wave of incredulous reactions followed, several trainees exchanging looks as if reassessing deeply held assumptions. A few looked pale, as if hearing their hero needed to wash was too much.

“And no,” you went on, clearly enjoying yourself now, “he does not sleep with his hair shaped like a moon. Brushes it morning and night. He would be deeply offended by the suggestion.”

A chorus of relieved chuckles followed, mixed with a few muttered, “I fucking knew it,” and one very quiet, “Oh shit.”

“As for whether he knows you are afraid of him,” you said, tilting your head slightly, voice thoughtful rather than cruel, “I assure you he is very aware.”

Someone groaned softly. Another trainee closed his eyes as if bracing for future judgment.

You smiled at them then, warm and entirely unthreatening. “For what it is worth,” you added gently, “Most people have a little fear for Garling. Fear is just… a side effect of his aura.”

The attendant seized the opening like a drowning man grabbing a rope. “My lady,” he said quickly, voice cracking just a little, “if we might continue—”

He did not get very far.

A few of the older young men stepped forward now, in well-fitted uniforms, their confidence tempered by experience rather than eroded by it. They stopped at a respectful distance, but their ease was unmistakable, their eyes openly appreciative now that the ice had cracked.

One inclined his head, mouth tilting into a smile he clearly knew how to use. “With respect, Saintess,” he said smoothly, “you are stunning. The Commander really has impeccable taste.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind him. Another recruit immediately reached out and jabbed him in the side. “Watch it,” he muttered. “That’s the Commander’s wife.”

You laughed, a short, surprised sound, bright with embaressment. “I believe he meant it kindly,” you said, glancing between them.

The first man grinned, relieved and emboldened all at once. “Very kindly,” he confirmed. “You’re visit makes the whole courtyard brighter.”

“Well,” you said lightly, “this place does seem rather uniform.”

That only encouraged them.

“It’s boring as hell,” another added, eyes lingering a fraction longer than strictly proper. “You’re a welcome change.”

The attendant made a faint, strangled sound, the sort of noise born from imagining disciplinary reports writing themselves. One of the recruits, emboldened now and grinning like he had decided today was worth dying for, tipped his head toward you. “You know, Saintess,” he said, “you might even be a match for that pirate woman.”

A beat.

“You mean Shakuyaku?” another asked, skeptical, eyes narrowing as if weighing the claim seriously.

The first shrugged, undeterred. “I mean… look.”

“Yeah,” a third cut in immediately, emphatic, “he’s right. Hair puts her right up there. Definitely above Gloriosa.”

That earned a ripple of agreement, low and surprised, several of them nodding before they seemed to realize what they were doing.

You blinked, genuinely taken aback. “I apologize, I don’t know a Shakuyaku?”

“You don’t—” someone started, then stopped, staring at you as if you had just confessed to never hearing of the sea itself.

“Oh,” another said slowly, eyes lighting up. “For real? Her poster’s been a hit for three years.”

One of them shook his head in disbelief, smiling. “Shakky is considered the most beautiful woman in the world.”

You felt warmth creep into your cheeks despite yourself, a rare thing, and you laughed softly, more surprised than embarrassed. “That is… very kind of you,” you said honestly. “Though I suspect you are being very generous.”

That earned laughter at once, delighted and incredulous.

“Oh, come now Saintess. Surely you know how lovely you are!” another said, eyes lighting up as if he had just uncovered a secret. “We have Shakky’s poster. You have to see it, and you can compare.”

Before the attendant could muster a protest, they guided you toward a broad stone wall at the edge of the courtyard. It stretched longer than you had realized, built of pale stone darkened in places by age and weather. Mounted across it were bounty posters, arranged carefully rather than haphazardly, as though the wall itself were a record rather than a warning.

Many of the posters bore signs of violence. Eyes scratched out with deliberate force. Faces slashed through. Gouges torn into the paper as if someone had taken a blade to them in moments of particular feeling. Some had been stabbed clean through and left that way, curling slightly at the edges. Others were marked with angry ink, names underlined, numbers circled, and rewritten.

You slowed without meaning to.

“This is… personal,” you murmured.

One of the recruits huffed a quiet laugh. “That is one way to put it.”

“They are the biggest names,” another explained, tone sobering as bravado faded. “All the Rocks pirates, of course. And a few others. Gol D. Roger. Anyone the top brass consider an… ongoing nuisance.”

Someone gestured away from the cluster of posters where the damage was worst, paper scarred and punctured to a cleaner section. “These are off-limits for jokes.”

“Mostly Kuja,” another added, then snorted. “Glosiosa and her crew. We added Buckingham Stussy and Big Mom because they’ve all got huge knockers—”

A sharp smack landed against the back of his head, followed by a chorus of hissed reprimands.

“Idiot,” someone snapped. “Not in front of her.”

Another stepped in quickly, eager to recover the moment, guiding your attention a little farther along the wall. “This one,” he said, lowering his voice as if the poster itself demanded it. “This is Shakky. Back when she was still sailing.”

There, tucked among giants and gouged legends, her poster remained pristine and untouched. No crossed-out eyes. No slashes. Just a calm, knowing smile frozen in ink.

“I hear she is on Hachinosu these days,” the recruit added quietly, almost respectfully.

You studied the image, thoughtful. Then you tilted your head, really looking at the woman staring back from the poster.

The recruits had almost certainly lied about any comparison.

She was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen, bar none. Not merely striking or alluring, but sculpted, as though someone with impossibly good taste had taken their time. Full curves unapologetically present, yes, but balanced by a face that looked carved by a master. Lush dark hair framed sharp, elegant features. Pouty lips curved with knowing confidence. Eyes that did not ask for attention so much as assume it.

Come-hither, without needing to try.

You exhaled softly, something between a laugh and a hum of acknowledgment.

A few of the recruits watched your face closely, searching for offense, for vanity, for any sign that you might bristle at the comparison. None came. Only honest appraisal, measured and unguarded.

Comparison to Shakky was not casual praise. It was legend-level flattery, the sort that usually sparked arguments, wagers, or bloodshed. They were being too overt now, leaning in too close to the line between admiration and impropriety.

Garling would be furious.

You smiled, thoughtful, your gaze still resting on the wall of bounties. “Then I am honored,” you said sincerely. After a beat, your lips curved a little more. “What a face. I think I must be in love too.”

That earned a few soft chuckles, tinged with respect.

You let the moment pass, then shifted your attention back along the wall, studying the other posters with quiet interest. “Tell me about him,” you said easily. “What do you think of this one?”

You gestured to the bounty dead center.

Unlike the others, it was almost untouched. No gouged eyes. No inked insults. No careless slashes. Just a single, deliberate cut drawn cleanly across the face, splitting it in two.

The recruits stilled as one, humor draining away. A few straightened. One folded his arms. Another exhaled slowly through his nose.

“That’s Rocks D. Xebec,” someone said at last, voice lower than before. 

No jokes followed.

“He’s dangerous,” another added, glancing at the poster as if it might hear him. “Not like the others. Not loud about it. Just… bad.”

“Rumor is,” a third continued, hesitant, “he broke into Pangaea Castle during the last Reverie.”

“Not a rumor. My uncle was there, and he saw him. He said he was a hulking brute.”

They all nodded, unanimous now.

“That cut?” one of them said, eyes flicking to the long, deliberate slice at the throat. “Heard it was the Supreme Commander himself came in, put the poster up personally, then sliced it down the middle.”

A low whistle followed.

“I heard he got his entire crew by challenging them,” another added, voice dropping despite himself. “That’s how he got Whitebeard and the rest. Just fought them, one by one. That’s how he took Hachinosu. Can you imagine?”

You opened your mouth, curiosity sharpening—

“I imagine,” a familiar, stern voice cut cleanly through the courtyard, “that you are all about to earn thirty extra laps around the temple.”

The recruits snapped up. Silence fell so fast it felt physical. Only the sound of boots echoed against the stone. 

“And,” the voice continued, perfectly even, “an additional fifty push-ups for bothering my wife.”

Several of the recruits went pale. One actually winced. Another stared straight ahead as if prayer might make him invisible. Garling Figarland’s presence settled over the courtyard like gravity itself.

You turned, moving to look at your husband.

He stood at the edge of the group, immaculate as ever, arms folded loosely behind his back, his expression unreadable in the particular way that promised consequences. His gaze swept over the recruits once, cool and assessing, before settling on you.

The severity in his eyes softened by a fraction.

“Enjoying the tour?” he asked mildly.

You smiled, utterly unbothered. “Very much so. Your recruits have been asking me about your secrets.”

His eyes narrowed.

Behind you, one of the recruits swallowed hard.

“Is that so?”

You laughed, light and unapologetic. Garling’s gaze did not return to them. “Then I hope you enjoyed yourselves,” he said evenly. “Because your punishments just doubled.”

A collective, miserable understanding rippled through the group, shoulders sagging in unison. Then, without raising his voice, he added, “Begin.”

They scattered instantly. You watched them go, amusement tugging at your lips despite yourself, then looked back up at your husband. 

“Must you torment them?” you said sweetly. “They were very silly. And tremendously in awe of you.”

His mouth twitched despite his best efforts.

“I see,” Garling replied dryly, his eyes flicking once more to the wall of bounties—lingering for a brief, deliberate moment on Rocks D. Xebec—before returning to you. “Next time, my love, remind the children that admiration does not constitute permission.”

You lifted a brow, entirely unconcerned. “Why spoil their fun, Garling? They were very pleasant. Certainly more so than some of your coworkers. There was no need to reprimand them so harshly.”

“I was awaiting you,” he said evenly. “They delayed you. And they should know better than to fawn so eagerly over my woman.”

You smiled, utterly unrepentant.

A few of the recruits who had not yet fled lingered at the edges of the courtyard, pretending very badly not to stare.

Garling took your hand.

He lifted it and pressed a precise, courtly kiss to your knuckles. The effect was immediate.

Eyes widened. Backs straightened. Whatever fantasies of survival they had been clinging to died on the spot.

Garling did not look at them as he released your hand.

“Did I stutter?” he asked mildly. “Run.”

One blink and the courtyard was empty, boots retreating at record speed, dignity abandoned entirely.

You clicked your tongue softly, more amused than scolding. Secretly, you were pleased. Warmed by the sight of him in command, by how absolute his authority was and how instinctively it was obeyed. It was difficult not to feel something at that. Pride, certainly. And something sharper beneath it, dangerous in its own quiet way.

You turned back toward the wall of bounties before that feeling could go anywhere it ought not. Starting something here would end badly, and very publicly. The thought faded as your eyes settled on one poster in particular.

Xebec’s face stared back at you, older than the one in your memory. Sea-roughened. Wild in a way that came from years of salt and violence. His grin remained, though. The same eyes. The same mouth. For a moment, the courtyard fell away, replaced by memories of him younger, unscarred, burning with ambition rather than wear.

Garling straightened beside you.

His gaze followed the direction of yours without fully turning his head, a subtle adjustment that told you everything. His eyes narrowed just a fraction, not in anger, but in calculation. He was reading you, measuring the silence, weighing what it meant that this was where your attention lingered.

You looked away, but it was already too late.

The expression had settled on his face, precise and intent, like a bloodhound catching a scent. He was not jealous yet. Not even displeased. He was assessing, sorting possibilities, deciding whether your interest was academic, idle, or something far more personal. Whether any of those faces on the wall mattered to you.

Whether one in particular did.

“You were looking at them rather intently,” he said at last, his voice even, almost idle. “Should I be concerned that my wife is developing an interest in taking to the sea?”

The question was light, but the scrutiny behind it was not.

“Interested is a strong word,” you said lightly. Then, as if struck by a new thought, you tilted your head and nodded toward a poster just beside Xebec’s. “Though I do think this one is attractive. Silvers Rayleigh? What a lucky name.”

Garling went very still.

His expression did not change. His posture did not stiffen but something in his eyes sharpened to a fine, lethal point.

You were fairly certain that somewhere deep in Garling’s mind, a mental kill list had just been updated, one possibly accompanied by a future date, a location, and a blade. You silently apologized to the handsome blond pirate for being such a convenient scapegoat.

“Is that so?” Garling said calmly.

You smiled sweetly up at your husband, utterly innocent.

“He has very kind eyes,” you added thoughtfully. “The sort that suggests he listens. And laughs. I imagine he would be wonderful company on a long voyage.” You tilted your head, voice light, almost teasing. “Do you think he talks a woman through it?”

Garling made a low sound in his throat, half warning, half something else. “You minx,” he said flatly. “Are you testing me? Here?”

You shrugged and turned, intending to step past him, but his hand caught you by the wrist and tugged you back with effortless precision. 

“There is no need to be jealous,” you said mildly, looking up at him through your lashes. “After all, you are the Commander here. And he is just a pirate.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Probably only knows a dozen or so ways to make a woman orgasm.”

That did it.

Garling’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once as his gaze flicked—sharp and unmistakably murderous—back toward the poster of Silvers Rayleigh, as though he were committing the man’s face to memory for later use. The look lingered a beat too long to be accidental.

“If he ever crosses my path,” Garling said calmly, with the same tone he used when issuing final judgments, “he will gain that same number of slashes from my sword.”

You laughed softly, clearly delighted, and let your hand drift to the hilt at his side, giving it a teasing little tug. “Oh, do not look so fierce,” you said lightly, as if soothing a temperamental animal. “He is cute.” You paused, then added with deliberate innocence, “But really, it is the blond hair. I must have a weakness for dangerous blondes.”

That earned you a sharp look.

Not explosive. Not raised-voice anger. Just a slow, simmering glare, brows drawn together, lips pressed thin as if he were physically restraining several unwise remarks. His displeasure settled into a visible pout, the kind he would deny existed if accused, shoulders squaring a fraction too stiffly.

Then he exhaled, long and controlled, fingers tightening briefly at your waist as if grounding himself. “You are doing this on purpose,” he said flatly.

“Obviously.”

His mouth twitched despite himself, irritation warring with reluctant amusement. He did not argue further. Instead, he turned decisively, one hand settling at the small of your back as he steered you away from the courtyard.

“Come,” he said, exasperation laced with fondness. “Before I embarrass myself over a pirate. Good lord, woman.”

You followed him through the long halls of Shangra, stone giving way to quieter corridors where footsteps echoed less and less. Up one staircase. Then another. The grandeur thinned into something more private.

Garling slowed his pace without comment.

After a few moments, he glanced sideways at you, eyes dropping briefly to where the uniform concealed the faint swell beneath. His hand shifted, not possessive now, but careful.

“Do you need to stop?” he asked, voice lower, stripped of its sharpness. “We can rest. I should have thought—”

“I’m fine,” you said, amused, touching his arm lightly. “I promise. You forget I am not fragile.”

He huffed quietly. “I simply refuse to be careless with you.”

You barely had time to laugh before he turned sharply and pulled you into his private office, the door shutting behind you with a firm, final click that cut the rest of Shangra cleanly away.

Then his hands were on you.

His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was hot, possessive, and unmistakably territorial. A reminder more than a demand. Of who he was. Of who you were to him. He kissed you like he expected the world to be listening, and did not care in the slightest.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, breath steadying.

“For the record,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous in a way that made your pulse jump, “I will personally kill that pirate if you speak of him again.”

You smiled, entirely victorious.

He drew a breath, clearly attempting to recover some semblance of composure. “Now,” he said, voice shifting toward business, “as for God Valley. Your freed slaves arrived safely this morning. There were some complications with the—”

You leaned in and kissed him.

Whatever sentence he had been forming died instantly. His hand came up to your jaw without thinking, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you back, slower this time, deeper. The tension that had followed him from the courtyard softened into something warmer, more familiar. Controlled, but only barely.

“How foolish of me,” he muttered against your mouth, a breath of a smile in his voice, “expecting to talk when we could kiss.”

“Very foolish of you,” you replied, kissing him again.

His hands moved with familiar confidence, unfastening the front of your white uniform just enough to draw you closer, to remind you exactly who you belonged to and how little patience he had left for restraint.

The door slammed open.

“Hey, Figarland, where’s your—”

The word cut off sharply.

The sudden sound echoed through the office, the heavy door rebounding once before settling.

Sommers Shepherd stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still braced against the frame, eyes wide with dawning understanding.

Garling moved instantly.

He stepped forward at once, body angling between you and the open doorway with practiced precision, one arm coming up to shield you without hesitation. 

You hastily zipped your clothes closed, turning your face away, heat rushing to your cheeks.

Sommers stared for half a second longer than was wise, then his mouth curved.

“Well,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself far too much, “I heard your pretty wife was here and thought I would come see if she wanted a tour. I guess it wasn’t needed.”

Garling bared his teeth. “Get. Out.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sommers continued, undeterred, eyes flicking with open mischief. “Wasn’t on purpose. I just needed a word with you, didn’t know you’d be occupied. Forget to lock the door?”

Garling’s jaw tightened.

“You are missing your sense of self-preservation,” Garling said coolly. “And you have exactly three seconds to recover it and leave.”

Sommers chuckled, wholly unrepentant, clearly enjoying himself. His gaze flicked once more toward you, deliberately lingering at your chest. 

“My mistake,” he drawled. “I wasn’t expecting the esteemed Commander to have enough nerve to get frisky here, but I digress. Do show us your tits again, Saintess—”

That was the sentence that sealed Sommers’ fate.

Garling moved before the third second finished ticking.

His hand shot out, seizing Sommers by the collar and driving him back into the stone wall hard enough to rattle the doorframe. The impact knocked the grin clean off Sommers’ face.

“You are done,” Garling said, anger cutting through his voice as his forearm pressed into Sommers’ throat. “We are settling this now.”

Sommers coughed, then laughed anyway, because of course he did. “Done?” he rasped. “Fuck. At least wait till your wife is gone. It sucks to have a boner when your limbs are missing.”

Garling did not answer him. Instead, he turned back to you, already hauling Sommers toward the door. His voice softened, firm and final. “Stay here, my dear, and rest. Teaching him respect won’t take even twenty minutes, and you’ll get a proper apology.”

You did not argue.

They disappeared into the corridor, and the door shut behind them with a decisive click. You didn’t know what Garling had planned for Sommers Shepherd, but you agreed you did not wish to see how creative your husband could be when it came to dismemberment.

You exhaled and moved around the desk, lowering yourself carefully into his chair. Relief washed through you the moment you were off your feet. They had been aching badly as of late, that deep, persistent soreness that lingered no matter how composed you tried to remain. You shifted slightly, settling in, one hand resting absently in your lap as you let yourself breathe.

For a moment, you simply sat there.

Then boredom crept in.

Garling’s office was immaculate. Too immaculate. Everything had its place, and nothing invited curiosity at first glance. No loose papers. No personal effects left carelessly out. It was very him.

Which, unfortunately for him, made it irresistible.

You leaned forward and opened one of the desk drawers.

Inside was a stack of folders, perfectly aligned, edges squared with almost obsessive precision. Each was labeled in neat, exact handwriting, tabs color-coded, dates and locations marked with ruthless clarity.

You blinked.

“Well,” you murmured to yourself, equal parts impressed and amused. “Of course Garling, you’d keep your files like this.”

You hesitated only a second before sliding one folder free, already aware that whatever was inside was not meant for idle hands. But then, neither were you.

The first folder detailed the slaves you had freed.

You frowned slightly as you flipped it open, your curiosity sharpening into focus. Names, numbers, routes. A chartered vessel listed in neat, impersonal script, along with provisions, escort arrangements, falsified registries, and contingency plans should any patrol interfere. Everything was accounted for. Nothing left to chance.

Then you saw the cost estimates. You blinked. Once. Then again, slower.

The number was obscene.

Not merely expensive, but the sort of figure that made your stomach flip, that existed in the realm of state budgets and private wars rather than individual acts of compassion. Your thumb hovered over the page, tracing the line as if it might change if you looked hard enough.

He had not hesitated.

You remembered how easily Garling had agreed. How quickly he had said yes. No pause. No negotiation. No mention of expense. At the time, you had assumed it was influence doing the work. Favors called in. Assets shuffled quietly.

This was not that.

This was him writing a number so large it barely fit the page and calculating it without a simple ‘Paid In Full’.

You leaned back in the chair, exhaling softly.

You had known you were well off. You had known the Figarland name carried wealth alongside power. But seeing it laid out like this, itemized and signed off without a second thought, was different. The estate was not merely rich. It was liquid. Vast. Consolidated. Centuries of accumulation funneled into a single heir who now sat in council chambers and issued orders like this daily.

And he had spent it on your request. Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You closed the folder with care, resting your palm on it for a moment longer than necessary. For all his sharp edges and lethal precision, Garling had never once flinched when it came to protecting what you cared about.

Slowly, you slid the folder back into place.

And then, against your better judgment, your fingers drifted to the next one.

This folder was thinner, but with more files.

Inside was a neatly stacked set of bounty posters, copies of many you had just seen downstairs. Faces you recognized immediately. Names that carried weight. Dates annotated in the margins. Notes written in Garling’s precise hand, clipped and clinical. Strength assessments. Known movements. Affiliations. Threat gradients.

Mostly men.

You flipped through slowly, the paper whispering softly beneath your fingers.

Then you stopped.

There was the female pirate. 

Shakuyaku.

Her bounty was pristine. Corners softened slightly, as if it had been removed and returned more than once. And there, written neatly along the lower margin in Garling’s unmistakable script, was a single notation:

Grand Prize.

Your stomach tightened, unease blooming slowly and cold beneath your ribs.

Grand prize for what?

Capture? Leverage? Some political gambit you did not yet have the shape of? The phrase felt wrong in a way that went beyond semantics, especially paired with her face, with that easy, unbothered confidence frozen in ink. It did not read like a threat assessment. It read like intent.

What was this interest?

The thought struck sharper than you expected. Not jealousy, not quite, but something adjacent to it. A quiet, unsettled understanding forming at the back of your mind. Garling did not label things carelessly. He did not romanticize. If he marked something as a prize, it meant value. Utility. So why would he label another woman that?

You closed the folder slowly, deliberately, fingers lingering on the cover as though the paper itself might explain if pressed hard enough. You slid it back into the desk too, but not before Shakky’s beautiful bounty peeked out once more, that knowing smile almost mocking in its serenity.

No. Not now.

Your hand drifted instead to the final folder. When you saw it, you almost laughed at first.

Super Special Rabbits.

The title sat there in neat, precise lettering, so absurdly out of place it felt like a private joke you had not been invited in on. Inside, the folder was mostly empty. A placeholder. A skeleton waiting to be filled, just few photographs had been clipped neatly to the inner flap.

The slave boy from the market was there. The one with the quiet eyes. You recognized him instantly. Another image showed a fishman, scarred and wary, and a few others you assumed were meant for relocation or protection. People earmarked for help, for quiet intervention.

Random, you thought. Then you saw the next photograph.

It was Thorne.

Your chest caught.

The world narrowed to the sound of your own pulse, loud and insistent in your ears. Your stomach churned, unease twisting sharp and sudden, far stronger than before. You stared at his face, willing it to make sense.

It did not.

Thorne should be in the lower world. Free, as Garling promised. Lost in obscurity. Forgotten by the machinery of Mary Geoise, just another name swallowed by distance and time. Not catalogued. Not filed. Certainly not placed in a folder with slaves marked for extraction or protection.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you lifted the photograph, searching for annotations, dates, anything that might explain why he was here.

There were none.

Just the image. Clean. Intentional. Placed there for a reason you could not yet see. And suddenly the pieces no longer aligning the way they should. Discord crept in where certainty had been.

The door opened.

You looked up just as Diente Donquixote stepped inside, expression sharp and humorless, his presence filling the office with practiced authority. His gaze flicked to the open desk, the folders, then settled on you with dry amusement.

“Well,” he said coolly, “old habits die hard. I suppose rummaging through other people’s things comes naturally to revolutionaries.”

You did not flinch. You set the photograph down carefully, met his gaze head-on, and smiled pleasantly, utterly unashamed.

“This is my husband’s offive,” you replied evenly. “If he were afraid of me seeing his things, he would not leave me alone in his office.”

Diente’s brow lifted a fraction, interest sharpening rather than cooling. “Your audacity certainly does not end,” he said dryly. “With a single visit, you have unsettled my trainee knights, and now my lieutenant commander is disemboweling another Holy Knight in a fit of wounded pride.”

“That is hardly my fault,” you replied without hesitation. “Garling asked to see me, and I came. Saint Shepherd crossed a line and insulted Garling. I would insult my husband far more by denying him the right to enforce respect.”

Diente’s gaze drifted to the first folder with faint, calculating interest, as though he could read the numbers through the wood itself. A corner of his mouth curved. “You are quick,” he observed. “Most women here spend years attempting to maneuver Garling’s attention to their benefit. You have made the arrangement… reciprocal.”

You did not bristle. You met his look evenly. “I am giving as much as I am taking.”

Diente chuckled softly at that. His eyes returned to you, sharper now, assessing in an entirely different way. “Ah, yes, congratulations,” he added, almost casually. “On your pregnancy.”

“Thank you,” you replied evenly. “I was hunted like a dog and bred for it.”

Your flat tone earned a pause.

He moved closer and took the chair opposite you, folding his hands together as though settling in for a private conversation rather than a confrontation. “You are not wrong,” he said at last. “And I suppose I owe you an apology.”

That caught you off guard.

“Garling’s… enthusiasm,” Diente continued, choosing his words with care, “is not entirely your doing. The Figarland men have always suffered from a particular malady when it comes to their wives.”

You tilted your head slightly, one hand rising instinctively to your belly.

“They become singular,” he went on, faintly amused. “Focused to the point of volatility. All Figarlands are brilliant, lethal men. But one in love?” His mouth curved. “Utterly impossible to redirect.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the closed door, behind which the distant, unmistakable sounds of violence echoed faintly through stone.

“It is a condition,” Diente added lightly, “that history suggests only a second wife ever truly cures.”

Then his attention shifted to the desk, to the loose photo of the pirate woman.

“I am sorry,” he continued, tone mild, almost courteous, “that you will soon need to compete with someone so… stunning.”

He gestured to the topmost bounty, two fingers brushing it with deliberate care. Shakky’s face stared back from the paper, composed and effortless, placed there like a quiet threat. A chill crept up your spine. Something in the way he said it, the implication, set off a low, persistent alarm in your chest. You felt dread bloom, slow and unwelcome, even as your expression remained perfectly composed. Your posture did not shift. Whatever he was trying to provoke, you would not give him the satisfaction.

“A pirate?” you asked lightly, one brow lifting just enough to suggest mild amusement. “How quaint, Supreme Commander. Is this a joke?”

His smile sharpened.

“In a few years,” Diente said calmly, “she will be the prize for the upcoming Hunt.”

Was this about rabbit hunt again? Goodness. They really were obsessed with their games, if they thought to pick up a woman like a Kuju pirate as a prize. Bizarre.

“Okay,” You waved a hand to him, “And?”

“The Hunt,” he continued, eyes never leaving your face now, “that Garling is heavily favored to win.”

For a moment, the room went very still. The two of you regarded one another across the desk, power measuring power in the quiet, practiced way of people who understood exactly what the other represented—and how dangerous misjudgment could be.

“That is ridiculous,” you said at last, your tone cool and dismissive, reasoning clicking into place. “You speak as though she were quarry. A pirate like her would never agree to be part of some ceremonial farce, nor would she allow herself to be cornered like an animal.”

You leaned back slightly, composing yourself. 

“Garling will win, but I doubt he’d happily just take another wife, even one like the Kuja. On his own terms.”

Then Diente laughed, not loudly or cruelly, but mocking enough to tell you he thought you were being profoundly naïve.

“Oh, my dear,” he said, almost kindly, “Having the Kuja was Garling’s idea.”

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like vertigo, a sudden lurch that made the room tilt for half a heartbeat. You did not react. You did not blink. Whatever fractured inside you stayed carefully hidden behind composure honed by survival.

“Garling requested her,” Diente continued, watching you now with keen, deliberate interest. “Specifically. Garling has always insisted on selecting the best prizes. The most exceptional titles. The most… admired items.” A pause, measured. “She is his ideal wife. You are the interesting side quest.”

That was the part that caught you off guard because it was something Garling would do.

Not out of lust. Not even romance. But principle. Selection. The belief that anything worth having should be singular, undeniable, exemplary. The idea slid into place against memories you did not want to examine too closely, and the realization made you feel faintly ill.

Something cold coiled in your chest, tight and deliberate.

Diente’s gaze flicked briefly to your hair, to your bearing, to the way you held yourself, then returned to your eyes.

“You have overplayed your hand,” he said gently, and that gentleness was far more insulting than any sneer. Diente went on, almost indulgently. “You possess rare haki. And yes, your appearance is… striking.” He tilted his head, pity now naked on his face. “But a more beautiful wife’s child?”

The implication settled.

“That child,” he finished softly, “would always be the favorite.”

You sat there, perfectly composed, but not because you were, but because you couldn’t move.

Every part of you screamed. In denial, sharp and immediate, but it couldn’t stop the other, quieter part of your mind just accepted that it was plausible. The implication slotted itself into logic.

You had known about the potential of this issue arising from the beginning. You had been told plainly that there would be other women. That this world did not believe in singular devotion the way poets pretended it did. What you had not fully considered were the mechanics of it. The hierarchy. The way children would be weighed, measured, prejudiced, and even harmed.

But you had believed Garling instead.

Because he hadn’t even mentioned another women. Had, in fact, done the opposite. He had professed his love again and again in actions and words. He had freed people for you. Spent obscene sums without hesitation. Altered his routines, his priorities, his temper. 

Garling was many things, but he was not stupid. 

And why would he lie, when you had openly told him to find another wife or mistress? And if he truly intended to bring another wife into his household, he wouldn’ve just done it. He didn’t need to justify himself, nor did you have a family who cared enough to do anything. Garling was expected to have more women, but over and over didn’t choose more. 

He was actively cultivating closeness, but why work so had only to poison it. That would defeat the very purpose of keeping you?

The question tore you apart.

But you couldn’t let it show. Not right now. Not here. Not in front of Diente. You lifted your chin slightly and met Diente’s gaze, your expression smoothing into something polite, almost amused.

“How kind of you to be so concerned about me,” you said lightly. “But I will be quite fine. No matter what happens at your… charming little rabbit hunt.”

Something flickered across his face.

“Rabbit…hunt?” Diente repeated, brows knitting faintly. “What do you mean by rabbit hunt?”

You paused.

Then you smiled, light and puzzled, as though the misunderstanding were charming rather than ominous. “The hunt?” you said. “For rabbits. I know how your people enjoy pageantry. Super Special Rabbits?”

For a heartbeat, Diente only stared at you. 

Then he laughed. Once, softly at first, as though he were tasting the moment. Then again, fuller, his shoulders lifting slightly with the sound, amusement settling into his bones.

“Oh,” he said, voice warm with mockery. “Oh, you poor stupid thing.”

You flinched.

“No,” he continued, slower now, savoring every word, eyes raking over you with open fascination. “No, no, no. You really did think that.”

His smile widened, not kind enough to warn you, not nice enough to soften the blow.

“That is adorable,” he murmured. “Truly. I see why Garling likes you, you sweet little lamb. You’ve made it so easy for him, haven’t you.”

Your smile did not falter, but something inside you went cold. Something instinctive. Like a muscle locking.

“I beg your pardon?” you said evenly.

Diente leaned back in his chair, utterly at ease, as though this were the most entertaining thing that had happened all week. He looked pleased. Indulgent. Amused by a private joke, you had only just stumbled into.

“How very… pastoral,” he continued lightly. “Rabbits. Did you honestly think Mary Geoise would go on a hunt and broadcast rabbits?”

Your heart thudded.

“What,” you said carefully, each word placed with precision, “do you mean?”

Diente folded his hands together, fingers interlacing neatly. His eyes gleamed. “You’ve been lied to,” he said cheerfully, almost kindly. “Quite thoroughly, I’m afraid.”

The room seemed to recede, the edges of it pulling away as if distance itself were being rearranged.

He tilted his head, studying you like a curiosity pinned to velvet. “We don’t hunt rabbits,” he went on, savoring the word as though it were a delicacy. “The Rabbit Hunt is just a nickname. It’s a Human Hunt. The Super Special Rabbits are just the targets with more points.”

He watched you closely then, eyes sharp and hungry, waiting for the moment it landed, waiting for the break. For the horror to register. For the understanding to bloom.

It did, but not as a scream or with quick panic, but with a blooming devastation that your carefully crafted world was being tipped into fire. That every harmless assumption you had made to merely survive was about to collapse inward, revealing every omission and every euphemism.

The Hunt. The folders. The secrecy. An incomprehensible cruelty dressed up as a flippant tradition all realigned in a single, catastrophic click. Something wretched twisted in your stomach, and your breath caught. It was a deep pain, unloading your soul and body.

The world didn’t stop spinning, you didn’t cease to exist, you simply saw the obvious truth and no longer could escape.

“You naïve fool,” Diente cooed when it became clear you were not capable of speaking. His tone was almost fond, the way one might address a child who had finally learned a difficult lesson. “I can see Garling has gone to great lengths to shield you from the worst of him. It’s a shame that it’s almost entirely who he really is.”

He leaned forward slightly, clearly enjoying the way the words were landing now.

“I am pleased to say,” he continued, “that nearly every misfortune you have encountered in this place is thanks to your husband. He’s gone quite beyond me just this last year.”

Your fingers tightened against the chair.

“He identified the revolutionaries,” Diente went on, conversational. “Mapped them. Routed them. Had most of them captured or eliminated without ever dirtying his hands. Efficient, really.” A pause. A smile. “You, my dear, are being used as an example.”

The room felt smaller. Closer.

“He may fuck you nicely,” Diente allowed, generously. “But the most important thing you are is a lesson. Proof that sentiment does not weaken control. That even affection can be weaponized.”

Your chest ached.

“Your remaining comrads,” he said lightly, “are imprisoned below Pangaea Castle. Those who survived long enough to be useful are being prepared for the Human Hunt. All thanks to Garling.”

You tasted iron.

“And when Garling wins the Human Hunt,” Diente finished, voice calm and inexorable, “when he kills the rest of your revolutionary friends, he will not only take my title as Supreme Commander—”

He smiled.

“—he will take home a better wife, too.”

The words settled like ash.

Diente rose from his chair and, in a final act of indulgent cruelty, reached out as if to console you. The gesture was almost gentle.

You jolted away from his touch.

Your stomach churned violently, pain sharp and sudden, breath catching as if your body were rejecting the room itself. You pressed a hand to your abdomen, vision blurring at the edges. Whatever composure you had been clinging to shattered into something purely physical.

Diente did not pursue the moment.

He straightened, mildly disappointed, already bored now that the lesson had been delivered. “Do take care of yourself,” he said pleasantly. 

He left without another word.

You did not remember standing. You did not remember crossing the room. One moment you were in Garling’s office, the next you were on the stairs of Shangra, moving far too fast, your body carrying you without consultation, instinct overriding thought.

Down.

Down.

Your foot missed a step, and you caught yourself on the railing, knuckles burning as you pushed on. The pain in your stomach sharpened, no longer a vague churn but something deeper, heavier, twisting low and insistent. Each breath felt wrong. Too shallow. Too fast.

Why did it hurt so much?

You skipped steps, nearly stumbled again, breath ragged, vision tunneling at the edges. Guards glanced up in alarm as you rushed past. Trainees froze mid-sentence. 

You did not look at them. You couldn’t even make out faces.

You ran.

Out of the halls. Down the staircases. Away from marble and echoes and the phantom sound of violence that still rang in your ears, away from words that had split something vital inside you.

Your hand pressed to your stomach now, fingers curling into the fabric of your uniform as if you could hold yourself together by force alone. The ache pulsed, spreading, sharp enough to make you gasp.

This isn’t just fear, your mind supplied distantly, uselessly.

This is wrong.

Your pace faltered.

You leaned briefly against the wall, chest heaving, fighting the sudden wave of nausea that surged hard enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. The world tilted. Your ears rang.

Why does it hurt? Why does it hurt here?

A cold dread slid in beneath the panic, quieter but far worse. You had been under strain before. Fear before. Shock before.

It had never felt like this.

You pushed off the wall and forced yourself onward, slower now but no less desperate, every step driven by the same pounding thought:

Please. Please just let me out.