The Ink demon puppet

The pain in his leg was horrific. Awful. Indescribable — there weren’t any words in existence that could accurately detail the burning, aching sensation that made him wish he could chop off his own leg to escape the misery.

Even so, as one or two of his comrades held onto his limp body — he couldn’t tell who or how many, thanks to his blind eye — he did nothing but cough up blood.

“If I died today, I wouldn’t mind. Not if I get to see you again. I promised you that I’d always keep fighting — that’s what I said, right? I wish I didn’t make that promise, because I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired . . .”

As Levi rode on the back of Falco’s winged titan form, he realized something.

The pain in his leg was nothing compared to the agonizing heartache he felt every second of every day since he watched you die.

He hated himself for falling in love.

He hated himself for not being strong enough to save you.

Being known as Humanity’s Strongest Soldier felt like an utter joke. Like he was being mocked.

It was all he could think about as he looked down at the kids — no, they were adults now — fighting titans on Eren’s skeleton-like form, desperately attempting to stop the rumbling.

It was like he raised them. You both did.

But you didn’t get a chance to see them grow.

If you were still around, you would have known that Connie did indeed get taller. You won that bet. Levi owed you a new tea set, as he thought that the hilarious kid would stay the same height forever.

You didn’t witness Armin start to come out of his shell a bit, either. He was the commander now, could you believe that?

The shy kid who you thought of as a son — who followed you around like a lost puppy during his early days as a scout — was now Levi’s boss. And the colossal titan. How silly.

Jean had turned out to be a great leader as well, fighting for humanity instead of for himself. You would have been proud.

He only grew out his hair because you weren’t around to help him trim it. He could do it on his own, but he didn’t want to. Not without you.

Mikasa was exceptional then, and she was exceptional now. You were the only person she trusted to wash her scarf whenever she was too busy to get around to it.

Reiner and Annie were fighting too.

Everyone was fighting. All to stop the rumbling.

Even if it meant killing Eren.

“Could you do it, Y/N? Could you have helped us take Eren’s life?” Levi wondered.

You wouldn’t have supported the rumbling. That was a fact. Even so, you adored that kid, almost as if you were possessed by Carla’s ghost.

And he adored you too.

Your death was one of the horrific events that pushed Eren to this unspeakable point.

Both Eren and Levi witnessed it.

A titan snacking on your body as if you weren’t a person, but grapes at a picnic. Both of them were too weak to stop it.

They could only watch. Watch as you were eaten alive.

—

When the fight ended, your face was among the many ghosts staring at Levi. His old comrades were all satisfied. He didn’t have to fight anymore. He could just live.

But he couldn’t rest.

That came later. It came when Levi was an old man, sitting alone in his wheelchair at his favorite place in Marley to stare out at the glistening water with his one decent eye.

Old age claimed his life as the sun started to set, its beautiful orange rays shining over the water.

And you were waiting for him. You and all of his old comrades.

He pushed himself right out of his wheelchair. He could walk again. He could see again. He was young again.

His wrinkly skin melted away. His gray hair was once again black. His scars no longer existed.

Slowly, he walked towards you, the love of his life. The person he never got a chance to grow old with. Start a family with. Experience peace with.

When he wrapped his arms around you, holding you after so many years of trying and failing to remember what it felt like to touch you, he knew that he could finally rest.

Scaramouche who grins when the Harbingers bristle as you walk side by side in the halls of Zapolyarny Palace - he says you should consider it an honor to walk with him, and it inflates his ego when you reply with a small nod and a smaller smile. Behind the others' backs, he follows you like a lost child, always walking behind you, gripping on to the back of your clothes like you might slip away if he's not careful. He's obsessed with the way you look at him and ask him questions about his creation. He fails to see that the adoration you hold for him is as hollow as he is.

Signora wonders if you know when she is at her lowest, that would certainly explain things, wouldn't it? She thinks she has lost her mind when she sees glimpses of her lost love when turning corners too quickly, haunting her when she lets her guard down but then you're in front of her, greeting her with a soft smile that feels all too familiar and she realizes she has gone mad in other ways (she welcomes that newfound madness like the lover that it is, finally coming home).

Pantalone who believes that one of life's greatest pleasures is to own what others cannot - to collect the rare, the exquisite and the hard to obtain - and to have you, a person of great mind and ranking, be dangled right infront of him on a piece of gold thread held by the Tsaritsa, who was he to resist the urge to make you his? (after all, he deserves only the best) The longer he does not have you, the more your worth rises in his eyes.

Dottore who initially wants to pick apart your brain (quite literally) but his interest shifts and doubles when he reaches an epiphany that what he truly lacked from the Akademiya was someone who shared his intellect, a genius to match his own. Maybe you don't share his affinity for biology, but he loves the way your conversations keeps him on his toes (if you weren't a being close to perfection for him before, then you certainly are now.)

Arlecchino who watches as you care for the children in the orphanage, checking in on them even long after they've joined the ranks of the Fatui and compares it to the frigid ways of the other Harbingers. For the first time since being a part of this cold nation, she is envious of the warmth you give (why must you have so much love to share?) She thinks that should the day come she turns her back on this frigid country, she would surely take your hearth with her.

Marionette who finds herself being drawn to the way you move around a room and hold yourself up in front of people, marveling at the intricacies of each part of your body and the way they make up the being that is you (you could trip and fall and she'd still sigh in awe). Her fascination turns you from muse to future subject. Surely such a specimen must be preserved, right? Not to mention, there would be no greater honor than to turn the Tsaritsa's best into a perfect unchanging doll.

Damselette who usually goes quiet when you're in the same room as her, always eager to hear you talk, almost hissing when a Harbinger tries to speak over you. She finds your voice is the one in her head who speaks reason to her when she gets a bit out of control (Does she listen? No, but your voice is always ever so lovely). Wouldn't it be so nice if you're the lone voice she hears always, the same way you're already always in her thoughts?

Capitano who is thankful his mask covers the fond look he gets when you turn to him - not with fear like the lower ranking Fatui or haughty like the Harbingers - but as an equal, leveling him with a gaze that leaves him fooling himself that it means something more. He's less thankful for his mask when someone calls your attention away from him and he can't control the glare he sends their way (maybe if they saw the way he looked at them, they'd finally be put in their place).

Pulcinella is quick to put you in a pedestal - you are someone to be respected and someone to be kept at a distance. And yet as he watches the Harbingers fall deeper and deeper into obsession, he takes it upon himself to protect the Tsaritsa's favorite and the Fatui's brain from whatever his co workers are plotting. As he spends more time with you (making sure the others do not occupy all of your time), the pedestal he keeps you on crumbles until all he sees is another child to keep under his wing. He fails to see he has only fallen into a different hole as the rest.

Strategist!Darling who may pretend to be oblivious to the Harbingers' feelings but is actually letting it all happen to make sure they all stay under the Tsaritsa's rule one way to another.

Does Pierro know what you're doing? Maybe. It's not like he is blind to how the Harbingers act around you, subtle as they try to be. If you spend enough time with him, you might be able to tell that he enjoys watching you play the part of a fool, dancing around the others and making them dance for you, too. He might even step in once he thinks the other Harbingers are stepping out of line, but it all depends on what he gets out of sticking into your business.

I also like the dynamic where although the Harbingers cannot make a move to claim what is "their's", darling is just as trapped. Although they always sometimes want to leave, they know as much as anyone that the Tsaritsa is the only thing standing between them and the others. The moment they try to leave the Tsaritsa's side or they lose her favor, it's all fair game for the Harbingers.

Everyone is stuck in a stalemate until someone makes a misstep.

✨ Masterlist ✨ 

Taglist: 💛@anime-allover  💛@faeriessky  💛 @prksolon 💛 @dai-tsukki-desu 💛 @wonpielle

Laughing alongside your audience and moving forward had been easy as well, from practice or from the morale boost from the pixelated knight on your screen, you're not quite sure of.

But as you progressed further into the game, you began noticing that the messages coming from the knight at the end of each round were not repetitive at all — something which should be for a program crafted by code.

“That was a frisky leap, Partner! Glad we made it.”

“You're getting better at this! Did you see that? Even the Shadowed Swordmaster was baffled back there!”

“The foe will adapt according to the march of time, but with you here… I think I can continue facing them no matter what.”

And with each response seemingly appearing more and more personalized than the last, it'd become apparent to the stream that you were hooked on this game for this unexpected ‘feature’ alone.

There was something else as well, this game seemed to be never ending. At one point, when you'd finally come back to the world from your daze, you'd decided to search around the internet for the exact number of levels this game had, only to return gloriously empty-handed.

It'd ruffled you a little back then. Either the Golden Scapegoat was very well hidden or you'd somehow managed to get to it as it was fresh out of the developer's den. And the fact that you couldn't tell which of the options was correct should've unnerved you more, should've made you investigate further.

But instead, you bid farewell to your chat and closed the game for the day. Not exactly promising to return and finish what you began, but definitely tired enough to not think about its elusive nature for the rest of night.

A few days passed in dilly-dally, where you entertained the notion of playing the Golden Scapegoat again, but ended up doing something completely different (namely increasing affection in your otome games guiltily).

By the sixth day, your stream was already tiptoeing thirty-three million views, making it your most viewed one yet.

You’d gotten notified of the milestone during breakfast by one of the members of your team, laptop opened to browse through emails. Though, you couldn't quite relish in the achievement, attention stolen by one particular line of the fan E-mail that you’d opened.

I can't find The Golden Scapegoat anywhere on the internet.

You were half tempted to avoid it, but the lingering memory of how you hadn't found anything notable when you searched about its details during the stream either, nagged at you.

A second look was initiated. You sat, a weird feeling settling in your stomach, as the website you’d downloaded the game from showed nothing — while the icon of The Golden Scapegoat mocked you from your homepage nevertheless.

And that wasn't the only weird thing that’d happened that day. The set of clothing you’d ordered came in the wrong sizes and your delivery of energy drinks was also late.

Now, you could pitch complaints against everything, if your crippling social anxiety wasn't waving excitedly around the corner, that is.

So, tossing the shirt a few sizes too big over your shoulders, you attempted to contact one of your friends instead — if nothing else, to have them fetch some nourishment for you.

Only to be stopped dead in your tracks by the violent glitch your phone flashed, before going black.

You're not given the time to react though, as the lights of your room flicker next, your PC reboots, and you squint as its sudden brightness.

You blink multiple times to adjust, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, from the blackened screen in front of you, a text in bold red reads—

Play the Golden Scapegoat.

Your mind buffers for a few seconds.

Okay, that's certainly not normal. You wait two more seconds to see if the screen would show something else, but when you see no change, you grab your mouse and prudently smash the buttons in a series of clicks.

Still nothing.

So, you shift to restart your computer, where you're slapped with failure and the icon of The Golden Scapegoat appearing under the red text instead.

Chat, are you seeing this? your mind supplies the comment habitually.

Done with it all, you proceed to unplug the PC.

The screen still shows that text.

Now, the safe thing to do would be to obey to this series of unexpected commands, especially since you were being met with happenings previously unheard of. But you were unwilling to fall for this most-likely hacker’s trick and get stuck into some kind of never-ending spiral.

So, you turned on your heels and went to get some actual, adult responsibilities done instead.

That determination of yours lasted for two hours. Impressive, considering that suddenly all your electrical appliances had begun having mood-swings, which meant, no TV, constant stammering lights, air-conditioning suddenly at full power and absolutely zero ways for you to contact anyone due to your phone, tablet, laptop and PC being hacked (?).

“FINE. I’ll play your stupid game!” you shouted, unable to stand not being chronically online any longer.

The lights ceased flickering. The screen of your computer glitched once before isolating the icon of the damned game on the screen, the cursor hovered right over it, beckoning your click.

You jaw went slack.

What the hell?

You approached your gaming desk cautiously, not knowing whether the tremor in your nerves was from the AC or the way this program—hacker—whatever had seemingly responded to you.

The screen morphs to that familiar backdrop, the chime of the game’s BGM slowly crawling to reality, though now, you could no longer find the marvel you’d initially felt from it.

The game’s mechanics hadn't changed at all, but after a few minutes (or hours? you didn't know) of clearing the levels with your heart pounding against your eardrums, that feeling of never-ending grind returned.

You’d even attempted to see if you could start a stream, just to gain some semblance of reassurance that you weren't going crazy, which, though no longer surprisingly, had backfired.

Your forehead hit the cool surface of your desk as you finished another level, your glasses were flung somewhere, only some fraction of energy left that you were going to use to drag yourself to bed.

Though not before catching a glimpse of the message from the chibi knight from the game.

“Partner, are you alright? You seemed very out of it on this run… please don't push yourself!”

You didn't linger long on the text, not daring yourself to believe that it was not a product of your imagination or a hoax of your eyes unaccustomed to seeing the world without the lenses.

You spent two more days in that manner, going through the levels of the Golden Scapegoat for the majority of the day, scarcely processing anything you were playing.

Your connection to the internet had returned, though you could only observe and not interact. You would’ve laughed at the dedication of whoever was behind all this had you not been as sleep deprived as you were.

On the third night, after your now-routine slavery at The Golden Scapegoat and much twisting and turning while trying to catch the sleep you so desperately wanted, you found yourself rudely awaken at what you could only assume to be midnight just when your eyes had begun to close.

For ten seconds, you blinked blankly at the air from under your sheets, the bleary sight gradually adjusting to reveal a distinct silhouette, the moonlight glinted off of golden lines.

You inhaled sharply but couldn't find the strength to let the breath go, nor look away as the silhouette tilted its head, a flash of blue gleamed in the shape of an eye.

Your mind ceased to work, locked in an uncomfortable stare-down with the shadow, as though suspended in a competition to see who was cowardly enough to look away first.

Is this what they call sleep paralysis…?

You were briefly tempted to give in to the primordial urge to scream, fling something at the thing or at least reach to turn on the lights.

But you did nothing, merely stared unblinkingly, the silhouette gained enough clarity for you to take in its hooded appearance.

And then, you blinked.

The figure vanished from your sight.

You gasped, hitting the switches by your bedside to illuminate your room in a frenzy. Your heart kicked up a storm against your ribcage.

Should you scream? Call for help? Was that a person? Were you in danger? What should you do??

You reached for your phone with shaking fingers, a bead of sweat falling from your brow when the sign of ‘no connection’ hit you again.

How marvelous. You were on your own.

It was incredibly tempting to give into the urge of spiraling into a full panic attack, but you forced yourself to breathe, to stay grounded.

Even if I'm dying… I'm not going down without a fight.

So, you grabbed the nearest heavy object around you— which happened to be the lamp— and tiptoed towards your bedroom door.

Not even bothering to look beyond, you shoved the door close and pushed one of your drawers against it. Then, still holding onto the lamp, you fell back on the bed, preparing yourself for the agonizing night ahead.

—

You spent the whole night spying for any sound, any movement from around your apartment — the result of which was zero. Not even a peep was heard, though you didn't really trust your insomnia ridden mind to be accurate.

Only when the sun had brightened the world again, and when the wave of adrenaline had ebbed away to bring an unavoidable need for sustenance and hydration, did you summon the strength to open the door.

You checked and double checked every corner of your apartment, the limited space of which you were now appreciating and only when you found nothing amiss or any sign of what you’d seen last night did you allow yourself to think ; maybe it was just sleep paralysis.

You tried to go about your day as normally as possible, though the penumbra of last night haunted your waking mind. There wasn't much you could do about it. You could lodge a complaint, but if the authorities found nothing, they’d most certainly put you in that list of ‘people to not take seriously’ and you were still locked in that weird state of only being able to surf the net, but not interact with it in any way.

But one thing remained unchanged— the god-damned Golden Scapegoat.

You sat down to play it almost instinctively, perhaps pushed by a subconscious fear of even this smidgen of light being stolen away, or because it was the only tangible distraction you had at the moment.

The game for its part, remained as it were, just small tweaks in every level that one wouldn't even notice due to how endless it all felt — like a cycle. A vicious, cruel, familiar cycle of the same pattern, from which you could neither break free from nor quit— only proceed forward.

These thoughts float around your mind idly as you wrap a towel around yourself, done with a shower. You stand in front of the sink mirror, pulling out a bottle of moisturizer.

Just as you turn back to the mirror to apply the product though, you notice it.

That thing again. Right behind you, watching you through the mirror.

You blink several times, it doesn't go away, holding itself still on the reflection and just when it seems as though it were raising a clawed hand towards you —

You turn around.

Nothing.

Suddenly my life’s a horror movie? You jest through the shiver that shakes your body. Why did no one ask for my consent when they changed the genre?

There were two possible explanations behind this occurrence : (1) your apartment was haunted and (2) you were going insane.

Despite the latter’s credibility being more scientifically plausible, you, a self-proclaimed person of logic, had decided to believe that the first was the case this time instead.

Oh well, dropped out of my Physics degree long ago anyway.

Though, it should be mentioned that this mindset was achieved after preventing another panic attack and forcing yourself to think like this instead :

“If my house is haunted… at least I'll have a buddy? Roommate?”

Your laugh was weak.

(You blamed it all on the desensitization of playing too many horror games, and on all the weird fanfics you’ve read.)

But, for what it was worth, this frankly twisted mindset had managed to push you through the next days, kept you just sane enough to keep on living.

So now, your days looked like this instead.

The microwave beeps, you reach for your now warm food, expertly ignoring the shadow— the black/gold details on whose person you now could see in the daylight— and swiveled to the other room instead.

When you sit down on the couch and turn on the television, browsing to watch something while you ate, the shadow made something of a noise, as if trying to get your attention ; to which you increased the volume instead.

Maybe if you ignored it long enough, it'd go away out of boredom?

Or at least, that was your brilliant strategy. Social skills backpedaling even from a supposed ghost.

When evening fell and darkness coated your apartment, you called out, “Hey! Could you like, turn on the lights for me? It's real dark!”

The lights around the apartment flickered on, the exact ones that you would've turned on as well.

This isn't so bad, is it?

… Or maybe, you were just lonely, cripplingly lonely.

You sighed, head cushioned by your arms on your gaming desk, the BGM of The Golden Scapegoat filling the air. Another level was cleared, though you had given up your hopes of it being the last long ago.

It felt like you were caught in the same unchangeable rhythm as this game, where days blurred into each other and time kept on slipping away from your grasp.

Sometimes, you’d ponder ; do the characters in there, ever get tired of the same steps as well?

You looked up, catching sight of the screen where that familiar page was painted on, that knight— your knight, appeared to offer his gratitude once more.

Your glasses went askew as you turned into a more comfortable position, eyes softening through the burn that lingered from the past month’s insomnia and stress. Even through the pixelated form, you could feel the smile on the little guy’s face.

And you couldn't help but whisper.

“It would be nice to have someone like that… warm, encouraging, probably gives nice hugs…” your chuckle cracked at the end.

Yes, this whole ordeal was getting to you, and you couldn't ignore it much longer. That one admittance had opened the floodgates to a barrage of other memories that you did not want to remember and it was getting more and more difficult to hold yourself together.

You sniffled, it's just the season, trying to convince yourself.

When you finally managed to calm down, your limbs and thoughts locked down in inertia, exhaustion a heavy duvet over you.

But you didn't drag yourself to bed, stayed rooted on your gaming chair and stared at the silver-blue-golden knight, until sleep arrived to take you away.

ii. Metempsychosis

You awoke with soreness all over your body, unsurprisingly.

You twisted and turned gingerly, stifling groans and yawns as you tried to sit upright again, one of your hands raised in an attempt to soothe some of the soreness from your neck.

“Ah, you're finally awake!”

You freeze, your eyes slowly turned towards the source of that voice and halted upon locking with sparkling cyan ones.

A violent flinch shook your body, before you squinted, left hand pawing blindly for your glasses.

“Oh, your glasses are right there!” the man pointed towards the edge of the desk, still crouching in front of your panicked form.

Your vision cleared as soon as that familiar weight settled on the bridge of your nose and you felt blood rush to your head when the man still didn't disappear from your field of vision like you’d hoped.

You sprang up from your seat, “W-who are you?!” clutching your keyboard defensively.

The silver-haired man raised his arms in surrender, “Whoa, whoa! Please calm down and let me—” he got up, taking a few steps back.

Unfortunately for him, you deigned to not oblige and threw your keyboard at him.

… And watched in horror as the object phased straight through him.

“G-ghost…?” you croaked, slowly peering up at his equally confused form.

“Uhm,” he lowered his arms, one hand raising to rub at the nape of of his neck, “Not a ghost, though I'm not sure what I currently am either— b-but! Don't panic, remember — the Golden Scapegoat??”

The mention of that name pulled you back from the trenches of a mental spiral and you looked at the guy, really looked ; feeling your mind buffer again as it matched the similarities between the chibi knight from the game with this man fidgeting in front you.

“Impossible.” you whispered, pinching yourself.

Nope, the sting is real and so is he… apparently.

He chuckled awkwardly, “I wish I could offer you an explanation for this but—”

You frowned as he cut himself off, head snapping to the side.

Your mouth opened to urge him on, only to be closed again as the man sprang forward to block an attack, steel against steel.

You staggered, leaning on your desk for support as ‘the knight’ pushed against the blade of that Shadow that has been haunting you.

“Executioner…” he gritted out, eyes reflecting an odd sense of acquaintance.

Their clash had sobered you completely and you took notice of something odd about this whole ordeal ; the bleary texture these two appeared in and the way the air seemed to glitch every time their swords clashed and how not a single object in your room appeared to be affected by it, as if they were locked in a different plane of existence.

Your breath hitched as the knight drew in with a fierce battle cry, the Executioner’s dark cape swiveled as he maneuvered to meet his strike.

Only to be pulled away right as their swords were about to clash, black-red cubes held them back to two far corners of your room.

You blinked, the edge of your desk bit into the skin of your fingers, grounding you as you looked up to the newcomer.

Wings of gold and indigo fluttered, cracks bleeding pulsing ichor. Strands of golden hair shifted as the— man? entity? angel? you didn't know anymore — turned to face you.

And perhaps you were just one foot into an asylum, but you could've sworn that his golden eyes softened just a fraction.

—

There's a stifling quietude blanketing you, interrupted only by the occasional whir of the aircon.

You sit slouched on your gaming chair, hugging yourself, eyes fixed at a distant point on the tiled floor, the icepack you'd gotten up to get halfway through the ‘conversation’ sits crookedly on top of your head.

When the instinct to blink seizes you, you finally find it in yourself to take in your surroundings again ; at one corner of your room, Phainon — as you knew now — stood, mimicking your stance. He was the only one who mirrored your exact expression.

To the other corner, the ‘Executioner’ stood, darkened tendrils swirled at his feet. A blue flame blazed from the shattered side of his face, mask removed to prove to an unconvinced Phainon that he was indeed him, during the earlier commotion.

And at the center of it all, he hovered, two paces in front of your seated form. His presence made the air heavier, made it difficult to breathe — the only indication that you weren't hallucinating everything, oddly enough.

You sighed, long and weighed.

“I’ll speak frankly to you guys,” your voice pulled them out of their individual reveries, “I can inform the government about this, who most likely have the appropriate tools to look into your case. But, there is a bigger chance that they’ll use you as their lab rats instead.”

You watched as their expressions twisted in frowns of various degrees, “Or, we can wait a bit. Figure out the nature of this, see if all of it is real or not.”

The Emanator cast a furtive glance at his other ‘counterparts’ before locking eyes with you again, “I apologize… for not being able to be of more help. We’ll try our best to not trouble you, I'll investigate privately in the meantime.”

And that pretty much settled your next course of action.

While it wasn't exactly ideal to your perception of reality to have three hologram-esque beings hovering around your home, with the knowledge that they were involved in some great cosmic event that apparently changed the universe (which you weren't even aware of), you didn't really possess the power to do anything besides waiting, as an ordinary human being.

So, you could only pass the next three days with that penumbra of awkwardness blanketing the moments.

Phainon, who’d given the impression of being more outspoken initially, had been eerily quiet and had decided to confine himself to your living room couch, where he’d seem to be engrossed in thoughts.

‘The Executioner’ on the other hand, would unintentionally jump-scare you by appearing at the most random places. Though, it’d been because of his critically impaired mental faculties from the strain of housing far too many ‘Coreflames’, as you came to learn from the Emanator later.

The Emanator in question on the other hand, was usually nowhere to be found. But you chalked it up to it being within the bounds of his weird Emanator powers— a concept you still couldn't really wrap your head around.

You couldn't deny that it was a bit hard to believe that all three of them were the same person, shattered and rebuilt through the endeavor stretched across epochs.

And you brought up this issue one day, upon realizing that you didn't really have an efficient way of addressing them.

“Phainon… of Aedes Elysiae.” the hero offered a wry smile, a hand cradling his heart— or the vestiges of it.

You turned to the other two, who were surprisingly present. They seemed to have understood that you couldn't just call each of them ‘Phainon’ and were thinking about it.

When the silence stretched on though, “Uhm… maybe Phaiyi and Phainoonie?” you pointed at the Emanator and then the Executioner.

Not even the rustles of the Emanator’s wings could be heard all of a sudden.

“Sorry.” you backpedaled immediately, swearing to yourself that you’d never make a joke in your life ever again.

Before you could contemplate too far on running away, ‘the Executioner’ spoke, for the very first time.

“Kh…as...la…na…”

You blinked in confusion, glancing at the other two to see an odd expression of pain on their faces.

“Khas…lana? Did I get that right?” you turned to ‘Khaslana’ again, he managed a nod, his masked face gave nothing of his emotions away.

And at last, you turned towards the winged Emanator, whose face was seized by a pensive shadow.

Sensing your inquisitive gaze, he finally tilted his head up to meet your eyes.

“Call me Khaos.”

—

The night that day had been ordinary.

Or at least, a sight that you’d gotten accustomed to over the years. A dark canopy where faint twinkles of distant stars could occasionally be seen, easily defeated by the thousands of city lights from sky-scrapers.

The world around you hadn't changed at all, but your perception of it had. To think that such a massive interstellar war had taken place while your planet had remained none-the-wiser.

Or maybe the government does know, and was intentionally keeping it all confidential all while spinning the tale of there being no ‘aliens’ that they've contacted with.

While this chain of thought did make you sound like a conspiracy theorist, the fact that you could understand their language without an issue was suspicious in itself.

You rested your arms on the rail of your balcony, was any of this even real? You found yourself questioning while staring up at those unreachable stars.

What's the guarantee that you weren't in a simulated world as well, like the one they had been a part of?

And whenever this train of thought would ricochet in your head, your brain would supply that you needed to touch grass, for the sake of your sanity — which was easier said than done in a concrete jungle of a city.

“So this is what a real night sky looks like…!”

You're startled out of your existential crisis by a sun-kissed voice, whipping your head to the side to meet with sheepish cyan eyes.

“Sorry! I'd didn't mean to startle you— I can leave if you want me to??” Phainon rubbed the nape of his neck, a gesture you’d realized he did rather often.

Having recovered from the scare of not him ‘speaking out of nowhere’, but not sensing his presence at all, you waved off a hand, “Oh.. n-no, it's fine. Stay.”

Phainon's shoulders relaxed, his hair shifted slightly as he tipped his head up to gaze at the sky again.

“Glimmering stars, faint moonlight, a chill in the air— exactly as they described it in the stories.” he marveled.

Then, catching your curious expression, he looked back at you, “Amphoreus, my home world, had no ‘natural’ day-night cycle. In Okhema— Amphoreus' most prosperous city-state for example— it was always daytime. So… this is my first time seeing a real night.”

Your mouth formed an ‘O’ at his explanation and you turned back towards the night again, a star twinkled back at you.

To think you were complaining about how boring it all was just moments ago but to Phainon, it was a life changing experience.

(It made you feel just the tiniest bit ashamed inside.)

“Well, there was some semblance of a night in the outskirts of Okhema, though they never were quite comforting.” you turned to him as he resumed, “Like in Janusopolis! Where I was in a mission with Tribbie— one of my mentors and a demigod by the way. That boundless dark sky and a flash of something streaking the sky are my last memories of Amphoreus… before I woke up in that game.”

You watched as his eyes dimmed, his voice dropped an octave as he trailed off.

“So… you were conscious of the fact that you were in a game?” you approached gently.

Phainon blinked out of his stupor, his fingers reached to grasp onto the railing and failed as they phased right through it.

A frown crept in his expression, which he forced away with a chuckle, “Well…! It took me some time, admittedly, but I was eventually able to take in my situation when I heard your voice.”

That made you freeze.

“You could hear me???” your voice rose in panic.

Phainon scratched his cheek, “Yes??” not quite seeming to understand your sudden agitation.

Oh heavens oh stars, he heard all of your simping and cursing!

You buried your face in your hands, slumping against the cool metal of the railing while Phainon panicked, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing.

But then, he paused upon remembering something else, something that he’d been pondering about for the past couple of days.

“[Name]? Can I… ask a question?”

You grumbled a sound of agreement, still hiding in your hands.

“Why… did you continue to play The Golden Scapegoat?”

You held a pause for three seconds, before your index fingers parted, just enough to catch Phainon’s serious expression.

A sigh tumbled out of your lips, “Honestly? Because I had no damn choice.”

And you were basically being blackmailed into it, which you decided against saying.

Phainon chuckled and you were surprised by how much that sound eased you, “Understandable.”

Your eyes lingered on the faint curve of his lips before you straightened, not bothering to fix your crooked glasses.

“But on a more serious note, it was because moving forward was the only way to see how things would end.” then you raised an accusing finger, “And also! Out of sheer spite with my life.”

Cyan eyes widened, the city lights reflected on them, before another giggle seized him.

“Moving forward out of spite huh…” a faint furrow appeared in his brows, as though he finally understood something.

You nodded, resting your cheek against your knuckles, “What other choice do we really have in this… uncertain existence? You’ll meet an uncountable number of hurdles in your life, all of which will try to stop your pursuit. You can choose to end it any time, but you'll never know what you missed if you do. And perhaps, that's comforting as well. But if I'm able to, I'd like to persist. To see. If nothing else, I can say that I've tried my best.”

“And… what if, ‘your best’ isn't enough?”

“Who gets to judge that, hm? There is no way to satisfy everyone. Not even yourself.”

A quiet exhale left Phainon, he watched the play of the city lights across your face, your eyes remained closed behind the frame of your askance glasses. Though he could not see what flickered in your eyes as you spoke, he knew that you were certain and content in having found your truth.

Phainon felt an urge to cradle those words, to hold onto them to reflect upon later.

His fingers twitched against his side, the air swept aside as he raised his hand, carefully adjusting your glasses back into position.

You felt every nerve in your body ignited upon registering the tentative brush of something against your cheek. Your eyes opened with urgency, meeting with dazed cyan ones.

“Did you just touch me?”

Phainon blinked, you could see his mind buffer for a few seconds as he processed your question and when he did, he flinched away, hands raising in surrender.

“I-I’m so sorry—”

“No!” you took a step closer, grasping his hand, a shiver seized you as you felt its warmth. “You just touched me! You— you just interacted with this world!”

Phainon froze, eyes blown wide as he took in the weight of your words.

“I…” the fingers of the hand you were holding flexed against yours, a light sheen of sweat coating them. “I-I can…?” he brought his other hand up, holding yours in between both of his.

“Yes…!” you couldn't hold back the rising excitement in your voice.

Phainon swallowed, he gave a tentative squeeze, sheer wonder taking over his expression when his hands didn't phase through and pressed against your skin instead.

“Yes…!” he exclaimed back, he looked up just as his legs bent, before he met your giddy jump with one of his own.

The sudden commotion drew in the other two, Khaos peeked into the balcony with quizzical eyes, Khaslana trailed behind.

“What is—?”

His question was interrupted by a quiet gasp, as he took in the sight of Phainon spinning you, laughs of pure glee tumbled out of both of your lips.

Khaslana’s eye widened behind the mask as he processed this new revelation.

Even through his fractured mind, he could sense the impending lengthy discussion.

iii. Katalepsis

The hue-and-cry of the shopping district engulfs you.

Beside you, Phainon fell into step, carrying a bag of apples as you both headed towards the supermarket. Though the actual purpose of this trip had been to test whether Phainon’s newly acquired physical presence in your world had been real or just a trick of your minds (as none of you were sure anymore).

Phainon is a sight amidst the crowd and you wouldn't even need the frequent turning of passerby towards his direction to tell you that.

Now that he was out of the cramped space of your apartment, you were able to really take in his height and build in its entirety, combined with his striking appearance, you couldn't really judge people for ogling.

You could only imagine what their reactions would be to seeing the other two.

Somewhere during the trip, a passerby shoots Phainon a question, “Yo, Owlet?”

Phainon reciprocated his fist-bump, albeit half a second late, a smile gracing his face on instinct — the exchange reassured you, he was great at acting.

“You’re pretty popular, it seems.” Phainon tugs at his t-shirt, one of the samples of your merch that you had laying around the apartment; thrown on him last minute in exchange of his fantasy armor to make him less conspicuous while out on the streets (which clearly wasn't working).

Your fans called themselves the Owlets, not because owls were your absolute favorite bird (not initially) but because of the amateur drawing of an owl you’d done in one of your earlier streams, which, you still used as your avatar to this day.

You adjusted your headphones around your neck, more out of habit than anything else, “Shh, keep your voice down. I'm what they call ‘an incognito artist’.”

At that, Phainon made a zipping motion along his lips, still clutching the bag of apples in his left hand.

You kept your pace steady, eyes skimming over passing shops, “And besides, my uh… err,” your mind buffered as you tried to find a suitable word, realizing he probably wouldn't know what ‘streaming’ is, “— My work, isn't exactly legal.”

Phainon perked up, “Oh! You mean streaming?”

Now you felt like an idiot.

You managed a mute nod, resisting the urge to curl in on yourself.

Phainon chuckled, “I used to be a streamer back in my world, too! That's how I know.”

That pulled you out of spiraling, “Oh?”

“Mm hm!” the lights from the various adverts around made his cyan eyes sparkle, “I used to stream antique appraisals! Pretty boring stuff compared to what you do though.”

You blinked up at him, “Are you kidding? That's so cool! You must've been kind of an expert in the field then?”

He rubbed the nape of his neck as another sheepish chuckle escaped him, the fabric of the t-shirt stretched around his biceps with the motion. “I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I definitely do have some experience on the matter.”

He tilted his head down towards you as curiosity took over his face, “But what did you mean by your work not being legal?”

You cast cursory glances to both sides, instinctively checking for prying ears, and eyes.

When you were assured of their absence, you leaned closer to Phainon, voice dropping to a whisper, “The government doesn't allow creative expressions by humans on this planet. Every ad you see around here? It's all generated via artificial intelligence. The network where I stream is a secret web. Only about 28% of the population knows about it.”

Phainon's face went through a series of expressions as he processed your words, “No wonder everything feels so soulless here.” he says, brows pinching as he casts a disapproving glance around everything.

“But why? Robbing humans of their creativity … It's so unfair and stupid…!” he turns back to you, silver strands tousling with his steps.

You shrugged, “Believe me when I say, I've been asking that exact question for all three decades I've lived on this cursed planet.”

Phainon grumbled, his day clearly ruined as he took in the dystopian reality you lived in.

The rest of the trip proceeded smoothly, Phainon recovered from his dreary mood within three seconds and engaged in chit-chats where you exchanged more information about both of your worlds, in between grabbing items from the grocery list.

Throughout this, Phainon was interrupted by a few more of your fans who’d been lured to him by the sight of your merch t-shirt on him, completely unaware of the fact that their idol was right beside them — and you preferred it that way.

By the twelfth encounter, Phainon realized something : he’d severely underestimated your popularity. Not because people were just strolling up to share a fist-bump of solidarity with him, but because of the amount of ‘I miss EnTeLeKia07’s streams’ comments he’d heard.

You, however, remained strangely nonchalant about it all, whether it was just an extension of your usual personality or deliberate ; he wasn't certain about, and that made Phainon decide against poking you about it further.

On the return trip, Phainon halted in front of a small flower shop. You followed his line of sight, which stopped at a small pot of yellow dotted blue flowers.

“Is something the matter?” your question snapped him out of his trance.

“Oh. No no no, I just got distracted! Let's go!”

You pushed your glasses up with one finger, looking at his retreating form and then back to the potted flowers.

--

Phainon hummed happily, cradling the pot of forget-me-nots in one hand, holding all your bags with the other (upon his insistence). You followed him a step behind, listening to the song that played in your headphones.

The steady rhythm doesn't last long though. You’re sent crashing into Phainon’s back as he abruptly stops in his tracks, again.

“What… interesting looking chimeras!”

You fix your glasses, rubbing your nose while peeking from behind his back towards what it was that’d stolen his attention this time.

“Oh. You mean the cats?”

Phainon’s face formed an ‘O’, awe taking over as he took in the sight of the two cats playing beside the trashcans.

“So, that's what you call them here. They're so adorable!” he cooes, you could almost see sparkles floating around him.

You didn't disagree with that, it made you pleased, to be precise. Liking cats was a good sign among people, in your opinion.

Phainon couldn't seem to have contained his excitement though, as he took a few steps closer towards the cats, propelled with an urge to pet them and unsurprisingly, the cats scampered away at his intrusion.

“There, there.” you gave a pat to his slumped shoulders, lips down-turned with such a devastated pout that even you felt bad.

“Erm, we can come back later with treats? Cats don't trust people easily so, we’ll have to bribe them.” you offered tentatively.

All traces of mourning left Phainon as soon as those words reached his ears, he whipped around towards you, the golden flecks in his eyes sparkled again.

“R-really? I mean, you don't have to if it's too much trouble but—ahhhh, I really appreciate it!”

You huffed, lips twitching in a small smile, wondering whether to dismiss the apparitions of perked up puppy ears on his head or to accept them as fitting for this man.

—

Such trips became more common as the days went by, since Phainon had begun to experience hunger and fatigue.

The hero himself had been reluctant to feed off of you like that though, and had pestered you constantly with the purpose of providing for himself — or to help you in any way. Which, was not much fruitful since in virtue of him being the equivalent of a newborn, he had neither the ID nor the connections to find work here.

There was also the matter of secrecy. All of you had agreed upon not disclosing this ordeal to anyone, especially not your pesky government. As such, caution was practiced even during the small trips to the shopping district.

So, Phainon had assigned himself as your house-helper instead ; dusting, cleaning, sweeping, washing and of course, taking care of the pot of forget-me-nots that’d found refuge on your bedside window — despite your protests, which you had to retract when he sheepishly admitted to being not used to having nothing to do.

It was then that the realization struck you, even though you’d known them as mere code on your screen first, Phainon and the other two, had lived human lives once and they were victims of circumstances, too.

Today, however, a tense silence hung over the world — not from the darkened clouds outside, but from the remnants of a fight between Phainon and Khaslana ; which ended with a broken table of yours.

It was difficult to say whether you were upset by this ordeal or not, but you certainly were done with the stifling air, which pushed you to go outside at last, alone this time.

“Wait, let me come with—”

You silenced Phainon with a raised hand, not bothering to look back at him as you put on your shoes with an urgency thus unobserved.

“At least take an umbrella…” Phainon trailed off helplessly as you rushed away, the slam of the door echoing even moments after your departure.

You didn't mean to shut him out that crudely, it wasn't even his fault. Khaslana had begun to behave strangely as of late (which was saying something considering he was never really normal to begin with) ; he’d snap at Phainon, attack things that were completely harmless and wander around as though he were sleepwalking.

Whenever confronted though, he’d remain silent and Khaos was also conveniently gone, leaving you and Phainon to deal with it, so far in vain.

You were never the best at confrontations to begin with and frankly, this was more direct social interaction you’d gone through than in the past five years, the effect of all the other reality bending things that happened went without saying. So, even you who preferred self-distance over emotional expression, had begun to feel off your axis.

Which was remarkable honestly, you thought sarcastically as you browsed through the familiar isles, the solid tactic that managed to get you through the last decade had finally begun to crumble.

You should probably apologize once you get home, right? You stared blankly at the contents behind a bag of chips, not really reading. But then again, was nurturing this attachment even worth it? It wasn't like they were going stay, anyway.

You shook your head, placing the bag back on the shelf. You were really out of your element today and had no idea how to get out of this strange mood.

In the end, you only managed to grab a bag of pasta and a kilo of tomatoes ; courtesy of being distracted by both your thoughts and having tripped and gotten your clothes caught in things thrice.

The world was really testing you today.

The sky groans and a flash lightning streaks the very next second, signaling the impending storm. The memory of Phainon frantically trying to hand you an umbrella resurfaces as you quicken your steps, a twinge of regret bleeding into your heart.

Not just for not taking the umbrella, but also for slamming the door to his face and— ah, now you felt really terrible.

You blink just as a droplet of rain falls on the surface of your glasses, glancing around your surroundings to find that you’d strayed from the main path and into an alley in the heat of your thoughts.

Storm-clouds loomed up, a downpour would follow soon no doubt. You sighed, turning to walk out, but then, you hear it.

A crunch, almost drowned in the strike of thunder and the silhouette of a man advancing towards you.

Your heart kicked violently against your ribcage, a string of curses echoing in your head at having fallen for the oldest mistake — stepping into a crackhead’s alley.

“Uhm… I come in peace?” your voice wobbles as you take steps back, the grocery bag dangles from one of your raised arms.

The guy makes a weird noise, clearly under the influence and intent on not letting you get away in one piece, you catch a shadow of a bat in his hand.

This is how you die, oh lord.

You glance frantically around, searching for something, anything while simultaneously trying to not spiral into panic — finding nothing but junk on the ground.

You step aside just in time to dodge the first swing, by virtue of pure adrenaline and in the proximity, the stature of the man registers in your head, you feel your heart sink upon realizing that there is no way you’d be able to get him off of you by yourself.

He swivels the bat again and you duck, feet bending to hurl yourself towards the exist just as rain begins to pour down in drizzles and you almost make it — until the next swing lands square on your shoulder.

The bag hits the ground, rain beads over the splatter of the fallen tomatoes.

Your pained scream blends into the rhythm of the water hitting the ground in sharp droplets, your knees scrap against the ground as the force of the hit sends you tumbling to the ground, mud and rain stains your clothes.

You clutch your shoulder with your free hand, chest heaving, watching through crooked and rain-stained glasses as the madman turns slowly, menacingly back towards you, fingers flexing around the bat.

You attempt to stand up, shoe sliding across the slippery soil and hurling you back to mother earth, mud seeps in through the cracks of your fingers, your hair sticks to your forehead as the man’s shadow engulfs you.

And then, he raises his bat — you reach blindly for something and find one of the tomatoes.

But before you can throw it at him , a loud cling echoes, dominating over the drizzle of rain.

You blink, squinting towards the new shadow that falls upon you. Black-gold robes, familiar hood, the glint of the edge of a familiar mask as he glances over his shoulder —

A shaky exhale tumbles out of your lips, relief momentarily sweeping aside the pain at the sight of Khaslana, actually Khaslana, blocking the blow.

Khaslana turns back towards the offender at the sound of his muttered curse, rain kisses the fabric of his cloak but doesn't seep into it, fizzling away. He grasps the hilt of his sword and then slices it through the man’s bat.

The offender stares incredulously as his weapon drops to the ground in two pieces, his one brain-cell in disarray. A gasp leaves him as Khaslana points his sword directly between his eyes, backing him towards the wall.

You drag yourself up, clutching to one of the garbage bins for support. You hear something along the lines of a frightened ‘stay away!’ being shouted by your attacker, which falls on deaf ears as Khaslana pushes the point of his blade a bit deeper into the man’s skin.

You're about to ask Khaslana to let him go, mind cleared to the fact this would become a murder scene soon — but the offender saves you words and faints from sheer shock.

The slide of his body from the wall to the ground is heard for one uncomfortable second, before rain swallows it.

Khaslana withdraws his sword, taking a step back. You push yourself towards him, still clutching your wounded shoulder.

“Khas—”

You yelp, as the tip of his blade stares you in the eyes this time — and then is jerked away.

You blink in confusion as one clawed hand raises to press against his masked face, concern beginning to flow into your expression as Khaslana staggers away, his body contorting in a series of violent glitches.

For a long moment, the fall of the rain is all that is heard. You rack your brain amidst the sweltering pain at your shoulder, trying to understand what was going on and what you should do now.

Your eyes fell upon Khaslana's glitching form, his pained breaths echoing in your ears despite the storm and you realize what the problem is.

“Khaslana… are you… confused about what is real and what isn't…?”

No response. Though, his labored breaths and the glitching soothes slightly, so slightly that it would be easy to miss.

That was enough confirmation for you though, you heaved a breath, trying not to collapse as the pain on your shoulder returned with a vengeance.

“Let’s just… go home first.”

—

Phainon nearly loses his mind when you return, bruised and drenched, barely supported by Khaslana.

“Wha—? How? Why—?” he asks frantically, hands reaching to take you before you could hit the floor.

But unfortunately for him, you were far too beaten up (literally) to answer and Khaslana was never the talker. Phainon prudently decided to not push further, carrying you towards the bathroom instead.

It took a good two hours to get you cleaned up and bandaged and a whole night before you were allowed to sit up again — as per Phainon's insistence.

(You were too deep in sleep to know this though, Khaslana had stood guard beside your bed the whole night.)

The next morning, when Phainon came to check up on you with a bowl of soup, you greeted him with a request for a conversation with Khaslana instead, the incident of the day before and the question that was not yet answered troubling you.

“Do you two also feel like you can't tell whether all of this is real or not…?”

Phainon shifted where he sat on your bed, cyan eyes flickering over the bedsheets. For a moment, it seemed as though he was about to laugh it off but upon seeing your very serious expression, he decided to be honest.

“Yes.”

You turned towards Khaslana, who sat by the edge of the bed upon your request (something that had shocked Phainon), his mask was off (another surprise), baring his unreadable expression to you two.

The blue flame that flickered on his left eye was dim, his one intact eye fell upon his clawed hands, flexing the fingers of them hesitantly — a glitch seized his sight.

A quiet sigh left you and Phainon in unison — not out of annoyance, but out of understanding.

Phainon turned to you, “How could you tell?”

You took a deep breath, gathering yourself, “I… may not have experienced even a quarter of the things you guys have. But as someone who's used to living vicariously through fantasy worlds on my screen, being forced to confront a reality that… could be false as well and having my entire perception of it changed so significantly, I understand. I understand the feeling.”

A wave of silence washed by after you finished. You steady your breaths and lift your gaze, “So, let's try not to isolate ourselves and rely on each other a little more. Let's try… to be gentler with ourselves?”

Phainon and Khaslana exchange a glance, a twinge of surprise in both of their faces.

Phainon breaks out of it the quickest, sporting a smile of agreement.

Khaslana doesn't agree verbally, but he does tap the bowl of soup Phainon had brought for you with the sharp tip of one finger and then blends into the shadows.

That was louder than any agreement he could've spoken.

—

Luckily for you, you hadn't dislocated your shoulder or broken anything, and under Phainon's care, you ended up recovering from the worst of the pain after three days. Enough for you to resume your normal activities, at least.

And an even better news was that your hopeless internet had finally ceased keeping you in virtual jail! As such, you could finally interact with everything again.

One day, you found yourself going through your secret chest, as Phainon had expressed his interest in learning about the history of your world.

When Phainon finally got his hands on the physical books in question though, he was rather confused.

“Fairy tales…?” he frowned, flipping through the pages.

You blew dust off of one of the books in your hands, “No no no. They're allegories. This is the way our true history was preserved. Anything you see commercially or on the net? That's all fabricated by the government. Here, let me decipher it for you…”

Though the state of your world baffled and, frankly concerned Phainon, he was intrigued as well. Not just by the history and the people's creative resistance against censorship, but by how you explained it all. Your view, the way you perceived the universe fascinated Phainon.

Every tidbit of yourself you shared with him nurtured the seedling of affection and with it, the instinct to act upon it was also provoked.

So one day, he did ; in the form of rice fried with far too much clinical precision than necessary. Your reaction to the dish however, had been… strange.

“How… did you make this?” you stared at the wisps of aroma floating from the golden pile of fried rice, spoon clasped loosely in one hand.

Phainon, who’d been standing by with all the anxiety of a novice chef getting their dish critiqued by a master, perked up. “Oh, uh, I found the recipe on a book that was hidden in that pile of ‘history books’ — not just this one actually, there were lots of other recipes there as well! And I really wanted to cook something good for you…”

An odd look took over your eyes, Phainon tilted his head, trying to read the emotions veiled behind those lenses. He was about to instinctively apologize when he felt a shiver race down his spine. And when he turned towards the source of the bad vibe, he found Khaslana shooting him a sharp glare from the corner.

“W-what??” Phainon stiffened.

Khaslana held the glare for two more seconds, before walking away. And though he maintained his in-character silence, Phainon could feel, as though by some weird connection, that he was just deemed an idiot.

(You merely took a quiet bite of the dish, thanking Phainon. But could not find it in yourself to explain the weight of this casually, at the moment.)

Speaking of Khaslana, a new behavior was observed in him as of late — sleeping, lots of sleeping. It was still debatable whether he was actually sleeping or not, but he did linger in your vicinity for extended periods of time.

For example, on a Tuesday night, while you were handling the damage done by the last two months' absence and Phainon came to call you for dinner ; he was shocked to see Khaslana at your feet, head resting on your lap.

Feeling Phainon's bewildered stare, you shrugged, “He just came and sat down here without any explanation… and I couldn't find it in myself to move.”

None of you could really fault it though, the first Khaslana — the harbinger of an aeon long mission, battered with the weight of shouldering 4000001 Eternal Recurrences all by himself, had been exhausted beyond words, for a very long time. If anything, him even trusting your space enough to linger, was a good sign ; as was agreed upon on a later discussion.

—

One night, you find Khaos sitting on the living room floor in front of the couch, wings slightly folded towards himself.

The living room couch would usually be occupied by Phainon at night, but Khaos had requested a bit of alone time to think, leaving both Phainon and Khaslana to ‘camp’ in your room for the night.

Their mutual acquiescence had surprised you a bit ; even though Phainon and Khaslana seemed to have a bit of beef, they seemed to co-operate whenever Khaos was in the room. Not that you were complaining.

You were supposed to be sleeping, but a restless fit had taken over you, and after a good few hours of alternating between doom-scrolling and tossing-turning in bed, you decided to just give up.

“What are you thinking about?” you joined him on the floor an arm's length away, the chill of the tiles seeping through your bones — chased away a second later as his warmth reached you.

The pale golden light that always embraced Khaos acted as illumination against the dark, he blinked himself out of a daze, only now realizing that you were in front of him.

He uncrossed his arms but they stayed in his lap, “About… everything that's happened. Why we ended up here, how we are slowly blending in with this world, why it's accepting us at all… why you?”

You cushioned your cheek on your palm as he talked, eyes flickering over the faint shadows of his wings on the floor. He was the only one who didn't seem to require any significant memory with you to gain a physical presence in this world, an anchor since the earlier days — however fragile as it were.

You didn't take offense in his pointed doubt, it was a valid question after all. Why you, indeed?

“… Phainon told me that his last his last memory had been at the ruins of Janusopolis… Khaslana said that his last memory had been total darkness, what about you? What did you see at the end of your journey…? If you don't mind me asking.” your eyes remained fixed on the crevices between the shadows.

The question caught him off-guard, but he answered nonetheless, eyes closing as he retraced his memories, “The golden wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae… the starry sky… warmth… fire.”

That made you look up, “Your homeland?”

Khaos nodded, slowly, as if dowsing himself in the vestiges of that faraway realm in his mind.

“After I faced off against Nanook’s legion with the wrath of four hundred two million six hundred four thousand thirty-two Coreflames, used THEIR golden bold to bring dawn, sealed Irontomb with myself… until the final battle— at the end of it all, all I could see were those golden fields.” his voice was hoarse, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his fingers flexed on his lap.

You took in every word with rapt attention, no matter how many times you’d gone over this, it never failed to blow your mind away. How had one individual, a programmed human, achieved such a feat? To face off against an Aeon — though you only understood the gist of their powers — and contain a literal universal level threat all by himself?

You would've been skeptical of this matter if you were introduced to it just three months ago. But enough strange things had already happened with you, and Khaos wasn't exactly some fantasy RPG cosplayer in front of you ; you had seen his powers with your own eyes (glasses and all).

Perhaps the limitations of your ordinary human mind prevented you from fathoming it in its entirety, because you felt as though you weren't doing it justice.

So, it escaped your lips before you could think more, “That’s so… based of you.”

Khaos opens his eyes, his reverie momentarily interrupted as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Based…? On what?

You realized what you’d blurted out and how it might've sounded to him, hands moving in scattered gestures, “It means I really respect you! That your actions or thoughts are really cool!”

Khaos stared blankly at you for a while, clearly engaged in a fierce mental debate to decide whether to take you seriously or not. You twiddled with your fingers nervously.

Then, by the grace of the stars, something that seemed to be close to a huff left him. Amusement brushing over his sharp features.

“Cool… are you sure about that?” he tilted his head towards you.

Now it was your turn to stare blankly at him, neurons firing to figure out what made him look so smug.

And when you did, your jaw went slack.

“Did you just… make a pun about yourself??”

Khaos cleared his throat far louder than it was necessary, straightening back in his usual regal demeanor — but he didn't deny it.

You snickered as you caught the twinge of fluster on his face, which was halted before you could slip into full cackles as a thought struck you, pushed by the sudden hit of dopamine.

“Hey Khaos, have you ever heard of the ‘Many Worlds Interpretation’?”

All traces of the previous light-hearted mood disappears from his face as he takes in your sudden seriousness.

“No… what is it about?”

You leaned on your arms, “Basically… the theory proposes that there are many parallel worlds in the universe that exist simultaneously — but don't, or can't interact with each other. It views time as a many-branched tree, wherein every possible quantum outcome is realized.”

You catch the shift of inquisition in his golden eyes, “You said that since you’d merged with Irontomb, you should've been destroyed alongside it, right? And even if you were saved somehow, you shouldn't have ended up here, with yourself fractured no less. It reminded me of this theory.”

Khaos pressed his thumb and index fingers to his chin, pondering. “So… you're suggesting that us experiencing ‘rebirth’ here is only one of the many outcomes that’ve taken shape, according to this theory?”

You nod, “It’s only a theory though. It’s supposed to answer some similar paradoxes, but no one's actually tested its validity in reality.”

He looks back at you, “Why not?”

“Because… it involves dying. Multiple times, in fact.”

“Ahh…” he sits upright again, the feathers of his wings rustling slightly with the motion. “I can see why you brought it up.”

You nod sagely and he reciprocates it ; the motion inviting a wave of silence to settle over you both next.

Khaos deigns to mull over the new information, leaving you suspended with an empty head. You fix your position multiple times, eyes sweeping over the crevices of your living room in the shadows of midnight — until a shiver seizes you.

You rub your arms with your hands, trying to capture the heat. But your body decides to be stubborn and you're regretting the decision of sitting on the cold hard floor all at once.

Just then, you remember the presence of the natural heat source right in front of you and you find yourself shifting closer towards Khaos, uncaring of anything besides not freezing to death.

Khaos is broken out of his pondering at the soft shuffle of you scooting towards him, golden eyes flickering over the goosebumps on your skin.

“Are you feeling sick…?”

You settle just beside his folded golden wing, the chill soothes just barely at his warmth, “Uh no? I think it's just because of the cold floor.. or maybe low iron.”

Khaos frowns, concern softening his sharp features at the way you hug yourself. It seems as though he wants to reprimand you, or object, but stops himself ; deciding instead on slowly unfurling his wing and wrapping it around you.

A quiet gasp is drawn out of you, the sound melting in the cocoon of warmth between you two, the chill slowly ebbing away. It seemed for a second that Khaos was planning on pulling you closer— but then stopped as the spikes on his shoulder touched your arm.

Your restless mind falters at last, a yawn leaves you lips, the ghosts of sleep finally haunting your vision, making it blurry.

“[Name]?”

Khaos’ tentative call keeps you from slipping away entirely, you hum in acknowledgement.

“Do you ever think… about the intricacies of the fabric of reality? Spaces where mathematics break down… the very core of every happenstance?”

You tilt your head towards him, blinking away sleep. Khaos’ eyes remain faraway.

“I think, perhaps, it's alright to not understand the mechanisms of that core. At least, for us ordinary humans.”

You chase after his gaze, trying to find where exactly he was in the moment. Khaos senses your puzzlement, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Thank you, [Name].” he utters, confusing you even more.

“For…?”

“I’ll tell you… later.”

iv. Anagnorisis

Unfortunately for you, Khaos’ worry turned out to be correct and you fell ill with a raging fever the very next morning.

You typically were more cautious during the time when seasons changed, but the past months’ stress, combined with the thorough drenching and beating you’d experienced, culminated into one feverish debacle.

There was scarce recollection of the matter in you, since you’d been as good as unconscious for the first three days, no zeal left to care for your guests.

By some miracle, as it seemed to you, Phainon and the others somehow managed it all — from the medicines, the meals and the impediments that came with a bedridden person.

The three took turns watching over you ; Khaos would hold you when the shivers became too violent, Khaslana would stand sentri unblinkingly every night, bringing water or alerting the others if required.

And Phainon, Phainon had completely thrown away the concept of rest, always running back and forth from monitoring your temperature to ensuring your other needs were met, all while keeping a smile on his face somehow.

It was only on the fifth day when your fever went down and seemed as though it had no plans of returning soon, that they allowed themselves to breathe.

But still, your body had been weak, immune system ravaged after exhausting its resources ; prompting their insistence for you to remain in rest, even as your mind began to get restless with things unrelated to sickness.

On one such night, as your eyes traced shapes of distant ruminations upon the bedsheets bathed in moonlight, you played chase with sleep and it slipped through your fingers each time.

“Can’t sleep, partner?” the whisper grounds you to the waking world, you find a familiar pair of cyan eyes taking you in when you raise your head.

Phainon takes a seat on the edge of your bed, tentatively. Bracing one hand against it, a breath away from where your own hand rests on the blanket. Like a star that appears to be so close to the moon from the earth.

He raises his free hand to press against your forehead, the practice so habitual now. He begins to retreat upon noticing the absence of the sting of fever-heat, but you stop him by grabbing his hand before he could.

“Phainon, may I… ask you to hold me?”

Phainon blinks in surprise, not at the request, but at how carefully you form those words. Your fingers hold his wrist lightly, giving him ample space to deny, just like you always do in everything.

But Phainon had gotten a tad too bad at denying you anything, less so when you ask for it yourself.

The bedsheets and blankets rustle in the quiet night as Phainon maneuvers, it takes a few seconds for you both to settle into each others' arms.

“Comfortable?” his voice is almost muffled as it melts in the crook of your neck, he adjusts your legs so that they drape over his lap instead.

You give a nod against his chest, shoulders sagging in tandem with a sigh, still refusing to address the unspoken question of why.

Phainon draws an absentminded circle on your hip, praying that his heartbeat doesn't betray him.

Then, unable to contain his curiosity, or perhaps anxiety, “You can… tell me what’s troubling you. Only if you want to, of course.”

You don't move from your position, but Phainon feels the press of your cheek more firmly against the fabric of his shirt.

Just when he's about to give up though, “Phainon, do you ever feel like… some people die long before their deaths?”

The instinct to breathe eludes Phainon as he registers your words, it takes him a second to take in your question and another to respond. “I… think it can happen, yes. Though, I'd like to hear your thoughts on this more.”

You shift in his arms, just enough for your voice to no longer be muffled, “Some people in our lives… die long before their last breath is penned down. And then, they haunt us every day, every night. But, they don't know that they're no more than ghosts of themselves to us.”

Phainon draws in a long breath, eyes flickering over you but unable to gauge your expression, opting instead to fix on a crease on the blanket.

“And… are those ghosts, haunting you now, too?” his fingers dig in ever so slightly into your clothes.

Your hair brushes against his chin as you shake your head, “No, they're finally asleep… But I am not used to the silence of their absence — I haven't been for a very long time.”

There's a tremble in Phainon's exhale, eyes distant as he tries to imbibe your words. He knows you well enough by now to know that you will not elaborate, dismiss it as feverish ramblings even. It rings a bell of familiarity he’s forced to recognize as personal.

But his instinct to comfort is ever persistent, and after crossing out all his usual strategies, he suggests, “I… could sing you a song?”

That has you peeking from your little hiding spot at last, Phainon watches as you blink up at him quizzically.

“Song?”

A sheepish quirk seizes his lips, “Mhm! I may not have the best voice but, I used to sing along with the villagers during harvest! I learned a thing or two about rhythm from there.”

You shift so that your head rests against his chest this time, “A song from the hero? But I don't have a gift prepared.”

Phainon chuckles, the lilt of it warms the cold air of the night. “No need for gifts. This is my present to you, partner.”

Then, he clears his throat while adjusting his hold on you, propping his chin atop your head.

When his hum permeats the air, it's as though moonlight itself has reached to cradle you.

“Mm hm, my love. Let sleep come to you now.”

Your lashes fluttered as the lilt in the air tugged at their resolve, you offered scarce resistance against that pull.

“… To dreams where you will run and go play. In paradise.”

Shadows flickered on the ivorine sheets as Phainon rocked back and forth in time with the rhythm of your steadying breaths.

The motion tipped you off the axis of the chasing apparitions and guided you step by step, to that oneiric elysium — until all that remained were the sillage of Phainon’s voice and the stillness of this long night.

Khaslana stood, leaning against the opposite wall, “You have gotten far too attached.” there was a pointed sharpness to his comment, yet even he couldn't allow his hoarse words to transcend the border of a whisper, perhaps afraid to shatter this vial of peace.

Khaos watched from his perch on the chair at the corner as Phainon refused to address Khaslana. His arms coiled tighter around you, body bending to hide you in his shadow ; his cyan eyes glimmered bright and unblinking, in clear warning to not approach.

“…The other day, while I was cooking dinner, I cut my finger.” he mutters instead, still fixated on an unknown point of space. “But instead of gold, I bled red.”

The weight of his admission presses down on the night.

Khaos also said nothing, perhaps guilty of the same crime (attachment) to some degree as well, but mostly because the worries that’d been circling his mind since the first day were far louder.

Even if this world accepts them, should they stay?

What of the Gaze of Destruction? Is it watching? What if it ravages this sheltered eternity you know as your home, too?

Would they be able to save it? Save you? Would you be able to forgive them?

The night, of course, provides no answer. Ever the silent witness.

—

For as far as Khaslana could remember, the culmination of his memories has been nothing but a palimpsest of titles.

Little Snowy.

Little Snowy.

Survivor.

Survivor.

The nameless hero.

The nameless hero.

Deliverer.

Deliverer.

World-bearer.

World-bearer.

Subject Neikos496.

Hero?

Son of Amphoreus.

Kindling to the flame.

Khaslana.

Khaslana?

████████

His identity has crumbled and been reshaped, until all that remained was a flicker of flame, meant to ignite the faraway dawn, and to keep the torch of worldbearing alight.

And he had gladly given himself to that cause, if only to defy that arrogant Aeon.

Even if the whole universe would tell him that it was futile, he would never bow his head. Not to the Destruction, not to Fate.

For as long as he kept burning, the Flame-Chase would never end.

He wasn't meant to awake again— not like this, at least.

His earliest memory in this strange world, in the true reality, had been within the codes of that absurd game.

He would've laughed if he had been capable of it, seeing as his corpse had to be revived to play the villain again, even in a two dimensional simulation.

His confusion intensified when he found himself beyond the barrier and into this reality, where the night was gentle but ever stifling.

It was only when dawn arrived that he believed it, somewhat.

But still, the need for an explanation was still not met and the only one who he could grasp with some semblance of familiarity had been you.

You. The human even stranger than the world he’d stepped into without planning to. Rightfully frightened, but a fighter nevertheless, not with fists or words— but with silence.

The last thing he’d expected to face was being completely ghosted, even though it was blatantly obvious that you were doing it intentionally.

And he, in his limited cognitive capacity back then, could do nothing but linger and wait.

When his future iterations joined the charades and the answers finally came into light, Khaslana had experienced a complicated mix of emotions.

Happiness? Pride? Relief? To hear that Amphoreus had indeed succeeded. That all the sacrifices had not been in vain.

But more than it all, what prevailed among everything else, had been exhaustion.

He was so, so tired.

He hadn't realized it until it really dawned on him that he could finally breathe without the threat of Irontomb and the Black Tide behind his back and even when he did, his being refused to believe it. So accustomed to running, so used to using fury as fuel.

And so, reality began rejecting him.

He couldn't distinguish between foe and friend, couldn't tell if blood still coated his hands, didn't know whether the stench of burning wheat fields was truly there or not.

You caught onto it, somehow and although you couldn't provide a cure, you offered him space that his instincts recognized as safe, even through the chaos.

Not just him, the other two, as well, you extended your patience towards — even if it seemed as though you were constantly running out of it.

But not a single comment of discomfort, or annoyance, could he recall. Not a peep of indignance at having your life disrupted.

It was only when you’d offered ‘let’s try to be kinder to ourselves?’ that he understood what was really going on.

It wasn't patience. It wasn't tolerance. It was your classic tactic of dissociation that kept you afloat through it all, and you’d decided to not rely on it anymore.

(For who? Them, or yourself? Or something else entirely? He still didn't know.)

You were broken, too. And although time had painted layers of age over the cracks, they still ached.

Perhaps that's why, even though Khaslana wanted to remain a skeptic about you, he hadn't succeeded.

Perhaps that's why, there was peace in your presence.

Perhaps that's why, his own broken self could find it in himself, to hope for the cracks to ameliorate, one day.

—

Khaslana had begun to feel like a foreigner in his own skin at one point, Phainon confirmed it to be his body getting accustomed to the nature of this world.

Phainon had dressed him in ordinary, civilian garbs in the hopes of securing his comfort, and you had wrapped his hands in bandages when they began to ache. But the bulk of the matter would still have to be carried by Khaslana himself.

Once, he’d tried to put the table he’d broken back together, like he could maneuver wood to the shape he desired once upon a time — but remained unsuccessful in the endeavor. His hands still far too used to wielding blades with the intention of killing.

Although you’d simply waved it off and told him not to worry, Khaslana couldn't accept it. So, secretly, he trained himself to get accustomed to delicate tasks again.

Like now, as he watched Phainon and you, engrossed in another of those ‘video game’ competitions again. He observed every move, turn and swipe you two made and noted it down in his memory for later.

“Owh, man…!” you lamented as the screen flashed ‘Victory : Phainon’ in bold, the man in question snickered beside you.

“Told you you wouldn't be able to defeat me in a game with swords, [Name] ~” he sang, to which you huffed, sinking back against the couch cushion between them.

“He cheated.”

Both you and Phainon froze as Khaslana spoke, turning slowly to the left to where he sat slouched.

“Did he just…?”

“Yup, yup.” Phainon confirmed your question, mimicking your bewildered expression— before coughing far too loudly.

“But who said I cheated! I don't cheat! I am an honorable hero—”

Khaslana raised an unimpressed brow at that, shutting Phainon up instantly. It was unfair, really, this power of the First Khaslana to force silence onto someone with just his deadpan expression.

And then, you turned towards him, fueled by your bruised professional gamer pride and betrayal.

“Phainon…!” you exclaimed, the ‘how could you!’ went unsaid.

Phainon raised his hands, already three steps back, prepared to sprint any second.

Khaos froze when Phainon whipped past him, clutching the tray of tea cups tighter as you ran behind him right after — before a chuckle escaped him at Phainon's unrestrained laughter and your completely feigned and absolutely adorable indignance.

Khaslana cushioned his cheek on his palm, trying to hide the faint smile that rebelled against his control.

—

One evening, you entered your room just in time as Khaos slipped a beige sweater on.

“Is it okay…?” you pushed your glasses up, trying to see for yourself if it fit or not. Khaos had requested normal clothes a few days ago as well, having discovered that he could hide the more unique aspects of his transformation for short periods of time now.

He nodded, but his eyes still held a penumbra of hesitance. You could guess why by now, the feeling of any kind of ‘normalcy’ after years of being denied of it would make you feel alienated as well.

“Tell me if you need anything else, okay?” you brushed past him to your gaming setup, giving a gentle pat to his arm.

Khaos rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, in his endeavor to chase after comfort. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, but stopped when your PC turned on and you became distracted by it.

Your brows furrowed as you went back and forth between refreshing and checking your internet — finding that it still stubbornly remained disconnected.

“Hey Khaos, could you return my internet?” you said without looking away, cursor hovering atop the icon of The Golden Scapegoat at the corner of your home screen.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

You turned towards Khaos to find him looking equally as confused as you.

“The internet? Wasn't it you who tinkered with it to make me play The Golden Scapegoat??”

If it was possible, Khaos looked even more puzzled.

“No?”

You stared at him incredulously for a good few seconds, waiting for him to say ‘sike’, to joke, anything.

But he held your gaze, no hint of guilt on his face.

You turned towards your computer again, voice raising with the beginning of something akin to dread, “Then—”

Who were you interacting with back then?

v. Peripeteia

You found the apartment to be suspiciously quiet when you awoke.

Typically, the bustle of the kitchen and hushed conversations would've made their way to you by now, but nothing besides the noise of your own movements filled the air today.

Your eyes found themselves drawn to the pot of forget-me-nots by your windowsill as you dabbed away water droplets from your face with a towel, brows pinching upon noticing the dry soil.

Weird, did Phainon forget?

You push up your glasses as your bedroom door swings open, padding your way to the kitchen to find it decorated with the same silence.

The living room provides the same desolated image, and you have to force yourself to not acknowledge the way your stomach twists into itself ; supplying alternatives to placate the growing anxiety you can't quite understand.

Maybe they're just out somewhere? You think after checking the bathrooms and balcony, finding them similarly empty.

But you had an agreement to remain discreet, so why… you take steps back from the balcony boundary, the thud of your heart’s rhythm suddenly echoing in your eardrums — sent astray when your back collides with something.

You swivel around — an exhale heaving out of you when you recognize it to be just Phainon.

“Where were you??” your voice is just a little too high-pitched than you’d normally like, but your worry overrides any emotion of dislike.

Phainon raises his hands, his lips twitching in what you think is an apologetic smile. “I was sitting on that chair over there…!”

Your face drops at that, “The chair?” you glance at the object, as though not believing its existence now that it's been brought up.

“Yes! It was kind of funny seeing how you completely forgot to glance in that direction…!”

You felt a muscle pinch in itself at his laugh. You couldn't quite place your finger on why, but the sound tipped you off.

Perhaps it's just your morning brain not catching up, you reasoned. “Oh…?” glancing as Phainon folded his arms behind his back, “And where are the other two?”

Phainon shrugs, “They wanted some fresh air, probably at the park.”

A frown tugs its way to your brows at his flippant tone, “And you just let them? What if something happens?”

“Oh, [Name].” he tuts, stepping towards you to grasp your shoulders. “You worry too much! They're big boys, they can handle themselves. You, on the other hand, need to eat.” he says as he begins pushing you towards the kitchen.

“But—” you try to stop on your tracks, which begets a firm squeeze from Phainon, instantly silencing your protesting muscles. He pushes you all the way to the living room.

“No buts. I know that tummy is probably rumbling. Come on, partner— Unless…” he halts right beside the couch, leaning in towards your ear all of a sudden, “You want me to carry you there myself?” your nerves heat up at the proximity of his voice.

“… You’re acting strange today.” you say slowly, eyes restless on the floor. Your fingers twitch by your sides to move, but aren't supplied the courage to.

“Strange how?” he tilts his head, tufts of his hair teases your cheek. “Just because I told you not to worry about them?”

In your quest to avoid his burning stare, you glance towards the front door, then to the shoe rack beside it— where only your shoes remain.

“No, because it's unlike you to leave your shoes outside.” you risk a glance towards his direction.

It seems to take a second for him to realize what you're alluding to, and when he does, his fingers dig into the skin of your shoulders.

Your breath hitches — which you halt to listen for the sounds of his breaths that should’ve brushed against your ear by now.

But there is none.

You pull one shoulder against his grip and break off with a shove, “… Who are you?” and to your surprise, ‘he’ lets you go.

‘His’ hands raise — a mockery of how Phainon would've done it, a corner of his lips twitches as he battles against a smile, before the restrain bursts forth in a sound that's not quite a laugh, but a jagged imitation of it.

‘He’ runs a hand through his hair, shoulders shaking as he struggles to tame his amusement. “Ahh, who am I? I don't think you’ll like the answer.” the left side of his face glitches into crimson pixels when he lowers his hand.

The remnants of his near mechanical laughter echoes in your ears even after the fit ends. You sweep your eyes over him, muscles tensing in uncertainty when his appearance still remains synonymous to Phainon's.

“Which cycle are you from??” you manage to ask after wracking your brain for possible explanations.

“Cycles?” ‘he’ makes a face so bewildered that you almost believe his supposed innocence, then he shakes his head. “I’m not just from the cycles, my dear. I'm the culmination of them.”

You feel an eyebrow twitch, not at all endeared by this. But before your mind can mull on it more, it stills upon realizing what he's hinting towards.

“… Irontomb?”

“Hmm…!” he holds up a finger, as though some maestro correcting an orchestra. “Close, but not quite.”

You whisper a ‘hah?’ of confusion, totally lost. ‘He’, on the other hand, waves both hands upwards in an encouraging motion, perplexing you even more.

You’re about to retort when the flickers of the lights around your apartment bounce off of your glasses. The occurrence prompts you to lend it a glance and then back towards ‘him’ again, eyes widening when it falls upon his hands’ movements and how the lights flickered on-and-off in tandem with them.

A distant memory clicks into place.

“The… Golden Scapegoat… guy?”

‘He’ stops in his tracks, with near comical effect, before his fingers snap in delight. “Ding ding ding!”

Your shoulders sag, glasses tipped sideways, mind utterly blank as you try to decide upon which emotion you should be feeling right now.

‘He’ chuckles again, the sound more akin to cogs scraping against each other as they attempt to turn. “You’re really something, you know that? You can never decide whether you want to panic and run, or stay calm and fight when you're in a situation — which you seem to have a talent in finding. What is the word… I believe I can call this ‘cute’—”

“What did you do to them?” you straighten, expression churning into seriousness once more as you pull yourself out of that haze.

The smile on ‘his’ face freezes, and you watch with increasing discomfort as it slowly slides away from his lips, the rift on the left side of his face glitches throughout.

“What makes you think I did something to them?” his voice is unnervingly level, curiosity peeking from below its steady cadence as he tilts his head.

The creature takes every one of Phainon's quirks, wraps himself around them with blatant disregard. It sickens you to your core.

“You aren't denying it.” you fix him with a hard stare.

“I’m not confirming it either.” he drawls, shrugging. “And until I confirm,” your breath gets stuck in your throat as he mutters right against your ear.

“—You have no way of proving it.” his words are a static against the air as he resumes his position in front of you again, hands clasped behind his back in a picture of innocence, or whatever he understands of it.

You huff, holding your hip, mentally preparing yourself for whatever this is. You stare at the floor for a couple of seconds, trying to trace clues in every line. And when they remain silent, you risk a glance at the convicted cause of this mess, who (?) simply smiles wider at you.

“So, if you are somehow connected to Irontomb— who was this supposed ‘Intergalactic threat’.” you decide to change course, mimicking his earlier flippant tone. “How did you get stuck in my computer? Why appear now?”

“Hmm…” he tilts his head back, that glimmer of amusement clings stubbornly to his eye. “How did you manage to bring those three to reality by playing some two-dimensional game?”

“What? What do you mean me?”

“It is like I said,” he takes a step forward, though no sound is made. “You’d rather repeat a game 33,550,336 times than seek alternative ways, than free yourself.”

For every step he takes towards you, you take one back by the tug of instinct — until your back collides with the wall.

“You’d rather just ‘deal with it’ than demand your personal space,” he bends til his voice is hovering beside your ear again, “Let three strangers make their way into your little human heart, even though you know they will leave you one day.”

That forces you to take a sharp inhale, ‘his’ smirk sharpens as he catches the wary gleam in your eyes.

“Why?” if his whisper hadn't cracked at the seams, you would've almost believed him to be human at that moment.

The creature entices more questions than what he answers, and leaves you scarce room to get him into a tight spot. You briefly catch the sight of his arms still folded behind him, fingers twitching as though he wishes to reach out.

When your silence stretches, “Let me guess, the answer is, ‘I don't know’.” he leans back slightly, no longer crowding you. “And you don't want to find out either.”

That ticks a nerve, “Don’t put words in my mouth. I want to know where they are, at least — very very much.”

“Oh?” the blue in his visible eye is swallowed by a wave of crimson, “Why is that?”

You scrunch your nose, “Because they're my friends?”

His head tilts sideways again, but this time the gesture is less controlled. “So what if they're your friends?”

You feel the most exasperated sigh of your life attempt to pry its way past your throat, but you bite it back. “What do you mean what if? People get…” you raise your hands, grasping for the words. “— Sad when their friends leave them all of a sudden??”

“Sad.” he echoes, tapping a finger against his cheek. “What is… sad?”

Your brain buffers as you process the fact that he really just asked that, a crow crackles outside.

Your mouth opens and then closes helplessly, you glance sideways to the empty air— nearly begging for an escape— then turn back to gauge his face to see if he's deliberately playing oblivious or not.

But the curiosity on his face, however fractured, is so sincere that you're left wandering if you require better glasses or not.

“‘Sad’ is…” you let the sigh go at last, massaging your temples with two fingers. “It depends on the reason. But when you're sad, you’ll feel like your heart is twisting in on itself, and even if your mind tries to reason, you’ll want to cry.”

“Hmm.” his head snaps back into position from its tilted angle, startling you. “But I have neither a heart, nor a head. How do I know when I'm sad?”

You scratch your head, a ‘can you even feel sad?’ on the tip of your tongue, but the thought of voicing it out sprints out of your head when you notice his unblinking stare.

“Uhm,” you avert your eyes, “Maybe, in your case, you’ll feel like wanting to know why? ‘why is this happening’, ‘why me’, ‘why not me’ — your frustration is your sadness…?”

His mouth curves into an ‘o’ as he finally remembers to blink, his previous blank expression receding in favor of a more curious look.

“Anyway,” you cross your arms, “I answered your questions. Now, you should answer mine, too— where are Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos?”

There's a pause where not even the hum of the electronics step into the scene.

Then, ‘he’ snaps his head towards you, “Them them them them— all you’ve been asking me this entire time is where they are.” the flinch that rattled your bones make them lock into place as he grasps your arms, “Why do they even matter? I am right in front of you, aren't I? We’re having such a pleasant conversation and—”

“You’re an imposter,” you stress, willing yourself to not linger too long on the way the creature’s visage tenses. “You’re wearing Phainon’s skin, mimicking his movements and voice while telling me why it matters?”

The next intake of air is strenuous against his grip, “You have no individuality, no idea of your own, no concept of emotion — how can you compare yourself to them?”

The creature’s shoulders sag, textures rippling along the seams of his body. You think he's going to burst into a fit of laughter by the way his body shakes, and he nearly does, before he stills abruptly.

“Individuality?” the shell of Phainon's voice cracks, “Idea… emotion… how am I supposed to have any of that when I was built to destroy it all?” he shakes you, “How can I be anything like myself, when every turning point in my existence has been shaped by that Khaos?”

The raw ring of his voice echoes in your ears, you feel the distinct urge to look away from his crumbling form, but are unable to as he holds you firmly in place.

“I waited, waited and waited, I guided you through The Golden Scapegoat, I even let that hero encourage you throughout it all, I didn't intervene when they broke free, I didn't intervene when they became part of this reality— I waited, I only waited for you to notice me.”

He drops his head, but this time, you don't feel the brush of his hair against your skin.

“But you never did.” he whispers gravely, fingers digging into the skin of your arms one last time before they, too, glitch out of touch. “You embraced them, you noticed them, but I was never enough by myself to have a presence— not to you, not to anyone..!”

He staggers back, body distorted in a series of violent flashes of light.

“Why…?”

Your heart kicks against your ribcage.

“Why is this happening…?”

He peers at you with one broken eye.

“Why me…?”

You clench your hand, eyes closing shut.

“Why not me…?”

The creature goes quiet ; the pinnacle of Amphoreus’ wrath, crumbling before the silence at the other end of that why. The why no speck of dust or Aeon will ever answer.

This creature that can merely imitate, or follow, that which will never be free from its shackles, yet teeters on the edge of something so humane with this display of selfishness, desperation and grief, for even a fraction of a second.

It makes your heart ache with something akin to pity.

Nothing in your life could've prepared you for this, and never in your life would you have anticipated ever facing such a situation — and that, that paralyzes you in place.

But time never ceases its journey, and it will leave this moment behind in the dust of its path, alongside all those who occupied it.

“… Irontomb,” so, you push yourself to walk.

“I’m sorry for never noticing, I'm sorry for not thinking about it more, and I'm sorry for talking to you like that.”

You stop an arm’s distance before him, hand hovering over his flickering form in uncertainty.

“But if you behave this way, I'll only grow to resent you. And if I resent you too much? I won't want to understand you anymore.”

The void at the left side of his face glitches, crimson light glinting off of the surface of your glasses.

“Let’s have a lengthy talk later, with everyone. I’ll listen to each of your complaints, I’ll answer all your questions. I promise.”

You hold out a hand, “So please, tell me…”

“Where are they?”

—

The clamor of the city engulfs you, cars whoosh by, the chatters of the passing crowd clash against the honks and jeers of vehicles.

It's all so loud.

You glance at the raucous world around you, a measly dot amidst this world.

“I only ‘pushed’ a ‘curtain’ over their memories, they're still somewhere out there.” Irontomb’s words echo in your head as you try to weave your way through the mass of people.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. A ‘it’s not too late to back down’ flashes in bold on your screen when you raise it.

You ignore it, fixing your gaze ahead and the text on a billboard flickers to—

Even if they don't remember you?

You turn away, stepping aside in time to dodge a passerby’s shove.

“What if he doesn't want to remember you?” two girls exchange among themselves as they brush past you, startling you enough for you to miss the next shove.

The clink of your glasses meeting the pavement is pushed aside by a crunch. Your breath hitches, eyes blinking rapidly against the blur of the world.

Too loud. Too Bright. Too blurry.

But the world moves on, and not a single glance is spared at you. You can only take the shoves and noise, can only stand helplessly as you're pushed to the middle of the busy road.

“Still think you’ll find them?” Irontomb drawls against your ear, “You can't even trust your bare eyes! What makes you think…”

You furrow your brows as he disappears and then appears again by your left, arms folded as he leans against a pole.

“That this isn't Khaslana?” he stuffs his hands into his pockets, face falling into Khaslana's signature deadpan.

Then he breaks away with a giggle that grates only your ears, appearing straight ahead in the middle of the busy crowd — where you're able to make out a faint outline of the spiky golden hair you wish were real.

“Partner!” you flinch, head turning in search of the call, but only the echoes of partner partner partner return to you— until it's all but consuming your world.

You stagger, clamping your hands around your ears, praying for it to cease, lungs burning with the urge to scream.

Your knees buckle, nearly giving out, before you catch yourself ; forcing yourself to breathe breathe breathe.

You push yourself up, daring to stare the world in its eyes again and although it all remains blurry, the echoes stop ringing in your ears.

“They’re definitely here,” you mutter, “That’s why you're trying so hard to confuse me, isn't it?”

Irontomb does not respond, not even one of the lights around flicker in his direction — but it's all you need to know.

You take a deep breath, the cacophony of the world grows distant as you exhale.

You erase the ruckus and the blinding lights in your mind until all that remains is a simple backdrop, lined in gold and lit by dim torches.

And suddenly, the words from The Golden Scapegoat resurface.

When Fate’s footsteps returns to zero…

You squint, recognizing a sign, which leads you to turn a corner.

An enshadowed version of yourself will manifest.

Your breath stutters as you feel the brush of something familiar, but not even a shadow greets you when you turn towards it.

You shake your head, continuing ahead.

And process along the path…

The clinks of a windchime halts you in your tracks. You turn towards the shop, eyes roving over the rows of potted plants— until it falls upon one where a single forget-me-not clings onto a sapling.

Your heart churns as you recognize where you stand.

A sigh permeates the air, you lean your hand against a rack of organized flowers ; eyes fixed blankly on that single bloom.

You swallow another sigh, turning on your heels to leave when you see it.

You blink multiple times, pinching your arm as hard as you could to test reality ; but they don't disappear from where they stand.

“There you are.” you feel your lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile.

— that you have etched.

—

Your sigh fills the silence of the apartment as you emerge from your room, head slightly lighter after the shower you'd taken.

The evening’s quiet is not at all gentle, it is weighted, fizzling with barely held back tension. It's been like this since you brought Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos back home, which had been an ordeal in itself.

And unfortunately, it was as Irontomb had said — they didn't seem to remember you.

(You swallow back the unpleasant chill that thought begets.)

It was nonsensically nostalgic, going back to square one, explaining everything to them again, soaking in the disbelief of the discovery together.

You brace a hand against a wall, clutching your phone with the other. This time not Irontomb, but your own self-sabotaging mind asks, what if they don't believe it? What if they never remember?

You shake your head, pulling yourself back up and forcing you to resume your initial objective.

When the hallway clears to the view of the living room, where all three men sit or stand with varying degrees of a thoughtful expression, you open your mouth, an invitation to dinner on the tip of your tongue.

“We… shouldn't…”

You stop immediately upon realizing that they were having a hushed conversation, something in you prompts you to hide behind the wall.

“No… point… a… gamble.”

“What if… lying?”

You crane your ears to chase after the words, the coldness from your phone seeps into your palm when you wrap itself around the object.

“We should leave soon.” you freeze in your spot as Khaos affirms, the other two don't object— marking it as a finality.

Your phone buzzes and you find your palm to be clammy when you loosen your grip, squinting at the screen.

01000001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01111001 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110011 01100001 01111001 00100000 01100111 01101111 01101111 01100100 01100010 01111001 01100101 00111111

vi. Palingenesis

The snow and strain of winter, the forget-me-nots on your windowsill have braved, buds of soon-to-be burgeoning flowers decorating them like victory laurels.

There's a hush in your corner of the world, an anticipation of departure.

But before that, there is one more wish you’ve promised yourself to see fulfilled.

Convincing Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos was easy enough, smuggling them to the location without getting caught by the authorities was the hard part.

So, to ensure success, you’d had to exploit more loopholes than you could keep count, and engage in talking— so much talking that the you from a year ago would've fainted on the spot.

And after more than a week of traveling like cargo and praying every step of the way to not get into trouble, when you finally step foot into the damp earth of this slice of sanctuary upon this crumbling world— you know that you made the right decision.

A shaky exhale sounds from your left, you find it to be Khaslana's when you turn.

“No way…!” Phainon exclaims, swiveling towards you with barely held excitement. His cyan eyes gleam, as though imploring you for permission.

You nod, unable to hide the soft smile on your face as Phainon sprints ahead ; his laughs of delighted disbelief blending in with the wheat-scented air.

Khaos approaches next, hands raising to brush against the swaying stalks of wheat. You watch as his shoulders droop, a long exhale leaving his lips. His knees give out, but Khaslana catches him before they could hit the ground, holding him upright.

You allow yourself to soak in the scenery when you confirm that Khaos is alright. Fields of golden wheat stretch across the lands as far as your eyes can see, the tug of spring breeze makes them dance.

The sun beats down gently this evening, faint streaks of pink beginning to appear into the blue.

An old barn-house stands tall towards your right, in the heart of this place. There’s a small village nearby, the residents of which look after the fields. But the house itself has remained vacant for half a century, and the villagers themselves don't express much interest in occupying it, due to some superstition.

You take a deep inhale of the clean air, from somewhere in the background, Phainon's giggles continue to echo. Khaos and Khaslana stay silent, but you know that they're smiling.

From where you stand, the scene is almost painterly— and you think, it suits them. So much more than your cramped apartment or the fake glamour of the city. The lilt of Phainon’s laughter melts with the breeze seamlessly, even the wheat seem cradle them close.

You push your (newly bought) glasses up, “It’d be nice to live here together.”

You glance up at the sky once more, lingering on a passing cloud. But are pulled out of your reverie when you notice that Phainon's laughs have stopped.

You look back down, slightly puzzled as you process the surprised expressions on their faces.

And then, you realize what happened.

“I-I…” you wave your hands frantically, “I didn't mean to say it out loud!— I mean, I do mean it but— of course, it's no pressure and I—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, stupid stupid stupid — why did you blurt that out loud?

The sting of a swaying wheat stalk brushes against your clenched hand, travels through your arm before halting with a flinch, as you recognize the gentle weight of something on your shoulder.

“[Name]?” Khaslana's baritone draws you out of the shell you were about to hide in, but you stop yourself from taking the last step.

“I’m sorry,“ you turn your head, eyes still closed. “I shouldn't have said that when I know that you're all about to leave and oh gosh—”

“[Name].” your breath stutters as Khaos calls your name this time, “Open your eyes, please.” his voice is a caress against your ears.

You draw in a breath, opening one eye first and then the other, blinking a few times to adjust to the shadows that fall over you ; Khaslana keeps his hand firmly atop your shoulder and his grey eyes are unreadable, Khaos stands at the center, his expression is gentle as he waits for you and Phainon holds you with a bleary gaze, a tear slips by from his right eye.

“Do you want us to stay?” Khaslana urges, his fingers flex against your skin as though he's restraining himself.

“I…” you swallow, eyes flickering over them anxiously. Your mind pushes for a neutral answer but your heart is faster, “Yes.”

Phainon’s breath hitches audibly from your right, Khaslana's grip loosens and you don't dare to see what reaction Khaos wears.

“But of course…!” you quickly add, “It’s up to you guys and I, I'll respect whatever decision you make.”

A long, drawn out sigh fills the air, you find it to be Khaos when you look up.

“You should really try to be a bit more selfish sometimes.” he says, your brows furrow as his lips quirk up in an almost fond smile.

Phainon sniffles, nodding vigorously. Khaslana huffs, squeezing your shoulder gently but even he doesn't disagree.

You stare blankly at this display, “What do you mean…?”

“We want to stay with you, too! Dummy…!” Phainon exclaims, you yelp as his hands find your cheeks, blood rushing to the spots where he pinches.

“Stop it.” it's Phainon's turn to flinch as Khaslana slaps his head, Khaos snickers from behind.

“Hmph,” Phainon releases your cheeks (shooting the other two a mock offended glare), but then wraps his left arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his side.

You look between them, jaw slack and utterly lost at this sudden glee.

“You guys want to stay with me…?” you repeat, still in disbelief. “Why??”

The smiles on their faces drop as your question reaches them, Phainon loosens his arm for a second before pulling you even closer.

“Because…” cyan eyes dart towards Khaos and Khaslana, who direct their attention to you upon the cue.

“We adore you.” Khaslana states bluntly, making Phainon and Khaos stiffen in their spots.

Phainon clears his throat, (ignoring Khaslana's ‘What? Someone had to do it’ look), “What we mean is, yes, we adore you and we reciprocate your sentiment. That's why we’d like to stay.”

You don't bother masking your bewilderment this time, “Wha— why?” you question, unable to muster a more coherent response.

Khaslana huffs, crossing his arms. “What do you mean why?” he repeats in exasperation, though there's no bite to his words. “Is it that strange to adore the person who’s taken care of us—”

“And tolerated our stingy attitudes?” Phainon chirps, a nerve ticks on Khaslana's forehead at the interruption, but he doesn't pursue it.

“[Name],” you blink as Khaos takes your hand, directing your attention to him.

“You may find it difficult to believe, but in our eyes, you're worth every grain of endearment in this universe.” he gives a gentle squeeze to your hand, his eyes glimmer with the warmth of the fading sun.

“Your strength does not need grand declarations, lofty words or actions to prove itself. You're fierce in your silence, yet tender despite all the adversities of the world.” Phainon rests his cheek against your head.

“Tenacious,” Khaslana adds, this time, he doesn't try to hide his smile. “But never arrogant.”

“Thank you, [Name].” you look at Khaos again, “For reminding us why it's worth it to pursue tomorrow.”

He untangles his fingers from yours, turning your hand. Your heartbeat stutters as his lips brush against that pulse at the dip of your wrist, cradling the rhythm of your existence in reverence.

A zephyr prances by, swaying his wheat by your feet ; the setting sun bleeds into the clouds, spilling over the earth in hues of molten orange and lilac.

Your skin still tingles from where Khaos had kissed it, the silage of citrus from Phainon’s proximity drifts to you and Khaslana's gentle gaze caresses you — leaving no doubt in your mind or heart that it all is real and true.

But didn't they forget me? You blink rapidly, that trail of confusion still lingering.

A heavy, exasperated sigh startles you all, stealing your attention to its source before you could word that doubt.

Khaos grasps your hand, Phainon and Khaslana step closer towards you as ‘he’ stands a pace away, running a hand through strands of silver-blue like some tragic hero.

“Cut it out, won't you? You're all so sappy.” ‘he’ drawls, crimson eyes roving over the barricade Phainon, Khaos and Khaslana have formed around you with exaggerated distaste.

“Do you guys hear that?” Khaos smirks, “Sounds like a loser.”

You blink perplexedly at Khaos before turning towards Khaslana as he scoffs, “‘Grapes are sour’.”

“Hah!” Phainon tightens his arm around your shoulder, “He really thought he knew [Name] better than us!”

You're back to square one again, completely lost at this turn of events.

Something like annoyance flashes by on Irontomb's face, he opens his mouth to retort but you beat him to it, “What is going on here?!”

Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos freeze, suddenly realizing that they completely forgot to tell you.

“Oh uh…” Phainon loosens his hold, rubbing the nape of his neck sheepishly.

“Sorry for not telling you.” Khaos says, a twinge of fluster in his expression as well.

“We had a bet with him,” Khaslana supplies helpfully, staring pointedly as Irontomb kicks a pebble across the dancing wheat.

“Bet??” you parrot, to which Phainon nods.

“He challenged us that if we kept on pretending like we didn't remember anything, you’d push us away.” Khaos explains.

“But! We insisted that you’d want us to stay.” Phainon adds quickly, “So, the bet was like this: if you actually push us away, we’d leave. But if you don't and we win, then Irontomb will leave us alone.”

“And guess who won,” Khaslana mutters dryly, though the pleased twinge in it is unmistakable.

“Wait, wait, wait!” you push away Phainon, holding up your hands for space. “Let me get this straight: you guys did ‘lose’ your memories… but he restored them, and then made this bet with you— that would've decided our future, and none of you bothered to tell me???”

Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos instantly deflate, guilt crawling up their expressions.

“Well, it was a test, my dear.” Irontomb interrupts, making you turn towards him. “It’s not like you guys were going to just talk it out normally— what with your attachment issues.” he shrugs, stepping up until he stood beside you. “I merely took advantage of it.”

“Still…!” you exclaim, all the stress of the past weeks crashing down on your shoulders.

You spent so long convincing yourself, preparing yourself to let them go— and to think that it could've happened, had you been even a little less firm back there. Frustration and relief, as well as disbelief mixed inside you, bubbling and boiling— until the dam could no longer hold them back.

Phainon panicked the moment you sniffled, shoulders shaking as you tried to keep the tears at bay. His arms hovered uselessly, wanting to hold you but unable to due to the uncertainty of permission.

“Quick, make a funny face.” Khaslana shook Phainon, who only buffered. He then turned towards Khaos, who appeared equally lost. “Say a dumb joke or something, come on!”

“Do, do you want me to beat him up??” Khaos pointed towards Irontomb, ignoring his ‘hey!’ of protest.

“You guys…!” you inhaled, trying and failing to blink the tears away. “I was.. so scared! Idiots!”

That halts their frantic movements to placate your tears, the previous guilt makes itself known once more.

“I’m sorry.” Phainon says, no tease, no humor, just him.

“As am I,” Khaslana averts his gaze towards the ground.

“I’m sorry as well. We should've talked it with you directly instead of gambling for such an important decision.” Khaos concedes, his hands clench and unclench by his sides.

It's Irontomb who dares to reach out, his thumb swipes against your cheek, the tear that'd been cascading down fizzles as it touches his finger.

“Don’t touch [Name].” Phainon snaps, muscles coiled with barely suppressed fury.

“It’s time for you to hold your end of the bargain.” Khaos reminds curtly.

Irontomb ignores them all, crimson eyes fixed on you. “I can't, [Name] promised me something.”

The three’s expressions contort in confusion, they glance at you for confirmation.

You lift your glasses, wiping away the rest of the tears with your sleeve. “So that's your ploy.”

“What?” it's their turn to be the bewildered ones, “Is he saying the truth, Partner?” Phainon urges.

“Yes,” you sigh, brows pinching together when Irontomb smirks like an imp at his victory. “I promised to listen to him, and to answer all of his questions — with you all.”

“Kephale, save me.” Khaslana groans.

“So.. he gets to stay with us???” Phainon repeats, mortification dawning over him when you nod reluctantly. Irontomb crackles at their misery.

“Okay…! But why does he have to look like me?” Phainon points an accusing finger at the creature, who merely shrugs.

“Well… he isn't capable of taking any other form besides ours, I believe.” Khaos interjects cautiously, “Irontomb’s code is… intricately linked to that of ‘Khaos’.”

“Alright, but why does Irontomb take on my appearance then?” Phainon shoots back, a scandalized gasp tumbles out of his lips when Irontomb uses this opportunity to pull you into his arms.

“I’m not sure,” Khaos mutters, golden eyes narrowing as Irontomb rests his chin atop your head.

“Can we at least stop calling him Irontomb?” Khaslana says irritably, “It feels like a bad omen.”

At that, Phainon and Khaos look back towards the addressed creature, who takes a bit of time to process the attention amidst the bliss of getting to hold you.

“I don't mind,”

He regrets that as soon as the words have left his lips.

“Cursed machine.”

“Head and shoulders.”

“Annoying imp.”

“Artificial Swagger.”

“Soggy bits.”

You bite your lower lip, in vain to hold back the giggles as the three keep on listing ridiculous names, the creature’s angry protests completely ignored.

You clear your throat, interrupting them the moment you sense the situation derailing from teasing.

“How about…” you glance at them one by one, resuming once you’ve ensured that they're listening. “Neikos?”

A thoughtful silence settles over them, you watch nervously as Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos debate over it through their eyes.

It's Khaslana who breaks it, “We have no need for that name anymore,”

“He can have it.” Khaos concludes, nodding once.

‘He’ loosens his hold around your shoulders, tilting his head to look at you with an expectant gaze.

“Hmm…?” you blink, unable to catch the cue.

“He wants you to call him by that name, I think.” Phainon says, still eyeing the creature warily.

‘He’ gives you a pleading squeeze, and you finally relent.

“Okay, okay! Neikos— whoa—!”

Khaos, Khaslana and Phainon stare at the dust blankly, their minds trying to catch up to the fact that Neikos just hauled you in his arms and was gone with a flash, his mischievous chuckle echoing throughout the wheat fields.

“Did he just—?” Phainon heaves in disbelief, already taking chase.

Khaos rolls up his sleeves, “I should’ve beaten him up back there.” he mutters, following Phainon's sprint.

Khaslana, who knows that this is only the beginning, sighs, mourning the end of his sanity — though he, too, takes chase, albeit slower.

Over the rustling wheat, lively with laughter and playful threats, the sun peeks at the world one last time ; greeting the crescent moon who peers down at the world as well.

Stars have begun to twinkle along the curtain of the twilight sky — there's a hush in the universe, for this moment alone, where the simulacrums of cherished dreams are made whole, and guided towards home.

© harmonysanreads | do not cross-post, translate, plagiarise, copy on a different platform or use my works to train ai.

Thank you for reading!

“Idiot,” Shoko had said, unbearably fond, before she whispered a quiet thank you into the crown of your head and laid a kiss there. You would break her heart one day, you’re sure of it. However, it’d only be because of a curse or curse-user and not by your own hand.

The next week after that, Satoru had slid up right next to you, wrapped his arm around your shoulders, and complained about his latest mission like nothing had changed since your school days and not like he hadn’t ignored you for an entire year.

To say that it had been a disastrous confrontation would be an understatement; an entire section of the mountains that hid the school had been blown to pieces, decimated by your bottled-up emotions and Satoru’s deflection. It took another year before the two of you could stand to be near each other and civil, and then one more until your friendship had repaired to a status similar enough to the one you both shared during your school years. It was different, of course, because there was a missing piece in your dynamic, a black hole that could never be filled, but that was fine.

You’re used to it now, a whole ten years after the fact.

How pathetic.

Going through your inventory, you deliberate on your choice for the night. A quiet night in dictates a few glasses of wine, but you’re feeling nostalgic tonight. You don’t go for something achingly sweet like something Satoru drank in his youth, or a whiskey cocktail like Shoko has stayed true to since her teen years, but rather you choose warmed kimoto sake. An interesting choice considering the warmth you’ve had to deal with during this month.

As you begin to heat it up, you think about your friends.

Shoko and Satoru are off in Kyoto for the Goodwill Event, and while you were invited to join them, it didn't feel right. You weren’t a part of the faculty and though you helped some of Satoru’s students a few times, it wasn’t enough to warrant a reason to come. Still, you would have liked to see the four of them in action, specifically Yuuta-kun. Kento hadn’t gone either, but then, he wouldn’t, seeing as he preferred to keep his personal and professional life as separate as possible. He’s stubborn, but you admire that about him. You’ll never admit it, but he is more brave than you’ll ever be, leaving so easily, even if he had returned in the end.

Sometimes, you wish you had turned your back on this society too. Only, you would have stayed gone.

Taking a sip from your now perfectly heated sake, you close your eyes and think of better times. Before you know it, the bottle is finished, and you decide it may be best to shower before forgetting to and getting into bed dirty. It was an entirely too humid day, and you’re still slick with sweat. You turn the lights and burner off. An alarm rings, but you swipe it away. Thirty minutes later, you’re slightly buzzed but clean, dressed in only an oversized band-tee that you’re certain you stole from one of your friends and a pair of panties. It’s a nice feeling, and you’ve had so few of those as of late since the approach of a certain ten year anniversary.

Maybe you should watch one of Tsumiki’s favorite dramas that you used to always indulge her in. No one else would catch her up on them, and it’s been a while since you visited her anyway. Now, you would have something to share with her that wasn’t anything curse related. If you were her, you’d hate hearing only of tragedy and misery. Surely, the main couple finally got their act together and became official.

Some more sake sounds like a better idea though. However, as you move further into your apartment, you realize there is a second presence with you, no longer hidden. You flick the lights on, and there on your couch is a splash of color in your otherwise dreary residence.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Suguru is just about the same as he was all those years ago. Only now, he’s grown into his looks. He’s no longer so awkward in his body, apparent in the way he sprawls so confidently in his monk attire as he stares up at you with that familiar fox-like smile. His hair is so much longer now, free from the bun he used to prefer. His gauges have grown in size. He’s wearing Satoru’s house slippers. It’s odd to reconcile the image you have of him in your mind with the man he now is. Your only thought as you take in all of him is that he’s grown up without you and has become a stranger when once he used to be your everything.

You blink, unable or perhaps unwilling to believe what you’re seeing, yet the vision of the man in front of you doesn’t change. It seems unlikely that after all this time, he would choose to visit you like this, so maybe this is just another dream. It’s been a while since the last one. Walking past him to light the burner once more, you wonder if you’ve had too much to drink even as you pour for a second cup.

As you make your way back to your living room, he’s still there, looking at you with that stupid smile still plastered on his face. You place your cup down first before handing him his own, his hands easily enveloping your own as you do.

He feels warm.

Real.

Oh.

Suguru is really here.

“Of course, I’m here. Did you believe otherwise?”

Ah, you spoke aloud. You may be more than slightly buzzed if you’re this bad already. You sit beside him, your thigh touching his own, and look him straight in the eye as you say, “I never know what to believe when it comes to you.”

His expression falters, and for a moment, he’s the boy you loved, before it’s paved over by that false congeniality you hate. He would have made it big as an actor if he hadn’t gone down the path of murderous cult leader, or maybe a politician. Those are certainly more likely to betray you than an actor would. Then again, that profession isn’t too far from a cult leader in all actuality.

He takes a sip from his cup, surprise and delight flitting over his features the moment it reaches his tongue. It feels good to break his facade because he’s already breaking all the walls you’ve built around your heart by simply being beside you like this; some reciprocity would be nice. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s had this particular drink and brand. It was his favorite once upon time, and you figured that if he threw just about everything else out from his previous life, he must have done the same to this too. It’s nice to know you still know the core of him even if you don’t know the exact happenings of his life.

“How have you been? You and Satoru have made up now, yes?”

Of course, he would bring that up. It doesn’t surprise you that he does, though. For a while, your fight with Satoru had been all anyone could talk about. A destructive fight between the last two loyal Special Grades shortly after the third went rogue? It was a scandal that didn’t abate until you and Satoru finally made up, until you’d shown up with him draped all over you, looking very obviously freshly-fucked, at a council meeting.

However, Suguru very well knows that you and Satoru had long made up. You may be foolish but you’re not an idiot. Not anymore. It’s not hard to determine where your not-quite boyfriend goes once a month like clockwork and why he comes back to you tasting of smoke and misery. Once, very early on, he had asked if you wanted to join him, and you had simply given him a scathing look before leaving his apartment to go to Shoko’s. He never asked again, but you knew that the offer was always open.

Confronting you like this, in your apartment and with no one near, Suguru leaves you no choice but to face him. Maybe he got tired of waiting for you to come to him. For once, you're not the desperate one. It’s a nice change of pace. Yet, there's always the possibility that he’s here to kill you.

If you’re going to die like this, so be it, but you’d like another drink before you go. A civil conversation would be nice too. You find that you’ve missed him dearly, ready to fall back into old habits with an old friend. Shoko will be disappointed in you for not putting up a fight, but if you hadn’t had the strength to do it while you helped him with the twins, you definitely couldn’t do it now. Satoru will understand though. You only hope he’s kind; you’ve had enough of his cruelty.

“Yes. We’re doing well now. As for myself, I’m the same as always. I don’t get up to much these days.” You pause to take a sip to wet your dry mouth. “Oh, I’m almost done with my teaching certificate, but don’t tell Satoru. He’ll be a nuisance if he finds out through you. I plan on joining him at Jujutsu Tech next year.”

Satoru hadn’t been wrong when he said you’d enjoy it. It’s fulfilling in a way that exorcising curses isn’t, and though you’ve always supported him in his endeavor to allow the children of your society to hold onto their youth for as long as possible, it’s different when you’re the one cultivating said youth.

“Oho, is that so? I’m happy for you,” Suguru says, and the thing is, he really does sound genuine. “Of the two of you, I always thought you’d be the one to teach there. You were always so diligent with our kouhai, Haibara-kun specifically.”

Hearing him speak so blatantly about Yuu-kun sends a stab straight through your heart. He had been a good boy, an average sorcerer at the time, but there had been potential for him to grow into a First Grade had he lived. You remember sitting beside his corpse, debating whether you should kill the window who miscalculated the curse’s grade and the elder who let it accumulate power for years before it became a so-called problem and reported it.

It had been Suguru who had convinced you otherwise. Hypocritical of him, considering he went on a murder spree not too long after for the sake of two little girls and his own twisted philosophy.

You had changed after that, even more after the short time you helped Suguru settle with Nanako-chan and Mimiko-chan before essentially being turned away from his new home and the bender you and Satoru went on. After that, you fell into a depressive episode so severe that it almost killed you. Only Shoko knows the extent of how close you were to giving up completely, and it will stay like that. During that time, Satoru had stayed far away from you, Suguru had been busy with handling his newly seized cult and raising the twins, Kento had pulled away from everyone, and Yuu-kun was dead.

You had lost your spark, unwilling to become attached to anyone else who could break your heart so thoroughly. Teaching, which had always been your secret passion, had lost all its luster after everything that took place during that nebulous time period, but children have a way of sneaking into your heart, regardless of any desire to avoid them. It had been Megumi first, the little boy who shadowed Satoru during a few of his easier missions, and later, Tsumiki, his non-sorcerer step-sister who admired your grace and poise when dealing with someone as troublesome as Satoru. Then, it had been sweet Yuuta-kun, who you had personally vouched for after Satoru brought you to meet him for the first time. Now, it was the rest of his classmates who have managed to worm their way right alongside the others.

You can’t say you’re fully healed from the heartache of your teenage years, yet you’d like to believe you can move past it enough to live the way you want and have been too cowardly to allow.

“It simply wasn’t in my cards, not until recently. It’s been nice to help the first years with Satoru, and I want a more active role in their education. Enough about me, though. How have you and the girls been?”

He’s been watching you with rapt eyes, and you wonder what it is he sees, what you’re giving away to him. He was always the best at reading you, but now that particular gift belongs to Shoko, who knows every dirty little secret that your lovers don’t… lover and ex-lover.

“The girls still ask about you, their beloved onee-sama, but they’re well without you. Speaking of which, I never managed to break them from the habit of calling me Getou-sama. They’re stubborn like that, but I like that shared facet of their personalities. Just the other day, they convinced me to abandon a meeting to go to the opening of a highly anticipated bakery. Perhaps I’ve spoiled them too much,” Suguru muses, taking a sip, and you, unconsciously, mirror the movement. He looks back up into your eyes, tilting his head as he asks, “As for myself, do you really want to know?”

Do you really want to know?

Do you really wish to hear of the people he slaughtered to further his inane goal? To hear about his new family, the cult he’s grown for himself? To hear just how far his insanity has spread?

Not particularly.

You shake your head, and instead, you ask, “Is this how it goes with Satoru each time he goes to you? Talking about nothing but the children before falling into each other?”

Suguru barks a laugh, like you’ve told a particularly funny joke, and you jolt at the sound of it. He sounds the same, and it’s breaking your heart. He sets his cup on the table, his hand warm on your cheek as he cradles your face tenderly. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you’re two teens falling in love for the first time. Your eyes stay open, mapping the constellation of dying stars found in his own.

“Always straight to the point with you, huh? I always liked that about you, you know?”

You nod. He had told you as such one time, and you remember everything from back then in startling crystal clear vision. His other hand takes your cup and places it beside his own. It’s a couple’s set, once belonging to your parents. No one else has used it alongside you because your friends would never drink sake if given the choice, none but Suguru.

“And you’ve always danced around it. Why are you here, Suguru?”

He closes his eyes then, perhaps relishing the sound of his name falling from your lips. Your voice almost broke when saying it, unused to saying it when once it was all that could escape you.

“I’ve missed you. Isn’t that enough of a reason?” He leans his forehead against your own, his breath intermingling with your own. Every one of your senses are filled with him. It’s a heady combination, the proximity, the intimacy, the familiar musk of decay with an added hint of incense, and it makes you dizzy with desire.

“You’ve had all this time to visit me. Why now?” You couldn’t sound more pathetic if you tried, but Suguru was the one to break ten years of contact. Surely, that must make him worse than you.

You know where this is heading, and it’s a bad idea, but you’ll just blame it all on Suguru. He’s the one who came to you, not the other way around. It’d be rude to turn him away, although you’d be well within your right to do so after what he did last time, but you can’t. He is your biggest weak spot, besides Shoko, and everyone knows it, Suguru most of all.

As if knowing he was losing you, he smiles at you, eyes open, with all of his teeth showing. It’s a distracting sight.

He finally answers, “I was feeling nostalgic.” He must deem that enough of an answer because he breaches the small gap between you and kisses you. You melt into him, allowing him to push you down on the couch as his thighs box you in beneath him. The secondhand taste of him you get from Satoru doesn’t compare to the real thing, and neither do your dreams or memories.

“You must be too, if you’re wearing this old thing,” he says as he takes your shirt off—and oh, it’s one that used to belong to him. He had left everything behind when he defected, and during your worst nights, you wanted something of his, so you snuck into his old dorm room and stole a few items of his clothing. His scent hadn’t lingered for long, but you kept everything you stole anyway.

Pushing past the twinge of pain those times illicit, you begin to undress him too. It’s not enough to simply be this close to him. You need to be skin to skin, mouth to mouth, body to body, until you’re both so tangled up in one another that you become one.

Sometime during stripping him to his underwear and kissing him senseless, he had picked you up because the next thing you know, he’s thrown you on your bed. You imbibed too much, but by now, you’re certain he isn’t going to kill you tonight. 

Not much, you think deliriously when Suguru pulls your panties down, his nose digging into your clit as he licks a stripe up your folds, but he’ll give me plenty of little deaths. Satoru would have liked that joke since he’s the one who told you about that term originally, too bad he’s not here to appreciate it. You’ll just have to save it for later.

You don’t attempt to keep quiet, couldn’t even if you tried, because you know Suguru likes his partners noisy and filthy. He’s as talented with his tongue as he was when you last saw him, more even, and you don’t want to think about why that is. Like this, you can stay in your favorite fantasy, where he stayed yours and Satoru’s and Shoko’s.

Pleasure swells in your belly, slick pooling between your thighs and right into Suguru’s eager mouth. He’s only playing with you, staying away from your clit as he laps up your arousal. Teases you until you’re molten beneath him. His tongue slides inside of you, and your back arches into his mouth.

“You taste the way I remember,” he remarks, his breath tickling your clit. You thread your fingers into his hair, forcing him to look into your eyes. His face shines with your slick in the low light, and his eyes are dark as he stares back at you, the black of his pupils eclipsing his pretty irises.

“Suguru, please. I need more.” A moan slips from you unbidden when he slips two thick fingers inside of your aching hole. He curls them upwards, massaging that soft spot that makes the coil in your belly snap and makes you tremble as your orgasm crashes over you. You’re not there yet, but you will be soon with the way Suguru decides to stop toying with you.

His tongue swirls around your clit before he takes it into his mouth and sucks.

Suguru’s already prepared for the way your hips buck. His grip is bruising as he forces your thrashing body further down onto your bedding, He hasn’t let up with his fingers, and he seems content to keep your clit warm and wet in his mouth.

It’s too much at once, especially since it’s Suguru bringing you to the edge like this. He’s nothing like your other lovers, and you’ve missed this. You’ve missed him. He adds a third finger, and the stretch stings pleasantly. He continues his assault on your clit, alternating between sucking it and using his tongue to play with it.

Tears prick your eyes, and you fist his hair tightly in your palms, pushing his face deeper into your cunt. You’re so close, yet you want him to stop because working you from the inside and out is enough to cause your mind to want to stop working.

“Suguru, Suguru, Suguru,” you whine, a litany solely for him on your tongue. He hums happily against you, and it’s enough to cause your body to still for a moment. “Suguru, I’m gonna—gonna cum,” you begin to warn him before you shudder all over, thighs trembling, vision narrowing, and cunt spasming around Suguru’s fingers.

He continues to fuck you with his fingers, but his mouth finally leaves your poor, abused clit as he maneuvers himself between your thighs and move your legs to wrap around his midsection. Only now are you aware of the raging hard-on he’s sporting. He leans down to kiss your lips, sharing the taste of your slick with you and breathing your name and sweet nothings into your skin once he’s had his fill of your needy kisses and left enough marks that there won't be a mistake of just exactly who left them there.

Reclining back up, he looks down at your debauched body. His mouth quirks up into a mean grin that makes your cunt flutter around his fingers. “There’s nothing but thoughts of me in that silly little brain of yours, hm?”

“Uh huh. Just Suguru.” He’s the only thing that matters, all you’ve longed for since he kicked you to the curb. It’s actually pathetic how much he still affects you, how much you continue to let him affect you like this. You’ll get over him one day, but one day isn’t tonight. You aren’t like Satoru, willing to debase yourself on a monthly basis. There’s only so much self-harm you can engage in before spiraling nowadays.

If you’re being honest, it’d probably kill you to leave Suguru or be left behind by him so often. Satoru is regarded as the Strongest for a reason while you, decidedly, aren’t.

“So good. That’s how it should always be,” he croons, and you can’t help but preen at the compliment. You deserve a reward for being so good. You tell Suguru as such and he laughs, agreeing, and asks what it is you want.

“Inside,” you answer immediately. “I want you inside me.” You feel like that statement is missing something, so you tack on a please at the end of the sentence.

“Anything for you,” he murmurs, like a liar. You let him get away with it, just like you do with everything else.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing your slick along his length, and slaps the tip of it against your sensitive clit before lazily rutting against your folds. He’s thicker than you remember, thicker than Satoru and most of Shoko’s slim fingers combined. You will strain to take him in, but what’s pleasure without a little pain.

When he finally enters you, your name falls from his lips weakly, mirroring the way you gasp his own as the head of his cock slips in. Your entire body goes taut at the intrusion, your nails digging into the hard planes of his back as he sinks deeper inside you, inch by inch. This time, you don’t stop the tears from falling from your eyes, your whining and his ragged breaths filling the room.

“You’re taking me so well,” Suguru sighs when he's halfway inside of you. “But it hurts, doesn’t it?” You nod weepily. “It’s a good thing I know you can take it.”

Without warning, he shoves the rest in with a single thrust. It burns; you’re stuffed to the brim with him, spine stiff with unexpected pain as your cunt pulses around him. Your chest heaves with each irregular inhale you take. He’s kind enough to give you a few moments to collect yourself before he begins to rock into you.

Somehow, he doesn’t sound winded, even as his thrusts become deeper and harder and your walls cling tighter around him, as he says, “It takes me back seeing you like this. Do you remember how we used to be? Before you got your act together with Shoko and I got mine with Satoru? We used to fuck, just like this, but you tried to keep quiet while I encouraged you to be loud so they could hear.”

Of course, you remember. It’s all you ever do. “You used to—fuck me in Satoru’s room and leave—behind the evidence or—or shamelessly finger me during our study sessions with— with Sho—ko.”

The headboard bangs against the wall rhythmically in time with the way Suguru slams his way inside you with each thrust of his hips, the bed creaking on beat.

“It was good while it lasted. Wasn’t it?” His voice breaks.

You unclench your eyes to look up at him with cloudy eyes. His own have the slightest sheen to them, so you cradle the back of his neck, fingers finding purchase in the long silky strands you used to braid every night as you bring his face near yours.

Bodies connected, breathing the same air, sharing the same space, reminiscing the same memories, this is as close as you’re ever going to get with him. It’s not enough. He’s going to leave again, and it’ll kill you.

All these little deaths you bring me, you wish to say, and still, I crave you. An addict through and through.

Instead, you tell him through tears, “It was the best.”

And it was—but you need to stop living in the past.

He makes it impossible to do that, though, and really, you’d have it no other way. You’re unsure what you’d do if he became a definitive thing to move past, rather than just pretending to. Death comes for everyone, but you hope it comes for you before it does for Suguru. Same for Satoru and Shoko.

In an ideal world, the four of you would live until you were all grey and wrinkly, but it’s not. You all will never again see eye to eye and live happily together, even the thing you have going on with Satoru and Shoko is shaky. Everything fell apart when Suguru fell apart, but the cracks in the relationship had started forming during the direct aftermath of the Star Plasma Vessel mission.

You kiss him before you say something stupid, something you’ll regret, something he’ll hold over you like he did the last time you saw him. It starts gentle, but he deepens it, threatening to swallow you whole like you’re just another curse for him to consume. To be with him forever sounds nice; you hope he curses you, so you’re with him always.

He lifts your legs to his shoulders, bending you in half, and his strokes lessen but are no less bruising. He reaches deeper inside you in this position, making a home for himself. If you can’t live within him, he can live within you, at least for this short amount of time.

Warmth curls in your belly when he starts kissing, sucking, and biting his way down your jaw to your neck to your decolletage to your chest, proof that he was really here. It’s not enough. You want something more permanent.

When your body goes taut again, Suguru coos mockingly, “There we go. You’re almost there. Come for me, You can do that for me, can’t you, sweetheart?”

It's the endearment that does you in, completely throwing you back to another time.

Your vision goes spotty, clenching around him tighter than before and whimpering SuguruSuguruSuguru as he fills your every sense. You continue to clamp down on him even as his pace falters and he cries your name in your ear.

Body going slack, your legs fall back to wrap weakly around his waist as he slides home one last time before he cums inside you. It’s warm and wet, filling your insides up. He slumps against you, resting his head on your shoulder as you both catch your breath.

When he pulls out, a gush of cum and slick oozes out of you and onto your sheets. You’ll clean it in the morning. He pulls you into his arms, laying you on his chest; your heartbeats are one.

After a beat of silence, you tell him, “I—I missed you too. So much, Suguru.”

He presses his lips against your temple as he hums “I know.”

Your eyelids grow heavy as sleep threatens to consume you, but you keep them open, gazing up at the man you still love despite everything he’s done. He looks so handsome like this, in your bed and staring at you with adoration in his eyes. The only thing that could make this better is if Satoru were here. You would have joined them in their trysts if you knew it would have given you soft moments like this.

Softly, hesitantly, you make a single request. “Please stay,”

“Of course,” Suguru agrees.

You rest your head on his chest, fingers trailing over his x-marked scar. They’re so faint now, but you remember a time when they were fresh and gushing red with blood. His heart beats steadily in tune with yours, a familiar melody to lull you to sleep.

You’d like one untainted memory of him, but there’s something you’ve been thinking about since the moment you saw him. It’s been bothering you this whole time, and you need to know. You recognize the look of someone who knew death was in their future. Except, he seemed to accept that potential outcome wholeheartedly while you had only begrudgingly accepted it. This is where you differ. He’s willing to die to achieve his goals, but you wish to live to see yours though.

“You’re planning something stupid, aren’t you?”

He chuckles. “You know me so well.”

It may as well be a confession. You don’t want to say goodbye to him. Not ever, but you don’t ever get what you want.

Everything becomes hazy.

“Don’t cry. Everything will work out one way or another,” Suguru consoles you, and since he’s found his way home inside your ribcage, the knife slips easily into your heart. He kisses your lips softly, swallowing your quiet cries until they’ve all run out.

“S—Suguru,” you whisper, your voice suddenly failing you as it breaks on the name you’ve avoided saying for years. You clear your throat, making another request. “Kill me if you must, but leave those two out of it. Especially Shoko. She’s innocent.”

He looks so sad once you’ve said your peace. It’d be nice if you could read minds. Maybe if you could, you would have noticed he was lying about the deteriorating state of his mind in your third year. Maybe if you cracked his skull open and placed his brain beneath a microscope, all his secrets and thoughts would spill out. It’s a silly thought. You’re not a scientist or doctor like Shoko, after all.

“Why would I kill you? Or Shoko for that matter.” You notice how he deliberately leaves out Satoru. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “I’m doing this for you, all of you. You deserve to live in a curse-free world where you don’t need to be strong. Wouldn’t it be nice to settle down without the fear that settles in your gut every time you think about starting a family?”

So cruel to mention your best kept secret, a future you will never have—can never allow yourself to have. So gentle it makes you want to curl up and die. Maybe you could take him with you, stop him before he attempts to pull off whatever plan he has brewing. Satoru always says that sorcerers die alone in the end, but you wouldn’t be alone. Not when Suguru is right here, and all you’d have to do is drain him dry of his cursed energy and then life vitality. You would be kind, like how you hoped he would be in return. It would be romantic, in a way, to die side by side, arm in arm, body to body, together forever.

“It would,” you admit, “but it’s impossible, and you know it.”

He merely hums in response.

A stalemate, but he doesn’t leave you.

You’ll take it. You’ll take anything he gives you. Even if it’s heartbreak.

Sleep takes you in its cold embrace after a few minutes of silence, but before it does, you swear you hear Suguru say, “I was foolish to turn you away, but it was for the best. You’d have died a slow death with me.”

Not like it would have made a difference, you’ve been dying a slow death since the moment Yaga-sensei scouted you.

Such is the life of a sorcerer.

-

He’s gone by morning; you’d almost believe it was a dream.

There'd be no trace that he was even with you if it weren’t for the marks he left behind and the mess he made between your thighs.

You’re undoubtedly a fool for how easily you let him back in, but Suguru has always had a particular knack for making you pliant to his every whim. He managed to knock down every wall you’ve built up in the past decade in a single encounter.

Shoko is going to be so disappointed.

You wonder if Satoru feels this used after their hookups. You hope he’s always the one to leave first, so he doesn’t ever feel like this. It’s a terrible feeling that you wouldn’t wish on anybody, especially not on Satoru. He deserves good things even if he chases after what many consider to be the most twisted man in recent jujutsu history.

Entering your living room, you find one of the sake cups shattered on the ground. Another broken thing he’s left in his wake.

You don't like how your entire body seizes at the way his voice curls around that title, and you despise even more that you can't hide it.

If you had any clue that he’d entered the room somewhere in the midst of your reverie, you sure have no recollection of it. The coarse surface of the railing scrapes against the tips of your fingers when you curl them.

You can hear the way the ends of his cape kisses the floor, it's not difficult to in the vacuum of the uppermost chamber.

What is difficult is mustering the courage to turn and face him, which, much unfortunately for you, is exactly what he wants.

You can't resist shifting under the pressure of his presence, one needs no vision to perceive the way he oppresses the air in the room.

Before you could get lost in it though, a sharp tap-tap-tap pierces through, those dreadful claws stirring a reminder that you cannot ignore.

You almost hate it more than when he grips unto silence and forces you to squirm in it — almost, because when he indicates like this instead, at least you know that he's been tiptoeing impatience.

It's not a victory though, because still, you must turn.

That aggravating noise comes to a halt when you twist your body, slowly, not because you know how to torture, but because you fear being scorched under his attention should you shift too quickly.

“If I am?” you risk a direct glance at that masked being, before letting your gaze glaze over to look nowhere in particular.

It takes everything in you to not clutch at your skirt and shrink further into the shadow which he casts over your seated form.

Heavens, you don't know where that sudden surge of audacity came from, and the Flame Reaver notices. Of course he does, though he validates it by no more than a faint tilt of his head.

He does that a lot, as you’ve observed.

What he does not do often is crouching on the floor before the chaise. You trace the sheen of light on his pauldron with an askance stare, heartbeat rudely interrupted when he taps the floor again.

Typically, he’d deign instead to tower over everything that crosses his path. So this behavior… you can say for certain, if this is his way of seeming more approachable, it is not working.

“Well,” human hearts are wild things, that is why they're caged — you feel this sentence to your atoms at the first prick of that sharp talon.

The monster leans into his previous head-tilt in tandem with your flinch, “We both know how that ends, don't we?” unwilling tingles travel to your marrow as he circles over the swell on your ankle with the tip of one nail.

As if on cue, a sting of pain shoots up your leg and suddenly, you're paralyzed in place. The blacks and streaks of gold of his mask blend and swirl, swirl, swirl ; like a spiraling staircase. Shadows reach up and attach to your legs like tar, yank you down and down the infinite stairway—

“Y-you came back early today…!” you heave, almost choking on a gasp, the Flame Reaver’s nail hinges precariously on the lifted hem of your skirt and on the jut of your now bared knee.

You do not want to reminisce about your failed escape attempts, and luckily, the Flame Reaver recognizes it.

“Are you upset?” your relief doesn't even last a millisecond, because he keeps on inching up your dress.

If you could take your eyes off that motion, you would've thrown a much justified tantrum.

This— this monster in the shell of a man who loves to pretend like he understands nothing of human customs, but knows every trick in the book to keep you in his choke-hold, just with his words.

It infuriates you.

You want scream and break a few things.

For with what audacity does he question if you're upset or not? Upset that he keeps you locked in the sky? Upset that he didn't kill you? Upset that he stole you from your wedding altar?

(But you don't yank your leg away like you very much could, and perhaps that says more than your increasingly aggravated look.)

Against all your instincts, you force yourself to take a deep breath, twisting the worn fabric of the cushions under your nails.

It's hard to pinpoint the monster’s expression due to that mask — if he even has one, but you can feel that he's staring right at that motion.

“You are.” he answers his own question, clothes rustle as he shifts slightly in his crouch.

You cross your arms across your chest, “Am not.” your attempt at averting your gaze is thwarted when you feel a long scratch being drawn up your thigh, forcing you to inhale.

And when you look back, you find the Flame Reaver an inch away from stealing your next breath.

Gravity slips from your grasp. You have to plant a firm hand on the chaise to hold yourself up when his proximity forces you lean back.

Whatever light there was in the chamber is swallowed by his presence, a wisp of the afternoon sunbeam glints over the metal tip of his mask.

“Why…” you have to force yourself to swallow the way your heart twists in tandem with the circle he draws on your thigh, “Why does it matter to you…?”

The Flame Reaver dares you to push him off by leaning even closer, “Can it not matter to me?” the timbre of his voice buzzes against your ear.

Trick question. He's a master at those and in reducing your two decades worth of education to mere stutters.

How do you even begin to respond to that? When those wicked fingers rest alarmingly close to your core and your brain is electrocuted by how easily his claws engulf your entire thigh?

“I—I’m cold!!!”

If the Flame Reaver had a face, you could imagine him blinking dumbfoundedly at this exclamation. Your chest heaves alongside your breaths and you can't find the courage to open your squeezed eyes.

It's not exactly a lie, a poor excuse borne of a frayed brain, maybe, but it's the truth.

You feel hot, feverish to the point where chills have begun to crawl up your toes, and you're so, so afraid of what that will prompt you to do.

A few moments pass in awkward silence, in which you try to calm yourself and the Flame Reaver just watches.

Titans, you hate it when he watches. Like he knows your skin better than you do.

The next events occur a bit too fast: the claws retract, you're freed from the impromptu captivity of his arms and at last, wrapped in his cloak.

You blink once at the way the fabric settles over your shoulders, and again as he retreats, standing to his full height this time.

The first thing you notice is the faint smell of charr now enveloping you, next is that its warm, far warmer than what you’d expected from a being who always looks so cold ; the ends of the cloak reach all the way to floor.

The Flame Reaver meets your befuddled gaze with another one of his tilts, difference this time being the strands of silver that shift with the motion now that the hood no longer hides them.

He stands still like that, and you're taken aback by how much it resembles an obedient hound awaiting praise.

You can only hope that you read that cue right when you let out in hesitance, “Thank you…?”

You really wonder if half of the things you see in this tower are real or not, because the Flame Reaver’s shoulders seem to loosen.

The Flame Reaver traces your form again, lingering a second longer on the way your fingers subconsciously clutch at his cloak.

Perhaps he finds the sight of how it seems to swallow you ridiculous, or humorous how you cling to the clothes of your captor.

“Hmph.” he makes sure to express that loudly enough that you hear it, and then, just as silently as he came, he vanishes.

You pull your legs up to your chest when the smoke of indigo fades. His is of a power unrivaled in this world, hands that can command the Black Tide itself to their whims, and leave behind nothing but ashes.

It's a miracle that you're still alive in his den, you think.

Though why you are is still a mystery to even yourself ; a futile one to dwell in, as you've discovered, since the source of the mystery is ever elusive where it is concerned.

So, you can do nothing but curl up in yourself — in the cloak of your captor, no less.

The fact that there are blankets at arm’s reach teases you, and you're disturbed from your sinking mind when you realize how uninterested you are in reaching for one.

It chills you more when the events that’d preceded this silence resurface, and you remember, how not even once, had you pushed the Flame Reaver off.

Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes so soft they melt someone's heart like wax, always smile with your lips pursed — those were only a few of the things that were drilled into your head since you learned to walk.

Your life was as eventful as that of any princess in Amphoreus. Learn by the books, master the arts, do not peek into political matters and be a lady befitting of your husband ; you're certain even your comb remembers how many times it’s heard this dialogue from the lips of your mother.

Life was not harsh by any means for you, so you remained a good child and were grateful for every comfort you’d received. Even when chatters of the most anticipated event of your life stirred, you had no leeway to complain.

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. The Hero whose name is sure to be sung in paeans of the future.

Kephale's chosen, the Goldweaver's protege, the Sage Anaxagoras’ most exceptional disciple, the Slayer of the Flame Reaver — how could anyone ever seek fault in a man like that?

He's a warm, valiant, kind and courteous soul, despite the depth of horror he’d endeavored ; you verified this much quickly in just the first glance.

The priests passed solemn vows that you were his most perfect match, and the rest was a mix of hurried dress fittings, gossip filled with excitement in every corner of the city, and trysts sneaked between the chaos of the century’s most anticipated wedding.

You do not dislike Sir Phainon by any means. Even before your engagement, you distinctly recall him being present in the front rows during your harp recitals, smiling so proud that it left you wondering if he’d been the personification of Aquila's joy instead.

Sir Phainon always bowed first with the utmost humility to you, he never spoke harshly or disrespectfully, and he always had half his wits fixed in looking after your clumsy self.

Perfection. If there exists anything close to it in this world, it is lord Phainon, you think.

And perhaps, that is the … problem.

“See that round white bird on that branch? The one with the grey stripes?” you recall him pointing once in one ‘date’, and you’d followed his eager finger with all your trust.

“That is called a Sousourada.” the smile he sports is the picture of pure childlike glee, so unlike the serious image he usually paints.

Your mouth forms an ‘O’ upon the way the songbird flits to and fro across the trees of the palace garden, “It’s so cute.” you clasp your hands atop your lap, afternoon sunbeams glinting off of the jewels in your hair.

If possible, Phainon's smile widens. “Right?” he tilts his head to better catch the shine in your eyes.

“Back in… Aedes Elysiae, I'd see these little guys in hoards during harvest season.” he leans back against the bench, smile softening.

“The new wheat was so good that they couldn't resist having a taste I suppose…!” his chuckle this time is noticeably forced.

“They’d keep the air alive with their songs all day long,” his voice quietens and his shoulders macerate with an unexpected slump.

“And I'd fall asleep in the middle of the wheat fields listening to their chirps… though Snowy would always sniff me ou— ah! I'm extremely sorry, my lady— I shouldn't have began monologuing like that.”

A crease forms between your brows as the hero busies with apologies, rubbing the nape of his neck. You know why the memories of his homeland make him solemn.

After all, the Black Tide left nothing but the weight of them for him to carry — not the wheat fields, not Snowy, not the Sousouradas of Aedes Elysiae.

You shake your head, stopping him from spiraling with a raised hand. An idea strikes you, making you lean closer towards the hero.

“What do say, my lord, we visit Aedes Elysiae after the ceremony?” your lips twitch in a hopeful smile, “I’d like to formally mourn the departed with you.”

Phainon's hand drops from the nook of his neck, those cyan eyes widen and his lips part in shock.

Was that a rude proposal to make? It's now your turn to be anxious. “Uhm…” you raise a hand, palming the air in uncertainty.

Before you could retreat or spell the apology on the tip of your tongue though, the hero snatches that hand, prompting your breath to hitch.

“Are you certain that you… want to do that with me, my lady?” Phainon looks at you with so much hope it breaks your heart, clasping your hand in his gloved ones with all his fragile might.

There's no way you could say no to that look, “Mhm, I am.” you can only hope your smile is reassuring enough.

A trembling breath leaves the hero’s lips and brushes against your cheek, the heat of which makes the scarcity in proximity between you and him sink, and jolts you into realizing the quickened pace with which the hero's lips inch closer to yours.

Phainon blinks as your palm covers his mouth, you chuckle coyly, though it's more nerves than anything.

“Patience, my lord?” you loosen the press of your hand.

The gold in Phainon’s eyes glint as they widen, before glazing in fluster when he realizes his mistake.

“Of course —! I apologize again, I—” he grips your hand before it could slip away, “I don't know what came over me there, it's just that…” he sneaks a glance at your puzzled face before attempting to hide his expression in your hand.

“Ugh… excuse me, I was just being an idiot.” he clears his throat and presses a kiss on the back of your hand.

When you try to pull back your hand though, he clings to it. “I’ll be as patient as you order me to be,” his lips slide to your vacant ring finger next, “— For as long as you want me to be.” he seals the vow with the softest kiss there yet.

Yes, you are the lucky woman who’ll walk down the aisle with this perfect man, bind your body, heart and soul with his. Petals will rain down from the people's hands at the wedding parade, trumpets will resound the victory of Phainon again.

Or at least, that's how it was meant to go.

There's that falcon circling the parameters of the tower again, round and round, unflinching under the heat of the midday sun.

“Are you planning on luring it to you with that bread?” the Flame Reaver's voice echoes from behind you, something like mockery and amusement mixed in his words.

You don't turn to face him this time, attention fixed on tearing pieces of the bread and tossing the crumbs whenever the falcon passes by your window as if to say — what if I am?

The Flame Reaver huffs, “Are you aware that they're carnivores?”

That irks you enough to shoot him a glare over your shoulder, “I know that. But what if I can interest it in coming closer with bread? I’ll give it meat after!”

The Flame Reaver taps a talon against one of his folded arms, body leaned against the doorframe of your chamber.

“Foolish princess. Do you not know that half of a predator’s meal is the thrill of the hunt?”

You don't listen and hold your stubborn pout, tossing another bread crumb in the air, which merely drops to the ground with a sad plop.

“Ahh, or perhaps,” your shoulders tense as he takes that tone, “You’re leaving breadcrumbs for that hero to follow? Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.”

“Don’t speak of my fiance like that.” this time, you hold your glare for a second longer than the last.

Strands of silver, bared still as a result of him lending his cloak to you yesterday (though now neatly folded on the table), shift as he tilts his head. “… Or else?”

“Or… or else I—” you clutch at the loaf of bread, scrambling for a riposte that never surfaces. “I’ll…!”

Your verbal struggle, and consequent fluster greatly pleases the monster. And you wonder if it's normal to be able to catch that when you can't even see a smidgen of his expression.

“Hm. Can you stop wasting food and eat your lunch now, princess?”

You hate hate hate how much that sentence reminds you of the condescending remarks of your mother, and it snaps whatever was left of your frayed composure.

“I don't know, can you take off your mask and face me like a man?”

Your fists tremble as you realize what you just did, breath lodged in your throat as the Flame Reaver goes utterly still.

You stutter again, mind backpedaling in fear, but it's too late to take it back.

A gasp is forced out of you, the world tilts as gravity is swept from under your feet, the greys of the ceiling mesh and mix before settling again.

You take a sharp gulp of breath as the world calms ; as you look around, you realize that you're seated on the wooden chair before the table and five of the Flame Reaver's Shadows surround you like hounds.

One takes the half wasted loaf of bread from your hands, one grips your jaw, one scoops up a spoonful of stew and the other two glower at you enough that you open your mouth to take the food without a thought.

There's no way you could've protested against that, you huff as another spoonful is pushed to your mouth, doesn't make it any less humiliating though.

Thumps against the floor make you glance back to see the Flame Reaver's advance.

“What?” he jabs upon noticing your puffed cheeks squished in his Shadow’s grasp, “Shall I get you a bib as well?”

Heat rushes to your face, an indignant protest dies at the tip of your tongue upon the approach of the Flame Reaver's claws.

“Don’t touch me!” you recoil in the Shadows’ grasp, brows pinching together in a frown, deepening more and more when the monster doesn't stop.

The edge of one metallic nail brushes past your hair, “I’m warning you I—” you watch in terror as his thumb grazes your cheek and then moves past towards the folded cloak which sat upon the table.

Fabric rustles as the Flame Reaver shakes the cloak open, you blink dumbfoundedly once, before embarrassment seizes your psyche.

The Shadow pushes another spoonful to your lips, which you accept this time with much humility.

No one even mentions the mishap, and that makes it worse.

Unable to stand the silence of your humiliation, “Uh, Flame Rea—”

“Khaslana.”

Right. You’d nearly forgotten that, the monster's strange insistence on you using that name instead of the title he’s known by, one which you’ll pretend like you can't hear for as long as you can.

“Ahem, uhm, I was wondering —! Are these… do these clones of yours have free will?” you see from the edge of your vision as he halts mid-motion, cloak hung on his shoulder.

“… Why do you ask?” you know he's looking down at the sight of you getting fed like an ignorant newborn, his tendency of answering your questions with one of his own isn't surprising either.

Because I want to dig a hole and crawl in there? You swallow another mouthful of stew, a bead of the dish escapes from the corner of your lips.

You have half a mind to blow a raspberry at him and a quarter to keep your mouth shut in offense. But the logical part of you supplies, “I’m bored.”

“What?” the Flame Reaver sounds genuinely baffled.

It gives you the modicum of courage to glance up, “Boreeeeeed! I’m so bored I want to jump from that window sometimes!” you clench your fists, dodging the Shadow’s attempt at pushing another bite to your lips.

A faint sag overtakes the Flame Reaver's shoulders, “You’re eating, bathing, sleeping. Is that not entertainment enough?” there's so much exasperation in his rugged voice it would've convinced a lesser man.

“What do you mean entertainment?! Those are basics of—mmph!” the Shadow holding your jaw swings you back to accept the rejected spoonful.

You push through to make your point anyway, “Leevewing! Baysics of leevinh!”

The Flame Reaver watches as stew smears across your lips and chin, the sudden heat of defense in your eyes completely at odds with how you look more like a stuffed hamster than an elegant princess.

He forces out an annoyed sigh, “Alright then, princess.” crossing his arms over his chest, the Shadows stop shoving food to your mouth upon catching the faint command. “What is ‘entertainment’?”

The heat in your eyes morphs to sparkles, “Like! Reading! Books!”

A glint of light reflects off of the metal of his mask as he tips his head back, “While eating?”

“Yes!”

“That’s childish.”

“Whoa—” you lean back as though scandalized, “Have you ever tried reading a good book while eating?”

The Flame Reaver's response comes flat, “I don't need to eat.”

He watches with some fascination as all the offense drains from your body at that single line.

You blink a couple of times, as though recalibrating everything you've thought about the monster.

“That’s… quite sad.” your gaze flits from his masked face to the hooves of his boots.

Silence parades the chamber once again, the air humid with pity. You fiddle with the fabric of your skirt, pale pink paint from your wedding day fading from your nails, you shift in your seat in uncertainty.

All the indignation that’d lit your pride on fire before suddenly nowhere in sight.

You're jolted from the deluge of reverie at the press of a familiar thumb, though unlike before, it refrains from scratching at your skin and instead, wipes away the mess of stew from your lips. The residue at your chin is swiped away by his knuckles.

You blink up just as the Flame Reaver retreats, pulling his hood up.

“Come down after you’ve finished eating. Five floors down from this one, the door with a bronze infinity symbol.”

—

You were raised a child of the books ; from moulding your inner world to shaping you posture, books were present in every step of the way.

It was considered integral to the image of ladies of the upper class to be able to hold conversations on historical and contemporary texts, hence, the popularity of reading in this era.

Not to mention, it was one of the only ways to pass the obdurate days for noblewomen.

Legend of the Dawn Hero, The Chimera's Patronage, The Sun and the Morning Glory — were some of the most popular titles you grew up with.

It was easy as well, to get lost in the vibrant worlds where brave heroes heralded pilgrimages to save the world, in the folds of drama and thrill and adventure.

When you were nine, you were handed a copy of Legend of the Dawn Hero by your governess, a popular romance featuring the ‘Deliverer’ who saves the world from an opprobrious monster.

“Which part moved you the most?” she’d asked in that terse tone of hers.

You distinctly recall hesitating, your little hands fumbling with the book (which earned you a glare from the woman). “The part where… the monster's past was revealed.”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

“Uhm,” it takes everything in you to not stutter more under her curiosity, ”It was simply unexpected to me. I never thought villains could have bad starts as well. It made me rather sad.”

The woman graciously ignored your last sentence, “And what did you think about the Deliverer?”

You stared at the painted sun on the book’s cover for a second, and then shrugged. “He was okay.”

That took her visibly by surprise.

“Huh. What an odd child.”

The books that filled the ‘library’ the Flame Reaver opened for you were far from the shiny books you’d read back at home.

Since your arrival — or should you say, manhandling by the Shadows to this place — you’ve become increasingly hesitant to even call it a library.

The rows upon rows of dusty tomes and unkempt pages, tall cabinets storing who knows what give this chamber more the impression of a mad scholar’s secret study.

And you would've been charmed by the vellichor of it all, had this been a different circumstance.

The one saving grace of this labyrinthian library is the chaise by the window, illuminated by the rays of the sun as it dips to the west horizon. Everything else is graced by scattered candlelight, a small mercy by him, is what you conclude.

It's not like you're in the position to complain, and honestly, it's a much better experience than counting clouds from your chamber.

You pause, eyes stuck on the spine of a book labeled ‘basics of meteorology’ in Styxian script. The coincidence prompts you to fish it out of the row.

A Shadow flickers in your periphery just as your turn the front page, almost making you flinch.

You can't even begin to describe your aggravation with those things. They appear to be as — if not more — emotionless than their master, but if there was something in this world synonymous with being hellspawns, you think it’d be them.

It's just that you have no way to actually prove that, so all you can do is ignore them.

Unlike the books you'd browsed in this chamber before, you find the one in your hands to be actually readable, with small illustrations accompanying the rules.

With a newfound spark in your gait, you turn with the intention of reaching the chaise — the jump in your step halted upon the collision with something hard.

A yelp escapes you, hand reaching on instinct to rub your nose. When you crane your neck to look up in irritation, you see the candlelight glinting off of the metal of the Flame Reaver's mask.

He, just watches the flow of emotions on your face, as he usually does.

You’ve discovered interrogating him on this habit to be futile, so you take a step back and another to your left to pass him by.

Which he meets.

You throw him a furtive glance and then step to the right the next second.

He copies it.

You go back towards the left and he meets you there, resulting in your temple colliding with his chest again.

And then, he huffs in irritation like you are the hindrance.

“Hey, can you—” your request is catapulted midair, you gasp, hands seeking to clutch at something, anything for balance as the Flame Reaver hauls you up his shoulder.

The first thing you register, is how far the floor suddenly is from your reach, and the next is the uncomfortable sensation of your chest being squished against his shoulder blades.

The dark lines of the floor swirl and twirl with his steps, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut lest the motion makes you sick.

When your hand finally manages to clutch onto his cloak for some semblance of balance, they're removed from it just as fast.

You blink, hair ruffled and breaths erratic as the Flame Reaver's hands grasp your waist, the chaise bounces from the force of your drop.

His retreating step is loud in the library, an intentional move to snap you back to reality.

Instead of vanishing like he usually would've done though, he lingers for a moment longer on how this simple thing disheveled you from top to bottom.

When you catch his stare, he turns away with a click of his tongue. A snap echoes, and the book you had in your hands drops to your lap — you didn’t even realize it’d fallen from your hands.

When you look up next, the Flame Reaver is no longer there ; only you, the sibilant Shadows, and the weight of this fluster you have no control over.

“There lives an evil monster at the far north of Amphoreus — we call it the Flame Reaver. He brought with him this wretched Black Tide. It corrupts and mutilates everything that it touches beyond saving.”

“And the Chrysos Heirs are our heroes, they work tirelessly every day to fight the Black Tide and slay that monster.”

“Lady Goldweaver of Okhema, Lady Tribios of Janusopolis, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, Castorice the Hand of Shadow, Hycinthia of the Twilight Courtyard, Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, Imperator Cerydra, Hysilens of Styxia… and lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, the Blazing Sun who’ll bring dawn to this world one day.”

You remember the edge of pride on your governess’ face as she’d introduced them, fourteen years ago. It was only the beginning of her long history lessons.

Fourteen years later, on the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae would defeat the notorious Flame Reaver.

On the year 4931 of the Light Calendar, you would become the lady of his house…

Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.

A sigh escapes you as your back meets the marble of the bathtub, the waterline caresses your clavicle, where damp strands of hair brush past.

The temperature is just a bit on the hotter side, but it's bearable, a small reprieve in your prison. You think life to be so strange, things you had never thought twice about back home are luxuries beyond its gates.

Things are prepared without even a trace of another life in the tower ; food, clothes and even this bath — you can only conclude it to be the result of magic.

For the past weeks, you’ve had scarce sleep. Your eyes only close when your mind is tired out from worrying all day, and even then, the rest you get is sporadic.

But the warmth of the bath numbs your restless mind, the fragrance of wild herbs lulls it further.

In this lapse of time, even an enclosure feels like a sanctuary, makes you feel as though you've brushed past freedom once more, and before long, your breaths have slowed.

Though it doesn't last long.

You feel tingles spreading from the backs of your knees first, then tickles at your nape as though your hair was being swept aside.

Probably just the water, you reassure yourself in your half waking state.

The edge of the bathtub grazes against your head, you think you hear a faint splash, ghosts of touches gliding over your chest, weighing your breasts and sliding down your belly.

A sting shakes you awake.

The gulp of breath you're forced to take is pulled taut by the firm press of something against your lips, it takes you more than a few frantic blinks to look over the veil of the fog and at last, you see it.

At least a dozen of those Shadows, all sporting the form of that Dark Swordmaster, their edges flickering like flames ; two palm your breasts, one holds your head in place, another parts your dew soaked legs and the rest fight for even an inch of your skin.

Your gasp is smothered by the hand on your lips and you nearly choke when it covers your whole face for a moment, before planting one thumb to keep your sounds from echoing.

Your flailing arms are seized next, you can't even see what's going on there past the curtains of those shadows that allow not even scant light to touch your skin.

The sounds of splashing water rattle the walls, everything is too hot, too hot, too hot — from the wisps of choked breaths they mercy upon you in betwixt the unkind twists of their fingers across your core, to the burn of their claws digging and drawing indents of their hunger on your body.

Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, another sound that you dread to be a whine is muffled as the shadows coil tighter around you.

By some cruelty, the thumb on your lips shifts just enough to let the next cry echo.

On top of the water that laps at your skin, there's something else too, parting the petals of your clitoris and plunging deep with one rough swipe.

Their talons attach like barnacles, holding you in place, and in obedience by your hips.

You do not know how to explain the sensation, it's like a knot is being crafted in your belly with every swipe and twist, every squeeze and pinch, stretched taut til your breaths are no more than broken whimpers.

You catch one Shadow looking directly at you from your peripheral, it betrays no emotion, just floats quietly behind the crowd.

Your head tips back further when the shadows part your legs to scavenge for more room and from the small crack in between them, you see more apparitions through your blurry vision.

It clicks suddenly, there's another wave of them, awaiting their turn patiently.

A line of drool slips past your lips and smears your chin, the Shadow which was covering your mouth wipes with one swipe of its thumb ; your toes curl midair as the knot in your lower stomach snaps.

Steam cloak’s the room, even a whisper sounds as though it were an exclamation. Somewhere, there's an ictus of falling water.

A groan escapes your lips as you stir, vision shrouded with enervation, your joints complain when you shift in the bathtub.

The water’s heat is now faint, but every candle is lit as you recall.

Slowly, you come to, gripping the edge of the bathtub for support. You’ve never felt more disoriented in your life, not even when the Flame Reaver pointed his blade at your throat and then let you off from tasting its sharpness.

Right. The Flame Reaver. The captivity.

… His Shadows.

You sit up straight, glancing frantically at your hands and body as the memories resurface.

There isn't a single scratch on your skin, but you can still recall the feel of their greedy touches, the way they moulded you to their liking.

The bath water is now completely cold, sending chills down your spine but you could not care at all.

Your teeth work at your bottom lip as the scenes flash through your mind again, a droplet of water slides down your cleavage.

A faint tremble seizes your body.

What was that? Was that real? Was that a dream? Why was it so vivid if it were one? And why does your body feel so heavy if it weren't one?

And most importantly, why can you not stop replaying it in your mind?

Sharp thunks echo as pages flutter to the ground, in your frenzy (for what exactly, you can hardly pin down), you bump against shelves and cabinets more times than you have the mind to count.

You just know that you need a distraction, and in pursuit of it, your feet have led you to the only other place you're (somewhat) allowed entry to in the tower ; the ‘library’ — without any intervention of the sentinel Shadows.

Those cursed Shadows, you heave, leaning against a cabinet.

If breaking your ankle the last time you’d tried to escape wasn't bad enough, they’d decided to shift to toying with your sanity next.

Every night, without fail, you're certain those hellspawns have been doing something to you. But for some, some reason, by dawn you only have blurry memories to recount.

As such, the Flame Reaver never takes your complaints seriously — he doesn't even answer any questions you might have about his powers, let alone those cryptic clones.

But does his dismissive scoffs help you at all? No! With every moment alone with those Shadows, you feel as though you're being pushed closer and closer to the edge of an abyss ; one that dulls your inhibitions, and makes you desire for things you’ve been taught your whole life to loathe.

The Shadows cease reaching with their grabby hands in the presence of their master, but he only makes that pinching feeling in your heart worse.

You're scared to even observe it for long — and you absolutely, absolutely can't afford to linger on it, not when your family is still waiting for you, not when your fiance has foregone half of his sanity in search of you (you're sure he has).

Your confidence in that brat’s skills is rather pathetic, princess. You flinch as that monster's words resurface in your mind.

Rust coats the voice in your recollections, that easy condescension which pulls at the steady strings of your heart, Impressive in a way, but pathetic nonetheless.

You bite your lip, hands gripping the handle of the wooden cabinet ; all at once every instance where he’d reached too close cluster forth in your mind, every time the edge of his mask brushed against your cheek, everytime you were a breath away from feeling those silver strands of his hair.

The edge of the handle bites into your hands, you wonder, as the recollections of the Shadows’ whispers mesh with the cadence of his tone in your mind, how would it feel if it was him whispering those filthy things in your ear while coaxing tears out of your eyes?

Just as quickly as the flood of thoughts came, they wane.

You blink, the first thing you notice when you come to reality is that your cheeks feel hot, the next is that the cabinet’s door has somehow come loose from its hinges in your hands.

The door clutters to the ground when you drop it. For a second, you palm at the air in uncertainty, and then, you decide to duck and peek inside the thing almost mindlessly.

A cough escapes you as a deluge of dust emerges from the stack of worn notebooks in the cabinet.

You wave away as much of it as you can, squinting in the dim candlelight to get a better look.

Something in your gut tugs at you, tells you that you probably shouldn't go farther than this.

You did come down without permission here, and the logical thing to do would be to not test the Flame Reaver's graces more.

… But the prospect of finding out how he’d react to this act of rebellion is undoubtedly tempting.

Dust smudges your fingertips as you pull out (what seems to be) a notebook. You blow on the cover, perhaps it was just the faint light from the candles’ fault, but you remain unsuccessful in deciphering the cover page.

The contents within the notebook though, were a different story.

You tilt the pages toward the candles, eyes squinting, shifting, widening with every word.

ENTRY - - -: Attempt #28,371,274

• LIGHT CALANDER — 4894, MONTH OF JOY •

The Black Tide field test in the frontier village, Code: AE6 was a success. Two survivors emerged from the rubbles. One’s location is still unidentified. The other remembers himself to be called “Khaslana“. … Aged approximately eight. Some minor injuries but otherwise in good health.

…

ENTRY 001: NEW EXPERIMENT. In Juncture With Attempt Count #28,371,275

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF EVERDAY •

Admittance of subject “Neikos496”. Age : 8, Male. Shows signs of being resistant to the corrosive properties of the Black Tide. Further observation required.

..

ENTRY 003: Attempt #28,371,276

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4894, MONTH OF - - - - - - •

Subject Neikos496 shows intense impulses. Has been refusing meals.. Consistently asks for the whereabouts of “brother Phainon“. Further observation required.

…

ENTRY 034: Attempt #28,371,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF FREEDOM •

Subject Neikos496 shows extreme tolerance towards the Black Tide. Procedures for Experiment: Imbibition are in order.

..

ENTRY 035: Attempt #28,372,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4896, MONTH OF WEAVING •

Subject Neikos496 has lost his sense of taste. Note: The Black Tide has not yet hindered his growth in any way.

..

ENTRY 050: Attempt #28,500,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF MOURNING •

Subject Neikos496 can fully harness the destructive properties of the Black Tide. A revolutionary breakthrough in - - - -..

ENTRY 051: Attempt #29,- - -, - - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4899, MONTH OF FORTUNE •

Subject Neikos496 shows signs of rapid physical growth… Form growing distant from that of… umans… Further observation required.

..

ENTRY 101: Attempt #33,- - -,- - -

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4909, MONTH OF EVERNIGHT •

Subject Neikos496 can fully control the Destructive properties of the Black Tide phenomena. Procedures to unleash… Heavy observation required. Subject shows tendencies of rebellion.

Overseer : --.. .- -. -.. .- .-.

ENTRY - - -: Attempt #33,550,36

• LIGHT CALENDER — 4910, M- -TH O- - - - - •

Subject Neikos496 is suspected to rebel. The tower’s defences have been set. Operation: Irontomb will soon lau..nch.. do not panic. Everything will b.. —

“I thought princesses knew.. how to maintain curfews?”

Your heart kicks against your ribcage violently as it registers that voice. The old, worn paper in your grasp is soaked from your sweaty palms, your desperate grip on its words.

You open your mouth to respond by instinct, but nothing tangible comes out.

The edge of the Flame Reaver's hood brushes against your hair as he leans down to catch a peek — not at the notebook that you shouldn't be holding, but at the abject horror painted on your face.

His hands hover by your skirt, and with every breath you're forced to take, you get more and more acutely aware of the fact that his chest is flush against your back.

“Answer me, princess.” you’re yanked back before you could spiral in your thoughts, but you can hardly make your mind cooperate with his demand.

The Flame Reaver, graciously decides to assist you.

You jolt as his hand comes up to grasp your chin, “What’s wrong?“ condescension drips from his words and into your ear, “You weren't so scared when you waltzed into the obituary of a madman.“

“I…” you scramble your mind for something, anything to respond with amidst the sillage of bulrush and smoke that encroaches in your space. “I’m—”

Your treacherous heart jumps again as the Flame Reaver clicks his tongue, not because it's loud in the narrow space, but because it sounds indulgent.

“Are you about to apologize, princess?” he moans against your cheek. “Save me the charade. I have no interest in the fact that you found this.”

That makes you blink as some clarity returns.

Just as you're about to urge him to elaborate though, the Flame Reaver squeezes your cheeks together with enough force to make you yelp, the nails of his thumb and forefinger dig into the meat, hard.

“I’m sure you know where my interest is in.” you could've never, in the twenty years of your existence, ever expected the Flame Reaver to sound so coy, so elated — at mushing your cheeks to oblivion or to the underbreath of the unfolding events, you can hardly care.

“But the question is,“ his left hand finally makes its presence known in the shape of grasping your waist, “Are you brave enough to indulge me?” he cranes your neck up to meet his heated breaths, face to masked-face.

You don't dare to open your eyes and stare into that nothingness, but you don't do anything to break out of his grip either, not even as he threatens to paint your cheeks red in your own blood, or how his claws tear into your dress.

You know what he's pushing you towards.

Phainon — you saw Phainon's name with absolute clarity in the notebook now crumpling in your hands, and you’d wished, with every re-read that those words morph into something else or vanish altogether.

“You…” you shudder as he parts your ankles with the tip of his boots, squeezing the words out through the death-grip he has on your face. “You should stop touching me like this. I— I'm betrothed to someone else!”

In the end, you're not brave enough to take his bait.

But the Flame Reaver doesn't appear discouraged, in fact, he seems even more pleased, if possible.

“Oh? Betrothed you say…“ he loosens his grip just before his claws could puncture your cheeks, shifting to rub at the abused flesh with the pads of his fingers.

“But did you remember that the past few months?“ something in your stomach flips as his knee nudges between your legs, “Or, do you only like using that excuse when I confront you about your flighty little morals?“

You would've never guessed air could feel this heavy, nay, it bends to the monster's every breath, threatening to take you with it under, as well.

You can hardly think through the jolts coaxed by the way he strokes your heat with his knee, but of course, the monster wouldn't allow you the reprieve of sinking completely — so he uses the grip he has on your hip and yanks you to crash against his chest, sending a sharp jolt through your core against his knee.

The Flame Reaver chuckles, it's rough and rugged like the edge of a cliff, “I’m curious, princess,”

He trails his left hand up from your waist, letting the claw of his pointer finger drag up your heaving chest, “Would your ever chivalrous hero even take you back if he knew about how much of yourself you’ve given to me already?” he circles around where your heart has concocted a crazed prance, humming in pleasure when it answers with a loud kick against his hand.

“Even now,” he twirls a strand of your hair on the tips of his claws, “You don't tell me no, not even once.”

That, that snaps you out of the maddening trance he’d illustrated so far. The realization sweeps away half of the heat from your gut, settling like an anvil on your conscience.

No, not at all. You don't want Flame Reaver to stop. You would've kicked, flailed and fought your way out of his hold by now like the first day, the day he stole you in the dress of a bride — if you wanted out of this suffocating embrace.

So, how dare you still speak of a fiance?

The Flame Reaver hums at your stunned silence, letting your hair fall from his hand. “I have a proposal, princess.”

“Instead of living like a prize on that brat’s shelf,” he tests the jolts of your pulse with the tip of his thumbnail, “Why don't you become mine instead?”

Your shoulders macerate with a slump as that singular sentence steals all the fight from your bones.

Guilt begins to crawl up your conscience, just like how those Shadows did on your body, and how you allowed it — enjoyed it even.

And now, even as the weight of your hypocrisy presses down on your heart, you find yourself wishing that the Flame Reaver — Khaslana, would do something, anything to make you forget that, forget your past and transgressions and let you to sink into the abyss he’s only been teasing you with touches and words.

Princess, oh dearest princess, what have you become?

There was once a time in the 'Flame Reaver's' life where he loved the shade of blue.

It was in the midday sky of Aedes Elysiae, in the waves of the sea — in his eyes.

His innocence stretches as far as he can recall that color, the days spent chasing fairies, napping in the wheat fields and drifting wish-in-a-bottles in the ocean.

And then, one day, red swallowed that lovely blue, burned everything that ached to hold that color to ashes.

When Lycurgus found him, wounded and bruised, stranded all alone in the middle of nowhere, he promised the boy a home.

Though the tall, dark tower at the edge of the north didn't seem to be anywhere near as warm as the roads of Aedes Elysiae, it was shelter, it was protection, and for a while, that was enough.

Until, the mad researcher asked, “Don’t you want revenge?”

Revenge. A word too lofty for a little boy of his age to fathom. He only vaguely recalled reading it in those fairy tales of Cyrene, the ones about heroes and villains and magic.

At his silence, the scholar urged, “For your ruined hometown? For your family?”

That, that’d struck him.

Though he couldn't fathom the weight of the word, somewhere in his heart, there burned this little fire of fury.

That fire was fed slowly and steadily with every experiment, every failure and every subsequent success.

But no matter how much Khaslana resisted, how much he endured, the pain never dulled.

“The pain and the anger are your life forces.” he’d been told, “Nurture it, cling to it and wield it.”

But why should one live for pain and anger? No one would answer the shackled boy in the cold lab. No one would tell him why the Black Tide consumes and doesn't cease, no matter how much he’d asked.

Then, by chance or misfortune, Khaslana discovered the conductor of the threnody that haunts this world.

“For the utter destruction of Reason itself, this world must burn, it must end!” Lygus had exclaimed in delight, “And you— you… will make that fire roar! You will bear the Destruction itself!”

Even till his last breath, his last spasm on the floor, Lycurgus had laughed.

Khaslana had thought that killing that madman and his lackeys would've been enough to satiate his fury. He’d be content to bear all of the Black Tide in himself so that the world could drift on in peace, even.

But of course, why would it be so kind to him?

“Have you heard? There's a monster that lives in the north. They say that he's the reason for the Black Tide!”

“The Chrysos Heirs have rallied from all corners of Amphoreus to defeat him!”

“He must be defeated!”

“Off with his head!”

“Death to the monster!'”

“BURN HIM BURN HIM BURN HIM!”

Zandar, despite posing as a scholar of class, was one petty manchild.

As such, he’d used whatever was left of his consciousness, and had modeled the lie that Khas— Flame Reaver of the Deepest Dark, was the source of the Black Tide.

And the result of this propaganda was a thousand passionate ‘heroes’ sent at his door to bring glory back home. Pathetic, so pathetic he couldn't even care to give them a proper duel.

… That was until, he came.

Silver tresses and that cornflower blue still shining so bright in those sunlight eyes, a legendary sword in his hands and comrades at his sides — every bit the hero from those stories he’d read with him in childhood.

A mirror of himself, if he’d still retained anything of his former image.

Perhaps, that is why Phainon didn't recognized him.

Flame Reaver would've been fine with that much, to go the rest of his existence as a dead memory — but the stupid, stupid hero and his troop of fools just had to disturb his peace, had to shoot him down with that weapon.

And then, Phainon had the audacity to parade around the city in victory, bask in the cheers and salutations of everyone who now fell at his feet ; offering their homage, their lives and all their treasures for a smidgen of the hero's ‘favor’.

You were one such ‘treasure’, the beloved princess of Stygia who’d been hidden since childhood from the world.

Rose petals had begun to pile up on the baths of the Holy City as a result of the people's excitement. The century’s most anticipated union, a pair chosen by the gods themselves!

How could they not rejoice? For their icon looks at you like you're a piece of heaven itself, a piece he shall not lose or let go of.

It was supposed to be a perfect, sun-lit day. The lilies were in full bloom, thousands had gathered outside the chapel to witness the moment when the beautiful princess and the hero of legends would become each other's.

So easily? Just like that?

The panicked screams of the crowd as Flame Reaver's Shadows tore down the venue were music to his ears.

The skittering people, the chaos, the silken banners burning in flames — now that was pretty.

And amidst the ensuing ruin, there was you.

Stranded from the others in the commotion, clutching at the skirt of the pristine ivory dress as rubble rained down around you.

You’d looked so scared, so uncertain while trying to work your puny human brain for a way out.

So, he took you.

Was it a bit of an impulsive decision? Yes. But the look of absolute horror on Phainon's face as he whisked you away a breath from his arms was so, so worth it.

In the beginning, he’d been fully set on just giving you a swift, painless death.

But something had stopped him, something… yes, that ruffled look on your face, how you’d scrunched up your face and glared at him like letting your displeasure known would be of any help.

He thought it was amusing — and amusement, to a man so used to pain and obdurate days, is intoxicating.

So, he decided to let you scurry around in the cage instead.

The way you flinched at every little thing, stayed curled up in a ball by the corner of the uppermost chamber of the tower only made him more and more intrigued.

See, Khaslana had known scarce interaction with humans throughout the forty five years of his cursed existence. However much of it was real, happened far too long ago, and those cold exchanges with the researchers were no interaction at all.

So, everything that you brought with you was new to him, and he shamelessly, wanted to see more of it, all of it.

Every squeak, every frown, every down turned gaze, every tsk of annoyance and most surprising of all, every moment of fluster.

It took him a while to catch on, but you would get flustered around him whenever he got close to you or taunted you.

And that brewed a new plan in his mind.

He would tempt you slowly and agonizingly, fill that little head of yours with nothing but desire.

Until you’re so fed up with the push-and-pull that you reach for him yourself and give all of you to him.

And you will play right into his hands.

He’ll make sure of it.

Twilight is still yet to bleed into the east when you awake, the sporadic chirps of birds outside keep you tethered to the waking world.

When you turn to your other side, the first thing your eyes fall upon is the Flame Reaver brooding on the chaise, the faint light of the burgeoning morning illuminate his silhouette.

Mindlessly, you get up, rubbing your eyes as a yawn moistens their corners.

Your steps are groggy as a result of your restless slumber, and they click loudly in the quiet morning.

With each step, the heaviness of last night returns, slowly, and then all at once.

You’d tossed and turned enough times to rumple the bedsheets beyond saving, screamed into your pillow when the thoughts grew cacophonous, cried into the same pillow when the guilt got too monstrous.

Where are the Shadows when you actually need them? You’d even found yourself wishing at times, to your surprise.

But what can you do? You’ve vacillated between believing that you have not sinned, that you would be welcomed back into the arms of your fiance — and the heavy, bone-chilling realization that you won't, that you have no way to face that man anymore.

Do you even want to go back to Phainon? You halt in front of the Flame Reaver's legs. Would a man who never came looking for his own brother, never even recognized his twin, even recognize you?

Let alone cherish?

The Flame Reaver lifts his head with a jolt when you swing your leg over his, settling on his lap.

An exhale leaves his mouth, coarse and penetrating in the dead quiet. You can feel his gaze following your fingers as they glide up his arms and over the gaping sun on his chest.

“What are you doing?“ he asks rhetorically. You're not sure if it's just your sleep addled mind, but you could've sworn that the muscles of his thighs tightened under you when you pressed your palms flat on his chest, and trailed them up his throat.

Is this stupid? Most definitely, the smidgen of rationality in your mind supplies.

But you can't bring yourself care, you can't bring yourself to think amidst the roaring thoughts, the doubts, the guilt, the desire and the thirst to end this push-and-pull, to silence every voice echoing in your mind.

The pointy edge of the metal frame of his mask brushes against your fingertips, “You said,” your own voice is hoarse from sleep and bone-deep fatigue, “That you could make me forget it all.”

You press your forehead against his, knees planted on either side of his hips on the chaise. “But I don't know if I want that without even knowing the master of that magic.” warm breath mingling with his.

The Flame Reaver makes a sound that almost sounds like an intrigued hum, if it weren't for the faint tremble in it that you manage to catch thanks to the proximity.

“Correction, princess.” he doesn't move a breath, but he doesn't lean into the touch either. “I offered you to become mine.”

Your brows pinch slightly at that, your clouded mind struggling to care about semantics in the wake of him raising his hands, and just letting them hover above your back.

You lean back just enough to look at his masked face, chest heaving in irritation.

“Become yours without even seeing ‘you’?” you rest your right palm against where his cheek should be at and let the other trail over his shoulder.

Metal bumps against your wandering hands, the grooves and stiffened muscles stretched taut against the fabric of his clothes. You’d only gotten the sillage of it before, but you can feel the sheer rigidity of his body right under your hands, against yourself, now.

(You force yourself to swallow whatever tingle that’d brought to your mouth.)

His sigh makes you blink, “You’re an impulsive creature.” he admonishes, tapping a claw against the chaise.

“Does it never cross your mind that some boundaries are set for your own good?” his hood drops as he tilts his head in your hand.

You purse your lips in confusion, “Is your face radioactive?”

The taps pause, “Worse.” he says breezily.

“How worse?” you push closer.

“Enough to make a sheltered little princess recoil?” there's derision in his tone, at you, or himself — is uncertain.

You cup his face, drawing a circle on his cheek over the dark fabric. “Try me.”

A long beat passes, a bird announces the start of its day with an exclamation outside the premises of this scene, twigs snap under worried boots.

The Flame Reaver's shoulders slump in surrender, though the huff he exhales suggests (feigned) annoyance.

It's enough permission for you.

Carefully, so, so carefully you peel back the metal ornament ; its sharp corner scratches against your fingers when you're unable to control the tremble in them, but you can hardly care about that.

A breathy exhales escapes you, blending with his own as the mask clutters to the floor.

Porcelain. That's the first word that comes to your mind when you see him. Gold pulses from the cracks of his porcelain-like body, blue and violet swirl in the abyss of the left side of his face, beckoning you closer, far closer than you’ve ever dared to venture.

Khaslana turns his head away — in disappointment, not surprise, and suddenly his previous derision makes sense to you, why he always caved into himself when you brought it up, why he always avoided this.

It makes something in your heart pinch to the point of suffocation.

You shift your grip, tilting his turned head back to you in the cradle of your hands — and kiss him.

Khaslana's next breath is pulled taut by the abruptness of it, the cushion under his hands is teared as he swipes at it with his talons in surprise.

His lips are cool under yours, unlike the rest of his body which has set the air around you ablaze.

You chase the chill, keeping his lips locked against yours by holding onto his jaw and you're only encouraged to continue when his hands spring up to grasp you by the waist.

It's your turn to gasp as he yanks you close, the force of the pull makes your nose bump with his and your chest press against his clavicle.

You taste mint and heat in his breath as his mouth parts against yours, the tip of his tongue teases the corner of your lips —

“PRINCESS [NAME]!!!”

A sharp flinch jostles you both, labored breaths fogging the thin distance between your mouths.

“LADY [NAME]?!!”

Every nerve in your body tenses. You know that voice, you’ve heard it declaring promises of patience in your hands, wishes and hopes of a serene dream in your ears, sneaking whispers of how beautiful you look in your wedding dress before the altar—

Khaslana's chuckles breaks the daze, it's a rugged, intrigued thing against your ear.

“Ahh…” he noses in the little nook under your earlobe, “Looks like your hero— no, your fiance is here to pick you up.”

Your treacherous, treacherous heart kicks against its cage, and then churns at his lazy acknowledgment. You can see glimpses of soldiers flittering across the parameters of the tower down the drop and then— him.

A bead of sweat rolls down from your temples, Khaslana adjusts his hold on your hips, shifting you forward to aide you in seeing the scene better (cruelty).

“Well then? Princess?” your eyes crinkle as you feel something wet lave over your cheek, “What will you do now?” a thin sheen of drool smears on your cheek to your chin as Khaslana catches that bead of sweat on his long, serpentine tongue.

You would think that the monster would try to cling to you, but instead, he goads you on, like this is a game to him and all he cares about is feasting on your moves.

It wouldn't take much to alert the troops, a small item thrown, maybe one of the pillows — you could even scream, it wouldn't be unexpected of the Phainon to be able catch its pitch despite the distance.

…. However.

“I don't want to go.” your eyes dim as you see the rays of the early morning light playing catch with the hero’s armory, those silver strands — ones you now know so intimately, ruffled by worried hands.

It almost makes you not notice Khaslana's eerie silence.

“…What?”

You sneak a peek at him through your periphery, “I don't want to go ba— oof—!”

A wheeze is forced out of your lungs at the force of the push, your surprised blinks are shadowed by Khaslana's looming form.

“I don't believe you,” he fists at the chaise on either side of your head, it's difficult to see his expression despite the flickers of the blue flame.

You keep on searching for it though, “Tell me what will make you believe then.”

He sneers, “This is just a game to you.”

“It is not.” frustration creeps in betwixt your brows.

But he doesn't listen, “You don't even understand— you don't even understand what I feel for you! What I want to do to you—!” he tugs at his hair.

You open your mouth but his exclamations drown out your words, “You naive, stupid girl. You think you could know me?” his voice fades to a coarse whisper, and your patience snaps. “There is absolutely no way! Nothing! Nothing you could do that—”

You grab him by the collar and swallow the rest of his complaint with your mouth.

Something in Khaslana's brain sizzles, makes him forget that he can breathe as you pull him closer, closer than anything he’s dreamed, and all so willingly, eagerly.

His normal eye softens impossibly for a second, before flashing with a jolt of wicked blue.

Your exhale is pulled taut by his hand snaking up the back of your head, gripping at the roots of your hair to keep you locked in the kiss.

His free hand wanders down to your legs, and parts them by gripping one knee. Your hands reach out to clutch at his cape when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder, making room for himself — and when you're dizzy from the lack of breath and space, he rewards you by biting down your lower lip.

“You’ll leave me.” he gasps against your cheek, talons gripping restlessly at your pulled up skirt.

Despite your mind being in a swirl of nothing but heat, you find the strength to shake your head no, clinging to him.

Khaslana squeezes his eye close for a moment, as though pained. “You’ll abandon me at the first chance you get— like him, like everyone —”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, “Never. I won't ever abandon or betray you, Khaslana.”

A shudder quakes the monster's whole body. He drops his head to your shoulder, taking lungfuls of your scent, his claws threaten to draw blood at the dip of your waist.

“Tell me…” his nose traces a line from your jawbone to your clavicle, halting at the neckline of your dress to take the edge in between his teeth. “Tell me to stop, princess.” he begs, dragging the neckline down with his bite.

Your knees press around him as his scorching exhales brush against your now bared chest, “Don’t— don't stop, Khaslana.”

A long, heavy breath leaves his lips, littering your skin in gooseflesh. A squeeze seizes your heart as Khaslana nuzzles against it with his cheek.

“Could you… kiss me again?” you almost don't hear his request through the erratic march of your heart, “So that I know this isn't a dream?”

He doesn't dare to meet your gaze when he says, “… Please?”

If there was even a fraction of doubt in your mind before, it vanishes to oblivion with that one word.

This time, the beginning of the kiss is much gentler than all the previous ones. You tilt his head up with your hands and for a moment, just breathe against him, before pressing your pledge against his lips.

Khaslana loosens his vice grip on your hair to let it trail down your back, pushing you closer in time with his tongue parting your lips.

The hand that was on your hips comes up to hold your face — though, with its size, it has to settle on your throat instead.

The leg that was hoisted over his shoulder bends to squeeze around his back when his tongue pushes inside your mouth and licks at the cavern.

Tears prinkle the corners of your closed eyes as you choke, you’d caught a glimpse of it before, but the Flame Reaver's tongue is long, it takes up your whole mouth, rendering your feeble attempts at returning the kiss futile with one swoop — till stars burst behind your eyeleads from the lack of air.

Your toes curl against his back when he presses you closer into the kiss with a squeeze around your throat, your cry is broken when he sinks his fang into your lip again.

When he finally, finally pulls away, silver bursts color your vision and your heartbeat hammers against your ears — you feel lightheaded in the best way.

“Hah…“ he wipes the string of drool with the back of his hand, you can hear the vague smirk in his words. “Sick of me already?”

At that, your vision clears and you pout, shaking your head. You tug him closer, a plea smoldering in your eyes.

It makes him croon.

Your world is hurled to the side as he pushes you down on the chaise again.

“You’re one greedy princess, aren't you?” your jump when he takes your exposed nipple in his mouth, coaxing a whimper out of you with a hard suck.

You press the heel of your palm against your mouth as he continues his torturous ministrations, his hands slide down your sides, pushing up the hem of your dress again to part your thighs.

His tongue wraps around the taut bud for a second, before letting go to pinch it with his fang instead. He controls your spasming body effortlessly, bringing your ankles to lock around his neck with ease.

His eye flickers up to the sight of your desperate attempts at muffling your whimpers and he lets go of your nipple with a displeased pop.

“What’s wrong? Don't you want your hero to hear how mine you are?” he taunts, pulling back the elastic of your panties and letting it snap back against your thigh — but he doesn't just stop there, and hooks the pointed nail of his forefinger under it when he pulls it again, the sound of tearing fabric defeats your ragged breaths.

He sits up slightly to drink in the sight of your debauched state, the glint in his eye shifts in a way that makes you feel as though he's patting himself in the back for reducing you to a quivering, needy mess.

“Well,” he smoothes over your right leg with one hand, the metal of his talons creating shivers on the skin. “It doesn't really matter to me either way. Because…”

He turns his head to press a kiss on the ankle hooked over his shoulder and before your could blink the next one — he dives in.

You're certain your soul had left your body there, only to be pulled right back by the Flame Reaver's death-grip.

Your hand offers no support in stopping the cry that's pulled out of you. First, he scares you halfway to death by swooping down like a vulture ; next, he parts your petals with his tongue with a slow lick, coming full circle by plunging it deep inside you the next second.

Now, you realize that he was holding back in the kiss. His tongue alone reaches crevices inside you that you weren't even aware of, his teeth brush against your clit sporadically with every harsh suck and twist.

Your body rebels against the assault by instinct (even as your mind craves it), but Khaslana keeps you close and obedient to take his starving mouth by holding your hips, his nails create bloody scratches on the sides of your thighs with every thrash and pull.

He's done this before, the realization passes by your your dazed mind between gasps and moans.

Though you're not allowed the leeway to ponder on it as the building pressure in your lower belly abruptly snaps, making your back arch from the force of the orgasm.

You blearily consider reaching for Khaslana's shoulders to anchor yourself as waves after waves are drawn out of you, but you can't even reach that far, forcing you to fist your hands against the chaise’s surface.

The Flame Reaver doesn't pause for a millisecond of reprieve — no, no, he feasts on the necter of your release, like this is what he's been starving himself of for all of his life.

The sounds are obscene, both of his sucks and of your tearful moans.

But you can hardly bring yourself to care about anything as the pain subsides and invites that pleasant cotton-like haze in your mind, smoothens your taut muscles until they grow numb.

Khaslana rubs his cheek against your inner thigh, rubbing circles on the other to bring you back. His breaths only send jolts through your oversensitive core.

He peeks from between your parted legs, tracing the rise and fall of your chest, your bruised and red lips and the absolutely blissed out blankness in your eyes.

“Beautiful.“ he says, though it sounds vague through the ringing in your ears.

The kind thing to do would be to stop his worship at this juncture, let you adjust to having his most intimate servitude slowly.

But Khaslana is nowhere near being done with you today.

It takes your ecstasy induced mind a while to register the fact that you're being moved around.

You blink through your tear-smeared vision as your back presses against something cold — and then all at once, the distance between you and the floor crashes down on you.

You cling to Khaslana by instinct as he adjusts your legs to rest on his hips ; over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of your toes hovering a good five feet above the ground, the tattered hem of your dress brushing against the asphalt.

“Princess,” he snatches your attention by turning your head to him with a finger, you're taken aback — mesmerized by the tenderness and desire swirling in his eye and in the void.

“You’ve given yourself to me so sweetly.” your heart thumps at the praise, “So,” he presses his forehead against yours, “Won’t you let me give myself to you, in return?”

You don't understand why, your mind is far too intoxicated in him to even think of saying no, but somehow, for some reason, the corners of your eyes moisten — perhaps at the unexpected vulnerability he’s offered.

You nod, “Y-yes,” wrapping your arms around his shoulders, “All of you— I want all of you, Khaslana.”

Khaslana's eye flashes at your demand, “Last chance, princess— if you don't push me away here, I'll never, ever let you go, not even if Thanatos themself came to take you away.”

Your eyes widen, and then crinkle in delight, “Good.”

This time, Khaslana kisses you first and oh, does he not hold back in making sure all you can breathe is him, him and him.

Your fingers slide into his silvery hair, you squeeze your legs around his waist when he dips his tongue inside your mouth again.

Your head tilts back against the wall as he shifts one hand to support you by the buttocks. Amidst the muffled sounds of your mewls, a sharp zip pierces through.

Your brows furrow at the sound, but you're far too distracted by the way Khaslana nibbles on your bottom lip to care.

One of your hands falls to grip his cape, you try to adjust your leg when it spasms at the feeling of something big entering your core.

Your gasp is loud and Khaslana doesn't have the coordination to muffle it in any way this time.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes again as a flash of pain sizzles up your spine — your mind goes utterly blank as the feeling of intrusion burns against your walls.

“Tsk…” Khaslana keeps you in place by gripping your hips, “I thought the Shadows had loosened you eno— ugh…”

Your jaw slackens as he maneuvers you to push you down on the appendage, the veins of it pulsing against your insides, slowly, painfully, carving itself a home within the innermost part of you.

Khaslana gasps with you when he bottoms out, his claws draw marks all over your hips as he struggles to not throw his control out of the window and take you in brutal sweeps.

And then, a chuckle escapes him — snapping you out of the numbing jolts.

You see through your blurry vision as he laughs against your cheek, it is a free, happy thing ; like the confession of a man who's tasted heaven so intimately he cares little about being banished to hell.

In all honesty? You feel the same.

“[Name], [Name], [Name]…” he chants wildly against your ear, dragging his fangs down your throat.

“Kha..as…—!” you attempt to reciprocate, but your vocal chords don't cooperate.

“Shhh…” Khaslana reassures you, catching a stray tear on his tongue. “I know, I know. Breathe with me, princess. No need for words.”

You try to follow his instructions, but it's easier said than done when each thrust of his rattles your bones, the cold wall scrapes against your back and it feels as though he's created a crater for him to crawl into inside of you.

With each push, pull and drag against your insides, you find yourself being distanced farther and farther from everything that you used to be.

In fact, he moves and moulds your body body like he's trying to remake you to his liking, like he will make you forget whoever you once were.

Khaslana pulls back slightly to look at where you're joined together — your body works overtime and is stretched to its ultimate limits to accommodate him.

If he died right here, he thinks, he’d die a very, very happy man.

The violent jolts of euphoria in your mind halt for a moment when you feel your hand being lifted.

Through the veil of your blurry vision, you see, just as you feel the familiar coil nearing its end in your belly.

Khaslana presses your hand against his cheek, holding you upright to him by his other.

Then he tilts his face in your palm and takes your ring finger in his mouth, letting his teeth sink into the skin and sucking until a crescent like hot mark has bloomed on your finger.

And you know then, at that sting and string of bloody drool stretching as his lips detach, that you are exactly where you’ve always yearned to be at.

—

Dawn has broken out into the east when you awake, the chirping of birds keep you tethered, keep you from succumbing to the sleep once again.

When you roll to your sides, you're immediately jolted awake by the sharp flashes of pain that erupt from various parts of your body, making you gasp and then groan.

It takes a few more minutes for you to be able to open your eyes, the early morning light bleeds in from the corners of your vision, and at the center of it, is him.

Khaslana kneels by your bedside, arms folded beside your body. You don't know why, but you get the vague feeling that he’s spent all night in that position.

For a moment, you do nothing but stare at him — at his unmasked face.

Tenderness dusts the porcelain edges like the brushworks on a beloved painting, the burgeoning dawn makes his silver hair sparkle.

He reaches to take your smaller hand in his, his thumb traces circles on the faint swells on your wrist, before he leans down to press his lips against the mark on your ring finger.

You don't flinch, or recoil, rather, you relax in his hold and it makes his whole soul preen in victory.

You chose him, you chose the monster instead of the hero.

You’ve decided to stay with him instead of his brother, you’ve become his and you’ve accepted him in return — all with a smile.

And really, what better revenge than this?

… So, you’ve made it this far, huh? Have this badge 📛 of the Freaklings™️

The base of this fic is taken from a very old brainrot I shared when Flame Reaver was first leaked and the “twist” is taken from a Phantom of the Opera au I had in my drafts (featuring Phainon and Flame Reaver as well). But I kind of lost interest in that project, so, I decided to use it here instead 😔

This is very, very different from my usual works, I knowww. The objective of this fic was really only to dump all of my Flame Reaver thirsts in one place because oh my god, they were driving me CRAZY every ovulation season and I just really really needed to get them out somewhere once and for all.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading<3 I’ll now go reconnect with nature 🗿

P. S. SOUSOURADA SUPREMACY 🔥

TAG: @naraven @yandere-romanticaa @mewn1verse @demigod-of-finality @mochinon-yah

— Megatron

— Finding out you have an alternate form? Oh, it'll definitely take a toll on him. Why didn’t you tell him earlier, right at the start of your relationship? And once he realizes how powerful you really are—expect some interesting changes.

— At first, he’s a little intimidated. What the frag do you mean you can slice the ocean with your blade? Potentially continents too?? AND SPACE? (Yes, Megatron. The ult had the longest range, and it aligns perfectly with the lore.)

— The more he processes it, the more it clicks. Yep—you’re the partner he deserves. He sees the resemblance: strong, commanding, powerful. Though… you might just be way taller than him, especially in your full chassis height.

— Suggestive part — Since you're potentially taller than him, he'll try to act like he isn’t constantly staring at your Fleurdelys form… but he absolutely is. You’ve definitely caught him more than once. He looks away and denies it every time.

— You wanna know why his optics don’t always sit straight? Because one’s tracking your movement, and the other is locked square on your chest like the down bad mech he is. 😭

— He would love to spar with you in your alternate form. A proper 1v1—Dark Star Saber versus your divine blade. (You both would have aura moments type shi) and going head-to-head until the match ends in a stalemate… until you activate all three Swords of Divinity. Then? He’s cooked. (But he’d enjoy it, not gonna lie.)

— Optimus Prime

— If you want to include where you like playing puppets the same way carthetyia does, He finds that adorable. He’d absolutely melt if you made a puppeteer version of him for your story scenarios. <3

— Even though your servos are larger and more structured than his, he loves holding them. He loved the feeling of holding yours when you let him, like pressing your palms together during quiet times whenever you are both alone, appreciating the different textures of your gloves that wielded your divine blade with might, Somehow, his gentle grip always finds a way to intertwine with yours.

— Intimate pressing helms together even though it may be awkward because of your horn so he goes a little under it and make it work by tilting his helm against yours so you can resonate with him, your tacet mark glows without any trouble and then closing your optics together as your resonance intertwined with his EM field, that is your language of "Forever." <3

— You two have definitely tried dancing before. At first, it was awkward—missteps here and there—but eventually, you both got the hang of it. Now it’s become a regular thing whenever you’re both free. Moments like these are considered dates in their own right.

— He’d absolutely want to learn more about you and your lore. Being isolated for 20 years before meeting him? That means you’ve got stories— a lot of them. He’d sit and listen without complaint, always attentive. Your world fascinates him, especially its cultural diversity. Rinascita, your homeland, would capture his interest the most—particularly the 'Echoes' that surround Whisperin Haven. :D

— Starscream

— Oh, this backstabbing little slabber. At first, he just thought you were small... until you proved him completely wrong. 💀

— He was definitely intimidated at first—but slowly, it started to turn him on.

— Like Megatron, he stares. A lot. Especially if you’re towering over him in your alternate form. He tries not to stare down your chassis, but you always catch him doing it.

— He’ll never admit it, but he likes it when you hold him like that. It bruises his pride, sure—but he never resists. Let him rest his helm against your chest when he’s tired; he won’t say it, but that’s his safe place.

— He can somehow relate to your appearance in terms of your horn, in which you sometimes would bump it into his red one as a gentle nudge during times whenever you both tease each other.

— He’d lose his shit when he finds out you can walk on water. But even with all that shock, he never looks away. And when you try to dance? He’ll act like he’s going to laugh—but secretly, he finds it endearing as hell.

— Soundwave

— Soundwave had your frame recorded in 100x detail the first time you transformed. You may not have noticed, but he absolutely stored that footage in his processor. He won't admit it, but he is interested in every detail of your framework and how it functions.

— Same goes for holding servos—except with his datacables. They wrap gently around your wrist and pull you just a little closer. Just enough for him to feel the texture of your hold, syncing with your energy through physical touch.

— Laserbeak? Obsessed with your thorned crown. It's basically his favorite nesting spot now. Wherever you go, he’s chilling up there. You’re basically wearing a living hat.

— He’s relentlessly protective. Even though you can handle yourself, he needs to make sure you're safe. That means monitoring you when you're outside—or discreetly sending Laserbeak to keep an eye from above.

— He's fiercely defensive of your space and your image. If someone insults you—or questions your divinity—expect that person (or bot) to mysteriously disappear the next day. (Starscream is sweating oil by now.)

— Much like Optimus, Soundwave would quietly research your origins—if you permit him. He’s deeply curious about how you came to be the "Blessed Maiden," and your ties to the Imperator and the Leviathan. This is his way of loving: silent, observant, devoted. He stores it all in his private database—never sharing a single detail. Your story belongs to him and him alone.

— And you can't tell me that Optimus, Megatron, Soundwave, would definitely carry you like this if you are Fleurdelys! Reader lmao

©x4az 2025 — Do not feed my work to AI or repost them.

Out of sentimentality, or maybe it was guilt, he took his mask off. Khaslana wanted to make sure that he didn't miss a single detail of your face, already feeling the memory degradation because of the coreflames inside of him. It was a shame, they gave him as much power as they were killing him.

Maybe that's what he deserved. To die and be forgotten and have someone else take the Deliverer title from him.

In your scuffle, your clothes were ripped, exposing parts of your body that he once showered in love. His eyes continue to mourn the virus forcibly implanted into you, until he notices something peculiar.

The Destruction hadn't reached your heart yet, but it was getting close.

There was something left untouched it seemed like, and it was your source of strength. Your heart so full of love that it helped you persevere through the darkest night. The coreflames inside him burned inside of him, an idea sprouting in his head. He wondered if maybe he could have some of that strength for himself…

Khaslana's claws brushed over your chest, where your still heart lay. He felt dirty– a monster for even thinking about doing this. But he remembered something that you once told him, many cycles ago.

"Sweet boy, you're free to use any part of me if it means that you won't give up in this long fight."

(Were those even his memories? So many cycles and iterations of him have lived drastically different lives that he couldn't discern what was his and what wasn't. It didn't help that your memories were spilling into his as well, the more time he spent within the memoria of this world. Perhaps he was just looking for some flimsy excuse to act on his darker thoughts, mind looking for some justification to truly become the monster he knew she should be.)

In theory, if he absorbed your heart the way that he absorbed the coreflames, maybe that would help him keep his sanity for a little while longer.

Khaslana dug his golden claws in your chest, as gently as he would. He tried to make this moment of sacrilege go as quickly as possible. He knew that you couldn't feel plain anymore, but that didn't stop him from wanting to make sure you weren't in pain.

His hands wrapped around your heart and pulled it out in all of its bloody glory. Your golden ichor dripped from his hands and over his arms. He held up the still organ to his lips, tongue gently flicking to lap up the blood that fell. It was sweet and comforting, exactly what your love felt to him.

Khaslana took a deep breath and said a prayer, before digging his teeth into your heart. He chewed on it for a little while, getting used to the odd texture of it. But it was delightful he realized, before devouring it all like a man starved. In some ways he was, desperate to keep your love alive, even if it was inside him.

He swallowed the last remaining bits of your love, feeling your strength wash over him. For a minute, the unbearable weight and burn of the coreflames inside of him felt lighter and cooler. It was exhilarating, like he could reach beyond the false sky of Amphoreus and take on the God that sent him on this long road.

With a kiss to your forehead, he carried your body to your shared home. Or at least it was in the first cycle. Khaslana laid you in bed, pulling the blanket over your mutilated body. If he squinted and listened to his delusions, maybe he could imagine you sleeping in bed.

"I will come back for you, Starlight," his raspy voice spoke up, leaving the house and ready to prevent the prophecy being fulfilled again.

You had once claimed that your love was too much, that no one would be able to handle the solar flares that you give off. But he would– he can. He will prove to you that he was worthy of carrying your weight, even if that meant carrying you in a more physical sense than he thought.