﹙fia﹚

FIRST COMES THE SILENCE. It's your only warning as the world peels away from you, the murmur of the court fading to the background until even the sound of voices are lost to the stillness. The warmth leeches from you next, a cold tingle blooming through you like spreading frost in winter, your arms getting heavy. You sit abruptly as the world shifts and the throne room fades to something else, something wet and freezing cold.

Rain.

Rain is falling in relentless sheets that are so cold it hurts, even through the vision. In front of you is a battledfield churned to a sea of black mud, cut up by boots and the hooves of war horses and the deep wheels of the machines of war. Broken wagons lie half-stuck in the mud, their splintered wheels jutting up from the chaos, some still spinning. Banners in colors lost to the black mud with symbols you can't make out in the rain hang in sodden ribbons, snapped from their poles.

The smell chokes you. Wet earth. Wood smoke. Blood. So much blood that it fills your mouth, warm and metallic. You cough, falling forward into the vision so that your knees hit the mud with a wet squelch. Your hand catches on metal and when you look down, the broken body of a soldier is beneath you. His throat is a scarlet gash, opened up from a sword, his eyes vacant and staring at the rainy sky.

You recoil, snatching your hand away as you fall backward into the rain, ass sinking into the mud. Somewhere to your left, a horse screams, high and shrill until the sound is abruptly cut off. A man a few yards away crawls through the mud with a single arm, the other several yards behind him where the fingers are still curled around the hilt of a broken sword. He drags himself toward you as though he's asking for help, and you scream and look away.

The world tilts and your vision changes abruptly, each image overlapping the other in flashes of light and sound. Thousands of bodies. A river choked with them. A bridge with the banners of the northern king. The emperor - your emperor- on his war chariot, the wheels turning as he crosses the bridge.

Suddenly, the vision releases you. You crash forward, wood striking your knees hard enough that you cry out as your hands shoot out. Your palms skid across the ground, stinging as skin tears open. Bile burns at the back of your throat and you taste the blood before you realize you've bitten your tongue again, the iron taste in your mouth real. You feel the wet warmth of blood as it trickles from your nose, splattering too brightly against the dark wood beneath you.

The wooden floor is cold beneath you as your vision swims and the throne room reassembles itself. You look up to see the wooden pillars that vanish into a vaulted ceiling with incense burning in their holders. Torches and braziers fill the room with heat, the orange flames licking along the twisted metal and casting long shadows across the waiting courtiers. Everything feels too bright and too sharp and you wince, the headache behind your eyes hammering you as soon as the vision fades in full.

Someone kneels beside you and you know without looking that it's Junhui, the smell of vetiver and cedar comforting with the taste of blood and salt in your mouth. His hands find you first, fingers calloused from sword work as they wrap around your hands, steadying you. The touch grounds you and pulls you back from the battlefield that's turned to the headache stabbing in your skull.

When you don't pull away from him, Junhui slides one arm behind your shoulders and the other beneath your knees, hauling you up and into his arms as though you weigh nothing at all. He's careful when he sets you on your feet, hands braced on your biceps as you sway a little. You're vaguely aware of how close he is, lashes fluttering as you look up at him.

"You okay?" He asks, voice soft.

Before you can answer, the emperor demands, "What did you see?"

You don't look at him. Looking at him only makes things worse. Instead, you stare in the distance as you taste the copper dripping from your nose.

"The north," you murmur. Each word costs you, your head throbbing, vision blurry as the headache grows. "The northern kingdom."

Beside you, Junhui presses his hand to the small of your back. It's barely there, but it's something, your heart fluttering as his thumb moves in small circles, grounding. You don't know if anyone else notices, but you notice, and that's all that matters.

"You'll invade at the height of the rainy season," you continue as your ears begin to ring. "When the rivers are high and the roads turn to mud from the rains. You'll win."

The throne room erupts into applause and cheers as the courtiers shout in triumph. Soldiers pound their fists against their armor, and the emperor rises in your peripheral vision, spreading his arms as he laughs, the sound booming across the room. The firelight from the braziers seems to brighten with their glee, the shadows dancing across the pillars as smoke drifts in the rafters from the incense.

You want to vomit as the nausea rises sharply and suddenly. You press a hand to your mouth and Junhui notices immediately - of course he does. He always notices. His hand slides around your waist and pulls you toward him, steadying you as he angles you so that his body shields you from the worst of the light and sound.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Junhui says, bowing deeply. The emperor turns to stare at him, cheeks ruddy and red from the heat of the hall and the glee. "If I may, the Sacred needs to rest. The vision has taken much from her. Might I escort her to her chambers?"

Sacred. You hate the title. Hate that it chains you to the emperor you've just predicted another victory for, so long as he attacks at the precise time that you've instructed. You've been his sword and shield since you were a little girl gifted to him and his growing empire, helping him knock his opponents off the board one by one.

You hate him. You hate him more than you hate yourself for being useful to him, but you have no other options. He hates you too, you think. Beyond being a cruel man, he's as shrewd as they come. You don't think any of your glares go unnoticed, and though you think he'd love to revel in your misery, he's careful with you, too afraid to break you and lose access to the future you promise.

He waves a hand dismissively, turning back to the crowd. "Yes, yes, take her. We have plans to make. The rainy season is coming soon and we have to make preparations immediately."

Junhui doesn't hesitate, his hand urging you toward the great doors at the far end of the throne room. You lean into him more than you mean to, your legs unsteady beneath you as the smell of the hinoki incense cling to your robes.

Behind you, the celebration continues, growing louder as the emperor orders courtesans and entertainment. You're grateful when the doors close behind you with a heavy thud to muffle the noise, leaving only the muffled quiet and the cool winds of winter rustling the trees in the imperial courtyard.

Junhui's thumb traces small circles against your side, another one of those small gestures that's just for you. They are few and far between, so you hoard them like a gluttonous child hiding mooncakes in their pockets, determined to keep them for your darkest days. You know it means nothing - not the way you want it to. He's kind to you because it's his duty and because someone must be. Because perhaps he pities the broken oracle who bleeds for an emperor who doesn't deserve victory.

Still, you let yourself cling to these moments anyway, your small fantasies of romance and being stolen away keeping you from going mad.

The cold air hits your face, sharp and biting. It does nothing for the pounding in your skull and if anything, the headache splits deeper, a white-hot spike driving through bone with each step you take. Your stomach lurches as bile floods the back of your throat, bitter and burning. The courtyard tilts, the bare branches of the plum trees blurring into dark streaks against winter grey as you start to tip over.

Junhui catches you before you lose your footing in full, arms sliding beneath your knees and around your back to haul you up and against his chest. You want to protest as he cradles you against him, but another wave of nausea hits you and all you can do is press your face against the cool leather of his armor and hope you don't retch all over him and embarrass yourself forever.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice low and right against your ear. "Just hold on."

He moves quickly through the courtyard. You're aware of his footsteps and the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of his breathing. The world narrows and becomes only the warmth of his body and the steady beating of his heart against your cheek.

Your chambers are in the eastern wing, far enough from the celebration that it fades to nothing as he walks. He shoulders open the red lacquer door to your room and carries you inside to the smell of sandalwood and jasmine.

The chambers provided to you are modest, silk screens painted with cranes and willows, a low platform bed draped in pale green silk and piled high with soft blankets and pillows. The latticed window let the winter sun filter, the delicate shadows dappled across the polished wooden floor. It's the only space in the palace that is entirely yours, and you crave it, spending most of the days in the dark as the pain in your head recedes.

Junhui lowers you onto your bed like your spun of glass before he arranges the cushions behind your back, propping you up so you're half-reclined. His hands linger at your shoulders for half a second before pulling away, and you miss his warmth immediately.

"Wait here," he instructs.

"As if I could do anything else."

He huffs, amused as he crosses to the small table near the window. He opens a porcelain pitcher and pours it into a wooden basin. You let your eyes close, the sound of his hands in the water the only sound. He crosses back toward you and when you open your eyes, he's kneeling at your bedside and reaching out with a cool, damp cloth to press against your head.

You can't stop the small sound that escapes you. The relief is immediate. It isn't enough, of course, but it's something and something is better than nothing.

When he puts it down, he gestures to your robe. "Your outer robe is making you overheart. Maybe I?"

You nod, too exhausted to care about prosperity or about rules. Junhui has seen you more vulnerable than anyone else has the right to, and you know it means nothing untoward as his fingers work on the clasps and ties with practiced efficiency, never lingering where he shouldn't.

He eases the heavy brocade from your shoulders, leaving the lighter inner layers. You can breathe again, feeling the winter air that slips through the cracks kiss your overheated skin. You sigh in relief, leaning back onto the pillows as he folds the robe and sets it aside before turning his attention back to you.

Taking the cloth up again, he leans forward and wipes at the dried blood under your nose and on your chin, his touch so gentle it makes your heart squeeze, the feeling inside of you that you refuse to name cracking open a little more. When he's satisfied, he leans back on his heels, watching you.

"You don't have to do this," you mutter, head falling back on the pillows as you stare up at the ceiling. Your head still hurts, thoughts swimming. "The emperor didn't assign you to nursemaid duty."

"My duty is to you," he says sharply. "Not to the emperor or court or anything else. It's to keep you safe and keep you well. That's all that matters to me. This counts."

You love that he says it. You hate that he says it. His words are both burden and balm, and he has no idea how much you want to believe them, how much you want to let yourself imagine that this devotion means what your foolish heart wishes it could mean. That you wish that when he touches you with tenderness, it's because he wants to and not because he must.

But you know better - you always have. The ancient scrolls about oracles - the Sacreds - have always been clean that oracles should remain untouched and unspoiled, pure in body and spirit. The moment an oracle is touched and spoiled by the intimacy only known between lovers or concubines, they become nothing more than ordinary women.

The emperor has no use for ordinary women. The moment you are anything less than the Sacred, he'll toss you out or worse - keep you as something to spoil and besot and remind you how far you've fallen from graze.

You accept Junhui's care because you're selfish enough to want it, even though it means nothing. You let him adjust the blanket around you and smooth the hair back from your damp forehead, and you let yourself pretend for a moment that this is a moment born of love rather than duty, and that you can have this. That you can have him.

"Thank you," you whisper, though you know he doesn't realize what for.

Your eyes close against the sting of the day, your headache taking over. His hand finds yourself beneath the blanket and his fingers thread through yours gently as he squeezes.

"Rest," he says softly. "I'll be here."

You nod and feel the weight of exhaustion pull you under, dreaming that his sweeping thumb across the back of your hand is because he loves you, and not because it's his duty.

-

Voices wake you. Junhui's voice is raised above them all, cutting through an argument like a blade. You open your eyes, the dark outside your window telling you that the sun has not yet risen. You sit up slowly and the room spins, the dull ache behind your eye and neck telling you that you're not yet free of your earlier vision's repercussions.

"She needs rest," Junhui snarls. "The visions are demanding and he has asked for them more and more. You will not-"

"The emperor has summoned her," someone else answers. "We have our orders."

"And I have mine. Yours can wait until morning."

"It is morning."

"It's barely beyond midnight!"

Your body still feels hollowed out, mouth dry and skin sweaty. You think you've only been asleep for a few hours, but you push yourself up onto your elbow, pausing as the room sways. When it stops, you get up and head to the door, opening it so that a sliver of the torchlight from the hallway falls across your room.

Junhui turns to you at once, his face twisted in anger. He blocks your doorway, his body a wall between you and the three imperial guards standing in the corridor beyond. Their armor gleams in the firelight, lacquered black and red, the emperor's colors. They don't care that you can barely walk or that your hands are shaking. They only care about their orders.

"You should be resting," Junhui growls. "I will handle-"

"It doesn't matter." You meet his eyes and see frustration burning there, a helplessness that you feel too. "If the emperor summons me, I go."

"You can barely stand."

"I must manage."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Can you help me dress properly?" You whisper the question for only him to hear, the other guards lingering.

For a moment, Junhui's eyes flash, something unreadable crossing his face so quickly it's there before you can understand. He nods tightly once and pushes inside, not letting the guards catch a glimpse of you before he shoulders the door shut.

Darkness swallows the room. You stand on unsteady feet as Junhui rummages around for a match before lighting a candle with a single strike. The orange glow makes him look haunting, sharp features sharper, eyes so dark they reflect the light of the candle back while he moves around the room.

He moves efficiently, retrieving a new robe from your wardrobe. It's deep blue silk embroidered with silver cranes, one of your favorites. He crosses the room toward you and you lift your arms a little as he settles it over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through before he's tying off laces.

When he's finished, he grabs a single comb, gathering your hair low at your neck to twist it up and give you some breathing room. Cool air brushes against the back of your neck and you're grateful.

"There," he mutters, standing in front of you.

"I'm ready."

It's a lie. You feel like you're made of paper, like someone could blow you away or cut right through you. But you remain standing anyway, and Junhui sighs, hand sliding to the small of your back as he guides you in the candlelight toward the door and into the hallway.

Neither of the guards acknowledge you. They simply begin walking, expecting you to follow. You do, and Junhui stays close, his hand never leaving your back, his grip firm enough that you can lean into him whenever the room tilts and becomes unsteady again.

The walk to the throne room feels endless. Each step sends an unsteady feeling up through your legs, and though the sharp pain of earlier is gone from your skull, the dull ache that remains isn't much better.

Your stomach churns with anxiety as you walk through winding halls. You know that the emperor has summoned you for another vision. He's done it over and over more recently, each promised victory and small win making him hungry for more, making him addicted to the future, to moves and countermoves.

Winter air bites at you as you cross the courtyard. Junhui pulls you closer and you smell him, vetiver and cedar. His body blocks most of the cold, and you lean into him, seeking heat. He lets you as the guards lead you to the throne room doors, the massive panels of dark wood bound with iron looming ahead.

The guards push the doors open and the familiar scent of hinoki incense washes over you, mixing with the acrid smoke of the burning braziers in the hall. At the end of the hall, the emperor sits on his throne, leaning forward in his seat, fingers drumming against the carved armrest.

There is no court this time - just a small handful of advisors and generals standing in clusters along the pillars, which means this isn't spectacle. It's business. Nervousness settles sourly in your stomach as you approach, footsteps echoing on the polished wood floor. Junhui's hand stays at your back until you reach the proper distance where he steps aside - but not far. Never far, even in the presence of the emperor.

You lower yourself into a bow and your knees nearly give out. Junhui is there in an instant, his hands firmly on your waist to keep you from falling forward onto your face as the room spins. You grimace through it, hands clutching your sleeves as you take a few deep breaths to regain composure.

"Your Imperial Majesty," you manage. "I'm here."

"Finally. I've been waiting."

You straighten slowly with Junhui's help and meet the emperor's eyes. They're dark and calculating, fixed on where Junhui's hands remain for a moment before he steps a respectful distance away once more. A needle of fear stabs at the back of your neck, sharp and cool.

"I want to know about the Free Isles," the emperor says. "Can we take them immediately after the northern kingdom, when they think they're safe? With the resources from the north, they should be no match for me."

Your heart sinks. The Free Isles are a chain of islands far to the northeast, fiercely independent and protected by treacherous waters and storms that only northern ships are made to cut through. The emperor has wanted them for years, but has never had the ships to take them. Of course he wishes to take them as soon as he has ships, the greed and desire to plant his flag on free shores insatiable.

You lick your lips. "I may not be able to see right now, Your Imperial Majesty. Using the gift this close together-"

"I don't care about your discomfort." He waves a hand dismissively. "I care about the future of my empire. Now look. Tell me what you see."

Behind you, Junhui tenses. You stare at the emperor and see no room for argument, no mercy. You knew he was not a merciful man the way he conquered lands, but you hadn't expected him to risk damaging you like this.

Nodding, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. You hate reaching for visions - oftentimes they come at random, seizing you when you're in a crowded room or alone in the bathing room. Sometimes they take you faster than you can summon them. But reaching for them feels like reaching into a wound every time, painful and sharp.

Pain explodes behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding as you dip into the well of your power. You feel your nose start to bleed again from the force, hot copper flooding your mouth. Your own heartbeat hammers too fast, too loud, thundering in your ears like the emperor's war drums.

The vision comes to you like a knife to the gut, stabbing and painful. You're on the deck of a ship - no. You are the ship, the wood of your body groaning, the spray from the sea cold and sharp. The sky above is storm-black, choked with clouds so dark they're almost green. Lightning splits the sky and for one blinding moment, you see dozens of ships bearing the emperor's colors, their red and black sails straining against wind that screams and tears at the sea.

In front of you, a wave rises ahead. It's impossibly tall, a mountain of water that climbs climbs climbs toward the sky until it comes crashing down. The world becomes water - cold, crushing. You can't breathe and salt water floods your mouth and nose, choking you. Your lungs scream and wood splinters, the sound like bones breaking. Men scream, but the sound is lost in the roar of the ocean.

When you surface, you're you again, not the ship. Another ship lets out a resonant crack as the mast falls, crashing through the deck. Some soldiers jump, some cling to the side. The sea takes them as the ship goes down, the water pulling them into the belly of its black depths. You feel terror like never before, but the storm doesn't stop.

Another wave. Then another. Ships splinter. Bodies vanish underneath the waves. So many bodies. The ocean swallows them whole, greedy and hungry, taking and taking and taking.

Through the ocean spray and chaos, you see land. The Free Isles rise from the sea like teeth, their rocky shores and cliff spread open like a mouth laughing to the sky. Warriors dot the cliffs, lit up only by the flash of lightning as they watch the storm do the work for them.

A wave crashes over you and drags you down to the bottom of the sea. In the flashes of light that shine through the murky ocean, you see pieces of ship floating, red and black banners sinking toward the depths of the sea, bodies thrashing as the undertow pulls them down down down.

The vision releases you and you're drowning in air instead of water, gasping, choking on nothing. Your knees buckle and you catch yourself on the floor, palms slapping against the polished wood as blood gushes from your knows. Junhui's hands are already on you, trying to stop you from collapsing into the red pooling on the floor beneath you. Voices swirl around you, but you can't make out anything they're saying, the roar of the sea - or your blood rushing in your ears - drowning out everything else.

Slowly, words come back to you. Your head lolls to the side as you look up at the emperor, his face furious and impatient as he slams his closed fist against the arm of his throne. "Well? What did you see?"

"Failure," you choke out, coughing on imaginary mouthfuls of water. "The Free Isles cannot be taken. The storms will do the work for them and the islands will not fall."

"Look again, then!" He booms. "Find a solution!"

"I cannot-"

You don't know when the emperor stood up, but he's in front of you suddenly, his hand moving faster than you can track. The blow catches you across the face, snapping your head to the side. Pain explodes along your cheekbone, bright and sharp and the throne room spins.

Junhui moves. One moment he's behind you, the next he's between you and the emperor, his body a wall of rage. His hand goes to his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt to slide the blade free just enough that the ring of metal cuts through the room.

Every guard in the room tenses. Hands fly to weapons. You hear the whisper of steel, the creak of leather armor as soldiers shift their weight, ready to strike. The advisors along the pillars press themselves back against the wood, their faces pale that Junhui would dare to draw steel in front of the emperor.

The emperor goes very still. His eyes narrow, and for a moment you see something flicker there - surprise, maybe - before his face twists with rage at the affront. You look at Junhui, and though you can't see his face, his rigid shoulders say it all.

"You dare," the emperor hisses. "You dare to draw steel in my presence? You dare threaten your emperor?"

"My mandate is to protect her." Junhui doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. His shoulders are squared, his stance wide and grounded. "From any threat. Even you, Your Imperial Majesty."

The advisors go rigid. You can feel their shock radiating outward, a physical thing. This is treason. Open defiance. The kind of thing that ends with heads on spikes outside the palace gates. Your heart hammers against your ribs. The room swims, gaze blurry from the emperor's blow and the vision's aftermath and the realization that Junhui is signing his own death warrant for you.

You try to reach a hand up to tug on his sleeve but you can't move - you can barely think. You're broken on your knees, the taste of iron and salt in your mouth, looking up at Junhui as he remains in front of you.

"You forget yourself," the emperor snarls. "You forget who holds your life in his hands, who holds her life in his hands."

Junhui's grip tightens on his sword. "I forgot nothing, Your Imperial Majesty. I took an oath in front of you and this court to protect her from all, including the throne. This is my duty."

"Your duty is obedience. Your duty is to serve me. Everything in this palace - every guard, every servant, every Sacred - exists to serve me."

"I cannot break the oath I gave you, Your Imperial Majesty."

The emperor's face goes dark as silence permeates the room. Red creeps up into his neck and cheeks, his breathing labored as he works himself up, his rage choking the air in the throne room. Junhui stands in front of you anyway, his eyes forward, exterior calm.

You try to stand. Your legs don't cooperate, blood dripping from your nose and mouth, spattering beneath you. Your whole body trembles and you want to tell Junhui to stop, to save himself, but your voice doesn't work.

All you can do is watch. Watch him risk everything. Watch him stand between you and the most powerful man in the empire. Watch him choose you over his own life. Something cracks open in your chest. Something that feels like hope and terror and longing all tangled together. Something you can't afford to feel.

For a long moment, no one moves or breathes. The guards wait for the order to strike while the advisors stay out of the way, trying to become invisible in the pools of shadows between the pillars.

Finally, the emperor laughs. The sound is harsh and startling against the silence, echoing off the walls.

"Get out," his voice is ragged. "Both of you. Get out of my sight before I have you both executed."

Junhui doesn't wait for him to change his mind. He turns, hauling you to your feet with careful hands, and guides you toward the doors. Your legs barely work and your face throbs where the emperor struck you. You ignore the pain, instead focusing on the way Junhui's arm is around your waist, holding you up as you somehow make it across the throne room.

Outside, the world is bitter cold. The courtyard tilts on its axis, and you feel Junhui's arm tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer to him.

"Stay with me," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.

"He'll kill you," you try to say. But your voice won't work. The words come out broken. Slurred. "Junhui, he'll-"

"Shh." His grip tightens. "Don't talk. Just breathe."

But breathing hurts. Everything hurts. The edges of your vision go dark and fuzzy, like looking through a tunnel. You can hear voices, but they sound distorted and echoing, like you're underwater again, drowning in that vision of ships and storms and mean screaming as the ocean devours them whole.

Your legs give out completely. You feel Junhui catch you. Feel his hands on your face.

Then nothing. Just silence.

-

The first thing you become aware of is warmth. It isn't the oppressive heat of the throne room, but it's the soft warmth of your room, the smell of sandalwood and jasmine comforting. The light comes second, soft and flickering, the orange glow soft behind your closed eyelids.

When your eyes flutter open, you see candles. Dozens of them burning in their holders, casting dancing shadows against the silk screens that divide your chambers. You're still in your bed, though the heavy outer layer of your robes are gone. Someone has covered you with a thick quilt embroidered with dragons - your favorite.

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain lances through your skull - not the white-hot agony of a vision, but a deep, bone-weary ache that makes your stomach turn. You let out a small sound, barely more than a breath, and freeze when you realize Junhui is watching you from the side of your bed.

He's removed his armor, dressed only in the red and black robes of a palace guard. It catches you off guard - you've never seen him without his armor before. It makes him look unguarded, his dark hair disheveled and falling across his forehead slightly. His elbows rest on his knees, his head forward as his dark gaze pins you to the mattress.

"You're awake."

"I think so." Your voice comes out broken and harsh. "I hope so."

Junhui moves immediately. He reaches for a cup on the low table beside your bed and slides one hand behind your head carefully as he helps you lean forward to drink. The water is cool with a hint of medicinal herbs and you gulp, coughing a little.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Small sips, no gulping."

It soothes your throat and you manage three sips before pulling back, letting Junhui set the cup aside as he carefully sits back down beside you, pulling his chair closer.

"How long was I out?" You ask, sinking back down.

"Six hours. Maybe seven. I lost track."

Seven hours. You've been unconscious for seven hours. The weight of that settles over you like a stone. Seven hours of Junhui sitting here, watching over you, waiting for you to wake. Seven hours of not knowing if you would.

"The physician came," Junhui continues. "He said you need rest. That you can't keep doing this."

You close your eyes. The exhaustion is bone-deep. Soul-deep. It lives inside of you, in all of the spaces between your ribs and in the hollows of your chest, pumping through your blood, threaded with everything breath. You're tired of this, tired of being the Sacred, tired of having headaches, tired of being split open and rendered useless by visions you've never asked for, tired of serving a man you despise and resisting the man you want.

"I hate this," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I hate this. I hate the visions. I hate being this, I hate-"

Your voice cracks down the middle like ice over a frozen lake, everything you've kept inside of you welling to the surface, rushing forward in an onslaught you cannot stop. You feel the tears spilling over as your hands fists the quilt and you cry.

"I wish I didn't have them. I wish I didn't live like this," you choke out. "I've lived like this since I was a little girl, unable to live how I want, to do what I want. It isn't fair Jun. It isn't fair! I want to be nothing, I want to be no one!"

Junhui says nothing at first. You can't look at him - can't bear to see what's written on his face. Pity, probably. You hate that the most, that he probably pities you, that he's nice and sweet and kind because no one else is.

He startles you when he moves. You look up to see him move from sitting on the chair to the bed, his weight on the mattress making you dip toward him as his hand slips beneath the quilt to find yours, his fingers lacing with yours. The touch is unexpected and gentle, palm warm against yours. Solid. Real. Calloused but comforting.

Junhui is looking at you. Not at the wall, not at his hands, not at some distant point beyond your shoulder like all the other courtiers when you're collapsing or bleeding or writhing in pain. He's looking at you, his dark eyes are steady on your face, and there's something in them that makes your heart hammer, something that looks almost like pain.

"If I could take them from you," he says quietly, "I would. In a heartbeat I would take them away."

You stare at him - really look at him for the first time since you woke to see exhaustion etched into every line of his face, dark circles beneath his eyes. You examine each part of him - the slight slump to his shoulders that he never allows when he's on duty. The way his hair falls across his forehead, disheveled and uncombed. He looks like he hasn't slept. Like he's been sitting here beside your bed for hours, watching over you, waiting for you to wake.

The worry hasn't left his gaze. You can see it there, sharp and clear in the way his eyes move over your face, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain. The way his jaw tightens when his gaze lands on the mark the emperor left on your cheek.

There's something else there too, something you've seen before but didn't know how to name, something you never let yourself hope for, but only dreamed about. Something in the way he holds your hand - not like a guard on duty, but like you mean something to him beyond being his charge.

Your heart pounds. This is dangerous. Forbidden. But you're so tired of being careful. So tired of denying yourself the one thing you want. So tired of pretending that his kindness is just duty, that his gentleness means nothing, that you don't feel the way you do.

"There is a way," you hear yourself say.

Junhui's brow furrows. His thumb stops its gentle movement across your knuckles. "What?"

Your mouth goes dry. This is it. The precipice. You could pull back now. Laugh it off. Pretend you meant something else. Say you were talking about running away, or finding some mythical cure, or anything other than what you're actually suggesting, but you're so tired of pretending.

"The visions," you say slowly. Each word feels like pulling teeth. Like dragging something heavy and sharp up from the depths of your chest. "They're tied to - um - purity."

Heat floods your cheeks. You can feel it spreading down your neck, across your chest. Can feel the way your skin burns with shame and something else. Something that might be hope or fear or both tangled together until you can't tell them apart.

You can't look at him anymore. Can't bear to see his reaction. So you stare at the quilt instead, studying the neat stitching and the way the gold thread weaves through the red fabric. At the way the dragons dance.

The silence stretches. You count your own heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. By the sixth, you want the ocean from your vision to swallow you whole so you can escape this embarrassment, realizing that you've misstepped

"They would go away?" His voice is hoarse. Halting. "The visions?

"Yes."

Another silence. This one longer. Heavier. You can feel it pressing down on you like a physical weight. Can feel the way the air in the room has changed, like all the air has been sucked out and replaced with pure pressure. When you risk a glance up at him, he's not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the blanket, jaw tight and lips pressed together in a thin line. You can see the way his chest rises and falls with each careful breath, can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Are you asking me to take them from you?"

The question lands in silence between you. You say nothing, and when Junhui looks up at you, his gaze is more intense than you remember it, his eyes dark and pupils blown. You swallow thickly, and when he squeezes your hand to push for an answer, you can't speak. You give a tiny, imperceptible nod, nearly shaking as you admit to the unspoken question.

For a moment, nothing happens. Junhui just sits there, his hand in yours, his breathing careful and controlled. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Can see the way his jaw works, like he's trying to force out words that won't come. Can see the conflict written across every line of his face.

Then he pulls his hand away.

Devastation crashes through you, the loss of his touch immediately. He stands and turns away from you, shoulders rigid as he takes two steps toward the door before stopping, his back to you, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"No."

The word comes out hard. Final like a door slamming shut, like the last nail in a coffin.The rejection lands harder than the emperor's slap, and you feel the shame hit you like a physical thing because why would he? Of course he doesn't want you like that, of course he wouldn't abandon his duty. And you are his duty, his burden, a Sacred he's wrong to protect and nothing more.

The shame is crushing. Suffocating. Heat floods your face, your throat, your chest. You can feel it burning through you like fever, like fire, like the aftermath of a vision but worse. So much worse because this pain is your own fault- your own stupid, foolish, desperate mistake.

You want to disappear. To sink into the bed and never emerge. To pull the quilt over your head and suffocate yourself with it. To take back the last five minutes and pretend this conversation never happened. To go back to before, when you could at least pretend that his kindness meant something. That you meant something to him beyond duty.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I shouldn't have, I didn't mean-

"It would be an abuse of my power." Junhui still doesn't turn around. His voice is carefully controlled, but you can hear something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like anguish, maybe. "I'm your guard. You're vulnerable and desperate and I will not take advantage of that."

The words should make you feel better, should reassure you that he's honorable, that he's thinking of your wellbeing, that he's protecting you even from yourself. But all you feel is shame - the kind that is all-consuming and that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. The kind that makes you want to claw at your face until the heat and the humiliation and the desperate, aching want are all gone.

"No, sorry," you rasp. "It's an abuse of my power. I'm the one asking. I'm the one - I'm sorry, Jun. That was awful of me."

Your voice breaks on the words. Cracks down the middle like everything else inside you.

"I'm so sorry. Forget I said anything. Please."

The embarrassment is crushing. Suffocating. You've never felt so small. So foolish. So utterly, completely exposed. You want to disappear and to take back everything you just said and pretend this conversation never happened.

Silence stretches so long that you can hear your own ragged breathing and can feel the tears leaking between your fingers as you press your hands to your face, trying to hide the same and agony there.

Footsteps draw your attention, but you don't lower your hands. You can't even look at him, can't bear to see the pity or disgust on his face. But then his hands are on your wrists, pulling gently.

"Look at me," he murmurs.

You shake your head. Keep your eyes squeezed shut. The tears are flowing freely now, hot tracks down your cheeks, and you've never felt more humiliated in your entire life.

"Please," Junhui whispers. "Look at me."

Something in his voice makes you obey. You open your eyes and find him kneeling beside your bed. His face is level with yours, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough that you can see the way his own hands are trembling slightly where they hold your wrists.

"Do you have feelings for me?" The question comes out low and soft, his dark eyes searching yours with an urgency that makes your heart skip. "Please be honest."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. This is it. The moment where you could lie. Could protect yourself. Could pretend that this was only ever about the visions, about freedom, about anything other than what it really is.

"Of course I do," you whisper, heart hammering. "You're the only one who sees me as a person. Who treats me like I'm not a tool. I know I'm just your assignment and that you don't care for me that way, but you always-"

Junhui's mouth crashes against yours and the world stops. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair while the other frames your jaw gently, careful not to touch the bruise where the emperor struck you.

You gasp against his lips and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting you like he's been starving for it. Like he's been holding himself back for so long and finally, finally, he can let go.

You've never been kissed before, never been touched like this. It turns you to molten, your hands finding his shoulders to brush up toward his neck, your fingers threading though his hair as you kiss him back with everything you have. He tastes like tea and something spicey, something that makes heat pool low in your belly and makes you want more.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps that match your own.

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your lips. "For so long."

He doesn't pull away. He stays close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, can count each individual eyelash, can see the way his pupils have blown wide with want. His hand is still cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. The other still frames your jaw with that same careful tenderness, his thumb resting just below the bruise the emperor left.

Your heart is racing. Thundering so hard you're certain he can feel it. Your whole body is trembling, and you can still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, the pressure and heat of it.

"Then why did you pull away before?" You pant. "Why did you say no?"

"Because I was afraid." He says it so quietly you almost don't hear him. His thumb moves against your jaw, soft and soothing. "I was afraid that if I touched you - that if I gave into the want - that I wouldn't be able to stop and that I would ruin you. That I'd take something from you that you couldn't get back, that I would spoil you and it would be the worst abuse of power I could imagine."

"You wouldn't-"

"I'm a man who wants something he shouldn't have." His eyes burn. "A man who is supposed to protect you, not have you. I could stand feeling for you and resisting - but if you felt the same…"

"I do."

His eyes close briefly, like hearing you say it causes him pain or relief. You cannot tell which. When they open again, there's something raw in them. Something desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once.

And then he kisses you again, softer and slower this time, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. This kiss is different from the first. Less desperate. More deliberate. He takes his time, exploring your mouth with a patience that makes your whole body flush with heat. His hand slides from your hair down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you shiver.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again. But this time, there's no fear in his eyes. No hesitation. Just want, pure and undisguised for once. His thumb traces your lower lip, and the way he's looking at your mouth is like it wants to kiss you again and again and again.

"If we do this," he says quietly, "there's no going back. You'll lose the visions. The emperor will have no use for you, and you'll be-"

"Free," you cut him off. "I will be free."

You catch the hand that's been tracing your lip and press it against your cheek, turning your face into his palm. His skin is warm against yours, rough with calluses. It's real and solid and everything you've ever wanted - everything you've ever dreamed about.

"I want to be free," you say again. "But I also want you. I've dreamed about it for so long - thought it could only ever be a dream. Nothing more."

Something shifts in his expression. His pupils dilate further until there's barely any brown left behind the want, behind the desire. He looks at you now like you're something to devour, not protect, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down your spine as his hand moves from your cheek to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, feeling the way your pulse thunders under his thumb.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough and strained. "There's no undoing this. You need to be certain."

"I've never been more certain. Please."

Junhui nods, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a soft, sweet kiss. "Okay," he murmurs against your lips. "Okay."

He stands slowly, and for a moment you think he's leaving and that he's changed his mind. But then he shrugs out of his outer robe, letting it pool on the floor. His hands go to the ties of his inner robe, and you watch, entirely transfixed as he undresses. His body is all lean muscle and old scars, beautiful in the candlelight. Beautiful in a way that makes your mouth go dry and your heart race even faster.

Then he's on the bed with you, carefully moving the quilt aside, his hands finding the ties of your robes. He pauses and looks up at you, his eyes serious. "Tell me if you want me to stop. At any point. Promise me."

"I promise."

He nods and undresses you slowly, peeling back layers of silk with careful attention, his fingers brushing your skin gently. When you're finally bare before him, you expect to feel exposed and vulnerable, but he looks at you like you're something otherworldly, like he cannot imagine what he's seeing.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs. His hand traces the curve of your waist, your hip. "So beautiful."

Junhui leans down and kisses you again, slower and deeper this time, his mouth moving against yours with deliberate intent, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him. The taste of him floods your senses as he cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling your face so he can kiss you deeper.

A soft moan escapes you and he swallows it, his other hand sliding down your side to trace the curve of your waist and your hip, dropping to your thigh. Each touch leaves fire in its wake. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like you might combust from the inside out.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen and wet. He looks at you like he wants to devour you and it lights you up inside. You push closer to him, hands shaking as your fingers trace his forearms, feeling the veins and muscles beneath his warm skin.

"I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs against your lips. His voice is rough. Raw. "I want to learn what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. Can I do that?"

You can barely form words. Can only nod, your heart thundering so hard you're certain he can hear it.

"Use your words," he says softly. His thumb traces your lower lip. "I need to hear you say it."

"Yes." Your voice comes out breathless. Desperate. "Yes, please."

The smile that curves his lips is devastating. "Good."

Then his mouth is on your throat, hot and wet and perfect. He kisses the hollow beneath your jaw, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. His teeth graze your earlobe and you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The muscles there are hard beneath your palms, flexing as he moves.

He works his way down, kissing and licking, occasionally biting just hard enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your collarbone, he pauses, his tongue tracing the delicate bone before his teeth close over it gently. The sensation shoots straight between your thighs, and you feel yourself getting wetter.

"Jun-"

"Shh." His breath is hot against your skin. "Let me take care of you."

His mouth moves lower to the swell of your breast, and he kisses the soft skin there, his hand coming up to cup you, his thumb brushing over your nipple. His touch is feather-light but it makes you arch into him, a whine escaping your mouth as you beg for more.

He gives it to you, his mouth closing over a nipple as he sucks gently. You arch into him, the sensation overwhelming as his tongue circles the sensitive peak, flicking over it before his teeth graze it gently. You almost come apart right there, melting.

"That feels- oh Gods-"

"Tell me." His voice is muffled against your breast. "Tell me how it feels."

You can barely think. Can barely form coherent thoughts. "So good. Please don't stop."

He doesn't. He lavishes attention to your chest - sucking, licking, biting - until you're trembling beneath him. You're so wet now you can feel it, the slickness between your thighs and the ache there driving you mad. As if reading your mind, his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin. When he reaches where your thighs are shut tight, he pauses.

"Open for me," he murmurs against your breast.

You do. Spreading your legs, letting him see how wet you are, how much you want him.

"Gods," he growls. "Look at you."

His fingers brush through your folds, his touch light and barely there, but enough to make you gasp. He brings them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he licks them clean and the sight is so hypnotic that you find yourself staring, face flushing with heat as he grins.

"Taste like the Heavens," he murmurs. "Need more."

Before you can process what he means, he's moving down your body, kissing his way down your stomach, your hip bones, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. When his mouth presses to your core, you nearly scream, his tongue licking through you slowly, parting your wet folds. The pleasure is unlike anything you've ever felt, sharp and overwhelming, and your hands fly into his hair, gripping the dark strands, unsure if you're pulling him closer or away.

"Oh," you gasp. "I can't-"

"Yes, you can." His breath is hot against you. "Just feel it."

His tongue circles your clit gently and your hips twitch to meet his mouth, thighs shaking as your eyes squeeze shut. It feels maddeningly good, and when his tongue starts flicking over your clit directly, you feel the way your breath catches, the way you twitch under him. He holds your hips down to keep you skill, humming lightly as he devours.

And Junhui devours, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on that sensitive spot. Sometimes he sucks on it gently, and the sensation makes you cry out. Sometimes he flicks it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, building the pleasure higher and higher until you think you might die from it. And just when you think you can't take anymore, he slides a finger into your heat and you feel yourself clench hard.

"So tight," he groans. "So perfect. You're going to feel so good around my cock."

The crude words make you clench around his finger. Make more wetness flood between your thighs. He notices, and you can feel him smile against you.

"You like that?" His voice is teasing. Knowing. "You like when I talk dirty to you?"

"Yes." The admission comes out breathy. "Yes, please."

"Please what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the burn is delicious. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you everything."

His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes you see stars. He works you patiently, fingers stroking inside of you, pressing against that spot over and over and over while he sucks gently on your clit, driving you higher and higher.

You're trembling. Shaking. Your hands are fisted in his hair, your hips moving against his mouth despite his attempts to hold you still. The pleasure is so intense it's almost frightening. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss.

The tension that's been building inside you finally snaps and you fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you. Your body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and you cry out his name as pleasure floods through you. It's overwhelming. All-consuming. Wave after wave of sensation that makes your vision go white, makes your whole body shake with the force of it.

Junhui works you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you're boneless and gasping beneath him.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body. His lips are wet with you, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It should be embarrassing - should be shameful - but you don't care, licking into his mouth hungrily, pulling him as close as you can.

Junhui's hand slides between your thighs again, and despite the orgasm you just had, your body responds. Arching into his touch. Seeking more. He positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance, and even through the haze of pleasure, you feel a flutter of nervousness. He's big. Bigger than his fingers. And you're not sure-

"Look at me." You do. His eyes are dark and intense, but soft and entirely focused on you. "We'll go slow. If it's too much, if you need me to stop, you tell me, understand?"

You nod. "Yes. I understand."

"Good." He kisses you again, soft and reassuring. "I've got you."

Then he's pushing in slowly - so slowly - the stretch is immediate and intense. More than his fingers, more than you expected and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers sliding against his sweaty skin as your nails dig in.

He stops immediately. "Breathe. Just breathe."

You do. Deep breaths that help your body relax, help you adjust to the intrusion. After a moment, the burn eases slightly, and you nod. He pushes in another inch. Then another. The stretch intensifies, bordering on painful, and you whimper.

"I know." His forehead rests against yours. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding still, of going slow. "I know it hurts. But you're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."

The praise helps. Makes you want to be good for him, makes you want to take all of him. You breathe through the burn, through the stretch, and slowly your body adjusts. He steals another kiss from you as he sinks to the hilt, distracting you with his tongue and the way he groans into your mouth.

When he breaks the kiss, he's pressed as deep as he can go, the feeling so full and so good you can barely breathe. Junhui is just as affected, panting and shivering as he drops his head to gaze where you're joined, letting out a curse.

"You feel so good," he pants. "Like you were made for me."

You clench around him experimentally, and he groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. It feels good to squeeze down, a sensation you'd never imagined, and you do it again, a small little sound leaving your lips as he groans again.

"Don't," he rasps. "Don't do that or I won't last."

"I want you to feel good too," you whisper. Your hands slide down his back, feeling the hard muscles there, the way they flex and shift as he holds himself still. "I want to make you feel the way you made me feel."

"You do." He kisses you, tongues tangling briefly before he breaks the kiss to press his lips against your jawline. "You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this. Wanted you."

"Then have me."

Junhui lets out a desperate sound but nods, his hips starting to move slowly. It makes you gasp, the friction intense and the drag of his cock inside you so good. The pain has faded completely now, replaced by pleasure that builds faster than you can keep up with.

You wrap your legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and he groans into your shoulder. The angle changes and suddenly he's hitting something inside you, that same spot that makes the world spin and the pleasure spark right behind your eyelids.

"There," you gasp. "Right there, please."

"I know." His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel you clenching around me. So tight. So perfect."

He picks up the pace, still careful but full of urgency now, thrusting deeper until you can feel yourself climbing toward another peak. His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit again, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, both too much and not enough and too everything.

The pleasure crests until it breaks and your second orgasm hits you harder than the first, your body clenching and spasming as you cry out his name. It's more intense than before, more overwhelming, like every nerve ending in your body is firing at once.

Seeing you lose it is all it takes for him. He buries himself deep as he can do and you feel the pulse of him inside of you as he comes, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locked tight as he whimpers a broken sound in the shape of your name.

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You just hold each other, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. You can feel him still pulsing inside you, can feel the warmth of his release, and the realization that it's real and not a fantasy anymore makes your eyes sting with unshed tears.

Carefully, he pulls out. You both wince at the sensation but he's gentle, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You can feel his heart racing, and his lips press against your brow, soft and sweet while his fingers trace patterns on your spine.

"I'm taking you away from here," Junhui says eventually.

You lift your head to look at him. "What?"

"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. Somewhere the emperor can't reach you. Somewhere you can be free."

"Junhui, you can't - your position-"

"I don't care." He cups your face in both hands. "You are sacred to me. Not because of your visions or your gift. Because of who you are. And I'm not willing to share you anymore. Not with the emperor. Not with the court. Not with anyone."

Your breath catches. "You'd give up everything? For me?"

"I already have." He kisses you softly. "The moment I stepped between you and the emperor, I chose you. There's no going back from that. So we go forward. Together."

"Where will we go?"

"East to the river provinces. I have family there who owe me favors. They'll hide us until we can figure out something more permanent." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "You'll have a life beyond the throne room. Beyond the visions. I promise you that."

Tears spill over. For the first time in your life, you feel safe - not because of prophecy or position, but because someone has chosen you for you. Because Junhui has chosen you over everything else.

"You wanted to be no one," Junhui whispers. "You can be no one to everything else. But to me, you are everything. You are not the Sacred - you're just sacred to me."

You nod, throat tight. "I would like that."

He smirks at his word thrown back at him. "I mean, if he kissed you, it's not a problem to him."

"He might have been too exhausted to think through it fully."

You get another unimpressed expression from Jeonghan. He hands you a dustcloth.

"What?"

"If you're going to bother me with this, at least work while we talk."

You don't mind dusting bookshelves and books, it's soothing. Jeonghan's complete disinterest or concern about the uneven dynamic between you and Mingyu is less soothing.

"You know what?" you say, after an hour of talking yourself in circles. "It was only a kiss. He probably thinks nothing of it. It'll never happen again, and it's just a blip. A fluke."

You throw the dustcloth at Jeonghan's head when he snorts.

When Wednesday comes back round, you are more nervous than you were after your explosion on Mingyu outside the arcade. This is more guilt heaped on top of desire, cut with shame.

You are his boss. You are his employer and despite that, you desperately want him to kiss you again.

First kisses are nearly always awkward. Two mouths that don't know each other, that have different rhythms and styles. It should not go perfectly on first attempt.

Of course Mingyu would be the exception.

You've planted yourself in the liquor store room, hoping the tedious process of checking inventory will push your nerves out of mind. The bottles upon bottles of so many colors and shades is visually distracting.

But then, as you mark that you'll need two boxes of Titos this next shipment, you hear the back door open and close, the jostling of two buoyant male voices. You freeze, but try and focus on the shelf of cordials.

"Helloooo," Jungkook pops his head in through the open doorway. "Are we low on anything?"

"No, we're good." Business, business. Mingyu sticks his head in, standing next to Jungkook and you gulp, heart jumping to 120 beats a minute. "Um, maybe run a special on a bourbon cocktail? I want to get rid of that Wild Turkey bourbon, so we can pull in some better brands."

"Bourbon. Perfect." Jungkook ducks under Mingyu's arm to head toward the front of house and the bar.

You can feel his gaze as you go back to counting the bottles of Baileys.

"Madam boss…you good?"

"Of course, I'm good." You force a casual smile to your lips, looking up to reassure him. "Are—" you voice cracks and you clear your throat. "Are you well?"

A smile plays on his lips. "Yeah."

"Good." You swallow and look away though it kills you. His hair is messy today, he must have washed and slept on it; fluffy and soft.

"Good." The warmth in his voice makes your skin heat, but by the time you allow yourself to look back up, he's gone.

Right. That's good. Business as usual.

When you come out, about two hours after opening, you realize you forgot (how could you) that tonight is another theme night.

All of your copper mule mugs are littered along the bar. There's a plushie horse's head on a pole, a child's riding toy. A few of your patrons are wearing large, ostentatious hats. Like the ones from…

You pick up one of the empty used mugs and sniff.

Mint Juleps. The theme is the Kentucky Derby.

"Want one?" Mingyu pops up at the end of the bar where you are stationed. His nearness makes your heart speed up all over again.

"Absolutely not. Those are disgusting."

He grins at your wrinkled nose. "Agreed, but they're going over very well." He pulls a large pink hat with netting from a stack under the bar. "Want this instead?"

"No thank you. I don't really have the outfit to balance it out."

He laughs and crossing his arms to rest on the wood next to you. Forearms all on display for your eyes. "That hasn't stopped them." He nods down the bar to where Seokmin and Soonyoung wear a blue and red versions of the very hat in front of you. The rest of their clothing is their usual wear; jeans, t-shirts, sweaters and windbreakers.

"Where did all these hats come from?"

"The high school's costume closet." He watches you for a moment. "You come out just to check on us?"

You look away from the big hats to him.

Oh no.

You recognize that look.

It's from Saturday night.

When he kissed you.

"Of course. I always do. Why else would I leave the delights of my Quickbooks software?"

He inclines a bit more toward you. You hold your breath.

"That's it?"

You nod, too emphatically to be believable. "That's it." You tear your gaze from him, back to the rest of the pub. "You look like you both are fine. Do either of you need a break?"

"We've got it taken care of, madam boss." He has straightened up and put more space between the two of you. "Don't forget to eat something."

"Promise." You did forget to have dinner a lot of the time. Hurrying away is absolutely cowardly of you, and you'll scold yourself later for it. But he's too close, smells too good (even around the alcohol and customers), looks too wonderful.

It's safer in the back.

"Hey."

You jump up at his voice, banging your knee on your desk. "Ow. Mingyu…is everything okay?" You glance at the time on your computer. It's not closing time yet. You haven't missed that, but you've been staring blankly at the screen for the last hour.

"Everything's fine," he says, walking into the office. "Sorry to worry you. It's my break. I was checking on you."

"You don't have to do that." You rub your knee and wince.

"I don't have to, but I like to." He plops in his usual spot, on the arm of the chair, before looking around. "You finish the receipts I was doing?"

"Yes. Thank you for what you did. It was a big help." You keep standing, hands stacking papers as though looking busy will make it easier to reference last Saturday night. You point to your half-empty plate. "I ate."

"Good."

"Do you want something? I can go ask the kitchen to—" You turn to head that way.

"Madam boss, are you avoiding me?"

You freeze. "I'm not."

"Turn around and say that again. With feeling." If it wasn't for the humor in his voice, you'd bristle at the words. You do turn around.

"I'm not avoiding you."

He stands, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You sure? Feels like it."

"Maybe it's just your ego."

He shrugs. "Maybe a little." He takes a few steps toward you. The open office door is at your back and you really don't want to walk out into the hallway where anyone can see you two. "You know, I didn't text you since Saturday, cause I figured you were freaking out and I wanted to let you do that. Let you get all that out of your system."

"What?"

He stops a foot away, bending down (stupid height) so your faces are as close as they were Saturday night.

"Should I have messaged you? Told you I was thinking about you?" He lets his nose touch yours. "Told you that any weird excuse you come up with for why I kissed you is completely wrong?"

Your lips part. "You were exhausted and therefore like being drunk, you didn't know what you were doing?"

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't move back. "You and I have been around enough drunk people to know, they know exactly what they're doing…it's just hazy. And yeah," He puts a finger on your lips when you try to speak. "I was tired, but I knew exactly what I was doing. Any other explanations?"

"You thought I was someone else?"

His eyes go dark when you say that, his finger still on your lips. "Never." He drops his finger and closes the distance, the touch of his lips on yours slight. It's a tease beyond tease.

"Mingyu." Your voice is needy and you hate yourself for it, but he's inches away, looking at you with those beautiful brown eyes, humor and want lighting them. "I don't understand."

"Hmmmmm," he draws it out, again letting his mouth graze yours. You lurch forward, kissing him without a thought in your head minus HIM, all capitals, in blinking neon lights. He's laughing against your lips, but it's not mean. Not with his arms curling around you, chests meeting.

How does he radiate so much heat all the time?

He pulls you away from the doorway, in the office far enough that he can close the door, pressing you back against it.

"I. Want. You."

You blink at him, as though he speaks a different language. "You do?"

"Oh you are so smart and so not sometimes," he says easily and warmly that it takes you a moment to catch the insult.

"Hey, that's not—"

He kisses you, rendering you speechless and dissipating your umbrage (he's not wrong though). You're grateful for the door because the moment his tongue finds yours, your knees buckle. Your hands seek his hair, carding through, relishing the soft and silky feel. His hand cups your face and the other slides to your hip, and dart underneath the hem of your shirt. You shudder at his fingertips on your skin.

"Sensitive," he whispers. "Are you sensitive other places?"

You blink open your eyes. "Huh?"

The same hand drifts up, finding the bottom edge of your bra. "Here? You sensitive here?" There's still a smirk playing on those devastating lips and if you weren't so far gone on this man, you'd be annoyed with his arrogance.

He doesn't expect an answer, not that you have one because your body thrums like a plucked harp string. Fingers slip under your bra to the delicate skin reverently. His hand is warm, a little rough, but pleasant…decadent as he gently squeezes, thumb dragging over your nipple.

You arch against the door.

"Easy, madam boss."

The teasing appellation sends a shock of ice through you. What are you doing?

"GYU!"

You both hear Jungkook through the door all the way from the bar.

"Need a hand out here!"

You pull his hand out and move around him as quickly as possible. "You ought to see if he's okay."

Mingyu says your name, but you don't turn around.

"Please go back on the floor."

There's a sigh. "Fine. But we're discussing this later." The door to your office opens and closes. You turn around to make sure he's gone. The lack of his presence is both relieving, but also painful.

This can't be dismissed as a fluke.

Despite that you'd rather go home then have to face him, or anyone in the bar tonight, you still come out at your usual twenty minutes until closing. There are a few stragglers, and Jungkook is cashing them out.

Mingyu is collecting glasses and pauses when he sees you. "Hey."

"Hi. I'll start on the floors."

"Oh but—"

"I'll get the floors." You hate sweeping and mopping, but you figure you deserve the punishment right now. You go to collect the broom and dustpan, starting in the far corner where people are not located. You're so focused on it that it takes you a moment, or several to realize that there's raised voices.

You look over to see that your bartenders are dealing with a pair of belligerent drunks, most likely kids from the university a town over. When one swings at Mingyu (never mind that Mingyu easily avoids the fist), that's when you pull out your cell to call the sheriff.

"It's okay," Jungkook tells you. "We got them. We can take them over there." The station isn't far; nothing is that far in Carats Ridge. Then he and Mingyu look around as the two drunks in their charge start to protest. You watch as Mingyu pulls one's arms behind him, holding his wrists together like a makeshift binding.

You are delusional, truly, because you think it's hot.

"I can finish the closing up, guys. Just go home after you drop them off."

"No, we can't—" Mingyu starts, but you cut him off.

"You're both doing me a favor, taking the trash out like this. I'll finish up. Good work." You move to open the front doors for them. Jungkook has his customer in a headlock and is laughing. Mingyu stops at the threshold.

"I don't—"

"It's all good, Mingyu. I'll clock you both out. Get home a little earlier tonight." You smile up at him. "I appreciate it."

He looks like he wants to say more, but the guy he's escorting starts trying to escape again, so he holds his arms more firmly, and continues to the sidewalk in front of the pub. He watches you as you shut the door and you know that what happened earlier won't be shoved under the rug. You both will have to address it eventually.

But not tonight.

You finish the floor, wipe down the tables and put up the chairs. You look over the bar area, but they apparently got that taken care of first. You check the front door again to make sure it's locked before heading to your office. When you grab your bag, your face heats with the memory of his hands and mouth, but you push it away as you turn off the lights.

It's later than you usually leave, but closing by oneself takes twice as long.

Liquor store room locked. Lights and all stoves off in the kitchen.

You let out a sigh, already missing the work because when you're working, you don't have to think much. Or you can only think about the work you are doing. Not…not anything else.

You wonder if you can metaphorically flog yourself when you get home.

You open the back door, curse the pouring rain, and set the door to lock automatically.

"Hey."

The sound you make is on par with some sort of small yappy dog.

"For fuck's sake, Mingyu. Are you insane? I have pepper spray in my bag."

He grins sheepishly, standing under one of the eaves of the pub. "Probably no good there because you didn't even try to grab it." His hair is damp, hanging in his eyes.

You close the back door and check it to make sure it's locked. "Well, now that I know someone might be waiting right outside the back door, I'll make sure to walk out with it in hand."

He leans against the building, arms crossed, but shoulders relaxed.

"Um." It now settles into your mind that it's Mingyu here. In front of you. Only hours after— "Did everything go okay at the station? Do I need to make a statement?"

"Everything's fine. And no. No statement." He waves a hand like handling antagonistic sots is no big deal. "They got real docile when they put handcuffs on them." He straightens up. "I thought I might miss you."

You close your eyes and take a deep deep breath. Opening your eyes, you begin: "So, what happened today was—"

"Not enough."

You had a speech. Or at least some fragments of a speech.

"You can't say that."

His slow-growing grin absolutely decimates you, and your self-control.

"I can't? I can't tell you that seeing your eyes all glassy from want, wanting me, didn't just whet my appetite for you?" He reaches out and pulls you close, hands on your upper arms, gentle but firm. "How knowing that you're probably still thinking about me, a room away while I'm at the bar made me want to let Kook handle the crowd and lock you and me in that office until we're both spent. Until we both are satisfied."

Can you combust from only his words? From the sheer amount of desire his words and his presence incite? Spontaneously turn to flame despite the deluge falling from the sky.

"You really can't say that."

"Give me tonight and I'll do more than say it." He doesn't give you time to consider, but presses his lips to yours. You sigh, body relaxing at his taste. He smells like amber and your pub. His hands slide from your arms to your neck, so he can angle you for kisses deeper. You've dropped your bag, fingers drifting under his t-shirt to the warm skin there. He shivers at your cold touch.

"Come home with me," he murmurs, breaking the kiss for those four words.

"But—"

"He's not there. Come home with me." He traces his thumb along the column of your neck before taking you by the hand and leading you into the rain. You grab your bag and stumble after him. He unlocks an easily twenty-year-old VW beetle, and ushers you in before jogging to the other side. You are soaked from the storm outside and immediately tremble even though it's not cold.

"This is yours?"

He closes the driver's door and turns the key before messing with the dash so heat starts pouring out of the vents. You sigh as it takes a little of the chill away.

"The car?"

You nod as he reaches into the back seat and hands you a towel. "It's clean…and yeah, the car is mine."

You start to chuckle.

"What?"

"Mingyu. You are the tallest man I know. Why did you get a tiny car?"

He tries to look annoyed, but his eyes sparkle (or that's the rain still on his eyelashes). "I like this car."

Your laugh is almost drowned out by the thunder outside. He leans over to kiss you, cradling your cheek in his big hand. You return it, moaning when his tongue dances with yours. When he draws back, you place the towel on his head and dry his hair.

"I can't have a sick bartender." You rub with the towel, getting rid of the excess water at least. He watches you. "Most people look like drowned rats, but you're even prettier, how is that possible?"

"Shut up," he mutters, cheeks turning pink. You laugh again, before jumping when lighting flashes outside the windows. "Are you scared of storms?"

"Not really. Are you?"

He shakes his head, still gazing at you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone delicately.

"I thought you were in a hurry." His attention is discombobulating. He kisses you again, slower and leisurely. You let the towel fall into your lap as you run your hands through his hair. He pulls you closer, damn the hand brake between you. He lowers it before sliding one hand to your ass and lifting you so your in his lap, facing him. The steering wheel presses into your lower back. "We aren't—"

He shushes you before drawing up your top and pulling it off. You instantly cover yourself with a protest and then shiver. He pulls your arms out of the way, eyes taking in his fill.

"Thought about you for so long," he says, voice barely heard above the storm. "Wanted to see you like this." He starts to undo your jeans, mouth giving you no chance to respond verbally to his words. You whine when his hand slips into your underwear.

"Oh my god," you gasp when his finger enters you. He presses soft kisses to your cheeks and nose as he skims your slit with said finger. "Gyu…."

"Already wet for me."

"Has nothing to do with the rain." You're not sure how you can joke while he's touching you like this. But he knows how much you want him, it feels like someone should humble him from time to time.

He pinches your clit and you jolt. "I know the goddamn difference," he says before nipping your neck. "I thought you'd be good for me."

His voice is velvet and you pull his face back to yours so you can kiss him again. "I'll be good," you whisper on his lips. Again and again you kiss, taste, delve as he curls one finger, and then a second in your cunt, his thumb teasing your clit.

"Hey baby," he says when you start to squeeze his fingers. "Pull the lever so we can push the seat back?"

You blink at him, brain dazed. His grin widens.

"What are you smiling about?"

"You," he answers, pulling his fingers out, making you curse. He pulls the lever and pushes the back of the seat. "Spacey because of me." He tugs you down so you'er lying on him.

"You like me dumb?"

"Just cause you're always on top of things," he assures you. You huff, and sit up, working on his jeans' button and zipper.

"There's some joke in there about me being on top right now."

"If you weren't spacey, I bet you'd come up with—" he groans when you wrap your hand around his cock. "Fuck, you feel so good."

You use what he's already leaked to lubricate your hand and his cock. You stroke carefully, then tighten your grip. His hand on your hip digs in deep.

"Condom?" you ask, leaning down to kiss the tip. He groans.

"Don't you have a million in the office for the bathrooms?"

"You want me to go in there, right now and get some?" You lean over him, eyebrows up in question.

"No, I can't wait, I'll pull out, I promise. I'm clean," he stutters when you rub your thumb over his slit. You kiss him before lining him up with your entrance, and easing down.

You've never heard Mingyu curse that much.

He sits up to capture your mouth with his, hands caressing all your bared skin.

You tug on the hem of his shirt, and he only breaks away for you to pull it off and toss it in the back. His hands return to your ass and your clit as he gently grinds before starting to thrust. You can barely breathe, tracing every line of his chest and arms, kissing and sucking where you can.

He feels so good inside you, the drag of him rubbing every sensitive part of you.

The thunder drowns out the noises you both are making, but you feel his hot breath against your neck when his rhythm picks up.

"Close, baby?" His thumb presses hard and you clench so tight that your orgasm screams through you. It's heady, the euphoria of the release. You're only coming down from the high when he starts to pull out of you.

"No," you say against his ear, nibble on the soft skin. "Come inside."

"Fuck, you sure?"

"Yes." You lick the side of his neck and he trembles when he comes. His mouth open on your shoulder, with his arms wrapped tight around you, his breathing harsh, but slowing.

You take it all in, searing it into your memory.

When he raises his head to look at you, you brush his hair out of his eyes, press the back of your hands against his flushed cheeks. He kisses your fingers.

"Come home with me. I'll make you breakfast in the morning."

Go home with him. Stay in his bed, wake up with him. Have breakfast with him.

Where Jungkook also lives.

Who is your employee.

And so is Mingyu.

The metaphoric cold water dumped on you is like a shock to the system.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

You pull away, scrambling to the passenger side, before tugging your underwear back in place and re-buttoning your jeans.

"I should go home."

He says your name in a tone of disappointment and frustration. His hand encircles your arm as you open your door.

"I can't leave my car here." It's a terrible excuse, there isn't high crime in Carats Ridge. "And I—" You jerk away from his touch. "I can't." And you rush back out into the rain, getting in your own car and driving toward your home.

You don't look back.

When you arrive several minutes later, you glance in the rear-view mirror, not sure if you're relieved or saddened that he didn't follow you.

Your phone pings with a message, but you don't check it until you're safe in your house, showered and dried off, now in your pajamas.

»mingyu: we're talking about this tomorrow

You don't answer, already regretting your choices and your actions.

You mean to get up early. To go and do errands. To be a productive member of society.

But your body has other ideas.

For fuck's sake, you're sore.

You grumble at yourself because yes, sex made you sore, but also sex in tight quarters like a VW BEETLE made you sore.

You drag on some loose yoga pants and stumble out of your bedroom.

Then there's a knock at your door.

You debate on answering.

"I know you're in there, I see your car." He huffs. "Can we just talk?"

You open the door and Mingyu is holding a white paper bag, and a drink tray with two cups.

"You ever think I'm not worth it?"

You both still at your unthought-out question.

"What?"

"Come in." You step back to let him in, looking down the sidewalk. "Where's your car?"

"Kook dropped me after we grabbed food." He sets his burdens on your kitchen counter and points to you before you say something. "He knows. He's known forever." He stands in the middle of your kitchen, making it feel small (it's not huge, but Mingyu dominates a space).

"Forever? We only had sex last night." Does your face heat when you say it aloud? Yes, but that's only for you and he to know.

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. "He's known how I feel about you since…well, since…" He hands you one of the two paper cups. "It's weird that I don't know how you like your coffee. Our interactions are never before afternoon."

"So what did you choose?" You take a sniff of the drink. "Smells like cinnamon."

"Cinnamon bun latte." He shrugs. "Or I have an Americano."

"Gross, cinnamon bun latte please."

He half-grins before taking the lit off his cup and blowing in it. You shuffle in to open the paper bag and inhale deeply.

"A couple plain croissants, and chocolate ones."

"You didn't have to bring me breakfast."

He sets his cup on the counter, standing on the other side from you so he can face you. "I would have made you breakfast."

You are going to have to have this conversation.

"Mingyu…" You offer him one of the chocolate croissants. "Do you want sugar or cream with your Americano?"

"I'm good." He takes a bite of the pain au chocolate and waits. For you to say something.

"I'm sorry."

"For?" he asks once he's swallowed.

"Everything. I shouldn't sleep with my employee, but I shouldn't run out on you either. I shouldn't want you, make out with you at work; but I most definitely should not give you mixed signals." You shove your hair out of your face, decidedly glad that he's getting to see you like this: big shirt, loose pants, unwashed face (at least you brushed your teeth) and bedhead.

If he ever found you attractive, he wouldn't now.

You sip your latte and smile. "That's really good."

"Apology accepted," he says. He watches you with those beautiful brown eyes. "Why does it matter if I work for you?"

"Oh come on. I'm your boss. I can fire you."

"Or promote me."

"Exactly, the power imbalance is huge and unfair to you. I could fire you for something like just…" You struggle to find an example.

"But you wouldn't."

"I'm talking theoretically here."

"But you wouldn't." He reaches across the counter to grasp you by the chin. "I know you. You wouldn't ever do that. You worry too much to make that kind of decision."

You stare at him. "Really?"

He sighs. "I could also abuse the dynamic. Use my relationship with you for any sort of promotion, benefits like, I dunno, longer breaks, pay raise, not work."

"You wouldn't. You enjoy yourself, but you work so hard."

"I'm talking theoretically here." He grins at you and you realize what he's doing. You know him. Not everything of course, but you know his character, his work ethic, how he's sees the world.

You are so far gone on this man.

"Okay, I get it, but—"

"You need an assistant manager right? Or supervisor? As the pub gets busier and the paperwork piles up."

"Yes. I've been thinking about that." You can't have him stay after work to do paperwork again, that's too dangerous.

"So who would you promote?" He doesn't let you look away, still holding your chin.

You swallow, nervous. "Honestly, you or Jungkook would do well at it. You've got a more laid-back temperament, but you can handle yourself in chaos. Jungkook is far more hyper, but he adjusts easily and has a strong sense of what's fair, so I don't worry about him keeping the peace." You shrug. "I think it be easier if you two talked it out and decided together who was a better fit. I'm too concerned that if I promoted you, it would show favoritism, or if I promoted Jungkook, I'd be doing it because I didn't want to show favoritism, which is kind of the same thing."

His smile inches across his lips. "See. You're a great boss. You don't like theme nights, but you were willing to give them a shot because Kook and I wanted to try."

"It's doing too well, I'm annoyed."

He chuckles and lets go of your chin, and returning to his coffee and pastry. "Is that it?"

"I think that's a big concern."

He pulls out the other pain au chocolate and puts it to your mouth. You take a bite and close your eyes. Why are pastries so delicious?

"I like you. I have since I met you."

As a 'love confession' (you have watched way too much anime in your lifetime), it's probably not the most dramatic or intense, but it still squeezes your heart. The softness of his expression, the domesticity of standing in your kitchen, just getting to look at him.

He likes you.

"At the interview?"

He nods, laughing before brushing crumbs off your lips. "You were so cute. Asking all kinds of questions before firing off ten cocktails, several really obscure, and asking me for the ingredients."

"You told me which ones you didn't know, but said that's what recipe books and your phone was for." You look down, smiling at the memory. "I appreciated that you admitted when you didn't know something. A lot of people would have faked it."

You don't realize that he comes around the counter to stand next to you, until his side presses yours.

"I like you too."

"I had an inkling you might."

"Shut up."

He laughs again before leaning down to kiss you softly. "The employer-employee thing is awkward, I get it. But I'm okay with working through that with you. Are you?"

You stare up at him, deciding that you will regret everything if you don't try. Not with this kind, beautiful, so honest and up front man, who puts up with your wavering.

"Yes."

His smile is warm and fond. He cradles your face in one hand, thumb at your lips. "You're worth it, by the way."

You can believe it, staring into those eyes.

Friday night you spend more time on the floor than you usually do. It's busy at the pub. Some sports match that Jungkook and Mingyu know about (you don't, you do not care enough to keep up) is on the televisions and so many of your regulars are in your pub.

You are mixing a French 75 for Joshua, moving around Mingyu who shoots you an indulgent grin. He bumps hips with you as he shakes up an espresso martini for Jihoon.

"You take up so much space," you tell him, mock-complaining.

"So I'm big?"

You don't answer that. It is not appropriate work conversation, but the glint in his eye is enough.

It's not like you weren't babbling with affection and praise this morning at yours. He really likes having sex in the morning.

He really likes you.

You hand Joshua his drink before finding the next patron. You halt when you see Jeonghan at your bar, royally arrogant smirk in place as he eyes you, then Mingyu, then you again with a perfect eyebrow raise.

"What'll be?" you ask, not commenting on the nonverbal conversation he's having with you.

"Glass of port."

You fulfill his request as Jungkook reaches over you for a wineglass. He winks at you.

The first thing you'd done after the eventful Thursday morning was talk to Jungkook. You explained that you and his best friend were seeing each other, but it would not in any way affect the workplace and climate.

"I hope it does." He leaning against the shelf of tequila in the liquor store room.

"Excuse me?"

"I hope it affects the workplace. I hope you guys are stupid happy." His grin is bright and gleeful, before dropping into a serious expression. "But you know, if you break his heart, I won't forgive you."

"Fair and valid."

"If he breaks yours, I'll punch him," he tells you with the same amount of glee as he leaves to finish up prep work.

"I…I, uh, appreciate that?"

He waves and is gone before you can say anything else.

"So things are good?" Jeonghan says when you hand him his port.

"How can you tell?"

"You both keep stealing glances at each other, and honestly? It's gross." But he's smiling. "So not a fluke?"

"Not a fluke."

"So you won't be coming in to The Bookery to have a meltdown anymore?"

"Don't sound so disappointed," you fire back and then leave him to his drink. The crowd is settled now, your bartenders have everything under control. You tell Jungkook (who is closest) that you're going to the back to do some paperwork and he waves you away.

You push through the 'employee only' doors and head down the hallway to your office. Your hand is snagged and you're spun around into an embrace.

"Just one kiss," Mingyu says, mouth following his words. It's quick, almost chaste. He releases you before you can fully soak it in.

"We shouldn't—"

"Probably not," he answers, with a wicked grin. "But this is more fun, madam boss." And he disappears back through the doors to bar and the people.

You're smiling, heart light and fluttery.

Way more fun.

a/n2: i originally outlined this for a lot more shenanigans, and even MORE avoidance on the mc's part. but turns out romcoms want miscommunication and this particular mingyu just won't allow that. :D

Asking Jiung to let you sleep with him might be a terrible idea. 

But your room is flooded, the hotel’s completely booked, and Keeho’s—you don’t even want to think about it. 

Even if he never really saw eye to eye with you (to be fair, neither did you with him) he should have some ability to show you a bit of mercy… right? 

But then he opens the door and looks at you with such a deadpan look of displeasure that you realize maybe not and nearly tuck tail and leave. 

“What is it?” He asks, and you’re reminded quickly that that’s not an option. 

“My room flooded.”

His eyes widen for a split second, alarmed before his expression quickly schools back to its usual impassive. There’s an awkward pause that follows. Then, “I fail to see how that’s my problem.”

Your shoulders slump, just a little (a lot) disheartened at his snippy tone. You’d think years of being in the same group would make him a little warmed to you. But he never did make it easy for you to give him a reason to be. 

“The hotel’s completely booked out.”

“Then—“

“Keeho’s got his girlfriend over.”

Jiung blinks at you as he comes to the only conclusion this situation is bound to have. You clutch your Pikachu plushie, the one Shota won for you years ago, closer to your chest in anticipation. 

You half expect him to just shut the door in your face. But then he steps aside and opens it a little further while looking entirely unhappy about having to do so. 

You roll your eyes but bite your tongue. Not enough apparently because the words tumble out anyway as you step into the room. 

“Try looking a little more upset about it, that might get the point across.”

The door shuts a tad too loudly behind you. 

“Of course you would complain when I do something nice,” you hear him grumble under his breath as he passes you, sidestepping you so pointedly that you’d think you were carrying a disease. 

You can only scoff, watching the back of his grey hoodie as he moves through the room for his suitcase at the other end. 

“Like you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart,” you grit through your teeth, your ducky slippers squawking angrily as you pad over to the bed and plop down on the edge. 

“I’m doing this so you won’t go crying to the manager about how I’m bullying you,” he sneers as he fishes out a black t-shirt then reaches for the hem of his sweater. “Again.”

Your mouth snaps open to snipe right back and remind him that he’d ‘constructively criticized’ you to the point of tears but the words die right on your tongue as Jiung pulls the hoodie off his body, leaving his well-toned, lean-muscled, intricately inked skin exposed for your eyes in all their pallor glory. 

He seems none the wiser to your slack jaw and dazed eyes as he tugs his shirt on, muttering something about ‘ungrateful brat’ but you’re honestly not listening because you’re too busy thinking about holy shit, does boxing really do that kind of a wonder for someone’s body, and, is it getting hot in here?

You’re only snapped out of your quickly flitting brain by his snippy tone. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” he grumbles as he starts gathering the extra blankets in the hotel dresser. 

You blink yourself back to your body—when did you start floating away?

“Huh?” You ask intelligently. “What? No, just take the bed.”

He pauses as he turns back to face you, arms full of white fluffy cotton that you kind of want to crawl into. Or is it his arms…

“You’re going to take the floor?” He asks. 

“What?” You ask again, and Jiung gives a look that promptly makes you feel stupid so you scramble to explain. “It’s a queen bed.”

“And?”

“…it can fit two adults with extra space to—mmph, hey!”

The pillow to your face jostles you hard enough that you nearly get toppled onto your back. 

You scramble to right yourself, grabbing the pillow and chucking it back to him but he dodges it easily as he starts to fix a makeshift bed on the empty floor space by the bed. 

“That was so unnecessary!” You cry as you frantically pat down your hair. 

“It is if you keep saying dumb things,” he states simply. 

“Why is sharing a bed dumb? Are you really that immature?”

“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I don’t want to be in that close proximity to you?”

Well. That stings. And it shuts you right up. 

You’ve always been like oil and water, always wanting different things, always pulled in different creative directions, always had different ways of operating. 

But honestly, you thought it was just that. That you just didn’t mesh well, and that’s okay. Not everyone needs to get along. 

But you never thought that Jiung might just simply not like you to the point that being near you is past his boundary of comfort. And that realization actually sort of… hurts.

You know the silence stretches on for too long that you just stare at him, watching him make his little bed and crawl into it, as if he said nothing remiss.

This new feeling in your chest is strange and uncomfortable, like it’s a tangible thing pulling at itself. So you look away, push yourself to the farthest end of the bed from him, and crawl under the blankets in hopes that being away from him might remedy it a little. 

It doesn’t.

Even after you turn off the lights and toss and turn for what feels like an hour, maybe two.

You can’t help it—his words keep ringing in your ear. And that feeling in your chest keeps pulling tighter and it’s honestly getting a little hard to breathe. 

Does he even understand the gravity of the words he’s said? Does he even care?

You haven’t heard a single sound from him, so you have your answer. There he is, sleeping peacefully in his little dreamland where you don’t exist. 

When did it get so bad? Did you push his buttons too far? When was the tipping point and how did you not see it happen?

You’d always had trouble with him but you never hated him. You hoped that it was all just a silly preamble to something of a meaningful friendship that might grow a few years down the road.

You don’t realize when your hands start shaking. When your eyes start watering. When your breaths start trembling. Or when those quiet little sniffles start escaping you. 

You clench your fists and dig your face into the pillow, mentally cursing yourself for being so affected. 

You’re not affected. Especially not by the likes of Jiung, the asshole. The asshole who you hate to admit has been finding himself taking a lot of your headspace lately. 

Well at least it’s clear now you’ve been in none of his. 

These morose thoughts prattle around in your head, then infest you slowly until they’re clinging to you like a second skin. 

When the bed dips behind you, your heart stops. 

You freeze, breaths caught in your throat. The room pauses like a reel stuck on a terrible frame. You pray he’s only sleep-walking.

“I didn’t mean that.”

The deep timbre of his voice does wonders to start prying off that infestation. You hate that it’s so simple, that he can so easily bring you down. 

You don’t want him to. So you take a deep breath to keep your voice from shaking, and you push away. “Sure you did.”

There’s a pause, one that keeps your skin on edge. 

“Not… in the way that you think.”

Now you’re just confused. “What does that mean?”

“My feelings towards you are complicated.”

“…what does that mean?”

He clicks his tongue, a habit of his that always was pointed to you, to berate you in some way. Right now you don’t really mind it. 

“I just said it’s complicated,” he huffs behind you, and you feel the puff of breath bristle the hair at the back of your neck. 

Only then do you become aware of how close he is, and the heat of his body behind you burns more present somehow.

“Wow,” you deadpan, trying to shake off that prickling feeling that starts to grow under your skin. “You make me cry and you can’t even explain yourself.”

He lets out a long suffering sigh. It makes you smile despite your turmoil, wondering if his face is scrunched in that way it always is when he’s fed up with you. You’re just glad he can’t see it. 

“It’s not that I hate being around you.” A pause. “Well, I do.” Before you can start crying again, he barrels on. “But only because… it drives me crazy.”

Well, you might start regardless. “I get it, I’m crazy, you don’t have to keep saying it I believe you—“

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The world around you feels like it’s about to implode in on itself. The room feels like it’s caving in on you. Your brain feels something similar, before it stutters and crashes and goes completely silent.

“Or… at least have very strong feelings for you.”

You take in the breath that’s been refusing to reach you, but it fills your lungs shakily and without commitment to actually helping you function. 

“You’re sure it’s not hate?” You ask, because no part of you can believe the words uttered from his stupidly pretty lips. Lips you wish you could see right about now. Just so you can confirm that he’s actually talking and this is not the little devil on your shoulder playing terrible tricks on you.

“It could be,” he admits solemnly. “Because I really want to push you off this bed right now.”

You whip around, immediately offended at his smug little face. You completely miss the nerves lingering in his gaze as it drops for a split second. 

“Go ahead.” You glare. “I’ll bring you down with me.”

“I won’t stop you.”

When his eyes meet yours, the moment sobers and you’re quickly reminded of… reminded of…

“I mean it,” he says softly, and you’re reminded of just what it was that had blown your whole world open mere moments ago. “I can’t stand being around you because I can’t stand the thought that you don’t want me the way I want you.”

The honesty of his words, the low timbre of his voice, the solid weight of the night that blankets you—it makes something in your chest settle. Something at peace. 

You recall all his snarky remarks about your dancing. You recall the way he always lingered after every practice to help you, armed with condescension and something else you missed entirely. Something you’re seeing now.

You recall those begrudging ‘hbd’ texts, those little frog plushies that would show up in random crevices of your dorm room at odd times of the year. You recall his insults and how they weren’t really insults at all—adoration disguised under disgust, maybe. 

You recall the little box of tiramisu always delivered to your door after you’ve had a bad day. You just assumed it was Intak. But now you're realizing you only ever mentioned it being your favourite indulgence around Jiung.

You recall wishing every day that these little things led to something—to Jiung. You recall how you’d look forward to the next moment with him that you’d get to torment him. That you were happy for every little reaction you’d invoke from him. You just didn’t realize why. Until now.

The smile that grows on your lips is entirely his fault. “Who said anything about that?”

“You,” he deadpans. “Multiple times.”

You scoff, hitting his arm without real punch but you let your hand linger there on the soft cotton of his shirt. 

“Only because I thought you hated me all this time,” you murmur, the honestly stripping you bare of all your typical bells and whistles.

“Well,” he starts, slowly mirroring the smile on you. “There have been some grave misunderstandings it seems.”

“I suppose…”

“But it’s not unfixeable,” he says, suddenly looking every bit of nervous that you’re feeling. “Right?”

You hum in thought, half heartedly tugging on a loose string on his sleeve. “True. You can start now.”

He raises a brow at you. “Shouldn’t it go both ways? We’re both at fault for this.”

“Mm… Nah. You go first.”

You bite back your laugh at the glare he fixes you with. You don’t even get the chance to say you’re kidding before suddenly there’s arms around you, tight and strong, and you’re being manhandled against your will. 

Your fight dies down when he holds you close to him, your back to his chest. When you realize the position you’re in and melt in his hold (completely against your will), the tension in his body leaves all at once and he buries his face in the back of your hair. 

“Better?” He murmurs into it, his honeyed voice a living thing inside your skull. His arms twist tighter around your waist and send your stomach into fluttery knots. 

You lean into the touch, letting your hand brush over the warm skin at his wrist. 

“Could be better,” you say as more of a breath. 

When his lips brush against the spot under your ear before pressing against your skin, warm and lingering, your breath hitches in your throat. 

“How about now?” He whispers, breath feathering down your neck. 

You swallow down your thrumming heart, tilting your head towards him just a bit but you still can’t bring it in you to look at him just yet. 

“Getting there,” you try to tease, but it falls weak. 

He chuckles lightly against you, before pressing his palm against your stomach as if holding you to him so he can trace the ghost of his lips down the line of your jaw, caging you in with his body. 

He settles at the base of your chin, biting down with his teeth. 

Your eyes snap open at the quick burst of pain, and you turn to glare at him but he takes that chance instead to seal his lips over yours. 

It feels like you’re falling, again and again, as his lips move over yours. It’s slow, hesitant, a little timid.

But when you sigh into the warmth and move your lips in tandem with his, he presses in. 

His hand comes up to your jaw to hold you in place as he dives. Searching, as he indulges in the taste of you on his seeking tongue, a quick, wet slide that teases your lower lip and leaves your stomach burning. 

The sound he makes against you when you meet the next swipe of his tongue with your own makes you lose all your inhibitions. 

You push back, and he goes under your palms as you turn and slide your body over his, never once severing where you’re connected. You’re practically devouring him now, legs straddling his lap, palms pushing his sturdy chest into the mattress, lips parted enough to let your tongue slide against the seam of his lips. 

He gives with a little moan, accepting your tongue with a soft gasp and his hands clutching onto your hips. He pulls you in flush, solid warmth against your already heated body. 

Your tongue maps his pliant mouth, seeking home and staking claim. It leaves him panting under you, little grunts and sounds spilling from his lips. 

“So noisy,” you coo against the wet heat of his open mouth, his damp breathing marring your slick lips. 

He whimpers, lifting his head and leaning up, already seeking your kiss again. “Wanted this for too long,” he muffles against you, slurred and almost unintelligible as his tongue flits out for another taste of your lips. Like he can’t go without it for even a few seconds.

You take a shaky breath to ease the tempest those words brew inside your chest. You peck his lips to soothe him over for another moment. “I can see that,” you hum, giggling softly when he eagerly captures another needy kiss. 

“Don’t tease,” he whines thinly. 

You kiss him deep and slow, easing him down to the pillow again before you reroute. “Not possible,” you hum against his jaw, trailing hot, wet kisses down the sharp cut then flitting down his neck. “You’re too cute.”

He lets out an angry little puff of breath, digging his nails into the fabric of your shirt. “Thought I was an ogre.”

You snicker against his skin, recalling that time you’d petulantly called him a shrimpy ogre when the concept looks for the Killin’ It era were revealed during a meeting with the company head. And about a few dozen others. 

“Still are,” you state, lifting to grin down at him. “This doesn’t change anything.”

When you take in the sight of him, starry eyed as he stares up at you in a daze, kiss bitten lips parted as he pants for air, pale skin flushed a pretty scarlet over his cheeks and down his neck, you think to yourself, huh—this might change one thing.

You watch as that distant, hazy look in his eye turns sharp and pointed. 

And then he’s got an arm around you, flipping you onto your back like it takes no effort before he sets himself on top of you, slotted right between your parted legs.

That starry look is gone, pupils blown wide with a dark, heated desire that leaves your taunts withering on your tongue. 

He places his hands on your stomach, searing through your shirt as he slides them down just to drag them back up, underneath your layers this time. 

Your lips part in a gasp as the heat seeps directly through your skin and pools low in your belly, his eyes snapping down to catch the movement. 

“I think I can change a few things,” he whispers. 

Hell, you think as he captures your lips again. 

This changes everything.

taglist: @jellyybelly, @jseobbie, @tintedsvn, @missmaiamay, @fixonfreak, @hxraiiii, @elmolovesw33d, @peachy-x-k33n, @halaziasupremacy, @choxochip, @girlcrushd, @ozzysoatsolivesandpasta, @snyngjhn, @boptak, @orchidves, @peonyjoo, @kittyshotak, @oyasumiaikko, @straystar-8, @pxronbeat1, @chandlxa, @aalyluvz, @evemds, @delicatechris, @dejaphobick, @velvetjoong, @seonghwaswifeuuuu, @soulssnucky, @jiungs-wednesdaygirl, @kyoluvrs, @princessthelsa, @vvalever, @quiiirkiiis2, @v4ciaa, @nichozzystuffs, @mo8ny4951, @rockstartaeyang, @shmooooo @cherryyberry1 @keymeadoww @p1issocool @tikfreakingtak, @nota10butadefinite8 @snuckyyyy @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @kha0sblossom, @sstrawbxrry @kisseobies @seomisaho

𓆩⟡𓆪 check out my masterlist for my other works

1 reblog/comment = 1 virtual kiss <3

Yuanzhi tilted the final mouthful of tea back slowly, eyes lowered toward the dark surface of the porcelain cup as the bitter taste settled across his tongue. The tea had long since cooled, though he barely seemed to notice.

Most of the servants had already withdrawn from the hall by now, leaving only a pair of attendants stationed quietly near the entrance with lowered eyes.

For a while, Yuanzhi remained seated where Shangjue had left him, still turning over the evening’s conversations within his mind.

Some parts had irritated him more than others.

Miss Liuyun especially.

Even now, recalling the woman’s subtle arrogance was enough to make his expression harden faintly. Every word that left her mouth carried the same polished superiority disguised beneath elegant composure and practiced smiles

Yuanzhi was not certain he could endure another five-minute conversation with the woman without eventually telling her to stop speaking altogether

The others had hardly left much stronger impressions.

Most spoke too carefully, weighing every answer before allowing it past their lips. Girls raised to be agreeable rather than honest, more concerned with appearing proper beneath the elders’ attention than revealing anything genuine about themselves.

Then there was Miss Mei.

At the thought of her, Yuanzhi’s gaze sharpened slightly. The irritating part was that she had seemed entirely harmless while seated among the others earlier that evening. Quiet. Polite. Almost shy at times when spoken to directly.

Knowing what he knew now only left a bitter sort of annoyance settling beneath his thoughts.

Yuanzhi lowered his gaze briefly toward the empty cup resting between his fingers, replaying the evening’s conversations once more in his mind. He searched again for some detail he might have missed earlier. A hesitation. An unnatural answer. A look held a moment too long. Nothing came back clearly enough…But perhaps that was the point.

Wufeng spies were trained precisely so that suspicion never formed easily in the first place. They were not merely assassins carrying blades and poison into enemy territory, but skilled deceivers capable of becoming whatever others expected to see.

If Shangjue had not noticed the discrepancy in Mei’s statements regarding her supposed hometown earlier that evening, Yuanzhi doubted he would have looked twice at her at all.

His brother had spent years traveling beyond the Gong residence, moving between regions and provinces where details like dialects, customs, and local geography mattered far more than most people realized.

Yuanzhi, meanwhile, had spent much of those same years within the residence walls. Learning different things entirely.

There had once been little reason to question it. The Gong family required different strengths from each of them, and Yuanzhi had never lacked confidence in his own abilities.

He had traveled beyond the valley before, though never for very long and rarely far enough that the Gong residence itself did not still feel within reach. Most journeys had been tied to duty, escort missions, investigations, or assignments that demanded his return almost immediately afterward.

Maybe, once the constant threat of Wufeng finally eased, he might leave for longer than a few passing days. Travel beyond the same familiar roads and provinces he already knew by memory. The thought lingered only briefly before another followed, quieter and far less guarded.

Perhaps having someone beside him during such journeys would not be entirely unwelcome…

Yuanzhi stilled for a moment before lightly shaking the thought aside. He finally pushed himself up from the cushion, the dark fabric of his robes settling smoothly back into place around him. Silver embroidery caught faintly beneath the lanternlight as he adjusted the sleeve at his wrist, more out of habit than necessity.

The maids stationed quietly near the entrance straightened almost immediately at the movement.

Without needing instruction, one of the servants stepped forward and slid the carved wooden doors open.

Cold night air swept through the hall the moment the doors parted, carrying with it the sharp scent of pine and damp stone from the mountainside beyond. Yuanzhi stepped outside without pause, the chill settling lightly against his skin after the lingering warmth of the lanternlit gathering behind him.

Night had settled fully across the Gong residence now. Lanterns burned steadily along the sprawling paths carved into the mountainside estate, their golden light stretching across dark wooden railings and stone pathways touched lightly by evening mist. Beyond them, layered rooftops disappeared gradually into shadow beneath the pale glow of the moon.

Several guards remained stationed outside the hall, dark uniforms nearly motionless beneath the shifting lanternlight lining the outer pathways. Their postures straightened the moment Yuanzhi appeared, hands briefly tightening around the weapons resting at their sides before they bowed respectfully.

Yuanzhi barely acknowledged the guards as he stepped down onto the stone pathway, the sound of his boots muted against the dark polished stone beneath the lanternlight.

For a few moments, nothing disturbed the quiet stretching across the mountainside residence beyond the distant rush of river water below the cliffs.

Then hurried footsteps suddenly broke through the quiet.

The sound carried sharply through the outer pathways of the residence, fast and uneven enough that several guards immediately turned their attention toward the lower stone path leading up toward the hall.

A figure appeared only moments later.

One of the outer guards was climbing the incline at a near run, breathing visibly uneven by the time he reached the upper landing. His uniform had fallen slightly out of place from the pace he had forced himself into, though he still managed to straighten immediately upon seeing Yuanzhi standing beneath the lanternlight ahead.

The guard dropped at once into a deep bow, clasped hands raised tightly before him.

“Young Master Yuanzhi.”

Yuanzhi’s gaze settled upon him immediately, expression sharpening slightly at the clear urgency in the man’s condition.

“What happened?”

“One of the brides has fallen into the river,” the guard reported, still struggling slightly to steady his breathing. “The guards retrieved her unconscious and are bringing her back now.”

For the briefest moment, he simply stood there, dark eyes fixed upon the kneeling guard as the information settled sharply into place within his thoughts.

Then his expression hardened.

“Inform the Sword Wielder immediately,” he ordered. “And find my brother. He could not have gone far.”

The guard bowed at once before hurrying back down the stone path without delay.

Yuanzhi turned instead toward the two guards stationed closest to the hall entrance.“Prepare the east infirmary chamber,” he said. “Have braziers lit and send for Physician Xu.”

Both guards straightened immediately before moving at once, one disappearing into the inner residence while the other turned sharply toward the lower pathways leading deeper into the estate.

Nearby maids who had remained quietly beneath the outer walkway lifted their heads at the sudden shift in atmosphere.

“You,” Yuanzhi said, his gaze settling briefly upon two of the servants. “Bring dry robes and blankets. Heated water as well.”

The maid bowed deeply before hurrying quickly into the residence, the other one following after her.

Several tense minutes passed afterward.

The quiet atmosphere that had settled over the residence earlier that night had long since disappeared, replaced now by the low movement of guards and servants carrying orders between the surrounding halls.

Yuanzhi stayed where he was near the edge of the upper stone landing overlooking the lower routes leading back toward the Ladies’ Estate.

The cold night wind moved steadily through the loose strands of dark hair near his face, stirring the sleeves of his robes faintly against the silence surrounding him. Yet despite his stillness, there remained something sharp beneath his composure now, an alertness that had spread quietly through the entire residence since the moment the report arrived.

Shangjue appeared beside him a few moments later.

His dark robes shifted faintly beneath the pale moonlight as he came to a stop beside his younger brother, the colder seriousness settling across his expression making it immediately clear he had already been informed of the situation.

For a brief moment, neither brother spoke as Shangjue came to a stop beside him.

Yuanzhi glanced toward him once, his expression unreadable beneath the pale moonlight spilling across the upper landing. Shangjue returned the look just as briefly, calm and composed as always.

It was not long before another group appeared ascending toward the upper grounds.

Several guards emerged first, their lanterns casting shifting light across the stone steps as they moved quickly through the darkness below. At their center walked Gong Ziyu, a dark outer cloak thrown hastily over lighter night robes, his hair only partially secured compared to his usual formal appearance.

The moment he reached the upper landing, his attention moved immediately toward the guards accompanying him.

“You six,” Ziyu ordered without pause, gesturing toward the lower paths branching away from the main residence. “Go to the Ladies’ Estate and reinforce the guards stationed there. The escort returning here will have left the remaining women with too few men protecting them.”

The guards bowed immediately before turning back down the mountain paths without hesitation.

Only once the orders had been carried out did Ziyu finally step beside Shangjue and Yuanzhi near the edge of the stone landing.

For a few moments, all three men faced the darkness below in silence.

“Do we know who fell?” Ziyu asked quietly at last.

Yuanzhi’s expression did not shift. “No.”

The answer had barely settled between them before distant voices suddenly rose from somewhere farther below. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps and hurried movement carrying upward through the mountain paths.

The answer had barely settled between them before distant voices suddenly rose from somewhere farther below. Then came the sound of hurried movement carrying upward through the mountain paths, disturbing the tense stillness that had settled across the upper grounds.

A small group soon emerged from the darkness below.

Two guards moved ahead quickly up the incline while another followed close behind carrying an unconscious figure within his arms. Water dripped steadily from the soaked fabric clinging heavily to the woman’s body, leaving a dark trail across the stone beneath their feet as they climbed.

Someone had wrapped a dark cloak hastily around her shoulders during the return, though it did little against the cold mountain wind cutting through the upper grounds. The heavy fabric had been pulled high enough to obscure most of her face from view as the guards made their way up the final incline toward the three men waiting above.

The guard carrying her was breathing noticeably heavier now, strained from both the steep climb and the weight held carefully within his arms. As he adjusted his hold near the top of the landing, the edge of the cloak shifted slightly.

Yuanzhi’s gaze fixed upon the unconscious girl almost immediately.

Y/N.

Dark wet hair clung faintly against her cheek, droplets still caught along the strands, while the cold had drained most of the color from her lips beneath her pale skin. The sight of her remaining motionless in the freezing night air made something tighten sharply beneath Yuanzhi’s ribs before he forced it back down almost at once.

“Take her to the infirmary,” Yuanzhi ordered sharply. “Now.”

The guard bowed quickly before continuing past them without hesitation. The remaining two guards dropped immediately to one knee.

His expression remained calm and unreadable as always, though his gaze had sharpened slightly upon the kneeling guards before him.

“What happened?” Shangjue demanded.

The first guard lowered his head further at the question.

“We were escorting the women back toward the Ladies’ Estate, Young Master,” he explained evenly. “The group had nearly arrived by then. The women were walking together ahead of us while we followed farther behind along the path.” He paused briefly before continuing. “The lady was near the back of the group beside another young woman when it happened.”

“It was dark,” the second guard added carefully. “We couldn’t see that clearly from where we were positioned. We only saw Miss Han suddenly stumble toward the side of the hill before falling down into the river below.”

The first guard swallowed. “By the time we reached the water, she was already unconscious.”

A brief silence followed the explanation.

The cold wind moved quietly through the upper grounds, stirring the edges of dark robes beneath the open night sky.

Then Ziyu spoke. “Who was the other young lady?”

The two guards exchanged a brief glance between themselves.

One frowned slightly, visibly trying to recall the scene more clearly. “I believe it was Miss Mei,” he answered after a moment. “Though I cannot say so with complete certainty, Sword Wielder.”

A brief silence followed the name.

Yuanzhi’s gaze lifted immediately toward Shangjue, while beside them Ziyu’s expression sharpened slightly as the implication settled between the three men without needing to be spoken aloud.

Farther within the residence, movement still continued near the infirmary. Maids disappeared quickly through the open doors carrying basins and fresh linens inside while guards remained stationed outside, none daring to enter without instruction. A moment later, Yuanzhi spotted Physician Xu being hurried inside as well, robes shifting quickly as maids moved aside to let him pass.

His expression darkened slightly at the thought.

At first, Yuanzhi had assumed it was nothing more than an unfortunate fall in the dark. But now, knowing Mei had apparently been beside Y/N when it happened, the situation no longer sat right with him.

Had Y/N truly stumbled on her own?

Or had she been pushed down the hillside into the river below?

Beside him, Shangjue watched the shift in his expression for only a moment before speaking calmly.

“Go.”

Yuanzhi glanced toward him.

“I’ll go with Ziyu to the Ladies’ Estate,” Shangjue continued evenly. “We’ll investigate what happened there.”

Ziyu gave a small nod beside him, his earlier calm now replaced by visible seriousness as his gaze shifted briefly toward the dark paths leading back down the mountain.

Yuanzhi lingered only a moment longer before turning toward the infirmary, disappearing deeper into the residence without another word.

Warmth met Yuanzhi the moment he stepped inside the infirmary, carrying with it the sharp scent of crushed herbs and burning charcoal from the braziers glowing throughout the chamber.

Near the center of the chamber, a sheer embroidered screen had been drawn around the bed while soft movement continued behind the pale fabric as the maids worked quickly to change Y/N out of her soaked clothing.

Yuanzhi’s gaze shifted toward the screen only briefly before he looked away almost immediately, expression tightening faintly as he instead approached Physician Xu waiting nearby.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Physician Xu,” he said.

The older man bowed respectfully at once. “Young Master may call for my assistance at any time.”

Physician Xu lowered his voice slightly afterward, glancing briefly toward the screen behind them.

“I was only able to check the young lady’s pulse briefly before the maids began changing her clothes,” he explained carefully. “But it did not feel entirely regular.”

Yuanzhi’s gaze lowered slightly at the words, his thoughts immediately turning over the implication beneath them.

“She had been exposed to the river cold for too long,” the physician continued. “It was more important to warm her body and remove the wet clothing immediately.”

Yuanzhi gave a short nod in understanding.

For a few moments afterward, neither man spoke while the quiet sounds of movement continued behind the screen.

Then finally, one of the maids spoke softly from the other side.

“It is done.”

Only then did Yuanzhi and Physician Xu step forward toward the bed.

Y/N lay beneath layered blankets near the warmth of the glowing braziers, her dark hair still slightly damp where it spread loosely against the pillow beneath her. Candlelight softened the paleness lingering across her features, though the faint bluish tint that had touched her lips earlier had not entirely disappeared yet.

Without wasting another moment, he reached for her wrist.

Beside him, Physician Xu did the same with her other hand, the older physician’s long white hair slipping slightly forward over his shoulder as he focused carefully upon her pulse once again.

Silence settled throughout the infirmary.

The maids had withdrawn respectfully toward the edges of the chamber now, leaving them space to examine her properly without interruption.

Finally, Physician Xu exhaled quietly.

“It’s still weak,” he murmured. “And irregular.”His pale gaze lifted briefly toward Yuanzhi.“What does Young Master think?”

Yuanzhi remained quiet for a moment longer, fingers still resting lightly against Y/N’s wrist while he studied the uneven rhythm beneath her skin.

“This does not feel like simple exhaustion,” he said at last.

Physician Xu gave a slow nod beside him, clearly in agreement.

Yuanzhi released her wrist carefully afterward, his attention shifting across her face beneath the candlelight. He searched for anything that felt unnatural. Any sign her condition had been caused by something beyond the cold river and the fall.

Yuanzhi rolled her sleeve carefully farther up her forearm, preparing to lower it again when something caught his attention.

His hand stilled immediately.

Near the outer side of her forearm sat a small circular mark against her skin, faintly discolored beneath the candlelight. Too clean to have come from falling down a hillside. Too deliberate.

For a brief moment, Yuanzhi simply stared at it in silence. Whatever lingering doubt had remained in his mind vanished almost instantly.

Physician Xu noticed the shift in Yuanzhi’s expression almost immediately as he noticed the mark as well. He straightened from the bedside at once, already knowing from experience what would follow next. Yuanzhi’s knowledge of poisons far surpassed his own in certain areas, especially when it came to identifying compounds designed to leave behind as little trace as possible. The physician had long since learned not to interfere once Yuanzhi entered this state of cold concentration.

Without wasting another moment, Yuanzhi reached for the small blade concealed within his sleeve. Carefully, he made a shallow cut near the puncture wound along Y/N’s forearm, just enough for darkened blood to surface slowly against her skin.

Then Yuanzhi turned the blade toward himself.

The edge sliced lightly across his own skin using the same bloodied knife.

One of the maids visibly startled at the sight before quickly lowering her gaze again, though no one dared speak.

Yuanzhi had spent years learning poisons through direct exposure, forcing himself to understand their effects by experiencing them firsthand. Symptoms. Timing. Paralysis. Pain. Hallucinations. It was dangerous knowledge earned through methods few people would willingly endure.

Yuanzhi set the blade aside afterward, his expression remaining unreadable as he waited for the poison to take effect within his own body.

Physician Xu waited patiently nearby as the moments stretched on.

Yuanzhi’s brows drew together faintly first, recognition settling across his features almost immediately afterward.

He looked up toward Physician Xu. “Bring powdered qinglan root and two measures of dried suhe leaves,” he instructed calmly. “Boil them together immediately. Add crushed silver orchid once the water darkens.”

Physician Xu moved at once.

The older men crossed quickly toward the medicine shelves lining the far wall, already gathering the necessary herbs without needing the instructions repeated. Only after he stepped away did Yuanzhi lower his attention back toward Y/N.

He quietly reached into his sleeve and pulled out his handkerchief before carefully wiping away the remaining blood along her forearm, his movements slower now than before. Once the mark had been cleaned properly, Yuanzhi let her sleeve fall gently back into place beneath the blankets. For a brief moment afterward, he simply looked at her.

Strands of dark hair still clung faintly against her forehead from the earlier dampness despite the efforts to dry it. Without thinking much about it, Yuanzhi lifted his hand and brushed them back carefully away from her cold skin. His fingers lingered only briefly before withdrawing again.

The quiet stillness within the infirmary lasted another moment before he finally spoke, his voice calm despite the tension that had settled heavily throughout the chamber.

“You may leave us.”

The maids bowed immediately at the dismissal, beginning to gather the Y/N’s used cloths.

“And send one of the guards stationed outside inside,” Yuanzhi added without looking away from Y/N.

“Yes, Young Master.”

Only a moment later, another figure entered.

One of the guards stepped inside before stopping several paces away from the bed. He bowed properly at once, hands clasped respectfully before him in formal greeting.

“Young Master Yuanzhi.”

“Go inform the Sword Wielder that Lady Han was poisoned,” Yuanzhi instructed, wasting no time.

The guard visibly stiffened at the words despite himself, surprise flashing briefly across his expression before discipline returned almost immediately.

Yuanzhi continued before the man could speak. “Tell them to bring back the young lady who was beside her at the time of the incident.”

“Yes, Young Master.”

The guard bowed deeply once more before turning quickly and disappearing from the infirmary to carry out the order.

Several quiet minutes passed afterward.

Yuanzhi remained seated beside Y/N while the warmth beneath his skin slowly worsened, the poison continuing its gradual spread through his body. He recognized the feeling immediately. The faint heat settling through his chest and limbs. The growing tightness beneath his ribs.

Years of repeated exposure had altered his tolerance long ago, allowing certain poisons to affect him slower than they would most people.

The physician approached once the medicine had finished brewing and lowered himself beside the bed, two steaming bowls balanced carefully in his hands. He set one upon the ground near his feet as the bitter scent of the medicinal concoction slowly spread through the room, curling into the air with the rising steam.

“Young Master,” Physician Xu said, gesturing toward Y/N. “Please support her head so I can give her the remedy.”

Without hesitation, Yuanzhi slipped one arm carefully behind Y/N’s shoulders before lifting her upright against him.

Most of her weight settled naturally against his chest as Yuanzhi adjusted his grip slightly, one hand moving to steady the back of her neck while Physician Xu lifted the spoon toward her lips.

Neither man spoke during the process.

Only once the bowl had finally emptied did Physician Xu lower it again.

Yuanzhi carefully eased Y/N back against the bedding afterward, lowering her slowly before pulling the blankets securely back around her shoulders.

Then, Physician Xu handed him the second bowl. Yuanzhi accepted it without hesitation and drank the bitter remedy quickly before setting the empty bowl back down beside the bed.

“Angel Wings.” The physician confirmed slowly. “Smart.”

Yuanzhi exhaled quietly at the name.

One of the ingredients stolen earlier from the Gong medical cabinets had been moonvine extract, harmless by itself in small quantities, but combined with crowleaf and crushed white aconite…

The result became something far more dangerous.

The Angel Wings poison had been designed to work steadily through the body over the course of roughly an hour, though in some cases it could take as long as two. It gradually weakened the pulse and slowed the breathing before eventually causing complete collapse followed by organ failure. The poison was favored by some assassins because it did not kill quickly enough to draw immediate suspicion, allowing them time to distance themselves from the victim, yet it progressed fast enough that the true cause of the victim’s sudden illness was rarely investigated thoroughly before death followed. Inexperienced caretakers often failed to recognize it, as the symptoms could easily be mistaken for severe pneumonia or complications of the heart instead.

Physician Xu reached for the damp cloth resting beside the basin and gently wiped the moisture from Y/N’s brow. Even unconscious, she frowned faintly at the touch. “The cold water likely accelerated the poison’s effects,” he said quietly.

Yuanzhi’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Without speaking, he reached back toward Y/N and rested his fingers carefully against her wrist once more, the faint warmth gradually returning beneath her skin enough to ease some of the tension that had remained within him until now.

Physician Xu lowered his gaze briefly toward the unconscious girl resting beneath the blankets. “Thanks to your quick actions, the antidote was administered in time before the poison spread too far,” he said calmly. “You may leave her in my care for the remainder of the night, Master Yuanzhi. Until the poison is fully neutralized by her body, it will likely take some time before she wakes. I will personally continue monitoring her condition while you are away.”

Yuanzhi remained silent awhile longer, his fingers still resting lightly against Y/N’s wrist as though confirming the steadier rhythm for himself. Only after several more breaths passed did he finally release her hand.

“If her pulse weakens again or there is any change in her condition, send for me immediately,” Yuanzhi said evenly as he rose from the bedside.

Physician Xu inclined his head respectfully. “Of course, Young Master.”

Yuanzhi remained beside the bed for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on Y/N’s pale, unmoving figure before he finally forced himself to turn away. He left the infirmary without another word, the doors sliding shut softly behind him.

˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖

The interrogation chamber sat apart from the main residence deeper within the lower grounds of the Gong territory, built from dark stone and iron far from the warmth and comfort of the family halls above. The structure itself resembled more of a secured holding prison than an ordinary room, its thick walls designed to contain dangerous prisoners and secrets alike.

Inside, the chamber remained dimly lit, the glow from several hanging lanterns barely enough to push back the darkness gathering along the corners of the room. Iron bars cast long shadows across the stone floor while the faint scent of metal, herbs, and old smoke lingered quietly through the cold air.

Yuanzhi stood near one of the side tables in complete silence.

His movements remained calm.

Almost disturbingly so.

One by one, he arranged the items spread across the wooden surface with meticulous precision, adjusting their positions without the slightest hint of hurry. Small bowls of crushed herbs. Folded cloths. A single polished knife resting neatly beside a dark handkerchief. Near the edge of the table sat a freshly prepared pot of tea, faint steam still rising from it beneath the lantern glow.

To anyone unfamiliar with him, the scene might have appeared almost orderly.

To those who knew Gong Yuanzhi well, the calmness was far more unsettling.

The lingering warmth from the poison still sat faintly beneath his skin despite the antidote, though not enough to dull the cold focus settled across his expression now.

A heavy metallic sound echoed through the chamber as the outer door finally opened.

Yuanzhi did not immediately look up.

Footsteps crossed the stone floor a moment later before Gong Ziyu entered first, the colder air from outside following briefly behind him before the iron door shut once more.

For a moment, Ziyu simply watched Yuanzhi silently from across the chamber.

Then he spoke.

“How is Lady Y/N faring?”

Only then did Yuanzhi finally pause.

A quiet breath left him before he lifted his gaze briefly toward Ziyu.

“She is still alive,” he answered evenly. “If that is what you were wondering.”

Ziyu gave him a look at the response, the faint disapproval obvious despite the exhaustion lingering across his own expression after the long night. Still, he chose not to comment on it.

Instead, his attention shifted toward the items spread carefully across the table.

“Do you know what poison was used?”

This time, Yuanzhi turned fully toward him.

“Angel Wings.”

Recognition crossed Ziyu’s expression almost immediately at the name. He shifted slightly where he stood, tension settling more visibly through his posture now as the full implication of the answer settled between them.

For a brief moment, silence returned to the chamber.

Then Ziyu finally spoke again.

“Miss Mei admitted she was beside Lady Y/N during the walk back to the estate,” he said carefully. “But she claims she knows nothing beyond the fact that Lady Y/N suddenly collapsed before falling. Shangjue will bring her here soon.”

Yuanzhi looked at him.

Not a word.

Just a long, unreadable stare that made the explanation itself sound ridiculous the longer the silence stretched between them.

Ziyu exhaled quietly through his nose afterward.

“We informed her that she would need to answer further questions back at the residence since all incidents involving the selected brides must be properly recorded and investigated within the Gong family.” His tone paused slightly afterward before adding, “We told her not to worry too much for now.”

For the first time since entering the chamber, the corner of Yuanzhi’s mouth lifted faintly.

The smile itself was small, but there was absolutely nothing warm about it.

Ziyu noticed immediately.

His brows pulled together slightly as he watched the colder amusement settle across Yuanzhi’s expression. “We still do not know for certain that Miss Mei is responsible,” he reminded carefully. “Suspicion alone is not proof.”

Yuanzhi’s gaze remained fixed upon him for a moment longer before drifting back toward the table beside him.

“No,” he agreed calmly. “But if she is hiding something… I can make her confess.”

The quiet certainty in his voice sent an uncomfortable silence through the chamber afterward.

Ziyu nodded slowly at the answer, though the reluctance lingering across his expression remained obvious.

For all his disagreements with Yuanzhi’s methods, he trusted his instincts. Few people within the Gong family understood deception, poison, and hidden intent better than Gong Yuanzhi did.

Even so, Ziyu still spoke carefully afterward.

“I trust your judgment,” he admitted. “And your skills.” His gaze shifted briefly toward the dim chamber surrounding them before returning to Yuanzhi once more. “But you should still consider the possibility that she may be innocent. If that is the case, her family will not remain silent if they learn she was brought here and subjected to interrogation.”

“Her identity became questionable the moment inconsistencies appeared in her answers earlier this evening,” Yuanzhi replied evenly at last. “And what happened tonight only proves that waiting for the portraits results to verify the girl’s identity is no longer an option.” As he spoke, his fingers adjusted one of the knife resting upon the table almost absentmindedly, the controlled movement somehow making the quietness in his voice feel even colder.

“We were fortunate tonight,” Yuanzhi continued. “Miss Y/N could have died.” Yuanzhi finally lifted his gaze fully toward Ziyu again, the calm certainty within his expression never once wavering. “We cannot afford to sit back and wait while Wufeng moves freely inside our territory,” he said calmly. “The families allied with the Gong residence were given the opportunity to refuse the invitation to the bridal selection from the beginning. They know exactly what kind of family we are, and if they still chose to send their daughters and granddaughters here despite the risks, then they already accepted the possibility of what could happen once they entered Gong territory.”

Ziyu remained quiet for a moment after hearing the explanation, the lanternlight catching faintly across the tension lingering within his expression. “I understand that,” he admitted at last.

But that still does not give us free rein to do whatever we please.” His voice remained calm, though firmer now. “These women entered the Gong residence as guests. While they remain here, we also carry responsibility toward them to ensure they are treated as such.”

Yuanzhi’s attention lowered briefly toward the table beside him before he answered. “That is assuming they truly are guests at all,” he said slowly.

Ziyu exhaled quietly through his nose afterward. “Until we have proof,” Ziyu continued, “they are still guests of the Gong family.” His gaze held steadily upon Yuanzhi now. “So find proof first. Once you do, no one will question your methods afterward if backlash comes from it.”

The corner of Yuanzhi’s mouth lifted faintly again at that.

“I will gladly take the blame,” he replied calmly. “My reputation within the martial world was never particularly admirable to begin with.”

Before Ziyu could answer back, a heavy metallic sound echoed through the chamber as the iron door opened once more.

Miss Mei stepped into the chamber first, her frightened gaze moving uneasily through the dim room while traces of distress still lingered across her expression. A step behind her came Shangjue, one hand rested lightly behind his back while the other remained free at his side, his attention never once straying fully from the young woman

The woman’s steps slowed almost immediately after crossing the threshold, unease flashing visibly across her face as her gaze settled upon the two men already waiting inside the chamber.

She bowed deeply at once.

“Master Yuanzhi. Sword Wielder,” she greeted softly, though the slight trembling within her voice betrayed her nerves almost immediately.

Yuanzhi’s expression remained calm as he watched her.

“I apologize for keeping you awake so late, Miss Mei,” he said evenly. “But what happened tonight is a serious matter and must be addressed properly.”

Mei lowered her gaze quickly. “I understand,” she replied quietly. “And I will do anything I can to help. But like I explained earlier… I truly do not know very much.”

Yuanzhi gave a small nod at that, his demeanor remaining surprisingly composed. “I am sure you understand these procedures are necessary.”

“Of course,” she answered softly.

Only then did Yuanzhi gesture toward the single chair positioned near the center of the chamber.

“Please. Sit.”

Miss Mei hesitated only briefly before obeying, lowering herself slowly into the chair. Up close, the exhaustion from the evening seemed more noticeable now beneath the lanternlight.

Then Shangjue finally spoke.

“I gathered statements from the guards and the other selected ladies who were present during the incident,” he said calmly. “It appears no one clearly witnessed what happened. Most only heard a scream before turning in time to see Lady Han fall into the river below.”

He paused briefly afterward. “Multiple witnesses confirmed that Miss Mei was walking beside her at the time.”

Mei straightened slightly within her chair at once, sadness flashing visibly across her expression. “I was beside her,” she admitted quickly. “But she suddenly collapsed. Everything happened so fast… there was nothing I could do.”

Yuanzhi folded his arms loosely across his chest, his expression sympathetic. “Of course. We understand you were simply unfortunate enough to be beside her when it happened.” His gaze lingered upon her quietly a moment longer before he continued. “But did you notice anything unusual before she fell?”

Miss Mei shook her head immediately, her eyes already beginning to glisten with unshed tears. “It was dark,” she said softly. “And everything happened so quickly. I am sorry… I wish I could be more helpful.”

She sniffed quietly before looking back toward them again, genuine worry seemingly settling across her features now. “Will Lady Y/N be alright?” she asked softly. “I have been so worried about her that my stomach has felt unsettled ever since.”

Yuanzhi did not answer her immediately. Instead, his gaze dropped briefly before shifting away from her altogether, as though avoiding the answer entirely.

Near the back of the chamber, Shangjue and Ziyu remained silent now, both clearly allowing Yuanzhi to guide the conversation without interference.

After a moment, Yuanzhi spoke again. “Did Lady Y/N speak much during the walk back toward the Ladies’ Estate?”

Mei nodded faintly, still visibly emotional.

“Yes… we spoke a little.”

“What about?”

Her gaze lowered toward her hands resting within her lap. “Mostly about the evening,” she answered quietly. “Everyone had been discussing it earlier…”

Yuanzhi nodded once. “And how did Lady Y/N appear during that time?”

Miss Mei sniffed softly again before answering. “She seemed alright at first.” A faint sadness crossed her expression. “She even mentioned wanting to visit the firefly festival in my hometown someday…” Her voice trailed off slightly afterward…Then something seemed to shift faintly across her face, almost like sudden realization.

“But…”

Yuanzhi’s eyes lifted immediately.

“Well… now that I think about it,” she admitted quietly, “during the walk back she kept mentioning how tired she was. I remember thinking she looked somewhat pale as well.”

Yuanzhi remained silent, allowing her to continue.

“She stumbled a few times along the path too,” Mei added softly. “At first I assumed it was only because of the darkness and uneven ground, but now…” Her gaze lowered briefly toward her hands. “Perhaps she had already been unwell before the fall.”

Yuanzhi’s gaze sharpened slightly with interest. “So she already felt unwell beforehand.”

Miss Mei nodded weakly. “She insisted she was fine,” she whispered. “I believed her until she fell.” Tears finally slipped down her face as she looked back toward him once more. “Is she alright?”

A quiet silence followed afterward.

Yuanzhi said nothing immediately, though his eyes remained resting upon her a moment longer than before while Mei sat within the chair appearing visibly distressed, her fingers tightening faintly together within her lap.

“Please tell me, Master Yuanzhi…” Mei’s voice faltered into something smaller, almost pleading now.

His lips pressed together faintly.

For the briefest instant, his gaze flickered toward his brother across the room. Nothing was spoken between them, yet something passed there all the same. A quiet understanding. A decision already made.

Only then did Yuanzhi speak.

“Perhaps your explanation helped us understand the situation better,” he said quietly. “The physicians initially struggled to determine what caused her condition, but if Lady Han had already been weakened beforehand like you described, then the freezing river likely worsened things significantly.” His expression remained unreadable as he spoke. “She died in the guards’ arms before reaching the residence.”

The reaction was immediate.

Mei’s reaction came instantly. Her hands flew upward to cover her face completely as tears spilled freely down her cheeks, soft broken sobs escaping her almost immediately. Yet beneath the crying, the tension that had remained tightly wound through her shoulders since entering the chamber seemed to loosen ever so slightly before disappearing again.

Near the back of the chamber, both Shangjue and Ziyu remained silent, though the subtle shift did not escape either of them. Shangjue’s expression stayed unreadable as always, while Ziyu’s gaze lingered more carefully upon the crying young woman now, something more thoughtful settling behind his eyes.

For several long moments, the only sound filling the chamber came from Mei’s quiet crying, the grief she displayed convincing enough that most people likely would have softened at the sight.

Yuanzhi simply watched her in silence before eventually exhaling quietly through his nose. “I am sorry, Miss Mei,” he said, his tone noticeably calmer now than earlier. “I understand this must be difficult to hear. Lady Han was your friend.”

The sobbing behind her hands seemed to lessen slightly at the words.

Yuanzhi’s gaze lingered upon her another moment before he finally reached into his sleeve and withdrew a folded handkerchief.

“Here,” he said quietly, offering it toward her.

Mei hesitated only briefly before accepting it with trembling hands, clearly too distressed to pay much attention to the cloth itself before pressing it quickly against her eyes.

Without another comment, Yuanzhi turned away from her afterward and walked back toward the side table near the wall where the untouched pot of tea still rested beneath the dim lanternlight. Thin wisps of steam no longer rose as strongly from it now, though the liquid inside remained warm as he calmly poured tea into one of the waiting cups.

Instead, he turned calmly back toward the nearby table and poured tea into one of the waiting cups while Mei continued wiping at her face quietly behind him.

Neither Shangjue nor Ziyu interrupted.

The chamber remained heavy with silence as Yuanzhi lifted the cup and crossed back toward her once more. “Drink something,” he said.

Mei slowly lowered the cloth from her face and looked up at him through reddened eyes before giving a weak shake of her head. “I…” Her voice caught slightly from crying. “I do not think I could stomach anything right now.”

Yuanzhi paused briefly at the response, then his gaze lowered toward the handkerchief still clenched within her hands.

“Oh,” he said lightly. “My mistake. I gave you a used one.”

Mei frowned faintly before finally looking down herself. Faint brownish-red stains streaked across parts of the handkerchief now where her tears had dampened it, the marks unmistakably resembling dried blood.

For a brief moment, she only stared at it in confusion.

“The physicians attempted to draw blood from Lady Han earlier,” Yuanzhi explained calmly. “I must have grabbed it by mistake.”

The effect was immediate.

The color drained rapidly from Mei’s face as the handkerchief slipped abruptly from her fingers onto the stone floor below. For the first time since entering the chamber, the composure she had maintained so carefully seemed to crack visibly.

Her breathing turned uneven almost immediately afterward as she quickly wiped at her eyes again using her sleeve instead, as though suddenly desperate to remove any remaining traces from her skin.

Across the chamber, the subtle shift did not go unnoticed. Ziyu’s brows furrowed slightly at the reaction, something about the sudden panic clearly striking him as excessive. Shangjue remained silent as always, though his gaze rested steadily upon Mei now with sharpened attention.

Meanwhile, Yuanzhi himself remained perfectly calm.

“There is no reason to panic,” he reassured gently. “It is only a little blood.”

Mei swallowed visibly. “…Blood from a dead person,” she whispered back quickly, though the slight instability in her voice betrayed her rising panic almost immediately afterward.

Yuanzhi tilted his head slightly. “You will be fine,” he said calmly.

For a brief moment, Mei seemed to force herself to steady her breathing again before slowly rising from the chair.

“I…” She lowered her gaze. “If there is nothing else, then perhaps I should return for the evening.” Her voice softened further. “I would like some time alone to grieve my friend.”

A quiet silence settled throughout the chamber after the request.

Yuanzhi looked at her for a moment before the corner of his mouth lifted faintly, the expression polite enough on the surface that most people may have mistaken it for reassurance. Yet something colder lingered quietly beneath it.

“I would prefer if you remained here a little longer,” he said evenly. “After all, if Lady Y/N truly carried some form of illness before her death, then it is entirely possible she may have passed it on to you as well.”

The words seemed to drain what little color remained from Mei’s face. For a brief moment, she stood completely still before forcing herself to steady her breathing again.

“I understand,” she said softly, though her voice still sounded strained. “But perhaps it would be better if I remained confined within my room at the Ladies’ Estate instead.” Her hands tightened faintly within her sleeves before she glanced uneasily around the stone chamber surrounding them. “The air inside this chamber is very humid,” she admitted quietly. “I am not accustomed to environments like this.”

A quiet silence followed afterward.

Then Shangjue spoke. “Oh, right,” he said calmly. “You mentioned earlier that you came from Yunhe.”

Mei nodded quickly in agreement, though the unease lingering across her face remained obvious now.

“Yes.”

Shangjue’s expression did not shift. “I remember telling you this evening that I visited there once,” he continued evenly. “It was very beautiful.”

Some of the tension in Mei’s posture seemed to loosen slightly at the familiar topic.

“Thank you,” she replied softly. “It is a very charming town.”

Only then did Ziyu suddenly look toward Shangjue with a slight furrow between his brows. “But you mentioned something incorrectly earlier, did you not?” he asked.

Shangjue’s gaze shifted toward him calmly.

Ziyu rested a hand briefly against his shoulder while continuing, “You said Yunhe’s climate was dry… but isn’t it the complete opposite? That region is known for its mountain fog and heavy moisture because of the surrounding waterways.”

Shangjue gave a small nod, almost thoughtful. “That was my mistake,” he admitted quietly. His eyes returned to Mei.

“Miss Mei,” he asked calmly, “why did you not correct me earlier?”

Mei blinked several times at the sudden question before lowering her gaze quickly toward the floor, her teeth catching lightly against her lower lip.

“I… I simply did not wish to appear rude by contradicting you, Master Shangjue.”

Yuanzhi crossed his arms loosely at the exchange, his expression settling into something almost thoughtful as his gaze lingered quietly upon Mei. “How considerate of you,” he said softly, though whether the words were genuine or mocking was difficult to tell beneath the calmness in his voice.

His eyes drifted briefly around the stone chamber afterward before returning to her once more.

“But now I am somewhat confused,” Yuanzhi continued evenly. “Moments ago, you claimed you were unaccustomed to humid environments because of Yunhe’s dry air. But turns out Yunhe is actually known for being a very moist region.” A faint pause followed before the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “So if I understand correctly, then there should be no problem with you remaining here a few more hours until we clear you of any possible illness.”

Mei swallowed hard. Her gaze flickered briefly between the three men standing before her. “I…” Her voice faltered slightly before she forced herself to continue. “Perhaps I misspoke earlier.”

“Mm.” Yuanzhi gave a small nod as though the explanation made perfect sense. “That happens often when people are nervous.”

For a moment, Mei seemed to relax slightly at the response.

Yuanzhi watched her quietly before moving closer at an unhurried pace, stopping directly in front of where she stood beside the chair. Then, slowly, he leaned down slightly until his face sat nearly level with hers, forcing her to properly meet his gaze at close distance.

“You must have also been terribly nervous earlier this evening,” he said softly, “when you mentioned that the firefly festival in Yunhe takes place during spring instead of autumn.”

The relief that had just begun settling across Mei’s expression disappeared immediately.

She froze.

For one sharp instant, something flashed through her eyes.

Not fear.

Calculation.

Yuanzhi reacted almost immediately.

The movement came so suddenly it barely registered at first beneath the lanternlight as Mei’s hand slipped into her sleeve and a narrow blade flashed free toward his throat.

At the same moment, the chamber erupted into motion.

Ziyu surged forward while somewhere behind him the sharp metallic sound of a sword unsheathing cut violently through the silence.

But Yuanzhi moved first.

His hand caught Mei’s wrist before the blade could fully swing toward him, twisting sharply enough to force the knife off course as the two collided hard against the nearby table. Ceramic bowls crashed loudly onto the ground around them while Mei fought viciously beneath his grip, the calm frightened demeanor from earlier disappearing entirely.

Yuanzhi forced her arm downward while Ziyu grabbed hold of her other wrist to stop her from reaching for another hidden weapon. Even restrained, Mei struggled fiercely against them, her movements fast and precise in ways no ordinary noblewoman should have been capable of.

“Careful,” Shangjue warned sharply as he stepped beside them, sword already drawn. “She may still have more hidden blades.”

Mei twisted violently again, nearly wrenching herself free before Shangjue seized hold of her shoulder and slammed her hard enough against the stone pillar nearby to finally break her balance.

Together, the three men dragged her forcefully across the chamber toward the far side of the room where a pair of iron restraints hung suspended from heavy chains overhead. Mei fought them the entire way, her shoes scraping harshly against the stone floor while the chains above rattled loudly the moment the iron cuffs finally snapped shut around her wrists.

Only then did the struggle stop.

For several long seconds afterward, Mei remained where she was beneath the restraints, breathing heavily from exertion while loose strands of dark hair clung against her face and neck. The rise and fall of her chest had become uneven now beneath the strain of the fight, though the defiance lingering within her expression remained entirely untouched.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

The frightened grief from earlier had vanished completely.

No trembling tears remained. No soft voice. No frightened noblewoman cornered inside an interrogation chamber.

What stared back at them now felt entirely different.

Anger lingered sharply within her gaze, cold and cutting beneath the dim lanternlight. Yet beneath even that, something else flickered quietly across her face afterward.

Amusement.

A faint laugh escaped her suddenly, breathless from the struggle yet unmistakably genuine all the same. The sound echoed strangely throughout the stone chamber, sharp enough that even Ziyu’s expression hardened visibly at once.

Meanwhile, Yuanzhi simply stood before her in silence.

Mei exhaled quietly through her nose and tilted her head slightly upward. “I only had a week to prepare this role,” she said flatly. “I suppose this part is my fault.”

There was no sadness within her voice. No fear either. If anything, she sounded irritated more than anything else, as though being discovered had merely become an inconvenience rather than a genuine defeat.

Shangjue continued watching her steadily from where he stood nearby, the sword still unsheathed loosely at his side. “What happened to the real Miss Mei?” he asked calmly.

At that, Mei rolled her eyes faintly beneath the restraints, the movement almost bored despite the chains binding her overhead.

“Dead in a ditch somewhere by now,” she replied carelessly. “Perhaps some wild animal already ate her.”

Near the side of the room, Ziyu lowered his gaze briefly at the response, his jaw tightening faintly. The revelation itself no longer surprised him after what they had already uncovered tonight, but hearing another young woman’s death spoken about with such cold indifference still left an unpleasant heaviness settling through the air all the same.

Across from her, Yuanzhi regarded her with open disdain now, whatever trace of civility he had worn earlier long since abandoned.

“It must have been frustrating once the portrait verification was announced,” he said evenly after a moment. “You knew you had very little time left before your identity was exposed.”

The chains above Mei’s wrists swayed faintly as she shifted beneath them. Then suddenly, she spat toward Yuanzhi’s feet. Yuanzhi did not so much as glance downward.

The timid young woman from before had vanished completely as well. No trace of the shy noble lady remained anymore. What remained instead felt sharp and openly hostile, the irritation in her expression no longer hidden beneath false tears and lowered eyes.

“Your real face is much uglier than the one you arrived with,” Yuanzhi remarked coldly.

A sharp laugh escaped Mei through her nose afterward.

“You Gong men truly enjoy pretending you’re smarter than everyone else,” she said bitterly. “But tell me something…” Her eyes lifted coldly toward the three of them. “How exactly are you planning to explain to that girl’s family that the great Gong family allowed a Wufeng spy to murder their daughter under your protection?”

Then suddenly, her expression shifted into something softer. Mockingly so.

“How terrible for the beloved General Han,” she said in an almost sympathetic voice that sounded far too artificial to be genuine. “First his wife… and now his only daughter.” A faint smile slowly pulled at the corner of her mouth. “The public will be enraged.”

Shangjue’s gaze rested steadily upon her. “So that was your intention from the beginning?” he asked calmly. “To befriend Lady Han and poison her in order to turn public opinion against the Gong family.”

Mei let out another quiet laugh through her nose.

“It became obvious very quickly that I would never actually be chosen as a bride,” she replied carelessly. “So I needed to find another use for my position here. And what better way is there to weaken the Gong family than attacking the very thing that keeps the outside world fearful of you?” Her eyes moved slowly between the three men afterward. “Your authority. Your control. Your reputation for protecting what belongs to you.”

A cruel satisfaction settled across her expression now. “ The mighty Gong family cannot even keep a young woman alive under their own protection.” She tilted her head slightly. “People would remember that.”

“But why Lady Han specifically?” Ziyu finally asked. “Her background is respectable, yes, but there are other women here with even greater political influence.” His gaze remained fixed steadily upon her. “Daughters connected directly to high-ranking government officials. Provincial governors. Powerful court families.” A faint crease formed between his brows. “If your intention was truly to create the greatest possible backlash against the Gong family, then why not target one of them instead?”

Mei remained quiet for a moment after Ziyu’s question, her gaze lingering upon him thoughtfully while the chamber fell silent once more. Then slowly, her eyes shifted toward Yuanzhi instead. “If I had gone after Miss Liuyun instead,” she asked softly, “would you have cared nearly this much?” Her head tilted slightly afterward, studying him openly now. “Probably not.”

The amusement within her expression deepened faintly. “Everyone inside that hall tonight could tell you could barely tolerate the girl’s presence.” A quiet breath of laughter escaped her afterward. “But Lady Y/N…” Her gaze lingered on him another moment, something more thoughtful settling briefly across her face now. “I admit, Young Master Yuanzhi… your attentiveness toward her this evening surprised me.”

Yuanzhi crossed his arms loosely at the remark, his gaze remaining steady on her as though he could already see exactly what she was attempting to do.

“Trying to provoke me now will not improve your situation,” he said calmly.

For a moment, Mei simply stared back at him beneath the restraints, the earlier mockery within her expression slowly giving way to something more restrained.

“It hardly matters anymore,” she replied carelessly. “I can already feel the poison spreading.” Her head tilted slightly afterward. “I will admit, though… the handkerchief was clever.”

For the first time since the confrontation began, the corner of Yuanzhi’s mouth curved faintly upward. “Do not celebrate too soon,” he replied softly.

Something unreadable flickered briefly across Mei’s expression at the response.

Without another word, Yuanzhi turned away from her afterward and walked calmly back toward the nearby table. Several objects still remained scattered across the floor from the earlier struggle, though the teapot itself had survived untouched near the edge.

He poured another cup slowly.

Only then did Mei seem to understand what he intended.

“I will not drink that,” she said coldly.

Yuanzhi paid no attention to the protest. Cup still in hand, he approached her once more before giving a small motion of his head toward Shangjue and Ziyu.

The two moved immediately.

Mei reacted violently the moment Ziyu seized hold of her jaw while Shangjue forced her head back hard enough to stop her from turning away. The chains above rattled sharply as she struggled against the restraints, her composure finally cracking beneath genuine resistance now.

“No—”

The protest broke apart the instant Yuanzhi forced the medicine into her mouth.

She gagged harshly afterward, coughing and choking as she tried desperately to spit the liquid back out, but most of it still went down despite the struggle. Only once the cup had emptied did Shangjue and Ziyu finally release her again.

Mei remained where she was afterward, breathing harder now while loose strands of dark hair clung against her face and neck. Hatred burned openly within her eyes as she glared at Yuanzhi through the lingering coughs left from the medicine.

Yuanzhi calmly set the empty cup aside before lifting his gaze back toward her once more.

“You will not die that easily,” he said softly. The words seemed to settle heavily within the chamber.

For a moment longer, Yuanzhi simply continued watching her struggle to steady her breathing before finally turning toward the others.

“You may leave,” he said evenly to his companions. “I will continue from here on my own.”

A brief silence followed the order.

Ziyu frowned faintly at first, hesitation flickering across his expression as his gaze shifted once between Yuanzhi and the restrained Wufeng spy before them. Yet in the end, he said nothing. He simply gave a small nod before finally turning toward the chamber doors.

Beside him, Shangjue had not moved.

His attention remained fixed upon Yuanzhi for a moment longer, as though weighing the decision carefully before leaving him alone inside the chamber.

“Ge…” Yuanzhi said quietly, finally looking toward him directly.

The meaning behind the word was clear enough.

Shangjue held his younger brother’s gaze for several seconds before eventually giving a faint nod of understanding. Only then did he finally turn and follow after Ziyu while the heavy iron doors groaned loudly as they opened and then slammed shut once more behind them, leaving only silence afterward.

For several long moments, Yuanzhi remained standing exactly where he was with his back still turned toward the girl.

Then slowly, he turned to face her again.

The corner of his mouth pulled gradually into a faint, wicked smile as his gaze settled upon the restrained Wufeng spy before him, something far darker now visible within his expression than earlier that evening.

“You know,” he said after a while. “I haven’t been this excited in a long time.”

᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖

The evening air had grown colder by the time the young ladies were gathered outside the hall.

Lanternlight spilled across the stone paths in long streaks of gold, flickering softly against the darkening courtyard as servants moved quietly through the residence. Somewhere in the distance, wind stirred faintly through the trees, carrying with it the sharp scent of pine and the approaching chill of night.

The seven girls stood beside Madame Ling in near silence.

White robes brushed softly against the stone beneath shifting feet, the earlier composure shown during the evaluations replaced now by something more restrained, more uncertain. Even those who had received gold tokens no longer appeared entirely at ease beneath the weight of what awaited them inside.

Beside her, Mei adjusted her sleeves for what had to be the third time in only a few moments.

Y/N glanced toward her briefly. “You’re nervous.”

Mei let out a quiet breath, somewhere between embarrassment and resignation. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little.”

That earned the faintest smile from her.

Before anything more could be said, the heavy doors at the front of the hall began to open.

At once, the quiet conversations faded.

The girls straightened almost instinctively as the doors opened fully before them.

Warm light spilled outward from the hall, cutting through the cool evening air. Y/N stepped inside with the others, her pace measured, the soft rustle of layered silk blending with the quieter sounds already waiting within.

The hall was vast.

Lanterns hung from carved wooden beams high above, their steady glow casting long shadows across the polished floor. The lingering warmth from the braziers did little to erase the faint chill that still clung to the air after sunset. Along each side of the room, low tables had been arranged in careful lines, every place already prepared before their arrival.

At the far end sat the elders upon a slightly raised platform.

Elder Qin occupied the center, composed and watchful beneath the lanternlight, while Elder Ren and Elder Meng sat at either side of him. Not far from them, the three men of the Gong family had already taken their places.

Ziyu sat with the calm ease expected of the Sword Wielder, though there was still something attentive in the way he observed the room around him. Beside him, Shangjue appeared far more reserved, his posture straight, his expression unreadable beneath the dim gold light.

And then there was Yuanzhi.

Y/N’s gaze reached him only briefly before lowering again, but it was enough.

Dressed in dark robes threaded with silver, he seemed almost out of place among the warmer tones of the hall, his presence quieter than the others and yet somehow more difficult to ignore. One hand rested loosely beside his teacup, his attention appearing casual at first glance, though there was nothing careless about the way his eyes moved across the room.

It gave the unsettling impression that very little escaped his notice.

Madame Ling stepped aside once the girls had fully entered. “You may take your seats.”

The quiet instruction was enough to set them in motion again.

The girls moved carefully toward the arranged tables, some choosing places quickly while others hesitated, clearly aware that every movement was being observed. Y/N followed more slowly, her gaze moving briefly over the room before settling near the middle beside Mei.

Across from them, Miss Liuyun lowered herself gracefully onto her cushion, composed as ever, though her attention flicked briefly toward the raised platform before returning to the table before her.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Only the faint crackle of the braziers and the soft sound of porcelain shifting against wood disturbed the silence.

The girls remained seated with careful posture, hands resting neatly within their laps or beside untouched cups of tea, every movement restrained beneath the weight of so many eyes upon them.

It was Elder Qin who finally broke the quiet.

“We welcome you this evening,” he said, his voice calm but carrying easily through the hall. “Tonight is an opportunity for the Gong family and the remaining candidates to become better acquainted.”

The words were polite, expected even, yet they did little to ease the tension lingering in the room.

Servants moved forward then, placing the final dishes upon the tables with practiced efficiency before retreating once more into the background. Steam curled faintly upward from the food, carrying with it the scent of herbs and warm broth.

Only after everything had settled into place did Yuanzhi speak.

“I trust the journey into the valley caused no great inconvenience,” he said evenly.

Several girls looked toward him at once, their attention immediate despite themselves.

From where she sat, Y/N could see the faint reflection of lanternlight against the dark surface of his teacup as he lifted it slightly between his fingers.

“It is not a long journey,” he continued, the faintest hint of amusement touching his voice, “though I understand even a short one may become tiring under the right conditions.”

A few uncertain smiles appeared around the room, more out of politeness than ease.

Then his gaze shifted slowly across the tables.

“Please,” he said. “Enjoy the tea. I prepared tonight’s blend myself.”

The effect was immediate.

Several girls stiffened almost at once. One hesitated with her hand halfway toward her cup before lowering it again, while another exchanged a quick glance with the girl seated beside her. Even Mei went noticeably still beside Y/N.

Across the hall, Shangjue lowered his gaze briefly toward his cup, though the subtle shift near his mouth suggested poorly concealed amusement. Ziyu looked no better.

Y/N had to lower her own gaze to hide the faint smile threatening to appear.

Of course he would say something like that.

The men started eating, the soft clatter of chopsticks against porcelain signaling that the meal was officially underway. That quiet rhythm gave the girls the cue they had been waiting for to begin as well, though hesitation still lingered visibly around the room.

Y/N lifted her teacup and took a careful sip.

For a heartbeat, the other girls remained frozen, watching her in quiet disbelief as though expecting something to happen. When Y/N calmly took another bite of food, the tension around the room finally began to thaw. A few mimicked her movements almost exactly, while others tested the dishes first, taking tiny bites before daring to touch their tea.

Beside her, Mei finally took a sip herself before leaning slightly closer. “Did he truly need to mention that he made it himself?” she whispered quietly.

Y/N lowered her gaze briefly toward her tea. “He would not poison us,” she murmured back. “It would bring unnecessary trouble to the Gong family.”

Mei still looked only partly reassured.

Conversation gradually began to move more naturally through the hall after that, though the carefulness beneath it never fully disappeared. The elders guided most of it at first, asking polite questions that allowed the remaining candidates to speak of their families, their upbringing, and the regions they had traveled from. The atmosphere softened little by little beneath the warm lanternlight, carried along by the quiet clink of porcelain and the low murmur of voices across the room.

One of the girls seated nearer the far end straightened slightly when Elder Meng addressed her, a composed smile appearing upon her face as she answered. “My father oversees one of the largest refined tea powder trades in the eastern province,” she explained. “We also assist in supplying medicinal herbs where we are able.”

That seemed to catch the attention of more than one person.

Y/N noticed the faint shift in Shangjue’s posture, subtle enough that most would have overlooked it entirely, while Yuanzhi’s gaze settled more directly upon the young woman for the first time that evening.

“You study herbs as well?” Yuanzhi asked.

The girl, He Fang , inclined her head politely. “Somewhat, yes. My father believed it useful that I understand the quality of what we trade.”

Yuanzhi rested one hand lightly beside his cup. “Then you likely recognize most medicinal blends by scent alone.”

A flicker of unease crossed the girl’s face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “Most common ones,” she admitted carefully.

The exchange drew the room quieter without anyone meaning for it to. Several of the other girls had begun listening more closely now, their earlier ease fading slightly beneath the realization that even ordinary conversation here seemed capable of becoming something else entirely.

“And which herbs are most difficult to preserve during transport?” Yuanzhi continued evenly.

The young woman answered this time without hesitation, speaking of moisture, temperature, and the fragility of certain dried leaves during long journeys. Her explanation was confident, practiced enough to sound genuine rather than rehearsed.

Yuanzhi gave a small nod, neither approving nor dismissive.

From where she sat, Y/N found herself listening more carefully as well. The conversation itself was interesting, though what caught her attention more was the subtle shift it created throughout the hall. The other girls appeared more restrained now, more aware that they were being observed far more closely than before.

The discussion drifted elsewhere not long after, guided smoothly onward by Ziyu before the atmosphere could grow too tense again.

“And you, Miss Mei?” he asked lightly after another moment. “You are from Yunhe, if I remember correctly.”

Mei straightened slightly at being addressed so directly, though her expression brightened with visible relief at the familiar topic. “Yes, Sword Wielder.”

“I have heard Yunhe’s lantern festival is especially beautiful,” Ziyu remarked conversationally.

A shy smile appeared on Mei’s face then, gentler than the careful composure she had maintained throughout most of the evening. “The Firefly Festival,” she said. “The lanterns are hung all throughout the streets near the river every spring. My sister and I used to go every year when we were younger.”

Y/N smiled faintly beside her. Mei seemed far more relaxed speaking of home than she had at any point earlier that evening.

Across the hall, however, Shangjue’s hand paused briefly against his cup.

It was slight enough that Y/N might have imagined it had she not already been looking in that direction.

The conversation continued on without interruption. Ziyu merely nodded, allowing the subject to pass naturally into another, though Shangjue’s gaze lingered thoughtfully upon Mei for a moment longer before lowering once again. A servant stepped quietly through the hall to refill dishes that had begun to empty, while outside, wind stirred faintly against the paper windows, the sound softened beneath the warmth of lanternlight and low conversation.

Ziyu still listened with open ease, occasionally offering lighter remarks whenever the conversation threatened to grow too formal, while Shangjue remained quieter beside him, his attention appearing distant at times despite the calm composure he maintained.

Yuanzhi remained loosely leaned against his seat, though the attentiveness he carried earlier had not faded.

Elder Meng’s attention eventually settled toward Y/N.

“And what of you, Miss Y/N?” he asked gently. “What occupies your time when you are away from your studies?”

For a brief moment, Y/N hesitated.

The attention resting upon her felt different now that it had turned directly toward her, more noticeable than before despite the calmness in Elder Meng’s voice. Across the hall, she became suddenly aware once again of the Gong heirs seated beyond the lantern glow, listening just as carefully as the elders themselves.

“I enjoy reading,” she answered at last.

Elder Meng nodded in interest. “What sort of books?”

Y/N lowered her gaze briefly toward the table before answering. “Stories, mostly. Adventures.” A quieter expression touched her face then, softened slightly by memory. “My mother left many behind.”

The answer seemed to settle gently across the hall. Across from her, Ziyu’s expression softened with quiet interest, some of his earlier playfulness fading beneath something more thoughtful now.

Something gentler entered Elder Meng’s expression at that. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I heard of Lady Han’s passing some years ago.” He inclined his head slightly. “You have my condolences, Miss.”

For the briefest moment, something unreadable passed through Yuanzhi’s eyes before his expression settled once more into its usual composure.

Y/N bowed her head respectfully.

“General Han has devoted many years to serving the realm,” Elder Meng continued, a note of approval entering his voice. “You must be very proud of your father.”

Y/N straightened slightly at the mention of him. “I am, Elder.”

“You have a sibling as well, if I remember correctly?” he continued.

“I do.”

“And how did you manage at home while your father remained occupied with military affairs so often?”

The question was not cruel, yet it still caught Y/N slightly off guard. Around the hall, the quiet conversations nearby had softened enough again that she could feel the weight of listening attention settling more carefully upon her.

Y/N folded her hands neatly within her lap before answering.

“I looked after my younger brother and kept our home in order so my father could focus on his responsibilities,” she said honestly. “It was important to me that he did not worry about us while he worked.”

The answer seemed to quiet the space around her for a brief moment.

Not dramatically. Not enough to draw obvious attention. Yet something about the simplicity of it lingered more naturally than many of the polished responses given earlier that evening.

Across the hall, Yuanzhi’s fingers paused lightly against his cup at the mention of her younger brother, his expression turning thoughtful for the briefest moment.

Elder Meng gave a slow nod, clear approval softening his features. Even Elder Ren appeared faintly thoughtful now, while Elder Qin regarded her with the same unreadable steadiness as before.

Y/N lowered her gaze again afterward, relieved the attention had finally begun to move elsewhere. It was only then, as another girl nearby began speaking, that her attention drifted once more across the hall despite herself.

Yuanzhi remained leaned back in his seat, one hand resting loosely beside his teacup as he listened. Lanternlight caught faintly against the dark silver threading of his robes, sharpening rather than softening the already intimidating composure he carried so effortlessly.

Without meaning to, Y/N realized she had been looking a moment too long. The awareness came only when she felt another gaze settle on her.

Her eyes shifted slightly and met Shangjue’s across the hall.

Heat rose immediately to her face.

There was nothing openly amused in his expression, yet something in his steady gaze made it painfully clear he had noticed exactly where her attention had drifted.

Y/N lowered her eyes at once, suddenly far more interested in the untouched food in her bowl. Beside her, Mei leaned slightly closer, her voice lowered carefully beneath the surrounding conversation. “Are you alright?”

Y/N reached for her teacup a little too quickly. “Yes,” she answered at once, though the warmth lingering across her face betrayed her more than she would have liked.

Mei looked at her with slight concern, though after a moment she seemed satisfied enough with the answer and returned her attention to the discussion unfolding across the hall.

Conversation had shifted again by then, this time toward travel between regions and the conditions beyond the valley. Ziyu guided most of it smoothly, his manner relaxed enough that several of the girls had begun answering him more comfortably now than before.

Y/N listened quietly while reaching for another small bite of food, though her attention remained less steady than earlier. The atmosphere in the hall had softened compared to when they first arrived, yet beneath it lingered the unmistakable awareness that every answer continued to be weighed carefully.

The discussion moved naturally onward from there, eventually settling upon affairs beyond the capital. Miss Liuyun answered most questions with effortless composure, far more comfortable beneath attention than many of the others.

“There is much instability beyond the capital recently,” she said smoothly. “Families with strong alliances will become increasingly important moving forward.”

Elder Qin regarded her thoughtfully. “Your father’s position must give him considerable insight into such matters.”

“It does,” she replied with a graceful incline of her head. “The court has become increasingly divided in recent years. In times like these, strong connections are often what preserve influence.”

Y/N noticed Yuanzhi’s attention settle upon Miss Liuyun then, his expression unreadable beneath the lanternlight before he finally spoke.

“And what kind of influence do you believe the Gong family lacks?”

For the first time that evening, Miss Liuyun paused.

Only briefly.

“None,” she answered smoothly soon after. “Only that even powerful families benefit from strengthening their position where opportunities allow.”

Yuanzhi’s fingers tapped lightly once against the table beside his cup.

“The Gong family has maintained its authority for generations without relying upon court favor.” he said evenly.

Nothing about his tone openly changed, yet the atmosphere in the hall shifted all the same.

Miss Liuyun maintained her composure well. “Of course,” she replied politely. “I only meant that influence is rarely a disadvantage.”

Yuanzhi leaned back slightly then, his expression unreadable once more.

“That depends,” he said calmly, “on whether that influence begins mistaking itself for necessity.”

Miss Liuyun’s composure held, though for the first time that evening, a faint tightness appeared near her expression. It was subtle, but no less noticeable for it. Perhaps she simply had not expected to be answered so directly.

Yuanzhi held her gaze a moment longer before lifting his teacup calmly to his lips. The lanternlight caught briefly against his dark eyes, the earlier irritation not entirely faded from them even beneath his composure.

Before the silence could settle too heavily across the hall, Ziyu finally intervened.

“I believe the lady merely takes pride in her father’s work and influence,” he said smoothly. “I hardly think she intended anything more by it.”

Miss Liuyun inclined her head at once, still composed despite the faint color that had risen beneath her carefully controlled expression. “Of course,” she replied. “That was all I meant.”

Yuanzhi gave only a quiet hum in response before setting his cup back down.

Y/N’s attention lingered briefly upon Miss Liuyun still. Even now, the young woman’s posture remained perfectly straight, her composure impressive despite what had just occurred.

“Miss Y/N.”

The sound of her name startled her enough that she nearly looked around before realizing the voice had come from Yuanzhi himself.

Her attention lifted immediately toward the raised platform.

Yuanzhi’s gaze rested upon her steadily now, calmer than moments before, though no easier to read.

“You were the first to taste the tea earlier,” he said. “How did you find it?”

For a brief moment, Y/N forgot entirely that several others in the room had also turned to look at her again. Her fingers tightened slightly around her chopsticks before she answered carefully.

“It was good,” she said honestly, then hesitated faintly. “A little bitter at first… but warmer afterward.”

The faintest shift touched Yuanzhi’s expression then, subtle enough that she almost thought she imagined it.

“And what tea do you usually prefer?” he asked.

The question caught her slightly off guard, though not unpleasantly so.

“Sweeter blends, usually,” Y/N admitted after a moment. “Though I do not dislike bitter teas entirely. I think it depends on the mood I am in.”

For the first time that evening, something near amusement flickered more visibly in Yuanzhi’s eyes.

“I will keep that in mind,” he replied evenly.

The response caught Y/N slightly off guard. After a brief hesitation, she lowered her head politely once more, a little more quickly than before, as though trying to hide the flicker of surprise that had crossed her expression.

Across the hall, Shangjue’s gaze shifted briefly between the two of them, the faintest trace of recognition passing through his expression before it disappeared again beneath composure.

Before the quiet could linger too long, however, he spoke instead.

“You are from Hanju, are you not, Miss Y/N?”

Y/N looked toward him at once. “Yes.”

Shangjue inclined his head slightly. “And how has your first night within the valley been so far?”

The question felt easier somehow after the earlier tension. “It has been pleasant,” she answered softly. “Though unfamiliar.” A small smile touched Y/N’s face then as her attention shifted briefly toward Mei beside her. “Miss Mei has helped make it less overwhelming.”

The mention of her name drew Mei’s attention immediately back toward the conversation.

Shangjue’s gaze settled upon her calmly. “Is that so?”

Mei straightened slightly beneath the sudden attention. “Miss Y/N was kind enough to speak with me first,” she explained politely. “I think I was becoming homesick after the first night.”

“I visited Yunhe several years ago,” Shangjue said after a moment, his tone casual enough not to draw suspicion. “I remember the climate there being much drier than here. The adjustment to the valley must be difficult.”

Mei nodded almost immediately. “A little,” she admitted with a faint smile. “The air here is far more humid than what I am used to.”

Shangjue gave a small nod in acknowledgment before allowing the conversation to move naturally onward once again.

Outside, the night had deepened fully now, the wind brushing softly against the paper screens while servants moved silently through the hall to clear the remaining dishes.

It was Ziyu who finally spoke after some time, his tone calm but carrying easily enough across the room.

“It grows late,” he said. “We appreciate your company this evening. I trust the attendants will see you safely back to your quarters.”

The girls lowered their heads politely at once.

Yuanzhi set his cup down beside him before his gaze moved briefly across the remaining seven candidates. “I hope tonight has made the valley feel a little less unfamiliar,” he said evenly. The faintest trace of something unreadable touched his expression then. “Rest well. I will be seeing you again tomorrow.”

The words were simple enough, yet something about the way he said them left a quiet weight behind them all the same.

Madame Ling stepped forward then, her posture as composed as ever. “Young ladies,” she said, gesturing lightly for them to rise.

Fabric shifted softly throughout the hall as the girls stood from their places. Y/N rose alongside Mei, smoothing her robes instinctively before lowering herself into a respectful bow together with the others.

“Thank you for receiving us this evening.”

The farewell echoed softly through the room before the girls straightened once more. One by one, they turned to follow Madame Ling toward the doors beneath the watchful glow of lanternlight.

Y/N stayed close beside Mei as they walked, though just before stepping beyond the threshold, she found herself daring one last glance back toward the men seated behind them.

Her eyes met Yuanzhi’s almost immediately.

For the briefest moment, he tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting just enough to give the gesture a faintly curious edge.

Heat rushed far too quickly to Y/N’s face.

She lowered her eyes at once and continued forward before anyone could possibly notice, her heartbeat suddenly far louder than the soft rustle of fabric around her as she followed the others into the cool night air.

The heavy doors slid shut behind the departing girls, muffling the sound of retreating footsteps until the hall fell quiet once more. The warmth of the lanternlight remained, though without the soft movement of pale robes and careful voices. The atmosphere felt calmer on the surface, though something sharper lingered beneath it.

For a brief moment, no one spoke.

Then Shangjue’s gaze lifted slightly toward the closed doors.

“I believe I know who it is.”

˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖

Most of the dishes had already been cleared away by the servants, leaving behind only the faint scent of tea. The room felt larger now without the movement and conversation from earlier, the empty cushions lining the polished floor beneath the steady glow of the hanging lights. Outside, the wind could occasionally be heard brushing faintly against the paper screens, softer now that the activity of the evening had finally settled.

The hall remained still for a brief moment until Ziyu broke it “You figured it out that quickly?”

Across from him, Shangjue remained composed, one hand resting loosely near his untouched cup. “It is only suspicion,” he said calmly. “Nothing certain yet.”

Yuanzhi leaned slightly back in his seat, though his attention remained fixed on his brother. “Who?”

Before Shangjue could answer, however, Ziyu spoke again, thoughtful now rather than surprised.

“Could it be Miss He Fang?”

Yuanzhi’s gaze shifted toward him immediately.

“The girl interested in herbs,” Ziyu continued. “Her father oversees one of the largest refined tea powder trades in the eastern province. If someone understood how to replace stolen ingredients without immediately drawing attention, it could be her.”

A quiet scoff left Yuanzhi at that.

“Her knowledge was surface level at best,” he replied flatly. “Everything she mentioned tonight could be learned through basic tutoring.”

Ziyu frowned slightly. "A skilled spy would not present themselves openly suspicious either. If anything, appearing knowledgeable but harmless would be smarter."

Yuanzhi's gaze sharpened

immediately at that. "No," he replied.

"A competent Wufeng spy with enough skill to enter the inner residence and tamper with our cabinets would know better than to draw attention toward medicinal knowledge at all.

Mentioning herbs after what occurred this morning would be careless." The irritation beneath his voice surfaced far more easily now that the girls were gone.

Elder Meng sighed softly from further down the table. “Enough. The two of you are already arguing in circles.”

Silence lingered briefly across the hall afterward.

Yuanzhi crossed his arms loosely while Ziyu exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly in his seat as the earlier tension slowly eased beneath the elders’ interruption.

Through it all, Shangjue had remained silent.

Only after the room settled again did Ziyu glance back toward him. “My apologies,” he said. “You were speaking.”

Shangjue’s expression did not change.

“The girl I am suspicious of,” he said at last, “is Miss Mei.”

Yuanzhi’s brows drew together almost immediately. “Miss Mei?”

Even Ziyu looked faintly surprised at that. “The girl from Yunhe?”

Shangjue gave a small nod. “She made two mistakes tonight. The first was minor. Easy to overlook if no one was paying attention.”

Elder Qin studied him carefully. “Explain.”

For the first time since the discussion began, Shangjue leaned back slightly in his seat.

“Several years ago, while returning from a military campaign, I passed through Yunhe,” he said calmly. “There was a festival taking place at the time.” His gaze shifted briefly toward Yuanzhi. “Do you remember the lantern I brought back for you?”

Yuanzhi frowned faintly in thought before nodding once. “The carved one with the painted cranes?”

Shangjue inclined his head. “I bought it there.”

The room remained quiet as he continued.

“I remember the season clearly,” he said. “The mountain roads were covered in red leaves by then. The festival takes place during autumn.”

Understanding flickered briefly across Ziyu’s face.

“But Miss Mei said spring,” he murmured.

“She did,” Shangjue confirmed.

Ziyu exhaled quietly, still uncertain. “That alone is not enough to call her a spy. She could simply have been nervous.”

“That was my conclusion as well initially,” Shangjue replied evenly. “Which is why I only became suspicious after the second mistake.”

Yuanzhi uncrossed one arm slightly against the table. “And what was the second?”

“When I spoke to her later,” Shangjue said calmly, “I deliberately described Yunhe’s climate incorrectly and referred to it as dry. Someone genuinely raised there would have corrected the mistake immediately. The region is known for its mountain fog and heavy moisture.” His gaze lowered slightly. “Miss Mei did not.”

Yuanzhi’s hand tightened once against the edge of the table beside him. “Then we should arrest her tonight.” The sharpness in his voice cut cleanly through the silence. The reaction was immediate enough that even Ziyu glanced toward him, while the elders exchanged brief looks further down the table. Shangjue, however, remained composed.

“On suspicion alone?” he asked evenly.

Yuanzhi let out a quiet scoff, though the tension in his posture did not ease. “She lied about her identity. That alone is enough reason to detain her.”

“No,” Shangjue replied calmly. “It is enough reason to watch her.”

The answer only seemed to irritate Yuanzhi further. His jaw tightened slightly as he leaned back, one arm crossing over the other. “And if we wait too long?” he asked coldly. “If she truly is Wufeng, then every moment we waste gives her another opportunity.”

Elder Meng finally shifted in his seat at that, his expression darkening slightly. “You would imprison and interrogate a noble young lady without proof?”

“If she is Wufeng,” Yuanzhi answered without hesitation, “then proof will matter very little once someone ends up dead.”

The tension lingered heavily after that.

Ziyu exhaled slowly through his nose before speaking, calmer than Yuanzhi but no less concerned. “We also cannot ignore the possibility that the other girls may be in danger if Shangjue is correct.” His gaze lowered briefly in thought before continuing. “Miss Y/N seemed particularly trusting of her tonight. If the others become comfortable around her as well…”

He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication lingered clearly enough all the same.

Across the table, Yuanzhi’s fingers stilled briefly against the wood before curling once more.

Elder Ren spoke then, his older voice measured but firm enough to pull the discussion back into order. “The portraits were dispatched this afternoon exactly for situations such as this. Once they arrive in the villages, confirmation of each girl’s identity will return within several days.”

Yuanzhi’s expression darkened further. “Several days is enough time for a Wufeng spy to kill half this residence.”

“And that,” Shangjue replied calmly, “is why she will not move unwatched from this moment onward.” His tone remaining steady and controlled despite the growing tension around him. “Additional guards will be stationed near the women’s quarters discreetly. Her movements will be monitored carefully, but no one is to confront her directly.” His gaze lowered slightly. “If Miss Mei truly is Wufeng, the moment she realizes we are suspicious of her, she becomes far more dangerous.”

That finally seemed to settle the matter.

The elders exchanged quiet looks before nodding slowly in agreement, the decision made without needing further debate. At last, Elder Meng rose carefully to his feet, the others following not long after as attendants moved forward to assist them.

“Then we proceed cautiously,” he said. “Until the portraits return, this matter does not leave this room.”

One by one, the elders began departing the hall, their footsteps fading gradually into the corridor beyond.

Ziyu remained seated a moment longer, his expression still thoughtful despite the discussion ending. “I will personally assign additional trusted guards near Miss Mei’s quarters,” he said at last. “Carefully enough that it does not appear unusual.“

Shangjue gave a small nod in approval.

Ziyu rose to his feet then, smoothing his sleeve absently as the exhaustion from the evening finally began settling more visibly across his expression. “I should return as well,” he added. “Yun Weishan has likely been handling the baby alone long enough already.”

The mention of his wife softened the atmosphere only slightly, brief but enough to break through some of the heaviness lingering over the hall.

“I will see you both tomorrow.” Neither brother stopped him as he turned and disappeared into the corridor, his footsteps gradually fading into the quiet.

Only Shangjue and Yuanzhi remained seated now beneath the dim evening light, the earlier tension still lingering quietly between them.

Neither seemed in any hurry to speak immediately after.

Then Shangjue reached for the teapot beside him and leaned slightly across the space between their tables, pouring fresh tea into Yuanzhi’s cup without asking.

Yuanzhi glanced up briefly before giving a small nod of acknowledgment. “Thank you.” He lifted the cup afterward and took a quiet sip.

The simple familiarity of the exchange drew the faintest smile from Shangjue despite the heaviness of the evening. There were few people within the residence Yuanzhi allowed to care for him so casually anymore. Fewer still whom he accepted it from without complaint.

For all his sharpness and pride, he was still his younger brother.

Shangjue settled back slightly afterward, his gaze resting calmly on him. “I did not have the chance to ask earlier,” he said. “How did the token distribution go?”

Yuanzhi lowered his cup. “It went fine.”

“How many gold?”

“Four.”

“And jade?”

“Three.”

The conversation paused briefly after that, quieter now than before. The anger Yuanzhi had shown during the earlier discussion had faded somewhat, though traces of irritation still lingered faintly beneath the surface.

After a moment, Shangjue spoke again “There was something else I wanted to ask you about.”

Yuanzhi looked up slightly at that, faint confusion crossing his expression. “What?”

Shangjue lifted his own cup before finally speaking again. “Overall,” he asked calmly, “what did you think of the evening?”

“It was… useful.” Yuanzhi said casually.

A faint smile touched Shangjue’s expression at the answer. “Useful?” he repeated lightly.

Yuanzhi gave the smallest shrug. “We learned more tonight than we would have from reports alone.”

“That much is true.”

Outside, the wind continued brushing softly through the corridor beyond the paper screens, carrying a faint chill that had grown stronger as the night deepened.

After another quiet sip of tea, Shangjue spoke once more. “What about the girl interested in herbs,” he said. “Miss He Fang.”

Yuanzhi’s expression barely shifted. “She is knowledgeable enough, I suppose.”

“But not enough to impress you.”

That finally earned the faintest reaction from him. Yuanzhi exhaled softly through his nose, not quite amused. “She was trying too hard,” he admitted. “Most of what she spoke about sounded memorized.”

Shangjue nodded once in acknowledgment before continuing.

“And Miss Liuyun?”

This time the reaction was immediate.

Yuanzhi’s brows pulled together slightly, clear irritation surfacing again at the mention of her name. He reached for his teacup almost as though to avoid answering immediately, though the look on his face already said enough.

“Absolutely not.”

A quiet laugh escaped Shangjue before he could stop it.

Yuanzhi shot him a flat look. “She carries herself as though the Gong family should be grateful for an alliance with hers.”

“Considering her father,” Shangjue replied mildly, “that is not entirely surprising.”

“That does not make it any less irritating,” Yuanzhi muttered. The annoyance in his voice only deepened Shangjue’s amusement slightly, though he hid it well behind another sip of tea.

For a brief moment, the atmosphere between them eased somewhat, the earlier tension from the discussion about Wufeng softening beneath the familiarity of their conversation.

Then Shangjue finally asked, almost casually, “And the general’s daughter?”

The question seemed simple enough, but Yuanzhi’s movements slowed almost imperceptibly at the mention of her.His fingers paused briefly against the side of his cup before continuing again.

“Miss Y/N?” he asked, though he had clearly heard him the first time.

Shangjue only nodded once.

Unlike his earlier answers, this one did not come immediately.

Yuanzhi lifted his cup again, taking another sip of tea that seemed more intended to buy himself time than anything else. When he finally answered, his tone remained carefully neutral.

“She seemed decent.”

The response drew immediate amusement from Shangjue. “Decent?” he repeated lightly.

Yuanzhi’s eyes narrowed slightly over the rim of his cup. “What else would you like me to say?”

Shangjue said nothing, though the faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth only seemed to irritate Yuanzhi further.

After a moment, Yuanzhi finally lowered the cup again with a quiet breath. “She appeared well raised,” he said, sounding slightly more thoughtful now despite himself. “Calm. Respectful.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the table between them. “There was nothing particularly alarming about her.”

Shangjue hummed softly. “That is a surprisingly generous evaluation coming from you.”

Yuanzhi frowned faintly. “I am capable of complimenting people when deserved.”

“I know.” Shangjue tilted his head slightly. “It is simply rare.”

A faint trace of amusement still lingered in his expression as he added, “Especially from someone who spent most of the evening criticizing nearly every candidate.”

Yuanzhi shot him a flat look at that.

Shangjue, however, seemed entirely unbothered. “I also recall you telling Miss Y/N you would remember her tea preference,” Shangjue said calmly.

Yuanzhi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was only making conversation.”

“Mm.” Shangjue lifted his cup leisurely. “So the next time you prepare tea, should we expect something sweeter?”

“I work with poison and medicinal draughts,” Yuanzhi replied dryly. “Not romantic gestures.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Shangjue. “I see,” he said mildly. “So…you would say you are interested in Miss Y/N, then.”

Yuanzhi let out a quiet scoff, his eyes closing briefly as though already aware there was little point trying to argue his way out of the conversation now. In the end, he seemed to decide it was easier to answer truthfully than continue being questioned about it.

“She is…” He stopped briefly, visibly annoyed at having to put the thought into words at all. “Probably among the better choices at the moment.”

Something gentler flickered briefly across Shangjue’s expression then, subtle enough that most people would have missed it entirely.

Then realization came.

“And yet,” he said calmly, “you gave her jade instead of gold.”

Yuanzhi noticed the shift in tone at once. His gaze lifted toward his brother, sharper now.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Shangjue remained perfectly calm. “Only that your evaluations and your token distribution do not seem entirely aligned.” He took another slow sip of tea before adding, almost casually, “Miss Liuyun irritated you within minutes, yet she received gold. Miss Y/N apparently impressed you enough to earn compliments I have almost never heard from you before, and she received jade.”

Yuanzhi stared at him for a moment without answering.

Then Shangjue added quietly, “Were you considering changing the color of her token?”

For the first time since the conversation began, Yuanzhi looked genuinely caught off guard.

His gaze dropped briefly toward the tea beside him before he finally exhaled through his nose, some of the earlier defensiveness fading from his posture.

“There is something I did not tell you earlier,” he admitted at last.

Shangjue remained silent, waiting.

Yuanzhi rested one arm against the table beside him, his expression more serious now. “When I learned the medical cabinets had been tampered with,” he said slowly, “it happened while I was finalizing the token distribution.”

A faint crease appeared between Shangjue’s brows as he listened.

“I started thinking,” Yuanzhi continued, quieter now, “that if Wufeng truly infiltrated the bride selection, then the girls with gold tokens would naturally become the primary targets.”

Understanding settled across Shangjue’s expression almost immediately.

“So you switched them.”

Yuanzhi gave a small nod.

“The girls I originally intended to give gold received jade instead,” he admitted. “And the ones with jade…” His jaw tightened faintly. “I changed them to gold.”

A faint smile finally appeared across Shangjue’s face, softer than the restrained amusement he had shown throughout the rest of their conversation.

“Well,” he said quietly, “that was unexpectedly clever.”

Yuanzhi looked up slightly at that, caught off guard enough that the irritation he had been carrying for most of the evening eased for a brief second. Praise was not something Shangjue offered carelessly, especially not regarding matters tied to security or leadership within the residence.

Shangjue leaned forward slightly then, reaching across the space between their tables to rest a firm hand briefly against Yuanzhi’s shoulder. The gesture itself was simple, familiar in a way few things within the Gong residence still were.

“You remained calm and adjusted quickly,” he said. “Most people would have continued with the original plan without thinking beyond it.” A trace of approval entered his voice then, warmer than before. “That is exactly how a Gong should think.”

The words settled more heavily than Yuanzhi expected them to.For all his stubbornness and sharp temper, there were very few opinions within the residence that mattered to him as much as Shangjue’s.

Yuanzhi cleared his throat quietly afterward, trying to appear far less affected by the praise than he actually was.

“I only thought it was safer,” he muttered, quieter now than before.

“And you were right.”

Shangjue withdrew his hand then, though the warmth from the gesture lingered faintly all the same. Shangjue watched him for a brief moment before a faint smile touched his expression again, smaller this time but warmer than before. Then he finally pushed himself to his feet, the conversation seeming to settle naturally alongside the late hour.

The hall had grown much quieter around them now. Somewhere deeper within the residence, servants were beginning to extinguish lights for the night, and the colder mountain air drifting through the open corridors carried the faint scent of cedar and rain.

Shangjue adjusted the cuff of his sleeve absentmindedly before speaking again.

“I should head back.”

Yuanzhi glanced up slightly from his cup.

“My wife will start complaining if I leave her alone with our girl much longer,” Shangjue said, the amusement in his voice subtle but unmistakable. “Apparently, husband duties do not disappear simply because Wufeng decides to become troublesome.”

That finally earned a quiet laugh from Yuanzhi, brief but genuine.

“Well,” he said, setting his cup down, “she is carrying your second child. I think she has earned the right to complain.”

The faint amusement in Shangjue’s expression deepened slightly at that.

Yuanzhi continued, sounding almost defensive on his sister-in-law’s behalf now. “And your son is still young. It is not exactly easy managing both. You should be more concerned about surviving her anger than Wufeng..

“Mm.” Shangjue gave a small nod as though accepting the criticism. “You sound strangely understanding tonight.”

“I’m only defending Sister-in-law.”

The amusement in Shangjue’s eyes deepened slightly before his expression settled again into something calmer.

“You should try to be a little more sympathetic toward me,” he said mildly. “Before long, you will likely find yourself in the exact same position.”

Yuanzhi narrowed his eyes almost immediately.

Yet the reaction lacked the sharp resistance it once might have carried. Instead, it felt closer to reluctant acceptance, as though part of him already understood exactly where the conversation had been heading long before his brother said it aloud.

“Goodnight, Yuanzhi.”

The doors slid shut softly behind Shangjue not long afterward, leaving Yuanzhi alone in the quiet hall with only the cooling tea beside him and his brother’s words lingering faintly in the back of his mind.

˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖

The walk back toward the women’s quarters felt far different from the journey to the hall earlier that evening.

Night had settled fully over the valley now, deep and cold beneath the mountains surrounding the Gong residence. Only narrow lanterns placed along the winding stone path offered light, their dim golden glow stretching weakly across the ground before being swallowed again by darkness. Above them, the moon hung pale between drifting clouds, silver light catching faintly against the trees swaying overhead.

The girls remained gathered closely together as they walked.

Soft conversation rose and fell quietly throughout the group, blending with the steady sound of footsteps against stone and the occasional rustle of silk brushing through the night air. Somewhere deeper in the forest, an owl called once before falling silent again.

At the front, Madame Ling walked beside two attendants carrying lanterns while several guards followed further behind the group, their quieter voices occasionally carrying through the dark as they spoke amongst themselves. They remained close enough to watch over the girls properly, though not so near that every conversation could be overheard.

Y/N stayed near the back beside Mei.

The path had narrowed slightly there, curving along the darker edge of the hillside where the lanternlight no longer reached as clearly. Trees crowded closer together, their shadows shifting faintly across the ground whenever the wind stirred through the branches above.

Then suddenly, Y/N felt something sharp brush briefly against her arm.

A quick prickling sting.

She startled slightly, turning her head at once toward the dark bushes lining the path beside them, expecting perhaps a thorned branch or rough leaves she had brushed against while walking too close to the edge.

But there was nothing there.

Only darkness.

Before she could think much more of it, Mei leaned slightly closer beside her, one hand lightly catching around Y/N’s arm as another girl ahead stumbled briefly over uneven stone.

“Are you alright?” Mei asked softly. “Even now, I still feel like I am sitting in that hall with them.” She let out a small nervous laugh beneath her breath. “They were all so frightening.”

Y/N let out a quiet breath through her nose, forcing herself to relax again. “I am only relieved I was not scolded the way Miss Liuyun was.”

That earned a small laugh from Mei.

“I thought the Poison Master was going to keep questioning her forever,” she admitted quietly. “The entire room became so tense afterward.” Y/N smiled softly at that.

The sound was soft beneath the surrounding noise of footsteps and rustling fabric, but genuine enough that Y/N found herself smiling faintly as well.

“I was nervous the entire evening,” Mei admitted after another moment, her grip remaining lightly looped around Y/N’s arm as they continued down the darkened trail. “I thought my voice would shake every time one of them looked at me.”

Y/N turned slightly toward her, though the movement made an odd wave of warmth rise suddenly through her chest.

“You did very well,” she said honestly, offering Mei a small reassuring smile despite the strange heaviness beginning to settle behind her eyes. “You did not seem nervous at all.”

Mei’s expression brightened slightly beneath the moonlight.

“I would still love to see the Firefly Festival someday,” Y/N continued quietly. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” Mei replied at once, her voice gentler now. “Especially near the river. The entire water glows with lantern reflections.”

Y/N smiled faintly. For a few moments, only the sound of footsteps and rustling trees filled the quiet between them.

Then Mei glanced toward her curiously beneath the dim moonlight. “Can I ask you something?”

Y/N looked at her. “Of course.”

For a moment, Mei seemed almost hesitant, as though deciding whether or not she should say what was on her mind. Around them, the rest of the girls continued slowly down the narrow trail while lanternlight flickered weakly across the uneven path beneath their feet.

A small smile appeared on Mei’s face. “It is not every day a man tells a woman he will remember her preferences in tea,” she said lightly.

The comment caught Y/N so off guard that she nearly missed another step.

Beside her, Mei’s smile widened just slightly, touched now with quiet amusement despite the exhaustion lingering from the evening. “It sounded almost romantic,” she added softly. “Especially coming from someone like Young Master Yuanzhi.”

Heat rose unexpectedly to Y/N’s face.

“You are misunderstanding,” she answered quickly, lowering her gaze toward the darkened path ahead of them. “He was only being polite.”

Mei let out the faintest hum beside her, unconvinced. “Mm. Perhaps,” she replied. “But he did not speak to the other contestants that way.”

Y/N lowered her gaze toward the darkened path ahead of them, suddenly far too aware once again of the steady calm in Yuanzhi’s voice earlier that evening.

I will keep that in mind.

The memory alone made her heartbeat stumble strangely against her ribs.

Only now, the warmth spreading through her chest no longer felt entirely natural. It had become heavier somehow, feverish beneath her skin despite the cold night air brushing across her face. A dull pressure had begun forming behind her eyes as well, faint enough still to ignore, though uncomfortable all the same.

She swallowed hard before answering quietly, “Maybe he simply felt it would have been uncomfortable to criticize me too much afterward.” Her fingers tightened slightly within her sleeves. “Not after I had already spoken about my mother earlier that evening.”

Mei was quiet for a moment after that, the lanternlight ahead flickering softly across her features as the group continued down the winding trail.

“Perhaps,” she said softly. “But the Gong family is not exactly known for gentleness. Especially Young Master Yuanzhi.”

The ground shifted beneath Y/N’s feet enough that she stumbled once against the uneven path before quickly catching herself again.

Mei caught her arm immediately.

“Careful,” she said at once, the teasing softness from earlier disappearing beneath clear concern now. Her grip tightened more securely around Y/N as they slowed slightly behind the others.

Y/N forced out a quiet laugh, trying to brush the moment aside despite the unsteady pounding in her chest. “It is too dark on this trail,” she murmured. “I can barely see the girls ahead of us.”

“That is because it is,” Mei whined, glancing around her. “I still cannot believe they make us walk through the woods like this in the middle of the night.”

Y/N followed her gaze briefly toward the dark forest surrounding them. The woods seemed almost endless, layers of blackened trees disappearing deep into the mountainside while moonlight filtered faintly through the branches overhead.

“It feels dangerous,” Mei added softly as another cold gust stirred through the trees above them.

An owl called somewhere deeper within the forest. The sound echoed faintly through the darkness, eerie enough that several girls further ahead glanced nervously toward the trees before continuing on.

Y/N opened her mouth to answer, though by now the warmth spreading through her body had become impossible to ignore. Her skin felt strangely feverish despite the cold mountain air brushing against her face. Beneath the layers of her robes, heat coiled heavily through her chest while each breath seemed to come slightly shorter than before.

“It is only a short walk,” she managed quietly. “We will be alright.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strained.

Mei’s expression shifted immediately. She leaned closer, concern softening her features beneath the dim moonlight. “Y/N,” she asked carefully, “are you feeling unwell?”

Ahead of them, the faint sound of rushing water had begun growing louder, signaling they were nearing the bridge leading back toward the women’s residence. Lanternlight reflected weakly against the dark river below while the colder air drifting up from the water brushed against Y/N’s heated skin.

Yet with every step, she felt herself growing worse.

Her breathing had become uneven without her realizing it, each inhale seeming heavier than the last. Heat burned beneath her skin while a dull ringing had started faintly in her ears, soft enough at first to ignore, though it gradually began muffling the sound of nearby footsteps and conversation around her. Sweat gathered lightly against the back of her neck despite the cold night air.

Beside her, Mei’s hold tightened again as Y/N stumbled a second time.

“You really do not look alright,” she whispered, her voice quieter now, touched with unmistakable worry.

Y/N swallowed hard, finally beginning to admit to herself that something was truly wrong.

The heat burning through her body no longer felt like simple exhaustion. Her pulse was racing far too quickly now, each heartbeat pounding unevenly against her ribs while the ringing in her ears had grown loud enough to blur the sounds around her into something distant and distorted.

She turned slightly toward Mei, ready at last to answer honestly.

But before the words could leave her mouth, her legs suddenly gave out beneath her entirely.

The world lurched violently sideways.

Somewhere nearby, startled voices broke through the darkness.

Then someone screamed.

Y/N barely had time to catch a glimpse of the steep slope beside the narrow trail before her body slipped down the wet hillside, stones and loose earth breaking beneath her as she fell.

Then came the river.

The freezing water swallowed her whole.

For one brief, disoriented moment, the cold felt almost relieving against the unbearable heat consuming her body.

Above her, blurred lanternlight fractured across the surface of the rushing water while distant voices shouted somewhere along the bridge overhead.

The last thing Y/N saw before darkness overtook her completely was the movement of dark figures rushing toward the riverbank.

˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖ ˖᯽ ݁˖

Call me He Who Howls in Open Places. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind.

Call me the Eye Unbound. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy.

THE SUN SPILLS RED, HUNGRY LIGHT BLEEDING. This is the desert evening, blood-spilled sand and burning waves of heat.

Said heat slams into you even as the sun dies, your shoes sinking in the sand as you slide out of the jeep. Dunes stretched out in every direction, red and gold and endless, rippling under the blood sky. Luxor is far behind you now, somewhere far behind where you can see. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains of sand that sear right through you. Somewhere far off, a hawk cries once.

Below you, the dig site lies half-revealed by the storm that blew in a few weeks ago. Black stone pylons jut from the sand like the broken ribs of a dead god, sending a chill up your spine. The gateway stands open, its stone mouth carved with falcons whose wings have been worn smooth by centuries of wind and sand.

Sand. The sand here is endless, clinging to anything and everything, the grit crunching between your teeth and scraping beneath your eyelids despite protective covering. Sand sticks to you even now as you pull your scarf higher over your mouth as you start down the slope. Each step sinks you ankle-deep, grains pouring into your boots.

The sand isn't the only nuisance - the heat is deadly, an inferno that presses against the top of your scalp and makes the exposed parts of your skin tingle as you walk. By the time you reach the camp ground below, your shirt is plastered to your back with sweat and your lungs feel sun-scored and sand-scoured.

Tents cluster around the dig site in orderly rows, white canvas snapping in the wind. Generators thrum, powering the floodlights as they kick on in the rapidly growing dark. Dozens of people move between the tents, a combination of laborers in faded galabeyas carrying crates, archaeologists in khaki bent over folding tables, a photographer in jeans adjusting a lens. Somewhere, the smell of cardamom tea drifts toward you, sharp and sweet.

A man exits one of the larger tents and spots you. He's tall and broad shouldered with silver threading his dark hair, the expensive watch on his wrist catching the last of the red sun like a flare. Harlan Voss is every bit as intimidating in person as he was on the phone. He's a shipping magnate, a collector of antiquities and the kind of man who funds expeditions like this because he can.

He isn't your cup of tea, but he's the only way into the site up ahead right now, so you're willing to swallow past the sour taste in your mouth and accept his handshake when he reaches you.

"Great to see you," He greets, his handshake firm. "I trust the drive wasn't too punishing?"

"No. Storm seems to have cleared the way." You look past him to the ancient dig site. "It really did clear away the sand here too."

"Thank the Gods." You cock your head at the turn of phrase but he's already looking over his shoulder at the half-dug up site. "We're on a timeline. Storms roll in often, so we need to get in and out before the next. Come on, let me show you the operation."

You follow as he walks and talks, introducing you in clipped tones to a Rolodex of names you're struggling to keep up with already: Dr. Hassan al-Masri the epigrapher and Leila Farouk the conservator are names you vaguely recognize, shaking their hands politely. Less known to you is Piet Keppens, a lanky photographer whose hands are a little too clammy and is sunburned to hell, and a swath of Cairo University students hauling equipment for internship hours, eyes wide when they hear your name.

A security team stands apart from everyone else, sprawled under a shaded awning despite the vanished sun like a pride of lions. They check rifles and lean over schematics and computers of perimeters that you don't understand - could never understand, probably. You don't know why you need security in the desert with guns and knives. It's not like the jackals will bother big groups and no one is coming this far out to rob a tomb like in an Indiana Jones movie.

Well. Perhaps not no one, you realize, as you set eyes on someone familiar, your lip curling in dissatisfaction.

Voss gestures toward a figure leaning on an awning pole, watching you with dark eyes. "Vernon Chwe," Voss says. "Our specialist in acquisitions and one of our security personnel."

Your stomach knots. You know Vernon. Most people in your field do, considering he has a habit of getting tombs open before permits are granted, finding artifacts that vanish into private collections, and a decent degree to back his unethical tomb raiding.

Fucking Vernon.

He straightens as you approach, tall and lean, skin tan from spending days under the sun. His hair is hidden under a dark cap, his linen shirt loose with the sleeves rolled high enough to reveal arms covered in ink. Your eyes snag on the tattoos, recognizing ancient scripts and symbols winding up his arms and vanishing under his sleeves.

Strange. You've never seen his tattoos before, but you wonder why a tomb raider of his legacy - however tainted - is sporting tattoos of hieroglyphic protective wards and Coptic symbols for binding alongside something that you can't decipher. Sumerian, maybe.

The thought unsettles you. You're supposed to be the historian and language expert here, and seeing dead languages on a man who would rather turn a profit than uncover history and deliver it to those who should preserve it makes your stomach turn.

Vernon's mouth curves when you stop in front of him, a small and unreadable smile. "Doctor."

You nod once. "Chwe."

Voss claps your shoulder, his hand lingering a beat too long before he wishes you a good evening and stalks off, calling orders about timelines as he goes.

Wind tugs at the tent ropes, and somewhere, someone laughs as the scent of cooking fat and meat wafts toward you, dinner preparations underway. You and Vernon stand in the small pocket of quiet in the security hub, your eyes flicking back to his arms, tracing the ink.

He tilts his head. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"Yes, I've been busy."

"Hiding in those stacks?"

"Working, Chwe." You cross your arms. "I suppose you're unfamiliar, unless the word theft has replaced the word work in recent years."

"You're the linguist." He smirks. "You tell me."

"I'm a historian."

"Tomato, tomato."

He irks you. The few times you've had the displeasure of crossing paths with Vernon Chwe have always left you flustered and frustrated. He is annoyingly good at poking all of the buttons that anger you, and he always does it with a flippant comment and a blase attitude that makes you see red.

It doesn't help that everyone is unfailingly charmed by him. Your colleagues both want to be him and want to be with him, always falling for the smooth lines and the fact that he has a face that belongs on a runaway, not at an ancient civilization site. The kind of face that would have definitely had a statue or two dedicated to it, a painting maybe-

"You been to the site yet?"

That question catches you off guard. You look him up and down, but he just watches you with that same lazy expression he always has. "No."

"Want to?"

You hate that you do. You don't need an escort, though, so without answering, you pivot in the sand and start walking. He laughs behind you, but you hear him push off the pole and follow you.

Immediately, you don't know where you're going. The maze of tents might as well be a mini city, and they're tall enough that you can't see the dig site that is down further in the sand. You pause as you try to gather your bearings, swiveling from left to right until Vernon breezes past you, taking a left.

"This way, Stacks," he laughs.

You storm after him. "I beg your pardon?"

"What?"

"What do you mean stacks? Are you seriously talking about my ass?"

He pauses to turn and look at you, brows raised. When he realizes you're serious, he starts laughing, open and loud and so amused that it makes you immediately feel embarrassed, flushing from head to toe as your hands make fists.

"What?" You demand.

"Stacks as in libraries," he manages. "Not your ass. I mean you do have a great-"

"Shut up!"

He holds his hands up and starts walking again, chuckling faintly as though your error still amuses him long after the moment has passed.

Vernon leads you down careful wooden steps that have been built to lead into the heart of the dig site, the Temple of Montu still half-buried from sand. A tingle slides over your skin as you approach, the floodlights casting shadows up the sides of the temple and between the pylons. Black basalt walls drink in the light and as you reach level footing, your steps slow as you approach.

Wind stirs as you approach. The temple is taller than you expected, with sand-scoured carvings and weather-bitten stones. Up close, you feel the heavy eyes of the stone falcons, heart skipping a little as you near them. Vernon seems unbothered, walking between the falcons without missing a beat. You scurry after him, casting a glance at the twin statues before stepping into the shadow of the gateway that leads into the temple.

Vernon stops just outside the collapsed front door. Tomorrow, the work teams will clear the door for you to go inside. For now, it's just the whistling wind and the buzzing on your skin like you're being watched. When you look around, it's just you and Vernon here, his inky eyes on your face.

You drift away from him toward the gateway. The shade inside the passage is deep, and you can feel the hiss of cool air coming from inside, smelling of dust and cold stone. Your eyes adjust slowly as you try to peer past the collapsed stone.

The inner walls are covered in reliefs, though wind has worn them soft. Montu stands triumphant, falcon-headed with his spear raised, offering placed around his feet below him. Your eyes catch on the lower register of the statue and you realize they're not eroded - they're gouged. Deep chisel marks mar the stone where text and figures once lived, like someone wanted them gone.

Glyphs on the doorframe catch your attention. You walk over to them, hand lifting as you trace them with your finger. The sand scrapes beneath your hand, stone solid and cold. Your mind works fast, unscrambling the words, brows pinching as you read.

"Finding secrets?" Vernon's voice makes you flinch. You'd almost forgotten he was there.

"What did Voss say this place was again?"

Vernon lifts a shoulder. "Temple to Montu. Supposed to be like a treasure hold or some shit."

"Don't be crass."

"Fine. Some stuff."

You hum, thoughtful. "These inscriptions are weird. It says cast beneath the horizon and held."

"Great. What's it mean?"

"I don't know."

"Useful."

Your head snaps in his direction. "Don't be an ass."

He smirks. "Don't be crass."

You fight the urge to snap back at him. He's leaning on a pylon, arms crossed, those tattoos staring back at you, and you can't help but get distracted by them again. The collar of his shirt is looser now, revealing a cluster of symbols that look like a map, lines intersecting in ways that tease at a meaning but slip away when you try to pin them down.

"You're staring." You glance up to find him smirking again. "Come on, Stacks. Work in the morning. Let's make sure there are no scorpions in your tent."

"I'm entirely capable of doing that myself."

"Damn. You want to come take care of mine?"

Letting out an angry sound, you turn your back on the temple and storm past him. You figured the hardest part of this dig would be the sun and the deciphering, but you've decided that your biggest challenge is going to be Vernon, an unexpected bump in the road.

You don't look to see if Vernon follows - you don't have to. You feel him there, a quiet pressure at your back. It doesn't occur to you until you're in your tent changing that Vernon's presence had felt exactly like the temple.

- A faint rustle pulls you awake as dawn cracks against the horizon like an egg, the sun's yolk spilling through the tiny gap in your tent door. The air in your tent is thick, but the leftover cool from the night before hasn't been burned off from the sun yet.

You shift, intending to sit up when you feel something cold and segmented brush against your calf. You freeze. Heart hammering, you lift the sheet slowly and carefully, peering underneath. Coiled on your nice little bed by your leg is a scorpion, inky body fat, its stinger arched.

Leirus quinquestriatus. A deathstalker, its pinchers raised slightly, sensing your movement. You know if it stings you that its venom is potent enough to ruin you for days. Even if it wasn't, you really don't want to be stuck, trying to swallow down your discomfort at the way its scaly little body siddles up to you.

Holding your breath, you ease your hand toward the edge of the cot, fingers closing around the empty water glass. You don't dare breathe as you bring the cup toward the creature. It twitches and you stop, folding your lips together to stop you from squealing. You're not afraid, but you really don't want to be stung.

Licking your lips, you carefully bring the glass toward the scorpion and then in a single fluid motion, you invert the glass over the arachnid, trapping it against the sheet. It skitters, legs tapping the glass. You don't lift your hand, reaching with a free hand to grab your notebook, putting it against the edge of your bed.

Carefully, you slide the glass and the scorpion immediately gets angry, fighting the glass as you drag it until it's trapped between glass and notebook. Its tail flicks, pissed off at its makeshift prison. You exhale, swinging your legs over the side of the cot to stand. The sand floor is cool under your feet as you rush to the entrance, pushing the doorway open.

Outside, the camp is waking up. You hear distant voices and the clatter of cookware, the low hum of generators powering up. The sky is a gradient of grey and blue, stars fading in the light.

A worker passes, nodding at you while mumbling, "Sabah el-khair."

You nod back with a smile. "Sabah el-noor."

Stepping into the open air, you kneel at the edge of the tent. With careful hands, you tip the glass and let the scorpion scuttle free into the sand. It pauses to orient itself, then burrows swiftly out of sight.

You watch it go, a shiver tracing up your spin. In most traditions, scorpions are omens, guardians and harbingers of death. Specifically in ancient Egyptian lore, scorpions were sacred to Selket, but they were also symbols of chaos and strife, omens of dark tidings on the horizon.

You shake off the thought. Superstition has no place here. Though you deal in lore and mythos and theology as much as you deal in history and language, superstition in the desert can quickly feel like heat stroke and conspiracy, and as much as you'd like to think there is something mystical and otherworldly about the ancient world, you know it's a thread that's too dangerous to chase.

Back inside your tent, you dress quickly in khaki pants, a long sleeved shirt to ward off the sun and the cool temple air, sturdy boots laced all the way up, and grab a satchel full of notebooks, pens, a water bottle and small archaeologist tools.

Outside, the camp is fully alive, people brewing tea over small fires and clustering around maps. The smell of flatbread baking mingles with the sharp tang of the diesel generators. You want to look for coffee, but you find Voss instead, retracing your steps from last night to the dig site.

He's already barking orders, his silhouette sharp against the rising sun. The workers have been at it since before dawn, and the collapsed doorway to the temple is already cleared, the rubble piled neatly to one side as Leila oversees where it needs to go.

Floodlights still cast harsh beams into the shadowed maw of the temple, gliding past the black basalt pylons. You glance at the falcons again, their beady eyes eroded with time and sand but still watching.

"Doctor!" Voss calls when he sees you. "Good, you're up. We're going in. Teams of three: security, researcher, laborer. No one wanders alone."

You nod, approaching the group collecting to be assigned. Dr. Hassan al-Masri is there, his epigrapher's toolkit slung over one shoulder, chatting rapidly to Keppens, whose camera is slung around his neck, face stuck in the white cast of sunscreen.

Voss assigns teams and you scan the group, hoping he pairs you with anyone except-

"You'll go with Chwe and Karim," Voss says, gesturing to Vernon who lounges against one of the falcons. He's dressed in all black tactical gear with a keffiyeh around his neck and pulled up to his nose, protecting him from the morning sun. You're surprised to see that his traditional dark hair has been replaced with a dark blonde mullet, roughly styled from the wind. "Chwe has a radio if you need it."

Of course. You nod and swallow past the dry patch in your throat, walking over to Vernon and Karim, who nods his head when he sees you.

"Morning, Stacks," Vernon greets, smirking. "Sleep well?"

You ignore him and turn to the third man in your party. "Ahlan wa sahlan."

Karim grins. "Ahlan beeki. Ready for the shadows?"

"Always."

The temple looms, its gateway a yawning void that seems to pulse. You've felt the pulse since last night, a strange sense of doom like fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You think of the scorpion in your bed this morning and the doom deepens, but you shove it aside, unwilling to let your mother's bedtime stories lead you astray.

The teams fan out, headlamps flicking on as they step through the gateway. You follow Vernon and Karim into the dim coolness, the temperature dropping sharply as sand gives way to the stone floor. The air is stale and thick with dust, carrying the faint echoes of incense long burned out and faded myrrh.

Inside, the temple unfolds, the hypostyle hall stretching before you, columns rising like petrified palm trees, the lotus blossom shaped tops cracked and smoothed with time. Floodlights from the entrance cast long shadows, dancing as the team moves. Your boots echo on the flagstones, each step stirring puffs of dust.

Montu, the falcon-headed god of war, dominantes the reliefs. He stands with his spear in hand, ready to smite his enemies. You see each enemy etched alongside him, the paint faded and nearly washed away. Nubians, Hyksos, Libyans - all of them await his slaughter and fury, his most hated enemies. Montu's form stands taller than them all, his depiction muscular and divine, wings partially unfurled.

One carving catches your eye and you hurry over to it, Vernon and Karim on your heels. You blow the dust from the wall, wiping a hand to sweep away the thick layers of grime and time.

"Look at this," you murmur, more to yourself than your companions. "Montu was Theban originally, but his cult spread north during the Middle Kingdom. I'd wager this temple is Eleventh Dynasty, based on the style."

Vernon leans in too close. You smell him immediately - woody oud mixed with something else staticky. His breath is warm on your shoulder when he says, "Fascinating. Does he have a favorite color as well?"

You shoot him a glare. "If you're not going to contribute, at least don't distract me."

Karim chuckles at your exchange and shines his flashlight along the base of the column. "The god is angry here. See the fire in his eyes?"

Shuffling closer, you look to where Karim points. Indeed, the inlaid eyes are gone, sockets hollow. Still, the ferocity remains in the carved lines.

You nod, switching to Arabic to keep Vernon out of your conversation. "Yes, Montu was the bull of battle. It is he who grants victory. But in later periods, he merged with Ra, becoming Montu-Ra, the solar warrior."

Vernon snorts. "Solar warrior?"

You stare. "You speak Arabic?"

"I've got the same degree as you."

"You don't."

"Alright. I've got a degree."

"Well if you can't appreciate the cultural significance-"

"Ease up, Stacks. It was a joke. I appreciate the significance."

You grit your teeth, moving on. The sense of doom you'd felt this morning intensifies as you delve deeper, a prickling unease that makes your skin crawl. It's not just the chill - you feel like the walls are watching and you're reminded of the falcons in the front.

Temples like this were sacred precincts, boundaries between the mortal and divine. You've translated enough texts to know that the Ancient Egyptians weren't messing around with their warnings and curses, and the knowledge weighs heavy on you the further you go.

The hall branches into corridors, the teams' voices echoing faintly from other paths. Your group takes a left fork, Vernon leading with casual confidence, the beam of his flashlight sweeping.

"This way looks promising," he announces. He glances back at you, eyes flashing with something dark that gives you pause. "Unless you want to flip a coin, Stacks?"

"Based on what? Your pirate instinct for loot and theft?"

"Something like that."

Behind you, Karim snickers at your bickering. You ignore both of the men, walking further into the temple where the corridor begins to narrow, the walls closing in. As you go, you see that the reliefs here are denser, narrating a tangle of Montu's story starting with his birth from Nun to his battles against Apep and his role with ancient Pharaohs.

You trace a cartouche with your finger, dust flaking. "Mentuhotep II," you murmur. "He unified Egypt after the First Intermediate Period. This temple might commemorate his victories. Perhaps Montu was his patron."

Vernon is quiet for a second. "Patrons aren't always what they seem."

You glance sideways at him. "Meaning?"

"Meaning keep looking for shit, Stacks."

"You're impossible."

Despite Vernon, you push forward. The corridor opens into a chamber, smaller than the hall but richly decorated like some sort of ritual room. Offering tables line the walls, carved with heaps of bread, beer and oxen, all tributes that would have been given to the gods. In the center, a pedestal holds a fragmented statue of Montu, falcon head intact, body cracked but not entirely broken or dismembered.

Grinning, you drop to your knees and unpack your notebook to begin sketching. Your pencil scratches against the room while Karim lingers near the door, his eyes scanning the shadows as Vernon lounges against a wall, arms crossed, silent for once.

As you work, something presses against your awareness. The air feels thicker here, charged somehow, like the moment before a storm. You look up briefly, eyes scanning the room, but you see nothing. Still, you feel something pressed against you, a warning you can't feel. You hate that you think of the scorpion in your bed again, seeing the way its tail swayed back and forth, an ominous pendulum. Your hand trembles slightly as you work and you swallow past the unease.

Vernon watches you, his eyes burning a hole in your back. "You look like you're enjoying this."

"Some of us value knowledge over profit."

"Ouch. Knowledge pays your bills too though, doesn't it?"

He isn't wrong, but there is a difference between what you and Vernon do. Your desire to uncover history and write about it is rooted in preserving its cultural significance and keeping artifacts in their native lands where they belong, not front and center at some museum in New York or London - or worse, in some rich man's mansion that is rarely visited save for the holidays.

History is a personal endeavor for you - it's always been more than a job. It's air. It's blood. It's what keeps you going. You don't know how to explain that to someone like Vernon who doesn't understand that history isn't a subject to you, it's an artform.

You remember the first time you truly understood that. You were eight, curled up on the worn couch in your mother's Cairo apartment, the river glinting beyond the balcony like a ribbon of molten silver. Your mom had just come home from a dig in Saqqara, dust still in her hair. She always had dust in her hair, the braids ashen from spending hours by lamplight in digs far out in the desert. That night she'd brought you something, and in her lap was a shard of pottery, no bigger than your palm and painted with lotuses and a single line of hieratic script.

"Feel it," she'd said, handing it to you. You remember her calloused fingers stained with ink, the rasp of them against your skin, the way she'd leave finger prints on you sometimes. "This belonged to a woman who lived four thousand years ago. She held it. She drank from it. She probably argued with her partner over whose turn it was to fetch water, just like the women of this age do."

You'd traced the delicate brush strokes, awestruck. "How do you know it was a woman?"

"Because the name inscribed on the rim is a woman's name. Merit. And because women have always been an important part of history. Merit is no different. What women do holds power. Never let anyone tell you that history is made by men. History is painted with the power and prowess of women, no matter how men try to snuff it out."

From that day on, history wasn't something you could find in just textbooks. It was alive. It was stories whispered across thousands of years, lives and histories of people like Merit. Your mother had made it that way for you until her last day in a hospital room, clinging to that same piece of pottery you'd sat on the couch and examined together.

"There's a thread," she said, weak and tired as life slowly left her. "Running beneath the official history. I can feel it. Something no one records plainly. Something more, something we don't think is real. I wanted to find it."

She never had the chance.

Shaking your head free of visions of your mother, you focus on a longer text wrapping around the pedestal, wondering if you'd ever find the threads your mother used to talk about or if your fear of the mystical and rejection of the other would keep you from wandering down her same, chaotic path. The text is a hymn to Montu detailing his history. You scribble notes, unpacking how he was once a local deity in Armant, then elevated during the Eleventh Dynasty.

"He who makes the Nile red with the blood of his enemies," you translate, voice barely above a whisper. "Guardian of the hidden ways, binder of the chaos beyond."

"What does Montu know of chaos?" The tone of Vernon's voice makes you look at him.

He's half in shadow, watching you, the keffiyah loose around his neck, his face unreadable. Your eyes linger on the swirling tattoos that should make sense to you - do make sense to you, in a way. The binding symbols on his arms are a strange choice for a tomb raider who walks around with a gun, and the script near his throat…

"Need something, Stacks?" His question makes you look back up at him. He's watching you with an intensity that makes you flinch. "A new pen? A snack, perhaps?"

Huffing, you turn back to your task. The sense of something lingers, though, tingling at the back of your neck as Vernon watches you work. You know that he isn't stupid - he's far from it. Vernon is well-read and knowledgeable, and though you hadn't known his affinity for Arabic, you shouldn't be surprised.

You continue writing down the text and you frown at the shift as the language grows more archaic, switching periods and skipping around between dialects and writing systems. Weird. Your brows furrow as you write the words down haltingly, translating underneath a little at a time.

The sealed gate lies deep, where he who feeds the soil with iron waits…

You frown, unable to read damaged lettering. You skip to the next part, shuffling on your knees to get a better look.

… not open the lid, for spear will walk anew.

A chill races through you. The words echo and you think again of the scorpion this morning. You hadn't been sure what the omen meant, guardian or chaos, but the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach worsens.

Montu's temples often had hidden chambers, crypts for sacred objects or forbidden knowledge. This speaks to something grander, though. Something powerful, maybe. But you don't understand the meaning.

Vernon notices you've stopped writing, leaning forward to look at you, brow pinched. "What?"

"There's a warning here. It's a bit hard to understand but it… Do you speak Ancient Egyptian?"

He snorts. "Yes."

"It says not open the lid, for spear will walk anew. I don't understand the lid or the spear will walk anew."

Sighing, Vernon leans down and looks at your writing. He seems ready to make a snarky joke when his expression pinches. "That says door not lid and war not spear. Door and lid are written the same but the end is pronounced differently."

"Insightful. So not open the door, for war will walk anew."

Vernon looks to Karim. "Is there a lower chamber here?"

"Yes, that is part of what the team is to help clear the way, if needed."

Vernon looks at you but you're already getting up, shoving your notebook in your bag. "They shouldn't open that door. I'm not superstitious but it could be anything - booby traps, underground gasses. We need to tell Voss.

You hurry back through the corridor, Karim trailing with his flashlight beam bouncing across the walls. Vernon keeps pace beside you, the usual smirk absent. The sense of something dark clings to your skin, the temple alive in a way it wasn't before.

Halfway down the corridor, Vernon stops dead. His hand shoots out, fingers closing around your upper arm. You jerk to a halt, Karim nearly bumping into you from behind.

"You should go back," Vernon says, voice urgent. "Karim, taking her to camp. Now."

"What?" You stare at him, incredulous. "Why?"

"This isn't your fight."

"My fight?" You yank your arm free. "It's not a fight, Vernon. It's a temple, my goodness. There could be one of those ancient traps behind that door! Or any amount of gasses. The text isn't literal, ancient civilizations often used gods to explain natural dangers they didn't understand."

"Great. So go back to the tent where there's no mystical warnings."

"No."

Karim shifts uncomfortably, looking between the two of you. "Doctor-"

"No," you cut him off, turning your glare on Vernon. "What is your problem, Chwe? One minute you're mocking everything I say, the next you're trying to dismiss me like I'm an intern."

His jaw tightens. "I'm trying to do you a favor. Just listen to me."

"Or what? You're gonna shoot me?"

You hold his stare, heart hammering, not understanding the sudden intensity in his eyes, like he’s seeing something you can’t. Something that scares even him. It infuriates you more because you don't get it.

"Fine." He turns away to let you pass. "Get yourself killed then."

You storm past him, anger propelling you deeper into the temple. Karim calls your name once, uncertain, but you don't stop. You're not going to get killed, no matter how much Vernon's dramatics feel like a cheap script to a Lara Croft video game.

The corridors blur left, right, then left again. You follow the faint echo of voices and the scrape of tools. The air crows colder and thicker as you plunge into the temple, the apprehension behind your ribs pulling tight like a rubber band.

You enter a lower chamber, larger than the sanctuary above, lit by harsh portable floodlights. You're momentarily stunned at its vastness, steps slowing as you look up at the tall ceilings of cracked stone and floating dust. Your heart skips, mouth twitching briefly at the marvel of a new, undiscovered piece of history before you remember why you were rushing down here in the first place.

Voss stands at the center of the room, arms folded, watching as workers lever a massive stone door set into the far wall. The floodlights cast him in harsh light, half of him shadowed and intense as he stands back as the overseer. Dr. el-Masri is there next to him, scribbling notes while Piet snaps photos. Two security men stand ready, rifles slung. You roll your eyes. These people and their guns. You're in a tomb where the most dangerous thing is collapsing tunnels, natural gas and ancient traps.

"Voss!" You shout, jogging toward him. "Tell them to stop, they can't open that door."

"Ah, Doctor. Perfect timing."

"I found a warning upstairs," you tell him, holding out the notebook. "I think there's an ancient trap behind it or something precious the temple is trying to protect, maybe even a natural danger-"

"Every temple has warnings, Doctor. Curses to scare thieves. We're professionals."

"This isn't a curse. I think-"

"Listen, Doctor." He turns to you, smile thin. "Money requires risk. My investors require results. You require an in. We open the door, catalog what's inside, and get out before the next storm. Simple, and good business."

"You're willing to gamble for artifacts? How many archaeologists have died from ancient traps doing exactly what they were meant to? Or tunnels collapsing or hitting lethal air pockets of natural gas?"

"I'm willing to gamble for history. Your history, that you wanted to learn, no?"

Fury boils in you. You do want to study this temple, but the right way, not with force and lack of caution and-

Your anger is cut short when the work team gives a final heave, stone grinding against stone as the door shifts and swings inward with a hollow boom.

For a moment, there's only silence. Dust billows out in a choking cloud, swirling under the floodlights and sending everyone coughing. You take a few steps back, lifting the collar of your shirt to cover your nose, immediately wary of breathing in natural gases and poisoning yourself.

Everyone stands and waits for the dust to clear. You narrow your eyes, trying to see into the endless dark of the doorway, and you swear you see movement in the dark beyond. You squint, willing your eyes to see further, trying to make out anything in the gloom.

A shape lurches forward from the dark and several people take a step backward. The shape is tall and skeletal, wrapped in desiccated linen and bronze scales that clatter as it walks, making your skin crawl. Empty eye sockets glow faintly red, and the skeleton carries an ancient but sharp khopesh blade that glints in the floodlights.

No one speaks as the skeleton stops. You're open mouthed, heart pounding while Karim starts praying behind you as the revenant - you don't know what else to call it - stops, and stares at the room. You tilt your head, analyzing the wrappings and the decay rate of the skin, trying to do quick math and references to the mummified artifacts that the world already has access to in order to place the decay age of-

The first scream comes from a young student as a revenant you didn't see cleaves through her shoulder with a blade. Blood sprays, bright and obscene against the black stone. It's so violent that you don't move at first as you stare in horror, not processing the barbarity of it, the blood and the gore so out of place among scholars and workers.

Chaos erupts around you.

Workers scatter and the security team shouts, riffles firing in sharp rapts that make you clap your hands over your ears, cringing. Bullets spark off the armor of the revenant, some finding purchase in brittle bone with explosions of brittle white, but the revenants keep coming, more of them spilling out of the maw of darkness.

A hand shoves you hard from behind and you scream and wheel around, only to realize it's Vernon. He slams you sideways into a narrow alcove behind a fallen column, his body shielding yours. He forces you down to the ground, ducking with you as he goes. His hands are firm, pressing you into the alcove until your back is against cold stone and your knees are pressed into the dirt.

"Stay down," he barks, eyes wild.

Then he's gone, leaping into the fray.

You watch him, heart pounding, as you survey the scene in front of you. The chamber is a nightmare, filled with flashes of gunfire, bronze clashing against modern steel, and screams. Blood slicks the floor, turning the dirt to a clumpy maroon. There is more blood than you've ever scene, a hand clapping over your mouth as a khopesh cuts a man open from navel to throat. You spot Karim holding his own, swinging a pickaxe as he fights alongside a security woman, both of them trying to fend off one of the skeletons.

And then you see Vernon.

He moves like nothing human, faster than your eyes can follow, ducking under a khopesh as he wrenches a spear from a nearby revenant's grip. The weapon looks ancient, shaft wrapped in faded leather, but in Vernon's hand it sings. He spins it easily, fluid and practiced, and drives it through a revenant's chest. Dust explodes outward as the thing collapses into a heap of armor and bones, morbidly similar to a video game.

A spark crackles along the spear's length for an instant, blue-white and bright before vanishing. You blink, convinced you imagined it. But it happens again when Vernon parries another blade, a spark leaping from metal to metal, charring the skeleton's bone black.

Vernon fights like something out of the reliefs on the walls themselves, vicious and precise, ancient forms blending with modern brutality. A revenant lunges and Vernon sidesteps, spear whipping around to take its head clean off. You watch with your lips parted, unbelieving as another charges him and Vernon plants the butt of the spear into the ground to vault over the screaming revenant before spinning the spear around and driving it into the back of its head.

One of the students collapses against the wall near you, making you flinch. Her gut is sliced open, blood pooling dark between her fingers as she tries to stop the bleeding. She's gasping her eyes wide with terror, wet sounds coming from the back of her throat as she tries to say something - a prayer or plea for help, maybe. You start to crawl out to her, ripping parts of your shirt to press against her wound, to offer her something to staunch the bleeding.

A revenant leaps toward you, khopesh raised. You don't even have time to scream as you drop to the floor. Time doesn't slow like you thought it might as you approach death. You'd always thought maybe it would happen like it does in film, a single slowed frame where you see everything in detail. You don't, though. You only see the swing of the blade and feel the single pulse of fear so hard that it hurts your chest.

And then Vernon is suddenly there, spear flashing as he impales the skeleton through the jaw and out the back of its skull. He rips the spear out and spins to you, panting. He growls at you, face sneered as he bends down to grab you and haul you back into the alcove by your collar, your feet dragging against the dirt. You'd be offended if you weren't so grateful he'd just saved your life, falling into the alcove as he drops you like a sandbag.

"Save your empathy for later," he growls, voice raged. "Stay. Put."

He's gone again before you can answer.

The fight drags on. Gunfire dwindles as enemies run out. Bodies hit the floor, but so do revenants. The final one collapses into dust and bones courtesy of Karim's pickaxe, leaving him shaking and covered in sweat.

Silence returns, broken only by sobbing and labored breathing. Voss stands near the breached door, coat torn, face pale but alive while he stares into the darkness beyond, something hungry in his eyes despite the carnage.

Vernon strides through the settling dust, spear still in hand. He looks untouched - shirt ripped - but otherwise whole. The tattoos on his arms seem darker, the lines sharper, as if ink had bled fresh. For a second when you look at him, you don't see Vernon. Instead, you see something vengeful and alive, something uncontainable and vaster than anything else in the room.

When you blink, it's just Vernon again. He stops at your hiding place and tosses the spear aside casually. It clatters and he looks down at you, expression unreadable. He doesn't offer you a hand, but his face is expectant, so you push yourself up. The first time, your legs give out. When you try again, your stance seems to hold.

"How," You ask shakily, "the hell did you do that?"

"Good cardio, Stacks." He wipes grime on his shirt. "You should try it.

"Don't. I saw you. You moved like you've done this before. And the lightning-"

"Adrenaline does crazy things to the mind. Let's go."

Vernon grabs your wrist, not rough, but firm. He pulls you toward the exit as survivors limp past. Karim is soot-streaked but upright, helping a wounded security man. Leila is crying as she huddles near Piet, who is cradling a broken arm. Somewhere, Voss is barking orders.

Outside of the temple, the sun is brutal. The camp is in utter chaos, full of shouting and running feet, radios screaming for medevac. Stretchers are improvised from tent poles and canvas, the smell of diesel mixing with the scent of blood.

Vernon doesn't slow down for a second. His grip on your wrist is unrelenting as he cuts through the chaos, steering you past clusters of stunned survivors toward the largest of the medical tents. The white canvas flaps snap in the hot wind, each crack like a gunshot from the tomb, making you flinch.

Inside, it's already crowded but he ignores the crying of the wounded and the yelling of the very few medical experts as he pulls you to a corner and pushes you toward a tiny stool. "Sit."

You do without argument, legs folding without permission. The world tilts strangely, sounds muffled as though you're underwater. Your hands are in your lap, but you can't feel them at all, you realize. Strange. You don't remember when the numbness started, but it's creeping up your hands as you stare at your palms upturned in your lap. They're speckled blood. You realize it's not yours - that your hands are stained with someone else's blood. Probably someone dead.

Vernon crouches in front of you, blocking the rest of the tent from your view. He reaches out with a hand and tilts your chin upward, drawing your gaze from your hands to his face. His face is streaked with dust and dried blood, eyes darker than ever as he studies you the way he studied the revenants before attacking, quick and predatory.

"You're shaking," he says. Not a question.

You are? You look down. You are. Tremors ripple through your fingers, your knees knocking together though you're sitting. Your teeth want to chatter, and you can't fight it - you let them. Once the tremors start, you can't stop them, the ripples coming in waves that vibrate through your entire frame no matter how much you want to stop.

"Oh."

"You're going into shock."

He reaches past you and grabs a folded wool blanket from a stack of supplies. The motion brings him close - you catch that same woody oud scent, now laced with something sharper like blood. He shakes the blanket out and wraps it around your shoulders, tucking it tight.

"Breathw," he orders. "Slowly."

You try. The air tastes like antiseptic and metal, making your lungs stutter. Vernon's hands settle on your knees and he grips you, the pressure firm.

"Look at me."

You do. His eyes are darker up close, pupils blown wide, the irises almost black. There's something restless behind them, something vast trying to stay leashed. You wonder if the others see it too, or if the shock is making you see things like the lightning in the temple.

"In through your nose," he urges. "Out through your mouth. With me."

He demonstrates with a slow inhale, controlled exhale. You follow, clumsy at first, then steadier. The roaring in your ears recedes a little.

“Good.” He doesn’t move his hands. “Again.”

Minutes pass. Or seconds. Time has gone slippery. The blanket traps your body heat, and gradually the violent shivering eases into something mangable. Feeling creeps back into your fingers, prickling like pins and needles.

A medic approaches with a tray of medical supplies, but Vernon waves them off without looking away from you. "She's not injured. Just shock. Give us a minute."

The medic hesitates, then nods and moves on to someone whose wounds are worse.

You swallow. Your throat feels lined with sand. “They’re dead. Because of a door. Because Voss wanted-"

“I know.” Vernon’s thumbs press small circles against your knees, an absent motion, like he’s done this before. “Not your fault.”

“I tried to warn him.”

"I know. Voss has his own gods to answer to."

You stare at him. There’s that flicker again in his eyes, something ancient and furious banking itself down. The tattoos on his forearms shift as his muscles tense and the binding symbols seem to writhe for a heartbeat before stilling. Again, you can't help but feel like you're seeing things that aren't supposed to be there, but that you know are.

"What are you?" You whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

"A tomb raider," he answers, his voice deadpan. He reaches for a canteen on the supply table, unscrews it, presses it into your hands. “Small sips.”

The water is warm but clean. You drink obediently. He watches until you’ve had enough, then takes it back. “Better?”

You nod. The blanket feels heavy now, comforting. Your pulse has slowed to something human. Vernon sits back on his heels, but doesn’t stand yet. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and look toward the tent flap, where the desert glares white-hot beyond the canvas.

"Thank you," you say quietly. He raises his brows. "For saving me. I didn't listen to you. So thanks."

His expression softens for a fraction, gone almost before you catch it. "Don't mention it. Seriously, don't. We're not friends."

But he stays crouched in front of you a little longer, a silent sentinel, while the camp outside tries to stitch itself back together around the pieces of what just broke free.

-

The temple stretches around you, but it's wrong. It's too vast, the columns rising into a startless, black sky. Sand shifts under your bare feet, warm as blood. The air smells of myrrh and hot iron.

A low growl rumbles through the stone. You turn, heart kicking, and see her. It's a lioness pacing between the pylons, her coat the deep red-gold of fresh spilled blood in sunlight, muscles rippling with every step. Her golden eyes fix on you, ancient and furious. A golden disk flickers in and out above her head, flaring like the sun.

She circles closer, paws silent on the flagstones as she approaches, sleek muscles shifting. Around her neck hangs a collar of crimson fabric - its linen soaked through and dripping, leaving wet prints whenever she steps. Blood you realize.

You try to speak, but your throat is dust and ash, unusable. The lioness stops directly in front of you. Her breath is furnace-hot and she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out save for the sound of something wet and tearing.

Red fabric unfurls from her jaws, endless and spilling. It wraps around your wrists, your ankles, your throat. You feel the weight of plagues, of arrows, of slaughter ordered by a god who grew tired of mercy. The rage presses into you deeper and deeper, the lioness's eyes boring into yours.

The temple floor cracks open beneath you and sand pours upward like reverse rain, swallowing the columns, swallowing the lioness, swallowing you.

You jerk awake, lungs burning like you can still feel the sand scouring them in your dream.

The tent is dark, the camp outside hushed except for the low hum of generators and the occasional murmur of voices. Your shirt is soaked with sweat, your sheets tangled at your feet.

Something is wrong.

It isn't just the dream. The air feels charged like the moment before lightning strikes and your skin prickles with the same sense of being watched you felt the first night outside the gateway.

You swing your legs off the cot, heart racing as you stumble for your boots in the dark. Your movements are quick and automatic, rushing as you get dressed. You don't bother lacing your boots fully before yanking the flap of your tent open to step into the night.

The desert air is cool now, almost sharp after the day's furnace. Stars burn overhead, spilling across the sky in thousands of untold stories. The camp is mostly asleep, tents dark, only a few security lights flowing. The temple looms in the distance, floodlights casting a ghoulish halo in the distance.

And there, just outside your tent, is Vernon. He's sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket with his back against the supply crate while he eats dates from a small pouch. A pile of pits sit in the sand next to him as he chews, a gun unholstered on the blanket next to him along with a knife that looks like it's the length of your forearm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He pops another date into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Guarding the perimeter. Scorpions, jackals, tomb raiders. You never know."

"You're guarding my tent."

"Technically the whole camp. Your tent happens to be on the perimeter." He offers the pouch. "Hungry?"

You ignore it. "You've been sitting here."

He shrugs and you stare at him, a tangle of emotions you don't have a name for yet. He looks tired with shadows under his eyes, but alert, like he's listening to every sound the desert makes.

"Anything else happen?" You ask finally.

He wipes his fingers on his pants. "Voss took a team back in. Small one. Himself, some security, Dr. el-Masri. Said it was safe now that the guardians were dealt with."

Vernon's tone tells you exactly what he thinks of that assessment and your stomach drops. "He went back in?"

"Man's got priorities. Look, we should head out-"

You turn toward the temple without another word. The pull is immediate and magnetic. You need to see what they're doing, need to stop whatever fresh stupidity Voss is commiting. It's what anyone with a brain would do - what your mom would do.

Vernon is on his feet in an instant, blocking your path. "No."

"Move."

"You're not going back in there."

"I need to tell him what he's doing! If he disturbs more seals-"

"He knows what he's doing." Vernon's voice is flat. "And you're not equipped for round two."

You step around him. "I don't need your permission."

Cursing, Vernon scoops up his weapons and jogs after you. "Of course you don't."

"No one is asking you to come with me - least of all me. I'm not a child."

You stride across the sand, boots crunching. The temple grows larger with every step, floodlights carving harsh shadows between the pylons. Vernon keeps pace, his anger crackling like the lightning you swore you saw the day before.

"You just came out of shock. You're running on adrenaline," he argues.

"I'm fine."

You stop at the wooden steps leading down to the site. The night wind whistles through the pylons, carrying faint voices up to you. You start down the steps and Vernon grabs your arm.

"I'm serious, Stacks. Go back to your tent."

You wrench free. "Why do you care? You don't even like me."

"You think I dragged you out of that bloodbath just to watch you walk back in? I don't have to like you. I have common fucking sense."

The words hit harder than you expect but you swallow, lifting your chin. "I'm not helpless."

"I didn't say you were, Gods above!" His voice drops, lethal. "But you're human. And whatever is in there isn't. We should leave."

You search his face, looking for the lie, the flippant mask. It isn’t there. Right now it's just raw frustration and something close to fear.

"Then come with me."

He laughs, short and bitter. “That’s not how this works.”

"Suit yourself."

You shove past him down the remaining steps, trying not to make eye contact with the falcon statues as they watch you pass. Vernon curses behind you and you hear him scramble to keep up.

"Why are you so stubborn?" He demands as you pass through the opening. Cool air greets you and you shiver, turning on a flashlight despite the floodlights guiding the way. You hear voices from a distance, but most of the main temple is empty. "You don't even have a weapon.

"I don't need one."

"Do you not remember yesterday?"

You do remember yesterday, though the memory is hard to grasp. Never in your life did you dare to believe in monsters and mummies, too afraid that you'd spend your career following loose threads and nonsense like your mother, but those creatures had been real. The blood had been real. So had the death.

It's what drives you at a breakneck pace through the temple now, determined to stop whatever Voss was doing to save himself and those with him from disaster you're sure is about to happen.

Halfway down the main corridor, where the floodlights from the entrance no longer reach, Vernon stops abruptly. He catches your wrist again, pulling you to a halt.

"Stop." His grip tightens, not painful - never painful - but immovable. "You want to play the hero, fine. But not tonight. Not after what happened yesterday. Wait until the morning."

The hallway feels smaller, suddenly, the walls pressing in. Somewhere deeper, a tool clangs against stone. It echoes your pounding heart, the smell of Vernon's woody cologne and sweat making you dizzy. You realize how close he is and try to step back but he doesn't let you, crowding your space.

His fingers stay locked around your wrist, warm even through the layers of dust and sweat, his thumb pressed against your pulse. His body blocks most of the faint light spilling from deeper inside, leaving you half in shadow.

Up close, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicker from your face to the darkness and back again, like he's fighting some sort of war you're not privy to.

"Let go," you murmur. "Please."

He doesn't. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moves. The air between you turns to static. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, so quick you think you imagined it, then snaps back up. Something like frustration flickers across his face before he shakes his head.

"You are shaking, Stacks."

"I'm fine."

The words hang heavy. You're hyper aware of how alone you are, how the rest of the world feels miles away behind layers of stone and sand. For one second you think Vernon might pull you closer, but he doesn't. His shoulders sag as the fight bleeds out of him and he lets you go.

"Fine." He steps back. "Do what you want."

He retreats deeper into the shadows and you watch as his faint outline melts into the dark. The space he leaves behind feels cold and empty, your wrist tingling where he held you. Swallowing, you shove down the fluttering feeling in your stomach and turn, determined to stop disaster before it can happen again.

The beam of your flashlight cuts a narrow tunnel through the black, the light jittery with every hurried step. The temple swallows the sounds of your boots on stone, your ragged breathing, the pounding of your heart.

The hypostyle hall feels endless, the columns rising like the ribs of some colossal beat, their lotus capitals lost in shadow. The floodlights from the entrance have faded, and the darkness swallows you save for the glow of a portable lamp left behind by Voss's team every few meters.

You pass the sanctuary chamber where you first found the warning and something presses down on you, the air changing. The corridor narrows, forcing you to turn sideways in places. your shoulder brushes basalt etched with faded scenes of victories - pharaohs trampling enemies, Montu towering above, spear dripping with blood.

A low murmur of voices drifts from ahead. You slow, clicking off the flashlight to let your eyes adjust to the dim glow spilling from the lower chamber. The same chamber where the revenant poured out hours ago. The air is warmer here, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood and your stomach knots.

Edging the threshold, you peer inside and the scene stops your heart.

Portable floodlights have been arranged in a rough circle, casting harsh white beams that leave the ceiling lost in absolute black. In the center of the bloodstained flagstones, a pattern has been drawn into the ground out of charcoal, the lines forming a vast cartouche of interlocking falcons and spears. At its heart lies a low basalt altar that looks older than the rest of the temple, its surface pitted and dark.

Voss stands at the altar's head, sleeves of his shirt rolled high. His expensive watch glints as he arranges tools with reverent precision - a broken khopesh, a bowl of natron, a golden vessel that catches the light like liquid fire. Dr. el-Masri stands behind him, an ancient papyrus unrolled in trembling hands.

Two security men flank them, rifles slung blue sidearms ready. Kneeling in the center is a woman from the security team - Nadia, you think. She's tall and broad-shouldered, her dark hair cropped short. She's stripped to a black tank top and her skin is gleaming with oil, her eyes closed and face tilted up.

It's a ritual space.

Your stomach lurches as your mind pieces together all of the details - the warnings, the sealed gate, war walking anew. The temple contains Montu, the unbound fury.

Patrons aren't always what they seem.

You think of Vernon's words. How the entire temple is painted with pharaohs and the mark of Montu, their god. How it is an ode to his victories. You realize Voss tends to wake Montu - or perhaps, to let Nadia make him her patron, if such a thing is possible and if you were to believe in something beyond like your mother always had.

You step into the light before you can think better of it, fury and fear colliding as you say, "Stop."

Heads snap toward you. Nadia's eyes remain closed, but Dr. el-Masri's eyes widen as he looks at you. Voss smiles unpleasantly but beckons you in.

"Doctor, welcome. We're just about to get started."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Finally starting what I have been after for years." He gestures to the altar. "As you have figured out, this temple is not a treasury. It was a prison."

"You're trying to wake a god." Your eyes flicker to Nadia. "And… bind it? That's madness. Montu isn't a tool. Historically, he's slaughter incarnate, the texts-"

"The texts," Dr. el-Masri interrupts, "Are written by heretics. In Ancient Egypt, the understanding that rulers were divinely chosen was so absolute, that it was the single thing Egyptians agreed on for thousands of years."

You laugh, sharp and disbelieving. "It is the belief in divine rulership that led them to dehumanize their own population. To think onesself is a god is different to think oneself is a king. When you're a god, everyone is beneath you and you become infallible. People are not infallible, Dr. el-Masri."

Voss sighs. "You're a scholar, Doctor. You of all people should appreciate the pursuit of knowledge."

"This isn't knowledge. This is hubris. Which you both should know was the downfall of Egypt time and time again."

Voss smiles thinly. "Call it what you like. Nadia volunteered. She understands the honor." Voss looks at his security team. "Doctor, you should join us."

The security men move faster than you expect. One grabs your arms from behind while the other clamps a hand over your mouth before you can scream. You thrash, kicking and twisting, but they're heavy and trained. Your flashlight clatters to the stone, the beam spinning wildly.

Together, they drag you toward the altar. You feel your heart pounding as you scream, muffled by the man's hand. You bite down on his fingers and he yelps, pulling his hand away. Your scream of rage echoes in the temple, cut off as the other man drives his knee into your spine to force you down at the altar.

The stone is cold and you roll over to kick at them. They grab your legs and hold you down, binding your hands and feet as you scream your throat raw. Nadia ignores you and Voss sighs as someone stuffs your mouth with cloth. You strain against the cords, but they don't move, your muscles aching as you thrash.

Dr. el-Masri begins reading from the papyrus and you stop, looking at him with pleading eyes. He ignores you, reading words of ancient invocation to Montu, Lord of Terror, He Who Makes the Nile Red.

Nadia stirs. You snap your head toward her, watching as her eyes open, pupils blown wide, irises flickering for a second. You're reminded of Vernon's eyes suddenly, the feeling that something ancient and feral was scraping behind his gaze, that-

Pain explodes, white-hot between your ribs. You look down to see that Voss has driven a blade in your stomach and you scream, arching against your restraints. The pain is so bad that you see flashes of white in your vision, the terror taking over as blood wells hot and immediate, soaking your shirt and pooling onto the altar.

Dr. el-Masri's voice rises, chanting faster. The floodlights flicker. Sand begins to sift from cracks in the ceiling. Wind howls.

Power foods the chamber like a sandstorm. The air burns and you squint, sobbing around the gag in your mouth. Nadia convulses, her body arching impossible as golden light pours from her eyes and her mouth. The temperature in the room skyrockets, heat buffeting you as temple groans and you hear cracking stone, a column in the corner tilting as it breaks and crashing into the ground in a plume of dust and rot.

Voss stumbles back, grinning. "It's working."

A basalt block falls from the ceiling, shattering near Dr. el-Masri. He screams as he completes the ritual and when you turn to look at Nadia, she's no longer entirely Nadia. She rises to her feet smoothly, head tilted as if listening to something distant. Her gaze passes over you without recognition, then she turns to Voss.

"You have freed me and given me a vessel," Nadia says, but the language is ancient from a time beyond Voss's comprehension. "What is it you seek?"

It's Dr. el-Masri who answers, "We seek Maahes, the hunter."

Nadia grins. "Come."

They leave the temple as it begins to collapse. Nadia pauses as she passes you, her eyes flicking to the knife in your stomach. She bends down and just as you think she's going to remove it, she twists it. Your shriek is lost to the gag, the pain leaving you blinded and heaving, throat convulsing around the cloth as you gag.

When you blink again, they're all gone, leaving you alone with the dark and the growing roar of falling sand and a collapsing ceiling.

Blood bubbles in your throat. Each breath is shallower than the last. The pain starts to fade and is replaced with something different, something cold creeping up your limbs. Sand pours in through the ceiling now through widening fissures, cascading like waterfalls, and for a moment you think of your dream with the lioness and the sand falling upward.

You stare at the ceiling as the world crumbles. Somewhere far above, there are stars you'll never see again.

Please, you think, unable to speak. Anyone.

Nothing answers but the sound of cracking basalt.

You think of Vernon - his rough hands steady in the med tent, the way he looked at you in the corridor like he wanted to say something more. You wish you'd listened. Wish you said something kinder to him when he was just trying to help.

You think of your mother. Her smile over that pottery shard. The way she said your name like a promise. Like hope. You pray that wherever she is now, she isn't watching this, that she isn't seeing your violent, bloody end.

Sand peppers your face. It's almost gentle, and your eyes flutter as darkness clouds your vision.

Child of blood, a voice calls, low and furious. You are in need of vengeance.

You can't move your head, but you feel something, heat in the cold, pressure against the collapsing dark. A presence that is vast and beyond your understanding, scented with the desert sun and spilled blood.

They woke war, the voices continues. And left you to pay the price. I know war too, child of blood. Let me pave the way.

Yes, you think. Yes.

Yes, the voice agrees. But not gently. Not without cost.

The sand stops falling.

Fire ignites at the edge of your vision, gold and crimson, licking along the cracks in the stone. It doesn't burn the temple - it burns you.

Pain flares anew, different now. Your blood steams, your wounds sear shut. You smell charred linen as the cords binding you turn to ash. Sand near you crystalizes to glass, crunching as you scream, the gag in your mouth burning until you're choking on ash, your screams loud in the chamber. Your body arches against the altar as power pours into you, vast and ancient and furious. Every nerve sings and your lungs fill with heated air that tastes of life instead of death.

Call me the Eye Unbound, the voice tells you, growing in volume, her laughter hot. I drink what spills. I burn away the unworthy. I am Sekhmet and you are my vessel.

Sekhmet's laughter echoes through your skull, wild and approving.

Rise daughter, she purrs. There is hunting to do.

The fire settles in your veins like molten gold cooling to armor. Your eyes open, and the chamber is lit from within you, crimson light spilling from your skin. The temple around you is collapsed, but there's a perfect ring of protection around you, the symbols flaring with scarlet light.

You sit up. Blood flakes from your shirt. The knife is now on the ground and when you lift your shirt to peer at your stomach, the stab wound is a ridged scar, glowing faintly. The light from you fades, but you realize that you can see unnaturally in the darkness.

Yes, Sekhmet says when she feels your surprise. You are changed.

Somewhere above, you hear chaos. You don't know what it is, but thunder shakes the temple violently. You feel Sekhmet as though she is you, as though you are one. Like Montu and Nadia, host and patron.

They run, she purrs when you think of Montu. Shall we chase?

You stand in the rubble. You feel white hot rage go through you, stronger than anything you've ever felt before. You see a red sky. Red sands. A red river. Blankets of scarlet red blood, and a lioness walking across hot sand as she burns away the unworthy.

Voss is unworthy. And he has Montu with him, a god with a vessel, just like you.

"Yes," you say out loud, your voice raw. "We chase."

-

Vernon storms out of the temple, his boots grinding against the flagstones with each step. The corridor blurs around him, shadows twisting like smoke, the floodlights from the entrance flickering at his approach. Anger coils tight in his chest, hot and familiar, a companion he's known longer than most people.

But this time it's sharper and laced with frustration.

Stubborn idiot, he thinks, the words aimed at you but ricocheting back at himself. Why couldn't you listen? Just once? He slams a fist against a column as he passes, the impact echoing like thunder in the enclosed space as the column instantly collapses with the force of his punch. Pain flares in his knuckles, but it's nothing compared to the storm brewing inside of him.

Set stirs at the edge of his mind, a presence as constant as his own heartbeat. The god's amusement rolls through him like distant thunder. Idiot. You let her goad you. Again.

Shut up, Vernon snaps internally, clenching his jaw. He doesn't need Set's commentary right now. Not when his blood is singing with the urge to turn back and drag you out kicking and screaming if it he's to. He doesn't want to hurt you, but he will drag you, even if it means you never speak to him again or you curse his name every day. At least you'd be alive.

The god chuckles. She challenges you. I like her fire. I see why you like her.

Vernon ignores him. He has no intention of going round and round in circles with Set about who or what Vernon does or does not like. The god has a particular habit of showing up every time Vernon sees you, prodding him in ways that almost make him lose his cool at auctions, galas and conferences. Set seems entirely incapable of letting Vernon admire you from afar without meddling, and right now when the world is collapsing is not the time for an ancient god's meddling.

The entrance to the temple looms ahead, the night air spilling in cool drafts. Vernon pauses at the threshold between the temple's door and the open desert. The pylons loom like sentinels and he looks at the falcons, their eyes eroded but watchful, like the eyes of Montu are ready to strike at any moment. He leans against a wall, breathing hard, trying to rein in the chaos inside of him - trying to reign in Set.

This whole expedition was supposed to be simple. Or as simple as anything gets when one is bound to a god of chaos. Vernon had heard whispers of the site months ago, rumors in a black market antiquities circle that he haunts, tales of a storm uncovering a temple tied to a bound god.

Vernon has been with Set for eight years now, but he's never stopped trying to get rid of him. It had started in a forgotten tomb in the Valley of the Kings back when Vernon was just a cocky archaeologist fresh out of his degree program, chasing glory like everyone else in the field. He'd been a bit rogue then too, not waiting for a permit before he started poking around.

Like Voss, he'd opened a sealed chamber he shouldn't have and Set had poured into him like sand through an hourglass, violent and overwhelming, reshaping Vernon into a cage for divinity.

Call me He Who Howls in Open Places, Set had whispered, his voice crackling. Call me the Red One, the Unmoored, the Crooked Star. Do not call me Brother, for brothers bind. I am Set.

Vernon had survived. Set is good at keeping his host alive. He'd walked through the desert with new tattoos burning fresh on his skin, hieroglyphs of binding and Coptic words of containment.

Since then, it's been a constant war. Set grants Vernon gifts - strength beyond human limits, control over storms, the ability to step through shadow. But the god's volatility amplifies Vernon's own anger, his own emotions.

And Set hungers. Always for chaos. Always for unmooring the world.

Vernon wishes this dig had worked out. He'd been hoping to find something here to unbind him, but he hadn't been expecting you to be here. When you'd shown up two days ago, Vernon's entire plan changed. You don't like him much - he doesn't blame you - but Vernon's been fond of you for years. Likes your work ethic, the genuine desire to do good, to seek truth.

He'd been like that once. Now he trades in artifacts and secrets to survive, trying to use relics to fund his way out of this mess with Set.

We are one, Set reminds him now. You seek to cut the thread, but it binds us tighter.

I didn't ask for this, Vernon reminds him, rubbing his tattoos. They're bothering him tonight, hot and itchy.

No one asks for divinity. It takes.

Now, Vernon doesn't know what to do. He'd realized Voss' intent to bind a god when you'd found the inscription the day before. After the aftermath with the revenants, he had planned to let you sleep it off and force you to leave in the morning. He had not anticipated you being a pig-headed fool and charging into a temple at night, refusing his help.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He lets you have your assumptions about him. It's better than the truth, not that you would believe him. He saves ancient sites too, redirecting looters and forging documents to return artifacts when he can. It isn't all about stealing like you think it is - he does try. You see none of that, of course. Why would you?

She sees more than you think, Set sighs. Smart girl. I think you are hopeless, though.

Vernon growls and pushes off the wall muttering, "Not now."

He starts toward the camp, intent on packing your things himself. Then, he’d walk back inside the temple and he'd force you out and shove you into a jeep and send you back to Cairo. Karim could drive - he was reliable - and Vernon trusted him not to ask questions.

A tremor stops Vernon cold.

It starts subtle, a vibration underfoot. Then it grows stronger, the ground shuddering as sand shifts in ripples. Dust sifts from the gateway arch and the pylons groan.

Vernon's head snaps back toward the temple. Set surges in his mind, alert and hungry. War awakens. The falcon stirs.

"Fuck," Vernon hisses. He didn't think Voss would manage this quickly, or he wouldn't have let you keep walking into the temple.

He runs.

Vernon plunges back into the darkness, shadows dancing around him. His form flickers as he shadow steps, blinking in and out of existence from one pool of dark shadows to the next, covering ground faster. He hates the feeling of shadow stepping, fading from a physical body to mist and back again, but he suffers it to get to you faster.

Voss and his team burst from a side corridor and spills across Vernon's path. Nadia is leading them, except Vernon realizes it's not Nadia. Her eyes burn gold, pupils slitted, and she thrums with power, a god in a fresh vessel. Vernon recognizes it immediately, reminded of the first time Set stepped into him.

Voss spots Vernon first. "Chwe! The temple is collapsing, let's go."

Vernon ignores him, eyes locked on Nadia. Set roils inside of him, ancient hatred flaring. Brother no more. The ordered one, the betrayer, let me tear him free.

Not yet, Vernon snarls back, but the power in him builds anyway, wind whipping in the corridor.

Nadia tilts her head and smiles. "Voss, did you know you already had a god in your midst? The Crooked Star. How fitting to see you slither here."

Her voice is layered, Nadia's timbre overlaid with a deep rumble that must belong to Montu. She raises a hand and the air shimmers as a spear materializes from nothing, bronze and ethereal, tip glinting. Vernon realizes this is a manifestation of one of her gift, a weapon forged from divine will.

She hurls the spear but Vernon shadow steps sideways, reappearing in a flicker of shadows as he summons storms. Wind howls through the temple, violent and unchecked. Overhead, thunder cracks, the chaos feeding on his frustration and fear that you're hurt or worse. Lightning arches from Vernon's fingertips and slam into Nadia, knocking her back.

The air compresses around her and she summons a shield of air and flame. "You rage, Unmoored one."

"You are a child," Set answers through Vernon, hissing. "I will show you power."

Vernon steps through a shadow, feeling the brief cold of nothingness before he materializes behind Nadia. His fist connects with her back, his enhanced strength crumpling her tactical vest like paper. She spins faster than any human, a khopesh appearing in her hand. The blade sings and Vernon ducks, feeling the heat of the divine weapon as it skims over him, nearly taking his head clean off his shoulders.

Nadia's blows are seismic, each one backed with the heat and power of the sun. He shadow steps mid-swing, flickering in and out, landing hits on her from impossible angles that make her roar in frustration. Set cackles in Vernon's head, the older god trickier and slipperier than his younger family member.

Set is strong, but the storm Vernon commands feeds on him. His anger at you, at Voss, at this cursed bond - it amplifies everything, making the wind in the temple erratic, lightning sparking and exploding against rock. A bolt blasts a column and brings down chunks of the ceiling, sending Voss and the others running while Nadia stays to fight off Vernon.

Set howls in delight, his energy snapping. Rend the falcon!

Nadia presses him, a spear grazing his side, searing flesh. He hisses in pain, but pain fuels the storm as a crackling spear of white lightning forms in his hand. Vernon feels himself start to slip, Set taking over his thoughts and body more fully as the bolt manifests into a solid spear of lightning, his blood singing.

He spins the spear in his hand, beating Nadia back. She might be host to the god of war, but Set is an ancient chaos not easily beaten, and Vernon sees the frustration on Nadia's face as Vernon''s spear catches her across the thigh, burning flesh. She howls, the cavern shaking, rock falling.

The temple is crumbling, he realizes. And somewhere in the temple is you, left behind. Sacrificed, maybe. Dead, maybe.

That single thought cuts through Vernon's rage like a blade.

No, Set protests, surging for control. The enemy is here!

She's more important.

The god recoils. Is she?

Vernon forces the god into submission, drawing the storm inward, coiling it tight. Nadia lunges at him but he shadow-steps away, breaking the engagement.

She laughs, spinning on him. "Cowardice from chaos? How novel."

"I don't have time for you," he growls, stepping into another shadow and turning to nothing.

Set rages as Vernon plunges into the temple, running and jumping deeper. You deny me glory for her?

She's not dying tonight.

The god subsides, grudging but curious. Very well. But the falcon will pay later.

Vernon doesn't disagree. He wants to rip the god from Nadia's skull as much as Set does, knowing that Montu being set out onto the world can't be any good. Especially because Nadia doesn't seem interested in controlling her god the way Vernon controls his.

The temple fights him as he approaches the chamber, the floor shaking and the ceiling caving in. Vernon summons energy, feeling the air around him compress as he thrusts a hand out, blasting a wall of rock with kinetic bursts. Rock flies, the covering choking with dust, but he does it again and again, crackling with energy as he carves his way to you.

His trek is an exhausting combination of shadow stepping through partial collapses and blasting his way through the tunnel, the thunder deafening in his ears. Set is silent, his fascination at Vernon's desperation palpable.

Set has never seen Vernon this eager to save someone. Ever.

Fear eats at him. He should have made you leave the second he knew what Voss was up to. It had been his pride and his desire to let you make your own choices that left you lingering here in this cursed place, and now he knew you were most likely dead.

The thought drives him harder at the wall, blasting through the final bit of collapsed columns and basalt. He has no idea how you'd survive a temple collapse, but he doesn't care. He needs to know. Needs to get to you. Needs to do what he can to right his wrong of leaving you here.

Vernon's side burns from the spear wound Montu gave him, but Set knits the skin slowly as Vernon waits for the dust choking the air to clear. Vernon swallows thickly, waiting and panting as the air finally starts to clear and he can see the inner ritual chamber.

Sand fills most of the space, a sea of golden death. His stomach drops when he realize you're probably in here suffocating somewhere, terrified and-

Light catches his attention. Vernon goes entirely still as red light blazes from a figure standing amid the ruin, crimson and bloody as the light starts to fade behind soot-covered skin.

You.

There's a khopesh in each one of your hands, outstretched and gleaming crimson. Tattoos wind your arms, red and blazing before cooling to a dusky, desert red. When your eyes open, your irises are aflame, pupils stilted like a lion's, glowing like freshly forged gold.

Set's wariness surprises Vernon, the god slithering in his mind. The Eye Unbound, he growls. She who drinks what spills. She who burns the unworthy. Sekhmet.

Vernon doesn't know what that means and he doesn't care. He hardly hears set at all, distracted by the terrifying display before him. You look beautiful, blazing in glory and anger and rage, but most importantly, alive. And then the light fades from your eyes and you blink at him, confused and wincing.

"Vernon?"

It's the last thing you say before your eyes glaze over and you collapse backward.

-

Your entire world is sand. The horizon stretches endlessly in each direction and the sun hangs unnaturally low, rays bleeding over the world like a wounded god. The grains of sand under you shift restlessly, pressing into your skin hot.

Heat simmers in the distance, distorting the air. You sit cross-legged in the center of endless dunes, and no matter which direction you look, the sea of red sands are endless. Timeless.

Across from you, the lioness manifests in a waver of heat. Sekhmet. She's massive, her form towering over you, a monument of divine fury. Her coat gleams gold-red, her fur rippling with power as she settles onto her haunches.

She stares at you and it's unnerving. Her feline features are etched with eons of wisdom, fangs glinting like polished obsidian when she yawns. Behind her, the red sun halos her head, a perfect red disk - a crown.

"You were not ready," she notes. Her voice is a low, resonant rumble that resonates through you, mouth moving to form the words. You stare, entranced. "Unfortunate."

"I didn't exactly have time to prepare," you reply, voice small. You can tell she's disappointed, but it isn't every day you become host to a powerful ancient entity. "I wasn't expecting the power to burn through me like that."

She chuffs, amused. "Mortals rarely do." She shifts, paws sinking in the sand. "I have kept vigil over these places of sealing, the tombs where gods slumber and remain chained. I keep those who should not be here away - a whisper in the wind to deter the greedy, a dream to haunt the foolish. A scorpion slipped into a bedroll under the cover of night."

The scorpion. Your mind flashes back to that morning, the segmented touch against your skin, the careful capture and release. An omen you'd brushed off, feeling silly for thinking of superstitions. Now you know it was a deliberate nudge from the divine, a warning.

"You bled for the truth," Sekhmet acknowledges. "For chasing the thread your mother left behind for you. You are honest. Honesty is good."

The desert around you seems to shift at her words, the red sands undulating. You think of your mother, wondering if this is what she had envisioned when believing there were hidden histories in Egypt.

"What happens now?" You ask the goddess.

"Now you carry me, and I you. We are bound, flesh to flame." She pauses, ears flicking. "Beware the one who carries the Crooked Star."

"Vernon."

"Sutekh. He walks again in the flesh, hungry. He is volatile and is capable of great evil if left to his own devices for too long. Empires have fallen to his whims, rivers diverted, brothers slain for sport. Chaos is his domain."

You think of Vernon and his dark eyes, the way you could see something ancient there, something he fights to keep under the surface. Vernon, who had pulled you from carnage and steadied you through shock. Vernon who had come back for you against all reason, and who had guarded your tent.

Guilt eats at you. You've spent years thinking of him as a spur in your side, an annoying bee that wouldn't stop stinging every chance he had. Now you owe him your life, and you realize perhaps you have been too harsh on him, too cruel.

"Vernon fights Set," you insist gently. "I've seen him do it."

Sekhmet shrugs, the motion a powerful ripple of muscle and fur. "For now. Mortals break under divine weight. Gods endure. We are unyielding."

The sand begins to whirl around you, rising in spiraling vortices that tug your clothes and hair. You feel the dismissal, and when you look up, the lioness is gone, but her voice still carries on the ancient wind.

Remember. Vengeance is a blade with two edges. Wield it carefully.

The red sun flares and you shield your eyes, flinching-

You wake gasping, lungs seizing. You swivel in bed, the sheets sticking to your sweaty skin. It takes a moment to get your bearings, but you realize that you're in the med tent, dim light from the moon outside filtering in.

Outside, the camp is unnaturally silent, a void where there should be a hum of activity. The wind is restless against the canvas tent, snapping in the breeze. Some of the cool air reaches you, cooling your overwarm skin.

Your body aches with a deep resonant thrum. You feel as if your bones have been hollowed and refilled with molten iron, the fire coursing through you new but not unpleasant. You lift your shirt to look at your stomach, cringing at the scar. You touch it tentatively, feeling the warmth behind it, the ridged tissue coiled with power.

Suddenly you become aware of someone else's presence. You look up to see Vernon sitting in a folding chair near the tent flap, elbows braced on his knees. His posture is slumped but alert, his eyes sharp as they stare at you. The moonlight slipping in through the canvas cuts across the sharp angles of his face, panting him in harsh light.

His shirt is torn at the shoulder, bloodstains dried rusty brown. His tattoos seem to writhe subtly in the dim light, and now that you look at them, they make more sense than they ever have: He Who Howls in Open Places. Red One. Unmoored. Crooked Star. Bind and balance, storm and dust.

With new eyes, you see the ritual for what it is - a binding sigil, scoured into Vernon's arms to tie him to Set. You look at your own arms and let out a little gasp, seeing similar markings twist on your arms, but they're a dull red, like blood dried millenia ago.

"You're awake," he observes.

You swing your legs over the cot's edge, the sand floor cold against your feet. Testing your balance, you stand. He moves like he's ready to catch you if you fall, but despite the world tipping, you remain on your feet.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"About 20 hours. It's night again."

Vernon stands and moves the flap open. Moonlight spills in like liquid silver. You notice a cookfire out in front, highlighting scattered medical supplies and materials from the camp Vernon has dragged to the front of the tent for ease.

You step outside and he follows. The night is crisp, the sky above stretching in a luminous river of stars overheard. The camp sprawls out, a ghost city left to just the two of you. Tents sag like deflated lungs, their white canvases stained with and and blood. Deep tire tracks in the sand show that the cars are gone, leading into oblivion. You notice the dark patches in the sand, your gut twisting when you realize it's blood.

"They took the vehicles," he notes. "Drove off eastward toward the old trade routes."

Your stomach twists, guilt and horror mingling as you survey the desolation. You wrap your arms around yourself, the wind tugging at your clothes. "How many dead?"

"Enough."

You look at Vernon - really look at him. The moonlight carves his profile in silver relief, the strong line of his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth in frustration, his eyes flashing in ancient anger. He's been watching over you, alone in this forsaken place, a testament to loyalty you never credited him with.

"I didn't think you'd come back," you admit.

"You're an idiot. Of course I came back. I wasn't leaving you buried under a bunch of rock, though knowing you, you were exactly where you wanted to be."

The joke falls a little flat. His tone is softened around the edges, almost affectionate. It makes your heart do something stupid, and you don't know how to answer as the words hang between you. You feel a shift, your entire perception of him changing in just a day.

"Vernon-"

He tenses. "Don't."

"Alright."

"Let's just make dinner. I'm starving."

Together, you scavenge the items Vernon has dragged to the med tent. You have to go scout for a few, the two of you working together in charged silence. You gather pots, some flatbread that is a little hard, dates in a small sack, a can of tea leaves and a can of stew meat.

The fire is already going, casting a warm glow that pushes back against the night's chill. You sit across from him on a folded blanket, knees almost touching as you watch him brew tea. He hands you a chipped mug, fingers brushing yours briefly. His touch sparks a connection, his fingers lingering briefly before he pulls away and you wrap your hands around it, letting the heat seep into your palms.

Both of you settle, the meat stewing in the pot over the fire. The moon is a bright silver coin in the sky, looking down at the two of you, pale face watchful.

"Tell me how it happened," you say quietly. "With Set."

Vernon stares into the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. The firelight paints his face in gold and shadow, softening the sharp lines you've always associated with arrogance. Now you see weariness. Vulnerability.

"Valley of the Kings," he murmurs. "Eight years ago. Found a chamber no one had catalogued and I just went in head first. I was arrogant then - still am, I guess. You know what it's like to chase after knowledge and glory though."

He pauses, touching the tattoos on his forearm absently. His fingers trace the ink, as if seeking reassurance.

"Set was waiting. Poured right into me, though I didn't know what was happening. Unlike Nadia, I was not a willing host. Everyone else died. I woke up three days later with these marks and a god laughing in my head."

You listen, guilt turning your stomach over. All this time you'd look at Vernon and see vanity and rebellion. Now you see him for what he truly is - tired under the weight of being a prison for something most people cannot fathom.

"He isn't evil," Vernon says slowly. "Not exactly. Chaos isn't evil - it's change without permission. It's discord and upheaval and it frightens people. But he is not inherently evil, though I suppose many can argue that the results make him so." A faint smile tugs his lips. "We fight constantly. I win sometimes. Sometimes I don't."

"Sekhmet told me to beware him. That you might not be able to contain him."

"Maybe she's right, but I'm pretty stubborn. I've been doing this for eight years and I'm better at it now than I was then." He sighs. "Your turn."

You tell him what happened in the chamber - about the altar, the cold stone against your skin. The way Voss stabbed you in the gut to bleed you out for the ritual. You see anger flash in his eyes then, raw and ancient. Somewhere, thunder rumbles and you cast your eyes up toward a clear sky, wondering how confident Vernon is in his control.

"Her wrath was overwhelming," you admit. "Sekkmet is a lot of things. She's purification through fire, she's war, she's Ra's divine justice. But she is also full of wrath, and it's so at ends with who I am. But I was angry and desperate and afraid of dying."

"No shame in that. Sometimes we want retribution for the things that happen to us."

"Is that what you're searching for? Retribution?"

"More like freedom. Set is alright but it's been a long time since I've had my thoughts to myself."

"He's talkative?"

"Sekhmet isn't?"

You shake your head. You feel her there, watching your conversation with Vernon like a predator, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. She is a hot grain of sand in the back of your mind, subtle but there.

"Must be nice." He grunts, amused. "Set whispers chaos. Tries to push for opportunities to unmake things. Burn it all down and rebuild something new on the ashes. Most days I can tune him out. Some days…"

He shrugs, the motion casual but his eyes hold yours, heavy with a vulnerability you've never seen from him before. Without thinking, you reach toward him, brushing your fingers across his wrist. The contact sparks again, but this time it's literal.

Crimson flame licks down your arm and you jump, watching your tattoos come to life. Lightning dances across Vernon's arm, white-blue and staticky. The flame and lightning meet in a swirl of energy that tingles but doesn't burn, twining like old friends.

Neither of you pulls away, watching with parted lips as the colors shift until they fade. His tattoos burn faint blue, yours dark red, both of you lingering until the tattoos fade and the power vanishes beneath the surface of your skin again.

Vernon's mouth twitches. "He says like calls to like."

Hm, Sekhmet hums, displeased. I'm not so sure about that.

"What about Voss," you ask, drawing your hand back slowly. Vernon frowns. "What do you think he's planning?"

"Power. I just don't understand what."

"When I was in the temple, Voss asked Montu to lead him to Maahes."

That stirs Sekhmet. You feel her uncurl like a feline, her anger sparking as she paces in your mind. You give her a questioning prod and she growls.

My son.

"Oh," you say outloud. Vernon raises his brows, confused. "Maahes is the son of Sekhmet. I forgot. The lion to the lionness."

Traitor, she hisses. Folly. They claim he perfects what I cannot, that he is discipline where I am unchecked.

"Well do you know where they're going?" You wince and look at Vernon. "Sorry, is there a way to not talk to myself when I'm trying to talk to her? This is awkward."

"She can read your thoughts. I just think at Set and it sort of works. Sometimes I talk out loud too, though. Especially when he's pissing me off."

There is a temple deep in Wadi Al-Hitan, Sekhmet hisses. It is where he is bound. Maahes knows the way to Apophis.

You repeat what she said to Vernon. The reaction is instant, his face twisting in anger as his entire body goes rigid. His pupils blow wide and black, lines of white and molten blue crawling along his tattoos. The wind around the fire picks up, whipping sand into spirals that hiss against the fire.

A sound tears out of Vernon, not quite human, not quite animal. It's the howl of the desert storm giving voice, centuries of hatred pressed into a single note. The fire gutters and you instinctually hold out a palm, feeling power radiate through you as you buffet the flame.

"Apophis," Vernon snarls, laced with a voice that isn't his own. "They're going to wake the serpent."

You feel Sekhmet growl, her words coming through you. "Let them try."

Vernon's hands tremble, his knuckles white as he makes a fist. "Set has been Apophis's executioner since the world was new. Every dawn, every night, he drives the spear into the serpent's throat so the sun can rise again. If Voss means to unleash Apophis-"

He cuts himself off, swearing in Ancient Egyptian. The words are strange and guttural in his mouth, spoken with the perfect accent and articulations. The words resonate with you in a different way now than they had before, a language you studied becoming a language you instinctually know.

"Voss wants to be a vessel off Apophis."

"And destroy the fucking world while he's at it," Vernon growls.

Set surges again, a tide of lightning behind Vernon's eyes. The tattoos pulse like living things, wards straining. For a heartbeat, you think he's going to let loose and set the entire camp ablaze in lighting. But he breathes through it, slow and deliberate, forcing the god down by sheer will.

"We cannot let that happen," he murmurs, looking at you. His eyes are his own again, but he looks strainted and tired. "Set likes chaos, but not this. Not at the hand of Apophis."

"We?"

His mouth twitches. "You bailing on me, Stacks?"

Sekhmet's growl is in your voice when you say, "Never."

Vernon nods, grinning at you for the first time since Voss opened the seal to reveal revenants. You smile back, feeling the savage delight of your god as she paces, eager and ready to hunt.

For the first time since Voss stabbed you with that knife, you're not afraid.

You're ready.

-

The sun claws its way over the horizon, spilling molten gold across the dunes. Heat simmers already, distorting the endless sea of sand. Your boots sink ankle-deep with each step you take, the grains shifting as you trek. Your muscles are already screaming, each step requiring effort.

You and Vernon have been walking since dawn, packs heavy with scavenged supplies. You're thankful you have the newfound strength of a god, otherwise you'd never have been able to stuff the packs as much as you have. Water sloshes around in the canteens with each step, your pack stocked full of water, food, and a slim selection of medical supplies.

The medical supplies are a precaution. As evidenced by your recent stabbing, your healing is different now, aided by the goddess who keeps watch inside of you. It's a nice perk - kind of like the fact that you're not out of breath after hours of walking and you're not keeling over - but being the vessel of an ancient entity doesn't make the trek less tiring or the sun less hot.

Barrâmîya lies ahead, a distant smudge on the GPS. The dusty outpost is now your lifeline, though if you can't get a hold of a car you're not sure what the plan is. Wadi al-Hitan is hours away from Luxor, up north in Egypt's Western desert. The Valley of the Whales is vast, and somewhere lies a hidden temple to Maahes, whose location is only known by the gods living inside of you and Vernon.

Vernon walks a pace ahead, keffiyeh wrapped around his head and face to hide him from the sun. His stride is steady despite the heat, and sweat darkens his shirt, clinging to the lines of his back.

"Keep up, Stacks," he calls over his shoulder, smirking at you. "Wouldn't want you collapsing before the sun gets to the worst part of the day."

You roll your eyes but there's no bite in it. Not anymore. His smugness used to grate against you, but now it feels almost comforting. Familiar in a sea of gold and red and endless heat.

"I'm fine, worry about yourself."

"I'm doing great. Set loves the desert."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, a low growl of disdain. Naive, she purrs. He teases to hide the storm.

You ignore her, focusing on the burn in your thighs as you crest another dun. The sand here is finer, almost silken, slipping away under foot. Wind hisses across the surface, carrying grains that sting your exposed skin like needles. Far off, a hawk circles, its cries loud against the vast silence.

Vernon was right about the sun. It climbs higher, turning the world into a furnace. He keeps you talking though, like he's trying to keep your mind off the heat. It's nice. You tell him about your mother, about how she chased threads of hidden history beneath Egypt.

He pauses on the top of a rise, shielding his eyes against the glare. He smiles, glancing down at you. "She was onto something, I guess. Smart. I see where you get it from."

The heat you feel has nothing to do with the sun. You stop next to him, panting as you both break to take sparing sips of water. "What about you? How'd you get into history?"

"Parents passed when I was a kid - car accident. Uncle took me in. He was a wealthy bastard obsessed with history. He used to drag me to museums and auctions. He was nice, if not a little hyperfocused on his hobbies. He funded my degrees. I thought it was a pretty cool life until Set decided to hitch a ride."

Guilt flickers inside of you. You've judged him for years, only seeing the tomb raider, never the man chained to chaos. "I'm sorry. For um. Well. My assumptions of you the last few years."

We waves it off. "Don't go soft on me now, Stacks. I like the fire."

Your heart does something stupid in your chest, Sekhmet snarling in annoyance. Guard your heart.

The day drags, the sun a hammer pounding relentlessly. Mirages taunt on the edge of your vision, but you both keep moving. Your throat remains parched despite sips of the canteen and exhaustion gnaws as you as the sun dips down toward the late afternoon. Divine energy sustains you, keeping your legs moving when mortal will would fail.

By dusk, Barrâmîya appears. You think it's a mirage at first, but Vernon lets out a sigh of relief and you know it's real. The town is a cluster of low mud-bricked buildings huddled around a well, palms swaying in the breeze. The air cools as you stumble in, the scent of baked earth replaced by spices from a market stall.

Locals eye you warily, two dust-caked strangers staggering in from the desert. Coin speaks louder than questions though, and when Vernon pulls out a wad of folded money, no one looks warily at you again.

The inn you find is a squat structure, walls cracked from the endless sun. Lanterns swing outside in the breeze as the last of the sun dies beyond the horizon. There's only a single room left, and you're both too tired to care. The two narrow cots shoved against opposite walls is good enough for you, a single window letting in moonlight as you collapse on a bed.

Vernon drops onto the bed closest to you, breathing out tiredly. You turn your head to glance at him in the dim light. The room is tiny and though his bed is against the other wall, he's close enough to hear his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest steady. Your eyes trace the tattoos on his arms, inky in the dim.

He catches you looking and smirks. "See something you like, Stacks?"

Heat flushes your cheeks. "Just wondering if you ever shut up."

He laughs. "There's the fire I like."

The room feels smaller as you lie back, staring at the ceiling cracks like ancient veins. Tomorrow, you need to get a car. From there, the wadi. But tonight, you need sleep, despite the fact that the air between you and the man across from you is charged with something new. Just something… more.

-

The sun is a brutal disk of white by the time you and Vernon get into a battered jeep the next morning. Vernon doesn't explain how he had bartered for it - all he'd said was he found a ride as he'd come back into the room before dawn, kicking dust off his boots. You didn't ask, too grateful to not be walking in the blistering heat as he starts the engine with a guttural cough that doesn't sound promising for a lengthy trip.

Inside the car smells like old oil and sun-baked vinyl and the faint smell of storms that you've come to associate with Vernon. He looks tired in the driver's seat, adjusting the rearview mirror, eyes sliding over to you as you buckle your seatbelt.

"Ready?" He asks, voice rough. You nod and make a sound when the vehicle lurches forward, tires spinning in the sound before catching. "My bad."

Behind you, Barrâmîya shrinks to a smudge on the horizon, then nothing. The Western Desert stretches ahead of you, a vast sea of ochre and gold that stretches under a sky so blue you have to shield your eyes to look out the dusty window. Heat rises in shimmering waves, distant rock formations wavering like ghosts in the high-heat of morning.

Hours bleed together as Vernon drives east. There's only a single road that cuts across this part of Egypt, the cars few and far between. Occasionally, the jeep bounces, hitting holes in the road that no one bothers to fix. This far from the main cities, it doesn't matter, but as you near the east coast of Egypt, the road smooths out.

Vernon drives with one hand on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. You glance at the tattoos peeking from under his rolled sleeves, the ink harsher in the dark light. You look down at your own, the dusty red ink winding in whorls you now understand. Something has shifted between the two of you now, the sharp silences dulling to something softer and far more comfortable. You catch yourself watching the way his fingers flex on the steering wheel, the line of his throat when he swallows, the way his eyes narrow against the glare.

Sekhmet stirs in the back of your mind. Naive, she growls. She seems to favor that word to describe you. He is chaos and wrapped in flesh. Affection is useless.

You ignore her, focusing on the expanding blue of the Red Sea with Marsa Alam rising in the distance. The tropical paradise is at ends with the tension in the car, the desert giving way to a resort town that feels entirely out of place with the violence of the last two days. Vernon says nothing, but the tension in his jaw increases as he turns north to get on the highway and follow the coast.

"What do you think Voss is really after?" You ask eventually, eyes stuck on the endless blue of the Red Sea. "Beyond power, I mean. He has Montu. Why chase Maahes and Apophis?"

Vernon's grip on the wheel tightens. "Apophis is powerful. If Voss can harness that power, he can rewrite the world in his image."

"I don't like that."

"Neither do we."

We. You notice the way he says the word, speaking for him and Set. You wonder how much of Vernon is Set and the other way around. Eight years with a god inside of your head is hard to imagine, even as you feel Sekhmet's prowling silence now. You wonder what it was like for him and what he was like before.

"Set doesn't like Apophis," you note.

Vernon shakes his head. "Set and Apophis have been at each other's throats since the world was new. Set's killed him in many lifetimes. The idea that the serpent could wake under Voss's control is unsettling."

"What was it like for you? With Set, I mean. With Sekhmet it's…" You fight to find words, looking at your hands in your lap, the tattoos dark. "She's always there, but quiet. Sometimes I get the sense that she's pacing, like she's waiting to attack. But it also feels warm. Safe."

"Set's louder. The first year with him was hell, honestly. I'd suddenly get angry and the sky would open up with rain and lightning, or I'd just lose myself to him entirely."

"That sounds terrifying."

"It was. We learned some balance, though."

Unlikely, Sekhmet mutters.

You ignore her. "How'd you do it?"

"I don't fight him head on anymore. Sometimes we have a bit of a fight for control, but ultimately this is my body and I'm still me. When we fight head on, it tires me out and it's easier for him to slip in."

You nod. "Makes sense."

"Some advice - don't ignore her. It's very isolating. Talk to her out loud if you have to. They like being acknowledged and makes them feel less like prisoners and more like partners, even if they're assholes."

Sekhmet huffs in your mind, but there’s a reluctant amusement in it. He is not entirely wrong. Though his god is far louder than I.

You repeat what she says to him and Vernon smirks, glancing at you sidelong. "Set says Sekhmet is stuck up. Old family drama, I think."

The sun climbs higher as the conversation dies out, exhaustion weighing you both down. To the west is an endless landscape of red, to the east, only blue. Vernon's hand brushes yours when he reaches for water, a spark going up your arm. You jerk your hand back, startled. If he notices, he says nothing, uncapping the bottle to take long pulls of water. You catch yourself staring at the line of his throat as he drinks.

By early afternoon you've reached the point of turning west to drive inland again, Wadi al-Hitan still hours away. Your head leans heavy on the head rest, eyes heavy as the jeep ambles. Vernon glances at you, mouth twitching.

"Sleep," he murmurs.

"No, it's okay. We can switch if-"

"Sleep, Stacks. It's been years since Set and I joined, but I remember how exhausting those first few days were. We have about six hours until we hit the Wadi."

"But-"

"Sleep." His tone is gentle, but the way he looks at you brokers no argument. "I need you at your best, yeah?"

Your stomach flutters a little and you nod, sinking down in your seat to lean heavier against the door. The glass is warm on your forehead, the vibrations of the car on the road a constant lull as you close your eyes, trusting Vernon to get you to where you need to go.

The jeep’s engine rumbles low as you drift in and out of uneasy sleep, the road vibrating through the cracked seat and into your bones. The sun has dipped low, painting the desert in deep oranges and blood-reds that bleed across the horizon like an open wound. Heat still clings to you, but you slip into sleep, the world fading.

Black basalt gleams under torchlight, the air thick with myrrh and the crackle of fire from braziers. Vernon stands in the hypostyle hall, shadows clinging to him. He looks different, the blood and dust gone, revealing only the sharp lines of his face that are softened by the firelight. His tattoos glow faintly, the binding wards shifting like living ink as he steps closer, dark eyes locked on you. The space between you shrinks until he's right in front of you, warm breath ghosting across your lips.

His hand comes up, calloused fingers brushing your jaw softly. You shiver and he smiles, tilting his head as his dark eyes drink you in. "You're impossible," he murmurs. "You know that, Stacks?"

You lean into him on instinct, tilting your face into his touch. "Am I?"

He kisses you then. It's anything but soft. Instead, it's hungry and desperate, like he's been holding back for years and the dam is finally broken. His mouth is hot against yours, tasting of salt and desert, his mouth like the static of a storm against yours. One hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to pull you closer while the other presses against your lower back, anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours. You moan into his mouth, shivering as you press into him, hands fisting in shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. He makes a low sound in his throat in response and presses you against a column, the cold stone a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin and Sekhmet's fire in your veins.

"Vernon," you whisper, voice broken.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and blown. "What do you need?"

Instead of answering, you pull him back to you, kissing him harder, tongues tangling. His thigh slides between yours, the pressure perfect and maddening. Heat pools low in your belly and-

You flinch awake as Sekhmet's roar shatters the dream like glass. Your heart slams against your ribs as you gather your bearings and realize you're still in the jeep, the engine humming. Night has fully claimed the desert, the sky a vast, black dome scattered with stars so bright they look close enough to touch. The headlights of the car cut twin beams through the darkness, illuminating jagged rock formations as Vernon drives deep into Wadi al-Hitan.

Vernon glances at you. "You okay?"

Your face burns. The dream clings to you - his mouth, his hands, the way your body had arched into him. You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin. You sit up straighter, pressing your thighs together against the lingering ache, and clear your throat. “Sorry. Bad dream.”

He glances at you, one eyebrow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar smug way. But there’s something softer underneath tonight, a quiet concern in the way his eyes linger.

Sekhmet snarls in your mind, Do not let his shadow touch you so easily.

You ignore her, focusing instead on the road ahead. The wadi has closed in around you, towering sandstone cliffs rising on either side, their layered strata glowing faintly under starlight. Wind whistles through the narrow canyons, carrying faint echoes that sound almost like distant howls that make you shiver.

"We're about an hour into Wadi al-Hitan." Vernon has one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, putting the jeep into all-wheel drive. "I can feel Set pulling toward something, but he's a bit vague. I don't think he knows where to go. Does Sekhmet?"

You nod, closing your eyes for a moment. Sekhmet stirs, still irritated from the dream, but she answers with reluctant precision. You see images flashing behind your eyelids: a narrow side canyon that branches left, a cluster of fossilized whale bones half-buried in the rock face, a steep descent into a hidden valley where the cliffs open up.

"Left at the next fork," you murmur when you open your eyes. "Then follow the dry riverbed until the whale skeletons appear on the right. The temple is beyond them off the road tucked into the cliff wall where the light can't reach."

He doesn't question the instructions. He turns the wheel, the headlights sweeping across jagged rock as he navigates off the road and down the narrow track. The path grows rough, loose stones clattering against the undercarriage as the car creaks with every dip. You can see the cliffs clooming closer, the faces carved by years and years of wind and floods.

The closer you get, the more your anxiety coils. The air grows heavier, charged with the same sense of doom you'd felt in Montu's temple. Sekhmet paces restlessly in your mind, her presence a low burn of anticipation and warning. You can feel her fire under your veins, increasing in temperature as Vernon drives.

You think of the Temple of Montu, of the khopesh twisting deep in your gut, of the pain and the fire, the sand raining down on you as you bled out on the altar. That fear morphs into rage, a small fire at first but gradually blooming into something hot and wild as Sekhmet growls, a huntress closing in on her prey.

"You okay?" He asks, the softness in his voice catching you off guard. "You look tense."

"I can feel the rage," you murmur as you stare ahead. "Both mine and hers. Hers amplifies mine."

"Do you want to talk about it?" You hesitate. "You can tell me, Stacks."

The nickname lands differently now, less mocking, more familiar. You feel the pull to Vernon again, and you wonder if he feels it, this thing between you. Perhaps it's only in your head, amplified by the exhaustion and divine fire hiding inside of you.

"I was so afraid," you whisper, thinking back to those last few moments. "It hurt so much and for a while that was all I could think about. Then I started to get cold and all I could think about was that I hoped wherever my mom is, she couldn't see what happened, that she would never know how I was going to die alone and afraid in a collapsing temple."

Vernon's hands grip the wheel, knuckles going bone white as your words fade. You'd never been afraid to die until it was about to happen. Ancient history had taught you how sacred death was, that dying was just another journey and adventure. But in that single moment alone and bleeding out, you realized how terrifying it was, how painful it was to be entirely alone and without help.

"I'm so fucking sorry," Vernon rasps. You glance up at him to see him staring out the front dash, eyes burning. "I shouldn't have left you. I was angry and I was going to pack your things and come get you and- fuck, Stacks. I shouldn't have left you."

You shrug. "I didn't make it easy on you."

"Doesn't matter. I knew it was dangerous and I thought I could just… do it my way. I'm sorry."

He seems to mean it, Sekhmet sniffs. Interesting.

I told you, you think back to her. He's different.

The goddess says nothing as the jeep descends into a deeper canyon, the walls rising higher until they block out most of the stars. The headlights catch on scattered fossils of massive whale vertebrae that are half-buried in the rock, ancient burns turned to stones over millions of years.

"Slow down here," you murmur, sitting up in the car, entirely awake now. "The entrance is just past the largest skeleton. It looks like a natural fissure, but it opens into the temple courtyard."

Vernon eases off the gas, the jeep crawling forward. The headlights sweep across the cliff face, illuminating a narrow vertical crack in the rock that looks barely wide enough for a person, let alone a vehicle. Beyond it, the darkness is absolute.

He kills the engine but leaves the headlights on. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi. Vernon turns to you, one arm draped over the steering wheel, his expression serious in the dashboard glow.

“Ready?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but there’s steel beneath it. “We go in together. No heroics. If it feels wrong, we get out.”

"I'll listen to you this time."

He smirks. "I'll believe it when I see it, Stacks."

You both step out into the cool darkness, your skin turning to goosebumps. The slamming of the jeep door is too loud, echoing in the canyon before dying down. Vernon leads the way to the stone fissure, which is narrower than it looked from the jeep. You have to turn sideways to slip through, your shoulders scraping against stone as you follow Vernon through the crevice.

It's easier to see in the dark with Sekhmet present, your eyes adjusting easily to accommodate for the lack of light. Her presence flares brighter the moment you cross the threshold, her power a hot coal in your chest as she directs you toward a long corridor with a carved-lion headed sentinel.

"Left," you murmur to Vernon, voice echoing. "Then down the ramp. She said the main hall is lit."

Vernon listens without question. He hand brushes the small of your back for half a second as you step into a large room, steadying you before he moves ahead. He takes the left and leads you down a corridor, both of you silent as you creep along.

Gold light greets you as you step into the main hall suddenly. Golden-orage flames flicker in shallow stone bowls set into the walls, casting dancing light across the walls. The carvings in the wall are pristine here, untouched by the desert wind and protected by the cliffs. You marvel at the reliefs: Maahes in his lion form, devouring enemies, his mane wreathed in solar fire; processions of priests carrying offerings of meat and wine; scenes of the lion god standing behind Sekhmet, both of them pathed in blood.

My deepest pride, the goddess growls. My biggest regret.

The hall is entirely empty. Your boots echo on the flagstones as you step deeper into the main hall. It's warmer, the brazier's heat making sweat bead along your hairline. Vernon stays close, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours and sending sparks through your spine.

"Voss, was here," Vernon mutters. "Brazier's don't light themselves. But where did they go?"

Deeper, Sekhmet urges. Into the heart.

The two of you move together down a wide ramp that spirals gently into the earth. The walls grow closer, the carvings showing lions with open jaws, flames pouring from their mouths, scenes of Apophis writhing beneath Maahes's claws. Your pulse quickens as you walk, feeling Sekhmet's energy pulse in time with yours.

The ramp ends in a grand antechamber. More braziers burn here, their light reflecting off polished obsidian inlays that make the walls look like liquid night. The floor is inlaid with a massive mosaic of a lion devouring a serpent. The air feels heavier, charged, as if the temple itself is holding its breath.

Great stone lion statues on pillars bellow into the night, their faces twisted in anger. You pull up short when you look at them, something in your gut twisting like when you'd seen the falcons outside of Montu's temple. You get the sense of something that ripples down Sekhmet's spine like an angry cat-

Stone grinds. You look up to see the stone lions tearing themselves from the columns, all four of them crashing down to the ground. Dust flies as you and Vernon step back. They're twice the size of natural lions, their bodies made of living basalt veined with glowing red lines of fire. Their eyes burn red as they shake the dust from their shoulders, teeth grinding like rock as they prowl toward you.

"Shit," Vernon swears.

Power floods your veins as Sekhmet surges forward. Your hands burn and you don't even think - you just reach outward with both of your hands, twin khopesh blades manifesting in your grip, their bronze edges blazing crimson. The weapons feel perfectly balanced, humming with Sekhmet's wrath as the lions charge.

Vernon's spear appears in his hands with a crack of thunder, the same weapon you'd seen in Montu's temple crackling with lightning. He surges forward to meet the first lion head on as you challenge another, spinning as one khopesh slashes upward in a blazing arch. The blade cuts through the living stone like it's clay, shearing off a chunk of the lion's shoulder in a spray of sparks and rock.

The guardian roars in rage, swinging a massive paw at your head. You duck under it and drive the second blade into the creature's flank, gritting your teeth as Sekhmet roars inside of you. Flame explodes outward, cracking the basalt apart from the inside, causing the lion to shatter and collapse into rubble.

Vernon is a living storm beside you, shadow-stepping through darkness to reappear behind another lion and drive his spear through its spine. Lightning erupts along the shaft, spiderwebbing across the stone body in brilliant white cracks. The stone lion convulses and fractures, shattering the same way yours had moments before.

The two of you fall into a sync without words as the last two guardians descend, becoming flame and storm. You blast one of the lions with fire, knocking it back before it can get to Vernon before you challenge it head on, ducking as it swipes at you. You spin and bring down both blades on its neck, severing the stone head as Sekhmet's strength burns through you, hot and liquid.

Vernon plants his spear into his lion's side, sending a bolt of lightning that hits the creature with an explosion that leaves your ears ringing. Dust billows thick through the antechamber as you shield yourself from stray rock and dust as Vernon's killing blow finishes. He stands a few paces away, spear dissolving into sparks, chest heaving. His eyes meet yours across the settling dust, dark, wild, and something else.

For a second the air between you crackles with more than divine power, but Sekhmet's growl cuts it short. They're gone.

You nod. "She says they're gone."

Vernon nods once, jaw tight. “Let’s make sure.”

The final corridor is shorter, narrower, lined with carvings of Maahes standing triumphant over Apophis. The braziers here burn lower, as if whatever ritual was performed has already drained them. You push through a last set of massive stone doors that stand slightly ajar, their surfaces carved with roaring lions.

The heart of the temple opens before you, a circular chamber, vast and domed, the ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single massive altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface still stained with fresh blood and scattered with remnants of ritual. You absently press your hand to your stomach, feeling the heat of where the blade had entered you, the wound that Sekhmet had burned shut.

I am here, she murmurs.

Vernon touches your arm, drawing your attention. His eyes are dark, a storm sparking behind them. "You're not alone." He pauses and rolls his eyes. "Set says you have nothing to fear."

Sekhmet gives a deliberate hmph but you smile, thankful for their presence - even the God of Chaos.

The chamber is empty like Sekhmet said. No Voss. No Nadia-Montu. No Dr. el-Masri or remaining security. Only the echo of your footsteps and the faint crackle of dying flames. The last of Sekhmet's fire fades beneath your skin as you walk through the chamber, the twin blades vanishing from your hands.

"Gone like she said."

You nod, staring at the bloodstained altar. The scent of smoke and iron is thick. You sink down onto the edge of the altar, legs suddenly heavy. Vernon hesitates only a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. The stone is warm from the braziers. The chamber feels strangely peaceful after the violence, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Vernon’s voice is low when he finally breaks the silence. “I liked the blades."

You let out a shaky breath, staring at your hands. The tattoos on your arms have faded back to dull red, but you can still feel the fire. “I think Sekhmet did most of the work. Felt like I knew exactly what to do, though."

He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back on his hands. “Set’s the same. Sometimes it feels like I’m just along for the ride. Other times it feels like we're working together."

The silence stretches again. Vernon settles back and his shoulder presses a little firmer against yours. You glance at him but he isn't watching you, his gaze focused on the dim fire of the chambers. You can feel the warmth of him beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He shifts slightly, his boot scraping against the stone floor.

“I keep thinking about it,” he says, breaking the silence as he stares. “Leaving you in that corridor. I was pissed, and I told myself you were a grown woman who could make her own choices, but I knew better. I knew Voss was planning something bad. I should’ve dragged you out of there kicking and screaming if I had to. I shouldn’t have walked away.”

The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, surprised at the admission. His jaw is tight, the line of it sharp in the low light, and his hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to clench them into fists. He looks exhausted and it twists something in your chest.

You turn toward him, studying the side of his face. The firelight catches on the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the way his dark eyes reflect the dying embers like distant lightning. He’s always worn that smug, untouchable mask so well, but right now it’s cracked, and you can see the other version of him beneath it, the one who sat guard outside your tent and who kept you grounded in the medical tent after that first night of slaughter.

"It isn't your fault, Vernon." You tentatively reach out, resting your hand on his forearm. The skin there is warm, the ink slightly raised under your fingertips. “I was angry. Stubborn. I didn’t want to listen because I thought you were coddling me and I've spent most of my life chasing after my mom's dream. I made the choice to go deeper. You tried to stop me. Multiple times. I’m the one who ignored every warning.”

He doesn’t pull away from your touch, but his shoulders tense. “Doesn’t change the fact that I left you there to bleed out on an altar. I should have made you listen."

The guilt is eating at him, you realize. It’s weighing on him like the collapsed temple itself, pressing down on his shoulders. You can see it in the tight set of his mouth, the way his free hand flexes against his thigh. This isn’t the smug Vernon who called you Stacks and made you see red. This is someone who’s been carrying too much for too long - Set's chaos, his own secrets, and guilt that you can't even begin to understand.

You squeeze his arm gently, thumb brushing over one of the binding wards. “Hey. Look at me.” He does, reluctantly, dark eyes meeting yours. In the dim light they look almost black. "When have I ever done what you asked?"

He scoffs a little. "I guess."

"You came back. That means a lot to me."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

“Don’t be nice to me just because you understand me better now.” His voice is rough, edged with that familiar tone when he'd been an ass all those years, but there's a vulnerability you feel now that you know how to look for it. "You spent years hating me and you had every right to. You don't owe me comfort now just because you know I'm carrying Set."

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away. “I’m not being nice because I feel sorry for you. I’m saying it because it’s true. And so what if I regret how I treated you. I was wrong. Though, to be fair, I think you were pushing my buttons on purpose."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I was."

You snort. "Why?"

He looks at you for a long moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Liked your fire, and when you were mad at me, it made me feel seen. At least you not liking me was honest."

"I didn't hate you. I just… really didn't like you."

He smirks. “I’ve always been impressed by you, you know. You're incredibly smart and your commitment to the right thing reminds me of myself before Set. I always liked that about you."

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, the warmth of his body, the way his fingers linger on yours, the dark intensity in his eyes as they drop to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to yours.

Sekhmet growls but you ignore her, your heart pounding in your chest as you stare at him. "I thought you thought I was naive and stupid."

"Stacks, I think the fucking world of you."

"Really?"

"Mhm." His eyes drop down to your mouth again. "Can I be honest?"

Your heart thuds. "Yes."

"I really want to fucking kiss you right now."

You suck in a sharp breath, your hand on his arm tightening a fraction. Licking your lips, you murmur, "I'm not going to stop you."

Vernon doesn't hesitate. He presses forward, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that starts slow but quickly deepens, hungry and desperate, like he’s been holding back for far longer than you realized. His lips are warm, slightly chapped from the desert, and they move against yours with a certainty that makes your head spin. One hand reaches up to rest on your cheek, the other sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he pulls you closer.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in his torn shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. The taste of him - salt and something static - floods your senses. Heat blooms low in your belly, and when his tongue brushes yours and you part your lips for him, he groans low in his throat, the kisses turning deeper.

Immediately you think of the dream as you cling to him, the room spinning. Sekhmet is nowhere to be found as you press into him, his hands tangling in your hair, tongue sweeping against yours. You make a small sound and he breaks the kiss, panting.

“Fuck, Stacks,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Tell me to stop and I will. Right now.”

Instead, you pull him back down, kissing him harder, deeper, tongues sliding together in a messy, desperate tangle. He groans into your mouth, the sound low, vibrating through your chest. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, then lower, palming your ass as he hauls you fully into his lap on the edge of the altar. The stone is still warm from the braziers, but nothing compared to the heat of his body pressing against yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. He bites your bottom lip and you whine while his tongue darts out to soothe the sting with his tongue. “Watching you glare at me across every dig, every conference, pretending I didn’t want to shove you against the nearest wall and kiss the fucking shit out of you."

Your laugh is breathless, turning into a moan when he rolls his hips up, letting you feel exactly how hard he already is. “You were such an asshole on purpose.”

"Yeah. You're hot when you're mad. And you not liking me was something."

He kisses you again, slower this time, savoring, like he’s memorizing the taste of you. His hands are greedy, sliding under your shirt, the callouses on his fingers scraping across your hips before skimming up your ribs to cup your chest through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble tight.

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yeah?" He smirks, mouth sucking greedily along your jaw. "Been driving me insane for years."

Vernon leans up to peel your shirt off, his eyes hungry as he takes in the sight of you. The scar on your stomach glows faintly red in the low light, and he ducks down to press open-mouthed kisses along the ridged line, tongue tracing every inch.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin, the word possessive and rough. "Mine to protect, mine to touch."

He lays you back on the wide basalt altar, the stone warm against your bare back. His mouth follows, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovers. He kisses the hollow of your throat, the curve of your collarbone, the sensitive underside of your breasts. His hands snap the claps in the back and peel the fabric off you, the scrape of it against your skin making you shiver. When he finally closes his mouth over one nipple, sucking hard while his hand palms the other, you cry out, back arching off the stone.

"Fuck," you hiss.

He hums, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Finally using that crass language I adore.”

He takes his time, mouth and hands mapping your skin. Your mind goes blank, the feeling of his mouth and hands on you turning you to static. Heat blooms where he kisses, your body feeling the electricity underneath his skin as he plants kisses down your stomach.

A few days ago, you'd never imagine Vernon touching like this. Now that he is, you can't imagine him not touching you. You never want him to stop, never want the heat of his palms to leave your ass or the wet press of his mouth to stray too far. For too long have you watched him, irritated but intrigued, and now that you've tasted him, you don't want to stop.

When Vernon finally moves lower, hooking his fingers in your waistband and dragging your pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, he groans at the sight of you bare and glistening for him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “So wet already. All for me?”

You nod, breathless. His hands are gentle as he spreads your thighs wide, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while he settles between them. He presses open-mouth kisses down your thighs and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel the heat of his breath on your wet cunt, a thrill going through you.

The first slow, broad lick of his tongue from your entrance to your clit makes your hips jerk and a broken moan tear from your throat. Your hands shoot down to thread in the strands of his hair, twisting in the longer strands near the nape of his neck, nails scrapping on the shorter sides.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he growls, the words vibrating against your folds. “Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you’re shaking.”

The words knock the wind out of you as he presses his mouth to you, slow and messy. His tongue works you open in long strokes, circling your swollen clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Your hips twitch and your eyes squeeze shut as you arch, the feeling so good you can't do anything except squirm in his hold.

Two thick fingers slide inside you without warning, curling just right, the wet sound of him fucking them into you echoing in the temple chamber. He doesn't rush - just sucks messily at you, letting you roll your hips in broken, little twitches into his mouth.

"Fuck," you gasp, laughing as your head presses back into the stone. "Feels so good."

He groans against you. "That's it, Stacks, use me."

You do, hips rolling as he stretches you open while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your clit. The first orgasm crashes over you hard and sudden, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down around his fingers. He doesn’t stop, grinning as he licks you through it, slow and messy until you're oversensitive and whimpering.

Vernon finally pulls back, lips and chin shining, eyes dark with stormclouds. "You're addicting."

Before you can catch your breath, he’s kissing you again, deep and wet with the taste of you. His fingers never leave you, thrusting slow and deep while his thumb circles your swollen clit. You moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his hair as another orgasm builds fast and overwhelming.

“Come on,” he murmurs against your lips. “Give me another. Want to feel you come on my fingers."

You do, clenching tight around his fingers as you come with a choked cry. You squeeze your eyes shut, breath coming out in choked sounds, colors blooming behind your lids. He swallows every sound you make, kissing you through it until you're boneless and panting. Only then does he pull away, bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean before he kisses you again.

"Need you," he murmurs, the slide of his mouth warm against yours. "Do you want-"

"Yes," you gasp, sucking his tongue into your mouth greedily. He whimpers and you dig your nails into him, pulling at his shirt. "Please."

You help him tear his shirt off as he shoves his pants down, his heavy cock springing free. It's thick and glistening, making your stomach flip because of course the asshole tombraider has a nice cock.

Vernon settles between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. He grins when you squirm beneath him, lifting your hips in an attempt to push him in. Instead, he rolls his hips lazily against you, smearing your arousal across your pussy as he teases you, laughing while he peppers your face in kisses.

"Desperate," he notes.

"Asshole."

"I like what it gets out of you."

Before you can retort, he pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch, splitting you open with a burn that feels better than Sekhmet's fire. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, both of you groan. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as he drops his forehead to yours, kissing you sweeter than the moment calls for.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel so good. Made for me."

He starts to move then, his lips dipping with slow, deep rolls that drag against you. The pace is deliberate, his cock filling you completely with every thrust. Your nails dig into his back, keeping him close as his thrusts punch the air from your lungs.

But you want more of him.

With a surge of Sekhmet's strength, you flip him suddenly, pinning him down on the stone beneath you. His brows raise, then darken as you press your hands to his chest, keeping him flat as you roll your hips and grin.

"My turn," you whisper.

The new angle makes you both moan, the feeling deeper and fuller now. You start to ride him, slow and grinding at first, then faster, hips rolling as you chase your pleasure. Vernon’s hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, eyes locked on where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear inside you with every bounce.

"Fuck," he groans. “Riding me so pretty. Take what you need, baby.”

The new name makes you whine. You roll your hips faster, chasing the warm knot in your belly, ignoring the burn in your thighs as you tip your head back, nails digging into his sweaty chest. He sits up suddenly, one arm wrapping around your back to hold you close while the other hand slides between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

“Come on,” he growls against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “One more. Come on my cock.”

You nod, clinging to him as the orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding. You cry out, walls clenching around him as you come hard. He growls, keeping you moving until he spills after you, burying his face in your neck.

Vernon falls backward and you collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and trembling. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as the braziers flicker lower around you. One hand splays across your lower back while the other strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are your mingled breaths, the soft crackle of the last embers, and the distant sigh of wind moving through the wadi outside the temple. For the first time since Sekhmet burned her way into your veins, the fire inside you feels quiet and content.

Vernon presses a lazy kiss to your temple, his voice rough and low against your hair. “We should stay here tonight. It’s safer than trying to drive out in the dark with Voss and Montu somewhere ahead. We can rest, regroup.”

You nod against his chest, too boneless to argue. “Yeah. Supplies are still in the jeep, though. Water. Food. Blankets.”

“Just a bit longer,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you again, slow and deep. “I mean it, Stacks. You’re mine to protect now. Not just because of the gods riding us. Because it’s you. I’m not walking away again."

You lean in and kiss him once more before resting your head on his chest. "I know."

Sekhmet stirs inside you, her presence a low, steady burn rather than the usual sharp flare of irritation. She watches the moment with the wary gaze of an old lioness.

He is determined, she notes warily. I think he might burn the world to keep you safe. Perhaps it is not a bad thing. Chaos seems to like you. Beware the love of a God.

And what about you? You ask her.

Beware of me too, child. I burn away the unworthy.

-

Dawn is pomegranate pink when you slip out of the temple's stone fissure, the cool morning air of Wadi al-Hitan not yet burning. You move in easy silence now, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other without thought as you pass Vernon the last of the scavenged supplies. The sky above shifts from pink to rose, to blue, the faint mineral bite of ancient rock still in the air.

You study a map spread out on the hood of the jeep, a pen in your hand as you keep the wind from lifting the paper edges off the metal of the car. Vernon comes up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist without hesitation, chin resting on your shoulder. The casual affection makes something warm bloom inside of you, and you lean back into him, tilting your head to the side so he can see better.

"Find the way?" He asks.

"Yeah. Sekhmet's version of directions isn't as simple as looking at a map." She growls and you grin. "But I think I've got it figured out."

"Good."

"You drove yesterday. I'll drive today."

He hums in agreement, the sound low and pleased, and gives your waist a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “Good. Means I get to watch you instead of the road.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth is genuine. “Flirt.”

"Get used to it, Stacks."

The drive out of the wadi is smoother than the journey in, the narrow track widening as you leave the canyons behind. Vernon rides shotgun, one arm draped along the back of your seat, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair or tracing idle patterns on your shoulder. Every touch feels easy and open, and you catch yourself glancing over at him more than once, catching the soft curve of his smile when he catches you looking.

When the road straightens and you reach over to rest your hand on his thigh, he covers it with his own without hesitation, thumb stroking slow circles against your knuckles.

"This is nice," he says, fingers tightening on yours. "I spent a long time convincing myself the only way to keep you looking at me was to make you angry. Stupid, in hindsight.” He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “I like this better. A lot better.”

"You're going to keep doing it though, aren't you?"

"Sure am."

Two hours slip by faster than you expect. The landscape changes subtly as you draw closer to the suspected location of Apophis’s resting place, rockier, more fractured, the cliffs giving way to wide, barren plains dotted with strange, wind-sculpted formations that look almost like broken bones. The sky remains clear and mercilessly blue, but the air feels heavier, charged with something unnatural.

Then you see it.

Far ahead on the horizon, a wall of darkness is building, the storm clouds thick and alive. Black and bruised-purple thunderheads boil upward, swirling as lightning flickers inside of them in violent, blood-red forks rather than the usual white. Even from this distance, you can see the sand being whipped into violent spirals beneath the storm.

Vernon sits up straighter, his hand tightening on yours. "The serpent."

His voice startles you and you glances sideways at him, the ancient language rolling off of his tongue as Set speaks through him for a moment. Sekhmet stirs sharply in your mind in response, giving a low warning growl.

The storm grows larger as you drive toward it, the sky darkening rapidly. Wind buffets the jeep, sand stinging against the windshield like tiny needles. Vernon’s jaw clenches, tattoos beginning to glow faintly blue along his forearms as Set rises to meet the threat.

“Pull over for a second,” he says.

You ease the jeep to a stop and Vernon closes his eyes, breathing slow and deep. You feel the shift in the air immediately, your hair standing up on your arms as the energy crackles in the car. The wind around the jeep whips up for a second before it dies down, Set's calming the unnatural storm ahead. Ahead, the thunderheads still rumble, but the lightning lessens and dims to sullen flashes.

Vernon exhales sharply, opening his eyes. Sweat beads on his forehead. “That is all I can do from here. Set is fighting the serpent’s influence, but it is like trying to push back the tide. We need to get closer.”

You nod and put the jeep back in gear, pushing forward through the unnaturally calmed corridor Vernon has carved. The storm still rages ahead, but the path to the temple remains passable.

The site appears suddenly as you crest a low rise, the chaos spread out across the barren plain like a battlefield. Abandoned vehicles sit at crooked angles, doors flung open, some with hoods still smoking. Tents lie half-collapsed or shredded by wind, canvas flapping wildly. Equipment is scattered everywhere, crates overturned and tools spilled.

Dark stains mar the ground in several places, blood both dry and still fresh. The storm’s edge looms directly over the area, thunder cracking like whip strikes, red lightning illuminating the destruction in violent flashes.

“No bodies,” Vernon mutters, scanning the wreckage. “Either they ran or Voss forced them deeper.”

You kill the engine a safe distance away, heart pounding. Sekhmet’s fire surges hotter in your veins, ready. Vernon’s hand finds yours one last time, squeezing tight before you both step out into the howling wind.

The storm presses against the invisible barrier Set has created, but it holds. You feel the vibration of the storm against your small pocket of air, stepping close to Vernon as you both walk in the sand, feet sinking in step by step.

Up ahead, the entrance to the temple of Apophis yawns open, waiting and framed by cabins of coiling serpents. A ripple of anger goes through you as Sekhmet growls, and you feel the heat in your hands, ready to summon fire and weapons if necessary.

Together, you approach the temple, Vernon gritting his teeth with the force of keeping the storm at bay. You touch his wrist and he steadies a little, his focus sharpening as you pause at the temple's entrance, stone serpents hissing down at you.

"Together?" You ask.

"Together," he confirms.

The darkness of the temple swallows you whole and the wind cuts off like a door slamming shut. The air inside of the temple is thick and stale and unnaturally warm, pressing against you with the metallic tang of blood. You don't let it deter you, your footsteps silent as you and Vernon navigate the dark, guided by the eyes of Sekhmet and Set.

Prepare, Sekhmet growls.

Your palms heat as the khopesh blades manifest, burning crimson in your grip. Vernon must have the same instinct, his spear crackling blue in his hand as the air around him pops. Together, you move down the narrow corridor, the walls covered in images of coiling serpents, their eyes inlaid with polished obsidian.

Sekhmet’s presence surges hotter in your veins, a low, constant growl of warning. Deeper. They are close. The serpent stirs.

Vernon's jaw is tight as you walk. His free hand brushes yours for half a second, a silent promise as he surges forward, the passage widening into a series of antechambers. Braziers burn low and erratic here, casting dancing shadows that make the carved reliefs seem alive. You scan scenes of Apophis swallowing the sun, of chaos devouring order, of the world unraveling into endless night - but its the floor makes your stomach turn.

Blood is everywhere. Dried and fresh, dark pools and smeared streaks across the flagstones. Bodies like where they fell - laborers, students, security personnel. Throats are slit, chests are opened in ritual patterns, some with eyes open, others close. The sacrifices number in the dozens, violent and grotesque.

Sekhmet's voice growls through yours, "I drink what spills. We will end this now."

Ahead, the corridor opens into the main chamber. It's a vast, cavernous space carved deep into the living rock, its ceiling lost in shadow high above. A single colossal altar of black basalt dominates the center, its surface slick with fresh blood. Braziers ring the room in a perfect circle, flames roaring unnaturally high and red. In the middle of it all stands Voss, arms raised, chanting in a voice that is no longer entirely his own.

Nadia stands to his right, still possessed by Montu, her body thrumming with solar power. Besides her is another security team member - Tariq, you think. Maahes burns in him now, golden light leaking from the corner of his eyes and manifesting in golden armor made of light on his body.

Apophis is rising. You can feel it in the air, the serpents hiss filling the room as the ground trembles beneath your feet. Red lightning crackles across the ceiling as Voss's chant grows louder and faster, guided by Dr. al-Masri.

Nadia and Tariq turn the second you and Vernon step into the room, Nadia's smile spreading. "The Crooked Star returns."

"Ah," Tariq says. "The Eye Unbound is with him. Hello, mother."

Neither Sekhmet nor Set answer in kind. They surge forward as Nadia lunges at Vernon first, her khopesh blazing as Vernon meets her head-on, spear crackling with lightning. The God of war is fast, each crack of her blade against his spear like thunder, sending sparks flying.

You lose focus on Vernon as Tariq charges you, the might of Maahes powering him with terrifying speed. His eyes burn golden as he chops at you with a short sword. You leap to meet him, your twin khopesh blazing. The first clash of metal sparks, the impact vibrating up your arm and vibrating through your teeth. Sekhmet's strength floods you and you snarl as you press him, making Tariq stumble backward.

He disengages and feints left before striking right, and you barely parry in time. The force sends you sliding back across the blood-slick floor, feet skidding. Pain flares but you dive and roll away from another heavy swing of his sword, charging him as he recovers from the chop. Your khopesh slash across his side, carving deep wounds that sizzle flesh. He roars, Tariq's voice mixed with something ancient and furious, as he retaliates with a roaring breath of fire that makes you leap back.

Across the chamber, Vernon and Montu are locked in brutal combat. Vernon flickers in and out of shadows, spear thrusting with lethal precision while storms rage around him. Nadia counters with blinding light, fire roaring from her palms, blades and weapons manifesting and vanishing as she hammers down on him. The two gods clash in a whirlwind of lightning and fire, the chamber trembling with every blow.

"You are a whelp," Sekhmet growls through you to Tariq and he sneers. "I am the lioness. You are a cub."

He lunges, sword swinging in wide, deadly arcs. You meet each strike with your own blades, flame meeting flame in explosive bursts of light and heat that make sparks rain down around you. Maahes slams his shoulder into you, using his stolen body’s mass to drive you back against a pillar. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but Sekhmet roars through you. You twist, bringing one khopesh down in a vicious overhead strike that catches him across the collarbone. Golden light pours from the wound like molten metal, and he howls in pain and rage, the sound shaking dust from the ceiling above.

End him, Sekhmet roars.

You press the attack, khopesh flashing, crimson flames licking up the edge of the blades. Tariq catches you once in the side, opening a shallow cut on your ribs that makes you snarl, but you push through, kicking him back and making his arm fly wide for the smallest window of opportunity. You take it, striking with both blades and driving them home into his chest.

He staggers backward, golden light spilling from the wound. His body convulses as the god within fights to stay anchored, and you refuse to let up, summoning fire in your palms. You thrust your hands forward, a rush of white flame scorching Tariq. He screams as you grit your teeth, feeling the flame run through every part of you, your veins heating with divine power.

"We burn the unworthy," you growl, feeling Sekhmet's rage and grief as the fire pours out of you.

Tariq’s body collapses to the ground, charred and smoking as the golden light flickers out. Sekhmet's wrath is edged with sadness, but she doesn't let it overwhelm either of you as both of you pivot to where Vernon drives a spear through Nadia's stomach, his lightning exploding in a blinding flash of white that makes you shield your eyes.

Vernon is storm incarnate, the wind ripping through the chamber and buffeting you as he pins Nadia to the chamber floor. He pulls the spear out, pointing it to the ceiling as he spins it fluidly in his hands again, gathering static before he strikes down again, the crack of thunder so loud that all sound goes out for a moment, your ears ringing as you clap your hands over them.

Nadia’s body goes limp as Montu’s presence flees, leaving her body behind. You stand panting in the carnage, hands over your screaming ears as Vernon leans over her, panting. When he looks up at you, it's not Vernon looking at you, but the blazing storm of Set, seething and angry. For a moment, you're terrified you've lost Vernon to the god, but you see his mouth twitch in a smile before turning to where Voss stands in the center of the room.

Voss's eyes burn gold, his pupils narrowed to serpentine slits. Black scales ripple across his skin in slow, oily waves, spreading from his throat down his chest and arms. When he smiles, his mouth splits too wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp fangs that glint in the dying brazier light. The air around him thickens, heavy with static.

“You dare interrupt the end of all things?” The voice that comes out of Voss is layered with something vast and ancient. "The Crooked Star and the Eye Unbound. How fitting. I will swallow you both before I swallow the world.”

Vernon’s grip tightens on his spear, lightning crackling louder along the shaft. "I am the chaos within the order of the world, I am the protector of disorder, I am Set, the Crooked Star, and I will devour you whole, snake."

You feel Sekhmet surge forward in your veins, her wrath a white-hot flame that sharpens every sense. Your twin khopesh blaze brighter, crimson fire licking up the blades until they glow like molten metal. The scar on your stomach burns in answer.

"I am with you," you growl.

You and Vernon move as one.

Apophis answers in kind, lunging with impossible speed, his black-scaled hands elongating into claws. The air tears as he slashes toward you. You spin left, khopesh flashing in a wide arc that meets his claws in a shower of spitting flame. The impact jars your arms, but Sekhmet’s strength holds you firm. Vernon shadow-steps right, appearing behind Apophis and driving his spear toward the serpent’s spine.

Apophis twists mid-motion, tail-like darkness whipping out to slam Vernon back. The impact sends him skidding across the blood-slick floor, but he rolls to his feet and immediately summons a violent gust of wind that hurls debris and sand into the serpent god’s face.

Your khopesh slash downward in twin blazing arcs as you seize the advantage, and one catches Apophis across the shoulder, carving a deep, smoking gash that leaks black ichor. The other bites into his side and Sehmet's fire pours into his wounds, burning away shadow and scale.

Apophis roars a sound like the world cracking open and backhands you with a clawed fists. Pain explodes across your ribs as you fly backward, slamming into a pillar hard enough that it cracks and collapses behind you.

Vernon is there in a second, shadow-stepping to pull you up roughly while thrusting his spear with the other hand. Lightning chains from the tip, striking Apophis square in the chest. The serpent god convulses, black smoke rising from the point of the impact, but he laughs through the pain, the sound wet and terrible.

"You think you can contain me?"

Apophis spreads his arms, and the chamber erupts. Shadowy serpents burst from the floor, coiling and striking with venomous speed. One lunges for you and you spin a khopesh, severing its head easily.

Together, you and Vernon fall into a perfect tandem, taking on the primordial deity of chaos. Vernon forces openings, blasting Apophis back with air and shadow stepping to draw his attention while you strike from the flank, your blades carving deal, burning wounds that Sekmhmet's fire refuses to let close.

When Apophis turns on you with a barrage of shadow claws, Vernon appears in a flicker of darkness, spear thrusting into the serpent’s side and unleashing a point-blank lightning strike that lights the entire chamber white-blue.

Apophis bellows, the sound ear-splitting. Black ichor sprays across the floor where your blades and Vernon’s spear find purchase again and again. You feel the serpent weakening, his movements growing slightly slower, the golden glow in Voss’s eyes flickering like a dying bulb.

With a roar that rattles your bones, Apophis slams both hands into the ground. The stone floor erupts in a wave of writhing shadow serpents that surge toward you like a living tide. You slash desperately, flame cutting through them in wide arcs, but there are too many. One coils around your ankle and yanks you off your feet.

Vernon’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Stacks!”

He shadow-steps through the writhing mass, spear spinning in a blazing circle of lightning that clears a path. He reaches you, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright just as Apophis lunges again, claws aimed for your throat.

Vernon drops low, sweeping his spear in a wide horizontal arc that catches Apophis across the knees, lightning exploding outward and buckling the serpent’s legs while you leap, both khopesh raised high. Sekhmet's full wrath surges through you in a single, blinding pulse of flame as you bring the blades down, a roar ripping from your throat.

The twin khopesh strike Apophis’s shoulders in perfect unison just as Vernon sends another lightning strike through the god. Divine flame and lightning meet in the middle, and for a moment, there's no sound. Then, Apophis roars, black scales shattering as fractured light spills out of him. His body convulses violently, and for an endless moment, the three of you are locked together.

Apophis finally breaks.

The serpent’s essence shatters outward in a violent burst of black smoke and golden shards that dissolve into nothing before they hit the ground. Voss’s body goes limp, collapsing to the bloodstained floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The golden glow fades from his eyes, leaving only the dull, empty stare of a man who invited a god in and paid the ultimate price.

You and Vernon collapse with him, chests heaving, weapons still glowing faintly in your hands. Sweat, blood, and ichor streak your skin. The braziers flicker lower, casting long shadows across the carnage.

Vernon’s spear dissolves into sparks. He rolls toward you, breathing hard, and reaches out. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight despite the mess covering both of you. You squeeze back, Sekhmet’s fire cooling to a gentle warmth in your veins.

The silence is deafening, only the soft pop of the last dying braziers and the distant sigh of wind through the wadi remain. Blood, ichor, and dust coat everything. Your body feels heavy, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, but Sekhmet’s fire still hums gently beneath your skin, the lioness satisfied.

Panting, you stare up at the ceiling. Your heart is still racing, adrenaline and divine power crashing through your veins in fading waves. The scar on your stomach pulses warmly, a reminder of how close you came to dying on a similar altar not so long ago.

You almost died on that altar in Montu’s temple. You watched people slaughtered for a madman’s ambition. You carried a goddess of vengeance inside you and learned how to wield her fire without losing yourself. And Vernon - Vernon, who you once hated on sight - fought beside you every step of the way.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, unexpected and hot. Not from sadness, but from the sheer overwhelming relief that you are still here. That he is still here. And that there are gods that walk in the world, that beneath the simmering history of Egypt, at the root of it all, your mother was right. There is a magical thread that makes the impossible possible - you'd just followed it to near the end of the world.

A shaky laugh bubbles up from your chest, half-hysterical, half-relieved. You turn your head to look at Vernon. He's already watching you, chest rising and falling rapidly, dust and blood streaking his face. His hair is matted with sweat, a cut on his cheek bleeding sluggishly. But his eyes are soft now, raw with something that looks a lot like awe.

“You’re insane,” he rasps, voice hoarse from shouting over the storm. A tired, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “We just killed a primordial serpent god and you’re laughing.”

"She was right," you pant. "My mom was right."

"Yeah. She was."

He shifts closer, pulling you against his side despite the mess covering both of you. His arm wraps around your shoulders, holding you tight as you turn into a combination of laughing and crying. Sekhmet is quiet inside you for once, her presence a warm, approving glow rather than the usual sharp growl.

You stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the floor of the ancient temple, bodies aching and hearts still racing. Vernon’s fingers thread through your hair, gentle despite the calluses.

"I think," he says eventually. "I would like to go on vacation for a while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"What about that resort town we passed on the way here?" He asks.

You laugh. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, Stacks. I'm fucking tired."

"Alright. Yeah. A vacation." You pause. "Wait."

He looks down at you, concerned. "What?"

"I think I'm out of PTO soon."

He groans. "Stacks," he grumbles, mouth pressing to yours. "Fuck your PTO."

-

The sun is warm on your skin - not the punishing heat of the desert, but the salted kiss of the beach that makes everything feel soft like the sand beneath your feet. Marsa Alam stretches out in lazy blues and golds, the waves lapping against the white sand while the palm trees sway in the breeze and you curl against Vernon's side in the shaded cabana you claimed this morning.

Vernon's arm is draped around your waist, the heat of his skin slick with sweat. It doesn't bother you, though. You just like being pressed up against him, the familiar hum of Set's lightning just under the surface of Vernon's skin. The scar on your stomach has faded to a faint silver line that still glows faintly when Sekhmet stirs, but today she's quiet. Vernon’s fingers trace idle patterns over the mark through the thin fabric of your cover-up, a habit he has developed that makes your chest tighten with warmth every time.

He looks relaxed in a way you have never seen before, dirty blonde hair tousled by the wind, sunglasses pushed up into it, a half-empty cocktail sweating in his free hand. The tattoos on his forearms have settled into something less volatile now that the storm inside of him is more checked considering Set has learned to behave on most days.

“Another one?” Vernon asks, lifting his glass toward yours in a lazy toast.

You clink your glass against his, savoring the taste of the bright, citrusy drink. “Only if you promise not to steal the little umbrella again.”

“No promises, Stacks. I like how it looks in your hair.”

Annoying, Sekhmet sighs. Good thing he fights well and looks at you like you are the only sun worth rising for. Perhaps I do not entirely hate him.

You smile against Vernon's shoulder and murmur the compliment to him. He chuckles and brushes his lips against your ear to murmur, "Tell her I'm growing on her. Like mold."

Sekhmet huffs, but you feel the faintest flicker of amusement from her like a lioness who has decided the annoying jackal is tolerable after all. It makes you grin, glad that she no longer fights you about him every step of the way.

The two of you lean back, tangled up on the cabana as he runs his fingers through your hair, stealing sips of your drink. You watch as two guests stroll by their voices catching your attention as they laugh.

"… swear it's true!" The guy says to the girl. "Some guy in Cairo is claiming he’s the actual Anubis. Like, full-on jackal-headed visions, guiding lost souls or whatever. People are calling it the new cult of the dead. Wild, right?”

His companion laughs, covering her mouth. "What a lunatic."

You and Vernon both go still.

Your eyes meet over the rims of your glasses. Vernon’s grin spreads slow and wicked, the same crooked smile that used to infuriate you and now makes heat pool low in your belly. “Anubis, huh?”

You feel Sekhmet stir with interest. The Jackal has always been a meddler. But a worthy one.

You set your glass down, already reaching for Vernon’s hand. “We were getting bored anyway. Three weeks of peace is plenty.”

He laughs, low and delighted, and pulls you up with him. Sand clings to your legs as you both stand, the sea breeze tugging at your clothes. The resort stretches behind you in perfect, sun-drenched luxury, but the pull of the red sands is stronger now, older and deeper, calling you back to the desert.

Vernon tugs you close, one hand sliding to the small of your back as he kisses you slow and sweet, tasting of rum and mango. "Ready, Stacks?"

"I am, Crooked Star."

“not really, no,” the lie slips out effortlessly, your voice raspy with sleep. you’re not sure why you even feel like you shouldn’t tell him the truth, but you figure keeho probably had a good reason for that, and you’re not going to question it. “what are you doing?”

planting your feet on the floor, you lean forward to see the map better. you recognise it to be the town right outside the forest – you passed through it before you ended up here, so you still remember the layout quite well. there are a few places encircled, probably some old stores or gas stations they haven’t checked out yet, some other crossed out with little notes like ‘no pass’ or ‘STAY AWAY’ next to them. 

“we’re trying to plan out our route for today,” keeho murmurs, tapping the back of the sharpie on one of the marked spots, “this is the place we were trying to get to yesterday. it used to be a hospital, so we’re hoping to find some medicine and first aid there.” your eyes follow the movements of his hand as he drags the pen along one of the streets, “that's where we stumbled on that other survivor group. we have no way of knowing if they're still anywhere near, so we're gonna have to take the longer path past the church, just in case.”

you purse your lips in thought as you lean closer, eyes scanning the map intently. the walk to get to the town from here is long enough on its own, and if you go through the outskirts it will surely take several days until you even reach the hospital.

“we can go through there,” you point to another road with your finger after a moment – one that’s crossed out on the map.

it’s intak who speaks up this time, shaking his head. “the street is barricaded, there’s no way to go past it.”

your eyebrows pull together in a confused frown as you shake your head. “no, it’s not.”

both of their gazes snap up at that. intak tilts his head, looking almost like a confused puppy, while keeho seems more irritated than anything, “we’ve been there multiple times, there’s a–”

“i passed through there two days ago,” the words come out firmer this time, “maybe they took it down, i don’t know, but it’s definitely passable.”

the younger man squints his eyes at you, as if he’s trying to get a feel of whether you’re telling the truth or not. there’s a moment where the two of you look at each other in silence, before he leans back with a shrug, “well, if she says so–”

“we’re not going there.”

keeho’s voice cuts him off, sharp and final. both of your heads turn towards him at the same time.

a long, frustrated sigh slips past your lips, “i just said it’s–”

“and i just said we’re not going there,” he doesn’t let you finish either. 

“keeho,” intak tries to intervene, placing a hand on his shoulder when he senses the upcoming argument, but keeho brushes him off instantly.

his eyes narrow, hands twitching on top of the table like he’s fighting the urge to clench them, “all we know is that last time we checked that road was blocked, and that we don’t have the time to go all the way there just to turn back around.”

you can feel the anger slowly but surely building up inside you as you roll your eyes, your heart thumping faster in your ribcage. you knew he had some kind of authority over them, but the way he thinks he can order you around makes it clear that he hasn’t had someone stand up to him in way too long.

“good thing we won’t have to then, because it’s not fucking barricaded,” you can’t keep the irritation out of your tone anymore, your sleepiness long forgotten. “i get that you don’t trust me yet, but i’m literally going there as well, i have no reason to try to fuck with you.”

keeho only bristles at that, bracing both hands on the table to lean forward, “and i have no reason to lead my team into a death trap because of something you say.”

you swear your vision turns red for a fraction of a second. the infuriating back-and-forth feels pointless, as if he’s doing it with the sole goal of pissing you off, and he’s been doing a damn good job at it so far. you let out a long, dragged-out exhale, lowering your head to press the balls of your hands into your eye sockets.

there’s no way you’re going to let him win that easily, even if it’s just for the sake of being petty.

“fine, let’s vote then. it’s one vote for yes and one for no,” your hands drop onto the table as you speak with the determination to bring him down a peg, gaze flickering over to intak, who’s only been watching the situation evolve until now. “intak?”

his eyes widen at the sudden mention of his name, shoulders tensing. it feels like he found himself between a rock and a hard place with the way both of you are watching him with an intimidating amount of intensity, as if you’re ready to jump him if he chooses the other one.

intak’s harsh gulp is the only sound in the silence that fills the room. when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, his body curling inward like he’s bracing for impact.

“...i think we should check out that road again.”

your lips curl into a satisfied smirk as you lean back, arms crossing at your chest. your eyes lock with keeho’s – he’s staring you down with his jaw clenched tightly, huffing air out of his nose as he struggles to keep his temper intact. you hold his gaze undisturbed, full of confidence and pride after managing to press on his buttons once again. for a second, it’s almost as if there’s a tiny, barely there glimmer of that same reluctant interest from earlier in his eyes, when he slams his hands on the table, a bit harder than necessary, and pushes himself to his feet with a curse murmured under his breath.

“you better pray you’re right,” he grumbles, walking past without sparing you another glance. “get ready. we leave in ten.”

#♡

the sound of boots shuffling over dried leaves fills your ears as you move through the forest, with keeho in the front and you covering the rear with intak. 

the sun has barely risen past the horizon, the area bathed in its warm-coloured light and the night breeze still present, blowing under your clothes and seeping into your bones. the woods stretch up ahead, not peaceful – never that – but calm, as you take the same exact path that lead you here a few days ago. you can only hope the biters you heard then have dispersed by now.

keeho keeps the pace steady, eyes constantly scanning the surroundings as he grips the handle of his axe tightly. you noticed him flinching almost invisibly at a rustling noise or an animal running by a few times already, fully focused on staying sharp and vigilant – contrary to intak, who, although also tense, munches on a cereal bar as you walk.

“so, what were you up to before all this?” his words are hushed and slightly muffled by the food in his mouth, his other hand swinging his machete front and backwards with every step.

you reflexively wince at the sound of his voice, eyes roaming over the trees anxiously. you’re not used to anyone talking next to you while you’re out in the open, always focused on staying as quiet as possible to avoid any possible danger, even though you can tell this is just a fraction of how loud he can be when he really wants to. 

“uh… working, i guess,” you answer after a moment of hesitation, keeping your tone close to a whisper. “i was in uni, too.”

intak hums in understanding, fully unaware of, or unbothered by, the crumbs littering his lips. “what was your job?”

a crack coming from somewhere to your side makes you flinch – probably a branch or some old trash laying around, but it still makes you bristle, the grip on your knife tightening.

“um… hospitality,” you hesitate a little before answering, gaze still searching for the source of the noise in the bushes. you don’t need to mention being let go from your job just yet. “it was just part-time.”

“oh, okay! what about–”

keeho suddenly stops dead in his tracks, making you let out a quiet, surprised grunt when you walk face-first into his back.

“can you guys shut up for a second?” he snarls, voice hushed, and holds a hand up as a signal to stay still, eyes frantically scanning the nearest area. intak opens his mouth to either protest or ask about what the hell is going on, but he clamps his hand over his mouth before any sound makes it out.

then you hear it – the same crunching sound as before, this time closer, louder. it’s quickly followed by another one, and then another. no one needs to say it out loud; when your gaze locks with keeho’s, you know.

“hide,” all of you disperse at the command from his mouth, slipping out of the path and between the trees as quietly as possible. 

your heart is thumping in your chest as you press your back against one of the wider trunks, weapon clutched to your chest. when you turn your head you can intak is doing the same on the other side of the road, pushing his half-eaten breakfast into his pocket, and keeho must be somewhere behind you, since you can’t spot him from where you are. 

the snarling and groaning gets louder, accompanied by the shuffling of dirt under shoes as the biters slowly near. the hairs on your nape stand on end, your chest rising slowly with each shallow breath you force short not to make a sound. you’re not sure how long it takes before the monsters enter your line of sight – could be mere seconds as well as a few minutes – and your stomach twists in repugnance, just like it does every time, despite the years of conditioning. three bodies that used to be human once are now wrapped in rotten flesh, limbs either missing or twisted in unnatural angles, jaws hanging open weakly. one of them has its stomach cut open, tangled intestines hanging from the cavity and swinging with every limp step like a grim swing, while another one’s torso is pierced with multiple bullet wounds. you wonder if it was its cause of death or if someone else failed to protect themselves from it.

you only allow yourself a deeper breath once the group has passed by, still within sight but far enough to be safe, your shoulders slumping as the immediate threat is gone. slowly, with your back still glued to the mossy bark, you lean your head out from behind the tree to check if there are any more biters on the way.

another figure peeks from the other side of the trunk at the same time, just slowly enough to go unnoticed at first. but the low, throaty gurgle makes your blood run cold immediately, your head snapping back to be met with the milky, hollow eyes right in front of yours, bloody teeth clacking against each other and reaching toward you while you’re frozen in your spot. 

you don’t think, your instincts kicking in full-force as you adjust your grip on your knife and reach your arm back, about to swing as hard as you can–

before your hand has the chance to come down, the biter’s head slams into the tree, the moans quietening at once as it splits horizontally at the temple, decayed brain matter splashing across the trunk and your face. the stray falls to the ground, the hairy top of its head hanging by a mere thread of skin.

“you alright?” keeho asks, yanking his axe from the wood with a quiet grumble, before turning his gaze to you and taking in the surprise, and gore, on your face.

the corners of his mouth twitch upwards momentarily, but he forces them down when you wipe your cheeks with the sleeve of your jacket, expression twisting from startlement to pure disgust.

“uh… yeah,” the murmur leaves your lips roughly, nose scrunching from the nauseating smell as you shake the grime off your hand. “maybe warn me next time, though.”

keeho cocks an eyebrow, as if about to leave a snarky comment, but ultimately decides against it, probably taking pity on you; he crouches over to wipe the blade of his weapon on the grass, before nodding intak over and stepping back on the path, leaving you with no choice but to suck it up and follow as if nothing ever happened.

the biters you encountered must have been the only ones in that part of the forest, because the rest of the walk to the outskirts of the nearby town is rather uneventful. intak finishes his candy bar quietly, guilt hanging over him like an anvil, and even folds the wrapper neatly after instead of crumpling it in his hand. keeho doesn’t say anything either, keeping watch over the road, but you can feel his gaze shifting to you whenever you drag a hand over your face yet another time or make an attempt to pick the gray-pink-ish substance out of your hair, biting back a smirk at your death glares.

your steps slow down after breaching the town’s perimeter, each turn thought through and planned, all of you aware of how much more dangerous the areas that used to be more populated are. not much has changed since the last time you were here a couple of days ago: abandoned cars with no gas and flat tires, the less picky plants already making their home on the metal surfaces, store windows broken, barricaded, and then broken again, building walls covered in graffitis with corny movie quotes from when the teenagers still thought of the apocalypse as something cool and thrilling instead of the end of the world back in the early days. the air is chilly and thick with the sense of impending doom as you navigate through the shadows and side alleys to avoid being out in the open, the constant, far-away groans keeping you alert at all times. 

you walk until your legs ache, your lower back letting out unpleasant noises every time you try to stretch out, the weight of your backpack seemingly getting heavier with every street passed. the sky is cloudy, but the sun peeking through tells you it must be way past noon already by the time keeho stops by an overturned, rusted garbage truck, and raises his hand.

“let’s take a break here.”

both you and intak slump against the side of the vehicle, legs giving out at the first real pause since dawn, gulping down water from the shared canteen he takes out of his bag. keeho crouches down by the brick wall opposite you, the axe resting on his thighs on standby.

“we’re making good time,” the younger one murmurs, leaning his head back and letting his eyes fall closed. “we can stay here for a while. we should be able to get to the hospital before dark anyway.”