The One Piece

Hiatus until the fall

I’m going to put this blog on hiatus since my dash been very dead and my muses are low level. You can find me over @fedua1era When I come back I want to write more verses and expand the lore for my ocs such as Pokemon universe and other fandoms but for now I’ll focus on my other blog. I might post certain threads now and again though.

It isn't like him to think back on words he left others, but he could practically feel the residue of tension cling to his skin, that no scathing bath water could could rid him of.

Things were not supposed to go this way with Vivi. The two of them were meant to navigate this marriage as seamlessly as possible. Endure three whole years, staying out of each other's way; him walking away having fulfilled a duty to his dead family, and she walk away as free as a bird. But they had been complicating things, to the point he does not know she could walk out of this unscathed, anymore.

❝ . . . ❞ His head turned slowly where it rested on the edge of the bath, his dark eyes following the sound of her voice through the door separating them.

Eventually he would emerge from the bathing room, dressed in a loose top and slacks with a towel at the shoulder catching stray drops from his damp hair. He had been watching her clean up their mess, soundless, waiting for her to notice his presence but not explicitly going out of his way to make himself known. He was shinobi, after all.

His shoulder slumped against the doorway, watching her move tirelessly about. Too much energy to have, at this hour, not that he was one to talk. He did not understand why she was going through these efforts — still. He'd seen the meal she left. He saw the tidied counters. And now he was seeing her pick up after the argument they shared.

She could have left it where it was, let him deal with the consequences of his unruly tongue, and he would have never blamed her.

Eventually she does notice him, and he doesn't move from his spot. Though his gaze falls somewhere to the floor. ❝ Why did you only put out a meal for one person. ❞ It almost sounded accusatory, but it lacked the bite of their earlier 'disagreement'. ❝ ... are you really going to get on my case for not eating, and not even feed yourself? ❞

The steady scratch of her brush across fresh parchment filled the silence, replacing ruined reports with careful, practiced strokes she had long since committed to memory. Every line she rewrote was neat despite the lingering ache in her chest, her frustration folded into precision instead of carelessness. The room no longer looked like the battlefield they had left behind, save for the empty place where the shattered vase had once stood. It was only when the faint shift of weight against the doorway lingered too long that she finally lifted her eyes. Her gaze settled on him quietly, searching his face before drifting to the towel resting over his shoulder. For a heartbeat, she simply stared. After everything he had thrown at her, she had expected another dismissal, another command to leave him alone, not a question about dinner. It was so painfully indirect that, despite herself, disbelief flickered across her features before dissolving into something quieter. Of all the things he could have said, that was what survived the storm between them. Her lips parted as though to argue, then closed again when she caught the absence of venom in his voice. It was clumsy, awkward even, but she understood what he was trying and failing to ask.

A slow breath escaped her as she set the brush across the inkstone. "I wasn't planning on skipping dinner," Vivi answered, her voice calmer than before, though it carried the weight of exhaustion instead of anger. She glanced toward the covered plate waiting on the table before looking back at him, one brow lifting ever so slightly. "I just wanted to finish repairing what we broke before the ink dried beyond saving." The words held no accusation, only simple fact, as if there were already enough sharp edges between them without adding another. Then, after the smallest pause, the corner of her mouth twitched into something too restrained to be called a smile.

"You know, for someone who insists we're only using each other, you're oddly concerned about whether I eat," she murmured, rising from her seat and smoothing the wrinkles from her sleeves. The observation was gentle rather than triumphant, offered without the satisfaction of catching him in contradiction. The bluenette crossed toward the kitchen, pulling another bowl from the cupboard with the same unhurried efficiency she brought to everything else. Steam still curled from the pot when she lifted the lid, filling the room with the comforting scent of rice and vegetables. "Sit down before it gets cold." Vivi served herself without ceremony, setting the second bowl opposite the first before taking her own seat. There was no flourish to the invitation, no expectation that he would suddenly become someone different because of one hesitant question. She simply reached for her chopsticks and waited, leaving the empty chair across from her untouched but unmistakably offered. If he chose to remain standing, she would eat anyway. If he chose to sit, she would not make a spectacle of it.

                                                        :For the Good Of the Kingdom:

Muse A is the newly married wife to the King of their land. As Queen there are certain duties she must perform. Such as managing the castle, hosting diplomats and other royalty, and, most importantly, provide the kingdom with an heir. But try as she might, and how often, Muse A can’t seem to get pregnant at all.

He let out a long, shuddering breath that echoed in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, the world appeared to shift on its axis. This should be impossible. It contradicted every scroll he had ever perused, every lesson he had dismissed, and every natural law he had taken for granted. 

“This is impossible.”

Dragons were creatures of scale and flame, beings of instinct and grandeur, not women with delicate skin and an uncanny ability to uncover the secrets of his heart. 

“How have you achieved this?”

The logic of the universe, the rigid, stifling logic that his mother and Otto had used to confine him, did not permit such phenomena. A dragon was a weapon, a steed, a symbol of might; it was not a confidante who could meet his gaze and chuckle at the ridiculousness of a crown.

“I knew it in my bones, they all laughed at me, I always said, you loved me more than them, that you were my only friend.”

He found himself retreating, not from fear, but because the cognitive dissonance pressed against his temples like a physical weight.

He gazed at the contour of her jaw, the angle of her shoulders, and the way the wind danced through her golden hair, and his mind instinctively attempted to superimpose the image of a massive, forty-foot beast of glimmering gold. He searched for the seam, the illusion of light, or the faint whiff of sulfur that would indicate a mirage. He yearned to reach out and touch her, to discover if his hand would pass through a phantom or collide with a barrier of unyielding dragon-scale. The absurdity of it all felt like a jest played by the Seven, a cruel trick meant to finally unravel the last threads of his sanity.

“Look at you.”

He started to move, his initial steps cautious, gradually evolving into a more rhythmic pace, as if he were orchestrating a silent symphony of disbelief. He circled her deliberately, the crunch of his boots on the black grit echoing in the stillness, maintaining a respectful distance while his gaze remained fixed on her. He traced the contours of her profile, the graceful curve of her neck, and the way the golden scales on her collarbone glimmered in the fading light.

For years, he had admired the brilliance of Sunfyre’s hide, the way it outshone every other dragon soaring through the skies of Westeros, a living masterpiece of gold and cream, and now he witnessed that same celestial beauty manifested in human form. Every curve of her silhouette seemed to resonate with the powerful arch of a wing or the fluid elegance of a predator in flight. She was not just beautiful; she was a triumph of form, a living sculpture that made the very air around her feel curated.

“You are perfect.”

He halted his pacing suddenly, the space between them vanishing with a single, impulsive step. He reached out, his hand lingering for a heartbeat before gently cupping her cheek, his palm conforming to the shape of her face. He anticipated the chill of marble or the rough texture of a lizard’s skin, but instead, he discovered a warmth akin to a hearth in the depths of winter. Her skin was impossibly smooth, yet beneath that velvety exterior, he sensed the low, rhythmic pulse of a furnace.

It was a vibration that traveled up his arm and settled in his chest, a humming resonance that spoke of molten rock and ancient skies. To touch her was to embrace the sun without the risk of burning; it was the most genuine sensation he had ever experienced.

“You are the only one who ever supported me, backed me up and protected me, nothing has changed, right? Your not going to turn your back on me like so many others have?”

Stella did not answer at once. His hand against her cheek was astonishingly gentle, as though he feared the slightest pressure might scatter her into light and leave him alone again. She watched the uncertainty behind his violet eyes shift beneath each question, watched the king recede while the lonely boy remained. The bond between them carried every emotion with painful clarity, flowing as naturally as warmth through sunlight. She had felt those fears long before he had found the courage to give them words. No dragon mistook the ache of abandonment. She lifted her own hand and rested it over his, where it cupped her face. Her fingers closed around his with effortless care, the strength hidden beneath her human form restrained as instinctively as she once sheathed her claws around him during flight. "Nothing has changed," she said quietly, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "You are still my rider, and I am still yours." The admission carried no trace of servitude, only the certainty of a bond freely chosen. Dragons did not remain where they did not wish to be.

His shoulders loosened by the smallest measure, but the worry did not leave him entirely. Stella could see it lingering there, tucked behind every relieved breath, shaped by years spent measuring affection against duty and loyalty against politics. Human hearts expected every promise to carry hidden conditions because so many did. A dragon's heart did not bargain in that fashion. It was either accepted or rejected, and once accepted, it was remembered. "I have carried you through storms that would have swallowed fleets," Stella continued, her voice as steady as distant surf. "I have flown bleeding because you still breathed. I have stood between you and fire without wondering whether you deserved it that day." She smiled, not proudly but with quiet affection. "Do you truly think another shape would erase all of that?" The question settled gently between them, requiring no immediate answer.

Aegon lowered his eyes to their joined hands. Memories surfaced unbidden: Sunfyre shielding him with outstretched wings, the dragon's triumphant cries after each successful landing, the patient nudges whenever grief had left him sitting alone in the yard long after sunset. None of those moments felt diminished by the woman standing before him. If anything, they gained a depth he had never imagined, transformed from instinct into conscious devotion. He laughed softly through an unsteady breath, embarrassed by how obvious the answer suddenly seemed. "You humans speak often of loyalty," Stella said, glancing toward the restless sea beyond the cliffs. "Among dragons, it is simpler." The wind caught her golden hair as she looked back at him, sunlight seeming to linger within every strand despite the fading day. "We do not stay because we are commanded. We stay because we choose to." Her blue eyes warmed with unmistakable fondness. "I chose you long before anyone called you king."

The words struck him harder than any proclamation shouted before the court. No title, no crown, no bloodline had earned that choice. It had belonged to the frightened prince who had climbed onto a magnificent golden hatchling with shaking hands and stubborn determination, believing himself unworthy of nearly everything except the sky. For the first time in many years, Aegon wondered whether that frightened boy had been loved more deeply than the king had ever understood. Stella saw the realization dawn across his face and simply squeezed his hand, content to let the silence finish what her words had begun.

The world compressed to the narrowness of a single scale, accompanied by the scent of scorching iron. He abandoned thoughts of strategy, lineage, or royalty; he transformed from a prince into something far more primal, a parasite, a tick, a desperate creature clinging to the side of a deity.

He drove his elbows into the crevices of her armor, the friction searing through his doublet, his muscles howling as they reached the utmost limits of human endurance.

Each time Cosima banked, the G-force tried to rip him away like a damp piece of parchment, and he countered that force with a raw, guttural snarl, clenching his jaw and shutting his eyes against the blinding spray of salt and sunlight. He held on not through strength, but through a sheer, defiant refusal to let the sky triumph.

As the dragoness glided over the wave crests, the spray morphed into a chilling mist that enveloped everything in a slick, perilous layer. He felt his right leg slip, the leather of his boot losing grip on a rain-slicked ridge of crimson hide. For a heart-stopping moment, he was half-off, dangling over the roiling white foam of the ocean at a velocity that would have transformed his impact into a crimson mist.

He didn’t succumb to panic; instead, he lunged, swinging his torso with a fierce heave and slamming his chest back against her spine, his fingers digging into a deep groove near the base of her neck. He gasped for breath, the air thin and tinged with ozone, his heart pounding a frantic beat against the dragon's warm skin.

The atmosphere transformed into a channel for something ancient, predating words. He ceased his shouting of orders and instead began to infuse his will into the very scales under his fingers, envisioning his consciousness as a molten essence, seeping through the crevices of her armor and coursing into her veins.

His desire extended beyond mere obedience; he aimed to replace her isolation with his own aspirations. He sought that dormant, primal string that linked the blood of Old Valyria to the flames of the pits, striving to tether his soul to hers. “Gaze upon me,” he commanded, not through sound, but with a mental push that resonated with the hubris of a conqueror. 

“I am the blood. I am the fire. I am the only entity in this sky that matches you.”

HE POSSESSED ONE DRAGON; TWO WOULD ELEVATE HIM ABOVE ALL OTHERS!

This notion did not blossom as a logical strategy; it flared up like a fever. In the Red Keep, power was gauged in hushed tones, wax seals, and the fragile favor of a brother who valued peace over prestige. Yet here, caught between a howling sky and a roiling sea, power was defined by wingspan and the capacity to withstand pain. Capturing a wild dragon was a legendary achievement, a tale recounted to acolytes and heirs to elevate the Targaryen name to divine status. T

o capture a second, while still bonded to the Blood Wyrm, would transcend mere achievement, it would signify an elevation. He would not just be a prince of the realm; he would ascend to become a deity of the skies, a dual-wielding tempest capable of incinerating an army or a city without ever needing to land.

The moment his ambition took shape, it was abruptly interrupted by a fierce, violent shudder of the dragoness's shoulders. He could tell she had no interest in his psychic visions or his celestial heritage; she sensed the change in his purpose, the shift from a desperate passenger to an aspiring master, and it filled her with a deep-seated revulsion. With a swift motion, she snapped her tail upward, the colossal appendage slicing through the air like a battering ram, nearly grazing his legs and sending a surge of kinetic energy racing up his spine, threatening to render him unconscious. She was no longer just trying to dislodge him; she was intent on breaking him apart.

"OBEY, YOU ARE CLAIMED!"

Cosima felt the change before the sound reached her ears. The weight upon her back had altered, no longer clinging with the desperate instinct of prey but settling with the invasive certainty of a predator that believed the hunt already won. That confidence crawled across her scales like embers trapped beneath old scars, irritating every ancient instinct she possessed. She did not know crowns, kingdoms, or bloodlines, yet she understood possession, and the creature behind her had dared to think of her as something that could belong to him. The realization ignited a fury far deeper than territorial rage. It was the fury of a being who had lived untamed since hatching beneath an open sky.

The bellowed command rolled across her spine as nothing more than harsh vibrations swallowed by the wind. Its meaning never reached her, but its intent rang with perfect clarity, demanding, arrogant, absolute. Her amber eyes narrowed until they became molten slits, and a low rumble gathered inside her immense chest. Heat flooded the glands beneath her throat, not yet released, merely building into a furnace that made the air shimmer around her neck. Every beat of her wings became slower, heavier, deliberate beyond human comprehension. She was no longer reacting in anger; she was choosing how best to erase the offense.

Cosima remembered no rider because she had never accepted one. Her earliest memories were not of chains or hatcheries but of black cliffs warmed by volcanic breath and endless horizons where only storms challenged her passage. The wind had never ordered her to bend, and the sea had never presumed to master her, so why should this fragile thing wrapped in cloth and steel? His touch was no bond, his persistence no proof of worth, only the stubborn refusal of a creature too small to understand what he had climbed upon. She pitied him no more than she pitied the gulls foolish enough to fly before her jaws. To survive her was not the same as deserving her.

She twisted her neck farther than seemed possible for a beast of her size, her great eye fixing upon the dark shape clinging behind the ridge of her shoulders. Their gazes met for the briefest heartbeat across crimson scales and screaming wind. In his violet eyes she saw not fear but hunger, bright and fevered, reaching for ownership with the certainty of destiny. She answered with a stare utterly devoid of recognition. To Cosima, he was no prince, no dragonlord, no heir of forgotten empires. He was simply an infestation that had mistaken endurance for acceptance.

A sound unlike any roar she had given before welled from her throat. It began below hearing, a deep vibration that trembled through her bones and into every scale across her back, forcing the intruder to feel it before he truly heard it. The resonance spread through the air in concentric waves, causing the sea beneath to ripple outward while distant seabirds wheeled away in terror. It was not a challenge meant for another dragon, nor a hunting cry. It was a declaration as ancient as her blood: she belonged to nothing beyond the sky itself. Then the furnace inside her chest reached its limit, and crimson fire surged toward her jaws.

𝙷𝙾𝚆𝙻’𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚅𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙲𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂

“Sorry I’m late, I was looking everywhere for you.”

“I’ve had enough of running away.”

“Don't be alarmed, but I'm being followed. Act normal.”

“A heart’s a heavy burden.”

“Now I’m repulsive. I can’t live like this.”

“He's calling the spirits of darkness... I saw him do this once before when a girl dumped him!”

“Now I’ve got something I want to protect. It’s you.”

“She likes my spark!”

“Sorry, it looks like you're involved.”

“Find me in the future!”

“Knowing you'd be there gave me the courage to show up.”

“I'm such a big coward, all I do is hide.”

“I just organized things. Nothing’s ruined.”

“May all your bacon burn.”

“I see no point in living if I can’t be beautiful.”

“Your hair looks just like starlight.”

“I seem to have become quite cunning in my old age.”

“I’m trying to hurry but I can’t seem to stop crying.”

“I feel terrible. Like there’s a weight on my chest.”

“What difference does it make?”

“So what do you have in your pocket?”

“That boy is extremely dangerous.”

“It looks like your true love is in love with someone else!”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t torment my friend.”

“It’s all in flames now.”

“You are by far the tackiest thing here.”

“Wait! You can't come up here!”

“My own kind attacked me today.”

“Let’s get cooking.”

“I don’t cook!”

“I have this weird feeling you're going to leave.”

“Tell me what's going on! Please.”

“I don't care if you're a monster.”

“She almost smothered me!”

“You're being so obedient.”

“So that did happen, it wasn't a dream.”

“I’m a scary and powerful fire demon!”

“You sabotaged me!”

“What possessed you to let them in my house?”

“Looks like we have another addition to the family.”

“Look! Look at what you’ve done to my hair! Look!”

“The nice thing about being old is you’ve got nothing much to lose.”

“It's all so familiar yet I know I've never been here before. I feel so at home.”

“I’ve never felt so peaceful before.”

“They say that the best blaze burns brightest when circumstances are at their worst.”

“Yeah, but no one really believes that. Come on, let's be honest.”

“You sound ghastly, like some 90-year-old woman.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, even if you are my least favorite vegetable!”

“Take care, Turniphead!”

“You didn’t have to come back.”

The opalescent cloud of the dreamscape began to fray, its edges dissolving into a grey, velvet haze that mirrored the sudden heaviness in his eyelids. He was a man of immense discipline when it came to the cruelty of his station, but his biology was a traitor; the rhythmic, hypnotic pulsing of the rabbit’s subconscious acted like a siren song to his narcoleptic mind. His head tilted back, the resin bubble around his neck clicking softly against his high collar.

The vivid images of marble corridors and the forbidden name, Figarland began to blur, swirling together like ink dropped into water. He tried to fight it, his gloved fingers twitching within the cloud, desperate to grip the remaining shards of her identity, but the pull of sleep was an anchor dragging him down into a warm, suffocating depths.

The snap of his own neck returning to center was violent, a sudden jolt that rattled the resin bubble around his head like a shaken snow globe. His eyes flew open, the amber pupils blown wide and shimmering with a frantic, renewed lucidity. He gasped, the sound echoing harshly through the filters of his respirator, his chest heaving beneath the heavy fabric of his tunic. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt, the ebony table and the limp, sleeping creature upon it swirling in a dizzying orbit. 

He blinked rapidly, the remnants of the dreamscape still clinging to his vision like ghostly afterimages of marble and gold.

The air in the room suddenly felt too thin, as if the oxygen had been sucked out by a vacuum. His lungs burned, his respirator clicking frantically as he struggled to synchronize his breath with the sudden, violent hammering of his heart. The name Figarland didn’t just echo in his mind; it detonated, shattering the lethargy that usually clung to him like a second skin.

This wasn't just a peculiar pet or a curious devil-fruit anomaly. This was a bloodline. This was a lineage of such suffocating prestige that the mere mention of it could shift the tides of the world’s politics.

“Cosima.” 

He whispered the name, the sound muffled and distorted by the filters of his mask. He ran the genealogy through his mind with the speed of a falling guillotine.

If this creature was indeed who the dream suggested, then the rabbit on his table was the cousin of Shamrock Figarland, the formidable Commander of the God's Knights. She was the niece of Saint Garling, the elder whose very shadow loomed over the Holy Land with an iron grip. The implications crashed over him in a wave of cold sweat; he had just forcibly invaded the subconscious of a woman whose family viewed the rest of the world as mere insects to be stepped upon.

“AH!”

The transition from predator to supplicant was so violent it nearly knocked the wind from him. In one frantic, blurring motion, he scooped the rabbit from the ebony table, his gloved hands trembling so severely that he nearly fumbled the small creature. He didn't just sit; he collapsed, his high-heeled boots skidding across the polished floor as he dropped to his knees with a resounding thud that echoed through the silent room. The impact jarred his long neck, the resin bubble around his head clicking sharply, but he hardly noticed the physical shock.

He held the rabbit against his chest, cradling it with a sudden, desperate tenderness, as if she were a piece of priceless porcelain that had already begun to crack.

“Forgive me! A thousand deaths would not be enough to pay for my insolence!” 

His voice, usually a languid drawl, was now a jagged shriek that rattled the filters of his respirator. He pressed his forehead against the cold ebony of the table, his long neck bent at an angle that would have been agonizing for any other creature.

“I AM SO SORRY MY LADY!”

He didn't just bow; he collapsed into a posture of absolute annihilation, his ornate military uniform bunching around him in a heap of dark fabric and polished buttons. He was a World Noble, yes, but the Figarlands were the apex of the apex, the gilded peak of a mountain he was merely allowed to climb. To him, the creature in his arms was no longer a rabbit; she was a living monument of sovereignty wrapped in brown fur.

“Do you want a carrot, water, a bed, something, anything, command me, I serve you!”

Cosima did not understand what was happening at first. The remnants of the dream still clung to her mind like fog, marble corridors and golden halls flashing behind her eyes as her identity was dragged unwillingly back to the surface. She remembered the sensation of being opened, of having memories she guarded like treasures exposed to someone else’s gaze. Her small body felt heavy and distant, trapped between exhaustion and awareness. Then she felt warmth, something entirely different from the cold presence that had invaded her thoughts. Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the flickering torchlight above her.

The scent of chemicals, perfume, and the strange man who had captured her filled her senses immediately, making her instincts flare awake. Her first reaction was to escape, every part of her rabbit body tensing as she prepared to flee from the danger holding her. Her paws pressed against the fabric beneath her, ready to push away and fight for distance. Then she noticed something that made her freeze completely. He was trembling. The man who had watched her like a fascinating experiment was no longer calm and detached.

His breathing through the respirator was uneven, the steady rhythm replaced with frantic, uneven hisses that betrayed his panic. His gloved hands held her carefully, almost impossibly gently, as though she were something precious rather than something he had caged moments ago. Cosima stared at him with dark eyes, trying to understand the sudden change. She had expected cruelty, curiosity, or even arrogance, but she had not expected fear. “Forgive me!” The sudden sound made her ears twitch sharply.

His voice was distorted through the respirator, but the emotion behind it was clear enough for even her altered senses to understand. He sounded desperate, horrified by what he had done and terrified of the consequences. Cosima remained completely still, watching as the same man who had invaded her mind now lowered himself before her. It was such a ridiculous reversal that for a moment she wondered if she was still trapped inside some strange dream. “A thousand deaths would not be enough to pay for my insolence!” His words echoed through the chamber as he bowed lower, his forehead pressing against the cold ebony table.

Cosima’s whiskers twitched as she studied him, her suspicion refusing to disappear despite his sudden submission. She knew people like this, people who changed their behavior when they discovered someone’s status or power. Respect born from fear was not the same as genuine respect, and she knew the difference too well. Still, she could not deny the strange satisfaction of seeing the person who had frightened her now shaken by her existence. “I AM SO SORRY MY LADY!” The title struck something deep inside her.

Not because she needed to hear it, but because she had not heard it directed toward her since she became this fragile creature. She had once walked through halls where people bowed, where her name carried weight, where her presence alone could influence conversations. Now she was reduced to a rabbit sitting in the arms of someone who had just discovered her lineage. The irony was almost insulting. Cosima shifted slightly in his grasp, refusing to show any comfort despite the warmth surrounding her. Her ears remained angled back, her gaze sharp and calculating as she examined him.

She could feel the desperation in his movements, the way he treated her like a priceless artifact that could shatter if mishandled. Yet she knew better than to believe fear alone made someone trustworthy. A person who bowed today could easily become a threat tomorrow if the circumstances changed. “Do you want a carrot, water, a bed, something, anything, command me, I serve you!” Cosima stared at him in silence. A carrot. A bed. Water. The offers were almost absurd enough to offend her. She was Cosima Figarland, not some ordinary pet waiting to be rewarded with scraps. She had been a woman who maneuvered through society, who built influence, who destroyed obstacles standing between herself and power. Yet here she was, trapped in the body of a rabbit while a terrified man begged her for orders.

Her nose twitched as she glanced away from him. She refused to beg. She refused to acknowledge weakness. A Figarland did not plead for what they wanted. Slowly, she extended one small paw toward the discarded strawberry lying nearby, making her choice clear without a single word. If he truly intended to serve her, then he would learn quickly that she did not need to ask twice. Even as a rabbit, even trapped inside a body that did not belong to her, Cosima would still be Cosima.

He didn’t merely listen to Cosima; he meticulously curated her words, sifting her academic reflections through a filter of deep tedium. To him, her voice was akin to a monotonous hum, a tiresome backdrop to the far more captivating task of envisioning the expression on a rival’s face as this beast ravaged their cherished specimen in the arena.

"You have been warned repeatedly, niece, that these zoan creatures are perilous, devil fruit users ensnared in this form. Your collection has become a liability; we cannot afford another slave uprising, not while I lead the knights, not under my watch, and certainly not by my blood. I refuse to let our family’s name be tarnished, especially now that circumstances are shifting."

He remained still, the mask hiding the way his gaze wandered to the ceiling, his thoughts already calculating the points, the betting odds, and the raw, primal thrill of witnessing something so proud brought low. He allowed her to speak, not out of respect for her insights on the creature's "resistance," but because it was customary for a subordinate to provide commentary before the master made a decision.

"Hmph." He exhaled a sharp, dismissive breath, the sound resonating emptily against the marble. "Such drivel. All of this is a complete waste of my time."

The calendar of the World Nobles was not divided by months or seasons, but by the eager anticipation of the Great Hunt. For Garling, the forthcoming games were the only moments when the world truly made sense; it was when the chaotic clamor of the Lower World was hushed by the clear, singular logic of the tally. The rules were beautifully simple: locate the target, secure the kill, and claim the points. Whether the quarry was a rare beast from a forgotten isle or a desperate human fleeing for their life, the outcome was invariably the same.

"Changes are afoot, my role is evolving, and with it, your titles and positions will also transform, for the better. But first, the games must take precedence, and you will present all that you have gathered."

The excitement lay not in the pursuit itself, but in the affirmation of dominance. For Garling, the hunt was a sacred ritual, a blood-stained record that once again confirmed the Celestial Dragons' supremacy over all. He had traversed these woods and city mazes for decades, boasting an unblemished record of triumph. Defeat was not in his vocabulary; he did not see the hunt as a contest but as a bountiful harvest.

"The quartermaster will manage the logistics," he stated, his voice regaining that smooth, chilling composure. He avoided her gaze, instead concentrating on the gentle swirl of tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. "Every specimen you’ve gathered, the scaled nightmares from the abyss, those shimmering avian fiends, and this... pet, will be meticulously cataloged. Along with your household staff."

As he rose from the chair with a deliberate, graceful motion, the silk of his robes whispered against the marble. This movement was not an invitation for conversation; it was the finality of a door closing. To Garling, the word "no" was not a refusal but a linguistic misstep, a flaw in the social order that he rectified with the sheer weight of his presence. There was no need for him to raise his voice or wield a weapon to indicate that the opportunity for negotiation had vanished. The atmosphere in the receiving hall thickened, the pressure dropping as he stepped into the room's center, his stance a living testament to unwavering confidence.

"Ensure it is done immediately, and consider yourself fortunate to be on my team once again; victory is guaranteed. I require your pets to cull the herd of slaves, reduce the points, eliminate the feeble nobles, and ensure that only the strongest bloodlines endure."

Cosima listened without interruption. That was perhaps the most infuriating thing about her, because she did not rush to defend herself, did not attempt to soften his words, and did not react with the expected fear or frustration. She simply allowed him to speak, allowing every carefully constructed declaration of authority to reveal exactly what it was beneath the polished surface. The receiving hall had been designed to make people feel small, from the towering stained-glass windows to the marble floors that reflected every movement like a judgment. Yet Cosima stood there as though she belonged among it all, watching her uncle deliver his commands with the same detached curiosity she would give an experiment under glass. She had learned long ago that people revealed more about themselves when they believed they were speaking from a position above someone else.

Her attention briefly shifted toward the tiger beside her. He had not moved, but his stillness carried more weight than movement ever could. She could feel the tension radiating from him, not as a mindless instinct to attack, but as something far more controlled and dangerous. Garling’s words had not frightened him, nor had they enraged him in the simple way a threat might provoke a beast. No, what bothered him was the assumption behind them—the idea that he could be reduced to a creature for display, a weapon for entertainment, a number on a scoreboard. Cosima recognized that reaction because she understood it intimately. The refusal to be defined by another person’s hand was not something she found unfamiliar. In fact, it was the very foundation of who she had become.

When Garling finished speaking, when the command was delivered with the certainty of someone who had never once considered that the world might refuse him, Cosima allowed several seconds of silence to pass. The servants lowered their heads further, the guards remained perfectly still, and the atmosphere thickened beneath the weight of the unspoken expectation that she would simply comply. Instead, she calmly folded her hands behind her back and looked at him. “Your concern is noted,” she finally said, her voice polite enough to sound respectful, yet carrying a sharpness that made the meaning impossible to mistake. She was not agreeing. She was acknowledging that he had spoken.

Her gaze drifted once more toward the tiger before returning to her uncle. “You are correct about one thing,” she continued. “They are dangerous.” She let the words settle before adding, “They are dangerous because they remember.” The hall seemed quieter after that statement. “They remember cages. They remember handlers. They remember the moment someone decided their existence belonged to someone else.” Her eyes moved toward the creature standing beside her, her expression unreadable. “And some of them survive long enough to become something that cannot be easily reclaimed.”

Cosima looked back at Garling, watching the way his attention sharpened beneath the mask. She knew what he was calculating—the value, the spectacle, the political advantage, the entertainment. He saw rare creatures and imagined how they could be used. He saw strength and immediately considered how it could be displayed for others to witness. That was the difference between them. Garling saw possession. Cosima saw potential. The tiger beside her was not interesting because he was powerful; he was interesting because he had power and still made choices.

“As for the games,” she said, allowing a pause to stretch between them, “the answer is no.” The word was simple. Quiet. Yet it carried more impact than any raised voice could have. The reaction around the room was immediate, though subtle. A servant froze in place. A guard’s fingers shifted near his weapon before stopping. Everyone present understood the significance of what had happened. Cosima had not refused a suggestion. She had denied an order.

Garling had spent his life surrounded by people who treated refusal as a mistake, something that needed correction rather than consideration. Cosima knew that. She knew he would interpret her defiance as arrogance rather than a boundary. She also knew that explaining herself would only encourage him to believe she owed him an argument. “You may enter your own specimens into your own games,” she continued evenly. “But this one is not yours.” Her eyes remained fixed on him. “You are mistaking acquisition for ownership. A mistake many make when they have never encountered something they could not purchase.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Cosima stepped slightly closer to the tiger, not touching him and not claiming him, but making her position clear. She was not placing herself above him. She was not declaring him a possession. She was simply standing beside him. “You wanted to know why I brought him here,” she said. “Because I wanted to see what would happen when two things that believe they are incapable of being challenged finally meet.” A faint, almost amused expression crossed her face. “Now I know.”

Her eyes moved between the two predators in the room—the one who wore a mask and commanded armies, and the one who wore no disguise at all. “You are both remarkably similar,” she said quietly. Neither needed to hear it explained. Both understood power. Both rejected being controlled. Both believed themselves untouchable. The difference was that one had spent years convincing the world he was a god, while the other had just proven he would rather break a cage than live inside it. And Cosima found that contrast far more valuable than any prize the hunt could offer.

Verses

Amnesia!Cosima: The Celestial Dragon was on a trip when her ship was suddenly attacked by a Sea King. She survived by crashing upon an island with a serious head injury, which caused memory loss. Now, she is trying to find her missing memories as everything feels off to the woman.

Cross Guild!Stella: Once thought lost to the cruelty of the World Nobles, Stella rebuilt her life from nothing, rising from a former slave to a performer known across the seas. Through years of discipline, she mastered song and dance as a means of control over her attention, atmosphere, and people. Within Cross Guild, Stella serves a dual purpose, as on the surface, she is an entertainer who performs at exclusive gatherings, underground venues, and elite circles tied to the Guild’s growing influence. Beneath that role, she operates as a highly effective intelligence gatherer, having learned from her years of being in slavery about observing and listening carefully. Secrets slip easily in the presence of beauty and comfort, and Stella has learned how to create both. Conversations flow around her, unguarded, often underestimated, which allows her to collect information that even seasoned operatives would struggle to obtain. The woman’s methods are subtle, human, and deeply psychological as she does not extract information, but she allows it to be given. Though she rarely intervenes directly, her past ensures she remains quietly selective. Operations that echo the horrors she endured are redirected when possible, altered without confrontation, or brought to the attention of those who can change them.  Role: Performer • Intelligence Gatherer • Social Infiltrator

365 films; aladdin, 1992, dir. john musker and ron clements