lums lums lums ✨️

THE BEASTS:

❦Shadow Milk: Manipulative (obvs), stalker, clingy and obsessive. Once I read a post about him and since then I can't take it off my head, it basically said: I don't think he's that prone to kidnapping you, he wants you to love him as much as he loves you, after all. You have to peak his interest and then his obsession will grow very gradually, just like he obsessed and taunted Pure Vanilla, but once he decides to show up to you when he sees the time's right— you can tell his sheer adoration towards you. Pretty jealous tho, and I see him kinda getting insecure if you seem to favor Pure Vanilla or his past self

❦Eternal Sugar: Manipulative, isolating, delusional, obsessive and dependent. She genuinely wants your happiness, but as we all know, her methods aren't the best. Basically imprisons you into her garden. If not that, I can see her basically following you around like a lost puppy and trying to make you happy at all costs. Her emotional and mental state are very dependent of you and how you feel, so she feels like her jam melts each time you get mad at her. Then again, she's pretty delusional so she might not take the hin— clear signs. On a good side, she's probably the least jealous beast.

❦Mystic Flour: Possessive, overprotective. That's about it, sorry, I don't know much about how to characterize her 😔. Most likely scenario is that you caught her attention, maybe even touched her apathetic heart. Just a little. But that was enough for her obsession to gradually grow. She genuinely wants you to see her point of view and follow apathy, just that unlike the other cookies, she's pretty patient and won't force you, at least not so directly. Despite her wish for everything to return to flour, she finds herself wanting you by her side, watching the white dust falling from everything you once held dear.

❦Burning Spice: Overprotective, jealous, delusional, attacking. Least to say, he's the most likely to kill, without any regret or hesitation. (I mean, all beasts kill but, y'know). I didn't know well how to characterize him as well until I read a post, basically: After seeing so many civilizations and creations being destroyed over and over again because of the change (or lack thereof), he finds himself wanting to preserve one thing: you. He's extremely overprotective, destroying anything that comes near you, innocent or not. In his mind he thinks he's protecting you and you find his strength and loyalty as love, even though is far from it.

❦Silent Salt: Overprotective, self deprecating, loyal, worshipful. Probably the most overprotective and second most prone to kill next to BS. After all his corruption and mistakes, he finds himself to be too dirty, afraid to taint your light that oh so enlightens his lonely, dark path he built around himself. Never really tries to meet you, though, he always watches from the shadows and silently kills any enemies in the way before you even walk down through it or notice. He sees you as the last hope of cookie kind he must protect.

THE ANCIENTS:

❥Pure Vanilla: Overprotective, dependent, worshipful and obsessive. I mean, he's a healer, and Shadow Milk himself called him 'submissive soul' lmao. Most likely the most "harmless" yandere, but doesn't make him any less overwhelming. Take Viridescent Daydream as reference. Extremely cheeky but also worshipful. Just like White Lily and Silent Salt, sees you as a pure deity. Maybe a bit delusional into thinking you're the only soul that truly understands the pains he never lets anyone see under his calm facade. Also, despite being the most patient being in Crespia, if pushed to his limit, I could see him giving you the wrong pills so you stay sick, or if you already have a long-term illness, making you even more dependent on him, although you can see the guilt trembling in his smile.

❥Hollyberry: Overprotective, clingy, delusional. Ironically, pretty similar to her other half. While she keeps her cheerful and nonchalant usual self, she's also incredibly clingy, always taking you with her anywhere she goes to the point Wildberry and Pitaya are completely acquantied with you. Delusional because she can't ever seem to take a 'no' seriously from you, thinking you're just being moody or pouty. The only time her facade seems to break is when your dough suffers the slightest crumb, specially if it was because of her.

❥Dark Cacao: I know I'm saying overprotective for almost everyone but he's the epitome of such. Also, self-deprecating, isolating and devoted. Why? His paranoia over your safety being put at risk and with how many enemies are breathing down his neck...well, might also coward out and just lock you up in his kingdom, in a room supervised by his most competent guards 24/7. He doesn't feel any power off of this tho, just feeling regretful and knowing you probably hate him. And he doesn't blame you, doesn't have any right to. Despite all, his loyalty will always lie with you, and every action his dough does is thinking of you, even if you hate the mere thought of him.

❥Golden Cheese: Monopolizing, isolating, doting. Seemingly the most chill-going at the beginning, until she decides to lock you up in her virtual paradise. She spoils you rotten with goods and gold, treating you smugly as her 'most treasured prize', giving you anything you could ever ask for— as long as you don't leave her. It goes to a sad point where she no longer cares if you actually love her or not, or if you just want her possessions, just please don't leave her...she can't lose anyone else.

❥White Lily: Worshipful, stalkerish, self-deprecating, obsessive. Well, kinda obvious. Again, like PV and SS, she sees you as perfection made dough— the perfect specimen, if you will. Very shy to approach you, her obsession grows very gradually but surely. Prefers watching you from the background, believing you wouldn't ever want a nuisance like her in your presence. Studies you like crazy and her obsession can get pretty sick. I don't believe she's willing to kill, but she WOULD betray her very ideals and beliefs for you. Worst case scenario: yandere Dark Enchantress Cookie

The Light turned lazily in the air, its blue glow bathing the four bodies in a cold sheen. Your body lay folded where it had fallen, one hand still curved in the dirt as if the earth itself had been the last thing you reached for. Chai was crumpled in her own circle, hair loose and robe stained dark at the knees. Hazelnut had collapsed half-twisted, as if even unconsciousness had caught him resisting. Earl had fallen with more grace than the rest, but no grace in the world could disguise the fact that he looked dead.

And the Sage of Truth looked as if the world had split open under him. Then the Light spoke.

“Oh, now you may touch them,” it said sweetly. “The ritual is over.”

Shadow Milk’s gaze snapped upward with such unnatural violence.

“What,” he said, each word cut from ice, “have you done?”

The Light brightened with delight.

“Done?” it echoed. “Why, I thought you wanted me to be quiet.”

It laughed.

“You were ever so stern about it,” it purred. “Such a shame. And now look. Silence everywhere.”

The Light dipped lower, circling him in the air.

“If you want to know so badly,” it crooned, “beg.”

His expression did not change.

“Tell me.”

“Ah, no. Not like that.” The Light spun lazily, enjoying itself. “Surely the Fount of Knowledge can do better than a command. Plead, perhaps. Something moving. You do have an audience now, whether you wished for one or not.”

The Fount did not waste another second on it.

He went to you. He dropped to his knees in the dirt beside your circle, robes sinking into the cold bank without his notice, and gathered you up by the shoulders with hands that were usually so precise and measured, now trembling just enough to betray what he had not yet allowed into his face.

You were cold.

Your head tipped limply with the motion, your lashes still, your mouth parted but empty of breath. Moonlight had blanched you. Whatever warmth had lived in your dough had gone somewhere he could not follow.

“No,” he said.

Just to the truth of your weight in his hands. He shook you once carefully, then harder.

Your name fell from him raw, stripped of every title, restraint, every polished edge that made him the Fount. Now he stood merely a cookie.

He touched your face. Pressed two fingers to your throat. Nothing. Something inside him seemed to go frighteningly still. 

Behind him, the Light laughed and laughed.

“Oh, don’t look so bereft. It did make for a marvelous third act.”

Shadow Milk looked over his shoulder, murder in every line of him. “Be silent.”

“Why?” the Light asked, delighted. “You wanted silence. Fine.”

Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, it added in a silk-bright voice, “Unless you’d like to know what was taken.”

It swayed above Shadow Milk Cookie, radiantly pleased with itself. “What is it they say of you? Holder of wisdom? Keeper of truth? Dear Fount of Knowledge, shouldn’t you know?”

Shadow Milk rose halfway, one hand still braced behind your shoulders to keep you from collapsing fully into the dirt.

“I will ask you once more,” he said. “What have you done?”

The Light seemed to smile.

“You may ask me forever.”

Then he heard it, voices. Distant at first, then closer.

The screaming had carried farther than any of you had understood in the moment. Across the water, through the Spire’s lower courtyards, into open windows and sleeping halls. Footsteps came quick over the bank path now. Lanterns bobbed through the trees. Murmurs rose, frightened and disbelieving and too loud.

Professors. Students. A small crowd gathering in horror at the edge of the scene.

The Light noticed before anyone else and quieted at once. “Ah,” it murmured, “curtain call.”

The light Folded itself back toward the soul jam with the sly instinct of something that understood spectacle best when properly timed. If large groups needed the Fount of Knowledge, then the Fount’s reputation would do half its hiding for it.

Shadow Milk understood that too.

You felt wrong in his arms. The others looked worse by the second and already he could hear the first sharp inhalations from those arriving behind him as the truth of what had happened began to settle over the bank.

He laid you down with unbearable care, one last touch at your temple before he stood and turned to face the onlookers.

Whatever private anguish had torn open in him moments ago vanished behind the Fount’s face.

His posture sharpened. His voice, when it came, was cold enough to command the night.

“Stand back.”

The crowd halted as one.

Students in robes half-fastened, professors with hastily gathered cloaks, lanternlight trembling in their hands. Faces pale with fear. Eyes darting from the circles to the bodies inside them, then to Shadow Milk Cookie himself standing at the center of it all like judgment.

One of the younger professors found their voice first. “Fount! What happened?”

Shadow Milk’s gaze did not flicker.

“There has been a tragedy,” he said.

The words were perfect. They struck like stones dropped into still water. He continued, his tone clipped now, hard enough to discourage pity and questions all at once.

“A group of unruly students attempted something profoundly idiotic and catastrophically beyond their understanding.” His eyes swept the assembled faces, each word a blade honed for the crowd rather than the dead. “Let this be a lesson to any who believe curiosity excuses recklessness.”

The words sounded cruel. They were meant to. Not for you. For them.

For the witnesses who would carry the story back into halls and classrooms. For the administrators who would need language severe enough to explain why the Fount had not prevented it. For anyone who might otherwise ask why his voice sounded too personal, why his hands had shaken when he touched you, why his robes were dirt-stained from kneeling at your side.

He had to protect his image if he was going to protect you.

A student near the front flinched visibly. Another began to cry quietly. One professor made the sign of warding over their chest.

Shadow Milk did not soften. He could not.

“Return to your quarters,” he ordered. “Now.”

There was hesitation. A senior professor stepped forward “Fount, should we summon-”

“I will take care of it.”

The interruption came smooth and final. That stopped them. Because he was the Fount of Knowledge. The crowd began, slowly, reluctantly, to obey. But not without lingering glances, whispers, and certainly not without fear.

Shadow Milk waited until enough of them had turned away.

Then he looked back to you. He went first to you again.

Knelt.

This time the motion was slower, because he knew now that frantic hope would not wake you. He slid one hand beneath the back of your neck and lifted you carefully into the crook of his arm, thumb brushing once over your cheek as if the softness of it might still prove something.

Cold. He looked at your face for a long moment, then at Chai, then Hazelnut, then Earl.

All four of you pale and lifeless.

Behind him, a lingering jolly professor still close by said quietly, “Are they…?”

Shadow Milk did not answer at once. His gaze remained fixed on you, and when he finally spoke, the words were meant for the air more than the questioner.

“They are not to be touched.”

That made the nearby professor fall silent immediately. His hand tightened fractionally where it held you.

“They will remain under my care.”

Whispers fled toward the Spire in scattered threads, already turning the scene into rumor and warning and some future story the academy would tell itself in lowered voices.

Shadow Milk let them go.

Only when the last cluster had pulled back far enough to give him shadow rather than scrutiny did the light show itself.

The Light of Deceit glimmered faintly, pleased with itself. For a long moment the two of them simply regarded one another.

The light of deceit drifted lazily above him and said, almost kindly, “Oh, don’t wear that look for too long. It’s unbecoming.”

Shadow Milk’s gaze did not lift from you. “Be silent.”

A soft laugh. “You always did mistake restraint for power.”

That made his jaw tighten, but nothing more. He would not let it steer him again. The Light dimmed, then brightened again like a heartbeat.

“If it is death you fear,” it said “then you are being dreadfully literal.”

At that, Shadow Milk’s eyes flicked upward.

“Forever is such an elastic word,” it mused.

The Light laughed softly to itself. "Do not look so relieved. Or so clever. I said nothing useful.”

“Only this,” it added, all silk and poison. “What lies still is not always gone. What is taken is not always lost. And what returns…” It paused, savoring the shape of the thought. “Well. What returns is rarely what one left waiting for.”

Shadow Milk looked back down at you at once, as if refusing the thing even that much of his attention. His hand at your cheek gentled, thumb brushing once over skin that had not warmed.

The Light of Deceit began to murmur. “Already wondering not whether they return, but how. Whether they wake whole. Whether they wake yours. Whether they wake-”

“Enough.”

The word landed cold and final. For a moment, even the Light seemed to pause.

Then it gave a low, delighted hum. “Stern when frightened I see.”

It did not press further, it had planted what it wanted.

So it drew itself back toward Shadow Milk’s soul jam in a soft blue curl of light, voice thinning into something faintly amused.

“Do try not to break before they do,” it said. “It would spoil the show.”

Beside the Blueberry Yogurt River, under the white and pitiless moon, Shadow Milk said nothing more to it. He only gathered you a little closer, kept his face composed and let the terrible little fragment of hope settle into his heart.

Shadow Milk did not linger at the riverbank any longer than necessary. The last of the lanterns had disappeared into the trees. The whispers were already traveling faster than footsteps, carried back toward the Spire in frightened fragments.

Four students messing with forbidden magic. The Fount arriving too late. He could not allow that to become the story. Not because it would wound his pride but,  because it would make you small. Reckless and foolish…however this he thought true, and he would allow only himself to think this way.

He didn’t want you turning into a warning spoken about in corridors by scholars who had never known the way you fought for understanding, the way your questions grew sharper with every lesson, the way your brilliant mind had unfolded under his guidance.

He would not let history remember you only as a student who made one catastrophic mistake. If the academy demanded an explanation, then he would give it one worthy of you. A failed act of scholarly transcendence, perhaps.

An ambitious experiment in mortal limitation.

Four gifted researchers who had stepped beyond accepted theory in pursuit of knowledge no existing framework could hold.

Not unruly students or fools. Pioneers.

Martyrs, if he had no other choice.

The thought made something violent twist inside him. No. Not martyrs. Not now or ever.

The Light of Deceit had said you would not remain like this forever.

It had spoken in riddles, as it always did, but Shadow Milk knew the difference between a closed door and one left deliberately unlatched.

You would return. He had to believe that. He looked down at you in his arms. Your head rested against his chest with none of the trust it had held earlier that evening. Your body was limp, your face still, your skin cold enough to make his hands tighten around you instinctively.

The faint warmth of your last kiss remained cruelly vivid in his memory.

“Tomorrow,” you had said.

He had repeated it. He had believed you. Shadow Milk closed his eyes for the briefest moment.

Then he stood. Magic gathered around him bending to his will with the ease of breath. Blue light spread beneath the bodies of your friends, lifting them carefully from the ruined circles without disturbing the earth more than necessary.

Earl rose first, suspended in a cradle of pale magic, his robes settling around him with near-perfect order despite everything. Chai followed, one hand still curled loosely near her chest. Hazelnut’s face had gone strangely peaceful now that the pain was gone..

Then there was you. You remained in his arms. He would not entrust you to a spell. Not while he could still carry you himself. The open book lay in the dirt behind him.

Its pages fluttered once.

Shadow Milk did not look back.

“You will come,” he said coldly. The Light gave no answer, but the book lifted from the ground and followed. Of course it did though he wondered why it insisted on laying low in a book.

The path toward his altar opened before him. Few knew it existed. Fewer had seen it. Hidden deep beneath the oldest section of the Spire, beyond sealed stairways and doors that responded only to his magic, the altar had once been used for rites of preservation, knowledge, relics, things considered too precious to surrender to time.

He had never imagined bringing you there. Not like this.

The journey through the lower passages was silent except for the whisper of his robes and the faint hum of the magic carrying your friends behind him.

How long before the body began to fail without breath? How long before cold became decay? The Light of Deceit had said nothing useful. Naturally.

Shadow Milk would not gamble your return on the mercy of the light that considered suffering theater. So he would preserve you. All four of you.

He would bind your dough against time, hold every grain of your bodies in place, sustain the pathways of magic even if the soul had gone elsewhere. By the time he reached the final door, his plan had become precise.

The stone opened beneath his palm.

The altar chamber waited beyond.

It was vast and circular, built of pale blue stone veined with silver. Constellations moved slowly across the domed ceiling, not illusions but captured fragments of celestial light. At the center stood a raised platform surrounded by four lower resting places, each carved with ancient preservation runes.

Shadow Milk stopped.

Four.

The symmetry made his stomach turn.

The Light of Deceit drifted in behind him and settled near the doorway, book open, blue glow faint and watchful.

He ignored it.

With a slow movement of his hand, he guided Earl, Chai, and Hazelnut onto three of the lower platforms. The runes beneath them flickered, recognizing the presence of bodies without life.

Then he carried you to the center.

The highest altar.

His altar.

He laid you down with impossible care, arranging your hands over your chest before changing his mind and taking one of them back into his own.

For several seconds, he simply stood there.

The Fount of Knowledge, silent before a question he could not answer.

Then he bent and pressed his forehead to your knuckles.

“You will not become dust while I wait,” he whispered.

He raised both hands, and the chamber awakened. Runes ignited in concentric circles beneath the four altars. Pale threads of magic rose like mist, weaving around limbs, ribs, throats, hearts. The spell was delicate by necessity. Too much power could seal you too deeply. Too little would allow time to begin its work.

Shadow Milk adjusted each strand with surgical control. “Hold the structure,” he murmured his voice wavering.

Your body would remain exactly as it was at the final moment of the ritual, so that your dough would never surrender to mold, or the years, however many the moon chose to demand.

The thought of years nearly broke his concentration. He forced it away.

Your friends lay unmoving in silver light. You lay at the center, untouched by time, looking almost as though sleep might still release you by morning.

Shadow Milk stood beside you and looked upon the four of you as history eventually would.

If questions came, he would say the experiment had been sanctioned under confidential authority. That the four of you had participated in research concerning the boundaries between mortal consciousness and celestial magic. That the incident was tragic, yes, but profound.

He would forge records if necessary. Construct dates. Write proposals in your hand closely enough to withstand inspection. He would turn disaster into scholarship because scholarship was the only language the Spire respected more than fear.

And if generations passed before you woke, you would be remembered as brilliant, brave, and ahead of your time.

Perhaps then the moon would have no excuse to keep you. 

His thumb moved across your cold fingers. “You wanted to prove me wrong,” he said quietly.

A faint, broken smile touched his mouth.

“Then do it. Please prove me wrong my stargazer, make me out to be the fool on the hill.”

Behind him, the Light of Deceit flickered with silent amusement.

Shadow Milk did not turn. He had no more words to waste on it, he had history to rewrite.

And however long the moon intended to keep you, he would make certain the entire world remembered you kindly.

The next morning arrived pale and colorless over the Spire of Knowledge.

Shadow Milk Cookie had not slept.

He had spent the night beneath the Spire, in the altar chamber, moving between the four preserved bodies with the precision of someone who refused to call helplessness by its proper name. He checked the runes again and again. And each time he returned to you.

He had covered you with one of his ceremonial cloaks before leaving. The altar chamber wasn’t cold but he could not bear the sight of you lying there without something of his nearby.

But waiting beside you would do nothing.

So, before the dawn bells rang, Shadow Milk stood at the center of the chamber and folded distance around himself. Blue light swept upward. The altar disappeared.

For one dizzying instant, there was only the pressure of magic and the sensation of the world turning inside out. Then the stone floors of Blueberry Yogurt Academy settled beneath his feet.

The Academy was quieter than he remembered. Morning mist clung to the courtyards. The old stained-glass windows remained dark, not yet touched by sunrise, and the familiar towers stood in soft silhouette against the gray-blue sky. It was the place where your story had begun, where you had once sat trembling over ruined notes, convinced that needing help was the worst humiliation imaginable.

He did not allow himself to linger on that thought. The headmaster was already awake. Of course he was.

Shadow Milk found him in the upper administrative chamber, surrounded by ledgers, correspondence, and a breakfast tray that had gone largely untouched. The headmaster of Blueberry Yogurt Academy also held formal authority over the Spire of Knowledge, though everyone knew the Spire had been built in Shadow Milk’s honor and bent more naturally toward his will than any administrator’s.

Still, titles mattered.

The headmaster looked up the instant Shadow Milk entered.

“Sage,” he said, surprised. “I wasn’t informed you were returning to the Academy.”

“This was not a scheduled visit.”

The headmaster straightened immediately. Shadow Milk’s robes were immaculate again. Every trace of river mud had been removed. His hair lay perfectly. His expression was composed.

Only his eyes betrayed that something had happened. Something vast.

The headmaster gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Then I assume this is urgent.”

“It is.”

Shadow Milk sat. He placed one hand over the other and let silence settle until the headmaster’s full attention belonged to him. Then he began to lie.

“There was an incident at the Spire last night,” he said.

The headmaster’s face tightened. “What sort of incident?”

“One arising from a classified research initiative.”

That changed everything. The headmaster leaned forward. “Classified...Even from me?”

“It was a necessity.”

Shadow Milk’s tone remained calm, polished, almost solemn. He spoke as the Fount of Knowledge patiently, with the suggestion that every word had already been weighed against ten thousand possible misunderstandings.

“The project concerned the preservation of consciousness across interrupted magical states,” he said. “Specifically, the point at which mortal identity ceases to be tethered exclusively to active biological function.”

The headmaster blinked. Shadow Milk continued before questions could form.

“Four undergraduate scholars were selected for participation due to their unusual compatibility with interdisciplinary magical structures. Each brought a separate strength to the project.”

That part, at least, did not feel like a lie.

“Earl Grey Cookie demonstrated exceptional talent in ward construction, verbal containment, and cognitive stability under pressure. His ability to maintain structured magical logic made him indispensable.”

“Chai Latte Cookie possessed an unusual sensitivity to emotional resonance. She identified fluctuations in group-linked spellwork before the instruments detected them.”

“Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie displayed remarkable adaptive intuition. His approach was unconventional, but he repeatedly recognized instability where formally trained researchers overlooked it.”

And then you. Shadow Milk paused.

“And the fourth?” the headmaster asked.

Shadow Milk looked directly at him.

“The fourth scholar was the axis of the research.”

His voice changed when he spoke of you.

“They demonstrated a rare capacity for unfiltered magical expression. More importantly, they possessed the intellectual courage to question assumptions that more accomplished scholars had accepted as immutable.”

The headmaster’s expression shifted from concern toward fascination. Shadow Milk saw it and continued. “The incident occurred when the four successfully crossed the first threshold.”

“Successfully?” the headmaster repeated. “Then why call it an incident?”

“B-Because” Shadow Milk Cookie faltered. “Well you know what they say, discovery rarely resembles comfort.”

He cleared his throat.

“Their bodies entered a state of complete magical suspension. No measurable continuation of ordinary mortal function and yet the preservation of identity remains intact.”

Shadow Milk allowed the silence to do its work.

Then he added, “For the first time, we have evidence that consciousness can remain viable beyond conventional biological activity without immediate soul fragmentation.”

It sounded magnificent. Revolutionary. The sort of breakthrough that would rewrite entire fields.

The headmaster stood slowly, excitement overtaking caution. “Do you understand what this means?”

“I do.”

“This could redefine everything we know about mortality, magical preservation, even the ethics of post-conscious existence.” The headmaster sighed.

“Yes.”

“And these students accomplished this?”

Shadow Milk held his gaze.

“They did.”

The headmaster’s expression brightened with something close to awe. “Then they must be honored.”

Shadow Milk said nothing.

The headmaster began pacing behind his desk, already imagining ceremonies, announcements, academic prestige.

“A statue,” he said suddenly. “At the Academy. Something worthy of the four of them. The brilliant minds of Blueberry Yogurt Academy whose work advanced the limits of magical scholarship.”

Shadow Milk’s fingers tightened once beneath the desk.

The headmaster continued, energized now. “And portraits. Their portraits should be framed at the Spire. Somewhere prominent. The central gallery, perhaps. Students should know their names.”

There it was exactly what Shadow Milk needed. Names carved where time could not easily erode them.

He inclined his head with measured approval. “That would be appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” The headmaster almost laughed. “It would be an honor. The Academy has produced renowned scholars, but this, this is history.”

“Yes,” Shadow Milk said quietly. “It is.”

The headmaster stopped pacing. “When can we announce it?”

Shadow Milk’s gaze sharpened.

“You cannot.”

The headmaster blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“This project was classified,” Shadow Milk said. “Very few knew of its existence. Fewer still understood the full scope.”

“But surely now-”

“No.”

It was final.

Shadow Milk leaned back slightly, calm restored into something almost reassuring.

“Public disclosure at this stage would jeopardize the preservation field around the participants. It would also invite interference from scholars eager to replicate a process they do not understand.”

The headmaster hesitated. Shadow Milk pressed gently.

“The statues may be commissioned. The portraits may be prepared. Their accomplishments may be acknowledged in controlled language.” His expression grew more solemn. “But the nature of the project must remain confidential until I determine the suspension is stable.”

The headmaster studied him. “You were supervising them?”

Shadow Milk did not hesitate. “From the beginning.” The lie landed cleanly.

The headmaster accepted it without resistance. Why would he not?

This was the Fount of Knowledge. The Spire had been raised in his honor. Its halls carried his teachings. Its highest scholars treated his conclusions as foundations rather than opinions.

If Shadow Milk said the project had been authorized, then it had been. If he said everything was proceeding as expected, then doubt itself seemed almost disrespectful.

“And everything is… still going to plan?” the headmaster asked carefully.

Shadow Milk thought of your body on the altar. Of your cold hand in his. Of the Light of Deceit laughing over the river.

He smiled.

It was a beautiful expression.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything is proceeding exactly as anticipated.”

The headmaster exhaled, visibly relieved. “Then they are safe.”

Shadow Milk’s smile did not falter. “They are under my care.” 

The headmaster returned to his chair, already pulling fresh parchment from a drawer. “I’ll begin drafting language for the memorial commission. No…recognition commission. We mustn’t imply tragedy if this is an ongoing project.”

“No,” Shadow Milk agreed. “You mustn’t.”

“What shall we call them?”

Shadow Milk’s gaze lowered briefly, not to the papers but to a memory.

Four figures running through the Spire. Honey waffles. Pineapple jam.

“The Four Threshold Scholars.”

The headmaster smiled. “Excellent.”

He wrote it down. Ink fixed the title into history. Shadow Milk watched the words dry. The Four Threshold Scholars.

Brilliant minds. Not fools who had trusted the wrong light beneath the wrong moon.

A classified success under the supervision of the Fount of Knowledge.

The lie grew roots as the headmaster wrote. Shadow Milk, who had devoted himself to truth above all else, felt no guilt at all.

He would deceive the Academy. The Spire. History itself. He would create honors, records, portraits, statues, and scholarly language grand enough to smother every ugly whisper born at the riverbank.

Because if memory was the tether that might one day return you to him, then he would make the world remember you magnificently.

And when you woke not if,  you would open your eyes to find your names already immortal.

The headmaster’s enthusiasm only grew the longer he looked at the page.

“The Four Threshold Scholars,” he repeated, savoring the title as though he had already heard it announced before a crowded hall. “Remarkable. Truly remarkable.”

Shadow Milk remained seated, composed, his expression held in the precise balance between solemn pride and scholarly restraint. Inside, he was already calculating how quickly he could return.

Whether the Light of Deceit had moved so much as an inch closer to you in his absence.

The headmaster sanded the fresh ink, then looked up with a smile that carried far more excitement than grief. “You will keep me informed, of course.”

“Of course,” Shadow Milk replied.

“Frequent updates,” the headmaster continued. “Every significant change in magical state, consciousness, physical preservation, anything that might help us prepare publication once the confidentiality restrictions are lifted.”

Shadow Milk inclined his head. The headmaster leaned back, visibly pleased. “Do you have any idea how many additional research grants this could bring the Academy?”

A small silence followed. Shadow Milk’s smile remained immaculate.

“No,” he said pleasantly. “But I am sure you will calculate it.”

The headmaster laughed, taking the comment as approval rather than what it was.

“With four brilliant minds engaged in work of this magnitude, our funding prospects could change entirely. New laboratories. Expanded fellowships. Celestial research initiatives.” He tapped the parchment with one finger. “This may be the greatest scholarly opportunity Blueberry Yogurt Academy has seen in generations.”

Opportunity. The word settled unpleasantly. You were lying cold beneath an altar, your body suspended between death and a promise made by something that had delighted in your screams.

And already the Academy was counting grants. Shadow Milk rose.

“If that is all-”

“Yes, yes.” The headmaster waved him off with buoyant impatience, already reaching for another ledger. “Go. You must have far more important work awaiting you at the Spire. Send me an initial report before the week is out.”

“I shall.”

The answer came too quickly. The headmaster did not notice.

“Excellent. And Sage?” Shadow Milk paused at the door.

“I am proud of what you and those students have accomplished.”

For a moment, Shadow Milk said nothing. Then he offered a small, elegant bow. “As you should be.”

Blue light folded around him before the headmaster could answer. The Academy vanished.

The Spire of Knowledge received him.

Then the throne room doors opened, and the waiting voices rushed in.

The hall had been built in his honor. Every line of it suggested reverence; towering pillars carved with the history of scholarly discovery, constellations moving beneath the vaulted ceiling, shelves of sealed texts rising behind the raised seat reserved for the Fount.

Cookies had already gathered. Students, professors, travelers, petitioners who had crossed oceans for one answer spoken by the Sage of Truth.

Shadow Milk stepped onto the dais and took his place.

His throne was not truly a throne, they insisted. It was a seat of discourse. A symbol of wisdom made accessible. It still placed everyone else below him.

He folded his hands.The first petitioner approached.

“Fount of Knowledge,” they began, bowing deeply, “I have studied the northern constellations for twenty years, but one sequence contradicts every celestial map-”

Shadow Milk answered. He explained migratory star paths, astral refraction, the errors produced when observation was distorted by high concentrations of river magic. The petitioner’s face brightened with awe. They thanked him profusely and left with their parchment clutched to their chest.

The next stepped forward.

Then another.

“Can a prophecy change once it has been witnessed?”

“Why do enchanted structures retain grief?”

“How can I convince my research partner that my interpretation is correct?”

“Will my daughter ever forgive me?”

“Which journal would be most likely to publish my findings?”

“Is there a spell to make someone tell me what I want to hear?”

The questions came without pause.

Some thoughtful.

Some desperate.

Some were so foolish that, on another day, he might have found them charming.

He answered them all. Because that was his duty. Because he loved knowledge.

Didn’t he?

He had always loved the moment confusion loosened its grip on another mind. The instant understanding appeared in someone’s expression, quietly as if a lantern had been lit behind their eyes.

He had loved it with you. That thought arrived too easily.

You sitting across from him during that first tutoring session, terrified to be wrong. Your quill shaking over the parchment. Your face lifting in startled relief when he called your reasoning sound instead of dismissing your answer. The memory caught him so completely that the hall disappeared.

For one fleeting moment, he saw your hand in his again. Felt your nervous laughter against the quiet of his private quarters. Heard you saying that being vulnerably ignorant before the Sage of Truth had felt like a humiliation ritual designed personally by the cosmos.

Your lips against his.

We should do this again tomorrow.

“Fount?”

The voice cut through the memory. Shadow Milk blinked. A Cookie stood below the dais, brows drawn together, irritation overcoming reverence.

“I asked whether intellectual talent is inherited,” they said. “You have not answered.”

A murmur moved through the hall. The petitioner shifted, emboldened by his silence. “I traveled a great distance for this audience. I would appreciate your full attention.”

How unbecoming, how rude. The Fount of Knowledge staring past a seeker as though their question were unworthy of him. Shadow Milk straightened.

The private ache vanished beneath polished composure.

“Forgive me,” he said smoothly. “You are correct.”

The petitioner relaxed slightly, apparently satisfied by the apology.

Shadow Milk gave them the answer they wanted, not the pretty version, but the accurate one. Talent was neither purely inherited nor entirely self-made. Environment, access, discipline, expectation, and chance tangled too tightly to be separated cleanly.

The Cookie listened. Then frowned.

“So you are saying my family’s lineage offers no guarantee?”

“I am saying guarantees are stories frightened people tell themselves about uncertainty.”

The petitioner’s disappointment was immediate. Shadow Milk saw it. They had not wanted truth.

They had wanted confirmation; a decorative answer to place around an ambition already chosen.

He watched them bow stiffly and leave. The next person approached before the first had fully cleared the center of the hall.

“Fount, I wish to know whether my rivals are conspiring against me.”

Another wanted approval.

Another wanted absolution.

Shadow Milk answered politely.

And all the while, something hollow widened inside him.

Was this truly what he had built his existence around?

Giving answers to those who wanted only the sound of certainty?

Pouring truth into minds that sifted through it for the fragments most flattering to their desires? They came to him calling him the Fount, as though knowledge flowed endlessly from him without cost.

None asked what he sought. None wondered what mysteries still kept him awake. None cared whether he had questions of his own. What were his aspirations to them? What truth had he spent centuries pursuing? What did he want beyond being useful?

The answer came before he could stop it. You. Not only you. But the way you asked.

You had never come to him merely wanting comfort. Even when you were afraid, even when you resisted, you worried at truth until it exposed something new. You challenged him. Frustrated him. Surprised him.

You made knowledge feel shared rather than extracted. Without you, the hall felt less like a place of wisdom and more like a well surrounded by hands.

Take.

Pour.

Answer.

Again.

A scholar approached with a manuscript and began describing an argument Shadow Milk understood within the first sentence. He listened anyway. He nodded at the proper moments. He identified the theoretical flaw.

The scholar’s face fell. “But if I revise the conclusion,” they said, “surely the evidence can remain?”

“No.”

“What if the conflicting source is omitted?”

“No.”

The scholar frowned. “Then perhaps the source is unreliable.”

“Because it contradicts you?” The hall went quiet. Shadow Milk heard the sharpness in his own voice. He softened it immediately.

“The purpose of research,” he said with measured patience, “is not to protect the conclusion you prefer. It is to discover whether that conclusion survives contact with truth.”

The scholar bowed, chastened. Shadow Milk watched them leave and wondered whether they would revise the work or merely find someone else willing to praise it.

Was his purpose truly to spread knowledge to those who would not accept it? To offer truth to Cookies who wanted pretty lies and then watch them resent him for refusing decoration? Perhaps knowledge had never been the thing they loved. Perhaps they loved what standing near him allowed them to believe about themselves.

“Fount?”

Another question. He lowered his eyes to the next seeker.

His expression was courteous. No one in the hall would have guessed that beneath the Spire, four preserved bodies lay beyond the reach of ordinary time.

No one would have guessed that the Fount’s thoughts kept returning to one cold hand beneath a ceremonial cloak.

No one would have guessed he had lied to an entire Academy before dawn and felt more honest doing so than he did sitting here.

He continued answering that was what the Fount did but between each question, the doubt returned.

What was his true meaning? To speak truth endlessly until it became noise? To guide those who only wished to be praised? To remain a vessel for everyone else’s curiosity while his own deepest question lay silent beneath an altar?

He had once believed knowledge was enough. Now, with every answer he gave, he found himself thinking of the one person who had made being known feel more valuable than being revered.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked upon the endless line of seekers and wondered whether the Fount of Knowledge had ever belonged to himself at all.

A/N Hey guys it's been a hot minute! So crazy story, I ended up getting that fun little virus going around with the lettuce! On that same week my laptop's keyboard stopped working and updating on my phone was terrible so I opted out of that, alongside that my full time job has kept me quite busy, but alas ITPOT will continue, I refuse to let this fic die out and fizzle. Other than that I have been fine but I am bored of analyzing data, let's hope I get interesting results!

anyways...