Y/N huffed a laugh despite herself. “Something like that.”

Brant tilted his head, his usual smirk faltering. That alone told her he was actually paying attention. He stepped closer, kneeling in front of her with uncharacteristic patience. “Talk to me, Stella Mia.”

Y/N inhaled deeply, gripping his hands in hers before finally whispering, “I’m pregnant.”

For the first time since she had met him, Brant was speechless.

His pink eyes widened, lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. He blinked once, twice, then finally exhaled a shaky breath. “You’re… with child?”

She nodded, watching him carefully.

Then, in true Brant fashion, he gasped dramatically and threw himself onto the floor. “By the gods! I’ve done it! I’ve created life!”

Y/N groaned. “Brant—”

“Wait!” He sat up suddenly, eyes darting to her stomach as if seeing it for the first time. He reached out but hesitated, almost hesitant for once in his life. “May I?”

She rolled her eyes but took his hand, placing it gently against her stomach. “You won’t feel anything yet, you know.”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, his theatrics vanishing in an instant. His palm was warm against her, fingers trembling just slightly. When he looked up at her, there was something reverent in his expression. “This is real?”

Y/N’s heart softened. “Yes.”

Brant swallowed thickly before breaking into a radiant grin. “Stella Mia, you have just given me the greatest role I will ever play.” He cupped her face, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. “And I swear to you, I will be magnificent at it.”

Y/N smiled, resting her forehead against his. “You already are.”

Brant remained on his knees before her, his hands warm against her cheeks as if grounding himself in the moment. For once, he wasn’t filling the air with his usual playful dramatics—he was just Brant, raw and real, his pink eyes shimmering with something indescribable.

Then, as if something clicked in his mind, his hands shot down to her stomach again. “Wait. Does this mean—” He gasped. “I must start writing my memoirs immediately! ‘Brant: The Journey of a Rogue, a Lover, and Now—A Father!’”

Y/N let out a laugh, swatting at him. “Brant, we have months before you start telling the world about this.”

“Months?” He scoffed. “Stella Mia, I should have been shouting it from the rooftops the moment you told me!” He suddenly turned toward the window, as if actually contemplating it, before Y/N grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him back.

“No. Absolutely not.”

He pouted, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “You’re cruel to me, my love.”

“You’ll survive.”

Brant sighed, dramatically flopping onto the bed beside her, head resting against her lap. His expression softened again as he gazed up at her. “You’re certain you’re alright?” His fingers traced absentminded patterns along her thigh. “I mean… do you need anything? Are you in pain? Should I fetch a physician? A whole team of them, perhaps?”

Y/N smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I’m fine, Brant. A little tired, maybe.”

His brows furrowed. “Tired? Then rest. Immediately. In fact—” He sat up abruptly, already moving to grab extra pillows. “You should be lying down. You need comfort, softness, the finest blankets we can find—”

“Brant.” She caught his sleeve before he could disappear on a mission for luxury. “Just stay here.”

He froze, eyes searching hers before his expression melted into something tender. “Always, Stella Mia.”

He settled beside her, an arm looping around her waist as she leaned into him. It was rare to see him so quiet, so still, but he held her like she was something precious, something sacred.

After a moment, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Y/N?”

“Mm?”

“What if… what if they have your eyes?” His voice was almost wistful, as if imagining the idea for the first time.

Y/N smiled. “And what if they have yours?”

He chuckled, squeezing her a little tighter. “Then the world will never stand a chance.”

She laughed softly, closing her eyes as exhaustion started to pull at her. Brant simply held her, his usual chaos set aside for the moment as he let himself marvel at this new chapter of their lives.

And for once, the infamous rogue had no need for theatrics. Because this—this was already the greatest story he would ever be a part of.

Brant had never been good at keeping secrets—especially not ones that filled him with this much joy. It was a miracle he had lasted this long without bursting. But now, the time had come.

The Troupe of Fools was gathered in the Fools’ Elysium, their lively chatter filling the grand hall as they passed around drinks and shared exaggerated tales of their latest antics. The air smelled of wine, roasted meats, and the faintest trace of incense—everything warm and familiar.

Brant stood atop one of the long banquet tables, goblet in hand, his pink eyes practically glowing with excitement. “My friends! My beloved, ridiculous, chaotic family! Lend me your ears!”

The room quieted—well, as much as it ever could in a den of exiled performers and troublemakers. The Fools turned their attention to him, some with curiosity, others with amusement.

“What now, Brant?” One of them called. “Another duel against a noble you’ve insulted?”

“Are we fleeing the city? Blink twice if we should start packing.”

Brant gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “You wound me! Can I not call upon you all without accusations of scandal?”

A chorus of doubtful murmurs and laughter rang out, but Brant only grinned, raising his arms dramatically.

“Tonight is not a night of mischief! It is a night of celebration! For I, the incomparable, magnificent Brant, have achieved my greatest performance yet—may, my greatest creation!” He gestured grandly toward Y/N, who stood at the edge of the gathering, watching him with an amused yet knowing smile.

“I—” He paused for effect, savoring the anticipation in the air. “—am going to be a father!”

For a beat, the room was silent.

Then—

Cheers erupted, wild and thunderous. The Troupe of Fools was nothing if not expressive, and this news sent them into a frenzy of whooping and applause. Someone threw their hat into the air. A few musicians immediately broke into a celebratory tune.

Y/N found herself suddenly swept up as various members of the Troupe rushed to congratulate her. Arms wrapped around her in joyous hugs, voices overlapping with excited chatter.

“When were you going to tell us, Y/N?”

“You’re carrying Brant’s child? Saints help you.”

“This calls for a feast! No, a festival! A whole week of celebration!”

Brant basked in the revelry like a king in his court, drinking in the joy around him. Then, as if the sheer energy wasn’t enough, he pulled a lute from one of the musicians and strummed a few dramatic chords.

“A song! A song for the miracle that is my beloved and our future little fool!”

Groans and laughter followed as he launched into a completely improvised ballad about love, destiny, and the trials of raising a child with his unparalleled charm.

Y/N shook her head, laughter spilling from her lips as she watched him. He was over-the-top, ridiculous, and hopelessly dramatic.

Brant, ever the performer, took it upon himself to entertain her. Whether it was through grand gestures, exaggerated tales, or whispered stories in the quiet glow of the cavern fires, he would always find a way to bring some light into her somber eyes. It became a routine—him speaking, her listening, her presence a comfort he never knew he needed.

Still, the silence lingered, an invisible barrier between them. A part of him ached for her, wishing he could ease whatever suffering had stolen her words. But he never pushed. He never asked. He simply stayed.

Until one night, when everything changed.

The storm raged outside Fool’s Elysium, the entrance sealed with heavy tarps to keep the howling winds at bay. The firelight flickered, casting shadows against the stone walls, and Brant found her in her usual spot—knees drawn to her chest, staring into the flames. He approached as he always did, settling beside her, his warmth a familiar presence in the cavern’s cool embrace.

“I suppose you’re waiting for another tale,” he mused, voice tinged with the soft lilt of amusement. “Or perhaps a song? Something tragic and romantic, fitting for such a dreadful night?”

She didn’t move, but he felt her gaze shift toward him, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing between them. He exhaled, leaning back on his hands. “You know, I always imagined my soulmate would be someone loud. Someone who could match my theatrics word for word. But here you are, proving me an absolute fool.”

A small, almost imperceptible twitch of her lips. Not quite a smile, but enough to make his heart lurch. He continued, emboldened. “But I don’t mind. You don’t need to speak for me to know what you’re thinking. It’s in your eyes. Always in your eyes.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm outside, the distant echoes of laughter from the others deeper within the cavern. And then—

“…Brant.”

The voice was soft, hoarse from disuse, barely more than a whisper. But it was there. Real. Hers.

Brant froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned to her, wide-eyed, as if he had imagined it. But she was staring at him, waiting, her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. Her expression was uncertain, hesitant, like she had just crossed an invisible threshold and feared what lay beyond it.

His heart pounded. Of all the things he expected in that moment, hearing her voice—hearing her say his name—was not one of them. He opened his mouth, but for once, words failed him.

“Say that again.” His voice was barely above a whisper, a fragile plea carried by the firelight.

She hesitated, then, softer this time—“Brant.”

It was his name, just his name, but it was everything. A single word that shattered the silence, breaking through the walls she had built around herself. And it was for him. Only for him.

A sharp breath escaped him, and before he could stop himself, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce embrace. He felt her stiffen for just a moment before slowly melting into him, her head pressing against his shoulder. He held her tightly, as if anchoring her to the present, as if trying to shield her from every nightmare she had ever endured.

“You spoke,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You actually spoke.”

She nodded against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. He could feel the slight tremble in her hands, the way she clung to him like he was something solid in a world that had once been cruel and uncertain.

He laughed, though it came out choked, overwhelmed. “You… you have no idea how much this means to me.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her expression softer now, less guarded. “I… feel safe,” she admitted, voice still rough but steady. “With you.”

Brant’s breath hitched, and he cupped her face gently, his pink eyes searching hers. “Then I’ll make sure you always are.”

The storm outside raged on, but inside Fool’s Elysium, wrapped in Brant’s arms, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—home.

And for the first time since she had arrived, since she had endured the horrors of the pilgrimage and found sanctuary in Fool’s Elysium, she felt something close to peace.

Y/N placed her hands on her hips, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “This is insane, Brant.”

“Insane?” He clutched his chest as if wounded, staggering back dramatically. “And here I thought it was magnificent. Do you see what I endure, my friends?” He turned to the gathered Troupe, gasping in feigned horror. “I put my soul into this, and she calls it insane!”

Laughter rippled through the room. A fire-eater let out an exaggerated sob. Someone from the back called out, “Give us a real tragedy, Brant!”

He shot them a wink before spinning back to Y/N, eyes gleaming beneath the soft glow of candlelight. “Well, my dear, since we are gathered in this den of fools for you, I suppose you must be indulged.”

With a theatrical sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the raised stage, where musicians had begun to play. “Shall we, stella mia?”

Before she could respond, he was already pulling her into the first dance of the night.

The celebration was nothing short of extraordinary.

Everywhere she turned, performers spun, twirled, and tumbled in dazzling displays of agility and mischief. Jugglers tossed flaming torches in elaborate formations, fire-dancers painted the air with golden embers, and illusionists wove fleeting specters of light and shadow. The music was intoxicating, shifting from wild and frenzied melodies to soft and lilting ballads that spoke of old, wistful love.

Y/N found herself swept into the revelry, laughter bubbling from her lips as Brant twirled her through the ever-changing dance floor. Each step was effortless, as if they had rehearsed these movements a thousand times in a past life. He was impossibly light on his feet, never missing a beat, spinning her until she was breathless.

At one point, she was pulled into a group of performers who playfully adorned her with flowers and draped ribbons around her shoulders like some mythical queen. She lost track of time between stolen sips of honeyed wine, raucous storytelling, and the occasional daring acrobat whisking her away for a spin through the crowd. And through it all, Brant was never far—his laughter, his teasing quips, the way he watched her with that ever-present glimmer of something unreadable in his pink eyes.

But as the night stretched on, the wild energy slowly began to wane. The fires burned lower, the music softened, and the Troupe members settled into quiet clusters of conversation and lazy, lingering dances. The Elysium no longer roared with revelry—it hummed with the kind of warmth that only came after a night well-spent.

And that was when Brant appeared at her side once more.

“Come,” he murmured, offering his hand. “The night isn’t over yet.”

She let him lead her away from the grand hall, past the velvet curtains and into the winding corridors of the Elysium. The noise of the celebration faded, replaced by the soft, distant echoes of laughter and the occasional flickering lantern guiding their path. Finally, they emerged onto a hidden balcony that overlooked the entire festival below.

The view was breathtaking.

From here, she could see it all—the last embers of the fire-dancers’ flames, the silhouettes of jesters still spinning beneath the lanterns, and the sky above, dark and endless, scattered with stars. It was quiet. Peaceful.

Brant exhaled softly. “Do you like it?”

She turned to him, arching a brow. “Do you even have to ask?”

A grin tugged at his lips, but there was something gentler in his expression now. He reached into his coat, hesitating for the briefest moment before pulling out a small, velvet-lined box.

“I had a thousand ideas for what to give you,” he admitted. “But none of them seemed worthy of you.”

He opened the box, revealing a delicate pendant in the shape of a star, its edges lined with the soft shimmer of moonstone.

Y/N inhaled sharply. “Brant…”

He took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips before gently placing the pendant in her palm. “You are the brightest thing in my world, stella mia,” he murmured against her skin. “And I am but a fool orbiting your light.”

Then, stepping back with a flourish, he placed a hand over his heart and recited:

“A candle in darkness, a whisper in noise,

A light that no storm could ever destroy.

The jesters may jest, the world may scheme,

But you, my love, are my waking dream.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. It wasn’t just the poetry. It wasn’t just the way he had set up the grandest celebration she had ever seen. It was him. The way he looked at her—not as a game, not as a fleeting moment of amusement, but as if she mattered. As if she were his world.

Before she could think, before she could second-guess, he took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

“Happy birthday, cara mia.”

And then, with all the passion of a man who had been waiting for this exact moment, he kissed her.

It was deep and breathtaking, the kind of kiss that lingered long after the music stopped and the candles burned low. A kiss that made her forget the rest of the world existed, that filled her with something warm, something reckless, something utterly dangerous.

And in that moment, beneath the stars and the glow of the Elysium, she knew—no matter how foolish, how reckless—Brant’s love was hers.

_______________________________________ A bit late for my second birthday fic, but it's still my birthday, and I finished another

He had been thrown onto the Pilgrim’s Sail, an exile meant to end in death. Yet against all odds, against the cruel designs of fate itself—he had survived. And now, years later, he had returned.

The people whispered as he walked past, their eyes full of wary recognition. Some murmured his name as if summoning a ghost. Others looked away, unsure of how to meet his gaze. He ignored them all.

There was only one person he cared to see.

His feet moved with instinct, following streets he had not walked in over a decade. Each step was heavy, his breath tight in his chest. What if she had left? What if she had moved on? The world had continued without him, as much as it pained him to admit it. He had no right to expect her to wait for him.

But still—he had to know.

Then, as he turned the final corner, he saw it. The house was the same as he remembered, worn but well-kept, bathed in the golden glow of the evening sun.

And then—

"Brant?"

His heart stopped.

She stood in the doorway, framed by the dying light, her figure so achingly familiar and yet so different. Her hair was longer now, the softness of childhood replaced by the quiet strength of a woman grown. Her eyes, though—those same fierce, determined eyes—had not changed at all.

Brant stood frozen as he took in the sight of Y/N, his heart pounding in his chest. He had imagined this moment countless times, rehearsed his words, but now that she was in front of him, nothing could have prepared him for the sheer depth of emotion washing over him.

Y/N stared at him, her lips parting slightly as if she were struggling to believe what she was seeing. Her eyes, once bright with youthful mischief, now brimmed with unshed tears. She took a hesitant step forward, then another, before suddenly breaking into a run.

"Brant!" she cried, her voice thick with emotion.

Before he could brace himself, she collided into him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso. The force nearly knocked him off balance, but he quickly steadied himself, his own arms coming around her in a desperate embrace. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her body—it was all so achingly familiar, yet distant, as if pulled from a dream he had long ago abandoned hope of reliving.

"You're here..." Her voice cracked as she gripped his coat tightly, her shoulders trembling. "You're really here."

Brant felt a lump form in his throat. He gently tilted her face up to his, brushing away the tears that slipped down her cheeks with his calloused fingers. "I told you I’d come back," he whispered, his own voice unsteady.

A broken sob escaped her lips as she buried her face in his chest, her fingers clutching at his coat as though he might disappear again if she let go. Brant held her tighter, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head.

"I thought I lost you forever," she admitted between sobs.

Brant’s arms tightened around her, his hand running soothingly up and down her back. "Never," he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers. "I survived, Y/N. And I fought my way back to you."

Y/N hiccuped, half-laughing, half-crying. "You idiot. You always were too stubborn."

Brant chuckled, though his own eyes shimmered with emotion. "And you always worried too much."

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her hands still resting on his chest. "I missed you so much."

His expression softened as he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing soothing circles against her skin. "I missed you too. More than words can say."

For a moment, they just stood there, lost in each other's presence. The world around them faded into the background—the bustling city, the curious onlookers, the weight of the past. All that remained was the warmth between them, the unspoken promise in their embrace.

Finally, Brant broke the silence, his lips curving into a teasing smirk. "So... does this mean I get a proper welcome home kiss? Or am I going to have to win your heart all over again?"

Y/N laughed through her tears, shaking her head as she cupped his face in her hands. "You never lost it, Brant."

And with that, she pressed her lips to his, sealing the years of longing, heartbreak, and hope into one soul-deep kiss. Brant melted into it, pouring every unspoken word into the way he held her, promising in that moment that he would never let her go again.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands trembling as they reached up to cup his face. Her fingertips ghosted over his cheekbones, tracing the sharper angles that had not been there when they were children.

"You look different," she whispered, searching his face as though memorizing it all over again. "But you're still—" Her voice caught, and she shook her head, blinking back tears. "You're still you."

Brant exhaled shakily, reaching up to cover her hand with his own. "And you’re still you."

A small, broken laugh escaped her, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him once more, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He felt her breath hitch, felt the way her shoulders shook, and his own throat tightened in response.

"I never forgot you," she murmured against his skin.

Brant pressed his forehead to her temple. "Neither did I."

She let out a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to look at him again. "I waited for you," she admitted softly, almost like a confession.

He felt something deep within him crack. He lifted a hand to cradle her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen.

"I know," he said, his voice full of quiet reverence. "And I’m so sorry it took so long."

She shook her head fiercely. "You're here now. That’s all that matters."

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, nodding. He wanted to say so much more, wanted to tell her everything—about the years lost, about the countless nights he had thought of her, about the sheer desperation that had kept him going. But for now, this moment was enough.

She took his hands in hers, squeezing them tightly. "Come inside," she urged gently. "Tell me everything."

Brant let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "I’d like that."

And as she led him through the doorway, into the warmth of the home he had feared he would never see again, he realized—

Brant's teasing façade melted in an instant. Gently, he placed a warm hand against her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulders. "Alright, alright," he murmured, his voice softer now. "No theatrics. Just me."

Y/N took a slow breath, her body still tense. The warmth of his touch was grounding, a stark contrast to the relentless rocking of the ship.

Brant sighed, his other hand coming up to brush a few strands of hair from her damp forehead. "You always take care of me, Stella Mia," he said, voice unusually quiet. "Let me return the favor for once."

Before she could protest, he was already moving. In a matter of moments, he had pressed a cool, damp cloth to her forehead, guiding her to sit down against the ship’s railing. He produced a flask from his coat, pressing it lightly to her lips. "Just a sip," he coaxed. "Ginger and honey. It'll help."

Y/N obeyed, the warm liquid sliding down her throat, soothing in its own way.

Brant sat beside her, legs stretched out, his shoulder brushing hers. "This ship had better be worth the suffering it’s putting you through," he mused, though the usual amusement in his voice was laced with something gentler.

She let out a weak chuckle. "If not, I’m making you carry me everywhere when we get off."

Brant grinned, dramatic once more. "Oh, my love, you need only ask. I'll sweep you into my arms, sing sonnets of your bravery, and—"

"Brant," she groaned, leaning her head against his shoulder, "shut up."

His laughter was soft, his arm curling around her shoulders in an embrace that was steady despite the rocking ship. "Anything for you, Stella Mia."

The moment the ship docked, Y/N exhaled in sheer relief. The journey had been a test of endurance, one she had barely passed, and she was desperate to set foot on solid ground again.

Brant, ever the gentleman when it suited him, was already at her side, offering his arm with a flourish. “Come, my suffering angel, allow me to be your guiding light back to the safety of the earth.”

Y/N groaned, reaching for his arm. The moment she attempted to step forward, her legs wobbled beneath her, the lingering sensation of the ship’s constant sway refusing to leave her body. She stumbled, but before she could fall, Brant caught her with ease, steadying her with both hands.

"Careful, Stella Mia," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "The sea may have released you, but it still lingers in your bones."

Y/N clung to him, annoyed at her own weakness but grateful for his support. “I feel like I’m still moving.”

Brant chuckled, adjusting his grip as he led her slowly down the gangplank. “A cruel trick of the ocean, my dear. It steals your strength and then mocks you for it.” His smirk softened as he looked down at her. “But worry not. You have me.”

Once her boots touched the cobbled port, Y/N sighed, the solid ground beneath her an instant comfort. “Thank the gods.”

Brant didn’t let go immediately, keeping her close as she regained her balance. "Shall I carry you, just in case?" His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something else beneath it—genuine concern.

Y/N gave him a tired glare but couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t you dare.”

He laughed, finally releasing her but keeping a protective hand at her back as they walked forward. “Very well, but if you swoon dramatically into my arms, I reserve the right to boast about it for years.”

So, with a dramatic sigh, he leaned back. “A mysterious beauty healed me the other night. I woke up to the most enchanting creature Solaris-3 has ever seen. And yet, I know not her name, nor where to find her.”

Andreas snorted. “So, you’ve been sulking about a girl?”

“Not sulking. Longing. There’s a difference.”

Andreas rolled his eyes. “And let me guess, you’ve got no leads?”

Brant grinned, but there was an edge of frustration behind it. “Well, I know she smells like wildflowers, her hands are softer than silk, and her voice is sweeter than any ballad I’ve ever performed.”

“So… nothing useful.”

Brant huffed and stood up, dramatically flipping his coat. “Then I shall have to uncover the mystery myself.”

Brant spent the next few days asking around in Ragunna, trying to pick up any clue about his angel. But with no name, no description beyond “beautiful,” and only the memory of her kindness, it was harder than he expected.

At the bustling markets, he leaned against a vendor’s stall with his most charming smile. “Say, have you seen a girl who smells like wildflowers? Gentle hands? A voice like music?”

The vendor blinked. “Sir, that describes half the women in Ragunna.”

Brant groaned.

At a local tavern, he leaned over the counter. “You wouldn’t happen to know a lovely young woman who heals strangers in the dead of night, would you?”

The bartender laughed. “Son, if you’re looking for a healer, there’s a whole cathedral full of them.”

At the city gates, he approached a group of travelers. “Excuse me, have any of you encountered a heavenly being in human form? Delicate, kind, likely saving lives wherever she goes?”

One of the travelers side-eyed him. “...Are you drunk?”

Brant threw his hands up. “Not yet, but I might be soon!”

No matter where he searched, he found nothing. No one seemed to know her, or if they did, they weren’t saying. And Brant? He was getting frustrated.

Had he dreamed her up? Had she been a figment of his pain and exhaustion?

No. She was real.

And he was going to find her.

Even if it took forever.

Brant sat slouched on a worn stone bench in the heart of Ragunna, exhaling a long, theatrical sigh as he stared up at the evening sky. The city around him pulsed with life—merchants hawking their wares, distant music drifting from a tavern, the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carriages against the cobblestone. And yet, none of it reached him.

His mind was elsewhere.

On her.

It had been days, and no matter how many streets he wandered, how many people he asked—no one seemed to know who she was.

Which was frustrating, really. How could someone so bright, so kind, so full of life leave behind no trace at all?

Brant let out another heavy sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. "Am I cursed?" he muttered to himself.

"Not cursed," a voice chimed from beside him, smooth and amused. "Just terribly, terribly unlucky."

Brant blinked and turned his head, only to see Carlotta settling onto the bench beside him. Her white hair cascaded over one shoulder, her soft pink attire flowing like silk. Every movement, every breath she took was measured, elegant. She had the air of someone who could read a room in seconds and bend it to her will if she so pleased.

"Well, well," Brant mused, smirking despite his troubles. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you come to sweep me off my feet?"

Carlotta gave him a pointed look. "You looked like a man on the verge of another tragic monologue. I simply couldn't resist."

Brant exhaled through his nose, glancing back at the city. "I suppose I have been a bit… broody lately."

"A bit?" she teased.

He huffed a laugh. "Fine. A lot."

Carlotta studied him for a moment before tilting her head. "You're searching for someone, aren't you?"

Brant's smirk faltered.

She always was too perceptive for her own good.

After a beat, he nodded. "Yeah. A girl. She—" He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "She found me when I was wounded. Helped me. And I haven't been able to get her out of my head since."

Carlotta's expression shifted slightly—an unreadable flicker of thought passing through her eyes. Then, after a pause, she sighed.

Brant immediately picked up on it. He narrowed his pink eyes. "You know something."

Carlotta smiled, amused. "I might."

Brant straightened. "Then tell me!"

She hummed in thought, then leaned forward slightly. "You said she healed you?"

He nodded.

"Then instead of asking the streets," Carlotta mused, "why not ask a healer?"

Brant blinked. "…Huh."

"A brilliant thought, I know," she said dryly, shaking her head. "There is one person who comes to mind—Rosemary. She runs an apothecary not far from here. If anyone would know about mystery healers, it would be her."

Brant sat with that information for a moment. Then, suddenly, he shot to his feet. "Carlotta, you absolute angel."

She smiled, satisfied. "I do try."

Without another word, Brant spun on his heel and hurried off into the streets, new hope sparking in his chest.

Maybe—just maybe—he was finally on the right path.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Brant stepped into Rosemary’s Apothecary, the warm, earthy scent of dried herbs and rare botanicals wrapping around him. The shop was meticulously organized, with shelves lined with glass bottles, labeled neatly in careful script. Bundles of flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling, casting delicate shadows under the soft glow of lanterns.

Behind the counter stood Rosemary.

She was a woman of quiet elegance—long, light purple hair, her features sharp but not unkind. Unlike the extravagant attire associated with the Fisalia Family, she wore a simple, well-tailored white-grey apothecary coat, the only adornment a fine silver embroidery along the cuffs. Her violet eyes, cool and unreadable, flicked up to meet his as she finished measuring out a fine blue powder, tapping it neatly into a small paper pouch.

Corking the glass vial beside her, she finally addressed him.

"Welcome to Rosemary’s Apothecary, where your perfect potion awaits. What do you need,?"

Her tone was steady, polite, yet held an edge of knowing. It wasn’t the first time Brant had walked through those doors, and she always greeted him the same way.

Brant let out an exaggerated sigh, draping himself over the counter as if utterly exhausted. "Ah, dear Rosemary, must we be so formal? No warmth? No 'Brant, you seem troubled, do you require a remedy for your aching heart?'"

She merely blinked at him. "Do you require a remedy for your aching heart?"

He grinned. "Not a potion, no. But I do require something only you can provide."

She didn’t react, merely set the pouch aside. "If it’s information, I deal in medicine, not rumors."

Brant smirked. "Ah, but this is not a rumor. It is a tale of fate! Destiny! The kind that inspires sonnets and songs for generations to come!"

Rosemary simply waited.

Brant exhaled, straightening slightly. "I'm looking for someone. A healer."

That made her pause, if only briefly. She tilted her head slightly, considering his words. "There are many healers in Ragunna."

"True," Brant admitted, before his smirk softened into something almost wistful. "But only one like this."

He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the memory of that night. The gentle hands, the soft glow of magic, the way she had looked at him—not with fear, nor judgment, but kindness.

"She has long, light purple hair," he began, voice unusually soft. "Like moonlight spun into silk. Her eyes… warm, like the deepest amethyst, the kind that draws you in, makes you forget yourself."

Rosemary’s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in her eyes.

Brant, too caught up in his own memory, missed it.

"And her voice," he continued, exhaling a breathless laugh. "Soft, like a lullaby. Gentle, calming. Like she could soothe even the most troubled soul."

His smirk returned, albeit fonder. "Which, of course, explains why she saved me. A lost Fool in need of salvation—"

"Was she alone?"

Brant blinked.

Rosemary was still watching him, but there was something… careful about the way she asked.

Brant thought back, tilting his head. "Yeah. No one else was there."

A quiet sigh escaped her. Not one of relief, but of trouble.

Brant caught it instantly, straightening. "Oh-ho? What was that? You know something."

Rosemary hesitated. It was the first time she had ever seemed uncertain about what to say.

Then, finally, she met his gaze directly.

"Forget about her."

Brant froze.

The lighthearted air between them vanished in an instant.

He had expected teasing, maybe some cryptic remark, but not… this.

His brows furrowed slightly. "…Why?"

Rosemary’s fingers tapped lightly against the wooden counter, her expression unreadable. "If she was alone, then she was somewhere she should not have been. And if you truly do not know who she is…" she paused, voice measured, "then it’s better that you forget."

Brant’s stomach twisted.

That didn’t sit right with him.

Not one bit.

_______________________________________

Brant had seen treasures before, stolen and displayed in velvet-lined boxes, but this? This was rare. This was a fortune.

And she was holding it like it was nothing.

"Where did you find this?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Y/N tilted her head, puzzled by the question. "I picked it up from a clam."

Brant inhaled, slow and measured. "You… picked it up."

She nodded. "It’s just a clam’s gallbladder stone."

Brant closed his eyes for a second, pressing his lips together like he was physically holding back a reaction.

Then, carefully, he reopened them. "A clam’s—" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Love, that’s not—" He stopped himself, shaking his head before trying again. "That’s not what humans call them."

Y/N frowned slightly. "Then what do you call them?"

"Pearls. And they’re—" He gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. "They’re valuable."

"Why?"

Brant stared at her.

For a moment, he truly had no idea what to say.

He looked down at the pearl in her hand, then back at her face, utterly uncomprehending. Finally, he let out a quiet, breathy laugh—one of disbelief, not mockery. "You really don’t know, do you?"

Y/N blinked at him, confused. "Why would I?"

Brant shook his head, a small, fond smile pulling at his lips. Of course. Of course she wouldn’t. To her, this wasn’t treasure. It was just something the ocean made—something commonplace, unremarkable.

And yet, she had brought it to him.

"Well," he murmured, taking the pearl from her palm with careful fingers, "I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?"

Y/N watched him, curious. "So, do you like it?"

Brant turned the pearl over in his fingers, letting it catch the moonlight. He had spent years learning the ways of performance, the art of words, but for a moment, none of that mattered.

He looked back at her, his smile softer now. "I do."

She gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied. "Good."

Brant chuckled under his breath, tucking the pearl safely into his coat. "But you do realize what this means, don’t you?"

Y/N arched a brow. "What?"

"It means I owe you a gift in return."

She frowned slightly. "That’s not necessary."

"Oh, but it is," he countered, grinning now. "A gift freely given is a gift freely returned. It’s only fair."

Y/N hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t argue further.

Brant, on the other hand, was already thinking. Because really—what did one give to a siren?

Jewels meant nothing to her. Gold was useless beneath the waves. She had no need for food or shelter, no interest in human possessions.

For the first time in a long time, Brant found himself at a loss.

But as he glanced at her again, watching the way she studied him with quiet curiosity, an idea started to take shape.

He didn’t need to give her something valuable. He needed to give her something meaningful.

Something only he could give.

Brant had faced many challenges in his life—escaping from Ragunna, surviving the Pilgrimage, faking his own death more times than he could count—but this?

This was impossible.

He lay flat on his back atop a stack of worn crates, staring at the sky as if the answer might drop from the heavens. The Fool’s Troupe was busy setting up for their next performance, voices and laughter filling the air, but Brant heard none of it. His mind was occupied with one singular, infuriating thought:

What in the name of all things dramatic do you gift a siren?

Gold? Useless. She lived in the sea—she had shipwrecks full of it at her disposal.

Food? Even more useless. She didn’t eat human food, and he wasn’t about to bring her a raw fish like some kind of well-dressed seagull.

Music? No, she had an entire ocean to sing with.

Brant groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "This is ridiculous."

"You’re ridiculous," one of the Troupe members called out, balancing on a nearby barrel. "Why are you sighing like a lovesick noble in a tragic romance?"

Brant peeked through his fingers, expression flat. "Because I am one, obviously."

The Troupe member snorted. "Who’s the unfortunate soul?"

Brant waved a dismissive hand. "No one you’d know. Or understand. Or—" He sat up abruptly, running both hands through his hair. "You know what? Forget it. This is impossible."

"What is?"

Brant turned to see one of the older Fools, a woman named Selka, watching him with an amused expression. She had seen Brant through all his wild schemes, all his ridiculous plans, and yet this—this seemed to be the thing that truly entertained her.

Brant huffed, dramatic as ever. "Finding a gift."

Selka raised a brow. "For who?"

Brant opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The Troupe knew of his mysterious "songbird," but he wasn’t about to explain the specifics. Not when he was already spiraling into full theatrical despair.

Instead, he waved vaguely. "Someone. Hypothetically."

Selka smirked. "And what’s wrong with flowers?"

Brant scoffed. "Too simple."

"A trinket?"

"Too meaningless."

"A song?"

Brant paused.

Selka’s smirk widened. "Ah. There it is."

Brant frowned. "No, no, no—that’s not—it’s too obvious."

"Is it?"

Brant groaned again, flopping back onto the crates. "It has to be perfect. Something meaningful, something she’ll actually want, something—"

"Something only you can give?"

Brant stilled.

Selka chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re overthinking it, boy. Gifts aren’t about value. They’re about sentiment." She nudged his boot with her own. "You of all people should know that."

Brant sat up slowly, fingers drumming against his knee.

Something only he could give.

His own words from the night before echoed in his head, and suddenly, everything clicked.

Brant’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "I have an idea."

Selka snorted. "Of course you do."

Brant leapt to his feet, his usual dramatic energy returning full force. "I need ink. And paper. And maybe a bit of magic."

Selka sighed, already regretting her involvement. "I’m not helping you if this ends with another arrest."

Brant grinned, already halfway out of sight. "No promises!"

This? This would be perfect.

The waves lapped gently against the rocks as Brant approached the familiar shoreline. The Fool’s Troupe had set up camp just beyond the cliffs, but Brant had slipped away unnoticed, heart drumming with something between excitement and nerves.

Tonight, he would not leave empty-handed.

“Little songbird,” he called, voice light, teasing. “I do hope you haven’t grown tired of me.”

Silence.

Brant smirked. “No dramatic entrance today? No waves parting for my arrival? Truly, I’m hurt.”

Then, the water rippled.

Brant stilled as she appeared—just enough for the moonlight to catch the gleam of her skin, the slight tilt of her head. Her gaze, curious as ever, met his.

“You always come back,” she murmured.

Brant’s smirk softened. “And yet, you’re still surprised.”

She didn’t answer, just studied him, her eyes flickering toward the small bundle in his hands.

Brant grinned. “Curious, are we?” He crouched at the water’s edge, unwrapping the cloth with an exaggerated flourish. “I brought you something.”

Y/N blinked, tilting her head. “A gift?”

“A thank-you, actually,” Brant corrected. “For the lovely—” he held up the rare, valuable, eye-wateringly expensive pearl she had gifted him last time, “—clam gall bladder stone.”

Y/N made a face. “I still don’t understand why humans want those.”

Brant chuckled. “That makes two of us.”

He carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing a book. Handmade, bound in rich blue fabric with silver-threaded details. It wasn’t large—just enough to fit in his palm—but it was clear it had been made with care.

Y/N stared at it. “What is that?”

Brant’s smile turned just a little nervous, but he hid it well. “A story.”

She blinked.

Brant cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “I wasn’t sure what to give you—turns out, sirens are rather difficult to shop for.” He gave a mock sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “Tragic, really.”

Y/N huffed, amused despite herself.

Brant continued, flipping open the first page. His own handwriting filled the parchment, neat but expressive. “So I thought… why not give you something only I can? A story—your story.” He tilted his head, smirking. “Or at least, the start of it.”

Y/N hesitated, then swam just a little closer, peering at the book as if it might vanish. “You wrote this?”

Brant nodded. “Well, you inspire quite the tale, love.”

She reached out, trailing a careful finger along the edge of the pages. The sea had never given her anything she could keep. Songs disappeared into the waves. Voices faded. Even the stars above seemed to shift, never the same from one night to the next.

But this?

This was hers.

Brant watched her closely, noting the way she lingered on the pages. “You don’t have to like it,” he added, voice softer. “I just… wanted you to have something. Something real.”

Y/N looked up at him then, expression unreadable.

Brant, for once, waited in silence.

Then—

“I like it,” she murmured.

Brant let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Good.”

Y/N’s fingers curled gently around the book, holding it close. “You always come back,” she whispered again, though this time…

This time, there was something different in her voice.

Brant’s smile softened. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.