the storm had already swallowed the port whole by the time you stepped off the dingy tavern deck. the rain clung to your eyelashes, the smell of salt mixing with the metallic tang of fear—the kind you’d been running from for four years.

and then the world went still.

no thunder. no wind. just… still.

“found you.”

his voice didn’t echo. it didn’t have to. it hit you like a blade to the spine.

you turn slowly, your breath catching—because you knew this day would come, even if a tiny part of you prayed it wouldn’t. shamrock stands at the shadows’ edge, cloak soaked but posture impossibly composed. a holy knight’s silhouette. a celestial dragon’s authority. and your former betrothed—the man you betrayed by running.

lightning flashes behind him, revealing the faintest irritation tugging at his mouth… and something darker burning in his eyes.

“you’re still as predictable as ever,” he says, stepping toward you, boots silent on the wet stone. “same route. same hiding patterns. same… stubborn delusion that you could outrun me.”

he stops only a breath’s distance away.

close enough for you to see that he hasn’t slept. close enough to feel the warmth of his anger under his calm facade.

his gaze drips over your face like a hand he isn’t yet allowing himself to use.

“so,” he murmurs, “four years with my brother wasn’t enough? you didn’t tire of playing pirate?” his tone is polite, terrifyingly polite. “or did you finally realize that shanks can’t protect what was mine long before he ever touched you?”

your pulse spikes. you step back.

he steps forward.

“you don’t need to speak.”

his fingers brush your wrist—light, cold, possessive.

you flinch. he smiles lightly.

“i told you before, didn’t i?” he whispers, leaning in. “you can run anywhere in this world… and i will still take you back.”

a gloved hand lifts your chin.

“no tears. no screaming. no excuses.”

his voice lowers to something almost tender.

“if you wanted freedom, little runaway, you should never have been born mine.”

thunder crashes.

he releases your chin only to slide his hand behind your lower back, guiding you—no, claiming you—as if the last four years were nothing more than a childish tantrum.

“let’s go home,” shamrock says softly, dangerously.

“you’ve tested my patience long enough.”

and with that, the storm starts moving again.

because he has you.

and he is never letting go.

the sail back to mariejois is quiet—not peaceful quiet—the one that makes the hairs on your body rise in fear. a rare feeling, something you haven’t felt in a long time… something you haven’t felt, at least, not for the last four years.

it was supposed to be a normal day for the red-haired pirates, just another new island to dock at—the ship needing supplies, repairs, provisions.

shanks was busy inspecting something on deck. you had been assigned to go out with hongo. though you weren’t sure why, but as soon as you set foot on the island, something felt… wrong. familiar, but wrong.

it was a mistake, really, to go alone. murmuring to hongo, “i’ll be right back… just need to check something,” you slipped away without waiting for a response. you didn’t dare glance back at the ship, knowing it would be too dangerous—not just for you, but for the crew you held so dearly.

you didn’t notice the presence, the shadow watching. how could you have? he was stronger now—far stronger than when you left the holy lands four years ago.

just as the heavens were deciding your fate, you see him. standing there. the face that haunts you, the face that you love… and yet, it belonged to someone else too. the same one you tried to run from four years prior.

he didn’t speak during the ride. he didn’t have to. you knew he was furious, but shamrock had always been calm in his exterior, trained to hide everything. yet you could feel it—the silent pressure, the weight of his gaze, the slow, unrelenting pull of him.

the gates of your once “home,” but not home, opened. the holy land.

shamrock’s hand makes its way to your wrist, not bothering to bind it. his confidence is absolute; you could try to escape, but he knows you cannot.

“it’s good to be back home, is it not?” he says, guiding you off the ship.

“i could not even understand why you’d choose such filth of a ship rather than this.”

you say nothing, and a slight twitch forms on his face.

he looks at you—he takes in the scars, the bruises, the dirt—you are not untouchable, not pristine. all the things that once drew him to you, gone. and yet… even like this, you remain undeniably beautiful. just as you were when you belonged to him. well… you always will.

the gates of the holy land open wider, and he guides you toward a palace you longed never to see again—the pangaea castle.

♡

the doors to pangaea castle do not open for you. they part.

silently. effortlessly. as if the world itself has already decided you are allowed inside.

the air changes the moment you step through.

it’s colder here. not because of temperature—but because nothing in this room is meant to be warm. marble stretches endlessly beneath your feet, polished to the point you can see your own reflection distorted below you. chandeliers hang like frozen stars. every sound you make echoes once too many times.

you are not alone.

you don’t need to look to know that.

the elders sit elevated, their presence pressing down like a weight on your spine. they do not speak. they do not shift. they watch. their silence feels deliberate—like a blade held just above your throat.

and then—a step.

measured. unhurried.

garling stands apart from them, closer. always closer. his cloak falls perfectly over his shoulders, immaculate as ever. age has not softened him. it has sharpened him.

his gaze meets yours.

and he smiles.

not warmly. not kindly.

the smile of a man who finds disappointment entertaining.

“four years,” he says, voice calm, almost conversational. “four years of indulgence.”

he circles you slowly, boots echoing against the marble. you keep your chin lifted. you refuse to bow. refuse to shrink.

good.

he would’ve hated you more if you did.

“you were given everything,” garling continues. “a name. protection. purity. a future carved in stone.” he stops in front of you. looks you over—not as a father, not as family, but as property returned with scratches.

his lip curls.

“and you traded it for survival.”

a pause.

“how poetic.”

you meet his eyes. your voice, when you speak, is steady. refined. trained. even now.

“i traded it for freedom.”

something flashes in his expression.

then he laughs.

a single breath of sound. sharp. amused.

“freedom?” he repeats. “you lived caged in gold and ran toward filth.” his eyes flick briefly—deliberately—to the faint scars on your skin. “you call that freedom?”

you don’t look away.

garling steps closer.

“and of all the places you could have disgraced us,” he murmurs, “you chose pirates.”

his tone shifts then—just slightly. sharper. meaner.

“worse,” he adds, “you chose him.”

your jaw tightens.

he notices.

of course he does.

“my son,” garling says smoothly. “the wrong one.”

his smile widens, cruel and knowing.

“did you think that made it better?” he asks. “that bedding an emperor somehow elevated your treason?” a soft scoff. “if it was his face you wanted so badly, you already had it at home.”

the words land like a slap.

“you were betrothed to a holy knight,” garling continues. “a man groomed for obedience. strength. legacy.” his gaze flicks briefly toward the doorway behind you—where shamrock stands, silent, unmoving. “and you threw him aside… for his brother.”

he leans down, close enough that only you can hear him now.

“how small you made him feel.”

he straightens.

the elders still do not speak.

their silence screams.

“you ran to a pirate and learned to bleed,” garling says, voice hardening. “and now you stand before us and expect mercy because you survived?”

his eyes darken.

“celestial dragons do not survive,” he says quietly. “they rule. or they are erased.”

a beat.

“the only reason you still breathe,” he adds, “is because my son wants you to.”

his gaze drifts, just briefly, to shamrock again.

then back to you.

“do not mistake that for forgiveness.”

the room feels smaller now. tighter. like the walls are leaning in.

“you will remain here,” garling concludes. “you will remember what you are. and you will learn—slowly—what it costs to forget.”

he turns away from you as if you are already decided. already dealt with.

behind you, the doors begin to close.

and for the first time since you were dragged back—you understand.

this isn’t punishment.

it’s where you always belonged.

and no one in this room intends to let you escape again.

♡

the doors of the audience chamber close behind you with a sound that feels final.

not loud. not violent.

just heavy—like stone settling into place.

the corridor beyond is long, lit with gold and torchlight, the walls carved with histories you were never meant to escape. your footsteps echo once. twice. then stop.

the guards peel away without a word.

you realize then that you are no longer being escorted.

you are being returned.

shamrock doesn’t look at you right away.

he stands near the tall window at the end of the hall, hands folded behind his back, cloak draped neatly over his shoulders. the light catches the sharp line of his profile—the same face that once made your heart ache with love.

the same face you ran from.

the same face that belongs to two brothers, and to neither of them in the way you wanted.

the silence stretches.

it is worse than anger.

“they spoke longer than i expected,” he says at last.

his voice is calm. measured. untouched by what was said in that room.

you swallow. “they always enjoy the sound of their own voices.”

a faint exhale leaves him—not quite a laugh.

“you were… defiant,” he adds. not a question.

you lift your chin. “i’ve always been that way.”

this time, he turns—really looks at you. and something shifts behind his eyes. not rage. not disgust.

something wounded. something possessive.

“yes,” he says softly. “that’s what made you unbearable.”

he steps closer. not rushing. not stalking. just… closing the distance as if it’s already his.

“do you know what they wanted me to do?” he asks.

you don’t answer.

he stops a breath away from you.

“they wanted reassurance,” he continues. “that you would not be allowed to embarrass this land again.”

his gaze drops—not to your face, but to your hands. your wrists. the marks where fingers once held you too tightly.

“they wanted to know whether you were still… mine.”

your chest tightens.

“and?” you ask.

his eyes lift back to yours.

“i told them you never stopped being mine.”

the words settle between you like a verdict.

you laugh, sharp and brittle. “you shouldn’t have.”

his hand rises—not touching yet. hovering, as if testing whether you’ll flinch.

“you misunderstand,” he murmurs. “that was not a defense. it was a statement of fact.”

finally, he touches you.

not roughly.

two fingers at your wrist, warm, steady—right where your pulse betrays you.

“four years,” he says quietly. “four years, and they still spoke your name like a possession that had wandered off.”

his thumb presses once.

“did you really think i wouldn’t come for you?”

you look away.

that was always the lie you told yourself.

he exhales slowly.

“you learned how to survive out there,” he says. “i can see it.”

his fingers trail along the faint scars at your wrist, his expression unreadable.

“but surviving is not the same as living.”

you bristle. “don’t—”

“don’t what?” he interrupts gently. “don’t speak like someone who watched you be paraded like a curiosity in that room?”

his voice dips lower.

“don’t speak like someone who listened to my father joke about you choosing my brother’s face over mine?”

your jaw tightens.

“say his name,” you snap. “if you’re going to talk about him.”

his grip tightens—just slightly.

“no,” shamrock says. “i won’t give him that.”

he steps closer still, until the corridor feels too small, until the walls press in.

“you didn’t run toward him,” he says. “you ran away from this place.”

his hand lifts to your chin—not forcing it up, just steadying it.

“and now you’re back.”

his thumb brushes beneath your lip, almost reverent.

“do you know what that means?”

you whisper, “i didn’t choose this.”

his expression softens. that’s what makes it terrifying.

“neither did i,” he replies.

he leans in—not to kiss you, not yet—but close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

“but we don’t always get to keep the lives we steal,” he murmurs. “sometimes, we are returned to where we belong.”

his forehead rests briefly against yours.

just a second. just enough.

“you are exhausted,” he says. “they’ll want you presentable by morning.”

he releases you at last, stepping back as if nothing intimate has passed between you at all.

the door behind him opens. his chambers.

familiar. pristine. inescapable.

“rest,” shamrock says, gesturing you inside. “we will speak more… later.”

you hesitate at the threshold.

“and shamrock?” you say.

he pauses.

you meet his eyes.

“if you think this ends with me loving you again,” you say quietly, “you don’t know me at all.”

for the first time—his smile fades. but his voice remains calm.

“no,” he answers. “i know you very well.”

the door closes behind you.

and somewhere beyond it, shamrock remains standing in the corridor—silent, unmoving—already planning a future where love is no longer required.

only permanence.