#ghost.update

Sunday

You had a feeling that this was going to be a very long week. 

The first time Changbin knocked on your door, he looked offended by Poseidon himself. His hair was still damp with bubbles still in his hair, hoodie slung over on one shoulder, gym bag in the other as his brows pinched like he was contemplating how he got into this mess. “Okay,” he said before you could even say hi, “this is going to sound ridiculous–but is your shower working?”

You blink. “Uh..yeah? Why do you ask?” 

He exhaled like a man who just got a blessing from heaven. “Mine’s not, can I use yours?” 

I’m sorry, what? You think to yourself, stepping aside instinctively, letting him into the hallway while he explained – hands moving everywhere as frustration bled into embarrassment. 

“This thing called the diverter value is completely stuck,” he said. “So the water won’t switch from the tub to the showerhead and it looks like a tiny waterfall of disappointment.” You bite your lip, hard, to stop yourself from laughing as Changbin gestures wildly towards the imaginary crime scene that is now his bathroom.

“And I have tried everything Y/N,” he added quickly, like he can sense your composure slowly slipping. “Everything, from twisting, pulling it, turning the water on and off like that’s magically going to fix it.” He runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I swear I’ve turned it into a fucking Bop-It at this point.” 

That’s it. 

The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it as it echoes a little too loudly in the hallway, you bend forward slightly, one hand braced on the table as you try to regain composure. “I-” you continue giggling “I’m sorry a Bop-It? What did you yell at it too?”. He groans, scrubbing his face with both hands, face red from embarrassment. “Yes!! I did, threatened it, being nice to it, twisting it, pulling it, yelling at it. Nothing works.” 

You straighten, wiping the corner of your eye, still smiling. He looks a little flushed now, partially due to the mixture of gym and embarrassment, as your brain decides this is the moment to notice how broad his shoulders look in that hoodi-

Oh no. That’s…dangerous. 

You shake your head to get rid of the thought before you fold your arms, “So,” you say, pretending that this is purely a plumbing-related discussion and not Changbin standing in your doorway asking for help-kind of situation. “Let me get this straight. You lost a fight with your shower.” 

He points at you “IT ambushed ME.” 

You laugh again, softer this time, and something about his expression shifts--less defensive, more fond, like your laughter doesn’t sting the way he expected it to. “That sounds really frustrating.” You say quietly,  “It is,” he says,  “And humiliating. I just want a normal post-gym shower. Is that too much to ask?” 

A slight pause sits between you, it’s oddly comforting. 

“I just need a place to shower after the gym,” he continues, voice lowering slightly, suddenly earnest. “Just until maintenance fixes it. I swear on my life Y/N I’ll be quick. And clean. And-” He pauses, searching for the right word, “-- Respectful.” 

You step aside, gesturing him in. “Okay. But if my shower breaks too, I’m blaming you.”

This earns you a grin, relief spreading across his face. “Fair. I’ll buy you a new Bop-It as an apology.” 

You snort. And as he slips past you into your apartment, closing the door softly. 

And then it hits you.

It’s just Changbin. Your neighbor turned friend. Using your shower because his is broken. That’s it. No deeper meaning. No reason for your heart to beat a little faster as he pads into your apartment like he belongs there. 

You tell yourself it’s fine. 

Perfectly, completely fine. 

You busy yourself immediately. Straightening a cushion that doesn’t need it. Wiping down a counter that’s already clean. Anything to avoid thinking about how weird it feels to have him here. 

“So, uh,” he says behind you, shifting his gym bag on his shoulder, causing you to jump a little “Where is the bathroom? There’s still shampoo in my hair…” 

Your brain short-circuits. “Oh! Right, yeah sorry first door on the right” you point to the door “yeah go ahead and make yourself at home.” You laugh awkwardly. Pointing to the door with the sea animal stickers and fake nets seaweed hanging from the ceiling. He smiles “Thanks Y/N, I owe you big time!”

As you hear the door close, a pause, and then water running in the bathroom, you lean against the counter and stare at absolutely nothing. 

OK. I need rules, you tell yourself. 

Rule One: Do not think about him shirtless. 

Rule two: do NOT even try to think about what he’s doing in there. 

Rule three: Do not, under ANY circumstances listen to the sound of his shower.

You make tea, although you don’t really remember deciding to do that, but suddenly there’s steam rising from the kettle as you hold a two mugs in your hand - Do I even know his favorite tea? - you ask yourself. Before you can answer, you’re sitting at the table, fingers curled around the warmth of your mug while you stare at the black one watching steam rise, telling yourself that this is normal. Neighbors do this. Borrow sugar. Borrow showers, and bond over broken plumbing and 80’s toys. 

The water shuts off. 

Your spine straightens like you’ve been caught doing something illegal. 

He emerges a few minutes later, hair damp, hoodie sleeves pushed up, smelling like soap and something else, but it smells like him. He thanks you again, easy and genuine, and you nod like this hasn’t completely rearranged your emotional furniture. 

“So,” He says at the doorway, peering over the wall to look at you. “Same time tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” you said a little too quickly. “Totally. I mean–-if you need to. Which you do. Obviously. Because of the Bop-it - er- shower situation.”

You cringe internally. 

Smooth. Extremely smooth. 

Changbin laughs-a low, warm sound that settles into your chest. “You’re really hung up in the Bop-It thing huh?”

“I think it’s important,” you say, grabbing your mug and walking to the door, smiling “For historical accuracy.” 

He smiles back, before thanking you once again, closing the door behind him. 

You completely forget about that second cup of tea. 

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3

Characters: Gale, Halsin, Original Female Character (Y/N)

Words: 18K

Warnings: Injury, Panic/Anxiety, Emotional Stress, Coerced Marriage, Blood, Strong Language

Tags: Romance, Fantasy, Royalty AU, Marriage of Convenience, Political Intrigue, Action/Adventure, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Intimacy, Slow Burn, Kissing, Cuddling, Love Triangle, Threesome (in later chapter), Slow-Build Romance

Author’s Note: This is a Baldur’s Gate 3 Royalty AU / Marriage of Convenience / Love Triangle fanfic. Features slow-burn romance, political intrigue, emotional intimacy, and a romantic/NSFW focus between Y/N, Gale, and Halsin. This is a fic that I made just for me; but if you wish to be part of the tags for when it updates; please let me know (I will be checking for ages!). I'll give it until Feb, 9th, 2026 as I'm in the middle of editing/updating/ working on homework maybe adding more content to it. But I'm comfy to slowly start posting it soon :) This is my biggest fanfic to date!! (I'm on the 11th chapter of it right now)

Present Day

You understood why they trusted him and why the match made sense.  Still, as the voices around you blurred into approval and relief, thoughts had drifted elsewhere — to the quiet of the palace library where Gale used to work late into the night, to the way he listened as though her thoughts were worth unraveling, to the space he once occupied so naturally at her side.

You did not resent Halsin. Not anymore, at least. 

He was kind. He was patient. He did not look at her as something to be claimed, but as someone to stand beside. When he spoke to you, it was with respect, not expectation. There was comfort in that. A sense of steadiness she could lean on when the weight of the crown pressed too hard.

But comfort was not the same as longing.

You press your palm lightly against the windowpane, grounding yourself on the cool surface. Your reflection stared back — composed, capable, a ruler shaped by responsibility rather than indulgence.

No one could see the tightness in her chest.

No one could hear the quiet thought beneath the calm: If Gale were here, would this have happened so quickly? 

She did not know the answer. That uncertainty hurt most of all.

----------

Later, when Halsin came to find her, his steps were measured, respectful. He stopped a careful distance away, as though mindful of the space she carried around herself these days.

“I know this was sudden,” he said gently. “If you need time—”

You turn toward him, offering a small, practiced smile. “The realm doesn’t have the luxury of waiting.”

His gaze softened, understanding without pity. “And you?”

Your breath caught 

“I will….adapt,” 

Halsin nodded, accepting the answer for what it was. “Then we will move forward carefully,” he replied. “This arrangement does not require you to sacrifice more than you already have.”

The words were generous. Thoughtful.

And still, they reminded you of everything she had already given up.

When you were alone again, you finally returned to the table. The parchment waited patiently, unmoving, indifferent to the hesitation curling in her chest. Tracing the edge of the document with your fingers, eyes skimming the formal language. The future it promised was orderly, secure, and defensible. It would protect the people. Your people. It would quell dissent. It would strengthen the family reign.

It would do everything it was meant to do.

And yet, you found yourself thinking of a palace garden at night, of laughter softened by moonlight, of a kiss that had not been planned but had felt inevitable. Wondering where Gale was now — whether he thought of you, whether the distance between them had been intentional or merely another consequence of duty.

You wonder if he would hear of the engagement through rumor or ink, impersonal and cold.

The thought settled heavily in her chest.

You straightened, lifting her chin. Whatever doubts she carried would not be allowed to rule her. She had been shaped by responsibility long before this moment, pressing your signet into the wax, sealing the contract with a steady hand.

The wax cooled. The vow was made.

And somewhere beyond the palace walls — in the space he once occupied so effortlessly — Gale was absent in a way that felt far louder than his presence ever had.

----------

The city gates opened to welcome him, but Gale hardly noticed the bustle of courtiers and merchants. His mind was consumed by the thought of her — Y/N. Time had passed since he’d last seen her, four years since Candlekeep and the observatory, and one since that night in the palace garden where something unspoken had begun to stir between them.

Now, returning to the palace, he expected relief, familiarity, the comfort of old routines. Instead, he found something entirely different.

As He entered the great hall, expecting to see her immersed in her courtly duties, poised and commanding as always. Instead, his gaze fell upon Y/N standing beside Halsin.

Halsin’s presence was calm, confident, and easy — the kind of charm that disarmed anyone at first glance. His hand rested lightly against hers as they discussed trade arrangements, his voice low and warm. Gale stepped forward, intending to greet her warmly, when a courtier whispered something to him, almost casually:

“Your grace, congratulations are due — Lady Y/N and Lord Halsin’s engagement has been formalized. The announcement is to be made at the council tonight.”

Engaged? His chest tightened, a sharp, sudden pain. His eyes flicked from the courtier to Y/N, and then to Halsin, who stood close, polite and attentive in a way that made his stomach twist.

Y/N turned at the sound of his footsteps, her expression lighting with recognition and relief. “Gale,” she said softly, unaware of the storm building in his chest. “It’s good to see you again.”He forced a measured smile, nodding. “It’s… good to be back,” he said, voice strained. “You’ve been keeping the court in order?” “I’ve been managing,” she replied lightly, tone steady, betraying none of the tension Gale felt. Her posture near Halsin was flawless — polite, graceful, careful, yet carrying a subtle deference that made Gale’s chest tighten.

Gale didn’t need words to see past it. His eyes traced the faint crease in her brow, the slight tightness in her shoulders, the way her hands lingered on the edge of the table as if holding herself upright. The practiced elegance was there, yes, but the exhaustion, the overextension — the truth behind “managing” — was unmistakable. She’s pushing herself too hard. She’s barely keeping it together, he realized, and a surge of protectiveness rolled through him. “Managing?” he murmured, stepping closer. “That doesn’t look like managing. That looks like… burning yourself out.”

Y/N forced a small, polite smile, but her eyes flickered with guilt, surprise, and something else — a flicker of longing. She didn’t deny him, because she knew he could see the truth in a way no one else could. “You always know how to see through me,” she admitted softly.

Gale’s heart thudded. He wanted to reach out, to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, to remind her she wasn’t alone in carrying the world. “I’ve always worried about you,” he murmured, tone heavy with unspoken feelings. “Even when you pretend that everything is under control. I can feel when it’s not. And… I can’t ignore it.”

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly, a tremor passing through her hands. The tension Halsin’s presence had created all day, the whisper of engagement, the careful balance of courtly duty — it all collided in that moment. And yet, standing here with Gale, the one who had kissed her beneath the moonlight, the one who had always known her, she felt a dangerous spark of relief.

“You’re right,” she whispered, voice tight. “I’ve been… trying too hard.”

Gale allowed a small, private smile to tug at his lips, but his eyes held intensity. “Then let me help you,” he said, softly, firmly, and though the words were simple, they carried the weight of months of longing, the memory of the garden, and the unspoken promise of more. Before the moment could stretch any further, a smooth, calm voice interrupted. “Gale,” Halsin said, stepping closer, courteous but with an edge of authority. “Your advice is invaluable, but don’t forget why you’ve returned. The council awaits, and we have much to discuss — the city’s safety, trade, and protocol. Y/N has already been balanced enough today.”

Gale’s gaze flicked to Halsin, tension coiling like a spring in his chest. The reminder was polite, measured, almost diplomatic — yet beneath the calm exterior, it was a clear statement: this is my place too. Gale’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to nod, the weight of restraint heavy over desire. Halsin’s presence was a constant, polite shadow over every thought of Y/N, a reminder of the reality he now had to navigate. Y/N glanced between them, a subtle flicker of apology in her eyes. Gale caught it and, for a brief moment, the private world they had almost shared slipped through their fingers, swallowed by the demands of court and politics.

Even as the council session began, Gale’s mind replayed the moment on an endless loop: the whispered announcement, Halsin’s steady attentiveness, Y/N’s delicate composure hiding strain, and the subtle tension that had hung between them. He realized, with sharp clarity, that the battle for her attention, for her heart, wasn’t just emotional anymore — it was now entwined with politics, duty, and the careful maneuvers of court. And yet, the pull between them — the memory of the garden, the intimacy of the kiss, the quiet moments he had shared with her before — remained. It refused to be ignored, no matter how many reminders Halsin offered.

The slow burn had become a wildfire, and Gale knew that every glance, every word, every touch from now on would be heavily watched and guarded. 

Break -  Y/N’s Pov 

The council chamber was quiet but alive with the low murmur of parchment and the faint hum of wards beneath the stone floors. You sat at the center of it all, hands folded over maps and ledgers, spine straight, expression carefully composed. It was a posture you had learned well — calm worn like armor, steady enough to withstand scrutiny.

It held well; Until Gale entered the hall.

The armor thinned instantly, as though it had been fashioned from paper instead of steel. You felt it before you saw him — the subtle shift in the air, the way your chest stuttered without permission. He moved with that same careful grace, steps quiet, presence unmistakable. His eyes swept the room once, twice — and then found you.

The recognition was immediate. Unforgiving.

You had not expected him to return so soon. Had not expected the ache of longing to resurface with such force, sharp and uninvited, settling beneath your ribs like something unfinished. Months of distance had done nothing to dull it. If anything, it had only made the absence louder.

Your fingers tightened slightly over the parchment.

Then your gaze shifted — and found Halsin.

Calm. Steady. Polished.

He stood close to you now, a quiet anchor at your side, his presence familiar in a way that had grown slowly over weeks of shared responsibility. He spoke softly with one of the advisors, voice measured, reassuring. Duty made manifest. He was meant to be here — meant to remind you of balance, of stability, of the weight you carried and the support the realm required you to accept.

You had learned to rely on that steadiness.

And yet.

Your chest fluttered traitorously as your eyes drifted back to Gale. The contrast was impossible to ignore. Where Halsin grounded, Gale unsettled. Where Halsin soothed, Gale ignited something restless and dangerous beneath your careful composure.

A quiet rebellion stirred, unbidden and persistent.

Gale belongs here.

The thought startled you with its clarity.

He belongs with me.

You swallowed, forcing your attention back to the council proceedings, to the maps and numbers and responsibilities laid out before you. This was not the time. Not the place. You could not afford longing — not now, not with so much at stake.

And yet, even as you listened, even as you nodded and responded when required, you felt the weight of his presence pressing against the space he had once occupied so naturally at your side.

She should have looked away.

You felt the moment slipping, felt it in the way Gale’s attention sharpened — not polite, not distant, but focused entirely on yourself. The council chamber faded at the edges, voices blurring into an indistinct murmur as his presence pressed closer, warm and unyielding.

“You’re holding yourself too tightly,” Gale said quietly.

The words landed with unnerving precision.

You felt your breath caught before you could stop it. Forced a small, polite smile — the one she used when she needed to appear untroubled — but her eyes betrayed her anyway. Guilt flickered there, then surprise, and beneath it all, something far more dangerous. Longing.

She knew, in that instant, that she could not deny him.

Not Gale.

Not when he had always seen her so clearly, when he read the tension in her shoulders and the careful restraint in her voice like a second language.

“You always know how to see through me,” you admitted softly, the truth slipping out before you could dress it in something safer.

His concern deepened, and that was when fear joined the longing in her chest.

If he keeps looking at me like this… he’s going to know.

“I’ve always worried about you,” Gale murmured. His voice carried the weight of months apart, of words left unsaid. “Even when you pretend everything is under control. I can feel when it’s not. And… I can’t ignore it.”

Your hands trembled before you could still them, fingers tightening against the edge of the table. The careful balance she had maintained all day cracked. The whispers you had overheard, the engagement sealed in wax, the expectations pressing down on her — all of it surged forward at once.

And yet, standing here with Gale — the one who had kissed you beneath moonlight, the one who had known her before duty demanded so much — suddenly felt a dangerous spark of relief.

As though part of you wanted him to see.

“You’re right,” you whispered, voice tight. “I’ve been… trying too hard.”

For a moment, his expression softened, just enough to make your chest ache. The smallest smile touched his lips, but his eyes stayed intense, searching her face as if memorizing it.

“Then let me help you,” he said quietly. “Always.”

The words struck deeper than she was prepared for. They carried memory and promise and the unbearable pull of what might have been. For one reckless heartbeat, you almost leaned into him — almost let herself forget everything else.

Almost.

“Gale.”

Halsin’s voice cut cleanly through the moment.

You turn, heart jolting painfully back into reality as Halsin stepped closer. His expression was calm, courteous, his tone measured — but there was something firm beneath it, something unmistakably territorial.

“Your advice is invaluable,” Halsin said evenly, “but don’t forget why you’ve returned. The council awaits, and we have much to discuss — the city’s safety, trade, and protocol. Y/N has already been balanced enough today.”

The words were gentle.

They felt anything but.

You can feel the space between you and Gale shift — not physically, but undeniably. Halsin’s presence settled beside you like a boundary you had helped draw, a reminder of vows made and responsibilities accepted.

Gale’s gaze flicked to Halsin, tension tightening visibly in his posture before he forced himself to nod. Restraint pulled him back, heavy and reluctant.

She watched it happen, guilt twisting sharply in her chest.

When your eyes met Gale’s again, you let the apology show — brief, unspoken, meant only for him. He caught it immediately.

And in that instant, you knew.

He knows.

And it broke you.

Because the truth was written too clearly in both of your faces. The private world they had nearly reclaimed had slipped through her fingers, swallowed once more by duty, expectation, and the engagement she could no longer pretend didn’t exist.

The palace does not erupt into crisis all at once.

It fractures quietly at first; through glances held too long, doors closed a little too firmly, guards reassigned without explanation. You feel it before anyone names it, a tightening beneath the polished routines of court life, like a breath held for too long.

By the third day since the southern delegates halted the trade corridor, the rumors begin.

At first, they are small. Servants whisper that caravans have gone missing. A scribe mentions, too casually, that the druidic factions are “unhappy.” A junior councilor avoids your gaze entirely during a briefing.

Halsin notices everything.

He does not comment on the rumors at first; he only adjusts to ensure that everything falls into place. He walks closer to you in the halls, positions himself subtly between you and strangers, and speaks less in public but more in private. Where others react with agitation, he becomes still.

It unsettles you how much you rely on that steadiness.

“You should not walk alone today,” he says one morning as you prepare to leave your chambers.

“I haven’t in weeks,” you reply lightly.

His gaze sharpens. “Today especially.”

You hesitate, then nod. Not wanting to put up a fight. 

The council chamber is tense when you arrive. Delegates argue in tight circles, voices clipped, tempers fraying. The issue is no longer just trade; it is authority. The southern faction has rejected inspection outright, claiming “religious sovereignty” under old accords.

“They are daring us to respond,” one councilor snaps.

“And if we do?” another counters. “We turn this into a war of legitimacy.”

You raise a hand, quieting the room. “We do not escalate,” you say evenly. “We document. We isolate. We make it impossible for them to claim innocence.”

Some nod. Others bristle.

When the session ends, you feel the eyes on you as you stand — assessing, weighing, deciding whether you are liability or leverage.

You do not miss the way a few whispers follow you into the corridor.

Halsin walks beside you, his presence grounding. “They are afraid,” he murmurs. “Fear breeds rumor.”

“And knives,” you say quietly.

He does not deny it.

The attack does not come when you expect it.

It happens at dusk, as the palace shifts into evening rhythms — guards rotating, courtiers retreating to private dinners, the halls briefly less crowded.

You are crossing the western gallery with Halsin, discussing the next day’s negotiations, when the wards flicker.

It is subtle — a ripple through the air, like heat distortion. Halsin feels it at the same moment you do.

“Down,” he says sharply.

You barely have time to react before he grips your arm and pulls you hard against the wall. Something whistles past where your head had been — fast, silent, deadly.

A bolt embeds itself in the stone behind you.

For a heartbeat, the world freezes.

Then chaos erupts.

Guards shout. Steel rings. Halsin moves in front of you fully now, one hand braced against the wall near your shoulder, the other already glowing faintly with druidic magic.

“Stay behind me,” he orders.

Another projectile comes — this one deflected midair by a burst of force as Halsin snaps his hand forward. The impact rattles the gallery, sending shards of stone skittering across the floor.

The attacker never reaches you.

They are caught trying to flee through a servant’s passage — subdued, restrained, alive.

Barely.

When it is over, your hands are shaking.

Not from fear — from the sudden, bone-deep understanding that this is no longer theoretical. Someone wanted you dead.

Halsin does not let go of you until you are safely inside a guarded chamber.

“You’re hurt,” you say hoarsely, noticing the tear in his sleeve, the thin line of blood along his forearm.

“It’s nothing,” he replies, though he allows you to guide him to a chair.

You tear fabric for a bandage with unsteady fingers. “You threw yourself in front of me.”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Debatable?” he finishes quietly. “I disagree.”

The room is silent except for your breathing.

“Who?” you ask.

“Not acting alone,” he says. “And not impulsive. That was planned.”

The implication hangs heavy between you.

By morning, the palace is buzzing.

The attempt is officially framed as an “isolated extremist action,” but no one believes that. The whispers turn sharper, more dangerous.

Some say the southern faction sanctioned it. Others suggest internal dissent — that you are being punished for refusing escalation. A few, more venomous voices, murmur that perhaps the council would be safer without you.

And then the rumors shift.

They start mentioning Halsin.

How often is he seen at your side? How he speaks for you in council. How he escorted you personally after the attack.

“You’re being protected by a druid,” one noble remarks too loudly. “Interesting choice.”

Another smiles thinly. “Or perhaps the druid is the one pulling the strings.”

You hear it all.

Halsin hears more.

He confronts you that evening, not with anger, but concern.

“This is becoming dangerous,” he says. “Not just physically. Politically as well. I worry for you.”

“I won’t distance myself from you because of gossip,” you reply.

“I know,” he says softly. “But they will weaponize perception. They always do.”

You exhale slowly. “So what do we do?”

He considers. “We remain transparent. Visible. Yet still keep it professional.”

There is a pause.

“And?” you prompt.

“And we are careful,” he adds. “Because proximity invites interpretation.”

The words sting more than you expect.

That night, sleep refuses to come.

You lie awake replaying the bolt embedding itself in stone, the sound of Halsin’s voice cutting through the moment, the warmth of his hand steadying you afterward.

By dawn, a decision settles in your chest — quiet, resolute.

You will not be afraid.

The next few days are a test of endurance.

You attend councils flanked by guards, your movements carefully planned. You speak with measured authority, refusing to retreat or overcompensate. Halsin remains at your side, a constant presence — calm, attentive, never possessive.

The rumors grow anyway.

They twist his concern into influence, his protection into manipulation. You hear one delegate suggest you are being “guided.” Another wonders aloud if the druids intend to claim political ground through you.

You shut that down publicly.

“If anyone questions my authority,” you say coolly during a session, “they may address me directly. Not my allies. Not my advisors. Me.”

The room goes silent.

Later, Halsin finds you alone in the garden.

The lanterns glow low among the trees, their light soft and unintrusive, as if even the palace is afraid to intrude on your thoughts. You stand in the gazebo, near the fountain, hands braced against cool stone, breathing slowly as if each breath must be chosen.

“That was risky,” Halsin says quietly from behind you.

You don’t turn. “So was trying to kill me.”

For a moment, there is only the sound of water and night insects. Then a faint, tired smile enters his voice. “Fair.”

He comes to stand beside you, not too close, not too far. The space he leaves feels intentional — respectful. It almost hurts.

You begin walking without looking at him, following the familiar path beneath the trees. Gravel crunches softly underfoot. The palace noise fades with each step, until it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of you and the weight sitting in your chest.

For the first time since the attack, your shoulders sag.

“I don’t regret this,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Your presence. Whatever they say about it.”

Halsin stops.

The sudden absence of his footsteps makes you turn.

“You should,” he says gently. Not unkindly. Not accusingly. Just honest. “It would make things simpler. For you.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, sharp and brittle. “I don’t want simple,” you say. Then, more quietly, “I don’t think I can survive on simple.”

Something in your voice breaks the careful distance he’s been keeping.

“You don’t need me here,” he says, softer now. “You could ask me to step back. I would.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

“I know,” you say. Your throat tightens. “That’s the problem.”

You turn away again, hands curling into fists at your sides. “Everyone keeps deciding what’s best for me. The council. The factions. The people who thought putting a blade through my skull would solve their problems.” Your voice trembles despite your effort to steady it. “I don’t need another person choosing for me.”

Halsin doesn’t interrupt. He never does.

“I don’t want you here,” you say, the words tasting like a lie even as you force them out. “I don’t need the rumors. I don’t need the complications. I don’t need—”

Your voice falters.

“I’m so tired,” you whisper.

The silence that follows is heavy, pressing in around your ribs.

Halsin steps closer — slowly, as if giving you every chance to pull away. When he speaks, his voice is low, grounding. “Then don’t be strong right now.”

You swallow hard, the dam cracking. “I don’t know how to do this alone anymore.”

That’s when you turn to him.

Your eyes are bright, your composure fractured beyond repair. You look at him not as a ruler, not as a negotiator, not as a symbol, but as a man who has seen you at your most vulnerable and stayed anyway.

“I don’t need you to fix this,” you say, almost pleading. “I don’t need you to stay. I just—” Your breath shudders. “Gods, Halsin, I just need to feel like I’m not going to break.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands come up gently, cupping your face with reverence, thumbs warm against your skin. He waits, eyes searching yours, asking permission without words.

You answer by leaning into him.

The kiss is not careful.

It’s soft, yes, but it’s also desperate, grounding, like grabbing onto something solid in the middle of a storm. Your lips press against his with a quiet urgency, as if you’re asking him to anchor you to the present, to your own body, to something real.

Halsin exhales against your mouth, a low sound that vibrates through you, and kisses you back steady, unhurried, as though he’s trying to pour calm into you through sheer will. His hands remain gentle, firm at your jaw, his presence surrounding rather than consuming.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his.

“I- I’m sorry, Halsin, I didn’t mean for that to happen,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “And yet… it did,” he chuckles, hoisting you up like you weigh nothing, placing you down on the cool marble bench, “I know it’s not your usual decorum, but we have no time for removing clothes, as much as I would love to rip them off of you, if you don’t mind.” Halsin growls. He hoists your leg straight in the air with one large hand  (“have his hands always been this big?”  You thought to yourself), ankle held between his proud fingers. Then, with the other hand, he yanks both yours and his underwear up and off in one swift movement. Pre cum already dripping from his cock. 

You gasp and have little time to process before you realize that Halsin is on top of you, your legs are now wrapped around his waist as he aligns himself, pumping his cock using the pre cum, then rubs whatever is left on your hole. “Now, my little fawn,” He instructs, as he slowly starts to prod your tight, wet entrance with his massive cockhead “I need you to breathe deeply for me, and try not to wake anyone up.” He coos, a little hesitant to use the term of endearment. As he slowly started inserting his cock into Y/N, they both moaned. As you try to find your grip by grabbing onto Halsin’s forearm and the bench. Just the two of you against the whole world. Halsin moved his hips back and pressed forward again. Starting in a slow, steady rhythm. It feels magical and absolutely perfect. As you slowly feel a tightness in your stomach, you manage to grab onto the back of his head and pull him in for a deep kiss. 

Tongues melding, gasping breaths, hearts both racing. Everywhere they seemed to touch seemed to leave a burning trail across both of you. But even then, it doesn't feel like it is enough. His hips speed up, as the slapping of your tight womb, He knew that he was close to the finish line. You seem to notice this, and with a grin, you whisper in his ear, “Just lose control, Halsin, please. It’s alright.” 

And that does it. 

As Halsin’s hold on your hips tightens in an affectionate squeeze before lifting your legs even higher, folding you into a half mating press, driving into you deep. Swallowing your cries with his own lips. With every knock of his hips against your own, mixed with the squelching of your pussy sucking him in. You were on fire in the best of ways. 

Soon enough, your clit was met with the unexpected pressure of Halsin’s fingertips. That breath you have been holding onto was almost immediately followed by a cry of his name and drool from the kiss, igniting the stimulation to your greedy cunt to clench and pulse around him. Your vision goes white as Halsin reaches his own climax, while ropes of creamy seed deep into your pussy. 

—

Brows knitting together, you squirm and struggle to sit up, watching as Halsin grabs a washcloth from his bag, walks over to the fountain, and gently wipes the sweat from your brow and the slick from your inner thighs, brushing your hair away from your face. “Shh, shh. Just sit still for a moment longer, alright? Let me get you cleaned up.” There’s a soft stillness between the two of you, before the silence breaks. “How are you feeling now?” he asked softly. “I hope I didn't overwhelm you too much.” You giggle, “I’m... I’m ok being overwhelmed if it's like that,” you tell him breathlessly. 

He laughs, “I’ll make sure to add more of this during our time together.” He sighed and winked. 

Gale moves through forests and hills, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and smoke from distant villages. You do not know where he is, and for good reason. Rogue Weave users, untrained and reckless, have been taking advantage of the borders, causing disturbances that threaten not only the kingdom but anyone who steps too close. He intercepts them silently, weaving the Weave with a precision sharpened by months of absence. Spells crackle in the shadows, wards snap into place, and dangerous magic collapses harmlessly under his control. Every motion is exact, deliberate — lethal when necessary, but never wasteful. His focus is unyielding, yet his thoughts drift constantly to you.

At night, under the stars, he unrolls a letter he never sent, pressing it to his chest. You are in every word, every pause, every fold of that paper. He whispers your name to the wind, imagining your fingers tracing the words, imagining your voice reading them aloud. He allows himself a brief, private moment of longing — a memory of the gardens, of stolen glances, of promises whispered in the moonlight. Then he sets it aside, refocuses, and steps back into the fight.

In one village, a rogue Weave user attempts to summon fire near a market. Gale moves with sharp precision: one gesture, a shield forms, a spark is caught mid-air, and the danger is dissipated before anyone notices. A mother clutching her child looks up in awe, unaware of the danger just passed. Gale’s jaw tightens. Every time he protects innocents, every time he neutralizes threats, he thinks of you. The thought fuels him, keeps him grounded — and yet, it reminds him of what he’s missing.

Even in solitude, even in danger, the idea of returning to you lingers. He imagines the weight of your gaze, the way you read him without words, the subtle warmth that comes from knowing someone sees your heart. It is both comfort and ache, a tether to a life paused while he fights unseen battles.

When he finally returns, the castle is alive with tension. Courtiers whisper in the hallways, advisors glance at one another, and even Halsin notices the way his presence shifts the room. You watch him from a balcony overlooking the courtyard, heart catching at the sight of him. Dust clings to his cloak, sunlight glinting off the edge of his hair, and the weight of absence tightens in your chest.

“Halsin,” you murmur under your breath, the name tasting bitter and guilty. “Gale’s back.”

You do nothing but follow him through the halls. His eyes flick to every shadow, every detail, noting potential threats, analyzing movements. He is sharper, colder, and undeniably more dangerous than the man who left. Yet the way he moves, precise and controlled, still carries the echo of him — the Gale you know and cannot forget.

The council summons you immediately. Factions question recent alliances, whispers of political sabotage travel through the castle, and everyone senses the fragility of the kingdom’s peace. You feel the weight of their expectations pressing down, and Gale is at your side, silent and vigilant. Every glance, every subtle gesture, carries meaning. You want to reach for him, but the rules, the politics, and Halsin’s presence keep your hands at your sides. You missed him. You feared for him. And yet, you also knew that part of him returned to the castle not for comfort, but to confront the chaos left in your absence.

You remember his words, the promise that lingered in the ink, the quiet insistence that you were still his in ways the world could not touch. You wish you could tell him that the longing was mutual, that every council meeting, every whispered threat, every shadowed glance made you think of him.

-Break-

The castle is quiet for once, the only light coming from scattered candles flickering along the walls. You, Gale, and Halsin are poring over maps and reports in the war room, late into the night. The council’s demands weigh heavy on your shoulders, but the stillness offers a rare moment of focus. You feel Gale’s eyes on you more than once, subtle glances that make your chest tighten. Halsin notices, of course, the way your fingers brush over parchment when your hand trembles slightly, the way your posture shifts when Gale leans in to point something out on the map. He doesn’t speak yet, but the quiet scrutiny in his gaze tells you he’s starting to see more than he should.

A sudden knock at the door startles you. A guard steps inside, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Your Highness! The northern walls — they’ve been breached! Rogue Weave users, they’ve infiltrated the perimeter!”

The room explodes into motion. You do nothing but grab your cloak and position yourself beside Gale. Halsin rises smoothly, calm but alert, already moving to secure exits and flank positions.

Outside, the night air is thick with tension. Shadows twist beneath the moonlight, distorted by the flames of protective wards and the flicker of lanterns. You can hear the distant crackle of magic before you see it, and your pulse races.

Gale moves first, fluid and controlled. His gestures send arcs of the Weave dancing through the courtyard, deflecting bolts of rogue magic aimed at the walls. Sparks illuminate his face in flashes — the sharp curve of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes. You do nothing but follow, reinforcing his wards with your own minor spells, heart hammering at the proximity and the danger.

Halsin positions himself near you, offering steady support, but you notice him watching Gale carefully, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way he shifts slightly closer to gauge your reactions. You realize he’s beginning to notice something — the tension, the history, the unspoken bond that stretches between you and Gale.

A rogue bursts past the outer ward, dagger raised, magic crackling dangerously. Your fingers move instinctively, sending a shield just in time, but it wavers under the force. Gale steps beside you, hand brushing against your back as he channels a powerful, protective spell that sends the attacker sprawling harmlessly to the ground. You feel the heat of his presence linger longer than necessary, heart stuttering.

Halsin’s eyes flicker between you two, a silent question forming in his mind, but he says nothing, focusing on the other attackers. The battle continues — rogue Weave users strike in waves, Gale counters with lethal precision, you reinforce, and Halsin covers your flanks. The courtyard is alive with light and shadow, sparks and sound, every movement charged with danger and unspoken tension.

Finally, Gale channels the Weave into a brilliant protective barrier, neutralizing the remaining attackers. Silence falls, broken only by the labored breathing of you, Gale, and Halsin.

-----

You clutch the edge of your desk inside the war room later, hands trembling slightly, remembering the heat of Gale’s presence, the brush of his hand against yours, the proximity that left your chest tight. Halsin steps closer, and you feel his calm steadiness, but also the faint tension in his posture. He doesn’t speak, but you know he is starting to put the pieces together; then again, it could be the anxiety in your chest.

A messenger arrives, urgent and polite: the council requires all three of you to travel immediately. The rogue faction’s attack is only a symptom of broader unrest. You glance at Gale, who allows a brief flicker of acknowledgment, before focusing again on the report in front of him. The weight of duty presses down, but so does the tension between you, Gale, and Halsin as a fragile thread that has only grown tauter tonight.

You do nothing but steal one last glance at Gale, feeling both relief and longing, knowing that this could be either the best or worst thing that has ever happened to you.