#quinque

him and that dawg Christmas tree- anyway Quinque everyone 🤞and his chicken-

You finally turned, tears balancing at the edges of your lashes. Aeliane stood in a gauzy robe of pale rose, her amber hair loose around her shoulders, eyes shining with the same quiet sorrow. She reached out a hand, steady and open.

You took it, letting her pull you into a gentle embrace.

You held each other — not as rivals, not as co-wives, but as people who loved the same vanishing man, and who bore the weight of his absence every single day.

When you stepped into the sun-drenched kitchen, a soft smile tugged at your lips. The space was alive with warm light pouring in from the wide glass windows, gilding the stone walls and casting golden halos across the wooden floor. The scent of fresh pancakes, berry compote, and cinnamon butter drifted through the air, wrapping around you like a hug.

You didn’t even get a chance to take another step before you were tackled.

Two small, giggling bodies crashed into you with a joyful cry, “Good morning, Baba!”

The twins knocked you off balance, and you stumbled back with a surprised laugh, landing on the cushioned rug with a gentle oof. Shams clung to your waist, her short hair bouncing with excitement, while Noor scrambled up your chest, snuggling into your neck with a content sigh.

“We made pancakes with Mama Ignis and Solaris!” Shams announced, eyes wide with pride.

“Yeah!” Noor chimed in, voice muffled against your shoulder. “We made them just for you.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep within your chest, a kind of joy that had been buried beneath ten years of waiting. You wrapped them both in your arms, pressing tight kisses to their round cheeks as they squealed and tried to escape your grasp.

“Babaaa, noooo!” Noor giggled, legs kicking.

“You’ll never escape the kiss monster,” you teased, raining another flurry of smooches on Shams, who shrieked in delight.

When you finally released them, they sprang up and ran off, chasing Solaris through the kitchen like tiny bolts of lightning. Solaris let out an exaggerated yelp, raising their arms dramatically as they fled, the hem of their robe trailing behind like a cape.

“Scaredy-cats,” Ignis muttered from the stove, chuckling as she flipped another pancake onto the growing stack as flour dusted the edges of her sleeves. “They act like you’re a villain when you hug them too hard.”

“They’ll grow out of it,” Solaris said with a grin, catching Noor mid-run and spinning him gently in the air before setting him down with a kiss to his forehead. “They’re Unum’s children, after all. And we all know how he was addicted to our affection.”

Your smile faded just a fraction, touched with nostalgia.

“That he was,” you murmured, brushing flour from your robe as you rose to your feet.

You glanced around the room — the sunlight, the laughter, the messy plate of syrup-covered fruit on the table. It was all a beautiful, chaotic harmony. And even if one piece was missing, you still felt him in every echo of laughter and every pair of shining eyes.

For a moment, you let yourself simply exist in the joy. The soft thud of little feet on tile. The sweet warmth of breakfast is still cooking. The quiet knowledge that no matter how long he’d been gone, love had stayed behind — in these children, in your sister-wives, in this home.

—------------------------------------------------------

After everyone had eaten their fill of the sweet, golden pancakes, the house gradually settled into a quieter hum. The children were ushered off for their morning lessons, and the scent of syrup and butter slowly gave way to the clean aroma of rosewater and parchment.

Now, you sat in the imperial throne room — regal and composed, though your hands still remembered the warmth of little fingers and sticky syrup.

You were in your place: to the right of the central throne, which was carved from gold and inlaid with sunstone. Aeliane, poised and serene as ever, sat on the left. Between you, Unum’s throne remained untouched — a monument to absence. A silent testament. The banners behind it fluttered gently from the sea breeze that snuck through the high windows, whispering of tides and time.

Father Rafael, robed in ash gray, stood a respectful distance behind your chair. His pale, inked-stained fingers clutched a scroll, and his gaze flickered between you and the speaker with sharp interest. Beside him stood Bishop Septem, draped in his ceremonial violet and gold vestments, a man of fewer words but deeper, more calculated silences. His eyes missed nothing — especially the expressions you tried to hide.

The court was filled with the soft rustle of silk and the calculated tones of petitioners. Today, like most days, there was a suitor — dressed too boldly, speaking too confidently — trying to win your favor. Claiming loyalty. Promising glory. Some were clever. Some were beautiful. None of them were Unum.

As usual, the attempts ended in embarrassment or quiet dismissal.

By the time the court recessed for the midday break, your spine ached from sitting so straight, and your heart throbbed with a dull, tired rhythm. You excused yourself from the others, nodding at Aeliane before slipping away.

You found yourself again on the balcony overlooking the sea, the same one from that morning — though now the light had sharpened and the wind tasted more of salt than dew. The ocean below churned gently, the waves licking at the base of the cliffs, speaking to you in a tongue only you seemed to remember.

You leaned on the stone rail, eyes searching the horizon once more, even though you already knew — there was nothing.

Your voice rose softly — hesitant at first, like something fragile waking after a long sleep. It was barely more than a whisper, but it carried through the garden air like smoke, curling into the warm morning breeze. You stood at the edge of the balcony carved from pale stone, the sea stretching before you like an open wound that never healed.

It was a song older than you, older than the empire. A melody passed down through your bloodline, once sung under moonlit balconies and in candlelit nurseries. And it was his favorite.

Unum would hum it under his breath when he braided your hair. He used to sway to its rhythm as he held your babies close to his heart, feet bare on the mosaic floor while you sat smiling, watching the sun pour golden light across their skin.

Your voice cracked on the final line. The sound wavered in the air and was swept away by the sea wind before the last note could finish. You clutched the marble railing, the coldness grounding you, a contrast to the burn in your chest.

“The man I love is not afraid of anything,

But when he loves, he shakes everything.

A restless warrior after adventures,

With strong, soft hands.

The man I love, knows I love him —

He takes me in his arms, and I forget it all…”

Below the balcony, the waves rolled against the cliffs, a steady rhythm that mocked the absence above. No sails on the horizon. No ships. No banners. Only the salt-bitten silence of waiting.

Behind you, the garden bloomed in soft defiance of your grief — white-petaled lilies trembling under archways woven with twilight roses. Fruit trees, rare and sacred, bowed gently with heavy harvests. You had once walked here hand-in-hand with him, a crown of blossoms in your hair, giggling as he pressed you against the warm trunk of a fig tree and kissed the corners of your smile.

That was ten years ago.

“Still no ships,” Aeliane’s voice broke the silence like lace tearing. She stood a few steps behind you, her hands clasped before her, her expression gentle but etched with the same ache you carried.

You nodded, swallowing the lump that had lodged in your throat.

Aeliane moved closer and stood beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. “I remember how he loved that song,” she murmured. “How he made you sing it to the children so they would never fear storms. He said if they could fall asleep to your voice, no monster could ever reach them.”

You smiled faintly, though it felt more like an old scar stretching. “He thought he’d come back,” you whispered, “before we ever had to sing it without him.”

You looked out over the sea again, the color of it deepening under the morning sun. Somewhere, far beyond what your eyes could reach, was the truth either swallowed by salt or waiting to return.

Aeliane slipped her hand into yours without a word. Her grip was firm, steady. Familiar. You let your fingers wrap around hers and leaned into her warmth.

Together, you stood side by side in the garden above the sea shaped by a shared love watching the horizon and waiting for a ghost who had promised to come home.

—-----------------------------------------

Your shared moment with Aeliane was shattered when the heavy doors to the balcony burst open with a thunderous crack.

Father Rafael stumbled through, breathless, his face pale and tight with fear — a kind of fear that didn’t belong in a man known for silence and composure.

“Consort (Y/N)... Consort Aeliane…” he gasped, voice trembling, “we have a major problem.”

You didn’t wait to ask.

You and Aeliane exchanged a sharp glance before your feet carried you down the corridor, silk and gold fluttering behind you like war banners. Your heart thundered in your chest not from running, but from a dread you hadn’t felt in years. The kind of dread that told you, before you even saw, that something sacred had been touched.

As you neared the throne room, the sound of raised voices echoed off the high marble walls.

“How dare you sit on the throne?!” Bishop Septem’s voice cracked with fury. “Do you have no respect?! That is the Emperor’s seat!”

You froze in the doorway, your breath catching in your throat as your gaze snapped to the dais.

And your blood ran cold.

There, lounging upon Unum’s throne like it was nothing more than a merchant’s stool, sat a stranger draped in obsidian armor etched with glowing red sigils — the ancient kind. The pauldrons curved like the wings of a raven, and his gauntlets gleamed as though slicked with blood.

His black hair was slicked back, and his posture was relaxed, but nothing about him spoke of peace.

His black, dull eyes stared down at Bishop Septem with disinterest, as if the man were a buzzing fly, barely worth his attention. But the moment those eyes found you, they sparked to life. They were filled with love. No. It was with obsession. 

“Ah” His lips curled slowly across his tan skin, like a serpent tasting warmth. “The person I came to speak to has finally arrived.”

Aeliane stepped protectively in front of you, her hand twitching at her side as if reaching for a blade that wasn’t there. “You dare defile this hall with your presence, let alone sit on his throne?”

The man’s smile deepened. “His?” He looked around mockingly. “Strange. I don’t see your precious Emperor anywhere. Do you?”

Gasps rose from the courtiers still in the room. The throne was never sat upon. Not even by the children. Not even by you.

You stepped forward, steady despite the ice creeping up your spine.

“And who are you,” you asked, voice ringing with iron, “to cross our gates, wear war armor in sacred court, and insult the absent King?”

He stood slowly, each motion deliberate, as if unveiling a secret. His boots echoed loudly against the marble steps. When he reached the last step, he bowed deeply not out of respect, but mockery.

“I am General Nulla,” he said smoothly. “I came to claim what mine.. and the last to see your husband alive.”

“What…?” you breathed, the word barely leaving your lips.

It hit you like a blade beneath the ribs.

Unum. Your Unum. 

Dead?

The throne room blurred around you. The marble walls, the courtiers shouting in disbelief, even Aeliane’s sharp intake of breath — it all fell away.

Your mind betrayed you, pulling you into memories. The warmth of his arms on cold nights. The way he laughed, full and golden, like sunlight crashing through storm clouds. The hush in his voice when he told you nothing could take him from you. The way he held you when the fevers took you, whispering lullabies as if they were spells meant to keep death at bay.

He was gone?

You blinked. You stood frozen, your breath shallow. It was as if the very ground under your feet had shifted, and you were left hanging in the air, untethered.

The court erupted behind you — guards drawing weapons, advisors shouting, Bishop Septem demanding answers with fury in his voice. But you heard none of it. You only stared at the man before you.

General Nulla.

His eyes, voidlike, glinting with cruel amusement, bore into yours as he stepped closer, slowly, deliberately. His gloved hand rose, reaching toward your cheek with a gentleness that sickened you.

His fingers were just inches from your skin when—

“Don’t touch them!” Aeliane’s voice cracked like a whip as she yanked you back, shielding you with her body. Her eyes blazed with protective fury, her stance feral despite the silks she wore. “I don’t believe you,” she spat. “You come in here wearing armor like a conqueror and dare say our husband is dead?”

Nulla didn’t flinch. He lowered his hand slowly and smiled, a mockery of comfort. “Believe what you wish,” he said smoothly. “But denial won’t change the truth. I stood on the scorched field where he fell. I held his whip. I heard his last breath.” He turned slightly, addressing the whole court. “Your Emperor is gone. And I have returned in his place.”

You trembled.

Not from fear. From grief—sharpening into rage.

Unum’s whip. His throne. His name.

All in the hands of a stranger.

But something in Nulla’s eyes. The spark when he looked at you, the way he smiled not like a victor, but a man laying claim.

There was more. Far more.

And you intended to uncover every word of it — no matter what truth it shattered. You gathered your courage to ask a simple yet heavy question, “Why? Why did you come here?”

“You. I want you.” Nulla’s words weren’t a request. They were a claim.

The room recoiled in stunned silence — courtiers froze, soldiers faltered, even Aeliane stiffened beside you. But you could barely hear the ripples of shock behind the thunder of your heart.

Nulla’s gaze roamed over you, not with lust — no, something more unnerving.

Worship.

“If you knew…” he began, stepping down from the dais with slow, measured steps, “how long I’ve watched you — how long I’ve wanted you.”

He stopped only a few paces away, the red light from his armor casting faint shadows across your face. “It was the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice oddly gentle, as if recalling a dream. “You were standing on the cliffs, hair caught in the wind, singing to the sea. I thought you were a vision. A god’s answer to a soldier’s prayer.”

You stiffened, your breath caught in your throat.

That moment. That cliff. You remembered it — years ago, long before the war, when you stood alone while the palace still slept. You thought you had been unseen.

He continued, eyes darkening with remembered fury.

“But then he came. Unum.” His lip curled around the name like it burned him. “He kissed you, held you like you were already his. I nearly brought down the skies right then. I almost killed him for touching what should never have been his to hold.”

Aeliane stepped forward. “You speak like a madman.”

Nulla didn’t even look at her.

“I loved you before I knew your name,” he said, eyes only on you. “That's why I started the war. And when he died, I felt nothing but hope. That I could finally stand where he once stood. Not to rule. Not to reign.”

He took one more step closer, close enough that Aeliane’s hand twitched again.

“But to be yours.”

You stared at him — this man cloaked in black steel and sin. A presence too sharp to be called a suitor. He was not a visitor, nor a petitioner, nor a passing shadow.

He was a storm. And storms never ask.

“If I don’t…” you began, your voice trembling like a candle’s flame caught in the wind, “what will you do?”

Nulla’s gaze softened, not with kindness. With possession. His hand reached for yours with all the tenderness of a lover’s vow, yet it felt like a trap made of silk. He pressed your knuckles to his lips.

“Then I will destroy everything and everyone,” he whispered against your skin, “until you do.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you held them in place, refusing to fall apart — not in front of him. The room was frozen. The court was too frightened to breathe, the guards too stunned to act.

“But…” he continued, pulling away with a smile that should not have belonged on any man’s face, “I am a gentleman.”

He stepped back, arms open as if to offer a blessing, a mockery of peace.

“So I will give you the sunrise. Tomorrow. One dawn. One breath of mercy. Mi vita.”

And then, before you could blink, he was gone.

He said the words like a brand — not a confession, but a claim burned into your skin.

My life. Not a title. A possession. A vow drenched in madness.

His body broke into smoke — a violent unraveling. Black feathers exploded from where he’d stood, scorched at the edges as if they’d flown through fire. They rained down like dying embers. One landed with eerie precision on the arm of the throne.

Unum’s throne.

The throne room swirled into chaos around you, voices overlapping, footsteps scrambling, but all of it felt distant, like echoes underwater.

Your knees buckled under the weight of its memory and fear of locking your body in place.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

Aeliane clutched you from behind, her sob muffled against your shoulder. Her nails dug into your waist. A tether. A plea. Then the court erupted.

“Messenger! Now!” Bishop Septem’s voice thundered through the chamber. He stood, eyes blazing, robes sweeping the floor like a war banner as he pointed toward the doors. “Get eyes on the coastline! I want citadel eyes and every rider dispatched now!”

Pages ran like scattered birds. Guards surged forward and faltered, some pressed to the windows, others clutching their halberds as if prayer could be sharpened.

Father Raphael stood at the center, hands raised, robes fluttering like wings. “This is not yet a declaration of war,” he cried out, voice cracking under pressure. “P-please! This panic... it only gives him more ground!”

You stood in the eye of the storm — and you were unraveling. The world trembled around you. So did you. Your ribs were iron cages. Your breath was dust.

But then— You remembered.

And now…You took a breath.

Unum.

The warmth of his hands. The sound of his laughter echoing through the halls. The way he kissed your fingers one by one when the world felt too heavy causing you to wipe your hand of Nulla’s kiss off.

Then another. Slow. Deep. Your heart screamed, but your spine straightened, forged from the pain he left behind.

“I won’t let it fall,” you whispered. The vow left your lips like a secret sent to the gods. “Not while I still stand.”

You pulled gently from Aeliane’s grasp, squeezing her hand in return giving her what little strength you had.

Then you walked — no, rose — each step up the dais like a ruler claiming their battlefield.

You stood before Unum’s throne. The throne where your love once ruled.  The throne where a monster had just sat. You brushed the black feather from its arm, the gesture simple but deliberate defiant.

Then you turned and spoke.

“Ground yourselves!”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command — forged in fire. The court froze.

“I, alongside my sister wives and Bishop Septem,” your voice rang out, “will come to a decision by sunrise.”

A breath rippled through the chamber — a single, collective inhale. Even Bishop Septem stood stunned, silent. Father Raphael lowered his hands. 

“But until then—” your voice held steady, sharpened like a blade, “no harm will come to this empire.”

You paused, letting the silence fall heavy as stone. “Not from beyond. Not from within. Not while I still breathe.”

Your voice was the sound of steel drawn in mourning — regal and relentless. 

Aeliane joined your side, shoulders squared, eyes dry now — fury replacing fear. Bishop Septem gave a slow nod. No arguments. Just understanding. Even the guards seemed to stand taller, as if drawn up by the strength of your resolve.

And on the marble floor, black feathers still lay scattered like omens — a trail of darkness across sacred ground. Each one whispered the same warning:

Sunrise is coming.