#torin

Everything felt mechanical like Kai had to dictate his body how to stand, to breathe. It was as if everything was on fire and he stood at the center of it—cursed, a curator of harm. Why was everyone around him dying? Dead. That’s what they were. His mom, then his dad, and now Cinder. Dead. Dead. Dead. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

The last time he had held her was when she was bleeding out in his arms. 

He shut his eyes for a brief moment.

Cinder returned to him at once—limp against his chest, lips parted as if she might still breathe, her clothes soaked dark with blood. And the knife. Always the knife. His mind refused to release him, replaying the moment with merciless clarity.

Now, dressed in all black, his clothes felt stiff and suffocating against his skin.

The worst part was that they didn’t even have a picture of Cinder.

Not a childhood photo.

Not a candid smile.

Only her mugshot and that felt grotesque, insulting, for a girl who had saved countless lives. 

Iko had malfunctioned soon after Cinder’s death, and with no one left to repair her, they lost their only possible archive. 

So Kai tried to summon her himself: sun-warmed skin, the fire in her brown eyes—artificial though they were—the determined set of her jaw. He clung to every detail, terrified of the day when those features would begin to blur. No. He would not let himself forget.

Oh, how it could have ended so differently—if the knife had landed just a centimeter away.

Maybe if he had come sooner.

Maybe if he had stepped into the knife’s path himself.

Maybe if he had reached her earlier, convinced her not to go out alone.

Maybe.

Kai wondered if the people offering condolences could see past his composure—the broken capillaries in his eyes, the bruised darkness beneath them. If they could hear the words lodged in his throat, pressing to be shouted, to be screamed.

Did they see him burning the way she had? Feel how close his body was to giving out beneath the weight of standing, of breathing?

Every muscle screamed at him to hide. To fold inward. No one could know that their Emperor was unraveling—that grief had hollowed him out and left something brittle where certainty used to be. And still, a traitorous part of him wanted someone to notice. To meet his gaze.

Stars, when had people stopped looking him in the eyes? They stared past him now, stiff and frightened, as if he might fracture the world if he were seen too closely.

Almost as if his prayers had been answered, bright red curls swam into his view. A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Kai startled despite himself, then relaxed as his mind finally caught up and recognized Scarlet.

“Ms. Benoit,” he greeted, turning around. He didn’t know the woman very well. Only the rumours, the temper, the fact that she’d stood beside Cinder during the revolution.

And yet she met his eyes. Took the daring step to notice.

“Scarlet.”

“Alright Scarlet. I’m Kai.”

“I know who you are.”

He nodded once, unsure where this conversation was headed.

What Scarlet said next caught him off guard. It wasn’t a condolence or an empty assurance that time would dull the pain. He found himself almost grateful for that.

“Have you eaten?”

“What?”

She reached for his hand and pressed a granola bar into his palm, curling his fingers closed around it before he could protest.

“Eat.”

Kai’s hand twitched, instinctively reaching to give it back.

“Thank you Scarlet, but I— “

“You look like shit,” she said flatly. “And like you’re about two breaths away from tipping over. Just eat.” The edge of her French accent crept in on the last word.

He huffed a quiet, breathless laugh, then peeled back the wrapper and took a bite. It stuck in his throat. He forced each bite down. If she noticed, Scarlet didn’t comment. Just stayed.

“Cinder used to forget too,” she spoke after a moment. “Eating, I mean. I didn’t let her.”

He hummed, the sound barely there.

“I’m glad she had the crew,” he admitted. “Even if it wasn’t for long.”

Scarlet shook her head once.

“I’m glad she had you.”

He looked at her then, startled.

“She loved you,” Scarlet continued, voice steady. “And you didn’t make her feel smaller. She needed that.”

Kai inhaled slowly. For the first time since arriving, the breath didn’t catch halfway in. His shoulders loosened, just enough that the ache in his spine eased. Just enough to stay upright. They stood like that for a moment, side by side, the silence between them heavy but not unkind.

Movement stirred at the edge of his vision. The crew had gathered near the casket. Winter’s hand was clenched tight around Jacin’s arm. Cress stood on her own two feet now—still unsteady, but standing—and the sight twisted something sharp in his chest.

Wolf glanced at Scarlet. Their eyes met, holding for a beat too long. Kai knew that look. Grief recognizing itself.

Scarlet started toward him. Kai followed, drawn forward toward the group.

Then he saw Thorne.

He was rearranging flowers and sliding his military jacket over the casket with deliberate care. The sight made something inside Kai snap. Heat flared through his chest, pulse hammering, stomach twisting, and his hand shot out before he could think, fingers closing around Thorne’s sleeve.

“What are you doing?” His voice trembled, raw and unsteady, more panic than anger.

Thorne’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to Kai, then away, avoiding the storm in the Emperor’s gaze. “Am I not allowed to leave this for my best friend?” 

“You can’t just—” Kai began, but Scarlet’s hand pressed firmly against his arm. The weight of her gaze anchored him, pulling him back from the edge of his own grief.

Winter’s quiet sobs pulled at him, but his attention was too scattered to register her retreat with Jacin. His world had narrowed to the casket, Thorne, the jacket—and the unbearable ache in his chest. It felt impossibly tragic: two of Selene’s oldest friends attending her funeral for the second time, while he was too lost in himself to even notice.

“This is all your fault,” Thorne uttered suddenly, voice low but sharp.

“Excuse me?”

“You—Levana was your problem. Why did you—”

Kai cut in, voice cracking. “It’s not that simple—” 

“But what about you, Thorne? You were there! Why couldn’t you have saved her?”

“You don’t think I tried? You don’t think Wolf and Scarlet did everything they could?” Thorne’s words came fast, clipped, each syllable a thin blade. He added bitterly, “Well, sorry, Your Majesty, if we’re an inconvenience to you.”

Kai’s gaze dropped. His chest felt like stone. The air seemed heavier, every breath a labor. He looked away, at the polished floor beneath his boots, at the flowers, at anything but the accusation burning in Thorne’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Kai muttered hoarsely. “And you know it.”

Thorne let out a harsh breath, laughter scraping his throat raw. “If it hadn’t been her—” He stopped, jaw tightening. Then, quieter, vicious with honesty, “You know it would’ve been you.”

Kai finally looked up. His eyes met Thorne’s, steady despite the fracture running through his chest. “You don’t mean that.”

Wolf growled low, stepping between them before the tension could escalate further. Scarlet’s voice cut through the silence: “Enough, both of you!”

Thorne pulled free of Cress’s grip, shaking his head. “Whatever.” He turned and strode away, and only then did Kai notice the wet sheen at the corner of his eye.

“Carswell!” Cress shrieked after him.

She took a step after him, then paused, spinning back toward Kai.

“Kai.” Cress’s voice was soft, careful. She held his hand, pressed something into his palm. He looked down to see a hard drive.

“This has Cinder’s speech on it,” she murmured quietly.  “I thought you might want it.”

Then she ran after Thorne.

Kai’s fingers tightened around the chip, nails digging into his palm until the edges bit into his skin. He pressed it to his chest, letting the weight of it ground him, a tether to her he could still hold.

—

Back in New Beijing, Kai slumped into his office chair. There was no point in trying to sleep—he already knew he’d spend the night staring at the ceiling, counting cracks that weren’t there. Instead, his fingers turned the hard drive over and over in his hands, the smooth casing worn warm from habit. Cress’s parting gift.

A month had passed since everything had gone wrong, and still the loss sat in him like something unfinished.

It was him who had planned Cinder’s funeral. Him who had dealt with the wreckage Levana left behind. Him who signed documents, approved reconstructions, answered questions no one should have asked so soon.

There was something poetic about Levana and Cinder, really. Two lives carved by fire, twisted by the same scars. They’d both been broken in the same ways—marked by bloodlines, mirrors, and whispers that told them they were unworthy. Both had been drowning in the same hatred. But where one clawed toward hope, the other sank deeper into cruelty. Death never cared to tell the kind from the savage. In the end, it brought them to each other, and to ruin. 

Kai mourned only one.

Slowly, people stopped checking in. Selene’s death faded from hushed conversations into archived headlines. The tabloids moved on once grief stopped selling.

Cinder would survive only as a story—a symbol, a martyr, a name stripped of the small, human things that had made her her. No one would remember the way her face lit when she figured out what was wrong with the Rampion’s wiring, or the steadiness of her gaze when she focused, or the sound of her laugh when she forgot herself.

At last, he slid the hard drive into the portscreen. He wasn’t sure why he’d waited this long. Fear, maybe. Or the knowledge that once he pressed play, there would be no pretending she was merely away.

Her face filled the screen. His fingers trembled as he started the recording.

There it was—that spark, that fire. Cinder looked whole as she spoke, alive in a way that made every bone in his body ache. The speech they’d written together. Back when the future still felt negotiable.

She’d seemed invincible then. Like a phoenix.

Her voice steadied him. He played the recording again. And again. Over days that blurred into weeks, until he knew every word by heart, until he no longer needed the screen to hear her voice.

Sometimes he fell asleep at his desk with the recording still playing. It was on one of those days that Torin found him.

“Your Majesty.”

Kai stirred, blinking blearily at the polished surface of his desk, his cheek stiff from the position. The room felt too quiet without her voice.

“You have a meeting in an hour,” Torin continued evenly. “I’d suggest you shower. I’ve prepared your notes.”

“Right,” Kai said, sitting up too quickly. His head throbbed. “I’m sorry. Thank you. You didn’t have to.” 

Torin inclined his head and turned for the door.

“Torin.”

He paused.

“Do you know what happened to Cinder’s booth?”

A beat. “The Linh family has kept it closed for the time being,” Torin answered  carefully. “They intend to sell it.”

“Kaito.”

Kai’s head snapped up at the usage of his full name.

“As your advisor,” Torin said quietly, “I would advise you not to do something foolish.”

For once, Kai listened.

That didn’t stop his mind from wandering during the world leader’s meeting. He imagined the booth as she’d left it—tools half-organized, wires coiled and uncoiled again, boots by the door that would never be worn in that space again. The place frozen in the moment she’d walked away.

Kai knew he would have waited lifetimes for her. Gone mad from it, if it meant seeing her smile again.

Feeling her touch. Hearing her voice without a screen between them.

Watching her work, frowning at broken wires like they’d personally offended her. Standing strong even when fear lived just beneath the surface.

Time, however, moved on without him.

And Kai—standing in the wreckage of one perfect love—learned to wear the crown with shaking hands. He, who had always admired her strength, would spend the rest of his life pretending he carried even half as much.

—

Kai dreamt of her again.

 Again.

                Again.

                                 And again.

Until the word stopped meaning anything.

Sleep had become the only place she still lived. He didn’t know if it was mercy… or torture. At least there, he could still see her—still hear her voice, even if it was only his mind trying to fill the silence she left behind.

But she always died. Every. Single. Time.

The throne room stayed buried; his mind refused to let him go back there yet. For this dream, it started gentle—ordinary. The palace in New Beijing, though somehow the light bent around the corners in a way that was all too soft and quiet. 

Cinder smiled as she handed him the repaired Nainsi. The soft hum of the elevator, their laughter echoing off the walls. 

It quickly escalated into something of passion. Her hands slid into his hair, his found her waist. The warmth of her body seeped through the thin fabric of her tank top. Her lips moved with his. He pressed her softly back against the wall, lips parting as he deepened the kiss—slow at first, then urgent, desperate to memorize the feel of her. Her breath hitched against his mouth, and for a fleeting moment, she was alive. So alive.

Then his portscreen buzzed. He promised to see her again. She turned to leave. 

And the world shifted.

He blinked and the elevator was gone. The air was colder, sharper, slicing through his skin. A crowd pressed around him—faces smeared into shapes, unmoving, watching nothing and everything at once. Cameras flashed, strobe lights slicing across the chaos. Sound warped.

His body locked. Breath rasped uselessly in his chest, the scream strangled before it could reach his tongue.

Cinder. 

Through the crowd, he saw her. But not her. Red lips. White veil. Levana—smiling, poised, her laughter echoing through the square as if mocking him.

Guards flanked Cinder, hauling her forward like she weighed nothing. A rope hung waiting, glinting beneath the lights. The noose slipped around her neck. The crowd watched, unblinking, frozen by someone else’s control. 

Cinder’s eyes found him in the crowd—only him. There was something in her gaze, hollow and still, like she’d already died.

He tried to move toward her, but his body refused, held fast by a force he couldn’t see and couldn’t fight. The world itself seemed to pin him there.

The girl who had saved countless lives.

Something hot knotted in his throat.

The girl who had given him a reason to live.

His heart hammered helplessly, each beat echoing the tightening rope.

The girl he couldn’t save.

He could feel himself choking. He could feel her choking. 

The moment tightened around them both, drawing the noose to its final, merciless pull.

Kai’s eyes flew open.

Chest heaving, hair damp with sweat, he stumbled into a cold shower and let the water drown the tremor in his hands. He scrubbed at his hands until the skin burned, as if it might wash away Cinder’s blood. It didn’t. Redness bloomed across his palms with every pass of his hands. The calluses on his hands had grown worse since the revolution. Worse since her.

His hands moved on their own.

He buttoned his shirt.

He steadied his breath.

And Kai walked out the door as though the nightmare hadn’t torn him apart all over again.

The next dream took place at the Peace Festival ball. It began the way they always did—soft, golden, almost painfully perfect. So perfect that Kai didn’t realize it was a dream until much later.

The palace ballroom glowed with lantern-light, chandeliers scattering molten gold across polished marble. Music drifted lazily through the air, gentle strings and laughter and the quiet clinking of glasses. Silk gowns swept past him in waves of colour like tides. The air smelled faintly of citrus blossoms, polished silver, and something sweet he could never place.

He first noted the time on the grand clock. Half past nine. The night had only begun. It was still early and Levana was still nowhere in sight. For one blessed moment, Kai forgot she had ever existed.

A group of girls whispered behind gloved hands, stealing shy smiles at him, but he didn’t look at them. His gaze was already claimed.

Cinder stood before him—hair slightly mussed despite the elegance of the occasion. She looked like someone who did not belong in a ballroom, who had somehow wandered in from the warmth of a garage or the hush of a back-alley workshop and yet, she was the only real thing in the room.

Kai’s hands found hers, and the two of them moved into a waltz as naturally as breathing. Her fingers slid absentmindedly into his hair, her gloved palms brushing his scalp. The touch sent a shiver down the back of his neck.

She was here. She was real. She was warm.

“You look breathtaking,” he whispered, leaning close enough so that only she could hear.

Cinder wrinkled her nose, “I’m covered in grease.”

“It adds to the beauty.”

She snorted—an ungraceful, utterly Cinder sound. How unladylike. How scandalous. Yet Kai’s heart warmed. How long had it been since he heard her really laugh?

A sound he had memorized.

A sound he felt like he hadn’t heard in an eternity.

A sound he wanted to drown himself in.

He didn’t need a mirror to know his ears turned pink.

Cinder’s eyes softened. She didn’t see his reaction, but he closed his own for a moment—just to feel her closer, to memorize the press of her palms and the quiet heat of her smile. Time moved gently here. The music. The laughter. The rise and fall of her breath.

Crash!

He’d spoken too soon. 

A sound—sharp, jarring—rang through the tall walls of the ballroom, making them both jump apart.

Levana stepped into the light as if she had always been there. A bottle of wine slipped from her fingers and smashed against the pristine floor. Glass burst outward, and dark burgundy spread across the marble.

Except—no. Not wine. Kai’s stomach twisted. He knew that colour all too well. 

The room flickered. The air thinned. Shapes sharpened into something crueler.

A chandelier crashed down, shattering into a thousand fragments. Glass skittered across the floor. Some shards landed in the spreading pool, sending dark crimson splashes across the tiles. The stain grew larger than the bottle could have ever held.

Everything fell apart like dominoes.

The crowd blurred as screams erupted. The music warped, collapsing into itself, replaying the same four bars over and over like a broken lullaby. He recognized it—Chopin, Waltz in A minor. His parents had danced to it once. Long ago. 

A gun appeared in Cinder’s hand. Not placed. Not handed. Simply there, like an old memory resurfacing.

“Stop,” Kai said—too soft, too late. “Cinder—wait—”

Jacin’s hands locked her shoulders in place from behind to keep her from moving. His expression was empty, hollowed-out. A puppet. A shadow.

“No.” Kai stepped forward, reaching, grasping, pleading. “Let her go. Let her—”

“I told you already, my dear emperor,” Levana hissed from somewhere behind him, “she can never be yours.”

Cinder slowly lifted the gun toward her head. Kai lunged for her arm, trying to force it down, but his hands passed through her like she wasn’t fully solid.

She inhaled sharply. Her eyes found his and that was when he knew.

She wasn’t fighting it.

“Kai,” she whispered, voice steady, unbearably gentle, “you have to wake up.”

The grand clock struck twelve, though only minutes had passed. The chime was deafening.

Ding.

Dong. Ding. Dong.

“Don’t—please—don’t—” 

Ding.

Dong.

Shut up—shut up—

 Ding. Dong.

SHUT. UP.

But the scene was already decided. The dream had always known the ending. The crimson wine-blood spread in a blooming pool around her feet. Cinder’s expression softened—the smallest, saddest smile. The kind you gave someone you loved and couldn’t stay with.

“I’d choose you again,” she said with finality.

Bang!

Kai was still reaching when the sound tore through the room.

The gunshot shattered the ballroom. Her blood meshed with the spilled wine, becoming one indistinguishable red.

The throne room was set for a wedding dinner. That was the first thing Kai noticed.

White silk draped the long table. Crystal glasses caught the light and scattered it across the polished floor. The feast before him steamed gently, rich with spice and sweetness. It smelled good. Too good. 

Kai sat across from Levana. There were no other officials or servants crowding the room. Just the two of them, seated beneath the vaulted ceiling as if the room itself were bearing witness to his dismay.

Pretend, he told himself. 

Levana did not look at him. She lifted her glass, examined the colour of the wine, and smiled faintly, as though she had all the time in the world. 

Footsteps echoed. A servant approached, head bowed, and set a silver platter before Kai. The lid gleamed, pristine. Untouched. His fingers curled against the edge of the table. He knew before the action even occurred.

The servant lifted the lid.

Something wet and dark rested on the silver. Not food. Not flesh—not at first glance. Metal threaded through it in delicate arcs, wires embedded where veins should have been. The shape was wrong. Too small. Too fragile.

Recognition struck like a blow.

No.

His breath hitched. The room tilted. The sound of blood rushed in his ears, loud enough to drown out the chandeliers, the silence, Levana’s calm breathing from somewhere near him.

He had seen this before. Reports. Schematics. Words on a screen that had never prepared him for the weight of it.

Her heart. Cinder’s heart.

The thought fractured, looping, stuttering—

It was hers. It was hers. It was hers.It was hers.It was hers.It was hers.

Kai shoved back from the table, the chair screeching against the floor. The platter tipped. Red spilled across the white silk like wine. Levana laughed softly. He screamed and the maroon swallowed him whole.

Falling. 

The throne room tore away as Kai pitched over the balcony, air ripping past him, the world spinning too fast to hold onto. Impact came hard and cold. Water closed over his head, stealing his breath.

Darkness. 

His body kicked on instinct. Legs burning, lungs screaming, he forced himself upward and broke the surface with a gasp. His vision swam, blinking in and out. A hand flashed at the edge of his sight. Metal. She was drowning.

Kai lunged, fingers locking around Cinder’s wrist. The weight of her dragged at him as he hauled her up, muscles straining. She burst from the water, gasping sharply. 

Cinder stared at him, chest heaving. Wet bangs plastered to her forehead. Water streamed down her face and back into the lake. “I—I thought—” Kai started, but the words fell apart in his mouth.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Cinder snapped, breathless, her grip bruising tight around his wrist.

Kai looked around wildly. Moonlight. Water. Artemisia Lake.

“Why do you keep following me?” she demanded.

The question struck something raw in his chest.  “Why do you keep dying?” he shot back.

Her expression faltered. Then she twisted in his grip and dragged him under the cold waves.

Kai opened his eyes. There was no water. No sky. They floated in something vast and impossible—darkness streaked with bright, burning swirls of light. Stars curved and folded around them, bold and unreal, close enough to feel and yet infinitely distant. It was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.

At this point, he knew he was dreaming but refused to wake.

“Kai,” she gasped.

Cinder drifted closer and cupped his face, her metal fingers warm where they shouldn’t have been. Her other hand still held his, anchoring him.

“Look at me,” she murmured softly. “Stop trying to save me.”

His throat burned. “Cinder—”

“You can’t bring me back,” she said as she loosened her grip.

A thin red ribbon unfurled between them, trailing from her wrist to his—silk-bright, weightless, endless. Kai kicked uselessly, reaching for her, but the more he moved, the farther she drifted.

The ribbon stretched.

And stretched.

No matter how hard he tried, the distance only grew.

Kai dreamt of her yet again.

The throne room unfolded around him—not with the sharp precision of memory, but like a watercolour left in the rain. The columns wavered at the edges, the marble floor glimmered as though underwater. Sound felt distant, swallowed by the vaulted ceilings. He could hear his own heartbeat louder than anything else.

He knew what this place meant. Kai had been here countless nights now. Yet every time he arrived, hope still flickered in him like something stubborn and foolish. It always happened the same way. 

He shouted her name.

“CINDER!”

She turned at the sound, and for a suspended moment, there was nothing wrong. No blood. No wound. Cinder remained alive and standing, though her body trembled as if holding back some unseen weight. But she was okay. There was nothing wrong. He’d done it. He’d done it. She would live. They would be okay. 

Something poked at the back of his mind screaming it wasn’t true. It wasn’t possible. Kai ignored it.

Relief hit him with such force his knees nearly gave. Kai crossed the distance quickly, but the room felt long, as though space itself resisted him. When he reached Cinder, he took her hands. Exhaling shakily, he remembered those hands—callused from work, warm with life. 

“Cinder… are you okay?” He searched her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, the way she held herself like something held together by thread.

She looked at him almost with guilt. “You won’t stop will you?”

Cinder reached up and kissed his cheek. 

His jaw. 

Then pressed soft kisses down his throat. 

Having enough, Kai finally pulled her up into a deep kiss, eliciting a small moan out of her. It was slow, gentle, devastating—filled with every unsaid thing. His hands rose to her jaw, her cheeks, her shoulders, as though he could anchor her here by touch alone. She kissed him back hungrily.

Then something metallic touched his tongue.

Iron. Warm. Thick.

Blood.

Cinder groaned against him from pain, not longing. Kai pulled back. His hands were slick, and his fingers were wrapped around the hilt of a blade buried in her back.

He stared, horror crawling up his throat, choking him.

“No. No—no, no—Cinder—” His voice broke apart. “I didn’t— I didn’t do this—I’m not—I wouldn’t—”

His body refused him. His fingers tightened around the weapon. His muscles strained against his will, moving with a puppeted stiffness. Someone else was controlling him. It had to be. Levana. It had to be.

He looked around, wild, frantic, but the throne room was empty. Only the echo of their breaths and the distant hum of something he couldn’t name.

“Cinder—please—say something—please—please—” His voice frayed into ragged desperation.

She met his eyes. Calm. Steady. Heartbreaking. Cinder leaned close again, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Wire cutters.”

The words settled in his chest like a stone dropped into deep water. Understanding came slowly, painfully. It wasn’t Levana. It was her. She was the one letting his body harm her. Cinder had made this choice.

His breath shuddered. “Stars above… Cinder… why?”

Kai’s arm moved again. The blade slid deeper. Warmth spilled over his hands like a tide that would not stop. The floor beneath them darkened. His vision blurred.

Still, she touched his cheek. The gesture was so gentle it felt unreal—like memory, not present. Her voice, when it came, was soft enough that he might have imagined it.

“You can’t stay here. Not forever.”

Cinder’s thumb brushed his skin, warm despite everything.

Kai shook his head so violently his vision fractured. Tears blurred the world. “No. I can’t lose you again. I can’t—please—don’t make me—”

Cinder drew a breath that sounded like the end of something.

“It’s time to let go.”

She reached back and wrapped her fingers around the knife’s hilt and pulled. 

The world slowed. The blade slid free. Her knees buckled.

He didn’t reach for her.

He couldn’t move.

She fell.

And he watched her hit the ground.

Kai awoke with a scream tearing itself out of him, the sound raw and uncontained and helpless. After that night, his dreams went silent.  He did not dream of her again.

Not for a very long time.

—

“Daddy!”  His  daughter barreled into him without warning, all warmth and momentum. Kai laughed softly as he caught her, setting his book aside and slipping his glasses off before hugging her close.

His wife emerged from the bedroom, already adjusting her coat. She leaned down to press a quick kiss to his mouth, another to their daughter’s hair.

“I’ll be out for tea,” she said lightly. “Comm me if you need anything.”

She smiled at their daughter. “Best behaviour, Hasumi.”

Hasumi nodded solemnly, then promptly buried her face into Kai’s neck. When the door closed behind his wife, Kai shifted her onto his lap, steadying her before she could climb higher.

“What were you reading?” she asked, peering at the abandoned book with serious interest.

“Something very boring,” he replied. “For very old people.”

She frowned, unconvinced. The curiosity in her eyes lingered—bright, insistent. It struck him suddenly how familiar it was. He pressed a kiss to her knuckle before asking, carefully, “What’s on your mind, Hasumi?”

She hesitated. Then, softly: “Do you believe in happily ever after?”

The question landed like an echo. For a moment, Kai didn’t answer. Something long-buried shifted, pressed against the walls he’d built and never looked at too closely. Years of careful silence trembled under the weight of it. It wasn’t fair to his wife nor his daughter, but the thought still pulled through.

A face surfaced unbidden—the same one it always did, brown eyes and a stubborn set of her jaw. He shut his eyes briefly, as if that might be enough to steady himself.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I believe in trying,” he said at last.

Later that week, Kai found himself at Cinder’s grave after an in-person conference on Luna. Cold air bit at his cheeks, and he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets after placing a bouquet of peonies on the headstone. 

His breath formed misty clouds in front of him. The Lunars tried to simulate seasons in their sphere, but the chill felt real enough. He hadn’t been here in months. He didn’t even know what to say.

Gentle footsteps approached behind him.

Winter’s dark curls were pulled into a neat low bun, her coat buttoned perfectly, scarf wrapped just so. When she glanced at him, Kai knew he couldn’t leave without a word.

“I had expected you might avoid me after the meeting,” she said, voice soft but precise. “But I thought I should pay my respects anyway.”

Kai pressed his lips together. “I… I didn’t know what to say.”

Winter’s eyes lingered on the headstone. “I thought I should come for my cousin as well.”

“How is Jacin?” Kai asked, trying to shift the focus.

“He is well,” she replied, just a pause in her words. “And congratulations, by the way. On your wedding. I’m sorry we couldn’t attend.”

“A little late, but thank you.” Kai managed a small smile. “And congratulations on your engagement as well.”

Winter set her own bouquet beside his. A pause stretched between them, the cold air heavy with unsaid words.

“Do you still miss her?” she asked finally, her voice quiet, almost reverent.

Kai exhaled slowly. “How could I forget?”

It shouldn’t have stung this much, and yet it did. He hadn’t even known her long enough to care, but he did anyway. In the little time they had shared, it felt as though he’d known her his entire life. He wasn’t just mourning a lost love now, but a teenager who never got the chance to truly live.

“She was… remarkable,” Winter said, tone careful. “And difficult to forget.”

Kai’s chest tightened. Even in such a brief life, she had left a permanent mark. He traced the engraving on the stone with a trembling fingertip. It wasn’t just grief. It was loss, wonder, guilt, and memory intertwined. 

“I know,” he murmured.

—

Kai was seventy-five, and the weight of a lifetime—the empire, the choices, the regrets—pressed down harder than ever. He stared at the harsh, white hospital ceiling, unseeing, lost in a fog of memories that refused to stay in order.

Cinder had already come by, leaving him a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. He had waited, carefully, impatiently, for her to return.

When she came back, she wore scrubs. Latex gloves slid over her cyborg hand. Kai’s fingers twitched, reaching out before he even realized. He wanted to tell her he didn’t care—that he didn’t care about the metal, the years, the impossibility—he would love her anyway.

“Cinder,” he whispered, voice cracking with hope and hesitation.

She turned, brow furrowed. “Mingzhu, your majesty. I’m your nurse, remember?”

His chest tightened. Stupid. Stupid. Why did he keep forgetting? The name, the face, the gap in his memory—it made his stomach twist with frustration.

She poured him a glass of water. He chugged it greedily, desperate for something steady. Then she began preparing a needle, methodical and calm.

“Your Majesty,” Mingzhu said softly, “your wife would like to see you. Shall I call her in an hour?”

“Cinder?” His voice wavered, hope flaring again.

The nurse let out a quiet, gentle laugh, the kind that tugged at memory he didn’t have.

Kai’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What’s so funny?”

“This girl,” she said carefully, her eyes warm, “you loved her very much, didn’t you?”

He nodded slowly, trembling. The memory rose unbidden, sharp and vivid despite the fog that claimed so much else.

“Tell me about her,” she coaxed, voice low.

Kai’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard, the words tasting like a lifetime of longing. “I… I was in love with a cyborg once. Her name was Cinder.”

He closed his eyes and pictured her: the fire in her eyes, the slight curl of her smile, the way she could tinker with broken machines as if they owed her nothing. The fog of lost memories seemed to part for a moment, leaving only her.

Mingzhu watched him, quiet and respectful, knowing not to intrude. And though he could no longer remember dinner plans or the faces of distant relatives, though decades of names and events slipped through his mind like water, Cinder remained.

She was still real. Still vivid. Still unforgettable.

—

The sun gleamed on his skin, warm and insistent, as Kai pressed his feet into the gentle surf. Saltwater lapped at his toes, cool and unyielding, and for a moment it pulled him entirely out of the world of suits and crowns. He hadn’t set foot on a beach in years—not since his father had passed.

He breathed in, letting the briny air fill his lungs, and let his eyes drift over the horizon. The water shimmered like liquid silver, restless, endless—like the promise he had once whispered to her.

Kai sank into the sand, letting it cling to his hands, his clothes, his skin, as if grounding him to the memory. He imagined her there, smiling, her strands of hair tousled by the wind, fire in her eyes even in the sunlight. 

He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun, the cool of the water, the grit of sand between his fingers, all of it anchor him to that memory. And for a fleeting, perfect moment, he wasn’t an emperor, an old man, a husband—he was just Kai, waiting at the beach, as he had always promised.

A/N:

This took me forever to write because I kept deleting it and starting over. Anyway, I love these dorks so much. Cheesy romance is fine if it’s Kaider. Kai does seem just a bit obsessive here, but I’ve always found him to be the clingy type. In case it was confusing, yes—Kai suffers from dementia at the end. The next chapter explores Cinder’s seven minutes before death. Happy Holidays, everyone!

Edit: @asters--28 made this incredible artwork depicting some of the scenes. IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL!!! 😭😭💗

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