chiya

So then why, why was this happening?

Smoke curled thickly around the room. Plumes of it, black and inky, blossomed against the ceiling. Something hot pressed against the edges of the room as you stumbled out into the hallway.

Confusion hit first, then the destabilising fear.

“Caleb? Grandma?!” Your door slammed shut behind you.

Waves of acrid, rotten fumes hit you hard. It invaded your airways and clogged fresh air from coming in. You gagged against the strain to breath, your eyes watering helplessly as you searched the halls through wobbly vision.

But flames kicked higher, raging like a warring storm that was far from ending.

Your hand smothered your mouth to try and filter out the smoke before it could take its damage. God. Where was everyone?

“Grand… Grandma!!” You called again, coughing on your own saliva. Somebody groaned in the distance, weak and vulnerable. Shit, was that..?

“Pips!” Caleb slammed through the front door, eyes wild as they searched the kitchen, then the living room, then down the hallway where you leant against the wall with a hand over your mouth. “Shit, come on, we need to get out now.”

One hand was clenched, the other reached out for you when he neared. You reeled away, eyes watery and anguished.

“No, we have to get grandma!”

his jaw tightened. He looked down the hall, flames ate at the walls, charring childhood photos.

“There’s not enough time.”

Something cracked in your chest at the coldness in his voice. This was their grandmother. The woman who wasn’t related by blood but took them in like they were.

Heat sizzled and melted the paint on the walls.

“Caleb.. we can’t just leave..” You pleaded, begged, with your eyes, your hands that grabbed onto his shirt, stilling him from turning and leading you both out.

A burst of flames shot forward. Caleb grabbed you and spun you both harshly to avoid the flames. Too close. Way too close. You gasped, clutching onto him tightly. Shaking.

Another groan down the hallway. A cough.

A tear slid down your cheek, hot and burning.

The fire was turning savage, raging against the walls it was contained in. Neither of you would be able to go back and save her. Not if you wanted to leave in one piece.

“We’re going. Now.”

He pulled you by the hand and dragged you down the hallway. The wooden floors had begun to burn, turning so hot that standing still for too long would start to cook the soles of your feet.

Your grip tightened around his, choking against the acrid invasion of smoke in your lungs. It coiled hot and disgusting in your chest, blocking your airways until the both of you reached the front door and slammed into fresh air and instability.

He brought you far away from the house.

Swirls of orange and red twisted and raged behind the glass until it couldn’t take the heat anymore and shattered. An array of speckled glass shot across the lawn.

Caleb pulled you close but the shards never reached you.

“Caleb,” you sniffled, staring wide eyed at the home you grew up in. Your chest heaved up and down in ragged bursts as you sucked in the fresh air you had lost. He turned to your soot smudged cheeks and bleary eyes.

The iciness in his gaze startled you more than the abruptness of the fire ever could.

You tried to ignore it, the way his shoulders had tensed, the tight grip he held your hand in, like letting go was releasing something precious and valuable. It was the shock of the fire, that’s all.

“What are we going to do?” Their home had been burnt, their grandma stuck in the fire. Sirens screamed in the distance, drawing closer with urgency.

“Don’t worry, pips.” He tugs you closer, lips forming into a sweet, icy grin. “I’ve got you. I’ve got us.”

It was strange, the way you wanted to recoil when his arms wrapped around you. This should be comforting. Being in his arms should feel like protection and familiarity. But it felt cold, strange.

You wrapped your arms around his waist.

For now you would just hold him until the firefighters came and rid you of the horrible sight of your home, the only one you had known, burning down.

Something fell to the ground. It was soft, nothing heavy, but there nonetheless. You looked down.

A burnt match.

Your body turned rigid like stone.

Breath shaky, fingers instinctually curling around his shirt.

“There, there, pipsqueak. I’m here.”

His arms tightened around your shoulders.

You choked on a sob, but not for the reason of the fire. No, for the person who started it.

Betrayal slammed behind your ribs. It twisted with rage, a sharp knife plunged into your back. Burning hot, chipped with the crack of your heart. It simmered, bubbled, then trembled beneath your skin. Caleb continued to hush you like nothing was wrong, pressing a firm kiss against your temple. Acting like this was nothing but a bad dream..

The ambulance rolled to a screeching stop, the police car followed afterwards.

Emergency respondents jogged up to you both, from there it was a blur. They hauled you into the back of the ambulance to check your vitals. Nothing critical, but worth being checked anyway.

You don’t remember the questioning, your responses. All you remember is feeling the burn of purple eyes staring at your side profile while being questioned. The heat of his body when he approached made you flinch. Warmth, not the comforting kind. The kind that made you sweat and tremble.

When the cops pulled away and the firemen hosed down your house, blackened by char and soot, you watched, because it gave you something to focus on rather than the large hand pressed against the small of your back.

“Everything will be alright. It’ll just be us. Forever.”

You didn’t like the sound of that at all.

It felt like chains binding you to his side and you don’t think he even had the key to let you go.

“Yeah..” you mumbled dazedly. “Forever.”

He smiled and pulled you closer. “Don’t look so glum, pips. She’s resting peacefully now, watching over us from above.”

There was something about how cheerful he sounded that ignited something in your chest. Something hot and vengeful.

“You did this.” You spat under your breath. Rough with the aftereffects of inhaling too much smoke. The smoke he initiated. The fire he started. The life he took.

Caleb cocked his head to the side as he watched the firefighters work. “Did what? I saved you, didn’t I?”

Your hands trembled as they clenched into fists.

“Why? Why would you do that?” When you looked up, angry and horrified all over, he was already watching you. That startling indifference settling back into place now that nobody was watching him.

“Oh don’t look so shocked.” He crooned, pinching your cheek like you were five again. You flinched. “I was only doing what’s necessary to have you all to myself.”

it felt like a bucket of ice cold water was dropped down your back. All to himself? You were no prize, you were not something to be won and sought after.

“Everybody kept getting in my way.” The hand that pinched your cheek earlier now rubbed over your skin. He started talking to himself, absentmindedly, growing more frustrated by the second. “They all wanted you, but they can’t have you now. No.. they won’t be able to six feet under.”

Your eyes widened a fraction. The fury from before stilled, caught. Because the gears started to work, everything slowly starting to click into place like some horrible, jagged puzzle.

Why the people you got close to suddenly stopped speaking to you, the ones you never saw again. The same ones everybody thought had moved countries.

You thought back to past lovers who broke up with you without reason and fled.

And then you remembered how Caleb had always been there afterwards, soothing you back to sleep because it wouldn’t take you without the comfort. You sickly recall every time he’d smile and tell you that there were other fish in the sea.

Back then, you believed it was just the natural way he grew to comfort you. You had always been the emotional type, the child that cried when they fell over and sniffled over sad animal videos.

That was natural.

This wasn’t anywhere close.

He smiled, but it lacked the warmth you were used to.

“Time to get you to the hospital, pips! Can’t have you being sick, hm?”

One hundred forty-three rounds later, and you’ve finally won.

Every bulging, sweaty muscle strains as you laugh on top of Valko for the final lunge, pinning him by his throat and waist into the mats below.

“Haha, and that’s victory for me!”

He grumbles in response, pouting although you see the ghost of a smile curl against his lips. “Ya right. You tripped me, dirty little minx.”

You coo at his adorable sulking, “Big bad wolf can't handle a little bit of dirty play?” Pressing your forearm harder, you watch something dark flicker in Valko’s eyes as his breath stutters. “Don’t you know your enemies will be ready to exploit your every weakness?”

The room is filled with both of your ragged breathing, sweat dripping between your tanged bodies, undoubtedly soaking through your bra and shorts. The air sticks to you, hot and sticky.

Valko takes a deep inhale, chest rising under your palm, before going unnaturally still. The stillness of a predator ready to jump.

You tense, anticipating him to wrestle you off and begin the next match, and yet it never comes.

No. Instead, you’re met with the unmistakable feeling of something growing harder, larger, pushing up against your clothed ass.

The flush on your face is no longer just from exhaustion.

“Did you- are you—”

Valko’s whine cuts you off, his eyes screwed shut as if in horrible pain. “Don’t. Please.”

He’s trembling. Every hulking muscle under you straining as his enormous palms come up to cup your thighs, nails digging in.

“I just,” Valko lets out another whine, pitched and desperate, his amber eyes snapping open and begging up at you no better than a puppy would. “Ah shit, you’re so perfect. Fight perfect, smell perfect,” one broad hand goes to your ass, squeezing hard enough to pull a startled yelp from you, the sound shooting through him like another strike. “Feel perfect.”

Fuck.

Something about losing to you, about the ache blooming through his body where your blows had landed, the solid weight of you pinning him effortlessly into the worn training mats… perhaps it should have bruised his pride or made him fired up.

Instead, it leaves Valko fucking dizzy.

Your scent surrounds him, swallowed with every inhale Valko takes, intoxicating and cloying on his tongue as though he could taste you already. It’s sweet and a little spicy, like cardamom or amber, filling his brain with static as his every instinct narrows down on you and your body. To lay claim. To take.

He doesn't mean to keep nuzzling into your sweat-slicked body. One breath isn't enough, then another isn't either, every deeper pull filling his head with a pleasant, humming need that leaves less and less room for coherent thought.

Acceptance.

Need.

Mate.

Despite your full weight still pinning him to the floor, Valko's hips buck sharply up into yours, nearly throwing you off him. But his hand tightens against your ass, forcing you down into the movement at the exact same time he grinds his still-growing erection right up into your clothed pussy.

You both moan at the mere contact.

More. He needs more.

His hips don’t stop moving, pushing up into you with quick little rabbit thrusts, Valko’s head thrown back in a deep, unashamed moan as he chases the friction. His jaw opens, nearly drooling, about to manhandle you into a better position to grind against when you lean back down.

And slap him right across the face.

Immediately, he freezes, blinking and shaking away the shock and arousal from his face. His cock jumps from between your thighs, though, and that’s all the confirmation you need as Valko looks back up at you with wide eyes.

“Behave, puppy.”

You place your hand around his neck, grinding your hips backward as you watch Valko’s eyes roll back.

“I won,” you remind him. “That means you listen to me.”

He nods with so much enthusiasm you almost worry about his neck.

“Yeah, yes. Of course. I can take it, please.” Anything, anything for you to keep touching him.

Your hips are flush against his, grinding up and down just like you would be if you were riding him. The thought alone has Valko moaning louder, completely uncaring if anyone heard, voice hoarse as you squeeze his throat tighter.

It’s teasing both of you to insanity, so close and not nearly close enough. Friction hot and pressing right up against your clit, but doing nothing to ease the growing ache between your thighs. It doesn't help that the outline of his dick is enough to grind on, wide enough to part your lips and feel strain against your clothed pussy. Fuck, imagining all that power, that size stretching inside you…

You’re no better than animals in heat, gasping and panting as your hips never stop moving, spine arching as his tip catches your clit. “Ahhh, good job, baby, making me feel so good. Good boy.”

Valko keens at the praise. “Thank you, thank you. I’m your good boy, I’ll be such a good boy.”

He’s drooling as he writhes beneath you, nails clawing into the floor with the restraint it takes not to flip you over and rip your shorts off before fucking until both of you pass out. Bite and mark you as his. Fill you with his seed until he’s shooting blanks, watch you drip with his cum, push his knot inside you and cum again and again and again—

You laugh. Poor thing doesn’t even realize he’s moaning all of this out loud.

“Shhh, I’ll let you, puppy.” Leaning down, you kiss him just to shut him up, licking into his open mouth. “I’ll let you breed me.”

“Fuuuck yes.”

Valko’s tongue shoves into your mouth, hot, invasive, lapping into the kiss. You let him, kissing with teeth and tongue, spit spilling down the side of his mouth as he takes more and more. He bullies himself closer, greedy for every scrap of attention, chasing each inch you’re willing to give and always reaching for one more.

“I’m sorry, feels so good, too good.” Valko groans, every thrust becoming more sloppy, and you can tell from how sloppy his kisses are and the unevenness of his thrusts that he’s already close.

You click your tongue as though reprimanding a spoiled pet before breaking the kiss, hand tightening around his throat.

Valko breaks away instantly with a sharp gasp, chest heaving. His eyes snap to yours, dazed and teary, as though being stopped is its own reward. “Sorry, m’sorry. Please keep kissing me, please, I’m sorry.” Another whimper. “You said you’d help me, ya? P-please baby, let me cum.”

“And let you stain my favorite gym shorts with your cum? I don’t think so, puppy,” you scold, teasing your fingers up his rough undercut.

His breath catches so abruptly his whole body gives a tiny, involuntary jolt, shoulders loosening beneath your hand as a slow shiver rolls down his spine at the mere touch. If his ears were manifested, they would be pulled back, his body chasing the sensation before his mind could catch up, leaning instinctively into your palm like some half-domesticated thing desperate for another touch.

Every instinct urges him to reclaim your mouth, to grind back into your clothed pussy, but he forces himself still. Because that’s what you’ve taught him to do.

What a good boy.

Lifting your hips, Valko sobs at the loss of your heat. Your free hand reaches down instead, shucking down his sweat-drenched shorts and boxers in one tug, his cock bouncing out from its confines.

It springs against Valko’s abdomen with a wet slap, every bulging, veiny inch a sensitive pink, tip swollen and leaking all over his pretty red happy trail.

Valko whines, bucking into the air, “Please-ohhh-please let me in you. I’ll make you feel s’good, I’ll be so good. Ah fuck, come on.”

Something, anything to release this unbearable pressure swelling up at the base of his dick.

So you slap him again, and this time the second the crack echoes across the room so does his moan. A fresh spurt of pre-cum stains his abs, so much leaking and spilling down his stomach, you’re damn near concerned.

“Shh, don’t be too loud, someone might hear how desperate you are, baby.” You kiss his forehead and strip.

First you peel off the sports bra, then kick down your shorts and panties, smiling at Valko’s star-struck expression before dropping back down completely bare onto his muscular thighs.

“Come here, puppy.”

He obeys immediately, sitting up faster than humanly possible and ramming his lips onto yours, hands fighting to cup your breasts before he thinks better of it and curls them against his sides into trembling fists.

You hum into the kiss, guiding his hands up to your skin, “Go on, you can touch me.”

Two massive arms engulf you. Valko’s already nuzzling into your bare chest, mouthing at the lines of sweat collected from your sports bra, hot tongue dragging against every inch of skin. There’s no rhythm, no logic, just sloppy licking between your breasts before sucking at your nipples, around and up until he’s at your collarbone, every sensation so overwhelming that you feel yourself soaking his thigh.

“M’sorry, can’t stop. Taste so sweet…” Valko’s licking another long strip up your neck before finding a spot that makes you whine, nipping and teething at it while his hands come up to pinch and roll your swollen nipples. You moan at the feeling of it all, hips rolling against his quads as he purposefully tenses the ridges of muscle underneath you, letting you grind against him.

Once again, the two of you are humping each other like dogs, except this time there’s no more clothing to get in the way.

Your bare cunt envelopes his throbbing cock, every movement heightened by loud, wet sounds of the two sliding together, pseudo fucking in a way that drives both of you insane. The taste and smell of you is overwhelming, Valko dipping his head to suck at your nipple while bucking up into you, abs flexing, drenched with sweat and your combined slick as his cock drags past your clit, pressing desperately right up against your cunt before slipping to your ass and coming right back again.

His frustration is becoming obvious. Low growls muffled into your chest as grinding turns to proper thrusting, tip ramming at your entrance just too thick to push in and your thighs too slippery to find purchase.

“Shit! it’s not– not fitting. Please, let me in.” He’s begging, drooling against your chest. ”Please sweetheart, please doll.”

You want it just as badly. So you tug on his hair, pulling Valko on top of you as you lie down, and slowly turning yourself around until your chest is pressed into the training mats beneath you.

Valko’s frozen like a predator just narrowed in on a prey.

Except that prey is you. Your teasing smile lured him in, and your bare, dripping cunt presented to him like heaven mere inches from his drooling face.

Arching your back deeper, you smile as you finally give him what he’s been dying for. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, Valko, ya? Wanna knot me?”

He’s barely breathing, golden eyes glowing slightly as they lock with yours, unblinking. “Yes.”

Then, he pounces.

In a blink, his six-foot-something body slams into yours, shoving your face into the floor, one arm effortlessly forcing your ass higher to meet his hips and the other pinning your back into a deep arch to accommodate the weight of his chest now pressed against your spine.

Completely mounted, your muscles scream from the stretch and pressure his body gives, his heavy cock still leaking violently from between your spread thighs, thrusting between them, a puddle of his pre-cum splattering down between you.

You laugh into the mats, right where you want to be as you goad him into taking all that he wants and more. “Go on then, puppy. Claim me, take me, make me yours—!”

You can’t even finish your teasing before Valko bullies himself inside you with one violent thrust. Hands dig grooves into your thighs, pawing at your ass, stomach, chest, all while pulling you backward into every powerful thrust.

Valko’s head drops with another unashamed moan, tongue lolling out to lick at your nape and spine, drooling with every tight flutter your walls squeeze around him. God, you’re gushing. He’s glued to the mess where your bodies meet, your ass bouncing with each thrust, taking him so perfectly he’s losing his mind.

“Ohhh you feel so good.” Pressing deeper, his hand snakes around to press against your lower stomach, feeling the outline of his dick as you scream into the floor. Valko groans, babbling into your ear as his hips snap faster. “I know pretty thing. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He’s repeating it against your neck between licks and nibbles, still not letting up any of his force. You feel something unmistakable swell against the curves of your ass, knocking against your cunt and thick enough to hit your clit too, each slap making you sob from pleasure-pain.

“Gonna f-fuck my little mate full of my cum, then eat you out, then fuck you again—oh fuck. Love you and this perfect pussy,” Valko’s slurring his words, talkative as ever and loud enough for the entire training facility to hear him moan.

His thrusts turn deeper, unable to part with your heat, his knot grinding furiously against your clit as you feel your body begin to tremble. “She’s takin me so well, so tight. Mhmm I’ll fill her well, give her everything she wants, fuck her full-full of my knot.”

God, he needs to shut up or you’re going to cum.

“Shh,” you hush him before breaking into a moan. “Too loud, Valko. Someone could—ahh fuck—hear you!”

Oh, but he can’t! He can’t, not when he finally feels your pussy begin to cream around him with your impending orgasm, almost wet enough to take all of him and his knot! This is what you want too don’t you see? This is what his pretty little mate needs.

Valko can’t even comprehend what he’s saying anymore, just growling and moaning into your neck as he drops his arms to properly rub at your clit and tug at your sensitive nipples, biting down into the junction of your shoulder and neck as you squirt all over his thighs with a pitched scream.

“Good pup, good mate, keep cumming for me.” Valko licks at the pin-pricks of blood blooming from his bite, going right back to babbling into your ears as his thrusts turn rougher. “Ready to take me, have my knot, my cum, oooh youfeelsogood.”

In a last attempt to muffle your boyfriend's horny sobs, you squirm beneath him to grab your gym shorts and stuff Valko’s mouth with them, gagging him with the sweat-stained spandex. And he simply takes it, open mouth drooling all over your clothes as he gets drunk off the scent of your sweat and arousal stained into them.

You both gasp at the feeling of his knot finally pressing into your entrance, the swollen, heavy weight of it forcing you several more inches open before slipping back out. Again, and again.

Instinctively, you run away, like a bunny cornered by a wolf, writhing underneath him as Valko snarls, hands engulfing your hips entirely as he drags you back onto his cock, forcing you still with so little effort it's laughable. Nothing stops him from pressing in deeper and deeper, your poor cunt finally yielding to his knot, the burn making you drool into the floor as Valko moans into your makeshift gag.

It’s forever and only seconds, your orgasm-sensitive pussy drooling enough to help him slide in fully, greedily sucking up every extra inch he gives you until you both feel the pop! of his knot finally catching inside you. It presses every damn inch inside you so perfectly you cum again, wailing and trembling as your thighs begin to go limp.

No matter, Valko just holds you up anyway. It’s not like he could pull out of you now, even if he wanted to. Not until he filled you with his cum, at least.

You’re still shaking from the prolonged orgasm, and Valko lets the rest of your body fall to the floor, following you down until his body is smushed atop yours, pressing you both into a mean prone bone.

It just makes him feel bigger. Your head is spinning with all the sudden pressure, his fat tip kissing your cervix as he rocks back and forth, his knot still grinding into that squishy spot against your walls, the heat and weight of his chest pressing into your back, and of course, his muffled moans and rambles still going strong even through your panties.

“Cum, Valko.” You’re barely thinking straight either, already right at the edge again as Valko’s thrusts turn sloppy, his body shaking. “Fill me up, b-breed me. Become mine.”

He’s cumming.

Valko whimpers into your neck as his hips snap one last time into yours, grinding as you feel the warm gush of his release spurt violently inside you, filling and filling and filling you up. So much, too much. Too much that cum squirts out from even the tight plug of his knot, dripping down both of your thighs even as Valko whines at the waste.

He doesn’t seem to fully realize he’s done, still rolling his hips into yours, each one powerful enough to drag your bodies tangled along the floor.

“Nooo, Valko,” you whine, trapped under his weight and still inflated with his knot. “Valko, stop, sensitive! Too sensitive.”

Your hands helplessly shove and push backward at the enormous man lying on top of you, not even budging him as he continues to nuzzle himself into your sweat-slicked back.

Finally, you manage to yank your clothes out from his mouth, releasing him from the gag as he simply sighs in pleasure, licking and nipping at your ear before dragging his tongue in a long, messy line down your neck.

“You’re so heavy. Get. Off!” Each word is a shove, but Valko only laughs at the effort. He does take mercy on your poor abused body though, and grabbing your waist with one hand, rolls the two of you over. You now rest on his plush chest instead, both of you heaving as you lie still pumped full of his knot and cum.

“M’sorry, guest instinct just took over there, y’know? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“...You rabid dog.”

“Report writing,” you groaned, elongating each syllable for maximum exhaustion.

He chuckled softly. “I don’t doubt your writing ability.” He paused, considering his next words, “but it does help to break big responsibilities into smaller, manageable tasks.”

The Hunters Association building grew nearer. So too did your weariness, despite the day not even having started yet. Zayne parked the car by the pavement. You hoisted your bag over your shoulder ready to leave. The thanks you were about to give Zayne was interrupted as you turned to see him holding your phone, which had been abandoned in the cupholder.

“Wait, you forgot something,” he said waving your phone.

You gasp, reaching out to thankfully take it from him.

“It would’ve been bad leaving that behind,” you exclaimed. “Thank you, Zayne, have a good day!”

“Isn’t there one more thing you’re forgetting?” he added.

Scattered as your brain was, you missed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Am I?” you frowned, rummaging through your bag. “Uhm, let’s see, I have my wallet, my laptop, my lunch…”

You felt a cool touch against your chin, gentle fingers guiding your face. Zayne turned you towards him. His lips met yours in a soft kiss. As he pulled away, he was satisfied at watching your expression relax into a surprised smile. It was a small gesture to help make you feel better before work.

“I love you,” he whispered, “Remember to take breaks and eat on time.”

“Ohh, I see now,” you giggled with understanding, playfully poking his shoulder. “Were you disappointed I didn’t say 'I love you' before I left?”

There was teasing lilt to your voice that made Zayne’s ears redden. Who would have known the cardiac surgeon to be so quietly eager to receive such affection?

You gave him a peck on the cheek.

“I love you too, Zayne. I’ll see you tonight.”

⟡ 𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑲𝑶

There were many tall, impressive buildings in the Bloomshore District, but none rivalled the headquarters of Eoncore Tech. It stood high in the city’s centre. Its surfaces of glass created a shimmering mosaic in the daylight. Every few levels up, rows of windows were lined with verdant plants, decorating it’s ledges like a greenhouse. The topmost level of the building was where the CEO of Eontech spent most of his workday. Valko was seated at his office, hunched over research papers strewn about his large table.

“Sir, your girlfriend is here to see you.”

Valko had been so focused that he didn’t even hear his receptionist knock on his door. He stood up suddenly. His hands that were braced against the table messed up the order of his papers.

“What!? She is? Right now?” he asked in succession, flustered.

Valko straightened his tie which had gone askew and ran a hand through his cropped hair to neaten it up. The receptionist gave Valko a small thumbs up of approval. Valko cleared his throat, adopting his most authoritative voice.

“Thank you, please let her in. You may take your leave.”

The receptionist bowed and opened the door wider, revealing you standing there rather sheepishly at the grandness of an entrance. You held a small plastic bag in your hands which you quickly tucked behind your back. Mouthing a thank you to the receptionist, you walked in.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Valko said with a grin, leaning against the front of his table. “I thought you were hanging out Tara on your day off.”

“I am, but I wanted to pass by and give you a little something first.”

You stepped closer to him. Naturally, he rested a hand against your hip.

“Oh?” he cocked his head to the side.

You held the bag in front of him. “This should help you get through your day.”

“Is this—” Valko’s eyes widened, “—chocolate fudge?”

You nodded, smiling. Quickly, Valko swept you into a warm hug. You tightened your grip on the precious goods as he spun you in a circle. When he put you down, he cupped your face in both his hands. Your skin warmed under his touch. His yellow eyes glittered with joy as he looked at you.

“You’re the best, you know that right?”

“Uh huh, I know. Though, I might lose those points because I’ve got to head off now.”

Valko pouted but acquiesced. Taking the fudge from your hands, he placed it on his desk.

“See you later!” you said, turning around to leave.

“Hold on,” Valko responded, calling your attention back to his folded arms and faux disappointment. “Is that all you have to say to me? I mean, just because I’m in CEO mode doesn’t mean I’m not your boyfriend anymore.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Valko arms found your body again. This time he rested the side of his head against your shoulder, as if his touch would coax you to remember. With realisation, you laughed. You fluffed his hair with your hand. He leaned into your touch, glad that you indulged his clinginess.

“I love you, Valko.” The words brushed gently by his ear. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

⟡ 𝑺𝒀𝑳𝑼𝑺

The N109 zone was a dangerous place, and your boyfriend being one of the most influential persons in the district didn’t make it any less so. What was helpful was when a person of interest appeared on both your radars. There was a surprising amount of overlap between the leader of a crime syndicate and an elite Hunter in these instances.

“So, did you get what you were looking for?” Sylus asked as he opened the door to his room in Onychinus, letting you inside first.

You brushed at your sleeves marked with soot and dirt. The members of the rival gang had put up a decent fight before you and Sylus interrogated them.

“Here, hold still.” Sylus stood behind you, dusting the back of your jacket with his hands.

“I did,” you answered, “thank you again for graciously allowing me into your network of contacts.”

Sylus smirked with satisfaction.

“Leave that here. I’ll wash it and return it to you,” he said, helping you take off your dirtied jacket. “Take any one you like from the closet. They’re all yours.”

Sylus’s bedroom had a row of closets, each matching his black furniture. Opening one of them, you found hanger upon hanger of clothes he purchased for you. Dresses, shirts, skirts, and more all exactly your style and size. Picking out a leather jacket with luxurious lining, you put it on before your watch began to rapidly buzz.

You rushed outside. “I’m really sorry, Sylus, I wish I could stay but I have to go back to the Association.”

“Such is the life of a person of your status,” Sylus said with a deep sigh.

With a wave, you headed for the door. “I’ll text you later!”

However, before you could leave the room, Sylus called out.

“Wait.”

He approached you, a hand in his pocket of his trousers.

“Leaving so soon without a proper goodbye?” He tutted gently. “Can three words not even be spared for me in our parting?"

His honeyed voice and commanding presence made your face hot.

“Three words…” you repeated, confused.

Suddently, it hit you what you have forgotten, and you fought back a smile. You met him where he stood and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Kissing his cheek, you then gazed into his deep red eyes.

“I love you, Sylus. And I swear I’ll text you!

Sylus nodded, pleased. “I’ll be patiently waiting.”

the moment you had met, he knew he was a doomed man – partly because of the curse your past-life-self had forced onto him but that wasn’t important right now. 

sylus was never wrong. and even if he happened to be, no one would ever dare point it out. and he wouldn’t even apologize – how could he when no one dared to hold him accountable in the first place?

well, no one but you. and he had found himself in quite a predicament. 

he knew better than to blame your sour mood on your period but it might just be the case, judging by how agitated you were when you couldn’t reach the stupid pads at the top of his stupidly high shelves. it got even worse when you ran out of your favorite cookies and brownies. barely any sanity of yours was spared when your favorite tube of ice cream was found ravaged by the twins and you reached your last straw when sylus offered you to maybe you should sit and calm down sweetie. 

“calm down?” you asked in a chilling tone.

luke and kieran had escaped the scene, running out of the mansion with ‘grocery shopping’ as their sole excuse. 

“do i look angry to you?” you went on, raising an eyebrow. 

sylus was an imposing man. he feared nothing and everything feared him. none ever dared to get on his way or provoke the slightest reaction out of him in fear of having his anger strike down in the shape of reddish, dark swirls strangling the light out of their eyes. 

he almost looked pitiful right now, the subject of your wrath. it was laughable. except you weren’t amused. 

“of course not, my love,” he shook his head, not wanting to upset you any further – although you claimed not to be upset. 

your lips twitched at the pet name but you refused to cave in. you turned your back to your husband, refusing to utter any word to him anymore. you just wanted a sweet treat and a long nap, maybe that’ll help with your cranky mood. 

but sylus saw his entire world shatter at this instant, watching you giving him the cold shoulder. his poor heart broke into thousands of pieces and he found himself a bit helpless at the second. he wasn’t used to this, really. taking accountability, dealing with people’s emotions. 

everything was so new and while he seemed to carry on with your relationship oh so easily, until you got married. he was still ridiculously helpless when you gave him the silent treatment. it was pathetic in a way that you found sick enjoyment in. and sylus did suspect that you loved him grovelling and begging, but that knowledge – while it made him smug – still didn’t help his shattered heart at the moment. 

“no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head, following suit behind you. he grabbed onto your shoulder, turning you around with his hands cupping your face tenderly despite his frantic movements. 

God, he was so sweet, you almost felt bad. almost. 

“don’t ignore me, sweetheart,” he breathed out and when he pressed a kiss to your forehead he was so grateful you even allowed him to be this close to you when you were probably bubbling with rage. 

you weren’t. in fact, you were so entertained it was getting harder and harder for you to keep a straight face.

but sylus, ever the perceptive man, somehow didn’t notice your clear amusement, too desperate to have you forgive him. 

so desperate you couldn't help the sudden gasp that slipped past your lips when he suddenly dropped to his knees, grabbing onto your hand and pressing it to his cheek. he looked up at you, eyes wide and full of guilt. 

you were conflicted, really. one the one hand, it was pretty attractive, the way he tossed everything he was just to earn your approval and your forgiveness. on the other hand, you felt terribly bad for pushing your little play so far. 

“if it’s about the cookies and brownies, i’ll buy you a lifetime stock of them,” he rambled, pressing a kiss to your palm, his other hand caressing your thigh up and down in what he hoped to be a soothing manner. “i’ll scold the twins and have them buy you ice cream every day,” he added and you cracked a smile at that, unable to keep your act up. 

“oh, sylus,” you chuckled, kneeling down in front of him and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. “you’re so stupid, i love you,” you giggled gleefully and he would gladly turn into a jester if it meant bringing the sunshine back to your expression. 

he was so gone, truly. 

“i love you too,” he huffed out a laugh, all his nerves finally easing down, finding peace in your comfort. 

“you’re kinda hot when you beg, though,” you noted a couple of hours later, leaning against his sturdy chest while downing spoonful after spoonful of chocolate ice cream. 

“ah, i should’ve known you would find enjoyment in my distress,” sylus teased back, his fingers gently pinching your cheeks in disapproval.

© mimi-sunny — all rights reserved

They believe themselves subtle. They believe the Dollmaker of Skyhaven is absorbed in his craft, too artistic to notice the mundanity of church surveillance.

Caleb dips his brush into a dish of turpentine and cleans the bristles with slow, circular strokes. He is not artistic, he is merely precise. He notes the nun’s presence not with alarm but with the same observation he applies to the humidity in his kiln, the viscosity of his glazes, the exact number of dust motes suspended in the light beam.

Three years ago, the Church sent a single inquisitor; and now they send teams, the escalation almost flatters him.

And then there is the matter of the Emperor.

The Emperor does not send street-level agents. The Emperor sends questions through intermediaries, veiled inquiries slipped into the ledgers of the Imperial Arts Council.

How many dolls does the Dollmaker produce annually? What becomes of the offcuts, the failed pieces? Does he keep apprentices? If so, how many? Has he fathered children? The questions arrive on heavy stationery, sealed in wax the colour of blood, and he answers them with the dishonesty of a man who knows his interrogator cannot afford the truth.

As much is necessary. Failures are discarded, broken to pieces and burned to ashes. No one has yet to be deemed worthy in the Dollmaker's eye. There are no children, not even one.

The Emperor knows, in the way that men who hold absolute power always know, that there is something in Skyhaven that does not kneel correctly.

But the Emperor also knows that Philos Empire is held together by threads finer than Caleb's brushes; the Northern provinces rattle their sabres, the Eastern colonies demand autonomy, and the treasury requires the soft power of culture to mask the hard poverty of its coffers.

Skyhaven is the heart of that soft power, and Caleb is the axis upon which the entire mechanism turns.

Remove him, question him openly, imprison him on charges of whatever theological deviation the Church invents next week, and the merchants cease their pilgrimages; the aristocratic patronage evaporates; the empire’s claim to cultural supremacy develops a crack that spreads, that widens, that swallows whole ministries.

So the Emperor watches, and doubts, and does nothing.

And the Church watches, and prays, and does nothing.

They are all, in their way, his dolls in the first place—incapable of doing anything without his explicit permission.

Caleb sets the brush aside and lifts the half-finished head from his workbench. It is for a patron from outside the capital—a mining magnate from the Southern provinces who made his fortune in salt and copper and now wishes to purchase refinement. The man arrived in Linkon six days ago, trailing entourage and desperation, begging for a doll to present to his new wife.

The commission bores him. The proportions are standard. The expression—demure, grateful, slightly downcast—requires no invention; it is the price he pays for his continued sovereignty.

He runs a thumb along the porcelain cheek. The surface is still warm from the kiln’s last firing, and under his touch it seems almost to yield, as though the material remembers being something else and wishes to return to it. He does not indulge such fancies. He sets the head in the rack beside three others and moves to the eastern window, the one that overlooks the lane.

The false nun has been joined by a child—a new element, a boy of perhaps eight years who sells matches no one buys. The Church has started using children now.

Caleb finds this interesting. He files the information in his mind and draws the curtain with a slow, deliberate movement that the agents will read as absentmindedness.

The clock on the mantelpiece—a piece he repaired himself, its face a miniature of his own—ticks toward three. He does not wait for the Southern magnate. He does not wait for the Arts Council inspector scheduled to visit. He waits for the only appointment that has ever mattered.

At seventeen minutes past three, the carriage arrives.

He hears the wheels before the horses, a particular quality of rubber and wood on cobblestone that distinguishes her vehicle from the hundred others that pass outside his door daily. The rhythm is lighter, faster, the gait of horses bred for pleasure rather than labour. He stands at his workbench, his hand suspended over a dish of powdered pigment, and counts the seconds until the carriage stops.

The door opens. He hears the step being lowered, the soft murmur of a coachman speaking words he does not need to hear. Then her voice, answering, too indistinct for the words to carry but unmistakable in its timbre.

Caleb removes his apron—a length of black linen that hangs from his neck to his knees—and folds it into thirds. He places it on the hook beside the kiln room door; then he adjusts his spectacles, smooths his cravat. By the time the three knocks sound against the shop door—one, two, three, the correct pattern established on her third visit—he is already moving through the front room with that soundless, gliding step that makes his heels seem decorative rather than functional.

He opens the door.

She stands on the threshold, smaller than the frame, smaller than the afternoon, smaller than he is by a margin that seems to him not a measurement of height but a statement of scale. She is beautiful. The word arrives in his consciousness as a fact rather than an observation, as inevitable as gravity. She carries a parasol, though the sky is the colour of old pewter and no sun threatens her skin. She wears gloves of white leather that she has yet to remove, and her eyes find his with the immediate, unguarded pleasure of someone who believes absolutely in the safety of the world she inhabits.

“Good afternoon,” she says. “I hope I’m not disturbing your work.”

Caleb tilts his head. The angle is precisely calculated, a gesture of welcome that resembles nothing so much as a key aligning with its lock. “My dear,” he says, and the words fill the doorway, occupying the space between them with a weight that seems to slow the air itself. “You could never disturb me. You are the reason the afternoon exists.”

She laughs and steps across the threshold without waiting for invitation, certain in his welcome of her.

The parasol closes with a snap that echoes in the room, and she stands there, beautiful and surrounded by the watching faces of dolls who have not yet been taught to see her, and she smiles.

“I’ve come for another,” she says. “I know it hasn’t been so very long since the last. But I’ve been thinking about her for months. I can’t seem to stop.”

He closes the door; the latch engages with a click that is a tad too loud with its echo. “Of course you have,” he says and moves past her, not touching—never touching without purpose, never brushing against her in the accidental way of ordinary men—and gestures toward the chair by the display case.

The chair with the velvet cushion the colour of dried roses, it faces the window so the light falls correctly across her face. “Sit, little one. Tell me what grows in your garden.”

She settles into the chair with the fluid, untrained grace of someone who has never been required to perform elegance. Her back does not touch the rest. Her feet, in their pale slippers, do not quite reach the floor. She places the parasol across her lap and folds her gloved hands over it, looking up at him with an expression that holds no calculation, no suspicion, no awareness of the fifteen pairs of eyes that have watched her, in her father’s mansion, through every hour of the day and night for three years.

“I want something of the sea,” she says. “Father says we may finally return to Lemuria by autumn. The physicians say the capital air doesn’t suit his constitution, though I’ve never noticed him ill.”

Caleb has already moved to the tea service. He pours into her cup and then into his own, which is black and featureless and heavy as stone. “Not like the others,” he repeats, carrying the cup to her. He extends it, and when she reaches to take it, her bare fingers brush his. The skin is warm from being contained in the leather. His own fingers are cool, as always, and he sees her register the temperature difference with a slight widening of her eyes that she does not comment upon. She never comments upon the things that should concern her.

“Tell me, sweetling, what fault do you find in your daughters?”

“Oh, no fault!” She cradles the cup in both hands, sipping without tasting, drinking because it is offered. “They are perfect. You made them perfect. But they are … city children. Palace children. They belong here in Linkon, with the dust and the stone. When I take them to Lemuria, they seem … out of place. Like flowers forced to bloom in the wrong season.”

He takes his own chair, the wrought-iron piece that creaks slightly under his weight. He sits with his spine aligned to its back, his coat settling around him like wings folding.

“You wish for a daughter of the tide,” he says. “A child of salt and foam.”

“Yes.” The word is breathed rather than spoken. “Exactly. I knew you would understand. No one else does. I tried to explain to Lady Simone at the Governor’s Ball, and she smiled as though I were speaking in tongues. She said, ‘A doll is a doll, My Lady. What difference is there whether it is made for the shore or the salon?’”

“She is a fool,” Caleb says, without heat. “And you, my treasure, are not. A doll made for the shore carries the shore in her bones. Her weight is different. Her breath,” he pauses, tilting his head again, “her breath would taste of salt.”

Her eyes stare at him over the rim of her cup. There is no fear in her gaze. There is only fascination, the gentle, voracious curiosity of someone who has never encountered a locked door and therefore does not recognize the shape of a key.

“Can you truly make such a thing?”

“I can make anything you require, my lovely girl.” he sets his cup aside, untasted. “For you, I would carve the moon from its socket and polish it to a finish you could wear at your throat. The sea is a simpler commission.”

She laughs again, that bell-like sound that seems to hang in the workshop air longer than its acoustics should permit. “You say the most extraordinary things. The gentlemen at court would be scandalized if they heard you speak of carving the moon.”

“The gentlemen at court,” he says, “are not in this room. And if they were, they would not be scandalized. They would be rendered irrelevant.”

Her cup is soon set aside—she has drunk half, always half, never finishing what is given to her, a habit Caleb has noted across sixteen visits—and rises from her chair. “Will you,” she pauses, her gloved hand suspended in the air between them. “Will you give her the same eyes as the others? The ones that seem to follow you?”

Caleb turns his head. The round spectacles catch the grey light from the window, momentarily eclipsing the violet of his own eyes. “Do my daughters follow you, little one?”

“Sometimes.” She drops her hand, returning it to herself. “When I wake in the night, I think I see them looking at me. But it must be the candlelight. Or my imagination. Lady Simone says I have too much imagination for my own good.”

“Lady Simone,” he says, “knows nothing of my craft. If my daughters look at you, it is because you are the only worthy sight. A doll without a witness is merely ware, you give them purpose.”

She accepts this with a small, pleased nod, as though he has confirmed a pleasant daydream rather than admitted to a truth that would unmake her understanding of her own household. “Then I shall place her facing the window,” she says. “In Lemuria. So she can see the sea.”

“Yes,” he agrees. He returns the face to the cabinet, locking the door with a click that seems to seal something more than glass. “Place her facing the window. She will want to see the tide return.”

“I knew you would understand.” She steps back, returning to her chair. “When might she be ready? I do not mean to rush you. I know your work cannot be hurried.”

Caleb calculates aloud, though he has already determined the answer. “The current commission—a provincial patron, a man of no consequence—requires completion first. My reputation rests on sequence. Two weeks for him. Then,” he pauses, letting the silence carry weight. “Then I shall begin on your daughter. Four weeks. Perhaps five. The sea requires layers, and salt requires patience.”

“I have patience,” she says.

“Do you, my sweetling?” He asks, and the question is so gently delivered, so devoid of edge, that she does not hear the irony.

She has never needed patience. She has him. She has fifteen watchers in her bedchamber. She has the absolute, unwavering attention of the most feared artisan in the Empire, though she believes she has merely purchased handsome toys.

“I shall wait,” she says. “I always wait well. Father's mansion is very comfortable, and I have my books, and my other daughters for company. Although,” she hesitates, a small crease appearing between her brows. “Lately, the one in the blue dress—the fourteenth—she seems different. Her face is the same, but sometimes I find her in places I don’t remember leaving her. By the writing desk, looking at my letters.”

Caleb’s expression does not change. His face is a mask of attentive concern, perfectly constructed. “Porcelain expands and contracts with the weather,” he says. “The capital’s air is treacherous. She may shift on her stand. It is not uncommon.”

“Of course.” The crease vanishes, smoothed away by his explanation. “That must be it. I worried I was being silly.”

“You are never silly, my darling. Your observations are valued, even when the explanation is mundane.” He moves to the door, not to open it yet, but to stand beside it, a sentinel in charcoal and black. “When she is ready, I shall send word. You need not come to me unless you wish to. I can deliver her myself.”

“Oh, would you?” She rises, collecting her gloves, her parasol. “I would like that. The servants are always so clumsy with packages. And I trust only you to handle her.”

“Only me,” he echoes. “That is the correct arrangement.”

She laughs, delighted, and extends her hand. He takes it—not to shake, but to hold, his cool fingers enveloping her warm ones for three seconds, four, five, long past the duration of social ritual. She does not withdraw. She waits, trusting, until he releases her with a slow, deliberate withdrawal that leaves her skin marked by nothing but the memory of pressure.

“Until next time,” she says.

“Until then,” Caleb agrees.

He opens the door. The afternoon has grown darker, the pewter sky pressing low over the lane. Her carriage waits, the horses stamping, the coachman staring resolutely forward. She steps out, opens her parasol although the first drops of rain have not yet fallen, and walks away without looking back.

Caleb watches her go. He watches through his own eyes, and through the eyes he has planted across the city. In the Duke’s mansion, on the third floor, in the chamber facing east, fifteen heads turn. Fifteen pairs of painted eyes focus on the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for her return. The fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has already shifted her position by three degrees, orienting herself toward the writing desk where the letters lie, where the secrets of the Duke’s correspondence wait to be read and transmitted and known.

The dolls do not watch their owners. Not usually. Not unless their maker requires it. And she—his pretty thing, his little one, his only worthy witness—is the only owner worth the watching.

The sixth week arrives, and Caleb does not travel to the Duke’s mansion in the carriage that waits at his door. He walks. He moves through Linkon City with the unhurried, gliding stride of a man who has never needed to rush because time has always arranged itself to accommodate him. The streets are wet from morning rain, and his boots strike the cobblestones without sound, each step placed with the exactitude of a needle penetrating cloth.

He carries the doll in a case of black lacquered wood, fitted with velvet the colour of dried blood. The case is heavy—not with the doll’s weight, which is negligible, but with the density of intention.

Six weeks. He promised five. He has taken six, and the extra week sits inside him like a swallowed key, turning, unlocking something that has been waiting since the moment she first stepped into his workshop.

Caleb sees the carriages before he sees the mansion. Three of them, lined along the carriage drive with their doors thrown open, their interiors already half-stacked with trunks and hatboxes and the innumerable possessions of a household preparing to return to its ancestral seat. Servants move between the house and the vehicles like ants dismantling a colony, their arms laden with folded linens, with leather-bound books, with the fragile, wrapped shapes of porcelain.

They are leaving. She is leaving. The knowledge enters his consciousness not as surprise but as confirmation of a variable he introduced himself.

He made the doll slowly and perfectly; but he made it late.

A footman approaches, hesitant, recognizing the black coat and the case and the spectacles that catch the light like something that has learned to mimic humanity too perfectly. “Mr. Xia,” the boy stammers. “The Duke is expecting you. This way, sir.”

Caleb inclines his head. “Of course.”

The mansion is vast, all ornate columns and gilded cornices and the aggressive, defensive luxury of provincial nobility trying to convince the city of its permanence in the capital. He moves through it without looking up. He has seen the ceilings before, through other eyes. He knows the pattern of the frescoes in the east wing corridor because the fourteenth doll, the one in blue, has stared at them nightly while she slept. He follows the footman with the docile, attentive posture of a craftsman humbled by aristocratic patronage, and inside the locked cabinet of his mind, he files every face they pass for future reference.

Her father, the Duke meets him in the library;he is thinner than his portraits suggest, his complexion is sallow, and his hand when extended to shake bearing the faint tremor of a constitution that the capital’s air has eroded.

“Mr. Xia,” the Duke says, and his voice carries the strained heartiness of a debtor greeting his creditor. “You’ve brought it? My daughter has spoken of nothing else. Six weeks she has waited, sir. Six weeks.”

“Six weeks,” he repeats, and the word hangs between them, perfectly neutral, perfectly weighted. “The work required it. I hope she finds the delay forgiven by the result.”

“I’m certain she shall.” The Duke releases his hand quickly, as though the temperature of his skin has transmitted something that cannot be named. “She’s in the receiving room. I’ll have you shown up. We depart tomorrow, you understand. The physicians insist. The sea air, the native soil. I’m sure you comprehend the urgency.”

“Entirely,” Caleb says. “Family must be preserved at all costs.”

The Duke smiles, uncertain, and gestures to another footman. Caleb is led up the grand staircase, past the landing where the fourteenth doll sits in its alcove, its painted eyes fixed on the corridor. As he passes, he does not look at it, he does not need to; not when he feels its attention like a thread pulled taut between them, of shared sight that vibrates with his pulse. The footman chatters nervously about the weather, about the journey, about the Duke’s gratitude.

He responds with appropriate sounds that are arranged to resemble conversation without speaking the words. His focus is ahead, behind the door at the corridor’s end, where the air already tastes different to him, where the scent of her has begun to seep through the wood.

The receiving room is blue.

She is there, standing by the window with her back to the door, her posture is straight and perfect. She turns when the footman announces him, and her face—beautiful, always beautiful, the template from which he has learned to sculpt perfection—opens into an expression of such unguarded delight that he feels something in his chest, something that is not a heart, constrict with the satisfaction of a predator scenting its prey.

“Oh,” she breathes. “You came.”

The footman withdraws, and the door closes. Caleb stands alone with her, and the case in his hands seems suddenly animate, hungry, a vessel containing not merely a doll but the six weeks of his delay, the accumulated weight of every night he spent perfecting her newest daughter. He sets the case upon the table by the door, and turns to her with a smile that he has constructed from the memory of human warmth, a curve of the mouth that does not reach the violet of his eyes.

“Did you doubt me, my sweetling?”

“Never.” She moves toward him, and her steps are quick, eager, the gait of someone who has never learned that desire should be concealed. “But I thought—Father said you might not finish in time. That we might have to send for her. I couldn’t bear the thought of her travelling alone.”

“She does not travel alone,” Caleb says. “She travels with me. And now, she travels to you to be with you.”

He reaches to open the case, and the doll lies within, nested in velvet, her eyes staring upward with the patient expression he sculpted for her; the hair is made of corn silk, falling around her porcelain shoulders in waves that seem to move even in stillness; she is dressed in a gown the colour of sea foam.

She gasps. The sound is small, delicate, a breakage of breath that he captures and files. She reaches into the case with both hands, lifting the doll with the reverent, instinctive gentleness of a mother retrieving a newborn, and cradles it against her chest. “She’s perfect,” she whispers. “Oh, she’s more than perfect. She’s waiting. Just as I asked. She’s waiting for the sea.”

“No, my sweet; she waits for you,” he corrects, his voice is lower now, the measured cadence beginning to shed its social rhythm, the pretence slowly falling away. “All my daughters wait for you. But this one,” he pauses, and steps closer; enough that the scent of her becomes dominant, that he can see the individual lashes framing her eyes, the faint, living pulse in the hollow of her throat. “This one is special. This one carries the sea in her bones. I made her for the shore. I made her for your bedchamber in Lemuria. I made her to watch the window with you.”

“Yes.” She looks up at him, the doll still clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and trusting and utterly blind to the shift in the room’s pressure. “I shall place her facing east. So she sees the sunrise over the water. So she waits with me always.”

Caleb’s hand rises. His fingers hover beside her cheek, close enough that the air between them seems to thin, to warm with the friction of proximity.

“You speak of waiting,” he murmurs. “You speak of patience. But I have waited, my dear. I have waited longer than six weeks. I have waited through sixteen dolls. Through sixteen visits.”

She blinks.

The doll’s porcelain head shifts slightly against her shoulder. “I … I don’t understand.”

“No,” he says, and the word is soft, almost tender. “You do not. And that is why you are precious. That is why you are mine.”

His hand moves. Not to her cheek—he resists, with a control that feels like the grinding of gears, the urge to mark her, to bruise her, to leave evidence on her flesh that would prompt questions from physicians and ladies-in-waiting and the Duke himself. Instead, his fingers close around the doll. He plucks it from her embrace with the smooth, unhurried motion of a man removing an obstacle from a path, and he turns to the side table—the one by the chaise, the one with the lamp that casts a circle of amber light onto the carpet—and he lays the doll upon it.

“Caleb?” Her voice has changed; not fear—she does not know fear, not in his presence, not yet—but confusion, a gentle bewilderment, the soft uncertainty of a child whose toy has been taken without explanation. “What are you—”

“Hush, little one.” He turns back to her. He is taller now, or the room has shrunk; he stands before her, and his hands rise to cup her face, his thumbs resting along her jawline, his fingers spreading behind her ears into the warmth of her hair. “You have had your doll. You have had your sixteen daughters. Now you shall have me.”

He kisses her.

Unexpected, overwhelming heat spreads. His lips are warm, almost feverish, a temperature that contradicts the coolness of his hands, his skin, his perpetual chill. He opens her mouth with a pressure that brooks no hesitation, his tongue sliding past her teeth to claim the sweetness within, and she tastes of everything he has imagined through sixteen sets of borrowed eyes: tea and honey and the faint, lingering sugar of the macaroons she favours, and beneath it, the essential, irreplaceable flavour of her life, her blood, her breath.

She makes a sound against his mouth—small, and surprised; but she is not resistant.

Her hands lift, fluttering, uncertain where to settle, and he guides them without breaking the kiss, pressing her palms flat against his chest, over the charcoal waistcoat, over the place where no heartbeat pounds but something else resides, something taut and wound and finally, finally releasing.

She clutches the fabric, and Caleb feasts.

He drinks from her mouth as though she contains the only moisture in a desert, his tongue stroking hers, mapping the interior of her lips, the edge of her teeth, the sensitive hollow beneath her tongue. He angles her head with the exact, jointed pressure of his thumbs, tilting her chin to deepen the access, and when she gasps into him—when her breath becomes his breath—he swallows the sound and demands more.

Six weeks. Sixteen dolls. Years of watching, waiting, collecting her moments through glass eyes, and now she is here, real, warm, yielding, and he is devouring the evidence of her existence one kiss at a time.

When he releases her mouth, they are both breathing differently. Her lips are swollen, glistening, parted around questions she does not know how to ask. His own mouth feels altered, sensitized, alive with the phantom of her taste. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature who stands before him with her hands still grabbing a fistful of his coat, and he smiles with a warmth that is genuine because it is predatory.

“Sweet,” he says. “So sweet, my pretty girl. I knew you would be. I have imagined this taste through every doll I placed in your chamber. I have wondered if you would be honey or cream or something rarer. You are all three. You are everything.”

“I don’t—” she sways slightly; er eyes are unfocused, the pupils dilated, her. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You are being loved by me,” Caleb tells her. “You need understand nothing else.”

His hands move from her face. They trace the column of her throat with featherlight touches that leave gooseflesh in their wake, and then they descend to the bodice of her dress. The fabric is fine, silk or something like it, the colour of ivory, and he finds the fastenings to let the buttons give way, and the hooks to loosen. Tender hands peel the dress from her shoulders with a deliberation that feels like unwrapping a gift he has already waited too long to open, and when the fabric pools at her waist, he reveals her breasts.

They are perfect.

Not the perfection of his dolls, which is symmetrical and cold. They are living perfection, soft and smooth and weighted with the gentle gravity of flesh, the nipples are a shade of rose that no pigment has ever accurately captured. He cups them in his hands and feels the warmth of her radiate into his palms like coals placed against ice.

She inhales sharply; her spine arches, pressing her more firmly into his grip, and he accepts the offering with a low sound that is not quite a groan, not quite a purr, but something that belongs to no human throat.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and the word is reverent and possessive and absolute. “My lovely little girl. Look at you. Look what you’ve hidden beneath all that silk and propriety. Look what belongs to me.”

Caleb lowers his head.

His mouth closes around her left nipple, and the heat of him—impossible, overwhelming, the warmth of a kiln rather than a man—envelops her flesh. He sucks. Hard. The pressure is sudden, intense, drawing the sensitive peak deep into the wet cavern of his mouth, his tongue lashing against it with firm, insistent strokes.

She cries out, a high, broken sound that echoes in the room, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the brown strands that never fall out of place. He does not release her. He suckles with the focused intensity of a parched man finding a puddle of water, and his pleasure is evident in the way his eyes half-close, the way his jaw works, the way his free hand rises to knead her other breast, rolling the neglected nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it stiffens to match its twin.

He moves from one breast to the other without pause, marking no territory because he claims all of it, every inch, every curve, every shuddering breath. He bites, gently, testing the resilience of her flesh, and when she moans—when her head falls back and her throat exposes itself to the lamplight—he growls against her skin and sucks harder, drawing the blood to the surface, resisting with a violence that trembles through his frame the urge to bruise, to purple, to leave the unmistakable imprint of his mouth where anyone might see. He pulls back only when both nipples glisten, swollen and darkened, throbbing with the heat of his attention, and even then he does not release her breasts entirely. He holds them, possessively, his thumbs strumming across the wet peaks, his eyes fixed on her face.

“Please,” she whispers. The word is directionless, a plea cast into waters she does not know the depth of. “Please, I-I—Caleb, I f-feel so…”

“I know what you feel, sweetling.” His voice is thick, the measured cadence fractured by something that reeks of hunger. “I know every sensation in your pretty body. I have studied you. I have memorized you. Now I am confirming my research.”

His hands slide from her breasts. They grip her waist, and he lowers himself to his knees before her. He looks up at her through his round spectacles, the violet eyes darkened to something near black, and his hands find the hem of her skirts. He pushes them upward, slowly, revealing layer after layer of petticoats, of stockings, of the delicate, ribboned underthings that separate her from the air. She stands frozen, beautiful and small and trembling, her hands hovering in the air as though she has forgotten their function.

“Mr. Xia,” she breathes, suddenly formal until she is not. “Caleb. What are y-you—you mustn’t…”

“I must,” he says simply. “I have lasted not doing this for years. Spread your legs, my dear. Be good for me.”

She obeys. The movement is hesitant, automatic, the compliance of someone who has never been taught to refuse the things asked of her by men she trusts. He guides her feet apart with gentle pressure, and then he is beneath her skirts, his head disappearing into the shadowed, fabric-draped space between her thighs, and his mouth finds her cunt.

She is pretty there, too.

The thought arrives as a fact, as inevitable as gravity; the skin is smooth and soft as the porcelain he shapes in his kiln, the folds delicate and flushed with arousal, glistening with the evidence of her response to his mouth at her breast. He inhales her scent—sweet, yes, but beneath it the darker, saltier perfume of a woman ready to be taken, the essential musk of her sex that no doll, no matter how perfect, can replicate.

Caleb groans, the sound vibrating against her most sensitive flesh, and then he feasts.

His tongue parts her. It strokes upward from her entrance to the hood of her clitoris with a slow, devastating thoroughness, lapping at her as though she were a delicacy to be savoured rather than consumed in one measly bite. She cries out, her hips bucking, her hands falling to his head, gripping his hair with a desperation that seems to surprise even her. He does not allow her movement. His hands clamp around her thighs, holding her spread and open and vulnerable to his mouth, and he delves deeper, pressing his tongue inside her, tasting the liquid heat of her core, before withdrawing to circle her clit with relentless, flickering pressure.

“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, please, I can’t—it’s too much, aah! I-It’s—”

“It is exactly enough,” he murmurs against her, the words muffled by her flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the pressure. “You will take what I give you. You will take it, and you will thank me, and you will give me more.”

He slides one hand upward, beneath the bunched fabric of her skirts, and finds her entrance with his fingers. Two of them, long and cool, are pressing into her tightness with a steady, unyielding pressure. She is wet, so wet, slick and scorching around his digits, and the sensation of her inner walls clutching at him—living, responsive, desperate—draws another groan from his chest. He pumps his fingers in rhythm with his tongue, curling them upward to stroke the spot inside her that makes her knees buckle, that makes her cry out with a sharp, animal sound that has no place in the receiving room of a noble house.

Caleb makes her cum with his mouth.

The orgasm rolls through her like a tide, slow and inexorable, building from the pressure of his tongue and the stroke of his fingers until she is shaking, sobbing, her thighs trembling around his head, her hands pulling his hair with a force that would dislodge a lesser man’s composure. He is no lesser, much less, is he a man. He does not stop. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but maintaining the suction around her clit, milking her with his fingers, drawing out every spasm, every clutch, every drop of pleasure until she is limp, gasping, her head lolling in every which way from surrender.

But he is not finished.

Before she can recover, before her breathing can steady, he renews his assault. His fingers move faster, deeper, curling against her inner walls, and his mouth descends again to her clit, sucking with renewed, almost punishing intensity.

A wail rips through her, and she tries to close her legs, to escape the deluge, but his grip is iron, his will absolute. “No,” he commands against her, the word a hot breath against her oversensitive flesh. “You do not retreat from me. You do not deny me. Give me another, little one. Give me what I am owed.”

She cums again, but this time, much harder. The second orgasm crashes into the first without boundary, a continuous wave of pleasure that seems to break something loose in her, some final tether to propriety or consciousness. She sobs his name, “Caleb,” and her body convulses around his fingers, her juices flooding his hand, his chin, the fabric of her ruined underthings.

When he withdraws, she is barely standing.

He emerges from beneath her skirts with his chin wet, his spectacles slightly askew and splattered with slick, his eyes are completely black and blazing with a violet light that seems to generate its own heat.

Caleb rises to his feet, his movements fluid and jointed, and he catches her as she sways, lifting her into his arms with an ease that belies the density of his own frame. “Good girl,” he whispers against her temple. He carries her—not to the chaise—but to the carpet in the centre of the room. The rug is thick and designed with an intricate pattern of blues and golds that will cushion her and hide what spills. He lays her upon it with a gentleness that contradicts the violence of his intention, arranging her limbs with the same care he applies to his dolls, spreading her legs, lifting her hips, positioning her so the lamplight falls across her flushed, naked skin in the exact manner he requires.

And then he turns to the side table.

The doll lies there still, eyes open, her soft hair arranged across the surface. Caleb reaches for her. He lifts her with one hand, the other already working at the fastenings of his trousers, and he places the doll on the carpet before them, sitting in a way that faces them, her painted gaze fixed upon the scene with the unblinking, eternal patience of an audience.

He positions her carefully, ensures her eyes align with the joining of their bodies.

“There,” he says, and his voice is thick, distorted, the voice of something that has worn human speech for too long and is beginning to let the seams show. “Our newest daughter must watch. She must see how Papa loves her Mama. She must learn what wanting truly means.”

Caleb frees himself. His cock is heavy, flushed dark with blood, the skin stretched tight and glistening at the tip with the evidence of his own arousal. He is large—he knows this, has always known it—and he grips himself at the base, guiding himself to her entrance, pressing the broad, weeping head against her slick, fluttering folds.

She looks up at him from the carpet, her eyes glazed, her hair dishevelled, her dress bunched around her waist like shed skin. She is small beneath him, fragile, a living doll arranged for his pleasure, and the sight of her—open, waiting, his—drives a shudder through his spine that he does not suppress.

“Look at me,” he commands. “Not the doll. Not the room. Me. Know who takes you.”

“Caleb,” she breathes. “I-I’ve never—no one has e-ever—”

“I know.” The words are a purr. “And no one ever will. You are mine, my sweetling. I will be your first and your only one forever.”

He pushes inside her.

The tightness is exquisite. It is purity, it is possession, it is the absolute, irrefutable claim of a man who has waited beyond the patience of mortals and now takes what time has owed him. She is wet, prepared by his mouth and his fingers, but she is small, and he is thick, and the stretch of her virgin flesh around his intrusion draws a cry from her throat that is part pain, part wonder, part something deeper that neither of them has language for. He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on her face, watching every flicker of sensation cross her features, cataloguing her responses with the obsessive attention he brings to his glazing.

Caleb bottoms out. The head of his cock presses against her cervix, nudging the gate of her womb with a steady, battering pressure that makes her gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into the wool of his coat.

He is seated to the root inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, the rhythmic, involuntary flutter of her muscles trying to accommodate his girth, and he holds there, letting her feel the full extent of his possession, letting her understand the depth of her impalement. “Feel me,” he murmurs, and his hips begin to move slowly. Each withdrawal is a torture of friction, and each thrust is a deliberate, grinding return that drives him against her cervix with unrelenting force. “Feel where I am. This is where I belong, my dear; buried inside your pretty cunt, so deep that you cannot tell where you end and I begin.”

“Please,” she sobs, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. “Please, Caleb, I—it’s too much, y-you’re so—”

“I am exactly enough,” he growls, and his pace intensifies—not faster, but harder, each thrust landing with a heavy, wet slap of flesh against flesh, the sound obscene and perfect in the quiet room. “And you will take all of me. You will open for me. You will mold yourself around my shape until you cannot breathe without me.”

He fucks her with the intensity of a man performing a sacred rite, his hips rolling and snapping with a precision that seems to target the exact depth, the exact angle, the exact pressure required to shatter her. He watches her, the thin rim of violet in his gaze boring into her face as his cock batters her cervix, as her breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts, as her mouth falls open around sounds that are no longer words but pure, unfiltered expressions of being taken.

“You are going to Lemuria,” he gasps, and the words are punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic impact of his body into hers. “You are going to the sea. To the sun. To your father’s estate. But I will be with you. Do you understand? I will be so deep inside you that it is like I am with you always. Every step you take on that shore, you will feel me. Every wave that breaks, you will remember this. You will carry me in your womb, my seed, my weight, my presence. You will never be free of me, my lovely girl. You will never want to be.”

“Yes,” she cries, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, her face flushed and desperate and beautiful. “Yes, please, I want—I want you with me, I want—”

“You have me.” He leans down, his weight pressing her into the carpet, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss. “All of me. Now give me your pleasure again. Give it to me while I take you. Give it to me because I demand it.”

She cums around his cock.

The orgasm is different from the ones he gave her with his mouth—deeper, more violent, a convulsion of her inner walls that grips him like a fist, milking him, demanding his own release. She screams into his mouth, or perhaps he swallows the sound; her body arches off the carpet, her spine bowing, her nails scoring his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. The sensation of her climaxing on him, the rhythmic, desperate clenching of her virgin cunt around his invading flesh, tears a groan from his chest that seems to originate from somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere that has never before been permitted to make noise.

But he does not stop.

Caleb breaks the kiss and stares down at her, his spectacles are askew, and his eyes are burning with a black-violet light. “Again,” he commands. “One more. The last one, sweetling. Promise me; promise me you will give me one more, and I will fill you. I will mark you from the inside where no one can see, where only you will know, where you will carry my claim across the sea and through every day of your life.”

“I promise,” she sobs, delirious, overwhelmed, her body still twitching from the aftershocks. “I promise, I promise, please—”

“Together,” he murmurs, and the word is binding like a vow. “Promise, sweetling. Promise. Together now. Good girl.”

He increases his pace. The rhythm that was slow and intense becomes something else—faster, harder, a pounding, battering assault that shakes her body against the carpet, that drives the breath from her lungs, that makes her breasts bounce and her thighs tremble and her head fall back in absolute, surrendered abandon.

“Caleb,” she screams. “Caleb, I can’t, I’m going to—I’m—”

“Now,” he snarls. “With me. Give it to me now.”

She shatters.

The final orgasm crashes through her with the force of a wave breaking against stone, a continuous, rolling convulsion that seems to originate from her core and radiate outward until every limb, every muscle, every nerve is singing with the violence of her release. And as she cums— as her cunt grips him like it can't bear to let go—he finally allows himself to follow.

He buries himself to the hilt inside her, pressing so hard against her cervix that she can feel the pulse of his release like a heartbeat in her deepest place, and he spills into her with a heat that seems to scald, a volume that seems impossible, flooding her womb, her channel, marking her with the irrevocable evidence of his possession. He groans, a sound like stone grinding against stone, like the kiln’s deepest fire finding voice, and he pumps into her with short, jerking thrusts, ensuring every drop is deposited, ensuring nothing is wasted, ensuring she will leave this room carrying him inside her in a way that no sea, no distance, no time can dissolve.

They collapse together, and he does not withdraw; he stays inside her, softening but still present, still claiming, and he gathers her against his chest with hands that tremble only slightly. She is limp, gasping, her face pressed against his collar, her tears wetting his cravat.

The doll watches from the carpet, patient and eternal.

Just like himself.

“Good girl,” Caleb whispers into her hair, his voice returned to its low, melodic register, though it is thickened, satiated, almost sleepy in its satisfaction. “My perfect, sweet girl. You did so well for me. You took everything. You gave everything.”

“Caleb,” she mumbles, half-conscious, her body still twitching with aftershocks around his spent length. “I feel you. I can still feel you. It’s like—it’s like you’re still—”

“I am,” he says. “I will be. Even in Lemuria. Even when you stand on the shore and watch the tide. You will feel me inside you, warm and heavy and real. You will touch yourself in the dark and find me there. You will never be alone, my dear. You have never been alone. I have been inside you since the first doll.”

He adjusts her in his arms, withdrawing finally with a wet, obscene sound that makes her whimper at the loss, and he arranges her dress with gentleness, covering her breasts, smoothing her skirts, restoring the fiction of her propriety even as his seed slides down her skin, even as the mark of him pulses in her bruised, swollen core. He lifts the doll from the carpet—his hands are steady now, perfectly steady—and he places it into her limp, unresisting arms. “Hold her,” he instructs. “Take her to Lemuria; let her watch the window, let her wait with you. And when you look at her, when you see her eyes in the dark, remember that she sees you too, that I see you too.”

She clutches the doll. Her fingers are weak, trembling, but they close around the porcelain body with such tenderness that it makes him smile. “I will,” she whispers. “I promise.”

Caleb stands. He adjusts his clothing—trousers fastened, coat smoothed, spectacles straightened, cravat adjusted to hide the absence of any heartbeat in his throat. He looks down at her, at the beautiful creature lying spent and claimed on the Duke’s carpet, cradling his doll, leaking his seed, marked by him in ways invisible and indelible.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Your father departs tomorrow. I will not see you again before you go. But I am with you. I am always with you.”

He steps into the hallway, closes the door with a click that seals the afternoon into memory, and descends the grand staircase with the posture of an artisan who has merely delivered a commission and received the payment in full.

Dearest Readers,

It is with a trembling hand and a fluttering heart that your humble observer dips her quill into the inkwell this morning, for the sheets that have arrived upon my desk contain intelligence so staggering, so deliciously unprecedented, that one scarcely knows whether to clutch one’s pearls or order a fresh gown for the inevitable celebrations.

Gather round, for the fog of rumour has at last parted.

The Duke of Lemuria—yes, that Duke, the very same whose holdings kiss the salt and spray of the shores, whose treasury is said to be buoyed by tides of pearl and amber—has issued a formal announcement that has set every drawing room, every guildhall, every cloistered corridor of the Citadel, and every shadowed nook of Skyhaven ablaze with whispered conjecture. His Grace declares, in language so carefully wrought it might have been carved from ivory itself, that his only daughter, that radiant creature whom society has long delighted to call the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, is to be united in matrimony to none other than Mister Caleb Xia of Linkon City.

Allow that name to settle upon your palate, dear reader.

Mister Caleb Xia.

The Dollmaker of Skyhaven.

To the uninitiated, one might assume this to be some quaint romantic fancy—a noble daughter smitten with a handsome craftsman, a minor scandal of the heart to be hushed with a modest settlement and a swift removal to the country. But we, who have watched the currents of power eddy and swirl through the capital these many years, know that nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely quaint.

Nothing concerning Mister Xia is ever merely anything.

He has never, in all his years of public prominence, demonstrated the slightest interest in the marriage mart. No seasonal balls have found him in attendance. No matchmaking mama has succeeded in cornering him beside the punch bowl. He has moved through our society like a figure in a dream, present and yet untouchable, visible and yet unmistakeably distant. And now, suddenly, shockingly, he is to be a husband. Not merely a husband at that, but a duke.

For here is the particular inclusion of this announcement that has set the Empire trembling upon its axis: upon the solemnization of this union, Mister Caleb Xia shall cease to be Mister Xia in any meaningful social sense. He shall be addressed, henceforth and in perpetuity, as the Duke of Lemuria. He shall assume the full mantle of ducal authority, the administrative sovereignty over those sun-drenched coastal estates, the parliamentary voice in the Imperial Diet, the hereditary privileges and crushing responsibilities that have, for centuries, descended through the bloodline of his bride’s noble house. The Duke of Lemuria—her father, the present incumbent—has effectively declared that his title, his legacy, and his territories are to be entrusted to a man whose primary credential is an unparalleled ability to sculpt a human face from fired clay.

One can almost hear the collective gasp of the aristocracy echoing across the cobblestones.

But wait, dear reader, for the plot thickens into a consistency one might almost spread upon toast. His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor himself—he who sits upon the Obsidian Throne and commands armies that make the earth tremble—has granted his personal approval to the match. This is no mere formality. The Emperor’s endorsement transforms what might otherwise be dismissed as a provincial peculiarity into an affair of state. He is to be family. Imperial family, by extension. The Emperor has, in effect, placed his own shadow between the Dollmaker and those who would seek to question him.

But what of the bride, you ask? What of the creature who has, by this announcement, become the most envied and, one suspects, the most scrutinized young woman in the Empire?

We have long known her as the Darling of the Sun and the Sea, the only daughter of the Duke, a vision of beauty have launched a thousand sonnets and twice as many sighs from the lips of disappointed suitors.

She has resided these past seasons in her father’s capital mansion, a soft presence in a hard city that one might mistake her for a living doll herself—though, of course, no doll, however masterfully wrought, could replicate the particular luminosity of a soul that has never learned to suspect its own reflection.

It is said—whispered, rather, by those who have attended her intimate receptions—that she possesses a collection of dolls so extensive it requires its own chamber in the Lemurian mansion. One wonders, with a delicious shiver of speculation, whether this matrimony represents the culmination of a courtship conducted entirely through the medium of bisque and velvet, a romance whispered across sixteen painted faces, a seduction enacted in the language of craftsmanship.

What other suitor could possibly compete with a man who has, quite literally, populated her private world with his creations?

The matchmaking mamas of Philos are, by report, in various states of collapse. Those who had earmarked the Duke’s daughter for their own sons must now recalibrate their dynastic ambitions. Those who had harboured private hopes of attracting the Dollmaker’s eye—yes, there were such women, bold creatures who fancied themselves capable of thawing that legendary chill—have retreated to their boudoirs to shred handkerchiefs and curse the fates. The Artisans’ Guild of Skyhaven, meanwhile, has entered a state of collective apoplexy, torn between pride at their member’s elevation and terror at the vacuum his exclusivity shall leave in their ranks.

Who shall now serve as the Empire’s premier dollmaker? Who shall fill the atelier that once accepted the most discerning commissions? The answer, one suspects, is no one. The art shall become, under his continued but distant patronage, a relic of the old order.

But let us not, in our fascination with politics and power, neglect the human heart—if indeed human hearts are what beat in the breasts of these two curious figures. For beneath the scaffolding of titles and approvals and strategic calculations, there lies the simple, scandalous, utterly captivating fact of a marriage. A man and a woman. A bedchamber. A life to be shared across the miles that separate Linkon City from the Lemurian shore. She who is soft, and small, and beautiful beyond the capacity of his pigments to capture. He who is cool, and precise, and possessed of a gaze that suggests he has already mapped every day of their future together.

Will he adore her?

The announcement promises he shall. It speaks of a beautiful wife to be adored, of a duchy to be managed with the same devotion he brings to his craft. And one believes it—strange as it may seem, this one believes it absolutely. Not because the language is convincing, but because it is unnecessary. Any man who has spent years fashioning sixteen perfect masterpieces for a woman’s private chamber has already demonstrated an adoration that transcends the conventional vocabulary of courtship.

He has adored her in porcelain. He has adored her in glass. He has adored her through eyes that do not close, through limbs that do not tire, through a vigilance that has never slept. Now he shall adore her in flesh, in title, in the full, unshielded light of ducal privilege.

One can only wonder what children might issue from such a union. But that, I suspect, is intelligence for another season, another sheet, another whispered dispatch from your devoted observer.

Until then, raise your glasses to the happy couple. The tide, it seems, has turned in their favor. And the tide, as every citizen knows, does not turn back.

SAINT'S NOTES ! posting from my back-up because the reach in my main has been so fucked because of that evil fucking tag; nonetheless, have fun with the dollmaker, because i'm back to be evil and start mass-posting again after disappearing for a while. this blog is only a back-up, all interactions and masterlists can be found in here.