vaerin

The card tucked between the stems read:

To the individual of my esteem,

I have deliberated at length over the appropriate means of conveying this. I have selected these flowers following a rigorous evaluation of available specimens. They are the finest I could find.

It has come to my attention that my lungs expand with greater force when you are in the vicinity. Furthermore, You possess qualities I have found myself unable to disregard no matter how I have tried. I notice you. More than is perhaps reasonable.

Do not mistake this for weakness! It is a declaration of fact! I will be expecting a direct response.

…and it was unsigned. You only stared at it for a long moment.

"...Okay."

The way of words certainly feels familiar but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. There was no recipient, no sender. You had no idea if you were even supposed to receive this. How were you supposed to give a direct response?

You almost bumped into Sebek when you turned the corner. You held the flowers carefully in your arms because whoever it was for, the sender had clearly poured a lot of effort and feelings into it. It was most definitely something precious either way.

Sebek had purposely been standing nearby your classroom. Waiting. He grew both giddy and flustered when he saw you appear, flowers in hand.

“Oh, Sebek. I didn’t see you there.” You apologized for almost bumping into him. “Someone left these on by desk. It’s not signed so I don’t even know if it was even for me.” You gestured towards the flowers. “It’s a shame though. I’m sure whoever sent it poured a lot of love.”

Sebek mentally cursed himself. He had, as it would turn out, forgotten to sign it. He had written three drafts. The first one had been too long. The second one had accidentally turned into a speech about Malleus. The third one, the third one was good. He had hand-picked only the best of flowers in full bloom, but he had forgotten to write his name. Or yours for that matter. And now he was faced with this predicament.

“HUMAN—“ he really was about to confess, but Malleus just so happened to have turned around the corner and approached them with great interest. Most likely because you had a beautiful bouquet in hand.

Sebek’s words caught in his throat. Instead what came out was,

“WAKASAMA?”

Malleus had made comment about how the entire ordeal was ‘very interesting indeed’ with a knowing expression. The entire encounter left you very confused and with a very beautiful bouquet of flowers.

He had caught you the next day after afternoon lessons, fell into step beside you, and delivered the sentence with all the confidence of someone announcing a military victory,

"Your academic performance this term is above average. It reflects well on your overall character."

You looked at him. He looked back.

"...Thank you," you said slowly, slightly confused at the sudden compliment "Yours too?"

"Mine is exceptional," he said, because apparently he could not help himself, "as Young Master Malleus’ retainer anything less than perfect would be a disgrace.” He paused, “But that is beside the point. The point is. You are commendable."

"Commendable?”

"Yes."

You pressed your lips together. "Sebek."

"What is it, human?”

"You’ve been acting weird lately. What’s up?"

Sebek grew flustered at the comment. Because apparently you noticed something was up but not quite exactly what is up. “NOTHING IS OF YOUR CONCERN” He straightens his jacket, “I SHALL TAKE YOU TO YOUR NEXT CLASS.”

You only watched in confusion as he stomps, now a few steps in front of you. His ears were bright pink though.

His next attempt was Lilia's idea. Which, in hindsight, should have been the first warning sign.

"A serenade," Lilia had said, eyes gleaming with mischief. He definitely thought this was going to be very funny. "Nothing says devotion like music. Young Master Malleus plays strings beautifully, does he not?"

This was, objectively, a trap. Sebek walked into it completely. He borrowed a violin.

Day one, the strings. Day two, the bow hold. Days three to five, a sound that Malleus, had described as ‘spirited’. Lilia had only looked at him with the expression of a man clearly very entertained, which was worse.

Malleus had offered, out of the kindness of his heart, to help him. But how could Sebek receive such kindness from his liege. Silver had additionally made some kind of comment, as Sebek would interpret, about ‘courting someone with one’s own effort’. Since then, Sebek has been very clear he’d win you over with his own.

You were passing by the practice room on your way back when you heard him. You heard a sound then a glimpse of green hair as you passed by and decided to take a peek. He was standing inside with the posture of a man going to war —back straight, chin up, violin tucked under his jaw. He drew the bow across the strings.

It was... some kind of sound.

You leaned closer to the open door.

He played exactly eight notes. They were not the right eight notes, but they were committed. Then he looked up, he saw you standing by the door with a big smile on your face. You see his face go crimson, seemingly surprised by your presence and lowered the bow.

"HUMAN, IT IS COMMON DECENCY TO ANNOUNCE ONESELF WHEN YOU ENTER" he was very obviously trying to hide his embarrassment by increasing the volume of his voice.

“You were performing.” You couldn’t help but giggle, he was being, oddly enough, cute.

“HOW MUCH DID YOU HEAR!?”

"All of it.” You added before he could scream again, “It’s admirable. Your dedication to it.”

His jaw tightened. "Young Master Malleus plays strings with extraordinary refinement. I am in the process of… developing the requisite.”

A pause,

“I am… practicing for someone.”

“Malleus?”

Sebek looks rather defeated at this point. You were not completely wrong, but necessarily right. “OF COURSE THERE IS NO ONE MORE ADMIRABLE THAN YOUNG MASTER MALLEUS ahem—“ he coughs as he —miraculously— stops himself from going into another monologue about the young prince of Briar Valley, “I am practicing to serenade someone else.”

“Oh?” That last bit caught your interest.

"I have devoted considerable effort to this endeavour. And yet it occurs to me that I may lack fundamental comprehension of human courtship customs. The results have been... insufficient." You almost felt bad because he seemed to be genuinely working through it.

“And what have you tried?” You tilt your head at his words, genuinely invested in whatever he had going on. Sebek on the other hand, was screaming inside because you asking that specific question meant you have realized exactly none of his efforts.

“Flowers, letters, compliments. All which should have been on par to human standards, but perhaps.. it is I who is lacking”

You could almost see Sebek sulking at that point. He had tried really hard. At least that was what it seemed like. What kind of person would have had flowers and love letters thrown their way and not realize of existing romantic intentions from the other party. And seeing that he is still trying, it seemed like whoever this person was had not given him a proper rejection. Then at that exact moment, the gears in your head turn. Flowers… letters… the compliments he kept giving you lately.

oh.

And then it clicked. You gasped at the realization,

“Okay, don’t scream to the heavens if I’m wrong, but by any chance” Your words left your lips as you thought of the best way to ask,

“Sebek, is it me you are trying to court?”

Your guess must’ve hit the mark because he went bright red and if you only had a tomato in hand right now they’d be twins.

You were sure you were also red. Maybe not as red, but definitely red.

“Sebek… I am so sorry.” You were mentally beating yourself up over the entire situation. You had put the poor boy through a field day —weeks of them apparently. But you also felt, really, really happy because he had put so much effort and it was clear he didn’t want to present anything to you that was less than perfect.

"I HAVE NOTHING TO BE PITIED FOR—" he caught himself, he has been doing that a lot lately. He’s been so aware of you and of himself in extent. And then at a lower volume, "I am not so easily deterred."

You looked at him.

He looked back, ears still crimson, eyes burning into you like a man who had decided that dignity was the hill he was going to die on.

"I had accounted," he continued, very carefully, "for the possibility that my initial efforts were lacking and had intended to improve them. I still intend to improve them."

"Sebek."

"I have not yet played the violin correctly."

"Sebek—"

"I have not yet played it once correctly," he said, with the gravity of someone filing a formal complaint against himself, "and I refuse to consider this concluded until I have done so at least.”

"Sebek, I like you."

He stopped. The practice room was very quiet.

You were definitely red now. Fully, completely red. But you had started it so you kept going.

"I didn't realize," you said, "and I'm sorry it took me so long. But I— yes. It's yes. If you are asking what I think you’re asking."

Sebek stared at you. You watched him have a complete melt down.

"...You," he started. Stopped. "You are —"

Stopped again.

Then, because apparently it was very important that he finishes what he started,

"I HAVE NOT YET SERENADED YOU PROPERLY.”

You laughed before you could stop it, you were sure you snorted and when you looked back at him he was still not looking at you but he seemed to be… almost relieved.

"Then come find me," you said, "when you have."

He looked back at you then. He looked so terribly, earnestly happy that it made your chest ache a little.

"I SHALL HOLD YOU TO THAT." he said.

"Have you tried singing? Perhaps that would be a better option.” you suggested. Then you added shyly because you figured after everything it was best to be direct, “I would not like to wait too long to date you. To be honest.”

You just threw whatever composure he had gathered in the short moment out the window because he went right back to being bright red. “HUMANN—“

“I’M SAYING. I’m being direct. Like you said in your letter.”

Sebek had considered what he wrote then decided, perhaps, this once, “I will consider the singing…”

“Good.” You smiled and walked towards him, then planted a short kiss on his crimson cheek. “Good luck charm.”

He really, really almost fell back at that and you quickly skipped away before he could yell in your ear,

“Marry me, Grand Duke.”

The words leave you before hesitation can catch up—firm, unwavering, laced with a strange, almost reckless determination that surprises even yourself.

And then, silence.

It falls heavy across the room, thick enough to suffocate. The man before you—the infamous Wolf of the North—stares as though you’ve just uttered something incomprehensible. His eyes, sharp yet dulled by exhaustion, widen ever so slightly. It’s subtle, fleeting… but it’s there.

Beside him, Narrator stiffens. His brows knit together immediately, the disapproval clear in the way his gaze flickers between you and his master. Neither of them speak. Neither of them look pleased. Of course they wouldn’t be.

The Wolf of the North— Ashveil.

An isolated Duke, seldom seen, rarely heard—more rumor than man in the eyes of society. The nobles whisper of him like a ghost that never quite passed on. A living corpse, they say. A man who never attends gatherings, never mingles, never even steps beyond his dukedom unless absolutely necessary.

A presence so absent that he becomes forgettable. Less memorable than even a passing commoner. And yet, you had just proposed marriage to him.

To anyone else, it would sound like madness. Marrying the Duke of Kronstadt was no different than sentencing yourself to a slow, suffocating existence. A loveless union in a land stripped of warmth—hell disguised in nobility.

But those warnings barely register in your mind.

How could they?

You know this world.

You know him.

Because this is a story you’ve already read.

Fragments of it linger in your memory like fading ink, incomplete and unreliable. You don’t remember everything—far from it. The plot escapes you in places, details slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you try to recall them.

But there is one thing—one person—you never forgot.

Ashveil.

The very man sitting before you now. Your favorite character. A minor role in the grand scheme of the novel. A tool. A key to push the plot forward.

And yet, the one who stayed with you long after you turned the last page.

Ever since you settled into this unfamiliar world, adapting to its rules, its etiquette, its suffocating expectations—there has been one thought that refused to leave you.

His ending. That cruel, quiet ending.

They say his land is cursed with gloom, that his territory resembles the aftermath of a battlefield long abandoned. Lifeless. Hollow. Forgotten.

But that image is nothing more than a narrative shaped by shallow standards. Because in this world, liveliness is measured in extravagance. The louder a noble flaunts their wealth, the more “prosperous” they are deemed. And Ashveil he does none of that.

So, they call him dying. They say he has been gravely ill ever since the war—since the moment he narrowly escaped death. It is a convenient explanation and a believable lie. But you know better— there is no illness. There is only a beast.

A thing that lives within him, born from the very moment he stood at death’s door and refused to cross it. A power that was never meant to be his salvation, yet became both his armor and his cage. You remember it vaguely—the way the story described it as both a blessing and a curse. His soldiers had feared him. Feared him enough to nearly label him a monster. Until they realized that he was still conscious. Still human.

To carry something like that alone— to be reduced to whispers and isolation because of it…you can’t let that happen.

Not again.

Not when you have the chance to change it.

This isn’t pity. It's something softer yet firm at the same time. Something far more stubborn.

If everyone else in this story gets their happy ending, why can’t he?

“…An elaboration would be appreciated.” The voice pulls you back.

Ashveil speaks at last, breaking the tension that had stretched unbearably thin between you. His tone is composed, quiet—but there’s a weight to it now, something more deliberate. His gaze settles on you fully, no longer caught off guard but searching. What lingers is a careful and measured search.

Hope hits you so suddenly it almost hurts. He didn’t refuse nor did he dismiss you.

You almost laugh. You almost cry. Instead, you clear your throat, forcing your expression back into something dignified—something befitting the noble you’ve learned to become.

“Gladly, Your Grace.” The words come easier now, steadier, as you grasp onto the logic you prepared—no matter how hastily it was formed.

“For the past few months, I’ve been reviewing the economics of Kronstadt,” you begin, your voice calm, controlled. “While it remains stable on the surface, it has been steadily accumulating risk. Trade routes have weakened, resource distribution has grown uneven… and your people—”

You pause, lifting your gaze to meet his directly.

“—are beginning to fall into poverty.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I assume,” you continue, softer but no less firm, “that Your Grace has been unable to address these matters due to your… prolonged recovery.” A careful choice of words, a lie you knowingly play along with.

“I propose a marriage,” you conclude, your fingers curling slightly against your dress, “with the intent of assisting both you and your territory. With my position and resources, I can help stabilize what has begun to falter.”

When you finish, the silence that follows feels different. Though less suffocating, it felt more… weighted.

A quiet breath escapes you, relief brushing past your chest as you resist the urge to slump in your seat. Internally, you cling to the argument you’ve just constructed, pieced together in the moment yet grounded enough to stand.

Not perfect but not bad either. Across from you, Ashveil falls silent once more. He is lost in thought. Because everything you said—

is true.

He has seen it. The slow decline. The strain placed upon his land, his people. The burden he has gradually shifted onto Narrator as his own strength wanes—not just physically, but mentally.

It is exhausting.

Everything is.

His gaze shifts to the side, landing briefly on his assistant. Narrator meets his eyes and gives a small nod. The gesture was a mix of approval, practicality, relief even.

This marriage would ease the weight pressing down on them both. Your status alone would bring stability, your involvement a solution he can no longer provide on his own.

It makes sense.

So why does he hesitate?

Because beneath all of that logic lies something far less rational. Something far more dangerous.

You.

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly against the armrest, tension coiling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. Political marriages are nothing new. No one would question his choice—not with his reputation, not with his isolation.

No one would care.

But you would be the one standing beside him.

Would you still look at him like this if you saw what he truly was? If the thing inside him stirred—

if it lashed out— What if he hurts you?

A hand rests on his shoulder, a firm yet grounding touch. Ashveil blinks, the spiral of his thoughts abruptly cut short. Narrator’s presence anchors him back to reality, reminding him—quietly, insistently—that you are still here.

Still waiting.

Still watching him with that same unwavering gaze. You haven’t looked away. Not once. You've been eagerly waiting for his answer.

Slowly, he straightens. The hesitation doesn’t disappear—but it settles, pressed down beneath something heavier. Something final.

A decision.

“I accept the proposal.” The words fall cleanly between you, sharp and absolute—like a blade severing what once was.

There is neither hesitation or retreat. And though neither of you say it, the moment lingers.

Because this is where everything begins.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The wedding proceeded as smoothly as one could expect. Truthfully, there was no reason for it not to. By the Grand Duke’s order, your guest list had been limited to no more than two—a restriction you accepted without protest, for there were only two people you would have chosen regardless: your parents.

For him, the number barely rose to three. Narrator’s presence was non-negotiable, a constant shadow at his side, while the remaining two guests were far more… intriguing.

One stood draped in muted tones of grey and black, their presence quiet yet undeniably sharp, like a blade hidden beneath cloth. The other was their complete opposite—pink, neon, loud even in stillness.

You recognize them, not fully, not clearly, but enough for fragments of memory to stir. Pieces of a story you can no longer fully recall. And yet, instinct tells you one thing with certainty: if you wish to truly reach Ashveil, you will have to earn their acknowledgment first.

The wedding night, however, fails to live up to its name. It is Ashveil himself who requests separate chambers—a decision that, under any other circumstances, would birth endless rumors and quiet ridicule among noble society.

But you say nothing, because you understand. This is not reluctance, nor is it rejection. It is restraint—his body, not his will. The arrangement does little to bother you. If anything, it grants you a strange sort of ease, a space to think, to plan, to settle into the life you have willingly stepped into. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the servants.

The maids whisper constantly. Their voices weave through the halls like threads of silk—thin, persistent, impossible to fully ignore. Speculation, curiosity, amusement… all of it spills freely behind careful hands and lowered gazes. You find it entertaining, more than you probably should. At times, you even pause to listen. Because truly, what better way to understand the nature of royalty than to experience both its reverence and its ridicule firsthand? A dream and a nightmare, intertwined so seamlessly that one cannot exist without the other.

The first few days of your marriage pass within the confines of the Wolf Palace, and it is exactly as you expected. For a Duke who rarely leaves his chambers, whose presence lingers more as an idea than a reality, your expectations had never been particularly high.

The nights you once spent recalling what little you knew of him had not painted a hopeful picture. If anything, they had prepared you for this quiet distance. Still, reality settles heavier than imagination, and amidst the growing weight of responsibilities and the suffocating stillness of unfamiliar halls, you find yourself with an unexpected source of company.

The head maid— Loretta.

Her first appearance is nothing short of proper. Polite, attentive, efficient—and yet, you see it. That flicker of mischief beneath the surface. “I’ll be at your service, Grand Dutchess,” she says with a graceful bow, her posture impeccable.

It catches you off guard for only a moment, a brief reminder that despite your confidence, this life is still new. You clear your throat, slipping back into composure with practiced ease.

“And your name may be?” you ask, as though the answer is not already known to you.

Loretta lights up instantly—too instantly. “It’s Loretta, Your Grace—!” Her hands come together in an almost excited clap, the formality of her position momentarily forgotten. And just as quickly, realization dawns on her. Embarrassment floods her expression. “Ah… my apologies. That was improper of me.”

A soft chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, and she freezes at the sound. You shake your head, easing your expression as you gently stifle your laughter. “Do not be afraid,” you reassure her, your tone warm despite the setting. “I truly don’t mind.”

Relief washes over her so visibly it’s almost amusing. And truly—it is. Because this is the same woman who, under the cover of night, becomes something else entirely.

A silent overseer. A quiet hunter within palace walls. You’ve heard the whispers, the stories—of how she identifies disloyalty with frightening precision, how thieves disappear, how unfaithful servants are plucked from their positions as if they had never existed at all. And yet, before you, she stands like this—gentle, careful, almost endearing.

You nearly laugh again. What an interesting place you’ve married into—a palace of wolves, and a head maid who purrs like a cat.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A sigh escapes your lips as your gaze lingers over the letters spread neatly across your desk. The handwriting is clean, precise—line after line of carefully constructed words that carry more weight than they appear to. You aren’t even sure how the news reached them. As a low-level noble, you had never been important enough to warrant such attention. And yet now… now that you bear the title of Duchess, it seems the world has suddenly remembered you exist.

Even so, the attention does little to ease your mind. If anything, it adds to the pressure.

The workload is heavier than you anticipated, though not unexpected. You had prepared yourself for this—mentally, strategically—and so you do not complain. The real issue lies elsewhere.

You rarely see your husband.

The thought lingers longer than you’d like.

It leads you to quieter suspicions—whether the maidservants have been following your instructions properly, whether he’s been eating at least three meals a day as you had ordered, whether anyone is truly keeping track of him at all.

Your eyes fall back onto the papers. The words remain unchanged. Unfeeling.

The invitation resting among them feels especially cold. Its polite phrasing does nothing to mask what lies beneath—whispers, judgment, quiet scrutiny waiting for you the moment you step into noble society’s gaze. It promises nothing but observation, nothing but the slow dissection of your choices.

Progress is slow. Painfully so. And time will not wait for you.

If things continue like this, then the path ahead will remain unchanged. The same path that led him—led all of them—toward endings you refuse to accept.

No. This won’t do.

You rise before you can second-guess yourself. Your chair shifts softly against the floor as determination settles into your movements. Without hesitation, you make your way toward Ashveil’s study, your pace steady, purposeful.

Behind you, Loretta follows faithfully. Ever since she had been assigned to your service, she has trailed after you like a loyal wolf cub—sharp-eyed, attentive, and far more observant than she lets on.

Your thoughts swirl endlessly as you walk. Fragments of the novel, your own actions, the possibility of suspicion, the fragile connections between Kronstadt and the rest of noble society—they all blur together into a restless storm.

And then, you collide with something. Someone.

“Muddlefudger!” The gruff exclamation snaps you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting a familiar sight—grey and black streaks of hair, sharp eyes filled with irritation.

Ah. Boothill. — the Wolf Duke’s so-called eldest son.

Born among rogue cowboys, dragged into a war that never should have touched him. A child forced into a battlefield by nobles who deemed the aftermath too filthy for their own soldiers. You remember this part clearly—the fragments of his past etched deeper into your memory than most.

A near-broken body. A boy left to die. And Ashveil— who had found him.

Rumor had it that the Duke postponed an entire ambush for a single day, just to ensure the medics were fully devoted to saving the child. A decision that made no sense strategically, yet defined everything about him.

No formal adoption ever followed, no official papers and yet, the entire kingdom knows. Boothill is his son in every way that matters. And just like his father, his fate in the novel had not been kind.

“Hey, bow to the Duchess!” Loretta’s sharp voice cuts through the moment, pulling you from your thoughts. Before she can continue, you lift your hand, silencing her with a simple gesture.

Boothill huffs, clearly unimpressed. But then, he looks at you. Not a passing glance, not a dismissive stare, he actually looks.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, studying one another in silence. His brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his expression as though reality has failed to meet his expectations.

“That’s the Duchess?” The bluntness earns him no favor, but it does not surprise you.

This defiance—this sharp-edged attitude—is exactly as you remember. The same boy who once stood against nobles during a rogue mission, the same one who refused to bend even when surrounded by authority.

And yet, you smile. It is soft, welcoming, unexpected. If it weren’t for the novel, you might have answered differently.

“That is the Dutchess, Boothill,” you reply lightly, your tone carrying a quiet ease that contrasts his roughness. Then, tilting your head ever so slightly, you add, “Pray tell, have you been skipping training as well?”

The glare he sends your way could freeze lesser men. You remain unmoved.

“What’s it to ya’?” he shoots back, his voice sharp with challenge. “Ya haven’t been here for even a month.”

The words are blunt. They would sting, to most but not you. This is expected— necessary, even. If you want him to warm up to you, then this phase must be endured. And perhaps, nudged along.

“What’s it to me?” you echo, a faint gleam of mischief flickering in your eyes. “Let’s see… even within my short stay, I’ve managed to build connections with the Oak Family.” You tilt your head, your voice dipping into something almost playful. “Which means… no more Miss Robin’s assistance for you.”

The reaction is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable. For just a second, you catch it—a faint flush creeping onto his cheeks, embarrassment slipping through the cracks of his defiance. You almost laugh, but manage to hold it in.

Boothill clicks his tongue, turning his gaze away. “Ya don’t gotta threaten me like that.”

And just like that— he’s gone. Running through the halls as if the conversation had never happened.

You watch him leave, knowing you’ve struck something—not the deepest nerve, but enough. The Oak Family… or rather, Robin, has always been a constant in his life. You remember that much. Her presence during the aftermath of the war, the quiet bond formed through shared vulnerability.

And more importantly— her role in what was to come. Or at least— what you think you remember.

Barely a minute passes before the silence is broken again. “Young master, please return to the Knights!” The shout echoes through the halls as a group of knights rush past, their leader standing out immediately.

Argenti.

Rose-haired, composed, and painfully earnest.

It is not a surprising sight. Boothill’s aversion to discipline—especially anything resembling noble restraint—has already made itself clear. At this point, you suspect this is a daily occurrence.

Argenti stops before you, posture straight despite the clear frustration lingering in his expression.

“I apologize for the disturbance, Your Grace,” he says, his tone sincere. “I did not wish to interrupt your conversation, and thus… I was unable to catch him.”

This time, you laugh. Soft, but unmistakable.

The sound catches him off guard entirely. His brows lift, surprise flickering across his face as though he cannot quite process the reaction.

You shake your head gently, calming your laughter.

“A dutiful knight you are, Argenti,” you say warmly. “Truly admirable.” The effect is immediate. Surprise gives way to something softer—something brighter.

“How…?” the question lingers unspoken, but you can see it in his expression. How do you know his name? How are you so familiar?

A genuine smile blooms across his face regardless. “I appreciate the compliment, my lady.”

Earnest, contained, rare, but peace, as always, is fleeting.

The knights urge him onward, reminding him of his unfinished task. His expression shifts once more, duty reclaiming its place. “I shall take my leave.”

You nod, watching as he departs with the others in pursuit. And then, Loretta's laughter follows. It's a sudden one, amused even.

“Both of them will hear quite the scolding from the Duke today,” she remarks, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You hum softly, your gaze drifting down the now-quiet hallway.

Yes, you’re certain of it.

Something, at the very least will dawn upon you all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The door creaks open to the overly cold study, the sound stretching thinly through the still air. A chill greets you immediately, seeping into your skin and settling deep in your bones. If one didn’t know better, they might have mistaken this place for a morgue rather than a workspace. How such a temperature is maintained without any modern technology remains a mystery, but right now, it’s the least of your concerns.

Carefully, you ease the door shut behind you, ensuring it makes as little noise as possible. The soft click echoes faintly, swallowed by the quiet. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you move further into the room, your gaze scanning the dim interior before settling on the figure slumped in the chair.

Ashveil sits there in silence, one hand supporting his head, his posture caught somewhere between rest and deep thought. He’s too still—so still that you hesitate, unsure whether he’s truly asleep or merely lost in his own mind. You circle him quietly, watching for any sign of movement, but he doesn’t react. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place.

Encouraged by his stillness, you take another cautious step closer.

Up close, he’s… prettier than you remembered.

The soft fall of his lashes against pale skin, the strands of black hair streaked with white slipping over his face—it all feels unfairly beautiful. Even the faint flush along his cheeks seems almost delicate. It’s surreal, really. Once upon a time, he had been nothing more than a character in a story, a passing fixation, someone you admired from afar. Now, he exists right in front of you, close enough to touch.

And that thought alone is enough to make your hand lift before you can stop yourself.

It hovers just above his bangs, your fingers trembling slightly with hesitation. Just one touch, you tell yourself. Something grounding. Something to remind you that this is real. Entirely for therapeutic purposes, of course—not because he looks devastatingly handsome while asleep.

Gently, your fingers brush against his hair.

It’s soft.

Softer than you expected.

For a man rumored to house a beast within him, there is something strangely gentle in the way he feels beneath your touch. His temperature is cool—noticeably so—but not unpleasant. Your fingers linger, trailing lightly along his features, tracing the faint lines of his face as though committing them to memory. The thought settles quietly in your mind, heavy with disbelief.

You are married to this man.

You pause at his cheek, your touch hovering as you debate whether to go any further—

—and then a hand catches your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip is firm yet controlled, holding you in place without hurting. When you look up, his eyes are already on you—sharp, aware, and far too awake. The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt through you, like a wolf observing even the slightest movement of its prey.

Instinctively, you try to step back, but his hold stops you.

“My apologies, Grand Duke! I didn’t mean to—” The words spill out in a rush, tumbling over each other in your panic. Heat floods your face as embarrassment and fear intertwine, your thoughts spiraling. Is this it? Have you already ruined everything?

But then—

he laughs.

The sound is soft, unrestrained, and so unexpected that it startles you more than his grip ever could. There’s a lightness to it, a rare trace of amusement that feels almost out of place on him. Slowly, he releases your wrist, allowing you the space you had tried to claim moments before.

“My own wife touching me in my sleep,” he muses, his voice tinged with quiet teasing. “Had you not considered the consequences of such actions?”

Your embarrassment deepens instantly, your composure crumbling further. You’re the Duchess—this is not how you’re meant to behave. You scold yourself internally, trying to gather what little dignity you have left. Yet Ashveil seems to pick up on your inner turmoil with ease. He straightens in his seat before leaning slightly closer, closing the distance you had just created.

“Come now,” he continues, his tone softer, almost coaxing. “What’s with the silence? You’re making this awkward. We are married, are we not?”

You nod, still recovering, your voice quieter when you answer. “We are.”

But your attention drifts again, not to his words, but to him. The subtle tension lining his expression, the faint stress that lingers beneath his composure—it’s clear, at least to you, that he hasn’t been resting properly. The realization settles heavily in your chest.

He hasn’t been sleeping.

And just like that, a plan begins to form in your mind.

It’s not a safe one. Not a cautious one. But you’ve never been particularly good at standing by and doing nothing.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and take his hand.

The reaction is immediate.

Ashveil stills, his eyes widening just slightly as a faint flush creeps onto his cheeks. The shift is subtle, but unmistakable. You don’t give yourself time to dwell on it.

“I have a request, Your Grace,” you begin, your grip tightening just enough to steady your nerves. And before he can interrupt, you continue, “I want to share a bedroom with you tonight.”

A heavy, suffocating silence follows.

He stares at you as though you’ve just committed treason, while you internally marvel at your own boldness. Really, there’s no turning back now.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lady,” he finally replies, his tone gentle—careful, even—as if trying to guide you away from something dangerous.

Your fingers tighten around his hand. You know what this implies. You understand the risks, the implications, the boundaries being crossed.

And yet, you refuse to let him face another night alone.

“It’s a great idea, Your Grace,” you insist, your voice steadier than you feel. “Do you not hear the whispers? People are already saying our relationship is fractured within days of our marriage.”

It’s a stretch—an outright exaggeration, really. You heard one person mention it once and decided to run with it. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Ashveil watches you, unconvinced. Has he heard such rumors? No. And frankly, he doubts they exist at all. As for why you would make something like that up… well, his thoughts drift briefly in directions he pointedly refuses to acknowledge.

He exhales slowly, the sound carrying a quiet exhaustion.

“Sharing a bedroom will not bring any good,” he says, his voice softer now. “Especially with an ill man.”

You shake your head immediately, your determination unwavering. “Please, Your Grace.”

The shift in your tone is subtle, but enough.

And that is what breaks him.

After a moment of hesitation, he nods—reluctant, faintly flustered, and still entirely too aware of your hand holding his.

Relief and triumph bloom in your chest all at once. “Thank you!” you beam, your sincerity only serving to fluster him further.

As you step out of the study, leaving the biting cold behind, you faintly hear him call for Narrator, his voice quieter, almost resigned.

His poor advisor.

Tonight, he will undoubtedly be preparing for the worst.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The words spread across the palace within hours. Arrangements begin as though something grand is to take place—servants moving in hushed urgency, attendants whispering behind gloved hands, preparations unfolding with an almost ceremonial weight. Yet neither of you speak of it. Neither of you acknowledge it. Because you both know this is nothing like what they believe it to be.

Following your usual routine, you retreat into your study once more. A part of you clings to this constancy—this quiet, unchanging rhythm. It is a rare comfort, one you never had in your previous life, where silence was always fleeting and thoughts were never given room to breathe. Here, at least, you can think.

But peace has never been something that lingers long at your side.

A firm knock breaks through the stillness, knuckles rapping sharply against the door. You do not need to guess who it is. With a quiet sigh, you grant permission, and the door opens almost instantly—as if there had been no space between the knock and his entrance at all.

From the moment he steps in, you can tell something is wrong. Narrator looks… unsettled. More than that—distressed.

“Your Grace,” he begins, his voice strained, “why was I not informed of this?”

For a brief moment, his composure cracks so visibly that it startles you. He looks as though he might grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you if propriety did not chain him in place.

You tilt your head, taken aback by the sudden intensity. Still, beneath the surprise, you understand. “I did not think I needed to inform anyone,” you reply evenly, “that a married couple would share a bedroom.”

The words land heavier than intended.

You are aware of that. They sound entitled—sharp, almost—but there is little else you can say. This marriage has given you leverage, a foothold in a story that was never meant to belong to you. For that alone, you are grateful to the version of yourself that made this choice.

Narrator exhales, long and weary, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache. “You know the Grand Duke is not in the best condition,” he says, voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why place more strain on him?”

Strain.

The word feels misplaced, yet not entirely wrong. If it comes from him, then it likely comes from Ashveil as well.

You watch Narrator carefully, and it is almost as though you can hear the thoughts he refuses to voice. He is afraid—afraid that this will push the Duke too far, that allowing someone so new, so unfamiliar, into such a vulnerable space will undo everything he has spent years trying to preserve.

“Mister N,” you call, and he looks up immediately.

“I know you care for him,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, “but please… do not mistake me for a fool.”

That catches him off guard. He straightens slightly, pushing his glasses up in a reflexive gesture. “I didn’t mean to—”

You raise a hand, gently cutting him off. “I know you didn’t.” You take a step closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to make your words impossible to ignore.

“I will be gentle with him,” you say, quieter now, yet unwavering. “Trust me. I was not married into this house without knowing what awaits me.”

Silence settles between you.

Narrator’s gaze drops, his expression a tangled mess of hesitation and reluctant acceptance. He has stood beside Ashveil for decades—watched him fracture, watched him endure. He has shaped the Duke’s life into something survivable, something controlled. And now, you have stepped into that carefully constructed world.

He does not know whether to fear you… or to hope.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze again. “I understand,” he murmurs at last. “Please… take care of him. Do not push him.” His voice falters slightly. “He is more fragile than he appears. One wrong step… and he may crumble entirely.”

Those words linger, heavy on your shoulders, as you make your way to the bedroom. Each step feels deliberate, like walking toward a stage where the outcome has yet to be decided.

When the door opens, you find Ashveil already there.

He sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, posture awkward, as though he does not quite belong in his own space. His shirt is buttoned unevenly, hair slightly disheveled—strands falling in a way that almost resembles wolf ears. Whether he had only just woken or had been hurried into preparation, you cannot tell.

The thought warms you more than it should.

You step closer. Immediately, he tenses.

“No need to be so wary, Grand Duke,” you say gently. “Think of this as nothing more than a natural part of our marriage.”

He nods—too quickly, too stiffly. His prosthetic hand moves, patting the space beside him in a silent invitation. You accept, though you keep a careful distance as you sit.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, haltingly, “You must be tired… we should sleep.”

The words come out clumsy, stripped of elegance. Years of isolation have worn away at him, leaving his voice unfamiliar with softness, with ease.

You listen, you understand. But you also see what he does not say. And you have never been one to retreat.

Slowly, you reach out, your hand coming to rest against his cheek. He stiffens immediately—but he does not pull away.

Your fingers trace along his skin, familiar in a way that transcends this life. A faint smile touches your lips. “I am tired,” you admit softly, “but it would be a waste to simply sleep through the time I asked for.”

His breath catches. His hand rises, wrapping around your wrist—not harsh, but uncertain, as though grounding himself.

“Why?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why marry me? Why take on the burden of Kronstadt?”

The question does not surprise you.

But answering it… is another matter entirely.

“Is it so strange,” you say after a moment, “to wish to care for a fallen land?”

The lie slips out too easily. Because the truth has always been him.

Something flickers in his eyes—something unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiles. It mirrors yours, but where yours conceals, his reveals. There is something soft in it. Something… relieved.

And then, he gasps. The shift is immediate. His grip tightens before releasing, his body faltering as his hand flies to his chest—then to his arm.

“You should go,” he says, voice sharp now, strained. “Leave.” His nails dig into his own skin. “Leave,” he repeats.

He expects you to run. Anyone would. But you do not move. Instead, when his strength falters and he collapses forward, you catch him. His weight drives you back onto the bed, breath knocked from your lungs as he trembles above you, fighting something unseen.

His hand finds yours again—this time not gentle. Metal edges press into your skin, biting, threatening to break.

You almost flinch. But you don’t. Your focus remains on him.

“Why won’t you leave?” he demands, though his voice wavers, fractured between control and something far more dangerous.

“Because I chose to stay,” you answer, without hesitation. There is no fear in your voice; a little room for doubt, certainty present in its glory.

For a moment, something in him stills. His teeth graze over your neck, you can feel it vividly, heavy breaths fanning your pulse. He's waiting to bite, to satisfy the hunger of the beast. Then he leans closer, his body pressing against yours, breath ghosting your ear.

“You will stay with me,” he murmurs, low and raw, “forever.”

And then— He goes limp.

Silence crashes down all at once, heavy and suffocating. You do not move. Do not breathe. For a moment, you are not even sure if your heart is still beating.

Then, slowly—carefully—you inhale.

You made it. You endured the flare-up. You changed the course of the story.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest tightens, threatening to spill over. Years of preparation… all for this single moment.

And now, there is hope.

Your hand stings.

The pain registers belatedly, and when you lift it, crescent-shaped wounds stare back at you—angry, bleeding. You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh of disbelief.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from beneath him, shifting his weight with more effort than grace. You guide his head onto the pillow, movements clumsy but gentle.

Once he is settled, you search the room, recalling fragmented details from the story—until you find what you need.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, you clean the wounds. The alcohol burns, sharp enough to make you bite down on your lip, but you endure it in silence. When you finish wrapping the bandages, a knock sounds at the door.

Just once.

You pause, then rise, opening it slightly.

Narrator stands there. His expression is tense—but the moment he sees you, sees your calm, sees the quiet behind you—something in him eases.

You offer a small smile, pressing a finger to your lips.

He understands immediately. Relief softens his features, and for the first time, his smile carries something genuine.

He does not need to ask. Ashveil is safe. And for the first time in a long while— he is not alone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning light seeps through the curtains, spilling across the bedsheets in a quiet warmth. It reaches you before your thoughts fully surface, coaxing your eyes open as you slowly adjust to the brightness filling the Duke’s chambers.

You turn your head to see Ashveil laying beside you, still and undisturbed, as though the night had never unraveled him at all. In the gentleness of morning, he looks… almost unreal. The sharpness that once defined him has softened, leaving behind something deceptively peaceful.

Radiant.

It feels wrong, somehow, to see him like this after what happened. You can’t tell if this calm is his own… or something you had a hand in. After all, you were the one who stopped him. The one who kept him from tearing himself apart any further.

The thought lingers longer than it should. But duty does not. As much as you want to remain—just a moment longer, just enough to convince yourself this quiet is real—you force yourself to rise. The world beyond these walls is already waiting, and it will not wait kindly.

You slip from the bed, making your way toward the door. With each step, your mind begins its usual tally—letters unanswered, reports untouched, obligations stacked one atop another until the weight of it nearly turns you back.

As your hand rests on the handle, you hesitate. There's a feeling in your gut that something troublesome awaits you outside the door— but then again, when have you not gotten involved into something troublesome?

Then you open it. The door creaks softly as it gives way. You expect to see Loretta as you always do.

Instead, you’re met with someone else entirely.

A girl stands in the corridor, pink hair catching the light, streaked with neon that seems to hum with restless energy. There is something loud about her presence—something that refuses to be ignored even in silence.

And the moment she notices you, that silence shatters. Her gaze drops immediately to your bandaged hand before snapping back to your face.

“Moonveil Warden.”

The title hits you abruptly. For a second, you don’t respond. Your mind stumbles over the unfamiliar weight of it, instinctively searching for someone else—someone it could possibly belong to.

But the hallway is empty.

There is no one else. It is meant for you.

Slowly, you lift a hand, pointing at yourself as if to confirm. “...Yes?” you answer, hesitant, your voice betraying the uncertainty you try to mask. “Were you calling for me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you—really looks. Her gaze drags over your figure, sharp and assessing, before flickering briefly toward the bedroom behind you. And then, back to your hand. Her eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous.

“What,” she begins, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial, “did you and Solostar Wolfshade do?”

Your heart skips and you don’t let her finish. “Nothing!” The response comes too quickly, too forcefully, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. You straighten slightly, forcing composure back into your voice. “Forgive me—I was careless. It was dark, and I injured myself trying to find my way.”

The lie slips out with practiced ease, you barely even feel it anymore. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve twisted the truth since arriving in Kronstadt… and something tells you that number will only grow.

Rappa watches you intently, the way that would make only Coria sweat. For a moment, it feels like she might press further—like she’s already imagined ten different possibilities and is simply waiting for you to confirm one.

But to your relief, her shoulders ease. Not yet convinced but she's willing to let it go for now. She steps closer instead, her attention shifting. Her eyes flicker down—this time not to your bandages, but to the ring resting on your finger. When she looks back up, there’s a glint in her expression. Amusement and interest.

A smile curls onto her lips. With exaggerated flair, she places a hand over her chest and dips into a half-bow, every movement brimming with theatrical pride. “It’s an honor to meet you, Moonveil Warden,” she declares brightly. “I’m Rappa—the Dazzling Hero!”

The name settles into place. Ah— Right. Rappa.

Ashveil’s eldest daughter—though still younger than Boothill. A child once raised to be an assassin, shaped by blades and silence… only to abandon it all in favor of freedom. You remember the rumors—how she had turned against the very life forced upon her, how she had tried to ambush Ashveil’s soldiers out of desperation.

And how he had found her, eventually taken her in.

Now, she stands before you not as that frail, struggling child—but as something vivid. Unrestrained. A noble cloaked in brightness, even as the remnants of her past linger beneath the surface.

You realize, faintly, how little you remember of the others. Except Ashveil.

Clearing your throat, you offer a polite nod, waiting for her to finish her display. “May I leave now?” you ask, already glancing down the corridor. “I’m afraid I haven’t freshened up yet.”

And more importantly— Where is Loretta? Of all times to disappear.

Strangely, your question seems to brighten Rappa even further. She steps closer—close enough that you barely have time to react before her hand catches yours, warm and firm. “Does that mean the Moonveil Warden will be joining us for breakfast?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement.

Breakfast.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Everything else had taken priority. You hesitate for a moment—then give a small, uncertain nod. “...Yes. I suppose I will.”

That is all she needs.

She releases you just as quickly and turns, already dashing down the corridor with uncontainable energy. “Silvergun Shura!” her voice rings out in the distance.

The hallway falls quiet again. And just as you turn— there she is.

Loretta stands waiting, as composed as ever, as though she had been there the entire time and simply chose not to intervene.

A dull headache begins to form. “Now you decide to show up?” you mutter, unimpressed.

She laughs softly, her smile tinged with something almost apologetic—almost. “You had someone waiting for you,” she replies. “It would have been rude to take you away from her, Your Grace.”

You don’t buy it though, not for a second. But you let it slide for now— of all the storms coming today, this should be the least of your priorities.

The next thirty minutes pass in the familiar rhythm of preparation.

For a duchess, even the smallest detail is never truly small. Every fold of fabric, every strand of hair, every accessory must be corrected, adjusted, perfected—until nothing remains that could be deemed careless. Not when the maidservants of Kronstadt turn imperfection into entertainment.

Loretta trails behind you as always, silent and unbothered, as you finally step into the dining hall.

It is a vast room— far too vast. A table designed to host a court, yet occupied by only three people. The emptiness is hard to ignore. It always is. There is something about this dukedom that makes even abundance feel hollow.

Your gaze finds Ashveil immediately. He is already eating.

Of course he is.

No greeting. No acknowledgment that you were ever absent to begin with. You file that grudge away for later.

“Moonveil Warden is here!” Rappa announces brightly, as though your entrance is an event worth celebrating.

Boothill lets out a short laugh. “What kinda name is that supposed to be?”

You offer a small smile instead of a response, taking your seat beside Ashveil. Behind you, Loretta quietly chooses to stand near Boothill rather than behind you. You don’t question it— you rarely question her relationships with the staffs, or even the nobles. You do not possess much knowledge for someone who has been living here for only a month.

Your attention drifts, as it always does, back to Ashveil.

He is avoiding you.

He's trying to do it not openly nor dramatically, hoping to do it in the quiet, deliberate way of someone who keeps his eyes fixed on anything that is not you— his plate, his hands, the edge of the table. Anywhere else.

You do not press him yet. Instead, you let the noise at the table fill the space between you.

Rappa talks like silence is a crime. Boothill answers like every word is a calculation. Their voices overlap constantly—half argument, half laughter, entirely familiar in a way that makes the emptiness of the room feel slightly less suffocating.

Rappa is louder, more open, her emotions worn plainly across her face like armor she refuses to hide behind.

Boothill, by contrast, watches more than he speaks. Measures before he reacts.

They are different and yet not. Despite being more of a quieter one among the two, Boothill rarely stops when he opens his mouth— tales of the past and his skills fall out of his mouth before he can register.

Your gaze lingers between them briefly, observing their close relationship. You'd expect them to be close— especially given their past in the war, they bond over the hellish times well. Then, your focus inevitably returns to Ashveil.

He has gone quiet— more than usual. Your observant gaze pins him, dissecting every movement and behavior. His eyes are not on your face but on your hand. He seems to be specifically eyeing the bandages.

There is something there that he does not voice. Something that presses heavier than words would allow. Guilt, perhaps. Or something sharper, more self-directed than that.

It settles uncomfortably in your chest. You exhale softly, your mind a troublesome tycoon of thoughts and the need to act. Without overthinking it, you move your hand. It rests over his. It is a simple gesture, standing barely anything but his entire body tenses the moment you do it. His hand twitches once, yet he doesn't seem to attempt to pull away.

You keep your expression neutral and continue eating as if nothing has changed, even as awareness sharpens at the table.

Rappa's keen eyes are the first one to catch it. Her gaze flicks immediately to Boothill. Boothill, in turn, glances at Loretta. Loretta, infuriatingly, offers nothing in return.

No one understands. Good. Or perhaps… inconvenient.

“Moonveil Warden,” Rappa says suddenly, breaking the moment with practiced ease, “Silvergun Shura and I will be starting training in an hour. This Dazzling Hero requests your presence as an honored spectator.”

Despite yourself, your lips soften. It is impossible not to. “Of course,” you reply gently. “I would be happy to watch.”

The reaction is immediate from him. You know that he's quietly observing everything like a wolf. You feel Ashveil’s hand shift slightly beneath yours—fingers tightening just enough to be noticed, just enough to mean something he does not say aloud. Even as you do not look at him, there is a quiet understanding between you. Somewhere beneath all of this, he is pleased. Relieved, even.

The idea of his children—his fractured, scattered family—finding something resembling connection in your presence is not lost on him.

Rappa and Boothill are the first to leave, still bickering even as they exit. Loretta follows shortly after, leaving the hall with the same composure she arrived with. And just like that— It is only the two of you.

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

Ashveil does not speak immediately. He lets you decide what comes next— so you do.

“You didn’t tell me you were awake.” You take a bite of your food as you speak, keeping your tone casual.

His answer is paused, as though he does not want to say it out loud. “Didn’t think it was necessary.” The response is short— harsh even. Truth be told, he felt ashamed of the previous night to even confront you.

You accept it without comment, letting the conversation settle rather than forcing it open.

After a moment, you return to your meal.

It is… easy, in a strange way, to fall into silence with him.

You find yourself noticing small things again—his habits, his rhythm. The way he eats without pause, as though rest itself is something he has never fully learned how to do without. The sheer, almost unsettling consistency of it.

Like something that cannot be satisfied.

You do not dwell on it. Instead, you eat quietly. The thoughts will not leave you as long as it can, the swirling dissatisfaction in your heart will not be settled either. Yet, you keep quiet— for he, too, is in a predicament.

Outside the hall, something else begins to unfold.

“Did ya see that? Her hand’s bandaged.” Boothill’s voice drops into a whisper, though the hallway is empty.

Rappa leans in immediately. “Moonveil Warden said she hurt it last night. Accident in the palace.” she pauses her words. “I don’t believe her.”

Loretta hums softly, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Something did happen,” she agrees. “Though I doubt it was anything severe enough to warrant concern.”

Boothill folds his arms. “So she’s lyin'.”

“No,” Rappa counters quickly. “She just didn’t tell us everything.”

Silence follows that— an uncertain silence that can only be achieved once you've gathered clues that don't connect at all. The kind that refuses to settle into a single conclusion.

The conversation continues for a while longer, looping through theories, half-guesses, and dead ends. But none of it leads anywhere solid.

No one knows. No one can.

Because only three people in this entire dukedom carry even a fragment of the truth—and none of them are speaking.

So the mystery remains what it has always been. Unresolved, unseen and carefully, deliberately buried beneath everything else.

By the time you finish answering the last of the letters and finalizing the month’s financial accounts, the sky beyond the tall windows has already surrendered to a dull, suffocating grey. What little light had filtered through earlier in the day is swallowed whole, replaced by heavy clouds that seem to press down upon the estate itself. The rain begins not long after—first as a distant murmur, then as a steady descent, and finally as a relentless pour that blankets everything in a muted haze.

It does not belong here.

In a land where life rarely blooms and warmth is more memory than reality, the rain feels almost intrusive—like something alive entering a place that has long forgotten how to be. The air thickens with dampness, carrying a faint, musky scent that clings to the stone walls and lingers in your lungs. It is a stark contrast to your father’s territory, where rain had always felt cleansing, almost comforting. Here, it only deepens the gloom.

You should have left earlier. The thought comes too late to matter now.

It takes Loretta’s quiet reminder to pull you back to your responsibilities beyond paper and ink—the promise you had made to visit the training grounds. You do not argue, nor do you delay. Rising from your seat, you move almost immediately, the urgency in your actions mismatched with the distant, unfocused state of your mind.

Even as your feet carry you forward, your thoughts drift elsewhere. There is something unsettled beneath the surface of the day—something that lingers just out of reach, as though the world itself is quietly shifting into a shape it was never meant to take.

The training grounds come into view through the curtain of rain, their outlines softened by the constant downpour. The earth beneath your feet is damp but mercifully firm, each step sinking just enough to remind you of the water saturating the soil without trapping you in it. The sounds reach you first—sharp, rhythmic, unyielding. Steel striking steel in measured intervals, arrows slicing cleanly through the air before embedding themselves into distant targets, voices rising and falling with effort and correction.

And yet, even surrounded by it, you feel oddly detached.

The noise does not quite reach you.

Your thoughts remain louder.

You stop at the edge of the field, Loretta’s presence steady behind you as she lifts the umbrella above your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Before you, the scene unfolds with practiced familiarity. Argenti stands beside Boothill, correcting the angle of his grip with patient precision, while the cowboy—true to form—continues to complain about the absurdity of wielding a sword when a gun would suffice. Not far from them, Robin Hood oversees Rappa, his posture relaxed yet unwavering as he observes her form.

Your gaze shifts to the target. Five arrows, all buried into the center.

Perfect.

The realization settles quietly—impressive, but not unexpected. There is a reason Robin Hood regards her so highly, a reason her confidence borders on theatrical certainty.

You find yourself watching longer than intended, your thoughts slipping once more into that distant, untethered space. So much so that you fail to notice the presence approaching you.

The sound of footsteps is lost beneath the rain, the shift in air too subtle to draw your attention—until it is already too late. A shadow merges with yours.

You only stir when the faint brush of fabric against your arm pulls you back into yourself. The contact is light, almost hesitant, yet enough to ground you instantly.

Ashveil stands beside you. Closer than he usually allows himself to be. He does not speak at first. Instead, he simply stands there, his presence quiet yet unmistakable, his gaze resting not on the training grounds but on you. There is a stillness to him—an awareness that feels deliberate, as though he has chosen not to interrupt whatever thoughts had claimed you.

The silence stretches. You break it without thinking. “Did you need something, Ashveil?”

The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, natural in a way that feels far too intimate for what it should be. You realize it a moment too late but he does not correct you.

Instead, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. The touch is gentle—careful, almost uncertain, as though he is testing the boundary rather than claiming it.

“No,” he answers, the word coming quickly, yet not entirely steady. There is restraint in his voice, something held back just beneath the surface. “I just wanted to spend time with you, [Name].”

The world stills for you.

Your name.

Not your title. Not the role you have been forced into. Not the distance that has always existed between you and everyone else in this place.

Just you.

The warmth that follows is immediate and unwelcome in its intensity, spreading through your chest before you can brace yourself against it. It lingers there, soft yet insistent, refusing to be ignored.

You can feel his gaze. It is steady and unwavering. As though he is committing you to memory.

You look away first, unable hold the intensity. “I see…” Your voice is quieter than you intend, and you clear your throat in an attempt to steady it. “I’m glad you would want to.”

The words feel insufficient. Too small for something that suddenly feels far larger than it should be.

You force your attention back to the training grounds, grasping at something safer—something familiar. “Letting them train in this weather… don’t you think you’re being too harsh?”

Ashveil doesn't answer immediately, not that you expect him to answer at all. A soft sound escapes him. A laugh.

It catches you off guard.

It is quiet, nearly lost beneath the rain, but unmistakable all the same. There is something fragile about it, as though it has not been used in a very long time.

“I suggested they rest,” he admits, his tone lighter now, if only slightly. “They refused. Both of them.”

You hum softly in acknowledgment, unsurprised. Stubbornness, it seems, is a trait that runs deep within this household—whether by blood or by circumstance.

The two of you fall into a quiet rhythm after that, standing side by side as you watch the training continue. Time passes in small, unmeasured increments, marked only by the repetition of movement and the steady fall of rain.

“There used to be another one.” His voice breaks through the calm without warning.

You turn to him, your attention sharpening instantly.

His hand withdraws from your shoulder as he exhales, his gaze shifting away from both you and the field, as though the memory itself demands distance.

“Acheron,” he says, the name carried quietly between you. “She was skilled with a blade… though her taste in everything else was...questionable.” A faint attempt at humor. Though, it does not last.

“She left after a few months,” he continues, the words slower now. “No letters. No explanation. Nothing.”

The name settles into your thoughts like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

Acheron.

Fragments begin to surface—scattered, incomplete, yet unmistakable. A wandering noble with no true home. A remnant of a fallen estate. A figure destined to move between territories without ever belonging to one. You remember enough to know that her path was never meant to stay here… that her story lies elsewhere, intertwined with a future that has yet to unfold.

“But that’s in the past,” Ashveil murmurs, though there is a quiet weight beneath the words that suggests otherwise. “Wherever she is… I hope she’s safe.”

Bound to cross paths with the novel's protagonist— Evanescia, you are not certain that she is as he wishes. Crossing path anyone from the Xianzhou at this point of the plot may not be the best way to guarantee your safety, especially after their previous leader, Dan Feng's execution. But you say keep it to yourself.

The rain grows heavier, filling the silence in your place. For a moment, the world feels suspended—caught between what was and what is yet to come.

Then the thought breaks through.

“A soldier has died of poisoning in Moria.”

The words leave you abruptly, as though pulled from you rather than spoken by choice. There is a heaviness behind them, a quiet guilt that lingers in your tone despite your efforts to suppress it. Even now, after years of adapting to this life, there are parts of it that still feel foreign—parts you are never quite prepared to face.

Ashveil does not react outwardly. “I know,” he responds shortly, the words stinging in his mouth.

There is no surprise in his voice, he's expected this. “Cole reported it this morning. Mister N is investigating.”

Of course.

Cole—the poet who became a messenger of war, carrying reports in place of those who could no longer return. Since Acheron’s departure, he has filled a role that was never meant to be his, bridging absence with duty.

Your gaze drifts briefly across the field again, catching a familiar figure among the shifting forms.

Coria, perhaps. Even through the rain and distance, her presence feels distinct. There is something about her that lingers—like a melody that refuses to fade completely, even when unheard.

But your focus returns quickly.

“What did the report say?” you ask, quieter now, bracing yourself for what follows.

Ashveil takes his time to contemplate the ways to answer your question. There is a pause—long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough to suggest that the truth is something he weighs carefully before offering.

“Slow poisoning,” he says at last.

The words fall heavy, despairing and final.

“The culprit is among them. And by now…” He exhales softly, the rest of the sentence settling into implication rather than sound. “It may have already spread further than we can contain.”

The weight of it presses between you, silent yet suffocating. When you glance at him, his expression remains composed—but not untouched. There is something deeper beneath it all. Guilt, weariness and beneath both, something quieter still. Relief— not for the situation but for the fact that he is no longer bearing it alone.

The rain intensifies, blurring the edges of the world as the training below begins to dissolve. Knights retreat toward the palace in scattered formations, their movements hurried but familiar. Boothill and Rappa follow not far behind, their voices still carrying through the storm as they argue over something neither seems willing to concede.

“We should return,” you say at last, the words grounding you back into the present.

Ashveil does not argue, simply following you. Close enough that you can feel him there, just behind you—never quite beside you, yet never distant either.

You have noticed it. The way he adjusts himself around you. The way he lingers, wanting to be subtle. The way he almost—almost—closes the distance, only to stop short each time.

It makes your chest tighten in a way you cannot easily explain. You tell yourself it is nothing, that it is simply habit. Perhaps it is companionship that he seeks— the purpose of marriage was this. Something harmless.

But even as you walk through the rain, you can feel his gaze settle on you once more—steady, searching, unguarded in a way that feels far too intentional.

And the question lingers, quiet but insistent..

Why does he look at you—

as though you are the final piece of something he has been trying to complete?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rain does not stop.

Days pass, yet the sky remains sealed beneath a suffocating blanket of grey, as though the heavens themselves have chosen to abandon this land to its own decay. What began as a distant murmur has grown into a constant presence—rain tapping endlessly against the tall windows, seeping into the stone, clinging to the air with a damp heaviness that never quite leaves. Even within the palace walls, the scent of it lingers, mixing with old wood and colder things, creating an atmosphere that feels less like a home and more like something quietly rotting from the inside out.

And with each passing day, another name is added to the list.

At first, it had been manageable—tragic, but contained. A single report from Moria. A single soldier lost to something no one could immediately identify. But the pattern does not hold. It fractures, splinters, spreads. The deaths grow in number, then in frequency, each one slipping through the cracks before anyone can properly react. By the time the pattern becomes undeniable, it is already far too late to pretend this is coincidence.

You stand alone in the study, the latest report trembling slightly between your fingers despite the stillness of your body. Your eyes trace the words again and again, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of what is unfolding.

But there is nothing familiar here.

Nothing you recognize. Nothing that aligns with what you remember.

This wasn’t in the novel.

The realization no longer arrives as a shock. It settles into you like something colder, heavier—something that refuses to leave. Up until now, every step you had taken, every decision you had made, had been guided—anchored by the knowledge of what was meant to happen. Even when things felt uncertain, there had always been that quiet reassurance in the back of your mind: this is how it goes.

But now, there is nothing. The comfort of the script has long left you. And you are reminded once more that you are a stranger to this world. Caught in a future that refuses to unfold the way it should.

Your fingers tighten around the parchment. For the first time since you arrived in this world, you are truly, completely on your own.

The palace feels it. Even if no one speaks of it openly, the shift is undeniable. Conversations grow shorter, quieter, weighed down by something unspoken. Servants move with more urgency, yet less noise, as though afraid that any disruption might draw attention to something lurking just beyond their understanding. The vast halls, once merely cold, now feel hollow—like something has been carved out of them, leaving behind only an echo.

And within it all, the people closest to you begin to change.

Boothill and Rappa no longer train for the sake of improvement—they train as though survival depends on it. Their usual arguments still exist, but they lack their former ease, their edges sharpened by something far more serious. Boothill’s movements grow more precise, more deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning even when he pretends not to care. Rappa, on the other hand, throws herself into every motion with unwavering intensity, as though sheer will alone might be enough to outrun whatever is coming.

They linger around you more now.

Not in a way that draws attention.

Not in a way that disrespects your position.

But you notice it in the small things—the way Boothill adjusts his pace to match yours when you walk, even if he pretends it’s coincidence. The way Rappa insists on accompanying you under flimsy excuses that neither of you bothers to question. Even Loretta, ever composed and mischievous, has begun to remain at your side longer than necessary, her quiet presence grounding in a way that feels both comforting and unsettling.

They are protecting you. And the realization does not bring relief. Only the weight of understanding just how serious this has become.

The autopsy room is colder than the rest of the palace, as it always is. The scent of iron lingers thick in the air, layered beneath the sharp bitterness of medicinal herbs meant to mask what cannot truly be hidden. You stand over the body in silence, your gaze fixed, your mind working tirelessly to assemble pieces that refuse to fit together cleanly.

Another soldier.

Another victim.

Another life reduced to a report.

Your hand hovers just above the pale skin, unmoving as your thoughts spiral deeper into the problem. The symptoms are consistent—pain, deterioration, eventual collapse. The onset is delayed, carefully timed, as though designed to avoid immediate suspicion.

The reports point toward neither food nor water. The causes are inconsistent, an illusion of an airborne disease.

Your brows draw together as frustration builds, tightening slowly within your chest.

Then what?

Your fingers curl slightly. Think, think, think— figure something out. There are people awaiting your hopeful words that haven't reached your throat yet. You force yourself to step back, to look beyond the surface, beyond the obvious. You replay every detail, every report, every name.

Just as you uncover another sheet of report, your hand stills and your breath catches.

“…No.”The word leaves you before you can stop it.

You turn sharply toward the scattered reports, your movements quicker now, more urgent. Your eyes scan through them again, but this time with purpose—with direction.

Names, units, histories.

Your heartbeat quickens. “…They’re all connected.” The realization settles with terrifying clarity.

It's not random, never random. Every single victim—every soldier who had fallen, they all served under him.

Your grip tightens against the edge of the table.

“…Ashveil.” The name leaves your lips in a whisper.

This isn’t an attack on the dukedom. It’s an attack on him.

You don’t remember leaving the room.

Only that you are moving—fast enough that your thoughts struggle to keep up, your mind racing ahead even as your body tries to follow. The halls blur past you, familiar yet distant, your focus narrowing to a single point.

His office.

You don’t slow down, your steps catching it's pace with your heartbeat. By the time you reach the door, your hand is already raised, your breath uneven despite your effort to steady it. You knock—once, twice—but the sound feels insignificant compared to the urgency thrumming through you.

Patience fails you and the door opens beneath your hand.

The room is dim. The curtains remain drawn, shutting out what little light the storm might offer, leaving the space cloaked in shadows that stretch long across the floor. The desk is covered in papers—maps, reports, letters—each one a fragment of the chaos unfolding beyond these walls. None of them are neatly arranged. None of them are entirely out of place either.

It is the work of someone trying to hold everything together.

Alone.

Ashveil stands near the window, his figure half-obscured by the faint light that manages to slip through the gaps in the curtains. He does not turn immediately, his posture still, rigid in a way that feels less like calm and more like restraint.

“…You should be resting.” His voice is quiet. The distance in it dims your hopes by a grain. The walls you've worked so hard to chip away can rebuild itself with one wrong word.

You step inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “And you should be eating,” you reply, your tone steady despite the tension coiling in your chest. “Yet neither of us seems particularly interested in doing what we should.”

That draws a reaction—subtle, but present. A slight shift in his shoulders, a quiet exhale that barely reaches you.

When he turns to face you, the sight alone is enough to make your breath falter.

He looks… worn. Not in the way of someone who simply lacks sleep, but in a way that feels deeper, heavier. There is a strain beneath his composure now, something that lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the faint tightness of his expression. He still stands tall, still carries himself with the same quiet authority—but it is no longer effortless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words lack any real force.

“I figured it out.” You don’t give him the chance to continue.

The words land between you, immediate and unyielding. That stops him completely.

“…What?”

“The poison,” you continue, stepping closer, your voice firm despite the storm raging within you. “It isn’t random. The victims—they’re all connected. They served under you during the war.”

Your gaze locks onto his. “This is about you.”

The silence following is heavy. unavoidable. He seems hesitant, unwilling to bear the burden of your words. “…I know.”

The answer hits harder than you expect.

You stare at him, disbelief flickering across your expression. “…You knew?”

“I suspected,” he corrects quietly, his gaze lowering slightly. “I didn’t want to act on assumption alone.”

Frustration rises quickly, sharp and immediate. “You should have told me—”

“And burden you further?” he interrupts, his voice still calm, but firm in a way that stops you short. “You already carry enough.”

The words linger. Because they are not wrong. But they are not enough either.

“I am your wife,” you say, softer now, but no less resolute. “This is mine to carry as well.”

Something in his expression shifts then—subtle, but undeniable. The distance he had been holding begins to falter, just slightly, as though your words have reached somewhere deeper than he intended to expose.

“I’m failing them.” The confession comes quietly, carrying guilt wrapped in white silk, stripped of its ink before you.

“I couldn’t protect them during the war,” he continues, his voice steady but thinner now, stretched by something heavier beneath it. “And now I can’t even protect the ones who survived it.”

Your chest tightens.

“I keep thinking…” His gaze drifts, unfocused, as though searching for something beyond the present. “What would Tiernan have done?”

The name settles between you. It's new to you— not one that was mentioned in the novel. Though you have to give yourself a pat on the back for touching those books in the palace library.

Tiernan. The previous Duke of Kronstadt— a foreigner who had caught the Duke's eyes at that time, enough to be bestowed the position after his death. Ashveil is nowhere related to that man— all they share is a past and a friendship that shares this title of a 'Duke'.

“He never hesitated,” Ashveil murmurs. “Never doubted. Everything I am now—this title, this responsibility—it was his first.”

His hand tightens slightly at his side.

“And I can’t help but wonder if I’m disappointing him.” The vulnerability in his voice is quiet but it is unmistakable.

You close the distance between you fully this time. “You’re not him,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “And you were never meant to be.”

His gaze lifts, meeting yours. He doesn't miss the firmness in your voice, the determination he lacks lies within you.

“You’re carrying something he never had to,” you continue. “The aftermath of a war, the weight of an entire dukedom—and something inside you that he never had to fight.”

Your expression softens. “And you’re still standing.”

The silence that follows is different now. A fragile silence. Before you is not just the Duke of Kronstadt, but your husband. The comfort he brings almost scares you, his very being rapidly carving the unspoken words out of you like a gushing wound.

“I need to tell you something,” you start quietly.

That catches his attention, his ears perk up like a wolf hearing its favorite word.

“I’m not… from here,” you admit, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. “This world—it isn’t mine. Not originally.” The words feel surreal even now. “I knew things I shouldn’t have. About you. About everyone. Because… I read it. This life—this story—it was something written.”

Your gaze holds his, the eye-contact is the only thing keeping you courageous thus far. “I’ve been following it since the beginning.”

You feel as if you've reached a wall, beyond it is a future you can no longer forsee. And you can only look at the sky, count the stars that speaks of the unchanging past.

“But this… none of this was supposed to happen.” Your voice trembles, you almost fail to get them out. But it is out— the truth laid bare before him.

“…I know.” Is all you hear that deep voice mumble out. The lack of surprise doesn't miss you, he barely gives a reaction.

“You… what?”

A faint, tired smile crosses his lips.

“You always knew too much,” he states bluntly. “It was only a matter of time before I realized it wasn’t coincidence.”

You glance toward him as if he's spouted out a forbidden spell isolated from the world. (WHA ref...) Have you truly been so careless? The question bugs you more than it should.

“Right now,” Ashveil continues, his voice softer, steadier, “you’re the only one who’s helped me make sense of any of this.”

Something in your chest tightens. You exhale slowly to steady yourself. To let yourself falter here is to reach another wall.

“We can stop this.” You blurt out without giving him a chance to reconsider his earlier words. His attention sharpens instantly.

“The poison isn’t spreading randomly,” you explain, stepping toward the desk as your thoughts begin to align with clarity. “It’s being administered selectively. That means the culprit needs access—close, controlled access.”

You gesture toward the reports. “We isolate your former unit. No shared supplies, no unsupervised contact. We monitor everything.”

The pause almost concerns him, yet you push on. “And we draw them out.”

The Wolf Duke's gaze does not avert your face. He evaluates your strategy, his mind desperately searching for hope. “…How?”

“They want you,” you say simply. “So we give them what they’re after.”

Understanding dawns slowly to him. “…Me.”

“Yes.” You respond firmly, certain of your idea.

A shaky breath escapes his lips and his eyes wonders to somewhere else, perhaps nowhere just to avoid you. “…That’s risky.”

“Yes,” you agree. The plan in itself isn't the best option, but it is the only one you have so far.

“…It might work.” You attempt to convince him once more.

Truthfully, there is only a little room for rejection in this situation. Ashveil has faced this situation only a handful of times, the hunt for him has never left his side. In the past, he'd avoid it all— letting Narrator take over the course. And now, there's you.

The distance that once lingered is gone now, replaced by something steadier. Stronger. Built not on obligation or title, but on something far more fragile—and far more real.

Trust.

Ashveil looks at you differently now, not as someone to shield but as someone who stands beside him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The plan does not unfold in a single decisive moment, nor does it arrive with the kind of clarity that stories often promise. Instead, it settles slowly into the bones of the palace, threading itself through routines so familiar that no one beyond your circle would think to question them. At a glance, everything remains unchanged—the same quiet halls, the same measured footsteps of servants, the same distant rhythm of daily life continuing as it always has. Yet beneath that carefully preserved surface, something far more deliberate takes shape, something watchful and unrelenting.

Every movement is noted now, every presence accounted for. Conversations are no longer just conversations; they are observed, weighed, remembered. Even silence has meaning. The palace, once merely cold and distant, begins to feel like a living thing holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.

And at the center of it all stands Ashveil.

He plays his part with a precision that would be almost unsettling if you did not understand the cost of it. To anyone watching, he is unchanged—composed, reserved, untouchable in the way a Duke must be.

He attends meetings; a new yet understandable sight, reviews reports, allows himself to be seen in places he had quietly withdrawn from in the days prior. He becomes visible again, deliberately so, placing himself back into the flow of the palace’s daily life as though nothing has shifted at all. It is a performance, but not a false one. Every step he takes is grounded in intent, every glance calculated just enough to appear natural while revealing nothing of what lies beneath.

Yet you see what others cannot.

You see the tension that never quite leaves his shoulders, the way his stillness is not rest but restraint. You notice how his gaze lingers a fraction too long on unfamiliar faces, how his awareness stretches outward, constantly searching, constantly measuring.

There is something heavier within him now, something that stirs more frequently beneath the surface, agitated by the pressure closing in from all sides. And still, despite it all, he follows through with the plan without hesitation.

Because he trusts it.

Because he trusts you.

It is that trust, quiet and unspoken, that steadies you even as everything else threatens to unravel.

The first sign appears so subtly that it might have gone unnoticed on any other day. A maidservant you do not recognize lingers near the inner corridors longer than her duties require, her movements just slightly out of sync with the natural rhythm of the palace. There is nothing overtly wrong about her, nothing that would immediately draw suspicion, and yet something about her presence feels misplaced, like a note just barely off-key in an otherwise perfect composition.

Then another appears.

Assigned to a wing she should not have access to, her explanation quick but lacking the ease of truth. A third follows not long after, her behavior unremarkable in isolation, yet increasingly difficult to ignore when placed alongside the others.

Individually, they are nothing.

Together, they form a pattern too precise to dismiss.

You do not act on it immediately, and neither does Ashveil. Instead, you wait, allowing the pattern to develop, to solidify into something undeniable. The tension builds quietly, coiling tighter with each passing hour as more pieces fall into place. It is not impatience that guides you, but certainty. Acting too soon would risk losing everything. Acting at the right moment ensures that nothing slips through.

When that moment comes, it does not announce itself— as though a fleeting bird set free.

The guards move with a quiet efficiency that speaks of careful preparation, sealing exits before the targets even realize they have been identified. There is no chaos, no raised voices echoing through the halls—only swift, controlled motion that leaves no room for escape. You watch from a distance, your expression composed even as your pulse quickens beneath the surface, as the truth unfolds exactly as you had anticipated.

They are not servants.

Not truly.

The uniforms are convincing, their behavior practiced, but the illusion fractures under pressure. Their answers falter, their composure slips, and the carefully constructed façade begins to crumble. It does not take long before hesitation gives way to contradiction, and contradiction gives way to something far more revealing.

A title emerges from the cracks.

“The One-Eyed Owl.”

It is spoken with reluctance, the words carrying a weight that lingers long after they have been said. Fear follows it, quiet but unmistakable, settling into the space like something alive.

You feel Ashveil’s attention shift beside you, subtle but immediate. The title is unfamiliar, yet the presence behind it is not. There is something deliberate in the way it is spoken, something that suggests distance rather than absence, as though the one it belongs to has never needed to stand at the forefront to exert control.

They are not the source. That much becomes clear almost immediately.

What little they know is fragmented, limited to orders given and tasks assigned. They were never meant to succeed, only to observe, to gather what they could, to wait for an opportunity that never came. Their purpose was never to act decisively, but to exist as expendable pieces, placed where they were needed and discarded just as easily.

Which means the true threat remains untouched. Unseen and watching from somewhere beyond your reach.

Later, within the quiet confines of Ashveil’s office, the weight of that realization settles between you once more. The storm outside has yet to ease, the steady rhythm of rain against the windows a constant reminder of everything that still lies unresolved.

“It’s a start,” you say at last, your voice softer now, shaped more by thought than urgency.

Ashveil exhales slowly, his gaze distant as he considers the implications. “It is,” he agrees, though there is a quiet heaviness beneath the words. “But it’s not enough.”

“No,” you admit, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk as you steady yourself. “But it gives us direction.”

The title lingers between you.

The One-Eyed Owl.

It does not feel like a person so much as it does a presence, something that exists just beyond sight, pulling threads from the shadows without ever revealing the hand behind them. An enemy that does not need to stand in the open to be dangerous.

And yet, the Wolf Palace finds life within itself once again.

The changes that follow are immediate and uncompromising. The soldiers are reorganized, their routines stripped down and rebuilt with precision, every interaction monitored, every resource accounted for. Food supplies are handled with near surgical care, each ingredient traced, each preparation observed under watchful eyes. Nothing is left to assumption, nothing allowed to pass without scrutiny.

It is exhausting work; relentless to the point a blink can have it all washed away. But it yields results.

The deaths stop completely, as though the invisible hand that had been tightening around them has suddenly withdrawn.

And in that absence, there is room, however small, for something else to take its place.

You find yourself visiting them more often than expected, not out of obligation, but something quieter, something that draws you there without needing a reason.

Coria accompanies you most days, her presence as gentle as the music she carries, her melodies weaving softly through the open spaces, lightening the air in a way that feels almost foreign after everything that has passed.

The soldiers are different here, away from the rigid structure of the palace and the unseen threat that had once loomed over them. They are still marked by what they have endured, still carrying the weight of battles fought and losses suffered, but there is something steadier in them now. Something that resembles peace, even if only in fragments.

Cole is there as well, as he always seems to be.

The poet who once delivered news of death now offers something else entirely, his voice threading through the quiet with words that do not dwell solely on grief, but on memory, on endurance, on the fragile persistence of life beyond war. His verses are softer now, less burdened by finality, and more open to what still remains.

Sometimes Coria plays, her music flowing gently between the pauses in conversation.

Sometimes Cole recites, his words settling into the spaces left behind.

And sometimes, the soldiers themselves speak, their voices rising with stories that feel less like recounting and more like reclaiming. Laughter slips through where silence once lingered too heavily, small and fleeting, but real all the same.

You sit among them more often than not, no longer as a duchess observing from a distance, but as someone present within the moment itself, listening rather than leading, sharing rather than directing.

There is one afternoon where the rain begins to ease.

It does not stop entirely, but it softens, the steady downpour fading into something quieter, something less suffocating. The sky lightens just enough to allow a pale, distant glow to filter through the clouds, a reminder that even the longest storms are not without end.

Coria’s melody drifts through the air, gentle and unhurried, while Cole’s voice follows, weaving something quieter than before, something that speaks not of endings, but of what lingers afterward.

You look around, your eyes shifting toward the soldiers. At the subtle ease in their movements, the faint smiles that pass between them, the way their shoulders seem just a little less burdened.

And for the first time in what feels like far too long— You allow yourself to breathe. The threat within the palace has been removed. The poison has been contained and the plan has succeeded. But even as the tension loosens its grip, the name remains.

The One-Eyed Owl— is not gone. Their keen eye is awaiting another moment to strike.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days that follow do not return to what they once were. They become something softer. Not untouched by what had happened, not free from the weight of it all—but steadier, as though the storm that had once threatened to swallow everything has finally loosened its grip just enough for life to settle back into place. The palace no longer feels like it is holding its breath. The tension that once lingered in every corridor has eased, replaced by something quieter, something almost… warm.

And within that fragile calm, the people around you begin to change in ways you hadn’t quite expected.

Rappa is the first to have shown her fondness— unveiled from suspicion. She drags you—there is no gentler word for it—out into the training grounds with a determination that leaves little room for refusal. What begins as a simple suggestion quickly turns into something far more consistent, her enthusiasm unwavering as she insists on teaching you archery alongside Robin Hood, who watches the entire ordeal with an amused patience that never quite fades.

Your stance is corrected more times than you can count, your grip adjusted, your posture nudged into place with firm insistence. Rappa talks the entire time, her voice bright, animated, filled with a pride that borders on theatrical every time you so much as improve by a fraction. She celebrates your smallest successes as though they are grand victories, her laughter ringing clear across the field whenever your arrow lands even remotely close to where it should.

Robin Hood, in contrast, offers fewer words, but when he does speak, they carry weight. His guidance is precise, his corrections subtle yet effective, his presence grounding in a way that balances Rappa’s boundless energy. Between the two of them, you find yourself improving without quite realizing it, your movements growing more confident, your aim steadier with each passing day.

Boothill, of course, refuses to be left out. He rarely joins the lessons directly, preferring instead to linger nearby, leaning lazily against whatever surface he can find as he watches with a half-amused, half-critical eye. But his silence never lasts long. It never does.

He talks endlessly.

Stories spill from him as easily as breath, tales of dusty roads and endless skies, of duels fought and won, of mistakes made and lessons learned the hard way. His voice carries a rhythm of its own, something rough yet familiar, as though every word has been shaped by the life he once lived. Sometimes his stories are exaggerated, sometimes they contradict themselves, but there is always something genuine beneath them—something that speaks of a past he does not often show so openly.

And somehow, without realizing it, you begin to listen.

Not as an observer. But as someone who belongs there, within that moment, within that shared space of laughter and stories and quiet understanding.

Even Argenti finds his way to you more often now.

His visits are never intrusive, always timed in a way that feels almost intentional, as though he understands the balance between presence and distance better than most. He speaks with you about many things—about duty, about honor, about beauty in places where it is often overlooked. His words are thoughtful, measured, carrying a sincerity that never feels forced.

There is a calmness in those conversations, something that allows you to breathe a little easier, to step away from the weight of everything else, if only for a moment.

And then there is Loretta.

Quiet, observant yet mischievous Loretta, who rarely asks for anything.

Until one day, she does.

It is a small request, almost hesitant in its delivery, her usual composure faltering just slightly as she mentions the idea of accompanying you into town. Shopping, she calls it, though the word feels almost foreign within the context of everything you have been dealing with.

And yet, there is something in her expression, something hopeful, something almost… excited.

You find yourself agreeing without hesitation. Because for the first time in a long while, it feels like something normal.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It is on a night like any other that the letter arrives.

There is nothing particularly unusual about it at first glance. The paper is familiar, the seal unmistakable, bearing the quiet authority of the Duke himself. And yet, the moment you take it into your hands, something about it feels… different.

You break the seal carefully, your curiosity already beginning to stir.

The message inside is brief.

The words written are not of formality but a personal invitation. To the palace gardens, he invites you.

You stare at the words for longer than necessary, your brows drawing together in faint confusion. There is nothing preventing him from asking you directly, nothing that would require something as deliberate as a letter. You had seen him earlier that day, spoken to him, stood close enough to feel the quiet presence he always carried with him.

And yet, he chose this. You are not sure why but you accept it anyway— who would be mad enough to refuse an invitation from the Wolf of the North himself?

The gardens are quieter at night. The rain has long since passed, leaving the air cool and clean, the earth beneath your feet still faintly damp from what had come before. The sky above is clearer now, scattered with stars that feel distant yet present all the same, their light soft against the darkness that surrounds you.

You find him there, awaiting your arrival.

He stands near the center of the garden, his figure framed by the faint glow of lantern light, his presence as steady as it has always been. There is something different about him tonight, though you cannot quite place it at first. Something softer, perhaps. Something less guarded.

“You sent me a letter,” you say as you approach, the hint of amusement in your voice doing little to mask your curiosity. “You do realize you could have simply spoken to me.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “I do.” The nervousness that envelopes him is too sudden— how can he not, you're looking at him with those mesmerising eyes as if he's spoken the words of a fool. “I— is this not a thing in those romance novels you read?”

That catches you off, more than it should have. You can't tell what's further ridiculous, that he's read those novels to do this or the fact that he's picked up on you reading them.

“You've read romance novels?” you accuse softly, raising your brows. To picture the Wolf Duke sitting at his desk with a book of endless sap is a thought that would've never arrived to you in a thousand years.

A tint of pink scatters across Ashveil's cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I— ugh... You—... How else was I supposed to figure out how to court a lady?”

He immediately averts his gaze afterwards, hoping to gain some composure from this flustered mess that he is. You can only quietly laugh— it feels like a breath of fresh air, to finally laugh and banter with the man you've been sharing a ring with.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence that settles between you is not uncomfortable, nor is it heavy. It feels… natural. Easy in a way that had once seemed impossible between the two of you.

“You’ve changed things,” he says at last, his voice quiet beneath the open sky.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have I?”

“The soldiers are alive,” he continues. “The palace is standing. And for the first time in a long while…” His gaze shifts slightly, softer now. “It feels like something more than just survival.”

The words settle gently.

You exhale, your expression easing. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

Another pause follows, quieter this time, filled with something unspoken yet understood.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask softly. “Before all of this, before the war. Before everything became… this.”

His gaze drifts, just for a moment. “…Sometimes.” He does not elaborate, it pains him to do so. Thus, you don't press further, some things are better left unsaid.

And for a while, you talk about small things. About memories that feel distant yet not entirely out of reach. About moments that shaped you both into who you are now. The conversation flows more easily than it ever has before, unguarded in a way that feels unfamiliar, yet right.

In the breath of the moment, you hear Ashveil make a request you never expected. “Would you like to dance with me, [Name]?” The words are spoken with a gentleness you have not heard since stepping into this world of venomous nobles.

You nod without hesitation, placing your hand in his offered one. He draws you a breath closer, and you allow it, your movements falling naturally into his. The melody lingers like a distant memory—one of Coria’s songs—resting quietly in both your minds, as though you share a single thought between you.

Your steps follow his in a soft, unbroken rhythm, each turn guiding you back into his arms. Your eyes drift shut, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you. In the stillness of that moment, without your voice to distract him, he takes you in fully—your form, your presence, your very being—and to him, even the brightest stars pale in comparison.

When your eyes flutter open, all you see is him.

He leads you with a care that feels almost reverent, the dance unfolding into something endless, something woven with unspoken words. Moonlight spills over his dark locks, catching on the lighter strands and making them gleam faintly in the night.

You do not step back when his hand comes to rest against your cheek, his touch warm, grounding. His lips meet yours—slow, uncertain, a little clumsy. The rhythm falters for a moment, until your hand lifts to cradle the back of his neck, steadying him, guiding him. You can feel his hesitation, his nerves, and to his quiet relief, you take the lead.

With each gentle press of his lips against yours, a calm settles deep within you. The lingering fog in your mind begins to clear, replaced by him—by this moment, by the place you have carved out for yourself in this once unfamiliar world.

You are no longer a stranger in a foreign land, no longer an accidental reincarnation drifting without purpose. You have found something here—earned it, even. Love, respect, a place to belong.

And it is everything you have ever wished for.

“Marry me, Grand Duke.”

The words leave you before hesitation can catch up—firm, unwavering, laced with a strange, almost reckless determination that surprises even yourself.

And then, silence.

It falls heavy across the room, thick enough to suffocate. The man before you—the infamous Wolf of the North—stares as though you’ve just uttered something incomprehensible. His eyes, sharp yet dulled by exhaustion, widen ever so slightly. It’s subtle, fleeting… but it’s there.

Beside him, Narrator stiffens. His brows knit together immediately, the disapproval clear in the way his gaze flickers between you and his master. Neither of them speak. Neither of them look pleased. Of course they wouldn’t be.

The Wolf of the North— Ashveil.

An isolated Duke, seldom seen, rarely heard—more rumor than man in the eyes of society. The nobles whisper of him like a ghost that never quite passed on. A living corpse, they say. A man who never attends gatherings, never mingles, never even steps beyond his dukedom unless absolutely necessary.

A presence so absent that he becomes forgettable. Less memorable than even a passing commoner. And yet, you had just proposed marriage to him.

To anyone else, it would sound like madness. Marrying the Duke of Kronstadt was no different than sentencing yourself to a slow, suffocating existence. A loveless union in a land stripped of warmth—hell disguised in nobility.

But those warnings barely register in your mind.

How could they?

You know this world.

You know him.

Because this is a story you’ve already read.

Fragments of it linger in your memory like fading ink, incomplete and unreliable. You don’t remember everything—far from it. The plot escapes you in places, details slipping through your grasp no matter how hard you try to recall them.

But there is one thing—one person—you never forgot.

Ashveil.

The very man sitting before you now. Your favorite character. A minor role in the grand scheme of the novel. A tool. A key to push the plot forward.

And yet, the one who stayed with you long after you turned the last page.

Ever since you settled into this unfamiliar world, adapting to its rules, its etiquette, its suffocating expectations—there has been one thought that refused to leave you.

His ending. That cruel, quiet ending.

They say his land is cursed with gloom, that his territory resembles the aftermath of a battlefield long abandoned. Lifeless. Hollow. Forgotten.

But that image is nothing more than a narrative shaped by shallow standards. Because in this world, liveliness is measured in extravagance. The louder a noble flaunts their wealth, the more “prosperous” they are deemed. And Ashveil he does none of that.

So, they call him dying. They say he has been gravely ill ever since the war—since the moment he narrowly escaped death. It is a convenient explanation and a believable lie. But you know better— there is no illness. There is only a beast.

A thing that lives within him, born from the very moment he stood at death’s door and refused to cross it. A power that was never meant to be his salvation, yet became both his armor and his cage. You remember it vaguely—the way the story described it as both a blessing and a curse. His soldiers had feared him. Feared him enough to nearly label him a monster. Until they realized that he was still conscious. Still human.

To carry something like that alone— to be reduced to whispers and isolation because of it…you can’t let that happen.

Not again.

Not when you have the chance to change it.

This isn’t pity. It's something softer yet firm at the same time. Something far more stubborn.

If everyone else in this story gets their happy ending, why can’t he?

“…An elaboration would be appreciated.” The voice pulls you back.

Ashveil speaks at last, breaking the tension that had stretched unbearably thin between you. His tone is composed, quiet—but there’s a weight to it now, something more deliberate. His gaze settles on you fully, no longer caught off guard but searching. What lingers is a careful and measured search.

Hope hits you so suddenly it almost hurts. He didn’t refuse nor did he dismiss you.

You almost laugh. You almost cry. Instead, you clear your throat, forcing your expression back into something dignified—something befitting the noble you’ve learned to become.

“Gladly, Your Grace.” The words come easier now, steadier, as you grasp onto the logic you prepared—no matter how hastily it was formed.

“For the past few months, I’ve been reviewing the economics of Kronstadt,” you begin, your voice calm, controlled. “While it remains stable on the surface, it has been steadily accumulating risk. Trade routes have weakened, resource distribution has grown uneven… and your people—”

You pause, lifting your gaze to meet his directly.

“—are beginning to fall into poverty.”

There. It’s out in the open now.

“I assume,” you continue, softer but no less firm, “that Your Grace has been unable to address these matters due to your… prolonged recovery.” A careful choice of words, a lie you knowingly play along with.

“I propose a marriage,” you conclude, your fingers curling slightly against your dress, “with the intent of assisting both you and your territory. With my position and resources, I can help stabilize what has begun to falter.”

When you finish, the silence that follows feels different. Though less suffocating, it felt more… weighted.

A quiet breath escapes you, relief brushing past your chest as you resist the urge to slump in your seat. Internally, you cling to the argument you’ve just constructed, pieced together in the moment yet grounded enough to stand.

Not perfect but not bad either. Across from you, Ashveil falls silent once more. He is lost in thought. Because everything you said—

is true.

He has seen it. The slow decline. The strain placed upon his land, his people. The burden he has gradually shifted onto Narrator as his own strength wanes—not just physically, but mentally.

It is exhausting.

Everything is.

His gaze shifts to the side, landing briefly on his assistant. Narrator meets his eyes and gives a small nod. The gesture was a mix of approval, practicality, relief even.

This marriage would ease the weight pressing down on them both. Your status alone would bring stability, your involvement a solution he can no longer provide on his own.

It makes sense.

So why does he hesitate?

Because beneath all of that logic lies something far less rational. Something far more dangerous.

You.

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly against the armrest, tension coiling beneath his otherwise composed exterior. Political marriages are nothing new. No one would question his choice—not with his reputation, not with his isolation.

No one would care.

But you would be the one standing beside him.

Would you still look at him like this if you saw what he truly was? If the thing inside him stirred—

if it lashed out— What if he hurts you?

A hand rests on his shoulder, a firm yet grounding touch. Ashveil blinks, the spiral of his thoughts abruptly cut short. Narrator’s presence anchors him back to reality, reminding him—quietly, insistently—that you are still here.

Still waiting.

Still watching him with that same unwavering gaze. You haven’t looked away. Not once. You've been eagerly waiting for his answer.

Slowly, he straightens. The hesitation doesn’t disappear—but it settles, pressed down beneath something heavier. Something final.

A decision.

“I accept the proposal.” The words fall cleanly between you, sharp and absolute—like a blade severing what once was.

There is neither hesitation or retreat. And though neither of you say it, the moment lingers.

Because this is where everything begins.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The wedding proceeded as smoothly as one could expect. Truthfully, there was no reason for it not to. By the Grand Duke’s order, your guest list had been limited to no more than two—a restriction you accepted without protest, for there were only two people you would have chosen regardless: your parents.

For him, the number barely rose to three. Narrator’s presence was non-negotiable, a constant shadow at his side, while the remaining two guests were far more… intriguing.

One stood draped in muted tones of grey and black, their presence quiet yet undeniably sharp, like a blade hidden beneath cloth. The other was their complete opposite—pink, neon, loud even in stillness.

You recognize them, not fully, not clearly, but enough for fragments of memory to stir. Pieces of a story you can no longer fully recall. And yet, instinct tells you one thing with certainty: if you wish to truly reach Ashveil, you will have to earn their acknowledgment first.

The wedding night, however, fails to live up to its name. It is Ashveil himself who requests separate chambers—a decision that, under any other circumstances, would birth endless rumors and quiet ridicule among noble society.

But you say nothing, because you understand. This is not reluctance, nor is it rejection. It is restraint—his body, not his will. The arrangement does little to bother you. If anything, it grants you a strange sort of ease, a space to think, to plan, to settle into the life you have willingly stepped into. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the servants.

The maids whisper constantly. Their voices weave through the halls like threads of silk—thin, persistent, impossible to fully ignore. Speculation, curiosity, amusement… all of it spills freely behind careful hands and lowered gazes. You find it entertaining, more than you probably should. At times, you even pause to listen. Because truly, what better way to understand the nature of royalty than to experience both its reverence and its ridicule firsthand? A dream and a nightmare, intertwined so seamlessly that one cannot exist without the other.

The first few days of your marriage pass within the confines of the Wolf Palace, and it is exactly as you expected. For a Duke who rarely leaves his chambers, whose presence lingers more as an idea than a reality, your expectations had never been particularly high.

The nights you once spent recalling what little you knew of him had not painted a hopeful picture. If anything, they had prepared you for this quiet distance. Still, reality settles heavier than imagination, and amidst the growing weight of responsibilities and the suffocating stillness of unfamiliar halls, you find yourself with an unexpected source of company.

The head maid— Loretta.

Her first appearance is nothing short of proper. Polite, attentive, efficient—and yet, you see it. That flicker of mischief beneath the surface. “I’ll be at your service, Grand Dutchess,” she says with a graceful bow, her posture impeccable.

It catches you off guard for only a moment, a brief reminder that despite your confidence, this life is still new. You clear your throat, slipping back into composure with practiced ease.

“And your name may be?” you ask, as though the answer is not already known to you.

Loretta lights up instantly—too instantly. “It’s Loretta, Your Grace—!” Her hands come together in an almost excited clap, the formality of her position momentarily forgotten. And just as quickly, realization dawns on her. Embarrassment floods her expression. “Ah… my apologies. That was improper of me.”

A soft chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, and she freezes at the sound. You shake your head, easing your expression as you gently stifle your laughter. “Do not be afraid,” you reassure her, your tone warm despite the setting. “I truly don’t mind.”

Relief washes over her so visibly it’s almost amusing. And truly—it is. Because this is the same woman who, under the cover of night, becomes something else entirely.

A silent overseer. A quiet hunter within palace walls. You’ve heard the whispers, the stories—of how she identifies disloyalty with frightening precision, how thieves disappear, how unfaithful servants are plucked from their positions as if they had never existed at all. And yet, before you, she stands like this—gentle, careful, almost endearing.

You nearly laugh again. What an interesting place you’ve married into—a palace of wolves, and a head maid who purrs like a cat.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A sigh escapes your lips as your gaze lingers over the letters spread neatly across your desk. The handwriting is clean, precise—line after line of carefully constructed words that carry more weight than they appear to. You aren’t even sure how the news reached them. As a low-level noble, you had never been important enough to warrant such attention. And yet now… now that you bear the title of Duchess, it seems the world has suddenly remembered you exist.

Even so, the attention does little to ease your mind. If anything, it adds to the pressure.

The workload is heavier than you anticipated, though not unexpected. You had prepared yourself for this—mentally, strategically—and so you do not complain. The real issue lies elsewhere.

You rarely see your husband.

The thought lingers longer than you’d like.

It leads you to quieter suspicions—whether the maidservants have been following your instructions properly, whether he’s been eating at least three meals a day as you had ordered, whether anyone is truly keeping track of him at all.

Your eyes fall back onto the papers. The words remain unchanged. Unfeeling.

The invitation resting among them feels especially cold. Its polite phrasing does nothing to mask what lies beneath—whispers, judgment, quiet scrutiny waiting for you the moment you step into noble society’s gaze. It promises nothing but observation, nothing but the slow dissection of your choices.

Progress is slow. Painfully so. And time will not wait for you.

If things continue like this, then the path ahead will remain unchanged. The same path that led him—led all of them—toward endings you refuse to accept.

No. This won’t do.

You rise before you can second-guess yourself. Your chair shifts softly against the floor as determination settles into your movements. Without hesitation, you make your way toward Ashveil’s study, your pace steady, purposeful.

Behind you, Loretta follows faithfully. Ever since she had been assigned to your service, she has trailed after you like a loyal wolf cub—sharp-eyed, attentive, and far more observant than she lets on.

Your thoughts swirl endlessly as you walk. Fragments of the novel, your own actions, the possibility of suspicion, the fragile connections between Kronstadt and the rest of noble society—they all blur together into a restless storm.

And then, you collide with something. Someone.

“Muddlefudger!” The gruff exclamation snaps you from your thoughts. You look up, meeting a familiar sight—grey and black streaks of hair, sharp eyes filled with irritation.

Ah. Boothill. — the Wolf Duke’s so-called eldest son.

Born among rogue cowboys, dragged into a war that never should have touched him. A child forced into a battlefield by nobles who deemed the aftermath too filthy for their own soldiers. You remember this part clearly—the fragments of his past etched deeper into your memory than most.

A near-broken body. A boy left to die. And Ashveil— who had found him.

Rumor had it that the Duke postponed an entire ambush for a single day, just to ensure the medics were fully devoted to saving the child. A decision that made no sense strategically, yet defined everything about him.

No formal adoption ever followed, no official papers and yet, the entire kingdom knows. Boothill is his son in every way that matters. And just like his father, his fate in the novel had not been kind.

“Hey, bow to the Duchess!” Loretta’s sharp voice cuts through the moment, pulling you from your thoughts. Before she can continue, you lift your hand, silencing her with a simple gesture.

Boothill huffs, clearly unimpressed. But then, he looks at you. Not a passing glance, not a dismissive stare, he actually looks.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, studying one another in silence. His brows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his expression as though reality has failed to meet his expectations.

“That’s the Duchess?” The bluntness earns him no favor, but it does not surprise you.

This defiance—this sharp-edged attitude—is exactly as you remember. The same boy who once stood against nobles during a rogue mission, the same one who refused to bend even when surrounded by authority.

And yet, you smile. It is soft, welcoming, unexpected. If it weren’t for the novel, you might have answered differently.

“That is the Dutchess, Boothill,” you reply lightly, your tone carrying a quiet ease that contrasts his roughness. Then, tilting your head ever so slightly, you add, “Pray tell, have you been skipping training as well?”

The glare he sends your way could freeze lesser men. You remain unmoved.

“What’s it to ya’?” he shoots back, his voice sharp with challenge. “Ya haven’t been here for even a month.”

The words are blunt. They would sting, to most but not you. This is expected— necessary, even. If you want him to warm up to you, then this phase must be endured. And perhaps, nudged along.

“What’s it to me?” you echo, a faint gleam of mischief flickering in your eyes. “Let’s see… even within my short stay, I’ve managed to build connections with the Oak Family.” You tilt your head, your voice dipping into something almost playful. “Which means… no more Miss Robin’s assistance for you.”

The reaction is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable. For just a second, you catch it—a faint flush creeping onto his cheeks, embarrassment slipping through the cracks of his defiance. You almost laugh, but manage to hold it in.

Boothill clicks his tongue, turning his gaze away. “Ya don’t gotta threaten me like that.”

And just like that— he’s gone. Running through the halls as if the conversation had never happened.

You watch him leave, knowing you’ve struck something—not the deepest nerve, but enough. The Oak Family… or rather, Robin, has always been a constant in his life. You remember that much. Her presence during the aftermath of the war, the quiet bond formed through shared vulnerability.

And more importantly— her role in what was to come. Or at least— what you think you remember.

Barely a minute passes before the silence is broken again. “Young master, please return to the Knights!” The shout echoes through the halls as a group of knights rush past, their leader standing out immediately.

Argenti.

Rose-haired, composed, and painfully earnest.

It is not a surprising sight. Boothill’s aversion to discipline—especially anything resembling noble restraint—has already made itself clear. At this point, you suspect this is a daily occurrence.

Argenti stops before you, posture straight despite the clear frustration lingering in his expression.

“I apologize for the disturbance, Your Grace,” he says, his tone sincere. “I did not wish to interrupt your conversation, and thus… I was unable to catch him.”

This time, you laugh. Soft, but unmistakable.

The sound catches him off guard entirely. His brows lift, surprise flickering across his face as though he cannot quite process the reaction.

You shake your head gently, calming your laughter.

“A dutiful knight you are, Argenti,” you say warmly. “Truly admirable.” The effect is immediate. Surprise gives way to something softer—something brighter.

“How…?” the question lingers unspoken, but you can see it in his expression. How do you know his name? How are you so familiar?

A genuine smile blooms across his face regardless. “I appreciate the compliment, my lady.”

Earnest, contained, rare, but peace, as always, is fleeting.

The knights urge him onward, reminding him of his unfinished task. His expression shifts once more, duty reclaiming its place. “I shall take my leave.”

You nod, watching as he departs with the others in pursuit. And then, Loretta's laughter follows. It's a sudden one, amused even.

“Both of them will hear quite the scolding from the Duke today,” she remarks, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You hum softly, your gaze drifting down the now-quiet hallway.

Yes, you’re certain of it.

Something, at the very least will dawn upon you all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The door creaks open to the overly cold study, the sound stretching thinly through the still air. A chill greets you immediately, seeping into your skin and settling deep in your bones. If one didn’t know better, they might have mistaken this place for a morgue rather than a workspace. How such a temperature is maintained without any modern technology remains a mystery, but right now, it’s the least of your concerns.

Carefully, you ease the door shut behind you, ensuring it makes as little noise as possible. The soft click echoes faintly, swallowed by the quiet. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you move further into the room, your gaze scanning the dim interior before settling on the figure slumped in the chair.

Ashveil sits there in silence, one hand supporting his head, his posture caught somewhere between rest and deep thought. He’s too still—so still that you hesitate, unsure whether he’s truly asleep or merely lost in his own mind. You circle him quietly, watching for any sign of movement, but he doesn’t react. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place.

Encouraged by his stillness, you take another cautious step closer.

Up close, he’s… prettier than you remembered.

The soft fall of his lashes against pale skin, the strands of black hair streaked with white slipping over his face—it all feels unfairly beautiful. Even the faint flush along his cheeks seems almost delicate. It’s surreal, really. Once upon a time, he had been nothing more than a character in a story, a passing fixation, someone you admired from afar. Now, he exists right in front of you, close enough to touch.

And that thought alone is enough to make your hand lift before you can stop yourself.

It hovers just above his bangs, your fingers trembling slightly with hesitation. Just one touch, you tell yourself. Something grounding. Something to remind you that this is real. Entirely for therapeutic purposes, of course—not because he looks devastatingly handsome while asleep.

Gently, your fingers brush against his hair.

It’s soft.

Softer than you expected.

For a man rumored to house a beast within him, there is something strangely gentle in the way he feels beneath your touch. His temperature is cool—noticeably so—but not unpleasant. Your fingers linger, trailing lightly along his features, tracing the faint lines of his face as though committing them to memory. The thought settles quietly in your mind, heavy with disbelief.

You are married to this man.

You pause at his cheek, your touch hovering as you debate whether to go any further—

—and then a hand catches your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip is firm yet controlled, holding you in place without hurting. When you look up, his eyes are already on you—sharp, aware, and far too awake. The intensity of his gaze sends a jolt through you, like a wolf observing even the slightest movement of its prey.

Instinctively, you try to step back, but his hold stops you.

“My apologies, Grand Duke! I didn’t mean to—” The words spill out in a rush, tumbling over each other in your panic. Heat floods your face as embarrassment and fear intertwine, your thoughts spiraling. Is this it? Have you already ruined everything?

But then—

he laughs.

The sound is soft, unrestrained, and so unexpected that it startles you more than his grip ever could. There’s a lightness to it, a rare trace of amusement that feels almost out of place on him. Slowly, he releases your wrist, allowing you the space you had tried to claim moments before.

“My own wife touching me in my sleep,” he muses, his voice tinged with quiet teasing. “Had you not considered the consequences of such actions?”

Your embarrassment deepens instantly, your composure crumbling further. You’re the Duchess—this is not how you’re meant to behave. You scold yourself internally, trying to gather what little dignity you have left. Yet Ashveil seems to pick up on your inner turmoil with ease. He straightens in his seat before leaning slightly closer, closing the distance you had just created.

“Come now,” he continues, his tone softer, almost coaxing. “What’s with the silence? You’re making this awkward. We are married, are we not?”

You nod, still recovering, your voice quieter when you answer. “We are.”

But your attention drifts again, not to his words, but to him. The subtle tension lining his expression, the faint stress that lingers beneath his composure—it’s clear, at least to you, that he hasn’t been resting properly. The realization settles heavily in your chest.

He hasn’t been sleeping.

And just like that, a plan begins to form in your mind.

It’s not a safe one. Not a cautious one. But you’ve never been particularly good at standing by and doing nothing.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach out and take his hand.

The reaction is immediate.

Ashveil stills, his eyes widening just slightly as a faint flush creeps onto his cheeks. The shift is subtle, but unmistakable. You don’t give yourself time to dwell on it.

“I have a request, Your Grace,” you begin, your grip tightening just enough to steady your nerves. And before he can interrupt, you continue, “I want to share a bedroom with you tonight.”

A heavy, suffocating silence follows.

He stares at you as though you’ve just committed treason, while you internally marvel at your own boldness. Really, there’s no turning back now.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lady,” he finally replies, his tone gentle—careful, even—as if trying to guide you away from something dangerous.

Your fingers tighten around his hand. You know what this implies. You understand the risks, the implications, the boundaries being crossed.

And yet, you refuse to let him face another night alone.

“It’s a great idea, Your Grace,” you insist, your voice steadier than you feel. “Do you not hear the whispers? People are already saying our relationship is fractured within days of our marriage.”

It’s a stretch—an outright exaggeration, really. You heard one person mention it once and decided to run with it. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Ashveil watches you, unconvinced. Has he heard such rumors? No. And frankly, he doubts they exist at all. As for why you would make something like that up… well, his thoughts drift briefly in directions he pointedly refuses to acknowledge.

He exhales slowly, the sound carrying a quiet exhaustion.

“Sharing a bedroom will not bring any good,” he says, his voice softer now. “Especially with an ill man.”

You shake your head immediately, your determination unwavering. “Please, Your Grace.”

The shift in your tone is subtle, but enough.

And that is what breaks him.

After a moment of hesitation, he nods—reluctant, faintly flustered, and still entirely too aware of your hand holding his.

Relief and triumph bloom in your chest all at once. “Thank you!” you beam, your sincerity only serving to fluster him further.

As you step out of the study, leaving the biting cold behind, you faintly hear him call for Narrator, his voice quieter, almost resigned.

His poor advisor.

Tonight, he will undoubtedly be preparing for the worst.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The words spread across the palace within hours. Arrangements begin as though something grand is to take place—servants moving in hushed urgency, attendants whispering behind gloved hands, preparations unfolding with an almost ceremonial weight. Yet neither of you speak of it. Neither of you acknowledge it. Because you both know this is nothing like what they believe it to be.

Following your usual routine, you retreat into your study once more. A part of you clings to this constancy—this quiet, unchanging rhythm. It is a rare comfort, one you never had in your previous life, where silence was always fleeting and thoughts were never given room to breathe. Here, at least, you can think.

But peace has never been something that lingers long at your side.

A firm knock breaks through the stillness, knuckles rapping sharply against the door. You do not need to guess who it is. With a quiet sigh, you grant permission, and the door opens almost instantly—as if there had been no space between the knock and his entrance at all.

From the moment he steps in, you can tell something is wrong. Narrator looks… unsettled. More than that—distressed.

“Your Grace,” he begins, his voice strained, “why was I not informed of this?”

For a brief moment, his composure cracks so visibly that it startles you. He looks as though he might grab you by the shoulders and shake sense into you if propriety did not chain him in place.

You tilt your head, taken aback by the sudden intensity. Still, beneath the surprise, you understand. “I did not think I needed to inform anyone,” you reply evenly, “that a married couple would share a bedroom.”

The words land heavier than intended.

You are aware of that. They sound entitled—sharp, almost—but there is little else you can say. This marriage has given you leverage, a foothold in a story that was never meant to belong to you. For that alone, you are grateful to the version of yourself that made this choice.

Narrator exhales, long and weary, pinching the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache. “You know the Grand Duke is not in the best condition,” he says, voice quieter now but no less firm. “Why place more strain on him?”

Strain.

The word feels misplaced, yet not entirely wrong. If it comes from him, then it likely comes from Ashveil as well.

You watch Narrator carefully, and it is almost as though you can hear the thoughts he refuses to voice. He is afraid—afraid that this will push the Duke too far, that allowing someone so new, so unfamiliar, into such a vulnerable space will undo everything he has spent years trying to preserve.

“Mister N,” you call, and he looks up immediately.

“I know you care for him,” you continue, your voice steady but softer now, “but please… do not mistake me for a fool.”

That catches him off guard. He straightens slightly, pushing his glasses up in a reflexive gesture. “I didn’t mean to—”

You raise a hand, gently cutting him off. “I know you didn’t.” You take a step closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to make your words impossible to ignore.

“I will be gentle with him,” you say, quieter now, yet unwavering. “Trust me. I was not married into this house without knowing what awaits me.”

Silence settles between you.

Narrator’s gaze drops, his expression a tangled mess of hesitation and reluctant acceptance. He has stood beside Ashveil for decades—watched him fracture, watched him endure. He has shaped the Duke’s life into something survivable, something controlled. And now, you have stepped into that carefully constructed world.

He does not know whether to fear you… or to hope.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze again. “I understand,” he murmurs at last. “Please… take care of him. Do not push him.” His voice falters slightly. “He is more fragile than he appears. One wrong step… and he may crumble entirely.”

Those words linger, heavy on your shoulders, as you make your way to the bedroom. Each step feels deliberate, like walking toward a stage where the outcome has yet to be decided.

When the door opens, you find Ashveil already there.

He sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, posture awkward, as though he does not quite belong in his own space. His shirt is buttoned unevenly, hair slightly disheveled—strands falling in a way that almost resembles wolf ears. Whether he had only just woken or had been hurried into preparation, you cannot tell.

The thought warms you more than it should.

You step closer. Immediately, he tenses.

“No need to be so wary, Grand Duke,” you say gently. “Think of this as nothing more than a natural part of our marriage.”

He nods—too quickly, too stiffly. His prosthetic hand moves, patting the space beside him in a silent invitation. You accept, though you keep a careful distance as you sit.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, haltingly, “You must be tired… we should sleep.”

The words come out clumsy, stripped of elegance. Years of isolation have worn away at him, leaving his voice unfamiliar with softness, with ease.

You listen, you understand. But you also see what he does not say. And you have never been one to retreat.

Slowly, you reach out, your hand coming to rest against his cheek. He stiffens immediately—but he does not pull away.

Your fingers trace along his skin, familiar in a way that transcends this life. A faint smile touches your lips. “I am tired,” you admit softly, “but it would be a waste to simply sleep through the time I asked for.”

His breath catches. His hand rises, wrapping around your wrist—not harsh, but uncertain, as though grounding himself.

“Why?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Why marry me? Why take on the burden of Kronstadt?”

The question does not surprise you.

But answering it… is another matter entirely.

“Is it so strange,” you say after a moment, “to wish to care for a fallen land?”

The lie slips out too easily. Because the truth has always been him.

Something flickers in his eyes—something unreadable. Then, slowly, he smiles. It mirrors yours, but where yours conceals, his reveals. There is something soft in it. Something… relieved.

And then, he gasps. The shift is immediate. His grip tightens before releasing, his body faltering as his hand flies to his chest—then to his arm.

“You should go,” he says, voice sharp now, strained. “Leave.” His nails dig into his own skin. “Leave,” he repeats.

He expects you to run. Anyone would. But you do not move. Instead, when his strength falters and he collapses forward, you catch him. His weight drives you back onto the bed, breath knocked from your lungs as he trembles above you, fighting something unseen.

His hand finds yours again—this time not gentle. Metal edges press into your skin, biting, threatening to break.

You almost flinch. But you don’t. Your focus remains on him.

“Why won’t you leave?” he demands, though his voice wavers, fractured between control and something far more dangerous.

“Because I chose to stay,” you answer, without hesitation. There is no fear in your voice; a little room for doubt, certainty present in its glory.

For a moment, something in him stills. His teeth graze over your neck, you can feel it vividly, heavy breaths fanning your pulse. He's waiting to bite, to satisfy the hunger of the beast. Then he leans closer, his body pressing against yours, breath ghosting your ear.

“You will stay with me,” he murmurs, low and raw, “forever.”

And then— He goes limp.

Silence crashes down all at once, heavy and suffocating. You do not move. Do not breathe. For a moment, you are not even sure if your heart is still beating.

Then, slowly—carefully—you inhale.

You made it. You endured the flare-up. You changed the course of the story.

The realization hits you all at once, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest tightens, threatening to spill over. Years of preparation… all for this single moment.

And now, there is hope.

Your hand stings.

The pain registers belatedly, and when you lift it, crescent-shaped wounds stare back at you—angry, bleeding. You let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh of disbelief.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from beneath him, shifting his weight with more effort than grace. You guide his head onto the pillow, movements clumsy but gentle.

Once he is settled, you search the room, recalling fragmented details from the story—until you find what you need.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, you clean the wounds. The alcohol burns, sharp enough to make you bite down on your lip, but you endure it in silence. When you finish wrapping the bandages, a knock sounds at the door.

Just once.

You pause, then rise, opening it slightly.

Narrator stands there. His expression is tense—but the moment he sees you, sees your calm, sees the quiet behind you—something in him eases.

You offer a small smile, pressing a finger to your lips.

He understands immediately. Relief softens his features, and for the first time, his smile carries something genuine.

He does not need to ask. Ashveil is safe. And for the first time in a long while— he is not alone.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morning light seeps through the curtains, spilling across the bedsheets in a quiet warmth. It reaches you before your thoughts fully surface, coaxing your eyes open as you slowly adjust to the brightness filling the Duke’s chambers.

You turn your head to see Ashveil laying beside you, still and undisturbed, as though the night had never unraveled him at all. In the gentleness of morning, he looks… almost unreal. The sharpness that once defined him has softened, leaving behind something deceptively peaceful.

Radiant.

It feels wrong, somehow, to see him like this after what happened. You can’t tell if this calm is his own… or something you had a hand in. After all, you were the one who stopped him. The one who kept him from tearing himself apart any further.

The thought lingers longer than it should. But duty does not. As much as you want to remain—just a moment longer, just enough to convince yourself this quiet is real—you force yourself to rise. The world beyond these walls is already waiting, and it will not wait kindly.

You slip from the bed, making your way toward the door. With each step, your mind begins its usual tally—letters unanswered, reports untouched, obligations stacked one atop another until the weight of it nearly turns you back.

As your hand rests on the handle, you hesitate. There's a feeling in your gut that something troublesome awaits you outside the door— but then again, when have you not gotten involved into something troublesome?

Then you open it. The door creaks softly as it gives way. You expect to see Loretta as you always do.

Instead, you’re met with someone else entirely.

A girl stands in the corridor, pink hair catching the light, streaked with neon that seems to hum with restless energy. There is something loud about her presence—something that refuses to be ignored even in silence.

And the moment she notices you, that silence shatters. Her gaze drops immediately to your bandaged hand before snapping back to your face.

“Moonveil Warden.”

The title hits you abruptly. For a second, you don’t respond. Your mind stumbles over the unfamiliar weight of it, instinctively searching for someone else—someone it could possibly belong to.

But the hallway is empty.

There is no one else. It is meant for you.

Slowly, you lift a hand, pointing at yourself as if to confirm. “...Yes?” you answer, hesitant, your voice betraying the uncertainty you try to mask. “Were you calling for me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she looks at you—really looks. Her gaze drags over your figure, sharp and assessing, before flickering briefly toward the bedroom behind you. And then, back to your hand. Her eyes narrow, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous.

“What,” she begins, tone dipping into something almost conspiratorial, “did you and Solostar Wolfshade do?”

Your heart skips and you don’t let her finish. “Nothing!” The response comes too quickly, too forcefully, the word nearly tripping over itself in your haste. You straighten slightly, forcing composure back into your voice. “Forgive me—I was careless. It was dark, and I injured myself trying to find my way.”

The lie slips out with practiced ease, you barely even feel it anymore. At this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve twisted the truth since arriving in Kronstadt… and something tells you that number will only grow.

Rappa watches you intently, the way that would make only Coria sweat. For a moment, it feels like she might press further—like she’s already imagined ten different possibilities and is simply waiting for you to confirm one.

But to your relief, her shoulders ease. Not yet convinced but she's willing to let it go for now. She steps closer instead, her attention shifting. Her eyes flicker down—this time not to your bandages, but to the ring resting on your finger. When she looks back up, there’s a glint in her expression. Amusement and interest.

A smile curls onto her lips. With exaggerated flair, she places a hand over her chest and dips into a half-bow, every movement brimming with theatrical pride. “It’s an honor to meet you, Moonveil Warden,” she declares brightly. “I’m Rappa—the Dazzling Hero!”

The name settles into place. Ah— Right. Rappa.

Ashveil’s eldest daughter—though still younger than Boothill. A child once raised to be an assassin, shaped by blades and silence… only to abandon it all in favor of freedom. You remember the rumors—how she had turned against the very life forced upon her, how she had tried to ambush Ashveil’s soldiers out of desperation.

And how he had found her, eventually taken her in.

Now, she stands before you not as that frail, struggling child—but as something vivid. Unrestrained. A noble cloaked in brightness, even as the remnants of her past linger beneath the surface.

You realize, faintly, how little you remember of the others. Except Ashveil.

Clearing your throat, you offer a polite nod, waiting for her to finish her display. “May I leave now?” you ask, already glancing down the corridor. “I’m afraid I haven’t freshened up yet.”

And more importantly— Where is Loretta? Of all times to disappear.

Strangely, your question seems to brighten Rappa even further. She steps closer—close enough that you barely have time to react before her hand catches yours, warm and firm. “Does that mean the Moonveil Warden will be joining us for breakfast?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement.

Breakfast.

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Everything else had taken priority. You hesitate for a moment—then give a small, uncertain nod. “...Yes. I suppose I will.”

That is all she needs.

She releases you just as quickly and turns, already dashing down the corridor with uncontainable energy. “Silvergun Shura!” her voice rings out in the distance.

The hallway falls quiet again. And just as you turn— there she is.

Loretta stands waiting, as composed as ever, as though she had been there the entire time and simply chose not to intervene.

A dull headache begins to form. “Now you decide to show up?” you mutter, unimpressed.

She laughs softly, her smile tinged with something almost apologetic—almost. “You had someone waiting for you,” she replies. “It would have been rude to take you away from her, Your Grace.”

You don’t buy it though, not for a second. But you let it slide for now— of all the storms coming today, this should be the least of your priorities.

The next thirty minutes pass in the familiar rhythm of preparation.

For a duchess, even the smallest detail is never truly small. Every fold of fabric, every strand of hair, every accessory must be corrected, adjusted, perfected—until nothing remains that could be deemed careless. Not when the maidservants of Kronstadt turn imperfection into entertainment.

Loretta trails behind you as always, silent and unbothered, as you finally step into the dining hall.

It is a vast room— far too vast. A table designed to host a court, yet occupied by only three people. The emptiness is hard to ignore. It always is. There is something about this dukedom that makes even abundance feel hollow.

Your gaze finds Ashveil immediately. He is already eating.

Of course he is.

No greeting. No acknowledgment that you were ever absent to begin with. You file that grudge away for later.

“Moonveil Warden is here!” Rappa announces brightly, as though your entrance is an event worth celebrating.

Boothill lets out a short laugh. “What kinda name is that supposed to be?”

You offer a small smile instead of a response, taking your seat beside Ashveil. Behind you, Loretta quietly chooses to stand near Boothill rather than behind you. You don’t question it— you rarely question her relationships with the staffs, or even the nobles. You do not possess much knowledge for someone who has been living here for only a month.

Your attention drifts, as it always does, back to Ashveil.

He is avoiding you.

He's trying to do it not openly nor dramatically, hoping to do it in the quiet, deliberate way of someone who keeps his eyes fixed on anything that is not you— his plate, his hands, the edge of the table. Anywhere else.

You do not press him yet. Instead, you let the noise at the table fill the space between you.

Rappa talks like silence is a crime. Boothill answers like every word is a calculation. Their voices overlap constantly—half argument, half laughter, entirely familiar in a way that makes the emptiness of the room feel slightly less suffocating.

Rappa is louder, more open, her emotions worn plainly across her face like armor she refuses to hide behind.

Boothill, by contrast, watches more than he speaks. Measures before he reacts.

They are different and yet not. Despite being more of a quieter one among the two, Boothill rarely stops when he opens his mouth— tales of the past and his skills fall out of his mouth before he can register.

Your gaze lingers between them briefly, observing their close relationship. You'd expect them to be close— especially given their past in the war, they bond over the hellish times well. Then, your focus inevitably returns to Ashveil.

He has gone quiet— more than usual. Your observant gaze pins him, dissecting every movement and behavior. His eyes are not on your face but on your hand. He seems to be specifically eyeing the bandages.

There is something there that he does not voice. Something that presses heavier than words would allow. Guilt, perhaps. Or something sharper, more self-directed than that.

It settles uncomfortably in your chest. You exhale softly, your mind a troublesome tycoon of thoughts and the need to act. Without overthinking it, you move your hand. It rests over his. It is a simple gesture, standing barely anything but his entire body tenses the moment you do it. His hand twitches once, yet he doesn't seem to attempt to pull away.

You keep your expression neutral and continue eating as if nothing has changed, even as awareness sharpens at the table.

Rappa's keen eyes are the first one to catch it. Her gaze flicks immediately to Boothill. Boothill, in turn, glances at Loretta. Loretta, infuriatingly, offers nothing in return.

No one understands. Good. Or perhaps… inconvenient.

“Moonveil Warden,” Rappa says suddenly, breaking the moment with practiced ease, “Silvergun Shura and I will be starting training in an hour. This Dazzling Hero requests your presence as an honored spectator.”

Despite yourself, your lips soften. It is impossible not to. “Of course,” you reply gently. “I would be happy to watch.”

The reaction is immediate from him. You know that he's quietly observing everything like a wolf. You feel Ashveil’s hand shift slightly beneath yours—fingers tightening just enough to be noticed, just enough to mean something he does not say aloud. Even as you do not look at him, there is a quiet understanding between you. Somewhere beneath all of this, he is pleased. Relieved, even.

The idea of his children—his fractured, scattered family—finding something resembling connection in your presence is not lost on him.

Rappa and Boothill are the first to leave, still bickering even as they exit. Loretta follows shortly after, leaving the hall with the same composure she arrived with. And just like that— It is only the two of you.

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

Ashveil does not speak immediately. He lets you decide what comes next— so you do.

“You didn’t tell me you were awake.” You take a bite of your food as you speak, keeping your tone casual.

His answer is paused, as though he does not want to say it out loud. “Didn’t think it was necessary.” The response is short— harsh even. Truth be told, he felt ashamed of the previous night to even confront you.

You accept it without comment, letting the conversation settle rather than forcing it open.

After a moment, you return to your meal.

It is… easy, in a strange way, to fall into silence with him.

You find yourself noticing small things again—his habits, his rhythm. The way he eats without pause, as though rest itself is something he has never fully learned how to do without. The sheer, almost unsettling consistency of it.

Like something that cannot be satisfied.

You do not dwell on it. Instead, you eat quietly. The thoughts will not leave you as long as it can, the swirling dissatisfaction in your heart will not be settled either. Yet, you keep quiet— for he, too, is in a predicament.

Outside the hall, something else begins to unfold.

“Did ya see that? Her hand’s bandaged.” Boothill’s voice drops into a whisper, though the hallway is empty.

Rappa leans in immediately. “Moonveil Warden said she hurt it last night. Accident in the palace.” she pauses her words. “I don’t believe her.”

Loretta hums softly, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Something did happen,” she agrees. “Though I doubt it was anything severe enough to warrant concern.”

Boothill folds his arms. “So she’s lyin'.”

“No,” Rappa counters quickly. “She just didn’t tell us everything.”

Silence follows that— an uncertain silence that can only be achieved once you've gathered clues that don't connect at all. The kind that refuses to settle into a single conclusion.

The conversation continues for a while longer, looping through theories, half-guesses, and dead ends. But none of it leads anywhere solid.

No one knows. No one can.

Because only three people in this entire dukedom carry even a fragment of the truth—and none of them are speaking.

So the mystery remains what it has always been. Unresolved, unseen and carefully, deliberately buried beneath everything else.

By the time you finish answering the last of the letters and finalizing the month’s financial accounts, the sky beyond the tall windows has already surrendered to a dull, suffocating grey. What little light had filtered through earlier in the day is swallowed whole, replaced by heavy clouds that seem to press down upon the estate itself. The rain begins not long after—first as a distant murmur, then as a steady descent, and finally as a relentless pour that blankets everything in a muted haze.

It does not belong here.

In a land where life rarely blooms and warmth is more memory than reality, the rain feels almost intrusive—like something alive entering a place that has long forgotten how to be. The air thickens with dampness, carrying a faint, musky scent that clings to the stone walls and lingers in your lungs. It is a stark contrast to your father’s territory, where rain had always felt cleansing, almost comforting. Here, it only deepens the gloom.

You should have left earlier. The thought comes too late to matter now.

It takes Loretta’s quiet reminder to pull you back to your responsibilities beyond paper and ink—the promise you had made to visit the training grounds. You do not argue, nor do you delay. Rising from your seat, you move almost immediately, the urgency in your actions mismatched with the distant, unfocused state of your mind.

Even as your feet carry you forward, your thoughts drift elsewhere. There is something unsettled beneath the surface of the day—something that lingers just out of reach, as though the world itself is quietly shifting into a shape it was never meant to take.

The training grounds come into view through the curtain of rain, their outlines softened by the constant downpour. The earth beneath your feet is damp but mercifully firm, each step sinking just enough to remind you of the water saturating the soil without trapping you in it. The sounds reach you first—sharp, rhythmic, unyielding. Steel striking steel in measured intervals, arrows slicing cleanly through the air before embedding themselves into distant targets, voices rising and falling with effort and correction.

And yet, even surrounded by it, you feel oddly detached.

The noise does not quite reach you.

Your thoughts remain louder.

You stop at the edge of the field, Loretta’s presence steady behind you as she lifts the umbrella above your head, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Before you, the scene unfolds with practiced familiarity. Argenti stands beside Boothill, correcting the angle of his grip with patient precision, while the cowboy—true to form—continues to complain about the absurdity of wielding a sword when a gun would suffice. Not far from them, Robin Hood oversees Rappa, his posture relaxed yet unwavering as he observes her form.

Your gaze shifts to the target. Five arrows, all buried into the center.

Perfect.

The realization settles quietly—impressive, but not unexpected. There is a reason Robin Hood regards her so highly, a reason her confidence borders on theatrical certainty.

You find yourself watching longer than intended, your thoughts slipping once more into that distant, untethered space. So much so that you fail to notice the presence approaching you.

The sound of footsteps is lost beneath the rain, the shift in air too subtle to draw your attention—until it is already too late. A shadow merges with yours.

You only stir when the faint brush of fabric against your arm pulls you back into yourself. The contact is light, almost hesitant, yet enough to ground you instantly.

Ashveil stands beside you. Closer than he usually allows himself to be. He does not speak at first. Instead, he simply stands there, his presence quiet yet unmistakable, his gaze resting not on the training grounds but on you. There is a stillness to him—an awareness that feels deliberate, as though he has chosen not to interrupt whatever thoughts had claimed you.

The silence stretches. You break it without thinking. “Did you need something, Ashveil?”

The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, natural in a way that feels far too intimate for what it should be. You realize it a moment too late but he does not correct you.

Instead, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. The touch is gentle—careful, almost uncertain, as though he is testing the boundary rather than claiming it.

“No,” he answers, the word coming quickly, yet not entirely steady. There is restraint in his voice, something held back just beneath the surface. “I just wanted to spend time with you, [Name].”

The world stills for you.

Your name.

Not your title. Not the role you have been forced into. Not the distance that has always existed between you and everyone else in this place.

Just you.

The warmth that follows is immediate and unwelcome in its intensity, spreading through your chest before you can brace yourself against it. It lingers there, soft yet insistent, refusing to be ignored.

You can feel his gaze. It is steady and unwavering. As though he is committing you to memory.

You look away first, unable hold the intensity. “I see…” Your voice is quieter than you intend, and you clear your throat in an attempt to steady it. “I’m glad you would want to.”

The words feel insufficient. Too small for something that suddenly feels far larger than it should be.

You force your attention back to the training grounds, grasping at something safer—something familiar. “Letting them train in this weather… don’t you think you’re being too harsh?”

Ashveil doesn't answer immediately, not that you expect him to answer at all. A soft sound escapes him. A laugh.

It catches you off guard.

It is quiet, nearly lost beneath the rain, but unmistakable all the same. There is something fragile about it, as though it has not been used in a very long time.

“I suggested they rest,” he admits, his tone lighter now, if only slightly. “They refused. Both of them.”

You hum softly in acknowledgment, unsurprised. Stubbornness, it seems, is a trait that runs deep within this household—whether by blood or by circumstance.

The two of you fall into a quiet rhythm after that, standing side by side as you watch the training continue. Time passes in small, unmeasured increments, marked only by the repetition of movement and the steady fall of rain.

“There used to be another one.” His voice breaks through the calm without warning.

You turn to him, your attention sharpening instantly.

His hand withdraws from your shoulder as he exhales, his gaze shifting away from both you and the field, as though the memory itself demands distance.

“Acheron,” he says, the name carried quietly between you. “She was skilled with a blade… though her taste in everything else was...questionable.” A faint attempt at humor. Though, it does not last.

“She left after a few months,” he continues, the words slower now. “No letters. No explanation. Nothing.”

The name settles into your thoughts like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

Acheron.

Fragments begin to surface—scattered, incomplete, yet unmistakable. A wandering noble with no true home. A remnant of a fallen estate. A figure destined to move between territories without ever belonging to one. You remember enough to know that her path was never meant to stay here… that her story lies elsewhere, intertwined with a future that has yet to unfold.

“But that’s in the past,” Ashveil murmurs, though there is a quiet weight beneath the words that suggests otherwise. “Wherever she is… I hope she’s safe.”

Bound to cross paths with the novel's protagonist— Evanescia, you are not certain that she is as he wishes. Crossing path anyone from the Xianzhou at this point of the plot may not be the best way to guarantee your safety, especially after their previous leader, Dan Feng's execution. But you say keep it to yourself.

The rain grows heavier, filling the silence in your place. For a moment, the world feels suspended—caught between what was and what is yet to come.

Then the thought breaks through.

“A soldier has died of poisoning in Moria.”

The words leave you abruptly, as though pulled from you rather than spoken by choice. There is a heaviness behind them, a quiet guilt that lingers in your tone despite your efforts to suppress it. Even now, after years of adapting to this life, there are parts of it that still feel foreign—parts you are never quite prepared to face.

Ashveil does not react outwardly. “I know,” he responds shortly, the words stinging in his mouth.

There is no surprise in his voice, he's expected this. “Cole reported it this morning. Mister N is investigating.”

Of course.

Cole—the poet who became a messenger of war, carrying reports in place of those who could no longer return. Since Acheron’s departure, he has filled a role that was never meant to be his, bridging absence with duty.

Your gaze drifts briefly across the field again, catching a familiar figure among the shifting forms.

Coria, perhaps. Even through the rain and distance, her presence feels distinct. There is something about her that lingers—like a melody that refuses to fade completely, even when unheard.

But your focus returns quickly.

“What did the report say?” you ask, quieter now, bracing yourself for what follows.

Ashveil takes his time to contemplate the ways to answer your question. There is a pause—long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough to suggest that the truth is something he weighs carefully before offering.

“Slow poisoning,” he says at last.

The words fall heavy, despairing and final.

“The culprit is among them. And by now…” He exhales softly, the rest of the sentence settling into implication rather than sound. “It may have already spread further than we can contain.”

The weight of it presses between you, silent yet suffocating. When you glance at him, his expression remains composed—but not untouched. There is something deeper beneath it all. Guilt, weariness and beneath both, something quieter still. Relief— not for the situation but for the fact that he is no longer bearing it alone.

The rain intensifies, blurring the edges of the world as the training below begins to dissolve. Knights retreat toward the palace in scattered formations, their movements hurried but familiar. Boothill and Rappa follow not far behind, their voices still carrying through the storm as they argue over something neither seems willing to concede.

“We should return,” you say at last, the words grounding you back into the present.

Ashveil does not argue, simply following you. Close enough that you can feel him there, just behind you—never quite beside you, yet never distant either.

You have noticed it. The way he adjusts himself around you. The way he lingers, wanting to be subtle. The way he almost—almost—closes the distance, only to stop short each time.

It makes your chest tighten in a way you cannot easily explain. You tell yourself it is nothing, that it is simply habit. Perhaps it is companionship that he seeks— the purpose of marriage was this. Something harmless.

But even as you walk through the rain, you can feel his gaze settle on you once more—steady, searching, unguarded in a way that feels far too intentional.

And the question lingers, quiet but insistent..

Why does he look at you—

as though you are the final piece of something he has been trying to complete?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rain does not stop.

Days pass, yet the sky remains sealed beneath a suffocating blanket of grey, as though the heavens themselves have chosen to abandon this land to its own decay. What began as a distant murmur has grown into a constant presence—rain tapping endlessly against the tall windows, seeping into the stone, clinging to the air with a damp heaviness that never quite leaves. Even within the palace walls, the scent of it lingers, mixing with old wood and colder things, creating an atmosphere that feels less like a home and more like something quietly rotting from the inside out.

And with each passing day, another name is added to the list.

At first, it had been manageable—tragic, but contained. A single report from Moria. A single soldier lost to something no one could immediately identify. But the pattern does not hold. It fractures, splinters, spreads. The deaths grow in number, then in frequency, each one slipping through the cracks before anyone can properly react. By the time the pattern becomes undeniable, it is already far too late to pretend this is coincidence.

You stand alone in the study, the latest report trembling slightly between your fingers despite the stillness of your body. Your eyes trace the words again and again, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of what is unfolding.

But there is nothing familiar here.

Nothing you recognize. Nothing that aligns with what you remember.

This wasn’t in the novel.

The realization no longer arrives as a shock. It settles into you like something colder, heavier—something that refuses to leave. Up until now, every step you had taken, every decision you had made, had been guided—anchored by the knowledge of what was meant to happen. Even when things felt uncertain, there had always been that quiet reassurance in the back of your mind: this is how it goes.

But now, there is nothing. The comfort of the script has long left you. And you are reminded once more that you are a stranger to this world. Caught in a future that refuses to unfold the way it should.

Your fingers tighten around the parchment. For the first time since you arrived in this world, you are truly, completely on your own.

The palace feels it. Even if no one speaks of it openly, the shift is undeniable. Conversations grow shorter, quieter, weighed down by something unspoken. Servants move with more urgency, yet less noise, as though afraid that any disruption might draw attention to something lurking just beyond their understanding. The vast halls, once merely cold, now feel hollow—like something has been carved out of them, leaving behind only an echo.

And within it all, the people closest to you begin to change.

Boothill and Rappa no longer train for the sake of improvement—they train as though survival depends on it. Their usual arguments still exist, but they lack their former ease, their edges sharpened by something far more serious. Boothill’s movements grow more precise, more deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning even when he pretends not to care. Rappa, on the other hand, throws herself into every motion with unwavering intensity, as though sheer will alone might be enough to outrun whatever is coming.

They linger around you more now.

Not in a way that draws attention.

Not in a way that disrespects your position.

But you notice it in the small things—the way Boothill adjusts his pace to match yours when you walk, even if he pretends it’s coincidence. The way Rappa insists on accompanying you under flimsy excuses that neither of you bothers to question. Even Loretta, ever composed and mischievous, has begun to remain at your side longer than necessary, her quiet presence grounding in a way that feels both comforting and unsettling.

They are protecting you. And the realization does not bring relief. Only the weight of understanding just how serious this has become.

The autopsy room is colder than the rest of the palace, as it always is. The scent of iron lingers thick in the air, layered beneath the sharp bitterness of medicinal herbs meant to mask what cannot truly be hidden. You stand over the body in silence, your gaze fixed, your mind working tirelessly to assemble pieces that refuse to fit together cleanly.

Another soldier.

Another victim.

Another life reduced to a report.

Your hand hovers just above the pale skin, unmoving as your thoughts spiral deeper into the problem. The symptoms are consistent—pain, deterioration, eventual collapse. The onset is delayed, carefully timed, as though designed to avoid immediate suspicion.

The reports point toward neither food nor water. The causes are inconsistent, an illusion of an airborne disease.

Your brows draw together as frustration builds, tightening slowly within your chest.

Then what?

Your fingers curl slightly. Think, think, think— figure something out. There are people awaiting your hopeful words that haven't reached your throat yet. You force yourself to step back, to look beyond the surface, beyond the obvious. You replay every detail, every report, every name.

Just as you uncover another sheet of report, your hand stills and your breath catches.

“…No.”The word leaves you before you can stop it.

You turn sharply toward the scattered reports, your movements quicker now, more urgent. Your eyes scan through them again, but this time with purpose—with direction.

Names, units, histories.

Your heartbeat quickens. “…They’re all connected.” The realization settles with terrifying clarity.

It's not random, never random. Every single victim—every soldier who had fallen, they all served under him.

Your grip tightens against the edge of the table.

“…Ashveil.” The name leaves your lips in a whisper.

This isn’t an attack on the dukedom. It’s an attack on him.

You don’t remember leaving the room.

Only that you are moving—fast enough that your thoughts struggle to keep up, your mind racing ahead even as your body tries to follow. The halls blur past you, familiar yet distant, your focus narrowing to a single point.

His office.

You don’t slow down, your steps catching it's pace with your heartbeat. By the time you reach the door, your hand is already raised, your breath uneven despite your effort to steady it. You knock—once, twice—but the sound feels insignificant compared to the urgency thrumming through you.

Patience fails you and the door opens beneath your hand.

The room is dim. The curtains remain drawn, shutting out what little light the storm might offer, leaving the space cloaked in shadows that stretch long across the floor. The desk is covered in papers—maps, reports, letters—each one a fragment of the chaos unfolding beyond these walls. None of them are neatly arranged. None of them are entirely out of place either.

It is the work of someone trying to hold everything together.

Alone.

Ashveil stands near the window, his figure half-obscured by the faint light that manages to slip through the gaps in the curtains. He does not turn immediately, his posture still, rigid in a way that feels less like calm and more like restraint.

“…You should be resting.” His voice is quiet. The distance in it dims your hopes by a grain. The walls you've worked so hard to chip away can rebuild itself with one wrong word.

You step inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “And you should be eating,” you reply, your tone steady despite the tension coiling in your chest. “Yet neither of us seems particularly interested in doing what we should.”

That draws a reaction—subtle, but present. A slight shift in his shoulders, a quiet exhale that barely reaches you.

When he turns to face you, the sight alone is enough to make your breath falter.

He looks… worn. Not in the way of someone who simply lacks sleep, but in a way that feels deeper, heavier. There is a strain beneath his composure now, something that lingers in the set of his shoulders, in the faint tightness of his expression. He still stands tall, still carries himself with the same quiet authority—but it is no longer effortless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though the words lack any real force.

“I figured it out.” You don’t give him the chance to continue.

The words land between you, immediate and unyielding. That stops him completely.

“…What?”

“The poison,” you continue, stepping closer, your voice firm despite the storm raging within you. “It isn’t random. The victims—they’re all connected. They served under you during the war.”

Your gaze locks onto his. “This is about you.”

The silence following is heavy. unavoidable. He seems hesitant, unwilling to bear the burden of your words. “…I know.”

The answer hits harder than you expect.

You stare at him, disbelief flickering across your expression. “…You knew?”

“I suspected,” he corrects quietly, his gaze lowering slightly. “I didn’t want to act on assumption alone.”

Frustration rises quickly, sharp and immediate. “You should have told me—”

“And burden you further?” he interrupts, his voice still calm, but firm in a way that stops you short. “You already carry enough.”

The words linger. Because they are not wrong. But they are not enough either.

“I am your wife,” you say, softer now, but no less resolute. “This is mine to carry as well.”

Something in his expression shifts then—subtle, but undeniable. The distance he had been holding begins to falter, just slightly, as though your words have reached somewhere deeper than he intended to expose.

“I’m failing them.” The confession comes quietly, carrying guilt wrapped in white silk, stripped of its ink before you.

“I couldn’t protect them during the war,” he continues, his voice steady but thinner now, stretched by something heavier beneath it. “And now I can’t even protect the ones who survived it.”

Your chest tightens.

“I keep thinking…” His gaze drifts, unfocused, as though searching for something beyond the present. “What would Tiernan have done?”

The name settles between you. It's new to you— not one that was mentioned in the novel. Though you have to give yourself a pat on the back for touching those books in the palace library.

Tiernan. The previous Duke of Kronstadt— a foreigner who had caught the Duke's eyes at that time, enough to be bestowed the position after his death. Ashveil is nowhere related to that man— all they share is a past and a friendship that shares this title of a 'Duke'.

“He never hesitated,” Ashveil murmurs. “Never doubted. Everything I am now—this title, this responsibility—it was his first.”

His hand tightens slightly at his side.

“And I can’t help but wonder if I’m disappointing him.” The vulnerability in his voice is quiet but it is unmistakable.

You close the distance between you fully this time. “You’re not him,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “And you were never meant to be.”

His gaze lifts, meeting yours. He doesn't miss the firmness in your voice, the determination he lacks lies within you.

“You’re carrying something he never had to,” you continue. “The aftermath of a war, the weight of an entire dukedom—and something inside you that he never had to fight.”

Your expression softens. “And you’re still standing.”

The silence that follows is different now. A fragile silence. Before you is not just the Duke of Kronstadt, but your husband. The comfort he brings almost scares you, his very being rapidly carving the unspoken words out of you like a gushing wound.

“I need to tell you something,” you start quietly.

That catches his attention, his ears perk up like a wolf hearing its favorite word.

“I’m not… from here,” you admit, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. “This world—it isn’t mine. Not originally.” The words feel surreal even now. “I knew things I shouldn’t have. About you. About everyone. Because… I read it. This life—this story—it was something written.”

Your gaze holds his, the eye-contact is the only thing keeping you courageous thus far. “I’ve been following it since the beginning.”

You feel as if you've reached a wall, beyond it is a future you can no longer forsee. And you can only look at the sky, count the stars that speaks of the unchanging past.

“But this… none of this was supposed to happen.” Your voice trembles, you almost fail to get them out. But it is out— the truth laid bare before him.

“…I know.” Is all you hear that deep voice mumble out. The lack of surprise doesn't miss you, he barely gives a reaction.

“You… what?”

A faint, tired smile crosses his lips.

“You always knew too much,” he states bluntly. “It was only a matter of time before I realized it wasn’t coincidence.”

You glance toward him as if he's spouted out a forbidden spell isolated from the world. (WHA ref...) Have you truly been so careless? The question bugs you more than it should.

“Right now,” Ashveil continues, his voice softer, steadier, “you’re the only one who’s helped me make sense of any of this.”

Something in your chest tightens. You exhale slowly to steady yourself. To let yourself falter here is to reach another wall.

“We can stop this.” You blurt out without giving him a chance to reconsider his earlier words. His attention sharpens instantly.

“The poison isn’t spreading randomly,” you explain, stepping toward the desk as your thoughts begin to align with clarity. “It’s being administered selectively. That means the culprit needs access—close, controlled access.”

You gesture toward the reports. “We isolate your former unit. No shared supplies, no unsupervised contact. We monitor everything.”

The pause almost concerns him, yet you push on. “And we draw them out.”

The Wolf Duke's gaze does not avert your face. He evaluates your strategy, his mind desperately searching for hope. “…How?”

“They want you,” you say simply. “So we give them what they’re after.”

Understanding dawns slowly to him. “…Me.”

“Yes.” You respond firmly, certain of your idea.

A shaky breath escapes his lips and his eyes wonders to somewhere else, perhaps nowhere just to avoid you. “…That’s risky.”

“Yes,” you agree. The plan in itself isn't the best option, but it is the only one you have so far.

“…It might work.” You attempt to convince him once more.

Truthfully, there is only a little room for rejection in this situation. Ashveil has faced this situation only a handful of times, the hunt for him has never left his side. In the past, he'd avoid it all— letting Narrator take over the course. And now, there's you.

The distance that once lingered is gone now, replaced by something steadier. Stronger. Built not on obligation or title, but on something far more fragile—and far more real.

Trust.

Ashveil looks at you differently now, not as someone to shield but as someone who stands beside him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The plan does not unfold in a single decisive moment, nor does it arrive with the kind of clarity that stories often promise. Instead, it settles slowly into the bones of the palace, threading itself through routines so familiar that no one beyond your circle would think to question them. At a glance, everything remains unchanged—the same quiet halls, the same measured footsteps of servants, the same distant rhythm of daily life continuing as it always has. Yet beneath that carefully preserved surface, something far more deliberate takes shape, something watchful and unrelenting.

Every movement is noted now, every presence accounted for. Conversations are no longer just conversations; they are observed, weighed, remembered. Even silence has meaning. The palace, once merely cold and distant, begins to feel like a living thing holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.

And at the center of it all stands Ashveil.

He plays his part with a precision that would be almost unsettling if you did not understand the cost of it. To anyone watching, he is unchanged—composed, reserved, untouchable in the way a Duke must be.

He attends meetings; a new yet understandable sight, reviews reports, allows himself to be seen in places he had quietly withdrawn from in the days prior. He becomes visible again, deliberately so, placing himself back into the flow of the palace’s daily life as though nothing has shifted at all. It is a performance, but not a false one. Every step he takes is grounded in intent, every glance calculated just enough to appear natural while revealing nothing of what lies beneath.

Yet you see what others cannot.

You see the tension that never quite leaves his shoulders, the way his stillness is not rest but restraint. You notice how his gaze lingers a fraction too long on unfamiliar faces, how his awareness stretches outward, constantly searching, constantly measuring.

There is something heavier within him now, something that stirs more frequently beneath the surface, agitated by the pressure closing in from all sides. And still, despite it all, he follows through with the plan without hesitation.

Because he trusts it.

Because he trusts you.

It is that trust, quiet and unspoken, that steadies you even as everything else threatens to unravel.

The first sign appears so subtly that it might have gone unnoticed on any other day. A maidservant you do not recognize lingers near the inner corridors longer than her duties require, her movements just slightly out of sync with the natural rhythm of the palace. There is nothing overtly wrong about her, nothing that would immediately draw suspicion, and yet something about her presence feels misplaced, like a note just barely off-key in an otherwise perfect composition.

Then another appears.

Assigned to a wing she should not have access to, her explanation quick but lacking the ease of truth. A third follows not long after, her behavior unremarkable in isolation, yet increasingly difficult to ignore when placed alongside the others.

Individually, they are nothing.

Together, they form a pattern too precise to dismiss.

You do not act on it immediately, and neither does Ashveil. Instead, you wait, allowing the pattern to develop, to solidify into something undeniable. The tension builds quietly, coiling tighter with each passing hour as more pieces fall into place. It is not impatience that guides you, but certainty. Acting too soon would risk losing everything. Acting at the right moment ensures that nothing slips through.

When that moment comes, it does not announce itself— as though a fleeting bird set free.

The guards move with a quiet efficiency that speaks of careful preparation, sealing exits before the targets even realize they have been identified. There is no chaos, no raised voices echoing through the halls—only swift, controlled motion that leaves no room for escape. You watch from a distance, your expression composed even as your pulse quickens beneath the surface, as the truth unfolds exactly as you had anticipated.

They are not servants.

Not truly.

The uniforms are convincing, their behavior practiced, but the illusion fractures under pressure. Their answers falter, their composure slips, and the carefully constructed façade begins to crumble. It does not take long before hesitation gives way to contradiction, and contradiction gives way to something far more revealing.

A title emerges from the cracks.

“The One-Eyed Owl.”

It is spoken with reluctance, the words carrying a weight that lingers long after they have been said. Fear follows it, quiet but unmistakable, settling into the space like something alive.

You feel Ashveil’s attention shift beside you, subtle but immediate. The title is unfamiliar, yet the presence behind it is not. There is something deliberate in the way it is spoken, something that suggests distance rather than absence, as though the one it belongs to has never needed to stand at the forefront to exert control.

They are not the source. That much becomes clear almost immediately.

What little they know is fragmented, limited to orders given and tasks assigned. They were never meant to succeed, only to observe, to gather what they could, to wait for an opportunity that never came. Their purpose was never to act decisively, but to exist as expendable pieces, placed where they were needed and discarded just as easily.

Which means the true threat remains untouched. Unseen and watching from somewhere beyond your reach.

Later, within the quiet confines of Ashveil’s office, the weight of that realization settles between you once more. The storm outside has yet to ease, the steady rhythm of rain against the windows a constant reminder of everything that still lies unresolved.

“It’s a start,” you say at last, your voice softer now, shaped more by thought than urgency.

Ashveil exhales slowly, his gaze distant as he considers the implications. “It is,” he agrees, though there is a quiet heaviness beneath the words. “But it’s not enough.”

“No,” you admit, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk as you steady yourself. “But it gives us direction.”

The title lingers between you.

The One-Eyed Owl.

It does not feel like a person so much as it does a presence, something that exists just beyond sight, pulling threads from the shadows without ever revealing the hand behind them. An enemy that does not need to stand in the open to be dangerous.

And yet, the Wolf Palace finds life within itself once again.

The changes that follow are immediate and uncompromising. The soldiers are reorganized, their routines stripped down and rebuilt with precision, every interaction monitored, every resource accounted for. Food supplies are handled with near surgical care, each ingredient traced, each preparation observed under watchful eyes. Nothing is left to assumption, nothing allowed to pass without scrutiny.

It is exhausting work; relentless to the point a blink can have it all washed away. But it yields results.

The deaths stop completely, as though the invisible hand that had been tightening around them has suddenly withdrawn.

And in that absence, there is room, however small, for something else to take its place.

You find yourself visiting them more often than expected, not out of obligation, but something quieter, something that draws you there without needing a reason.

Coria accompanies you most days, her presence as gentle as the music she carries, her melodies weaving softly through the open spaces, lightening the air in a way that feels almost foreign after everything that has passed.

The soldiers are different here, away from the rigid structure of the palace and the unseen threat that had once loomed over them. They are still marked by what they have endured, still carrying the weight of battles fought and losses suffered, but there is something steadier in them now. Something that resembles peace, even if only in fragments.

Cole is there as well, as he always seems to be.

The poet who once delivered news of death now offers something else entirely, his voice threading through the quiet with words that do not dwell solely on grief, but on memory, on endurance, on the fragile persistence of life beyond war. His verses are softer now, less burdened by finality, and more open to what still remains.

Sometimes Coria plays, her music flowing gently between the pauses in conversation.

Sometimes Cole recites, his words settling into the spaces left behind.

And sometimes, the soldiers themselves speak, their voices rising with stories that feel less like recounting and more like reclaiming. Laughter slips through where silence once lingered too heavily, small and fleeting, but real all the same.

You sit among them more often than not, no longer as a duchess observing from a distance, but as someone present within the moment itself, listening rather than leading, sharing rather than directing.

There is one afternoon where the rain begins to ease.

It does not stop entirely, but it softens, the steady downpour fading into something quieter, something less suffocating. The sky lightens just enough to allow a pale, distant glow to filter through the clouds, a reminder that even the longest storms are not without end.

Coria’s melody drifts through the air, gentle and unhurried, while Cole’s voice follows, weaving something quieter than before, something that speaks not of endings, but of what lingers afterward.

You look around, your eyes shifting toward the soldiers. At the subtle ease in their movements, the faint smiles that pass between them, the way their shoulders seem just a little less burdened.

And for the first time in what feels like far too long— You allow yourself to breathe. The threat within the palace has been removed. The poison has been contained and the plan has succeeded. But even as the tension loosens its grip, the name remains.

The One-Eyed Owl— is not gone. Their keen eye is awaiting another moment to strike.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The days that follow do not return to what they once were. They become something softer. Not untouched by what had happened, not free from the weight of it all—but steadier, as though the storm that had once threatened to swallow everything has finally loosened its grip just enough for life to settle back into place. The palace no longer feels like it is holding its breath. The tension that once lingered in every corridor has eased, replaced by something quieter, something almost… warm.

And within that fragile calm, the people around you begin to change in ways you hadn’t quite expected.

Rappa is the first to have shown her fondness— unveiled from suspicion. She drags you—there is no gentler word for it—out into the training grounds with a determination that leaves little room for refusal. What begins as a simple suggestion quickly turns into something far more consistent, her enthusiasm unwavering as she insists on teaching you archery alongside Robin Hood, who watches the entire ordeal with an amused patience that never quite fades.

Your stance is corrected more times than you can count, your grip adjusted, your posture nudged into place with firm insistence. Rappa talks the entire time, her voice bright, animated, filled with a pride that borders on theatrical every time you so much as improve by a fraction. She celebrates your smallest successes as though they are grand victories, her laughter ringing clear across the field whenever your arrow lands even remotely close to where it should.

Robin Hood, in contrast, offers fewer words, but when he does speak, they carry weight. His guidance is precise, his corrections subtle yet effective, his presence grounding in a way that balances Rappa’s boundless energy. Between the two of them, you find yourself improving without quite realizing it, your movements growing more confident, your aim steadier with each passing day.

Boothill, of course, refuses to be left out. He rarely joins the lessons directly, preferring instead to linger nearby, leaning lazily against whatever surface he can find as he watches with a half-amused, half-critical eye. But his silence never lasts long. It never does.

He talks endlessly.

Stories spill from him as easily as breath, tales of dusty roads and endless skies, of duels fought and won, of mistakes made and lessons learned the hard way. His voice carries a rhythm of its own, something rough yet familiar, as though every word has been shaped by the life he once lived. Sometimes his stories are exaggerated, sometimes they contradict themselves, but there is always something genuine beneath them—something that speaks of a past he does not often show so openly.

And somehow, without realizing it, you begin to listen.

Not as an observer. But as someone who belongs there, within that moment, within that shared space of laughter and stories and quiet understanding.

Even Argenti finds his way to you more often now.

His visits are never intrusive, always timed in a way that feels almost intentional, as though he understands the balance between presence and distance better than most. He speaks with you about many things—about duty, about honor, about beauty in places where it is often overlooked. His words are thoughtful, measured, carrying a sincerity that never feels forced.

There is a calmness in those conversations, something that allows you to breathe a little easier, to step away from the weight of everything else, if only for a moment.

And then there is Loretta.

Quiet, observant yet mischievous Loretta, who rarely asks for anything.

Until one day, she does.

It is a small request, almost hesitant in its delivery, her usual composure faltering just slightly as she mentions the idea of accompanying you into town. Shopping, she calls it, though the word feels almost foreign within the context of everything you have been dealing with.

And yet, there is something in her expression, something hopeful, something almost… excited.

You find yourself agreeing without hesitation. Because for the first time in a long while, it feels like something normal.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It is on a night like any other that the letter arrives.

There is nothing particularly unusual about it at first glance. The paper is familiar, the seal unmistakable, bearing the quiet authority of the Duke himself. And yet, the moment you take it into your hands, something about it feels… different.

You break the seal carefully, your curiosity already beginning to stir.

The message inside is brief.

The words written are not of formality but a personal invitation. To the palace gardens, he invites you.

You stare at the words for longer than necessary, your brows drawing together in faint confusion. There is nothing preventing him from asking you directly, nothing that would require something as deliberate as a letter. You had seen him earlier that day, spoken to him, stood close enough to feel the quiet presence he always carried with him.

And yet, he chose this. You are not sure why but you accept it anyway— who would be mad enough to refuse an invitation from the Wolf of the North himself?

The gardens are quieter at night. The rain has long since passed, leaving the air cool and clean, the earth beneath your feet still faintly damp from what had come before. The sky above is clearer now, scattered with stars that feel distant yet present all the same, their light soft against the darkness that surrounds you.

You find him there, awaiting your arrival.

He stands near the center of the garden, his figure framed by the faint glow of lantern light, his presence as steady as it has always been. There is something different about him tonight, though you cannot quite place it at first. Something softer, perhaps. Something less guarded.

“You sent me a letter,” you say as you approach, the hint of amusement in your voice doing little to mask your curiosity. “You do realize you could have simply spoken to me.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “I do.” The nervousness that envelopes him is too sudden— how can he not, you're looking at him with those mesmerising eyes as if he's spoken the words of a fool. “I— is this not a thing in those romance novels you read?”

That catches you off, more than it should have. You can't tell what's further ridiculous, that he's read those novels to do this or the fact that he's picked up on you reading them.

“You've read romance novels?” you accuse softly, raising your brows. To picture the Wolf Duke sitting at his desk with a book of endless sap is a thought that would've never arrived to you in a thousand years.

A tint of pink scatters across Ashveil's cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I— ugh... You—... How else was I supposed to figure out how to court a lady?”

He immediately averts his gaze afterwards, hoping to gain some composure from this flustered mess that he is. You can only quietly laugh— it feels like a breath of fresh air, to finally laugh and banter with the man you've been sharing a ring with.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence that settles between you is not uncomfortable, nor is it heavy. It feels… natural. Easy in a way that had once seemed impossible between the two of you.

“You’ve changed things,” he says at last, his voice quiet beneath the open sky.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have I?”

“The soldiers are alive,” he continues. “The palace is standing. And for the first time in a long while…” His gaze shifts slightly, softer now. “It feels like something more than just survival.”

The words settle gently.

You exhale, your expression easing. “I didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

Another pause follows, quieter this time, filled with something unspoken yet understood.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask softly. “Before all of this, before the war. Before everything became… this.”

His gaze drifts, just for a moment. “…Sometimes.” He does not elaborate, it pains him to do so. Thus, you don't press further, some things are better left unsaid.

And for a while, you talk about small things. About memories that feel distant yet not entirely out of reach. About moments that shaped you both into who you are now. The conversation flows more easily than it ever has before, unguarded in a way that feels unfamiliar, yet right.

In the breath of the moment, you hear Ashveil make a request you never expected. “Would you like to dance with me, [Name]?” The words are spoken with a gentleness you have not heard since stepping into this world of venomous nobles.

You nod without hesitation, placing your hand in his offered one. He draws you a breath closer, and you allow it, your movements falling naturally into his. The melody lingers like a distant memory—one of Coria’s songs—resting quietly in both your minds, as though you share a single thought between you.

Your steps follow his in a soft, unbroken rhythm, each turn guiding you back into his arms. Your eyes drift shut, unaware of the way his gaze lingers on you. In the stillness of that moment, without your voice to distract him, he takes you in fully—your form, your presence, your very being—and to him, even the brightest stars pale in comparison.

When your eyes flutter open, all you see is him.

He leads you with a care that feels almost reverent, the dance unfolding into something endless, something woven with unspoken words. Moonlight spills over his dark locks, catching on the lighter strands and making them gleam faintly in the night.

You do not step back when his hand comes to rest against your cheek, his touch warm, grounding. His lips meet yours—slow, uncertain, a little clumsy. The rhythm falters for a moment, until your hand lifts to cradle the back of his neck, steadying him, guiding him. You can feel his hesitation, his nerves, and to his quiet relief, you take the lead.

With each gentle press of his lips against yours, a calm settles deep within you. The lingering fog in your mind begins to clear, replaced by him—by this moment, by the place you have carved out for yourself in this once unfamiliar world.

You are no longer a stranger in a foreign land, no longer an accidental reincarnation drifting without purpose. You have found something here—earned it, even. Love, respect, a place to belong.

And it is everything you have ever wished for.

There's nowhere to go. That's the thing about nights like this—there's no destination, no point, just the road and the speed and the way the city blurs into streaks of neon when he pushes the bike past any reasonable limit.

You never complain. You just hold on and trust him to keep you both alive, and that trust is a weight he carries everywhere.

He pulls off onto some empty overlook, kills the engine, and the silence that follows is so sudden it makes his ears ring.

"Again," you say immediately, breathless and electric, and Deuce laughs because of course you want to go again. Of course you do.

"We're gonna run out of gas."

"So? We'll figure it out."

You always say that. Deuce doesn't know how to tell you that he's already figured it out. That he's been trying to figure it out for months. That the answer to every question he has starts and ends with you, and he still doesn't know what to do with that.

So he just kicks the bike back to life and says, "Hold on tight," and you do.

There's a house party in some warehouse on the edge of town, the kind of place that's half-abandoned and smells like rust and spilled beer. Someone's rigged up a speaker system that's blasting music so loud Deuce can feel it vibrating in his bones, and there are too many people crammed into too little space, and it's perfect.

You drag him into the center of it all, pulling him by the wrist, and Deuce goes because he'd follow you anywhere. The music is all bright synth and thumping bass, and you're moving to it like you don't care who's watching. You probably don't.

Deuce isn't much of a dancer, but he tries anyway because you're laughing at him and the sound cuts through the noise. You grab his hands and spin yourself under his arm, stumbling a little, and he catches you before you can trip over your own feet.

"You're terrible at this," you shout over the music, and he can see the grin splitting your face wide.

"Yeah, well, you're not much better!"

"I'm way better!"

You're not. You're both disasters. But you're disasters together, and that's all Deuce has ever wanted.

Someone jostles him from behind and he nearly loses his balance, but you steady him with a hand on his chest, and suddenly you're close enough that he can smell the faint trace of your shampoo under the warehouse stink. His heart kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with the music. He wonders if you can feel it under your palm.

You don't move your hand.

He doesn't move either.

The moment stretches and Deuce thinks maybe this is it, maybe he should just say it, just tell you that he's been carrying this feeling around for so long he doesn't remember what it's like to not want you. But then someone cranks the music up even louder and you step back, laughing again, and the moment snaps.

"Come on," you say, tugging him toward the makeshift bar in the corner. "I need a drink."

Deuce follows.

The diner is open twenty-four hours and serves the greasiest food Deuce has ever tasted, which means it's perfect for nights like this when it's 3am and neither of you can sleep.

You're sitting across from him in the booth, stealing fries off his plate even though you ordered your own. There's a bruise blooming across your cheekbone from earlier—some fight Deuce can't even remember the details of anymore, just the way you'd grinned at him afterward.

"You're staring," you say without looking up, and Deuce blinks.

"No I'm not."

"You definitely are."

He was. He knows he was. He can't help it. You've got ketchup on your thumb and your hair's a mess and you look like you've been through a war, and he's never seen anything better in his life.

"Just thinking," he says, which isn't a lie.

"About?"

You. Always you.

"Nothing important."

You hum, unconvinced, and steal another fry. The fluorescent lights overhead are buzzing faintly, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow, and there's a couple arguing in the booth behind you, and the whole place smells like burnt coffee and fryer oil. It's objectively miserable.

Deuce has never been happier.

"Hey," you say suddenly, looking up at him with those eyes that make his chest feel too small. "Thanks for tonight."

"I didn't do anything."

"Yeah, you did." You're smiling at him, soft and sincere, and Deuce feels something crack open inside him. "You always do."

He doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't trust himself to say anything at all. So he just kicks your foot under the table and says, "Shut up and eat your fries," and you laugh and do exactly that.

The roof of the parking garage is technically off-limits, but the lock was broken months ago and no one's bothered to fix it, so it's become your spot by default.

You're lying on the hood of someone's car—not yours, not Deuce's, just some random sedan that's been parked here for days—staring up at the sky. Deuce is beside you, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, and he's trying very hard not to think about how easy it would be to close that gap.

"Do you ever think about leaving?" you ask, and your voice is quiet in the dark.

Deuce turns his head to look at you. "Leaving where?"

"Here. This town. All of it." You gesture vaguely at the sky, the buildings, the world in general. "Just getting on the bike and going until we run out of road."

"Sometimes," Deuce admits. He thinks about it more than he should. Thinks about the two of you disappearing into the horizon, no plans, no responsibilities, just the wind and the endless sprawl of highway. "You wanna go?"

"I don't know." You're still looking at the sky. "Maybe. Would you come with me?"

The question shouldn't hurt, but it does. Because of course he would. He'd follow you to the end of the world if you asked. He'd follow you into hell. He'd follow you anywhere.

But he doesn't think that's what you're really asking.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he meant. "I'd come with you."

You turn your head then, just enough to look at him, and there's something in your expression he can't read. The streetlights below cast long shadows across your face, turning everything into sharp angles and soft curves, and Deuce is staring again. He knows he's staring. He can't stop.

"Deuce," you start, and his heart is pounding so hard he's sure you can hear it.

And then you kiss him.

You lean over and press your mouth to his like it's the easiest thing in the world, like you've been thinking about it as long as he has, and Deuce's brain stops completely. His hand comes up to cup your jaw on instinct and he can feel you smiling against his lips.

When you pull back, you're grinning.

"Catch me if you can," you say, and then you're sliding off the hood and running, your laughter echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage.

Deuce sits there for half a second, stunned, and then his body catches up to what just happened and he's moving. He vaults off the car and takes off after you, his blood pumping hot and wild through his veins, and he can hear you laughing ahead of him, can see the shape of you disappearing around the corner.

He's going to catch you.

He's going to catch you and kiss you again and tell you everything he's been too scared to say.

He's going to catch you and never let you go.

Deuce runs, and the sound of your laughter pulls him forward like a lifeline, and for the first time in months he feels like he can breathe.

Masterlist

Rain pours incessantly onto the pavement, the heavy pitter-patter sounding like bullets against the plastic of your umbrella. Clutching the handle tighter, you make your way through Dovebrook District, wanting nothing more than to get home to your apartment. It’s been a long day at work, and you frankly do not want to deal with any drunk Fools or wannabe gangsters. Though you doubt anyone would be out here willingly in this weather.

What you’re looking forward to now is a nice, warm bath; accompanied by the sound of relaxing music mixing with the drops falling against the window in the background. Then, you’ll cook yourself a delicious dinner and go to sleep with the most elating feeling of all: the knowledge that tomorrow is the weekend and you can sleep in. You even picked up some pastries before heading home, which you’re now guarding close to your chest so the box doesn’t get wet. Yeah… That sounds like a plan.

…you always thought it was just an expression when people say that it’s raining cats and dogs.

When you turn the corner to access the rather hidden alley your apartment door is located at, you suddenly hear it: a low, pained whine. You freeze in place. What- what was that? Did someone leave their dog outside? Is it a weird imagenae causing trouble? As a resident of Dovebrook, your heart rate spikes: On one hand, you’ve heard of people on the internet warning about kidnappers playing baby or animal noises to attract victims so they can do horrible things to them; you certainly don’t want that to be you. On the other hand… What if there’s actually a wounded animal here? Leaving it out here in the pouring rain would just be wrong. What to do…

You look around the alley and see a small windowsill that’s protected from the rain. An idea forms in your mind. You place your pastries down there, hoping that they won’t get wet. Then, you take your phone, the police on speed dial in one hand, while the other still clutches your umbrella tight. Would you be able to defend yourself with it? Debatable, but it’s better than nothing. Slowly, you walk further into the alley, approaching the sound of soft whimpers. Every cell in your body prays to Aha, hoping that the rain drowns out the sound of your footsteps as you approach the shared garbage containers. Your steps can’t be as loud as your pounding heart in your ears, right?

Gosh, what are you doing? You’re going to get yourself murdered, aren’t you? All because your stupidly big heart can’t bear the thought of a puppy in the rain. What a pathetic way to die. Any moment, some gangsters are going to put a sack over your head and-

There are no gangsters as you peer your head around the container. And there is no puppy either. Well, it’s not a puppy anymore; you reckon that the beast before you must have been one at some point. It certainly is one big, big dog, lying against a heap of trash bags. With the little light from the street lamps, you make out a long snout, dark fur, and strong yet nimble limbs. Maybe it’s one of the officer dogs you’ve seen patrolling the streets? It certainly looks similar to one. Its dark fur is completely soaked by the downpour, and it’s panting heavily, eyes closed and ears folded back. 

Oh, poor thing. You take a step closer, leaning down as your heart clenches at the sight of the big puppy being so miserable. What’s happened to it? What is it doing here? As your eyes trail over the animal, desperately trying to make out something in the dim light, you suddenly notice a streak of something barely recognizable in the dark fur, but that streams down into the pavement in a deep crimson: blood.

You gasp.

Immediately, the animal’s eyes shoot open, teeth bared as it lets out a deep, aggressive growl that makes you stumble back, raising your free hand in defense. Okay, it’s not friendly.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you try in the gentlest voice possible, speaking in a higher octave. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

The dog tries to stand up, but the sudden movement makes it stumble back onto the ground, another whimper ringing through the air. Your heart clenches. You have to help it somehow! You’re not letting this doggy bleed out here.

Think… What can you do? Finding an awkward angle to balance your umbrella on your shoulder, you use both hands to type into your phone and see if there are any emergency vets nearby. 

Fuck. The closest is in Duomension City, about a thirty-minute ride from here. You don’t have a car. Neither do any of your friends, and getting the dog on public transport is out of the question. Alright, cabs. There’s gotta be someone out there that can drive you for money, right? Quickly opening the app, you type in the address of the vet and check for available drivers.

“Oh for the love of-”

Flashing red, your screen seems to laugh at you. The entirety of Plnarcadia can NOT be all driving around right now. What do you mean that the next available car is free in two freaking hours?! You don’t have the time for that!

As another pained whimper breaks your focus, you tear your eyes from the screen, and your eyes meet the wolfish dog. Grey eyes with a dash of pink look back to you, and the initial hostility in the form of bared teeth and a scrunched snout has melted into a truly pitiful look. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to do something, anything, to help this pup. Is there nothing you can do?

…one thought comes to mind. Could it potentially make things worse? Yes, because you know barely anything about dogs, but it’s better than not trying at all, right?

“Alright, big boy.” You crouch down until you’re at eye level with it, slowly, hoping it won’t lash out again. “I can’t bring you to a vet, but my apartment is right here, and I have a medkit. I’m gonna help you,” you explain. If it’s a security doggo, it should understand what you’re saying, right? “Is that okay?”

It seems you’re in luck, because after a few contemplative seconds, the animal lets out a resigned huff. You take that as a yes.

“Good. Can you stand at all?”

Again, you watch as it tries to stand up, but it falls back against the trash bags, panting heavily.

Shit. That’s not good. Now the question is: how heavy is that beast? Because it looks like you’ll break your back just carrying it into the elevator. Skipping the gym so often may not have been such a good idea in hindsight.

Once more, you balance the umbrella on your shoulder, then slowly move your hands closer. “I’m going to have to carry you, sorry.”

You expect another growl, but it merely watches you cautiously, waiting for your attempt. Alright, gentle now. As best as you can, you try to grab around its waist and tentatively test the weight. Wet fur sticks to your shirt, and- oh shit, he’s heavy. Like- genuinely back-breaking heavy. Did you jinx yourself by thinking about it? Real funny, Aha…

Alright, focus now. You step a bit closer, trying to lift with your legs and not your back, and in one swift movement, you have the dog splayed against your chest while you hold onto its butt and hind legs. All that drenched coat slaps against every inch of your body and makes you shudder. Ugh. 

The motion must have accidentally hit something, because you hear a whine against your ear and almost cry on the spot.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. We’re taking the elevator, we’ll be there soon,” you mutter apologetically, hoping to calm it. “Aeons you’re heavy…”

It’s an awkward waddle to your door and inside the building. Luckily, having a face-scanning system in your block means you don’t have to fumble around with keys, and soon you’re inside, stepping into the elevator as it automatically transports you to your floor. Every second with the dog in your arms feels heavier than the last, until you finally stumble into your apartment. Your first instinct is just to drop it off somewhere, but the poor thing is sopping wet, and so is your clothing now. So instead, you take the last few steps towards the bathroom, pushing the door open with your hip, and then, you carefully lower it into the bathtub.

Something cracks when you stand back up again. Ow… Well, at least it’s done.

In the very next second, you shriek as the dog shakes himself and sprays you full of water, and you’re very grateful you got him into the bathroom before he could do that in the middle of your apartment. Sigh… Your clothing was wet anyway. Can’t fault the poor thing for wanting to get rid of the rain.

Now that the cool lights of the bathroom stream down on you, you can finally inspect the dog closer. 

Uhm. You know, you’re no expert, but. That’s something.

What looked like any regular old dog out in the rain now resembles a wolf more than anything. The tips of its dark fur fade into white at the limbs, ears, and snout, and he (as you find out) not only has a metal collar in the shape of fangs around his neck, but his right front paw seems to be a prosthetic. Huh. Well, this definitely isn’t a security officer, but there’s definitely someone out there who cares enough for him to have given him these things. What reckless owner just leaves their dog out in the rain? Maybe he got lost?

But that’s not important: what really requires your attention is the now very visible gash on one of its hind paw, staining the white fur red.

“Oh, poor baby,” you coo, carding a hand through the wet fur. “Does it hurt a lot?”

Your whiny tone is met with a whine of his own, and you stand up, walking over to the little cabinet where you keep the usual bathroom stuff. With a heater, a hair dryer, some towels, and the promised medkit under your arm, you step closer once more. The first thing you do is take off your soaked clothes so you don’t get sick: the heater will keep you warm, and it’s not like a dog cares about nakedness much.

“Alright, let’s dry you a bit so the bandages stay on,” you hum, approaching the dog.

Maybe it’s your imagination, but you swear that he’s staring at you now that you’re in your underwear. He has gone surprisingly still, and even the heavy pants have stopped. It’s deadly silent in your bathroom, save for the whirring of the heater fans and the patter of the rain outside.

…you try not to think too much about that. Instead, you take your phone again, looking up any emergency dog help on forum websites. Navigating through people’s different situations and responses is honestly a pain, but it’s better than trusting the AI-generated responses. You’re not taking any chances. All the while, you softly rub the towel over the dog’s back while you take mental notes.

Seems starting with painkillers is a good idea. That way, you’ll be able to dry him off and tend to the wound more easily. Hm… Almost everything you’d give a human seems to be toxic, so you dig into your medkit, hoping to find a substitute for the usual stuff. Good thing you checked, geez. Luckily, there is some morphine tablets for more extreme cases, which should be safe.

The only problem is that you’ll have to guess this guy’s weight if you don’t want him to sleep until next Friday.

Your brain works overtime as you try to compare the weight to the dumbbells you’ve lifted in the gym before, it’s a hazy memory… Uh…

Fuck. Let’s err on the side of caution. You stand up, popping one of the tablets out and breaking about half of it. Then, you turn to the dog. “Do you want this wrapped in something? I’ve got some salami?”

At the word, he seems to perk up, and you can’t help but laugh at the adorable puppy eyes he gives you.

“Yeah? You want some salami? Oh you’re such a good boy,” you squeal, grabbing his sopping wet cheeks and caressing his snout. He’s just too cute, you don’t care if you actually brought a freaking wolf into your home. He’s so polite, even if he’s in pain! “I’ll be right back.”

Suddenly, you feel something warm and wet hit your wrist as the big dog licks at your skin, and you let out another squeal. Oh, he’s adorable! If only they’d let you have pets in the apartment…

With that, you stand up and walk over to your room, quickly changing into a t-shirt and some shorts. As your eyes scan the room, they land on a pillow in the corner, and you decide to take that with you too. Then, you walk over to the kitchen, take a package of salami slices from your fridge, and head back into the bathroom.

“Alright, pill time.” First, you take the pill, then you drop the pillow onto the floor so your ass won’t hurt once you’re done here, before you roll the small tablet into one of the slices. Tentatively, you move your hand closer, hoping that those sharp teeth won’t sink into your skin. It makes your hand tremble a bit. “Please don’t bite me…”

In a scenario where you encounter a wild animal, you’d be the idiot on the news that got mauled for trying to pet it.

Lucky for you, this wolf is not a rabid beast. Quite the contrary: when he notices your trembling, he leans in slowly, almost meekly, and gingerly takes the laced snack with his teeth, not even touching your skin. As soon as he has the salami in his maw, though, he scarfs it down in the blink of an eye.

You let out a relieved sigh. How could you ever doubt this sweet baby? Hmm, but he seems hungry. You’ll have to see if you can give him something else for dinner later. For now, the most daunting task is ahead of you: drying all the long, dense fur of this massive animal.

…what did you get yourself into…

Taking the towel, you rest your knees on the pillow as you lean over him. “I’m going to start drying you so I can clean up and take care of that gash on your paw,” you explain. If only he could speak, things would be a lot easier, but at least you two seem to communicate just fine. You lay the towel onto his back, but before you start, you add, “If I accidentally touch something that hurts, you can growl at me again.”

Another huff leaves the wolf’s snout, this one sounding more approving, and you get to work, gently rubbing the towel along his body. You’ll definitely have to go in with the dryer after this, but for now, you just hope that the towel will absorb most of the wetness.

While you dry him off, you strike up a one-sided conversation with him. “I wish you could tell me where you’re from… Did you get lost? Did your owner abandon you somewhere?” you question, “or did you run away from home?”

From the way his ears press against the back of his head, it seems like none of those things are true. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to hear about it. If it’s a painful memory, you don’t want to make him think about it. Maybe you’re just projecting human traits onto a dog, but he seems like he’s not out on the streets for the first time. As you part sections of his fur, scarred tissue shows up underneath, hidden by the usually fluffy coat. The prosthetic arm must be a tale of its own, too. Suddenly, you feel a bit silly for treating this possibly veteran stray like a regular pup.

“...I hope you don’t get into fights too often,” you mutter, eyes trailing down to the crimson at his hind leg. “What if there’s no weirdo helping out dogs next time you’re injured like this?”

Something between a petulant whine and an amused huff escapes the wolf’s snout, and he shakes his head in a way you’re not sure how to interpret. If he were human, you’d label it as a typical headshake, a ‘don’t worry about it’. Seems your big friend here might really belong in the streets. But he’s not going back there until he’s healed.

You drop the now drenched towel to the ground, inspecting your work. You snort. He looks very funny like this, and you can’t help but giggle a bit. The part with the hairdryer is significantly more dramatic, and you know that he’s just being dramatic because he’s not growling, just letting out the most pathetic little whines as if he’s being tortured.

“We’re almost done.” You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Just a bit more, big boy, and then I’ll patch you up.”

The more you dry him, brushing him in the process, the fluffier he gets. Gosh, it feels so good to run a hand through that dark fur.

“You’re such a handsome boy, aren’t you? Such a pretty boy,” you coo with a big smile.

That little whine he lets out sounds almost flustered. It’s adorable.

Once you deem his paws dry enough, you reach for the medkit once more and take out a bottle of healing spray. It’s safe for dogs; you’ve rigorously looked through all of the ingredients and looked up if there’s something inside that could be harmful, but it seems the wonders of medicine extend beyond uses for humanity only.

Shaking the bottle, you gently lift the other paw to gain better access to the wound. “Okay, this is going to feel cold and uncomfortable, and it might sting a bit, but that wound will be healed by morning.” You pause. “You’re not allowed to touch it, though.”

Usually, they’d put a cone on dogs when they’re not supposed to lick or bite at something, right? Unfortunately, you don’t have one of those at home. Hmm… Maybe bandaging the area around the spray will be enough to create a barrier between the healing foam and the wolf’s teeth? Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

“Ready?” You start the countdown as you take the cap off, aiming it at the gash. “Three… two… one…”

A surprised howl rings through the air, making you jump at the sudden volume. Instantly, you bury your free hand into the dog’s fur, worry flooding your veins.

“Are you alright?” When he huffs again, you let out a relieved sigh, happy that it was just another one of his antics. “Stop giving me heart attacks, geez… You’ll live.”

Ruffling some hair on his back, you complete your emergency vet work with two layers of bandages around the paw, and you’re finally done. Whew! That was a bit less nerve-wracking than you expected, and it’s all thanks to this big fella cooperating so well.

“Good job! You did so well!” More coos and happy squeals leave your lips as you move your hands all over him, taking in the animal’s soft fur, and he’s more than happy to lean into your touch, tail wagging now that he’s taken care of. Aeons, he’s so fluffy you could die! Ugh, you wanna bury your head into that cute belly…

As if on cue, your own belly lets out a growl, and you remember that neither you nor this guy have had anything for dinner yet. Into the kitchen you go, then.

You pick up your pillow from the floor and put the medkit away, before turning to your furry friend once more. “Can you try walking on your healthy legs? I don’t know if I can carry you again..”

This time, it barely takes him any effort to step out of your bathtub, and even if he’s still limping, you’re more than happy that the medicine seems to be working. He looks so much better now compared to the drenched bundle of misery you found outside of your apartment. It makes you smile.

“I’ll lay down a blanket for you on the couch so you don’t cover everything in hair. Then I’ll cook you something nice, alright?”

Tail wagging happily again, the wolf follows you out and patiently waits for you to come back from your bedroom. He watches you lay down the blanket, but instead of lying down, he follows you into the kitchen. Curious, isn’t he?

“Come on, get on the couch.” Chuckling, you boop his snout. “I’ll be done soon.”

“...alright.”

Instead of complying, he sits himself on his hind legs, those ashen eyes looking up with such innocent curiosity. Ahh, why did he have to be so cute? How could you resist those eyes?

The internet is a wonderful place for recipes, and there are thousands of bloggers uploading recipes ‘for you and your canine friend’. In the end, you opt for a simple dish of braised meat, taking out a big portion for him before you season yours. Honestly, you think he likely eats more than you, and if you’re still hungry after, you still have your-

You pastries. You left them outside!

“Oh shit-” Quickly settling a bowl with his food down in front of him, you take your umbrella and hurry out the door. “I’ll be right back!”

Shit, you completely forgot about them! They’re going to be freezing cold by now. And you had even bought them freshly made, so you could enjoy those toasty treats right off the oven. Ugh! You don’t even bother with the elevator, practically flying down the stairs as you open your umbrella and walk up to the window where you left the pastries.

When you arrive, though, you find nothing. The windowsill is empty, with no trace left of your pastries save for a few crumbs where the box used to be. Great. At least someone got to enjoy them… Aha must really be laughing at you today. As long as you got to help out your new friend, you assume that you don’t mind too much.

Time to go back inside. When you open the door to your apartment, you find the big wolf sitting on his blanket, and when he hears you come in, he happily wags his tail. Honestly, who cares about pastries? He’s already plenty sweet!

“No pastries for me,” you mutter in a dejected tone, taking your plate and plopping down next to him.

It seems you look like you need a pick-me-up, because the dog scoots closer, laying his head in your lap and letting out what sounds like an apologetic whine.

Okay, you take everything back, you’ve had only good luck today, good luck! Maybe this is a gift from the universe, for all the hardships you have ever endured. If you could, you’d adopt this baby in a heartbeat!

“No, no, it’s not your fault,” you soothe him, gently petting over his head and down his back, “I shouldn’t have left them outside, it’s okay.” You chuckle. “Thank you for cheering me up, though. I wish I knew your name… How about I call you Wolfie for now, hm?”

A few licks to your fingers make you giggle, the warm sensation still foreign to you.

“Alright, I’m keeping that nickname. How about we watch a movie, hm?”

Dovebrook District is always full of surprises. What drives some away draws others in, the hustle and bustle never-ending in this never-sleeping city. In a world like this, governed by none other than absurdist Elation, all kinds of things can happen. Just like now, when you’ve dozed off on your couch, the TV still running in the background, and the wolf in your lap is absolutely sure you won’t wake up anytime soon. That’s when he decides to pay off the first fraction of the debt he now owes you for helping him out.

…

Sunlight streams into your window when you regain consciousness. Outside, Dovebrook is as lively as ever, and you can hear the sounds of people and cars outside, proof of the district’s culture. Seems that it’s a new day.

You stretch, pulling the bedsheets from your body, when you suddenly freeze. Wait. Eyes bleary and still tired, you look around and confirm your suspicion: You’re in your bedroom. You did not fall asleep in your bedroom. Why are you here?

“What the…”

Maybe you were just so tired yesterday that you don’t remember switching from the couch to your bed? That reminds you: is Wolfie still here?

After rubbing your eyes, you scan the room once more, but the dog is nowhere to be found. Hopefully, he found the couch comfortable, and hopefully, his leg is better now.

Sadly, the note has the very opposite effect on you. What the hell do you mean, “don’t freak out”?? Hello?? Who the heck wrote this?! What weirdo actually expects you to go ‘oh yeah okay I’m chill about this’...

That’s when you suddenly notice a sticky note on your door. You did not put that there. Okay, things are getting weird now. Several alarm bells go off in your body as you stalk closer, close enough that you can read the note.

“Please don’t freak out. I’ll explain everything.”

Okay, okay, deep breaths. You’re not overprepared and paranoid for nothing; living in Dovebrook requires you to be on your toes at all times. Which is why you walk to your closet, taking the baseball bat hidden in the corner before you even think of opening this door. Careful, barely making any noise, your fingers curl around the door handle. Take a deep breath. Whoever may be on the other side better have that explanation ready.

Slowly, in minuscule, snail-paced movements, you turn the handle, carefully peeking outside.

…what the hell is that guy doing here??

Suddenly going from 100 to 0 leaves you a bit dizzy with relief, and you drop the bat against one corner of your room before you decide to greet the unexpected, yet familiar intruder: Detective Ashveil, from the Ashen Detective Agency.

“Mr. Ashveil?”

The man in question is currently leaning against the counter in your kitchen, and when he hears your voice, he turns back with a wide smile. “Ah, there you are! A wonderful morning, isn’t it? Especially after all that rain yesterday.” In each hand, he is holding a mug of steaming coffee, and he happily holds one out for you. “Care to join me?”

You know Detective Ashveil; heck, everyone in Dovebrook knows him. You had seen him work on a case or two, or spotted him at the most unusual place, doing whatever crazy thing he had been commissioned for. Personally, you had never had a need for his services, so why is he here? Did someone ask him to spy on you? Still, since he arrived, the streets have been safer, and the gangs have reduced their turf wars significantly. Though wary, you don’t have a reason to distrust him.

“Uh...” You step closer, tentatively taking the cup. “Mr. Ashveil, how did you get in here?” Eyes drifting past him over to the couch, you find it devoid of its new visitor. “And where’s Wolfie?”

Sounding like an engine that won’t start up, Ashveil lets out a few dry coughs, his cheeks suddenly flushing crimson, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands. “Well, that’s a long story…”

…you know, you’ve never actually seen the detective up close. That white coat with the red-purple details has always been flashy enough to recognize him even in the busiest crowds, and interfering in Dovebrook business is never a good idea. However, now that he’s right in front of you, those features of his are starting to look familiar. That dark hair that fades into white at the tips, the greyish eyes with that splash of pink… Even his right hand, clawed metal curled around your favorite cup. Not to mention the myriad of wolf motivs all over his clothing.

You don’t have to be a genius to put two and two together. And when you do, your eyes widen in sheer, horrified disbelief. That- how- no, that can’t be, right?

Ashveil knows that he’s busted when you make that face, and he grumbles as he pulls his hat further into his face, trying to hide his embarassment. It’s no use. “...you’re a sharp one, aren’t you?” It sounds less like a question and more like a complaint.

Shifters aren’t unheard of. They’re extremely rare in Planarcadia, sure, but it’s not like people go around announcing it on the streets when they are. Well, they usually turn to the internet in hopes of getting famous. You can’t believe you actually found one out here.

…gosh, this- This is so weird, on so many levels… The worst part is that you got half naked in front of him and you didn’t even know that he wasn’t just an animal. Maybe the gangsters kidnapping you would have been better after all. You want to die of shame.

Without being able to ignore your visible discomfort, the detective sets his hat straight, then brushes some hair on his nape. “I’m sorry for putting you through all of this. I never wanted to get stuck in my wolf form, but I was too weak to get back to the agency…”

Right. You have to remember that you were just helping out an injured animal, and that it wasn’t his fault. What you can do now, however, is press him for all those answers that have been nagging at your brain since yesterday.

“It’s okay,” you reply, taking a sip from your mug. Oh, he already made it the way you like it. How did he know that? A chuckle leaves your lips. “I’m happy that I got to help you out, detective.” Then, your smile turns into a cheeky grin. “Your hair is very fluffy, you know that?”

Again, a blush spreads on his cheeks, and he stutters for a few seconds before he gives up trying to refute you. It’s what he deserves for not even trying to be decent when you got undressed before him. Instead, the detective sets his mug down and takes your hand, and you feel both leather-clad fingers and metal digits gently curl around your palm.

“Thank you kindly, dear,” he hums, eyes and voice soft, thankful. “Not many would have helped out a dangerous beast down in the dumps.”

You huff. “I could never leave someone bleeding out on the street. It wouldn’t be right.”

Besides… It was nice to help him out, really. It reminds you that, even if the IPC rules everything now, and even if people are often selfish and lonely and isolated, we can all do sonething small to make the world better.

“I must say I’m impressed: you didn’t panic, and you were not only extremely efficient, but also well-prepared to treat a patient,” he comments, letting your hand go and taking up his mug again and shooting you a curious look. “You must be a nurse? Or a doctor, even?”

“Nope. Just saw that this apartment had quite a low rent because it was in a sketchy neighborhood, and I’m honestly happy preparing for worst-case-scenarios as long as I can stay here.”

Ashveil chokes on his coffe. Money does make the world go round, huh?

“I- In any case,” he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure, “I’d like to repay you for everything you’ve done. I’m not exactly… rolling in credits,” he mutters, before straightening up. “But! If there’s anything you need help with, I’m more than happy to do so! Noisy neighbors? Excuses so you don’t have to go to work? Having someone do groceries for you? I’m your guy.”

Flashing those sharp canines of his, you can’t help but think he’s just as adorable as he was yesterday.

The detective reaches into his coat pocket and hands you a red business card with the contact details of the agency. And though you can’t think of anything that requires your attention at the moment, this wolfish detective has caught your attention.

On the wall, the digital clock show it’s shortly past ten.

“Well, my favorite bakery opened a short while ago. How about you join me for a proper breakfast?” You tilt your head with a smile. “I’d love to hear about how you got yourself stranded on my doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm. My treat.”

Ashveil chuckles. “Sure, but the tab’s on me.”

You came here when it would either be the least crowded or have no visitors at all: a late night on a weekday. It’s perfectly empty.

Swirling machines, water tossing over itself with suds drowning it, then stopping. Next, it spins in the opposite direction, thoroughly repeating the process. Clothes tossed repeatedly and soaking and darkening, finally given the proper attention they deserve.

You stare at your reflection as you crouch in front of the space in boredom, the washing machine and wet clothes being provided as your entertainment momentarily.

It’s that day again—inevitable day again.

Nothing is able to be worn, favorite clothes stained and used, and the hassle of lugging around a laundry cart to and fro.

The place is a bit dingy, yet up-to-date. Rows lined with the latest models of washing machines—yet only few work, while the dryers were rowed along the walls, posters of what’s trending on the paint-chipped walls.

If you excuse the missing pets and persons.

The seats, too, are dingy; the hard plastic is worn and in need of replacing, but not as dire to where they’re falling apart. It’s like any old laundromat.

It's quiet too. The glass windows showcase the perpetual night sky and the abundant colors that outshine the moon's stead, glowing neons around every corner outside of it. Almost looking like a different world when compared to the homely, warm atmosphere of the mat.

Your sneakers squeak as you stand upright, knees now sore from being crouched too long, and you trudge towards one of the open seats on the wall. Just to keep watch of your machine.

You remember the last time you didn’t; you almost got into a fight with a person who had the audacity to literally take out wet clothes and toss them idly on the tiles, making room for their own dirtied laundry.

The nerve of some dickheads, you sigh internally, irritated just by recalling it.

“Oh, it’s you," a person says with the surprise of recognition in their tone. "Hey, kid.”

The warmth of familiarity strokes your ears. Shorter than the speaker, you’re met with his chest first, but you can recognize that smooth, relaxed voice anywhere. That hair of his as well that spills down his shoulders in a long gradient, darkness bleeding into grey—as if his growing age bleeds from the ends first rather than the roots.

“Hi, detective.” Your gaze finally meets his, initially welcoming.

But you quirk a brow. 

The renowned detective stands before you as an ordinary civilian. His softly smiling frame stands there without his hat, or his usual get-up at all, actually, as he greets you with a nod, his long fringe swaying in tandem. The older man is dressed in very casual wear: a plain t-shirt with some floral patterns and knee-length shorts… and sandals.

Ashveil holds a small bag of laundry over his shoulder and raises a brow at your quizzical expression, “What? Can’t wear the get-up all the time, now can I?”

You shrug. He’s right.

He sets the bag on the cool tiles and unties its knot, intrigue decorating his voice as dark strands spill off his shoulders more from the movement, “Interesting coincidence that we both ran out of clothes to wear today.”

You watch silently as he pulls out regular button-ups, slacks, shirts—you reflexively turn your head when he starts pulling out underwear. You, instead, direct your gaze to your relaxed reflection in one of the out-of-order machines as he separates his lights and darks spontaneously—why in the middle of the aisle rather than one of the tables?

“With how you seem to barely have any clothes, I’d assume you’d be here often.”

You pause, slowly smiling in half curiosity and half joking. “Unless you wash them in the sink?”

Ashveil laughs. “That would be cheaper, I guess,” he holds the heap of clothing, managing to skillfully separate his light clothes from the dark, seeing as he doesn’t have many, and looks around, “but they don’t get thoroughly washed that way.”

He curiously peeks around, his head easily peeking over the aisles, in search of a free washer. Working, preferably, since the reason this place is so empty is because its also spare in its running equipment. The taller man walks past you still humbly looking, bundles of clothes under his arm and dragging his laundry bag behind him.

You watch as he drops a common white sock, then you sigh, unwilling to pick it up. Ashveil glances over his shoulder, hearing the noise, then looks down.

Ah, oops.

Unhurriedly, he hums to himself idly and doubles over, letting go of the poor, dragged laundry bag and trying to pick up the dropped sock, but he ends up spilling more clothes from the top of the pile. This silly old man.

You sigh again, now convinced.

“Alright, alright. I’ll help,” you walk in front of him. He glances up at you with a grateful, tired smile and remains in his crouch as you double over to pick up the dropped clothes. His hair, so long that it easily flows onto the floor in dark waves, moves from the subtle shift.

“Thanks, kid.” A shirt gets plopped onto the pile.

His light eyes follow your hands. “So,” another sock gets picked up and plopped onto the bundle, “how’ve you been? In school?”

You hum in thought as you gather the last portion. “Not yet. College is definitely necessary,” you lift your head with a shrug, “but I just want time to myself.”

The dark-haired man nods with an understanding expression and releases a sigh, as if the weight behind your words immediately pulled out something repressed in him. “Tell me about it.”

You pause your gathering, looking down at the floor then to him blankly.

“Ashveil.”

“Hm?” He follows your gaze, then snorts through his nose at the amusing sight, “Whoops. Guess that dropped too.”

You lift your nail at the lonely underwear with a pointed, deadpan expression. “I’m not touching that.”

He shakes his head with a laugh, eyebrows raising under his unruly fringe. “No worries. I appreciate the help anyhow.”

Instead of touching what’s touched his nethers, you considerately hold the bundle from toppling over again when he leans forward to grab the underwear. 

The two of you finally stand up after completing the minimal task that he made, and you grab Ashveil’s laundry bag attentively, not feeling like dealing with him dropping clothes again from leaning forward to grab it. He mutters an appreciative thanks while looking for any open washers again.

He looks down at you with a brow raised, “See any open ones?” Usable ones, really.

You point overhead, “Towards the back.”

He nods and walks towards the back, sandals noisily slapping in the quiet mat. You wordlessly follow after him. Unlucky for him, it’s as if the back were a forbidden area. 

Graffiti was painted along the sides of the washers, yet the circular display glass was thankfully untouched—able to do its job in displaying the soon-to-be-washed clothes. Ashveil relaxes his shoulders in relief, then pops open one of the washing machines. 

You gently set his bag next to him while he tosses in the light clothes carelessly, flicking his wrist with every toss. 

He repeats the process with the dark clothes and closes the little door with his hip as he stands upright. The older man drapes the empty bag over his shoulder as he pats his sides, looking for something.

While he does that, you round the corner to check up on your own washing machine. Still tossing and turning clothes.

When you look back at him, the taller male is standing dumbfounded with his laundry card in his hand, tapping the scanner and unsuccessful with each attempt. Red popping above the dark keypad with every click of him tapping it. You slowly cross your arms at the sight as his eyebrows furrow.

“Did you forget to add cash to it?” A knowing lilt in your vice.

He sighs and lowers his head, shoulders sagging and almost slumping against the machine as he comes to terms with how he's sadly broke. “More like I can’t. I was praying I had some left.”

Ashveil frowns as he looks down at the card wistfully, “Everything went to utilities and food… and the phone bill.”

His gaze is that of a kicked puppy's when he looks back at you, only to have his eyes widen at your outstretched hand. As if a golden aura shone from it.

“Here,” you raise your own card and wave it playfully, “I stocked up on mine. Doubt you have any quarters to save you neither.”

He immediately brightens up, as if he's that dejected puppy being given a treat, and pockets his card. Ashveil takes yours with a thankful expression and pats your head, more appreciative of the little coincidence of seeing you today with every passing second. “You know, out of all the youngsters I’ve met, you’re the best of them.”

You snort and place your hands on your hips, grinning at him, “It’s because I’m always footing a bill for you whenever we see each other.”

His ears redden as he hovers the laundry card above the scanner and pauses its pursuit, almost too embarrassed to use it now after your mention. He sighs and closes his eyes, “Now I’m humiliated.”

He taps the card. The red dot becomes green. “… a gentleman should always be treating the young ones instead of the other way around.” He repeats the action at the second washer, then smiles down at you sheepishly, lightly chucking as he rubs the back of his neck.

“I’ll pay you back. It can be whatever you'd like.” He hands you your card back and readjusts the sack on his shoulder, “I keep my promises as well.”

You pat his back understandably as you pocket your card, head nodding. “I know, I know.”

You turn around and walk around the aisle towards your seat near your own washers, and he follows suit. “You’re typically independent, so I don’t hold it against you when you need a crutch.”

You then tilt your head back to peek up at him, eyes glinting with mischief and greed, “So I’m just racking up your favors until it’s so big that you can’t possibly refuse mine.”

He playfully tsks, “Racking up? You might as well be holding a grudge against me. Pretty dangerous of you.” He plops beside you when you finally sit at the lounging chairs, hard plastic cold against his exposed legs. “I’ll be sure to have my eyes open.”

Knowing it’s gonna be a small while, Ashveil stretches out his legs and lifts his arms above his head, yawning and setting one arm behind your chair as he fully settles his weight. You’re already playing some arbitrary game when he closes his eyes and slumps in the chair, relaxing himself fully.

You kick your legs out as well, knee bumping his, and he cracks open an eye. They shine with interest.

“What’re you playin’?”

“Some solitaire game. Just to pass the time.”

He tilts his head as he sits up, long hair all over the place for a moment, so he cards his fingers through them, pushing the long strands back in place. The light-eyed man examines the thin screen. “Huh…" leaves his lips, almost fascinated with the idea of young people playing old people's games. He wouldn't be surprised if you had majong on your phone too.

He has Wordle on his, so he gets the brain teasers appeal.

"No, you know,” he waves a hand as his voice becomes lighter, “flashy ol’ multiplayer? With pretty characters that people spend hundreds on.”

You keep your eyes glued to the screen distracted as you stack a spade onto another, “Nope.” You do, but card games can be just as fun.

He tilts his head. Still a bit amused at the idea of you liking Solitaire. It's a bit adorable too.

He leans over your shoulder more and plops his cheek atop your head, now equally distracted with the silent game. His finger then points at a stacked line, “You can put that in the lineup to add more points.”

“I know, I just like waiting.”

He squints his eyes, confused, then shrugs.

Eh, everyone has their weird quirks, he thinks.

You briefly then lift your head. He takes his cheek from atop your head when you do and looks down at you curiously, “Wanna give it a go? I think they have a poker game on here too.”

He blinks.

“Sure.”

The off-duty detective takes the phone and holds it with his prosthetic hand, and pauses for a moment as he squints at the phone. “Where’s the Poker Mode?”

You point at the corner, subtly understanding this is one way his age shows, “It says other versions right there.”

He squints his eyes more, borderline closing them, as he brings the screen closer to his face. 

“Don’t you wear reading glasses?”

He relaxes his features then looks back at you with a smile, “I left them at the agency.” You snort, “The room. You barely have an agency.”

Ashveil shrugs, “It’s not easy being broke.”

He holds your phone as you swipe to exit the app, then open Settings. You set the font to a larger scale for him, “You should get a glasses string to have them around your neck. For conveniency.”

His eyes watch your hand, “It’s better to have them at a safer place than replace them after every outing. I’m not exactly one with the luxury of peaceful walks.”

You hum with a nod, understanding the kind of life he lives. When you return to the app, the font is on the scale only someone old could register, and you give him the agency to continue playing on your Cards apps.

You soon lay your cheek on his shoulder, watching him as the next half hour is spent between you two exchanging your phone between one another. It's nice. Very peaceful. The sound of running machines, the buzz of the lights, and the noise of outside bring everything together.

Ashveil soon gave you your phone back, having had enough fun with the old game.

You silently go back to playing another game of Solitaire, and the repetitive actions on your little screen lull him to drowsiness as he watches. The sound of machines running, the silent noise of your taps, and the buzz of lights flickering above become the perfect atmosphere for him to doze off.

His cheek goes back to lying on your head as he closes his eyes, the heaviness of his lids winning over him. 

You don’t mind. This kind of nap is probably different from cryosleep. A bit warmer and welcoming, you presume.

Though his weight gradually becomes a hard feat to manage, having you nearly struggle to be upright in your own seat. You close your phone with a sigh as his long tresses begin to spill onto your shoulder as well. It’s only until your washing machines chime with being complete that you have to wake him up. His own dings afterwards.

You poke Ashveil’s side one time.

He doesn’t budge.

You then sneakily wiggle your fingers under his ribcage, and he immediately lurches out of his sleep with an uncharacteristic loud squeal. The awakened man holds his side as if he'd been hurt, whips his head side to side, then looks at the culprit. 

He relaxes while sighing out a laugh, “That is... one way to wake me up.”

“Our laundry is done.” Your eyes twinkle, entertained.

He nods. Ashveil takes himself off of you and stands up, not bothering to cover his mouth when he yawns and stretches—shirt rising and exposing his stomach.

Wordlessly, he holds out his hand, and you pull yourself up, stretching too with a sigh. Briefly, he departs from you to walk towards the back, sandals slapping in his wake, while you have the advantage of only needing to walk across to retrieve your washed clothing. 

Hurriedly, the drenched clothing is hauled into those carts available in the laundromat and is hastily pushed towards one of the dryers, droplets trailing after you. You quickly pop open one of the dryers, then another, and toss the wet clothing inside, dampening part of your shirt in the process.

Done with the deed, you tap your card again on the scanner.

Cue the one who also needs it appearing, trudging with two carts, sopping wet clothes wetting the tiles. You try to ignore how he slides on the water, and a sandal flies off. High in the air like a cartoon gag.

You cover your mouth to mask the laughter almost bleeding through, and he sighs tiredly as he hops on one foot, muttering about his misfortune.

“I can tell you’re not trying to laugh. Go ahead.”

You can hear the sarcasm in his voice, and it prompts you to laugh out a cackle at the sight.

The detective nearly plays hopscotch just to slide his toes back into a worn-out sandal.

He grunts in relief when he slides it back on, but has to dodge the puddle the accumulated under his cart from the wet clothes from that little time spent hopping around.

Ashveil arrives next to you and pops open two dryers quickly, already having made enough mess on the floor and wanting the clothes to be finally finished.

When he closes them, he fishes around in his shorts but is reminded of his lack of funds when you tap your card on his arm. 

Your fingers brush when he sighs from the umpteenth time, the kind of thing only a person tired of life can feat. “Thanks… again.”

You nod. Smiling at his too common woes.

He taps your card on the scanner, and the cycle begins. Fortunately, this part of the process is quicker than the brunt of it. 

The both of you sit back down at the seats, and the older man is dozing off again, content with leaning his weight on you while you struggle to remain upright... again. You want to complain, genuinely, but you’ll let him have these small moments of peace with you.

He can barely find them as is after all.

His drowsy form lets you play with his bigger hand as he drifts in and out of consciousness, only tethering to reality to make sure you don’t accidentally readjust his prosthetic. 

“Careful, sweetheart.” He mumbles lowly, eyes barely open as he leans on you.

You hum and curl his fingers, inspecting the intricacy aligning the cool metal fingers. “I won’t touch it. Just observing.” 

He closes his eyes, trusting you to keep your word. “Mmm…” he shifts closer to you, bigger body needing some smidge of warmth; he has no choice but to be cold all the time. “One little nudge, and it’s enough to have you as a missing person’s report.” You lower his hand and run your hand along his scarred arm, cast in black—it's either his arm rotted into a darkness or a detached sleeve. The latter, you hope.

“I doubt it’d be a case that’ll span some time.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose and turns his hand over, large palm covering yours and cool metal caressing your skin. “I’d wipe myself from the universe if that were a case,” his deep voice gradually becomes slurred, getting tainted with sleep.

You watch his fingers squeeze yours, and you smile.

Killing innocent civilians would be his last straw, you suppose. You understand. Well, as much as you could by judging what he typically revealed. He’s a sappy, old tired man at heart. Seen too much, done too much. 

And part of you believes he wants more than just a temporary rest.

…

“So,” he watches as you fold another one of his shirts in a method he’s never seen before. Quick, efficient, and a simple little rectangle. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he raises a brow as he leans his arms on the table, “or is this another favor added onto the big one I’ll be needing to repay?”

The both of you are still inside the laundromat, standing at the vacant tables for accessibility and near the glass windows. Clothes are finally dried and it’s almost time to head home. For you, a warm bed, and for him, a little chatty assistant and a cramped freezer.

“Another favor added on,” you smoothly answer as you stack his clothes into a neat pile. Yours is long done, but you decided to continue the task, offering to do his after seeing how tired and exhausted he was.

He clicks his metal fingers on the table, glinting with the neon lights from beyond the glass. “Right,” he drawls, “should’ve expected that.”

You point at him as you look between the stack of boxers and the older man. “I’m still not touching that.”

The dark-haired man laughs, “How come?” He rounds the table while brushing his hair behind his back, “They’re warm and clean now,” voice teasing, as if he’s almost trying to persuade with a tempting idea. Which it wasn’t.

You retreat from the pile of boxers and roll your eyes. “They don’t need to be folded anyhow. Feel free to experience their warmth and cleanliness.”

You then pause, noticing an important detail.

Your sneakers squeak as you turn towards your bagged clothes. “No part of your suit was in the clothes I folded.”

Ashveil raises an eyebrow, confused, while opening his laundry bag and begins to stack up the clothes inside carefully—not wanting your consideration to unfold with careless tossing. “You honestly believe I’d just toss in my suit with my regular clothes?”

He faces the bag as he deposits each folded piece of clothing slowly, schooling you on how to treat expensive wear. “It has to go to the cleaners, not to some laundromat."

Ashveil brushes back a long strand when it spills over his shoulder, continuing the spiel with a concentrated face. "The coloring would fade, the clothes would rip, and it would most likely come back fitting tighter than it should if I washed as if regular garments.”

You hum as you watch him, leaning on the folding table with the neons shinning on the side of your face. “Know from experience?”

“…yeah.” He breathes out, either reminiscing about the experience or remembering the pain of the hassle.

You watch as he finishes stacking the clothing and carelessly tosses the underwear and socks into the bag.

At least they won’t stick to the bottom of it.

Now that everything's settled, it's time to go home. Before you can lug your bags into the moving cart, Ashveil is beside you before you can touch the handle. 

“Please, let me do it.” The older man effortlessly lifts the bags and stacks them atop one another in the personal cart, veins streaking across his arm from the weight. “Allow for this to be the beginning of me repaying my debt.” Ashveil quips.

You snort, “It’s still gonna be owed back in a huge one.”

“I presume so.” The corners of his mouth softly.

And the favor continues when he pushes your cart out of the little laundromat, heaving his own bag over his shoulder. The veins on his arm bulge as the muscles flex, becoming more defined under that loose shirt he wears.

The taller man’s sandals slap and stick to the streets while your sneakers let out an occasional squeak. The streets are vibrant yet silent, everyone having gone to sleep, while you and the older man trudge down the sidewalk peacefully.

It's a very nice peacefulness. Cool air running its fingers through his, dark sky, and enough light from the streetlamps.

“Are you sure you’re fine?”

He snaps out of his daze, “Mm? Oh, this?” He bounces his laundry bag while shaking his head, “If you knew what I faced back in my day, asking a question like that would be the last thing on your mind.”

You stare at the sky, “Regardless of what you did, you’re old now.” You look down at his prosthetic hand, languidly swinging by his side, “And your age isn’t only shown in your speech. It’s in your hands and neck.” Generally, you mean.

The words of time speak in the smallest ways; crow's feet on the eyes, veins prominent on the hands, neck a little sunken in, forehead wrinkles—all the cute things that should be seen as a blessing.

He blinks surprised, “Really?”

You smile up at him, soothing his supposed worry. “You don’t have that, though. You look as if you could pass as my age… or my father rather than grandfather.”

“Ha, ha. Very comforting,” sarcasm bleeding through his voice.

You giggle and playfully bump your hip into his, and he staggers for a second. Automatically, you laugh as he almost loses his balance despite the weight of the holding cart having him grounded. “You’re like any old man when you’re not dressed in your uniform, you know? It’s like you’re another person.”

Ashveil steadies himself and goes back to pushing the cart, huffing at your antics. “I didn’t think I needed to keep up my guard more around people I'm actually comfortable around.”

You smile up at him innocently, and he, childishly, nudges you with his elbow, making you stagger. For him, it was a brief little push, especially with knowing how strong he truly is.

But Ashveil boisterously laughs when you almost trip and fall despite not giving any strength into the push. “My bad! I wasn’t aiming to have you almost kiss the ground.”

You huff and immediately try to kick his shin, but he’s already using the cart as an obstacle between you.

Ashveil smiles at you sweetly with eyes closed, hair whipping to the side from the outside's wind, and the next thing you know is that you’re chasing after an old man, annoyed but laughing loudly. And he’s being chased after someone he could have disappear with a lift of his pinky.

In an actual literal sense, too. His bag of laundry is long placed on the ground, plopped beside yours in the heat of the chase.

Ashveil puffs out a hearty laugh the moment you manage to tackle into his chest, his bigger body not budging from the attack at all. He steadies you as he places a hand on the small of your back, careful of disturbing his prosthetic and careful of being too rough with you.

You balance yourself by placing your hands on his hips, and he stares down at you through his messy fringe with a brow raised, a lopsided smile on his lips. “First you push me, next you chase, and now you’re handsy?”

“Oh, stop it. You would’ve said how it makes you uncomfortable if you didn’t like it.”

He smiles and tilts his head, his dark strands shielding you both as you stand in the middle of the sidewalk. “Can you deduce I’m either saving face,” he sways with you for a moment, a sweet action, "or if I genuinely like your closeness?”

You look through his strands, back at the cart of laundry in thought, then smile when the chill of his other hand plants itself on your lower back. You reach your hands towards his face, and he smiles more at your warmth, a juxtaposition to his, his cute little Cupid’s bow more prominent.

Ashveil's light eyes crinkle at the edges when you cup his cold cheeks, “Now just what are you doing? Was torturing this poor old man’s heart with an impromptu cat and mouse game not enough?” His last comment sounding more of a statement than a question.

He leans into your hand when you brush one of his longer strands behind his ear. “Perhaps to brush up on your senses.” You reply.

His smile widens, and that white in his eyes seems to shine brighter. “The ones I have aren’t already good enough?” He leans his head back, slowly wrapping his arms around you in a hug, as he stares at the moon and little, tiny dots of stars staining the sky, “Though, I feel like there’s some truth to that.”

Being secluded for some time has dulled what was once sharp, too busy staying out of sight to notice the most important parts of him losing its vitality.

You feel like air change when he pulls you into a hug, and you end up burying your cheek into his chest.

“You’ve got some muscle for an old guy.”

The long-haired man immediately tosses his head back as laughter shakes his body, and your head moves in tandem with his rumbling chest, your lips curling into a grin from the pretty sound coming from his lips. “That’s definitely one way to continue this banter.”

His fingers delicately move up your spine and cup the back of your neck, lifting your head to meet his warm gaze. “You know, I didn’t think doing laundry would actually soothe my heart.”

You feel his cold hands roam to cup your cheeks and take in your features, as if this was either the last time he’d see you like this or imprinting your carefree expression in his mind. Occupied with every bit of the past and barely a bit of the present; this admiration being a tiny sliver of what he should appreciate.

His metal thumb brushes your cheek as he becomes silent for a moment.

“Can I pay,” he lowers his head, “part of the favor now?”

You nod, and you immediately giggle when his lips press against your forehead, his cold lips cherishing your warmth and happiness.

Ashveil then brings you closer to him and covers you fully; his bigger body curls over yours as he hugs you close. His fingers delicately move from your cheeks, and his arms wrap tightly around you, biceps urgently pressing into your back.

The older man's cologne, soft and lulling, and the scent of laundry wash over your senses as you both stand there. 

His cheek lies atop your head as he closes his eyes, almost forgetting the both of you are standing in the middle of the sidewalk. You, too, hold him, but his grip lasts as if he won’t see you the next day. As if he’s holding you and holding this present so securely as to comfort himself, to make sure it isn’t fleeting and remains.

And knowing what’s to come, perhaps it will or perhaps it won’t.

He slowly cracks open his eyes and is met with white. Frost clouding his vision and flurries of flakes descending.

Right.

That memory was some time ago.

The restlessness begins in his arm again, and he sighs through his nose, a gust of white fog joining the rest surrounding him.

The detective closes his eyes again.

The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.

It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.

It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.

Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.

"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"

Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.

Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.

"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.

"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."

There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.

"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"

He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.

Why is he looking at you like that?

It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.

"You were saying?" He prods gently.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"

His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."

"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.

"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."

"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"

"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."

You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.

"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"

"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.

You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"

He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."

No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.

"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."

"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."

Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.

"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"

A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.

"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.

He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."

"Was the view bad then?" You prod.

"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.

Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.

"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."

The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.

"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.

He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."

Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.

"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.

"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.

Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."

"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"

Surprise colours your features.

Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.

Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.

He's— "Beautiful."

By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.

You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."

"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.

"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."

It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.

He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."

You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."

"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."

You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?

You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.

"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."

He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.

"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."

The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"

"Never."

He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"

"Who's finding who attractive?"

Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.

"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"

"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"

You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.

Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.

"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"

"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.

"Agreed." He mutters.

Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."

His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.

It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.

It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.

Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.

"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"

Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.

Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.

"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.

"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."

There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.

"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"

He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.

Why is he looking at you like that?

It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.

"You were saying?" He prods gently.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"

His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."

"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.

"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."

"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"

"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."

You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.

"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"

"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.

You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"

He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."

No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.

"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."

"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."

Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.

"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"

A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.

"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.

He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."

"Was the view bad then?" You prod.

"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.

Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.

"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."

The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.

"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.

He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."

Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.

"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.

"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.

Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."

"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"

Surprise colours your features.

Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.

Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.

He's— "Beautiful."

By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.

You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."

"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.

"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."

It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.

He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."

You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."

"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."

You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?

You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.

"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."

He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.

"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."

The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"

"Never."

He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"

"Who's finding who attractive?"

Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.

"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"

"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"

You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.

Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.

"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"

"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.

"Agreed." He mutters.

Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."

His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

You found your boyfriend far more comfortable than you expected, his hands behind his head, eyes closed, and tail swaying lightly, showing he couldn’t care less about missing a class.

“At this rate you’re going to repeat another year, Leona,” you murmured. “Are you still running a fever?”

His ear twitched slightly, and he cracked one eye open to look at you—but when he felt the mattress sink, his eyes widened, his brows furrowing at the audacity of you sitting on the same bed as him.

“Hey, herbivore! What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” He didn’t push you, but he immediately got off the bed, leaning against the one right next to it. “Ruggie!” He looked around, searching for the hyena.

“Hm?” You blinked, terribly confused by his reaction. You crossed your arms. “Leona, I just came to check if you’re feeling better—”

“I don’t care,” Leona practically growled, his cheeks warm and his breathing still uneven. “Who do you think you are to—Don’t touch me!” He took a step back when he saw you circle around to get closer to him.

“Listen to me carefully—I don’t flirt, I don’t cheat, and I hate herbivores who don’t know how to respect hierarchy and keep their hands to themselves.” He pointed a finger, looking completely serious about what he was saying, but you only rolled your eyes as you called Ruggie.

“…He did what!? BAHAHAHAH—” The hyena’s laughter was so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear.

“Just come help me deal with him already,” you cleared your throat. “At least he’s loyal.”

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

You hummed softly to yourself as you walked toward your boyfriend’s dorm, not in much of a hurry, since Jade and Floyd had promised to keep an eye on Azul in case he woke up before you got back from the cafeteria.

The corners of your lips curled into a smile when you saw he was already awake and doing well, despite his flushed cheeks.

“Azul, I brought you a snack,” you said, sitting down on the chair beside his bed, not noticing how stunned he seemed by your arrival.

His eyes slowly widened, following your every movement as you placed the small package on your lap and began opening it carefully.

“…Wh—What are you doing?” he asked slowly.

You looked up. “You didn’t eat earlier. I thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

Azul choked when you lifted the spoon to feed him. His face went from a soft pink flush to a deep red, then turned pale as a ghost.

“NONONO—!” He pressed himself further into the pillows, hands gripping the blanket and covering his mouth as if he were being offered poison. “Th—This is extremely inappropriate!”

“Inappropriate?” You glanced at the twins, but they looked just as confused as you.

“YES!” he insisted, his voice cracking in pure panic. “You cannot simply walk in here and—and attempt to feed me like some sort of— of—”

Floyd grinned, as if he had just found his new entertainment for the rest of the day. “Shrimpy, you’re makin’ him all red.”

Azul’s head whipped toward him instantly. “WHY,” Azul demanded, pointing a shaking finger at Floyd, “are you not removing her from the premises?!”

Jade placed a hand against his cheek. “Remove her, Azul?” He repeated. “Whatever for?”

Azul groaned, feeling tortured by the slowness of the two. “She is attempting to feed me—!” he cried, his voice pitching upward in pure distress. “This is disrespectful.”

“That’s super lovey-dovey, isn’t it?” Floyd laughed, leaning forward. “Must be nice not havin’ to bother using forks and spoons with your own hands… I wanna be fed too!”

“Stop encouraging this behavior!” Azul snapped, clutching the blanket to his chest.

You frowned softly, lifting the spoon a little. “It’s just food,” you said gently. “You’re still dizzy.”

“…No,” he whispered weakly. “No, this cannot be happening…”

Your lips parted in surprise when you saw your boyfriend—normally always so composed—with his eyes filled with tears.

“…Azul?”

His lower lip trembled. “My beautiful, stunning girlfriend will leave me because of you!” he wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Do you have any idea what kind of scandal this would create? Being fed by another person… in my own dorm…! My soulmate, the love of my life, my pearl will leave me thinking that I allowed this!”

You and Jade exchanged looks in complete silence, watching him cry miserably and sniffle. Floyd’s smile, however, only grew when he realized what was going on.

“Yeah, she will!” Floyd cackled. “I’m gonna tell her. ‘Hey, hey—your boyfriend’s lettin’ other people court him!’”

“Floyd!”

“NO!” Azul shouted in despair, burying his face into a pillow as he cried. “I’m going to fry you, you… you damn eel…”

Jade covered his mouth politely.

You sighed, placing the forgotten snack on the table and turning toward him. “…Azul.”

He sniffled dramatically, refusing to look at you. “She’ll leave me…” he muttered weakly.

“Do you think he’ll remember this when the effects wear off?” you asked, looking at Jade, your hands patting your boyfriend’s back.

“Probably not, but I will.” he replied with a smile.

Soft clicks of polished heels echo faintly along the narrow staircase leading up to Furbobo Weekly’s assigned building, each step carrying a weight far heavier than the sound suggests. The doorknob turns with a quiet creak, and the door shuts behind him with a dull finality.

Into the cramped storage room they generously call an office enters the Ace Detective of the Ashen Detective Agency—though tonight, there is nothing “ace” about the man before it.

Ashveil’s posture is slumped, shoulders caved inward as though the world itself has pressed down on him. His hat tilts just enough to shadow his face, but not enough to hide the unmistakable signs of defeat—of humiliation that clings to him like a second skin.

Across the room, Narrator stills. His fingers freeze mid-scroll over the detective’s phone before he slowly sets it aside, eyes narrowing with quiet concern. Something is wrong—terribly so. Without a word, he climbs down from the desk, small feet padding softly against the floor as he approaches.

He finds Ashveil crouched in front of the fridge. Then, as if the world outside has become too unbearable to exist in, the detective pulls the door open and folds himself inside, retreating into the cold like a wounded animal seeking refuge.

“Mr. Ashveil?” Narrator calls, his small hands gripping the edge of the fridge door.

No response.

Only silence greets him. Narrator waits. One minute stretches into two, then three. The quiet becomes suffocating—until, faintly, he hears it.

A shaky breath.

The soft, muffled sound of someone desperately trying to keep themselves together.

The monkey’s expression falters. His grip tightens slightly against the fridge door as his chest aches at the sound. Whatever happened out there… it was not something trivial. Not something the detective could simply brush off with his usual dry humor and stubborn pride.

“…Mr. Ashveil,” he tries again, softer this time.

It takes time—far too much time. Gentle nudges, hesitant questions, and patient silence slowly chip away at the detective’s defenses until, at last, the truth spills out in fragments between uneven breaths.

Sparxie. A trickster disguised as a streamer.

A competition with a name far too grand for something so ridiculous—Planarcadia Super Debate King Big Prize.

And Ashveil… had lost. Not just lost but miserably. Publicly and spectacularly.

For a man who builds his entire identity on wit, deduction, and being right, the blow lands deeper than most would understand. Beneath the sharp tongue and composed exterior lies someone far more fragile—someone who feels every failure twice as hard and remembers it ten times longer.

Narrator’s ears flatten. A quiet, simmering anger begins to rise within him, small but fierce. Without another word, he hops back onto the desk, his tiny fingers flying across the keyboard with startling speed.

Reports are drafted in rapid succession. Complaints, formal accusations, and several strongly worded demands—each more aggressive than the last. Somewhere in between, he includes a very specific request for fifty kilograms of bananas labeled under “emotional damages.”

How dare they humiliate his beloved detective like that?

How dare they make him cry?

The furious clacking of keys finally comes to a stop. Narrator exhales, tail flicking sharply before his gaze drifts back toward the fridge.

Ashveil hasn’t moved.

The anger melts as quickly as it came. With a quiet sigh, Narrator hops down once more and climbs into the fridge without hesitation, settling beside the detective despite the biting cold. His small hand reaches out, gently patting Ashveil’s back in slow, careful motions.

“Detective…” he calls softly.

“I’m so pathetic, Mr. N…” The words are hoarse, barely held together between quiet sobs, and they strike deeper than any insult ever could.

Narrator’s chest tightens painfully. He shifts closer, attempting to wrap his arms around Ashveil in something resembling a hug. It’s clumsy—awkward, uneven—but earnest in a way that matters more than perfection ever could.

“You’re not pathetic, Mr. Ashveil,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the ache in it. “It’s okay to be wrong sometimes.”

Ashveil doesn’t respond immediately, but the tension in his shoulders eases, if only slightly. The quiet sobs begin to fade into softer breaths.

Seeing that small change, Narrator carefully pulls away and scrambles out of the fridge. He rummages through the desk with purpose before returning just as quickly, pressing a few neatly folded credits into Ashveil’s hand.

“There are new desserts trending in Duomension City,” he says, gentler now. “You should go try one.”

For a moment, there is nothing but silence.

Ashveil stares down at the credits as though they weigh far more than their value, his fingers curling slowly around them. Then—gradually, almost hesitantly—a smile breaks through. Small, fragile, but real.

“You’re too caring, Mr. N,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently pat the monkey’s head.

Narrator huffs softly, though his tail sways with quiet satisfaction.

Ashveil exhales, pushing himself upright with a stretch, joints popping faintly as he regains his composure. The gloom hasn’t disappeared entirely, but it loosens its grip just enough for him to breathe again.

Food helps. It always does.

He straightens his clothes, adjusts his hat, and makes his way toward the door with renewed—if slightly forced—determination.

“I’ll bring more bananas for you too, Mr. N,” he says over his shoulder. “Just wait for me.”

But just as his hand reaches for the doorknob, he stops. Something feels… off.

A tug in his chest. A strange, unexplainable pull—like the faint echo of a scent he hasn’t yet caught, or a memory waiting just out of reach.

Without thinking, he turns back. His steps are quicker now as he crosses the room and reaches for a neatly covered bottle of cologne resting on the desk, fingers wrapping around it with quiet certainty.

Narrator watches the entire exchange unfold, eyes glinting with knowing amusement. “Going on a date, Mr. Ashveil?” he teases, voice light but not without intent.

The reaction is immediate. “What? Of course not!” Ashveil blurts, nearly fumbling the bottle in his haste. “Don’t you think I’m too broke to be going on dates?”

His ears flick like a wolf's with mild panic, his expression bordering on genuine bewilderment—as though the very suggestion is absurd enough to have been whispered by Aha themself.

Narrator hums, thoroughly unconvinced. He casually peels a banana, holding another with his tail as if the moment requires no further attention.

“This humble assistant merely asked a question,” he replies, tone deliberately neutral. “No need to be so worked up, Mr. Ashveil.”

He takes a bite, chewing slowly before adding—almost as an afterthought, “Though, I heard [Name] has been touring around Planarcadia.”

Silence.

Ashveil freezes on his spot. The name hits him harder than anything else that day—harder than the loss, harder than the humiliation.

Right.

You.

The realization crashes into him all at once, sudden and overwhelming. Without another word, he turns sharply and strides out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding thud.

Narrator stares at the now-closed door for a moment. Slowly , a smug grin spreads across his face. “…That’s at least twenty kilograms of bananas secured,” he mutters to himself, thoroughly pleased.

The lively streets of Duomension City are nothing out of the ordinary—if anything, they are too alive. Lights spill from every corner, laughter rings endlessly through the air, and above it all, the Phantasmoon stretches wide across the sky, its ever-present grin casting a strange sort of comfort over the chaos below. It is a city that thrives on indulgence, on spectacle, on joy so excessive it borders on absurdity.

And somewhere within that endless current of noise and color walks a lone wolf—one with all the direction of a lost cub.

Ashveil weaves through the crowd with furrowed brows, glancing from one shop window to another, each display more extravagant than the last. Towering desserts glisten under warm lights, their prices displayed just beneath in numbers so steep they may as well be mocking him.

Too expensive.

Far too expensive.

His grip tightens slightly around the credits in his hand, thumb brushing over their edges as if hoping they might multiply through sheer will. Narrator had given him enough for something, surely—but in a place like this? It barely scratches the surface.

“…Maybe I should just get bananas,” he mutters under his breath, half-defeated. “Cheaper. Practical. Efficient.”

It would benefit both him and Narrator. No unnecessary spending, no regrets. A perfectly logical solution.

And yet— His steps slow.

Because logic has never quite worked when it comes to certain things. His thoughts are abruptly cut short when something shifts—subtle, instinctive, impossible to ignore.

A scent.

Faint at first, weaving delicately through the overwhelming mix of sugar and spice that fills the street. But to him, it stands out instantly—familiar in a way that settles deep in his chest before his mind can even catch up.

That scent… It means—

“Boo!”

The voice comes from behind him, bright and playful, and it hits him all at once.

Ashveil freezes for half a second—then his ears shoot upright, perking with a sharpness that betrays just how quickly his body recognizes what his mind has yet to process. He turns around, almost too fast, only to be met with the very presence that scent had promised.

You.

Standing there like you’ve always belonged in his path. And suddenly, something in him feels… full.

“Knew you’d be here,” he says, recovering quickly, a trace of pride slipping into his voice despite everything.

It’s almost ridiculous—how the only time his deductions seem to work flawlessly is when it comes to you.

You tilt your head, letting out a soft hum before shaking it in exaggerated disappointment. “Aw shucks,” you sigh, “and here I thought my surprise actually worked.”

His lips curve into a smile—soft, unguarded, the kind that appears so rarely it feels almost unfair when it does. “Don’t let that make you gloomy,” he replies, voice gentler now. “I’m glad you’ve returned.”

He doesn’t ask when you arrived. Doesn’t question how long you’ve been here, or why he hadn’t noticed sooner. He already knows the answer he’d get—nothing concrete, nothing he could follow. People like you move in ways that don’t leave trails behind.

And yet, somehow… you always find your way back to him. The thought alone is enough to make your heart stutter.

You force your expression into something composed, something polite—anything to mask the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him. That smile of his, so soft and unassuming, threatens to undo you in ways you’re far too familiar with.

“Since we both have some free time,” you begin, carefully steadying your voice, “why don’t we go out for lunch?”

For a brief moment, there is silence.

His ears perk even higher, if that were possible. His eyes practically light up, a glassy shine settling into them as though you’ve just offered him something divine.

“Of course! Of course!”

There it is.

That unfiltered enthusiasm. That shameless excitement. The way his entire demeanor shifts at the mere mention of food—it’s almost endearing how little he tries to hide it.

And that is exactly why you like him so much.

You let out a fond huff, shaking your head lightly as amusement softens your expression. There’s something so simple about him, so genuine, that it cuts through all the noise of a place like this.

And for you—someone who rarely lingers anywhere for long, who treats planets like passing stops rather than destinations— even a single moment like this feels like a victory.

The walk to the restaurant is, by all means, ordinary. The streets remain just as lively, the crowds just as loud, the Phantasmoon still grinning down at the city like it knows every secret worth keeping.

And yet, you are distracted. Hopelessly, shamelessly distracted.

Your attention drifts again and again to the man walking beside you, your gaze flickering toward him whenever he isn’t looking—or at least, whenever you think he isn’t. Dear Lan… he’s gorgeous.

It’s not just one thing, either. It’s everything.

The way he holds the brim of his hat so absentmindedly, like it’s second nature. The quiet depth in his voice when he speaks. The sharpness in his eyes, dulled just enough by something softer—something human. Even the way he walks, relaxed yet purposeful, as though he exists in his own rhythm separate from the rest of the world.

Truly, who could blame you?

With a quiet sigh, you force yourself to look ahead, focusing on the road and the restaurant drawing closer in the distance. It wouldn’t do to get caught staring again.

Unbeknownst to you, however— He’s already noticed.

Ashveil’s ears twitch ever so slightly, catching the subtle shifts in your attention, the weight of your gaze even when it lingers for only a second too long. He doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t call you out on it—but he notices.

He always notices. And yet, just as quickly, he dismisses it.

There’s a stubborn sort of denial rooted deep within him, one that refuses to entertain the thought for even a moment. You— someone wealthy, influential, someone who moves through worlds like they belong to you— couldn’t possibly be looking at him like that.

There’s no reason for it. Not in his mind.

He isn’t particularly striking, not by his own standards. Not compared to the kind of people you must surround yourself with.

So whatever that look is— It can’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.

By the time you step into the restaurant, all of those thoughts are swept away entirely—replaced by something far more immediate.

Food. (holy fatass)

Ashveil doesn’t hesitate for even a second. He practically guides—no, drags—you toward the nearest available seat, his earlier gloom nowhere to be found as anticipation lights up his expression. It’s almost amusing, how quickly he shifts, how transparent he becomes when something as simple as a good meal is within reach.

Though, really, you wouldn’t expect anything less from someone who orders Dogdash more times in a year than most people would admit to.

“Let’s see, what can I order…” he murmurs under his breath, leaning slightly forward as he picks up the menu.

His voice dips just a little, thoughtful, focused—and the sight of him like this is almost endearing. Like a wolf presented with something indulgent, something he doesn’t get to have often.

His metallic finger trails slowly across the menu, scanning each item with careful attention. And then, he sees the prices. There’s a pause. A barely noticeable flinch.

It’s subtle, but you catch it instantly. “Don’t hesitate,” you say, your voice gentle, familiar. “Order anything.”

The reassurance is simple—but it lands heavier than you intend.

Ashveil stills— and just like that, the doubt creeps back in. It’s quiet at first. Then louder.

Why?

Why would you say that so easily?

Is this some kind of test?

His grip on the menu tightens slightly as his thoughts spiral in ways he can’t quite stop. You’ve known each other for years, and yet—this part never changes. That quiet uncertainty, that inability to fully understand why you treat him the way you do.

Why someone like you would be so generous toward someone like him. In the end, he relents—but only halfway.

He orders a few dishes, carefully chosen, deliberately modest. The cheapest ones he can reasonably pick without drawing attention to it.

Safe, predictable ones. But you notice immediately. Of course you do. Though, you don’t call him out on it.

Instead, you smile politely at the server and proceed to order—without hesitation—the most expensive items on the menu.

Ashveil watches in silence as the order is written down, as the server nods and walks away. And he understands. You won’t force him. You won’t push him. But what he refuses to take for himself— You’ll give to him anyway.

The realization settles somewhere deep in his chest, quiet and unfamiliar. And for reasons he can’t quite explain—

His heart skips.

“So,” you begin, resting your chin lightly against your palm, your gaze fixed entirely on him, “what commissions have you received recently?”

The question is simple. Casual. But the way you look at him— It throws him off completely.

“O-Oh, uh…” he stumbles, momentarily caught off guard before clearing his throat and straightening slightly. “A missing bunny, a trip to the vet for a dog, a new missing person’s case and… yeah, that’s about it.”

His voice steadies as he speaks, falling back into something more familiar. Something safer.

You hum softly in response, as though his words are far more interesting than they actually are. As though he is. Your gaze never leaves him. Not even for a second.

This time, he notices. Truly notices.

Ashveil falters mid-thought, the weight of your attention finally becoming too obvious to ignore.

Did you always look at him like this?

There’s something different in your eyes. Something warmer, something far too intense to be brushed off as politeness or habit.

A faint flush creeps across his cheeks before he can stop it, and he quickly averts his gaze, focusing on anything else—his glass, the table, the passing server—anything but you.

“…Weird,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself.

He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand you. But one thing is certain— Whatever this feeling is, whatever strange pull you seem to have over him— He’s going to figure it out.

The plates clink softly as the food arrives, the rich aromas filling the space between you both. The server gives a polite smile and quietly retreats, leaving you in a familiar bubble of shared moments.

By now, the restaurant staff hardly blinks when they see you two; your presence has become routine enough that the subtle commotion you cause passes almost unnoticed.

Ashveil doesn’t waste a second. He leans over his plate, taking a deliberate bite and closing his eyes in unrestrained appreciation.

“Now that—that’s what I call good food!” he exclaims, speaking more to himself than to you, the words spilling out in a rapid, almost jubilant babble. Each bite seems like a small triumph, every chew a fleeting declaration of joy.

You watch, quietly amused, letting him speak while you take your own careful sips and bites. His conversation flows freely, unfiltered: the persistent struggle with limited funds, the latest absurdities of Narrator, the new cases he’s been chasing, and the antics of the Furbo crew. Everything pours out in a rhythm you know as well as you know him, a familiar dance of words and thoughts that feels comforting in its predictability.

“Anyways…” he clears his throat, lowering his voice just slightly, as if he’s hesitant to intrude on the space of your shared comfort.

“What brought you back to Planarcadia this time?” The question is casual on the surface, but there’s an edge of curiosity under it—genuine, pointed, and unavoidable. After all, this bustling, chaotic planet of Elation isn’t exactly the most convenient place for someone like you to linger.

You let out a soft sigh, lifting your cup of tea and letting the warmth seep into your fingers. “For a business meeting,” you murmur, letting the words hang between you. “I’ll leave soon.”

It’s a lie.

A flimsy one, yet it drapes perfectly over the truth you can’t bring yourself to admit. The real reason for your return isn’t the meeting, isn’t the schedule, isn’t the errands or obligations you so easily claim.

It’s him.

Always him.

And even as you speak, a faint weight presses against your chest—the thrill, the anxiety, the quiet joy of being near him once more. You sip your tea, hiding the flutter in your heart behind polite words, letting Ashveil continue to eat and talk, unaware that the true meeting—the one you’ve both unknowingly circled—has already begun.

Ashveil chuckles softly, a faint exhale of resignation escaping him. "Ah, of course… you are the busiest person I’ve ever known." His voice trails off, tinged with disappointment, irrational though it may be. Even after all these years, part of him wishes time could stretch a little longer when you’re near.

You tilt your head, curiosity laced with amusement, and ask lightly, "How’s Mister N?" The question carries an unspoken edge, a subtle bait you know he won’t see coming.

The detective frowns briefly, recalling the morning’s exchange with Narrator. “He’s alright. Mentioned you this morning, actually.”

A small, prideful smile curves your lips as you nod, murmuring under your breath, "As he should."

Of course he did—you’d made the effort, slipping a few extra bananas to ensure your presence was spoken of favorably. Ashveil, for all his perceptive powers, was far too dense to notice the careful intentions behind your actions.

He huffs, feigning annoyance as he shakes his head. "You could be a little humble," he teases, though there’s no conviction in his words. His gaze drifts to the empty plates on the table.

Leaning back against the cushioned seat, he rubs his belly with exaggerated satisfaction. "That was great. Thank you again, [Name]."

The praise makes your heart flutter wildly. For someone accustomed to wealth and refinement, your behavior feels embarrassingly juvenile—like a high-schooler hopelessly in love. You can almost imagine the next steps: lunch, confession, marriage… if only it were that simple.

Before your fantasies spiral further, the server returns with the bill. Ashveil glances at it, only to recoil at a figure large enough to cover three months’ rent. He retreats into his seat, a flush of self-consciousness washing over him.

Despite the countless times he’s visited this restaurant, the shame never seems to fade. Table manners, portion sizes—he had overlooked them all.

You step up, paying the bill, leaving Ashveil to quietly escape to the street outside, embarrassed and self-reproachful. Even now, standing in the warm hum of Duomension City, he chastises himself. How could he have been so careless, so unaware?

As you emerge, content with what you’ve mentally labeled a ‘date,’ Ashveil rushes up beside you, fumbling over his words. "[Name], I… I apologize for my behavior back there. I should have… I mean, I ought to be more mindful of my manners, especially around someone like you—"

His voice quivers, teetering toward self-deprecation, and you can’t help but feel a pang of tenderness. He’s so earnest, so caught in the weight of his own insecurities, oblivious to how utterly endearing he is.

Gently, you reach out and take his hand. The touch—soft and grounding—anchors him immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Ashveil. I wouldn’t have invited you if I truly disliked your manners.” Your smile is soft, reassuring, and betrays nothing of the frantic beating of your own heart beneath it.

Aeons, you scold yourself silently. Why on earth did you hold his hand?

Ashveil freezes, eyes wide and lashes fluttering, cheeks dusted with a faint, telling pink. “Oh… thank you for the meal, then… I… I appreciate it,” he mutters, voice quietening to a hesitant murmur. His hand instinctively rises to his hat, tilting the brim to hide the faint warmth spreading across his expression.

Reluctantly, you release his hand, letting it fall back to your side. "You don’t need to thank me. I’d love to spend time with you again."

The words, gentle and unwavering, land on him like a soft weight he wishes he could carry forever. A part of him longs to clutch onto this moment, to keep it suspended in time. But before he can respond, the chime of your driver’s call interrupts, and reality tugs you both forward.

Ashveil watches as you step into your vehicle, hand waving lightly. Instinctively, he mirrors the gesture, prosthetic arm rising where the warmth of your touch no longer lingers. Even so, the feeling remains—an unfamiliar flutter deep within his chest.

For once, the farewell doesn’t sting like it usually does. Even a detective, so trained to notice everything, cannot decipher why his pulse races at such a simple touch, such soft words. This fondness—this warmth—he realizes, is what he has been craving around you all along.

And for the first time in a long while, Ashveil allows himself to wonder: perhaps the heart is its own kind of case, one that even he can’t solve—yet.

The gentle glow of the Phantasmoon spills over the quiet streets of Dovebrook District, painting the world in silver and soft indigo. Somewhere tucked away in a still, shadowed corner, a small figure perches silently—Narrator, the slumbernana monkey, eyes fixed on his companion.

Ashveil lies curled within the fridge, his chest rising and falling in even rhythm, left hand clutched protectively over his heart.

Ever since returning home, the detective has refused to use that hand, muttering under his breath about how sacred it is, how nothing else should touch it.

Narrator doesn’t question, doesn’t press—he knows the truth without needing it explained, knows the invisible thread connecting Ashveil’s joy tonight to you, to the warmth and care you’ve so carefully poured into him.

For the little monkey, two wishes weigh lightly but firmly on his mind: that the stash of bananas he’s earned grows ever larger, and that the Ace Detective—proud, brilliant, and sensitive—remains as serene and content as he is in this fleeting, perfect moment.

Watching Ashveil sleep, a small, satisfied sigh escapes him. If happiness could be bottled, this would be the night to store it, tucked safely away for tomorrow and all the days after.

He trots his horse, Vorpal, over to the railing. He’s trying to look down at you sternly, but his grip on the reins is a little too tight because he's nervous.

“One must not loiter near the practice grounds without proper protective gear! You're being quite reckless, standing there with such a dazed look on your face. What if the horses were to startle?”

He’ll try to act calm, but he’ll be thinking about your expression for the rest of the day. Expect him to be extra attentive to his posture now that he knows your eyes are on him. If you keep on showing up to his training sessions, he slowly becomes less embarrassed and more prideful.

He catches your eye and, for a split second, he gives a tiny, proud smirk before he remembers he’s supposed to be serious. He then performs a perfect, high-level move just to hear you gasp. When he finally brings Vorpal to a halt in front of you, he leans down slightly from the saddle, his voice dropping into a softer tone meant only for your ears.

"You truly are quite helpless, aren't you?"

He reaches out, his gloved hand gently brushing against your cheek.

"But, if that look in your eyes is reserved solely for me, then I suppose I can overlook your lack of focus just this once. In fact, I find myself wanting to earn that expression every time I step into the stirrups. Stay right there. Once I've finished this set, I'll walk you back to the dorm. I believe we have a few minutes for tea before the evening bell, don't we?"

⋆⋅☆Silver

Silver actually is always a dreamy, fairy tale guy, so seeing him atop a horse feels incredibly natural. He usually has this ethereal look while riding, until he notices you by the fence, looking at him.

He blinks slowly, expression softening. He won’t get flustered, but he feels this tug in his chest, happy to see you. In return for your loving eyes, he gives you a small smile that makes you melt in the spot.

Now it’s your turn to be embarrassed.

When he trots over and asks. "Is something the matter?" you find yourself stammering, trying to explain that he looks extremely dreamy.

"Dreamy?" He smiles at the comment. "I'm glad. If looking at me makes you that happy, then I don't mind if you stay a while longer. I like having you here."

He isn’t one to show off, but if you keep showing up, he will eventually ask if you want to ride the horse with him.

Eventually, he brings his horse to a gentle stop right in front of you and extends a hand.

"You've been watching from the fence for a long time now." he says. "Would you like to see what it's like? Up here with me?"

Before you can even worry about the height or the saddle, Silver is already moving to help you out. He takes a gentle hold of your hand, even going to the point of slightl caressing it, and help you get onto the horse. Once you are confortable he climbs behind you, his strong arms encage you as he shows you the hang of things.

He leans forward, his silver hair brushing against you as he dips his head to whisper directly into your ear.

"I told you I didn't mind you watching me, but I think I prefer this. Being able to hold you like this makes it much harder to fall asleep."

⋆⋅☆Sebek

If you’re looking at Sebek like he’s a prince in shining armour, you are playing right into his ego. Seeing you admire his prowess is the ultimate compliment he could have asked for.

He’ll puff out his chest and sit even taller in the saddle. Though his ears will definitely start to turn pink. He’ll likely perform a slightly more difficult manoeuvre just to show off for you.

"HA! It is only natural that you are captivated by such a display of discipline! Witness the strength of Young Master Malleus’s loyal retainer! Do not look away ____ keep your eyes fixed on me!"

He’ll spend the walk back to the stables bragging about his technique, though he’s really just fishing for more of those loving looks you were giving him earlier.

The two of you spend the next few moments brushing the horse, and you can’t help noticing that for such a loud guy, he seems so gentle when taking care of his riding partners. His large, calloused hands move with care, and his face is fully concentrated. You can’t stop yourself from staring.

When he catches you looking at him again, he is quick to ask what has you so worked up today, only for you to state that he looks dreamy.