The Lion's Den

Act 1: “Ring around the roses”

What surprised you about the land of the dead, is just how colorful it is.

Neon greens, eye searing reds, and popping blues and purples practically seeps from the decorations, banners, and buildings of the dead. The undead called out to others jovially, excited conversations rang out in the air, while they ran about to and fro. A skeletal cat even scampers past your legs in a hurry after a tiny mouse! And although you were not here of your own volition, it fascinated you how everything just seemed so alive.

Yet, in Riddle’s residence, it was the complete opposite.

Everything within its walls is gray: the wallpaper, the framed portraits that lined the walls, and even the flowers within vases that decorated the scattered tables. Like all the color had been sucked out entirely. When you looked out the tall arched windows, even the garden only had bone white roses blooming on hedges, trees, and plants. 

“My mother’s garden,” when you asked Riddle about it. “She enjoyed looking at roses very much.”

“Where is she?” you wondered out loud. In the time you spent down here (Seven knows how long), you have yet to see his mother. 

Your probing question was answered with a pained expression from Riddle and loud coughs from Trey and Cater. 

When you woke up, dazed and confused to a ceiling that was definitely not your own, Trey and Cater were the ones to show you around.

“Let me know if you need something.” Trey pats your head with a tilt of his own. “Riddle told all of us to make you feel comfortable the best we can.” Cater gives a hum of agreement, but before you can even say anything, they both melt away when your name is called. Riddle stands at attention at the end of the hall, steel grays affixed onto your form with an intensity that sends shivers down your form.

“Would you take a turn around the garden with me, (Name)?” Riddle’s request is not meant to be optional, and so you take his arm and follow reluctantly. 

Walking amongst the white roses feels rather depressing. You make it about several steps into the walk before boredom overtakes you, making you instinctively reach out to run your fingers over the skeletal petals. 

Crunch!

You draw back your hand rapidly. Riddle answers your surprised look with a nod. 

“They’re not real. Nothing organic can be grown in the land of the dead, after all.” The explanation leaves you both unsettled and rather sad. Perhaps that’s why the rest of the realm practically screamed with colors, because they could no longer see the world above with theirs.

The rest of the walk is quiet after that revelation, and Riddle leaves with a chaste kiss on your knuckles, murmuring something about preparations. You’re about to head back in, when curiosity comes back to nip at your heels. 

Making sure no one’s watching you, you pluck a white rose clean off a hedge and realize what that sound you heard was. The rose crumples into your hand and flattens under the pressure of your fingers flattening it out. The sterile white paper is wrinkled now, no longer resembling any kind of rose or flower. One by one, the papers fall like snowflakes to your feet as you rip more and more flowers off shrubbery. Like a child discovering a new toy, you could not stop yourself.

It’s on the last rose that you found something strange.

January 4th, 18XX

I’m glad the family business is prospering, but I don’t like the look in my parent’s eyes. There’s a greed I cannot fathom in them, and I fear it is blinding them to dangers beyond their comprehension.

The handwriting is in neat cursive, the words scrawled elegantly yet still legible to those who read it. It’s oddly…humble. You turn over the paper, but find nothing else. Curious…

“[First]?” You quickly shove the paper into your pocket and turn to see Cater who looks at the carnage you wrought upon the roses.

“You know cutie, I get that you’re frustrated but the poor things didn’t deserve that, don’tcha think?” He visibly cringes at the papers littering at your feet. “Riddle’s gonna pitch a fit if he sees this.”

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself,” you say sheepishly. You do feel bad causing trouble for him, especially when you knew he was the one helping clean up after situations. 

“Well, it’s all right cutie, if you help me out?” He winks at you, and you oblige hurriedly.

As you clean up the papers, you catch a glimpse of ink lines on a rose you had discarded earlier. 

Before Cater could notice the anomaly, you discreetly fold it and slide it into your pocket alongside the other paper.

Act 2: “Pockets full of Posy”

February 14th, 18XX

I don’t want to get married.

You furrow your eyebrows. There’s nothing else written on the paper. For a brief moment, you considered secret codes. The paper crinkles as you try to lift it up, and you give up on the idea. You don’t want to accidentally end up destroying an antique memory like this.

You shuffle through the papers, before giving up and folding them back into their original rose shape. Although the contents were intriguing, they were not helpful in your attempts to return back to the land of the living. And with the card soldiers always monitoring you in Riddle’s absence, it meant that you couldn’t even step outside his mansion without one of them tailing you.

But perhaps, there could be an advantage to this.

“Ace? Deuce?” you try cautiously. 

Nothing. Then–

“Boo~” hot breath puffs into your ear, making your heart stop.

“Can you not?!” you whip around and glare at Ace who only smirks back and slides with his arms behind his head in a lackadaisical manner. Deuce only sheepishly gives you a look of sympathy by his side.

“What can we do for you, [Name]?” Deuce asks, stifling a chuckle behind a cough.

You only narrow your eyes at them with an unimpressed look. 

“Can I go outside if you guys come with me?”

The two of them exchange looks. Ace’s eyebrow raises at you judgmentally.

“Sure. Just know you’re not allowed on the outskirts.” He drawls, clearly not enthused with being tasked to follow you around. 

“The outskirts?”

“Things get dicey over there,” Deuce explains. “Lots of instability. Plus it’s where–mmph!”

Ace slaps a hand over Deuce’s mouth before he can finish, glaring at him pointedly. Deuce realizes his mistake, coughs and removes Ace’s palm with an annoyed huff.

“Point being, it’s dangerous.” Ace finishes decidedly, clearly wanting the conversation to end there. 

“Oooookay?” You respond as blandly as possible, trying not to show your mind whirling at the implications of Deuce’s words.

The two thankfully seem satisfied at your response, and the three of you head out. As much as you love the duo, you thank the Seven they’re not the brightest of the card soldiers (you know the point and dash technique would not have worked with Trey or Cater), and you manage to separate yourself from their watch as easy as pie.

In contrast with the main area of the realm of the dead, the outskirts (at least, you hope it is the outskirts) of the land of the dead are desolate and monochrome. It stretches endlessly into the horizon, like an ocean of ash.

“You.” A stern voice immediately commands your attention, making your back straighten instinctively. 

The undead who addresses you is a dignified sort, wearing an old fashioned gown with a high collar and a suffocating looking bodice, elegant crimson velvet draping down into a bustle that trails behind her (you presume it’s a her). In stark contrast with the fabric, blood red roses were pinned to the skirts, making it look like a garden was blooming at her very feet. She looks exactly like an old noble from the history books. Her face is twisted into a hateful scowl, flesh only covering enough of her cheeks to show muscles twitching in agitation.

“What are you doing here?” She’s evidently not pleased to see you here, even if you’re not sure why. “Is it not enough that you condemned me and my son? Now you’re galavanting out like a harlot, I see!”

Her voice is rough like sandpaper, as if she had screamed herself hoarse. You blink rapidly as she lashes tirade after tirade upon your confused self. The words are venomous barbs, but they all bounce off your confused brain, as you’re not entirely sure this undead was sane. You’re about to interrupt her when someone else does that for you.

“Madame,” Trey’s low voice makes you shudder. 

You’ve never heard him sound this angry, and his thick brows are furrowed deeply into a disapproving frown, making his entire face look menacing. When he comes to stand in front of you protectively, the undead flinches too.

“Please stop this. They are not who you think they are, Madame,” Trey calmly responds, not a single change in his stern expression. “It was an honest mistake that they strayed here.”

She looks at you again, sharp eyes scanning you again before realizing something. Her face furrows into confusion.

“What is a living person doing in this realm?” Her eyes pierce through you, as if searching for someone she knew.

“That is not under my authority to disclose, Madame,” Trey responds cooly. But this does not quell the lady’s suspicions. She takes another long stare before a revelation comes to her rotting face.

Her eyes cut into Trey. “You are going to have that thing marry Riddle?!”

Trey doesn’t meet her glare. Instead, he turns around and begins to usher you away. You forget how much strength he has, when he’s able to still drag you even when you dig your feet into the ground. 

“Mark my words, they will never be able to make Riddle happy!” Bitter rage coats every word echoing after you two. Despite the fact her voice is hoarse that it comes out as a wheeze, you can still clearly hear the defiant statement. “Not in life, nor in death!”

Her last declaration makes the hair on your neck raise. What the hell–?

However, she doesn’t chase after the two of you. Silence accompanies the both of you as his arm wrapped around your shoulders moves you forward. The guilt you had for disobeying Riddle is overridden by the curiosity of what you just heard in the past few minutes. 

“Who was that?” You asked. Trey’s grip tightens, before loosening again.

“You don’t have to worry about her. She’s not going to be a problem.” He finally says.

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Trey shakes his head, making you purse your lips. It’s all too quickly that you’re shoved back into Ace and Deuce’s care (they scolded you thoroughly for duping them) and herded straight back into Riddle’s gloomy mansion and into your room where you were locked in. 

Another dead end. You groan. You don’t know how much time you had left before Riddle forced your hand. You’re about to flop straight back into the bed to rest when something catches your eye at the vanity.

A perfect white rose lays upon the wooden surface. When you unfold it, the ink is blotted by some kind of liquid, making it hard to read.

February 24th, 18XX

The ceremony date has been set.

Act 3: “Ashes, Ashes, we All Fall Down!”

They left you unattended in the dressing room. 

Not out of respect, but because if you did try to escape again, there would only be one exit: the door outside which is conveniently locked and guarded by other undead. 

Of course, you checked the room to see if there was anything else: hidden doors, secret passageways that could possibly lead you out of this hell. But they were thorough, and not even a single opening was let slip. 

You’re getting tired of this.

You glance over at the vanity. Perhaps if you can’t find a way out, then it might be best to explore other avenues. A glass shard might not be much to an undead, but it'll be a weapon of a kind.

Before you can smash the glass however, you spot a speck of white. Something is jammed into the vanity mirror’s bronze edge. When you investigate, you find it to be a crumpled paper. Another one of these? Taking care to not rip it as you extract it from the mirror, you open it up to find another journal page.

March 15th, 18XX

There’s no going back now. The townspeople are on my side. The Rosehearts have been a plague upon us ever since they came here. And although I feel sorry for the son, I don’t want to be trapped. May the Seven forgive my selfishness.

Rosehearts? Your mind clicks. Isn’t that Riddle’s surname?

Looking at the paper again, you realize there’s more written on the back. The once elegant penmanship is now near illegible, the writing so shaky that the ink blots in certain points where the writer pushed their pen too hard.

They’ve gone mad but the deed is done. We were lucky the poison worked quickly. The Rosehearts are no more. But I did not foresee that Riddle’s men would get caught up in the scheme…the card soldiers’ families are in an uproar, and I cannot blame them. I fear that whatever comes will end in a bloodbath within the town if something is not done.

With the Red Queen as my witness, I swear upon the (Last) name to make things right again. I will not let more blood be shed upon these lands.

The mention of your surname has you reeling. This was your relative? But who? And they knew Riddle? Your mind suddenly flashed back to the undead noble lady whose hoarse voice sounded like her throat had been scorched. 

“Is it not enough that you condemned me and my son?!” 

Her eyes, her disposition, her outfit, how could you not see it? She had looked at you and saw someone–someone that resembled you and had sent her here. Then could it be that–?

A knock interrupts your racing thoughts and you spin to see Ace and Deuce grinning at you.

“Looking good!” Ace whistles, making you bristle instinctively.

“The ceremony is about to start,” Deuce says nervously, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Trey told us to escort you there.”

Your mind is rushing through the information you just processed that you barely register Ace and Deuce’s arms wrapped around yours securely (in case you ran away) and leading you out. In a morbid twist, they are the ones walking you down the aisle, an occasion that was meant to be happy, now filled with a sense of doom.

At the end of the aisle, Riddle, in his prim white suit, beams excitedly at your appearance.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he whispers in your ear. You only grimace in response.

“Dearly departed, we’re gathered here today–” the undead priest begins to intone with his scraggly voice. 

You check your peripherals. Undead is all you can see, filling the church seats and staring expectantly at you two. The aisle could be possible, but if people stopped you from the seats, you would be surrounded instantly. And Riddle’s groomsmen lined right in a perfect line behind the two of you. You doubt you would be able to make it past them as well.

“The groom and bride may exchange their vows.” You snap back to the present as Riddle practically glows with excitement. 

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows,” Riddle begins earnestly. His right hand reaches out and you reluctantly take it. He leads you to the altar. Upon it sat several items: a lit iron candelabra, a bouquet of red roses, and lastly, a goblet made out of weathered gold. A suspicious looking purple liquid fills the inside, bubbling ominously. 

“Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.” Riddle raises the candle in his left hand and lights it with the candelabra. “With this candle, I will light your way in darkness.”

Trey quickly appears at your side and shoves a candlestick into your own hands just in time with Riddle’s words. In one smooth movement, he lights the wick with his own. 

He turns to look at you, and for once, there is something warm and fuzzy in those cold gray eyes. Like a newborn baby just learning to see the world. It’s unsettling. He bites his lips, an imperfect expression upon his usually composed face. 

“My mother wanted the best for me.” Riddle confessed tightly. “But it didn’t mean she knew everything.”

“Stop this, Riddle,” you say in a low voice. The audience is murmuring. Riddle going off script with his vows is miraculous enough, but perhaps you can find one last sliver of rationale within him. 

But he ignores your quiet plea. “I’ve spent so long wondering why I couldn’t move on, if it was just an arranged loveless marriage.”

“Riddle–”

“And now, I know why!” He interrupts you, taking the bouquet of roses from the altar and dramatically offering them to you.

“I longed for love, and now, I have found the one for me.” His face makes you recoil. It’s filled with all the endearment and adoration one could have for their lover, and yet, it makes you sick. The shade of the red roses reminds you of blood and you have to hold back the bile rising in your throat.

“Riddle, you are dead,” each word is punctuated in a desperation to make him understand. “I am alive. Do you realize how crazy this–this delusion is?! I cannot marry you!” 

“Well, that is what this is for, is it not?” Your head whips to the priest who gestures carelessly to the gold goblet. The purple liquid bubbles at the priest’s words. You taste bile at the back of your throat. 

“No, you can’t–” A firm grip encircles your wrist. 

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine.” Cold metal slips onto your ring finger despite your struggle. 

Riddle gives you a slow smile as you wrench your hand back, but no matter what you do, the ring. Just. Won’t. Come off. You’re too preoccupied with trying to get the damn thing off when your arms are seized and held back. Trey and Cater murmur soft apologies as Riddle draws closer with the goblet and with growing horror, you realize just too late what he was going to do.

As the liquid is forced down your throat, it burns through your esophagus as it winds its way down like a poisonous snake. And as your blood slows and your heart stops, you see Riddle grin widely, rotten flesh just barely holding together.

His groomsmen, his dearest friends, had done all they could to console him as each agonizing decade passed. “One day, your true love will come to set you free.” Trey, his closest confidant had said at one time, clasping a reassuring arm around his shoulders. Riddle didn’t have the heart (no pun intended) to tell him that he no longer believed in love. If the one his mother chose couldn’t bear to love him, then how could he ever be sure that someone else would be willing to?

So when he and his men are resurrected, he’s face to face not with a skilled necromancer, but rather a terrified little mortal. You’re like a puny  mouse, scurrying backwards and falling comically in a pile of snow as the five of them merely stare at you dumbly. 

‘This must be a mistake’ is the first thing Riddle thought. 

It was…not apparently. But it might as well have been. He almost bursts a blood vessel when you sheepishly say, “I wasn’t expecting anything out of a stupid Halloween summoning ritual…” in response to his stern inquiry. Trey has to hold him back from blowing up at you, while Ace and Cater are bellowing hearty laughs, never having been entertained by such an innocent statement before. 

He wants to immediately go back to the land of dead after such a stupid encounter, but it’s you who reaches out for his skeletal hand and pulls him back.

“I’m really sorry for wasting your time! Please, is there anything I can do for you gentlemen to repay for it?”

At the time, he was only irritated and impatient. He wanted to get you off his tail and to never see you again. So he only sneers that haughty smirk of his and replies with the unthinkable.

“Very well. Find a way to let us all pass on.”

Ace and Deuce flinch, Cater opens his mouth with shocked eyes, and Trey also moves to object, but they all fall silent at his raised hand. They all knew that his demand was impossible: the four of them would not pass on without seeing Riddle’s wish fulfilled, and Riddle’s wish…

But you aren’t deterred at all, determination shining in your eyes and smiling big. 

“Alright!”

–

He had regretted his challenge then. He was forced to watch you start to clumsily make attempts on getting to know them all better. There’s something that twists in his chest as he sees you get along with Ace and Deuce, the three of you usually off to prank some poor soul. It slithers around in his guts as he watches as you show Cater how you take photos on your shiny sleek ‘smartphone’ and how Trey teaches you how to make macarons; clenching around his throat and mouth.

He’s repeatedly turned away each time you ask to spend time together and even conversations he cuts short. At first it was stubbornness but…when Trey questions him after he turned down another invitation from you, he can only clench his fists and stay silent.

Truthfully, there wasn’t any good reason. It was petty, at the most. Maybe it’s because you remind him when he was alive, when he was earnest to do his best no matter what. 

It’s finally when he catches you humming a tune that sounds hauntingly familiar that he breaks his silence. 

“That song…” You turn with wide eyes at him acknowledging you.

"You know this song?" He asks, and you slowly nod. 

"Yeah, my mom used to sing it to me all the time." You answer meekly, as if caught doing something naughty. Something tugs him to open his mouth again.

"Your mother?"

"Uh, yeah! She said that it was passed down to her by grandma, and to grandma by her mama–"

How could he not realize it? Like a spell breaking, it’s like his eyes have been opened to the truth. Your face, though long losing the exact likeness, still contained traces of her. Your cheeks, the curve of your lips, your eyes–it was like he was back to that fateful day at the altar.

“Do you, d̶̨̛͓̤̮͈͓̜͔̜̘̙͚̝̀̿̉̓̿͗͆͘͘̕e̴̢̠͕̹̜̼̬͇̰̒̂̑̽̏̈͜͜ͅā̸̠̝͊̚r̵̢̙̹̯̟͓̹̫̮̘͍̼̾͛̈́̾͆̏̈́̌͌͘͠ļ̵̧̭̻̲̰̳̞̥̮͎͚̃́̿́̊̀͂͝ẏ̵̧̗͓̞͎̲̦̭̄̃͊̍̑̑͛͂̋ ̷̪͕̠̰͇̬̜̾͘b̴̲̫̯͈̠͓͙̤̮̓̈́̌̂̈̈̄̈̓͂͊͘͝͝ͅě̵̡̤̗̔̑̂͊͝l̷̢̢̜͓̖͎͍̗̣̲͎̹̖͗̈͐͊͋́̎͐͗́̇͋͜o̶̙̝͎͍͇̝͑̿̀̽͑v̷̬̥̈́͛́̋̊͗̈̑̚e̶͎̗̝̫̗̤͍̘̓̆͒̓ͅd̷̳̜̤͔͎̫̤̞̈́̒̎̇̉̎͗̃̋̈̚͝ͅ, take Riddle Roseheart to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until parted by death?” The priest intones. The morning light shines behind him, giving an almost saintlike glow to the man as he presides over the two. His bride is silent, and he frowns as an awkward silence stretches.

“No.”

 A gasp of outrage and confusion reverberates in the chapel, including his own groomsmen, who worriedly looks at him during the exclamation. 

“Riddle?” He snaps back to the present as a hand waves in front of his face. “Are…you okay?”

You’re not her. He supposes it is ironic: fate has brought him back to face his past again, but not in matrimony or love, but in a bet. No matter how much he wishes for it, you were not her.

“I’m okay.” He replies in a voice so distant he doesn’t realize it comes from him. He reaches a hand out to touch your cheek and as your confused eyes meet his own calm ones, he can only think of how his heart is at ease.

“I’m okay.” 

He sighs with a genuine smile spreading across his face.

–

You’re not sure if it’s good that Riddle is like this.

You were sure something possessed Riddle to act so sweetly to you, when only a couple weeks ago he refused to be left alone in a room with you. You would like to be happy that he’s finally warming up to you, but the change is so abrupt that you find it hard to be fully convinced that he truly likes you. It’s like he’s a different person, pulling out chairs for you, brewing you tea whenever you want something hot, and even helping you with your chores. As he stays close by your side, you’re starting to feel a bit nervous.

And you’re not sure how to tell him that you’re nowhere near close to figuring out how to lay them to proper rest. 

It’s like they are all synchronized: Ace likes to lie outright and just brush you off, Trey and Cater both avert their eyes and try to distract you with a different topic, and Deuce is all but skillful with his fumbling words. But they still remain tightlipped about what they wish before they pass on to the afterlife. Maybe Riddle would know?

He doesn’t look surprised at your recountings, but nor does he look smug as you expected him to be either. He only continues to sip the breakfast tea you brewed with a calm expression before setting it down with a quiet clack.

“It’s because their wish is tied with mine.” You blink, processing the information.

“And my wish…” He trails off, eyes staring into his cup. “Do you truly want to hear it?”

There’s something in his voice that sets your nerves on edge, but you can’t abandon your goal when you’re this close. It would be cruel to deprive the mens’ souls from finding true peace at this point.

You swallow. “What is it?”

“True love.” His eyes move up to stare into your wide ones. “I wish to be with the one I truly love.”

There’s a heavy silence that hangs in the air after the statement. His eyes continue to bore into yours and your heart starts beating faster. He can’t possibly mean…

“Have…have you found someone you truly love?” You ask, throat dry and tightening.

His lips curl up into a smirk. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

“Who is...?”

His smirk widens. “I think you may already know.”

You get up abruptly, pushing back your chair and sending silverware clattering. Riddle’s face immediately scrunches in disapproval, but you have more to worry about than a nagging lecture.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you pass on anymore.” The words are out of your mouth before you can rethink them. Riddle’s face becomes stone cold, silver grey eyes narrowing into needles. His head tilts back haughtily, still looking down on you even as he’s seated.

“It seems you’re mistaken. You don’t have a choice now. You promised, remember?”

–

Trey, though he looked guilty, had no arguments when Riddle ordered him to carry your slumbering body as they traveled back to the land of the dead. The rest of his groomsmen surprisingly don't bat an eye. Cater just grins and says he can't wait to show you around the land of the dead. The younger duo also chimes in that they wanna teach you more scare tactics and hang out more. Riddle also doesn't miss the way Trey tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear when it seems no one is looking.

But he’s glad, because it means he only needs to worry about when you wake up from your forced slumber. You may not like the new change, being removed from your home so rudely, but you made a promise, and he won’t let you walk away from it.

Yet you shook your head and gave your companion a tiny smile. Maybe you could dismiss what happened as a dream. A hyperaware dream. There are studies on the human mind playing tricks on its owner; perhaps this was your brain's way of grounding you in reality, convincing you that none of what you saw last night was real.

The carcass-shaped roasted meat, the finger on whoever's plate, the iron scent of their drinks, the way their shapes seems to untangle in their true forms—

Stop.

None of it is real.

You couldn’t put it into words. A weight settled in your chest, thick and suffocating, but you forced yourself to move. To dress. To ignore the way the air felt too heavy, too charged with something you couldn’t name. The morning routine should have been simple yet every movement, every glance in the mirror, felt foreign, like watching someone else go through the motions of your life.

The halls of Night Raven College were a solace, at least for now. Students bustled about, their chatter a comforting backdrop. Normal. This was normal. You just needed to act like nothing was wrong.

The first class was potions with Divus Crewel. It had gone as smooth as it can be. You don't know how you can act nor face the headmaster after he bribed you, the heavy cling of mora tucked away under the covers of your bed. You're not sure if you could take the blood money and spend it. Heck, just holding it feels morally wrong.

Lunch arrived without much fanfare. Ace and Deuce had been bickering over something trivial, Grim stuffing his face with whatever he could get his paws on. It was routine, familiar, grounding.

Hmph!

You bumped into someone.

A student, who looks normal, a Diasomnia student perhaps—one whose name you couldn’t recall, but who clearly recognized you. His eyes locked onto yours, their expression twisting into something unreadable. "Watch where you're going," he muttered, voice oddly low, too controlled.

You mumbled an apology, but the way he lingered, the way his gaze stayed fixed on you just a second too long, sent an uncomfortable chill down your spine.

You forced yourself to keep walking. It was fine. It had to be fine. The cafeteria. A perfect place to gather your thoughts. In the company of many, your worries can be buried under the guise of the public.

Grim frowned as he looked at you, his mouth half-full of pasta and pastries. "You’ve been actin’ weird ever since you woke up. Did something happen that I, the mighty Grim, don’t know about?"

You hesitated. "Nothing. Just tired."

Grim huffed. “Eh? You just got out of bed and left me! But ya smelled really good when you came back! Like you went to a fancy restaurant.”

Your breath hitched.

Fancy restaurant.

Sweat trickle down your nape. Could it be that Grim does know? Can you even tell him?

Memories slithered into your mind—fingers gripping silverware too tightly, Rook’s teeth tearing into something fibrous, Leona, Malleus, Lilia, and hell forbid even Idia drinking something goey red and metallic from their glass, the way Jade and Floyd had provoked you into taking a bite of what seems to be a carcass of some sort, the cloying scent of iron and roasted meat thick in the air. The meal. The feast.

What was it?

What had they been eating?

Your stomach twisted violently.

“You didn’t smell the food? I mean, you didn't smell it coming from the cafeteria?” you asked carefully, voice thinner than intended.

Grim’s ears twitched. “Huh? What food?”

You swallowed. “From last night. Did you smell anything… different?”

Grim chewed on a piece of meat before shaking his head. “Nah. If there was somethin’ good cookin’, I’d have woken up! You know me, I never miss a good meal.” He paused, then added, “You’re out for like, five minutes this mornin’ when I woke up lookin’ for ya, but you’re back real quick. So nothin’ exciting happened.”

"Are you sure?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. It came out wrong—too frantic, too desperate. You were already standing before you realized you’d moved, your fingers tangled in Grim’s fur, gripping him too tightly. His ears folded back, startled.

Ace paused mid-chew. Deuce’s spoon hovered just above his bowl. Their expressions shifted into concern. They were watching you now.

"Is everything alright?" Deuce asked carefully.

"Did something happen?" Ace added, squinting.

But you couldn’t answer. You were spiraling. Because now the questions were forming too fast. There was no feast in the cafeteria. There was no scent. Grim didn’t wake up.

Grim always wakes up. Especially when there’s food involved.

Last night—what had woken you up? The smell of food. Delicious, roasted meat. Mouthwatering in its pursuit to awaken you.

Your breath caught. The blood in your veins felt like ice, and yet your skin burned.

Your knees nearly buckled. The walls of the cafeteria shifted—no, not physically, but perceptually. Like something behind your eyes had clicked out of place. The light above flickered once, and it made you flinch.

None of this is right.

"Are you sure Grim?" you snapped, louder than intended. Grim scrunched his eyebrows. You had never raised your voice at him like that before.

"I'm tellin' ya, there was nothin’!" Grim barked, voice tinged with rising fear. "I was asleep all night! You were beside me—I even snuck under the covers ‘cause you were shiverin’ like crazy! And you’re back so fast, nothin’ coulda happened!"

The breath left your lungs.

You were cold. You were shivering. You remember running, escaping into ramshackle where Crowley waits for you at your door—

Huh?

He's waiting. He knew. They knew you knew. Had they been watching you?

Then a hand clapped down onto your shoulder.

Your vision blurred, ears rang, your pulse exploded in your ears. Every muscle in your body seized. You were already turning—slowly, too slowly—before your mind could even form the thought.

You let out a shaky exhale. The familiar cut of blonde hair, and his hat obscuring your vision.

Rook Hunt, smiling that too-perfect smile. That predator’s glint. His hand on your shoulder was warm.

“Ah, trickster,” he greeted you, voice low and unhurried, “you seem troubled. Did something unnerve you?”

His grip was gentle, but it felt like a shackle.

He was standing too straight. His posture, like a marionette held upright by unseen strings. The skin on his cheeks was pale and tight, and in the flickering cafeteria light, it looked almost translucent.

You swore you saw something twitch beneath it.

A vein? A muscle? A worm?

“Your heart,” he said suddenly, tilting his head with the grace of a falcon mid-dive. “It beats quite loudly even now. How beautiful! How human, oui!”

Your breath caught in your lungs, your heart thrumming in your ears.

Grim looked up at you, confused and scared. “What’s goin’ on?” he whispered.

You looked down at him.

You should’ve seen reassurance in his eyes. Instead, you saw your own panic reflected back at you.

Your gaze darted around the bustling cafeteria, the once comforting sounds now grating on your frayed nerves. Ace and Deuce were still staring, their earlier concern morphing into something akin to alarm at your sudden outburst. You could feel their eyes on you, questioning, perhaps even wary.

Somewhere in the cafeteria, you saw Malleus Draconia, nodding at you, words coming off from his mouth and yet you ignored him in favor of the hunter, now intensely staring at you. Eyes boring holes in your skull.

Rook’s smile didn’t waver, but the light in his eyes seemed to sharpen, like a hawk focusing on its prey. His grip on your shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent warning. The air around him felt different, the cloying sweetness you’d noticed earlier intensified, overlaid with something else, something entirely unsettling.

You had to get away. You had to think. This place, filled with them, was suffocating you. Every smile felt like a mask, every casual touch a potential threat.

Without a word, you pulled away from Rook’s grasp. The movement was jerky, fueled by a sudden surge of adrenaline. You ignored his soft, questioning “Trickster?” and the bewildered looks of your friends.

Run, run. And you did run, not even bothering to apologize to a few students you bumped into on your way outside. Your legs felt heavy, but the primal urge to flee propelled you forward. Think? Where can you go? The library. It’s vast, quiet, a place of knowledge and, you hoped, relative safety. The towering shelves, filled with magic books, offered the illusion of anonymity, a place to disappear amongst the pages.

You pushed through the heavy oak doors, the scent of aged paper and dust filling your lungs, a welcome change from the cafeteria’s oppressive aroma. The silence within was a stark contrast to the clamor you’d just escaped, though it felt heavy.

Your breath hitched as you scanned the rows of shelves, the shadows between them seeming to writhe with unseen eyes. You told yourself it was just your paranoia, the lingering residue of the nightmarish feast. Slowly, you tried to inch yourself to a shelf that you could feel can hide your form.

The rhythmic thud of your own heart echoed in the stillness, each beat a frantic drum against your ribs. You risked a glance back towards the entrance, half-expecting to see Rook’s silhouette framed in the doorway, his unnerving smile cutting through the dim light.

But the entrance remained empty. A sigh of relief, left you. Perhaps you ought to thank the Sevens for not abandoning you.

Still, the feeling of being watched persisted, a prickling sensation on the back of your neck. You ducked behind a particularly tall shelf, the musty scent of decaying parchment filling your nostrils. You pressed your back against the cool wood, trying to regulate your ragged breathing.

Think. What did you see? What did Grim say? The feast. The lack of smell. Grim’s insistence that you were shivering in bed after being gone for quick. Crowley waiting at your door. The blood money.

It didn't make sense. It was all disjointed, terrifying fragments that refused to coalesce into a coherent whole.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the images that flashed behind your eyelids: the glistening meat, the too-red drinks, the unsettling smiles.

A soft footstep echoed from the next aisle over.

Your eyes snapped open.

You held your breath, straining to hear over the frantic pounding of your own heart.

Another step.

Closer.

You pressed yourself further against the shelf, your fingers digging into the worn leather of a nearby book. Was it one of them? Had he followed you?

The footsteps stopped just around the corner of the shelf. You could almost feel their presence, an unseen weight in the silent air.

A low, melodic hum drifted from the other side of the shelf. It was a familiar tune, one you’d often heard in Pomefiore.

Rook.

Your blood ran cold. He had followed you. Of course, he did. The hunter always tracks his prey.

You remained frozen, every muscle tense, waiting for him to round the corner, for that unnerving smile to fill your vision once more. The humming continued, closer now, laced with a disconcerting cheerfulness.

Fuck, should punch him? Can you even punch a seasoned hunter like himself? Perhaps you ought to go for his eyes and gouge it as means of protecting yourself because—

You had nowhere left to run.

The shadows in the library seemed to deepen, to coalesce into indistinct shapes. The scent of old paper no longer felt comforting, but suffocating, like the air in your dorm room that morning.

The humming stopped.

Silence descended once more, heavy and expectant.

Then, a soft voice, just inches away, whispered your name.

“Trickster where have you gone?”

Your breath hitched. You remained frozen behind the towering shelf, the scent of aged paper doing little to mask the rising tide of panic. You knew that smile, that voice. Rook’s pursuit was relentless, his fascination bordering on obsession. Escape felt impossible, the library suddenly less a sanctuary and more a gilded cage.

But even as fear constricted your chest, a flicker of something else ignited – a desperate need to understand. What was happening? What did they see you as?

Before Rook could round the corner, a sudden, heavy presence filled the aisle, cutting off the soft sound of his humming. You couldn't see what was happening, but the air thickened.

 You slowed your breathing, it sounds like Leona. The usual cloying sweetness of Rook's presence was abruptly overshadowed by Leona's musky, feral scent. There was a low, almost imperceptible growl, a sound that vibrated through the bookshelves.

Then, the humming stopped altogether. After a moment of strained silence, you heard Rook’s voice, tight and uncharacteristically subdued. "Ah, Roi des Lions. Fancy meeting you here."

Leona's reply was a low, dismissive grunt, a sound that conveyed both disinterest and a clear warning. You could hear them talking, yet you can’t understand a word they’re saying. There was a brief pause, and then the distinct sound of retreating footsteps. Rook was gone.

You remained frozen, your heart hammering against your ribs. Leona, he had intercepted Rook. But why? A shiver, not entirely from fear, ran down your spine.

Then, a shadow fell over your hiding place. The familiar, oppressive scent of Leona intensified. He was there.

A large hand reached around the edge of the bookshelf, the fingers long and calloused against his glove. Your breath caught in your throat. It hovered for a moment, as if considering, before gently but firmly closing around your arm.

A low rumble vibrated from his chest, a sound that seemed to resonate deep within you. "There you are, little herbivore." His voice was a low purr, possessive and undeniably dangerous.

He pulled you from behind the shelf. His amber eyes, narrowed and intense, locked onto yours. Raw hunger in their depths.

He reached out with his other hand, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You flinched. Fuck, first it’s Rook now its Leona. His touch sent a strange mix of fear and a bewildering sense of nervousness through you.

"You're trembling," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips. His breath was warm against your skin. "Calm down herbivore, anyone can smell how scared you are." 

Before you could speak or even fully process his nearness, a voice, smooth and deceptively calm, echoed from the library entrance.

"Leona-senpai," Jade began, his voice carrying clearly through the silent space, "how refreshing to see you out of your den. Have you finally decided to grace us with your presence?"

Leona’s grip on your arm tightened almost imperceptibly. His gaze flickered towards the entrance, his expression shifting from possessive intensity to a simmering territorial snarl. He didn't release you, but his attention was momentarily divided.

Floyd’s more chaotic presence followed Jade’s voice. "Yeah, sea lion-senpai! What'cha doin'? Did you find some tasty shrimp?"

Leona’s eyes flicked back to you, coldness in his stare before he turned slightly to address the approaching twins, still keeping you close.

"Spare me your insincere pleasantries, Leech," Leona growled, his voice low and dangerous, addressing both with their surname. "I'm here on more pressing matters." His amber eyes flicked back to you, a clear claim in their depths.

"Pressing matters?" Jade's smile widened, revealing the unsettling rows of teeth within. Eyebrows scrunched in amusement, "Or perhaps you're simply ensuring our little Prefect doesn't get lost in the stacks? How considerate."

Floyd chuckled, a low, gurgling sound that made your skin crawl. "Lost Shrimpy? Maybe they were lookin' for a snack!"

Leona’s grip on your arm tightened further. "Watch your tongue, Leech. Or you'll find it missing." His hold was a tangible thing, a protective barrier he was erecting around you.

Jade’s smile didn’t waver. "Such territorial behavior, Leona-senpai. Almost endearing. For a land-dweller, I suppose. But the Prefect is quite capable, I'm sure. Not easily swayed by the dry heat of the savanna." His gaze flicked to you, lingering for a moment too long, a silent challenge in his eyes.

"Capable of getting into trouble," Leona retorted, his voice calm and oddly deep, his grip tightening around your waist. "Unlike slippery eels who can't keep their fins to themselves in open air."

Floyd took a step closer, his mismatched eyes fixed on you with an unsettling curiosity. "Shrimpy looks scared, sea lion-senpai. Is all that dry fur makin' 'em nervous? They probably prefer the nice, cool deep."

Leona smirked as he pulled you closer, only did you notice that Floyd looks… irritated. The beastman clearly enjoys taunting the merman. "Back off, Leech."

"Not your food?" Floyd tilted his head, his voice deceptively innocent. His mismatched eyes, gleaming, one gold the other teal, "Thought land-beasts only liked dusty bones."

"Perhaps, unlike the soggy fishes you call food," Leona retorted, the composure in his voice leaving no room for argument. He tightened his hold on you, his gaze daring the Leech twins to challenge him. The air crackled with unspoken threats, a silent battle for possession being waged right over your head.

Your breath caught when Leona suddenly leaned in—his nose brushed the nape of your neck.

You froze.

Is he—What the fuck—is he sniffing you??

His gaze not leaving the twins, especially Floyd, whose jaw is clenched. Wait, is that a vein popping in his neck?

"This is getting us nowhere," Jade said, his voice smooth but firm, though a hint of irritation flickered in his mismatched eyes. "We are both distracting the Prefect. Unlike certain sun-baked simpletons, we understand the value of time."

"Simpleton?" Leona's smirk deepened. "Heh, coming from a glorified barnacle scraper. At least I don't smell like low tide and dead fish."

Floyd’s eyes narrowed. His grin twitched wider, too wide. “Hehehehe…” Then his voice dropped, low and sharp. “Bet your blood tastes all gritty.”

His fist clenched. Shoulders rolled. Jaw slacked and ready to bite. He was about to move—fast.

Before Floyd could do, Jade’s hand shot out, his grip surprisingly strong as he clamped down on Floyd’s arm. "Floyd. Control yourself." His smile remained, but there was a steel in his voice that even Floyd seemed to heed, though his mismatched eyes still burned with animosity towards Leona.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, You’re going to die as a casualty between the land and sea montsters. Sevens damned it.

"We wouldn't want to keep you, Prefect," Jade continued, his unsettling smile now directed solely at you. "We know you have important things to do. Unlike some beasts who just like to mark their territory." His gaze flicked pointedly at Leona’s arm around your waist.

His words were a dismissal, but the intensity of the possessive energy radiating from both Leona and the twins left you with a chilling certainty, as if you were caught in the middle of something far more dangerous than a simple rivalry, a primal clash between land and sea, and you were the contested prize.

"Get off me!"

You try to push Leona off of you, knees weak from the lack of sleep and… what was that tension? It was so thick you could slice it cleanly with a knife. 

Besides, Why are they so territorial with you?

The hallway, once a place of peace, now felt like a cage, the air thick with simmering threats. You needed to escape, to find somewhere, anywhere, that felt safe.

The image of Ramshackle, however dilapidated, flickered in your mind. At least there, the dangers were somewhat predictable. Here, surrounded by these powerful, unnerving figures, you felt like a fragile insect pinned beneath their gazes.

With a subtle shift, you tried to disengage from Leona’s hold, a small, almost imperceptible movement. His grip tightened fractionally in response, a silent reminder of his claim. The casual dominance sent a fresh wave of panic through you. You had to get away.

As if sensing your distress, a familiar, lilting voice echoed down the hallway, cutting through the tense atmosphere. "Ah, there you are, my little nightingale! And what a lively gathering we have here!"

Lilia Vanrouge approached, his movements as graceful as a bat. His red eyes, however, held a curious, almost knowing glint as he took in the tableau: Leona’s possessive grip, the Leech twins’ simmering animosity, and your own palpable discomfort.

"My, my," Lilia continued, his gaze now settling on you with a gentle concern that somehow felt just as unnerving as the others. "You seem a tad flustered, Prefect. Is everything alright?"

Before you could stammer out a reply, Lilia’s gaze flickered past you, a hint of a sigh escaping his lips. "Oh dear. It seems our young master is in a bit of a mood."

His words were casual, but you could sense a shift in the air, a subtle drop in temperature, a prickling sensation on your skin. It was as if an unseen weight had settled upon the hallway.

"Malleus-senpai," Jade’s usual smooth tone held a hint of apprehension. Even Leona seemed to stiffen slightly, his grip on you remaining firm but his attention clearly diverted.

Following Lilia’s gaze, you saw him. Malleus Draconia stood at the end of the hallway, a figure of imposing grace and barely contained displeasure. His serpentine green eyes, usually alight with a quiet curiosity, were now narrowed, a storm gathering within their depths.

He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t making a scene. In fact, he was perfectly still. But the silence emanating from him was more deafening than any shout. You could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and accusatory, and it was directed squarely at you.

You remembered your hurried departure that morning, the gnawing anxiety that had prevented you from seeking him out. You had been so consumed by the lingering horrors that you had inadvertently slighted him.

And now, witnessing the scene before him – you in Leona’s possessive grip, conversing with the Leech twins – his silent fury was palpable. It was the fury of a powerful being who felt overlooked, perhaps even betrayed.

A low, almost mournful sigh escaped Malleus’ lips, a sound that somehow amplified the oppressive silence. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the sheer intensity of his displeasure was enough to make your blood run cold.

Lilia chuckled nervously. "Now, now, Malleus, my dear boy. There's no need for such theatrics. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this little gathering."

But Malleus’ gaze remained fixed on you, unwavering and accusatory. It felt like an invisible weight pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe. The possessiveness of Leona and the unsettling interest of the twins suddenly seemed almost manageable compared to the silent, wounded power radiating from Malleus.

Your instincts screamed at you.

You need to get away.

This hallway, this school, was a pressure cooker of unspoken desires and grudges, and you were trapped dead center. The urge to flee, which had momentarily subsided in the library, surged back like a tidal wave. You needed to disappear—to find a place where you weren’t the object of such intense attention.

Before anyone could react, you moved. With a surge of adrenaline, you twisted out of Leona’s grasp. The unexpectedness of it caught him off guard for a second. You didn’t look back at his surprised snarl, or the Leech twins’ curious gazes, or even at Lilia’s astonished expression.

You fled, the echoes of your frantic footsteps chasing you down the long, silent hallway. Each turn led you further into the labyrinthine depths of Night Raven College, away from the immediate tension, but not, you suspected, from the underlying danger. The oppressive atmosphere of the school clung to you like a shadow, a constant reminder of the powerful forces at play.

Finally, you reached a quieter section of the corridor, the ornate portraits on the walls your only silent observers. You leaned against the cool stone, catching your breath, your mind racing.

Truthfully, you were on the edge of a breakdown.

A subtle hum vibrated through the stone beneath your hand, the same low thrum you sometimes felt near Idia's tablet. The temperature in the hallway dropped, sending shivers down you. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. You straightened, a sense of unease prickling at the back of your neck. The air crackled with unseen energy.

Suddenly, there ia a ringing in your ears and a flash of green light.

Malleus appeared at the end of the hallway, his figure imposing even in his stillness. His jade eyes glowed with an intensity that bordered on otherworldly, and the very air around him seemed to vibrate with restrained power. He began to walk towards you, his movements deliberate and inexorable, like a force of nature that could not be stopped.

You backed away, your heart pounding against your ribs. Fuckfuckfuckfuck, you thought. There was nowhere to go. To your left and right, the walls were solid stone. Behind you, the way you had come was now blocked by Malleus, his presence filling the corridor, cutting off any hope of escape.

He didn't speak, didn't utter a single word, but his intent was clear. He was cornering you, herding you, like a predator closing in on its prey. The wounded pride, had coalesced into a raw display of power, a silent demand for your undivided attention.

You stumbled backward, your hand reaching out to find purchase on the cold stone wall. Oh my god, I'm gonna die, you thought, the panic rising in your throat. Malleus continued his advance, his gaze never leaving yours. You could feel the ancient magic radiating from him, a force that seemed to warp the very fabric of the hallway.

You flinched. Damn it. You’re not going to be breakfast for lions and leeches; perhaps a fae will eat you out.

Just as you felt the cold stone press against your back, and Malleus loomed before you, his shadow engulfing you entirely, a wave of blue energy washed over the hallway.

The ornate portraits flickered, their painted eyes widening as spectral code flickered across their surfaces. The temperature plummeted further. A low, distorted hum filled the air, the sound of arcane technology pushed to its limits.

You gasped, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "Idia? Why are you here?"

Idia Shroud materialized beside you, his form shimmering and glitching, his blue flames casting an eerie glow. His expression, usually hidden behind a veil of detachment, was tight with a strange intensity. He positioned himself between you and Malleus, his spectral body crackling with dark energy.

"Malleus Draconia," Idia's voice, usually a soft murmur, echoed with an unnatural resonance, distorted and amplified by his magic. “I... uh... strongly advise you to cease your... pursuit,” he said, the words coming in a rush, almost as if he regretted saying them. “The Prefect is clearly distressed. I've, uh, been monitoring the... situation... and your current course of action is... suboptimal. It's, like, totally uncool, fr,” he finished, his tone shifting back to his more familiar, awkward cadence.

Malleus halted, his eyes narrowing as he took in Idia's defensive stance. The raw power emanating from him clashed against Idia's technomancy, creating a visible distortion in the air, a shimmering wave of conflicting energies.

"Shroud," Malleus said, his voice a low growl, the ancient power in his tone barely contained, yet laced with the regal displeasure he usually reserved for those who dared to question him.

"This is between me and the Prefect. Your interference is unwarranted." A flicker of genuine, dragon-like irritation crossed his face. "You were monitoring?" He paused, the word heavy with implication. "Were you observing my every move, Shroud? That is hardly behavior befitting a fellow student." His tone remained calm and measured, but there was an underlying edge that promised retribution.

Idia's shoulders tensed, his blue flames flaring slightly. "I am merely ensuring the safety of the Prefect," he retorted, his voice gaining an uncharacteristic edge, though still laced with his inherent awkwardness. "Unlike some, I do not express my affections through, uh intimidation and coercion. My methods are more efficient, and less barbaric." He subtly adjusted his position, his spectral form solidifying, becoming more present, more real, but his gaze darted between Malleus and you.

"Barbaric?" Malleus's lips curled into a mocking smirk, a hint of ancient amusement in his eyes. "You, who hide behind screens and manipulate the world through cold calculations? You dare to speak of barbarism, Shroud? You wouldn't recognize passion if it burned down your precious server room." His voice was still smooth, but the underlying threat was unmistakable.

"Passion is a destructive force," Idia countered, his voice a low hiss, you blinked. Perhaps you're only releasing this now but Idia is almost as tall as Malleus. 

He cleared his throat, "Ahem, it clouds judgment, leads to  rash actions. I prefer... logic. The Prefect requires a more stable influence, not the volatile whims of a dragon." His gaze flicked to you, a flicker of something that might have been concern in his usually distant eyes, before quickly averting back to Malleus.

The air crackled violently as Malleus took a step forward. The force of his magic sent a shockwave through the hallway, and the ancient portraits rattled on the walls. "You dare insult my heritage, Shroud? You, who are tethered to machines, a prisoner of your own making? You cling to your technology like a child to a security blanket." His voice was rising, the carefully maintained composure beginning to fray.

"My technology is an extension of my will," Idia hissed, blue flames dancing wildly around him. "It allows me to interact with the world in ways you cannot comprehend. I am not limited by flesh and bone, by primitive instincts. I am connected, networked, transcendent." He seemed to be arguing as much with himself as with Malleus, his usual mumbling gaining a feverish, defensive quality.

"This is hardly your concern," Malleus repeated, his voice dangerously soft, the ancient power thrumming beneath the surface. He took another step, and the clashing energies in the hallway intensified, the air growing thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe. It was a silent battle of wills, a confrontation between ancient magic and cutting-edge technomancy, with you caught in the crossfire.

As the two powerhouses clashed, their words laced with barely restrained animosity, you saw your chance. The hallway is awash in a storm of conflicting energies, their attention completely focused on each other. 

Gotta go, gotta go, gotta GO, you thought, seizing the opportunity, turning and sprinting in the opposite direction, putting as much distance as possible between yourself and the escalating confrontation.

You heard both of them calling your name, yet you didn't turn back.

Fucking hell, you can never get a break.

You didn't stop running until you were far from the sound of their voices, the echoes of their magical clash fading behind you. 

You sniffed, gosh what did you do to deserve this? There’s a mix of emotions within you. You bite your lip as you try to control your emotions.

And then a gasp left you.

Rook Hunt stood in the shadows, his smile impossibly wide, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. He seemed to be waiting for you, his presence radiating a hunter's focused anticipation. The relief of escaping Malleus and Idia was immediately replaced by a fresh wave of unease. 

You are trapped again.

He stepped forward, his movements fluid and graceful, like a predator stalking its prey. But unlike Leona's raw possessiveness or Malleus's overwhelming power, Rook's felt different.

It is more... intimate, more focused, a burning obsession directed solely at you, masked by his theatrical charm. 

A human's obsession. 

"Ah, mon petit trickster," he purred, his voice a melodious caress that sent shivers down your spine, but now those shivers were icy, laced with dread. "Have you finally tired of our little chasse? Such a delightful game of cat and mouse, but the hunt is nearing its exquisite consummation. The rarest of ingredients is finally within reach."

You backed away, your hand instinctively reaching behind you for the cold stone wall. 

Sevens damned it.

The coldness seeped into your skin, mirroring the chill that had settled in your bones. "Rook, what do you want?" you croaked, your voice barely a whisper.

He chuckled, a sound that was both charming and deeply unsettling, like a perfectly tuned instrument playing a dissonant chord. It scraped against your sanity. 

His gaze intensified, his eyes tracing the contours of your face, your neck, your form, as if committing every detail to memory, preparing for a feast he alone was invited to. A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes as he remembered the others. The beastly hunger of them, Rook frowns.

They had no right. 

He is the hunter here. He found you first. You were his prey. And the thought of being prey, of being his, sent a fresh wave of nausea through you.

"Your essence," he whispered, his voice thick with a strange longing, "it is an intoxicating bouquet, a symphony of flavors. A tantalizing gout that promises a taste unlike any other. A truly magnifique composition, a culinary masterpiece crafted by the gods themselves."

You felt a wave of dizziness wash over you. His words, his gaze suffocating. The world seemed to tilt, the edges of your vision blurring. You were no longer in a school hallway; you were in the crosshairs of a predator who saw you not as a person, but as something to be consumed. 

The ultimate delicacy, and he was the only one worthy of the meal. The implications of his words, the hunger in his eyes... It is too much. Your mind struggled to process the sheer wrongness of it all.

"You speak of me like...like food," you managed to stammer, your voice trembling, barely audible above the pounding of your heart.

Rook's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a feverish intensity. A possessive fire burned within them. "Food? Oui, in a manner of speaking. But not crude sustenance to sate a common hunger. You are the rarest of delicacies, And you, my darling, are a dish worthy of gods. The plat de résistance.”

He took another step closer. Shit. Your heart is beating wildly, perhaps this is what animals being hunted felt. 

Immeasurable dread.

Rook chuckled as he reached out, gloves finger tracing the contours of your face, cupping your cheeks and caressing your lips as you gasp. “A complex creation, a multi-layered experience to be savored, to be experienced in totality. Every nuance, every subtle note, every hidden spice... before the final, exquisite taste. The culmination of the hunt." He was close now. Too close. His presence filled your senses, crowding out everything else.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, a deceptive caress that sent a jolt of pure terror through you. It is a violation, an intimacy you hadn't offered and couldn't comprehend. You flinched, trying to pull away, but he held you captive with his intense gaze, his other hand moving to your waist, preventing any escape. His jealousy was a tangible thing, a suffocating pressure in the air between you, thick with unspoken desire and a desperate need to possess.

"I have been watching you, Trickster," he murmured, his voice a hypnotic drone, laced with an unsettling undercurrent of possession.

 "Observed your every move, every reaction. I know the precise shade your cheeks become when you are flustered, the delicate tremor in your hands when you are afraid. I have cataloged the subtle notes of your being. And I find myself...utterly consumed by this grand performance, this exquisite hunt, this... irresistible dish. Mine." The last word was a low, possessive growl, a promise and a threat all in one. It resonated deep within you, a primal fear you'd never known existed.

And then, before you could process his words, before you could react, he moved with lightning speed. His hand, which had been caressing your cheek, moved to your neck—gripping it. You cry a choke out.

His other hand tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly close, eliminating any distance. A desperate, needy, human need, a craving that transcended simple attraction and delved into something darker, more primal. You were trapped, a cornered animal, and the hunter was closing in for the kill.

His lips, soft yet demanding, descended upon yours. It wasn't a tentative exploration, but a claiming. A taking. The first touch was gentle, a mere brush, a prelude. Then, the pressure intensified, his mouth molding against yours, demanding a response you were too stunned to give. 

His lips parted slightly, inviting you in, but also trapping you, making escape impossible. You were drowning in him, in the scent of old spices and something else, something wild and untamed.

The kiss was not gentle, not tender. It was a claiming, a devouring, a desperate expression of possession that left you breathless and utterly bewildered. It is a violation of everything you thought you understood about this strange, twisted world.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. You could only feel the terrifying intimacy of his desires.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, then slipped inside, exploring your mouth with a thoroughness that sent shivers down your spine. He savored you, as if committing your very essence to memory. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding, stealing your breath and leaving you disoriented and trembling, your senses reeling. Tongue caressing yours and even the sides of your mouth. You cried out when he bit your lower lip as you tasted iron.

Rook is eating your face.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes glittered with a triumphant gleam, a predator sated, for now, yet already anticipating the next hunt. He brushed his lips against your ear, his voice a low whisper. "Your saveur is even more intoxicating than I imagined, mon magnifique trickster. A taste I shall never forget and one I intend to repeat. Soon. Only I..."

You stood there, frozen, your mind reeling, utterly disoriented. What... just happened? The hallway seemed to spin, the ornate portraits on the walls mocking your helplessness. You had escaped Leona, the twins Jade and Floyd, and even Malleus and Idia, only to fall into the trap of someone even more... unfathomable. 

Your legs trembled, threatening to give way beneath you. You were alone, utterly alone, in this nightmare.

Rook’s obsession was human, uncomfortably so. Intimate. Focused. Dangerous.

When he pulled away, his breath trembled against your skin. “Delicious,” he whispered. “More.”

You couldn’t breathe.

And somewhere in the echo of your mind, you finally understood. Rook hadn’t just been watching you from the shadows.

He’d been here all along.

Waiting.

A terrified scream bubbles in your throat. 

Only then with the proximity did you notice that Rook's smile stretches too wide, like skin pulled over something that doesn’t know how to be human. 

You barely get a breath in before something flashes—a pressure, sudden and blunt. You can’t even process where it hit. Head? Ribs? Shoulder? You don’t know. You just know it hurts.

Fuck, fuck, it hurts so much.

A cold ache spreads through you, and you stagger, knees buckling. The world spins sideways.

Colors bloom behind your eyes, nausea coiling in your gut. And then—

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Leona made his intentions clear in his typical blunt fashion. He'd corner you after classes, his muscular frame caging you against the wall as his tail flicked lazily behind him. "Stop pretending you don't want this," he'd purr, the rumble of his voice vibrating through your chest. His kisses were demanding, his hands claiming every inch of you as his own.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ When he bit down on your neck hard enough to leave marks that lasted for days, you knew he wanted everyone to see - to know exactly who you belonged to. The worst part is that you didn't mind.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ But Jamil played a different game. His approach was subtle, calculated. He'd appear at your side with perfectly timed concern, his voice honey-sweet as he offered to walk you to class or bring you tea. "You look exhausted," he'd murmur, fingers brushing against yours as he passed you the cup. The liquid always left you feeling strangely pliant, your thoughts fuzzy as he guided you somewhere private.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ His touches were gentle at first but grew more insistent when no one was watching. "Don't you feel safer with me?" he'd whisper against your skin, his arms wrapping around you in a grip that felt more like chains than an embrace.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ The tension between them was palpable. You'd catch Jamil's eyes darkening when he saw Leona's marks on your skin, his usual composed mask slipping to reveal something far more dangerous underneath. Leona, in turn, would growl low in his throat whenever Jamil got too close, his tail lashing like an irritated predator.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ "Back off, snake," he'd snarl, pulling you possessively against his side. "They're mine."

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Somehow, they came to an arrangement - though "arrangement" suggested you had any say in the matter. Leana claimed your days, parading you around Savanaclaw with his arm draped possessively over your shoulders. His fellow students knew better than to even look at you twice. Jamil took the nights, slipping into your dorm with silent footsteps to whisper poisonous sweet nothings in your ear as he held you just a little too tight.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Things came to a head when you made the mistake of trying to pull away. A simple "I need space" was all it took to shatter whatever fragile restraint they'd been clinging to. Leona's grip turned bruising as he dragged you into an empty classroom, his usual lazy demeanor replaced by something feral. "After everything I've given you?" he hissed, his canines glinting in the dim light. "You don't get to walk away from me."

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ That same night, Jamil appeared in your room, his smile never reaching his cold eyes as he pressed a too-sweet drink into your hands. "Oh darling," he murmured, watching you closely as the drugged liquid took effect. "Did you really think you had a choice?"

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Escape was a futile fantasy. Leona's sharp senses could track you anywhere on campus, and Jamil always seemed to know your movements before you did. The one time you tried running, you didn't make it past the gates before both of them were there - Leona's furious snarl blending with Jamil's cold, disappointed tone as they dragged you back.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ The worst part? Somewhere deep down, a traitorous part of you has started to believe them. When Leona's rough affection leaves you breathless, when Jamil's whispered promises seep into your dreams... you find yourself wondering if this is where you were always meant to be. Theirs. Now, and forever.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ﾟ Now you exist in their twisted equilibrium, caught between Leona's scorching possessiveness and Jamil's icy obsession. They fight over you constantly - not to let you go, but to determine who gets to keep you longer, who you belong to more.

You stand next to his bed, having just set a tray over his lap so he could eat the soup you prepared. Your fists clench as he stares at you expectantly while poking his spoon in your direction. This guy… 

“You could walk yourself to the bathroom just fine earlier. You don’t need me to feed you,” you grit out, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at his ridiculousness.

“How am I ever going to get better if my cruel mate won’t even take care of me?” Ruggie complains. “And after I provide you with so much…”

You wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep me here against my will, you thought. Still though, Ruggie is the only provider of the house, considering he refuses to let you out. Without him, there’s no income.

You could try to leave while he’s weak like this, though you wouldn’t get far. It’s not just Ruggie you have to worry about; the whole hyena beastman community would be out hunting for you too. They’d do anything to help the beloved boy they’ve watched grow up, who has helped them in the past numerous times. They would only be returning the favor to him.

You hate to admit it, but you have to rely on Ruggie to survive in this world. At least until you have a solid escape plan.

A sigh escapes your lips and you reluctantly sit down on the bed. You grab the spoon and scoop up some soup, boredly lifting it up to his mouth.

Ruggie gives you that mischievous grin of his before gladly opening his maw. He clamps down around the spoon, slurping up the soup and humming.

“Mm, tastes good. Your cooking has definitely improved since last time,” he remarks while you grab another spoonful.

“...Thanks. I was just following a recipe your grandma gave me, though.”

“Ah, I thought it tasted familiar. Granny would always make this soup when I was feelin’ under the weather.” Ruggie smiles at that, and eagerly consumes more of the soup when you feed it to him.

He gets about halfway into his meal before he stops your hand. You’re confused until he takes the spoon from you and lifts it to your lips instead. Before it can touch you, however, you jerk away.

“No way, Sicky! You’ve already eaten from it, it’s got all your germs on it!” you exclaim.

Ruggie frowns and leans forward anyway to bring the spoon closer to you. “You should have some! I know you haven’t eaten anything today.”

While that was true, you weren’t about to eat the same food a sick person has touched. “I don’t want any. Finish it so you can get some rest afterwards.”

The hyena huffs, and you think you were able to convince him. Yet before you can react, he swiftly grabs hold of your chin. Squishing your cheeks under his fingers, he tugs your face closer to him. You try to squirm out of his grip, but he doesn't let up. Liar. He does have the strength.

“Say ‘ahhh.’” Ruggie pokes your closed mouth with the spoon, some of the soup spilling off and onto your lap. Good thing it’s only lukewarm now.

You press your lips together and shake your head, determined to avoid even a single drop from entering your mouth. Ruggie’s determined too, though, as he only continues to force the tip of the spoon in between the seam of your lips. A low growl emits from the back of his throat at your defiance yet his expression remains one of sickeningly sweet affection.

“Don’t be stubborn, babe. One taste won’t hurt.”

“Ruggie, stop-”

You just barely part your lips to mumble out a plea, but it’s enough for him to shove the spoon in while you’re speaking. You have no choice but to swallow the little amount that is left on there. He continues to feed more soup to you, grinning all the while. You can’t tell if the red on his cheeks is from him being ill or not, but you could hear the sound of his tail thumping against the mattress. He’s enjoying this.

Watching you eat is addicting to Ruggie. He’s the one that’s directly making sure you’re well-fed and full. He’s the one who’s doing such a good job taking care of you. Using the same spoon is just an added bonus to the whole process. It’s like he’s giving you an indirect kiss with each spoonful you take in. It’s so very intimate, wouldn’t you agree? It’s not like he’s trying to get you sick on purpose or anything.

You are forced to finish the rest of the soup, and you heave a sigh of relief when Ruggie finally lets go of your face. Wiping the excess liquid from the side of your mouth, you glare at the hyena, who is now giving you an innocent look.

“What? I have to make sure my mate is taken care of too.” He shrugs off the whole interaction. “Even when I’m sick.”

“Well, now I’m probably gonna get sick cuz you made me eat that!” you rebuke, but Ruggie only replies with an uncaring yawn.

He sets the tray off to the side and crawls underneath the covers, pulling the blanket up to his chin. You stand up from the bed to clean up the soup mess, but Ruggie grabs your wrist before you can leave. His bluish-grey eyes look desperate again, and you would say he almost looks cute with the way his ears twitch slightly. Almost.

“Wait, don’t go just yet.” His hand drops from your wrist and intertwines with your fingers, pulling your hand up to his cheek. It’s warm.

The way he’s looking at you reminds you of how he used to be when you both attended Night Raven. He’d give you that soft expression that made you cave in to his whims every time. He wasn’t as possessive when you first started to date, and he wasn’t obsessed with keeping you glued to his side.

You guess he was just really good at hiding those parts of himself.

“What else is it, Ruggie?” you ask quietly, tired of his requests.

He pats the empty side of his bed, saying, “Rest with me, yeah? I don’t think I can get better if you’re away.”

You want to leave and have time to yourself for once, but with the way he’s squeezing your hand, you know Ruggie isn’t going to take no for an answer. You hesitantly make your way over to the other side of the bed, pulling back the blanket to get in. Once you’re laying down, Ruggie scooches his body over so that his back is pressed against your chest. He tugs your arms to wrap around him, effectively forcing you to spoon him. He releases a content sigh once he’s comfortable, and you can faintly hear a low purring sound emitting from him.

A small smile quirks up on your lips, despite it all, but you immediately will it back down. Even if you think it’s endearing, you cannot forget your priorities.

* * *

Ruggie’s recovery is quick; he’s right as rain just a few days later. He still insists he stay at home for just a bit longer, though, to make sure he’s fully well-rested.

You, on the other hand, have been feeling off all day, ignoring the minor symptoms thinking it was nothing. Turns out it is something because now you’re dizzy and leaning against the wall for support.

Your body feels hot and your skin is clammy from sweat. The task you were doing beforehand is forgotten as you try to regain your balance. No… You can’t be-

“Whoa, you alright?” Ruggie comes up behind you and shifts your weight so that you’re leaning against him instead. He feels your forehead with his hand. It’s hot to the touch.

He almost seems excited when he realizes what’s wrong, eagerly hauling you towards the bedroom. “You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed.”

You glare at him, arms crossed as you sit on the lavish bed he’s given you—one of many luxuries meant to compensate for your stolen freedom. “I’d rather starve.”

He kneels beside you, tilting his head, his horns casting shadows against the candlelit walls. “How cruel” he sighs. “Do you truly wish to hurt me so?”

This isn’t about him. This is the only way left to fight, to reclaim some sliver of control. If he won’t let you leave, then you’ll make him regret keeping you.

He exhales softly, standing up with grace. “Very well. If you won’t eat what I give you… then I shall give you something you cannot refuse.”

The next time he visits, he isn’t carrying a simple meal. No—he presents a feast. The air shimmers with enchantment as a lavish spread materializes before you: fruits glistening with honeyed nectar, meats seared to perfection, desserts that sparkle like the night sky. The scent alone makes your stomach coil with hunger, but you clamp your mouth shut, clenching your fists.

Malleus steps closer, “Ah… I see. You can feel it, can’t you?” He lifts a delicate, golden fork, piercing a ripe berry before holding it up to your lips. “This is no ordinary meal. A single bite, and you will crave nothing but my offerings forevermore.”

You turn your head away, but his free hand catches your chin, firm. “You have been so strong, my dear.” he praises, “But even strength has its limits.”

Your hunger gnaws at you, dizzying, unbearable. Malleus presses the berry to your lips, “Eat.”

You don’t know how much longer you can resist. And judging by the glint in his eyes, neither does he.

You twist your head away at the last second. The scent lingers—sweet, intoxicating, meant to weaken you—but you bite the inside of your cheek, grounding yourself.

Malleus watches, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Still resisting?” he muses, as though this is an amusing little game rather than your desperate attempt to defy him. “I wonder…” He takes the berry between his own fingers, raising it to his mouth. His fangs flash as he bites down, his gaze never leaving yours. A pleased hum escapes him as he swallows, his tongue flicking over his lips. “Would it not be a shame if I had to take matters into my own hands?”

“Like I said, I’d rather starve” you hiss, bracing yourself.

“Very well. If you will not willingly eat…”

Then, without warning, he moves.

You barely have time to react before his fingers seize your wrist, yanking you forward . You gasp, struggling, but he is impossibly strong. In a single fluid motion, he pulls you onto his lap, his arm coiling around your waist like an iron chain. Your hands push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

His free hand cups your cheek, tilting your face upward until your eyes meet his. “Shhh” he soothes, “I will take care of you, my dear, whether you wish for it or not.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he lifts another piece of enchanted fruit. This time, he doesn’t offer it—he simply presses it past your lips. You wrench your head back, teeth clenched, refusing to let it in, but his fingers press against your jaw, forcing it open just enough. The fruit brushes your tongue, and the moment it does, your body betrays you.

A rush of unbearable sweetness floods your senses. It is unlike anything you’ve ever tasted—too perfect, the flavor sinking deep into your bones. The magic weaves itself through you, and to your horror, your throat moves on its own. You swallow.

Malleus hums in satisfaction. His thumb traces your lower lip, wiping away the lingering juice. “See?” he murmurs, “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

But it was. Because now, you can feel it creeping in—the insatiable craving, the magic taking root. Your stomach coils with desperate hunger, but not for just any food. No, only what he gives you will ever satisfy you now.

Your defiance has cost you everything.

The first day after your forced meal, you refuse to acknowledge the ache gnawing at your stomach. The taste of the enchanted fruit still lingers on your tongue, far too sweet, far too addictive. You hate how your body reacts, how it craves more, how even plain water feels dull and unsatisfying in comparison.

But you refuse to give in.

Malleus watches you with that same knowing look, his hands gliding over your shoulders when he visits your room. He doesn’t try to force-feed you again—not yet. Instead, he tilts your chin up and murmurs, “You’ll come to me when you’re hungry enough.” His confidence unsettles you, but you steel yourself. You will not let him win.

The second night, when you're sure he’s elsewhere, you slip out of your room and make your way to the castle’s grand kitchen. The enchanted food haunts your thoughts, but you force yourself to grab something normal—bread, cheese, anything untouched by magic. You eat in hurried bites, trying to drown out the part of you that insists it tastes like ash in your mouth.

For a while, this routine works. You sneak food when you can, forcing yourself to endure the blandness, to resist. You avoid Malleus’s gaze when he visits, feigning indifference even as his smirk lingers a little too long. He doesn’t confront you, but there’s a glint in his eyes that unsettles you.

Then, on the fourth night, everything falls apart.

You slip into the kitchen as usual, hunger making your movements clumsier than usual. You grab a loaf of bread, ready to take a bite—

And then a deep chuckle rumbles behind you.

“Oh, my dear,” Malleus drawls, stepping out from the shadows. His emerald gaze glows in the dim candlelight. “Did you truly believe I wouldn’t notice?”

You take a step back, clutching the bread like it’s some kind of shield. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”

He tilts his head, amused. “You have been so stubborn, clinging to such tasteless scraps when I have offered you so much more.”

Before you can run, he’s in front of you. His hand covers yours, prying the bread from your grip. He holds it up, inspecting it like it’s some unfortunate little thing. Then, with a flick of his fingers, the bread crumbles to dust.

You inhale sharply, stepping back, but he follows. “It pains me to see you suffer so needlessly” he murmurs, his voice deceptively gentle. “But you are mine, little one.”

His thumb traces your lower lip, the same way he did when he forced you to eat. “And I will ensure you are properly cared for.”

Then, suddenly, you feel it—the weight of magic pressing down on you. Your body feels heavy, your limbs sluggish. You try to move, but your muscles won’t obey.

“Wha—?” Your voice barely escapes as your knees give out. Malleus catches you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like something fragile.

“Hush,” he soothes, running his fingers through your hair. “You needn’t fight anymore.”

You want to struggle, to protest, but his magic wraps around you like silk, lulling you.

“When you wake, dearest, you’ll never be able to resist me again.”

Panic claws at your chest as your awareness sharpens. You’re not in the cold solitude of your chamber. The sheets beneath you are far softer, the scent of night-blooming flowers laced with embers filling your senses. You realize then—he’s brought you to his bed.

And he’s still holding you.

His breath is slow and even, but you can feel it ghosting against your temple, as if he’s still half-awake. One of his hands rests lightly against your stomach, the other cradling your head. Every part of him is close.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like this. You don’t want to know.

Your first instinct is to move—to slip away before he fully rouses—but the moment you shift, the arms around you tighten.

A deep chuckle rumbles from behind you, vibrating against your back. “Mm… Where do you think you’re going, my dear?”

“Let me go, Malleus.”

“Ah, but you always say such things you don’t mean.” His hand moves, trailing down your side with a featherlight touch. “I do wish you’d stop resisting what’s inevitable.”

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself not to shudder under his touch. “You drugged me.”

“I merely ensured that you’d stop running to such tasteless meals in the dead of night.” His lips ghost against your ear. “It pains me, you know? That you refuse what I offer, yet desperately seek lesser sustenance behind my back.”

Your stomach twists—not just in fear, but in hunger. A gnawing emptiness curls inside you, deeper than before. Your body aches for something, and you already know what it is.

The enchanted food.

Malleus shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you. “Do you feel it?” His fingers brush over your lips, as if recalling the moment he first forced you to eat. “The hunger?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t need to. He sees the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers curl into the sheets.

“I told you, didn’t I?” He leans in, “You need me now.”

You shake your head, desperate to deny it, but your body betrays you. The craving is unbearable. It’s not just hunger—it’s longing.

Malleus presses a gentle kiss to your temple before pulling away, moving to sit up. “Come,” he says smoothly. “Let’s not prolong your suffering, my dear.”

With a wave of his hand, a tray materializes beside the bed—a collection of food- all glowing faintly with the magic that now chains you to him.

He watches as you stare at it, at the only thing that can sate this unnatural hunger. Then, he reaches for a piece of bread, holding it between his fingers before bringing it to your lips.

“Eat.”

This time, he doesn’t need to force you.