yasmin⭒

Welt had once told you that wasn’t true — that time didn’t bend for sleepless minds, only perception did. Yet even as his calm, instructive voice replayed in your head, you sat at the observation deck again, eyes bleary, hands trembling over a stack of reports. You’d volunteered to take care of the logistical summaries, the maintenance requests, even the passenger inventory from the last jump. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered. And if you did well, maybe Welt would finally see that you could be relied on — that you were more than just a “young helper tagging along.”

So, you pushed through the drowsiness. The pen slipped from your fingers more than once, your handwriting faltering into a blur.

“Still awake?”

The voice came quietly, like the shift of space itself. Welt stood behind you, cane in hand, glasses glinting with faint light from the viewport. He looked tired — not from lack of sleep, but from that kind of old weariness that came from knowing too much.

“Oh, um—” you startled upright, nearly knocking over the tablet. “I’m just… finishing up. You said we needed to compile the data before morning.”

“I said we’d work on it together,” Welt corrected softly, stepping closer. “It’s three in the morning, [Name]. You should be asleep.”

You smiled nervously, rubbing your wrist. “I just wanted to… take some of the load off you, Mr. Yang. You always do so much.”

That earned a quiet chuckle. “I appreciate that. But overworking yourself won’t help anyone — least of all me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but your vision tilted. The world seemed to lose its balance, the gravity that kept you steady suddenly turning unreliable. You gripped the edge of the table, blinking hard, but the stars blurred. Welt’s voice sounded distant.

“[Name]?”

You collapsed before you could answer.

When you woke, the light was soft — not from the deck, but from the warm glow of a lamp. You were in Welt’s quarters, a blanket pulled over you. Your head rested on something cool and steady; it took a moment to realize it was Welt’s arm, as he sat reading beside you.

“Ah. You’re awake.” He adjusted his glasses, voice gentle.

You tried to sit up, but he placed a hand on your shoulder. “Easy. You fainted. March found us just in time.”

You felt the flush of embarrassment rush up your neck. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Yang. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he said, setting aside the book. “But you did remind me that even the youngest explorers can forget they are human.”

His words were warm, laced with quiet fondness that didn’t need to be loud to be real. “Do you know what the hardest lesson I ever learned was?” he asked. You shook your head. “It wasn’t how to bear responsibility. It was learning to rest. To stop seeing myself as a machine of duty.”

You blinked at him, unsure what to say.

He smiled faintly. “You’re already capable, [Name]. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to prove that.”

“…I just didn’t want you to think I was useless.”

Welt sighed softly, his tone almost amused. “Do you think I would’ve brought you aboard if I thought that?”

You hesitated — then laughed quietly. “Guess not.”

“Good.” He stood, motioning toward the small table nearby where a cup of tea waited. “Now. Drink something warm. Then sleep. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Together?” you asked, still sleepy.

He looked back at you, eyes soft with a rare tenderness. “Together — after you rest.”

You smiled, finally letting your eyes close. For once, you didn’t feel like gravity was pulling you down. It felt… grounding instead.

The Cloud Knights’ Hall shimmered with evening light, golden beams dancing across banners and marble floors. The scent of sandalwood drifted faintly through the air. You had spent the past two weeks shadowing Jing Yuan — the Divine Foresight himself — as his assistant, aide, and, in his teasing words, “coffee-fetcher-in-chief.”

In truth, you didn’t mind. Serving under the Arbiter-General was an honor beyond compare. But that honor came with responsibility — and you had taken it upon yourself to perfect every detail. Reports filed. Scrolls cataloged. Messages delivered. You barely paused to eat.

That evening, the General’s office was quiet except for the scratch of your brush as you copied down orders for troop rotations. Jing Yuan sat at his desk, one hand propping up his chin, his eyes half-lidded as if he were lost between thought and dream.

“Your handwriting’s improved,” he commented lazily. “You’ve been practicing.”

You grinned. “I just want to make sure it’s readable for you, sir.”

He chuckled. “Mm. Admirable. But tell me — have you eaten?”

“Um… I had something earlier.”

“Earlier, as in today? Or yesterday?” His tone remained calm, but there was a glint of amusement — and concern.

You waved it off. “I’m fine, General. Really.”

Jing Yuan sighed softly, rising to his feet. “You remind me of someone,” he said, looking out the window. “Someone who used to push themselves past exhaustion, thinking diligence alone could change the world.”

“Did it?”

He smiled wistfully. “No. It only made them sleep for three days straight.”

You laughed, setting your pen down — and then the world swayed. The floor tilted. The ink blurred.

“General, I—” you began, before your knees buckled.

The last thing you heard was his voice, calm but suddenly sharp with worry: “Easy, little one.”

You awoke in a soft bed, the sound of rain pattering against the roof of the palace. The scent of herbal medicine hung in the air.

“Ah, so the valiant aide awakens.” Jing Yuan’s voice came from nearby, half-mocking, half-warm. He was lounging in a chair, hair loose, holding a teacup. “You gave the healers quite the scare.”

You groaned softly. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to—”

He raised a hand, silencing you. “No apologies. Only promises — that you’ll not skip meals or sleep for the sake of paperwork again.”

You frowned. “But I wanted to show I could keep up. You’re the General. You never rest.”

“Ah,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes meeting yours. “And yet here I am, watching over a stubborn child instead of working. Perhaps rest has its uses after all?”

You flushed, looking away. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Only because I care.” His tone softened. “You’ve done well, [Name]. Your diligence is noticed. But a true knight knows when to lay down their sword — and brush — to live another day.”

He handed you a bowl of porridge. “Eat. The war reports can wait. You, however, cannot.”

You smiled faintly. “Yes, General.”

As you ate, Jing Yuan leaned back, closing his eyes with that same serene expression that always made him seem half-asleep, half-smiling. “Next time, if you wish to impress me,” he murmured, “try staying conscious first.”

You laughed softly. “Deal.”

The Dreamscape's night glowed like stained glass — fractured, beautiful, and heavy with secrets.

You stood behind the Sweet Dream bar, wiping glasses beside Gallagher. The Bloodhound Family’s security chief had been uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Then again, he always was. His silence wasn’t cold, though — more like a steady heartbeat you learned to listen for.

You’d taken your assistant duties seriously — organizing patrol schedules, handling guest requests, even mixing a few drinks under Gallagher’s distant but watchful gaze. He never praised you openly, but his small hums of approval were worth every effort.

Still, fatigue clawed at your edges. You’d been on your feet since dawn. Your eyes stung from the bar’s soft, hazy lights.

“Slow down,” Gallagher muttered suddenly. His deep voice carried a subtle rasp. “You’ll drop that glass.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, forcing a grin. “I can handle it.”

“Mm.” He eyed you sidelong, his eyes catching the dim light. “You sound like I used to.”

You chuckled softly, trying to polish another glass — and the next moment, the world spun. A sudden rush of heat, then cold. The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering across the counter. Gallagher’s hand shot out, catching you before you could hit the floor.

“Hey—” his voice cracked through the haze. “Hey, kid. Stay with me.”

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you smelled was alcohol — the sweet, fruity scent of his special blend. You were lying on one of the lounge sofas, a blanket over you. Gallagher sat nearby, flask in hand, his expression unreadable.

“Back among the living,” he said softly, not looking up. “That’s good.”

You groaned, sitting up slowly. “I’m… sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I should’ve noticed sooner.”

You blinked. “Noticed what?”

“That you were burning out.” His tone was gentle, but heavy. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me. Hard work doesn’t need to hurt.”

You fidgeted, staring at your hands. “I just wanted you to think I’m reliable.”

“I already do.” His lips twitched into a faint smile. “You remind me of myself. Young, stubborn, thinking if I just worked harder, the world would make sense again.”

“Did it?” you asked quietly.

He swirled the drink in his flask. “No. But I learned to make peace with it.”

He reached over, handing you a small cup of warm cocoa instead. “No spirits for you. You need rest more than ritual.”

You smiled, taking it. “Thanks.”

As the two of you sat in silence, the lights of the Dreamscape shimmered through the stained glass windows. Gallagher leaned back, sighing softly. “You did good today, [Name]. Just… remember. We don’t need martyrs in this family. Just people who stay standing.”

You nodded, sipping your drink. “I’ll remember.”

He smiled faintly. “Good. Now sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

The battlefield of Okhema was quiet at dusk — the war banners fluttering softly in the dying light. You’d been following Mydei for months now, serving as his aide. To you, he wasn’t just a warrior or prince — he was legend made flesh.

And you wanted to be worthy of that legend.

Every night, you cataloged supply reports, trained with the soldiers, mended gear, wrote dispatches. You refused to rest until your prince did — and he rarely did.

Tonight, you were repairing armor by torchlight when his voice broke the silence.

“[Name],” Mydei called, stepping into the tent. His eyes glowed faintly in the light. “You’re still awake.”

“I’m almost done, my lord,” you said, not looking up. “You need this ready for tomorrow.”

“You’ve been working since dawn.”

“I can handle it.”

He frowned slightly — a small furrow, but for him, it spoke volumes. “You think strength means never stopping?”

“I just want to help,” you muttered, stitching another strap. “To be useful to you.”

He stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow across the table. “You already are.”

You froze — and the next second, the needle slipped, your hand trembling. The world seemed to tilt, your breath shallow. The firelight dimmed into nothing.

When you awoke, the sound of the fire filled your ears. You were lying by the campfire outside the tent, wrapped in a cloak far too large for you. Mydei sat nearby, sharpening his blade. His eyes flicked toward you as you stirred.

“Finally awake,” he said softly. “You collapsed. Exhaustion.”

You sat up weakly. “I’m sorry, my lord. I—”

He stopped you with a raised hand. “No apologies. Only understanding.” His gaze softened. “Do you know what my curse is, [Name]?”

You blinked. “Your curse?”

He looked toward the horizon. “Endurance. I cannot die, even when I wish to. I have carried that burden for centuries. But you…” He looked at you now, his voice quieter. “You are not meant to carry that curse with me.”

You stared at him, unsure what to say. “I just didn’t want to fail you.”

He smiled faintly — a rare, beautiful expression. “You did not fail. You fought your own battle — against exhaustion, against doubt. Now your victory is to rest.”

He handed you a small cup of warm milk. “Drink. Then sleep.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his gauntlet. “Thank you… for not being angry.”

“I am many things, little one,” he said, gazing into the fire, “but never angry at loyalty born of the heart.”

You smiled faintly, leaning against the cloak. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

“You already do enough.” His voice dropped to a murmur, almost like a prayer. “Sleep. The tide will wait for us.”

As you drifted off, you thought you heard him whisper one last thing to the sea — a promise, or perhaps a memory:

“May the young never bear the weight of the old.”

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of your cabin, knees drawn to your chest, hands trembling as a whirlwind of thoughts swirled uncontrollably. Each one seemed louder than the last, a chorus of worries that clawed at your chest and made it difficult to breathe.

What if I mess up again?

What if no one understands me?

Why can’t I control this?

Your breathing became shallow, and the walls of the room felt as if they were closing in. Panic bubbled to the surface, and before you could stop it, your chest tightened, and your tears began to fall.

The door to your cabin clicked softly, and a familiar presence entered without hesitation. Dan Heng. He had that quiet, measured step that always seemed to fill a space without making it smaller. His gaze, though calm, immediately registered the tension in your posture.

“Are you okay?” His voice was steady, almost unnervingly so, but there was a gentle undertone, a question laced with concern rather than accusation.

You shook your head quickly, trying to hide the trembling of your hands, but the tears betrayed you. “I… I can’t… I can’t… calm down,” you stammered, your voice cracking.

Dan Heng crouched down slowly, keeping his distance at first, as if giving you the space to retreat yet signaling that he was there. He didn’t speak, not immediately. Instead, he simply watched you with a quiet intensity, the kind that made it impossible to feel completely alone.

“I—” you began again, but your voice caught in your throat. The anxiety made words stumble over themselves, incoherent and jagged.

Dan Heng shifted slightly, his dark eyes observing without judgment. Then, with deliberate calm, he spoke again. “Breathe. Slowly. In… and out.”

His voice was low, almost a murmur, but there was a grounding force in it. You tried to follow, mimicking the rhythm he set. One slow breath in… one slow breath out. The tightness in your chest didn’t disappear immediately, but it loosened slightly, as if his presence alone had anchored you to the moment.

“I… I don’t think it’s working,” you admitted, your voice small and shaky.

Dan Heng’s expression remained unreadable, but he didn’t turn away. Instead, he remained crouched at your level, hands resting loosely on his knees. “It’s okay,” he said simply. “You don’t have to fix it all at once.”

Something about the quiet authority in his voice made your shoulders unclench slightly. You sniffled, brushing at the tears streaking your cheeks. The panic was still there, lingering, but it no longer felt like it would consume you entirely.

Dan Heng shifted closer, carefully, respecting the invisible boundary you set. “I will stay,” he said. “I won’t leave.”

You swallowed, grateful yet unsure how to respond. Words felt too heavy, too clumsy, so you simply nodded. He didn’t comment, didn’t press further. He just sat there, the silence around you both becoming less suffocating and more like a protective cocoon.

Minutes passed like that. You focused on his steady breathing, the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, the calm aura he radiated without trying. Slowly, the tight grip in your chest loosened further, and you managed another shaky breath.

“I… I’m scared,” you admitted finally, voice small. “I feel… out of control.”

Dan Heng tilted his head slightly, considering your words. “Fear is not weakness,” he said quietly. “It is a signal. It tells you something matters. It tells you that you are alive. But it does not define you.”

His words settled over you like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. You took another deep breath, trying to feel their truth. Dan Heng didn’t rush you, didn’t demand anything more than your presence. He simply existed as a steady anchor.

After a moment, he reached out slowly and placed a hand lightly on your shoulder. The contact was brief, non-intrusive, but firm enough to convey reassurance. “You are not alone,” he said.

Tears spilled again, but this time they were not only of panic—they were a release, a letting go of the pressure you’d carried inside for so long. You hiccupped softly, your body trembling, and Dan Heng’s hand remained there, steady and unyielding.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to stop it,” you whispered, your voice breaking between sobs.

Dan Heng’s gaze softened fractionally, though he did not shift his stoic demeanor. “You do not need to stop it entirely,” he said. “You only need to endure it until it passes. And I will remain here until it does.”

The words were simple, yet they carried a weight you hadn’t realized you craved. You nodded again, attempting to match his slow, deliberate breathing, and the rhythm gradually became a small anchor. Each in… each out… a step toward calm.

Minutes stretched, and the storm within you began to quiet. The shaking lessened, your tears slowed, and though the lingering tension was still present, it no longer felt like it would swallow you whole. Dan Heng’s presence had formed a shield around you, a reminder that someone could bear witness to your struggle without judgment or expectation.

Finally, you managed a small, shaky laugh, half-surprised at the absurdity of your own vulnerability. Dan Heng didn’t comment, but the faintest crease of concern appeared on his forehead, almost imperceptible unless you looked closely.

“I… I think I’m… better,” you admitted softly, wiping your cheeks with trembling hands.

Dan Heng nodded, remaining seated. “Better does not mean gone,” he said. “It means you have survived the moment.”

You smiled weakly, grateful. “Thank you… for staying.”

He inclined his head slightly, the closest thing to a nod of acknowledgment. “Always.”

There was a pause, the silence comfortable this time, not oppressive. You noticed small details you had overlooked before: the subtle gleam of starlight on the walls of your cabin, the faint hum of the Astral Express, the warmth of a presence that did not demand attention but offered unwavering support.

“I… I don’t like feeling like this,” you confessed, voice barely above a whisper.

Dan Heng’s gaze softened further, and he tilted his head again, as if weighing his words carefully. “None of us do,” he admitted. “But it does not make you weak. It makes you human. And humans endure.”

The simplicity of his words struck a chord within you. They were not grand proclamations, not exaggerated reassurances—they were truths, spoken quietly, with unshakable conviction. You leaned back slightly, letting yourself sink into the moment, feeling a weight lift just a little.

“You make it… easier,” you said after a long pause.

Dan Heng regarded you for a moment, expression unreadable yet calm. “Then hold onto that,” he said softly. “Use it as a reminder that the storm will pass, and you are not alone in facing it.”

The cabin grew quieter, the world outside the window stretching infinitely into the cosmos. Your breathing was steadier now, the tremors fading, replaced by a fragile but growing sense of control. You glanced at Dan Heng, noting the calm and unwavering presence he offered. For the first time in a long while, you felt truly seen—not judged, not analyzed, simply acknowledged.

“I… think I can sleep now,” you murmured, voice still soft but more stable.

Dan Heng didn’t respond immediately. He stood slowly, allowing you to settle comfortably. “Rest,” he said finally. “I will remain nearby.”

And as you lay down on your bed, pulling the blankets close around yourself, you realized something profound: the presence of someone steadfast, someone who cared silently without demand, could be more powerful than any spoken comfort.

Even as the remnants of anxiety lingered, the fear of being overwhelmed had diminished. You felt a quiet strength within, a reminder that the darkness did not define you. And in that quiet strength, Dan Heng remained—a guardian not just of the Astral Express, but of your fragile, struggling heart.

Sleep came slowly but steadily, each breath a little deeper than the last. When your eyes finally closed, it was with the knowledge that someone steadfast would always be there, even in moments when you felt most alone.

And for tonight, that was enough.