Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A low groan escapes your lips as a dull ache pulses through your skull. You blink, eyelashes sticky, and squint against the blinding light of the sun. Its golden rays slice through your vision like blades, forcing your eyes shut again. The warmth spreads across your face, but it feels far too harsh, as if the very air is too bright.

With a slow, unsteady breath, you push yourself off the ground. Your fingers sink into soft grass, damp with dew, and the cool earth beneath offers a stark contrast to the heat above. The blades tickle your skin as you brace your palms, grounding yourself against the spinning world.

You glance around groggily, vision still blurred at the edges. A vast field stretches in every direction, a sea of green swaying gently in the breeze. Wildflowers punctuate the grass—splashes of violet, gold, and white—fluttering like fragile stars on a velvet sea. The field hums softly with the distant drone of insects and the whisper of the wind. It’s peaceful, almost too peaceful, as if something is missing.

You rub your eyes, trying to clear the pounding haze in your mind. The headache claws at your thoughts, heavy and insistent, but you push through it. With effort, you plant your feet beneath you and try to rise. Your limbs feel foreign, like they’ve been asleep for too long—stiff, trembling, uncooperative. Every joint protests the movement.

Your knees buckle. The world tilts.

You collapse forward with a grunt, catching yourself just in time before your face hits the earth. The impact jars your arms and jars your breath, but the grass cushions you, soft and yielding. A wave of frustration washes through you, followed quickly by a flicker of fear—Where are you? Why can’t you remember how you got here?

The silence of the field suddenly feels too wide, too open, and the sunlight—once golden—now feels watchful.

You close your eyes again, not to sleep, but to listen. 

Your ears twitch at the edge of sound—something faint, something alive. A murmur rides the breeze, threading through the grass like a whisper carried by ghosts. Voices.

You freeze.

The ache in your head dulls beneath a sharper, more immediate sensation: hope… or danger. You can’t yet tell. You strain to listen, holding your breath. The murmurs grow clearer—human, or something that knows how to mimic humanity. They’re low, maybe two or three speakers, the cadence of conversation broken by the occasional snap and pop of something burning.

Your eyes drift toward the source.

There—on the far end of the field, just beyond a low rise—thin tendrils of smoke curl into the sky. A soft gray ribbon against the endless blue. A campfire.

Your heart skips, then quickens.

You shift, slowly, painfully, and dig your hands into the earth. The ground is uneven, sloping slightly upward, and every movement sends a jolt through your limbs. Your muscles scream in protest, but you ignore them, gritting your teeth. You get one knee beneath you, then the other, pushing upward in clumsy, trembling stages. Your body is sluggish, drained—like you’ve been asleep for a hundred years, or dragged through something far worse.

Finally upright, you sway unsteadily. The wind brushes your face, catching strands of your hair and lifting them like fine silk threads. You squint toward the smoke. The field between you and it stretches far, dotted here and there with clusters of wild thistle and tall grass, but no visible obstacles. No signs of other movement.

You take a step.

Your foot catches, and you stumble forward a few paces before catching yourself. A groan claws its way out of your throat, but you keep moving. One step. Then another. Then another.

Each one is a battle.

The ache in your knees grows into a throb, your ribs feel bruised, and your lungs burn as if they’re just learning how to breathe again. But the smoke remains your beacon. With every dragging footfall, the haze of pain behind your eyes seems to recede, just a little. You can hear the voices more clearly now—one deeper, steady, the other lighter, almost laughing. Familiar, somehow.

Your mouth is dry. Your throat tight. You can’t remember the last time you had water—can’t remember anything clearly, except that you need to reach that fire. Need to see who or what is waiting for you.

You stumble past the edge of the field, your breath ragged and shallow as the soft grass gives way to uneven earth. The forest looms before you—tall, ancient trees rising like sentinels into the sky, their branches weaving together to form a tapestry of dappled light and shadow. The air is cooler here, tinged with the rich scent of moss, loam, and something faintly floral hidden among the leaves. Birds sing in bursts high above, distant and indifferent to your presence.

Each step forward feels heavier than the last. Your legs threaten to give way beneath you, trembling with exhaustion, but you press on, half-limping, half-dragging yourself deeper into the woods. You reach out, fingers brushing the rough bark of tree trunks, using them as makeshift crutches. Their touch grounds you, lets you believe you’re still here—even as the edges of your vision start to blur again.

Somewhere ahead, just beyond the shimmer of light piercing through the canopy, movement catches your eye.

You blink, trying to focus.

There—standing amid the shafts of golden sunlight filtering through the branches—is a tall figure. A boy, or perhaps a young man. He stands with his back to you, broad-shouldered and statuesque in long, flowing robes that stir faintly in the wind. The fabric is heavy and richly colored—deep creams and soft golds—and the way it drapes over his frame gives him an almost ethereal presence.

His long blond hair falls in loose waves down his back, catching the sun and glowing like spun honey. It frames his tan skin in a soft halo of light, and even from this distance, you can see the calm stillness in his posture—as though he belongs to this place in a way you never could.

Your foot snaps a twig beneath you.

The boy turns.

You barely catch a glimpse of his face—sharp features softened by concern, eyes widening in alarm—as your knees finally give out. Your body sags against the nearest tree, sliding down its rough trunk. The world around you begins to tilt, spinning gently, then violently, as darkness creeps in at the corners of your vision like spilled ink on paper.

You hear him call out—his voice smooth, urgent—but the words are lost in the rushing sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. His figure blurs, doubled, then tripled, the golden light around him smearing into shadow.

You reach out instinctively, but your hand doesn’t rise.

The last thing you see is the boy stepping toward you—his robes fluttering, his mouth forming a yell, or perhaps a question—before the darkness overtakes everything, swallowing him, the forest, and the last sliver of light.

And then… nothing.

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Warmth…

It wraps around you like a blanket, soft and steady, sinking into your bones. For a moment, you let yourself drift in it, suspended in a cocoon of quiet heat and drowsy stillness. The sharp, cold edge of pain you carried earlier has dulled, as though the forest itself has exhaled and allowed you to rest.

Your eyes flutter open, lashes heavy and slow to part. Light filters through them—golden, soft, and flickering. It isn’t harsh like before. It dances gently across your skin, casting shadows that sway with the crackling of a nearby fire.

You exhale shakily.

A familiar weight rests atop you.

Your gaze lowers and slowly, your hand moves, brushing over the fabric draped across your chest. It’s thick and well-worn, the edges slightly frayed. The stitching is delicate—fine patterns running along the hem in a style you recognize but can’t quite place. These robes… You’ve seen them before. There’s a faint scent clinging to them—something like sun-dried herbs and wildflowers, grounding, comforting.

You blink again, forcing yourself to sit up despite the stiffness in your limbs. Your muscles protest, but you move slowly, deliberately, as though waking from a dream that still tries to pull you back under.

Around you, the world is dim and quiet.

You’re inside a small grove, ringed by tall trees whose branches arch protectively overhead. Ferns and moss cover the ground in a soft, vibrant carpet, and above, shafts of golden evening light filter down through the leaves. A fire burns low nearby, its flames flickering orange and amber, casting long shadows that sway like dancers across bark and stone.

You shift, propping yourself up on your elbows, and glance around the clearing. A few feet away, someone kneels by the fire.

Him.

The boy from the forest.

His long blond hair is tied back now, though a few loose strands fall around his face as he focuses intently on something in his hands—a small kettle suspended over the fire. He’s quiet, calm, radiating a stillness that seems to ripple out into the grove. The sleeves of his robe are rolled to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms dusted with ash and dirt. The soft folds of his outer robe—the one now covering you—are set neatly on a nearby stone.

He senses your movement and turns.

His eyes meet yours.

There’s a moment of stillness, a silent exchange.

Concern flashes across his features, quickly followed by relief. He sets the kettle aside with care and rises, not rushing, but with quiet purpose. The firelight dances in his eyes as he approaches, and for a breathless second, the world narrows to the sound of his footsteps crunching softly against the forest floor.

“You’re awake,” he says gently, kneeling beside you. His voice is warm, low, edged with something tender. “You collapsed near the trees. I wasn’t sure how long you’d been out there.”

His hand hovers near your shoulder—hesitant, offering support, but not imposing.

The warmth that surrounds you now is not just from the fire, or the robes.

It’s from him.

A warmth that isn’t from the fire spreads across your skin.

Soft. Gentle. Steady.

A hand—broad, calloused, and radiating heat—rests lightly on your forehead. The touch is careful, not invasive, as if gauging your temperature, your state, your fragility. It isn’t just physical warmth. There’s a calm in it, a silent reassurance that seeps through your skin and anchors you to the present moment.

Your eyelashes flutter as your gaze drifts upward, drawn instinctively toward the source of the touch.

Now seen fully, clearly.

His robes are no longer sweeping behind him like a vision, but folded back as he kneels beside you. His hair falls in loose golden strands, the firelight setting it ablaze with copper and honey hues. Stray wisps frame his face, which is drawn in quiet concentration. His skin is warm-toned and sun-kissed, and his features are striking—noble yet softened by genuine concern. His eyes shift to meet yours the moment he senses you looking.

You blink slowly, lips parting.

You want to say something. Thank you, maybe. Who are you? Or even Where am I?

But when you try to speak, only a raw, dry rasp escapes your throat. The sound is weak, strained—like wind dragging through brittle reeds. You flinch from it, surprised by how painful it is, how unfamiliar your own voice has become.

He reacts instantly—his brows drawing together in worry.

You raise a trembling hand and gently press your fingertips to your neck, the skin there tender and dry. Your throat burns with the attempt, as if it’s been days—maybe longer—since you last spoke, since water last touched your lips.

You rub slowly, as if that could soothe the roughness, ease the tightness in your windpipe.

He speaks again, voice low and careful. “Don’t try to talk yet. You’ve been unconscious for a while. Whatever happened to you… it’s taken a toll.”

His hand leaves your forehead only to reach beside him. He picks up a wooden cup—steam gently curling from its surface—and holds it out to you.

“Drink,” he says softly, his tone more like a suggestion than a command. “It’s only herbal water. Warm, soothing. You need it.”

You hesitate, then reach for the cup. Your fingers brush against his as you take it—his skin rough from travel, from work, but steady and reassuring. The heat of the cup seeps into your palms, grounding you. You lift it with effort, tipping it toward your lips. The first sip is awkward, hesitant—but the liquid glides down your throat with gentle warmth, bringing both comfort and a faint sting.

You swallow again, more deeply this time.

The relief is immediate.

You lower the cup slightly, eyes flicking toward him once more. He hasn’t moved. He watches you with a quiet patience, his expression unreadable now—measured, as if he’s studying you not just for injuries, but for something else. Recognition, perhaps. Or memory.

“You’re safe now,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

And while part of you wants to question that—to ask where, why, how—another part of you believes him.

The soft crackle of the fire fills the clearing, accompanied only by the rustling of leaves overhead and the occasional chirp of birds hidden deep within the forest canopy. You sip from the wooden cup again, the warmth spreading through your chest like a second heartbeat. Your throat still aches, but the sharpness is fading, soothed by the herbal infusion.

You’re just starting to lower the cup when a new sound breaks through the calm.

“Pure Vanilla! Are they awake yet?”

The voice is high and bright—youthful, full of uncontained energy and curiosity. It cuts through the forest like sunlight through fog, and you instinctively tilt your head toward the sound.

A figure appears between the trees, bounding into view with a hop in his step and an infectious sort of enthusiasm. The boy is small, no more than waist-height compared to the man beside you. His skin is a soft golden brown, smooth and slightly glossy, and his face is round shaped kinda like a gingerbread cookie, you realize, blinking slowly in disbelief.

His round cheeks are dusted with pink, his eyes wide and beaming. Icing lines trace across his limbs in playful patterns, and a large gumdrop button sits proudly in the center of his tunic. The scent that follows him is sweet—like cinnamon and warm sugar straight from the oven.

He skids to a halt beside the fire, nearly tripping over a root, but recovers with a gleeful laugh.

“Oh! Hello!” he calls out brightly, eyes locking onto yours. He rocks back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back as he leans slightly forward with interest. “You’re awake!”

You blink, still trying to process the surreal sight, and your hand rises slowly—tired and unsteady, but deliberate. You give a small wave.

The boy’s eyes light up.

He bounces in place, practically glowing with delight. “They waved! Pure Vanilla, they waved at me!” he says, spinning slightly to face the man still kneeling beside you. There’s an almost reverent joy in his voice, as if your waking is a miracle he’d been hoping for.

The man—Pure Vanilla, the boy had called him—smiles softly, a quiet warmth in his eyes. “Yes, they did,” he says, his voice low and steady. “They’re still recovering, but it’s a good sign.”

The brunette boy beams, then leans in a little closer toward you, careful not to cross any unseen boundary of comfort.

“I’m Gingerbrave!” he chirps. “I helped bring you here. Well—sort of. PV found you first! He did most of the healing stuff. He’s amazing like that.” He gestures toward the robed man, who gives a slight, amused shake of his head. “But I kept the fire going while you were sleeping! And I made sure you weren’t alone.”

Your lips twitch in a faint smile, despite the fog still clinging to your mind. His joy is genuine, radiant, and it warms something deep in your chest that you didn’t know had gone cold.

“Thank… you,” you rasp, the words dry but audible now. Gingerbrave gasps in delight, practically vibrating.

“You talked! That’s awesome!”

He spins once in place, unable to contain himself, then quickly turns back to you with a bright grin. “Do you like jelly beans? I have some, but they might be a little melted…”

You almost laugh—and it surprises you. The sound is soft, a breath more than a chuckle, but it’s there. Something in this moment, in this strange little clearing among strange new friends, feels safe in a way you hadn’t felt in… well, however long you’d been lost.

A cool breeze dances through the trees, rustling the canopy above with a sound like whispers in a cathedral. The fire beside you crackles gently, its golden glow warming your skin, flickering over the soft fabric of the robes draped across your shoulders. The world still feels distant in some ways—like you’re caught between dream and waking—but something about this moment grounds you. The smell of moss and woodsmoke. The low murmur of forest life. The quiet companionship of the two figures beside you.

You shift slightly where you lay, your body heavy but no longer limp. Before you can make the attempt to rise on your own, a steady hand finds your back.

“How do you feel?” comes a voice beside you—gentle, composed, like the slow turning of pages in an old book.

It’s the same voice you heard before. The one that met you in the blur of collapsing vision. You turn your head carefully and find him kneeling at your side again.

Pure Vanilla.

That’s what the Gingerbrave boy had called him.

His hand is firm yet soft, offering support without force. He eases you up slowly, helping you sit upright with the care one might use with a wounded bird. Your muscles tremble with the effort, but you manage to hold yourself steady as you adjust, one hand pressing lightly to your temple to steady the dull throb in your head.

You look at him fully now—and this time, with clarity.

His face is kind. There’s no other word for it. Kind in the deepest, truest sense—not just gentle, but quietly strong, endlessly patient. A soft dusting of freckles bridges the slope of his nose and cheekbones, faint but unmistakable, like the first stars in the twilight sky. They catch the light when he shifts, subtle and warm against his tan skin.

His hair falls in a golden curtain over his shoulder, glowing faintly in the firelight, and you realize that he smells faintly of sweet herbs and sun-dried parchment.

But it’s his eyes that hold you.

They are… breathtaking.

A soft blue and a gentle pastel yellow— both, mingling like the first rays of morning sun spilling across a misted sky. The colors shimmer faintly, as though touched by something magical, celestial. Yet despite their beauty, there’s something strange about them too. Not alarming, but… distant. Clouded.

You take note of the haze in his pupils. They’re cloudy, like morning dew or the surface of still water disturbed by a single breath. And suddenly, you realize—

He’s blind.

Or at least, partially so.

But he meets your gaze all the same, as if your silence speaks louder than words, as if he can feel where your attention lingers. His expression doesn’t change—he seems unbothered by your realization—but there’s a flicker of knowing there, just behind his serene features.

“I’m used to people staring,” he says quietly, not unkindly. His voice holds a note of light amusement. “You wouldn’t be the first to notice.”

You start to apologize, but your voice catches in your throat again—hoarse and raw.

He gently sets a hand on your arm to stop you before you can strain yourself.

“No need,” he says softly, with a small, understanding smile. “I don’t mind. You’ve been through something difficult. It’s natural to look for answers in the faces around you.”

You nod, slowly. Grateful. A little embarrassed, perhaps, but comforted by his calm.

Pure Vanilla leans back just slightly, still close enough to offer support but giving you space to breathe. His presence is steadying—like a lantern in the fog.

You breathe in slowly, testing the strength of your voice again. The herbal drink has soothed your throat somewhat, loosening the tight grip of dryness and pain. Your next words emerge rough, but clearer than before.

“I feel alright… just tired,” you manage to croak out, the syllables brittle but whole.

Pure Vanilla tilts his head ever so slightly, his expression softening further at the sound of your voice. He nods in acknowledgment, a flicker of quiet relief passing across his features.

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs gently, his voice like warm honey over polished stone. Then he raises his voice slightly—not shouting, just enough to carry through the clearing.

“Gingerbrave, do you mind getting them something to eat?”

A rustle echoes from the underbrush just beyond the trees, and a bright voice calls back almost instantly.

“On it!” Gingerbrave’s tone is as chipper as ever, accompanied by the unmistakable snap-crunch of leaves and twigs as he darts off into the forest like a streak of sugar-fueled lightning. A quick blur of caramel and icing vanishes between the trees, and then he’s gone—leaving a few bouncing gumdrops in his wake.

The clearing grows quiet again, the silence returning like a warm blanket settling over both you and Pure Vanilla.

He doesn’t stand.

Instead, he lowers himself to sit properly on his knees beside you, the long folds of his robe pooling around him like sunlit silk. His posture is dignified, but relaxed—serene in a way that feels almost ancient. He folds his hands loosely into his lap, the sleeves of his outer garment slipping down just enough to reveal the faint outline of old scars tracing across his forearms—faint, healed, and hidden beneath layers of time and patience.

He doesn’t rush to speak again, and somehow, that makes his presence even more calming. He’s content to share the silence with you, to let the crackle of the fire and the wind through the leaves say what words can’t.

You study his face for a moment, quietly. Those strange, beautiful eyes remain fixed slightly ahead, though not on you. And yet, his awareness of you is absolute. His every movement—small, deliberate, measured—is made with your comfort in mind.

A stray breeze picks up, lifting the corner of your borrowed robe. You pull it a little closer, the fabric still carrying his warmth and the faint herbal scent that seems to cling to him—like dried lavender, wild honey, and something ancient you can’t quite name.

After a while, his voice stirs the stillness once again.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he begins softly, the words spoken with careful respect, “but what are you doing so far out here in Beast Yeast?”

The question hangs in the air between you, tender but not accusing. His tone isn’t laced with suspicion—it carries concern more than anything, as if trying to gently touch the surface of something delicate.

You draw in a slow breath.

Your eyes drift downward, pulled by a weight you can’t explain, and you look at the robes still wrapped tightly around you. The folds spill over your lap like water, finely stitched, warm, and utterly unfamiliar—and yet, somehow, comforting. The forest quiet presses around you, and your hand absently clutches the fabric a little tighter.

“I don’t know, if I’m being honest,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, fragile and uncertain.

There’s a pause.

You don’t need to see Pure Vanilla’s face to feel the shift in his energy. When you glance up again, you catch it—the faint widening of his eyes, the subtle parting of his lips. Surprise flickers across his features, a quiet crack in the mask of serenity he wears like second skin.

Not shock. Not fear. Just… an unexpected truth settling into place.

He hums lowly in response, a thoughtful, musical sound from deep in his chest. He doesn’t press you. Doesn’t ask anything further. Instead, he simply turns his head toward the rustling sound approaching the clearing.

Gingerbrave bursts back into view with a triumphant cheer, arms raised above his head. “Mission accomplished!” he grins, jogging over with something round and vibrant cradled in his small hands. His gumdrop buttons bounce slightly as he skids to a stop beside the fire.

“Found one of the good ones!” he announces, holding up the fruit with pride.

It’s unlike anything you’ve seen before—plump, a little larger than an apple, with a dappled pink-and-orange skin that seems to shimmer faintly in the firelight. It gives off a faint citrus-like scent, sweet but sharp at the edges.

Pure Vanilla turns fully to face the boy, his expression already softening with gratitude. With practiced ease, he reaches out and gently takes the fruit from Gingerbrave’s hands, cupping it in his palms like something precious.

“Thank you,” he says warmly. Gingerbrave beams under the praise.

Pure Vanilla turns back to you, the fruit now resting in one hand while the other reaches to his side. From the folds of his robe, he produces a small, worn cloth and begins to clean the skin of the fruit carefully, methodically.

“You don’t need to explain anything right now,” he says, not looking up from the task, his voice quiet and steady. “Memories can come and go like mist. What matters is that you’re safe. The rest…” He finishes cleaning and carefully splits the fruit in two with a small, carved blade you hadn’t noticed tucked into his belt. “…can wait until you’re ready.”

He offers you one half of the fruit, the flesh inside glowing faintly like a gem—juicy and inviting. A tiny smile touches his lips, calm and encouraging.

You hesitate for only a moment before taking it.

The skin is cool under your fingertips. The scent is brighter now, like fresh rain mixed with sugar. When you bring it to your lips and take a cautious bite, the flavor explodes—sweet, tart, and utterly refreshing. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Gingerbrave plops down on a nearby rock, already popping something small and crunchy into his mouth. “Told ya! Always go for the ones with the starburst pattern near the stem. Those are the juiciest.”

Pure Vanilla gives a quiet chuckle, folding his hands in his lap once more. But his eyes—those cloudy, celestial eyes—never leave your face, as if watching not for danger, but for the slow return of something lost.

The question gnaws at you like a relentless shadow, curling through the edges of your thoughts and refusing to be silenced.

Why can’t I remember anything?

It isn’t spoken aloud—your voice still feels fragile, caught somewhere between a whisper and a gasp—but the plea is no less desperate. You search your mind, scraping the surface for any scrap of familiarity, any flicker of recognition. But the void remains stubbornly empty, an unyielding blankness where memories should be.

You close your eyes, willing answers to come, willing the past to reach out and touch you. But the silence is deafening.

Your breath catches, a shiver running down your spine. The forest around you feels vast and unknowable, the shadows between the trees stretching longer, the canopy above shifting as the light wanes. The quiet hum of the fire and the gentle murmur of Pure Vanilla and Gingerbrave fade into the background, replaced by a sudden rustling from the underbrush.

Your eyes snap open, heart beating unevenly in your chest.

Movement stirs among the bushes. Leaves tremble, twigs crack softly under cautious steps.

From the dense greenery, two figures emerge—unexpected visitors in this quiet clearing.

The first is a young girl, no older than a teen, her presence light and somehow familiar, though you can’t quite place why. She wears a hoodie that’s impossible to miss—a bright, vivid red patterned like ripe strawberries, complete with a small green leaf-shaped hood that frames her round face. Her eyes are wide and curious, sparkling with a mix of wonder and shyness as she steps carefully into the light.

Beside her stands a boy, slightly taller, wrapped in flowing robes that shimmer faintly like starlight. A pointed hat rests crookedly atop his head, giving him the unmistakable silhouette of a wizard in the stories you’ve heard—or perhaps dreamt. His white hair falls in messy curls around his pale face, and his eyes flick between you and the others with quiet intelligence.

The two exchange a glance, the girl’s lips curving into a tentative smile while the boy’s gaze holds a cautious steadiness.

For a moment, the forest holds its breath.

Pure Vanilla rises smoothly to his feet, the soft rustling of his robes blending with the whisper of the breeze. Gingerbrave bounces up too, excitement flickering across his features as he eyes the newcomers.

The girl in the strawberry hoodie steps further into the clearing, her red boots making soft imprints in the mossy earth. Her eyes meet yours with a mix of relief and careful concern, and despite the playful pattern of her clothing, there’s a quiet maturity behind her expression—as if she’s seen more than she lets on.

She lifts a hand and gives you a small, warm wave, the sleeves of her hoodie bunching slightly around her wrists.

“Glad to see you’re alright,” she says softly, the lilt in her voice gentle, careful not to overwhelm you. “We were all kinda worried when you collapsed.”

Her words strike a chord—something fragile inside you, something you hadn’t quite realized was waiting to be acknowledged. You didn’t think anyone had been worried. You’d barely even known you existed until moments ago, and yet… her voice carries genuine warmth, the kind that assures you her concern was real.

You nod slowly, the weight of her words settling over you like a familiar blanket. There’s no need to speak—your agreement is in your eyes, in the small motion of your hand adjusting the robe around you, in the soft exhale that escapes your lips.

The new comers make themselves comfortable, Strawberry girl sitting cross-legged and tracing shapes into the dirt with a stick, the young wizard quietly adjusting the brim of his hat while glancing occasionally in your direction. Despite their presence, your attention is drawn elsewhere.

From the corner of your eye, you notice movement.

Pure Vanilla leans down slightly, murmuring something to Gingerbrave, his tone low and calm, inaudible from where you sit. Gingerbrave’s eager energy seems to pause—his usually animated expression softens, and he nods solemnly, though there’s still a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. Whatever Pure Vanilla had said clearly struck a tone of importance.

The older man gives the boy a light touch on the shoulder, then turns toward the edge of the clearing. Gingerbrave follows closely behind.

You watch as the two figures move away, their silhouettes framed by shafts of golden light that pierce through the trees. Their robes and colors blur into soft movement among the underbrush as they quietly disappear between the thickening trunks of the forest. The shadows swallow them slowly, until all that remains is the distant rustle of branches and the fading whisper of their footsteps over moss and fallen leaves.

Your gaze lingers in that direction long after they’re gone, a subtle weight settling into your chest. You can’t help but wonder—why did they leave so suddenly, and what had prompted the quiet urgency in Pure Vanilla’s eyes?

The forest seems a little quieter now, the wind through the leaves a little sharper.

You shift slightly, clutching the robe closer. The memoryless ache in your head throbs softly, but even stronger is the tug of something deeper—instinct, maybe, or unease. Not fear exactly, but a stirring awareness that something more is happening just beyond your reach.

Whatever the reason for their quiet departure, it left a gap in the clearing, and you feel it. Pure Vanilla’s presence had brought calm like a lighthouse in fog. And now that he’s gone, even for a moment, the mist seems to creep back in.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, eyes still trained on the forest’s edge.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Listening.

The soft rustle of leaves stirs your attention.

You lift your gaze just in time to see movement at the edge of the clearing. Dappled light filters through the canopy as Pure Vanilla and Gingerbrave step out from the forest shadows once more. Gingerbrave walks with his usual light, springy steps, brushing a stray leaf from his shoulder, while Pure Vanilla follows at a more composed pace—elegant and sure, the long hem of his robe trailing behind him like mist.

There’s something different about him now. Not urgent or worried—just thoughtful, as if something important has settled in his mind.

As the two approach, Gingerbrave flashes you a smile and gives a casual thumbs-up, but Pure Vanilla’s focus is entirely on you. He crosses the short distance between you with quiet intent, and then, as before, lowers himself into a crouch in front of you. The folds of his robe sweep softly across the grass as he balances on one knee, his clouded eyes calm and clear with purpose.

A small, reassuring smile curves on his lips—gentle, kind, the sort of smile that makes you feel seen rather than observed.

“So,” he begins, his voice smooth as warm honey, “we’ve come up with an idea.”

He folds his hands loosely in front of him, his tone measured, but open. You tilt your head slightly, listening intently, your heart giving a quiet thud in your chest.

“We’re continuing our journey through Beast Yeast,” he explains, his gaze steady on yours. “It’s not an easy region to travel, but we’ve done it before, and we know how to stay clear of trouble when it matters.”

He pauses for a heartbeat, and then adds, more gently, “You’re welcome to come with us. I will personally ensure your safety.”

There’s something so sincere in the way he says it—no bravado, no show of power. Just certainty. Trust.

The words wrap around you like the robe he’d given you, like the first warmth of morning light after a long, cold night. Your breath catches ever so slightly, and you feel your cheeks begin to heat at the quiet but powerful promise in his voice.

He would protect you. Not because he had to—but because he wanted to.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the robe in your lap, and you glance down, unsure how to respond to such kindness. Your mind swims with questions, with doubt, with a strange fluttering you can’t quite name. Still, before you can even form a reply, Pure Vanilla’s voice gently continues.

“Or,” he says softly, “if you prefer… you can travel with us only until we find somewhere safe—someplace you’d be comfortable staying. We don’t expect you to walk a path you’re unsure of.”

There’s no pressure in his tone. No push. Just a steady offering of choice. He’s giving you control—something you hadn’t felt since the moment you awoke in that field.

Gingerbrave stands just behind him now, watching with a curious smile, as if already hopeful you’ll say yes. The girl in the strawberry hoodie peeks over from her place near the fire, clearly trying to listen without intruding, while the quiet boy in wizard’s robes studies the interaction with his hands clasped behind his back.

The world seems to pause around you.

You look back into Pure Vanilla’s eyes—those strange, beautiful eyes of light blue and faint gold, their clouded appearance still somehow vibrant, like sunlight shining through frost. And in them, you see no judgment, no doubt—just patience, and a quiet invitation.

This man, who had found you broken and wandering, now knelt before you, offering not only protection… but a place to belong, even if only for a while.

You nod, though your movements are slow—uncertain. The motion isn’t an answer, not yet. Just acknowledgment.

Your eyes drift to the ground, unfocused, tracing the shapes the grass makes beneath your knees. The fire crackles in the background, its warmth a distant hum compared to the storm inside your head. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast and too slow all at once. You don’t know these people, not really. Their names, their kindness—it’s all unfamiliar. Comforting, yes, but foreign.

And then there’s you.

Your hands curl into the fabric of the robe as your brows knit together. The weight of your missing memories presses heavily on your shoulders, a silent burden you can’t yet explain. The ache of not knowing who you are, of not remembering even a single detail before waking up in that field, makes your chest feel tight. You’re lost—adrift in a world full of faces and names you can’t place, in a body that feels like it should be familiar, but isn’t.

Your face scrunches slightly, betraying the internal war you’re waging. It’s all too much. Too strange. Too—

A warm hand lands gently on your shoulder.

You blink, startled from your thoughts. You lift your gaze and meet the calm, steady expression of Pure Vanilla.

His touch is light, reassuring—not invasive, just present. Grounding.

“You don’t need to make a decision now,” he says, voice low and soothing, “You can decide as we travel.”

There’s no expectation in his words. No pressure. Just quiet understanding. Like he knows what it’s like to carry a burden you don’t yet understand. Like he’s been there, too.

Your heartbeat, once pounding behind your ribs, eases its rhythm ever so slightly.

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and nod again—this time more firmly, more sure of what little you do know.

“I’d… like to decide later,” you say softly, your voice still raw, but steadier than before.

Pure Vanilla gives a gentle nod in return, the corner of his mouth lifting into a quiet smile—not of victory, but of acceptance.

He stands gracefully, the folds of his robe falling back into place with practiced ease. Then, turning to the others who had silently been watching from nearby, he raises his voice just enough to be heard.

“They’ll be traveling with us for now,” he says simply, without fanfare. “We’ll keep a comfortable pace. No need to rush.”

Gingerbrave pumps a fist into the air with a grin. “Awesome! The more the merrier!” he says, already bouncing on his heels in anticipation.

The girl in the strawberry hoodie offers you a shy but friendly wave, while the boy in wizard’s robes gives a small, knowing nod, as if he expected this outcome all along.

The tension in your chest lightens, just a little.

You’re still uncertain, still tangled in questions you can’t yet answer—but for the first time since waking up in that sunlit field, you feel something steady beneath your feet. Not answers. Not clarity.

But choice.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

The late afternoon sun had dipped lower, casting long golden rays through the trees. The light glinted through the canopy in soft, dappled patterns, painting the ground in a patchwork of warm light and cool shadow.

Pure Vanilla stood tall in the center of the small clearing, his soft-colored robes stirring gently in the breeze. The scent of the woods—fresh moss, old bark, and the faint sweetness of flowering herbs—mingled with the crackling warmth of the fire.

With his hands calmly folded before him, he spoke, his voice serene and unwavering:

“We will rest here for the night and start heading north in the morning. Rest up, everyone.”

His words were simple, but they carried an unspoken command of peace—assurance wrapped in gentle authority.

Around the clearing, the others nodded in quiet agreement. Gingerbrave immediately darted toward the edge of the campsite, talking to himself as he gathered sticks or investigated strange rocks like a small whirlwind of energy. Wizard cookie—the small wizard-like one—settled near the fire, pulling something out of his cloak, probably a gadget or small contraption to tinker with. Strawberry Cookie, in her pink hood, wandered a little toward the bushes with a small basket, likely searching for something edible to bring back.

They all had their rhythm, their place. Like a small family moving around each other with practiced ease.

You remained where you were, still curled where Pure Vanilla had last left you. The robe wrapped around your frame was warm and soft, and for a moment, you felt like a small ember being carefully protected from the wind.

Your eyes tracked him quietly as he moved once more.

With a slow, fluid motion, Pure Vanilla lowered himself to sit across from you, on the other side of the fire. The glow of the flames lit his features with a gentle radiance, accentuating the calm slope of his face, the barely-there freckles across his cheeks, and the pale sheen of his long blonde hair. He moved with a grace that felt almost otherworldly—as if he belonged to the forest itself.

From behind his back, he unfastened a small satchel, and with practiced ease, withdrew a book. Its cover was aged, worn at the edges, but clearly cherished. Without a word, he opened it, the pages whispering against each other as he settled in to read.

You watched for a moment. The fire flickered softly between you, its light dancing across the pages he turned so delicately. Each of his movements was measured, deliberate, as if even the act of reading was a quiet ritual of peace.

Your limbs, still heavy from exhaustion, ached with a familiar pull. You shifted slowly, dragging the borrowed robe tighter around your shoulders, the faint scent of herbs and parchment still clinging to the fabric. Comforting.

Without fully meaning to, you leaned slightly toward the warmth—toward him.

Your body began to ease into the earth beneath you. The ache in your bones softened. The swirling thoughts in your mind dulled. Little by little, the world faded into something quieter.

Your eyes fluttered closed. But just before sleep could fully take you, you caught one last glimpse of him—Pure Vanilla, still seated peacefully, his face bathed in firelight, quietly reading from his book as if standing guard through silence alone.

And then…

Sleep.

Deep and gentle like being wrapped in the hush of snow or floating in a sunlit dream.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t fear what would come next.

You simply rested.

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A soft nudge at your shoulder pulls you gently from the depths of sleep.

The warmth of dreams fades like fog in morning light as your eyes flutter open. A haze clings to your vision, but soon the shifting shapes become clearer, more defined. Hovering above you is the round, familiar face of Gingerbrave, his eyes bright with energy despite the early hour.

“Sorry to wake you!” he says in a hushed but cheerful voice, his hands fidgeting with excitement. “But we’re getting ready to start moving!”

You groan softly, the words registering just enough to stir you further awake. Your limbs feel sluggish, reluctant to cooperate, but there’s no urgency in his tone—just kindness. The fire from last night has dwindled into glowing embers, its warmth fading into the cool morning air.

You sit up slowly, the robe still wrapped snugly around you. The fabric has gathered bits of grass and fallen leaves during the night, but it still holds the lingering scent of safety and warmth. You lift your hands and rub your face, fingertips pressing against your eyes in an effort to chase away the haze of sleep.

A deep yawn escapes your lips, and you stretch just enough to feel your tired muscles protest. Your body aches still, but it’s no longer the crushing fatigue from the day before. Instead, it’s a manageable stiffness—a reminder of everything your body has been through, and everything it has survived.

Carefully, you push yourself to your feet, moving slowly to avoid any sudden dizziness. The ground beneath you feels solid, your balance more stable now. You take a moment to test your footing, cautious and deliberate. The cool earth presses up through your soles, grounding you.

Across the clearing, the small group is beginning to gather their things. Strawberry Cookie is gently packing a woven basket, her hood pulled up against the morning chill. The wizard-like boy is levitating a few small items with casual precision, preparing his supplies with quiet focus. Gingerbrave, ever the spark of motion, dashes from person to person, making sure no one is left behind.

You turn your head—and spot him.

Pure Vanilla stands just at the edge of the treeline, his long robes catching the breeze like a whispered promise. The rising sun casts a soft golden hue across the clearing, and in its light, he looks ethereal. His hair shimmers faintly as he turns, sensing your approach before you speak.

He meets your eyes with a smile—small, sincere, and patient.

There’s no rush in his expression, no question of whether you’re strong enough to travel. Just quiet acknowledgment.

He inclines his head slightly, the smile deepening as he speaks. “Good morning.” His voice is calm, like water over smooth stone. “You slept well, I hope?”

You nod, your lips curving into the faintest of smiles in return. There’s something steadying about him—an unspoken calm that settles your nerves even when the world still feels like a blur of questions.

“Better than I expected,” you murmur, your voice still rough from sleep, but steadier now.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and comforting. “That’s good to hear.” He shifts slightly to the side, making room for you to stand beside him. “The path north won’t be easy, but we’ll go at a pace that suits everyone.”

You glance toward the others as they finish packing and begin forming a loose group near the trailhead. Then back at him—Pure Vanilla, who had offered you protection without hesitation, and now waited patiently for you to take your next step.

As everyone began to gather near the worn trail that cut through the forest, backpacks slung over shoulders and supplies secured, Pure Vanilla lingered by your side. The morning mist was still clinging to the earth, curling low around the roots of the trees like sleepy fingers reluctant to let go.

Just as the group prepared to move out, Pure Vanilla raised a hand slightly, stopping in place.

“Oh—before we go, I have a question.”

His voice was a touch higher than usual, the words spoken quickly as if he were trying to get them out before losing his nerve.

You blinked, tilting your head curiously. His expression had shifted—still warm, but now tinged with uncertainty. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze briefly flicking away from you and toward the forest line, as if searching for the right words among the trees.

“Uh… What’s your name? Do you know?” he asked softly, his voice gentle, hesitant—as though he feared the question might hurt.

The question hit you harder than you expected.

Your breath caught, just slightly, and your fingers twitched by your sides. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been avoiding that question yourself. What was your name?

What was your name?

Silence hovered between you for a beat too long. The forest seemed to hold its breath with you.

You pressed your palms to your face, fingertips digging lightly into your temples as you tried to dig something—anything—out of the void in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut and concentrated hard, willing something to rise to the surface.

‘Think. Come on. You must remember something…’

A flicker. A sound. A syllable.

“Re…” you murmured, hesitant.

You bit your lip.

“Uh…”

It hovered just at the edge of your awareness, teasing you.

“Reader?”

As soon as the word left your mouth, something clicked.

Your eyes shot open, and a wide smile stretched across your face.

“YES! It’s Reader. I remember now!” you chirped, excitement bubbling in your chest like sunlight through dark clouds. The name felt right—familiar, like a missing piece finally slotting into place.

Across from you, Pure Vanilla let out a soft chuckle, the tension in his shoulders melting away. The corner of his lips lifted into a genuine, pleased smile.

“Well, I’m happy to have you traveling with us, Reader,” he said with quiet warmth. His voice held no judgment, only gentle encouragement—as if your name, no matter how delayed, had always belonged here.

Then, with a tender, almost protective gesture, he reached out and gently tugged on your arm, guiding you forward toward the rest of the group.

“Come,” he said, voice light. “Let’s begin the journey north.”

And so you did.

You walked beside him, the soft thud of your steps blending with the sounds of the others: Gingerbrave’s chatter, Strawberry Cookie’s humming, and the rustle of Wizard cookie’s cloak. The path ahead curved upward, winding through thick trees and thickening fog, the light of morning stretching thin between the branches.

And though your memories were still a tangled mess and your destination unknown, you felt something you hadn’t felt since waking up in that field:

Belonging.

But even in that warmth—amid laughter and distant birdsong—a chill crept up your spine.

You paused briefly, glancing over your shoulder. The forest behind you stood still and serene, the leaves whispering softly in the wind. Nothing was there. Nothing you could see.

Still… you couldn’t shake the sensation.

Something was watching.

Unseen and silent, a pair of small eyes blinked from the underbrush. A tiny figure, no larger than a rabbit, remained hidden in the ferns. Its ears twitched. It tilted its head.

And then, quietly, it followed.

Chapter Text

You silently cursed under your breath, lips pressed into a tight line as the oppressive heat bore down on you like a living weight. The sun blazed high in the cloudless sky, its golden rays stabbing down through the tree canopy, turning the narrow forest path into a sweltering tunnel of shimmering light and stifling humidity.

Sweat clung to every inch of you, dripping steadily down your arms and soaking into the robe still loosely wrapped around your frame. Your clothes, once dry and comfortable, now clung stubbornly to your skin with every step, plastering fabric to your back and legs as though trying to merge with you. Even the breeze, when it stirred, felt like the breath of an oven.

You groaned softly and swiped your forearm across your forehead, trying to clear the film of sweat from your brow.

“It’s so hot,” you whined, voice heavy with exhaustion. It came out more like a plea than a statement, and you weren’t even trying to hide the misery in your tone anymore.

Up ahead, Pure Vanilla turned his head at the sound of your complaint. A breathy, apologetic chuckle escaped him, and he slowed his pace just enough to walk beside you.

“Sorry, everyone,” he said, his voice calm despite the heat. His hair, still pristine, flowing in soft strands down his neck. “I promise it’s not much farther. There’s a shaded rest point just beyond the next ridge. Cooler air and water.”

You gave a slow nod, trying to muster some gratitude, but mostly just focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

As you trudged forward, your gaze wandered to the others.

To your utter disbelief, Gingerbrave was practically bouncing along the path like a wind-up toy, completely unfazed. His tan skin wasn’t slick with sweat, nor did he seem tired. In fact, he was cheerfully humming some tune under his breath, occasionally kicking a pebble forward as if this were a stroll through a spring meadow rather than a hike through a furnace.

You stared at him in silent envy.

“How is he not melting?” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.

Gingerbrave must’ve heard, though, because he turned and gave you a sunny grin.

“Oh! Cookies don’t really sweat, not sure why you do!” he chirped. “But this sun is pretty warm! Kinda feels like the inside of an oven!” He didn’t seem the least bit concerned about that statement.

You blinked at him, then looked away with a soft groan. Even his jokes were heat-themed.

Strawberry Cookie trudged quietly behind, fanning herself with a large leaf she’d found earlier. Her pink hoodie was tied around her waist, and her flushed cheeks were evidence she wasn’t completely immune to the temperature either. She met your gaze and offered a tired but sympathetic smile. You returned it weakly.

Wizard cookie, somehow, had managed to affix a little parasol to their gear using a metal contraption and was walking with an air of smug satisfaction beneath its shade. You admired their cleverness even as your jealousy deepened.

Pure Vanilla glanced down at you again, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Would you like some water?” he asked, reaching toward the flask at his side. His tone was soft, patient, always mindful of your pace and condition.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding.

He handed you the water with both hands, as if passing something sacred. You took a sip, then another, the cool liquid a welcome relief against the dry, sticky sensation coating your throat.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He offered a warm smile and placed a gentle hand on your back for a moment, guiding you forward.

“We’ll stop soon. Just a little longer.”

The long journey had taken its toll—days of walking through wild woods, scaling rocky hills, and wading through shallow rivers. Even with moments of rest, the effort carved itself into your bones. You weren’t sure exactly how long it had been since you stumbled into this strange, warm-hearted group—maybe a couple of weeks? More? Time had become hard to measure when your only markers were sunrises and starry skies.

Still… even through the exhaustion, you smiled.

You let your gaze drift to the group walking ahead of you—Gingerbrave bouncing along the path with endless energy, Strawberry Cookie quietly adjusting her hoodie while humming a soft tune, Wizard Cookie animatedly describing some ancient magical theory to a very bored Strawberry Cookie, who was clearly pretending to listen. And Pure Vanilla, always leading gently from the front, his presence a quiet constant that somehow made every step feel more manageable.

You exhaled slowly, your chest tightening with a bittersweet ache.

So many days, so many miles… and still no answers.

Your memories remained stubbornly blank. Names, faces, places—you. They were all shrouded in mist, just out of reach. You didn’t know where you came from, or why you had been found unconscious in the woods that day. Why your head still sometimes throbbed with an invisible weight. Why even your own name had taken effort to remember.

‘So many questions… but no answers,’ you thought quietly, dragging your fingers over the edge of the robe still slung across your shoulders. The same one Pure Vanilla had wrapped you in that first night.

But even though your mind remained an unfinished puzzle, the pieces you had now were… comforting.

You smiled again—smaller this time, more inward—as you recalled the gentle teasing from Gingerbrave, the quiet companionship of Strawberry Cookie during late-night watches, the hilariously dry commentary from wizard cookie. Pure Vanilla’s calm reassurance when your fears got the better of you. Their patience. Their kindness.

They didn’t treat you like a burden, even when you sometimes felt like one.

They had become your first memories in this new life.

Up ahead, Pure Vanilla’s voice called out over the crunching of boots on dirt.

“There’s a village not far from here!” he said, turning slightly to look back at the group. His face was flushed from the heat, but there was a hopeful glint in his mismatched eyes. “I suggest we keep trekking that way. If we hurry, we can reach it before nightfall.”

You couldn’t help yourself—you let out a long, dramatic groan, your head tilting back as if the very idea of walking more was physically painful.

“You’re trying to kill us,” you mumbled with mock despair.

Pure Vanilla chuckled, rolling his eyes fondly as he slowed his pace to fall in step beside you. “It’s just a little farther,” he said, mimicking your tone playfully. “I promise this time. The village has proper beds. And shade.”

“And food?” you asked, perking up slightly.

“Yes,” he replied with a knowing smile. “Actual food. Cooked. Possibly with seasoning.”

You gasped as if he’d told you something sacred.

“Then lead the way, noble healer,” you said dramatically, swaying with theatrical exhaustion.

He let out a soft laugh, placing a hand on your shoulder in passing. The brief touch was grounding—just like always.

A low, grumbling crack of thunder rolled across the distant hills like a warning, a deep and uneasy drumbeat echoing across the sky. You paused only for a breath, instinctively tightening your grip on the robe around your shoulders, and picked up your pace along the winding dirt path. The others fell into step beside you without a word, their eyes glancing upward toward the slowly darkening clouds overhead.

The humidity in the air grew heavier with every breath. The scent of rain mingled with the earthy aroma of leaves and moss, wrapping the trail in a thick stillness. Even Gingerbrave had gone quiet, his usual cheer dampened by the approaching storm.

The outline of the village had just begun to peek through the distant tree line when something tugged at your attention.

Off to your left—just beyond the brush—a movement.

You turned your head, slowing your steps.

There, nestled among a small patch of wildflowers and dappled grass, stood a lone sheep. Its cream-colored wool was impossibly fluffy, almost like it had been spun from clouds. It looked so gentle, so soft, its tiny nose twitching as it sniffed at a cluster of pink blooms.

But it wasn’t the sheep’s color or its small size that made you freeze—it was its eyes.

Two different hues stared back at you. One was a deep, midnight blue. The other, a soft and glimmering teal—familiar in a way that made your breath hitch.

Almost like Pure Vanilla.

Your heart fluttered, confused by the sudden connection. You took a tentative step forward, eyes wide, captivated by the sheep’s strange gaze. Despite the patter of your footsteps through the grass, it didn’t flinch or flee. It simply watched you.

And that was when the unease began to settle in.

Something about the way it stared—unblinking, unmoving—was wrong. Not threatening, not aggressive… but unnatural. Its head tilted slightly, following your every step with a disarming stillness that didn’t match its delicate appearance.

The sheep’s gaze bore into you—like it wasn’t just looking at you… it was seeing through you.

Your silent giddiness faltered, replaced by a flicker of tension in your spine.

You knelt slowly, trying to coax it closer, your voice soft. “Hey there…”

It didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even twitch. Just stared, still nestled among the flowers, too perfect. Too silent.

A stronger rumble of thunder echoed again—closer now. The breeze picked up, brushing strands of hair across your face and making the tall grass ripple like water. You blinked once, just once, as a drop of rain landed on your cheek.

Your gaze lingered on the small, cream-colored sheep nestled in the flowers. Its mismatched eyes—one deep blue, the other pale teal—locked onto yours, impossibly still. You couldn’t explain the strange sensation growing in your chest: something between familiarity and dread. Like a memory half-remembered, tugging at your soul.

“Reader!” Pure Vanilla’s voice rang out behind you, clear and concerned.

Your head snapped toward the sound, instinctively responding to the call of your name. You opened your mouth to answer—

—but when you turned back to the sheep…

It was gone.

Completely, utterly gone. No rustling in the grass, no footprints in the soft earth. No disturbed flowers. It was as if it had never been there at all.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at the spot in disbelief, eyes sweeping across the field for any sign of motion, a flicker of white wool, a shadow between the trees. But there was nothing.

The strange stillness only deepened the unease coiling in your stomach.

You spun slowly in place, scanning the brush, the woods, the sky above. Where had it gone? Something that visible—something that unusual—should have left a trail. It didn’t make sense. You could still feel its gaze somehow, like an imprint burned into your mind.

And then—

A hand touched your shoulder.

You jumped, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. You spun on your heel, your heart pounding.

But it was only Pure Vanilla.

He stood there, hand still resting gently on your shoulder, his brows slightly raised in surprise. Concern softened his features, and the subtle lines of worry in his face were more visible up close.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked softly, his voice a gentle balm. “You seem… on edge.”

You hesitated, caught between explaining what you saw—or thought you saw—and brushing it off. The logic in your mind warred with the strange chill in your bones. In the end, you gave a tired sigh and smiled faintly, the kind of smile people wore when trying to convince themselves they were fine.

“I’m okay. Just thought I saw something,” you said, your tone light, dismissive. “Must’ve been nothing.”

Pure Vanilla studied your expression for a heartbeat longer, eyes flicking to the field behind you. You weren’t sure if he believed you… but he smiled back anyway. That quiet, patient smile that never pressured, never demanded more than you were ready to give.

He reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around your forearm, the warmth of his touch grounding. “Come on,” he said, coaxing you back toward the trail. “Storm’s getting closer. We don’t want to be caught in it.”

As he guided you back toward the others, you became acutely aware of how often he stayed close to you now. Over the days—and perhaps weeks—you’d traveled together, he had always been kind to everyone, always offering his help or healing without hesitation. But lately… it had changed.

He lingered near you just a little longer. Walked beside you a little more often. His gaze would drift toward you when he thought you weren’t looking. His hand would rest a moment longer on your arm, your shoulder, as if silently reminding you that you weren’t alone.

You didn’t know why. You didn’t understand what it meant. But you didn’t pull away.

The two of you returned to the group as the drizzle thickened into steady rainfall, the scent of petrichor rising with it. Your robe grew damp against your skin, and the air buzzed faintly with distant thunder.

Still, that strange unease remained. Nestled in the back of your mind like a whisper you couldn’t quite make out.

Because whatever that sheep had been…

It hadn’t just been watching you.

It had been waiting.

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With a low groan, you flopped face-first onto the bed, your arms sprawling limply over the soft, warm blankets. The INN’s room was a simple one—modest wooden walls, a stone hearth in the corner still warm from earlier fire, and thick curtains drawn shut to block the coming storm. But the plush comforter beneath you felt like heaven after the long trek. Every sore muscle in your body sighed with relief as you slowly melted into the mattress, your limbs heavy with exhaustion.

Outside, a sharp crack of thunder tore through the air, rattling the windowpanes. The sound made you lift your head slightly, blinking away the haze of near-sleep.

You sighed and pushed yourself upright, reluctant to leave the warm embrace of the bed, but curiosity tugged at you. Padding across the creaky wooden floor, you brushed the curtain aside and peeked through the window.

The sky was ink-black. Clouds roiled above like churning waves, thick and swollen with rain. Occasional flickers of lightning illuminated the silhouette of the village rooftops, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets below. You watched as the wind picked up, swaying the lanterns outside and rattling signs on storefronts.

“Looks like a gnarly storm,” you muttered to yourself, folding your arms against your chest. You weren’t sure how long it would last, but judging by the way the storm seemed to crawl over the land like a living thing, it wouldn’t be over anytime soon.

Then—

Knock knock.

You jumped slightly at the sudden sound at your door, blinking away the last of your thoughts. Turning, you crossed the room and opened it slowly.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway was Strawberry Cookie, her small hands tugging nervously at the ends of her strawberry-pink hoodie strings. Her oversized hood was pulled up, casting her round face in soft shadow, but her wide eyes peeked up at you curiously.

“Hey, Strawberry,” you said, offering her a soft smile. “Everything alright?”

She immediately perked up at the sound of your voice, though her fingers didn’t stop fidgeting. “Yeah, I’m good.” Her voice was quiet but sincere. She rocked on her heels for a moment before continuing. “Um… Pure Vanilla said we’re gonna stay here a few days because of the storm.”

You nodded, a part of you relieved at the news. After how sore your body felt, the idea of dry clothes, warm meals, and a few nights of actual sleep in a bed was beyond welcome.

“That’s probably for the best,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe. “No point trekking through that mess.”

Strawberry nodded in agreement. Her eyes shifted toward your window, where another flash of lightning lit up the curtains for just a second.

“Do storms… bother you?” you asked gently.

She shrugged, still fiddling with her hoodie. “A little. I don’t like the noise.” Her gaze flicked back to you, hesitant. “I was gonna ask if… maybe we could hang out for a bit? Just until I get sleepy.”

You felt your heart warm at the request.

“Of course. Come in,” you said, stepping aside to let her in.

She brightened visibly, stepping into the room and settling onto the edge of the bed. You closed the door behind her, the soft click muffling the distant growl of thunder. As you joined her on the bed, she tugged her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, watching as you pulled a blanket over both of you.

You and Strawberry Cookie sat in a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes with quiet trust. The muffled roar of the storm outside filled the space between you like a steady, distant drumbeat. Rain lashed gently at the windows, and every now and then, a low rumble of thunder would shudder through the walls. But inside, the room was warm and safe—dimly lit by the soft glow of the lantern by the bedside.

Strawberry had curled herself up into a ball, her hoodie hood tucked over her head like a cocoon. She quietly hugged a pillow to her chest, eyes occasionally drifting toward the window but always returning to the steady comfort of the room.

You sat nearby, legs stretched out and wrapped in the thick blanket you’d shared. Your body still ached from the long travel, but now that you were off your feet, the tension was slowly starting to fade. The silence was peaceful. Needed. Neither of you felt the need to speak—it was enough just to be near someone.

Then—

A gentle knock at the door broke the stillness.

You blinked and looked toward the sound, not startled, just mildly curious. Your voice came out soft but audible:

“You can come in.”

The door creaked open slowly, and the familiar figure of Pure Vanilla Cookie stepped inside. The moment he entered, the soft scent of herbs and morning dew seemed to follow him—soothing and clean even amidst the storm’s tension. His robes were slightly damp from the weather, rain still dotting his shoulders, but he looked calm and unbothered, a kind smile settled naturally on his lips.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said gently, eyes landing first on Strawberry Cookie, giving her a small nod of greeting, then shifting to you with warmth. “I’m glad to see you both looking comfortable.”

Strawberry gave a small wave in return, but otherwise remained tucked in place, clearly content in her silence.

Pure Vanilla’s gaze lingered on you, a soft glint of apology in his eyes.

“Reader,” he said, his voice dipping slightly in tone—more purposeful now, yet still calm. “I could use your help, if you’re up for it.”

You sat up a little straighter, curious.

“Help with what?” you asked, already pushing the blanket off your lap.

He stepped a little further inside, folding his hands before him. “The storm is going to be stronger than expected. Some of the villagers’ homes aren’t fully sealed. I’ve been working with a few of them to prepare—securing windows, checking the food supplies, that sort of thing. I thought… maybe you’d like to lend a hand.”

At Pure Vanilla’s request, you let out a dramatic groan, flopping back onto the bed as if the very idea of stepping outside into the storm was a personal betrayal.

“Ugh, you’re sending me out there? In this weather?” you whined, letting your arms splay out at your sides like you were a tragic hero in some old play. “I’ll be soaked! Drenched! A soggy, shivering shell of myself!”

From the doorway, Pure Vanilla only chuckled softly, clearly unfazed. He had become quite used to your over-the-top theatrics over the past couple of weeks. You could almost hear the smile in his voice as he stepped toward you.

“You’ll survive,” he said warmly, reaching down and taking your hand in his. His palm was warm and steady against yours, his fingers gently curling around yours with a comforting firmness.

“Betrayal,” you muttered playfully under your breath as he tugged you up from the bed with a gentle pull.

Strawberry Cookie glanced up from her curled-up place on the mattress, the sleeves of her hoodie pulled over her hands. You offered her a smile as you adjusted your coat.

“You’re welcome to stay here ‘til I get back,” you said to her. “Keep the bed warm for me.”

She nodded wordlessly, her small smile barely visible under the shadow of her hood.

Pure Vanilla gave her a reassuring glance before guiding you toward the door—still holding your hand.

You tried your best not to overthink it, but the warmth of his grip made your face flush. Physical contact with Pure Vanilla wasn’t unusual—he was naturally affectionate in a soft, gentle way—but every time his fingers curled around yours, or when he lingered a second too long during a passing touch, you felt that same stubborn flutter deep in your chest. Even now, you tried to ignore the warmth creeping up your cheeks, hoping the dim hallway light concealed the worst of it.

As the two of you made your way down the quiet hall of the INN, the wind outside howled against the wooden frame, rattling windows and making the lanterns flicker. The second you stepped out the front door, you immediately regretted not bargaining for a cloak.

The cold wind slammed into you like a wall, tugging at your clothes and sending a spray of icy rain across your face. You instinctively cursed under your breath, pulling your coat tighter around you.

“Stars above, this is gonna be a bad storm,” you muttered through chattering teeth, eyes narrowing against the sting of the wind.

Pure Vanilla’s robes billowed in the wind, but he didn’t flinch. He simply hummed softly in agreement, his expression calm despite the whipping rain, as if storms were as ordinary to him as sunshine. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

“It will pass,” he said, his tone tranquil. “But best we get the preparations done quickly.”

You trudged along beside him, boots splashing through shallow puddles as you followed the winding path out of the village proper. Lightning flickered across the sky, illuminating the low hills and fences of a small nearby farm up ahead. The outline of a rickety barn came into view, and you could already see villagers scurrying about in cloaks, working to reinforce doors.

“Oh, thank goodness!” a voice cried out, cracking with relief.

You turned your head just in time to see an older woman hurrying across the muddy yard, her shawl flapping behind her like a flag in the wind. She made a beeline for Pure Vanilla and grasped both of his hands with weather-worn fingers, her eyes brimming with gratitude. Despite the chill in the air, the warmth in her expression was undeniable.

“You actually came,” she murmured, her voice wavering. “Bless the stars, thank you. Thank you, dear.”

Pure Vanilla didn’t falter, his ever-gentle smile settling into place like it belonged there. He squeezed the woman’s hands with quiet reassurance.

“We’ll get everything ready before the storm arrives. You’ve nothing to worry about,” he said in that soothing tone of his—the kind that always made you feel like the world might be okay after all.

The old woman nodded several times, tears almost in her eyes, before retreating into the small, weathered cottage behind her. The door creaked shut behind her, and the sound was nearly drowned out by a sudden gust of wind that made the trees groan.

You stood off to the side, shoulders hunched slightly as you watched the interaction. The woman’s gratitude was touching—but you were still trying to piece together exactly what was happening.

Turning to Pure Vanilla, your brow furrowed.

“So… what’s going on?” you asked, confusion plain in your voice.

As if he had been expecting the question, Pure Vanilla turned to you with a patient smile.

“She needed help getting everything prepared for the storm,” he explained gently. “Her family isn’t here right now, and her property’s too large to secure alone.”

You raised a brow and let out a snort of a laugh, “Can’t even let us have one day off, huh?”

Without missing a beat, Pure Vanilla reached out and ruffled your hair, his hand warm even through the damp. It was affectionate, playful, and mildly condescending—just enough to earn a dramatic eye roll from you.

“You’ll survive,” he said, lips twitching upward.

You shook your head, mock sighing. But then you straightened up, your tone shifting with purpose.

“Alright, alright. What do you need me to do?” you asked, brushing the water from your sleeves and preparing to get to work.

He gestured toward a structure at the edge of the property—a small, slightly leaning barn, with peeling paint and crooked shutters barely hanging on.

“That barn there,” he said. “She needs the windows boarded up. I figured you’d be better suited for the heavy lifting.”

You scoffed, placing a hand to your chest. “Is that flattery I hear? Or just an excuse to get out of doing the work yourself?”

Pure Vanilla let out a quiet chuckle, eyes glinting with amusement. “Let’s call it delegation.”

You gave him a playful glare and began trudging through the grass toward the barn, the soft squelch of wet earth under your boots. The rain had started falling again in earnest, light but persistent. Still, despite the storm brewing overhead and the dampness creeping into your clothes, you found yourself smiling.

There was something oddly comforting about this strange new rhythm of your life—helping where you could, surrounded by people who somehow made everything feel lighter, even when the sky was heavy and gray.

You worked with steady determination, gripping the rough wooden boards and hauling them one by one to the side of the old barn. The air was thick and humid, the sky rumbling with distant thunder as the wind howled through the fields. Rain had started falling again—not a drizzle, but a cold, persistent shower that pelted your skin like needles. Your clothes clung to your body, soaked through, and your hair dripped down into your eyes.

Still, you pressed on.

The hammer in your hand grew slick with rain, and you had to tighten your grip with each strike as you nailed the boards over the barn’s loose, rattling windows. Every gust of wind made the boards creak ominously, and your teeth clenched against the cold seeping into your bones.

As you finished hammering one last plank into place, you squinted toward the pile of remaining materials. Just one board left.

You broke into a jog toward it, rain slashing sideways into your face. But your boot caught on something submerged in the mud—a rock, a root, or—

CRACK.

Your foot gave out from under you and you hit the ground with a sickening thud, your body landing hard in the wet dirt.

“Ahh!” you cried out, a sharp pain lancing up your leg—your calf throbbing, fire blooming under your skin.

Your hands sunk into the mud as you tried to push yourself up, but your arms trembled from the impact. The cold earth clung to your palms, and gritty muck caked your face. Tears sprang unbidden to your eyes, not just from the pain but from the sheer frustration of it all.

With a shaky breath, you turned your head to look down at your leg—your pants torn and soaked, mud streaking up to your knee. Then you saw it.

A rusted pickaxe, half-buried near the base of the barn. Its sharp edge was darkened with a mix of mud… and blood.

You froze, chest tight, your breath quickening as a whimper slipped out.

“Reader!”

Your head snapped up at the voice—Pure Vanilla, running toward you through the rain, robes flying behind him like a banner. His expression was drawn in alarm, brows furrowed with worry as he skidded to a stop beside you and dropped to his knees.

“I saw you fall—are you hurt?” he asked, hands reaching for you, gentle but urgent.

You tried to nod, but the pain in your leg made your breath catch. “I—I think I’m okay,” you managed, though your voice trembled. You hissed involuntarily as you tried to shift your weight. Your shin burned, the skin scraped and likely cut where the pickaxe had struck.

Pure Vanilla’s hands found your shoulders first, steadying you as you shook. He reached up to your face and used his sleeve to wipe the mud from your cheeks, his touch feather-light.

“Hey… hey, you’re alright. Just breathe, okay?” he soothed, his voice softer now, trying to anchor you. His eyes searched your face, concern etched into every line of his expression.

You managed a weak nod, blinking the rain from your lashes as he carefully supported you under the arms and lifted you to your feet. The moment your injured leg bore weight, you nearly crumpled again—but he caught you instantly, one arm wrapped around your waist.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he whispered, his arm tightening protectively.

You gently place a hand on Pure Vanilla’s arm, easing yourself back and standing a little straighter despite the sharp pulse of pain in your leg.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, voice firm but gentle. His brows knit in clear disbelief, the corner of his mouth dipping downward in concern.

“Reader—”

“Really, I can manage,” you insist, forcing a smile that you hope looks more convincing than it feels.

For a moment, he just watches you, the storm clouds above reflected in the soft mismatched hues of his eyes. He finally exhales, reluctantly nodding.

“Alright,” he says quietly, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fade. “But I’ll heal you as soon as we’re done. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

You nod, grateful even in your discomfort, and he reaches out, fingers curling around your hand as he tugs you forward.

“Come on. The dam’s starting to leak. They need help fortifying it before it gives out.”

You stumble slightly as you fall into step beside him, teeth gritted against the jolt of pain that shoots up your leg. The warmth of his hand in yours steadies you—not enough to erase the ache, but enough to keep you upright.

As the two of you make your way around a curve in the muddy road, the dam finally comes into view—a wide, weathered structure nestled at the edge of a swollen river, the wood and stone worn down by time and neglect. Rain lashes the surface in endless waves, and you can already see dark lines of water leaking through the seams, carving tiny streams down its sides.

The area is alive with movement.

Villagers shout instructions to each other over the roar of wind and thunder. Sandbags are passed hand to hand, forming makeshift barricades against the rising water. Others scramble to brace the supports with thick planks and ropes. The sense of urgency is thick in the air—a collective panic held together by sheer effort.

Your eyes sweep across the scene, landing on the worst of it: a section near the center where water has begun seeping aggressively through a cracked segment, the pressure clearly mounting.

“There,” Pure Vanilla says, releasing your hand to point. “That’s where we’ll be needed most. Can you handle the bags?”

You nod, though your leg protests already, and begin limping toward the stack of heavy burlap sacks, each one slick and heavy with moisture. You grit your teeth again, pushing through the pain. You weren’t about to let a little injury keep you from helping.

As you haul the first bag into your arms, cold rain sliding down your back, you steal a glance at Pure Vanilla. He’s already organizing others, sleeves soaked, hair clinging to his face as he calls out calmly over the noise.

“There’s no way that thing is going to hold!” you shout, voice cracking as you whip around to Pure Vanilla, rain soaking every inch of your clothes. You can barely hear yourself over the howling wind and roaring river.

Pure Vanilla’s usually calm face is twisted with frustration, lips drawn into a thin line, eyes scanning the dam. His drenched robes cling to him, his hair plastered to his face, the glow of his staff dim against the storm.

“We have to try!” he yells back, urgency in his tone. “If that dam breaks, it could wipe out the entire village!”

Your heart pounds. You bite back a curse and turn, grabbing another heavy sandbag with both arms, staggering beneath its weight as water rushes around your ankles. Pure Vanilla moves in the opposite direction, collecting planks of wood, his hands shaking not from fear but sheer exhaustion.

The dam groans under the strain. The leaks worsen.

Then—

A brilliant white flash explodes in your vision, so close you feel the heat on your face. The deafening crack of lightning strikes the earth just yards from where you stand. Your body jolts from the shock and instinctively you throw yourself backward, landing hard on the slick, muddy ground. Pain jolts through your tailbone and leg, breath knocked from your lungs.

Everything rings. The thunder follows like an explosion inside your skull.

Dazed, you blink rapidly, trying to gather your senses. Mud cakes your arms and face, and the sky above seems to swirl in chaotic spirals. A hand grabs you—one of the villagers, eyes wide and face streaked with rain.

“Are you alright?!” they shout, barely audible through the downpour.

You nod weakly and let them help you to your feet, your leg screaming in protest. The world feels muffled, the chaos of voices, pounding rain, and whipping wind blending together into a mess of noise. You spin around, panic setting in.

Where was Pure Vanilla?

“Pure Vanilla!” you scream, turning wildly in the direction you last saw him. “It’s too late! We need to evacuate everyone!”

But you don’t know if he hears you. He could be anywhere in the fog of rain and panic. Around you, villagers begin abandoning their efforts—dropping bags, tools, even supplies—as they sprint toward their homes, families, and loved ones. Some drag others along, neighbors helping neighbors in a frenzy of survival.

You limp forward, unsure of where you’re going, legs heavy with water and fear. You shove through bodies and stumble past collapsing sandbag walls.

Then—

A deep, terrible creak cuts through the storm like the groan of some ancient beast.

You stop dead in your tracks.

Your head snaps toward the dam.

A long, jagged fracture splits through the center. The wood groans louder, swelling and shuddering under the weight of the water.

“No…” you whisper, dread tightening in your chest.

Your body freezes.

Your legs refuse to move, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest as you stare in wide-eyed horror at the dam. The sound—a sickening, thunderous crack—echoes louder than any storm.

‘Run! Please, move—do something!’ your mind screams, but your limbs are rooted to the spot.

And then—

The dam gives.

An explosive rush of dark, frothing water bursts forth, crashing down the slope like a monstrous wave, devouring everything in its path.

You turn, finally forcing your legs to work, trying to sprint—but it’s already too late.

The roar of water is all you hear before it slams into you, a wall of cold force that throws you like a ragdoll. You scream, “Pure Vanilla! Help me!”—but your voice is instantly swallowed by the surge.

You’re yanked underwater.

It’s like being pulled into the jaws of a beast—your world flips upside down. You thrash and claw at the rushing current, lungs screaming as you fight for the surface. Mud, branches, debris—all of it scratches at your skin as you tumble through the flood, blind and gasping.

Somewhere above the roar, a voice cries out—

“Reader!!”

It’s him.

Pure Vanilla.

You hear him only for a moment, distant and desperate, his voice slicing through the chaos. On the flooded banks, he rushes forward, robes soaked and heavy. His face is pale, terror in his eyes as he searches the torrent for any sign of you.

He makes to jump in—but suddenly, GingerBrave grabs him, wrapping his arms around the older Cookie’s waist, dragging him back.

“You’ll drown too!” the boy cries, straining to hold him.

“Let me go—I have to find them!” Pure Vanilla shouts back, fighting to break free.

But you’re already gone beneath the current.

You claw desperately, lungs burning, panic choking you more than the water. You open your mouth to scream, but only river water rushes in, stealing your air. Your arms flail weakly, reaching for anything, everything.

‘Am I going to die like this?’

The thought hits like a stone in your chest.

Your strength begins to falter. Your body becomes heavy, limbs sluggish. Your vision blurs. The storm above is only flashes of light through the murk. You try one last time—fingertips breach the surface, your mouth gasping in a wheeze of air, but—

CRACK!

Something slams into your head.

Pain erupts. White-hot.

And then—

Darkness.

Cold, numbing, consuming.

The world falls silent.

Chapter Text

A faint flicker of light behind your eyelids stirs you.

You groan softly, the sound barely escaping your parched lips. Your body screams in protest, muscles aching, cuts stinging from the cold breeze that brushes your skin.

‘Am I… alive?’

The question drifts through your dazed mind like a leaf in murky water.

Everything feels heavy. Broken. You can’t remember how long you’ve been lying here—only that it hurts. Everywhere. Your limbs won’t move. Not properly.

A muffled voice filters in, distant and distorted, like you’re submerged underwater.

You blink slowly.

‘I just wanted to sleep…’

Suddenly, a firm push against your side makes you whine out loud, a sharp pang shooting up your ribs. A quiet gasp slips from your lips as you’re rolled onto your back by a pair of careful, but determined hands.

A rush of cold air meets your face. Mud clings to your cheek, grit in your lashes. You blink again, eyes struggling to focus through the haze.

A shadow leans over you.

“Helloooo, is this thing on?” a deep, playful male voice teases, the words paired with a finger tapping mockingly against what appears to be the end of a staff.

He waves a hand in front of your face. Your blurred vision begins to clear just enough for you to make out his silhouette. You can hear the faint creak of leather and the whisper of his clothes brushing the wind. Behind him, the forest is a wreck—trees snapped like twigs, branches scattered, the earth soaked with stormwater and torn open by the flood’s fury.

Then he bends lower, invading your personal space with an amused smirk. His face comes into focus at last.

Deep, inky-black hair falls over part of his face, partially veiling striking violet eyes that seem to glow in the storm-dimmed daylight. He’s pale, his skin a light lavender, and his clothes are sharp—a dark suit trimmed in rich purples, the fabric pristine despite the chaos around him.

He hums at you, tilting his head like you’re a puzzle.

“Well, you’re not dead, that’s a start. You look like hell, though.”

You try to speak but your voice comes out as a hoarse whisper, unintelligible and painful. You manage a blink and a half-hearted glare instead.

“I’ll take that as a ‘thank you for checking on me, mysterious handsome stranger,’” he adds with a dramatic bow, then straightens and rests his staff on his shoulder.

You glance around again, eyes flicking to the ruined landscape. The sky above is still a deep, churning gray, but the rain has slowed to a drizzle. All around you is destruction—the remnants of the flood that nearly claimed your life

“Since you are alive,” the boy scoffs, but his tone isn’t as cold as the words imply.

His hand moves with surprising care, slipping behind your head and lifting you into a sitting position. Pain lances through your back and ribs as you shift, and a broken sound—half gasp, half groan—tears from your throat. Instinctively, your hand shoots out, grabbing onto his bicep for stability.

His arm is firm, steady, and warm through the thin fabric of his dark coat. Your fingers clutch desperately as your vision swims and your head pounds with each heartbeat. A low hum rings in your ears, the aftershock of the trauma and exhaustion making the world tilt.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asks bluntly, irritation lacing his words like barbed wire. He looks down at you with narrowed violet eyes, waiting for an answer you can’t form.

You just blink at him, dazed. Confused. Lost.

With a dramatic groan, he pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, “Unbelievable…”

The exhaustion, the pain, the sting in your leg and chest, the dampness clinging to your skin, the complete disorientation—it all presses in at once. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes before you can stop them. Your lip trembles as you suck in a shaky breath.

You don’t even know why it’s happening. You just… can’t hold it in anymore.

His eyes widen slightly as he notices. “H-Hey! Don’t do that—” he sputters, shifting his weight awkwardly. His confident, sarcastic exterior cracks like brittle glass. “Why are you crying?!”

You try to speak, but a sob escapes instead. Your face scrunches in frustration, your hand curling into a weak fist against his arm. Anger bubbles up behind the tears—anger at the pain, the fear, the unknown, at him for being sharp-tongued when everything hurts.

“I’m in pain and I have no idea where I am! I’m allowed to cry!” you snap, or at least try to—but your voice cracks midway, the words breaking apart like fragile glass.

Your throat burns. Your chest tightens. The sharp sting of your tears mingles with the frustration boiling in your veins. You glare up at him through blurred vision, your lips trembling and your fists clenched against the ache spreading through your body.

The boy flinches—not physically, but in the way his face falters, like your words had landed deeper than he expected. His usual air of indifference breaks. The confident smirk, the dry sarcasm—it all slips away.

He looks at you, eyes wide and uncertain, and for a moment, there’s just silence between you, save for the wind brushing through the battered forest and the distant rumble of storm clouds overhead.

Then, wordlessly, he pushes to his feet and turns away.

You watch, still scowling through your tears, as he walks a short distance to what looks like a weathered canvas bag partially hidden under a fallen branch. He kneels beside it and digs through the contents, his movements sharp, purposeful.

You blink as you catch the glint of plastic and metal—a small first aid kit, a few water bottles, and what looks like an emergency blanket. He scoops them all up in one arm before walking back toward you, his steps quieter now, more measured.

He crouches down beside you again, a subtle tension in his jaw as he eyes the injuries on your leg. Without a word, he sets everything down, then gently—surprisingly gently—wraps an arm around your middle.

“Alright,” he mutters, barely audible above the wind, “up we go.”

You gasp as he helps lift you, the pain in your leg flaring with the movement. Your knee buckles instantly, and you instinctively reach for him, grabbing onto his coat as your weight shifts into his side. He tightens his hold without hesitation, steadying you against him.

His frame is lean but strong, and though his touch is careful, there’s a strange steadiness to him now—a quiet patience beneath the irritation you’d seen before.

You don’t speak, and neither does he, as he guides you toward a drier patch of ground sheltered beneath a thick tangle of trees. The canopy above blocks some of the misting rain, and the soft earth below is mercifully free of sharp stones and broken branches.

He lowers you slowly, helping you sink down onto the ground. Your breath catches at the pain in your calf, but the relief of resting again dulls the sharpest edge.

Then, without ceremony, he kneels beside you and begins laying out the supplies.

You watch him, still sniffling, your body trembling slightly from shock and cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, but his hands move with purpose as he pops open the first aid kit, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, and a clean cloth.

“I’m not great at this either,” he mutters under his breath, not looking at you. “The whole… people thing.”

You don’t respond, your throat still too raw for words, but you keep your eyes on him.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel worse,” he adds, glancing at you sideways. “You’re right. You’re allowed to cry.”

There’s an awkward beat, but somehow it doesn’t feel as sharp as before. He picks up the cloth and one of the water bottles, cracking the seal before dampening it.

“This is gonna sting,” he warns softly.

You brace yourself as he begins cleaning the wound on your leg, and true to his word, it does sting—sharp and biting. You hiss, your hands curling into the fabric of your pants. But he works carefully, his touch surprisingly deft, eyes focused on his task.

“Who are you?” you rasp out, voice thin and raw. “And… why are you helping me?”

The boy—no, the stranger—pauses mid-motion. His violet eyes flick to your face, sharp and unreadable, scanning the bruises blooming along your cheeks and the gash above your brow that was still weeping blood. His gaze lingers there for a heartbeat, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“My name is Black Sapphire,” he replies flatly, tone devoid of warmth or interest.

That was it. No follow-up. No explanation.

Your brows knit faintly. That wasn’t what you’d asked—but it became clear he had no intention of answering your second question. He busied himself again, shifting down toward your injured calf with a sigh that sounded half-annoyed, half-weary.

His hand, gloved in black fabric, slipped carefully around your ankle. The pressure was featherlight, but your body flinched at the contact. You couldn’t help it—every muscle ached, and the deep, ugly cut along your leg pulsed with pain.

“Hold still,” he muttered.

You winced as he tilted your leg slightly to get a better look, fingers cool against your overheated skin. He gave another low sigh, more tired than frustrated this time.

“This might need stitches,” he said at last, tone grumbling, as if the fact annoyed him on a personal level. “I don’t have what’s needed for that.”

You nodded faintly, teeth sinking into your lower lip as he reached for the last bottle of water. The moment the cool liquid met your torn flesh, you cried out, the sting a fresh wave of torment across your nerves.

“Sh—! That burns,” you hissed, swearing under your breath as your hands clenched into the damp grass beneath you.

“Yeah. That means it’s working,” he deadpanned, not unkindly, but not exactly comfortingly either.

With practiced efficiency, he reached for a small stack of bandages from the kit. You could tell it wasn’t his first time doing this—his movements were swift, focused. He pressed two large butterfly bandages across the open edges of the wound, trying to pull it closed without stitches. His jaw tightened at the sight of how deep it still gaped.

Not ideal, you could tell. But it would have to do.

Next came the gauze, thick and sterile. He packed it tightly around the makeshift closure, then wrapped the injury in a clean roll of bandaging, winding it securely up your shin until the leg looked like a pale cast.

“Hold still,” he said again, voice a little softer this time as he fastened it.

Once finished, he sat back on his heels and gently patted the side of your leg—more to test the wrap than to comfort, you guessed. But the touch was… not unpleasant.

“That should be good enough for now,” he muttered, pushing to his feet with a groan, brushing his hands on his coat. His long coat swayed with the motion, droplets of water flicking off the hem as the misting rain began to fall again.

Then, without looking at you, he grabbed the last water bottle from the ground and tossed it into your lap. It thumped against your thigh.

“Drink it,” he ordered. “You lost blood. You’re gonna feel worse if you don’t.”

‘Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,’ you think with a sarcastic twist in your mind, but the cold liquid rushing down your throat is the only thing saving you from dizziness. You swallow gratefully, your headache dulling just enough for the world to stop spinning.

Before you can pull the bottle away, Black Sapphire jerks at your bicep like a marionette. You lurch to your feet, knees unsteady at first, but you manage to find your footing. Each step brings a hot pain in your calf, but you bite back a curse and grind through it.

You look at him, utterly confused. Why is he dragging you upright like some unruly pet? His face, already starchy, flashes with outright impatience.

“I’m taking you to my master,” he says, slinging his canvas bag over one shoulder. He continues forward, boots squelching in the wet earth, heading into the dense forest just beyond the small clearing.

Your heart skips.

“Your master?“ you whisper, incredulous, planting your feet like a stubborn child refusing to go to bed.

He stops, pivots on a heel, and his expression fractures into pure irritation.

“What are you doing? Did you not hear me?” he snaps, voice rising above the dripping hush of the woods.

You fold your arms across your chest, fire igniting in your chest—pain and exhaustion forgotten for the moment. The water trickles down your front, dampening your clothes as your anger bubbles up.

“Who do you think you are, ordering me like I’m a tool?” you retort, sarcasm rippling beneath your words. You lean forward just enough to make your point—strong and surprising, even to yourself.

His jaw tightens. He stares at you like you’re an annoying fly, but there’s something guarded in his violet gaze—something wary, even. This isn’t the helpless, snarky you of earlier. He’s met your fire.

For one bruised, drenched moment, you both stand in the hush between raindrops, chest-heaving and silent.

Finally, he straightens, shaking out his coat as if trying to shed this confrontation. Then he breathes, just a whisper: “Come. Or I’ll have to carry you.”

Carry you. The idea of being dragged off by a stranger—his master’s guest or whatever the hell that meant—sends a fresh wave of dread through your gut.

“Why would I go with you?” you sneered, chest tightening with a mix of anger and sorrow. The memories of Pure Vanilla and the others—the strange, kind faces that had become your fragile anchors—flooded through your mind like a bittersweet ache. Their warmth felt a universe away from this cold, sharp stranger.

A pang of sadness twisted deep in your gut. They must be worried about me. Maybe even searching. The thought alone was enough to make your throat tighten.

Black Sapphire groaned, a low, exasperated sound that didn’t mask the menace in his voice. “Don’t be stubborn. I’ll drag you if I have to.”

His tone was a warning—and a promise.

“My master requested I bring you to him,” he continued, voice dropping even lower, the words practically a growl. “So that’s what I’ll do.”

You refused to look away. Eye contact became a silent battle. You wouldn’t show fear. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

A cruel smirk flickered across his lips—twisted, almost sadistic. You felt a shiver run down your spine as if cold steel had brushed your skin. There was something dangerous lurking behind those purple eyes, something that didn’t belong to the man helping patch your wounds.

“Why does it even matter where we’re going?” he taunted, voice dripping with scorn. “You’re all alone anyway.”

The words hit like a slap.

Your heart thundered in your chest as your lip curled into a growl, fury flaring bright and hot.

“I have friends,” you snapped back, voice cracking but filled with defiance. “And they’re probably out there right now, looking for me.”

He rolled his eyes, dismissive and unimpressed.

“Your wounds are days old,” he scoffed. “Your ‘friends’ probably left you for dead.”

You stared at him, breath catching in your throat, bewilderment crashing over you like a tidal wave. The bitterness in his words cut deep—deeper than any physical pain.

A silence stretched between you, heavy and thick, filled with unspoken fears and clashing wills.

This guy doesn’t even know me. The thought echoed sharply in your mind. Who does he think he is, talking like he knows my story? But beneath the surge of anger and defiance, a gnawing doubt settled in your gut—had it really been days? Days since you’d collapsed, days since your world had slipped away.

Black Sapphire shook his head, as if reading your turmoil. “Look,” he said, voice low but steady, “would you rather be left out here, alone, or actually have a bed to sleep in?” His eyebrow lifted challengingly, waiting for your answer.

You lowered your gaze, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you like a physical thing. Without a word, you began walking toward him. He nodded once, then fell into step ahead of you. The silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the crunch of leaves beneath your boots and the occasional glance he cast your way. Black Sapphire said nothing more.

Hours slipped past as you trudged forward, the sun gradually dipping toward the horizon. The sky was a brilliant canvas of orange and gold, streaked with fading clouds. When you finally stopped, you found a sturdy tree and sank down against its rough bark, grateful for the rest. Black Sapphire settled beside you, pulling from his bag a handful of fruits and half a sandwich, which you accepted gratefully.

You chewed thoughtfully, then mumbled, “Who is your master? And why does he want to see me?”

His eyes flicked up, briefly meeting yours. There was something unreadable in his gaze, like a secret weighing heavily on him. Then, without another word, he looked away toward the dimming sky.

“My master,” he began slowly, voice almost reluctant, “knows all truth and deceit. Why he wishes to see you, I’m unsure. Perhaps… pity.” His words hung in the air.

You deadpanned back, unable to resist the jab despite the tension. A teasing grin spread across Black Sapphire’s face, clearly pleased by your irritation.

You grumble, shoving the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth with a bit of impatience. Truth and deceit. Odd. The words echo in your mind, twisting and turning like tangled threads you can’t quite unravel. Black Sapphire rises smoothly to his feet, the tails of his coat flaring behind him like dark wings unfurling in the fading light. The sharp lines of his silhouette seem almost otherworldly against the soft glow of the moon.

“Ready to go?” he asks, voice clipped but expectant.

You huff, crossing your arms and flexing your sore legs. “My legs are sore. We’ve been walking all day.”

Black Sapphire scoffs, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not carrying you. And I don’t want to sleep out here tonight.” Without waiting for a proper answer, he grabs your wrist and hauls you to your feet. You don’t resist — you let him drag you forward, the cool night air swirling around you both as you trudge on.

The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the world cloaked in shadows. Above, stars twinkle like distant fires strewn across an endless, dark velvet canvas. The moon casts a gentle, silvery glow that bathes the trees and path in soft light, comforting yet haunting.

A sudden pang of sadness twists deep in your gut. You think of Pure Vanilla, of the quiet nights spent watching stars with him. How he would point out constellations, weaving their stories like spells in the dark. I miss him. I miss all of them. The ache settles heavy in your chest.

You swear softly under your breath, the word slipping out like a secret curse carried away by the night wind.

“Damn.”

Black Sapphire’s boots crunched against the dry leaves and soil as he walked a step ahead of you, but your quiet curse hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He turned his head, the silver gleam of moonlight catching in his violet eyes as he glanced at you over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable — not mockingly smug, not cruel, just… watching. Listening.

You avoided his gaze immediately, sharply turning your head away. The shame crept up your spine before you could stop it. You hadn’t meant for him to hear. He doesn’t get to hear that.

They wouldn’t leave me. They wouldn’t, you told yourself — but your thoughts were uncertain, weighed down by the fog of days passed and the lack of familiar, comforting voices.

Would they? Would they still be looking?

You felt the sting of salt behind your eyes again, and this time you blinked hard, refusing to cry in front of him. Not again. Not when the wounds on your body had only just started to scab over.

Black Sapphire didn’t say anything. He didn’t snort in mockery, didn’t throw more of his sharp-edged words. Instead, he faced forward again. His pace never faltered, but you could tell — his silence was different.

He knew he’d gotten to you. That his words — reckless and callous — had struck deeper than he’d probably intended. Rumors are powerful things, and he knew from experience just how quickly uncertainty could take root in a weakened heart. Still, seeing you limping behind him, bruised and battered, dragging your feet in silence… a faint coil of guilt twisted in his stomach.

He clenched his jaw and forced the feeling down. Weakness. That’s what empathy was, wasn’t it? He didn’t need to feel bad for a stranger. You were just some battered soul caught in the wrong place. His master had given an order — that’s what mattered.

Still, he didn’t push the pace any faster. Whether it was pity, or something else, even he couldn’t say.

Ahead, the trees began to thin. The path ahead bent toward a distant flicker of warm light — a camp, or maybe the edge of something larger. But behind you, beneath the glow of stars, a part of your heart still looked for someone — anyone — to call your name.

And Black Sapphire walked on, not looking back again.

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 Your legs felt like jelly.

The dull ache in your shin had morphed into a deep, insistent throb, a reminder of every painful step you’d taken. The soreness had spread to your hips, your shoulders, even your fingers, stiff from holding your balance as you limped along behind Black Sapphire. Everything hurt, and the silence didn’t help.

Black Sapphire wasn’t exactly the chatty type. Not unless he was making some sarcastic jab or bossing you around. So, to fill the void, you let your mind drift — back to your friends, to the way Pure Vanilla used to hum softly under his breath when he healed someone… to the way Strawberry Cookie would tug nervously at her hoodie strings when the weather got too loud.

You were so lost in your own world that you didn’t notice that Black Sapphire had stopped walking.

Whump.

You bumped directly into him, a quiet grunt escaping you as your forehead tapped between his shoulder blades.

“Ugh—” he groaned, annoyed.

You took a startled step back, blinking up at him with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Kinda zoned out.”

He didn’t respond — just shot you a scowl over his shoulder. But then your attention shifted beyond him, and all thoughts of awkward apologies vanished.

Your mouth parted in awe.

There, rising from the quiet hush of the overgrown woods, stood a castle — or what had once been a magnificent one. Time and nature had both claimed it in parts, but it hadn’t lost its elegance. Its towering spires were dusted in moonlight, hues of soft ivory and faded blue glinting beneath tangled vines. The walls, though cracked in places, stood tall and proud. Wisps of ivy crept along the stone, like green veins feeding life back into its tired bones.

It was hauntingly beautiful — the kind of place you’d expect to see in a dream. Not real, but there it was.

Along the outer walls, wild rose bushes had grown unchecked, their thorny limbs curling over ancient marble. Some bloomed red, others pale pink, and some petals had long since dried to a dusky gray. What had once been a garden — you could still make out the circular stone path and remnants of iron benches — now lay in gentle ruin, reclaimed by moss and time.

You took a breath and felt the air shift. Despite the decay, it didn’t feel lifeless. The castle felt… watchful, as though it remembered every footstep that had once echoed inside its halls.

Black Sapphire’s voice cut through your wonder. “Welcome to Castle of deceit,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at you again, though his tone lacked his usual sarcasm. “It’s not much anymore, but it’s home. And more importantly — where my master is.”

You nodded slowly, still soaking in the sight. You couldn’t look away — it was haunting, mysterious… and strangely comforting. Your eyes drifted up to one of the tallest towers, a flicker of golden candlelight glinting faintly from a narrow window.

Someone was waiting.

And somehow, you had the feeling they already knew you were coming.

“Whoa,” you breathed, eyes wide as you took in the towering castle before you. There was an almost reverent hush in your tone — as if even speaking too loud might disturb something ancient sleeping in the stone.

Black Sapphire simply nodded, as if he’d seen it a thousand times. Maybe he had. With a tilt of his head, he gestured toward the enormous doors before you — carved from dark wood, etched with swirling patterns of silver filigree. It took a push from your good leg and both arms to move them. They creaked loudly, like a yawn from the past.

Inside, the castle looked nothing like its weathered exterior.

Warm light from wall sconces cast a golden glow across tall corridors. The floors were dressed in elaborate rugs, woven in deep reds and purples, thick enough to muffle your steps. Oil paintings lined the walls — portraits of figures you didn’t recognize, all regal and cold-eyed, their gazes following you with every step. Velvet drapes framed high, arched windows, though most were shuttered closed. It was like walking into a palace suspended in time.

Your awe was short-lived.

SLAM!

You yelped and spun around, your breath catching in your throat as the great doors behind you slammed shut on their own — so forcefully the walls trembled faintly. Your heart skipped a beat.

You took a step backward, eyes darting to the doors. No visible mechanism. No wind. Just… sealed.

Your gaze snapped to where Black Sapphire had been behind you moments ago, but he was no longer at your side. Somehow, he now stood further down the corridor, his figure half-shrouded by torchlight.

A sharp smile curled on his lips.

“Welcome to Master Shadow Milk’s domain,” he announced, his voice formal and laced with amusement. He gave a theatrical bow, one hand pressed over his chest, the other sweeping dramatically to the side.

A chill crept up your spine. That smile… It was too wide. Too pleased. Something about this wasn’t right.

‘This was a bad idea,’ your mind whispered urgently.

Before you could respond, a high-pitched giggle echoed through the hall like a bell rolling off-key. The sound made your shoulders jump.

From a side hallway, a blur of movement. Then — a girl bounded into view, her steps light and full of childlike energy. She stopped beside Black Sapphire with a dramatic spin on her heels and a skip.

She was small — maybe no older than thirteen — dressed in a gaudy, frilled jester-inspired outfit. Deep reds and black with white accents. Her dress bounced as she moved, layered in lace and ribbons. Her hair, tied into two puffy twin tails that looked like apples, bobbed with each step. Her cheeks were rouged, her eyes wide and playful… and yet something about her expression screamed danger.

“Geez!” she cackled, slapping Black Sapphire’s arm before leaning toward you. “You’re even dumber than I thought!” Her laughter was sharp, almost unhinged, and she doubled over with glee, clutching her sides.

You scowled, the sting of her insult cutting through your growing discomfort.

“Nice to meet you too,” you muttered under your breath, crossing your arms as you shifted your weight — careful not to aggravate your injured leg.

The girl twirled again and dropped into a mocking curtsy. “Awww, don’t be mad! We’ve just been waiting for you!” Her tone turned sing-song near the end, eyes gleaming like a cat’s in the dark.

You turned a wary eye back to Black Sapphire. His smile had faded now into something more neutral — unreadable. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to defend you or scold the girl.

And that silence? That unsettled you more than her giggling.

“…What is this place?” you asked cautiously, stepping back a little toward the wall. “Why did your ‘master’ want me brought here?”

The girl gasped dramatically, her hands flying to her cheeks. “Ohhh, you didn’t tell them?” She looked at Black Sapphire like a child catching her sibling in a lie. “Ooooh, that’s so evil, I love it!”

“I told them what they needed to hear,” Black Sapphire replied coolly, folding his arms. “The rest… the master will share himself.”

The girl’s grin widened, and she pointed further down the corridor, where the shadows thickened into a long hallway that seemed to stretch forever. 

“Weren’t you taught not to trust strangers?!” the girl taunted, her voice singsong and scolding as she waggled a finger in your face, mockingly.

You rolled your eyes and folded your arms tight across your chest. The ache in your shoulders and the throb in your shin didn’t help your mood. “Who said I trusted him?” you snapped back, cocking a brow. “I just didn’t wanna sleep outside and get eaten by wolves or something.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

The girl blinked at your retort, her mouth parting as if surprised. She paused for a moment, crossing her arms to mirror your posture with an exaggerated pout. Her brows furrowed deeply, as though concentrating really hard on looking offended.

But then — just as quickly — her face lit up again, her entire demeanor flipping like a switch. She burst into another fit of high-pitched giggles, covering her mouth with her lace-gloved hand. You frowned. There was something deeply unsettling about how fast her mood shifted, like her personality was a roulette wheel constantly in spin.

You barely had time to question the oddity of it before—

“My, my, my! Aren’t you spunky!”

The words came from behind you — playful, melodic, and yet something about them scraped against your nerves like a blade over bone. Your body locked up. The hairs on the back of your neck rose. Cold dread spiderwebbed across your chest as though someone had poured ice water into your lungs.

Your breath hitched. Fight or flight.

Every instinct screamed at you to run. To hide. To do anything but turn around. And yet… you did.

Slowly, you turned.

And found yourself nose-to-nose with a stranger — a man who stood so close you could see the reflection of your own startled expression in his eyes.

You gasped, your whole body flinching violently at the proximity. His grin was wide. Too wide. Etched into his face like it had been carved there, permanent and unnatural. There was something… off in the curve of his lips — too gleeful, too perfect. His skin was a pale blue, smooth like porcelain, and his hair was multicolored with blues and black, waving wildly ust past his shoulders.

But it was his eyes that truly stole your breath.

Icy and sharp, two-toned in color — the left eye a glacial, pale blue, the right a deeper, stormy indigo. Unblinking. Too focused. Like he was drinking in every twitch of your expression.

you yelped, stumbling back instinctively, heart pounding against your ribs like a caged animal. Your heel caught on the rug beneath you, and you went down with a sharp thud, landing hard on your rear. Pain flared in your hip and leg, but the ache was second to the terror clawing up your spine.

The man watched you fall with an amused tilt of his head, the smile never leaving his face — if anything, it grew.

Black Sapphire didn’t move.

The girl? She let out a delighted cackle, spinning in place like a dancer at a circus.

You scooted back across the floor until your hand hit a wall behind you, your breath ragged.

The man finally moved, taking a single step forward. His shoes clicked sharply against the stone floor — far too loud in the quiet hall. He bent slightly at the waist, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as he spoke.

“I do apologize,” he cooed. “I just couldn’t help myself. You looked so lost.”

His tone was rich with something you couldn’t quite place — part charm, part venom. He reached a hand toward you as though to help you up, but every alarm in your mind blared danger. His fingernails were sharp — black and filed to a fine point.

You didn’t take his hand.

Instead, you fixed him with your best glare, trying to hide the way your body trembled. “Who… who are you?” you asked, voice quiet but firm.

The man’s smile twitched, like he was delighted by your fear. “You may call me Master Shadow Milk,” he replied smoothly. “Though I do hope, in time, we’ll grow close enough for nicknames.”

Black Sapphire finally stepped forward, stopping beside the man with his usual stoic expression — though you noticed his posture was stiffer than before.

“You wanted them brought here,” he said, voice clipped. “They’re yours now.”

Shadow Milk let out a pleased hum, his eyes never leaving you. “Indeed,” he whispered, as though savoring the word.

He was tall. Too tall.

You’d encountered plenty of people on your journey—warriors, kings, even mythical creatures—but this man loomed over you like a monolith. You barely reached his chest, and the closer he stood, the more his presence overwhelmed the space, like he was suffocating the air around him just by existing.

Your heart pounded furiously in your chest. The sound filled your ears like war drums, drowning out everything else. Your limbs felt cold, yet your body burned with the urgency to move, to run, to flee.

‘Run. You need to run.’

You didn’t wait to see what he or anyone else would do.

Panic surged like a tidal wave as you scrambled to your feet, your boots slipping slightly against the polished floor. Your body ached in protest—your injured leg screaming—but fear dulled the pain. You spun on your heel and ran, bolting down the hallway without a clue where it led.

You didn’t care.

Anywhere was better than here.

The chilling sound of high-pitched giggling echoed behind you, bouncing off the grand stone walls in unnatural echoes. It wasn’t human—none of this felt human.

You didn’t dare look back.

The corridor twisted and turned, your feet slamming into the ornate rugs and cold stone with erratic rhythm. Your lungs burned, your throat dry from gasping breath after breath. Shadows danced along the corridor, lit only by flickering sconces lining the walls.

‘There has to be an exit somewhere!’

Your mind raced with every step, trying to stay ahead of the fear threatening to paralyze you. The hallways seemed to stretch endlessly, unfamiliar and maze-like, as though the castle itself was alive and toying with you.

Then—like a divine answer to your desperate prayer—you saw it.

A large, arched window. The curtains danced in the wind. Open.

Freedom.

Relief flooded your chest so quickly it almost made you dizzy. You threw yourself toward it, hand outstretched. The moonlight spilled through the opening, casting silver light across the tiled floor. You could practically taste the cool night air now.

Just a few more feet.

Almost there.

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you, but you felt something shift in the air—a drop in temperature, the weight of eyes locking onto your back, the press of something wrong crawling up your spine.

And then—

A low voice, like velvet soaked in poison, spoke from the darkness behind you:

“Oh no, no, little mouse. We don’t run from hospitality.”

Your blood ran cold.

Before your fingertips could so much as graze the edge of the window frame, a sudden burning pain ripped through your ankle.

You screamed.

Your body slammed face-first into the cold, unforgiving tile. Stars burst behind your eyes as your cheek met the stone with a sickening crack. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe—the pain in your head blurred everything. Your ears rang violently, muffling the world into a low, distant thrum.

When the disorientation cleared just enough, you gasped and twisted around to see what had grabbed you.

A thin, glowing blue string—sharp like wire and humming with unnatural energy—was tightly coiled around your ankle. You watched in horror as small beads of blood bubbled from where it cut into your skin, the tension so strong it dug deep through flesh. The longer you struggled, the deeper it bit. Every twitch of your leg sent fresh waves of searing pain coursing up your body.

Then you heard it.

The slow, deliberate click… clack… click of heels striking tile. Steady. Measured. Confident.

You looked up just in time to see him—that man, the one with the sickeningly sweet voice and cruel smile—emerge from the shadows again. His grin had stretched impossibly wider, teeth flashing in the dim glow of the castle’s sconces.

“Aren’t you fun,” he purred, voice curling through the air like smoke.

You snarled and yanked at your trapped leg, hands clawing at the string, but it only made things worse. The wire tightened in response, slicing deeper. Blood began to pool, soaking your pant leg and leaving a trail on the floor. A hiss of agony slipped through your gritted teeth.

He tilted his head to the side like an intrigued predator watching its prey wriggle.

“Oh, don’t stop now,” he cooed mockingly. “I do love it when they fight.”

Then, without warning, his hand lashed out and grabbed your face.

You gasped as his fingers clamped around your jaw—thumb digging into your cheek, fingers pressing cruelly into your skin until your mouth was forced open. His grip was strong, unforgiving, making it impossible to speak or breathe properly.

His eyes, twin pools of mismatched blue, flicked over your expression with cold delight.

Tears welled at the corners of your eyes—not just from the pain, but from fear, anger, helplessness. The humiliation of being trapped like this. The ache of betrayal. The desperate ache for someone—anyone—to come save you.

He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking your face slightly as if scolding a pet.

“Here I was going to gracefully welcome you for not causing problems,” he cooed mockingly, tilting his head with a theatrical sigh. His long fingers danced through the air dramatically, as if addressing a crowd on stage. “But nooo, you just had to run.” His grin sharpened. “Oh well. Can’t have an interesting show without a little improv, right?”

You scowled, trying to twist your face away from his hand, but his grip was like iron—his fingers digging in beneath your jaw, locking your head in place. You could feel the bruises forming. You tried to look anywhere but his face, but your gaze kept being dragged back, helplessly, magnetically.

Then… you saw it.

His eyes—those eerie, dual-toned orbs of blue—began to move. The colors rippled and churned, spiraling like storm clouds caught in a whirlpool. The motion was unnatural, too fluid for any normal eye. It was like staring into a void trying to mimic the sea. You tried to pull your gaze away, but his fingers tightened painfully on your chin, holding you fast.

“Don’t look away,” he whispered, the edge in his voice sending a shiver through your entire body. “This is the best part.”

Your heart thundered in your ears. You tried to resist—tried to clench your eyes shut—but it was like something invisible was prying your eyelids open. Your lashes fluttered, your body twitching in protest… but it was no use.

The world around you started to blur.

The castle walls wavered like heat haze, the colors melting into each other. Your breath grew shallow, every inhale more difficult than the last. Your body felt heavy—your limbs like lead. You tried to move, to speak, to scream—but only a whimper escaped.

His eyes devoured everything.

‘No… no no no…’ you thought in panic, fighting against the wave of cold crawling up your spine.

Your muscles sagged.

Your vision dimmed.

Your heartbeat pounded one final time like a war drum before it, too, seemed to fade into silence.

‘I’m getting really sick of passing out…’

That bitter thought echoed through your mind just before darkness swallowed you whole—heavy, complete, and cold as death.

Chapter Text

You blink as the lights of dawn bake against your face, groaning as you roll over. Sleep still clouds your mind. You are comfortably wrapped in a plush comforter, smiling as you nestle farther into your blanket. 

‘ Wait…’

You jump up from your position, head whirling around to see your surroundings. ‘Where am I?’ 

Memories from the day before flood your head, you throw the covers off of your form looking over the damage your body endured. You cringe at the sight of your battered body, you look around the room. It was a large room, clean with random decorations scattered throughout. You take notice you are still in your dirt caked clothes, you scrunch your nose at the smell once it hits you. You look over and notice a small doorway, slowly you tiptoe towards the doorway. You glance inside and see a bathroom, it’s simple but it has soaps and a shower. You shut the door of the bathroom and lock it.

You look over towards a mirror and catch a glimpse of your appearance, your face is covered in grime and you have dark circles under your eyes. You start pacing the bathroom attempting to think of what to do next. 

‘ I need to figure out how to get out of here, something feels very off,’  before you can continue your escape plans you catch another glimpse of the shower. Its mere existence calls to your battered and dirty body, you groan and begin to search for a towel. ‘ Wanting to be clean won’t hurt anything’ you attempt to reason with yourself, you find a pair of dark blue fluffy towels neatly folded in the cabinet underneath the sink. 

Your hand wraps around the handle to turn on the shower, you sit idly as the water warms up. As soon as the water hits your skin your body relaxes, you soak in the warm water and just breathe for a moment. Slowly you begin to scrub the grime from your skin, ignoring the sting of your injuries. You stayed in the shower for what felt like forever not wishing to leave and face what was outside. You step out of the shower wrapping yourself in a fluffy towel as the cool air nips at your exposed skin. You redress in the clothes you find within the wardrobe of your room, you don’t question who they belonged to, just grateful to have some clean clothes. It’s a simple black t-shirt and a pair of cargo pants, but they fit which is what matters.

You sit back on the comfortable bed and stare at the large door to exit the safety of the room you’re in, silently debating on climbing back in bed to sleep forever. You sigh knowing there’s only one option, your eyes scan the room for anything that can be used as a weapon. You catch the sight of a lamp. ‘ Not the best option, but it’s all I’ve got’ you grumble to yourself, your hands grip the lamp tightly as you gently push the door open. You peek your head out attempting to catch sight of anyone, you would rather not have to fight your way out. You slowly shuffle out of the room walking quietly down the hallways that seem to stretch on forever.

The never ending hallway makes you groan in frustration. ‘Why does this have to be so complicated’ you finally find some stairs and begin to descend downwards, your memories from the day before are fuzzy and you don’t quite remember the way you came in. The soft padding of feet catches your attention, you stiffen and grip your lamp. Right before you prepare to swing, a familiar face rounds the corner. You catch the sight of raven black hair. 

”Oh you’re awake” black sapphire comments, your face becomes sharp, brows furrowing. Black sapphire doesn’t react to your clear detest, he stands still lazily fidgeting with the bracelets around his wrist.

”Let me go right now.” You demand, your blood boils. You just wanted to get back to your friends. Black sapphire deadpanned at your demand, clearly unamused. He scoffs at you before speaking up, “No can do, master shadow milk says you must stay here” you look at him bewildered, why the hell would you care what he says. “And why the hell would I care?” You bark back, black sapphire arches a brow at you and gestures towards a large pair of doors. 

“Go ahead, try to leave” he challenges. Frustration begins to boil in your gut, you turn to walk away. You stomp towards the large doors you had first come in, you yank and kick at the doors to no avail. You ignore as black sapphire leans against a nearby wall clearly enjoying your struggles. 

”God why do you even need me here” you screech turning to face him, black sapphire crosses his arms across his chest and stares you down. Your face was red with anger, you just wanted to leave. What had you done to deserve this? “Look it’s not my business to know why, master knows best so ask him if you wanna know so bad,” black sapphire scoffs before turning and walking away. “Like hell I’m gonna talk to that thing!” You shout back at him but it falls on deaf ears.

You lean against the large doors slowly sinking to the ground, hot tears pricked at your eyes. You wrap your arms around your knees, burying your face in them. Your shoulders shook as you began to cry, you kicked yourself for crying but everything was to much.

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You grunt as you throw yourself against a window. Your shoulder throbbed, which you swore under your breath over. You refused to give up and wallow so you began trying anything.

So far nothing has worked…

You threw your makeshift weapon against the large window to no luck, which had led to you throwing yourself at the window. Your shoulder was definitely going to be bruised due to the abuse. You yelled and sweared in frustration, before you could begin again a low chuckle could be heard from behind.

”You really don’t give up now do you” 

You whip around to see the one they called shadow milk cookie, he was leaned against his cane observing your pathetic attempts at escape. Your blood ran cold at his mere presence, your gut told you he was unsafe. You take a step back attempting to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. He giggled at your fear, finding it amusing. “Now now, there’s no need for all that” he chastised, you narrowed your eyes at him.
 “Fuck off you creep, let me go!” You yelled back as you threw the lamp you had found at his head, you knew picking a fight could put you in a bad position. You were in no condition to fight plus you had no idea what this thing was capable of but your anger got the better of you. He easily dodged the projectile, his face falling, the sadistic smile he once wore leaving his features. You slowly back away till your back is pressed against the window sill. Before you can utter another word a familiar blue string wraps around your throat, it squeezes tightly cutting off your air supply. You claw at the string in hopes of removing it to no avail. You feel as it digs into your skin, crimson beads begin to drip down your throat. Slowly shadow milk cookie begins to walk towards you, his signature smile returned to his face.

”What’s wrong? Can’t breathe” he taunts, you wheeze as it further squeezes your throat. He clicks his tongue at you tapping his finger on his cheek, he grabs his chin in mock thinking. 

“What to do with you? Hm, many wonderful options” 

 “Oh I know! I can rip you limb from limb and turn you into a lovely puppet” he warns, inching closer to your face, your blood ran cold fear seeping into your veins. His eyes glinted, his bloodlust clear. 

”Or! You can play nicely and I may spare your pathetic life. How does that sound?” He hummed, his hand grabbing your face to force your gaze on him. You attempt to nod in hopes he’ll release your throat, you cough as your vision begins to become fuzzy. He stares you down, its expression unreadable. Wordlessly He removes his hand from your face as the strings go slack, you suck in air to your burning lungs. You cough and sputter as your body crumples to the ground, holding your throat you look up at shadow milk. Anger burns in your eyes, eliciting his smile to widen. “Mortals can be so silly” he taunts before turning and walking away. You catch the sight of black sapphire and Shadow milk exchanging words but they are too far away to make out. Black Sapphire’s gaze falls on you, his expression stays blank but you can see pity in his eyes. You stay planted on the floor as you watch shadow milk disappear down the corridor leaving you and black sapphire alone. 

Black sapphire sighs and walks over to you, he stretches his hand to you. You scowl and slap his hand away, “I don’t need your help” you rasp. You grab a hold of the window sill and pull yourself from the ground. “You may want to bandage that” black sapphire’s eye is trained on your throat, you bring your hand to your throat and hiss as you make contact. As you pull your hand away you notice the blood that stains your hand, you grumble to yourself but nod at black sapphire’s words. He begins to walk away, you simply stare at his back unsure what to do. He turns back to you and calls out, “Are you coming or not?” You stare at him bewildered, you place your hands on your hips.

“Last time I followed you anywhere I ended up stuck in this nut house” you snark, he rolls his eyes at you. He continues down the hallway, you speed walk behind him. 

‘I’ve never been known for being smart’ 

You walk down the hallways with him, looking at the various artworks on the walls. It varied from an old man to a beautiful woman, one thing that you notice on all of them. The multicolored blue eyes. You clear your throat catching black sapphire’s attention, “Are all of these Shadow milk?” You question. He turns to look over all the paintings, a small smirk on his lips, “Master shadow milk can take on many forms” he boasts. You roll your eyes at the comment.

Slowly the two of you make your way into what appears to be a library, the walls were lined with thousands of books. Many small sofas and chairs scattered throughout the room, black sapphire walls over to a desk and begins to dig through the drawers. He pulls out a familiar med kit from the desk. “Come. Sit down” he says as he pats the plush chair at the desk, you slowly walk over and sit down. Black sapphire gingerly begins to clean the wound, patting it with antiseptics. He wraps the injury with a thin layer of gauze, he cuts the excess firmly securing the bandage. “Thank you” you whisper, you still were angry with him for bringing you here but you were grateful for his help. 

“This doesn’t mean you're forgiven” you mutter, black sapphire nods. He stands up and begins putting away the supplies, wordlessly he begins to walk away. Before he reaches the door he turns to look over his shoulder, “I don’t want to see you end up dead, don’t pick fights you can’t win” he warns. You blink at his admission, you turn to look away not wishing to give a response. He doesn’t try to talk to you further, he disappears out of the large doors of the library. You sit in silence looking over the hundreds of books. 

                                  •

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You were wandering the halls of the castle unsure what to do. ‘How long am I gonna be stuck here’ you think back to shadow milk’s warning, ‘I don’t know how much I can bank on him keeping me alive’ you were entrapped by your own thoughts not bothering to pay attention to your surroundings, you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of a voice. “Geez your jumpy!” The young girl from the day before chirps at you with a cackle, you groan. 

“Do you want something?” 

She blinks at you and begins to giggle, “Nah, just wanted to talk to you!” You blink at her, clearly surprised at that. “Uh, why?” You inquired, she hums at you and simply keeps pace thinking of her response. 

“Dunno, we don’t get many visitors. So I’d like to talk to you before your turned into a puppet!” She stated, your face fell at the threat of your life. Not exactly sure what you were expecting but it wasn’t that. You sigh and continue walking, she watched you from the corner of her eye allowing you to respond back when you were ready. You take note of her gaze and grumble a response, “Don’t know how i feel about being turned into a puppet.” She shrugs at your response, “Master shadow milk knows best” she concluded.

‘Everyone here seems to look up to him a lot’

“Hey, uh…”

You trailed off realizing you don’t know her name, she perks up realizing the reason for your hesitation. “I’m Candy Apple! What’s your name?” She announced, you blink unsure if telling her the truth is the best idea. ‘Not like they can do anything with my name i guess’ 

“You can call me, Reader” she nods excitedly at that, “So what exactly is shadow milk cookie?” She blinks and you and stops walking, you stop as well turning to look at her. She tilts her head to the side at you, “you really don’t know?” She questions. You shake your head confused as to why you should, she smiles and you and begins to skip forward. “He’s what others call beasts, but here he’s our master!” She cheerfully explains, you silently agree with the term beast but choose to keep that to yourself. You decide to risk it and ask the question that’s been eating at you, “Do you know why I’m here?” 

Candy Apple blinks at you and shrugs, “I don’t remember something to do with pure vanilla” you freeze at that. ‘What could he want with pure vanilla?’ You begin to spiral trying to come up with a reason as to what he would want with him. Your train of thought is interrupted with a loud growl of your stomach, candy apple burst into a fit of laughter at the sound. “Someone’s hungry! It’s a good thing it’s almost dinner time anyway” she announced before grabbing ahold of your hand, her hand was small in yours. Candy Apple reminded you of a little sister, all be it a crazy one. She continued her skipping down the many hallways, she lead the way seemingly having an internal map of the place. 

You turned the corner and she pushed open a large door, you enter in seeing a large kitchen. You catch the smell of something amazing that makes your stomach growl again, catcing attention of the one stood over the stove. Black sapphire turns to face you, his normal attire discarded. He wore a black long sleeve, the sleeves rolled up. Your eyes flick towards the other in the kitchen, shadow milk is sitting on the counter swinging his feet. 

“Hello sweet thing, will you be joining us?” Shadow milk chirps.

You stare at him, unblinking. He acted as if he hadn’t tried to strangle you earlier, ‘what’s with the nickname?’  You were bewildered by his behavior. The complete 180 of his personality made your head spin, he grinned at your confused face. “What’s with the face, hm?” 

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost” he taunts, you catch on he is messing with you. You straighten up shaking off the confusion, “I prefer to eat alone thank you very much” you say in a fake sweet tone, his grin widens at your response. A shiver runs up your spine but you stand your ground, black sapphire glances between the two of you and sighs. Quickly he makes a plate and hands it to you, “I’ll walk you to your room” he states and begins to usher you out. 

“Uh uh, there will be no need for that” Shadow milk calls out, he begins to walk closer to the two of you. The heels of his boots click against the floor, you look to black sapphire unsure what to do. “ I will gladly walk out little guest, unless they wish to find their way themselves” he smirked at you, you had begun to notice this place wasn’t normal. You puff up your chest before answering back, “I am perfectly capable of walking myself.” You quickly turn to leave and begin to walk out the room not allowing anyone to challenge your words. 

Walking through the halls, you noticed they began to loop. Becoming frustrated you sit on the floor in one of the many hallways, residing yourself to eat on the floor. Black sapphire’s cooking was good, nothing special but edible. You ate in silence remembering the nights you’d spent eating around a campfire with your friends or when pure vanilla surprised you all with a night at a restaurant. The food began to taste bitter at the memories, you swallowed the last bite, laying the plate beside you. 

Your head rested on the wall behind you. ‘Am I going to have to sleep here, curse this trippy castle’ you close your eyes trying to relax and calm your mind. 

“Awe did someone get lost~” 

Your eyes pop open at the sing-song voice, shadow milk is standing over your. You stare at him unsure how to react, “I did offer to walk you since I am oh so generous” he snarked. You scowled at him and crossed your arms over your chest, he simply smirked at you. 

“What do you want?” You grumble, shadow milk leans back giving you your personal space back. He hums, “Just a conversation, is that so bad?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “last time we spoke you tried to kill me” you countered, he shook his head at you. “You are so dramatic, I was not going to kill you. Also you threw a lamp at me head” he pointed out, ‘yea in self defense you creep’ 

“Calling me a creep is rather rude” he huffed, crossing his arms, you stared at him in shock.

‘How the fu-‘ 

A sadistic small crossed his face, you begin to panic. “You're in my domain dear, don’t underestimate what I can do” he warns, you blink unsure what to do. You swallow thickly and think back to black sapphire’s earlier statement. 

“What do you want with me?” Your voice shook your hands trembling and they gripped your arms. 

“It’s not you I want, your little friend is who I’m after” you stare up at him attempting to process what he just said. “What could you want with pure vanilla?” You blurted out, he ran his fingers through his long black hair idly. 

“He has something that belongs to me” he affirmed, venom dripped from his words. He smiled at you before continuing on, “he seems to have a soft spot for you so you're the perfect leverage.” You shrink under his gaze avoiding his many eyes, without saying another word he gently pushes your cheek to look to the side. You spot a familiar door, the one you had left from this morning. You turn back to where shadow milk once stood to find it empty.

You quickly retire to your room, body feeling heavy from the day. You leave your plate on the small nightstand next to your bed, flopping into the soft sheets. Sleep did not come easy, you traced the bandages that wrapped your throat. 

Tears flooded your eyes, 

‘Someone please, help me..’ you pleaded as your body succumbed to sleep.

Chapter Text

The days were long seeming to melt together  finding something to pass the time was a must. The large library was your safe haven, no one really came to bother you beside the occasional black sapphire coming in to grab a book or in the rarer occasion shadow milk. However he usually came in to harass you, you scowl at the memories of him terrifying you for his own sadistic pleasure. You struggled to read him, his personality and treatment of you was never the same. 

Your fingers ran over the worn pages, the book you were reading was old but well taken care of. The pages were soft from years of ownership. You were curled up on one of the sofas in the room, a thin blanket thrown over your hips. You head picked up at the sound of the door, its old hinges making a low creaking sound.

“There’s our silly little guest~” you deadpan at the sound of the familiar voice. You look back at your book allowing yourself to become engrossed in the story. The hair on the back of your knock stands up, “what cha reading?” You feel shadow milks warm breath on the back of your neck, you jump causing you to fall on the floor and you scramble to put some distance between the two of you. Shadow milk simply cackles at your expense. You scowl at him as you stand up, brushing the possible dirt off your clothes. You choose not to engage in his behavior, he frowns at you as you walk to the other side of the room. 

“I was only teasing, you cookies can be so dramatic” he snickered at you, you roll your eyes and decide to just finish your book later. You begin to walk towards the door, ignoring as shadow milk calls out to you. He appears in front of you suddenly, you stumble back in an attempt to prevent yourself from bumping into him. 

“I have a wonderful idea for a game, you should join me” he insisted, you finally make eye contact with him. His smile is small and his eyes seem softer, but you brush it off as him trying to toy with you again. You grip the book in your hand firmly, “Please move” you hesitated, you were trying to avoid setting him off not wanting to become dragged into one of his sadistic little scenes. He squinted at you but made no motion to move, you craned your neck to keep eye contact with him. 

You huff and walk around him not bothering to argue any farther. ‘Why is he so damn stubborn’ 

“This little attitude of yours is getting on my nerves” shadow milk grumbles, you continue on, not wanting to give him the reaction he wants. You begin to reach for the door, not bothering to acknowledge him.

“Fine then..” before you can question, your head begins to feel as if it is being split open. You grab your head in pain, images of your friend’s destroyed bodies flood your head. Limbs are ripped off as crimson blood pools from the imaginary wounds, your body begins to shake. “Stop it” you shout, the pain and images disappear in an instant. The pang fear is still embedded in your skin, you feel as a hand wraps around your throat from behind. Shadow milks face is inches from your own, you feel his chest against your back. “You’ll think twice before ignoring me again next time” he threatens, his face unreadable. Your eyes are brimming with tears as your body shakes. 

Shadow milk spins you around to face him, you put your hands up attempting to shield your face. Shadow milk clicked his tongue at you, “There’s no need for those” he chastised. His hand reached out to your face, you flinched and pulled away. He freezes his action and stares at you, slowly he tucks his hand behind his back and takes a step away from you. Your chest feels heavy, but you make no effort to run away. 

“What do you want” your voice shakes as tears stream down your face, shadow milk stares at you, his expression unreadable. Shadow milk abruptly turns around, his heels click against the tile. You stare at his back, his mere presence made you want to throw up. He stops in front of a chair and looks over his shoulder, a smile on his lips. He gestures to you to come closer with his fingers, you hesitate but for your own safety you relent. Slowly you walk over to him. 

“Sit.” He demands but his voice softer than before as he points to the chair, you make your way around him and sit in the chair. You keep your eyes trained on your hands, tears yet to cease. You feel something be placed on your head, you blink in confusion. You look up at shadow milk, a smirk plastered on his face. Slowly you reach up and feel a soft cloth, you grab a hold of the small piece of fabric. It was neatly folded, you recognized it as a handkerchief. It is white with beautiful blue designs decorating the border. You squeeze the handkerchief, but stare at shadow milk in confusion. 

Without warning he reaches his hand between your legs, your face burns as you attempt to snap your legs shut. You stare at him in disbelief, not taking notice of his grip on the underneath of the chair. He takes notice of your face and leans down, you lean against the chair trying to preserve your personal space.

‘What is happening’ his grin stretches wider, time seems to freeze. Your eyes dart over his features, his blue eyes framed with thick long lashes. Your face feels hot at the close proximity, your heart beats against your chest. Suddenly you yelp as the chair is abruptly yanked and you are leaned back. You grab onto shadow milks arm as he effortlessly moves you closer to the desk. He releases his hold on the chair and walks around the desk, plopping into a chair of his own. You blink at him bewildered, he simply grins at you. 

Shadow milk snaps his fingers and a deck of cards appears, plopping into the palm of his hand. “How are you with card games my dear?” He coaxed, you blink at him. 

“Uh, I vaguely remember slap Jack” you admitted, shadow milk dead panned at you. “I’m not giving you an excuse to hit me” he grumbled, you rolled your eyes and bit back a snarky response.

‘You would deserve it’ 

Shadow milk squints at you, you look away pretending to focus on something. You kick yourself for forgetting he can read minds. Your eyes flick back to shadow milk, he idly shuffles the deck of cards. You watch in awe as he effortlessly shuffles it. “How about a game of bullshit, usually there are three players but I’m sure we can play just fine” he assured. 

“How do you play?” You question. You were confused as to why he was so insistent on playing a game with you. 

“It’s easy, we will take turns placing cards face down, declaring a specific rank” he explains 

“The element of the game is  the ability to bluff by claiming a different card rank than what actually played, if one of us suspects a bluff, they can call "BS" and if the bluff is true, the bluffing player takes all the cards in the middle” 

“The first player to get rid of all their cards wins, see simple” he beams, you nod in response. 

“So the whole purpose of the game is to lie, or catch someone’s lie.” You affirm, he claps his hands taunting you which earns him a scowl. He begins dealing cards to the two of you, you watch as he effortlessly does so. 

You grab a hold of your cards and look over what you have, 2 aces, one 4, three 6s, and a five. You look up at shadow milk, who is laid lazily, an arm slung behind his head as he looks at his cards. He catches your eyes and gestures to the table, 

“Youngest first” there is a hint of amusement in his voice, you take a deep breath and place down an ace face down. He pulls a card from his deck and places one down, you two continue back and forth for a few minutes neither of you saying anything.

Your hand reaches to place down another card before shadow milk speaks up, “Why don’t we up the stakes?”

You blink at him raising an eyebrow, “if you win I will fulfill one wish,” you perk up . 

“There will of course be exceptions, don’t get too excited” he corrects, you nod feeling a new found desire to win. He stretches a hand for you to shake, you gingerly reach for his hand but freeze. 

“Wait, what happens if you win?” You hesitate, his gaze becomes dark, that familiar sadistic look in his eyes returning. “That is for me to know and you to wonder” you blink at that, ‘It’s risky’ you think to yourself. You take a deep breath, “Deal.” 

You wrap your hand around his, you shiver at the contact. His skin is cool, an inhuman chill which makes you uneasy. He returns the embrace, his grip is firm but gentle. 

“Now let’s continue shall we?” He taunts, you smile and nod. You fall into comfortable silence and focus on the game. You catch the sight of his grin as he places his final card down, you feel confident and yell out.

“Bullshit!”

He blinks at you, folding his hands in his lap. “Flip the card then” he says your confidence falters. You remember black sapphire mentioning that shadow milk is the master of deception, slowly you grab the card and flip it. Your breath catches in your throat. 

“Nice try~”

Dread pools in your gut, you stare at shadow milk. ‘I lost’ 

Shadow milk claps his hands and begins to collect the cards, “it was a good effort, but you lose” he taunts. You sink into the chair looking at the ground, he gingerly takes the cards still held in your hands. “Now now don’t be a sore loser” he taps your chin, you look up at him. He looks amused but it lacks the normal darkness, the ever growing familiar look that you would see when he terrified you. 

“What are you going to do?” You whisper, he pats you on the head and begins to walk away. You stand up and stare at him. 

He looks over his shoulder and grins at you, “You owe me a favor, at the time of my choosing” he hummed, you blink and watch as he heads for the door. 

‘A favor?’ 

“Breathe my dear” he calls out before leaving the room, you suck in a breath you didn’t notice you had been holding. 

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You sat against the window peering outside, a sigh left your lips. The sound of footsteps catches your attention, you glance to see black sapphire. He smiles and offers a small wave, out of nowhere a pillow hits him in the back of the head. He stumbles and whips around, candy apple cookie stood behind him. Her small hands were clenched into fists, tears bubbled at the corners of her eyes. You give her a questioning glance, “what was that for?” A slight giggle slipping through your lips. 

“He ate the cupcake I prepared for master shadow milk!” She whined, pointing accusingly at black sapphire. You cocked a brow at black sapphire, “why?” You question.

He crosses his arms over his chest, “There was no name on it” he defends. Candy apple begun to yell, you only caught parts of what she said.

‘Something about them being blue?’ 

The two bickered while you watched, unsure whether you should step in. An idea pops into your head, “why don’t me and black sapphire help you make new ones?” You offer. Black sapphire looks at you bewildered, clearly unhappy with your suggestion.

You and the two made your way into the kitchen, you climbed onto the counter to reach the bag of flour. You tuned out the bickering of the two, “Candy apple, can you grab us a couple eggs” you call out. Candy apple perked up and nodded rapidly at the request, she grabbed two eggs from a basket and brought them to you. 

“I’ll grab the sugar” black sapphire grumbled, you smiled and thanked him. Candy apple purposefully stood in black sapphire’s way which led to another batch of bickering, you shook your head at the two of them. A question popped into your head, “how long have you two known each other?” You quarreled. Black sapphire looks over at you as he pushes on candy apples head, 

“It’s been a few years at least, I started following shadow milk before her” he explained. Candy apple ducked underneath black sapphire’s arm and hurriedly tucked beside you, “I’m master shadow milk’s favorite” she proudly announced. You nod at her a small smile gracing your features, ‘These two are like brother and sister’

‘They bicker like siblings too’ 

You jump at the noise, you look around trying to spot where the voice came from. ‘That sounded like..’ your thoughts were interrupted as the sound of the kitchen door opening catches your attention. You turn to see shadow milk walking over the the three of you, he smirks at you knowingly. You roll your eyes and turn away, focusing on mixing the batter. 

“Hello master!” Candy apple chirped, he greets her as you continue whisking. You watch as the batter comes together into a perfect consistency, before you can tell the others you just at the feeling of a chest pressed against your back. Your head snaps to see shadow milk staring at the batter, curiosity clear in his face. His eyes flick to you, you scowl at him. “Personal space dude” you grumble gently jabbing him in the side to move him away, 

“What are you makin?” He questions, you look over to candy apple who is practically vibrating in excitement. “Cupcakes!” She shouts, she runs over to you and peeks in the bowl. 

“You didn’t even need a recipe!” She comments, you blink and realize she’s right. ‘That’s weird’ 

Your body seemed to work on autopilot, ‘Maybe I used to back in the past’ you brush off the odd situation and hand candy apple the bowl. Quickly black sapphire snatches the bowl from her hands, candy apple whines and grabs at the bowl. “We need to put it in a pan, don’t need you destroying my kitchen. Again” black sapphire say. You giggle at the ‘again’ you wonder how many times that has happen. 

You smile as shadow milk pops in offering to help, black sapphire stares at him like he’s nuts. A thought comes to your mind, ‘They’re like a family’ the soft part of your heart mets. You hear as shadow milk clicks his tong, you glance at him. His eyes seem sharper which confuses you, 

‘They are my minions, nothing more’  shadow milk’s voice echoes in your head. You shrink slightly at the harshness in his voice, his eyes soften when you begin to back away. 

He turns away back to black sapphire and candy apple, you take that moment to sneak away from the kitchen.. 

                                      •

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You walk down the hallways alone, you mentally kick yourself. ‘I got to comfortable’ you grip your arms and stare at the floor. 

‘He’s a monster.’ 

You catch the sight of a familiar hallway, you smile to yourself catching sight of your room. Your hand reaches for the door knob when you freeze, a yell catches your attention. You turn to the noise, you listen for a moment. ‘Maybe I’m going crazy being here’ you rub your face and grip the door handle. 

“You motherfucker!!” 

You jump at the sound, ‘definitely didn’t imagine that’ the voice sounds familiar.

Your eyes widen, “Pure vanilla?!” You shout out. You start sprinting down the hall as you hear the voice call out to you, you reach the top of the stairs. Looking down you see shadow milk standing in front of pure vanilla, shadow milk glances up at you with a dark look in his eyes. 

“Reader!” Pure vanilla calls out to you, “I’m so glad you're okay” pure vanilla stares down shadow milks while his eyes are trained on you. 

“I’ll give you one chance, I don’t want to fight you. Give them back” pure vanilla demands, you watch as his hands grip his staff. It looks as if it may splinter at any moment. Shadow milks eyes flick away from you looking back at pure vanilla.

“Even with the light of truth you are still a naive little cookie” he taunted, shadow milks strings appearing, wrapping around you tightly. Your wrists are bound together and you hiss as they cut into your skin. Pure vanillas face contorted in rage, 

“Let them go shadow milk, I won’t ask again” his voice was firm and threatening, shadow milk simply laughed at his attempt to threaten him. “I may keep this one, they would make a lovely puppet” his grin was sinister as he backed pure vanilla into a corner. Pure vanilla swore in rage, which only delighted shadow milk. 

“Why don’t we ask them, hmm. You give up your soul jam for their life or they stay here with me” shadow milk started at your struggling form, you stared at pure vanilla the impossible choice that was given overwhelmed you. Tears welled in your eyes as you stared at pure vanilla. “I won’t let you give up your soul jam for me” you conceded, hot tears begin to fall from your eyes. 

‘I have no idea what a soul jam even is, but something tells me shadow milk shouldn’t have it’

“I’m not going to leave you here” he shouted back, shadow milk groaned. 

“Boringggg, actors are so dramatic” he exasperated, you glared at shadow milk. 

“This is such a touching reunion, unfortunately it seems we’ve run out of time” venom dripped from his last words. Before you could question his meaning you feel as something yanks your feet from under you. You scramble to grab ahold of the railing but your hands miss their target. 

Gravity takes hold as you helplessly plummet towards the ground. The rush of air filled your lungs, and for a brief moment, you experienced an odd sense of clarity, as if the very act of falling cleared your head from the craziness you have experienced the last few days. 

‘Why did this have to happen’

Chapter Text

Your heart raced, the breath knocked out of your chest in an instant as you crashed down, your  body jerking violently against the unforgiving earth.

You landed hard on your side, and the impact was like a thunderclap, sending a jolt of pain through your entire body. For a split second, everything seemed to stop—no sound, no movement, only a deep, suffocating silence. But then, the sharp, bone-crushing pain exploded in your shoulder. It was a searing, white-hot agony that shot through you, radiating from your shoulder like an electric current, stabbing deep into the joint. Your whole body tensed instinctively, but it only seemed to make the pain worse, stretching the fibers of muscle and tendon in ways they were never meant to go.

You gasped, your breath shallow and quick, trying to make sense of the intense, throbbing ache that now consumed your shoulder. The joint felt wrong—disjointed, unbalanced, as if something inside had cracked or torn. The air around you was thick with the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint ringing in your ears, as if the impact had left a buzzing echo in your skull. Your arm hung limply at your side, useless, as if the very weight of it had become unbearable.

Your head lulled around as muffled screams called out to you, that sick giggle echoing in your head.

With every heartbeat, the pain seemed to grow, a steady throb that pulsed in time with your own pulse, making everything feel amplified, every shift of your body, every movement a reminder of how badly you had fallen. It was like being tethered to the ground by the injury, as though your shoulder had become the anchor that would hold me there forever. You slowly tried to sit up, wincing you instinctively reached for it with your other hand, but even that caused a wave of new pain to shoot through your skin, as if the mere touch of your own skin was enough to ignite the injury again.

The moon shone through the large windows, casting an eerie, silvery glow over the empty room. The air was thick with an unsettling silence, the kind that only precedes a confrontation. 

Shadow milk stood in front of your battered form, your eyes were blurry as tears clouded your sight. Cloaked in darkness, shadow milks very presence seemed to absorb the light around him. His tall threatening form, long fluid hair seeming to have mind of its own as it flows wildly. His eyes, deep and endless like blackened pools, reflected nothing but a cold, calculating emptiness. He clicked his tongue looking over his shoulder at you, “So unfortunate, if only you learned to keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you” he growled.

“You piece of shit” pure vanilla spat earning a cackle from shadow milk, “Oh! So much for pure vanilla” 

In his hands, he held his signature cane, twirling it in his hands. His movements were precise and deliberate, every gesture echoing with the unrelenting nature of darkness itself. You knew Shadow Milk thrived in the unknown, in the depths of cold corners and forgotten places. He was a master of decite, “Why are you even doing this” you croak out. 

Shadow milks eyes glow against the darkness, his jagged teeth stretched into a sickening smile. “Black sapphire, make sure they stay out of my way.” His voice dripped with a sickening joy, you turn to see black sapphire quickly walks over to you. His arm wraps around your middle practically dragging you away, you yelp at the movement as it angers your injured shoulder. 

“Raise the curtains! It’s time for the show to begin!” Shadow milk announces, pure vanilla grips his staff as he stares down shadow milk. 

The grandeur of the castle walls loom around you—high vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows casting colorful light across the stone floors, and tapestries of past glories adorning the walls. It’s a place of beauty, of history, yet the air is thick with tension, the calm before the storm. You sat there, your heart beating loudly in your chest as you watch your friend fight the monster you had been trapped with. 

“I’m going to destroy you once and for all” pure vanilla snarled. 

Shadow Milk stands tall, draped in darkness. His very presence feels like the night itself, a deep, oppressive weight hanging in the air around him. His eyes glint with malice, a cruel smile stretching across his face as he watches Pure Vanilla the opposite him, the embodiment of truth, of purity. Vanilla is bathed in soft, radiant light, his form glowing brightly as though he were the sun itself, shining against the darkness shadow milk brings with him.

“Tell me, Vanilla,” Shadow Milk taunts, his voice dripping with mockery, “How does it feel to be so pure, so perfect, when all it takes is a whisper to shatter that illusion?”

Vanilla’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing, his fists clenching. The light around him pulses with barely contained power, and you can feel the heat emanating from his body, the sheer force of his truth. His power is a beacon, strong and unwavering.

"Every lie you speak just brings you closer to your end. I’ll shatter your illusions and show the truth!" Pure vanilla cursed. 

Shadow milk smirks, and with a flick of his wrist, thin, blue strings shoot out from his fingertips. You watch as they whip through the air, slicing the space between them with a speed so fast it almost looks like the air itself is being torn apart. They glisten in the light, a deadly, silent threat, and your heart skips a beat as you know what’s coming next.

“I can see it in your eyes, Vanilla,” Milk continues, his voice soft now, as if he’s speaking to a child. “You’re so sure of your light. So sure of your truth. But truth… is so easily bent. So easily broken.”

The strings snap toward Vanilla, aiming for his limbs, trying to bind him. But Vanilla is quick, his body moving with an unnatural fluidity as his hands glow with radiant energy. The strings make contact with his light, but they’re absorbed, unraveling and dissipating into nothingness. Vanilla’s power pulses again, brighter than before.

“I’ll rip you apart and turn you into one of my puppets” shadow milk growled , you watch in fear for your friends safety.

"You can twist my body, but you’ll never break my spirit. You’ll never break the truth." Pure vanilla stated calmly.

Yet, Shadow milk isn’t deterred. His smirk widens, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. He raises his hand, and more strings burst from the air, more aggressive now, more frantic. They dart through the room like the strike of a snake, cutting through the stone floor and aiming for Vanilla’s heart.

But pure vanilla is faster. His hands glow with a searing intensity, and he swings his staff forward, sending beams of pure light toward the oncoming strings. They disintegrate upon impact, unraveling before they can get close to him. The light around him is blinding, powerful—Shadow milk takes a step back, momentarily forced to retreat.

You can feel the tension in the air shift. There’s a moment of stillness—Pure vanilla’s eyes are filled with determination, while Shadow milk seems to be calculating his next move. And then, shadow milk speaks again, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“You really think you can fight the inevitable, Vanilla? You think your light will save you? I’ve watched it fade before. It’s beautiful to watch something so pure die.” Shadow milk laughs cruelly. 

Shadow milk looks over to you where black sapphire firmly holds you in place, pure vanilla glances over at you. His face falters seeing you so bruised and battered. Shadow milk grins at the sight ,"For someone so full of truth, you sure have a lot of lies to tell. You couldn't protect them, could you? In the end, all your light does is blind you to how weak you really are. And here I am, having my way with your world. Tell me, how does it feel to fail so completely?" Shadow milk taunts, your heart feels heavy as you watch his words hit pure vanilla. 

The words hit Vanilla harder than any blow. You can see it in his eyes—the flicker of hesitation, the subtle doubt creeping in. His breath hitches, the light around him faltering for a brief second. Shadow milk gets a crazed look in his eyes. 

“Oh, how touching. So, it’s them you’re fighting for, isn’t it? You’re not just some noble warrior. You’ve got feelings for them, don’t you? How... pathetic. Tell me, do you think they even noticed? Or are you just a fool, blinded by your own pathetic emotions? They’ll never look at you the way you want.”

You feel as your face heats up, confusion floods your head. “Shut your mouth!” Pure vanilla yells back, your eyes widen you notice it before he does.

That’s all shadow milk needs, that moment of weakness.

Before Pure Vanilla can recover, the strings strike again, faster than before. They weave around him, pulling at his limbs, constricting him, forcing him into submission. Shadow milk’s twisted grin grows as he watches Vanilla’s body jerk in unnatural directions, the strings pulling him like a marionette. The light flickers in Vanilla’s chest, weak and dim now.

“You’re my puppet, Vanilly ,” shadow milk continues, his voice laced with venom. “And I’m the one pulling the strings.”

Vanilla fights it, you can see him straining, his body trembling against the pull. His light pulses weakly, trying to push the strings away, but the more he resists, the tighter shadow milks strings become. Each movement, each breath seems to drain more of his power, like a slow bleed of energy.

With another flick of his wrist, shadow milk forces Vanilla to his knees, strings tightening around his throat, choking the light from him. Vanilla’s hands glow, but it’s a faint, fading glow now, his power waning. His chest heaves as he gasps for breath, the light flickering dangerously.

“You can’t fight the truth, Vanilla,” shadow milk taunts, his voice cold, filled with dark triumph. “The truth is that you're just as fragile as anyone else. No matter how much light you surround yourself with, you’re still just a man. A man who believes he can control the world with lies of truth.”

Vanilla’s eyes are wide now, his light barely a flicker as the strings continue to squeeze the life from him. His power isn’t enough. His light is no match for shadow milk’s intricate manipulation, his mastery over deceit.

Shadow milk’s laughter fills the room as pure vanilla looks at you, his eyes full of regret. “I’m sorry” he whispers, you can’t hear him due to the distance but you read his lips. You look up as black sapphire’s grip tightens on your uninjured shoulder, you look at him as he shakes his head at you in a silent warning. 

Pure vanilla’s gaze hardens, suddenly a bright light fills the room. It’s blinding, you squeeze your eyes shut as you hear a grunt from shadow milk. “You coward!” You hear shadow milk screech in rage, you blink trying to clear your vision. You take in the sight of the room, blood is splattered on the floor and dark crimson. You catch the sight of a contrasting color, a deep blue. You look to see and shadow milk holds and hand over his chest, a large gash was visible underneath his hand. You stare as time seems to freeze, you watch as his blue blood drips down his front. 

You freeze, stiffening as his gaze lands on you. You start to shake in fear. You feel and black sapphires grip falters, his hand becoming unsteady. 

Without a word shadow milk turns abruptly, you watch as he stomps away, occasionally stumbling down the hall. As he disappears from view you take in a deep breath. You hear a sniffle and look over catching the sight of candy apple peeking around the corner, her eyes brimmed with tears. Black sapphire releases his hold on you dropping on the ground beside you. He stares at you, eyes full of relief. You hear the clicking of candy apples shoes as she darts over to you. She grabbed on to black sapphire, tucking her face into his arm. You smile grimly, suddenly you feel as the room lurches, you wobble feeling dizzy. Your body leans on black sapphire unable to support your weight, “whoa, hang on I got you” 

Your eyelids feel heavy as you slip into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

You slowly regain consciousness, your mind heavy and foggy. As your senses start to sharpen, a dull ache throbs in your shoulder, pulling your attention to the pain. You try to move, but your body feels sluggish, uncooperative. The stiffness in your shoulder is intense, and you instinctively shift away from it, but that only makes it worse. You wince, breath catching in your throat as the pain spikes.

The room around you is hazy, and it takes a moment to focus on your surroundings. The light is dim, your vision blurry as you blink, trying to make sense of where you are. The weight of the injury feels real now, a constant reminder that something isn’t right. Your body is heavy, exhausted, but you force yourself to take slow, shallow breaths, trying to stay calm. The sharp ache in your shoulder pulses with every movement, but it’s the only thing grounding you back to reality.

“Oh your awake, good”

You blink as black sapphire leans over you, his hand gently squeezing your injured shoulder. A sharp pain shoots through your arm, instinctively you smack his hand away. Your arm feels tingly and numb. “Sorry” he mumbles, you feel as the bed sinks under his weight. 

You move to sit up groaning as you force your stiff muscles to move. "Hey, take it easy," black sapphire says, his tone gentle but firm. "You’ve been out for a while."

You try to shift, but the pain in your shoulder flares again, making you freeze. He notices immediately.

"Hold on, don't move too much," Black Sapphire continues. "I think your collarbone might be cracked. When you fell, you landed hard, and you weren’t responding for a bit. I didn’t want to move you too much."

His voice is calm, but there's a quiet edge to it, as if he’s holding back his own concern.

Black Sapphire shifts, his voice a little lower as if he’s choosing his words carefully. "Candy Apple was worried, you know. About Shadow Milk, I mean. She  told me he was hurt badly—that gash in his chest. I don’t think he fully realized how bad it was until it started bleeding. You should’ve seen candy’s face; she was frantic, like she’d never seen him so vulnerable before."

You can almost hear the sympathy in his voice, but it doesn’t quite reach you. The pain in your shoulder still throbs with every movement, a reminder that you’re not the only one carrying a wound right now.

You take a deep breath, biting back the sharp response that’s already bubbling up. But it’s hard to stop. "Yeah, well, if he didn’t make a habit of hurting people, maybe he wouldn’t have that gash in the first place," you snap, the words a little more biting than you meant. "he’s the one who hurt my shoulder, remember? I’m not exactly feeling sorry for him."

Black Sapphire sighs, but there’s no judgment in his voice. "I get it," he says, voice soft. "I didn’t say you should feel sorry for him, you have every right to hate him. To hate all of us. Just… Candy Apple was worried, that’s all. She’s loyal to him, for better or worse."

You feel a sting in your chest at the mention of loyalty. You don’t trust Shadow Milk, but you know Candy Apple has a deep devotion to him, one that’s hard to break. That doesn’t change the fact that you’re in pain because of him.

It wasn’t the physical pain that bothered you most—it was the fact that the fall had been deliberate. He’d wanted to hurt you.

You lay in bed, the dull throb of your broken collarbone making everything feel ten times worse. Your fingers traced over the bandages as you tried to ignore the discomfort. Black Sapphire sat beside you, the darkness in his eyes almost mirroring your own frustration. His usual calm demeanor was a little shaken—something was clearly on his mind.

"Does it still hurt?" he asks softly, looking at the sling that holds your injured arm in place. His usual icy demeanor has softened a little, as you had noticed it does when he's worried. You attempt to mask the discomfort grinning at black sapphire, “nah but a mere scratch” You flashed him a sharp smile, though it barely masked the discomfort.

There was a silence for a moment, the kind that settled between you whenever things got tense. He wasn't much for small talk, but there was a weight in the air that he couldn't ignore. Finally, he turned to face you again, his expression drawn in concern.

"Shadow Milk hasn't been the same since the battle. He’s locked himself away in his room and refuses to see anyone," Black Sapphire explained, voice laced with something softer than usual. "Candy Apple Cookie tried to check on him, but Shadow Milk just... gets irritable. Won’t talk about the gash on his chest either. It’s... bothering him more than he’ll admit."

You raise an eyebrow, a small smirk curling on your lips despite the pain.
 "You mean, his ego can’t take being hurt by Pure Vanilla, huh? The big guy’s been knocked down a peg, hasn’t he?" Black Sapphire pauses for a moment, then quietly nods, but the faintest hint of agreement is in his eyes.

Black Sapphire sighed and leaned back, running a hand through his dark hair. "It's more than that. You know he's immortal, right? Never really been injured like that before." 

Black Sapphire's eyes darken slightly as he looks down at the floor.
 "It’s not just the ego thing. That gash on his chest... It’s messing with his powers."

Your curiosity piqued, you sit up a little straighter, even though your broken collarbone protests the movement.
 "Wait, you mean it’s affecting his abilities? How so?"

Black sapphire shifted almost uncomfortably, he fidgeted awkwardly at his bracelets. You stare at him in anticipation. ‘Now this i definitely wanna know’ you think to yourself. Black Sapphire sighs, his voice low, like he’s reluctant to talk about it.
 "It’s temporary, but the wound is deep enough that it’s draining him. He’s not healing as fast as he should, and it’s making him weaker... vulnerable. For someone who’s supposed to be immortal, it’s a big deal."

You let out a soft snort.
 "Well, I guess even immortals have their limits. Kind of hard to keep up the ‘invincible’ act when you’ve got a hole in your chest." Black Sapphire nods again, his expression grim. Black Sapphire mutters, frustration edging his voice. "And it's not just that... It's Candy Apple. She’s worried sick about him. I can see it in her eyes every time she looks at him—like she’s already mourning the idea of losing him."

A pang of pity for candy apple laid heavy on your chest, she was a kid, black sapphire and shadow milk had seemed to be the closest thing to a family she’s got. Even though in your opinion shadow milk was not your favorite person .

A long silence stretches between you both, the weight of the situation settling heavily in the air. Black Sapphire's fingers drum against his leg nervously. He paused, eyes glancing toward the door as if making sure no one was listening. "Candy Apple worried. But... well, Shadow Milk’s not the easiest to reach right now." 

You fall silent, processing his words. A hint of sympathy flickers in your chest for the immortal who’s always been so untouchable. But only a hint. You still find it hard to care too much about someone who has hurt you so badly.

You feel the anger bubbling up again, an uncomfortable weight settling in your chest. "Am I supposed to care?" you say, the words almost mocking as it leaves your lips. "For him? After everything he’s done?" The bitterness in your voice is sharp, the memory of the injury still too raw. "Shadow Milk doesn’t care about anyone. He’s the villain here. He’s the one who deliberately injured me, all for some stupid mind game with Pure Vanilla. He doesn’t give a damn about me, and I’m supposed to sit here and feel bad because he’s hurt too?" You turn away slightly, the frustration building in your chest again, making it harder to breathe. 

Black Sapphire remains silent for a moment, but you can feel his presence beside you, calm and steady. He knows exactly what you’re referring to—the twisted strategy Shadow Milk used to get into Pure Vanilla’s head. The way he’d intentionally caused your injury, knowing it would create chaos. The man had been ruthless, playing with everyone’s emotions as though they were nothing more than pieces on a chessboard. You’d been one of those pieces, sacrificed without a second thought. 

The words taste bitter on your tongue, as though you can’t quite wrap your mind around how you’re supposed to care for someone who’s caused so much pain and trouble. "He’s cruel, Black Sapphire. He’s never been anything but cruel."

Black Sapphire watches you, his expression calm and thoughtful. He doesn’t interrupt, letting your words flow out, but there’s a certain weight in his gaze as he considers your words. "You're right," he says quietly. "He has hurt you. He used you—used your pain to mess with someone else’s mind. But that doesn’t mean he’s just some monster." His tone is soft, but there’s a firmness to it that makes you pause. "And it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you, either." He says that barely above a whisper but it causes your head to snap as you look at him. 

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “he’s not capable of caring about anyone." You can feel the heat of your words rising again, the hurt too fresh to keep it buried. "It wasn’t just a physical injury, Black Sapphire. It was intentional. He hurt me on purpose. I was just another piece in his game." 

Black Sapphire sighs, and for a moment, you think he might be giving up on you. But then he speaks again, his voice a little more measured, like he’s trying to guide you through something you’re not quite seeing yet. "You’re right, he’s been playing a game from the start... but don’t underestimate the fact that, in his own twisted way, he’s always been drawn to you ever since you got here. He enjoys your presence more than he’s willing to admit. The way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking—it’s not just for the game. He’s paying attention. Always." Black sapphire stares at you, his gaze showing uncertainty.

“I cannot speak for him but I don’t think even he knows what he feels. Loneliness is hard” black sapphire whispers clearly understanding that feeling on a personal level. You feel a flicker of something in your chest at his words, but you push it down. 

You try to shake off the idea, but it lingers, the possibility that Shadow Milk might be more complicated than you’ve allowed yourself to believe.

You feel a bitter twist in your gut, the last piece of your resolve slipping away. The idea that he might actually care—somewhere deep down—feels like a punch to the chest. Shadow Milk had always been the villain in your eyes as the days you spent here were a combination of him purposely messing with you, the one who hurt you with a cold, calculating purpose. But now… the lines seemed to blur.

You think back to the days he would intentionally come bother you, granted they rarely ended with you walking away unscathed. But you never thought to question why he was so insistent on being around you. 

‘So the sadistic asshole wants a friend or something’ you scoff to yourself. ‘Fat chance of that’ 

"I’m not sure I can forgive him," you mutter quietly, more to yourself than anyone else. "Not after everything he’s done."

"You don’t have to forgive him yet," Black Sapphire says gently. "But don’t let him win by letting this anger destroy you. It’s his game, not yours. And you deserve better than to be a pawn in it."

You smile feeling lighter at black sapphire’s support. It felt as if you were becoming friends which wasn’t unwelcome, while you silently disagreed with his beliefs in shadow milks' odd behavior towards you. You were happy to have him here. 

You sit in silence for a moment, letting Black Sapphire's words linger in the air, each one weighing heavier than the last. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, but something inside you begins to shift—an uncomfortable recognition that maybe, just maybe, Shadow Milk’s cruelty is rooted in something deeper than you’ve allowed yourself to consider. It’s a bitter pill to swallow and you do quite accept it.

Black Sapphire watches you, giving you the space to process, but when the silence stretches too long, he sighs softly. His voice is gentle but full of assurance. "I know it’s a lot to take in. And I’m not asking you to solve it all right now. Just… don’t carry this alone."

You glance at him, a flicker of gratitude tugging at your chest. "I’m not sure what to think, Black Sapphire. Everything’s so messed up."

He gives a small smile, a rare softness in his usual guarded demeanor. "I know. But I’m here for you. Whenever you need someone to talk to, or just to be there... you don’t have to do this alone."

For the first time in a long while, you feel a sense of calm washing over you. The weight of everything—of your injury, of Shadow Milk’s games, of your own confusion—feels a little more manageable with him standing by your side. Maybe it’s not forgiveness that you need right now. Maybe it’s just the knowledge that you don’t have to carry it all alone.

"I appreciate it," you say, your voice softer than before. "I really do."

Black Sapphire gives you a reassuring nod. "Get some rest. You’ve been through a lot. Don’t worry about anything right now. I’ll be around if you need anything, okay?"

You give him a tired but genuine smile. "Yeah… okay."

With one last glance, Black Sapphire turns toward the door, giving you the space you need. As he steps outside, the weight in your chest lightens just a little, leaving you with the feeling that, despite everything, maybe you’ll be able to find some peace—even if it’s just for tonight.

Chapter Text

The next few days went on without much of any problems, black sapphire has confined you to your room. He made sure to check in regularly, bringing food and books. Candy apple started to come hangout too, you appreciated their company. 

You sit on the couch in your room, wincing occasionally as you adjust your position, the healing collarbone still sending small pangs of discomfort through your body. The room is a little too quiet, save for the occasional rustle of something nearby, but that changes when Candy Apple bursts through the door. She’s bouncing, her energy so high it’s almost contagious.

“Guess who got all the snacks?” she announces, a wide grin stretching across her face. The pink, sugary aroma of candy seems to follow her like a cloud. Her light-colored hair swings wildly as she spins around, arms open wide like she's about to take flight.

“You’re ridiculous,” a voice drawls from the doorway, and you turn to see Black Sapphire, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. His sharp, purple eyes are half-lidded, his usual snarkiness already evident. His black hair falls messily into his face, a contrast to the tight, controlled stance he takes.

Candy Apple just giggles, completely unfazed by his dry sarcasm. "Aw, come on, sapph, don't be such a downer! You know you like snacks."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he replies smoothly, walking in and sitting across from you with the air of someone who’s seen and heard it all, but doesn’t care enough to actually get involved. “There are way too many sugar-packed items here. Are you sure you’re supposed to be eating all that junk while you’re injured?”

You chuckle softly, giving them both a look. They bicker back and forth like siblings, a dynamic you’ve come to recognize over the past few days. Candy Apple tosses a bag of chips in his direction, and despite his annoyed scoff, he catches it without even looking. It’s almost impressive.

The two of them continue bickering, the sounds of their teasing and playful exchanges filling the room as you relax, distracted from the pain in your collarbone for the first time in hours. Even with the chaos they bring, there’s something oddly comforting about their presence—like a strange kind of family dynamic you never expected. In the midst of all the energy and noise, you can feel yourself letting go a little, healing not just physically, but mentally too.

"Okay, okay!" Candy Apple interrupts, throwing her hands up in exaggerated defeat. "I get it, sapph. You're too cool for my snacks. But at least admit one thing."

Black Sapphire arches an eyebrow again, this time clearly intrigued. "And what’s that?"

“That I’m the best company you could possibly have right now,” she says with a grin, stretching out next to you on the couch, claiming her spot in the battle of comfort.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Maybe. Just… no more sugar for a while, please.”

Black Sapphire smirks, finally cracking a little. "That’s the best idea you've had all day."

And, for a while, the bickering fades into laughter, the soothing rhythm of their familiar exchange settling around you. Even with a broken collarbone, you know you’re not alone in this. Not with them around.

You look over as the door creaks open, and in steps Shadow Milk. He’s grinning, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement, as his elegant jester’s attire catches the dim light. His fingers twitch, strings materializing from his gloved hands as he toys with them, like a puppet master controlling the world around him.

“Still healing?” Shadow Milk’s voice is playful but laced with malice, his tone almost mocking as he walks closer. He circles you, like a predator toying with its prey. "Tsk, tsk, such a fragile thing. I thought you were tougher than that. How’s the collarbone?" He lightly taps the spot where your injury is most sensitive, and you flinch involuntarily.

Candy Apple giggles from the side, clearly entertained by her master's antics, while Black Sapphire rolls his eyes in that signature sarcastic way of his.

But you’ve had enough. It’s getting under your skin. "Oh, I’m just great, Shadow Milk," you snap, your tone sharper than you intended. "But I’m sure you’re doing just fine, hiding away in your room like the coward you are, after getting that nice gash in your chest during the battle with Pure Vanilla." You feel your frustration bubble up as you meet his teasing grin with your own glare. 

There’s a flicker in his eyes—amusement, maybe a hint of irritation—but he doesn’t let it show fully. Instead, his smile widens, as if he enjoys this back-and-forth too much. “Touché,” he purrs. “I suppose the great hero does have some sharp words in their arsenal. But don’t you worry… I’ll be right as rain soon enough, can’t say the same for you though.”

Candy Apple’s voice cuts in, clearly trying to diffuse the tension, though her enthusiasm is clearly directed at her master. “But don’t you think, Shadow Milk, you should take care of yourself a little more? You don’t want to look all—" she pauses, looking for the right word “—deathly, do you?”

“I’m not deteriorating, Candy Apple. I’m fine.” Shadow Milk’s voice softens ever so slightly as he flicks one of his strings in your direction, catching a lock of your hair with it. He seems entertained by your frustration, as if he finds it somehow amusing that you’re not taking his playful jabs lying down.

You huff, feeling your annoyance return as you settle back against your seat, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in your collarbone

The atmosphere in the room is a mixture of tense rivalry and unnerving amusement as Shadow Milk watches you, his strings now wrapped loosely around his fingers, waiting for your next move. The silence lingers, thick with the weight of the unspoken challenge that always hovers in the air between you and the jester.

You groan in exasperation, pressing your palm to your forehead as the pain from your collarbone shoots through you again. “Why are you even in my room?” You can’t help the frustration in your voice as you glance over at him, your eyes narrowing.

Shadow Milk chuckles, the sound light and almost musical, but there's a teasing edge to it. He steps closer, tilting his head with a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes. “Oh, your room? I’m afraid you’re mistaken, darling,” he says, his voice smooth and almost mockingly sweet. “You’re in my castle, remember? This is my domain, and I’ve been gracious enough to allow you the privilege of healing here.”

He pauses for effect, his gaze flickering to Black Sapphire and Candy Apple, who seem amused by the exchange, though neither one speaks up.

"Really," Shadow Milk continues, now inches from your bed, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, maddening playfulness. "You think you can escape me so easily? The castle's mine, and I’ll visit where I please, especially when I have such… entertaining company.” He leans in closer, his breath cool against your skin. “Besides, Candy Apple would be so disappointed if I didn’t check in on you.”

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the wave of irritation building inside you. “So, this is just your little game, huh? Torturing me while I’m stuck here with a broken collarbone, in your castle?” You shift uncomfortably in your seat, wishing you could be anywhere but here, under his watchful eye.

Shadow Milk grins, obviously enjoying your discomfort. “Oh, it’s not torture,” he says with a mock pout, “it’s simply keeping you on your toes. You’ll heal faster if you keep moving, right? You can’t just lie around and feel sorry for yourself, can you? That’s no fun.”

Candy Apple giggles from across the room, twirling a lock of her hair. "Yeah, Shadow Milk is really good at keeping things interesting! I mean, look at how much fun he's having!"

You feel the heat of your frustration rising again but try to keep it in check. “If you’re going to keep ‘checking in,’ could you at least… I don’t know, stop poking at my injury? I don’t think your strings are helping much.”

Shadow Milk grins wickedly at your snap, the playful glint in his eyes never fading. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that? You don’t expect me to just stand around and be all nice and polite, do you? That’s not really my style.” He gives a theatrical sigh. "Besides, you're in my castle now. I’m not exactly known for being accommodating."

You glare at him, but even you can’t suppress the faintest hint of a smile, despite the irritation. Deep down, you know he’s enjoying this, getting some strange, sadistic pleasure from your discomfort. But something about it also feels… normal? Familiar, in a twisted way. Shadow Milk doesn’t change, and somehow, it’s comforting, even though it gets under your skin.

“Fine,” you mutter under your breath. “But don’t expect me to be grateful about it.”

“Oh, I never expect gratitude,” Shadow Milk says with a wink. “I’ll take whatever entertainment I can get from you in the meantime.”

You shift uncomfortably, the dull ache in your collarbone reminding you that you're far from healed, and now your nerves are frayed from the jester’s presence.

But then, something hits you—something that’s been gnawing at you for a while now. You turn your gaze back to where he’s standing near the window, not making any move to leave. His strings, once floating through the air, have now disappeared, but his figure remains a constant, imposing presence.

“Why?” The word slips from your lips before you can stop it, but once it’s out, you can’t hold it back. “Why haven’t you let me go yet?”

Shadow Milk quirks an eyebrow, not at all surprised by your question. He steps closer, his fingers lightly trailing across the wall as he approaches, his ever-present grin twisting at the edges. “Let you go?” he repeats, almost as if the concept is foreign to him. “But darling, I’ve been so generous to you.” He tilts his head slightly, almost pretending to consider your words. “You’re not dead, are you?”

You narrow your eyes, the frustration rising again. “I’m not dead, no. But you’ve been keeping me captive here for over a week now, and now I’m injured and unable to move. And for what? What do you want from me?”

He stops in front of you, his violet eyes glimmering with that same unsettling playfulness, as if this whole conversation is just another game to him. “What do I want?” He smiles wider, his voice lowering slightly, almost to a whisper. “What do you think I want? You’re an interesting little puzzle, and I’m not quite done playing with you yet.”

You flinch at his words, the meaning behind them sinking in. “So this is some sick game to you? You keep me here, wounded, unable to leave, and for what? Entertainment?” Your voice rises, the irritation in your chest threatening to boil over.

Shadow Milk chuckles softly, a sound like silk unraveling. “Ah, my sweet thing. I don’t do things for just entertainment. It’s about… control.” His eyes glint darkly. “I could have let you go, yes. I could have sent you away, but where’s the fun in that? The real fun is in keeping you just where I want you—weak, vulnerable.” He takes a small step forward, bending down to your eye level. “And you know, you’re not exactly in a position to escape, are you?”

You grit your teeth, the tension in your shoulders tightening as the realization hits you like a cold wave. This wasn’t about entertainment, or even the fight. This was about domination. About him keeping you under his thumb.

"Let me go," you say, quieter now, trying to keep your composure. "I don't want to be part of your sick little games. You’ve already hurt me enough."

He watches you for a long moment, his grin not fading, but his expression shifts ever so slightly, something darker flickering in his eyes. “You don’t understand, do you?” he says softly. “I don’t need to hurt you. I don’t need to break you. You’re already here, aren’t you? And the best part is…” He leans closer, his voice lowering, like a secret only for you. “You’re staying.”

You swallow, the weight of his words sinking in, suffocating you. He wasn’t just keeping you here physically—he was keeping you here mentally. And as much as you wanted to fight it, as much as you hated the way he twisted everything around, you were stuck. His castle. His rules.

For a moment, you can’t speak. The frustration, the anger, the helplessness all merge into a painful silence that hangs between you.

Shadow Milk straightens up, giving you one last look, his smile playful again as if nothing serious had just passed between you. “But don’t worry,” he adds with mock sweetness. “I’ll make sure you’re comfortable while you’re here. After all, there’s no reason we can’t enjoy each other’s company while you heal, right?”

And with that, he turns and walks casually toward the door. “Just remember,” he says, not even bothering to look back at you, “you’re in my domain.” The door closes softly behind him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the room falls into an eerie, oppressive silence. You’re alone again. But somehow, his presence lingers, like an inescapable shadow.

                                  •

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A few days had passed since Shadow Milk’s visit, and the slow ache in your collarbone was finally starting to ease. It still hurt, but at least you could move without the sharp, intense jabs of pain that used to accompany every movement. The quiet frustration, however, hadn’t gone away. Shadow Milk was still as unpredictable and insufferable as ever, but at least for now, you were left in peace.

Black Sapphire had come to your room that morning, his usual deadpan expression hiding any hint of emotion. He’d offered you a hand up, his quiet voice just as uninterested as always. “You’re allowed to leave. Shadow Milk isn’t around.”

That was all the encouragement you needed. Even if it meant being stuck under the ever-watchful eyes of his minions, getting a change of scenery sounded like a blessed relief. With Black Sapphire's assistance, you walked to the library, the stone walls of the castle stretching out endlessly around you as you passed through corridors. The castle, still as strange and unsettling as it had been when you arrived, felt a little less suffocating with each step. You were moving again, even if just to sit in silence for a while.

When you reached the library, Black Sapphire guided you to a quiet table near the back, away from the prying eyes of anyone else who might be lurking. It was warm in here, the soft light filtering in through the large windows, casting gentle shadows across the shelves full of old, dusty books. You sank into a chair with a grateful sigh, adjusting your collarbone gingerly as you settled in.

Black Sapphire, as usual, didn’t speak much. He simply sat across from you at the table, his eyes scanning over his own book, his posture as stiff and unreadable as always. There was something strangely comforting about him, the way he didn’t need to fill the silence with words.

You opened your book, the crackling pages filling the silence between you, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself get lost in the story. The words on the pages blurred together as your thoughts wandered, but you didn’t mind. The quiet companionship was something you hadn’t realized you missed.

Every now and then, you’d glance up to find Black Sapphire still focused on his own book, the only indication of his presence being the faint sound of his steady breathing. He was so quiet, so detached. There was no teasing, no mockery, just an almost tangible peace that hung between you.

It was, perhaps, the closest thing to normalcy you’d felt since you’d been trapped in this castle.

After a while, you couldn’t resist the urge to break the silence, just a little. “You know,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper, “I never thought I’d be grateful for a library. But here we are.”

Black Sapphire doesn’t look up from his book, but you can feel his attention shift toward you. “Sometimes, peace is the most dangerous thing in this place.”

You frown slightly, unsure of what to make of that cryptic statement, but before you can ask more, Black Sapphire adds, “But for now, it’s probably the best you’re going to get.”

You stare at the page in front of you, absorbing the weight of his words. For a brief moment, the castle didn’t feel like a prison. It felt like a strange refuge, an odd pause in the chaos of everything going on outside. A safe place, for now.

You settle back into your seat, finding a strange comfort in the rhythm of your reading. Maybe things weren’t normal. But for once, the silence between you and Black Sapphire didn’t feel like tension. It just felt... quiet. And in the world of Shadow Milk, that was a rarity you’d come to appreciate more than you expected.

For the first time in days, you could almost forget about the game Shadow Milk was playing with you. Almost.

Just as you were settling deeper into the book, letting yourself be swept away by the words, the heavy door to the library creaked open. The sound was enough to pull your attention away, but you didn’t expect who would walk in.

Shadow Milk, of course.

You could feel the change in the atmosphere as soon as he entered—lighthearted, mischievous, and ready to stir up trouble. He strolled in, his jester’s attire glinting in the sunlight, and his signature grin plastered on his face. He immediately zeroed in on Black Sapphire, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Well, well, well,” Shadow Milk’s voice chimed, cutting through the peaceful silence. “Look at you, Sapphire, sitting there all serious, looking like you’re the one who’s actually in charge.” He dramatically flopped down onto the chair beside Black Sapphire, leaning in too close for comfort, as though trying to invade his personal space. “What’s got you so engrossed, hmm? Don’t tell me you’re actually reading.”

Black Sapphire didn’t even look up, but his expression soured slightly. His usually indifferent face now held the faintest trace of annoyance. “I don’t need to entertain you, Shadow Milk,” he muttered, turning the page of his book with a single fluid motion, his tone as dry as ever.

Shadow Milk ignored the blatant dismissal, leaning even further over to peer at Black Sapphire’s book, almost laying across the table in the process. “Oh, come on, Sapphire. Lighten up a little! Don’t tell me you're going to turn into one of those boring types who just sit around and read all day. You’re too much fun to be wasted on books.”

For a moment, Black Sapphire’s eyes flicked up from his book, a light, almost imperceptible glare flashing in your direction as if he was silently warning you not to make a sound.

But you couldn’t help it. The sight of Shadow Milk pestering Black Sapphire, with all his over-the-top dramatics and exaggerated facial expressions, made you bite your lip in an attempt to hold back the laughter. It was such a shift in the usual dynamic—the jester tormenting the stoic one instead of you—that you couldn’t resist.

A soft, involuntary giggle escaped your lips.

Black Sapphire’s eyes darted toward you in an instant, his glare sharper than ever. It was a rare look, and you could tell he wasn’t exactly thrilled with your reaction. His usual calm demeanor slipped just enough to show his frustration, but you could see the slightest glint of reluctant amusement behind his icy eyes.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice low and firm.

You bit back another laugh, trying your best to stifle the grin that threatened to spread across your face. It wasn’t that you wanted to tease him, but you couldn’t deny how amusing it was to see Black Sapphire, usually so composed, trying to ignore Shadow Milk’s antics.

Shadow Milk, oblivious to the tension between the two of you, continued his pestering, clearly enjoying the fact that he’d found a new target. He leaned even closer to Black Sapphire, his face barely an inch away now. “Oh, come on, Sapphire! Lighten up! You should at least let me teach you how to have some fun. You’re always so… serious.”

You couldn’t help yourself any longer, and this time, you let out a more audible giggle.

Black Sapphire’s glare shifted to you again, this time with a more visible flash of irritation. “If you’re going to laugh at me,” he muttered, not looking away from his book, “I’ll make sure the shoes on the other foot next time.”

Your giggle caught in your throat, but you fought it down, unable to hold back a small smile. The whole situation felt strangely lighthearted despite the tense undercurrent that always hovered around the three of you.

Shadow Milk’s grin widened as he noticed the exchange. “Ooooh, Sapphire, you’re threatening them now?” He feigned an exaggerated gasp. “You’re no fun at all. I thought we were friends!”

You shook your head, still unable to stop the small chuckle escaping your lips, but it was enough to make Black Sapphire sigh, looking up finally from his book with an expression that was a mixture of exasperation and reluctant acceptance.

“Fine,” he muttered, closing the book with a quiet snap. “I’ll leave you to your fun. But if you ruin my peace and quiet, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Shadow Milk let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, I’m counting on that, Sapphire!”

As Black Sapphire stood up and walked away, presumably to find a quieter corner, Shadow Milk leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “This is way more fun than I expected,” he remarked casually. “I think I might come back more often, just to see the look on his face when I interrupt his reading.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head with a small, reluctant smile. As much as you hated the chaos he caused, there was something oddly refreshing about Shadow Milk’s antics when they weren’t directed at you. He seemed to take pleasure in irritating Black Sapphire, and while it was clearly annoying for him, it was oddly satisfying for you to watch.

As Shadow Milk wandered off to pester someone else, you returned to your book, the comfort of silence creeping back into the space between you and Black Sapphire. The giggle had faded, and the peace of the library settled over you once again

                                  •

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The evening had fallen quietly in the castle, the air still and heavy with the tension that always seemed to linger in the corners of every room. You had spent most of the afternoon in the library, and though you’d enjoyed the brief respite from the usual chaos, the truth of your situation had crept back in. Shadow Milk was always there, somewhere, just under the surface of every conversation. His presence lingered like a shadow—unavoidable and inescapable.

When the knock on your door came later that evening, you expected Black Sapphire, as usual. You had come to rely on the quiet, detached way he would bring your meals and leave you to your solitude. But when the door opened, it wasn’t Black Sapphire’s quiet figure that entered. It was Shadow Milk.

He walked in with his usual jester’s flair, but there was something off about his demeanor. His usual carefree, playful grin was absent, replaced with an unreadable expression that made your stomach tighten. He set the tray of food down on the table beside you, his movements slower than usual, more deliberate.

You watched him carefully, trying to read the subtle shifts in his posture. Something was different, but you couldn’t place it.

He lingered in the doorway, eyes flicking over to you. There was no joke on his lips, no teasing remark. Instead, he simply stood there, watching you. His gaze, once lighthearted and full of mischief, was now heavy with something else, something you couldn’t quite decipher.

You cleared your throat, trying to fill the silence with something normal. “You’re not usually the one to bring my dinner,” you said, the words coming out more sharply than you intended.

Shadow Milk didn’t respond right away. He only watched you for a long moment, his eyes piercing as if he were assessing something. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke in a quieter tone than usual, almost as though he were trying to measure his words.

“I wanted to speak with you,” he said, his voice softer, almost too calm.

A flicker of unease ran down your spine. The tension in the room had shifted, and the familiar game that you’d grown used to now felt like something else entirely. Something colder.

You raised an eyebrow, pushing aside the small knot of discomfort in your stomach. “About what?”

He stepped further into the room, his gaze still fixed on you. “It’s more of a warning, really.” He tilted his head slightly, as if he were studying you. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. About why you’re still here, why you’re kepthere.” He paused, the faintest hint of a smile curving his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Curiosity can be dangerous.”

A chill ran through you at his words, and instinctively, you straightened in your seat, your broken collarbone still aching slightly with the movement. You met his gaze, not willing to back down. “What do you mean by that?”

Shadow Milk’s eyes darkened, the playful edge of his demeanor slipping away entirely. “You don’t want to stick your nose in places where it doesn’t belong,” he warned, his voice cold now, a stark contrast to the jester’s usual lightness. “The moment you start asking the wrong questions, you’ll find that I’m not nearly as accommodating as I seem.”

You felt a wave of unease wash over you as his words sank in. For a moment, the room felt smaller, the air thicker, as if the walls themselves were closing in on you. You couldn’t ignore it anymore—his presence, the quiet danger that always lingered beneath the surface. 

His gaze was unwavering, intense, and his fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, the strings of his powers just barely visible around his hands. They moved with a life of their own, swirling and twisting as though waiting for his command.

Your pulse quickened, and you felt that familiar tension in your chest—the understanding that, despite everything, Shadow Milk was not someone you could predict. Not someone you could escape, even if you tried. He was still a force to be reckoned with, still dangerous.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “I didn’t ask to be here. I didn’t ask to be stuck in your castle.” You leaned back slightly, giving yourself space as you looked him in the eye. “But you don’t own me. I’m not going to just sit here and obey.”

Shadow Milk didn’t flinch at your words, but you saw something flicker in his eyes—a dangerous glint, something sharp that made the air feel even heavier. He stepped closer to the table, his movements deliberate, but this time, his smile was gone entirely.

“You don’t have a choice in the matter,” he said softly, his voice low and almost threatening. “You’re already part of this game. The moment you stepped into this castle, you gave up that illusion of freedom. And if you continue to ask questions that don’t concern you… well.” His smile returned, but it was nothing like before. It was colder. “You might not like the answers you get.”

You were silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in, the room suddenly feeling impossibly small. There was a sense of finality in his tone, as though this warning wasn’t just a suggestion—it was a promise.

For a moment, you thought about pushing back, saying something more to defy him. But you didn’t. Something in the way he was standing, in the way he watched you, stopped you. It wasn’t just the strings floating idly around his fingers—it was the sense that, for all his theatrics, he could hurt you. He would hurt you. And you weren’t sure you were ready for whatever game he had in mind if you kept digging.

As Shadow Milk turned to leave, his final words hanging in the air like a thin thread, something inside you snapped. The weight of the conversation, the constant games, the sense of helplessness that had followed you since you arrived—it all became too much.

You watched him, his jester’s grin slowly returning, as if nothing had changed, but everything inside you was boiling over. The simmering frustration that had built up ever since you woke up in this castle, injured and trapped, surged to the surface, and you couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“I never asked to end up here,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended. The sudden heat in your voice startled even you, but it didn’t stop the flood of frustration. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be stuck in your little twisted game, to be dragged into this world where everything is controlled by you and your sick little rules.”

Shadow Milk stopped in his tracks, his back still to you, but you could feel the shift in the air. He hadn’t expected you to snap like that. The playful tone in his voice from earlier seemed to evaporate as you spoke, replaced by a fleeting moment of stillness that hung in the air between you.

You took a breath, standing up now, your movements a little more forceful as the anger began to bubble up. “You’ve been playing with me ever since I got here. I’ve been your captive for who knows how long, and every time I try to make sense of anything, you throw more games at me. And for what? So you can get your entertainment? Because you think you’re so clever?”

Shadow Milk’s head turned slightly, his posture still relaxed, but there was something new in the way he stood. Something colder, sharper. He didn’t interrupt you—he just let you vent.

You took another step forward, the heat of your frustration propelling you. “I didn’t ask to be part of this. I didn’t ask for you to drag me into whatever messed-up world you live in.” You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to keep the tremble of anger from showing. “And I sure as hell didn’t ask to be treated like some toy to play with while you get your kicks!”

There was a long, tense pause. Shadow Milk didn’t move, didn’t say a word. The silence in the room felt suffocating, and the only sound was your own harsh breathing. You stared at his back, waiting for him to respond, dreading what he might say. Part of you expected him to lash out, to mock you, or even to punish you for speaking up.

Instead, when he finally did turn around, it was slowly. His eyes locked onto yours, no trace of amusement left in his gaze. His smile, that ever-present, mocking grin, had faded entirely.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still carrying that strange weight. There was no playful tone in it anymore, no teasing edge. “You didn’t ask for any of this. And you certainly didn’t ask for me to pull you into my world. But,” he took a small, deliberate step closer to you, “you are here now. And whether you like it or not, you’re involved.”

He was standing only a few feet from you now, the tension between you thick enough that it almost felt suffocating. His eyes were darker than before, and that sense of control that he always seemed to have over everything was present again, wrapping itself around the words he spoke.

“I didn’t drag you here for fun, darling,” Shadow Milk continued, his voice taking on a more somber tone, though it still carried that underlying thread of warning. “But the moment you arrived in my castle, you became part of the story. And now, whether you choose to be a player or not, the rules have already been set. There’s no turning back.”

You stood there, feeling the weight of his words, but the frustration didn’t go away. You were still angry, still trapped in this nightmare, but something about the cold finality in his tone made you hesitate. He was right—this wasn’t some game you could walk away from. It wasn’t something you could change by just snapping at him.

You swallowed hard, the words you wanted to throw back at him dying on your tongue. Shadow Milk had already shifted, and you could feel that familiar, oppressive air of his power tightening around you.

“Don’t mistake my silence for weakness,” he added, his voice darkening slightly. “I might be giving you this little bit of freedom, but I’m still in control, even when I choose not to play the game.”

You opened your mouth, ready to retort, but the way he said it—so final, so cold—shut you down. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you simply stared at him, realizing just how dangerous he truly was. The playful jester, the one who liked to tease and taunt, was still the same Shadow Milk who could manipulate, control, and break you in ways you could never fully anticipate.

His gaze softened just slightly, but it was brief. Almost imperceptible. Then he straightened, the distance between you widening once more as he turned toward the door.

“You’re free to be frustrated,” he said casually, as if the entire conversation had never even happened, “but don’t forget that the more you fight this, the harder it will be for you in the end.”

With that, he stepped back toward the door, his movements fluid, almost nonchalant as if nothing had transpired. But you could feel the weight of his presence lingering in the room, like a storm waiting to break.

“I’ll leave you to your meal,” Shadow Milk added, his voice still tinged with that strange finality. “But remember, I warned you. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

And then, without another word, he was gone.

The door clicked softly behind him, and for a moment, the room was eerily silent once again. Your heart was still pounding in your chest, your frustration unresolved, but now you felt something else, something heavier: the undeniable sense that you were completely at his mercy.

Chapter Text

The next morning you woke and limped into the kitchen, still feeling the ache of your collarbone as you moved. Each step was a reminder of how you were still at Shadow Milk’s mercy, still tethered to this strange and unsettling place. You hadn’t expected to feel so weak, so vulnerable, but the pain from the injury made it all too real.

As soon as Black Sapphire saw you, his usual cool demeanor cracked just slightly. He looked at you with a raised eyebrow, then sighed in that way that only he could. "I told you not to overexert yourself," he muttered, though there was a faint edge of concern in his voice. "You’re still healing. Don’t strain yourself too much.”

You smiled despite the pain, the familiar grumble of Black Sapphire’s scolding somehow comforting. It was a sign that, in his own way, he cared. “I’ll be fine,” you said, trying to brush off the slight sting in your chest as you moved toward the table. “Just needed to get out of that room for a bit. Being cooped up all day isn’t good for me.”

Candy Apple was the first to greet you, her bubbly energy lighting up the room. “Oh, you’re up!” she cheered, beaming at you as she skipped over to your side. “You should totally join us for breakfast! It’s much more fun with everyone here, and you deserve a good meal after all that healing.”

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and despite the tension still simmering beneath the surface, you couldn’t help but feel a little lighter at her invitation. It felt normal, in the strange way things felt around this place. You hesitated for only a moment, then slowly made your way to the table, sitting beside Black Sapphire, who didn’t seem to mind, though he did subtly check that you were comfortable.

Shadow Milk was already seated across from you, eating his meal with exaggerated carelessness. His eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, you saw the familiar mischievous glint—yet there was still something guarded in his gaze. The tension from last night was still there, buried beneath his usual antics, but it wasn’t gone. He’d certainly made his point, and you hadn’t forgotten it.

However, true to form, Shadow Milk didn’t let the silence hang for long. He leaned back in his chair, raising his mug with a flourish, and took a sip before turning his attention to you. “Look at you,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “Still limping around like a poor wounded puppy. How sad.”

You shot him a glare, the irritation from the previous night creeping back, but it was more of a reflex now. His jabs were familiar, and, in a way, they were comforting—though you’d never admit that out loud.

Black Sapphire’s eyes flicked to you as if expecting something, then to Shadow Milk. He sighed quietly under his breath. “Don’t mind him. He likes to pretend he doesn’t know how to behave around people.” His words were dry, but there was no malice in them—just a hint of resignation.

Candy Apple, ever the optimistic one, clapped her hands together. “You two are too funny!” she chirped, her voice bright and airy as she scooted her plate closer to yours. “We can all enjoy breakfast without any fighting, right?”

You nodded slowly, appreciating the lightheartedness she brought to the table. You didn’t want to cause any more tension, especially now that you were feeling the weight of the silence that had hung between you and Shadow Milk. Despite the still-present unease from the night before, you forced yourself to focus on the food in front of you, trying to push the heavy conversation aside—at least for now.

But Shadow Milk didn’t let it go that easily. As the meal continued, his eyes would flicker to you, then to Black Sapphire, then back to you, always with that teasing gleam in his gaze. It was as if he couldn’t resist poking at the frayed nerves between you and him.

“You know,” he said, his voice still light but with an edge, “I almost miss you sitting in that room all day, sulking. At least you weren’t making this miserable breakfast interesting.” He smiled at his own words, clearly relishing the opportunity to get a rise out of you.

Your patience thinned again, but you couldn’t help but shoot back, “And what do you suggest, then? Should I sit quietly and eat like a good little prisoner?”

His smile only widened, a flash of that dangerous edge you’d felt the night before returning. “Now, that’s more like it,” he said, clearly pleased with your reaction. He leaned in closer, just enough that you could feel his presence fill the space between you. “I was starting to think you’d gotten soft on me.”

The moment was fleeting, but it made you realize something—no matter how much you tried to distance yourself from him, no matter how frustrated you felt with everything going on, he was always watching, always testing. He would never let you forget that he was the one in control.

Still, Black Sapphire’s quiet presence beside you offered some semblance of comfort. Even though he wasn’t going to step in and shield you from Shadow Milk’s antics, there was something about his steady silence that gave you the strength to keep your composure. Candy Apple, meanwhile, seemed blissfully unaware of the more subtle exchanges going on between you and Shadow Milk. She simply continued eating, happily oblivious to the tension that still lingered under the surface.

As the meal went on, the banter between you and Shadow Milk continued, albeit with a slightly more playful, less sharp edge. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that the balance between you and him was fragile, and every comment, every word, pushed it just a little closer to breaking.

Despite everything, despite the unease still hanging in the air, you couldn’t help but feel a small, reluctant relief at the familiarity of their antics. You weren’t sure how long you’d be stuck here, how long this twisted game would last—but for now, at least, you no longer felt so alone.

After a while, Black Sapphire set his utensils down, the click of his plate against the table breaking the comfortable rhythm. He stood, stretching slightly, and glanced toward Candy Apple. “We’ve got a mission today,” he said in his usual monotone, as if it were just another task to check off. “Stay out of trouble while we’re gone.”

Candy Apple’s eyes lit up at the mention of the mission. She practically bounced in her seat. “Yes! A mission! I’ll be back before you know it!” She stood up with a smile, grabbing a brightly colored scarf from the chair next to her and tying it playfully around her neck. “You’ll be fine here, right? Just don’t let Shadow Milk get into too much trouble without me!”

You gave a small smile, nodding at her enthusiasm. "I’ll manage," you replied, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

Shadow Milk, meanwhile, hadn’t seemed too concerned about their departure. He lounged in his seat, stretching like a cat and casually picking at his food. His eyes flicked between you and Black Sapphire, his usual grin still present, though he didn’t make a move to interact with them.

Before Black Sapphire turned to leave, however, he paused. His gaze fell on you for a brief moment, his usual quiet intensity softening just slightly. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, his voice lower than usual, almost as if he were giving you some sort of unspoken reassurance. But then, as if remembering something, he leaned in a little closer, his lips barely moving.

“Sorry about this,” he whispered to you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll try not to make him too insufferable for you.”

His words were brief, but you could tell he was trying to lighten the situation, despite the slight mischief in his tone. He offered you a small, almost apologetic smirk before straightening up and walking toward the door, you caught sight of a silent exchange of glances between him and shadow milk as you listened to his footsteps quiet against the stone floor.

Candy Apple followed him with a quick wave, her voice full of excitement. “See you soon!” she called, her bubbly tone almost too bright. She flashed you a wide grin before following Black Sapphire out of the room.

You were left in the quiet after their departure, the sudden absence of their presence feeling more noticeable than you had expected. The tension in the room seemed to settle, but now you were alone with Shadow Milk—again.

He didn’t waste any time, of course. The moment Black Sapphire and Candy Apple were gone, he tilted his head back to look at you, his grin returning as he stretched lazily in his seat. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice dripping with playful mockery. “Looks like it’s just you and me now, darling.”

The playful tone in his voice didn’t hide the fact that he knew exactly how much you disliked being left alone with him. He wasn’t going to let it slide.

"Seems like you’ll have to survive me for a little while," Shadow Milk added, as though the idea of you being trapped with him was the greatest of all misfortunes—at least, to him. His gaze lingered on you, a knowing glint flickering in his eyes. “What a shame.”

You sighed, knowing the day was about to get interesting. The silence between you both stretched for a moment, before he broke it, leaning back in his chair with that all-too-familiar smug grin plastered across his face.

"Well, well," he said, his voice light and teasing. "I didn’t realize the two of you had such a close bond." His eyes glittered with mischievous curiosity as he watched you, his grin widening just slightly. "Seems like there’s a little something going on between you and Black Sapphire, hm?"

You froze for a second, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about?” You didn’t know why, but you could already feel a strange, almost uncomfortable tension building in the air. Something was off about his words, the way he said them—it wasn’t just a casual tease.

Shadow Milk tilted his head, pretending to think for a moment. "Oh, come on now," he continued, a playfully mocking edge creeping into his tone. "You’re always so cozy with him. The two of you share quite the bond. It’s adorable." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing, a dark glint in them. "Is it more than just... companionship, I wonder?"

You tried to brush it off, but the way he was watching you made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. There was something in his gaze now—something sharper, more calculating—like he was testing you, pushing at something just beneath the surface. A feeling you couldn’t quite place settled in your chest.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you snapped, your voice betraying the irritation rising inside you. “There’s nothing going on between me and Black Sapphire. We’re just... friends. That’s all.”

His smile never wavered, but you could feel the slight shift in his demeanor, the faintest undercurrent of something darker threading through his words. He leaned back again, relaxing into his chair, but his gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it became even more focused, intense.

"Oh, of course," he said slowly, like he was savoring every word. "Just ‘friends.' I’m sure that’s all it is. I wouldn’t expect anything less... though it’s a bit odd that you seem so defensive about it." The teasing quality in his voice hadn’t gone away, but there was an unmistakable edge to it now, something almost possessive that he couldn't entirely hide. “You sure you’re not hiding something?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to maintain your composure, but you couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that had crept into your chest. There was a shift in Shadow Milk’s behavior, and it wasn’t the same playful teasing that you’d grown used to. He was pressing on something now, something you weren’t sure you even understood.

“I’m not hiding anything,” you said, your tone firmer than before, though you couldn't quite rid yourself of the unease. "Why does it even matter to you?"

He just shrugged, his expression unreadable for a brief moment. Then, that same smirk returned. "Just curious," he said lightly, though the glint in his eyes remained—almost predatory. 

You leaned back slightly in your seat, the faintest grin curling at the corner of your lips as the tension between you and Shadow Milk continued to simmer. The way he was looking at you, the edge in his tone, it almost felt like you were walking on a tightrope—one wrong move, and everything might fall apart. But you couldn't resist pushing a little, if only to lighten the mood and get him to show more of his cards.

"So, tell me," you said, your voice a little too casual, "are you... jealous or something , Shadow Milk?" You raised an eyebrow, a playful spark in your eyes as you studied him. "Is that what all this is about?” 

For a brief moment, his eyes widened just the slightest bit, but it was gone in an instant, his expression falling back into that familiar smirk. However, there was a subtle flush of irritation on his features, his posture stiffening just enough for you to notice.

“Jealous?” he huffed, clearly irked by the suggestion. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I waste my time with something so ridiculous?” His voice was a little sharper now, but it was clear he was trying to brush it off, as if the mere thought of being jealous was beneath him.

You couldn’t help but smirk, watching him squirm just a little. "Well, you’re awfully touchy about it. Makes me wonder."

He glared at you for a second, that usual mocking glint in his eyes replaced by a flicker of something darker. “I’m not jealous,” he repeated more forcefully, clearly trying to convince himself more than you. “You’re just imagining things.”

The words came out faster than usual, almost as though he were trying to deflect your teasing. But you saw through it—there was a crack in his usual unflappable demeanor, and it was hard to ignore the way he huffed, clearly annoyed by the idea.

You couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of him flustered, even if it was just a little. Shadow Milk, the master of deceit, the one who liked to pull all the strings, had just shown a flicker of vulnerability. And that made you wonder just how far you could push him.

"Sure, sure," you teased, leaning back in your chair, an innocent smile on your face. "No jealousy here, just your usual charm."

He shot you a pointed glare, and for a split second, it looked like he was going to retort with something venomous, but instead, he simply muttered under his breath, clearly frustrated. “You're impossible."

You let the silence settle for a moment, savoring the fact that you’d gotten under his skin. It wasn’t often that Shadow Milk lost his cool, even just a little.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it," you said, trying to play it cool as you looked down at your plate. "I wouldn't want to start any drama between you two, would I?”

Shadow Milk let out another sharp breath through his nose, but you could see the briefest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—though he was doing his best to hide it. “Keep it up, darling,” he said, his tone still feigning annoyance, but with a hint of playfulness creeping in. “You might find yourself regretting it.”

You shrugged nonchalantly, content with how the conversation had turned. "I think I’ll take my chances."

Shadow Milk huffed again, but this time, it was more like an exasperated chuckle than anything else. His eyes softened just a fraction, though he tried to quickly hide it behind his usual playful facade.

“Well, enough of that nonsense," he said, the sudden change in his tone almost jarring. He cleared his throat dramatically, as if making an effort to regain control over the situation. "If you're going to keep being impossible, we might as well have some fun with it."

You tilted your head, wondering where this was going. Shadow Milk was always unpredictable, and you were sure that whatever he had in mind wouldn’t exactly be fun in the usual sense of the word.

“I propose a game,” he continued, his grin growing, as if he could already see how much you were going to enjoy this. “Something to pass the time. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little competition.”

You raised an eyebrow, a little suspicious. “A game? What kind of game?”

Shadow milk pushes from his seat in a dramatic fashion, twirling slightly as he stands before you. “A simple game of hide and seek. Think you can handle it” he teases.

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You’re really going to play fair? No tricks, no powers?” You squint at him in suspicion, you didn’t trust him much at all. 

He gave you a sly grin, that ever-present mischief in his eyes. “Oh, of course,” he said with a dramatic shrug. “I’ll play by the rules. No using my strings, no sneaking through walls, nothing of the sort. Just you, me, and good old-fashioned hide and seek.” His grin only widened at your doubtful expression. “What? Don’t believe me?”

You gave him a dubious glance, crossing your arms over your chest. “Honestly, I’m not sure I can trust you to not cheat. But alright, I’ll play along.”

"Good,” he purred, his smile turning wicked. “You’ve got one minute to hide. Don’t make it too easy.”

With that, he spun on his heel and walked off, leaving you alone in the large hallway. The echo of his steps faded as you looked around, considering your options. The castle was vast—endless, even—and it wouldn’t be hard to find a good hiding spot.

But then again, you knew Shadow Milk. He was unpredictable. The game was a trick—a trap in itself.

You didn’t have long to think. After a few moments of contemplation, you turned down a corridor, hoping to find a place to hide. You walked past several rooms, until your gaze caught on an old wooden door at the end of the hall. It looked a bit... different from the others. Almost out of place. Curious, you approached it, your heart thumping slightly. This wasn’t a place you’d explored before.

The door creaked as you pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit room. Dust motes floated lazily in the air. You stepped inside, your footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. The room was a strange mix of comfort and chaos, with mismatched furniture, old books stacked in corners, and dark curtains drawn across the windows. It felt oddly personal, too intimate for something so hidden away.

You didn’t know why you felt drawn to it—perhaps the mystery of it, or the quiet silence that contrasted with the usual playful energy of Shadow Milk. You wandered further inside, eyes scanning the room for any sign of life or significance. There was an air of stillness here, as if no one ever visited.

But just as you started to feel at ease in the silence, the sound of the door opening behind you shattered the calm.

“Found you,” Shadow Milk’s voice came from the threshold, but it was colder now, sharper. There was no amusement in his tone.

You turned to face him, a mix of surprise and confusion overtaking you. He stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, his expression dark.

You blinked in confusion. “What’s the problem?” you asked, uncertain as to why his demeanor had shifted so drastically. “I was just hiding. I didn’t know this room was off-limits.”

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous gleam flickering in them. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice low, threatening.

A chill ran down your spine, and you took a cautious step back, suddenly feeling like you’d stumbled into something you shouldn’t have. "Why? What’s in here?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze flicking over you like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, his expression twisted into something almost unrecognizable—anger mixed with a raw edge of something else you couldn’t quite place.

"You don’t belong here,” he snapped, his words harsh and biting. “This room is mine. It’s none of your business.”

You stumbled back, heart racing as a sense of dread washed over you. His sudden intensity unsettled you, making you feel as though you were in the presence of a version of Shadow Milk you hadn’t seen before—a far more dangerous, volatile one. He seemed raw with emotion, unstable.

“I didn’t mean to—” you began, but he cut you off with a sharp gesture, his eyes flashing with fury.

“You never listen, do you?” His voice was thick with venom, the words almost spitting out like a warning. “You think you can just wander around my castle, prying into places you have no right to be? You don’t get to be here.”

Your throat tightened, the anger in his voice seeping into you like ice cold water. His outburst—his snap at you—felt so sudden and disproportionate that you couldn’t help but freeze. You hadn’t meant to provoke him.

But there was something about this room, something about his reaction, that you couldn’t understand. You were simply trying to hide, but now you felt like you had trespassed on something far more intimate, far more personal than you could have imagined.

The air around you felt suffocating, and your eyes stung with the sudden rush of panic. You opened your mouth to speak, but all that came out was a tremor in your voice. “I... I didn’t know.”

His face darkened, his eyes narrowing even further. But then, as if realizing how harshly he had reacted, the air seemed to shift. A cold silence stretched between you both, and his glare softened just a fraction. But the damage was done—the tension in the room was thick, oppressive.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Tears welled in your eyes, fear flooding you like a wave you couldn’t control. His reaction had shaken you more than you wanted to admit, and despite yourself, the fear and the sting of his words overwhelmed you.

“I’m sorry...” you whispered, your voice breaking, the tears starting to fall despite your best efforts to hold them back. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You were still weak, vulnerable. You had begun to feel safer with shadow milk but you were reminded that this wasn’t your friend.

He didn’t say anything immediately. His gaze flickered, and for a moment, you could almost see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. But the storm inside him was still too strong.

Finally, Shadow Milk sighed, his posture relaxing just a fraction. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his movements. “You really are something, aren’t you?” he muttered, his tone almost tired. But the underlying anger still simmered beneath his words.

“You should have never come in here,” he said more softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “But... whatever. Just get out.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You backed away, the fear still clinging to your heart, before turning quickly and leaving the room.

The door slammed shut behind you with a heavy finality.

You leaned against the wall in the hallway, your breath shaky, trying to steady your heart. The tears, however, still came, despite your efforts to stop them. You didn’t understand why Shadow Milk had reacted the way he had. The shadows of his anger still lingered in your mind, making it hard to breathe, hard to shake the fear.

And deep down, a nagging thought crept in—what had you really uncovered in that room? And why had Shadow Milk reacted so violently to your presence there?

                                 •

                                  •

                                  •

                                  •

You sat quietly in your room, your mind still reeling from the encounter earlier with Shadow Milk. The fear that had flooded you in his personal space lingered like a heavy weight on your chest, but you pushed it aside. You had to. You were still trying to make sense of his reaction, of what he’d said.

A soft knock on the door broke your concentration, and you looked up, surprised. Who would be at your door now? You got up and opened it slowly, only to be met with Shadow Milk’s tall, looming figure. His presence filled the doorway, his usual confident air replaced with something almost... subdued. His eyes never met yours, instead focusing somewhere on the floor, which was an odd sight. Normally, his gaze was sharp, predatory even.

“Your injury is taking too long to heal,” he muttered, his voice softer than usual, almost like a complaint. He didn’t wait for you to respond before stepping into the room, his posture commanding and yet strangely distant.

You couldn’t help the flash of irritation that rose in you. “It’s not like I asked for this injury,” you snapped, folding your arms. “You’re the one who caused it.”

The words came out harsher than you intended, but you didn’t care. The tension from the previous moments lingered, and it didn’t sit well with you that he was now acting like the solution to your suffering—when he was the cause of it in the first place.

He didn't react to your sharpness, though. Instead, his voice turned low and almost annoyed as he abruptly commanded, "Sit on the bed."

Your heart skipped a beat, your annoyance flaring, but you didn’t argue. With a reluctant sigh, you obeyed and sat on the edge of the bed. Shadow Milk didn’t wait for you to settle before stepping toward you, his large, imposing figure casting a shadow over you as he leaned in. His hand came down onto your injured shoulder with surprising force, a dull pain shooting through your collarbone.

You flinched slightly at the contact, but you didn’t pull away. There was something about the way his fingers gripped your shoulder, warm despite the earlier tension between you two, that made it feel different than his usual touch.

And then, slowly, the warmth from his hand began to spread. It was like the heat from his touch seeped into your shoulder, melting away the sharp ache. The pain gradually turned into nothing more than a dull throb, like the lingering sting of a bruise rather than a full-blown injury. It was… odd. It felt healing, but you couldn't help but feel confused.

You stared up at him, still unsure. "What... what did you do?" You had to ask, your voice low, almost disbelieving.

He didn’t look at you as he responded, his tone dismissive, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I healed you.”

You blinked, processing his words. He... healed you? This whole time, he had the ability to do that, and he just didn’t? A bitter laugh bubbled up in your throat at the thought, but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t even know how to react.

It made you wonder—was he toying with you all along, letting you suffer with the injury as some kind of punishment or game? Or had he simply not cared enough to heal you sooner? The questions bounced around in your head, but none of them seemed to make sense.

Before you could voice your confusion, Shadow Milk was already turning away, his hand lifting from your shoulder as he started toward the door.

He paused just before stepping out, glancing back over his shoulder. For the first time in this whole strange interaction, his gaze flicked up to meet yours—but not with the same coldness or amusement you were used to. It was softer, almost conflicted, like there was something he wanted to say but didn’t know how.

“I didn’t do this because I care,” he said bluntly, his tone carefully neutral, but you could see the underlying tension in his jaw, the tightness of his lips. “Don’t mistake it for something else.”

You didn’t have a chance to respond before he turned away, his footsteps light but firm as he walked out, the door clicking softly behind him.

For a long moment, you sat there on the bed, your hand instinctively reaching up to where he had touched your shoulder, still feeling the lingering warmth. The pain was gone, but you were left with the unsettling weight of his words and the strange feeling that there was more to this than he was letting on.

He had healed you, yes, but why? And why now? What did it mean? His glare had softened when he said it, but it wasn’t out of kindness. It was almost like… something else was underneath that cold exterior of his. Something you couldn’t yet understand.

You stared at the door, your thoughts swirling in confusion, not sure if you were more relieved, angry, or worried about what this sudden change in behavior might mean.

Shadow Milk was always a puzzle, but today, the pieces felt even more scattered.

Chapter Text

You’re sitting in the small, dusty room, the faint sunlight streaming through the large windows you spent hours cleaning. The smell of old wood and dust lingers in the air, but it’s yours now. The space you’ve claimed, the one place in this palace where you can escape from everything—everyone. You’ve been avoiding him, Shadow Milk. Ever since he healed you. He says he didn’t do it out of care, but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than he’s letting on. The moment was too intimate, too soft for someone like him. The weird, unspoken tension has been gnawing at you ever since. It makes your stomach twist in confusion, and you don’t know what to do with it.

The silence of the room wraps around you as you flip through the pages of a book, trying to focus, trying to block everything out. The hours pass slowly, like they always do when you’re alone in here. You’ve almost managed to lose yourself in the words, when the door to your small sanctuary creaks open.

There he is.

Shadow Milk. His presence fills the doorway, and you freeze, frowning instinctively. He leans casually against the doorframe, his sharp grin cutting through the stillness like a knife.

“Well, well, well," he drawls, his voice light and mocking. "So this is where you’ve been hiding. I should’ve known.” His eyes glint with that knowing mischief, the kind that always manages to get under your skin. You can already hear the teasing tone, feel the weight of his gaze like he’s studying you.

You don’t answer immediately, still irritated by the memory of his so-called healing. The way his hands had touched you, his fingers just a little too gentle, the words that didn’t quite add up. He had done it all with a smile, but something in his eyes had been different—something deeper, something you couldn’t place. You shake your head, trying to dismiss the thought.

“What do you want?” Your voice is flat, guarded.

He chuckles, taking a few steps into the room without waiting for an invitation. His eyes sweep over the space, but it’s clear he’s not really interested in the room itself. No, he’s much more interested in you.

“I just came to see if you’re still hiding in here. It’s cute, really. You think you can run away from me, but you can’t. Not here.” He circles around you, close enough now that you can feel the heat of his presence, but still far enough to keep a distance. His eyes are playful, but there's something sharper behind them.

“I’m not hiding,” you say quickly, more defensively than you’d like.

“Sure you’re not.” He stops behind you, just out of your line of sight. “What’s so special about this little room anyway? It’s small, dark, and isolated—just like you, I imagine.” He smirks, leaning over your shoulder to look at the book in your hands.

You clutch it tighter, suddenly feeling exposed. His presence, his words—everything about him makes the air thicker. You force yourself to swallow down the unease he stirs up in you. You want to snap at him, tell him to leave, but part of you wonders if that’s exactly what he wants.

“You came here to make fun of me?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected, but there’s a tremble in your voice you can’t quite hide.

“Oh no,” he says, his voice darkening for just a moment, though the teasing still lingers. “I came here to remind you that no matter how far you hide, this is my domain I know everything.” He places a finger gently under your chin, lifting your face just enough to make you look at him. His grin is soft but cruel, like he’s savoring every second of your discomfort.

Something shifts in the air, a strange intensity that wraps around you both, but you can’t tell if it’s from the past awkwardness or the fact that you’re standing so close to him again, so... exposed.

You try to pull back, but his finger doesn’t let you go.

“Stop,” you murmur, not trusting your voice to stay steady.

He chuckles low in his throat, pulling away just enough to let you breathe, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. “You really are too easy, you know that?”

You feel your heart hammer in your chest, the confusion mounting once again. Why can’t you ever figure him out? Why does he have this power over you? You clench your hands into fists, trying to steady yourself, but everything inside you still feels off.

Without a word, he flicks his wrist lazily, and the air seems to hum with the sudden presence of his powers. From his fingertips, strands of shadowy threads begin to materialize—long, thin strings that seem to float in the air like extensions of his will. They stretch and coil, twining together like something alive, weaving in and out of the space between you, and before you can even react, one of them snags the book from your hands, pulling it just out of your reach.

You blink, staring at the page of the book, now dangling in the air, just beyond your grasp.

“Hey!” you snap, frustration creeping into your voice. “Give it back.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head, his fingers dancing in the air with a languid ease, as though playing a fine instrument. The string holding your book twirls and loops in the air, drawing your attention completely. You watch it move, the way it glides with a fluidity that feels unnatural.

“You really think you can hide in here from me?” he teases, his voice a low drawl, every word laced with that sadistic edge you hate. “A little book isn’t going to save you.”

You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to snatch the book from the air, knowing that would only encourage him. Instead, you focus, forcing your attention back to his face, the mocking grin stretched across it. His eyes are wide and bright, almost unnervingly so, as if he's reveling in the discomfort he’s causing. The threads move, twisting and curling around you like invisible fingers.

“You really are something else,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him, but he hears it.

“Something else?” He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Oh, I like that." The string still tugs at the book, jerking it slightly out of your reach again. “You’re not even trying to get it back. You’re too easy.”

It’s impossible to ignore the way the strings behave—like they’re extensions of his very being, his power, his control. The more he manipulates them, the more the room feels suffocating. The air itself thickens with the unnatural pull of his presence, and a shiver crawls up your spine.

You remind yourself, he’s not human. He’s a thing of shadows, of strange magic and darkness that bends to his will. He can control this—he can control you. And that thought alone makes your pulse quicken, a prickling unease creeping through your chest.

The inhuman characteristics of this place still confuses you. You have started to question where you came from, this whole world feeling like you don’t fit here. 

Your fingers itch to do something—anything—to regain control, but it’s hard to think clearly when everything he does feels like a violation. A playful violation, but a violation nonetheless. His powers, those invisible threads, wrap around your thoughts like tendrils, tightening just enough to make your mind feel dizzy, disoriented.

“Stop it,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to hide the tremor in it. It doesn’t sound firm, doesn’t feel like a command at all.

He tilts his head in that eerie way of his, his smile widening. “Stop? But you’ve been hiding from me, avoiding me. Don’t you think that’s a little rude?” One of his strings snakes closer, curling around your wrist lightly, the coldness of the shadowy material sending a shiver through your body. “I’m just here to keep you company. Is that such a crime?”

You swallow thickly, trying not to panic, trying not to think too much about the way the string feels against your skin. It’s like it’s alive, breathing, and it wraps around your wrist like a slow, deliberate caress. You shiver feeling the cool sensation.

He’s not like anyone you’ve ever known, and for a moment, the weight of that realization hits you harder than anything else. His strings tighten slightly around your wrist, and he leans in again, his voice a low murmur, almost too close for comfort. “You’re always so tense when I’m around. Is it fear? Terror?”

“I said stop,” you repeat, your tone is a little firmer now, but even to your own ears, it sounds weak.

His smile widens, and the string around your wrist loosens, the book finally floating down into his outstretched hand. He raises it, examining it like it’s the most trivial thing in the world, holding it just out of reach as he gins at you. The action is casual, but it’s not kind—nothing he does ever feels kind.

Taking a deep breath, you force your shoulders to relax, swallowing down the tightness that’s threatening to rise. You can handle this. He’s not human, he’s a jester, a trickster, and a sadist who likes to make you uncomfortable. But that doesn’t mean you have to cower.

You stand up slowly, deliberately, the coolness of the air in the room brushing against your skin. His smirk is still there, still teasing, but it falters for a fraction of a second as you move towards him, closer than you’ve ever dared before. The space between you is thin, tense. You don’t look away, don’t back down. His eyes widen just a little—his confidence, just for a moment, faltering in the face of your stillness.

He doesn’t speak. There’s a slight pause, the air heavy with the electric charge of his powers. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stare. A silent threat in your eyes. 

You’re so close now, you can feel the weight of his presence, that unnerving, magnetic aura of his wrapping around you. He’s the one to break the silence first, but it’s almost like he’s testing the waters. “What’s this?” His voice is laced with that same playful edge, but there’s a crack in it now, an uncertainty you almost didn’t expect. “You think you can stare me down? You’ll have to do better than that.”

But you stand firm. The book is still floating just out of reach, dangling in the air between you like it’s the only thing that matters right now. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, but you keep your gaze locked on his. Slowly, deliberately, you extend your hand towards him—silent, demanding. No words, no threats, just the quiet insistence that you want your book back.

For a moment, Shadow Milk hesitates, his gaze flickering between your outstretched hand and your face. The teasing grin falters, just for a heartbeat. He studies you, an unreadable look in his eyes. Then, with a huff, he finally lets out a small, irritated sigh, the strings snapping back into his control, dropping the book into your hand with a fluid motion.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, I’ll give you that,” he mutters, his tone a mix of admiration and annoyance. But despite the bite in his voice, the smirk has all but vanished. For the first time in a long time, Shadow Milk is slightly off-balance, his confidence shaken—just enough for you to see it.

You don’t thank him. You don’t need to. You simply turn, clutching the book to your chest, your pulse still racing, but now there’s a quiet victory in your chest. You held your ground.

Without a word, you head back to your seat, your gaze lingering for just a moment longer, as if to say, I’m not afraid of you. The space between you fills with that same silence, only now, it feels a little different. Something has shifted, and you’re not sure what yet, but for the first time, you feel like you’ve taken back some small part of yourself.

Shadow Milk stands there, watching you with a gaze that seems to strip you bare, but he doesn't say anything for a long moment. Instead, his fingers twitch, summoning those long, shadowy threads into existence again, playing with them idly, wrapping them around his fingers like a jester twirling a ribbon. The sound of them shifting in the air is almost soothing, like a reminder that he could take control again in an instant, but you're not going to let him.

“You’re an odd mortal,” he finally says, his voice flat, though the comment has that same taunting edge. He doesn't even look at you as he twirls the strings between his fingers, his attention diverted to the shadows rather than you. “I would’ve thought you’d be more... submissive by now. But here you are, still trying to hold your ground.”

An offended look crosses your face instantly, a heat rising in your chest. Mortal? You narrow your eyes, trying to mask the frustration brewing within you. You’re not some fragile human—you're more than that, even if Shadow Milk can't seem to get it through his head. You’re not even sure what exactly he is, but it’s not like he’s some kind of god. 

You can feel the words bubbling up inside you, the snarky retort forming quickly.

"Odd?" you scoff, not even bothering to look at him as you let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was supposed to act like your pet. You know, for someone who claims not to care about people, you sure do spend a lot of time trying to get under my skin.”

You finally glance up at him, meeting his gaze with a raised brow and a smirk that barely hides the bite in your words.

There’s a moment of silence, and then—just as you start to think you’ve failed to get under his skin—he lets out a small, low chuckle. The sound is soft but genuine, a rare break in his usual facade.

“You’re fun, I’ll give you that,” he muses, his fingers still twirling the shadowy threads but with a little less menace now. “I’ve never met someone who talks back quite like you. It’s... refreshing in its own way.”

The tension between you two lightens just slightly, but you don’t let your guard down. Instead, you lean back in your seat, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Yeah, well, if you’d stopped pestering me, maybe I’d stop being so snarky. You’re the one who keeps poking the bear,” you reply, crossing your arms. “But I guess you wouldn’t understand that.”

The chuckle lingers a moment longer, the edge of amusement never fully leaving his voice. It’s clear you’ve struck a chord with him, and even though he’s trying to play it off like it doesn’t matter, you know that small crack in his perfect composure is exactly what you were aiming for.

"Maybe," Shadow Milk admits, his voice still tinged with that light, teasing tone. "But I suppose I can’t argue with your... charm." His grin widens slightly, though it's a more genuine smile this time. "You’ve certainly got more bite than most. Just don’t forget that I’m still the one in control here."

“Don’t worry,” you reply coolly, eyes narrowing playfully. “I haven’t forgotten.”

And with that, the strange, uneasy silence hangs again, but now, it’s a little less oppressive. You've given him something to think about, and maybe, just maybe, you’ve earned a bit more respect.

 Shadow milk without a word flops next to you, way too close for comfort. The cool from his proximity radiates over you like a wave, and you instinctively tense, instinctively pulling back, but he’s already settled in, leaning back casually as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart skips a beat at how close he is, but you immediately push that reaction down, brushing it off as a simple discomfort you can ignore. It feels like the very air between you thickens with the proximity, and for a split second, your face heats up ever so slightly, your heart picking up its pace.

You swear under your breath, the thought racing through your mind. ‘This is ridiculous. He’s so touchy. Why does he always do this?’

"Relax, just sitting with you" Shadow Milk murmurs, his voice rich with that same teasing tone but it's low and soft. His leg brushes against yours just enough to make your muscles twitch, and his smile widens, sensing the discomfort radiating off you.

"You're practically squirming." His words are light, but there’s a deliberate calmness to them, like he's savoring the way you’re reacting. "You should be used to my company by now, don't you think?"

You fight to keep your expression neutral, even as your pulse races with the awareness of how close he is, how too close. His side is practically pressed against yours now, and you can’t help but feel the cool of his body just beneath the thin fabric of your clothing. The inhuman chill seeping into your skin.

“I’m not squirming,” you manage, your voice firm, but even you can hear the slight edge in it. It’s a half-lie, and you know it.

“Oh, really?” He leans in a little closer, just enough to make you stiffen. "Because it sure looks like it. You’re blushing. How pathetic."

Your face betrays you, just enough to make your heart race even faster, but you quickly school your expression, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. ‘Don’t let him win this’, you mentally scold yourself.

“Shut up,” you snap, a little too sharp, but it’s the only thing you can think of to regain control of the situation. "Stop being so... close."

Shadow Milk chuckles, clearly delighted by the way he’s making you react. He shifts, just a fraction, to make sure he’s still practically on top of you, and you can’t help but bite back a frustrated groan.

"You're adorable when you're irritated, you know?" he muses, eyes glinting with amusement. “A little fire in you. It’s amusing."

You grit your teeth, mentally cursing him for being so touchy, so infuriatingly persistent. His nearness makes everything about the room feel suffocating, like he’s invading every personal space you’ve tried to carve out for yourself. It’s almost like he knows exactly how to make you feel off-balance, how to make you feel something, whether you want to or not.

You turn your head away, deliberately putting some distance between you, hoping it’ll give you some space to breathe.

“Just—just don’t get so close,” you mutter, trying to sound unaffected, even if your heart is still racing in your chest. You push on his side hoping to free up some room, his large form not budging. 

But Shadow Milk doesn’t listen. He only leans a little closer, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as he teases you, “Why? You don’t like it?”

You refuse to let your face betray you. You won’t let him win this round. “No, I don’t” you grumble.

“Mm,” he hums, his breath a little too close to your ear. “We’ll see about that.”

You’re sure your face is red now, even if you’re not looking at him, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s made you flustered. With every inch of you screaming to push him away, you force yourself to stay still. ‘Why is he even doing this?’ The question swirls in your head, concluding he is just messing with you, trying to get under your skin. 

Without thinking, you abruptly stand, pushing yourself away from the couch in one swift motion. The sudden movement makes the air feel cooler, like you’ve just broken free of something tightening around your chest. You take a few steps, deliberately putting some much-needed distance between the two of you, your pulse still racing, but now with a sharp edge of frustration.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” The words spill out before you can stop them, harsher than you intended. The bite in your voice surprises even you, the edge of irritation cutting through the air like a blade.

Shadow Milk doesn’t seem fazed. In fact, the corner of his mouth quirks into that insufferable, teasing grin of his as he watches you, completely unfazed by your outburst. His fingers twitch slightly, those familiar dark strings reappearing, twisting and writhing in the air almost absentmindedly. He leans back, his eyes never leaving you as he responds with that snarky, infuriating tone of his.

“Well, I’ve allowed you to avoid me for a few days now,” he says, voice dripping with mock sweetness, his gaze playful but laced with something darker. “I’m not the kind of person you can just ignore. Don’t you think?”

You grit your teeth, anger bubbling beneath the surface as you stand there, trying to regain some sense of control. How dare he act like he’s doing you a favor by not bothering you? As if you owe him anything. As if you’re supposed to welcome his presence.

“Well, maybe I just want some peace. ” you snap back, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. 

He raises an eyebrow, as if your frustration amuses him more than it should. His gaze flicks over you for a moment, studying you carefully, before he tilts his head and sighs theatrically.

“Peace?” he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue. “Hmm, I think you and I both know that’s not really what you want.”

You stare at him, struggling to hide the way your heart skips in your chest at his words. You want to be left alone. You want distance. But something about his gaze makes the air feel thicker, heavier.

“Why do you always do this?” you demand, frustration making your words tremble just slightly. “Why do you keep coming around, poking and prodding like I’m some kind of experiment?”

Shadow Milk gives you that same infuriating grin, his eyes darkening just a little as his strings continue to dance in the air, weaving between his fingers. His voice is low now, almost coaxing, though there’s no kindness in it.

“Because,” he begins, the word stretching lazily between you, “I’m interested in you. In what makes you tick, in what makes you react like this.” He leans forward slightly, eyes glinting. “You’re not like the others here. You don’t fit into the mold, and that makes you... fascinating.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t know why the thought of being fascinating to him unsettles you so much. But something about the way he says it—like it’s a puzzle to be solved, like it’s all a game to him—makes you feel small. Weak.

You shake your head, trying to push the feeling away. "I’m not a toy for you to play with," you bite out, your voice sharper than ever, even though you can feel your chest tightening.

“Oh, but you are,” Shadow Milk purrs, his smile widening ever so slightly. “And I’m enjoying the game."

His words hit you like a slap, and you can feel the hot wave of irritation rise in your chest again. ‘He’s not human. He’s a sadistic, manipulative force that plays with people’s lives like they're nothing.’  And for all your frustration, all your desire to push him away, you know there's nothing you can do to change the way he treats you.

“Plus the incessant noise from your chest is confusing me,” he grumbles almost annoyed, you blink at him. ‘My heart beat? How can he even hear that?’ You stare bewildered by the odd comment. You brush it off as him trying to mess with you, again.

You storm out of the room leaving shadow milk alone, your anger getting the best of you. He was so confusing, irritating. But something had started to bubble in your chest that made you feel sick. 

Such a slight shift, the feeling of enjoyment with his presence. His annoying antics ever lighting up a room. You hated it.

You hated him.

Chapter Text

You sat on the edge of the dimly lit table, your fingers tracing the grain of the wood as you glanced up at Black Sapphire. He stood by the window, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on the view outside. The sunlight cast a faint, eerie glow on his sharp features. It had become somewhat of a routine for you to talk with him, though he wasn’t the most forthcoming. Today, though, you were curious. The question had been gnawing at you for a while, and you figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

"So, how did you and Shadow Milk meet?" you asked, your voice breaking the stillness in the room. "I’ve heard bits and pieces, but it’s always so... vague."

Black Sapphire didn’t move at first, his silence stretching out longer than you expected. You were about to repeat the question when he finally spoke, his voice low and almost reluctant.

"I was... alone," he said quietly, his gaze still distant. "No friends. No family. Just... nothing. I wandered, kept to the shadows. It wasn’t much of a life." He paused, a brief flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Then, one day, Shadow Milk found me."

You leaned forward, intrigued. "And what happened then?"

He smirked, but there was no humor in it. "He made me an offer." His tone shifted, as if recalling something bitter. "He told me he could help me find a purpose... that I could be someone important, someone to be feared. All I had to do was follow him." He exhaled sharply, almost as if the memory tasted foul on his tongue. "I didn’t have much else to lose."

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, and you could sense the loneliness that had defined his life before Shadow Milk entered it. It was a side of Black Sapphire you hadn’t seen before—vulnerable, almost human. But just as you thought you might have gained some insight into the man before you, a voice echoed from the shadows behind you.

"How sweet, Sapphire," Shadow Milk's voice purred, dripping with mischief as he emerged from the darkness, his piercing blue eyes glowing in the dim light. "I had no idea you were so sentimental."

You jumped slightly at his sudden appearance, a chill running down your spine as he flashed that wide, devilish grin of his. "I didn’t know you cared so much about your sad little backstory," he continued, his voice teasing. "What’s next, Sapphire? Are you going to cry about it?" He let out a loud, exaggerated sniff, as though mocking Black Sapphire’s somber mood. "Poor, poor Sapphire. Left all alone, without a friend in the world… How tragic."

You shot Shadow Milk a disapproving glance, but he only grinned wider, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. Black Sapphire, however, didn’t react, though the faintest twitch of his lips suggested he was far from pleased.

"I’m just giving the little mortal a glimpse of the real story," Shadow Milk continued, his eyes locking onto you. "Don’t mind me, though. I’m just here for the fun."

You rolled your eyes, feeling that familiar unease creep up your spine. Despite his words, there was something about Shadow Milk that unsettled you—something far darker than his jokes and his jester-like antics.

Sighing, you turned your attention back to Black Sapphire, though you knew the conversation had shifted. Shadow Milk had a way of always making things... about him.

Shadow Milk leaned casually against the doorframe, his grin stretching even wider as he studied you with amusement. "What is this about, hm?" he said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Aren’t you a curious little thing? So nosy, always prying into things that don’t concern you." He stepped forward, his eyes gleaming like twin blue flames. "You really think you can handle all these wonderful secrets we have?"

You shot him a look, a playful yet sharp edge to your voice. "Well, someone has to figure out what’s going on around here," you replied, crossing your arms. "It’s not like you’re exactly forthcoming with information. Besides, I’m just trying to understand how you two ended up together. I mean, it’s not every day someone ends up stuck with a walking, talking nightmare."

Shadow Milk chuckled, clearly enjoying your snark. "Ah, the mortal’s still got some bite. I like that." He grinned even wider, the corners of his mouth stretching unnaturally. Your face is tight in a scowl but your face falters remembering the day before. His treatment of you ever changing it was confusing.

Your eyes narrowed, challenging his taunt. "Oh, trust me," you said with a smirk, "I’m pretty sure I’ve already uncovered all the things that’ll give me nightmares, and you’re definitely on that list."

For a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something deeper, darker—but it was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual playful grin. "Touché, mortal. But don’t get too cocky. I’m full of surprises."

"Yeah, I’ve noticed," you muttered under your breath, but just loud enough for him to hear.

Shadow Milk raised an eyebrow, as though impressed by your sass. "Feisty. Be careful my dear." He flashed another mischievous grin before turning his attention back to Black Sapphire. "But enough about your little friend here. You two can get back to your heart-to-heart. I’m sure I’m the last person you need in the conversation."

With that, he vanished back into the shadows, his laughter echoing in the distance like the caw of a crow. You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, turning to Black Sapphire with a roll of your eyes.

"Well, that was... charming," you muttered, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. "Honestly, he’s worse than a bad joke that never ends."

Black Sapphire glanced at you, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips. "You’re learning fast," he remarked dryly.

"Someone’s got to," you said, returning his half-smile. "Otherwise, I’ll go crazy around here."

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, the weight of everything around you pressing down harder than usual. It was becoming difficult to ignore the gnawing emptiness in your mind. Black Sapphire’s eyes flicked over to you, sharp and observant, as though something had shifted in your demeanor.

"What’s bothering you?" he asked, his voice quieter than before, softer. He didn’t say it in a judgmental way—more like he was genuinely curious, noticing a change in you that you hadn’t made obvious.

You hesitated, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. You hadn’t planned on telling him—not now, anyway—but something about the way he asked made it impossible to keep it to yourself any longer. Finally, you spoke, your voice a little shaky. "I… I don’t remember anything. No more than a month ago, I just… woke up in a field, and I didn’t know who I was, where I was, or even what I was doing there. It’s all just gone." You paused, trying to gather your thoughts, but they seemed scattered and out of reach. "Everything before that? Just a blank."

Black Sapphire’s expression shifted, his stoic face showing the first sign of genuine surprise. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features before he quickly masked it. You couldn’t help but notice the way he stood a little taller, a little more alert, his usual calmness faltering for the briefest of moments.

"You’re saying…" His voice trailed off, and he looked away for a moment, processing what you had said. When he turned back to you, there was a new intensity in his gaze, like he was searching for something. "You don’t remember anything at all? Not even basic things about who you were?"

You shook your head slowly, feeling the weight of the truth you had kept hidden from everyone. "No, it’s like everything before waking up is just… gone. I know how to do things—tasks, skills—things I’ve clearly learned at some point. But any memories, any actual events or people from before that? Nothing." You exhaled slowly, frustration seeping into your tone. "I couldn’t even remember my own name at first."

There was a long silence, and for a moment, you almost thought he was going to say something, but instead, he seemed lost in thought. His usual sarcastic edge was gone, replaced by a quiet focus that made you feel like you were under scrutiny, but not in a bad way. More like he was trying to understand, to piece together something you couldn’t.

"That’s…" Black Sapphire began, but his words faltered. He took a breath, and when he spoke again, it was slower, more deliberate. "Is there anything at all you can remember? Anything that might give us a clue as to who you were?"

You thought for a moment, trying to dig deeper, but it was like trying to grab onto smoke. "I… I know how to read and write, and I can fight. A little. Some basic survival things. But if I think harder, it’s just more emptiness." You could feel your frustration rising again, but you forced yourself to calm down. "I know I’ve been around people, and I must’ve had some sort of life before this. But none of it feels real. It’s just blank."

Black Sapphire stared at you, the wheels in his mind turning as he processed your words. The stillness between you seemed to stretch longer than it should, the air thick with an unspoken question neither of you wanted to ask aloud. But then he spoke, his tone softer now, almost careful.

"It’s strange," he said, almost to himself. "Someone—" He stopped mid-sentence, clearly reconsidering. "There are plenty of things in this world that could cause this… loss. But it’s rare. And whatever did this to you, it wasn’t just an accident."

You couldn’t help but feel a knot tighten in your chest. "You think someone did this to me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I think," Black Sapphire began, choosing his words carefully, "there’s a reason why you don’t remember anything. And it’s not something as simple as amnesia."

Before you could ask anything more, a familiar, obnoxious voice interrupted.

"Amnesia, huh? Sounds boring," Shadow Milk’s voice rang out from the shadows, his blue eyes gleaming like an unsettling spotlight. He stepped forward with his usual jester-like swagger, his grin wide and mocking. "But no worries, I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually. Who needs memories when you’ve got me around to liven things up?"

You shot him an irritated glare, ‘why are you still here’ you knew he could hear your thoughts but Shadow Milk didn’t seem to care. Instead, he winked and added, "Just be careful, though. The more you dig, the more things might start to... pop up. And some memories, well, they’re better left forgotten."

You felt a chill run down your spine as his words settled into the air, and for the first time, you wondered if whatever caused your memory loss might not just be a past you were better off never remembering. 

Black sapphire takes notice of your fallen face. A small smirk crossed on his face, Black Sapphire’s gaze flickered toward Shadow Milk, who was still lounging in the shadows, his grin never wavering. For a moment, it looked like he was going to stay silent, but then a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Life of the Party himself," Black Sapphire said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "It’s a real shame that you’ve graced us with your presence, but I think it’s time for you to... disappear for a while. We’ve got a serious discussion to have."

Shadow Milk raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh, Sapphire, you wound me," he said dramatically, holding a hand to his chest as though in mock agony. "Can’t I stay and entertain our lovely friend here a bit longer?"

"No," Black Sapphire replied dryly. "You’re giving both of us a headache." He waved a hand in the air dismissively, his tone nonchalant as though it was the most natural thing in the world to order around the jester. "Go bother someone else for a change."

Shadow Milk paused for a moment, pretending to be insulted, but then he grinned wider, clearly not bothered at all. "Ah, fine, fine," he said, his tone light and teasing. "It seems the mood here is a bit too serious for my taste anyway." He winked at you. "But remember, I’m always lurking around, just waiting for the perfect time to come back and make you wish you had stayed lost in that field."

With that, he gave a dramatic bow, exaggerated for effect, before slipping back into the shadows, his laughter echoing off the walls like a distant, teasing whisper. "Goodbye, dear friend. We’ll meet again soon."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, feeling the tension in the room shift once Shadow Milk had vanished. There was something about him that always managed to leave you on edge, no matter how playful his words.

Turning back to Black Sapphire, you couldn’t help but offer a small, appreciative smile. "Well, that was... something," you said, shaking your head. "Thanks for shooing him off. I don’t think I could’ve handled much more of his ‘charming’ presence."

Black Sapphire gave a small, amused shrug. "I can handle it. But it’s more fun watching him squirm when I turn the tables on him." He paused for a moment, his eyes softening slightly as he glanced at you. "You’ve got more patience than I thought, dealing with him."

You chuckled lightly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "It’s not the patience, it’s just the fact that he always knows how to make everything… weird."

Black Sapphire’s expression shifted then, a subtle shift in his posture as he seemed to consider something carefully. After a few moments, he spoke again, his voice quieter now, less sarcastic. "I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, and I can’t say I understand what you’re going through, not exactly," he said, his gaze steady on you. "But if you want to try and get your memories back… maybe there’s something here, in this place, that can help. If we can learn more about where you are, what’s happened here, maybe it'll trigger something. You never know."

You looked at him, surprised at the genuine offer. "You really think that’ll work?"

He shrugged, his usual calmness returning, but with a touch of something softer beneath it. "It’s worth a try. I know this place better than anyone, and I’m sure there’s something hidden here. Maybe it’ll bring something back. It’s not going to be easy, but I’ll help you however I can."

You found yourself unexpectedly touched by his words, and the sincerity in his offer made something inside you loosen, just a little. "Thanks, Sapphire," you said quietly. "I... I really appreciate it."

He gave a small nod, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "No problem. Let’s just see where this takes us, yeah?"

You nodded in return, feeling a bit of hope stir inside you for the first time in a while. Maybe this place held more answers than you’d thought. And maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t have to face the darkness of your lost memories completely alone. You smile at the thought, feeling grateful for black sapphire.

                                       •          

                                       •

                                       •

                                       •

The quiet rustling of pages filled the room as you sat cross-legged on the cold floor of the library, your joints aching from hours of reading. Books lay scattered around you in a chaotic mess, their spines worn and their pages yellowed with age. Every one of them seemed to hold potential answers, yet after all this time, none had given you anything concrete.

Black Sapphire sat beside you, silently flipping through another heavy tome, his eyes scanning the words with the same intensity they always held. The occasional sigh from him was the only sign that even he was beginning to grow frustrated, but he didn’t speak it aloud. His presence next to you felt comforting in a way, even as both of you remained lost in the sea of pages. Every now and then, he’d glance at you with that unreadable expression of his, but he never said anything, as though waiting for something to jump out at either of you.

You shifted, stretching your stiff legs and wincing as your muscles protested. The discomfort wasn’t helping your concentration. "This is hopeless," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. "We’ve been at this for hours, and nothing's come up. All these books are about ancient histories, rituals, but nothing about... what happened to me."

Black Sapphire didn’t respond immediately, his focus unwavering. He flipped to another page, his fingers barely pausing on the paper as he skimmed through the text, eyes narrowed in concentration. He was used to this—the hours of searching, the silence, the frustration. Still, you could see the subtle flicker of annoyance in his expression, though he quickly masked it.

"I think you’re right," he said finally, his voice just a little bit softer than usual. "None of this is giving us any answers. It’s as if your memory loss is… unexplained."

You felt the weight of those words. "So you don’t think it’s just some kind of accident?" you asked, looking over at him. "You think it might be something else?"

He closed the book in front of him with a soft thud and leaned back, resting against a stack of books, his face thoughtful. "I don’t know," he admitted, his tone a little more reflective than usual. "What I do know is that there’s no mention of anything quite like this. There are records of magical amnesia, curses, and even some rare phenomena where memories can be… erased. But nothing that explains your case specifically."

You exhaled slowly, frustration building again. "So what does that mean? We’re just stuck with no clue?"

"Not quite," Black Sapphire replied, his gaze returning to you. There was something in his eyes now—a quiet determination. "There’s always more to uncover. We’ve only scratched the surface."

You raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you’ve done this before."

He gave you a wry smile, though it was more out of habit than humor. "You’d be surprised what I’ve had to deal with." Then, after a beat, he added, "If we’re going to find something, we need to go deeper. These books are old, but there might be more hidden in the archives—books we haven’t checked yet, or places we haven’t thought to look."

You glanced around at the dimly lit library, feeling the weight of the countless books and scrolls surrounding you. The place was ancient, its walls lined with secrets, and yet you couldn’t help but feel like the answers were slipping through your fingers like sand.

"Do you think whatever did this to me is here? In this place?" you asked, your voice quieter now, laced with uncertainty.

Black Sapphire didn’t answer right away. He seemed to consider your question carefully, his expression serious as he looked out at the rows of bookshelves. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. "If it is here, we’ll find it. But it’s not going to be easy. This place has layers… and some of them are buried deep."

You nodded, trying to push aside the fear gnawing at you. "I want to know what happened to me. I want to remember."

For a brief moment, Black Sapphire met your eyes, his usual coolness softened by something almost sympathetic. "We’ll get there," he said quietly. "I promise. Whatever it takes."

His words, though simple, offered a small flicker of hope. You weren’t sure how long this search would take, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone in it.

With a quiet sigh, you began to sift through another stack of books, trying to focus on the task at hand. As the hours stretched on, the weight of exhaustion settled in, but you didn’t stop. Neither did Black Sapphire. The two of you, though silent for the most part, worked together—searching, questioning, refusing to give up.

The hours passed, and the silence in the library grew heavier with each turn of the page. You were growing exhausted, but you couldn't stop searching. The thought of giving up—of leaving the mystery of your past unsolved—felt unbearable. Every book you flipped through seemed to hold only more questions, and the answers remained stubbornly out of reach.

Black Sapphire had been quiet for a while, and you could feel his eyes on you from time to time as he flipped through yet another ancient tome. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual, as though he was carefully weighing his words.

"I’ve been thinking," he began, the faintest hesitation in his tone. "There may be another way to get answers."

You looked up, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

He shifted slightly, his gaze flickering toward the darker corners of the library, his usual air of stoicism momentarily fading. "There’s someone who might be able to help. Someone who has… insights into the truth of things. But I know how you feel about it."

You paused, the moment of uncertainty between you hanging heavy in the air. Your stomach clenched at the thought of the person he was referring to. "You don’t mean Shadow Milk, do you?"

Black Sapphire hesitated before nodding, though his expression was guarded. "He was once the master of truth, after all. He knows things… things about memory, about people, about what might have happened to you."

You scoffed and quickly dismissed the idea. "I’m not talking to him. There’s no way in hell I’m trusting him with anything. He’s the last person I’d turn to."

Black Sapphire didn’t press the matter immediately, though you could see a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He didn’t push you further, but there was something else in his expression that made you uneasy—like he knew something you didn’t, something you weren’t ready to face.

Your mind drifted back to the other day, when Shadow Milk had gotten too close for comfort. You remembered the way he had leaned in, his piercing blue eyes too close to your face, the way his voice had slithered into your thoughts like a snake. You hadn't been able to shake the feeling of his presence even after he left. Your face flushed slightly, and you forced yourself to ignore it, quickly brushing away the sensation.

No. You couldn't let yourself go there.

"I’d rather keep searching in these books," you muttered, your voice tinged with frustration. "At least these pages don’t make me feel like I’m about to be eaten alive."

Black Sapphire gave a small, understanding nod, but the slight quirk of his lips hinted at an underlying amusement. "You’re sure? He might have some answers you won’t find in those dusty old pages."

You gave him a look, resisting the urge to snap back at him. "I’m sure. I’m not letting him get into my head again. He’s... he’s a joke."

"Mm," Black Sapphire hummed noncommittally, but you could tell he wasn’t fully convinced by your response. Still, he didn’t press it. Instead, he let the subject drop, returning to the book in his hands, but the slight tension in his posture suggested that there was more he wanted to say—more that he was trying to figure out in his own way.

You let out a frustrated sigh, your eyes scanning the pages in front of you again, but your mind was elsewhere. The image of Shadow Milk lingered in your thoughts. The way he had taunted you, getting right up in your space, his grin so wide it nearly stretched to the edges of sanity.

You flushed again, shaking your head as if to physically dislodge the memory. "Focus," you muttered under your breath. "Just focus on the books."

But the more you tried to concentrate on the pages, the more Shadow Milk’s presence seemed to creep in, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. The memory of him, his unsettling eyes and that taunting voice, refused to fade. You clenched your jaw and pushed through the discomfort, picking up another book to sift through, but his shadow loomed in the back of your mind.

Black Sapphire, ever silent beside you, seemed to sense your frustration. He didn't press you further about Shadow Milk, but you could tell that he wasn’t entirely ready to give up on the idea. For now, though, the search continued—though, deep down, you wondered if there might come a time when you’d have to swallow your pride and accept that Shadow Milk was the key to unlocking your past.

But that was a bridge you weren’t willing to cross just yet.

                                       •          

                                       •

                                       •

                                       •

Hours drifted by like the turning of pages, and still, there was nothing. The books had told you nothing new—just endless lines of old history, magic, and ritual, none of which connected to your past. You let out a groan of frustration, flopping onto your back, your arms spread wide as you stared up at the library’s high ceiling. The shadows had lengthened, and the quiet of the room felt almost oppressive now.

"I can’t believe this," you muttered, your voice tinged with disappointment. "We’ve spent all day searching and still nothing. It’s like there’s nothing out there for me to find." The weight of exhaustion settled deep in your bones. Your eyes burned from staring at the same pages for hours, and your muscles ached from sitting so still.

Black Sapphire sat across from you, still going through a few last books, though his focus had clearly started to wane as well. The flicker of frustration in his eyes mirrored yours, but he said nothing for a moment, just turning the page of the book in his lap with a quiet sigh.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice soft but firm. "You’ve done enough for one day. You should get some rest."

You sat up, pushing yourself upright with a groan. "I can’t stop now. I’m so close, I just know it."

"You’ve been at this for hours," Black Sapphire countered, a hint of concern in his tone. He closed the book in front of him, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an almost gentle intensity. "You need to rest. You can always pick this back up tomorrow. You’re not going to find anything if you’re this worn out."

You opened your mouth to argue, but then you stopped. He was right. Your mind was foggy from exhaustion, and every page felt like it was slipping through your fingers the more you tried to grasp onto it. With a sigh, you leaned back again, closing your eyes briefly as the weight of the day fully settled in.

Black Sapphire noticed the defeated look on your face, and for the first time, there was a softness in his expression that you hadn’t quite seen before. He set the book aside, and then, with an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, he gave you a small, reassuring smile.

"We’ll figure this out," he said, his voice steady and sincere. "I know it feels like we’re getting nowhere right now, but we will find the answers. Together."

You met his gaze, his quiet confidence somehow making you feel less alone in this. It was easy to forget, in the midst of all the searching and frustration, that you weren’t in this by yourself.

"Yeah," you said quietly, nodding, trying to believe it. "I guess you're right. I’m just... frustrated."

Black Sapphire stood, brushing off the dust from his clothes before offering you a hand. "Come on. Let's get some sleep. You can tackle this again tomorrow. You deserve a break."

You hesitated for a moment, but then you took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. As you stood, you felt the weight of your tired body settle on you again, and the thought of finally lying down seemed incredibly tempting.

With a last glance around the library, you let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly. "Thanks," you murmured, a small, tired smile forming on your lips.

"Don’t mention it," Black Sapphire replied, his voice warm but still carrying that underlying sense of purpose. "We’re in this together."

He led you out of the library and up the winding staircase, the quiet of the mansion around you a stark contrast to the chaos of the day. The halls seemed emptier at night, the shadows stretching long and silent. When you reached the room where you were staying, Black Sapphire paused by the door.

"Rest up. Tomorrow’s a new day," he said, giving you one last smile before he turned to head down the hall. His reassurance still lingered in the air, and for the first time that day, the knot in your stomach loosened a little.

You stepped into your room, the soft bed inviting you with open arms. As you crawled under the covers, you allowed yourself to relax for the first time in hours. The thought of tackling this mystery again tomorrow felt less daunting now, and maybe—just maybe—sleep would help clear your head.

With one last sigh, you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of the day’s frustration slip away as you drifted into a much-needed rest. You weren’t alone in this anymore. Tomorrow, you would continue the search, and together, you’d find the answers you were looking for.

Chapter Text

A loud groan escapes your lips as you throw your head back. Your gaze up looking at the high ceilings trying to ignore the pain in your neck. You had been going through more of the books you’d found in the library trying to make sense of everything, but coming up empty handed every time. 

You sit cross-legged on the cold, polished floor of Shadow Milk’s library, surrounded by the scent of ancient paper and the soft rustling of pages as you flip through yet another book. Every time you think you’re getting closer to answers—about who you were before waking up in that field a month ago—your thoughts feel muddled, lost somewhere between the ink and the pages. The weight of your fragmented memories presses against your skull, making your eyes ache. You need more. You need to know.

But you can’t shake the feeling that you're being watched. Of course, you are—it's his castle, his rules. The air shifts, a prickling tension forming in the space behind you, and then a voice, dripping with playful malice, echoes from the doorway.

"Sweet thing, still trying to figure out who you were before I found you? Or have you finally come to accept that your past is just as forgotten as your future?"

You don't need to turn around to know it's Shadow Milk. His voice always had that mischievous, teasing tone, like a predator playing with its prey. Slowly, you look up from the book in your lap and lock eyes with him. His tall, imposing figure fills the doorway.

Shadow Milk stands there, one long leg crossed over the other, his fingers lazily twirling one of his unnervingly sharp-looking strings of puppeteer thread. His light blue skin, contrasting with his dark hair streaked with blue, only adds to the eerie, otherworldly aura around him. The unnatural eyes scattered throughout his long, black hair glint in the dim light, watching you like those of a curious cat. His eyes, two different shades of blue, flicker as if amused by your apparent frustration.

You squint, narrowing your gaze in annoyance. “How long are you going to keep me in this damned castle?”

"Oh, don't be like that, mortal. You do know it's for your own good, right? After all, you seem to be enjoying yourself, flipping through all those useless books." He steps closer, his movements graceful, like a dancer.

You grimace. "It's not like I want to be here, you know."

"But you are here, and you're staying." He kneels in front of you, leaning in a little too close for comfort. His breath brushes your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers stretch out, just brushing against your hair, playing with a stray strand as if testing your patience. “You know, you’d get a lot further with your search if you let me help, sweet thing.”

You swat his hand away, too tired of his constant teasing to care anymore. "Help? The only thing you’re good at is making my life miserable."

Shadow Milk chuckles, dark and rich, like a storm brewing in the distance. “Miserable? Oh, darling, I’m only playing. I like to keep things interesting around here.”

You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the stack of books, trying to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos. Before you can retreat fully into your thoughts, Shadow Milk’s voice breaks through again.

“Well, since you seem so intent on finding your answers, how about a little wager?” He leans back, watching you carefully, as if savoring the moment. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can escape from me within one hour, I’ll let you outside—supervised, of course. Can’t let you go wandering off on your own just yet. But...if you fail, well, I’ll get to keep you here a little longer. What do you say, sweet thing? Do you think you can beat me?”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. You’ve been trapped in his castle for weeks now. The idea of escaping from him, let alone within an hour, seems impossible. The playful smile on his face only makes you more suspicious.

"You’re insane," you mutter under your breath, rubbing your temples. "You really think I’m going to just... escape from you? You can control everything here."

“Well,” Shadow Milk says with a knowing glint in his eyes, “that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? The challenge. You may be right that I can control this place, but I’ve seen how you’ve grown, sweet thing. You’ve got a little fire in you, haven’t you?”

You swallow your growing unease, giving him a hard stare. "What if I refuse?"

"Oh, but you can’t refuse. That would make everything so dull," he purrs, stepping closer again. His voice drops, taking on a hushed, almost coaxing tone. "Don’t you want to try? What’s the worst that could happen? You’re already stuck in my little world. Why not see if you can break out?"

You shake your head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And if I win?”

He grins, his eyes flashing. "If you win... I'll give you something better than a simple escape. I'll give you answers. Real ones. No more games. I'll help you find your past."

The words hang in the air like an irresistible temptation. You hesitate. The promise of answers... it could be the key to everything you've been searching for. But the shadow of doubt lingers. His promises are never as simple as they seem.

You stare at him for a long moment, weighing your options.

Finally, you let out a quiet sigh, pushing yourself to your feet with a determined look in your eyes. "Fine. No more strings attached."

Shadow Milk’s grin widens into something far too predatory. "Oh, sweet thing... you’ll regret that. But I can’t wait to see how this plays out."

With a snap of his fingers, the puppeteer strings slither and coil, ready to ensnare.

A wide grin spreads across your face as you look into Shadow Milk's eyes. There’s something different in his gaze this time. No malice, just a playful gleam—as if he’s enjoying watching you try, watching you struggle. His words settle over you like a challenge, a dare. "You’ve got one hour, sweet thing. One hour to make it outside."

Your pulse quickens at the prospect of escape, but you don’t wait for him to make the first move. Without a second thought, you jump to your feet, narrowly dodging Shadow Milk’s outstretched arm as he tries to grab you. His fingers brush past you, but you’re already dashing toward the door. The wooden door looms ahead, the freedom outside within your reach.

But before you can even take a full step, you feel a sharp tug at your ankle. You stagger, your foot jerking out from under you, and fall hard onto the stone floor. A curse escapes your lips as you hit the ground, your hands scraping against the cold surface.

From behind you, Shadow Milk’s laughter rings out—light, carefree, and infuriating. His voice twirls around you like an invisible rope, taunting you. “Careful now, sweet thing. You’ll need more than that to escape me.”

You glance down and see a bright blue string extending from his fingers, connected to your leg like a leash. For a brief moment, you feel the weight of it holding you back. But then, as if realizing something, you yank your leg free, and the string unravels in a flurry of motion. His hold isn’t strong—he’s letting you go. Letting you try.

A mistake, you think with a rush of defiance.

With renewed energy, you push yourself back to your feet and make a break for it. The door is within your grasp. You can feel the air, the outside world just beyond that threshold, and you won’t let it slip away so easily.

But just as you reach the doorframe, you feel it—the tug again.

The carpet beneath your feet shifts suddenly, sliding away from you like a rug pulled from under a chair. The ground goes from solid to unstable, and you have to fight to keep your balance. You stumble, feeling the floor beneath you dip and shift, as if the castle itself is alive, a twisted labyrinth designed to trap you.

You swear under your breath. ‘This castle… he controls it all.’

The realization hits you hard. Shadow Milk has absolute control here, over every inch of this place. As you struggle to regain your footing, you hear him chuckling behind you. “Not as easy as you thought, is it, sweet thing?”

But you can’t let him get to you. You can’t let him win. Not when you’re this close.

Determined, you force your legs into motion again, pushing yourself forward even as the castle seems to come alive with obstacles. The walls shift, the floors bend, and strange, unexpected traps appear in your path. Some are harmless, like thick curtains that fall from nowhere, or chairs that suddenly spring to life and try to block your way. Others are less forgiving—sharp corners that scrape against your skin, hidden thorns that leave stinging cuts on your arms and legs.

Your lungs burn, your body aches, but you keep going. You weave through the halls, moving as quickly as you can, cursing under your breath when another obstacle appears. A door slams shut in front of you just as you reach it. You don’t stop to think—you throw yourself against it, shoulder first, and crash it open with a satisfying grunt.

And then there’s more. The castle is alive, and it doesn’t want you to leave.

But you won’t let it stop you. The cold air from an open window ahead calls to you like a siren, urging you on. You dart past a pile of crates just as one tips over, its contents spilling onto the floor in a cascade of clattering metal. You leap over the mess, landing on your feet with a sharp intake of breath, but you don’t pause. Your eyes are locked on the path ahead, the exit in sight.

Just a little further…

And then, as if to remind you of who’s in charge, you hear Shadow Milk’s voice ringing out from behind you. “Careful now, sweet thing. You’re running out of time.”

You can feel the pull again, the threat of his power lurking, but you’re not about to back down now. You push through the last stretch of the hallway, not caring about the bleeding scrapes on your arms or the stinging gashes across your legs.

‘One more push,’ you think.

You’re almost there. Just a few more steps and you’ll be outside.

You spot the large doors ahead, your heart pounding as the last reserves of your strength surge through you. Without thinking, you propel yourself forward, launching your body at the doors with all the energy you can muster. The impact rattles through your bones, but you barely register the pain as the doors fly open, and you tumble through, spilling into the fresh air outside.

You hit the ground hard, the sharp pain of your ankle sending a jolt up your leg, but it barely matters. The moment you’re free, you look up, and a sense of awe washes over you. The sky is clear, the sun shining brilliantly overhead, and the grass beneath you feels like a soft cushion against your skin. It's a freedom you hadn't even realized you'd been craving. You blink, tears welling up in your eyes as you sit in the grass, your chest heaving, overwhelmed by the surge of emotions.

For a moment, you just sit there, breathing in the crisp, open air, feeling the warmth of the sunlight against your skin. This... this is what you've been missing. You hadn’t even known how much you longed for it until now.

But then, of course, you hear that familiar, taunting voice behind you, like a cold wind cutting through your moment of bliss.

“Well, look at you. You put on quite the show, I’m so proud.” Shadow Milk's voice is thick with amusement, and you feel a flush of irritation mixed with the lingering warmth of your victory.

You snap your head toward him, trying to glare at him, but the tears in your eyes betray you. Instead of looking fierce, you probably look more vulnerable than you'd like. But you don't care. Not right now.

Shadow Milk’s teasing smile falters for just a moment when he notices your tears. You see it—a flicker of something soft in his gaze, though it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. He clears his throat, straightening, and regains his mocking demeanor.

“My, my. I didn’t think my little gift would elicit such a reaction,” he says with a chuckle, his eyes glinting mischievously.

You grit your teeth, your frustration bubbling up. “This isn’t a gift, Shadow Milk,” you snap, your voice trembling slightly, though not from fear. “It’s a damn prison break.”

He just smirks at you, unfazed, as if your words have no power over him. "Oh, sweet thing, you may not see it as a gift, but you did put on quite a performance. I was entertained."

You roll your eyes and turn away, going back to the sight before you—the sprawling meadow that stretches out under the clear sky, the wind rustling gently through the grass. It feels so real, so right, after the suffocating weight of his castle. You ignore him for a while, letting the emotions flood in, letting the overwhelming sense of freedom take over.

For the first time in weeks, you feel something resembling peace.

Shadow Milk stands silently for a moment, watching you with that unreadable expression. You know he’s not done, that he’ll never let up completely, but for now, you don’t care. You’ve won this small victory. You’ve broken free, and that’s enough to keep you grounded, at least for the moment.

You take in a deep breath, feeling the air fill your lungs. It’s like you’re drinking in the world. You look up at the sky again, the endless stretch of blue, and let out a shaky sigh.

"Thank you," you murmur to no one in particular. But maybe, just maybe, Shadow Milk hears you.

You try to hold onto the moment, basking in the sunlight and the feeling of freedom, pushing the weight of Shadow Milk’s eyes on you to the back of your mind. But no matter how hard you try to ignore it, you can almost feel the intensity of his gaze, like a thousand eyes poking at the back of your skull. It's unsettling, but you won’t let it spoil the moment. You won this small victory, and that’s enough—for now.

What you don’t notice, though, is the subtle shift in Shadow Milk's expression as he watches you. His eyes, the many scattered throughout his hair, trace the cuts and bruises along your skin, the evidence of your desperate struggle. There's something almost… soft in his gaze, something that you’ve never seen before. It’s brief, fleeting even, but it doesn’t escape you entirely.

He’s looking at you as if you're some strange, fascinating puzzle, something unlike anything he’s ever seen before. But he would never admit that to you, of course. Shadow Milk never admits anything he doesn’t want you to know.

Without a word, you hear the crunch of his boots on the grass, his movement breaking through the haze of your thoughts. You glance over, just in time to feel the cool touch of his hand resting gently on your back. The sensation catches you off guard. It’s like an icy jolt, and you stiffen instinctively—but then, a warm rush spreads through your body, soothing every ache and bruise in an instant.

You blink in surprise, looking over your shoulder at him, your expression a mix of confusion and lingering irritation. "What the hell was that?" you ask, still feeling the lingering warmth as your body heals in front of your eyes. The bruises vanish, the cuts disappear, and the soreness melts away like it was never there.

Shadow Milk simply chuckles, his usual mischievous grin spreading across his face. Without a word, he flops down next to you, his body landing with a theatrical thud in the grass. He grins at you, showing his sharp teeth, his eyes gleaming with playful mischief.

You narrow your eyes at him, your irritation returning, but there’s still that undercurrent of confusion—‘Why help me?’ You try to glare at him, but it’s hard to stay angry when he’s sitting there so casually, so annoyingly carefree.

As your gaze drifts to his arms, you catch sight of something that takes you by surprise. His sleeves, typically long and dark, are slightly rolled up, and you see the scars scattered across his forearms—long, jagged lines etched deep into his skin. They’re old, but no less striking. For a moment, you forget to breathe, just staring at them. There’s something about them that you can’t quite place, but you find your mind racing to understand why he has them.

Before you can process it further, Shadow Milk catches your stare. His lips curl into a smirk, and he leans back in the grass, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Well, well, sweet thing,” he drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re going to stare at me like that, maybe I should charge you for a photo. You know, something to remember this moment by. It’ll last longer.”

Your cheeks immediately flush red at being caught staring, and you quickly look away, feeling a wave of embarrassment sweep over you. Of course, he would notice. Of course, he would twist it into something teasing. You huff and cross your arms, trying to hide your flustered expression.

“It’s not like that,” you mutter, but it’s too late. You can feel your face burning, and no matter how hard you try to look indifferent, it’s impossible to hide the fact that you were caught off guard by something you didn’t expect.

Shadow Milk’s laugh fills the air, rich and warm, as if he’s savoring every second of your discomfort. But despite his teasing, there’s something oddly familiar about his presence now—like you’ve crossed some strange, unspoken line. You may be caught in his web, but at least for now, you have something to hold onto.

Shadow Milk props himself up on his arms, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and takes in a slow breath, his eyes scanning the garden with a casual, almost bored air. His fingers brush through the grass, eyes flicking back to you as he arches a brow. His grin never wavers, but there's an edge of curiosity in his gaze now—something a little different, though it’s hard to pin down.

“Well, what now?” he asks, voice dripping with mock innocence. “You wanted outside so badly.”

You shift uncomfortably, the question hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge. What did you want out here, really? The air is still warm, the sunlight still dapples through the leaves above, casting patterns on the ground that you’ve always found strangely calming. But now that you’re here, the weight of it all settles back in—his presence, the strange pull between you both, the questions left unanswered.

You glance away, suddenly aware of how exposed you are, both physically and emotionally. "I don’t know," you mutter, the words feeling like they’re getting stuck in your throat. The bruises may be gone, but the sense of unease lingers like a shadow in your chest. "I guess I just wanted to get away from—" You cut yourself off, not wanting to say his name out loud, not wanting to give Shadow Milk that satisfaction.

Instead, you take a long breath and look back at him, giving him a pointed stare as if daring him to make fun of you again. "It’s not like you care anyway," you add, trying to sound more confident than you feel. You can’t let him see the way your thoughts are still whirling around in circles, making you feel off-balance.

But Shadow Milk doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, he seems even more amused by your attempt at deflection. His eyes glint with mischief as he watches you, but there’s something else there now—a flicker of something like... understanding? No, that couldn’t be right. You shake the thought away.

"I don't care?" His voice drops, the teasing edge slipping away for a moment as his gaze softens. It’s subtle, fleeting, but it's there. He seems to be internally debating something. 

For a split second, the atmosphere between you both shifts, and something cracks in the tension. You’re not sure what it is, but the way he’s looking at you now feels different—more layered, more complicated than just him being the annoying, ever-present shadow in your life. You open your mouth to respond, but the words get caught in your throat again, and before you can gather your thoughts, he smirks and straightens up completely, interrupting your silent struggle.

“You seem to desire my approval, how odd” he teases, you glare but allow him to change the subject, not enjoying the tension that had begun.

“Well, whatever you’re thinking,” he continues, his usual cocky demeanor back in full force, “this garden's not going to water itself. You really want to just sit around, or do you have some grand plans in mind?"

You can feel the pull of his attention on you again, that sharp edge of curiosity that makes you second-guess everything. His words aren’t just a challenge; they’re a prompt, an invitation—maybe to do something more, or maybe just to push you a little further into the strange game you’re both playing.

He’s waiting for you to make the next move.

You watch as Shadow Milk springs to his feet with that same effortless grace, his fingers flicking through the air. The familiar blue strings snap into existence, shimmering like threads of energy that pulse with his usual, unnerving power. His eyes narrow at you—his piercing gaze not just from his face but the countless others hidden in his long, flowing black hair. The intensity of his focus is enough to make you feel like you're under a microscope.

Before you can react, the strings weave around your waist. You gasp, your feet lifting off the ground as you're yanked upward, pulled straight into his chest. A sharp breath catches in your throat as you feel the cool of his body against yours. His grin, wide and knowing, makes your face flush a deep shade of red, and you instinctively shove him away.

“Keep your hands to yourself!” you grumble, your voice a mix of irritation and embarrassment, but your heart is racing from the shock of the sudden contact.

Shadow Milk just chuckles at your reaction, shrugging his shoulders in that annoyingly casual way of his. "I’m not gonna sit out here and babysit all day," he says, waving a dismissive hand toward you and the garden. "Do whatever you want. You’re free to be as... productive as you like."

You watch as he walks over to a nearby wall and leans against it with his trademark lazy grace. In an instant, a book materializes in his hand, and he flips it open, his attention completely absorbed in the pages. It’s like he’s fully settled in, completely unconcerned with what you might do next.

For a moment, the idea of running, of escaping, flickers through your mind. The temptation to leave this strange, unsettling scene behind is strong, but something about the peacefulness of the garden tugs at you. You glance at the lush greenery, the flowers in need of attention, and the neat little rows that could use some tending. The air here, despite Shadow Milk's presence, feels different—calmer, more natural.

You give him one last glare—just to make sure he knows you’re still not happy with how things unfolded—but then your gaze softens. Maybe the garden does need some care. Maybe you don’t need to be constantly caught in his chaotic web. You focus on the plants, letting the familiar tasks of gardening calm your restless thoughts.

You begin to kneel, your hands brushing over the soft soil as you start picking weeds, trimming overgrown vines, and carefully tending to the flowers. Each movement feels like you’re grounding yourself, reconnecting with something real, something uncomplicated. For once, you find yourself at peace with the task at hand.

Meanwhile, Shadow Milk doesn’t even look up from his book. You can feel his eyes, though, and you know he’s watching you in his own way. Maybe not with the same level of intensity as before, but there’s something still lingering in the air between you two, something unspoken. You try not to let it distract you as you continue your work, trying to forget about the strange, subtle pull of his presence.

Time passes in quiet moments, with only the sound of leaves rustling and the occasional turn of a page from the book he’s reading. You're starting to feel a sense of satisfaction, watching the garden slowly take shape under your hands. Shadow Milk, however, still hasn’t moved, his sharp eyes never leaving the pages of his book, though you know he’s aware of everything around him.

In this strange, unspoken agreement, you both seem to have found some kind of balance—at least for now.

                                       •          

                                       •

                                       •

                                       •

The sun has begun to set, casting a golden hue over the garden you’ve just finished tending. You step back, admiring the subtle improvements you’ve made. It’s not perfect—far from it—but it’s better than it was before. The sense of accomplishment fills you, and for a brief moment, you feel at peace.

Your eyes drift to your hands, now caked in dirt from the work, and you idly wipe them on your clothes. Then you glance at Shadow Milk, who is still lounging against the wall, absorbed in his book. The evening light catches his face just right, and you find yourself locking eyes with him. There's a flicker of confusion in his gaze as his eyes first meet your face, and then, as they drop to your hands, his expression shifts, contorting in what can only be described as disgust.

You can't help it—you break into a wild grin, feeling a mischievous spark ignite within you. The sight of his discomfort is too good to pass up.

Before he can protest, you turn toward him, your smile widening as you take a step in his direction, your dirty hands held out in front of you like a taunting invitation.

"No! Don’t even think about it!" he warns, his voice strained with genuine concern. But the amusement in his eyes betrays him. He’s not as bothered as he’s trying to sound.

You take another step toward him, giggling at the way his eyes widen in a mix of disbelief and amusement. Without another word, you lunge for him, your dirty hands reaching out to grab him.

"Gotcha!" you laugh, almost breathless from the anticipation.

Shadow Milk doesn’t even flinch—he dodges you with a speed that takes you by surprise, his large frame twisting and ducking in a fluid motion.

"Not today!" he yells, but you’re already in hot pursuit.

You chase him, your feet pounding against the grass as you laugh freely. The sound of your giggles fills the air, blending with the light rustling of the trees and the fading hum of the evening. For once, it feels like you’ve flipped the script. For once, you’re the one making him scramble, making him the one who has to avoid you.

He’s fast, but you’re not far behind, the thrill of the chase making your heart race. Shadow Milk ducks into the house, but you’re not going to let him off that easy. The door slams behind him, but you’re already there, hands outstretched, laughing as you try to push your way inside.

He shouts something at you—probably a warning, maybe a curse—but you don’t care. The satisfaction of making him run, even for just a second, fills you with a sense of playful triumph.

You pause for just a moment, standing there on the threshold, panting with a smile still on your face. It’s strange—this moment, this ridiculous, carefree chase, feels like a strange victory. Maybe it’s not the kind of win you were expecting, but it’s one you’ll take. Even if it’s only for a few minutes, you’ve managed to turn the tables on him.

And the best part? You have a feeling Shadow Milk doesn’t mind it as much as he says he does.

You lunge one final time, determined to catch him, but Shadow Milk is too quick. With a fluid move, he sidesteps, and you feel yourself falling forward, the ground rushing up to meet you. But before you can hit the earth, you feel a firm grip on the back of your shirt.

"Gotcha," Shadow Milk says with that familiar smirk, his voice laced with amusement.

You frown, dangling in his grip, your legs swinging helplessly in the air. It's frustrating, but part of you knows it’s a lost cause. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot his thigh—just within reach. An idea sparks in your mind.

With a quick, mischievous grin, you wipe your dirt-covered hands across his pants, leaving a streak of mud on his clothes.

Before you can savor the moment, though, Shadow Milk abruptly lets go of your shirt. You gasp as you drop to the ground, the soft thud of your body hitting the floor barely audible over the sound of his laughter.

"You little—!" You push yourself up, glaring at him, but the sight of him catches you off guard. The mischievous gleam in his eyes softens, his smile turning almost tender, the golden light of dusk painting his face in a way that makes him look unexpectedly... pretty.

For a fleeting moment, you feel something unfamiliar stir in your chest, something warm and inexplicable. His smile, genuine and unguarded, seems to disarm you more than you'd like to admit.

You quickly look away, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest, and you mutter a hasty, "Goodnight," trying to mask the rush of heat in your face. You’re already halfway down the hallway, your pace quickening as if fleeing the scene. You can almost feel the warmth of your flushed cheeks burning, and you hope the heat will go down by the time you get to your room.

‘He’s just gotta nice face is all, it caught you off guard’  you try to convince yourself, shadow milk was always terrorizing you so maybe you just had never gotten a good look at him. ‘None of this changes what he’s done’ 

As you round the corner, the quiet, lingering echo of Shadow Milk's soft giggle follows you, reminding you that he knows exactly what just happened—and that he’s probably enjoying it more than he’s letting on.

Chapter Text

The warmth of the sun pouring through your window gently pulls you from your dreams, and for a moment, you're still wrapped in the comfort of sleep. The memories of yesterday—the chase, the laughter, the strange, fleeting connection with Shadow Milk—come rushing back to you, leaving a fluttering feeling in your chest that you can't quite explain.

You stretch lazily, letting the light embrace you, and a soft sigh escapes your lips. There's a quiet excitement in the air, something that beckons you toward the outside world. Yesterday, the garden had felt like a small sanctuary, and you’re curious if the peacefulness still lingers there. You rise from your bed, the blankets warm and heavy, and step over to your window to see the sun fully risen, bathing the earth in golden light.

With a quick tug of your clothes, you make your way downstairs, a lightness in your steps that hadn't been there before. The faint sound of conversation reaches your ears as you near the kitchen, and you smile at the familiar voices.

“Black Sapphire, you’re burning it again,” Candy Apple’s voice rings out, teasing but light. "I swear, it's like you want me to take over your cooking duties."

“Oh, shut up, Candy," Black Sapphire grumbles in that quiet, slightly sarcastic tone you’ve come to know. "I’m the one who gets up early to make this breakfast for everyone. At least I’m not sleeping in."

You chuckle softly, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. Sure enough, Black Sapphire stands by the stove, flipping pancakes with a practiced hand, while Candy Apple hovers beside him, looking entirely too eager to interfere with his technique.

Across from them, Shadow Milk lounges in his usual seat at the table, casually leaning back in his chair, one leg draped over the other. His eyes lazily follow Candy Apple as she pesters Black Sapphire, but the faintest glint of something—maybe amusement, maybe something else—flickers in his gaze when they land on you.

Candy Apple notices you first, her face lighting up as she straightens. “Oh, look who decided to join the land of the living! What are you up to today?”

You’re still figuring that out, honestly. The thought of going outside again has you intrigued, but the weight of yesterday’s strange moments with Shadow Milk lingers in the back of your mind. Your hand instinctively reaches to touch your hair, pulling at the end of it nervously. You shrug. “Maybe I’ll head out to the garden again. Get some fresh air.”

Shadow Milk raises an eyebrow, his smirk forming slowly. "Back to your little sanctuary, huh?" he drawls, his voice smooth but laced with that teasing edge that always seems to keep you on your toes. "What, you plan to tend to more plants today?"

You meet his gaze with a raised eyebrow of your own, but before you can reply, Black Sapphire glances over his shoulder, a rare glimmer of warmth flickering in his eyes. "You two are a real spectacle," he mutters, his attention now back on the pancakes. "But just so you know, I’m not making a second batch if you’re gonna spend all day in that garden."

You snort, leaning against the counter, trying to steady your nerves. “I’m sure I’ll survive with whatever you give me. It’s not like I need the second batch."

Candy Apple, ever the optimist, chimes in with a bright smile. “You should totally come help with breakfast first, though! It’s a group effort today, right?” Her eyes dart between you and Shadow Milk, as though inviting you into the banter, but also suggesting, very subtly, that she’d love to see what would happen if the two of you teamed up.

You glance at Shadow Milk, feeling his gaze as it holds on you—less intense than yesterday, but still probing, still measuring. His lips twitch, as though he’s on the verge of saying something, but instead, he just shrugs and gives you that lazy, nonchalant grin. “Fine. I’ll humor her.”

You raise your eyebrow, surprised. “You?”

He tilts his head back, the dark strands of his hair falling over his shoulders like a curtain. “What? I’m not incapable of cracking an egg or two.” His grin widens, and you can’t help but shake your head.

“Well, if you’re gonna help, don’t burn it.” You fold your arms, giving him a pointed look.

“Burn it?” Shadow Milk raises an eyebrow, feigning insult. “I’m insulted. I wouldn’t dream of messing up your precious breakfast.” His words drip with sarcasm, but there’s something genuine behind them. A flicker of something unspoken. Maybe.

Candy Apple laughs at the exchange, clearly amused, but Black Sapphire merely hums under his breath, clearly not bothered enough to comment. As Shadow Milk rises from his chair, you find yourself watching him with more curiosity than before. The ease with which he moves through the room, as though he’s a part of the space itself, doesn’t escape you. He’s so fluid, almost like he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You can feel his presence beside you as he steps up to the counter, and without a word, he reaches for the eggs. You’re unsure of how to respond, and for a brief moment, the two of you are simply standing there in the kitchen—together, but not. The energy between you both has shifted again, but you can’t tell if it’s a shift toward something softer or more complicated.

Candy Apple’s voice breaks through the silence, trying to include you both. “We should all do something fun today! I mean, why not make the most of this beautiful day?” She looks at you first, then shifts her attention to Shadow Milk, expecting him to respond, but it’s clear she’s talking to both of you.

The brief tension in the room lingers, but your gaze lands on the sunlit garden outside again, and for the first time in a long while, you feel the pull of a choice—something between staying in this strange, unpredictable world with these unpredictable people, or stepping outside, where the simplicity of the garden might offer the quiet you crave.

Shadow Milk catches your eye again, his expression unreadable. "Maybe we’ll do something fun," he says, his voice a little softer, as though weighing his words. "But you’re right, Candy Apple. Maybe some fresh air is in order."

For a moment, the weight of yesterday fades, and you're left with the odd sense that something might be shifting—between the group, between you and Shadow Milk, or perhaps just within you.

You all finished cooking, you quickly shooed shadow milk away from the stove when you noticed another egg shell ending up in the eggs. You all sit down and enjoy the breakfast, you listen while shadow milk and candy apple pester black sapphire cookie with their antics. 

Black Sapphire's grumble breaks the light atmosphere that had settled over the room. "Shadow Milk, we need to go into town. You’ve been putting it off for days, and now you're just sitting here pretending it doesn't matter." His voice is as dry as always, but there's a sense of frustration under it that makes you glance up from your quiet observation of the kitchen.

Shadow Milk, for his part, groans dramatically, slumping against the counter with exaggerated flair. "Do we have to? I was just getting comfortable here, in my own space, minding my own business." He puts a hand to his forehead, as if overcome by the very idea of having to leave the cozy confines of wherever he’s made himself at home. Black sapphire dead pans at him but there is slight amusement in his eyes, “you may not need food to eat but we do so yes, let’s go” he pokes at shadow milk

"Ugh, why does everything always require me to go? Can't you send someone else?"

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh at his over-the-top performance, but you can’t help but feel a little bit of relief. At least the day’s plans are being shaped, even if he’s being dramatic about it.

"I'll go into town, but only because you're all so insistent," Shadow Milk finally concedes, his voice dripping with reluctant humor. He stands, brushing off his black, flowing sleeves, a smirk curling on his lips. "But don’t expect me to enjoy it."

You’re about to turn back to the window, your thoughts briefly drifting to the idea of being around other people—of having the chance to step outside this strange bubble you've been trapped in—but you stop yourself. The thought of pushing your luck with Shadow Milk keeps you silent. You’ve learned that sometimes, silence is safer, especially when you don’t want to provoke his unpredictable moods.

Candy Apple’s face falls, her shoulders drooping with a dramatic sigh. "But I was so excited to spend the day with Master Shadow Milk!" Her voice is sweet but tinged with disappointment, and you can see how much she was hoping for a little more one-on-one time with him. Still, it doesn’t take long before her enthusiasm returns. With a quick, bouncy motion, she brightens up and turns toward you.

"But that's okay!" she chirps, her grin lighting up the room again. "I’ll just hang out in the garden with you! I’m sure there’s plenty to do out there, and it'll be fun! You need help with the flowers, right?" Her eyes twinkle with a mischievous gleam, clearly eager to make the best of the situation.

Her sudden shift in energy makes you smile. It’s hard not to when she’s so genuinely cheerful, and for a moment, you forget about the strange tension with Shadow Milk. "I’d love the help," you reply, your voice warmer than before, though there’s a hint of relief in your words.

Candy Apple squeals, already turning toward the door as if she can’t wait to get started. "Yay! Let’s make it beautiful out there, okay?" Her voice carries as she scurries toward the back door, and you follow her with your eyes, a bit of excitement bubbling up.

The thought of spending time with Candy Apple in the garden feels strangely comforting. It's a kind of peace you rarely get around the others—especially not with Shadow Milk, whose presence is so... overwhelming. You glance toward him, unsure if he’s paying attention, but you can see his posture relax as he grabs a nearby jacket and starts to walk toward the door, Black Sapphire already halfway out, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Don’t be too disappointed, Candy Apple," Black Sapphire mutters, barely turning his head. "I’m sure you’ll survive without your master for a few hours."

Shadow Milk rolls his eyes, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy grace. "Let's just go. I don't want to be gone longer than we need to be." He throws a glance back at you, catching your eye, but his expression is unreadable. "Just don’t expect me to talk to anyone. I’m already being charming enough for all of us."

You raise an eyebrow at him, feeling the familiar sting of irritation but also a strange curiosity. For a brief moment, you almost want to say something snarky, something to push his buttons, but the weight of the previous day's odd moments makes you hesitate.

Candy Apple, noticing your shift in focus, leans in conspiratorially. "You know, if you’re not too busy, I can teach you a few things about gardening. It’s a secret talent of mine." Her voice drops to a mock-whisper, though her excitement still radiates from her like the sun.

You smile, more genuinely now. "I’d like that," you admit. For once, you can almost picture the day ahead as a simple, quiet one—just you and Candy Apple, working together in the garden, while the others disappear into the town.

As you follow her outside, the air still fresh with morning dew, a sense of calm washes over you. The world feels a little less heavy than it did before. And even though the others are heading into town with their own intentions, you’re starting to feel like you’ve carved out a small corner of this place for yourself—one where you’re not being pushed or prodded by Shadow Milk’s unpredictable whims.

But as you glance over your shoulder at the back door, a lingering feeling nags at you. Shadow Milk hadn’t been too upset by the idea of going into town. If anything, he’d seemed almost... resigned? Like he was preparing for something more than just an errand run.

You shake the thought away. Today is supposed to be simple, relaxing. Just the garden, just you and Candy Apple, for once.

And as you step into the sunlit space, the quiet hum of life returning to the garden, you find that it’s just enough for now.

The sun climbs higher as you and Candy Apple work side by side, the gentle sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling forming a natural soundtrack to your labor. Candy Apple’s infectious cheerfulness fills the air around you, her energy almost boundless. You can’t help but smile as you work, finding her bubbly attitude more and more contagious the longer you’re around her. Her high spirits make the menial tasks feel lighter, and before long, you’re both taking a much-needed break under the shade of a nearby tree.

With a huff, you settle onto the soft grass, wiping the sweat from your brow as Candy Apple plops down beside you, her knees tucked to her chest, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“So,” she starts, her voice light and inquisitive, “tell me more about you! I know you're trying to remember stuff... but, like, anything! Even the smallest detail, a hint of a memory, something!” She leans in eagerly, her face full of optimism.

You hesitate, chewing your lip. "I... wish I could," you mutter, feeling the familiar sting of frustration. The memories are there, buried deep inside you, but they refuse to come when you want them to. It's as if a door is locked, and no matter how hard you try, it won’t open.

Candy Apple watches your expression shift, and her smile fades ever so slightly, her eyebrows furrowing with concern. “I just want to help you remember,” she says softly. "You seem like you’re a good person. You deserve to know who you really are."

The sincerity in her words pulls at your heart, and for a brief moment, you wish you could give her what she wanted. But you just don’t know how.

“I’m sorry,” you say, a little embarrassed. “It’s just... nothing’s coming back. Not yet, at least.”

Candy Apple sighs, her gaze drifting down to the dirt beneath her hands. She looks a little defeated, but you don’t want to leave her feeling like that for long. So, you shift the conversation, trying to lighten the mood.

"Hey, Candy," you begin, nudging her lightly. "How did you and Shadow Milk meet?"

Her eyes immediately snap back to you, and her whole demeanor shifts, her enthusiasm returning with a vengeance. "Oh, that’s a great story!" she exclaims, her face lighting up with a grin so wide it could rival the sun. "Well, I wasn’t always Candy Apple, y’know. I wasn’t even alive until Master Shadow Milk created me." She claps her hands together as she sits up straighter, clearly proud. "He made me just for him, crafted me with care—lots of care! And from that day on, I’ve always been by his side. He's my master, my everything!" Her voice takes on a reverent tone as she practically glows with admiration.

You listen, intrigued, though you can’t help but roll your eyes lightly. The adoration she has for Shadow Milk is undeniable, and it's hard not to feel a little exasperated by it. The way she speaks about him—almost like a deity—is something you can't fully understand. Shadow Milk has always been an enigma to you, someone unpredictable and, at times, cruel.

Still, you can’t help but notice the pride in her voice, the way she holds him up on a pedestal. Part of you wants to scoff, but there’s a small, almost uncomfortable feeling creeping in. You haven’t exactly had the best history with him, but there’s something about the way Candy Apple speaks that makes you wonder.

Maybe, just maybe, you could understand her devotion.

As her words sink in, you can’t ignore the soft spot in your chest that’s been growing for Shadow Milk—something you’ve been trying to push away. You feel the familiar annoyance bubble up at the thought of him, but it’s quickly followed by something else, something unexpected. A flicker of understanding, maybe even a sliver of hope that—despite everything—you might, at the very least, find some kind of connection with him.

You shake the thought away quickly, telling yourself it’s nothing. ‘It’s just because I have to tolerate him’, you tell yourself firmly. ‘Just until I can get out of here.’

You clear your throat, not wanting to dwell on the thought for too long. "Well, that’s... nice for you," you say, trying to sound casual. "Sounds like you’ve always had his back."

Candy Apple beams at you, completely oblivious to the shift in your mood. "Of course I have! Master Shadow Milk is the best!" she insists, bouncing on her knees in excitement. "He’s so strong and clever, and, like, nobody can match him! He’s the greatest! I love him so much!"

You grin tightly, but inwardly, there’s a knot in your stomach that won’t unravel. Shadow Milk has always been a mystery—one you don't particularly care to solve, but it's hard not to feel some sort of pull toward him. Maybe you were just being too hard on him, dismissing him without truly understanding him. Or maybe, you’re just trying to keep your head down, trying to survive, and that’s making everything harder to process.

Candy Apple’s voice breaks through your thoughts. “What about you, though? Don’t you have anyone like that? Someone who’s always by your side?” Her tone is light, but her eyes search you for any clue, any trace of a connection you might’ve once had with someone.

You stiffen a little at the question. "I don’t know," you reply quietly, avoiding her gaze. The truth is, you don’t even know if you ever had anyone by your side. The past is too foggy, too distant for you to grasp.

“Well,” Candy Apple says with a soft smile, “you’ve got me now. And Master Shadow Milk, of course! You’ll have all the time you need to remember who you really are. I just know it’ll come back to you!”

Her optimism is infectious, but also bittersweet. You can’t help but feel a pang of longing for something you’ve lost, even if you don’t know what it is. Maybe, just maybe, Candy Apple is right. Maybe your memories will return in time. But until then, you can’t deny that, for the moment, you’ve found something resembling peace in her presence. In the garden.

And maybe—even if you won’t admit it to yourself—you’ve started to wonder if there might be a chance for something more between you and the others here.

But just as quickly as the thought forms, you push it away again.

One step at a time. For now, you’ve got Candy Apple to help you through. And that’s enough.

The comfortable silence between the two of you is interrupted by a sharp pain in your head that strikes like a bolt of lightning, sending a wave of dizziness through you. You groan, clutching your skull as you try to steady yourself, but everything feels off—like the world is tilting beneath your feet. Your vision wavers, the edges blurring in and out of focus.

You try to stand, but your legs refuse to cooperate. You stumble, disoriented, just as Candy Apple grabs your arm with a soft gasp. “Hey, are you okay? What’s happening?” she asks, worry creeping into her voice, but her words sound muffled, distant.

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of hurried footsteps. Two familiar male voices call out to you, cutting through the fog of pain that clouds your thoughts. You try to focus, but everything’s spinning too quickly.

Then, the familiar cool touch. A large, steady hand presses gently to the back of your neck, grounding you, even as your senses blur. It’s Shadow Milk. You can feel him leaning in, his presence unmistakable, despite the haze overtaking your mind. His voice, low and calm, reaches you through the fog. “Hey, look at me,” he says softly, trying to make eye contact.

Your eyes barely respond. Everything is blurry, distant. The pressure in your head is unbearable, a thudding sensation that pulses with every heartbeat. You try to focus on Shadow Milk's face, but it’s hard—your vision fades in and out, the edges of his features melting together in the haze.

You try to speak, to tell him something, but all that comes out is a low groan. Your knees buckle, unable to hold you any longer. Just as you brace for the fall, expecting the harsh thud of hitting the ground, you find yourself sinking into something much softer.

It’s his chest.

The cool, comforting presence of Shadow Milk’s body cushions your fall, his arms wrapping around you, securing you before you can completely lose yourself to the darkness. You listen trying to focus on anything but the pain but hear no beating of a heart, you are in too much pain to think about that right now. The sensation is almost surreal, but the pressure in your head continues to scream, drowning out everything else.

Muffled voices buzz around you, but you can’t make sense of them. Candy Apple’s worried voice is the only thing you can almost hear clearly, though it sounds faint, as though she’s miles away. Shadow Milk’s grip on you tightens just a little, his hands gentle yet firm, trying to keep you conscious.

But it’s all too much.

Your eyelids grow heavy, the world slipping further away from your grasp. The last thing you feel before the darkness takes you is the coldness of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breath, and the distant echo of voices desperately calling your name.

And then, nothing.

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The dull ache in your head drags you back to consciousness, and you groan, your vision still blurry as you blink slowly, trying to adjust. The air smells faintly of herbs and something metallic, a sharp scent you can’t quite place. You wince at the sharp pulse in your skull as you shift your head, taking in your surroundings.

You’re in your bed. The covers are soft, but the pain makes it hard to appreciate the comfort. Blinking against the still-present fog of your head, you turn your gaze to the side, and that’s when you catch sight of him. Shadow Milk. He’s lounging in a chair near the window, his usual posture one of lazy grace. His large form fills the space in a way that’s both unnerving and oddly familiar. A book rests in his hands, his thumb flipping lazily over the pages, while the other hand is occupied with chewing on his nails—almost absentmindedly.

You stare at him for a moment, disoriented by his presence, until his many eyes catch yours. The ones scattered throughout his hair flicker toward you first, the gaze unsettling in its intensity. Then, his face follows, his usual unreadable expression turning into something else for a brief moment—something that almost looks like… concern? But it vanishes so quickly you’re not sure you saw it at all.

Before you can process much of it, he speaks, his voice cutting through the silence with its usual teasing edge. "Well, look who's finally come back from the dead," he drawls, his voice light, almost amused.

You want to roll your eyes, to snap at him, but your body feels too weak, the remnants of the pain still clouding your thoughts. Instead, you muster what little strength you have, trying to croak out a response. "Not dead," you rasp, your voice thin and hoarse, but it’s the best you can do.

For a moment, Shadow Milk just watches you, his eyes flickering between your face and his book. Silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, as if he’s waiting for something else from you—some sort of reaction. You’re too drained to care much, though. It’s almost like the silence is another game between you two, one you don’t have the energy to play right now.

Then, unexpectedly, his voice shifts—becoming more serious, yet still strangely calm. “What’s the sound in your chest? Do you remember what it is?” he asks, his gaze sharp as it pierces through you.

You blink in confusion, unsure of what he’s referring to at first. "My chest?" You press your hand to the area, half expecting to feel some sort of foreign sensation. But all you feel is your heartbeat, thudding steadily within you, though it feels off—strangely disconnected from your consciousness.

“It’s… my heart?” you say slowly, unsure, your voice still shaky.

Shadow Milk’s head tilts slightly to the side, his dark hair shifting with the movement, revealing the many eyes staring at you. But the most curious thing is the way his face shifts in confusion, his brows furrowing slightly as if he’s never heard of a heart before.

“A… heart?” he repeats, his voice low, almost like a question he doesn’t understand. His eyes—both on his face and in his hair—flicker briefly as if processing the word, but there’s a distinct hesitation in his gaze, like he’s trying to make sense of something very foreign.

You watch him, even more confused now, but his expression remains a mix of curiosity and something else you can’t quite place. You wonder if he's just messing with you or if there’s something deeper at play here, something you don’t fully understand.

But before you can ask, he snaps back to his usual, unsettling nonchalance, the brief crack in his composure disappearing like it was never there. “Never mind,” he mutters dismissively, flipping his book shut with a soft snap. "Rest up. You're not going anywhere anytime soon."

You watch as he stands, shifting from his chair, but something in his gaze lingers on you—a flicker of something you can't quite name.

As he turns to leave, his footsteps almost silent, you’re left with the weight of his question still hanging in the air. Something about his lack of understanding feels wrong, like a piece of the puzzle you’ve been trying to solve is still missing.

But for now, all you can do is lay there, your mind racing with thoughts that don’t seem to line up, while the sound of your heart quietly echoes in your chest.

You stare at the ceiling, unsure what to think. Your mind wanders back to what happened after you passed out. The faint flicker of a memory, longer curly hair framing her face. Her voice seemingly drowned out. 

‘Who was that?’ 

Chapter Text

The days blur together as you lie in bed, resting and recovering from whatever had happened to you. The pain in your head had subsided, but an odd sense of unease still lingered in the air. Despite the comfort of your friends, Black Sapphire and Candy Apple, who kept you company with lighthearted chatter and laughter, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

Candy Apple, with her ever-present cheer, would sit at the edge of your bed, asking you all sorts of questions, trying to distract you with stories and games. Black Sapphire, on the other hand, was quieter, more observant, offering you a comforting presence when you needed it. But it was Shadow Milk’s behavior that had left you puzzled.

He had become strangely distant, his visits few and far between. When he did come in, he was brief, almost curt, asking questions of Black Sapphire or Candy Apple and offering no more than a passing glance in your direction. He was colder, less like the usual teasing figure you were used to. The lack of attention, the odd absence, left a strange, gnawing feeling in your stomach.

You tried to convince yourself that it didn’t matter—that you didn’t care. After all, you had no reason to care about his behavior, right? He was just another part of this strange world, and you were just biding your time until you could leave.

But the truth was, you did care, and it bothered you more than you were willing to admit.

One evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon and the room filled with the soft glow of fading light, you found yourself looking over at Black Sapphire. He was sitting by the window, his usual serious expression softened by the warmth of the room.

You had to talk to someone about it, and he seemed like the best choice. The silence between you two often spoke louder than words, and you knew that if anyone could offer a perspective on Shadow Milk’s odd behavior, it would be him.

"Hey," you called softly, your voice still weak from days of resting. "Can I ask you something?"

Black Sapphire glanced over at you, his piercing gaze almost unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes as he nodded, setting aside whatever he’d been doing.

"Yeah, what's up?"

You hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words. It wasn’t easy to put into words how unsettling Shadow Milk’s distance had been. It felt like something was missing, but you weren’t sure what.

"Do you think… something’s wrong with Shadow Milk?" you asked quietly, avoiding his eyes for a moment, feeling silly for even bringing it up. "I mean, he’s been acting strange lately, like he’s avoiding me. Is it just me, or… do you notice it too?"

Black Sapphire studied you carefully, his gaze weighing your words as though considering something important. He didn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch for a moment before he leaned back slightly in his chair.

"It’s not just you," he said finally, his voice calm but laced with something that hinted at a deeper understanding. "Shadow Milk is… unpredictable. He’s hard to read, even for me. But I can tell you this—he’s not good with emotions. Never has been."

You raised an eyebrow, trying to wrap your head around what he was saying. "So… you think he’s just ignoring me because he doesn’t know how to deal with it?"

"Something like that," Black Sapphire replied, his eyes flicking toward the door as though Shadow Milk might walk in at any moment. "He’s complicated. His way of dealing with things is… not the same as others. If something's bothering him, you won’t know right away. He keeps things to himself, and when he does speak up, it’s usually only when he has a purpose."

That struck you. Shadow Milk had always been strange, but you’d never really thought about him in that way. You’d always just seen him as someone who liked to push your buttons, someone who was a challenge to figure out, but now it felt like there was more to it.

"You think he’s bothered by something?" you asked, feeling a sense of curiosity growing inside you. It was hard to imagine Shadow Milk bothered by anything. He always seemed so confident, so in control. The thought that there could be something underneath his cold exterior made your stomach twist with unease.

"I wouldn’t say bothered," Black Sapphire replied, his tone more guarded now. "But… maybe. I’ve seen him act like this before when something’s weighing on him. It’s like he doesn’t know how to show that he cares, or maybe he’s scared of how it might make him look."

The idea of Shadow Milk being vulnerable, of him not knowing how to express care or concern, was something you hadn’t really considered. It felt strange to think of him as anything other than the aloof figure you had come to know.

"So, you think he’s ignoring me because of… whatever’s going on with him?" you pressed, trying to piece it together.

Black Sapphire’s gaze softened, and he nodded. "He’s not good at asking for help or showing he’s bothered. He’ll keep it to himself, maybe try to push it away. But… maybe it’s more than that. Maybe he doesn’t know how to deal with you in particular."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden realization. "Me?"

"Yes," Black Sapphire said, his voice almost hesitant now, like he wasn’t sure whether he should say more. "I don’t think he knows what to do with you anymore, he seems in his own way attached to your presence here."

You let his words sink in, the weight of them pressing on your chest. Shadow Milk had always been a puzzle, but now you realized that maybe the pieces weren’t fitting together because you had been looking at him the wrong way.

"Thanks, Black Sapphire," you murmured after a moment, your thoughts swirling. "I guess I just needed to hear it from someone else."

Black Sapphire offered a rare, small smile in return, before turning his attention back to the window. "Just remember, he’s not easy to understand. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something there."

You lay back against your pillows, a mix of emotions bubbling up inside you—confusion, curiosity, and maybe even a little hope. You had a feeling that things with Shadow Milk weren’t as simple as you’d thought, and whatever was going on with him, it was far from over.

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Later that night, you lay in bed, the soft rhythm of your breath matching the quiet stillness of the room. The darkness pressed in, familiar and calming. But then, something shifted.

A strange unease crawled under your skin, making you stir. You opened your eyes, but the room was as it had been. Still. Empty. Yet the feeling... the sensation of eyes on you—watching you—lingered. It was as if someone was standing just beyond your sight, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up in alarm as you try to soothe yourself, ‘your just being paranoid’ 

You tried to push it aside, telling yourself it was just a lingering nightmare, but the sensation only grew. Your heart began to race in your chest, pounding harder with each passing second. The silence seemed to press down on you, suffocating.

And then, the whisper.

“I know you’re awake.”

You froze. The words slithered into your mind like a cold, venomous snake. A rush of fear surged through you, your blood running cold. You whipped your head toward the source of the voice, but the room remained empty—save for the shadows that stretched unnaturally against the walls.

But then you saw him.

A silhouette in the dim light, darkened and still, standing at the edge of your bed. Shadow Milk.

A jolt of terror shot through you, and before you could react, his large hand clamped over your mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, your body rigid with panic. His cold touch sent a chill down your spine, and like the first time meeting him, Shadow Milk felt wrong—unnervingly so.

You struggled beneath his grip, eyes wide as you stared up at him. His face, usually sharp with that arrogant smirk, was unreadable now. Dark eyes—too dark—studied you with a cold intensity. Something was different about him, something off.

“Don’t scream,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, threatening to break free as fear coursed through you. But your fury burned just as hot. Slowly, your body shook with both fear and anger, and with a force you didn’t know you had, you bit down hard on his hand, causing him to hiss in irritation.

With an almost bored sigh, he removed his hand from your mouth, his grip loosening. You gasped for air, your pulse thrumming violently in your ears, and you scrambled away from him, your voice barely a whisper in the oppressive quiet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hissed, eyes narrowing in disbelief and anger.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into the folds of his dark cloak, pulling out an ancient-looking book—its cover cracked, its pages yellowed with age. The edges of the book seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy, making the hairs on your neck stand on end.

You stared at him, bewildered. “Are you seriously watching me sleep because of a book?”

Shadow Milk’s gaze sharpened, his eyes flicking to the pages as he flipped through them with unsettling precision. His fingers paused on one particular page, and he pointed to a drawing. The illustration was strange—an old, faded depiction of a woman wearing a witch’s hat. A figure with an aura of power, almost otherworldly, her gaze piercing through the ages.

“What is this?” you whispered, your voice shaking with confusion.

His eyes flicked back to you, but they seemed colder now. “This,” he said, his tone laced with something darker, “is who you really are. The witches. They are the ones who created everyone in this world—including me. They’re like gods to us.”

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. The air around you seemed to grow colder, the room suddenly too quiet, as if even the shadows were holding their breath. You blinked in disbelief, your mind struggling to process his words.

“They... they made you?” you stuttered, your heart racing in your chest, an ominous knot of fear tightening in your stomach.

Shadow Milk’s lips curled into the smallest of smirks, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze grew darker still, almost hungry, as though he was waiting for something, some answer from you.

“And you,” he continued, his voice a low growl, “you’re the same as them, aren’t you?”

Your breath caught in your throat. The words were so heavy, so full of weight, that it felt like the very air around you had shifted. But you couldn’t answer. You couldn’t remember.

“I—I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice trembling. "I don’t remember."

Shadow Milk’s eyes flared with something between frustration and cold calculation. He took a step closer, his presence suffocating, his shadow swallowing the light in the room. The temperature dropped further, and you could see your breath misting in the air as though the very atmosphere had turned against you.

The silence stretched between you two, thick and suffocating. You stared up at him, your heart thudding louder, each beat echoing in your ears. You had no memory of this world. No recollection of who you were, or what you were supposed to be.

His lips barely moved as he spoke again, his voice cold and dangerous.

“You don’t remember?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief, yet there was something in his words that felt like a warning. “You should remember. You will remember. They wouldn’t let you forget.”

You shrank back, but something in his eyes made you freeze.

“Who are you?” you whispered, the question burning in your chest as the oppressive fear rose like a tide. "What are you really?"

His smirk returned, though it was more sinister now. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

The shadows in the room seemed to deepen around him, pulling at the edges of your vision like they were alive. The air was thick with something ancient, something dangerous. And in that moment, you realized—he wasn’t here to help.

The tension in the room thickens, the air growing heavier as you stare at Shadow Milk, your heart still hammering in your chest but your anger now burning just as brightly. You clench your fists, feeling the weight of his dark gaze on you, but you stand your ground. You won’t let him intimidate you—not anymore.

"Look, I’m human," you snap, the words coming out sharper than you expect. "A person. That is the only damn thing I’m sure of right now." You sneer, feeling your frustration boil over. "I’m not sure what you are, but don’t come in here all threatening, acting like you own the place."

His eyes flicker, something dark and unreadable flashing in their depths. The room falls into a heavy silence, the kind that feels like the calm before a storm. Shadow Milk stands still, his posture unnervingly calm. His hands twitch at his sides, like they’re itching to do something—but he doesn’t move.

For a split second, you think you might have pushed him too far. Maybe you’ve overstepped your bounds, maybe he's about to lose control—but you won’t back down now. You’ve had enough of his cold, cryptic behavior.

You glare at him, defiant, your breath coming faster with the rush of adrenaline. Your pulse rings in your ears, but you don’t look away. His eyes—those dark, almost alien eyes—lock onto yours, like he's measuring every word you just spoke.

Then, without warning, the room seems to grow colder, his presence suddenly more imposing. He steps forward, slow and deliberate, but still, he doesn't raise a hand to you. His gaze, however, grows even more intense, as if it’s peeling back the layers of your soul.

"You think you know what you are?" His voice is low, almost dangerous, but there's an edge to it now—a hint of something else, something deeper, more primal.

You hold your ground, refusing to show any fear, but the unease that coils in your stomach isn’t easy to ignore. You want to snap back at him, to keep challenging him, but part of you wonders if you're digging a grave for yourself.

"You really don’t know anything, do you?" Shadow Milk’s voice is softer now, a strange lilt to it, like he’s almost… amused? His lips curl slightly, but it’s not the smug smirk you’re used to. It’s something darker, more unsettling. "I’m not sure what you are, but if you don’t remember..." His eyes narrow, his gaze growing darker still, like shadows shifting under the weight of unspoken truths. "...you will soon."

The weight of his words presses in on you, suffocating, but you push it aside. No, you won’t let him have this hold over you—not when you’re already grasping at the frayed edges of what little you remember.

"I don’t care what you think I’ll remember," you growl, locking eyes with him, "but don’t think you can just waltz in here and play games with me."

For a long moment, he just stands there, watching you with those unsettling eyes. You can feel the walls closing in, the silence growing thicker between you. Then, finally, he speaks again, his voice low and steady.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," he says, the words crawling under your skin, heavy with some dark promise.

But before you can respond, he takes a step back, his expression unreadable. For the briefest of moments, you wonder if he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t. You keep eye contact with him, almost daring him to say more. 

With a spark of confidence you reach out for his arm without a word. 

The tension in the room is thick as you grip his forearm tightly. Shadow Milk stiffens in surprise at the sudden contact, his cool skin nearly frozen under your touch. His eyes widen, and for a split second, you think he might pull away, but you hold firm, locking your fingers around his.

He stares down at you, visibly uneasy. His gaze flickers between your eyes and the hand you're holding. There's something almost vulnerable about him in that moment, as though he's not used to being touched, to feeling this kind of connection. At least not from you.

You manipulate his fingers with deliberate slowness, placing his pointer and middle finger against the pulse point at your neck. The chill of his skin against your throat sends a shiver racing down your spine, but you hold steady. You won't show him fear. You can’t show him fear.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable as his fingers rest against your pulse, his touch oddly gentle, despite the coldness of his skin. For a fleeting moment, you feel the rhythmic thumping of your heartbeat beneath his fingertips, and it's clear he’s never experienced this before. Something in his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly, like he’s trying to process this foreign sensation, this undeniable proof that you’re alive.

You let go of his hand, allowing him to just feel the pulse of your life, your heartbeat. The moment stretches, your chest rising and falling with every breath, the beat of your heart echoing in your ears.

You swallow thickly before speaking, your voice steady but firm. "My heart beats, which means I'm a living being. Do not treat me like a plaything you can command."

The words leave your mouth more strongly than you expect, and you can see the shift in his expression. His eyes narrow in response to the challenge, but he doesn’t retaliate with his usual cold arrogance. Instead, the silence that falls between you feels like the calm before the storm.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The air is thick with unspoken words, the weight of his presence pressing down on you. Slowly, he removes his hand from your neck, his fingers lingering in the air for just a second, as though hesitating. He stares at his hand, as if it has somehow changed from the contact, something unfamiliar, almost unsettling about the way his fingers hover in the space between you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, his face unreadable, his thoughts hidden behind that cool mask of indifference. But then, in a tone that’s as flat as ever, he mutters, “Go back to sleep.”

But this time, there's something different in his voice. A softness. It's fleeting, gone in a blink, but you catch it. His gaze holds for a moment longer than usual, and it’s almost… apologetic? Almost human? You can’t tell. It’s gone before you can even process it, and in the next breath, he turns toward the door.

As he walks toward the exit, the cold air that seemed to cling to him lifts slightly. His presence, while still heavy, doesn’t feel quite as oppressive.  You watch as he glances over his shoulder at you one last time, “I said I’d help find answers about your past, I always keep my word.” His words were flat but almost felt assuring despite his terrifying presence. The door creaks open, the soft sound of his footsteps fading as he leaves.

For a moment, the room feels still. The tension that had once consumed you dissipates, leaving you alone in the quiet, the pulse in your neck a reminder of your humanity. Your heart beats. You’re not just some tool.

And though the encounter left you unsettled, a small part of you feels strangely empowered. Shadow Milk is unpredictable, dangerous, and yet... there’s something in the way he looked at you, something you’re not ready to fully understand.

But whatever it is, you won’t let it control you.

Not now. Not ever.

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The following day was a strange mix of tension and unease. The feeling of Shadow Milk's eyes on you was constant, like a heavy presence you couldn't escape, even when he wasn’t directly in the room. He was always nearby, just out of view, and it made you restless. Black Sapphire and Candy Apple noticed your discomfort and shot you questioning glances, but you had no answers to give them. You weren’t sure what had shifted between you and Shadow Milk after last night’s confrontation, but something had definitely changed.

You found yourself trying to get lost in the books of the library, hoping the quiet and the comfort of familiar words would soothe your nerves. But your peace didn’t last long. The air shifted as the door creaked open, and you felt his presence before you saw him. Shadow Milk entered with his usual theatrical flair, but there was something different about the way he moved—there was a stiffness in his posture, an edge to his usual confident strut.

Without a word, he made his way over to you. Before you could even react, his long fingers wrapped around your wrist with surprising force. You blinked in confusion, about to protest, but he was already pulling you toward the far side of the room, not giving you the chance to even get a word in edgewise.

“Hey, what—” you began, but it didn’t matter. He ignored you entirely, his grip unwavering as he maneuvered you toward an old, wooden desk, its surface covered in papers and ink stains.

"Let go of me, Shadow Milk!" you snapped, trying to break free, but it was useless. He didn’t even look at you as he pushed you into the chair. The motion was abrupt, leaving you no room to protest. He leaned over you, so close you could feel the cool air of his presence radiating from his body. The sudden pressure of his chest against your back made you tense up, and you instinctively shifted in the chair, trying to create some space, but it was futile.

Before you could voice another complaint, he slammed a notebook down onto the desk in front of you. The sudden sound made you yelp in surprise, your heart jumping in your chest. You scowled at him, frustration rising.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve—” you started, but the teasing chuckle that escaped from Shadow Milk’s lips interrupted you. He seemed to be enjoying your discomfort, a smirk playing on his face as he leaned closer.

You tried to ignore the fact that his body was so close to yours, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. But it wasn’t easy. His presence, so towering and imposing, made it difficult to think clearly. You could feel the warmth of his chest against your back and the way his breath brushed against your neck, and it sent an odd shiver down your spine.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about humans,” Shadow Milk said in a low voice, his tone mockingly casual. You felt the pen twirling between his fingers, a clear sign that he was more amused than serious. His eyes never left you, watching your every reaction, waiting for you to speak.

You blinked in disbelief. “This is why you dragged me over here?” you asked, the annoyance clear in your voice. “You interrupted my reading just to ask me about humans? You’re... you’re insane.”

Shadow Milk raised a brow, his smirk only growing. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To help me?” His voice dropped into a mocking tone as he teased you, leaning in closer. “I promise, it’ll be worth it. Just tell me what you know.”

You gave him an incredulous look. "I don't know much, alright? I don't even remember much. How am I supposed to know everything about humans when I barely remember anything myself?" You shot back, your frustration leaking into your words.

But he wasn’t deterred. His smirk never faltered as he hovered over you, watching you carefully, eyes never leaving your face. The pen twirled slowly in his fingers, and you couldn't help but feel like a specimen under his intense gaze.

Reluctantly, you relented, starting to give him the basic information you remembered, trying to ignore the uncomfortable closeness. You told him about emotions, about relationships, about the physical and mental intricacies of being human. Every word you spoke, he jotted it down in the notebook, the scratching of the pen on paper echoing in the otherwise silent room.

Shadow Milk leaned closer with every detail you shared, his cool breath fanning across your skin, and the faint smell of his cologne enveloping you. It felt so strange—like you were forced into a kind of vulnerability that you weren’t prepared for. You swallowed thickly, trying to ignore how aware you were of his presence, of his proximity.

“Anything else?” he asked, his voice a low murmur now, as though testing the waters for something deeper. His fingers tapped idly against the notebook, his eyes still focused on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

You hesitated for a moment, before muttering, “I think that’s it.” You didn’t have much else to offer him—your memory was still clouded, and it was hard to discern what was real from what had been taken from you.

Shadow Milk didn’t say anything at first, his expression unreadable as he looked down at the notes in the book. Then, without another word, he straightened up, releasing a small, dismissive chuckle. “Not bad,” he said, though his voice still held that edge of mockery. “Not the worst attempt I’ve seen.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, and as he stepped back, you quickly stood up, pushing the chair away from the desk. “Don’t ever drag me around like that again,” you said sharply, rubbing your wrist where he’d gripped you.

He simply glanced at you, that same smirk curling on his lips. "I’ll be back, maybe next time I can study you for more information."

The chill in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to retort, to snap back at him, but something about the way he looked at you—like he was toying with you—kept you quiet. He turned to leave, the door swinging open behind him with a soft creak, and you were left standing there, your heart still racing, and your thoughts a storm of confusion and anger.

Whatever this was, it wasn't over yet.

Chapter Text

The castle's walls seem to close in on you with each passing day. The dark blues and whites that fill the space don’t comfort you like they once did. Now, the color scheme only adds to the suffocating atmosphere—like an eternal, muted storm that you can never escape. The haunting stillness of the place is shattered by the odd creaks and groans of the old structure, as if even the walls themselves are nervous, waiting for something.

You’ve been here for over a month now, the days a strange blur of monotony and fear. You’ve learned not to show too much emotion around him, even when it feels like Shadow Milk's gaze is heavier than the night itself. His presence has grown unbearable at times. There’s something about the way he looks at you, his cyan right eye and cerulean left eye always shifting between unreadable detachment and dangerous focus. It’s unsettling. The way his hair flows like a dark river beneath the faint light of the castle’s windows. The eyes scattered throughout it only amplify the unease, always watching, always seeing things you can’t.

Your brain felt clouded and distracted since the night before, you gulp tracing your neck. You remember the cool touch of shadow milk, his inhuman chill. The whole situation left you confused, why did you even do that?

The following days have been nothing but peaceful, after shadow milks curious inquiries about what you remembered about humans you had hoped he would tone down his theatrics. He had begun avoiding you out of nowhere, his behavior confused you. But it also made you uneasy. A shiver run up your spine, you now constantly felt watched, shadow milk hadn’t spoken even a word to you since the library. He just stared at you now. His gaze was dark—almost malicious. You had no idea what his problem was now. 

You groan in frustration, since being hear it had been nothing but stressful. Shadow milks sadistic enjoyment of tormenting you never let you have a moment of peace. Now with his avoidant behavior it left you more confused.

This morning, however, it’s just you and Black Sapphire.

The breakfast before you is mostly untouched, the food bland and lifeless. You try not to stare too long at the eggs, the bread—how ordinary it all looks in contrast to the world around you. Black Sapphire, seated across from you at the long, elegant dining table, seems just as disinterested in the meal as you. His cool, grayish-purple skin and confident posture are a contrast to your tense demeanor, but the silence between you is comfortable, if not slightly strained. He glances over, catching your eye for a brief moment, the hint of something unspoken flickering in his lavender-tinted gaze.

"He's been... off lately, hasn't he?" you ask quietly, breaking the silence, your voice barely more than a whisper. You don’t want Shadow Milk to hear, but even if he did, you doubt he'd care. Black Sapphire doesn’t react immediately, instead poking at his food with an air of detached grace, but you can sense his awareness, his sharp mind already processing the question.

“Off?” Black Sapphire’s voice is smooth, but there’s a slight edge to it, something you recognize as rare. “You mean his usual temper tantrums, or something else?”

You fidget, uncomfortable. "It's different. He’s been watching me like... like he’s waiting for something. Or maybe looking for a reason to lash out."

Black Sapphire sighs, rolling one of his onyx earrings between his fingers, the faint click of the gem against his skin the only sound in the room. "Shadow Milk... isn't easy to figure out. He can be volatile. But if he’s been acting strange around you, it’s probably just him testing the waters." He pauses, as if measuring the weight of his next words. "Don’t read too much into it. Just play along. It’s safer that way."

You don’t know whether to feel reassured or more nervous. “Play along with what?”

He gives you a look, one eyebrow quirking slightly, his eye half-hidden beneath his bangs. “Whatever game he’s playing. You don’t want to get caught up in his chaos.”

You nod, but it doesn’t help. The weight of the words hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, it’s hard to breathe. It feels like being on the edge of something you can’t quite see, but you know it’s there, just waiting for the right moment to pull you under.

The soft clink of Black Sapphire’s fork against the plate breaks the silence again. "Listen, you’ll get used to it. This place, Shadow Milk's... moods. Just stay out of his way as much as you can. But if he wants something from you, you'll know. And when he gets bored, that’s when it’s safer to be invisible."

His tone is oddly reassuring, but it doesn’t quite reach your heart. You look at him, trying to read him like you once did, but Black Sapphire’s expression is unreadable as always, his cool, collected demeanor masking whatever thoughts swirl behind his piercing, lavender eye.

"Thanks, Black Sapphire," you say, though it doesn't quite feel like enough. But for now, it’s the only thing you can hold onto as you try to make sense of the growing sense of dread that clings to you like the castle itself.

You think back to the last few days, shadow milk had been behaving off. He has always had a habit of threatening or attempting to scare you but this was different. He was easily set off, the bruises that scattered across your skin a painful reminder of your last encounter. He was acting unstable, violent.

You remember the nights before, the anger you saw on his face. ‘The witches?? Creators?? What even is this place’ you think to yourself recalling what had happened. The picture of the women from the book looked familiar but you weren’t sure from where, your memories were still scattered and missing. You were frustrated from everything just wanting some time to cool off. 

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Black Sapphire's words echo in your mind long after breakfast has ended. When he gets bored, that’s when it’s safer to be invisible. You wish that were an option. Shadow Milk isn’t the type to forget about something he’s fixated on, and lately, that fixation seems to be you.

The bruises ache as you move, hidden beneath the loose fabric of your clothing, but the real pain isn’t physical. It’s the uncertainty—the way his eyes linger too long, the way his presence seems to fill every empty space in this cursed castle. The feeling that you’re being watched, even when you’re alone.

You try to push it aside as you walk the dimly lit corridors. The castle feels alive in its silence, the flickering candlelight casting strange, shifting shadows along the stone walls. You don’t know where you’re going—only that you need to move, to do something other than sit and wait for Shadow Milk’s next unpredictable mood swing.

But then, you hear it.

A slow, deliberate footstep behind you.

You freeze, every muscle in your body locking in place. The air feels heavier, pressing down on you like an unseen force. You don’t want to turn around. You know who it is.

“Going somewhere?”

His voice is smooth, almost amused, but there’s an edge to it—one that sends a shiver crawling down your spine.

You turn, unwilling but unable to ignore him. Shadow Milk stands a few feet away, his mismatched eyes glinting in the dim light. His long, dark hair cascades over his shoulders, the eerie eyes embedded within it blinking lazily, watching you just as intently as their master. His expression is unreadable, but you know better than to mistake that for calm.

“I was just walking,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “Trying to clear my head.”

His lips twitch into something that might be a smile, but it’s sharp, predatory. “And what exactly is clouding that little head of yours?” He takes a step forward, closing the distance slightly.

You don’t answer right away, trying to gauge his mood. Unstable. Dangerous. That much is clear. The memory of his last outburst is still fresh, the phantom of pain still lingering along your ribs. You don’t want to provoke him, but you also know that silence is just as likely to set him off.

“Nothing important,” you say carefully. “Just... restless, I guess.”

Shadow Milk hums, tilting his head slightly. The movement is too slow, too precise—like a predator toying with its prey. “Restless,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “That’s not a good thing, you know. Restlessness makes people act out.”

Another step forward.

You fight the urge to move back.

“I wouldn’t,” he continues, voice softer now, but no less unsettling. “Not when I’ve been so patient with you.”

Patient. That word shouldn’t make your stomach twist, but it does. Because if this is patience, you don’t want to know what happens when it runs out.

Shadow Milk studies you for a moment longer before reaching out. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and the slight widening of his eyes tells you he noticed. A slow smirk spreads across his lips, but his touch, when it comes, is deceptively gentle—fingertips brushing against your cheek, trailing down to your jaw.

It takes everything in you not to recoil.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he muses. “I wonder… are you finally starting to understand your place here?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’ve always understood,” you say, barely above a whisper.

Shadow Milk chuckles. “Good.” But there’s something in his expression that says he doesn’t quite believe you.

The moment stretches, suffocating in its intensity, until finally, he pulls back.

“Run along now,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “But don’t wander too far.” His smile sharpens, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “I’d hate to have to come find you.”

You nod stiffly before turning on your heel, walking away with careful, measured steps. You don’t let yourself move too quickly, don’t let yourself run, even though every instinct is screaming at you to get away.

You don’t stop moving until you’re sure he’s not following.

You exhale shakily, pressing a hand against the cold stone wall.

Play along. Stay out of his way.

Black Sapphire’s words replay in your mind, but for the first time, you wonder if it’s even possible.

Because the truth is, you’re not sure Shadow Milk wants you out of his way.

And that might just be the most dangerous thing of all.

You take notice of the large window you approach, you gaze out the window taking in the outside. You were allowed into the garden for the first time not too long ago but you were missing your freedom. You glance over to the door to your left considering what your next move is, ‘I could go find black sapphire to sit with me while I work outside but I don’t wish to bother him’ 

You think back to shadow milks' unstable mood wondering if he’d even allow you to go in the garden. 

Frustration boils inside you as you make your way through the empty halls. You don’t understand him. Just days ago, Shadow Milk had been fine—almost friendly, in his own way. There had been moments where his gaze wasn’t so heavy, where his voice wasn’t so sharp. But now? He was back to his unpredictable, hostile self, and you were sick of it.

You need to clear your head.

Stepping outside without permission isn’t technically forbidden but shadow milk said he wished for you to have a “babysitter”, but you know it’s an unspoken rule—one you’re about to break. You don’t care. If Shadow Milk wants to loom over you like a storm cloud, fine. Let him. You refuse to sit in that suffocating castle and just wait for his next mood swing to swallow you whole.

The air is cool and crisp as you push open the heavy garden doors, the scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers filling your lungs. The garden is a strange place—lush and overgrown, yet carefully maintained, as if caught between wild chaos and forced control. The moonlight filters through the twisted branches of black-barked trees, casting eerie patterns across the cobblestone paths.

You head toward the small vegetable patch, grabbing a pair of gloves from the workbench nearby. You’ve spent enough time here under supervision to know what needs tending to. Maybe keeping your hands busy will ease the restless anger bubbling inside you.

The soil is cool beneath your fingers as you begin pulling weeds, the repetitive motion grounding you. For the first time in days, you feel calm. The castle's weight lifts, if only slightly, as you lose yourself in the task.

But the peace doesn’t last.

A sharp crack echoes through the garden. A branch snapping underfoot.

You freeze.

Slowly, you straighten, your pulse quickening. The garden is supposed to be empty.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision.

You spin, heart hammering—only to find Black Sapphire leaning against a tree, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“You really don’t like listening, do you?” he says, voice smooth as ever.

You exhale, tension shifting into irritation. “I needed space.”

Black Sapphire tilts his head slightly, lavender eye glinting in the dim light. “And you thought this was the best way to get it?” He sighs, pushing off the tree and strolling toward you. “You’re reckless.”

You glare at him. “You don’t get to lecture me about playing it safe when you know how he’s been acting lately.”

His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. But then he exhales through his nose, rolling one of his earrings between his fingers again. “Fair point,” he admits. “Still, if he finds you out here alone…”

He trails off, letting the implication hang between you.

You look away, gripping your gloves tightly. “I don’t get it,” you mutter. “He was fine with me a few days ago. What changed?”

Black Sapphire studies you for a long moment before speaking. “Shadow Milk… doesn’t like losing control.”

Your brow furrows. “What does that have to do with me?”

Black Sapphire hesitates—something rare for him. Then, he steps closer, lowering his voice. “Because for whatever reason, you affect him. He is unsure how to treat you.” His expression is unreadable, but there’s something almost cautious in his tone. “And that’s dangerous.”

Your stomach twists. “I don’t—”

A sudden gust of wind rushes through the garden, making the trees shudder. The uneasy silence that follows is suffocating.

Then, Black Sapphire curses under his breath.

You don’t need to ask why.

You feel it.

A presence.

A weight heavier than the night itself pressing down on you.

You turn slowly.

Shadow Milk stands at the edge of the garden, half-shrouded in darkness. His cyan and cerulean eyes gleam beneath his inky hair, unreadable yet intensely focused. The eyes in his hair blink slowly, tracking your every move.

The air feels wrong.

He was pissed.

Shadow Milk’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the night like a blade.

“You really don’t know when to stay put, do you?”

Your breath catches.

And just like that, the fragile sense of control you had shatters completely.

Something inside you snaps.

You’re done with this. Done with the mood swings, the mind games, the way he watches you like you’re some kind of puzzle he’s trying to solve, done with how he treats you like some kind of toy.

“You don’t get to control everything I do!” The words tear out of you, your voice shaking with frustration. “I needed space, and I shouldn’t have to ask for permission to breathe!”

“Hell! I don’t even know why I’m still here! You won’t tell me anything!!”  You scream, you were angry, frustrated. Tired of everything.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Then, the teasing smirk that would normally play at his lips is gone. Shadow Milk’s expression darkens, his mismatched eyes narrowing as something uglier twists across his face. His hair shifts, the embedded eyes within it blinking erratically as if mirroring his sudden fury.

You see the moment he snaps.

The air around you crackles, and before you can react, the glowing blue strings lash out—coiling tightly around your arms, digging into your skin like sharpened wire.

Pain flares up your limbs, sharp and burning.

But this time, you don’t freeze.

You thrash, struggling against the bindings with everything you have, instinct screaming at you to move, to get away. The strings tighten in response, biting deeper, but you refuse to stop.

“Let. Me. GO!” you snarl, tugging desperately, but the more you resist, the more they constrict.

Shadow Milk steps forward, his movements slow, controlled—but his eyes tell a different story. There’s a darkness in them, something unhinged lurking beneath the surface.

"You think you can just walk away from me?" His voice is dangerously soft, but the venom in it is unmistakable. Another sharp pull, and the strings tighten even more, forcing you to stumble forward. “You think I don’t see you trying to slip away?”

”I haven’t even done anything” you screech as the binds dig into your skin, blood beginning to drip down your arms.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, fear and anger warring inside you.

“Shadow Milk,” Black Sapphire’s voice cuts in, firm and edged with something close to urgency. He steps between you both, a deliberate move—one that could cost him. “Enough.”

Shadow Milk doesn’t even look at him. His gaze is locked onto you, his fingers twitching slightly, making the strings pulse with a sickening glow. “You don’t get to tell me what’s enough.”

Black Sapphire’s expression hardens. “They are not your plaything.” His voice lowers, a quiet warning. “You hurt them like this, and you know it won’t end well.”

For the briefest moment, something flickers across Shadow Milk’s face—something almost hesitant. But it’s gone as fast as it appears, swallowed by the storm in his mismatched gaze.

His fingers twitch again, the strings flaring—

You lurch against them with everything you have.

For the first time, you see surprise flash across Shadow Milk’s face as the bindings tremble, resisting just slightly. It’s not much, but it’s enough to shake his concentration.

Black Sapphire doesn’t waste the moment.

He moves in a blur, grabbing your wrist and yanking you toward him, disrupting the tension in the strings just enough for them to slacken. You stumble into him, your breath ragged, arms still burning from where the bindings cut into your skin.

Shadow Milk laughs—a hollow, humorless sound. His cyan and cerulean eyes gleam under the moonlight, but the amusement doesn’t reach them.

“You really think you can protect them, Black Sapphire?” His voice is almost mocking, but there’s something dangerous beneath it. “You think I won’t pull again?”

Black Sapphire keeps a firm grip on you, his stance unwavering. “I think you’re too smart to do something you’ll regret.”

A tense silence falls between them.

A silent exchange, you stare in disbelief at black sapphire. You had never imagined he would defend against shadow milk.

The strings still hover around you, pulsing faintly, but Shadow Milk doesn’t pull them tighter again. Not yet. His expression is unreadable, his hair shifting restlessly, the countless eyes within it never looking away.

You don’t move.

You don’t dare move.

Then—finally—Shadow Milk exhales sharply, his fingers twitching once more. The strings loosen, unraveling from your arms before vanishing completely. The sudden release makes your knees weak, but Black Sapphire keeps you steady.

Shadow Milk tilts his head, watching you with that same unreadable look. “Go on then,” he murmurs, voice quiet but laced with something unreadable. “Run back inside.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

Black Sapphire doesn’t let go until you’re both well past the garden’s edge, your breath still coming in shaky bursts. Your arms sting, your head is spinning, and your heart refuses to slow.

You pant as you make it inside. Black Sapphire's grip on your wrist is steady as he examines your arms. Thin cuts, shallow but precise, line your skin where Shadow Milk’s strings had dug in. Small beads of blood rise to the surface, the sting sharp and lingering. His expression is unreadable, but the way his fingers brush over the wounds—gentle, careful—tells you enough.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, reaching for a cloth tucked in his coat. “He could’ve done worse.”

You let out a shaky breath, the anger still simmering under your skin, but the immediate panic slowly dulling into exhaustion. You don’t want to think about what worse could’ve meant. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Black Sapphire exhales sharply through his nose, dabbing at the cuts with a surprising softness. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly.

The words settle in your chest like lead.

But before you can reply—

A presence.

A shadow stretching over you.

Your stomach drops seconds before a firm hand grips your hair, yanking you back with brutal force. A cry tears from your throat as your balance is ripped from beneath you.

The world tilts.

A familiar voice hums, close to your ear. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Fear slams into your ribs.

Shadow Milk's fingers tighten, pulling harder, forcing your head back at a painful angle. His mismatched eyes glint in the dim light, and there’s nothing teasing or playful in them. Just something cold. Hungry.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Black Sapphire moves—too quickly, too suddenly—but he stops himself just as fast.

Because Shadow Milk is looking at him now.

A silent warning. A threat.

Black Sapphire’s fingers twitch against his coat, his lavender eye flickering between you and Shadow Milk with something almost like panic—rare for him. His loyalty is a leash around his throat, but his care for you is written in the tension in his jaw, the slight shift of his stance like he wants to step forward but knows he shouldn’t.

He’s scared.

Not just for you—but for himself.

Shadow Milk sees it. And it only seems to amuse him.

“You want to say something, don’t you?” His voice is smooth, taunting. “You always do.”

Black Sapphire’s fingers curl into fists.

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Shadow Milk clicks his tongue, the grip in your hair jerking you slightly. His smirk is cruel, but his eyes are still locked onto Black Sapphire. “That’s what I thought.”

And then—he starts pulling you away.

You struggle, but his grip is ironclad, dragging you across the stone floor with ease. Panic surges through you, thrashing against his hold, your hands clawing at his wrist—but it only makes him laugh.

Black Sapphire doesn’t move.

Doesn’t stop him.

And as Shadow Milk pulls you deeper into the castle’s looming darkness, you realize—

You might actually be on your own this time.

                                   •

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                                   •

You fight, thrashing and swearing, but Shadow Milk’s grip is unyielding as he drags you through the winding halls of the castle. His fingers are like iron, twisted into your hair, yanking you forward no matter how hard you struggle. Your feet scrape against the cold stone, your hands clawing at his wrist, but he doesn’t falter—doesn’t even acknowledge your resistance.

”Get the hell off of me!” you swear, shadow milks grip tightens threateningly.

The door ahead looms, its wooden frame warped with age, and before you can brace yourself, Shadow Milk shoves it open. A gust of stale, dust-laden air greets you as he drags you inside.

The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of unseen candles flickering somewhere in the distance. The scent of decay lingers in the air—wood rot, something metallic, something wrong. As your eyes adjust to the gloom, your stomach twists at what you see.

Puppets.

Dozens of them, scattered across the space like discarded playthings.

Some are seated in unnatural poses against the walls, their wooden limbs cracked, their delicate features marred by deep gashes. Others lie crumpled on the floor, missing arms or legs, their hollow eyes staring blankly into the dark. A dried, unfamiliar substance clings to the splintered edges of their bodies, dark and red-colored, seeping into the fractures like veins. It resembles blood.

A chill crawls down your spine.

Before you can react, Shadow Milk tosses you forward with no care for your balance. You hit the ground hard, your hands scraping against the stone as you stumble onto your knees. Pain shoots through your palms, but you barely register it, too focused on the presence towering over you.

Your breath comes in quick, uneven gasps as you force yourself to look up.

Shadow Milk stares down at you, his mismatched cyan and cerulean eyes glinting with something unreadable, something wrong. His expression is caught between amusement and something hunger-adjacent, a cruel smirk curving at the edges of his lips.

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Instead, your gaze frantically sweeps the room, searching—desperate—for something, anything to defend yourself.

Then, you see it.

A jagged piece of ceramic, barely the length of your palm, lying just a few inches away.

Your fingers twitch.

Shadow Milk follows your gaze instantly, his smirk widening into something sickly delighted.

“Go ahead,” he taunts, his voice a low, velvety purr. “Try to fight me, mortal. I assure you—it won’t end well for you.”

His words freeze you.

Your body betrays you, locking in place even as every instinct screams at you to move. You should lunge for the shard, should make a last-ditch attempt to defend yourself—but something in his voice, the absolute certainty in it, roots you to the ground.

Shadow Milk tilts his head, watching your hesitation like it amuses him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he steps forward—unhurried, methodical—and plucks the ceramic shard from the floor himself.

He turns it over in his fingers, inspecting the sharp edge with idle curiosity, as if bored.

Then, wordlessly, he rolls up the sleeve of his coat, revealing his forearm.

Your stomach lurches.

You’ve seen his arms before, but never this close, never in this much detail. Scars litter his pale blue skin, thin and jagged, some barely visible while others are stark against the flesh. Old wounds. Self-inflicted.

Your breath catches as he presses the shard to his skin.

Slowly, deliberately, he drags it down his arm.

You want to scream, to tell him to stop. But your voice dies in your throat.

The cut opens instantly, deep and clean, and thick blue blood bubbles to the surface before sliding down in thin, inky rivulets. Droplets patter against the stone floor, mixing with the dust and grime beneath him.

You stare, disbelieving, unable to look away.

Then, before your mind can even process the horror of it—

The wound closes.

The flesh knits itself back together in an instant, the deep gash sealing shut with unnatural ease. Within seconds, the only evidence left behind is a fresh, thin scar, barely distinguishable from the countless others.

Your breath shudders.

Your body begins to shake.

The reality of the situation hitting you like a truck. 

Shadow Milk watches you closely, his eyes glinting with something dark—something expectant. He takes a slow step forward, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

"Do you understand now?" His voice is soft, almost coaxing. "Nothing you do will ever touch me."

Your stomach twists violently, nausea rolling through you in waves.

”This is my stage, I control everything that happens.” He mocks.

You were always at his mercy, you got to brave. He doesn’t care about you. You’re expendable. 

Shadow Milk begins to pace, his boots clicking softly against the cold stone floor, the rhythmic sound echoing through the dimly lit chamber. His finger taps against his chin in exaggerated mock contemplation, his mismatched eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.

"Hmm," he hums, tilting his head slightly. "What should I do with you?"

You try to steady yourself, to force some semblance of composure, but your body betrays you. Your hands tremble as you press them against the floor, trying to push yourself upright. The fear is suffocating, curling around your lungs like iron chains, making it hard to breathe.

"L-let me go. Now shadow milk," you say, but your voice wavers, betraying the sheer terror coursing through you. Tears begin to spill down your cheeks, hot and unbidden, blurring your vision as you fight against the overwhelming sense of helplessness.

Shadow Milk stops pacing.

Then, without warning, he lunges.

You barely have time to gasp before the weight of him crashes down on you, pinning you beneath his cold, unrelenting grip. His fingers clamp around your shoulders, digging in with enough force that you know bruises will bloom beneath your skin. You thrash, struggling wildly beneath him, but it only makes his grin widen, his sharp teeth flashing in the dim candlelight.

"Ah, there it is," he purrs, tightening his grip as if savoring your struggle. "I was waiting for this."

”You have been testing my patience for some time, you think you can order me around. Control me?” 

You buck beneath him, trying to shove him off, but he doesn't budge—his strength is inhuman, effortless. The more you fight, the more entertained he seems.

Then, as suddenly as he had attacked, he stills.

His expression shifts, as if a thought has struck him. His fingers snap, the sharp sound ringing through the still air, and his grin takes on an almost gleeful edge.

"I’ve got it," he announces, his voice practically dripping with cruel delight. "Choices."

Dread crawls up your spine.

"I could turn you into one of my puppets," he muses, gesturing loosely to the shattered marionettes strewn around the room. "You’d be useful that way—silent, obedient, a much better version of yourself." His hand wraps around your jaw, forcing you to look at him, his dark eyes glowing in the dim lighting. “Plus it would be such a shame to let a face like this go to waste,” his voice was low a dark edge to it. He sighs theatrically. "Or... I could reanimate the broken ones." His eyes flick to the fractured figures slumped against the walls, the dried substance around their wounds—so disturbingly like blood—catching the faint light. "Fix them, just enough to make them move again." His smirk widens, his fingers flexing against your shoulders. "Then I’d leave you here for the night. Let them keep you company."

The weight of his words crushes the air from your lungs.

You stare at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering so violently you think it might burst. The room suddenly feels smaller, the shadows deeper, the broken puppets more menacing. You don’t know what terrifies you more—the thought of losing yourself to his twisted magic or spending the night trapped here, surrounded by things that should be dead.

His grin remains, sharp and gleeful. "Both are such tempting options," he murmurs. "Which would you prefer?"

A sob rips through you.

His grins is wild, crazed. He's reveling in your fear.

You glare at him through your tears, the anger barely masking the sheer terror consuming you. "Why don’t you just kill me?" you scream, your voice raw, desperate. "If you want me dead so badly, just do it yourself!"

The words echo, bouncing off the cold stone walls.

And then—

Shadow Milk freezes.

His smirk falters, the cruel amusement draining from his face in an instant. His mismatched eyes widen just slightly, shock flickering across his features like a crack in an otherwise perfect mask.

For a split second, regret flickers in his gaze.

Guilt.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. His expression smooths over, the walls slamming back into place, but the shift is undeniable. The air around him no longer hums with the same sharp malice—it’s still dark, still dangerous, but there’s something else now. Something heavier.

He exhales slowly, his grip loosening ever so slightly. His voice, when he finally speaks, is flat. Emotionless. "If I wanted you dead," he says quietly, "you would be."

The words send a fresh wave of chills through you.

Then, without another word, he releases you.

The absence of his weight leaves you gasping, your body aching from the force of his grip. You barely have time to react before he pushes himself up, his form rigid, his posture tense in a way you’ve never seen before. He turns sharply, striding toward the door, his movements stiff with something unreadable.

You don’t dare move.

You don’t even breathe.

Without so much as a glance back, he throws the door open. The dim candlelight from the hallway spills into the room, momentarily casting his shadow across the broken puppets.

Then—

SLAM.

The door crashes shut, plunging you into darkness.

Silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you curl into yourself, every muscle screaming in protest, the soreness in your shoulders nothing compared to the emotional wreckage left in his wake.

And finally—finally—you break.

A choked sob forces its way from your throat, followed by another, then another. You curl tighter, wrapping your arms around yourself as if it’ll somehow keep you from unraveling completely.

You cry.

Hiccups and sobs rip through your throat.

Not just from fear. Not just from pain.

But from the ache of it all.

You don’t belong here.

You just want to go home.

Wherever that may be.

Chapter Text

The night had been merciless.

You had slept on the cold, unforgiving stone floor, curled into yourself for warmth, but it did little to shield you from the chill that seeped into your bones. The room was suffocating in its eerie silence, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the soft whistle of air sneaking through the cracks in the walls. The puppets—those lifeless, fractured things—had watched over you like silent sentinels, their hollow eyes seemingly following your every breath.

You had stared at them for hours, your exhaustion battling against your fear. Any moment, you expected them to move—to jerk to life under some unseen force, to rise and reach for you with stiff, splintered fingers. But they never did. Eventually, the weight of fatigue became unbearable, and despite the gnawing anxiety clinging to your chest, your body succumbed to exhaustion, dragging you into restless, haunted sleep.

You weren't sure how long you had been unconscious when a soft nudge against your shoulder pulled you from the depths of that fragile slumber.

A sharp, throbbing pain pulsed in your skull, a dull ache radiating from the spots where Shadow Milk's cruel grip had left its mark. Your shoulders were sore, muscles stiff from the awkward position you had slept in. Every part of you felt sluggish, as if weighed down by the events of the night before.

Blinking groggily, your vision swam before settling on a familiar figure crouched beside you.

Candy Apple Cookie.

The normally bright, energetic girl looked like she was barely holding herself together. Her usually vibrant red eyes were glassy, rimmed with unshed tears, her small hands trembling slightly as they hovered uncertainty near your arm. The sight of her—so distraught, so worried—made your chest tighten.

You blink at her in a daze, struggling to fully process the moment.

Then, the warmth of a hand pressing against the side of your head sends a gentle wave of comfort through you. Your tired eyes shift to meet another familiar face—Black Sapphire.

His expression, normally unreadable, was laced with something close to concern. His sharp lavender gaze roamed over you, taking in every detail—your tear-streaked cheeks, the layer of dust clinging to your skin and clothes, the bruises blooming like dark flowers beneath the fabric of your shirt. His lips pressed into a thin line, his hands steady even as his eyes flickered with uncertainty.

“Are they okay?” Candy Apple’s small voice broke through the silence, hesitant and afraid.

Black Sapphire’s gaze lingered on you for a beat longer before he answered, his tone careful, almost too gentle. “They’ll be fine.”

But there was doubt in his voice.

You could feel it.

You tried to push past the haze clouding your mind, forcing yourself to sit up despite the way your body protested. The movement sent a fresh wave of dizziness washing over you, but you gritted your teeth, willing yourself to focus.

Black Sapphire didn’t stop you. He simply watched, his hands hovering slightly, as if prepared to steady you should you falter.

Your gaze shifted to Candy Apple, who was still watching you with wide, uncertain eyes.

Slowly, carefully, you reached for her, your fingers curling around her smaller hand in a gentle squeeze. A silent reassurance.

Candy Apple sniffled, her grip tightening in return, as if afraid that if she let go, you might disappear.

Black Sapphire exhaled softly, his shoulders lowering just a fraction, though the tension in his posture never fully disappeared.

None of you spoke.

For a moment, there were no words that could fix what had happened.

Black Sapphire’s touch was careful, deliberate, as he slowly wrapped an arm around your middle. His grip was firm but gentle, offering support without forcing you. The stiffness in your muscles protested the movement, a dull ache radiating from every bruised and battered part of you, but you didn’t fight him. You simply leaned into his steady presence, letting him bear some of your weight as you struggled to gather your strength.

A quiet grumble left your lips, not quite forming words, but Black Sapphire only responded with patience. His presence was solid beneath your unsteady hands as you braced yourself against his shoulder.

Candy Apple never let go.

Her small, warm fingers remained curled around your hand, gripping tightly as if afraid that letting go would mean losing you entirely. There was no hesitation in her touch, no uncertainty—only an unwavering insistence that she wouldn’t leave you, no matter what.

Together, the two of them guided you out of the darkened room, their movements slow and measured to match your exhausted, sluggish steps.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the light of the early morning sun flooded your vision, making you wince. It was too bright, too sudden after the oppressive darkness of the night. Your eyes struggled to adjust, but that wasn’t what made your breath hitch.

Your body stiffened, your heart pounding as your gaze darted wildly across the hallway. A deep-rooted fear gripped your chest like a vice, suffocating and unrelenting.

‘Where was he?’

The memory of Shadow Milk’s piercing gaze, his cruel grin, the feeling of his strings digging into your skin—it all came rushing back at once. Your breathing quickened, panic clawing at the edges of your mind as you searched for any sign of him lurking in the shadows.

Black Sapphire noticed immediately.

Without a word, he tightened his hold on you slightly, pulling you closer. His free hand moved in slow, deliberate circles against your back, grounding you.

“He’s not here,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of certainty.

You swallowed hard, your breath shaky as you hesitated, still searching his face for any sign of doubt. But there was none.

Shadow Milk was gone.

A shuddering exhale left your lips as you allowed some of the tension in your body to ease. The realization left you weak, exhaustion creeping in again now that the immediate threat had faded.

The familiar scent of warm bread and faint traces of spice drifted into the air as you continued forward. You hadn’t even noticed where they were leading you until the sight of the kitchen came into view.

Black Sapphire guided you toward a chair, easing you down as if afraid you might collapse if he let go too soon. The moment you sat, your limbs felt heavier, the weight of the past night settling into your bones.

“Eat,” he urged gently, his voice lacking its usual sharpness. His hand lingered for just a moment before finally pulling away.

Candy Apple remained close, her concern still evident in the way she hovered beside you. Without hesitation, she slid her plate toward you, pushing it closer in silent insistence.

You stared at the food before you, exhaustion clouding your thoughts. Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for a piece of bread, the simple act of moving almost overwhelming in the wake of everything.

You were exhausted. You were sore. You were afraid.

But you were alive.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

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The day passed in a haze, each moment dragging by as if time itself had slowed under the weight of your exhaustion. The events of the previous night clung to you like a second skin, impossible to shake, no matter how much you tried. Every breath felt heavier, every sound sharper, setting your nerves on edge.

Candy Apple, ever the optimist, did her best to keep the mood light. She filled the space with her usual chatter, her words tumbling out in a constant stream of jokes and playful banter. She twirled around the room, dramatically reenacting moments from past days, making exaggerated faces and wild gestures in an attempt to draw even the smallest reaction from you. But no matter how hard she tried, you could only offer her faint smiles, the kind that never quite reached your eyes.

You wanted to appreciate her efforts. Really, you did. But your body was too worn down, your mind too foggy with exhaustion and lingering fear to engage with her energy. Your emotions felt dulled, like they were locked behind a thick sheet of ice, untouchable and unreachable.

She noticed. Of course, she did.

There were moments when her smile faltered, fleeting but visible if you looked closely enough. A brief downturn of her lips, a hesitation in her usually boundless enthusiasm. But she never let it last long. Each time, she would shake it off with a determined glint in her eyes, pushing forward with more jokes, more playful antics—anything to make the silence less suffocating.

Black Sapphire, on the other hand, remained a steady presence by your side. He didn’t say much, nor did he try to force conversation or distraction upon you. Instead, he watched—always watching. His sharp lavender eyes tracked every subtle twitch of your fingers, every wary glance you threw over your shoulder, every time your body tensed at the sound of footsteps echoing in the halls.

His silence wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was grounding. Unlike Candy Apple’s energetic attempts to pull you out of your head, Black Sapphire simply allowed you to exist in your unease, offering his quiet support without expectation.

And you needed that.

Because despite being safe—despite Shadow Milk being nowhere in sight—the fear hadn’t left you.

You flinched at every unexpected sound, your pulse spiking at the mere creak of a door or the whisper of fabric brushing against stone. Your shoulders remained stiff, locked in a near-permanent state of tension, as if expecting unseen strings to coil around your limbs at any moment.

You had been afraid since the moment you arrived at this castle, but this was different. The unease from that first day, the uncertainty of being trapped in an unfamiliar place—it all seemed so small now. Almost laughable.

Because now you knew.

You knew exactly what Shadow Milk was capable of.

You had seen the way his eyes darkened, had felt the cruel bite of his strings as they dug into your skin. You had witnessed the scars on his arms, had watched blue blood bubble up from freshly drawn wounds only to heal as if nothing had happened.

And you had heard the way his voice wavered, just for a moment, when you had screamed at him—Why don’t you just kill me?

You weren’t sure what had shaken you more—the fact that he hadn’t answered or the way something in his expression had cracked before he stormed out and left you alone in the dark.

You didn’t understand him.

You didn’t want to.

But his presence loomed over you even now, even in his absence.

Candy Apple’s laughter would fill the room, and for a moment, you would almost forget. But then a shadow would shift in your peripheral vision, and your breath would hitch. A door would creak open down the hall, and your heart would lurch in your chest. You would catch sight of your own reflection in a window—tired eyes, bruised skin—and reality would come crashing down all over again.

You weren’t free. You never had been.

And the worst part? You didn’t know if you ever would be.

At some point during the day, you found yourself sitting in the castle’s library. You weren’t sure how you got there—if Candy Apple had dragged you in an attempt to distract you or if Black Sapphire had silently guided you there, sensing you needed to be somewhere quiet. Either way, you ended up curled in one of the oversized chairs near the fireplace, staring blankly at the pages of a book you hadn’t even realized you picked up.

The words blurred together, their meaning lost in the swirling fog of your thoughts.

Across the room, Candy Apple continued her endless efforts, balancing a book on her head as she wobbled on one foot, determined to make you smile.

Black Sapphire sat nearby, pretending to read, though his attention never truly left you.

You knew they were worried. You could feel it in the way Candy Apple kept sneaking glances at you between her antics, in the way Black Sapphire’s fingers lingered on the pages of his book without turning them.

And for a brief moment, guilt gnawed at the edges of your exhaustion.

They were trying.

They were doing everything they could to make this easier for you.

And you… you were failing them.

But what else could you do?

How were you supposed to act like things were normal after what had happened? How were you supposed to laugh, to joke, to pretend when your body still ached with the memory of being torn down?

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply. The book in your hands trembled slightly as your grip tightened.

You wished you could forget.

You wished none of this had ever happened.

You wished you had been able to stay by pure vanilla’s side.

But more than anything…

You wished you could just go home.

Wherever that was.

But the more time passed, the more it felt like that place—the concept of home—was slipping further and further out of reach.

A soft thud pulled you from your thoughts.

You blinked, refocusing just in time to see Candy Apple on the floor, the book that had been balanced on her head now lying beside her.

For a split second, she was completely still. Then, she let out a dramatic gasp, flopping onto her back with an exaggerated groan.

“Alas, my attempt at supreme balance has failed me,” she wailed, throwing an arm over her face as if she had just suffered a great tragedy.

It was ridiculous.

It was so ridiculous.

And yet…

A small, breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

It wasn’t much—barely more than a quiet exhale—but it was real.

Candy Apple’s arm slid away from her face, her wide, bright eyes locking onto yours. Then, a grin broke across her lips, triumphant and full of warmth.

Black Sapphire didn’t say anything, but when you glanced his way, you found him watching you with something softer in his gaze, something gentler.

And for the first time since waking up that morning, the weight on your chest felt just a little lighter.

It didn’t last.

It never did.

By the time evening rolled around, the unease had settled back in, heavier than before. As the sky darkened and the castle was bathed in the dim glow of candlelight, a familiar dread coiled in your stomach.

Shadow Milk still hadn’t returned.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because he would.

It was only a matter of time.

And when he did…

You didn’t know what would happen.

You didn’t know if the person who walked through that door would be the teasing tormentor who thrived off of making you uncomfortable or the cold, violent force that had pinned you down, dug his strings into your flesh, and left you trembling on the floor.

But one thing was certain.

No matter which version of Shadow Milk came back…

You weren’t ready to face him again.

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Night had fallen, draping the castle in an eerie stillness that settled deep in your bones. The exhaustion, which had only been a dull ache throughout the day, now pressed down on you with the weight of a thousand stones. Every muscle in your body screamed for rest, yet your mind refused to quiet. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, flickering with each wavering candlelight, and despite knowing Shadow Milk had yet to return, a primal fear coiled in your stomach, suffocating and relentless.

Black Sapphire took notice almost immediately. His sharp gaze never missed a thing, and tonight was no exception. His usual silent observance was replaced with quiet insistence.

"You need rest," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Take a few days to recover."

The words settled over you, but before you could protest, a blur of white barreled into you. Candy Apple, with her boundless energy and warm heart, wrapped her arms around you tightly. Her curly hair bounced as she squeezed you in an embrace—firm, yet careful, as if afraid you might break under too much pressure.

She said nothing, only tilting her head up to look at you with a small, reassuring smile.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because what was there to say? Everyone in this castle had been walking on eggshells around you, as if you were something fragile, something breakable. A part of you hated it, loathed the way their worry made you feel like a burden. But another part—one you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge—ached at the quiet kindness in their gestures.

You hesitated, then slowly raised your arm, weakly returning Candy Apple's embrace. She let out a small breath, relieved, and squeezed you one more time before stepping away.

Black Sapphire didn’t wait for further protest. Gently, but with unwavering insistence, he began to lead you toward your room. The halls, once vaguely familiar, now felt foreign—cold, stretched too long, filled with secrets that whispered just beyond your reach.

Your pulse quickened with each step.

Despite the silence, the castle felt alive, watching, waiting.

A shiver ran down your spine.

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Shadow Milk wasn’t even here.

So why did you feel like something was lurking just beyond the candlelight, waiting for the right moment to strike?

By the time you reached your door, your skin was clammy, and your breath felt too shallow. Black Sapphire noticed. He always did. His expression, ever composed, flickered with something unreadable—hesitation, perhaps?

For a moment, he stood there, as if weighing his next words carefully.

You swallowed, throat dry, and mustered the strength to speak. “Say it.”

His gaze flickered to yours.

You cleared your throat, trying to push past the tightness in your chest. “Whatever it is you’re thinking—just say it.”

A sigh escaped him. His eyes darted around the dimly lit hallway, as if checking for unseen ears. Then, without a word, he reached forward and pulled you into a tight embrace.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was unlike him—Black Sapphire, the quiet, composed one. The one who always kept his distance, who never acted without careful calculation.

You almost believed he was offering you silent comfort, an unspoken apology for everything you had endured. But then—

You felt it.

A small slip of paper pressed against your palm as he subtly slid something into your pocket.

Your stomach twisted.

It lasted only a second. Then, as if nothing had happened, he pulled away. His expression remained unreadable, but his hands lingered at his sides, clenched briefly before he took a step back.

“Get some rest.” His voice was quieter now, almost softer. “Goodnight.”

And with that, he turned, disappearing down the hallway before you could say another word.

You stood frozen for several moments, pulse hammering in your ears. Then, slowly, you slipped into your room, closing the door behind you with a quiet click.

The moment you were alone, your hands trembled as you reached into your pocket, retrieving the folded note. The paper felt smooth beneath your fingertips, the handwriting neat and precise—unmistakably Black Sapphire’s.

Your breath hitched as your eyes scanned the message:

"I cannot watch this anymore. I have contacted Pure Vanilla. Please stay safe until I can get you to him."

A sharp gasp left your lips.

You reread the words again. And again.

Each time, the reality of what they meant sent a fresh wave of emotions crashing over you.

Black Sapphire had reached out for help.

To Pure Vanilla.

He was trying to get you out.

A strangled laugh bubbled in your throat, choked with something between relief and disbelief. Your hands trembled as you gripped the note tighter, your heartbeat a rapid thrum against your ribs.

For the first time in what felt like forever, a spark of hope ignited in your chest.

You were finally being set free.

But that hope was fleeting.

Because as quickly as the relief came, so did the fear.

If Shadow Milk found out…

You couldn’t afford to hesitate.

Without wasting another second, you tore the note into tiny shreds, your hands moving on instinct. You rushed to the small adjoining bathroom, dropping the torn pieces into the toilet and flushing them away. The water swirled, swallowing the evidence, taking with it the only tangible proof of Black Sapphire’s defiance.

Guilt coiled in your stomach as you leaned against the sink, gripping its cool edges for support.

This was dangerous.

Not just for you—but for him.

For Candy Apple.

For anyone who had shown you kindness.

If Shadow Milk found out about this, there would be consequences.

Severe ones.

Black Sapphire had taken a risk by reaching out to Pure Vanilla. A dangerous, reckless risk. And for what? For you?

You swallowed hard, the weight of it all pressing down on you.

You had caused this burden.

You had put him in danger.

But… you couldn’t regret it.

Because despite the fear, the guilt, the uncertainty—there was something stronger, something you hadn’t felt in so long.

Determination.

For the first time since arriving here, you had something to hold onto.

An end to this nightmare was within reach.

You just had to survive long enough to grasp it.

Taking a shaky breath, you wiped at your eyes, forcing yourself to stand straighter. The exhaustion still clung to you, but now it was different. It wasn’t just the weight of suffering anymore—it was the weight of possibility.

Carefully, you turned away from the sink, moving back toward your bed. The mattress dipped as you sat, the silence of the room pressing in around you.

Tomorrow, you would wake up with the knowledge that help was coming.

That you weren’t alone.

That this prison was no longer inescapable.

And no matter how terrifying the days ahead might be, no matter how much you still feared the shadow lurking in this castle…

You had one thing Shadow Milk never wanted you to have.

A way out.

Chapter Text

Sleep did not come easy.

The moment you closed your eyes, the horrors of the previous night replayed in agonizing detail—the dimly lit room, the broken puppets staring lifelessly, the sharp sting of magical strings cutting into your skin. Shadow Milk’s cold, amused voice echoed in your head, his delighted taunts as he toyed with you like you were nothing more than a fragile marionette. Your body would jolt every time you drifted too close to sleep, your heart hammering as if expecting those blue strings to wrap around you once more.

But through the haze of fear, there was something else—hope.

Black Sapphire’s note burned in your mind, its words offering a rare solace in this suffocating prison. He had reached out to Pure Vanilla. He was going to help you escape.

Pure Vanilla.

The very thought of him brought warmth to your chest, a stark contrast to the icy fear that had gripped you for so long. You had only traveled with him and his companions for a short time, yet in those few weeks, you had known something you had forgotten was possible—safety. No threats lurking behind every word. No paralyzing anxiety with each passing second. No fear that a wrong step would end in your demise.

Your mind conjured his image effortlessly, as if clinging to every detail was the only thing keeping you from spiraling. His soft gaze, filled with endless kindness, the way his mismatched eyes—one a gentle yellow, the other a beautiful blue—always held understanding rather than judgment. His golden hair, always slightly tousled, framed his tan skin like strands of light.

You missed them. All of them.

But then, a painful realization struck like a blade to your chest.

You’d never see Black Sapphire or Candy Apple again.

The thought sent a fresh wave of grief crashing over you.

You had tried so hard not to get attached, to keep yourself distant. But it had been impossible.

Black Sapphire had been your rock in this twisted place—the one who, despite his quiet demeanor, was always steady, always reliable. The voice of reason in an environment where reason rarely existed. He never offered empty words of comfort, but his actions had always spoken for him. He had watched over you, protected you in subtle ways, even when it put himself at risk.

And Candy Apple…

Her bright personality was infectious, her energy boundless. She had been the light in the suffocating darkness of this castle, the only one who could make you laugh when you thought you had forgotten how. Her small hands had always found yours, offering silent reassurance even when words failed.

Losing them felt like losing a piece of yourself.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but before they could spill, sorrow gave way to anger.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms as a single name flared in your mind—Shadow Milk.

This was his fault.

If only he hadn’t been so cruel. If only he hadn’t taken joy in your suffering. If only he had let you go from the start instead of playing these twisted games. You could have been free. You could have left before you ever cared about anyone in this wretched place.

But despite the fury burning in your chest, your mind betrayed you.

It drifted—unbidden—back to the moments that weren’t bad. The ones that made it so much harder to hate him completely.

The playful banter in the kitchen, when he’d steal food from your plate just to get a reaction out of you.

The way he’d pester you while you were trying to read, making ridiculous comments just to see how long it would take for you to snap at him.

The garden.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the memory away, but it clung to you stubbornly.

The first time you had been allowed outside, truly outside. He had led you there himself, his usual sharp smirk replaced with something softer. He healed you cuts a bruises, granted he caused them. His eyes had seemed to glow in the sunlight, the usual cold amusement gone, replaced with something almost human. His smile had been genuine that day.

For a fleeting moment, he had seemed like a different person.

You wished those were the only moments you had shared.

But they weren’t.

Because for every rare, fleeting moment of warmth, there had been twice as many moments of cruelty.

The strings cutting into your skin.

The threats whispered in your ear.

The mocking laughter as he watched you struggle.

Your blood ran cold.

You had to be a fool to even consider those good moments as anything but mind games. His true nature wasn’t kindness—it was violence and deceit.

Wasn’t it?

A flicker of doubt crept in, unwelcome and persistent.

Your mind was spinning, torn between everything you knew and everything you felt.

You didn’t want to think about him anymore. You didn’t want to wonder if those glimpses of something softer had been real or just another part of his manipulation.

You just wanted to be free.

And for the first time, that possibility was real.

You took a slow, shuddering breath, forcing your racing thoughts to quiet. The tension in your body eased, if only slightly, and the weight of exhaustion became impossible to ignore.

With one last shaky breath, you let your eyes drift shut.

And finally, sleep took hold.

The nightmares came again.

Familiar strings wrapped around your limbs, pulling tighter, cutting deep. Shadow Milk’s voice surrounded you, whispering things you couldn’t understand. The puppets in the dark room moved this time, their cracked faces twisting into haunting smiles, their hollow eyes staring straight through you.

Somewhere in the dream, you screamed.

But in the depths of the nightmare, a faint voice called to you—soft, warm. A whisper of comfort in the suffocating dark.

A voice that didn’t belong to Shadow Milk.

A voice that reminded you of the sun.

When you woke, drenched in cold sweat, you swore you could still hear it.

Just hang on a little longer….

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

When you awoke the next day, exhaustion still clung to you like a heavy fog, weighing down your limbs and making every movement feel sluggish. Despite the ache in your body, your mind was restless, buzzing with questions that refused to settle.

Was Pure Vanilla on his way?
How long would it take?
Could you hold on until then?

You needed answers.

Pushing yourself up from the bed, you rubbed your tired eyes, barely registering the soreness in your shoulders and the dull throb of your bruises. The memory of Black Sapphire’s note resurfaced, reigniting the flicker of hope you had clung to the night before.

You had to find him.

Without hesitation, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and forced yourself to stand, ignoring the lingering exhaustion threatening to pull you back down. The cold floor beneath your feet sent a shiver up your spine as you hurried toward the door.

The castle’s long, winding hallways felt endless as you navigated through them, your heartbeat drumming steadily in your ears. Every shadow seemed darker than usual, every creak of the old wooden floors setting you on edge. Your body was still riddled with unease from the previous night—flinching at even the faintest of sounds.

After what felt like an eternity, you arrived at the library.

The grand doors were slightly ajar, allowing the warm glow of candlelight to spill into the hallway. You took a steadying breath before pushing them open further, stepping inside.

Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched across the vast room, filled with tomes of all sizes and colors. The scent of aged parchment and ink filled the air, mingling with the faint crackle of a fireplace in the corner.

And there, seated in one of the many velvet-lined chairs, was Black Sapphire.

He was deeply engrossed in a book, his long fingers absentmindedly flicking through the pages, eyes scanning over the text with quiet focus. Despite the serene atmosphere of the library, his posture was tense, his shoulders rigid as if weighed down by an unseen burden.

You hesitated before offering a quiet, “Hey.”

At the sound of your voice, his deep purple eyes lifted from the book. They met yours, his gaze sweeping over your face with an unreadable expression. A flicker of concern passed through them, but there was also something else—something strained.

His jaw tightened ever so slightly.

You frowned, confused by his reaction, until you noticed the subtle shift in his gaze. He wasn’t looking at you anymore.

He was looking past you.

A sense of unease crawled up your spine as you instinctively turned to follow his line of sight.

And then—you froze.

Standing just a few feet away, flipping through the pages of a book with an air of casual disinterest, was Shadow Milk.

Your breath hitched.

His presence was a sharp contrast to the quiet serenity of the library. Even in the dim glow of candlelight, his towering form cast an imposing shadow across the floor. The mere sight of him sent shivers down your spine, a cold dread settling in the pit of your stomach.

Your gaze locked onto his hands—the same ones that had held you in a bruising grip, the same ones that had wielded those terrible strings that dug into your skin.

You took an instinctive step back, your body screaming at you to retreat.

That was when his eyes met yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You expected the same cruel amusement that usually danced behind his gaze—the same taunting smirk that made your skin crawl. But instead… his expression was unreadable.

And then, you noticed something odd.

He looked… tired.

There were dark circles beneath his usually sharp eyes, dulling their usual eerie glow. His jester’s attire—typically pristine and perfectly arranged—looked disheveled, as if thrown on hastily. His two-toned hair, always left to fall freely around his shoulders, had been pulled into a loose bun, exposing the nape of his neck. Strands of silver and dark navy-blue hair had slipped from the tie, framing his face in a way that made him look—

Human?

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

His gaze flickered downward, scanning over your battered body—the cuts from his strings now scabbed over, the dark bruises that still marked your arms where he had grabbed you. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still impossible to decipher.

And then, without warning, he snapped his book shut.

The sudden noise made you flinch, a sharp jolt of fear shooting through you.

Black Sapphire stiffened beside you, his body shifting ever so slightly in front of you, as if preparing to intervene if necessary.

Shadow Milk didn’t speak.

He simply placed the book down on the large desk in the center of the room, his fingers tapping the cover twice before his gaze flickered back to you.

For the briefest of moments, it almost seemed like he was about to say something.

But then—his posture straightened, his expression blanking, and without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the library.

You stood frozen in place, your heart hammering against your ribs as you watched his retreating figure disappear through the doorway.

Even after he was gone, the suffocating tension in the room remained.

The moment the door closed behind him, you exhaled sharply, only now realizing how tightly you had been holding onto your own breath. Your legs felt weak beneath you, and before you could stop yourself, you reached out—gripping the edge of Black Sapphire’s chair to steady yourself.

His voice was low, hesitant. “Are you okay?”

You nodded weakly, still trying to gather your composure. “Yeah…” The word came out barely above a whisper.

he didn’t believe you.

You could tell by the way his eyes lingered on you, the concern etched into his usually stoic face. He didn’t push, though.

Instead, his gaze shifted to the book Shadow Milk had left behind.

Your eyes followed his, curiosity creeping into your exhausted mind.

What had he been reading?

And why did it feel like he had left it there for you to see?

You stood frozen, your eyes locked onto the book Shadow Milk had left behind. Your fingers twitched at your sides, the overwhelming pull of curiosity itching at your skin.

Why had he left it here? Was it intentional, or had he simply forgotten it?

Black Sapphire regarded you with his usual disinterested expression, his piercing purple eyes flicking between you and the book. His gaze lingered on your fidgeting hands before narrowing slightly, as if already predicting your next move.

You attempted to put on an innocent smile, clasping your hands together as if that would fool him.

It didn’t.

Black Sapphire deadpanned at you, the slightest hint of exasperation in his expression. “You have the worst sense of self-preservation I have ever seen,” he grumbled, though there was an undertone of amusement in his voice.

You offered a dramatic gasp. “I have plenty of self-preservation—”

Before you could finish, you were already speed-walking to the desk.

Black Sapphire sighed. “Unbelievable.”

Ignoring him, your fingers brushed over the book’s aged leather cover, its once-smooth surface now slightly worn from years—maybe centuries—of handling. The edges were slightly frayed, and the spine had creases deep enough to suggest frequent use. Whatever it contained, it had been read over and over again.

Your heart pounded as you carefully flipped it open to the dog-eared page Shadow Milk had marked.

Your eyes scanned the text, but most of it was nonsense—dense, scholarly writing filled with words that made little sense in the context of what you knew. The occasional scribble of notes, you wondered if shadow milk wrote those.

Until one word jumped out at you.

‘Human.’

You froze, your eyes locking onto the word as your breath caught in your throat.

Your fingers tightened around the fragile pages as you quickly read the surrounding text:

The Witches, known to many as the Creators, were once Human in origin, though their physical forms have long since evolved. Their current manifestations take the shape of towering beings of immense power, with grotesque limbs and eyes that see beyond mortal comprehension. They bleed dark maroon liquid, akin to the ink of the void itself. While much of their humanity has faded, traces of their past remain, embedded within their very existence…

Your brows furrowed. The text mostly focused on the Witches’ biology, describing them as monstrous, godlike entities rather than anything resembling the traditional image of a human. Some of it was clearly exaggerated, and some parts didn’t even make sense.

You let out a frustrated sigh and snapped the book shut. “Great, that was useless.”

But as soon as the cover clicked into place, a chilling realization made your stomach drop.

‘Humans don’t exist here. They are on the same par as gods.’

So then…

How are you here?

A sharp pang of dizziness hit you, and you swayed slightly. Your breathing quickened as questions upon questions flooded your mind.

Had you always been here? Were you really from this world? Why had no one ever mentioned this before? Did Shadow Milk know?

Was that why he left the book here?

You pressed a hand against your temple, trying to steady yourself.

A voice snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts.

"Keep thinking so hard and your head will explode."

You blinked up at Black Sapphire, who was watching you with a raised brow. His lips twitched in amusement, but there was an underlying concern in his eyes.

You scowled at him, rolling your eyes. “Ha-ha. Hilarious.”

But the momentary humor didn’t erase the tension in the room.

Without another word, you walked over to his chair and plopped down beside him, exhaling sharply.

The two of you sat in silence.

The question burned at your tongue. You stared at him, silently asking what you both knew was the real concern.

What’s the escape plan?

You barely got the first syllable out before Black Sapphire’s hand clamped over your mouth.

Your muffled protest was met with a sharp shake of his head, his eyes flicking toward the door.

You followed his gaze, and dread slithered down your spine.

You had been so caught up in your thoughts that you had forgotten.

Shadow Milk was always listening.

Your stomach churned as you mentally kicked yourself for the slip-up. Of course, he was listening. This was his castle. He had control over everything. You had no idea how far his influence stretched—what he could hear, what he could see.

You swallowed hard. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid…’

Black Sapphire, still cautious, slowly pulled his hand away once he was sure you got the message.

Then, without a word, he slipped a small sheet of paper and a pen from his pocket.

His movements were quick and precise as he scribbled something onto the parchment, careful not to make any unnecessary noise.

Once he was done, he discreetly slid the note toward you.

Your eyes scanned the neat, familiar handwriting:

“Just trust me. Please.”

You frowned, looking up at him in silent question.

His expression was apologetic, his lips pressing into a thin line as he watched you hesitate.

For a moment, you considered pressing him for more information, but you knew it was too risky. You needed to be patient.

You needed to trust him.

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and folded the note, tucking it safely into your pocket.

Black Sapphire’s tense posture eased slightly, though the tension in the air never fully disappeared.

For now, this would have to be enough.

For now, all you could do was wait.

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

The day had passed in uneventful silence, yet you felt no relief. The weight of uncertainty pressed against your chest, making it hard to breathe at times. You had spent the entirety of the day sticking close to Black Sapphire, unwilling to be alone in the vast, cold castle.

Shadow Milk had been eerily absent throughout the day, a fact that should have eased your nerves—but instead, it only made them worse. Where was he? What was he doing? Planning? Watching? Waiting?

You shook the thoughts away as you followed Black Sapphire into a room you hadn’t seen before.

It was grand, yet had an unsettling intimacy to it. Plush chairs, draped in deep blues and soft whites, were arranged in rows, facing a large ornate stage. The entire atmosphere felt theatrical, as if the room was waiting—expecting—something to unfold.

You took your seat beside Black Sapphire, shifting uncomfortably as you glanced around. The dim lighting and ghostly quiet of the room did nothing to settle your nerves.

You turned to him, confusion evident in your expression. “Why are we here?”

Black Sapphire gave you a small, knowing smile. “It’ll be starting soon.”

That only confused you further.

You settled deeper into your chair, trying to find some form of comfort, but something felt…off.

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end.

Your breath hitched as a familiar, suffocating weight pressed down on you. Eyes. Too many eyes.

The silence was deceptive—there were others here, and they were watching you.

Your pulse quickened.

You weren’t alone.

Your grip tightened on the armrests of your chair as you fought the instinct to curl into yourself and disappear.

And then, you felt it.

A gaze—his gaze.

Shadow Milk.

You didn’t need to turn around to know he was there. You could feel him somewhere behind you, his stare burning into the back of your skull.

A presence so suffocating, so intrusive, it made your skin crawl.

Your breathing became uneven. You wanted to run—to leave—to be anywhere but here.

Before your mind could spiral further, a familiar chirpy voice cut through the tension.

“Welcome, everyone!”

Your head snapped toward the stage.

Candy Apple had skipped onto the platform, her curly white hair bouncing as she waved to the audience. The bright energy she radiated was a sharp contrast to the dark unease lingering in the room.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips despite the tension winding through you.

“I’ll be performing for you tonight!” she announced cheerfully.

You relaxed slightly in your seat as she began her performance, acting out a cliché fairytale of a princess kidnapped and locked away in a castle.

You couldn’t help the small snicker that escaped as Candy Apple threw herself into every role with dramatic enthusiasm. She played the damsel, the knight, and even the villain, switching between characters with exaggerated gestures and an impressive amount of energy.

It was silly. But it was comforting.

Your mind wandered for a moment, drawing comparisons to your own predicament. The thought made you chuckle softly—were you the princess? Was Pure Vanilla your noble knight in shining armor?

You glanced at Black Sapphire, who was completely engrossed in the play, watching with his usual calm yet interested expression.

Your small smile faltered as your eyes drifted back to the stage.

The story had reached its climax—the part where the evil villain faces off against the hero.

But this time…something was different.

A sudden puff of thick smoke erupted onto the stage.

Your body stiffened.

And from the haze of swirling gray…emerged Shadow Milk.

Your breath hitched.

He stepped onto the stage fluidly, his tall, looming figure commanding attention. His ever-present grin was sharper than usual, his dark eyes flickering with a triumphant gleam.

You swallowed thickly, your fingers clenching into fists.

You didn’t like this.

It was just a performance. A harmless, scripted play. But the mere presence of Shadow Milk sent a wave of unease crawling up your spine.

You shrank back slightly, the memories of his bruising grip, his cruel laughter, his merciless threats resurfacing with every second he stood there.

Shadow Milk, ever the performer, adopted the role of the cliché villain with effortless charm, while Candy Apple, unfazed as ever, took on the role of the brave knight.

They dueled across the stage, their playful sword fight filled with exaggerated movements and theatrical flair.

The black sapphire chuckled.

But you?

You couldn’t laugh.

Your nails dug into your palms as you watched, your body rigid with an anxiety you couldn’t shake.

And Shadow Milk noticed.

In the midst of his playful battle with Candy Apple, his gaze flickered to you—just for a second.

But that second was enough.

His grin faultered ever so slightly, and a glint of something—knowing, yet uncertain—flashed in his eyes.

Your stomach twisted. You gaze refused to meet his so his falter was unnoticed by you.

He had seen your discomfort.

Your breathing hitched, but before you could react, Shadow Milk let out an exaggerated gasp, stumbling dramatically as Candy Apple struck him with her fake sword.

The audience laughed as he clutched his chest, staggering back with theatrical flair before dramatically collapsing onto the stage.

Candy Apple proudly declared, “The princess is saved! The villain is defeated!” before taking a deep, dramatic bow.

The curtains fell, signaling the end of the play.

A round of applause filled the room.

You clapped softly, your movements mechanical, while Black Sapphire let out a small cheer for Candy Apple.

You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself, sinking back into your seat.

Black Sapphire suddenly turned to you, his lips quirking into an amused smirk.

“Huh,” he mused. “I’m surprised Shadow Milk let Candy Apple win.”

Your brow furrowed as you turned to him. “…What do you mean?”

Black Sapphire gave you a side glance. “That doesn’t usually happen. Normally, he changes the story so he wins.”

Your hands curled into your lap. “So…why did he let her win this time?”

Black Sapphire didn’t answer right away. He simply leaned back in his chair, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.

You nodded slowly, deep in thought.

Your gaze flickered to the now closed curtains, where Shadow Milk had stood just moments ago.

He had been watching you.

And he had changed the story.

more importantly….

Why?

The muffled sounds of distant footsteps faded into silence as Black Sapphire left in search of Candy Apple, leaving you alone in the vast, empty theater.

The room that had moments ago been filled with laughter, cheers, and applause now felt eerily hollow. The flickering candle sconces cast long, stretching shadows against the plush chairs and ornate curtains. The once-inviting atmosphere of the performance had drained away, leaving behind a lingering tension that settled deep into your bones.

You let out a slow exhale, dragging a hand over your face as you tried to steady yourself.

Why did you let him get to you?

You had spent the entire evening on edge, every second under the weight of Shadow Milk’s gaze making your skin prickle uncomfortably. You knew better than to let him affect you like this. You knew what he was.

But even now, even after everything…

Why did his presence still shake you so much?

You stared down at your hands, picking absently at your nails, letting your thoughts spiral.

You were so lost in your own head that you almost didn’t hear it—

A voice.

His voice.

Soft. Almost gentle.

“I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Your breath hitched.

Your head snapped up so quickly it made you dizzy, your heart hammering as your eyes locked onto him.

Shadow Milk.

He stood a few feet away, close enough to be seen, but far enough to keep his distance.

That in itself was…odd.

Shadow Milk never worried about proximity. He never seemed to care about boundaries.

Yet here he was, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable, his usual mocking amusement absent.

Even his voice was different—lacking its usual malicious edge, replaced with something that almost sounded like…genuine curiosity.

You couldn’t tell if that made you more or less uneasy.

Your body remained rigid, your hands curling against the armrests of the chair.

“…Candy Apple was great,” you mumbled, your voice quiet but firm.

Shadow Milk nodded slowly, his eyes scanning your face before flickering downward—

And then, he stilled.

You followed his gaze and realized what he was looking at.

Your arms.

The bruises. The dark scabs from his strings. The painful evidence of every past encounter.

His expression tightened, something unreadable flashing through his eyes.

A strange silence settled between you both, thick and suffocating.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

“What do you even want?” you asked, your tone sharp, stiff.

The tension in your voice was unmistakable.

Shadow Milk’s dark eyes flicked up to yours.

He said nothing at first.

Just…watched you.

It was a battle of silent wills—neither of you backing down, neither of you looking away.

You didn’t know what kind of game he was playing. And frankly, you didn’t care.

But you didn’t want to push your luck, either.

Finally, he spoke.

“I was going to heal you.”

You blinked.

His voice was quiet. And for the first time, it lacked certainty—like even he wasn’t sure of his own words.

Shadow Milk took a careful step forward.

And you flinched.

It was a small movement, subtle—but noticeable enough that he immediately froze in place.

Your breath shook, but you forced your voice to stay strong.

“…Don’t touch me.”

The words were quiet, but resolute.

Shadow Milk inhaled slowly, exhaling through his nose as he stood there, unmoving.

“I’m trying to help,” he said, a little firmer this time.

You swallowed thickly, your hands now visibly trembling.

You curled your fingers tightly against the armrests, as if gripping onto them would keep you from completely falling apart.

“Please…just leave me alone.”

Your voice was tired. Exhausted. You didn’t have the energy for this—not tonight. Not now.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at you. His expression remained unreadable, as if weighing something unspoken in his mind.

And then—

“…As you wish.”

His voice was flat, carefully measured.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he gave a shallow bow—mocking in its elegance—before turning on his heel and walking away.

The moment his presence disappeared, the tension coiled in your chest finally snapped.

A sharp exhale left your lips as you slumped back into the chair, your entire body sinking into the plush cushions as if your limbs had lost all their strength.

You hadn’t even realized you had been holding your breath.

Now alone, in the empty theater, the weight of that encounter settled over you like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

And despite knowing better, despite all the walls you had built to protect yourself—

A single, damning thought crept into your mind.

Why did he care?

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

The silence between you and Black Sapphire was thick, pressing in around you like the darkness of the castle halls.

Your footsteps echoed softly against the polished stone floors, the dim glow of wall sconces casting flickering shadows that stretched and twisted as you walked.

Night had fallen.

The weight of exhaustion settled in your bones, but your mind refused to still. Every step felt heavier than the last, not because of fatigue—but because of the storm of emotions twisting inside you.

It wasn’t just fear anymore.

It was frustration. It was confusion. It was the growing ache of unanswered questions.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reached your room.

The door was familiar, yet it felt foreign, like everything else in this place.

You turned to face Black Sapphire.

He was quiet, watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression he always wore. But tonight, something in his gaze seemed different—hesitant, conflicted.

He opened his mouth, hesitated for half a second, then finally spoke.

“…Did he apologize?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question.

Your brow arched as you gave him a skeptical look, your tired mind struggling to process his words.

“Why would he?” you asked, voice sharp with disbelief. “He doesn’t care about me, Black Sapphire.”

Your words hung in the air, cold and bitter.

Black Sapphire let out a slow breath, his hand lifting to rub his temples as if he already regretted bringing this up.

With a sigh, he muttered, “Shadow Milk said something about…not meaning to get so angry. He was already frustrated before, and you just… happened to be there when he snapped.”

You stared at him.

The words shouldn’t have surprised you. They shouldn’t have made something uneasy curl in your stomach.

But they did.

A humorless laugh escaped you, sharp and bitter.

“Like an apology would fix anything,” you snarked, crossing your arms.

Black Sapphire made a face that showed he agreed.

“I was just wondering,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. He lingered for a moment, as if debating saying something more—but in the end, he just gave you a small nod.

“Goodnight.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You stood there, frozen in place, his words still turning over in your head.

You didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to let it bother you.

But you couldn’t help it.

Was that what tonight had been about?

Had Shadow Milk’s attempt to heal you been his version of an apology?

It didn’t make sense. Not with who he was, not with everything he had done.

But the way he had paused when you flinched—the way his voice had lacked its usual cruel amusement—

You shook your head sharply, banishing the thoughts before they could go any further.

It didn’t matter.

It changed nothing.

You hesitated before stepping into your room, casting one last glance down the empty hallway.

You weren’t even sure if he could hear you—but you whispered anyway.

“…I don’t forgive you.”

The words vanished into the silence, swallowed by the vast, empty corridors.

With that, you finally resigned to your bed, closing your eyes and imagining your eventual freedom.

Just be patient…

Chapter Text

The day had been quiet—uneventful, even.

But beneath the surface of your stillness, excitement buzzed through your veins.

The promise of freedom hung in the air like the scent of blooming flowers, keeping your spirits unusually high despite the ever-present weight of fear.

You were getting out of here.

The thought alone was enough to keep your steps light as you carefully navigated the garden, though an unease still clung to you.

Your last time here had been… complicated.

The garden had been one of the only places that had made you feel at peace in this cursed castle. For a fleeting moment, you had even believed it to be a safe haven—until it wasn’t.

Until Shadow Milk had ruined that illusion.

A bruising grip. A mocking laugh. A twisted game of control.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt as you pushed away the memory, glancing over at Black Sapphire for reassurance.

He had assured you this time would be different.

That you were safe.

For now.

True to his word, Shadow Milk had been elusive today—keeping his distance, avoiding you entirely.

The only sign of his presence was the phantom sensation of his gaze, constantly brushing against you, making the hairs on your arms stand on end.

You never caught him watching, but you knew he was there.

Somewhere.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Still, you tried to ignore it.

You focused on the soil beneath your fingertips, the delicate petals swaying in the breeze, the steady sound of Black Sapphire’s pen scratching against paper.

He sat nearby, completely immersed in one of his many books, his expression unreadable as ever.

The silence was comfortable.

Until a familiar chipper voice shattered it.

"Hey!"

You looked up just in time to see Candy Apple barreling toward you, her curly white hair bouncing wildly with each hurried step.

She was dressed in a lace shirt and loose black puffy pants, her outfit as expressive as her bright, beaming smile. Before you could say anything, she skidded to a stop beside you, hands clasped excitedly in front of her.

“Can I help?!”

You blinked at her enthusiasm, momentarily thrown off.

“…With the garden?” you asked.

Candy Apple nodded furiously, already crouching down beside you before you could even answer properly. She peered at the patch of delicate blue flowers you had been tending to, her eyes lighting up.

“Ohhh, forget-me-nots!” she chirped. “They’re so pretty, right?”

You stared at the flowers, frowning slightly.

Forget-me-nots.

The name wasn’t unfamiliar.

Something about it sent a strange ache through your chest, like an old memory was trying to resurface—but no matter how hard you tried to grasp at it, it remained just out of reach.

Were these flowers from… where you were from?

Wherever that was.

The realization sent a shiver down your spine.

You had thought about it before.

Where were you from?

How had you even ended up in this world?

A lump formed in your throat as questions began piling up in your mind, but you shoved them down just as quickly.

Now wasn’t the time.

Instead, you forced yourself to focus on Candy Apple, who was already busy pulling some stray weeds from the garden.

She was humming softly, completely absorbed in her task as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

You couldn’t help but smile just a little.

She had always been like this—so full of life, so effortlessly bright in a place that should have swallowed her whole.

“…You know a lot about flowers?” you asked, trying to steer your thoughts away from the storm brewing in your head.

Candy Apple beamed.

“Yup! I think they’re super interesting! They all mean different things, y’know? Some of ‘em mean love, some mean sadness, and some are, like, super old and mysterious!”

You chuckled softly at her enthusiasm, your hands working idly as she continued to chat.

The warmth of the sun, the scent of the earth, the soft murmur of her voice—

For just a moment, you allowed yourself to pretend things were normal.

That you weren’t trapped.

That you weren’t constantly being watched.

That soon, you would be free.

The soft rustling of leaves and the faint scent of flowers filled the air as you continued to work alongside Candy Apple, your fingers idly pulling at stray weeds.

But your mind wasn’t in the garden.

It was far away—beyond these castle walls, beyond the suffocating halls, beyond the ever-watchful gaze of Shadow Milk.

It was in the forest.

Running.

Running as fast as your legs could carry you, pushing past the thick brush, heart pounding, breath ragged—running straight into the arms of Pure Vanilla.

Your chest ached at the thought.

You could still remember his face so vividly—his gentle, multicolored eyes, his soft blonde hair, the warmth he radiated even in the heat of battle.

You missed him.

You told yourself you would see him again soon, that your suffering here was almost over, that Black Sapphire had given you his word.

But a question nagged at the back of your mind.

What was the escape plan?

Black Sapphire had kept things frustratingly vague, only ever repeating the same phrase:

"Just trust me."

You did trust him. Didn’t you?

A dark thought curled at the edges of your mind.

What if he’s tricking me?

You clenched your fists, forcing the thought away.

No. No.

He had risked too much for you already.

He had put himself in danger—more than once—to keep Shadow Milk from completely breaking you.

He wouldn’t do that if he was lying.

…Would he?

You swallowed, shaking your head.

You couldn’t afford to think like that.

Not now.

Not when you were this close to freedom.

Your fingers absentmindedly dug into the dirt as memories from the past forced their way into your mind.

The battle.

Pure Vanilla had tried to save you.

He had fought for you.

And Shadow Milk had—

Your breath hitched.

You could almost feel it again.

The way your body hit the ground with a sickening crack, the pain that exploded through your shoulder as your collarbone snapped in two.

Shadow Milk had done that.

You had barely been conscious when it happened, but you remembered the blood—not just your own, but Shadow Milk’s.

A deep, gaping wound had split across his chest, dark and bleeding, but still, he had stood over you, still mocking, laughing, playing his sick little game.

And then he had spoken.

To Pure Vanilla.

"Oh, how touching. So, it’s them you’re fighting for, isn’t it? You’re not just some noble warrior. You’ve got feelings for them, don’t you? How... pathetic. Tell me, do you think they even noticed? Or are you just a fool, blinded by your own pathetic emotions? They’ll never look at you the way you want."

At the time, you had been in too much agony to process his words.

But now?

Now, they echoed in your mind with a new, painful clarity.

Had he been telling the truth?

Had Pure Vanilla…

Your face flushed at the thought.

Was it possible?

Did Pure Vanilla—

You shook your head aggressively, forcing the heat from your cheeks.

No. No. No.

This wasn’t some story.

This was real.

You couldn’t let yourself get caught up in hopeful fantasies.

What mattered now was escaping—everything else could wait.

Your eyes flickered over to Black Sapphire, who had been watching you quietly.

He must have felt your gaze, because he lifted his eyes from his book and met yours, expression unreadable.

But there was something… softer there.

Some kind of understanding.

Slowly, you pushed yourself off the ground, stretching out your aching knees before plopping down in front of him, crossing your legs.

You leaned forward slightly, trying to get a peek at the book he was reading—only to notice something else instead.

A small, folded piece of paper tucked between the pages.

There were notes scribbled across it.

Your brow furrowed as you gave him a questioning look.

Black Sapphire didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Instead, he pulled out the paper, flipped it over, and wrote a single word.

One word.

One word that sent a rush of adrenaline through your chest, made your breath hitch, made your heart pound so loud you could hear it.

Tomorrow.

Your escape was happening tomorrow.

Your vision blurred slightly as tears welled up in your eyes—but for the first time in so long, they weren’t from fear or pain.

They were from relief.

You swallowed hard, blinking the moisture away before looking back up at Black Sapphire, your lips curling into a trembling smile.

Thank you.

You mouthed the words silently, but the way his expression softened slightly told you he understood.

But before you could linger in the moment, a small grunt caught your attention.

You turned just in time to see Candy Apple struggling to yank out a particularly stubborn weed.

Her tiny hands were gripping the stem with all her might, her face scrunched up in deep concentration.

You giggled softly, watching her struggle before moving to help—

But before you could take more than a step forward, the weed suddenly popped free.

Candy Apple let out a surprised squeak as she went tumbling backward, landing flat on her back with a startled huff.

You winced, rushing over.

“Candy Apple, are you okay?”

For a second, she just lay there, staring up at the sky in shock.

And then, just as quickly, she sprang back up, grinning ear to ear.

“I got it out!” she announced proudly, holding up the weed like it was some kind of trophy.

A laugh bubbled up in your throat.

You couldn’t help it.

You smiled, ruffling her hair playfully.

"Nice work," you teased. "Truly, an inspiration to us all."

Candy Apple puffed up her chest dramatically, placing her hands on her hips.

"Of course! You should have seen how strong that thing was—I fought for my life!"

Black Sapphire snorted from his spot beneath the tree, and you couldn’t help but laugh again.

But as the sound left your lips, a deep melancholy settled in your chest.

You were really leaving.

Tomorrow, you would be free.

But that also meant leaving them behind.

Candy Apple. Black Sapphire.

They had been the only light in this nightmare.

And now, you had to say goodbye.

Maybe, just maybe—one day—

You’d get to see them again.

You hoped so.

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

The halls stretched endlessly before you, the dim candlelight flickering along the cracked stone walls. Your fingers traced the ridges in the foundation as you walked, feeling the imperfections beneath your fingertips. You had spent so long within these cursed walls, counting the days, watching the hours slip away.

And now—freedom was just on the horizon.

You should have been relieved.

Yet, a quiet unease settled deep within you.

Would it truly feel real once you were gone? Or had this place sunk into your bones, leaving a stain that even freedom wouldn’t erase?

Your steps slowed as your wandering gaze caught sight of a familiar door—wooden, cracked, aged by time and neglect.

Shadow Milk’s room.

You stopped.

Memories clawed their way to the surface, unbidden and unwelcome.

The rage in his eyes when he had caught you here before—the chilling intensity in his voice, the way his mere presencehad made the air in the room feel suffocating.

A shiver trailed down your spine, but the pull of curiosity was stronger.

This was your last night in this wretched place.

Your last chance for answers.

Black Sapphire had assured you that he and Shadow Milk would be gone until dawn.

Shadow Milk wasn’t here.

Your pulse quickened.

Slowly, you stepped forward, fingers brushing against the aged doorframe before pushing it open.

A soft creak filled the air as you slipped inside.

The room was dim, bathed in deep shades of blue, the faint glow from the moon outside barely filtering through the dust-coated window.

And it was a mess.

Papers were scattered everywhere, some torn, some crumpled, their contents indecipherable from where you stood. Books lined the floor, stacked haphazardly atop one another, and an old, wooden desk by the window was barely visible beneath the piles of documents and ink-stained pages.

Dust coated every surface, clinging to the untouched corners of the room.

His bed was equally chaotic—the sheets tangled and thrown carelessly onto the floor, as though he had either left in a hurry or hadn’t slept properly in days.

Strange.

You carefully maneuvered through the mess, your eyes flitting across the various items until something on the nightstandcaught your attention.

A small, framed photograph.

Your brows furrowed as you crouched down, fingers hesitating before lifting the frame slightly.

The photo was old, edges slightly worn.

It showed Shadow Milk and Black Sapphire.

But Black Sapphire was… young.

No older than six years old, his expression bright, his usual guardedness nowhere in sight.

And Shadow Milk?

A small, barely-there smile touched his lips.

The sight of it made something in your chest tighten.

In his arms, wrapped in a bundle of blankets, was a tiny baby.

Candy Apple.

Her familiar curly white hair peeked from the fabric, her tiny face scrunched up in sleep.

You stared, unable to tear your eyes away.

The image was so… different from the Shadow Milk you had come to know.

The cold, cruel, sadistic Shadow Milk who had tormented you.

Yet, in this moment frozen in time, he looked so gentle.

So human.

You swallowed hard, thoughts swirling like a storm.

Which version of him was real?

Was it the one who left bruises on your skin? The one who smiled at your pain? The one who mocked your suffering?

Or was it the one in this photo—the one with soft eyes, holding a baby with careful hands?

You didn’t know.

You didn’t want to know.

Right?

Shoving down the uneasy feeling curling in your gut, you turned away from the nightstand, forcing your focus elsewhere.

Your gaze landed on the desk.

A book lay open in front of the chair, its pages filled with meticulous handwriting.

You stepped closer, scanning the text, but it was nothing you recognized.

Then—your eyes caught on another book, smaller and less worn.

Something about it felt off.

Your fingers brushed against the cover before carefully opening it.

Notes.

Dozens of them.

About humans.

Your breath hitched.

Realization struck like lightning.

This was Shadow Milk’s notebook.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you carefully flipped through the pages. Some contained rough sketches of anatomy, others were detailed observations of behavior, some passages even describing old legends surrounding humans in this world.

But then—

Your hand froze.

A ribbon separated the pages, marking a specific section.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you turned to the marked page.

And your heart nearly stopped.

A drawing.

Of you.

It wasn’t a hastily done sketch or some crude depiction.

It was detailed. Careful. Intricate.

The pencil strokes were soft yet deliberate, capturing your features perfectly—every small detail, every curve, every strand of hair, every flicker of emotion in your eyes.

The depth in the shading, the care in the lines—

It was drawn with reverence.

As if the artist had memorized you.

As if he had studied you long before this moment

Your fingers hovered over the page, chest tightening, throat dry.

You barely noticed that your hands were shaking.

Why?

Why would he—

No.

You snapped the book shut, placing it exactly as you had found it.

You refused to let whatever this was settle in your chest.

Your breathing was uneven as you forced yourself to focus on something else, anything else—

Your eyes landed on a different book.

The title gleamed in the dim light.

"The History of Earthbread."

You didn’t think.

You just grabbed it.

And then you ran.

Your heart pounded violently in your chest as you darted out of the room, carefully but quickly shutting the door behind you.

The moment the wood clicked into place, a cold shiver ran down your spine.

What had you just discovered?

You could still feel the weight of the notebook in your mind, the haunting image of your own face etched in perfect detail.

No.

You shook your head, pushing the thoughts away.

You had taken what you needed. You weren’t going to think about this now.

Your skin prickled with adrenaline, your breath unsteady as you clutched the book to your chest.

Your mind was a storm of emotions—confusion, unease, something else you couldn’t name.

Without a second thought, you bolted down the hall, disappearing into your room with the stolen book in hand.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you shoved open your door, slipping inside with a hushed urgency.

The stolen book felt heavy in your grasp—not just in weight, but in meaning.

You had just trespassed into Shadow Milk’s personal domain.

You had stolen from him.

And yet, despite the lingering fear curling in your chest, curiosity burned brighter.

Without hesitation, you flopped onto the floor, settling beside your bed as you pressed your back against the cool wooden frame.

The worn cover of the book rested in your lap, the title staring back at you like a silent challenge.

Taking a deep breath, you flipped it open.

The pages were aged, the ink slightly faded but still legible.

Your eyes traced the words, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you were reading about the world beyond these suffocating walls.

It spoke of a realm both bizarre and breathtaking.

A land built from sweets and magic.

There were gingerbread forests, where trees dripped with sugary sap and the air smelled of warm cinnamon.

Candy cane mountains, their towering peaks swirling in red and white stripes, standing tall against the sky.

Marshmallow meadows, so soft and fluffy that one could sink into them like a bed of clouds.

You stared at the descriptions, a strange longing stirring deep within your chest.

This place…

It sounded like a fairy tale.

You tried to remember.

What was your home like?

Your memories were hazy, slipping through your grasp like grains of sand.

Why couldn’t you remember?

Frustration itched at the back of your mind, but you pushed forward, flipping the pages as you devoured the book’s contents.

The text spoke of great kingdoms, civilizations that had risen and fallen, their histories woven into the very fabric of Earthbread itself.

But as you skimmed past the elegant palaces and noble rulers, one particular entry caught your eye.

The Five Beasts.

Your breath hitched.

The page was different from the others—its parchment slightly darker, as if stained by time itself.

Beneath the title, a detailed illustration stretched across the page.

Five figures stood tall, their presence commanding.

Their eyes held an eerie glow, power radiating from their very forms.

They were once heroes, champions chosen by the Godly Creators themselves.

But something had changed.

They had fallen from grace.

Once protectors of Earthbread, they had turned their backs on their purpose, their souls twisted into something dark, something monstrous.

And there—among them—stood Shadow Milk.

Your fingers instinctively tightened around the page, your eyes glued to the image of him.

He looked younger.

Not the same cold, calculating man who haunted your every step.

His features were softer, untouched by corruption.

Pale lashes framed his piercing eyes—eyes that reminded you so much of Pure Vanilla’s.

Your chest tightened.

What had happened to him?

What had driven him to fall so far?

A flicker of something foreign settled in your stomach.

Was it… pity?

You shook your head vigorously, shoving the thought away.

No.

You would not feel pity for him.

Not after everything he had done.

With renewed determination, you pressed on, your eyes scanning the pages, drinking in every scrap of knowledge you could.

Hours passed.

Your body ached from sitting hunched over on the cold floor, your eyes growing heavy with exhaustion.

But you forced yourself to keep going.

Until—

A sound.

The front doors of the castle creaked open.

Your body froze.

Shadow Milk was back.

Panic surged through you like a lightning bolt.

In a single, frantic motion, you shoved the book under your mattress, ensuring it was well-hidden.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you scrambled onto the bed, pulling the covers over yourself just as the distant echo of footsteps reverberated through the halls.

You barely dared to breathe.

The air felt thick, the weight of your discovery pressing down on you like a heavy shroud.

But as exhaustion finally overtook you, your eyes fluttered shut.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you would be free.

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

                                        •

Your dreams were filled with visions of freedom.

Running through the castle doors, the cool night air kissing your skin, the endless trees stretching before you—an open path, an escape.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you could breathe.

But just as quickly as it came, the dream shattered.

A sharp shake to your shoulder yanked you from sleep.

You groaned, attempting to shove the intrusive arm away, mumbling something incoherent as you burrowed deeper into your sheets.

You were warm, comfortable, and not in the mood to wake up.

But then—

Flick!

A sharp sting bloomed across your nose.

You yelped, hands flying up to cup your face as you shot up in bed, glaring daggers at the perpetrator.

Black Sapphire.

His expression was smug, amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he sat beside you, arms crossed.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw a punch,” you grumbled, rubbing your sore nose.

Black Sapphire merely shrugged, entirely unapologetic.

“Good to know,” he said smoothly, before pulling something from his pocket.

A blank envelope.

“I got you something.”

You blinked, the sleep still clinging to your mind momentarily forgotten as he extended it toward you.

Curiosity sparked in your chest as you gingerly took it, fingers tracing over the sealed edge.

“What is it?” you asked, already moving to tear it open—

But Black Sapphire stopped you.

“Wait.”

His hand covered yours, halting your movements.

You raised an eyebrow, but his expression gave nothing away.

Still, the tightness in his jaw, the subtle flicker in his gaze—something about this meant more than he was letting on.

“…This has to do with tomorrow, doesn’t it?” you guessed.

Black Sapphire exhaled softly, then nodded.

Your fingers tightened around the envelope, but you respected his silence.

With a careful hand, you set it down beside your pillow, saving it for later.

Instead, you asked, “How was the mission?”

“Uneventful.”

A simple answer, but his clipped tone told you he wasn’t in the mood to elaborate.

You nodded in understanding, letting the subject drop.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the only sound being the faint howling of the wind outside.

Yet despite the peace, an ache stirred in your chest.

You stared at your hands, tracing the faint scars that littered your fingers.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you whispered—

“I’m going to miss you.”

The words were so soft, so fragile, they barely made it past your lips.

But Black Sapphire heard them.

You felt the way his body tensed beside you, his breath hitching for just a moment.

When you finally looked up, his face had fallen.

The usual sharpness in his expression had dulled, his eyes clouded with something heavy, something that mirrored your own pain.

A quiet, almost regretful sadness.

Before you could say anything else, he moved.

His arm snaked around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest in a rare display of comfort.

That was all it took.

The dam broke.

Hot tears spilled down your cheeks as you gripped the fabric of his shirt, burying your face against him.

No words were exchanged.

None were needed.

Black Sapphire simply held you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles along your back, tracing silent patterns into your skin.

He was warm. Steady. A silent presence in the storm that raged within you.

This was real.

This was goodbye.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, you pulled away, sniffling as you hastily wiped at your damp cheeks.

Black Sapphire offered you a small, knowing smile.

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t teasing.

It was understanding.

And despite the weight of the coming morning, you found yourself grateful.

The comfortable silence that had settled between you and Black Sapphire was shattered the moment the door creaked open.

Your head snapped toward the entrance, your body tensing on instinct.

Shadow Milk.

He stood in the doorway, a familiar smirk curling on his lips, but his usual facade faltered—just for a moment.

His expression flickered—a crack in the mask.

Surprise flickered across his features, as if he hadn’t expected to see the two of you like this—so close, so soft.

But it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by his typical theatrical arrogance as he stepped into the room with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well, well,” he drawled, tilting his head with feigned amusement. “Did I just walk in on an important moment?”

You scowled, mirroring Black Sapphire’s expression of irritation.

Beneath the sheets, the envelope Black Sapphire had given you felt like it was burning against your skin.

You shifted subtly, repositioning yourself so more of your weight was on it, as if shielding it from Shadow Milk’s view.

His eyes flicked toward you—sharp, unreadable.

A moment passed.

Then, without missing a beat, he dismissively waved a hand, turning his focus onto Black Sapphire.

"Alright, off you go,” he said, making a vague shooing gesture. “The grown-ups need to talk.”

Black Sapphire didn’t budge.

He crossed his arms, standing his ground in silent defiance.

Shadow Milk’s amusement waned, his expression tightening with irritation.

"Fine," he sighed, though there was a playful edge to his voice. "If you insist on making this difficult..."

Before you could react, Shadow Milk grabbed Black Sapphire by the arm.

"Hey—!" Black Sapphire snapped, struggling against the hold, but Shadow Milk was stronger.

With an effortless motion, he dragged him toward the door.

“Would you relax?” Shadow Milk quipped, laughing as he swung the door open. “You act like I’m throwing you to the wolves.”

Black Sapphire cursed under his breath, still struggling, but it was useless.

With one final shove, Shadow Milk tossed him out into the hallway.

“You bastard—!”

"Bye-bye~" he chimed, voice sickly sweet, before slamming the door shut.

A shiver crawled down your spine.

You were alone with him.

Again.

Your heartbeat quickened, but you forced your expression into something cold, unreadable.

Straightening your posture, you crossed your arms. “What do you want?”

Your voice was sharper than intended, but if Shadow Milk noticed, he didn’t react.

Instead, he simply walked forward, his hands neatly tucked behind his back.

His movements were too controlled, too measured—as if he were keeping something hidden.

And he was.

You noticed how his fingers shifted behind him, adjusting their grip on something unseen.

A small coil of fear wound itself in your stomach.

Shadow Milk’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something you couldn’t place.

Then, abruptly, he thrust his hand forward.

You flinched, your body reacting on instinct.

Your arms snapped up, shielding your face, your breath hitching in anticipation of a strike—

But it never came.

Silence.

Cautiously, you peeked through your arms.

Shadow Milk’s outstretched hand was not empty.

Nestled in his palm was a small box, delicate and neatly wrapped.

Your breath hitched, your brain struggling to process the sight.

You flicked your gaze between him and the box, arching a skeptical brow.

“What… is this?”

"A gift," he said simply.

A gift.

From him.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly reached out, gingerly taking the box from his hand.

Shadow Milk’s many eyes were trained on you, watching with an almost expectant expression.

It unsettled you.

Still, curiosity gnawed at you, urging you forward.

With careful hands, you began to untie the ribbon, unraveling the delicate bow that held the box closed.

The moment you lifted the lid, your breath caught in your throat.

Inside lay a familiar ring.

Silver, with intricate star engravings carved into the band.

You had seen this ring before.

It was his.

Shadow Milk had worn it on occasion, a piece of jewelry you had idly taken note of but never questioned.

Now, a small silver chain threaded through it, turning it into a pendant.

"You always seemed to like the old thing," Shadow Milk remarked idly, his tone light, almost dismissive.

He shrugged. "I don’t need it."

There was no weight to his words, no indication that it meant anything more.

But there was.

You could feel it.

Your fingers curled around the edges of the box as something in your chest twisted uncomfortably.

You swallowed, your fingers brushing over the cool metal.

Something about this felt wrong.

Carefully, you closed the box and extended it back toward him.

Shadow Milk blinked, his amusement briefly slipping into surprise.

“I can’t accept this,” you murmured.

His face fell ever so slightly.

A flicker of something almost resembling… hurt.

But it was gone too quickly to be sure.

Without a word, Shadow Milk took the box from your hands.

His lips pressed together in a thin line as he took the box from your hands, his grip gentle—as if he were handling something fragile.

Instead of pocketing it, however, he reached over and gently set it down on your nightstand.

"In case you change your mind," he murmured.

His voice was softer.

Less playful.

Less... him.

Your stomach twisted at his words, but you didn’t respond.

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, thick and suffocating.

Shadow Milk simply… stared.

You could feel his gaze lingering on you, but you refused to meet it.

Instead, your eyes flicked toward the bed, then the door—a silent plea for him to leave.

Shadow Milk caught the hint.

With an exaggerated sigh, he turned on his heel, his back now facing you.

As he strode toward the door, you noticed a subtle shift in color—the faintest tinge of blue dusting the tips of his ears.

The lighting, you reasoned.

It had to be the lighting.

Then, just like that, his theatrical nature snapped back into place.

“Well then, my dear prisoner,” he mused, voice dripping in amusement. “Sweet dreams.”

You simply nodded, unwilling to entertain his antics.

With one final flourish, he swung the door open and disappeared into the hallway, leaving you alone once more.

Your gaze drifted toward the small box on your nightstand.

The silver glinted under the dim candlelight.

You swallowed.

Your hands trembled as you pulled the hidden envelope from beneath your blanket, its presence suddenly feeling heavier than before.

With careful fingers, you tore it open, the quiet rip of the paper sounding deafening in the stillness of your room.

A letter slipped out.

You froze.

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes widened, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

This handwriting…

It was his.

Pure Vanilla.

Your fingers tightened around the edges of the parchment as your gaze hungrily traced the words, drinking in every carefully penned letter.

My dear friend,

When I first received word that you were still alive, I cannot describe the relief that flooded me. For so long, I feared the worst, and now—knowing you are still breathing, still fighting—I feel hope again.

Black Sapphire sought me out in secret, risking much to ensure your escape. He has been planning for some time, and now, the time has come.

Your breath shuddered as you continued reading.

Tomorrow, at dusk, I will be waiting for you just beyond the forest.

Black Sapphire has arranged a distraction. It will not last forever, but it should give you just enough time to slip through the front doors unnoticed.

You must run. Do not hesitate. If he realizes you are missing—if he catches even a glimpse of you—he will not let you go so easily.

I know you must be scared, but I swear on all that I am, I will not let him take you again.

A choked breath slipped from your lips as your vision blurred, the inked words wavering through unshed tears.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, steadying yourself, forcing yourself to read the last lines.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you sooner. I can only imagine the pain you’ve endured. But soon, you will be free.

Please… be careful.

There was no signature.

But there didn’t need to be.

You would know Pure Vanilla’s words anywhere.

A smile—small, fragile, but real—broke across your face.

Your fingers traced the edge of the parchment as the weight of it settled in your heart.

This was it.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled through your window, golden rays draping over your blankets and painting warm patches on the cold floor. The dawn had come—and with it, the weight of everything this day would bring.

You blinked blearily up at the ceiling, your body sluggish with sleep, but your chest tight, like something heavy had been sitting there all night. You swallowed against the pressure and slowly sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the enormity of the moment began to sink in.

Today was the day.

You slipped from the relative comfort of your bed, your bare feet padding against the cold floor. The room felt different now, like it was watching you back, aware this would be the last time you'd ever see it.

Your gaze roamed the room—each corner, each crack in the wall, each familiar scuff on the floorboards. There was an odd ache blooming in your chest. Not longing, not nostalgia… something quieter. Finality.

Your eyes landed on the nightstand, where the small, ornate box still sat untouched since last night.

The ring.

The silver glint of it haunted the back of your mind. You didn’t even need to open the box to picture it perfectly—the star engravings, the thin silver chain threaded through it.

You couldn’t understand why he’d given it to you. Was it guilt? Sentiment? Some cruel mockery?

Your jaw clenched as you turned your back on it. You wouldn’t let your thoughts be poisoned by Shadow Milk—not today.

You stepped into the bathroom, the silence wrapping around you like a cloak. Turning the water on, you waited until steam began to gather on the mirror, fogging your reflection.

The warmth of the shower hit your skin, and you closed your eyes, letting it wash over you. But the water couldn't rinse away the anxious storm building inside. Your thoughts spiraled like a whirlpool:
Would the plan work? Would Shadow Milk suspect something? Could you even make it to the forest?

What if Black Sapphire couldn’t hold him off?
What if you didn’t run fast enough?
What if this was just another trick?

You didn’t realize how long you'd been standing there, lost in thought, until the water ran ice cold, shocking you back into your body.

“Shit—!” you hissed, quickly fumbling for the handle and stepping out. The cool air slammed against your wet skin like a wall, raising goosebumps in an instant.

You grabbed a towel, drying off with haste, then dressed yourself in something simple and easy to move in—clothes that wouldn’t slow you down if you had to run.

As you adjusted your shirt, the scent hit you.

Warm cinnamon. Freshly baked bread. A hint of roasted nuts and berries.

Breakfast.

You paused.

For a second, you allowed yourself to forget the danger, the fear, the creeping paranoia. You let your shoulders drop, let the tension bleed just slightly out of your muscles.

There was something comforting about the smell. Familiar. Like home.

But you reminded yourself—this place was never your home.

Still, your stomach growled despite the nerves, and you found your feet moving toward the door, toward the smell, toward the last breakfast you'd ever have in this place.

You stepped out of your room, the door clicking softly shut behind you. For a long moment, you just stood there, your eyes sweeping over the hall that had once felt like the walls of a cage.

The soft plush of the carpet beneath your feet had always muffled your steps, silencing even your thoughts on the worst of days. The wallpaper, though once likely ornate, was now faded and peeling at the edges. Cracks ran through the walls like thin veins, telling silent stories of age and tension, of pressure waiting to burst.

Paintings lined the corridors—landscapes of fantastical places you'd never seen, portraits of faces long forgotten. You wondered if they, too, had once watched the world from within this prison.

This place had always suffocated you—tight, like it was pressing against your ribs, squeezing your breath from your lungs. But now? Now it felt… strange. Less like a prison, more like the hollow remains of one. The knowledge that you would never walk these halls again filled the space with something foreign. Bittersweet, maybe. A quiet melancholy.

As you reached the set of double doors that led into the kitchen, a soft sound drifted to your ears.

Humming.

Low and smooth, perfectly in key. But it wasn’t Black Sapphire. His voice was lighter, more melodic. This hum was richer, more grounded—yet still soft in its delivery.

Curious, you crept closer, peeking around the doorframe.

Black Sapphire stood off to the side, arms crossed as he leaned casually against the counter, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, however, weren’t on you.

They were on Shadow Milk.

Your breath caught slightly in your throat.

Shadow Milk stood at the stove, his back to you, moving with a practiced fluidity you hadn’t expected. He stirred something in a pot with one hand while the other flipped through a recipe page on the counter beside him. He hummed absently, focused and calm.

But it wasn’t just that that startled you—it was how… domestic he looked.

His long, typically immaculate hair had been tied into a messy bun, a few strands falling loose to frame his face. White flour dusted the side of his cheek, leaving a soft smudge near the corner of his mouth. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing the entirety of his strong forearms—scarred, crisscrossed with old reminders of battles fought and pain endured.

And he was wearing an apron.

A frilly, clearly-too-small apron, the fabric barely stretching across his broad chest, clearly not made for someone his size. The apron patterned with little stars and moons. It was obviously not his—perhaps one of Candy Apple’s or even something Black Sapphire had dared him to wear. It clashed against the dark hues of his usual attire, making him look more like a confused baker than a terrifying war relic.

You blinked, momentarily stunned, caught in a place between disbelief and confusion. This wasn’t the version of Shadow Milk you knew.

As if he could feel your eyes on him, Shadow Milk turned.

You tensed—but instead of the usual sharp, theatrical smirk or calculating stare, his expression was… surprised. Just for a moment. Then it melted into something playful.

Flour clung to one side of his nose, and he didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer, dear,” he said, his tone light and teasing, the familiar mockery in his voice oddly lacking its usual bite. He let out a small giggle and turned back to stirring, like he hadn’t just caught you gawking like a fool.

Your face instantly flushed, heat blooming across your cheeks as you quickly averted your gaze, mortified. You hadn’t meant to stare, but the sheer absurdity of the sight had snared your attention.

You mumbled something incoherent, stepping into the room like it would somehow make you look less awkward. Black Sapphire shot you a knowing look from across the counter, one brow raised in amusement as if to say, See? I told you he was weird in the mornings.

Shadow Milk, for his part, continued humming under his breath, completely unbothered by your presence now, focused on his cooking as if today was just any other morning.

But it wasn’t.

And the image of him like this—human, even gentle—was one you wouldn’t be able to shake easily.

The scene was so absurd, so wildly domestic that your brain struggled to reconcile it with the reality of what Shadow Milk had done to you. The bruises. The threats. The pain. And now… this?

Cooking. Humming. Flour on his face.

The whiplash made your head spin.

But one thing was certain—this would be the strangest breakfast of your life. And hopefully, your last one here.

You idly poked at your breakfast, the once-welcoming scent now sitting heavy in your stomach. The food—some sort of spiced pastry and fruit compote—tasted fine, you supposed, but you could barely focus on the flavors. Your thoughts were too scattered, your nerves dancing along the edges of your skin like static.

What kept drawing you from those thoughts, however, was the gaze. That gaze.

You didn’t have to look up to know it was Shadow Milk. His stare was piercing, almost hungry—not in a malicious way, but intense enough to make your skin prickle. It burned into your profile, watching your every move, dissecting you like he was searching for something you weren’t ready to give.

Across the table, Black Sapphire noticed. His fork hovered mid-air, eyes flicking between you and Shadow Milk like he was watching some unspoken exchange.

Then—caught in the act—Shadow Milk smoothly deflected.

“Stars above, dear,” he said lazily, flicking a crumb off his sleeve with exaggerated disinterest, “if you're going to look that tired, we should’ve just let you sleep in another hour.”

Your scowl was instant and involuntary. There was the Shadow Milk you knew—the voice like velvet hiding thorns beneath it. A petty jab dressed as charm.

Your brow twitched as you finally glanced up at him. “Thanks for the unsolicited opinion,” you said flatly.

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him, shifting your attention to Candy Apple, who was happily swinging her legs from her seat as she chattered between bites of fruit.

“I planted three new patches yesterday!” she beamed, her small hands animated as she spoke. “There’s one with starflowers, one with frost lilies, and one with glowing dewbuds! You’ll love them when they bloom—I just know it!”

Your smile faltered for a brief moment.

“When they bloom.”

The words hit you like a stone to the chest. You wouldn’t be there to see them. Candy Apple’s bright eyes were filled with hope, with the assumption that you’d still be here, still part of this strange family.

Guilt surged up in your throat, hot and bitter.

You tried to smile but found yourself shrinking in your seat. Black Sapphire must’ve noticed, because he gently cut in, changing the subject to something lighthearted—some comment about how Shadow Milk nearly dropped a mixing bowl earlier, which earned a snort from Candy Apple and a dramatic scoff from across the table.

Once everyone had cleared their plates, Black Sapphire quietly rose and gathered the dishes, stacking them with practiced ease before taking them to the sink. You watched as he moved, his motions methodical, maybe a little too focused for such a simple task.

Shadow Milk, meanwhile, cleared his throat again, this time getting Candy Apple’s attention.

“Go wash up,” he said, tone unusually soft. “I’ll need your help in the library today.”

Candy Apple groaned as if he’d told her she was scrubbing floors for a week. “The whole day?” she whined dramatically, throwing her head back.

“You’ll survive,” Shadow Milk teased, tugging her gently out of her chair by the wrist. “Besides, you said you wanted to learn about moonlight blossoms, didn’t you?”

That shut her up fast. Her face lit up as she remembered, and she bounded off toward the bathroom, humming a tune of her own.

Now it was just you and Black Sapphire.

You stood awkwardly by the table, watching him rinse the dishes. The clinking of ceramic filled the space as he worked.

“I can help,” you offered quietly.

“No need,” he replied, a bit too quickly.

You tilted your head, confused by the sudden coldness in his tone. He didn’t look at you, just scrubbed at a plate with more force than necessary.

Something had shifted.

You hesitated, the rejection digging deeper than it should’ve. But before you could say anything, Black Sapphire glanced over at you.

He paused.

Then, slowly, he exhaled and murmured, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so... clipped.”

You nodded silently, stepping forward and resting a hand gently on his shoulder. It was your way of saying it’s okay, your way of saying thank you.

He didn’t say anything in return, just dipped his chin slightly in acknowledgment.

With that, you turned and walked away from the kitchen, your heart weighed down with more than nerves now.

The guilt of leaving behind people who had—despite everything—cared, even in the strangest of ways, settled like dust in your chest.

                                    •

                                    •

                                    •

                                    •

You sat hunched in one of the manor’s many winding hallways, knees pulled to your chest, shoulders tight with a weight you couldn’t name. The air felt heavier today. The silence too thick. This was supposed to be the day—the great escape you’d dreamed of for so long—but instead of feeling exhilarated, your insides churned with unease.

Your nails were a mess. You kept picking at them, plucking at dry skin like it might peel away the nerves underneath. Small spots of red dotted the corners of your fingers, the sting of torn cuticles grounding you just enough to stay present.

The corridor around you was quiet, save for the faint flicker of candle flames lining the walls and the muted ticking of some unseen clock.

Then—soft thudding.

You tensed, head snapping up just in time to see Shadow Milk round the corner. He strolled toward you like he owned the place—well, technically, he did—but there was always something so intentional about the way he walked. As if he’d already predicted how the moment would unfold before it even began.

His usual sly grin crept onto his lips the moment your eyes met. “Well, well. There you are,” he drawled, his voice oozing amusement. “Where’s your little boyfriend?”

Your expression soured instantly.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said, flat and sharp.

Shadow Milk feigned surprise, raising his hands in mock innocence as he took a slow step closer. “Oh? My mistake. Honest confusion,” he murmured. “You two just... always seem rather attached at the hip.”

His smirk deepened at your eye roll, clearly enjoying how easy it was to get under your skin.

You dropped your gaze, returning your attention to your fingers—your safe distraction. You dug a nail under a bit of loose skin, ignoring the dull sting that followed.

The silence that followed wasn’t like his usual teasing quiet. It lingered too long.

You glanced up again. Shadow Milk was watching your hands, and for the first time in a while, his expression had shifted— almost... concerned?

“That’s not a good habit,” he said, quietly this time.

You blinked, startled by the sincerity in his voice. It caught you off guard.

“What do you care?” you snapped, your voice laced with the edge of a bitter defense, more out of habit than anything else.

But he didn’t rise to the bait this time. His gaze remained fixed on your fingers, on the raw skin and tiny flecks of blood. For a moment, his expression betrayed something deeper than his usual smugness—guilt, maybe. Or regret.

You bristled beneath the weight of it.

“Seriously,” you said, sharper now, “what do you want, Shadow Milk?”

There was a pause. He tilted his head slightly, the familiar mask slipping back into place with an effortless smirk.

“Maybe I just wanted to talk,” he offered, though the way he said it—too casual, too easy—made you question if that was really true.

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t leave either. And neither did he.

Shadow Milk’s gaze lingered on your hands for a moment longer before he shifted, arms folding neatly behind his back as if tucking away something less presentable. His expression wavered just a hair, his voice dropping low—almost forced into a steadiness that didn’t quite match the usual dramatic flair he wore like armor.

“How are your wounds healing?” he asked, the question clipped, too carefully neutral. You noticed the subtle tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze flickered between your face and your shoulder without fully committing to either.

The question struck you as strange. Not because he didn’t already know—he was the reason for half of them—but because he asked at all. Your eyes narrowed in suspicion. You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched.

Eventually, you moved—slow, cautious—your fingers slipping under the fabric of your shirt. You tugged it down just enough to reveal your shoulder, the tender skin still blotched with mottled yellows and sickly greens, the fading signature of an old bruise stretching beneath your collarbone. You kept your expression blank, but your muscles tensed under the weight of his eyes.

His gaze darkened the moment he saw it. One of his many eyes twitched, just barely. The smallest tic—but you caught it. You watched the subtle shift in his expression, the way something cracked beneath that usual layer of mocking charm. Was it regret? Disgust? You couldn’t place it. And you didn’t want to. You rolled your shirt back into place like closing a book you had no intention of rereading.

The moment passed.

He cleared his throat sharply, the sound abrupt and jarring in the hushed hall.

“Well,” he said, voice flipping back into something more theatrical, as if that little lapse hadn’t happened at all, “if you wish to mope around like some tragic painting in a hallway, that’s your business.”

Your brows shot up at that, an incredulous scoff barely slipping past your lips.

“But,” he continued, unbothered by your reaction, “I’d like your assistance with something.”

His tone lifted—casual, sing-song even—but there was something a little too bright in it. Like he was trying to smother whatever had just slipped through the cracks of his carefully maintained façade.

You stared at him, uncertain. “What kind of something?”

Shadow Milk grinned, his fangs just barely peeking from beneath his lips. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s nothing sinister… this time.”

You didn’t budge.

Your skepticism made him laugh, a light, airy thing that echoed strangely through the corridor.

“I promise,” he said, placing a hand over his chest with mock sincerity. “No chains. No cages. No sadistic monologues. I simply require… company. And a set of hands.”

He was being deliberately vague. That much was clear. And yet, his expression was unreadable—beneath the teasing glint in his eyes, there was something else. Something muted. Maybe anxious.

Your instincts screamed not to trust him. But you were hours away from escape. One final act of obedience wouldn’t change that. And maybe, just maybe, you could use this to your advantage—stall him, keep him distracted.

You gave him a slow, cautious nod, still eyeing him like he might suddenly lash out.

Shadow Milk’s grin widened, too pleased by your answer. He offered you his hand, the gesture gentlemanly in a way that only made you more suspicious.

“Splendid,” he purred. “Let’s not waste the daylight, shall we?”

You stared at his hand for a long moment before slowly pushing yourself to your feet, ignoring it altogether. You weren’t giving him that much.

His fingers curled back to his side, unfazed. But his many eyes flicked toward your shoulder one last time before he turned and began walking.

You followed quietly, the sound of your footsteps nearly swallowed by the velvet carpet beneath you. The hallways were dim, the sunlight filtering in through tall windows slanting across the walls in fractured beams. Shadow Milk walked just ahead, his pace unhurried, his posture unusually relaxed—as if this walk meant nothing at all.

But for you, it felt like a march through memory. And you couldn’t help but let your eyes linger on him, watching every movement with silent scrutiny. You memorized the way his hair flowed behind him, impossibly long and seemingly alive, strands gently lifting and falling of their own accord. The scattered, blinking eyes embedded in his hair would occasionally swivel as if scanning the walls, the floors, the spaces between the shadows. It was unnatural. Unsettling. But… in its own way, beautiful.

His body was broad and tall, almost unnervingly so. He was lean, yes, but there was weight to him—thickness in his arms, muscle carved into his legs that spoke of strength beneath his strange elegance. You’d never considered yourself small before, but walking behind him now, his back so solid and towering, you felt dwarfed. You could imagine how easily he could crush someone. How easily he could’ve crushed you—and how, at times, he almost did.

Your gaze trailed upward again, this time to his face. Even from behind, you could catch glimpses of it when he turned just enough. His features were misleadingly soft—lashes long and thick, lips full and shaped in a way that was, unfairly, beautiful. His skin was pale and unblemished in ways that made the scars on his forearms all the more jarring. He looked, at times, almost peaceful. Almost kind.

And yet, you’d seen what that face could look like twisted in joy at your pain.

You remembered it too well. The way his eyes sparkled with sadistic glee. The moments where his smile widened just before he pushed too far, said too much, or hurt you worse than before. But now… now that same mouth wore only a soft, almost absent smile. No fangs. No sneer. Just quiet contentment.

It was jarring.

Your thoughts were racing, confused and tangled. This man—this being—had haunted you, broken you, and terrified you. Yet here you were, memorizing the way his hair moved, the way his shoulder blades shifted beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The human part of him. The monster. And the painful, strange in-between.

Your chest tightened at the sight, at the silence. Your thoughts were a storm, tumbling over each other without order. Why did he seem so calm today? Why did he give you a ring last night? Why did he ask about your wounds? Why now?

You didn’t notice your gaze had lingered far too long until his head turned slightly, and you felt his eyes settle on you. All of them.

You froze.

Your eyes lifted to meet his, and there was something unreadable in them—not mockery, not coldness, but something gentler. Curious. His brow arched in that way he always did when he was waiting for you to say something, or explain yourself.

But you said nothing.

Your cheeks burned with the sudden realization you’d been caught staring. You quickly jerked your gaze away, fixing it on a random crack in the wall as if it had become the most fascinating thing in the world.Your cheeks burned, heat spreading up your neck and into your ears. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed—but you did.

Shadow Milk didn’t press. He didn’t tease.

But you heard it—soft, subtle.

A quiet chuckle, rumbling low in his chest, smooth like warm honey. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… amused.

And somehow, that felt even stranger.

You recognized the tall, ornate set of doors almost immediately—the library. The same ones that had loomed before you countless times, once a place of quiet dread, now draped in a strange stillness. Shadow Milk stepped forward, his large, clawed hand wrapping easily around the brass handle. The door creaked under his grasp, as if even the hinges recognized his presence.

With a flourish that only he could manage, Shadow Milk turned to you and gave an exaggerated, theatrical bow, one arm sweeping to the side as he straightened. "After you," he said with a mock formality, his voice dripping with amusement, the smirk on his face almost daring you to decline.

You hesitated.

A moment passed, your body frozen just outside the threshold. The air felt heavier here—thick with dust and memory. But with a breath, you nodded and stepped forward, brushing past the curtain of hesitation and into the familiar space.

The scent of aged parchment and ancient ink filled your nose instantly. The library, as always, was quiet, the towering shelves like guardians of secrets long forgotten. Your eyes swept the room, cataloging the quiet chaos of loose books and scribbled notes scattered across desks and tucked into corners.

Then, your gaze landed on her.

Candy Apple.

She was slumped on the floor near the center of the room, her back resting against the leg of a plush reading chair. Books were spread out in a half-moon around her, some still open, others long since closed, the pages fluttering in the breeze from a nearby cracked window. Her mouth hung slightly open, a soft snore escaping as her chest rose and fell in the rhythm of a deep, dreamless sleep.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Despite everything, she always managed to look peaceful. Untouched.

You heard the soft click of Shadow Milk’s shoes as he came to stand beside you, his tall frame casting a long shadow that stretched across the stone floor. He stared at the girl, exhaling slowly through his nose in a sound halfway between a sigh and a grumble.

“She never makes it past page thirty,” he muttered under his breath, the hint of irritation in his voice undercut by something softer—almost fondness.

A quiet giggle escaped your lips before you could stop it. It felt strange—like something you hadn’t done in a long time. Shadow Milk shot you a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. But he didn’t scold you for it. He simply rolled his shoulders and walked forward toward the sleeping girl.

You followed behind him, your steps light and calculated, instinctively quiet as if afraid a single misstep would shatter the moment. You watched the way his form moved, how his body, usually rigid with theatrics and grandeur, now carried itself with a more subdued energy.

When he reached Candy Apple, he crouched down slowly, his large hand brushing a stray curl from her cheek with surprising gentleness. She murmured something incoherent in her sleep, shifting slightly but not waking.

He glanced back at you, then gestured lightly toward the table nearby. “There’s something I want you to help me look through,” he said, his tone now softer, lacking the usual bite.

Shadow Milk’s voice broke through the quiet once again, low and even. “But first,” he said, glancing down at Candy Apple, “I want to get her back to her room. She’ll wake up with a sore neck if I leave her like this.”

You gave a small nod, expecting him to handle it alone, but then he turned his head to look up at you. “Would you mind helping me?”

The question caught you off guard. Help him? He was more than capable on his own. Still, you found yourself nodding, a soft “sure” slipping from your lips.

He’d never asked you for help before—never like this, never so… normal. There wasn’t a hint of condescension in his tone, just quiet sincerity. For a moment, it unsettled you more than his usual dramatics ever could. Still, you found yourself nodding slowly, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion but lips offering no protest.

Carefully, Shadow Milk crouched beside Candy Apple, his large hands surprisingly delicate as he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other cradling the back of her head. With practiced ease, he lifted her into his arms. Her little form curled against him naturally, like she’d done this a hundred times before. Her head came to rest over his chest, tiny fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Your eyes lingered on him as he stood, something tugging in your chest. His expression had softened—lips relaxed, eyes calm. The same man who could twist a threat into poetry, who wore his cruelty like a crown, now held a sleeping child as if she were made of glass. It reminded you of the photo on his nightstand—back when she was just a bundle of blankets in his arms, and he wore a faint smile instead of a sneer.

It made sense now. Somehow, this image, this quiet moment, filled in the blanks.

Candy Apple let out a sleepy sigh, shifting a little, her head naturally falling against his chest. Shadow Milk barely flinched. His arms only tightened slightly, holding her closer.

Then, without warning, he leaned in.

Close.

Too close.

You stiffened as you felt the chill of his breath fan over your neck, ghosting against the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Could you… get the doors?” he asked, but the words weren’t what made you freeze. It was the way he said them—low, intimate, just beside your ear.

You stiffened instantly, the cool of his breath brushing your skin like frost. Goosebumps raised along your neck and arms, and for a second your brain stalled, stuck in the moment. His proximity, the intentional closeness—it was no accident.

You nodded—too quickly—and took a step back, placing some much-needed distance between the two of you, cheeks flushed and heart skipping, throwing a glare his way. That trademark smirk had returned, sharp and playful, his eyes glinting like a cat who knew exactly what he’d done.

You scowled, but there was no real fire behind it. It felt more like a reflex than an emotion. He had gotten under your skin—again.

Without a word, you turned on your heel and headed toward the doors, pushing one open with both hands and holding it for him. As he passed, still holding Candy Apple in his arms, his expression shifted once more—amusement giving way to something unreadable, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment too long.

Neither of you spoke as you began walking the familiar halls together, your footsteps echoing through the corridors like a ticking clock.

You followed in silence, not quite sure how to feel about any of it. Not the intimacy, not the sudden closeness, and certainly not the strange flutter in your chest you were trying very hard to ignore.

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Silence hung heavy between the two of you like a fog neither of you was willing to cut through. Each step echoed quietly off the castle’s old stone walls, and your breath caught in your chest as you approached a door you’d never seen before. It was unlike the others—softer, almost delicate in its design. Warm shades of rose and blush swirled over the surface, little painted flowers twining around the frame. It was sweet, homey, and out of place in this cold, sprawling fortress.

You cast a glance toward Shadow Milk. He said nothing, only tilted his head toward the door in a silent signal. You hesitated for half a breath, then stepped forward, fingers brushing the smooth knob before gently pushing it open.

The room inside was small but cozy. A soft pink glow lit the space, lace curtains fluttering lightly at the windows. Toys were tucked in neat corners, and hand-drawn pictures decorated the walls. A faint scent of strawberries lingered in the air. It was Candy Apple’s room.

Shadow Milk moved past you with surprising grace for someone so large. You watched in quiet awe as he crossed the room, the floorboards barely creaking beneath his steps. He leaned forward, his tall form folding as he gently laid Candy Apple onto the bed. She stirred only slightly, letting out a soft sigh as he pulled the quilt over her, careful not to wake her. His movements were slow, deliberate—almost tender.

Then—something you hadn’t expected.

His fingers, usually commanding and cruel, gently threaded through her curls. The motion was so careful, so practiced, so... paternal. There was no sarcasm, no performance. Just a moment of stillness and tenderness that made you feel like an intruder.

Your throat tightened, and you quickly looked away, eyes focusing hard on the wooden floor as if it might suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. You didn’t know what this was—but it wasn’t for you. It felt sacred in a way that made your chest ache.

A quiet click startled you as the door was pulled closed once again. You looked up. Shadow Milk was standing there, his hand still on the doorknob. For a fleeting second, the softness hadn’t quite left his face. His many eyes flicked over your expression, and he seemed... exposed. Raw.

But it only lasted a heartbeat.

In the next blink, the mask was back in place. That smirk—the same one he always wore when teasing you—slithered its way onto his lips.

“Well,” he drawled, stretching his arms overhead with an exaggerated yawn, “now that the little nuisance is out of the way, let’s head back, shall we?”

His voice snapped the delicate moment in two.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before a single syllable could leave your lips, his hand caught your wrist. “No use arguing, dear,” he added with a glint in his eye.

You groaned quietly, your protest half-hearted as he pulled you along behind him. His grip was firm, cool. Too cool. Not roughly—but firmly. With that same theatrical flair, he tugged you along behind him, your footsteps hurried to keep up with his long strides.

“Shadow Milk—seriously,” you muttered, lightly pulling back in protest. “I can walk.”

Eventually, you stopped resisting. You let him lead you. Whether it was exhaustion or acceptance, you weren’t sure.

He glanced sideways at you, clearly surprised by your compliance. For a moment, his brows twitched in confusion, like he hadn’t quite expected you to let him hold on. But just as quickly as it had come, the expression vanished behind practiced detachment.

As you walked in silence, the rhythmic squeeze of his fingers around your wrist tightened, just slightly. It wasn’t painful—more... grounding. You should’ve been annoyed, scared, but instead you found yourself watching the way his fingers curled around your skin. It was soft, unusual. His fingers gently tracing the scars that had begun to form on your arm, the ones he caused.

The walk continued in silence, neither of you speaking as the castle’s shadows lengthened around you. You stared ahead, letting your gaze drift to the stained glass windows lining the hall. The light was different now. Golden and heavy, the sun painting the halls in rich amber and crimson.

And then you saw it.

The sun had started to dip low in the sky.

Dusk was coming.

Your chest tightened. Time was running out.

The weight of the letter from Pure Vanilla burned in your memory. The plan. The risk. The freedom that waited just beyond the forest edge. Every second that passed was a step closer to either escape… or disaster.

And yet… as you walked next to Shadow Milk, his hand still loosely holding your wrist, you couldn’t ignore the uncomfortable truth gnawing at you.

You weren’t ready to say goodbye.

Chapter Text

As you and Shadow Milk rounded the corner of the corridor, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, the echo of footsteps ahead caught your attention. You tilted your head slightly, peering down the hallway—and there he was. Black Sapphire stood poised near the end, framed by a large arched window. The sunlight bled through the stained glass, casting shards of soft red and violet across his figure, like he’d stepped out of a dream or a memory.

The moment Shadow Milk saw him, his fingers slipped from your wrist.

It wasn’t abrupt, not harsh—just a smooth, practiced withdrawal, like he’d never been holding you in the first place. But the cool of his hand still lingered on your skin like a ghost. You flexed your fingers instinctively, the absence sharper than you expected.

Shadow Milk, now fully wrapped back in his theatrics, lifted a hand with a grand flourish as though he were bowing before royalty. “Ah, the brooding sentinel returns,” he cooed dramatically, his voice lilting with artificial sweetness. “Tell me, darling Sapphire, did you miss us?”

Black Sapphire didn’t flinch at the dramatics. He remained stiff, his expression neutral, though you could tell from the faint twitch in his jaw he was biting something back. His arms crossed over his chest with that same cool elegance he always carried.

“Shadow Milk,” he said with a clipped nod, his voice low and even. Then his eyes slid to you—quick, assessing, like he was silently checking if you were alright.

You gave him a tiny nod, almost imperceptible, but he caught it. His gaze softened for a moment, a flicker of unspoken understanding passing between you two like a secret carried on the wind. It calmed the knot in your stomach just a little.

Shadow Milk, sensing the shift in energy, tilted his head and let out a small laugh under his breath. “So formal,” he drawled, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “You wound me, truly. One would think we were strangers.”

Black Sapphire didn’t respond to the jab. Instead, his eyes lingered on Shadow Milk’s face, sharp and unreadable. The silence stretched taut between them, tension crackling in the space like lightning on the horizon.

You stood between them, the air so thick with unspoken words it was hard to breathe. The shadows outside the window began to deepen. Dusk was setting in fast, staining the sky in strokes of lilac and fire.

You felt the weight of the envelope hidden back in your room—its contents etched into your mind, the promise of escape pulsing like a second heartbeat in your chest. Every second now mattered.

And yet, in this moment, the two men before you felt like two halves of a tether pulling you in opposite directions—one toward freedom, the other toward something far more uncertain.

Shadow Milk broke the silence, stepping forward just a little, enough to close the space between you again.

“Well,” he hummed, casting you a glance from the corner of his many eyes, “aren’t we a picture of uncomfortable silence? Shall we carry on with our little... tour?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but your voice caught in your throat. Black Sapphire’s eyes flicked to you once more—almost like he was asking: Are you still sure about this?

You didn’t speak, but you gave a single nod.

And as Shadow Milk turned on his heel and continued walking, you followed—each step echoing the steady march toward whatever came next.

Just as you and Shadow Milk began to walk again, the heavy silence of the corridor was broken by a voice—smooth and carefully measured.

“Actually, sir,” Black Sapphire called out, the word sir spoken with a professional ease, “I need your help with something.”

The request was wrapped in a tone so casual, so seemingly mundane, it would’ve fooled anyone else. But not you.

Because as those words left his lips, Black Sapphire’s gaze flicked to you. Just for a second. Barely a heartbeat’s worth of time. But it was all you needed.

That look. That unspoken message.
It’s time.

Your breath caught in your chest, your stomach twisting itself into an anxious knot that tightened with every beat of your heart. Everything you’d prepared for, everything you’d hoped for—feared—had suddenly shifted from soon to now. The air grew colder somehow, heavier, like the castle itself knew what you were about to do.

Shadow Milk stopped walking a few paces ahead of you, his footfall echoing just a second too long in the corridor. He let out a theatrical groan, throwing his head back with all the exaggeration of a disgruntled stage actor.

“Really, Sapphire?” he whined, voice laced with petulant complaint. “Now? I was just starting to enjoy myself.” He shot you a sly glance, that same familiar glint dancing in his many eyes.

You swallowed hard, careful to keep your expression unreadable.

Black Sapphire didn’t flinch at the dramatics. His hands stayed calmly behind his back, posture straight, composed—controlled. “It won’t take long,” he said smoothly. “But it requires your specific attention.”

Shadow Milk rolled his eyes, dragging out a sigh that echoed off the stone walls. “Ugh, fine,” he grumbled, the irritation in his voice mostly for show. “But if I find out this is about something mundane like a leaking pipe or—heaven forbid—inventory reports, I swear I’ll make you alphabetize the entire library by candlelight.”

Black Sapphire gave a small nod, unfazed. “Duly noted, sir.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides. This was your chance.

Just as Shadow Milk began to turn away, his long coat sweeping behind him with a dramatic flair, he paused mid-step. He pivoted slightly, just enough to glance back over his shoulder at you. That familiar, laid-back smirk was back on his face, and though his many eyes shimmered with mischief, something about his expression looked a little softer—faintly melancholic, like a half-remembered tune.

“Well,” he drawled, tone light and theatrical, “I suppose our delightful time together has been… tragically cut short.” He pressed a hand to his chest with exaggerated flair, as if heartbroken. “Alas, the cruel hands of duty tear me away.” His voice rose with melodramatic sorrow, as though he were starring in his own imaginary tragedy.

You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched. With a roll of your eyes, you shot back, “Finally. I thought you’d never leave. I might actually enjoy a moment of peace now that I’m free from your constant monologuing.”

A sharp bark of laughter escaped him, and he tilted his head with mock offense. “Ouch. You wound me.” He stepped closer, and before you could dodge, his large hand swooped down and ruffled your hair in that annoyingly fond way he often did—like he was trying to be both irritating and affectionate all at once.

You scrunched your face and swatted at his arm, which only made his grin widen.

He stepped back, giving you an extravagant bow as if he were on stage, one hand across his chest and the other flaring out to the side. “Until next time, My dear,” he said with mock solemnity, his voice rich with that theatrical edge he loved so much. “Don’t miss me too much.”

You snorted quietly, folding your arms with a shake of your head. But your chest ached, your heart thudding a little too hard in your ribs. His presence always lingered like smoke—too strange to be comforting, too familiar to ignore.

With one last lingering glance, Shadow Milk turned and strode down the corridor toward Black Sapphire. His movements remained as confident and elegant as ever, but you noticed the way his shoulders drew back just slightly, tension threading through his frame.

Black Sapphire stood waiting, ever composed. As Shadow Milk reached him, the two began to talk in hushed tones. You didn’t wait to hear the conversation. You couldn’t.

Because your chance had arrived.

You watched their figures fade into the shadowed end of the corridor, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by the heavy silence that followed. The second Shadow Milk and Black Sapphire vanished around the corner, a chill crept up your spine—not from fear, but from the sudden and terrifying clarity that this was it. No more planning. No more waiting. This was the moment you’d dreamed about in the darkest, quietest hours of captivity.

Without another breath wasted, you turned on your heel and bolted down the hallway.

Your bare feet pounded softly against the thick, plush carpet—normally comforting, now maddeningly slow beneath your frantic pace. The walls blurred past you in streaks of ornate wallpaper and faded oil paintings, every arch and curve of the decor a familiar cage. The castle felt endless now, as if it were growing with every step you took, twisting its hallways longer, stretching the seconds thinner.

Your lungs burned with the cold bite of rushing air, but you didn’t stop.

Your heart thundered in your chest, louder than your footsteps. You passed a hallway you recognized, another turn you memorized ages ago. The morning sunlight had dimmed behind the tall stained-glass windows, now casting fractured beams of amber and violet across the floor. Shadows danced around you, threatening to grasp your heels and pull you back.

You didn’t dare look behind you.

You clutched your hands into fists, nails biting into your palms as you pushed forward. The hall stretched on, and the familiar door to your room came into view—finally. Your sanctuary and your prison. Your starting line.

Your hand trembled as you reached for the doorknob, but you didn't hesitate. You flung the door open and slipped inside, slamming it shut behind you, your chest heaving with effort. Your room was exactly how you left it, warm and still and eerily quiet. The book lay forgotten on the edge of the bed. The box with the ring still sat untouched on your nightstand.

You ignored it all.

Diving toward the bed, you dropped to your knees and shoved your hand beneath the mattress, fingers searching until they brushed the rough edge of the envelope. You pulled it free and checked the contents—Pure Vanilla’s letter still safe. His words echoed in your mind.

“At dusk. Beyond the forest. Run fast.”

You grabbed the small bag you’d hidden in the corner days ago, a few meager supplies you’d managed to stash away without raising suspicion. The clothes on your back would have to do. There was no time for anything else.

You stood still for a moment in the center of your room, your eyes scanning the place you had been held—where you had cried, fought, endured, and waited. Where your world had felt so small.

It didn’t feel like home. It never had.

With one last look, you turned on your heel and darted for the door.

As your foot crossed the threshold of your room, something stopped you—an invisible weight tugging at your spine, begging you to turn around just once more.

You did.

Your eyes locked onto the small, pristine box resting atop your nightstand. The sunlight filtering through your window hit it just right, the silver ring inside catching the light with a quiet glint. That ring—simple, etched with stars, threaded on a delicate chain—should have meant nothing. But the longer you stared, the heavier it became in your chest, as though it had rooted itself there without permission.

You remembered the way Shadow Milk had offered it—not with mockery or arrogance, but with something... else. Something uncertain. Something almost vulnerable. The way his many eyes had lingered on you, searching for something unspoken. The way his expression had faltered, even for just a heartbeat, when you tried to give it back.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and tore your gaze away. No. You couldn’t afford sentiment now.

And yet, as your hand rested on the doorframe, more memories assaulted your mind—ones you didn’t expect to feel so sharply now.

Black Sapphire’s soft smile as he helped you sneak treats from the kitchen. The warmth of his presence as you sat in silence, not needing to speak to be understood. His hand on your shoulder this morning, that quiet apology, the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Candy Apple’s bright voice, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her garden, the soil under her nails as she excitedly dragged you to look at the newest sprouts. Her innocence. Her kindness. Her belief in the good of this place.

And even Shadow Milk.

You remembered the darker things, yes—the bruises, the fear, the overwhelming power he held over you. But also the flickers of something else: his flour-covered face this morning, humming as he cooked; the way he carried Candy Apple, carefully, reverently; the brief, lingering glances; the quiet squeeze of your arm before he let go.

A twisted part of you whispered, Was it really all bad?

You clenched your fists.

Yes. It was.

Because for every soft word, every moment of calm, there were too many nights of trembling in silence, too many moments where you flinched when you heard footsteps down the hall. There were too many bruises hidden beneath clothes. Too many words twisted into games.

Your chest tightened, but you stood taller.

You weren’t running because you wanted to forget those moments. You were running because you finally understood them all for what they were: a gilded cage. Fleeting comforts wrapped around cruelty. Smiles that never quite reached far enough to erase the pain.

Your eyes locked on the silver ring one last time.

You inhaled deeply, the weight in your chest threatening to shatter you from the inside—but you held strong. You turned your back on the room, on the ring, on the ghosts of everything this place had made you feel. No more wondering. No more being caught in the in-between.

It was time.

Your feet hit the hallway floor, steady now. You didn’t run, not yet. You walked first—quietly, calmly—as though daring the castle to stop you. Daring fate to try.

Because you weren’t coming back.

There was no going back.

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Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps as you bolted down the corridor, each soft thump of your boots echoing louder than it should have in the silence. The quiet elegance of the halls now felt like a mocking whisper all around you—paintings with eyes that seemed to follow your every step, ornate candle sconces casting flickering shadows that stretched long and claw-like along the walls. The once-suffocating beauty of this place only made the fear twist deeper into your gut.

Your fingers grazed along the wall for balance as you careened down one of the many winding staircases, the slick stone cold beneath your touch. The bannister whined under your grip, but you didn’t slow—not for a second. Your heart pounded louder than your footsteps, so fast it felt like it might leap from your chest. You didn’t dare look back. You didn’t want to know if anyone was behind you yet. You couldn’t know.

The air grew cooler as you descended—the castle always had that strange stillness at its lower levels. You remembered, with vivid clarity, the first time you came this way: your steps were slow then, hesitant, shadowed by dread and uncertainty. Black Sapphire had walked ahead of you in silence, and Shadow Milk had waited beyond the doors, his presence oppressive even before he spoke.

And now… now you stood again at the base of that staircase, your gaze locked on the large, looming doors just a few paces ahead.

The entrance.

Or… the exit.

They were taller than you remembered, massive and ancient, carved with intricate swirling patterns that made them look more like a portal than a mere doorway. You could still see the faint chips and cracks in the wood from the last time they were opened in haste—an arrival, not a departure. Now, they stood like silent guardians, waiting for you to make your move.

You slowed only slightly as you approached, your chest rising and falling with each desperate breath. The afternoon light streamed in from the high windows above, slanting against the floor in warm golds and oranges. The sun was almost gone—dusk was drawing close.

The timing was perfect.

You placed your hand against the thick wood of the door, and for a moment, you hesitated. Not from fear. But from the sheer weight of everything this moment meant. The weeks you had spent in this castle flashed in a chaotic blur—meals shared in tense silence, the painful bruises, the stolen laughter, the confusion, the small moments of softness that made things more complicated than they should’ve been.

It all pulsed in your chest like one final warning.

Your fingers had barely wrapped around the cold, iron handle when it hit you—that familiar weight, that overwhelming pressure in the air. Like gravity itself had suddenly doubled, like the air had thickened into syrup. A chill rushed down your spine, freezing your limbs in place. He’s here. You didn’t have to turn. You didn’t have to see. You felt him. That looming, oppressive presence that seemed to crawl over your skin like shadowed smoke.

Your breath hitched in your throat, panic clawing its way up your ribcage. Still, you pushed. The door groaned under your strength, creaking open, the light from outside piercing the darkness of the hall like a sword. Just run. Just run. You clenched your jaw, willing your body to move, to fight through the paralyzing dread screaming at you to stop.

But you weren’t met with open air.

Instead, they were there—horrors you hadn’t seen in days, not since the last time Shadow Milk wanted to make a point. The puppets.

Strings hung from the air itself, stretching up into the void above where no ceiling could be seen. And from those strings dangled the lifeless forms of the marionettes—except now, they weren’t lifeless at all. Their glass eyes locked onto you instantly, their movements sudden and jerky as they floated forward like grotesque dancers on invisible threads. Their heads twitched unnaturally, arms extended toward you, mouths carved into permanent, mocking smiles.

You staggered back, horror knotting in your stomach. But then—click. click. click. The sharp sound of heels on stone echoed behind you. You spun, heart thudding.

There stood Black Sapphire… but not alone.

Behind him, tall and motionless, was Shadow Milk.

For a moment, everything froze. You locked eyes with Black Sapphire. His usual calm had splintered—his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape, pleading silently. Run, his gaze seemed to scream. Please.

Then your eyes flicked to Shadow Milk.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His mouth was drawn in a tight, thin line. His many eyes—always alight with mischief or madness—were unreadable. Wide. Unblinking. Cold.

You felt sick.

You didn’t wait for him to move. You didn’t wait for words, for explanations, for the manipulation that would surely follow.

You ran.

With a guttural cry you threw your shoulder into the nearest puppet. The wood cracked beneath your weight, its strings snapped with a terrible twang. It crumpled backward into another, the tangled mass of limbs and cords collapsing like some horrific net. You pushed past them, ignoring the sharp sting as one of their clawed hands caught your arm, tearing through fabric and skin.

Your blood pounded in your ears. Your lungs burned. All you could hear was the furious clicking of puppet limbs scrambling to regroup behind you, and the distant sound of footsteps.

The hallway echoed with the chaos you left behind—footsteps, crashing sounds, the shrill snapping of strings against stone. Then, a voice—his voice.

“Get off me!”
The rage and desperation in Shadow Milk’s scream tore through the air, warped and raw.

You didn’t need to see to know what happened. Black Sapphire had made his move—he was stalling him, maybe fighting him. Your stomach turned at the thought of what Shadow Milk would do once he broke free. Images flashed through your mind—bruises, screams, shattered glass, the way the light used to leave people’s eyes when they defied him.

But there was no time to dwell.

Pain exploded across your arm as something whipped around your bicep—a burning, constricting pull like barbed wire made of fire.

A string.

Your feet faltered, your breath caught in your throat as you cried out in pain. The cord wrapped tight, biting into your flesh, the searing magic behind it trying to drag you back. Your knees hit the floor, the forward momentum yanked from your body like a cruel joke.

Panic swelled. You scrambled, grabbing the glimmering thread of torment with trembling hands. It felt like it was alive, writhing against your grip. Your fingers burned as you yanked—once, twice—and finally, with a sharp snap and a flare of agony, the string broke.

You didn’t stop to breathe.

You bolted upright and ran. The sting on your arm was forgotten in the haze of adrenaline, blood trickling down your sleeve. You could feel him behind you—his presence now feral, unhinged, so close it felt like a hand hovering just behind your neck, waiting.

But then you saw it.

The forest.

The heavy door you’d burst through had vanished behind you, the sterile stone of the hall fading into the wild embrace of the woods. Tall trees stood like sentinels at the edge of the field, their branches shifting in the wind like they were beckoning you forward.

The sky above was painted in the deep purples and oranges of dusk—the promised hour.

Freedom lay just beyond the tree line.

With a hoarse, desperate breath, you pushed your legs harder than you ever had before. The grass beneath your boots gave way, the cold air sliced across your face, and the forest loomed closer, closer—

A violent jolt shot up your leg like lightning—pain, hot and sharp, bloomed in your ankle just before your body was yanked backward with terrifying force. You didn’t have time to scream. Your legs flew out from under you, and you crashed to the ground, your back slamming into the earth, the side of your head colliding with a sickening crack against a tree root jutting from the soil.

The world spun.

Your ears rang, vision clouded with stars and flickers of red. Somewhere distant, your own ragged breath echoed in your ears, muffled and shallow. Grass bit at your palms as you scrambled, disoriented, your limbs trembling as you rolled to your back—desperate to fight off the next string you knew was coming.

But you were too slow.

A massive weight slammed down onto your chest. The air fled your lungs in a strangled gasp. For a heartbeat, you couldn’t think—you could barely feel—and then you looked up.

And your heart dropped into your stomach.

Shadow Milk.

He loomed above you like a monster pulled from your worst nightmares—his weight pressing you into the ground, his many eyes all trained on you. His long hair, wild and lashing in the wind, framed a face that looked... unhinged.

His hands—those deceptively gentle hands that once brushed flour off your cheek, that once tucked Candy Apple into bed—wrapped around your throat.

Tight.

Your fingers immediately shot to his, clawing, digging, fighting. His grip was brutal, cutting off your air in seconds. Your legs kicked uselessly against the ground, your nails raking at his wrists, but his strength was overwhelming.

You looked up at him through tears and panic.

And you saw it.
You saw him.

His face was a storm.

He straddled your waist, pinning you down effortlessly. The madness in his eyes was no longer masked by a charming smirk or theatrical quip. His eyes—normally gleaming with arrogance, dark delight, or indifferent cruelty—were wild. Flickers of rage, panic, and something deeper—regret—flashed across them in bursts. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. His brow furrowed, mouth parted just slightly like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

None of it mattered when his hands wrapped around your throat.

You were dying.

His long fingers encased your neck, far too easily. Your eyes widened, hands shooting up to claw at his wrists, your nails raking along his skin. You kicked your legs beneath him, your boots digging into the dirt, trying to throw him off. But he was so heavy, and your head still reeled from the fall.

“Why?” he muttered, voice cracking. “Why would you leave me?”

His hands tightened.

A strangled noise tore from your lips—half a cry, half a choke. Your chest burned, your lungs clawing for air they couldn’t reach. Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden. Panic gripped you—not just at the pain, not just at the darkness curling at the edges of your vision—but at him.

And in that moment, as your vision began to dim and your limbs grew heavy and numb, you didn’t cry.
You didn’t beg.
You stared into his face with the last bit of strength you had left—

And you glared.

Your eyes burned—not with tears, but with hatred. Unforgiving. Fierce. Unyielding.

And that was what broke him.

His hands froze. His breath caught.
Something in your eyes—perhaps the reflection of every ounce of pain he’d ever caused you—slammed into him like a wave.

His grip loosened.
Then it broke entirely.

You gasped, air finally rushing into your lungs in a desperate, choking breath. The pain in your throat burned like fire, but you didn’t stop pulling it in. You coughed, your body spasming from the lack of oxygen, your vision still swimming.

Shadow Milk sat there above you, unmoving. His hands had fallen away, but his eyes hadn’t.

He was staring at you like he’d never seen you before.
Like he didn’t recognize himself either.

The world spun around you as you gasped for air, the lightheadedness of near suffocation still lingering in your head. Your fingers clawed at the earth beneath you, trying to push yourself up, but before you could fully gather your bearings, a sudden bright light exploded from nowhere, blinding you.

You barely had time to process the sudden flash of light that surrounded the two of you, as if the very air itself had ruptured into brilliance. It was blinding, consuming, and in the chaos of it, all you could hear was the piercing screech of Shadow Milk—a guttural sound filled with rage and something almost desperate.

The sound was jarring, a mixture of rage and pain that sent a shiver down your spine. Your vision cleared enough to see him recoiling, his hands clutching at his face. He looked like a wild animal, a twisted version of himself, with his many eyes wide and panicked. The force of the light had left him dazed, but not for long.

Before you could even register the scene, a wet splatter hit your chest, cold and thick, the texture sending a shudder through your entire body. It felt wrong, like something foreign and unnatural. The weight of it lingered, sticking to your skin, you could only stare at the now darkening stain spreading across your clothing. A part of you registered that it was blue blood, but the panic of the moment made it hard to focus on anything but your own survival.  Panic surged through you as you gasped for air, struggling to break free from the suffocating haze of fear clouding your thoughts. You felt your lungs tighten with each passing second, and you forced yourself to move.

Your gaze snapped up. Shadow Milk stood before you, clutching his face. The blood—or was it some sort of fluid?—dripped from a deep, jagged cut across his features, his skin a vivid shade of blue. His usual arrogance and composed demeanor were gone, replaced by something raw and primal. His lips were pressed tightly together, but his eyes spoke of something far deeper—anger, panic, and regret all battling for dominance.

But there was no time to dwell on that.

A sharp yank on your arm jolted you from the daze. You didn’t have a moment to think before you were roughly pulled forward. The rush of motion left you dizzy for a moment, but you quickly recognized the familiar figure standing beside you—a form you had seen too many times before. Pure Vanilla.

His blonde hair caught the light as he moved with purpose, large hands gripping you with unwavering certainty. His strength was undeniable, and you could feel the protection radiating off him, every muscle in his body primed for action. You didn’t have the chance to speak; words weren’t needed as he yanked you through the chaos, away from Shadow Milk and the mess you were leaving behind.

As the trees loomed ahead, you felt yourself being pushed forward. Pure Vanilla moved with you, urging you ahead as he placed himself behind you like a shield. The rustling of leaves filled your ears as you scrambled to keep your footing, dodging branches and roots that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Your heart raced, pounding with fear and adrenaline as your legs burned with the effort to run. You had to keep going, there was no turning back now.

The forest seemed endless, the shadows of the trees swallowing you whole, but Pure Vanilla’s presence kept you focused. His hand was a constant on your arm, guiding you forward, pushing you when you slowed or stumbled. The woods blurred around you, your focus narrowing to the path ahead. You didn’t dare look back, but the sound of Shadow Milk’s threats and screams pierced the air behind you, each word laced with venom. His fury was unmistakable, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The sound of his voice echoed through the trees, each syllable like a threat in the distance, but Pure Vanilla didn’t falter. He kept moving, keeping you moving, always just a step behind you, watching for anything that might slow you down. His breathing was even, controlled, a contrast to the wild thumping of your own heart.

“Keep going,” he urged quietly, his voice steady despite the chaos.

You nodded, forcing your legs to keep going, your breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The trees began to thin out ahead, and you realized you were heading into the deeper part of the forest. A small flicker of hope ignited in your chest, but the pounding of your pulse and the constant screams from Shadow Milk in the distance reminded you that nothing was certain yet.

The forest stretched out before you like a world of its own, a maze you hoped would shield you from what was chasing you. But you couldn’t afford to stop. Not now. Not when you could hear his voice growing fainter with every step you took. Every command, every curse—Shadow Milk’s presence felt like a weight, always just at the edge of your thoughts.

But now, for the first time, you were free. And with Pure Vanilla by your side, that freedom felt possible. Even if just for a moment.

Your lungs burned as the sharp inhale of cold air hit your chest, each breath feeling like a fire inside your ribcage. The sound of your boots pounding against the earth seemed to reverberate through your entire body as you pushed forward, your legs threatening to buckle beneath you. But Pure Vanilla’s presence kept you moving—his hand at your back urging you onward, his quiet but steady voice whispering words of encouragement. You had no idea how far you had run, or how long you could keep going, but every fiber of your being screamed at you to escape, to break free from everything that had held you captive.

The dense canopy of trees finally began to thin, the world opening up as you burst through the tree line into an open field. The sudden space before you seemed to stretch endlessly, the rolling grass waving gently in the breeze. The moonlight shone down on the land, illuminating the path ahead, but you could barely take in the sight.

Exhaustion overwhelmed you in an instant. Your legs gave out, and before you could stop yourself, you collapsed to the ground. Your body hit the soft earth with a thud, and the world seemed to spin around you. You could hear your heart pounding, but everything felt distant—like you were outside yourself, watching everything unfold.

Pure Vanilla was by your side in an instant, his large form kneeling beside you. His hands were gentle but firm as he took hold of your arm, pulling you upright slightly to assess your injuries. His gaze shifted over your body, always calculating, always seeing what others could not. Even with his limited vision, you knew that he could read the most delicate details—every wound, every bruise, every sign of pain. It was one of his gifts, and at that moment, it felt like a silent reassurance.

As his warm hands cupped your face, a soft glow radiated from his palms. It wasn’t blinding or harsh, but gentle and soothing, as if the very light of it wrapped you in a protective warmth. You closed your eyes, feeling his healing energy radiate through you, bringing with it a sense of peace. His fingers, delicate and cool to the touch, traced over the marks of your pain, and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch.

His face softened, and you looked up at him, meeting his gaze. His pale yellow and blue eyes—the same ones that had seen so much—were filled with something you hadn’t expected: relief. A small, comforting smile played at his lips, and for a brief moment, it felt like everything would be alright.

But then the weight of everything hit you. The fear, the pain, the loss—it all came rushing back. Your chest tightened, and your lip trembled as the dam inside you broke. The tears came without warning. Hot and unrelenting, they streamed down your face, your body trembling from the release. You could no longer hold the fear that had weighed on your heart for so long. It spilled out of you in that one moment, raw and uncontrollable.

Pure Vanilla was immediately there, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. You felt the warmth of his chest against your cheek as he held you close, his voice soft and soothing as he whispered, "You’re safe now. You’re safe." His words were a quiet promise, like a lullaby that calmed your racing thoughts.

You buried your face in his shoulder, pressing your forehead against the fabric of his cloak as his arms enveloped you. The weight of everything melted in the solace of his touch. You let the tears fall freely now, and for the first time in so long, you allowed yourself to just be—to grieve, to feel.

The pressure of your past, the oppressive fear, the terror that had followed you—it all seemed to fade, replaced with the soft rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth of his body. It was as though the world itself paused for just a moment, allowing you to rest in the safety that you had longed for.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like an escape. It felt like freedom.

Pure Vanilla’s hand gently stroked your back, his touch tender and steady, like a balm for the wounds that no longer hurt. His whisper was a quiet promise as he held you close, "You’re free, and I’ll keep you safe. Always."

With his arms around you, you allowed yourself to finally relax. To finally breathe. The world outside no longer seemed so terrifying. You were no longer running. You were safe.

You sat in Pure Vanilla’s arms, his comforting presence surrounding you, as he held you close in the soft glow of the moonlight that filtered through the trees. Your breathing had steadied, but your mind was far from calm. You could feel the warmth of his embrace, his large hands gently brushing your hair, offering you solace from the chaos of the night. His comforting scent, like the sweetness of vanilla, filled your senses, grounding you in the moment. But despite his warmth, there was an unfamiliar coldness that gripped your chest—something you couldn’t shake.

It was the ring.

You reached up instinctively, fingers trembling as they brushed over the delicate chain around your neck. The soft metal felt like an anchor, cool against your fingertips, and yet it was heavy in a way you couldn’t explain. The weight of the ring hung around your neck, a silent, constant presence that seemed to grow with each passing second. You hadn’t even noticed it when you left—it was almost as if your hands had moved of their own accord. But now that it was here, that same feeling of sickening guilt returned, coiling in your stomach.

Why had you taken it?

You had been so focused on running, on escaping, that you hadn’t even thought twice about grabbing it, slipping it around your neck. Now, as you sat in Pure Vanilla’s arms, the quiet stillness of the night broken only by the distant chirping of crickets, you couldn’t ignore the weight of the silver ring. The cold metal felt too familiar, too tied to everything you were running from. It was his ring, and yet you couldn’t fathom why you still had it. You should have left it behind.

The chain seemed to cling to your skin like it was part of you, and the pendant—it was so simple, so elegant, yet it felt out of place now. It glinted in the soft light, catching your eye and drawing your gaze to it despite your best efforts to ignore it. You had tried to forget, tried to bury the memory of the life you’d left behind, but the ring and its presence around your neck were a reminder, a haunting reminder, that you hadn’t just left the people behind—you had left them.

Pure Vanilla’s warm hand rested gently on your shoulder, but the comfort it once offered now seemed to be in conflict with the ring’s cold reminder. You could feel the tears building up again, but you fought them back. You couldn't let the emotions spill over—not here, not now. Not while you were in Pure Vanilla’s arms, safe and distant from all the chaos. He didn’t deserve to carry the weight of your turmoil.

But the ring... it wouldn’t let you forget.

The weight of it around your neck felt like a tether to everything you had run from. To Shadow Milk, whose presence haunted your every thought, and to Black Sapphire and Candy Apple, both of whom you had abandoned. The soft glow of the pendant seemed to mock you, reminding you of the comfort they had offered, of the bonds you had torn away from, of the choices you had made in fear.

You wanted to scream, to pull the ring off and throw it into the forest, but you couldn’t. The act of removal felt like an impossible betrayal. The piece of jewelry seemed to bind you to the past in ways you couldn’t explain—so much more than just a physical object, it was a symbol of everything you had tried to leave behind.

As you sat there, nestled in Pure Vanilla’s arms, his warmth only seemed to emphasize the coldness of the ring. His soft words, murmured in reassurance, did little to ease the tightness in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much of your past was still tied to you—until now.

Pure Vanilla’s gentle touch on your cheek, his soft smile, offered comfort, but the ring on your neck remained a constant, unspoken reminder that no matter how far you ran, no matter how much you tried to escape, your past was never truly gone.

And with that thought, the tears you had been holding back slipped free, a soft sob escaping your lips as the full weight of everything you had left behind settled into your chest, pushing you closer into Pure Vanilla’s arms.

You were safe.

And that for now was enough.

Chapter Text

You woke to the gentle light of dawn spilling across the room, its golden rays cutting through the early morning haze like delicate fingers reaching in to greet you. The soft warmth of the sun kissed your skin, brushing over the rumpled sheets and casting gentle shadows across the floor. For a brief moment, everything was still—silent in that sacred way only the early hours could be. You blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the soft light, your mind sluggish as you tried to cling to the fading threads of sleep.

A deep breath escaped your lips, and instinctively, you burrowed deeper into the cocoon of plush blankets and soft pillows that wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. The mattress cradled you like it had been made just for your tired body, and for a few precious seconds, you entertained the fantasy of never having to leave it. The warmth, the stillness—it all felt so fragile, and you weren’t ready to let it go.

But then came the soft, almost apologetic knock on your door.

Three short taps—barely louder than a whisper—and yet they shattered the peaceful stillness like a stone thrown into still water.

You groaned in response, voice muffled by the pillow you dragged over your head. Your muscles protested the idea of movement, and your body felt like lead, weighed down by exhaustion that still clung to your bones from the night before. The emotional toll of your escape, the adrenaline, the sprint through the forest, and the collapse into safety—it had all taken its toll.

Another gentle knock. You sighed, dragging a hand out from under the blanket to rub the sleep from your eyes. The last thing you wanted was to face the world again so soon, but something in the quiet persistence of that knock told you it wasn’t something you could ignore.

With great reluctance, you pushed yourself upright, sheets falling away from your shoulders as the cool morning air kissed your skin. A shiver danced down your spine, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, glancing toward the door. The familiar scent of vanilla and warm herbs still lingered in the room, a comforting reminder that you were far from the place you’d fled.

Your feet hit the soft rug beside the bed with a dull thump, and you gave yourself a moment to steady your breathing. Despite the physical comfort of the room, the ache in your chest remained. Your fingers instinctively brushed against the chain around your neck, the cold metal of the ring resting just over your collarbone like a ghost of your past clinging to you.

It was morning now. A new day.

But the past hadn’t been left behind—it was still very much with you.

You stood slowly, your legs still shaky beneath you, and padded softly toward the door, unsure of what waited on the other side.

You glance around the room, taking in the soft wooden walls and cozy atmosphere. The small lodge you and Pure Vanilla had stopped at was nestled in a quiet part of the countryside—remote, peaceful, and far from the chaos you’d fled. You had been there for a few days now, and while the weight of everything hadn’t quite lifted, there was comfort in the simplicity of it. The warm-toned curtains glowed faintly in the morning light, the air smelled faintly of dried herbs and freshly baked bread, and a kettle whistled faintly from somewhere beyond the door. This room, unlike the cold halls you had been confined in, felt safe. It felt like it was allowed to be yours.

Slowly, you creaked open the door, the old wood protesting softly as you peeked out. A familiar figure stood just beyond the threshold—tall, composed, and effortlessly graceful.

Pure Vanilla.

Even at this hour, he looked radiant. His hair, long and pale as moonlight, fell gently over his shoulders, not a strand out of place. His robes were simple, but elegant, and his posture was straight with a sort of serene energy that felt almost ethereal. A warm, amused smile touched his lips when his eyes met yours.

You could only imagine what he saw—your hair sticking out in every direction, the sleepy scowl pulling your features, and the blanket lines still etched into your face.

“Good morning,” he hummed, his voice as smooth and calming as a lullaby. It wrapped around you like warm tea and soft wool.

You hesitated, your hand tightening slightly around the edge of the door, embarrassment rising to your cheeks. You hadn’t exactly expected company, and compared to Pure Vanilla’s pristine appearance, you felt like a tangled mess.

Still, his expression didn’t shift to judgment. If anything, there was a hint of fondness in the way he looked at you—as if this small, imperfect moment was something he was quietly treasuring.

With a soft sigh, you opened the door more fully, stepping aside to let him in. He dipped his head slightly as he passed through the threshold, tall enough that he had to watch his head against the low ceiling beam. His presence filled the space—not overwhelmingly, but in a comforting way. Like warmth spreading through a chilled room.

“Sorry to disturb you so early,” he said softly, glancing around the room and taking in your makeshift belongings tucked neatly in one corner. “I just thought you might want breakfast before it gets cold.”

You nodded quietly, still trying to shake the last of the sleep from your limbs. Pure Vanilla’s presence always had a strange way of calming your nerves, even when your mind felt like it was still running from the night you escaped. He moved with such quiet purpose that the tension in your shoulders began to ease without you even realizing it.

He turned back to you, eyes gently studying your face. “You slept better last night,” he noted, more as an observation than a question.

You nodded again, voice still slow with sleep. “Yeah… I think I did.”

A soft chuckle escaped Pure Vanilla, warm and genuine. “That’s good,” he said, his voice like morning sunlight through fog. “You needed rest.”

His hand briefly brushed your shoulder as he passed by, stepping fully into the room. “Why don’t you get dressed and come to the dining room? Breakfast is waiting.”

You nodded, still drowsy, but as you turned to glance at the corner of the room where your clothes were folded in a tired pile, your face twisted with hesitation. “I… I’m not sure I have any clean clothes,” you muttered, the admission low and tinged with embarrassment.

You’d been so focused on surviving—on getting out, staying ahead, staying alive—that the small comforts, the practicalities of day-to-day life, had fallen by the wayside. Laundry had felt like such an impossibly distant concept.

Pure Vanilla raised a pale brow slightly, the movement subtle, but his expression quickly returned to that familiar understanding softness. “I’ll clean them for you. No worries,” he said simply, already moving toward the pile with smooth, decisive steps.

Your eyes widened slightly in protest. “No—wait, it’s okay. I can do it. Really.”

But your voice trailed off as he crouched gracefully, scooping up the worn and wrinkled garments with both arms. You quickly reached out, your fingers tugging gently at the sleeve of his robe, trying to reclaim even a shred of your dignity. “You don’t have to—really, I’ve got it—”

He only gave a small amused smile, swatting lightly at your hands with his one free hand in a playful motion. “Go eat,” he said simply, turning toward the door. “I’ll handle these.”

His voice remained gentle, like a soft breeze through leaves, but there was firmness behind it. A quiet finality that told you he wouldn’t be swayed. It wasn’t forceful—but it was decided. He didn’t think twice about helping, and it almost made your chest ache.

You let out a quiet grumble, your cheeks still flushed, but eventually dropped your hands and stepped aside. You didn’t miss the slight twinkle in his eyes as he caught the reluctant stomp in your step. He always seemed to find humor in your small rebellions.

You turned away and headed out into the hallway, the familiar creak of the lodge’s wooden floors beneath your feet. The smell of warm bread and spices grew stronger as you neared the dining room, your stomach growling in anticipation. Still, your mind lingered on Pure Vanilla—his kindness, his calm, the way he so easily filled the space that had once been nothing but terror and emptiness.

You pushed open the dining room door and stepped into the warmth of it, light spilling through the windows, a quiet hum of birdsong outside.

The dining room was modest in size, but everything about it exuded warmth and calm. Soft golden light filtered through the linen-curtained windows, casting a gentle glow over the honey-colored wood that made up most of the room’s furnishings. A small vase of fresh-picked wildflowers sat at the center of the round table, adding a splash of delicate color.

Your gaze drifted to the plate waiting at your seat—fluffy pancakes stacked neatly with a pat of butter slowly melting over them, the syrup pooled invitingly at the sides. A warm cup of tea steamed softly next to it, the comforting aroma wrapping around you like a blanket. A quiet smile tugged at your lips as you slid into the chair, your body still aching faintly but soothed by the smell and sight of real food made with care.

Across the table sat a small ceramic mug, stained slightly from regular use. The bitter scent of coffee drifted over from it, and you knew immediately it belonged to Pure Vanilla. The way it rested perfectly aligned with the edge of the table was so like him—tidy, balanced, unassuming.

You lifted your fork, beginning to eat in slow, appreciative bites. The food warmed your stomach, but as the first rush of comfort faded, an ache began to settle in deeper. Not physical—something else. Something old.

You glanced absently at the steam curling from your tea. Your mind began to wander, unbidden, to mornings not so long ago. Mornings filled with clattering pans and soft laughter. The gentle hum of Black Sapphire focused in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and a scowl just barely hiding his fondness. Candy Apple skipping through the halls, chattering about syrup flavors and spilling juice. Even Shadow Milk, with his dramatic lounging and relentless teasing, always managing to steal bites off your plate when you weren’t looking.

The memory struck like a sudden chill, and your stomach twisted. You stared down at your pancakes, suddenly losing your appetite.

Why am I thinking about this? you scolded yourself, jaw clenching. That place was hell. A gilded cage. Full of fear and manipulation. But the warmth of it—the false comfort—it lingered like a shadow.

You shook your head slightly, eyes stinging with a quiet guilt. You’re safe now. You’re free. Don’t miss it. Don’t be that fool.

The familiar scrape of a chair leg against the wood startled you, and you jumped slightly at the unexpected touch of a warm hand against your back.

“What?” you asked, voice sharper than intended.

Pure Vanilla’s hand withdrew slightly, but his tone remained calm and gentle. “I asked if you were alright,” he said softly, concern evident in the way his brows creased. “You seemed pretty deep in thought.”

You blinked at him, trying to steady your racing mind. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer than usual. His eyes, one pale yellow and the other a soft blue, always felt like they could see more than they should—more than you wanted. But he didn’t question you further. He just nodded, that same quiet understanding radiating from him like a warm hearth.

You were grateful he didn’t press. You didn’t think you could explain the storm inside you—not yet. Maybe not ever.

Instead, you looked down again at your plate, trying to focus on the present. The chair beneath you was solid. The air smelled of wildflowers and cinnamon. And across from you sat someone who had never once raised his voice or treated your pain like an inconvenience.

Pure Vanilla’s soft voice broke the peaceful silence that had settled between the two of you. “I was thinking about heading into the market today,” he said, tone casual, but you didn’t miss the faint note of hope laced within. “You could come along—if you’re feeling up to it.”

You paused mid-bite, the fork hovering in the air for a moment before you swallowed and nodded. “Yeah… I’d like that,” you said softly, surprised to find that you really did.

A genuine smile pulled at the corners of his lips, lighting up his already serene face. He took a calm sip from his coffee, seemingly content just to share a quiet morning with you. You watched the way he cradled the mug between both hands, fingers long and steady. The peaceful domesticity of the moment warmed your chest more than the tea ever could.

Still, something about the way he drank that bitter liquid made your nose wrinkle.

You squinted at the cup in his hands, then made a face, scrunching your nose dramatically. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” you teased, nudging his foot gently under the table.

A puzzled look flickered across his features. “Drink what?”

“That.” You pointed at his mug with exaggerated disgust. “That sludge. Looks darker than my soul.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him, and he raised an amused brow. “Please, it’s not hard to be darker than milk.”

You gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Excuse you, I’ll have you know I’ve done some morally questionable things in my time.”

Pure Vanilla gave you a slow, mock-impressed nod. “Oh, yes. Like adding five spoonfuls of sugar to a single cup of tea.”

“That’s not morally questionable, that’s a lifestyle,” you shot back proudly, crossing your arms as you leaned into your chair with a defiant smirk.

“Mmm,” he hummed, swirling the contents of his mug. “A lifestyle that’ll rot your teeth.”

You scoffed and turned your head away, arms still folded in mock offense. “Better than drinking bean juice straight from the abyss.”

He let out a full chuckle at that, a rare sound that made your chest tighten and ease all at once. It wasn’t loud or wild—it was soft, full of genuine warmth and affection. The sound settled into your bones, chasing away the last of the morning’s shadows.

You found yourself smiling without meaning to.

There was still a heaviness in your heart. Still memories that clawed their way into your thoughts when you least expected it. But sitting here, bathed in golden sunlight, wrapped in quiet banter and warm drinks—you felt it lift, even if just a little.

And maybe, you thought, glancing at Pure Vanilla’s fond expression as he sipped his coffee again, maybe moments like these would be the ones to slowly stitch you back together.

Pure Vanilla’s gentle voice broke through the soft clinking of silverware and porcelain. “It’s… nice to have you back.” His tone was quiet—delicate, as if the words themselves were fragile and might shatter if spoken too loudly.

You turned to look at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. His gaze was downcast, focused on the coffee cup cradled between his palms, the soft golden light from the window catching the pale strands of his hair.

Hesitantly, you reached across the small table and placed your hand on his. His skin was warm, his fingers long and steady. For a heartbeat, he didn’t react. Then, slowly, he turned his hand beneath yours and gently curled his fingers around your own, giving them a soft, reassuring squeeze.

“I’m glad to be back,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper—but he heard you. You meant it, truly. Despite everything, the horrors, the nightmares, the ache of memory—you were happy to be here, with him. Safe. With someone who cared.

Pure Vanilla let out a small breath, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. His touch wasn’t demanding—it was comforting, grounding. For a moment, the two of you just sat there, letting the silence say what words couldn’t.

Then, as if remembering himself, he gently cleared his throat and released your hand. “You should finish your breakfast,” he said with a soft, familiar lilt, the warm amusement back in his voice. “We’ll want to get to the market early before the good bread is gone.”

You gave a short laugh, wiping at the corners of your eyes before nodding. “Right. Don’t want to miss the holy bread.”

He chuckled at that, rising from his chair and giving your shoulder a gentle tap as he walked toward the hallway. “I’ll grab the list. Meet me by the door when you’re ready.”

With one last glance at him as he disappeared from view, you turned back to your plate and picked up your fork again. The pancakes were still warm, the tea still sweet. You ate with more focus now, warmth blooming in your chest—this time not from the tea, but from the quiet, steady presence of someone who never stopped waiting for you to come back. 

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Pure Vanilla stood by the door, clearly ready to leave. His tall form was poised with quiet confidence, his staff secured neatly to his back with the familiar gold inlay glinting faintly in the morning light. A small cloth bag of coins rested in one hand, the strings twisted tightly in his fingers as he turned slightly toward you in anticipation.

You approached hesitantly, your steps soft. “Uh… my clothes aren’t dry,” you muttered, clearly uncomfortable. You hated how unprepared you felt, especially when Pure Vanilla always seemed composed and pristine.

His expression shifted immediately into a mild scowl—not of annoyance, but concern. The sight of it made you smile just a little. Somehow, it was comforting that he didn’t hide his reactions around you.

“Hm. Let me see if I can find something that’ll fit you,” he said gently. Without missing a beat, he reached out and lightly took your arm, steering you toward his room with the same ease and familiarity he always carried.

You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe something more chaotic or mismatched—but the room was unmistakably his. The soft scent of herbs and parchment lingered in the air. It was orderly, calm. A small shelf lined with neatly arranged books stood beside a table cluttered with scrolls, a few dried plants hanging from a line across the far corner. There was peace here. Presence.

Pure Vanilla began rummaging through a small trunk, muttering quietly to himself as he dug through his clothing. You stood awkwardly, fidgeting with your sleeves and eyeing the worn spine of a book left open on his desk.

Finally, he turned, holding out a crisp white button-up shirt and a pair of black pants. “These might work,” he offered, the tips of his ears faintly pink. “The sleeves don’t fit me anymore.”

You looked at him, slightly amused. “Outgrown them, huh?” Your eyes drifted to his arms, hidden beneath his cloak. You knew Pure Vanilla was strong—years of healing, fighting, surviving had shaped him. But he never flaunted it.

He gave a sheepish shrug and handed you the clothes before slipping out of the room to give you privacy.

You changed quickly. The pants were loose but blessedly had a drawstring, so at least they wouldn’t fall off. The shirt hung comfortably over your frame, the sleeves a little long, the fabric soft from years of wear. You tried to tie the hem in a small knot at your side to give it some shape, adjusting the collar and rolling up the sleeves a little until you felt a little more… yourself.

As you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the small mirror near the wardrobe, you paused. It wasn’t your style exactly, but there was something comforting about wearing his clothes. Familiar. Safe.

You ran your fingers along the fabric once more before heading toward the door, the soft creak of the wood announcing your return.

Pure Vanilla perked up the moment his eyes landed on you. For a brief second, his gaze lingered—sweeping over your form in his clothes, something unreadable flickering behind those pale yellow and soft blue eyes. His posture remained calm, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, coloring ever so faintly.

He tore his gaze away just as quickly, clearing his throat lightly, his expression returning to the composed gentleness you were used to. “They seem to fit you well enough. That’s good,” he murmured, voice smooth but a little quieter than usual.

You gave a small nod, your fingers brushing at the fabric of the borrowed shirt, still warm from your body heat. You couldn’t ignore it—you smelled like him. A subtle blend of vanilla, a hint of herbal sweetness, and the faint, smoky scent of campfire clinging to the fabric. It wrapped around you like a quiet comfort, like a safe memory.

Quickly, you stepped closer to him, brushing the thought away before it made your chest ache. “We good to go?” you asked, hoping your voice sounded casual, even though your heartbeat had picked up for reasons you weren’t quite ready to admit.

Pure Vanilla gave a soft smile and nodded once, turning smoothly to the door. He opened it with one hand, stepping aside with a slight bow of his head, always the gentleman. “After you.”

As you stepped into the outside, a light breeze met your face from the open windows down the corridor. The air was cool, fresh with morning dew, and the faint sound of birdsong filtered in from outside. The scent of early spring was in the air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the day didn’t feel heavy with dread.

You and Pure Vanilla walked side by side, falling into a natural, easy rhythm. The village around you was alive with soft chatter and the scent of freshly baked bread drifting through the air. The homes were quaint, their wooden frames decorated with small flowers blooming in hanging baskets. Children laughed as they chased one another down cobbled paths, and the warm light of morning filtered through the trees like golden lace. You couldn’t help but look around in wonder, your eyes bright and wide with quiet amazement.

Pure Vanilla, walking just beside you, caught your expression. A soft smile tugged at his lips—something subtle, but filled with warmth and fondness. He seemed to carry a kind of peace in your presence, as though seeing you take in the world again made it easier for him to breathe.

“I figured we could grab some supplies so we can head out soon,” he said suddenly, his smooth voice cutting gently through the quiet. You perked up, your attention turning to him with a curious glint in your eye.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your tone light, eager to know what came next.

But when Pure Vanilla turned to meet your gaze, the answer you received was not the one you had expected.

“You are going to Gingerbrave’s kingdom,” he said softly, but his words carried a weight. “While I am heading further into the Beast Yeast territories.”

The way he said you and I—separate, divided—it sent a pang through your chest.

You stopped walking, your brows furrowing in confusion and disbelief. “You’re going alone?” you asked, almost incredulous.

Pure Vanilla kept walking for a few more steps before pausing and glancing over his shoulder. His expression remained calm, but you could see the faintest tension at the corners of his mouth. He hummed in response, a vague sound of confirmation as his eyes flicked away from yours.

“You’re serious,” you said flatly, catching up to him, your voice barely above a whisper.

There was a long moment of silence between you. The buzz of the village seemed to dull beneath the weight of the conversation. You could feel the discomfort settle in your stomach.

“You don’t have to—” you started, but he gently raised a hand.

“I will not be putting you at risk again,” Pure Vanilla said, his voice firm in a way you rarely heard. There was no hesitation in the words themselves, but the way he refused to meet your gaze spoke volumes. His eyes were focused ahead, the line of his jaw tight with restraint.

What you didn’t see—what he didn’t allow you to see—was the quiet war going on behind his composed expression. Saying no to you felt like trying to walk away from sunlight. Every instinct in him wanted to stay by your side, to keep you close where he could shield you from whatever might come. But he couldn’t let himself do that again. Not after everything.

You opened your mouth to speak, to argue, but before a word could pass your lips, he had already turned and begun walking ahead, his stride quick and purposeful. It wasn’t rushed, but it left no room for you to follow. Not this time.

Your hands clenched slightly at your sides as you stood there watching him move forward without you. You understood why—of course you did. You understood the guilt that weighed on him, the pain he tried to carry alone. But that didn’t stop the irritation that flared in your chest, hot and sharp. You weren’t a fragile thing to be sheltered and set aside. You had survived, fought, escaped.

And yet… here he was, making decisions for you again.

You let out a frustrated sigh and resumed walking, trailing just a few paces behind him now, your mood a mix of tangled emotions—concern, guilt, and a stubborn thread of defiance. You weren’t ready to let this go. Not yet.

                                      •

                                      •

                                      •

                                      •

The market buzzed gently around you—vendors calling out their prices, customers chatting amiably, the scent of ripened fruit and baked goods mixing in the warm morning air. Despite the soft beauty of the place, the bitter taste in your mouth from Pure Vanilla’s words lingered stubbornly.

You kept your eyes on the nearest stall, trying to ignore the slight ache in your chest. The fruits on display shimmered with a familiar luster—rich purples, warm golds, vibrant reds—and for a fleeting moment, they stirred something in your memory. You knew these fruits. The realization sat just out of reach, the details blurred like a dream you couldn’t quite recall.

Pure Vanilla’s presence returned beside you with quiet grace. You didn’t look at him, keeping your gaze locked on the stall. Without a word, he spoke to the vendor, his voice calm as ever, and exchanged a handful of coins for several pieces of fruit.

You finally lifted your head to glance up at him, catching the soft smile he wore—one weighed down by something deeper. Guilt, maybe. Or conflict. He offered you a piece of the fruit as you stared, his expression gentle.

“I like these,” he said, voice low. “And you seemed interested.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your shoulders softening just a little. You nodded wordlessly, taking the fruit and following him as he stepped away from the stall, the bag of fruit swinging loosely from one hand.

As you walked behind him again, watching the slow sway of his cloak and the deliberate calmness in his step, the warmth of the fruit in your hand contrasted the chill that still lingered in your chest. The gesture had been kind, but it didn’t fix what he’d said. You appreciated it—him—but the ache of being left behind remained.

The growing heat of the sun pressed down on the bustling market as voices grew louder, feet shuffled closer, and the once leisurely stroll turned into a struggle to move freely. The air felt thick, every step forward slowed by the weaving bodies around you. Your eyes darted around in search of Pure Vanilla, his soft blonde hair barely visible between the swells of the crowd.

You hesitated, your chest tightening as the press of people grew more suffocating. Panic began to creep into your thoughts, and without thinking, you called out, your voice just loud enough to break above the hum.

“Pure Vanilla!”

He turned instantly.

His gaze locked onto yours in an instant, and you didn’t have to say anything more. He saw the discomfort etched into your features, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your body hesitated against the flow of people. His movements were swift, and within moments, his tall form emerged from the crowd, parting it with an ease you envied.

His right arm was burdened with bags full of the supplies you’d both gathered—fruit, dried goods, herbs, and a few items of comfort—but that didn’t stop him. His free arm wrapped around your back in a firm, protective motion, pulling you into his side.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and close to your ear—grounding.

Pressed against his side, the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his steps helped ease the tightness in your chest. You nodded, not trusting your voice quite yet. His hold lingered a moment longer than necessary, his fingers gently resting against your shoulder as if silently promising you wouldn’t be lost again.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his tone calm but leaving little room for disagreement.

You didn’t argue.

Instead, you walked with him, his presence cutting through the crowd like a shield. His subtle strength was a comfort—unspoken, but deeply felt. And for the moment, despite everything still unspoken between you, it was enough.

You held onto Pure Vanilla’s arm as the two of you continued to drift through the market, the warmth of the sun settling on your shoulders, and the subtle chatter of the crowd beginning to blend into a dull hum. The weight of the bags he carried contrasted with the quiet calm he seemed to radiate, like a gentle anchor in the chaos. But as the minutes dragged on, a familiar ache settled into your legs—first a twinge, then a slow burn. Each step grew heavier, your pace subtly slowing.

Pure Vanilla noticed almost immediately.

He stopped mid-step, his gaze soft but observant as he looked over at you, concern flickering in his gentle eyes. “Are you tired?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that always made you feel seen even when you tried not to be.

You let go of his arm, rubbing your thighs with a slight grimace. “Kinda… but I’ll be fine,” you muttered, trying not to sound as tired as you felt.

His eyes flicked down to your boots, then back up to your face, thoughtful. “I think that’s enough for today,” he said softly. “Let’s head back.”

You opened your mouth to protest, the automatic response already on your tongue—but the ache in your legs silenced it before it escaped.

Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he offered lightly, “I could carry you back.”

You gave him a look, scoffing as you crossed your arms. “I’m perfectly capable of walking, Vanilla,” you teased, an amused smirk tugging at your lips.

That made his expression soften, a slight upward curve at the corners of his mouth. “Are you sure?” he replied with a hint of mischief. “I mean, royalty must be taken care of.”

You rolled your eyes, a small chuckle escaping you as the tension from earlier finally began to loosen its grip. “Please, like you’d survive being my royal attendant.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted with mock solemnity, “but I’d do it with grace.”

You stepped ahead of him, letting your hand brush his cloak briefly as you passed. He followed with ease, catching up in a few long strides, the air between you noticeably lighter than it had been earlier.

The two of you walked in a comfortable silence back toward the lodge, the sound of your boots and his staff clicking gently against the stone path. The market faded behind you, and despite the soreness in your legs and the quiet conflict still lingering under the surface, for the first time in a long while—you felt like you could breathe.

Chapter Text

“Please?”

“No.”

“Come on,” you whined dramatically, your voice muffled slightly as you flopped face-first into the couch cushion. “You’re being so difficult.”

Pure Vanilla didn’t even flinch. He was sprawled comfortably across the other end of the couch, one leg bent, the other draped casually off the edge. His cream button-up shirt was only half-buttoned, the loose fabric hanging open just enough to expose a sliver of his chest. The soft candlelight flickered against his tan skin, the contrast making him look all too serene—and far too smug for someone refusing to cooperate.

“Stubborn tree,” you mumbled into the pillow.

“I heard that,” he said with a chuckle, not even bothering to look over at you. He was holding a book lazily in one hand, though you could tell he wasn’t really reading it anymore.

You dragged yourself into a seated position, draping your arms over the back of the couch dramatically, your lower lip jutting out just enough to emphasize the pout you’d been perfecting all day. “You’re really going to make me go all the way back to Gingerbrave’s and just sit around while you march into danger?”

Pure Vanilla finally glanced over at you, his pale yellow and sky-blue eyes softening slightly, but still resolute. “Yes,” he said simply, returning to his book.

You groaned again, dramatically slumping down over the arm of the couch like your soul had just left your body. “I am not above emotional manipulation,” you warned, peeking up at him.

Another quiet laugh escaped him, rich and low. “That’s exactly why you’re not coming,” he replied smoothly.

“You let me run around a haunted mansion but won’t let me go with you?” you shot back, sitting up fully now, arms crossed over your chest.

“That was different,” Pure Vanilla replied, his tone calm but serious. “I failed to protect you then. I won’t make the same mistake.”

You faltered slightly at his words. The warmth of the room, the softness of the couch, even the casual humor between you both couldn’t dull the weight behind them.

Still, your stubbornness wasn’t going quietly. You tossed a pillow at his chest—not hard, just enough to startle him. “You’re impossible.”

He caught the pillow with one hand, his book now discarded to his lap, a half-smile playing on his lips. “And yet, you’re still here.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back with a sigh, but your smile lingered despite yourself. “I’m still not giving up.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” he replied, voice low and fond, the kind of tone that made your chest ache just a little.

Silence settled over you both for a moment. Not heavy—just quiet, comfortable. And though your argument wasn’t won, and his decision hadn’t changed, it didn’t feel like a loss either.

You slowly shuffled closer to him, sliding along the couch with a determined glint in your eye. Pure Vanilla glanced over at you, clearly suspicious of your intentions. But he didn’t stop you.

Once you were close enough, you tilted your head, widened your eyes, and gave him the best puppy-dog look you could muster. Your lower lip trembled ever so slightly, your brows raised with exaggerated innocence. “Please,” you whispered, voice soft and pleading. “If I can handle Shadow Milk, I can definitely handle whatever’s waiting for you out there.”

Pure Vanilla blinked at you, the corner of his lip twitching. “No,” he said flatly, but his voice lacked its usual firmness.

You leaned in closer, really laying it on thick. “I’ll be good. I won’t wander off. I’ll stay behind you the whole time—like a well-behaved little adventurer.”

That finally earned a laugh from him—short, but genuine. “You? Well-behaved?” he asked, arching a brow, clearly amused.

You gave him your most innocent grin. “I can be.”

With a sigh and a barely concealed smile, Pure Vanilla reached out, his large hand gently engulfing your face. You squeaked in protest as he pushed you back—not hard, just enough to reclaim his personal space.

“I am not falling for that look,” he said, clearly lying.

You almost missed it, but his pointed ears had flushed a soft shade of pink. His eyes stayed focused forward, but the faint blush dusting his face was hard to miss if you looked closely enough.

“I saw that,” you teased, grinning.

“Saw what?” he asked far too quickly.

“Your ears turned pink.”

“They did not.”

“They definitely did.”

He let out a low breath, clearly trying not to smile again, but his voice betrayed him. “I’m going to start charging you for emotional damage.”

You only scooted closer again, grinning wider than before. “You can’t put a price on charm.”

“Mm. I’m starting to think I can.”

A low groan rumbled from Pure Vanilla as he let his head fall back against the couch cushion, clearly trying to stifle his amusement. “Alright, that’s enough outta you,” he said in a tone laced with mock exasperation.

Before you could protest or get another word in, he suddenly pushed up onto his knees and, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, grabbed one of the couch pillows and smushed it playfully over your face. You let out a muffled squawk, flailing beneath the soft assault.

“Traitor!” you gasped dramatically once you wrestled the pillow away, tossing it back at him.

“Dangerous little thing, aren’t you?” he teased, dodging your retaliatory throw with infuriating ease.

That quickly evolved into a full-on play fight. You leapt up from the couch, grinning like a maniac as you fell into a mock fighting stance, hands raised, knees bent like you were ready to take on a battlefield. Pure Vanilla rose to his feet as well, mirroring your stance with exaggerated seriousness, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed the game.

You swung at him—light and playful. He blocked it effortlessly, even added a slow-motion “Oooh!” for dramatic effect.

Laughing, you took off, darting around the couch and toward the dining table, giggling uncontrollably. “You’ll never catch me!” you called out.

“Oh, is that a challenge?” he replied with a mock growl.

You squealed as his footsteps grew louder behind you. You barely dodged a grab at your waist, circling around one of the dining chairs and using it as a shield.

“Using furniture as cover now?” Pure Vanilla asked, circling the other way like a predator closing in.

“All’s fair in war and… whatever this is!” you fired back.

You ducked to the side, sprinting again—but he was faster. He caught you mid-laugh, arms wrapping securely around your waist. You shrieked as he lifted you slightly off the ground, spinning you once before setting you down again gently.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, grinning down at you.

“You’re the one who started it!”

“You were asking for it.”

You both laughed, breathless and warm from the chaos. 

You spun around, breathless from laughter, cheeks flushed with warmth—only for that warmth to be ripped away in an instant.

Pure Vanilla, still caught up in the playful high, reached out and teasingly grabbed a lock of your hair.

But the sensation—his fingers brushing the back of your head—wasn’t playful anymore. Not to your body, not to your memory.

A cold, choking terror gripped you.

Your legs buckled beneath you as your vision blurred with panic. In a split second, your mind dragged you backward—to that room, the dark one Shadow Milk had thrown you into. To the thud of your body hitting the floor, the clatter of the door locking behind you, the strings wrapped tight around your limbs like restraints. The crushing silence that had followed. The helplessness. The rage.

“No—no, please,” you gasped, barely aware of your own voice.

You stumbled back, arms shooting up in front of your face to defend yourself from an attacker that wasn’t there. Pure Vanilla froze mid-step, his face blanching. The mirth in his expression vanished entirely, replaced with wide-eyed alarm.

“Hey—hey, it’s just me. You’re safe,” he said gently, kneeling in front of you. “It’s okay. Look at me—just breathe, alright?”

But you couldn’t hear him. The ringing in your ears was too loud. The walls of the room seemed to close in. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest. You couldn’t stop shaking. You curled inward, knees pressed tight to your chest as if making yourself small enough would protect you.

You didn’t notice when the laughter stopped. When the sunlit room turned painfully quiet.

And then—something warm and soft fell over your shoulders.

Pure Vanilla’s robe. Familiar. Comforting. Its scent—soft vanilla, earth, and hearth—cut through the fog like a lifeline.

You blinked, breath catching in your throat. Slowly, you lifted your eyes. Pure Vanilla was kneeling in front of you, his expression pained. He didn’t speak right away. He only looked at you with gentle, understanding eyes—eyes laced with concern and guilt, like he was silently blaming himself for touching a wound he couldn’t see.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, your voice hoarse and trembling.

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize,” he said softly, voice low and careful, as if any wrong word might shatter you further. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

You glanced away, shame crawling over your skin. “It’s stupid,” you whispered, holding the edges of his robe tighter around your shoulders. “I hate that it still… affects me.”

Pure Vanilla reached forward slowly, letting his hand rest over yours—no pressure, just warmth. Steady, grounding.

“It’s not stupid,” he murmured. “You survived something no one should’ve had to. These things… they leave marks. Seen or unseen.”

Tears slid down your cheeks before you could stop them, frustration and sadness tangled in your chest like thorns.

“I thought I was stronger than this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Stronger than most. But even the strongest break sometimes. That doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human.”

Then you froze—eyes wide, breath catching in your throat.

Human.

The word echoed in your ears louder than it should have. Louder than anything else in the room. It was a word never spoken in the open, one buried beneath layers of careful omission, half-truths, and assumptions. And now, here it was—spoken so gently, so casually, as if it had always been known.

Your gaze snapped to Pure Vanilla.

He seemed to realize it too—what he’d just said.

The calm in his face faltered for just a moment. A flicker of panic, subtle but unmistakable, crossed his features. His lips parted slightly as if to backtrack, to correct himself, but nothing came out. His expression smoothed into something more composed, but you saw the way his fingers twitched, the way his shoulders tensed beneath the calm facade.

You opened your mouth. “How did you—”

But he raised a hand, not harshly, just… gently. A silent request for you to stop.

His eyes met yours, and there was something deeply vulnerable in them—pleading, almost. Not for forgiveness, not even for understanding, but simply for space. He had said more than he meant to. That much was clear.

You slowly closed your mouth and nodded once, tight and unsure. A hundred questions warred on the tip of your tongue, but you let them go—for now.

The silence between you shifted, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It simply… settled. Like the way snow falls after a storm, quiet and slow.

You shuffled forward on your knees, barely thinking, until your forehead rested softly against his shoulder.

Pure Vanilla exhaled softly, as though the tension had drained from him the moment you didn’t press him. His arms came around you, steady and warm, and his hands rubbed slow, soothing circles on your arms. His robe still wrapped you in a light vanilla scent—his presence, his steadiness, all of it cradling you without pressure.

You stayed like that, the two of you falling into a wordless rhythm. His chest rose and fell gently under your forehead, the soft brush of his fingers keeping you tethered. The sunlight filtering in through the window painted the room in a warm gold glow, and for a few heartbeats, it felt like the outside world didn’t exist.

You still didn’t have the answers. But for now, wrapped in his presence and in a silence that felt more healing than empty, you found a moment of peace.

                                      •

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The cobbled streets of the village echoed softly beneath your steps, each uneven stone a small, grounding reminder of the present—though your thoughts were far from it. The soft murmur of villagers talking and the distant clatter of hooves and carts did little to pierce through the fog in your mind. Your hands remained tucked deep into your pockets, shoulders hunched as if trying to curl inward against the weight pressing down on your chest.

Your conversation—or lack thereof—with Pure Vanilla lingered like a splinter beneath your skin. The word human still echoed in your mind, the way it had slipped from his lips so unintentionally, yet so powerfully. You’d thought about it a hundred different ways already. How he knew, when he’d known, why he hadn’t said anything before. Why he had chosen now, of all moments, to let it slip. Was it intentional? A crack in a carefully built wall? Or just exhaustion?

You hadn’t pressed him. You didn’t regret it. Not really.

But it didn’t stop the ache.

You sighed and gave a small kick at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the street. It bounced off the edge of a fruit crate and clattered into a nearby drain. You barely noticed the way a few villagers glanced at you with passing curiosity before going back to their business.

The village was beautiful, really. Quaint cottages with ivy-draped windows, gardens blooming with wild herbs and flowers, lanterns strung between poles swaying gently in the breeze. But the beauty felt distant—like you were walking through a painting instead of living in it.

Your boots scuffed to a stop near a small fountain tucked away in a quiet corner of the square. The water babbled softly, spilling over carved stone, worn smooth from years of use. You sank down onto the edge of it, elbows on your knees, gaze drifting without focus. You traced the edge of the ring that still hung around your neck, the chain a quiet, constant weight. That familiar ache of memory stirred again—Black Sapphire, Shadow Milk, the chaos, the warmth, the fear.

You couldn’t decide if you missed them or were simply haunted by them.

Tomorrow you’d leave this place—at least, you would. Pure Vanilla’s words had been clear. He’d be going alone.

The thought twisted something sharp in your chest. He said it was for your safety. You didn’t doubt his intentions. But it didn’t make it easier to accept.

And yet… part of you understood.

Your fingers curled into your palms. You’d escaped one prison. You wouldn’t let yourself be cornered by another—even if it was born of someone’s care.

You stared at your reflection in the water, the surface broken occasionally by falling leaves or drifting petals. You barely recognized yourself. Bruised, exhausted, dressed in someone else’s clothes, someone else’s scent still clinging to you. But your eyes… they still burned with something. Not defeat. Not yet.

You stared into the water, watching your distorted reflection ripple and fade every time a breeze disturbed the surface. Your eyes were dull, ringed with exhaustion. The frown etched into your features wasn’t new—it had settled there, comfortably, like a shadow that refused to leave. You let out a slow exhale, shoulders sagging under the weight of everything left unsaid and everything still unresolved. The day had barely begun, and already you felt like you were drowning in it.

Your fingers clenched slightly in your lap, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Everything felt heavy—your limbs, your thoughts, the ache in your chest that came from too many days of holding yourself together. You were supposed to feel free now, weren’t you? But instead, your mind was loud, crowded with memories you couldn’t shake and conversations you weren’t ready to have. The earlier exchange with Pure Vanilla played on a loop, and though you tried to push it away, it clung to your ribs like thorns.

The reflection in the fountain didn’t look like you. It looked like someone surviving, not living. And maybe that’s what stung the most. You didn’t want to just survive anymore. You wanted peace. You wanted control. You wanted answers.

You frown at your reflection in the water, the ripples distorting your features into something even more troubled. A sigh escapes your lips—but then, the crunch of boots on gravel breaks the stillness. You glance up sharply, startled, and find an unfamiliar face watching you.

“Now that’s a frown if I’ve ever seen one,” the boy says. His voice is gentle, with just a hint of teasing warmth.

You blink, caught off guard by the unexpected company. A boy stands a few feet away. He has mid-length, dull purple hair that brushes his jawline, and eyes so vividly green they seem almost unreal. His skin is a soft shade of lavender, unusual yet somehow calming. He’s dressed plainly—just a shirt, pants, and an apron smudged with flour or dust, like he’d come straight from a kitchen or workshop.

“Sorry—was I in the way?” you ask, shifting slightly, unsure if you’re intruding.

He chuckles, the sound low and friendly, shaking his head. “No, just checking on ya is all.”

The words are simple, casual—but there’s something in the way he says them, something that makes them feel heavier. Like they carry weight beyond their meaning.

You offer a small smile, still uncertain. “Thanks, but I’m alright. Really.”

He tilts his head, amusement dancing in his eyes, and a soft smile touches his lips. Without a word, he walks over and settles beside you on the fountain’s edge, close but not crowding.

The boy leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him as he glances over at you with a playful smirk. “You look like you’ve been through hell, kid,” he remarks, his tone teasing but not unkind.

You scowl slightly, lips curling into a half-hearted frown, before muttering a sarcastic, “Thanks for the observation.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath. “Sorry, that was rude,” he apologizes, though his grin never quite fades.

You nod, the motion slow, before letting your gaze drop back down to your hands. A quiet awkwardness settles between you, neither of you speaking for a long moment. You trace the lines of your fingers absently, feeling the weight of the silence pressing in, heavier than you’d expected.

He doesn’t push for conversation, though you sense he’s waiting for you to say something. Or maybe he just knows it’s not the time for forced words.

Eventually, his voice breaks the stillness again, softer now. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but you don’t have to carry it all alone either.” His words are simple, but they strike something in you—a quiet vulnerability you hadn’t expected.

You glance at him, finding his green eyes watching you carefully, as if waiting for some reaction.

“Name’s Licorice, by the way.” he said casually, flicking a stray strand of his purple hair from his eyes. “Weird, I know—but you’d be surprised how common that kind of thing is around here.”

You gave a soft huff of laughter, nodding slightly. “Honestly? I’ve heard stranger.” Your gaze drifted back to the rippling surface of the fountain, though you were more aware now of the figure beside you.

Licorice didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch out for a moment in a way that didn’t feel awkward—more like he was giving you space. Then, with a sideways glance, he added, “You looked like you were having a rough time. Thought maybe you could use a moment… or a distraction.”

You glanced at him, caught off guard by the unexpected softness behind his teasing tone. He didn’t prod, didn’t ask questions, just offered presence—and that was rarer than most people realized.

“I’ve had… a complicated few days,” you admitted, your voice low.

“I figured,” he said, not unkindly. “Most people don’t sit by fountains looking like they've gone to hell and back unless something’s weighing heavy.”

You blinked at that, then gave a small, dry smile. “Something like that.”

Licorice leaned back, stretching a little as he stared up at the slowly shifting clouds. “Well, I can’t fix whatever that is. But I make a mean tea if you’re into that kind of thing. Helps clear the fog upstairs sometimes.”

You found yourself chuckling—quiet, but genuine. “Are you always this forward with strangers?”

“Nah,” he replied with a lazy grin, “only the ones who look like they need it.”

And despite the heaviness still clinging to your ribs, you felt something shift—just a little. A moment of calm, unexpected and welcome.

Licorice seemed to study you for a moment, his green eyes thoughtful, though his expression never lost that easy amusement. 

“Well, it’s not often I see someone wandering through here with that much on their mind,” he remarked, his voice almost conversational. “What brings you to this village of all places?”

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated. Something in the way he asked made it feel less like idle curiosity and more like he was waiting for something — or testing you in some subtle way. But you gave him a simple shrug, still not wanting to offer up too much. “Just needed a break, I guess.”

He didn’t seem to buy the whole “passing through” thing.

He tilted his head slightly, a knowing glint flashing in his eyes as if he saw right through you. “A break from what, though?”

You felt your chest tighten at the question, the familiar ache of frustration creeping in again. It felt too close, too easy. He was too good at seeing past the walls you’d built. A brief silence hung in the air between the two of you as you weighed whether to push him off or give him a bit more. You shifted uncomfortably, half-expecting him to press further, but instead, he simply gave a small shrug.

“Fair enough,” he said with a small smile, as if reading your mind. “I won’t dig. But you should know, not everyone who wanders here is running from something. Sometimes… they’re looking for something.”

The comment lingered in the air, and you could feel his eyes still on you. There was something about it, about him, that felt unsettlingly familiar. You shifted, feeling the weight of the words hanging between you.

“Are you always this nosey” you grumble quietly.

Licorice let out a short laugh, brushing a strand of purple hair out of his face as he leaned back against the stone edge of the fountain. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I get the feeling that you’ve got more of a story than you’re letting on.”

Your heart raced for a moment as his words echoed in your mind, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but wonder… why did he feel so familiar? And why was it so unsettling?

                                      •

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                                      •

                                      •

You sat idly at the edge of the old stone fountain, legs tucked loosely beneath you as your fingers traced idle circles on the rim. The village bustled quietly in the background, but here it felt distant — the water’s soft trickle and Licorice’s easy, almost teasing voice filling the space around you.

He had just made a joke — something sarcastic, something vaguely charming — and though you gave a small chuckle, your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. There was something off about him. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise every now and then when he looked at you too long.

Then, you heard it.

“Reader!”

The call cut through the haze like a blade. Familiar. Warm. You turned your head toward the voice instinctively, your heart giving a small lurch.

Pure Vanilla stood just beyond the square, eyes locking onto yours immediately. He looked calm on the surface — composed, as always — but you noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand flexed slightly at his side. His cloak fluttered faintly in the breeze, staff slung across his back, golden eyes trained directly on you… and on Licorice.

You pushed yourself to your feet almost too quickly, brushing your hands down your sides as if caught doing something wrong. “Hey,” you called, trying to keep your tone even, casual, but Pure Vanilla was already crossing the square toward you.

Licorice tilted his head slightly, still seated, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Friend of yours?” he asked, clearly amused by the sudden tension.

You nodded, stepping a little away from the fountain. “Yeah… that’s Pure Vanilla.”

Licorice’s expression shifted for just a second — a flicker of something unreadable behind those striking green eyes — before he smoothed it away and stood.

Pure Vanilla reached your side just as Licorice gave a small, respectful bow, though there was an unmistakable sharpness to it. “Pleasure,” Licorice said, voice smooth, his gaze never quite leaving the older cookie’s.

“Reader,” Pure Vanilla said again, gentler now. His eyes shifted to you fully, softer but edged with concern. “I was looking for you. You were gone longer than expected.”

“I just needed some air,” you replied quickly. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

His gaze lingered on yours a moment longer, as if checking for something. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I see,” he said, though his attention flicked back to Licorice, unreadable. “We should get going. There’s still much to prepare for tomorrow.”

You glanced at Licorice, who gave you a small wave and a lopsided grin. “Don’t let the stress get to you, sugar. Come by anytime you need another frown check.”

You couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh at that, shaking your head. Then you turned and followed Pure Vanilla out of the square, your shoulders stiff as you felt his silence beside you.

After a few steps, you glanced at him. “Are you okay?”

“I should ask you the same,” he replied simply. But the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.

Pure Vanilla said nothing at first as the two of you walked, the clack of his staff against the cobblestone the only sound that broke the lull between you. The warmth of the sun filtered between the clustered roofs and hanging linens above, but the air between you felt cool — tense.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” you said suddenly, trying to sound nonchalant. “Licorice was just chatting with me.”

Pure Vanilla gave a small hum of acknowledgment, eyes focused ahead, but the way his brow remained slightly furrowed made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Really. He just sat down and talked, that’s it. He was… strange, yeah, but not in a bad way.” Your voice trailed off at the end, softer, almost unsure. “I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t expect someone like that to feel…”

You didn’t finish your thought. Even in your own head, the words tangled.

Safe. Unnerving. Familiar.

He made your skin crawl and your shoulders relax in the same breath — a contradiction you couldn’t explain.

You shook your head slightly as if to dispel it. “Anyway, it was nothing,” you added, more firmly this time. But you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince Pure Vanilla… or yourself.

Pure Vanilla’s gaze shifted toward you then, gentle but observant. He studied you for a moment too long, but didn’t press further. Instead, he spoke softly.

“He…. Seemed to familiar.”

The words weren’t cruel. If anything, they sounded like a careful warning. But that only made your stomach twist tighter with uncertainty.

Wanting to change the subject — and escape the weight of your own thoughts — you cleared your throat. “So,” you asked quickly, “what did you end up getting from the market? You said you had to grab a few more things?”

His expression softened at the shift. “Ah, yes.” He adjusted the strap of the small bag slung over his shoulder. “Some extra herbs, a few preservation ingredients for the journey… and a small bottle of that honeyed tea you like. I thought it might make tomorrow morning easier.”

Your lips curled into a smile before you could help it. “You’re spoiling me.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “You deserve to be looked after. Especially now.”

You looked down, suddenly flustered, warmth rising in your chest. The lodge came into view up ahead — its weathered wooden beams and flower boxes blooming lazily under the window sills. The comfort of its sight settled something in you, though the confusion stirred by Licorice still lingered beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

Pure Vanilla glanced at you again, and this time, his smile held no tension. “Of course.”

As you approached the lodge, the sky dipped into softer shades of gold, and the door creaked open under your hand. You stepped inside first, trying to leave the confusion outside — but the echo of Licorice’s eyes, and that odd sense of recognition, refused to be shut out.

                                      •

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Night had settled gently over the village, cloaking the world outside in deep blues and purples. The soft crackle of the fireplace added warmth to the dimly lit lodge, flickering shadows dancing lazily across the walls. You sat curled up on the corner of the old but well-kept sofa, legs tucked beneath you, a worn book resting in your hands. The pages were slightly yellowed, the ink faded in places — clearly well-loved. You had found it earlier in Pure Vanilla’s room, tucked between neat stacks of parchment and vials of labeled herbs.

The book was about healing through magical resonance — or, at least, that’s what the cover claimed. But you hadn’t turned a page in five minutes. Your eyes kept drifting, unfocused, the words blurring together in meaningless shapes.

From the small kitchen area, the clinking of wooden spoons and bubbling of water filled the silence. The comforting smell of stewed vegetables and something faintly sweet wafted through the air, making your stomach twist in anticipation. As if on cue, it gave a loud, rather pathetic growl.

Pure Vanilla glanced over his shoulder, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Sounds like someone is hungry.”

You huffed, your scowl half-hearted at best. “Betrayed by my own stomach,” you muttered, burying your face back in the book, pretending to read. But your grip on the spine tightened slightly.

The memories crept in despite your efforts — vivid and uninvited.

The warm light of a different room. The scent of old paper and spice.

The library.

You remembered the way Shadow Milk would sit beside you, always just a little too close, his leg brushing yours “by accident.” He’d lean over your shoulder to peer at what you were reading, launching into long, half-relevant rambles that made focusing impossible. And when that failed to get your attention, he’d simply snatch the book from your hands with that infuriating smirk, holding it hostage above your head like some oversized child.

Your lips twitched at the memory, almost a smile.

Then your chest tightened — a fuzzy, conflicted warmth blooming right where it hurt most.

You clenched your jaw.

Manipulation. It had to be.

He made you feel safe so he could keep you. To use you. He filled the silence so you wouldn’t think to run.

But still… that part of you — the stubborn, aching part — whispered: Was all of it a lie?

Guilt filled you, making your stomach churn. Nausea biting at the back of your throat.

You shook your head sharply, trying to chase away the phantom warmth that didn’t belong to this place. This moment.

Sliding the book shut with a quiet thud, you slowly rose to your feet and padded into the kitchen. Pure Vanilla was stirring something in a pot, the golden light catching in his hair, making him look almost ethereal in the quiet.

He glanced down at you as you approached, his eyes kind but observant. “Couldn’t focus?”

You shrugged lightly. “Book’s boring,” you lied. “Thought I’d see if I could help.”

Pure Vanilla handed you a wooden spoon without a word, letting you stir as he moved to cut herbs at the counter. The silence between you was soft, easy — but your thoughts still stormed.

And in the quiet bubble of that kitchen, with the smell of dinner thick in the air, you told yourself again:

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

But your heart, traitorous thing that it was, didn’t seem to believe you.

The gentle hum of the simmering pot filled the kitchen, accompanied by the subtle clinks and rustles of preparation. You stood by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, idly stirring the contents of the pot. The scent was warm — root vegetables, herbs, a faint hint of something sweet like honey or dates — and it filled the lodge with the kind of comfort that wrapped around your ribs like a soft blanket.

Your eyes flicked to Pure Vanilla.

He was only a few steps away at the wooden counter, bathed in the golden light from a small lantern hanging above. His long platinum hair had been swept into a messy bun at the crown of his head, a few strands falling loose to frame his face. The soft glint of candlelight reflected off his pale skin, and the white sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbows, revealing the gentle curve of toned forearms.

His hands — graceful, steady, sure — worked with practiced precision as he sliced herbs, each movement measured. There was a quiet rhythm to it, a flow in how he moved from one task to the next, a fluidity that came only from years of habit and care. It was peaceful. Domestic.

You caught yourself smiling.

This felt… normal. Grounded.

For a moment, you could almost forget the ache in your bones. The fear. The confusion.

But your mind had other plans.

The warmth in your chest twisted without warning, and the comforting image before you blurred, overlapping with another. One pulled from somewhere deeper — a memory laced with a different kind of quiet.

Another kitchen. Another late hour.

You blinked, and suddenly it was Shadow Milk standing before you. His long navy hair — that same silky texture — tied up in an identical messy bun. It had always irritated you how effortlessly he made dishevelment look good.

You remembered how it revealed the nape of his neck, a spot you had once brushed by accident, drawing a rare flustered look from him. How that small, exposed patch of skin drew your eye more than it should have. His shoulders — broad, steady — flexing under the strain of stirring some chaotic, half-burnt concoction he claimed was “experimental.” How he always turned to you with that half-smile, as if he knew.

You winced internally, forcing your head to turn away, as if trying to shake the ghost of him from your vision.

No. Stop.

You gripped the spoon a little tighter, jaw clenching. This isn’t his kitchen. That isn’t his voice. He isn’t here.

But you couldn’t deny the thudding ache in your chest — that quiet war between betrayal and nostalgia.

And then — warmth.

A gentle hand came to rest over yours, the one holding the spoon. You startled slightly and looked up.

Pure Vanilla was closer now, just beside you, his expression soft. His warm amber and blue eyes searched yours with understanding, not pity. His fingers were light on your hand, grounding. His smile — small, lopsided, a little sad — told you he hadn’t missed the way you turned away. Or the way your expression had faltered.

Before Pure Vanilla could say anything, you noticed just how close he really was — his chest nearly brushing your shoulder, his face inches from yours. Your breath caught in your throat as the realization struck, and your face instantly flushed a deep red.

The warmth of his presence, the soft scent of vanilla and something faintly herbal clinging to him — it all felt suddenly overwhelming.

Your eyes widened slightly as you stepped back instinctively, heart fluttering in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Pure Vanilla, too, seemed to realize the proximity a beat too late. His expression shifted with a brief flicker of surprise, and then his pointed ears turned a telltale shade of pink. He cleared his throat and quickly stepped away, his hand retreating from yours.

“Ah—s-sorry,” he said, a quiet chuckle escaping him as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to… get in your space.”

His voice was casual, and yet there was a nervousness tucked beneath the words, a faint tension in the way he avoided meeting your gaze at first.

You shook your head quickly, still flushed, forcing a small laugh to cover your embarrassment. “No, it’s… it’s fine. Really.”

You turned back to the pot, pretending to focus intently on stirring it, though your thoughts were far from the bubbling broth. Your cheeks were still warm, your pulse thudding softly in your ears.

Pure Vanilla shifted back to his place at the counter, resuming his quiet prep work — but there was a noticeable silence that lingered between you, one neither of you acknowledged.

You both ignored the quiet thrum in your chest — the strange, unspoken thing that had passed in that moment.

As the soft simmering and steady rhythm of chopping filled the air again, you focused on the spoon in your hand, trying to steady your thoughts.

Whatever that feeling was — you weren’t ready to name it.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

You were asleep, deep in that comfortable, dreamless kind of rest that comes only after an emotionally exhausting day. Your body was tucked into the sofa’s plush cushions, Pure Vanilla’s soft robe draped over you like a second skin, still carrying the faint scent of herbs and warmth. The world outside was still shrouded in pre-dawn quiet, the soft hum of wind barely audible through the windows.

That peace shattered when something nudged at your shoulder — gentle, but persistent.

You groaned, your face scrunching up as you batted at the air like a disgruntled cat. “Five more minutes…” you mumbled, your voice hoarse with sleep as you buried your face deeper into the pillow.

A soft chuckle followed, the familiar one that always carried a hint of amusement. “You’re like a lump of dough when you sleep,” Pure Vanilla teased, his voice smooth but mischievous.

You grunted in protest, yanking the edge of the blanket up to cover your head.

Then—whoosh.

A sharp breeze hit your skin as the blanket was ripped off with surprising speed.

“Vanilla—!” you sat up with a jolt, hair sticking up wildly in every direction. Your scowl was venomous but dulled by your sleepy eyes. “You absolute—”

Your hand instinctively reached for the nearest weapon. A pillow.

You launched it across the room with a half-hearted throw, and Pure Vanilla ducked expertly, laughing as he slipped out the door. “We leave soon,” he called over his shoulder, voice echoing down the hallway. “Ten minutes!”

“Swear to god…” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your face with both hands. You blinked blearily, trying to scrub the sleep from your eyes as your body slowly caught up with reality.

The room was dimly lit by the soft orange glow of sunrise beginning to filter through the curtains. You inhaled deeply, the lingering scent of herbs and something sweet filling your lungs — the scent of Pure Vanilla.

With a long sigh, you swung your legs off the couch, your body protesting every movement. “Morning people are evil,” you grumbled to yourself.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the chill of the floorboards kissing your feet as you shuffled groggily out of the room. Each step felt heavier than the last, your limbs still sluggish from sleep. The air carried the faint aroma of dried herbs and parchment — the lingering scent of Pure Vanilla’s presence in the home.

As you entered the dining area, the soft rustling of fabric and the clink of supplies being packed greeted you. Pure Vanilla was there, crouched over one of the travel bags, meticulously organizing every item with quiet focus. His long hair had been tied loosely at the nape of his neck, a few golden strands falling across his cheek in a way that seemed far too graceful for how early it was.

You blinked, still adjusting to the light, and clutched his robe tighter around your shoulders. Without a word, you slipped it off and tossed it toward him. The fabric flew through the air — and with one hand, without even glancing up, Pure Vanilla caught it effortlessly.

You blinked again, slightly impressed. “How do you even do that?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep but tinged with amusement. You knew his eyesight wasn’t great but it never seemed to slow him down, or affect him at all.

Pure Vanilla allowed a small smirk to pull at his lips, giving only a shrug in response. “Reflex,” he answered vaguely, though there was a knowing glint in his eye. His gaze flickered over to you — a quick, assessing glance. Your hair was a mess, eyes still half-lidded, shirt wrinkled from sleep. But there was something almost fond in the way he looked at you.

He gave a soft nod, gesturing with his head toward the bathroom. “Go shower while I finish this up,” he instructed, already folding his robe with a practiced hand.

You gave a sleepy nod, dragging your feet toward the bathroom.

As you stepped into the bathroom, the quiet click of the door closing behind you left the world outside muted. The light above cast a soft golden hue across the small room, making the tiled walls glow faintly. You reached out for the handle of the shower, twisting it until the water roared to life, quickly fogging the mirror and filling the air with a comforting steam that curled around your limbs like a protective blanket.

Your fingers tugged absently at your shirt, peeling off the fabric that clung to your sleep-warmed skin. One by one, your clothes were discarded into a loose pile on the floor. As the mirror cleared slightly under the heat, your gaze drifted up to meet your reflection—and you froze.

Lingering bruises stained your skin like fading ink blots, blooming in dull shades of purple, yellow, and green across your arms, ribs, and collarbone. Small, silvery scars webbed across your forearms—thin lines etched into your flesh from Shadow Milk’s strings. Each mark whispered its own memory, and you frowned, your chest tightening with a sudden breath of remembered pain.

Your eyes caught the ugly green splotch that colored your neck, a reminder of the worst night. The night you’d escaped. The image returned in a harsh, unforgiving flash: Shadow Milk’s towering frame looming over you, his strong hands crushing your throat, your body pressed into the cold floor as you struggled for air. You shuddered.

But then… Black Sapphire.

His face flickered in your memory like a candle in the dark — the panic in his eyes as he shoved Shadow Milk away, his breathless voice whispering your name as you ran. He had risked himself. For you. That concern—the tight, anxious coil in your stomach—twisted sharply.

What did Shadow Milk do to him after you got away? Is he okay? Was he—

No. You stopped yourself. You wouldn’t go there. You wouldn’t imagine the worst.

Instead, your thoughts shifted to something more recent. That photo — the one you’d glimpsed on Shadow Milk’s nightstand before you fled. Black Sapphire, Candy Apple, even Shadow Milk himself, caught in a rare moment of unguarded peace. It had looked… real. Honest. And for all his cruelty, Shadow Milk hadn’t destroyed that photo. He had kept it.

He may not care about me, you thought, but he cares enough about them not to hurt them… right?

You inhaled deeply, chest rising with the thick warmth of the steam, then stepped beneath the cascade of water. The heat hit your skin instantly, soothing the ache of your muscles, and you let it wash over you—down your back, over your shoulders, dripping from your lashes like a fresh start.

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes, willing the memories to swirl down the drain with the water. For now, you just needed to breathe. To be clean. To be here.

As the last of the warm water dripped from your skin, you stepped out of the bathroom into the cooler air of the lodge. A soft cloud of steam trailed behind you, fading with every step. Your clothes clung gently to your still-damp skin, the cotton of your shirt slightly chilled where your hair brushed against it. You rubbed your towel against your head a few more times but gave up on fully drying it—there wasn’t time, and frankly, you didn’t care.

Your feet padded softly against the wooden floors as you moved toward your room. The morning was still young, the light from the window casting a gentle gold hue over the scattered belongings you had managed to gather throughout this strange journey. You walked quietly, the creak of the floorboards beneath you the only sound in the still room.

One by one, you collected your things—folding what little clothing you owned into a small pile, slipping a half-finished notebook into your bag, tucking away a worn brush. But as you reached for your pack, your eyes caught on the pillow resting at the head of your bed. You stopped, frozen for a moment. Something stirred in your chest—familiar, unwanted.

With slow, hesitant steps, you walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand reached forward almost automatically, slipping beneath the soft fabric of the pillowcase. You rubbed your fingers against the inside, searching blindly until they brushed something cold and solid.

Metal.

You grasped it gently and drew it out. The small object caught the sunlight, swinging on a delicate chain—silver and sleek. The ring.

Shadow Milk’s ring.

It dangled from your fingers, rotating slightly as you stared down at it in silence. The cool metal pressed against your palm as you closed your hand around it, holding it like something fragile—or dangerous.

You sat there for a while, your thumb gently brushing over the familiar groove in the band. Every detail of it was engraved into your memory. The weight of it, the strange comfort it offered, the twisted meaning behind it.

A gift, he had said. A symbol.

The muscles in your jaw tightened. Anger began to bubble in your chest, rising slowly like an ember catching flame. You hate him, you reminded yourself. He’s evil. A monster. Manipulative. Cruel.

But even as those words echoed through your mind, that horrible feeling—the one you kept shoving down—began to creep in. That sickening confusion. That piece of yourself that questioned everything.

Why?

Why did he keep you around?

Why did he talk to you like that—softly, like you mattered?

Why didn’t he just kill you?

Why… did part of you miss him?

You gritted your teeth, your fingers curling tighter around the ring until it bit into your skin. The ache in your chest grew sharp, like a splinter you couldn’t remove. You hated this. Hated him. Hated yourself for feeling this way.

Your breaths came faster for a moment, but then—through sheer force of will—you exhaled slowly. You closed your eyes and set the ring gently back onto the bed, the chain coiling like a serpent in the sheets. You wouldn’t wear it. But you weren’t ready to throw it away either.

Not yet.

You rubbed your hands over your face, dragging your palms downward in an effort to ground yourself. You couldn’t afford to spiral now. You had to leave soon.

Another deep breath.

Another lie whispered into the quiet.

He doesn’t matter anymore.

A soft knock at the door snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts. You jolted upright, the chain still tangled in your fingers. In a panic, you shoved the ring into your pocket, movements hurried and clumsy like a child trying to hide something they knew they weren’t supposed to have. Your fingers lingered a second too long on the cool metal before you pulled your hand away, sealing it behind denim and denial.

You took a deep breath, smoothing your shirt in an attempt to appear normal, collected—anything but haunted. Then you hurried to the door and pulled it open.

Pure Vanilla stood there, framed in the warm morning light, his golden-white hair catching the sun in a soft halo. A travel bag was slung over his shoulder, the leather worn with use, and he held another in his left hand. He looked calm as ever, but his gaze flicked briefly over your face, no doubt catching traces of the storm still buried behind your eyes.

“Time to go?” you asked quietly, your voice slightly raspy from the emotion you hadn’t quite shaken off.

He gave a small nod, his expression gentle. “Everything’s ready.”

He extended the bag toward you, silently offering to take yours as well, but you shook your head and slung your pack over your shoulders, tightening the straps with a quiet determination.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice firmer now.

Pure Vanilla didn’t argue. He simply stepped aside to let you pass, and together you exited the lodge, the wooden door creaking softly behind you as it swung shut.

The early morning air was crisp and cool, laced with the scent of dew-kissed grass and distant hearthfire. The rising sun bathed everything in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the dirt path and painting the trees in warm hues of amber and rose. Birds chirped softly from the rooftops and trees, the world slowly stirring awake.

You paused on the steps, turning to look back at the lodge one last time.

It stood quiet and still, nestled among the trees like a secret kept safe. Within those walls had been moments of comfort, confusion, pain, laughter—memories that had settled deep into your bones. Despite the fear and uncertainty that clung to you, part of you didn’t want to leave just yet. This place, with its simple peace, had offered you a brief illusion of normalcy.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Come on,” Pure Vanilla’s voice called softly from ahead. You turned your gaze and saw him a few feet away, standing on the path with the same soft smile he always wore when he saw through you more than you’d like. There was no pressure in his tone, just understanding.

You blinked once, twice—then smiled back.

With one final glance over your shoulder, you turned and jogged the few steps to catch up with him, the weight of your bag and your thoughts heavy on your shoulders. The ring in your pocket was a cold presence, but the warmth of the morning sun and the steady pace of Pure Vanilla at your side gave you something to hold onto.

For now, it was enough.

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As you and Pure Vanilla made your way toward the edge of the village, the path winding between familiar market stalls and shuttered homes still quiet in the early morning haze, a voice called out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turned instinctively, eyebrows raising at the sight of a familiar figure jogging toward you. Licorice.

He looked slightly disheveled in his usual half-buttoned shirt and apron, a fine dusting of flour streaked across his lavender cheek and tangled into the strands of his dull purple hair. One hand was raised in greeting, while the other clutched a small woven basket swinging from his elbow. His green eyes lit up as they landed on you.

You stopped and lifted your hand to wave back, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the early hour. Pure Vanilla, however, shifted just a step closer to you, his tall form settling at your side with quiet alertness. You didn’t miss it. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye and shook your head, amused by his silent protectiveness.

Licorice reached you, a little breathless but grinning brightly. “Good morning!” he said, far too cheerfully for how early it was. The sun had barely stretched over the trees, and already he was beaming like it was midday.

“Morning,” you returned with a soft laugh, your voice still warm with sleep.

His gaze flickered between you and Pure Vanilla, lingering a second longer on your bags. “Heading out?” he asked, tilting his head, curious.

You nodded, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Yeah. We’re going to Gingerbrave’s kingdom. Pure Vanilla is heading to Beast Yeast after that.”

The cheer in Licorice’s expression faltered for just a moment. His eyes shadowed briefly, his jaw tensing at the mention of Beast Yeast. “You’re going with him?” he asked, too casual.

You shook your head. “No. Just to Gingerbrave’s. He’s going alone.”

At that, something eased in Licorice’s stance, his shoulders loosening. “That’s probably for the best,” he murmured, though his tone carried an unusual weight. “Beast Yeast isn’t as safe as it used to be. Not for… certain kinds of people.” His words trailed with something more than concern—something oddly tender, like he wanted to say more but thought better of it.

Before you could question it, he perked up with an “Oh!” and quickly bent to retrieve something from the basket at his side. You blinked, just now noticing it.

He pulled out a small paper bag, grease already faintly staining the bottom, and held it out to you with a flourish. “For the road,” he said with a wide grin.

You took it curiously, and the second the top crinkled open, the warm, buttery scent of cinnamon and sugar wafted out. Your eyes lit up as you spotted the perfectly swirled cinnamon rolls nestled inside, the tops golden and glistening with icing.

Licorice’s grin widened smugly at your expression. “Best cinnamon rolls in the village. Made them myself this morning. You’re welcome.”

Your mouth watered, and you couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped you. “You’re really proud of these, huh?”

Pure Vanilla raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable as his gaze flicked from the cinnamon rolls to Licorice. The tension was subtle, but present. 

“Obviously,” he said, tossing his hair with exaggerated flair. “Baking is an art, and I, dear traveler, am a master.”

Pure Vanilla allowed a short scoff to escape his lips, barely masked behind a sigh. “Well, aren’t you the only baker here?” he muttered with a sharpness not typical of him.

You elbowed him in the side, hissing quietly, “Be nice!”

He winced, immediately shrinking just slightly under your glare. Arms crossed, he turned his face away but said nothing more, his jaw still tense.

Licorice didn’t seem fazed. 

You turned slightly, lifting the bag in a small gesture of thanks. “They smell amazing. Really.”

Licorice’s smirk softened. “Just figured you might want something warm before heading off. The road can be long.”

The words, though said casually, carried something else underneath—something quiet and genuine.

He offered you one last smile, the corner of his lips twitching in quiet amusement. “Good luck out there,” he said gently, his eyes lingering on you a beat longer than necessary.

You returned the smile with a grateful one of your own. “Thank you, Licorice,” you said warmly, waving after him as he turned and disappeared back into the quiet village streets, the morning sun casting long shadows behind him.

As you fell back into step beside Pure Vanilla, you cast a sideways glance at him, eyebrow raised. “Okay, what’s your problem with him?”

Pure Vanilla didn’t respond at first. His gaze lingered down the path ahead, brows drawn low over his eyes. Then, after a long pause, he frowned and answered simply, “I don’t trust him.”

You sighed, your hand reaching out to rub his arm gently in reassurance. His body eased slightly under your touch, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. When you glanced up again, a soft pink had bloomed across his cheeks, and the tips of his pointed ears tinged a faint rose.

He shook his head quickly, clearing his throat. “Come on,” he said, voice low, “we should keep moving.”

You nodded, walking quietly beside him, though you couldn’t help but glance back once over your shoulder—at the fading village, at the soft scent of cinnamon still clinging to your hands, and at the lingering question behind Licorice’s eyes.

You and Pure Vanilla fell into an easy silence, one that needed no words. The early morning sun cast soft golden rays across the winding path, filtering through the trees that lined the outskirts of the village. The gentle crunch of your boots pressing into gravel and dirt was the only sound between you, a rhythmic companion to your steady progress. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was peaceful. Comforting.

You reached into the paper bag that Licorice had given you, the scent of cinnamon and sugar still fresh and warm. Your fingers brushed past the flaky surface of a cinnamon roll and instead touched something thin and crisp—paper. Curiosity furrowed your brow as you carefully pulled it out, unfolding it slowly. Your eyes skimmed the familiar handwriting, neat and deliberate.

“Stay safe.”

It was signed simply: S.

Your breath caught for a moment. The soft hum of the forest dulled as your chest tightened. That signature—so small and simple—hit like a whisper from a memory you’d been trying to forget. Or trying not to. Your fingers trembled faintly as you stared at it, the letters burning into your mind. A sad smile crept onto your lips, and tears welled up in your eyes before you could stop them.

You quickly folded the note and tucked it into your pocket like it was fragile. Sacred. Like if you held it too long, it might disappear.

Beside you, Pure Vanilla had slowed his steps, his golden eyes flicking toward you. They softened in concern the moment he caught sight of your glassy gaze. Without hesitation, he reached out, his warm hand gently brushing a tear from your cheek before it could fall.

You blinked, startled by the touch, but quickly chuckled under your breath, trying to defuse the tension. “I’m okay,” you said softly, voice hoarse but honest. You gently brushed his hand away, not in rejection but in reassurance.

Pure Vanilla’s gaze lingered on you, still laced with unspoken questions, but he nodded quietly, choosing—for now—not to press. The two of you resumed walking, though the weight in your chest hadn’t lifted. The note nestled in your pocket felt heavier than it should have been.

Behind your smile, confusion lingered. Was it comfort or dread that the note brought? You weren’t sure. All you knew was that, somehow, he still found a way to stay close. Even from far away.

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You groaned loudly, flinging your head back as if the sheer weight of existence was too much to bear. “We’ve been walking for hours,” you whined, dragging out the last word with all the melodrama of a theater actor on their final breath. The sun blazed overhead, casting heat like a second skin over your body. Sweat clung to your brow, and your shirt stuck stubbornly to your back. “I’m going to melt,” you added, lifting your arms like a withering plant reaching for salvation.

Beside you, Pure Vanilla let out a long-suffering sigh, his expression flat but not unkind. His mismatched eyes—one the soft gold of morning sunlight, the other a delicate lilac hue—rolled toward the heavens, likely asking the stars for patience. Without saying a word, he reached out and grabbed the back of your shirt, tugging you forward like a stubborn mule.

“Come on,” he grumbled, not breaking his stride. “If we don’t keep moving, we won’t make it to Gingerbrave’s before nightfall.”

You scowled at the back of his head, twisting slightly in his grasp in a futile attempt to free yourself. “You’re so bossy,” you huffed.

Still no response.

That’s when the idea struck—bright and mischievous like a lightning bolt of chaos. A slow smirk curled across your face, wicked with intent.

Without warning, you went limp, your knees buckling as you let gravity claim you. With a dramatic exhale, you crumpled to the dirt path, arms flopping to your sides like a ragdoll. Dust puffed up around you, clinging to your already sweaty skin and staining your clothes, but you didn’t care. You stared up at the sky through half-lidded eyes, sighing as though you were on the brink of death. “Tell my story,” you whispered theatrically.

Pure Vanilla came to a stop and turned, staring down at you with a withering expression. His brows were drawn tight, lips pressed in a firm line—but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He knelt slightly, giving your arm a tug. “Get up,” he said in a tone that tried for stern but landed closer to amused.

You looked at him, beaming with mock innocence. “No.”

“Up.”

“Nope.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being realistic,” you countered, folding your hands over your chest. “The sun has decided to personally smite me today. I am one with the earth now.”

Pure Vanilla sighed again, though this one sounded more like he was trying to hide a laugh. He stood tall, arms crossed, peering down at you like a disapproving parent faced with an especially unruly child. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“Thank you,” you chirped, offering him a cheeky wink from your place in the dirt.

For a moment, he said nothing, only looking down at you with that unreadable expression of his. Then—without warning—he reached down and easily hoisted you up by the arm, as if you weighed no more than a feather.

“Wha—hey!” you yelped, scrambling upright with flailing limbs.

“You had your fun. Now walk,” he said flatly, already moving again.

You stood stiffly, arms crossed with theatrical drama, and shot Pure Vanilla the most irritated glare you could muster. Your brows were scrunched down, lips pressed in a thin pout. As he walked ahead without looking back, you threw your head dramatically to the side, avoiding his gaze like a sulking child. Your nose tilted toward the sky in exaggerated defiance.

You could hear the soft crunch of his boots growing louder as he retraced his steps toward you. He was close—close enough that you could smell the faint scent of vanilla and herbs that always seemed to cling to him.

“Are you gonna walk?” he asked, amusement laced in his voice, though he did an admirable job trying to sound stern.

“No,” you huffed stubbornly, still refusing to look at him.

There was a beat of silence—then you suddenly felt a pair of large hands grip your waist. Your body stiffened instantly, breath catching in your throat. Heat surged to your cheeks as your heart skipped a beat. You whipped your head toward him, startled to see just how close he now was. His face was inches from yours, half-lidded eyes boring into you with a calm, unreadable expression. But there was something else in his gaze too—something almost mischievous.

“Wha—What are you—”

Before you could finish, the world flipped violently upside down.

“Wait—HEY!” you shrieked, flailing as your stomach collided with his shoulder. He hoisted you with effortless strength, adjusting you securely in place as if you weighed nothing more than a loaf of bread.

You stared at the ground in disbelief, mouth agape, face flushed dark red from both embarrassment and surprise. The blood rushed to your head, making your vision blur slightly.

“I swear to all that is sacred—” you began, squirming furiously.

Pure Vanilla flashed a cocky, sideways grin, casting a smug glance at your dangling form from the corner of his eye. “If you’re going to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one,” he grumbled with mock annoyance, adjusting his grip by sliding his hands firmly beneath the backs of your thighs to keep you from slipping.

The contact made your breath hitch again—your body going rigid at the casual intimacy of the hold.

“Put me down, you ass!” you yelled, pounding your fists half-heartedly against his back.

“Nope,” he replied flatly, walking forward as if this were the most normal way to transport another person. His voice was maddeningly calm.

The steady rhythm of his boots crunching on the path beneath you returned, and you swayed gently with each step, completely at his mercy. Your legs kicked uselessly behind him, and you were sure your face could boil water from how hot it felt.

“This is abuse,” you muttered with a weak groan.

“You’ll live,” Pure Vanilla said, and though his voice was flat, the smirk tugging at the edge of his lips betrayed his amusement.

You sighed in defeat, letting your arms hang limply, the cinnamon roll bag flopping against his back as you accepted your fate—grumbling curses into his robes all the while.

The walk had grown quiet save for your occasional grumbles and wiggles of protest, still perched on Pure Vanilla’s shoulder like some oversized sack of flour. He walked effortlessly, as though your full weight wasn’t a bother in the slightest, and the fact only annoyed you more.

“I swear, when we get to Gingerbrave’s, I’m telling him you kidnapped me,” you muttered, kicking your legs again.

“Mhm,” Pure Vanilla replied nonchalantly, the smirk in his voice palpable.

But then, without warning, he came to a sudden stop.

You frowned, adjusting your angle to glance at his face. He was staring ahead with a disarming, innocent smile, but something about it felt… mischievous. You narrowed your eyes.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

“Hey,” he said casually, “you’re hot, right?”

Your face scrunched in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“I said, you’re hot. Aren’t you?”

You blinked, your suspicion only deepening. “Why…?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned off the main path, his steps quick and determined.

“Wait—where are you going? What are you doing? Pure Vanilla—I swear—” You began to squirm in his grasp again, sensing something was very wrong.

Before you could launch a full protest, you caught the glimpse of shimmering water through the trees—grass lining a small natural pond tucked away just off the path. Panic sparked in your gut.

“No. No. Don’t you dare—!”

Without a word, Pure Vanilla shifted your weight, pulling you off his shoulder and adjusting you to his hip with ease. His arms were strong, secure—frustratingly so.

Your face burned as your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the warmth radiate through his robes. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Cooling you off,” he said sweetly.

And then—before you could scream or curse or even breathe—he tossed you.

You yelped midair, flailing like a cat as the cold slapped your skin all at once. Water enveloped you in an instant, and you landed with a splash onto the silty bottom, submerged up to your waist.

You shot up, gasping, your hair and clothes soaked as you stared at him in shock.

Pure Vanilla was standing at the edge of the pond, doubled over in hysterical laughter. His normally soft, composed voice now burst with warmth and glee, his entire body shaking as he held his stomach.

Despite the shock, anger quickly melted into amusement as you felt your lips twitch. You couldn’t help it—laughter bubbled up and burst from your chest.

“You asshole,” you called playfully, giggling as water dripped from your hair. “Come help me up!”

Still laughing, he stepped closer and offered you his hand. But you had other plans.

With a wicked grin, you grabbed not just his hand—but his entire arm—and gave a sharp tug.

“Wait—!” he gasped, but too late.

His balance shifted and gravity did the rest. He tumbled forward with a loud splash, landing right on top of you.

You both went under for a second, flailing, and came up gasping and sputtering. You shoved his shoulder, trying to push him off, but the damage was done.

Pure Vanilla sat up between your legs, clothes clinging to his lean frame, hair plastered to his neck and shoulders, dripping with pond water. His skin glowed slightly in the dappled sunlight, radiant and soft, and for a second—you forgot how to breathe.

Your eyes met his, wide and surprised, and your face immediately flushed a deep crimson. You turned your head quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed the heat on your cheeks.

But of course, he had.

He chuckled—quiet, warm, teasing. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get out before you freeze.”

Still flustered, you allowed him to take your arm, helping you to your feet as water poured off both of you.

He glanced down at his soaked robes and wrinkled his nose with exaggerated displeasure. “I’m soaked,” he grumbled.

You giggled, brushing your wet hair from your eyes. “Serves you right.”

The two of you stood there dripping, smiling in the sun-dappled clearing, water pooling around your feet and shared laughter still echoing in the trees.

You felt light, in that moment nothing else mattered.

You were happy.

Chapter Text

The soft crunch of boots against dirt and scattered twigs echoed into the quiet night, the world around you painted in muted hues of deep blues and silvers. The moon hung high above the treetops, its soft glow filtering through the forest canopy, casting ethereal shadows that danced with every sway of the wind.

You hugged your arms around yourself, your body tired and aching from the long journey. Your legs protested with every step, each muscle sore and tight, but still—you kept walking. The silence between you and Pure Vanilla wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was soothing, like the world had taken a breath and allowed the two of you this still moment.

You tilted your head slightly, stealing a glance at him through the curtain of your damp hair. Despite the long hours of walking, he looked remarkably unfazed. His steps were steady and light, posture composed, and his breathing even. The moonlight glinted off the soft white strands of his hair, now loose and falling gently across his shoulders after drying from your earlier pond mishap.

As if sensing your gaze, Pure Vanilla turned to glance at you, his pale heterochromatic eyes—one warm gold, the other soft blue—flickering with gentle concern. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked, his voice low and kind, almost lost beneath the rustling leaves above.

You blinked and offered a tired smile, nodding. “Yeah… just tired.”

He gave a small hum, his gaze lingering for a second longer before he looked ahead once more. “It’s not much farther now,” he reassured. “We’ll be there before the moon sets.”

You felt a quiet wave of relief settle in your chest at that.

“Good,” you murmured, letting your shoulders relax just a bit. “I don’t think my feet can take much more.”

Pure Vanilla chuckled softly. “I did offer to carry you again,” he teased.

You shot him a look, narrowing your eyes. “Try it and I’ll push you into the next river we pass.”

He raised his hands innocently, his eyes twinkling. “Duly noted.”

The trail curved slightly ahead, leading out of the dense thicket of trees and opening into a gently sloping hill. Beyond that, you could just make out the soft glow of warm lanterns in the distance—ginger-colored light marking the edge of the small outer farms surrounding Gingerbrave’s kingdom. The sight gave you new energy, a tiny second wind that pushed you to keep walking beside him.

The stars shimmered overhead, the sky so clear you could make out the hazy dusting of the galaxy stretching above. A breeze carried the distant scent of something sweet—like cinnamon and sugar—making your stomach give an impatient growl.

Pure Vanilla looked over with a knowing smile. “Once we’re settled, I’ll see what I can get you to eat.”

You chuckled, the sound faint but warm. “If it’s anything like those cinnamon rolls, I’m sold.”

He arched a brow, his expression amused. “Still thinking about those, are we?”

You grinned tiredly. “Can you blame me?”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh as you continued down the path, the warm lights growing closer with every step. And though your body ached and the night air carried a creeping chill, for the first time in a long while—you felt safe.

And perhaps, despite everything that happened… a little hopeful too.

The path beneath your feet shifted from gravel to smoother stone as you and Pure Vanilla crested the final hill. The trees thinned behind you, and suddenly—there it was.

Gingerbrave’s kingdom.

Your steps slowed as your eyes widened, taking in the sight before you. Massive archways stood tall, carved into thick stone walls that encircled the outer perimeter. Vines laced over the edges of the ancient gray, and golden torchlight flickered from sconces fastened to the stone, casting dancing shadows across the cobbled road. It felt grand yet familiar, like something from a dream half-remembered.

You tilted your head up, admiring the height of the gate as your steps brought you closer. The walls towered over you like silent guardians, but the warmth that poured from the village beyond them kept the place from feeling cold or imposing.

As you passed under the archway, your eyes traced the intricate carvings etched into the stone—symbols of wheat, stars, and ginger roots, all woven together in elegant spirals. You were so caught up in the awe of it all, you nearly missed the familiar voice calling your name.

“Hey!!”

You turned toward the sound just in time to see a blur of warm brown and soft blue sprinting toward you.

Gingerbrave.

His wild, cinnamon-colored locks were tousled in all directions, just as they always were. His bright blue eyes practically shimmered with energy against the warm tones of his skin. There was no slowing him down—before you could even lift a hand in greeting, he barreled into you, wrapping his arms around your waist in a tight, bone-jostling hug.

“Oof—!” The air left your lungs in a surprised breath. You blinked down at him, caught off guard by the force of his embrace.

Over his shoulder, you spotted Pure Vanilla, a quiet, amused smile curling at his lips as he adjusted the strap of his bag.

“I’m so glad you’re safe!” Gingerbrave’s muffled voice came from your chest before he finally let you go, stepping back but still gripping your hand like he was afraid to lose you again.

You smiled, a bit breathless. “It’s good to see you too, Brave.”

“You have no idea how worried I was. When Pure Vanilla showed up without you at first I thought—” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line before his expression brightened again. “But you’re here! And you’re okay!”

His boundless energy radiated off of him in waves, and it made your chest tighten—not with fear or confusion like before, but with warmth. The kind that reminded you what hope felt like.

“Sorry to make you worry,” you said softly. “But… I’m okay. Really.”

Gingerbrave beamed. “Come on! You guys must be tired—there’s food, clean rooms, and way comfier beds than whatever rocks you’ve been sleeping on!”

You chuckled, letting him tug you by the hand further into the kingdom, Pure Vanilla trailing beside you with a small shake of his head.

“Still the same as ever,” he murmured, his tone affectionate.

As you passed through the gates and into the heart of the village, you took in the cheerful hum of life around you—vendors closing their shops for the night, lanterns flickering along ivy-covered buildings, children chasing each other between gardens and stone paths.

You looked up at Pure Vanilla, who met your gaze briefly and offered a knowing smile, one that said you’re safe here.

Gingerbrave led the way with his usual uncontainable energy, his grip firm on your hand as he tugged you deeper into the kingdom’s heart. You followed, the rhythm of your footsteps blending with the distant clatter of hooves and the low murmur of nighttime activity.

The streets were alive, even under the moon’s watchful eye.

Lanterns hung from arched posts and the eaves of shops, casting a golden glow on the cobbled roads. Their warm light flickered against painted wooden signs and stone storefronts, illuminating the clusters of people still bustling about—traders closing down stalls, guards making their rounds, and children with sticky fingers giggling as they chased firebugs through the air.

Your eyes darted across the crowd, unease curling tight in your chest.

There were too many faces. Too much movement.

Your hand instinctively reached for something—anything—before Pure Vanilla’s presence made itself known again, steady and grounding at your side. His shoulder brushed gently against yours, and the soft sweep of his robe brushed your arm.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

But you could feel his gaze—quiet, watchful—as he noted the way your posture stiffened and how your eyes flitted anxiously from person to person.

“I know it’s a lot,” he said under his breath, voice low enough that only you could hear. “But you’re safe. I’m right here.”

You didn’t respond aloud, but a soft exhale slipped from your lips, and some of the tension eased from your shoulders.

Gingerbrave, oblivious to your unease, continued chattering beside you with unfiltered enthusiasm.

“—and then I told Strawberry cookie, ‘No way I’m crawling through that tunnel first!’ But she just looked at me with that look she does—you know the one? Like she knows I’m going to do it anyway? So I did. And you won’t believe what was on the other side!”

You blinked, attempting to catch up with his story, though the details blurred in your ears. Still, it was comforting—familiar even—to hear him ramble with such honest excitement.

He glanced over his shoulder at you with a grin, his cheeks slightly flushed from the cool night air. “It’s way cooler than last time, huh?”

You nodded, your lips quirking into a small, tired smile. “Yeah… yeah, it is.”

Pure Vanilla chuckled softly beside you. “He’s been talking about that tunnel for weeks now.”

Gingerbrave puffed out his chest. “Because it was awesome!”

The three of you turned down another lantern-lit path, the warmth of the light washing over you and casting soft shadows on the stone beneath your feet. The sound of laughter and music spilled faintly from nearby homes and taverns, and the smells of baked bread, roasting vegetables, and herbs lingered in the air.

You looked around again, slower this time. More aware of the warmth in the atmosphere rather than the number of people. There was a quiet kind of joy here—one that pressed gently against the ache inside of you.

And still, through it all, Pure Vanilla stayed close. Not crowding, not clinging—just there.

As if his presence alone could steady your heartbeat.

And maybe, in some small way, it did.

Gingerbrave led you through a quieter part of the kingdom, where the bustle of the streets began to fade into a gentler hum. The buildings here were older—quaint and welcoming, made of smooth stone and timber with ivy creeping up the sides. Soft yellow light glowed behind curtains, casting rectangles of warmth onto the cobbled path.

“There it is!” Gingerbrave announced proudly, pointing ahead.

Your eyes followed his gesture to a modest inn tucked between two flowering trees, its sign swaying gently in the breeze. The wooden door creaked open with a warm welcome as the three of you stepped inside. The lobby was cozy, lit by a flickering fireplace and a few hanging lanterns. The scent of old books, lavender, and freshly baked bread clung to the air like a hug.

“I’ll go let them know you’re here! I’ll set up two rooms so you and Pure Vanilla can get your own space,” Gingerbrave chirped, already dashing ahead toward the innkeeper’s desk.

You opened your mouth to protest—but he was gone.

You blinked after him before turning to Pure Vanilla, who stood beside you, silent and still.

The quiet between you stretched for a moment, softened only by the crackle of the fire nearby. The warmth of it licked at your skin, mingling with the subtle warmth radiating from Pure Vanilla’s presence.

You cleared your throat. “He didn’t have to do that. I mean… I wouldn’t have minded sharing, you know. Just for a night.”

Pure Vanilla’s gaze flicked toward you, something unreadable behind his dual-colored eyes. The golden one shimmered in the firelight, while the teal glinted like still water under moonlight.

“It’s kind of him,” he said softly. “But… I wouldn’t have minded either.”

Your heart gave a slow, confused flutter.

You shifted your weight, unsure what to do with the tension blooming between you—thick and slow like honey. You felt his eyes on you again, studying you in that quiet, patient way of his. You met his gaze and found a gentleness there that made your chest ache.

And yet… something else swirled beneath it. Something unspoken.

“You’ve been quiet since this afternoon,” he said after a pause.

You looked away. “Just tired.”

A small hum of acknowledgment came from him, but he didn’t press further. Instead, his hand rose slowly, hesitantly—his fingers brushing your now dry hair back behind your ear.

Your breath hitched.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, his voice low—almost reverent. “I don’t know if I told you that properly.”

“You have,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible. “But I don’t mind hearing it again.”

A soft smile curved his lips. “Then I’ll keep saying it.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The noise of the inn faded into the background—the distant voices, the flickering fire, the occasional creak of the floorboards above.

The world narrowed to just the two of you.

You looked at him fully then, your eyes lingering on the soft curve of his smile, the gentle slope of his jaw, the way the light made his skin look like porcelain warmed by touch. You could feel your heart pounding in your throat, and yet… you weren’t afraid.

Your hand lifted—tentative—reaching for his. He met you halfway, his fingers lacing with yours with a quiet certainty.

Just then, Gingerbrave burst through a side door, breaking the spell. “Two rooms are all set!” he announced, cheerful and utterly oblivious. “Right across from each other! Hope that works!”

You and Pure Vanilla stepped apart quickly, like teenagers caught in a moment.

“Perfect,” Pure Vanilla said, his voice a little strained but polite.

You bit back a smile and squeezed his hand once before letting go.

“Yeah,” you echoed. “Perfect.”

                                     •

                                     •

                                     •

                                     •

The soft click of the door echoed behind you as you stepped into your room, the cozy warmth of the inn wrapping around you like a blanket. The flickering lantern on the wall cast golden shadows across the simple furnishings—a bed draped in thick quilts, a wooden table by the window, and a chair nestled nearby. It was humble, but it felt safe.

Just moments ago, Pure Vanilla had walked you down the short hallway. His steps had been slow, unhurried, like he was savoring the quiet, as if every second between you mattered. When you’d reached your door, he had turned to you with that same gentle expression, his hand brushing your arm with featherlight care.

“Sleep well,” he’d murmured. “I’ll be right across the hall if you need anything.”

You’d nodded, unsure if your heart would stop or speed up from the sound of his voice that close to your ear.

Now alone, the silence pressed in, not uncomfortably—but expectantly. You wandered to the bed and sat down, your limbs heavy from the day’s long travel. The room smelled faintly of lavender and worn pages, comforting in a way that crept under your skin.

But despite the comfort, you couldn’t sleep.

Your eyes kept flicking to the door.

To the window.

To the shadows.

You weren’t sure what you were waiting for—another knock, another conversation, a moment that hadn’t happened yet—but your chest was tight with anticipation. The memory of his fingers brushing your hair lingered, as did the feeling of his hand in yours.

You sighed and leaned back on your palms, tilting your head to the ceiling.

It wasn’t supposed to feel this complicated.

You stood again and wandered toward the window, pushing it open with a soft creak. The night air was cool, brushing across your skin in soft currents. Outside, the quiet of the kingdom settled in layers: the distant sound of a lute, the soft murmur of late-night voices, and the occasional bark of a dog. The moon hung high and round in the dark velvet sky.

Something rustled outside your door. You turned instinctively, listening.

A soft knock followed.

Your heart jumped.

You crossed the room and opened it, revealing Pure Vanilla—still in his robes, hair slightly tousled, his eyes reflecting the dim lantern light from the hallway.

“I—” he paused, looking sheepish. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… wasn’t sure if you were alright.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admitted, stepping aside to let him in.

He hesitated for only a heartbeat before entering. He stood in the center of the room, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if this was okay. You motioned toward the chair, but he shook his head, walking slowly to stand beside you instead.

The silence between you filled again, but this time it was something softer—full of questions neither of you knew how to ask.

“I kept thinking about earlier,” he said quietly. “How close I came to… forgetting my place.”

You looked up at him, your brow furrowed.

“I don’t want to overstep,” he added, eyes earnest and searching. “You’ve been through enough.”

You reached up—slowly—your fingers brushing his hand again. “Maybe I need something good,” you whispered. “Maybe I need something that isn’t complicated… even if just for tonight.”

His hand curled around yours, warm and steady.

The look in his eyes turned soft again, but a touch more certain. “Then I’ll stay. Just for tonight.”

And he did.

Not with words, not with promises—just a shared warmth, a quiet companionship as he settled onto the chair by your bed. You climbed under the covers, his robe draped over you for extra warmth.

The moonlight still gently filtered through the window, casting pale streaks across the floor. The room had settled into a peaceful quiet, broken only by the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. You shifted beneath the covers, the weight of Pure Vanilla’s robe still draped over your shoulders like a protective shroud.

He hadn’t moved far from the chair beside you—legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. His eyes were half-lidded in thought, calm, reflective. You watched him in silence for a long moment, the soft rise and fall of your chest growing unsteady as the question tugged at the back of your throat.

You didn’t want to ask it. You really didn’t.

But it clawed at you.

Your voice finally broke the silence, fragile and hesitant.

“…What do you know about Shadow Milk?”

The change in Pure Vanilla was instant.

His posture stiffened. His shoulders squared just slightly, jaw tightening as his gaze slowly turned to meet yours. There was a flicker in his heterochrome eyes—surprise, yes, but something heavier behind it. Something like old pain, and guarded wariness.

He didn’t speak for a moment.

The tension in your chest grew unbearable. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, quickly trying to backpedal. “I was just curious…”

Pure Vanilla sighed softly, the breath long and weary. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose before finally speaking, his voice lower, more serious than before.

“Shadow Milk…” he began, each word deliberate, “was once the Sage of Truth.”

Your eyes widened slightly, but you said nothing—letting him continue.

“He was brilliant,” Pure Vanilla said, his gaze drifting toward the window as if chasing memories long buried. “Insightful. Gifted in unraveling the truths of the universe. But… sometimes the truth is not kind. Sometimes… it wounds deeper than lies. And he changed.”

You listened intently, the weight in your chest growing heavier.

“He became consumed with his own mind. Truth twisted into obsession. Obsession into control. And eventually, deceit.”

A pause.

“He sought power to reshape the world to what he believed was right. That included trying to take my soul jam.”

You blinked. “Your… soul jam?”

He gave you a faint smile. “It’s… a relic. A source of power that sustains us. Every Sage has one. It’s not something of your world, but it’s the heart of ours. If someone steals another’s, they gain their power… and their burden.”

You lowered your gaze. The ring in your pocket felt suddenly heavier.

“Why are you asking about him?” he asked softly, though his tone was cautious.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “I just… I knew him from when I was trapped, that’s all. He was… complicated.”

Pure Vanilla studied you carefully. “Complicated,” he echoed, almost to himself.

You hesitated. Then, very quietly, you added, “He didn’t kill me. He could have, but he didn’t. I don’t understand why.”

There was a silence that followed—deep and almost reverent.

“I don’t believe he is without feeling,” Pure Vanilla said eventually. “But he is fractured. And dangerous. I’ve seen what he’s done—what he’s capable of.”

He reached over, gently placing a hand on your arm.

“You are not wrong to feel confused. But don’t let that confusion bind you to him. He may have spared you… but that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt you again.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your head against his shoulder. His presence steadied the ache inside you, the weight of everything pressing in.

He didn’t pull away. He let you sit there, in silence, his hand resting over yours.

And slowly, your thoughts began to quiet—not forgotten, not forgiven—but eased.

Just enough to breathe again.

Pure Vanilla sat quietly, his eyes drifting to the window where the moonlight gently filtered through sheer curtains. The silence between you became heavier—no longer uncomfortable, but tense with the weight of things unspoken.

You watched him closely. His posture remained calm, his breath even, but something about the subtle way his fingers curled into the fabric of his robe told you he was uneasy. Guarded.

One question rose in your mind like a whisper you couldn’t ignore.

“Who’s attacking them?”

Pure Vanilla’s expression changed instantly. A flicker of hesitation. His shoulders stiffened ever so slightly before he exhaled, slow and deep, like he was trying to brace himself.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask,” he admitted quietly. He paused, then continued, “It’s… someone called Burning Spice.”

The name struck a strange chord in your chest. Familiar. Foreign. Wrong. Your brows furrowed, confusion tightening your features. You tilted your head, silently urging him to explain.

Pure Vanilla’s gaze turned downward, as if gathering his thoughts.

“He’s a being like Shadow Milk,” he said at last. “Not just powerful… ancient. Elemental. Some say he was born of the fire that forged the first stones. He’s often called the God of Destruction.”

The title sat heavy in the air.

The moment he said Shadow Milk’s name again, your body tensed involuntarily. Your gut twisted. You had seen what Shadow Milk could do—had felt it firsthand. The way he moved like a shadow through your mind and body, controlling everything without needing to lift a finger. That wasn’t even his full power. The thought of another being like him—possibly worse—made your skin crawl.

A bitter cold seeped through you, chased quickly by anger.

You stared at Pure Vanilla, seeing his calm mask holding strong even now, even as he spoke of marching into danger. He always seemed composed, as if nothing could shake him—but now you saw the strain in his eyes, the quiet burden of the responsibility he carried.

Your hands tightened into fists in the comforter beside you. You felt your breath hitch as your voice came out sharper than intended.

“And you think it’s a good idea to go alone?” you snapped, frustration rising to a boil. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

Pure Vanilla didn’t flinch. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t scold you. He simply sat there, taking in your anger like it was expected—understood.

“I know it sounds reckless,” he said gently. “But I’m not just walking into this blind. Golden Cheese needs help, and… I’ve faced threats like him before. I’ve faced Shadow Milk.”

“Yeah?” you scoffed, bitterness bleeding into your tone. “And you’re still breathing. I’m glad, but not everyone’s that lucky.”

Your voice cracked. You hated how vulnerable it sounded.

Pure Vanilla’s brows knit together, and he leaned slightly toward you, his voice quieter now.

“I understand why you’re upset. I do,” he said, almost like a whisper. “But this is what I was made to do. I protect others, even if it means I stand alone.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Something about the way he said it broke your heart a little.

You didn’t want him to stand alone.

You didn’t want to lose someone else—not now, not after everything.

But what could you say?

You looked away, eyes burning, jaw clenched. Pure Vanilla’s hand inched toward yours but stopped short, hovering just above the comforter between you, unsure.

“I’m not trying to leave you behind,” he said softly. “But if I don’t go… more people will suffer. I can’t live with that.”

The quiet that followed was different now. Sadder. Heavier.

You weren’t ready to let go. But neither was he—and yet, he would anyway.

Because he had to.

Because that’s who he was.

And that scared you more than anything.

Pure Vanilla’s fingers brushed gently against yours before his hand fully enveloped it, his warmth grounding you like a tether in a storm. His grip was light but intentional, thumb gently brushing across the back of your hand as if trying to soothe the trembling you didn’t even realize had started.

You stared at his hand holding yours, your chest tight. The fear, the confusion, the anger—it was all boiling under the surface, and his calm presence only made the contrast more jarring. Your eyes stung with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet.

Your gaze slowly lifted to meet his, the watery sheen in your eyes not lost on him. His own expression softened, and he offered you a small smile—reassuring and steady.

“I will come back to you,” he said, voice low and unwavering. “I promise.”

The words hit harder than you expected. Not just because he said them, but because of the way he said them. Like it was a vow. Like it was everything.

You inhaled sharply, the breath catching in your chest. Your cheeks warmed, pink dusting your skin, and you couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. You dropped your head, overwhelmed by how much you felt in that moment. You weren’t ready for this. Things were complicated. But still, that promise buried itself deep inside you, warming the cold edges of your fear.

His hand slowly slipped away from yours, and he rose to his feet. You kept your gaze fixed on the crumpled comforter in your lap, your heart thudding in your chest.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice gentle but with an undertone of finality.

You opened your mouth, about to say goodnight, when you felt it.

His hands—warm and careful—cupped your face, lifting it just enough for him to lean down.

And then, his lips pressed softly against your temple.

It was brief. Tender. But it left you reeling.

Your entire body went still, then stiffened like you’d been jolted by lightning. A beat later, you scrambled back with a startled yelp, your face a blazing red.

“Wh-What the hell?!” you gasped, staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief.

Pure Vanilla chuckled, clearly proud of himself. His laughter was soft and full of mirth, and he didn’t even try to hide the smug smirk tugging at his lips.

He turned toward the door, clearly pleased with the chaos he left in his wake. Before stepping out, he looked over his shoulder, expression triumphant.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice dripping with amusement.

“Go away!” you shouted, but there was no anger in your tone—only flustered embarrassment.

His laughter echoed faintly down the hall as he shut the door behind him, leaving you sitting alone, your heart pounding in your chest and your mind spiraling.

You touched your temple where his lips had been, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on your skin.

What the hell was that?

Pure vanilla you idiot….

With that thought you flopped over trying to sleep despite your racing heart.

Chapter Text

The gentle warmth of the morning sun spilled through the curtains, casting golden rays across the room and pulling you from the depths of sleep. You stirred slowly, blinking against the brightness, your body sinking further into the soft mattress as you groaned softly.

Your limbs felt heavy, reluctant to move as you stretched out beneath the covers. The fabric was warm against your skin, still cradling the residual heat from the night. A beam of light traced its way across your face, and you turned away from it, groaning again.

It was too early.

Still, the world outside beckoned—birds chirped somewhere nearby, and the soft hum of the waking kingdom echoed faintly through the walls. You sighed and sat up sluggishly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as the events of last night drifted back in pieces.

Your hand moved instinctively to your temple.

You could still feel it—Pure Vanilla’s lips brushing there so softly. That moment hadn’t just been a dream. Your heart thumped at the memory, and heat crept to your cheeks. You dropped your hand, scolding yourself silently.

Don’t read too much into it. You weren’t even sure what it was. Affection? Comfort? Teasing?

Whatever it was, it had done its job—because despite the ache in your chest and the worry still lingering at the edge of your thoughts, you felt more at ease. Even if only a little.

You finally swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool wood floor meeting your bare feet and grounding you. With a slow exhale, you stood, stretching your arms high above your head, your joints popping from disuse.

The room was still dim, the curtains dancing lazily with the breeze sneaking through a cracked window. You padded toward it, pulling the drapes open further. The view that met you was breathtaking—sunlight glittered across the stone streets below, casting the kingdom in an amber glow. The world looked peaceful. Alive.

Somewhere in that peace, Pure Vanilla was probably preparing for his journey.

The thought twisted in your chest, and a part of you wished you had more time.

You dressed slowly, methodically. As you reached for your belongings, your hand brushed against your pocket—the folded note from Licorice and the hidden chain carrying Shadow Milk’s ring still tucked safely away.

Your fingers lingered on them, and for a moment, your heart was conflicted.

So much has changed…

You shook the thoughts off and slung your bag over your shoulder, taking one final look around the room before heading to the door. The day was beginning. You had a goodbye to make.

The room was quiet, too quiet now.

You stood at the edge of the bed, your hand slipping into your pocket. The chain tangled slightly around your fingers as you pulled it free. The ring hung at the end, still as pristine as the day he gave it to you—cold, silver, and haunting.

You stared down at it, twiddling the metal between your fingers, watching as it caught the sunlight from the window. For a moment, you saw nothing but your reflection in its polished surface—worn eyes, uncertain lips, a furrow between your brows you hadn’t noticed before.

What is he doing right now?

The question came unbidden. You had tried to stop thinking about him, about Shadow Milk—about the confusion, the chaos, the intensity of his presence. You expected him to come for you, expected to hear his voice cutting through the night, to feel the tension in the air before he arrived.

But there had been nothing. No signs. No whispers.

Your gaze darkened. Something inside you twisted—not quite worry, not quite longing. Something heavier.

Then, with a single blink, the room vanished.

You were somewhere else.

The floor beneath you felt weightless, like a void. Nothing surrounded you—only endless black. A vast, chilling emptiness that stretched for miles. No wind, no sound. No light except for the eerie outline of your form.

You turned sharply, eyes darting. Where am I? Your breathing quickened.

“What the hell…” you whispered to yourself.

You clutched the ring in your hand, your grip tightening until the edges bit into your palm. Your pulse raced in your ears.

Then—

A giggle.

It rang sharp and high in your head, slithering down your spine like ice water. Your breath caught.

Shadow Milk.

You spun again, heart in your throat. “Where are you!?”

No answer. But you felt him—his presence like a velvet shadow brushing over your skin.

“You sure are a difficult one to find.”

The voice was unmistakable—low, smooth, sadistically amused. It rang out as if from nowhere and everywhere.

“Leave me alone!” you shouted, panic rising in your chest.

“You’re the one who keeps thinking about me, doll…”

The voice was right behind you.

You yelped, stumbling backward and falling onto the cold nothingness. You hit what felt like ground, but it gave nothing back—no echo, no real impact.

You looked up—glowing eyes blinked open in the void. One. Two. Then dozens, scattered like stars across a sky of ink.

A loud cackle filled your head—sharp, delighted, cruel.

You squeezed your eyes shut and slapped your hands over your ears. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”

The ring burned cold against your palm.

And just like that, it was gone.

Silence. Warmth. Light.

Your eyes opened. You were back in your room, sprawled on the wooden floor, panting, your heart thudding like a drum. The ring dangled between your fingers, still real, still cold.

You stared at it, bile rising in your throat. “Bastard,” you muttered under your breath, swearing quietly at the hallucination—or whatever the hell that had been.

Then—knock knock.

A soft rap at the door snapped you out of your haze.

You startled, tucking the ring and chain back into your pocket swiftly like a guilty secret.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called gently from outside. It was Pure Vanilla. “You awake?”

You took a deep breath, pressing your palm to your forehead to ground yourself.

“Yeah,” you said hoarsely, voice still shaky. “I’m up.”

You stayed where you were on the floor, the morning sun warm on your back—but it did little to thaw the chill that still lingered under your skin. Your hand remained tight in your lap, clutching the ring in your palm. Your breathing had evened out, but your chest still felt heavy, tight with thoughts you hadn’t asked for.

What was that?

You’d told yourself it was just a memory. A trauma response. Your brain trying to make sense of things.

But deep down, you knew better. That wasn’t a dream.

You could still hear him. Still feel the way the air shifted when his voice curled around you like smoke. The darkness hadn’t felt symbolic or imagined—it had felt real. Cold. Alive. A place that existed beyond understanding.

Shadow Milk had reached out somehow. Or maybe… maybe you had reached toward him.

The thought made your stomach churn.

Why am I still thinking about him? You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to understand.

He had hurt you. Confused you. Terrified you.

But he had also… watched you. Studied you. Spoken to you like you were something his.

He hadn’t killed you, and that confused everything. If he was a monster—then why hadn’t he ended it?

Was he waiting for something?

A soft exhale escaped your lips. You pressed your thumb to the corner of your eye, brushing away the tears that had gathered again before they could fall.

I’m so tired of feeling like this.

But the worst part? A part of you didn’t want to forget him.

Not yet.

Another knock, gentler this time.

“Hey,” Pure Vanilla’s voice came again, a little more cautious now. “You okay?”

You looked toward the door, as if you could see him through it. A different kind of warmth bloomed in your chest now—not the cold burn Shadow Milk left behind, but something gentler. Something real.

You wanted to protect that.

But first, you had to understand what was still holding you back.

Your fingers uncurled from around the ring slowly, the chain whispering against your hand as you placed it on your nightstand.

You took one last breath, pushing the thoughts—no, the questions—down for now.

You stood, brushing yourself off. You didn’t need all the answers this morning. But you did need to move forward.

You turned toward the door, forcing your voice into steadiness.

“I’m coming,” you called softly.

The door creaked as you slowly opened it, the soft sound cutting through the stillness of morning. Light from the hallway spilled in, brushing against your features and illuminating the tired shadows under your eyes. Your hair was tousled, sticking to your damp forehead in places, and your clothes hung slightly loose from sleep and restless tossing. You looked like you hadn’t fully left the weight of night behind.

Pure Vanilla stood there—quiet, composed, and still. His long white robe was slightly wrinkled near the shoulders, like he had been leaning against a wall while waiting. A satchel was slung over one side, but he hadn’t touched it. His focus was only on you.

And oh, that gaze.

It stunned you—gentle, yes, but intense in its warmth. His eyes, mismatched yet balanced, flicked over your face with quiet reverence. There was no judgment there, only an almost heartbreaking softness. Like you were a dream he didn’t want to disturb. Like you were something precious.

You blinked, looking away briefly, heat pricking your cheeks. Why does he look at me like that? The question pulsed in your mind, unspoken but loud. You weren’t used to being seen so clearly—and by someone whose touch hadn’t been cruel.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with concern.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah,” you said quickly, a little too quickly. “Just… tired.”

Your voice was mostly steady, but the words caught slightly at the end. You hoped—prayed—he couldn’t see through the act, couldn’t feel the fear still tangled in your ribs like leftover vines from a nightmare you hadn’t shaken off.

Pure Vanilla didn’t press, but his eyes lingered for a moment longer than usual. He seemed to be searching for something in your face. His head tilted just slightly, the way someone might when trying to understand a language they don’t speak. But whatever he saw, he didn’t call out. He didn’t push.

Instead, he gave you the same gentle smile—the one he always reserved for you, the one that made your chest ache with something complicated and kind.

“I’m glad,” he said at last, though you weren’t sure if he believed it. “We’ve got a few hours before I leave. Thought maybe we could get breakfast?”

You nodded again, grateful for the normalcy in the offer.

“Let me get changed,” you murmured.

“I’ll wait,” he said, stepping back with the grace of someone who understood how to give space without withdrawing warmth.

You gently shut the door again, your hand lingering on the handle. Your heart thudded quietly in your chest, still reeling from both the memory of darkness… and the light waiting for you just beyond it.

You leaned back against the door for a moment, exhaling slowly. The cool wood pressed against your back, grounding you. Your hands were still trembling slightly—ghosts of darkness clinging to your skin like dew. You closed your eyes, counted your breaths.

One… two… three…

Get it together.

With a determined push, you stepped away from the door and moved across the room. You slipped out of your sleepwear, the fabric falling to the floor in a quiet heap. The morning chill kissed your bare skin, helping to clear the fog from your mind. You crossed the room and quickly rifled through the small bag of clothes you had brought with you. There wasn’t much, but enough for a few clean, simple choices.

You pulled out a soft, fitted top in a muted color—something light that wouldn’t draw too much attention, but still made you feel somewhat put together. You paired it with comfortable pants, the fabric durable but soft against your legs, and tucked the shirt in at the waist. Next, you shrugged on a lightweight outer layer—something just warm enough to ward off the morning breeze.

Turning toward the mirror, you caught your reflection and winced slightly. Your hair was a wild mess, a nest of sleep-rumpled strands that stuck out in every direction. You grabbed the small wooden brush beside the basin and ran it through your hair with hurried but deliberate strokes, wincing as you hit a few tangles. When it finally fell into place, you gave a nod of approval—not perfect, but presentable.

You reached down, plucking up the ring on its chain from where you had left it on the nightstand. You hesitated, holding it in your palm. Its presence was heavy despite its size. You didn’t put it on—just slipped it into your pocket like you always did.

Your fingers smoothed the fabric of your shirt one last time, and with a deep breath, you crossed the room and opened the door.

Pure Vanilla was still waiting in the hallway, leaning lightly against the opposite wall. His head turned at the sound of your door, and the moment his eyes met yours, he straightened.

You couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze softened, the way the corners of his lips pulled upward just slightly. Like you were something worth waiting for.

“You clean up nicely,” he teased lightly, his tone warm.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at your mouth. “You’re one to talk. Always look like you stepped out of a painting.”

Pure Vanilla chuckled, stepping beside you as you closed your door behind you.

“Ready for breakfast?” he asked, offering you a hand—not out of necessity, but as a quiet gesture. A grounding one.

You looked at it for a moment, then placed your hand in his.

“Yeah,” you said softly, “Let’s go.”

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The stone-paved streets of Gingerbrave’s kingdom bustled with late-morning life. The sun was warm but not oppressive, and the cool breeze carried the scent of freshly baked pastries and sugar-glazed treats from nearby bakeries. You and Pure Vanilla walked side by side, your steps slow and unhurried.

He was mid-sentence, talking animatedly about a quaint little café tucked near the quieter edge of the kingdom. “—it’s small, but they serve this rose-honey tea that’s genuinely one of the best things I’ve tasted. The owner makes it herself from local petals. She even hand-presses the sugar cubes.”

You nodded, lips twitching upward in a polite smile. You were listening—truly—but your mind was elsewhere. Your eyes moved across the crowds, watching cookiefolk barter, laugh, and sweep their children along the cobblestone paths. It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

You shifted your gaze back to Pure Vanilla as he kept talking, his tone as bright as ever. “And we won’t be alone. Gingerbrave’s meeting us there, and Strawberry Cookie too.”

That perked your interest. You blinked and tilted your head toward him. “Oh?”

Pure Vanilla nodded with a small smile, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled beside you. “Gingerbrave’s excited to see you again. He’s been trying to get Strawberry to come out more—she’s still a bit shy, but he said she really wanted to see you.”

You remembered Strawberry Cookie—quiet, reserved, always half-hidden behind her oversized strawberry-patterned hoodie. You hadn’t spoken much when you first met, just a few words exchanged beneath the soft hum of magical lanterns. But you remembered her kind eyes. The way she always seemed to be paying attention, even if she rarely spoke.

“I’m surprised,” you said softly, your tone touched with warmth. “She barely looked me in the eye last time.”

“She remembers you,” Pure Vanilla said with a knowing glance. “She doesn’t open up easily, but when she does… it means something.”

You looked ahead, past the winding path of the kingdom’s main street. A whimsical storefront came into view, nestled between two larger buildings. Its wooden sign swayed slightly in the breeze, painted with the image of a teacup nestled among rose petals. Pure Vanilla gestured toward it with a subtle nod of his head.

“That’s the place,” he said.

A small smile found its way onto your lips. Despite everything, something about this place—the warmth, the stillness, the gentle chatter around you—felt safe. For now. You weren’t sure how long it would last, but you were willing to let yourself enjoy it… at least a little.

You adjusted the strap of your bag and glanced up at Pure Vanilla. “Lead the way.”

The little café was even more charming than you expected. Light streamed in through a large arched window, its stained glass borders casting soft pinks and golds onto the polished wooden floor. You and Pure Vanilla settled at a corner table beside the window, the warm sunlight falling gently across your faces. The chairs were cushioned and inviting, and the table bore a small vase of pressed daisies.

Pure Vanilla had ordered the rose tea he’d praised earlier, his voice chipper as he spoke with the young server. You asked for a vanilla tea, curious how it might taste in a place like this—simple, familiar, a little comforting.

As the drinks were being prepared, you and Pure Vanilla fell into quiet, idle chatter. The air between you was light but warm, filled with soft laughter and the occasional knowing look. He spoke about small things—new flowers blooming in the castle’s garden, odd conversations he’d overheard from wandering cookie travelers, and eventually, his tone shifted, softened.

“There’s a spot,” he began, swirling his spoon in the delicate porcelain cup the server had just placed before him. Steam curled in soft ribbons. “Up in the Dark Cacao Kingdom. It’s quiet. Very high up. There’s a cliffside that overlooks everything—mountains, glaciers, even the border to the Crumble Wastes if the air’s clear enough.”

You blinked, interested. “I’ve never been to Dark Cacao.”

He glanced up at you, and something in his expression grew more tender. “Then maybe I’ll take you one day,” he said. “Just the two of us. If… if you’d want that, of course.”

His ears, faintly visible beneath his hair, flushed pink. He looked down quickly at his tea, pretending to blow at the steam even though it was clearly already cool enough to drink.

You felt your heart skip—not just at his words, but at how carefully he said them. Gently. Like he was testing the water without pushing you to swim.

Before you could answer, the café’s door swung open with a cheerful jingle.

“Hey! There you are!” Gingerbrave’s familiar voice rang out with unfiltered enthusiasm. He bounded across the café, hand tightly gripping Strawberry’s as he dragged her along behind him. The girl looked a little overwhelmed, her hood tugged low over her soft pink hair, but her gaze was still gentle and curious.

Gingerbrave plopped down on the bench beside Pure Vanilla, nearly knocking his tea over in his excitement. “You won’t believe what happened on our way here—someone was selling jelly slugs as snacks! Jelly slugs! Who even eats those?!”

Pure Vanilla laughed, steadying his cup. “Some of the mushroom cookies, maybe. But you’re right, not exactly café material.”

You smiled, watching Gingerbrave flail dramatically with his arms as he told his story.

Strawberry sat quietly beside you, her eyes lifting shyly to meet yours. “Hi,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than the hum of the café’s background music.

You returned the smile and greeted her just as gently. “Hey, Strawberry. I’m glad you came.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile, and she opened the menu with both hands, using it almost like a little shield between herself and the bustling world around you. 

As the chatter picked up again between Gingerbrave and Pure Vanilla, you let your eyes drift back to the window. The light filtering in was warm and honeyed. For now, even with the strange weight still tugging at your chest from earlier, you allowed yourself this moment—this strange, peaceful calm nestled between battles and memories. This little window of stillness, tea, and soft smiles.

Your gaze drifted to the soft curve of steam rising from your cup, blurring the world just slightly as if it were suspended between the present and the echo of memory. The warmth of the tea in your hands grounded you, but your mind slipped away nonetheless—drawn to a time that felt both recent and painfully distant.

It came unbidden: the chaotic hum of early mornings spent with Shadow Milk, Black Sapphire, and Candy Apple. You remembered the cold stone floors beneath your feet, the flickering torches along castle walls, and the scent of aged parchment and something vaguely sweet—Shadow Milk’s cologne, maybe, or the odd mixture of incense he liked to burn.

You could almost hear Candy Apple’s voice, bright and bounding like a sugar rush, rambling about a mission she barely half-understood, excitedly bouncing from topic to topic while Black Sapphire stood behind her with folded arms and a heavy sigh. His reprimands were always soft, quiet in that stoic, older-brother way, laced with disappointment more than irritation. You remembered how Shadow Milk would lean against the nearest surface—usually too close to you—his dark fingers resting near yours, his voice dripping with mockery and something darker. His teasing laced with heat and unspoken threat, a game he never let you stop playing. A smirk on his lips, always watching you just a little too closely.

Despite yourself, a pang pulled at your chest.

You missed it.

Not the danger. Not the manipulation or the tension that always crawled just beneath your skin like a shadow ready to consume you. But the familiarity. The strange, twisted semblance of belonging that had wrapped around you like a threadbare cloak. For better or worse, they’d been your… people. At least candy apple and black sapphire had been at the very least. And that part of you still ached for them.

You clenched your hands around your tea and brushed the feeling aside like dust from a windowsill. Guilt swirled at the pit of your stomach, but you forced yourself to swallow it down.

Your eyes returned to Gingerbrave just as he turned toward Pure Vanilla, excitement already bubbling across his face.

“So,” he said, resting his chin on his hand and leaning forward across the table. “What’s the plan for the Golden Cheese mission?”

Pure Vanilla straightened a little, setting down his tea. His expression grew more serious, but not grim—just focused. “I’ll be leaving at dusk,” he explained. “It should take me about five days to reach her kingdom if I keep a steady pace. We will then set out for her territory in beast yeast.”

You nodded slowly, your gaze fixed on him as he spoke. His tone was calm, but there was something steely beneath it—resolve.

“The roads through the desert can be unpredictable, but I know the paths,” he added. “Golden Cheese wouldn’t have called me unless it was urgent. She’s not… the type to waste time.”

Strawberry glanced up briefly from her menu, her quiet eyes flicking to Pure Vanilla and then to you. She didn’t say anything, but her small hand slid her teacup a little closer to yours—an almost unnoticeable gesture of comfort.

You offered her a grateful glance.

Gingerbrave tilted his head. “You sure you don’t want backup? I can get wizard cookie, or even wind archer—”

Pure Vanilla held up a hand gently. “It’s not a battle. At least, I hope it won’t come to that. I just need to understand what’s going on, see the damage myself. Sometimes presence is more valuable than force.”

His words were diplomatic, but something about the way his fingers curled around his cup betrayed a quiet tension in him. You wondered if he was trying to convince the table—or himself.

Still, you stayed quiet, content to listen for now. But in the quiet space between words, your thoughts drifted again—this time not to Shadow Milk or his twisted version of care, but to the growing distance that would come once Pure Vanilla left. And the ache that had nothing to do with the past, but everything to do with the present.

You looked over at Pure Vanilla and gave him a soft, earnest smile. “Just… make sure to send for us if you need help, alright?”

Your voice was quiet but steady, the underlying concern you felt peeking through despite your attempt to keep things light.

Pure Vanilla’s gaze met yours, warm and sincere. A small, reassuring smile curved his lips as he dipped his head in a nod. “I promise,” he said gently. “I’ll reach out if anything changes.”

The conversation at the table resumed in a gentle lull as Gingerbrave, ever energetic, launched into another story—this one involving a near escape from a swarm of buzzing jellybees and a stolen bag of sugar cubes. His words tumbled over each other in excitement, drawing a soft laugh from Strawberry as she stirred her tea.

Your eyes drifted back to Pure Vanilla, and you caught the way his lips quirked upward in that unmistakable smirk of his. Then, with all the flair of a tired poet, he dramatically leaned back in his chair with a long, theatrical sigh.

You arched a brow at the exaggerated motion, folding your hands around your cup. “What on earth are you doing?” you asked, amused.

He turned his face toward you, resting one elbow on the back of his chair as he feigned a mournful look. “What will I ever do without having to prepare your overly sweet tea every morning?” he sighed again, clutching his chest like the thought wounded him.

You snorted. “You say that like it’s not the best tea in the entire kingdom.”

“Oh, it is,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief. “But the drama you bring with it? Irreplaceable.”

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms. “I can take care of myself, you know. I’m a grown adult.”

Gingerbrave suddenly burst into laughter, nearly snorting tea through his nose. “Sure, sure—you’re definitely grown. But don’t worry,” he said with a cheeky grin, turning to Pure Vanilla, “I’ll keep an eye on them while you’re gone.”

Your mouth dropped open in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

Strawberry giggled behind her hand, and Pure Vanilla chuckled quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you with fondness. “It’s alright,” he said with playful serenity. “I have no doubt they’ll survive… barely.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. The warmth of the moment wrapped around you like a soft blanket, and for a little while, even with the looming mission ahead and the weight of shadowed memories behind, it felt okay. You felt okay. Safe, even. Just a little.

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The warm tones of the late afternoon sun melted into soft shades of rose and gold, painting the sky in a palette that shimmered gently across the horizon. The last echoes of farewell still lingered in the air as Gingerbrave and Strawberry disappeared down a winding cobbled path, their cheerful voices fading into the hum of the bustling kingdom behind you.

You stood still for a moment, letting the quiet settle over you. The cool breeze brushed through your clothes and hair, carrying the scent of distant roses and the whisper of approaching twilight.

Pure Vanilla turned to face you, his robes catching the light like woven cream and honey. His expression was serene, but there was a flicker of sadness in his eyes. A gentle smile tugged at his lips.

“Care to walk with me to the edge of the kingdom?” he asked softly, his voice barely rising above the gentle rustling of the leaves.

Your heart twisted slightly in your chest. It was always going to come to this—a goodbye, a departure, a space left beside you. You swallowed the lump rising in your throat and nodded, unable to find words.

As if sensing your silence, Pure Vanilla extended his hand toward you, palm open and steady. Without hesitation, you placed yours in his. His fingers curled around yours in that familiar way, grounding and warm.

Side by side, you began to walk, the stones of the path beneath your feet cool and smooth.

The edge of the kingdom was quieter, the sounds of chatter and movement behind you growing faint with every step. You passed flowering trees swaying gently in the wind and small crystal lanterns being lit one by one by passing stewards. The world felt slower here, heavier with every step taken toward goodbye.

The cobbled streets behind you gradually faded into soft dirt paths, the stones giving way to the worn earth that stretched beyond the safety of the kingdom’s walls. Wildflowers dotted the edge of the road, catching the last remnants of golden light from the setting sun. The warmth on your skin was beginning to cool, and you realized how much quieter it had become—just you, Pure Vanilla, and the gentle breeze that rustled the trees.

Pure Vanilla was the first to speak, his voice carrying a lightness that tried to veil something heavier beneath.

“I’ll bring you something from Golden Cheese’s kingdom,” he said, a small lilt of playfulness lacing his words.

You glanced over at him, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah? I’ll hold you to that,” you replied softly, voice steadier than you felt.

He stopped walking, and you knew what that pause meant. The road ahead was no longer yours to share with him—for now. You turned to face him just as he reached out, catching your wrist and gently tugging you forward. You stumbled slightly into his chest, letting out a small sound of surprise.

Your body relaxed into his immediately, like it had been waiting for this moment all day. His arms folded tightly around you, holding you with a quiet desperation, and you responded in kind, wrapping your arms around him, feeling a steady pulse of his soul jam through the fabric of his robes. The feeling resembling that of a heartbeat, it soothed you.

You buried your face into the warmth of his shoulder and breathed in his scent—soft and sweet, like herbs and vanilla cream. His chin rested against your head, and neither of you spoke for a long moment, as if the embrace itself were a language only you two understood.

When he finally loosened his hold, it wasn’t by much. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still anchored on your waist, grounding himself.

“I’ll write,” he promised, his voice quiet but firm. “I’ll let you know everything. You won’t be left wondering.”

You nodded, blinking back the weight in your eyes. “Just… promise me you’ll be safe. Come back whole, alright?”

A small smile tugged at his lips, touched with a softness that made your heart ache.

“I promise,” he whispered, like a vow.

Silence fell again, heavier this time. The tension in his arms betrayed the words he had just said—like if he let go, something might unravel. But slowly, reluctantly, he released you, his fingers brushing gently against your arms one last time.

You forced yourself to step back, biting your lip to keep it from trembling. You raised a hand, waving.

“See you later, Pure Vanilla.”

He smiled again, something bright but brief in his eyes.

“See you later,” he echoed, turning away with one last look over his shoulder.

You watched his figure shrink into the distance, the creamy white of his robes slowly swallowed by the dusk-painted road. The ache in your chest grew deeper, a weight settling there like a stone.

A gut feeling twisted in your stomach—a warning or maybe just fear. But you forced yourself to breathe, to turn back toward the kingdom with steady feet and shoulders held high.

You couldn’t fall apart now. He was trusting you to be alright while he was gone.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since Pure Vanilla had left for Golden Cheese’s kingdom, and though the sun still rose and the people of the kingdom bustled about as usual, your world had shifted subtly—quietly. The absence of his calming presence lingered like a hollow echo, one you tried to ignore each day. You kept busy, filled the quiet with Gingerbrave’s antics or Strawberry’s soft companionship, but at night, when the world fell still, your thoughts were less forgiving.

That night, sleep came to you like a shroud—heavy, suffocating. You didn’t remember falling asleep. You only knew you were dreaming when the air around you turned cold and thick like smoke.

You stood frozen in the middle of a battlefield, the sky above a stormy swirl of violet and black. Lightning cracked in the distance, illuminating splashes of chaos—shattered stone, scorched earth, and the broken remains of structures you didn’t recognize. The scent of ash and magic hung sharp in your nose.

In the heart of it all, you saw him.

Pure Vanilla.

He stood at the edge of a crater, robes tattered, his staff cracked, and blood dripping down the side of his face. His usually radiant aura was dim—flickering like a dying ember. You tried to scream, to call out to him, but your voice caught in your throat like a stone. You could only watch, paralyzed, as another figure emerged from the smoke.

You didn’t need to see the glowing red markings or the burning amber eyes to know who it was—Burning Spice. His hulking form radiated destruction. Fire licked at his skin like a living armor, and when he laughed, it was like the sky split open.

Pure Vanilla raised his staff, even though his hands trembled. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

“I won’t let you harm them…” he said, voice hoarse but resolute. “I made a promise.”

Burning Spice sneered, and in the next second, fire erupted from his hand, crashing into Pure Vanilla. The explosion threw him backward like a rag doll, and he hit the ground with a sickening crack.

“No!” you finally screamed—but your body wouldn’t move. You could only stare in horror as Pure Vanilla struggled to sit up, blood trailing from his mouth, his staff slipping from his fingers.

He looked up, and for a moment, his gaze found yours across the battlefield—as if he saw you standing there. His eyes were filled with pain… but also peace.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed.

And then—

Darkness.

Your body jerked upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Your breathing was ragged, your chest tight, your heart pounding like a war drum. The room was quiet again—no fire, no smoke, no blood. Just the soft moonlight filtering in through the window, casting a silver glow over the floor.

You reached up and clutched at your chest, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of your heart. Your hands trembled as you wiped at the tears on your cheeks.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

But it felt real. Too real. His voice, his injuries, the look in his eyes.

You curled your legs up and pulled the blanket around you like a shield, your fingers digging into the fabric.

“Please,” you whispered into the silence, voice cracking. “Please be okay.”

Sweat cooled too quickly under the chill air, raising goosebumps along your arms. Your breaths were uneven, shallow—your body trembling, but your heart sinking heavier than your chest could hold.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood slowly, your limbs stiff with exhaustion. The wood floor was cool beneath your feet as you shuffled toward the door of your room, each step sluggish like wading through fog. The inn was quiet, still wrapped in the silence of the sleeping hour.

The shared kitchen was dim, the faint moonlight filtering in through the windows. You reached for a cup in the cupboard, the glass smooth and cool against your overheated skin. Filling it at the sink, the water ran quietly. You downed the drink in one long gulp, only realizing afterward how parched you’d been.

Your gaze drifted up to the window above the sink, but there was nothing to see beyond the darkness outside—just your own reflection staring back at you. Hollow eyes. Pale skin. Your hair clung to your forehead in damp strands, pajamas wrinkled and twisted around your frame. You looked like someone who hadn’t truly slept in days—and maybe you hadn’t. You winced slightly, turning your eyes away from yourself. You didn’t want to linger on what was written in your own face.

You left the kitchen in silence, walking slowly back toward the rooms. But as you neared your own door, your steps faltered. Your eyes shifted, almost unconsciously, to the door beside yours.

His door.

Pure Vanilla’s room had been left just as it was since he departed. The innkeeper, kind and understanding, had agreed to keep both your rooms as part of a long-term stay, knowing the weight of Pure Vanilla’s absence was more than temporary—it was uncertain. And uncertain was always the hardest to live with.

Almost without thinking, your hand reached for the doorknob. It turned with a quiet click.

The door creaked gently open.

You stepped into the room slowly, the scent of dried herbs and faint traces of his familiar vanilla warmth still lingering like a whisper. The air was still—too still. His bed was made with practiced care, blanket folded neatly at the corners, pillow fluffed. There was something sacred in the way everything was left untouched.

Your eyes drifted to the desk, where stacks of books sat in their usual organized chaos. A few loose pages were still pinned under a smooth stone—his handwriting scrawled across the parchment. There were tea tins in a row, one slightly ajar like he’d been in a rush the last time he’d opened it. His favorite quill rested beside a jar of dried ink.

You lit a few candles, one by one, their flames fluttering to life and casting a soft golden glow across the room. The shadows they formed danced gently along the walls, like quiet memories flickering in and out of view.

You stood in the center of the room, arms folded loosely over your chest, breathing in the quiet. You weren’t entirely sure why you were there—maybe because his presence still lingered in this space more than it did in your memories. Maybe because, tonight of all nights, you needed something real to hold onto.

Something that wasn’t a nightmare. Something that wasn’t silence.

You sat on the edge of his bed, hands resting in your lap. It was still warm from the candlelight, still smelled faintly of lavender and tea leaves. For a long moment, you didn’t think. You just existed in the space he once stood in.

You stood in the hush of his room, candlelight dancing softly across the wooden walls, throwing warmth into the corners where shadows had gathered. The silence was comforting now—like the room was holding its breath with you.

Your eyes flicked back toward Pure Vanilla’s desk, pulled by a quiet urge, something between curiosity and longing. The books were stacked in neat clusters, some lying open with braille-textured pages, their surfaces dotted in gentle ridges. You stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly along the bindings, respectful of the space, as though touching too much might disturb something sacred.

You noticed that most of the papers were filled with the raised marks of braille—notes he had no doubt written for himself to read with practiced hands. But a few pages had scrawled ink instead, his script looping and neat, though slightly slanted. You read over the words, but most didn’t make much sense to you. Fragments of notes, references to herbs, enchantments, soul jam properties, and phrases in languages you didn’t recognize.

And then your eyes landed on a book tucked just slightly under a stack, the only one without a title or mark on the cover. Its leather was worn, the corners softened by time and frequent handling. Something about it felt different, personal. You hesitated for a breath, then gingerly pulled it free, cradling the weight of it in your hands.

You turned and made your way back to the bed, the wood creaking softly under your weight as you sat. Pulling your knees up slightly, you let the book rest across your thighs. Your fingers traced the edge of the cover once more before you opened it.

The smell of parchment and ink wafted up as the aged pages parted. The writing inside was careful, denser than the quick scribbles you’d seen on the desk. The subject matter immediately caught your attention—The Witches.

You turned each page slowly, eyes drinking in the stories and knowledge etched into the book. It spoke of their power, their roles in the creation of the soul jams, their balance of creation and destruction, of temptation and wisdom. It mentioned fragments of old tales—of betrayal, curses, and strange fates. The prose was archaic, poetic at times, but not unfamiliar.

As you read, a strange feeling settled over you.

A sort of heaviness in your chest.

The words felt… familiar.

You paused. One hand hovering above the page, brow furrowed, heart picking up in your chest.

This moment. This book. This setting.

You’d done this before.

Or something very, very close to it.

A memory surfaced, sudden and sharp. A hazy image—a dimly lit room, the feel of worn pages nestled in your lap, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across a wall that wasn’t this one, but it was.

You blinked.

The memory was already slipping, like trying to hold smoke in your palms. But one thing stood out, embedded like a splinter in your mind:

That room wasn’t here.

Wherever you had been in that flicker of memory, it was not this kingdom, not this inn, not Pure Vanilla’s room. It had been… elsewhere. And yet the feeling was the same.

The exact same.

Frustration spiked in your chest as you stared down at the book, suddenly feeling like it was mocking you with its half-truths and riddles. Your grip tightened around the edges and with a sharp exhale, you snapped the cover closed. The sound cracked through the still air.

You stood up, cradling the book in one arm as you walked it back to the desk. Your hands hesitated over the space you’d pulled it from, as though part of you didn’t want to let it go. But finally, you slid it back into place, letting your fingers linger against the leather for a few seconds longer.

A deep breath.

You stepped back from the desk, rubbing your palms down your arms, trying to shake off the strange fog in your thoughts. You glanced around once more—his robe, the candlelight, the scent of him still lingering in the air.

You missed him more in that moment than you had since he left.

The room was full of his presence, but all you felt was the space he’d left behind.

And now, you wondered if the questions scratching at the back of your mind were more than just your imagination. Maybe there was more to remember. Or more still hidden.

The bed dipped slightly beneath your weight as you sank into Pure Vanilla’s mattress, the softness beneath you offering a faint comfort, like the ghost of a warm embrace that had long since vanished. The blankets still smelled faintly of rose tea and sun-kissed parchment—faint traces of him that made your chest ache.

You laid back, eyes locked on the wooden beams of the ceiling above, your fingers moving almost on their own—soft, habitual. Slowly, you traced the inside of your forearm. Your touch was featherlight at first, but then you pressed harder, as though trying to feel through your skin to what lay beneath.

Your eyes drifted down, catching sight of the pale scars that laced your forearms. Fine, subtle things—some almost invisible now, others still standing out in the low candlelight. You followed their paths with your fingers, each one a story, a memory you didn’t ask for, but couldn’t forget.

Your breath hitched, and your chest tightened.

And then your thoughts began to shift—like a door creaking open in the back of your mind—and his name filled the room even though you didn’t speak it.

Shadow Milk.

You hated how easily your thoughts went there.

How quickly his image crept into your mind: tall and shadowed, always slightly hunched in his casual mockery of others’ seriousness, that perpetual glint of amusement in his glowing eyes. You could see him now—smirking as he leaned close, brushing his fingers through your hair, idly twisting strands around his fingers as though you were nothing more than a distraction. That soft chuckle of his, so smooth, so smug. Sometimes, it had almost sounded… real. Like warmth trying to seep through the cracks.

You had seen moments when the mask fell.

Brief, flickering things. A quiet look when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The almost-gentle way he once tucked a blanket around your shoulders when you’d fallen asleep reading. The way he’d hum to himself in the rare silences between missions. Moments that had felt real.

And yet—

Your stomach clenched.

That wasn’t all there was to him.

No. There were the other memories, too.

The blood-red glint of his threads cutting the air. The sickening sound of them slicing through flesh—your flesh. The way he smiled when he threatened you, not just playfully, but with a cruel undertone like he wanted to see how far he could push you before you broke. The stinging pain of the strings binding your wrists, digging in with every movement. The sadistic amusement in his voice when you struggled, when he reminded you that you were in his web now.

You remembered the laughter when you screamed.

You remembered the silence that followed when you didn’t.

You sat up abruptly, the sheets twisting around your waist, and let your face fall into your hands. A groan escaped your throat, deep and ragged. Not from pain. Not from fear.

From frustration.

From confusion.

From the cruel war being waged inside your chest between longing and loathing.

How could someone live in your memories like that? Be both monster and warmth? Both torment and touch?

Your shoulders trembled slightly as you pulled your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself in the center of Pure Vanilla’s bed. The contrast between them—between Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk—was like night and day. One made you feel safe. The other made you question everything.

And yet… there you were. Torn between a ghost and a promise.

Inhaling deeply, you tried to steady your heart. You weren’t sure which ache was worse: the absence of the one you trusted… or the presence of the one who haunted you.

The candlelight danced low, casting golden halos across the walls of Pure Vanilla’s room, the flickering shadows painting soft shapes that moved like whispers. You stared at them, eyes half-lidded, the weight of exhaustion pressing against your limbs like gravity had tripled in force.

Your body felt so heavy. The kind of fatigue that came from the soul, not just the skin.

You shifted with a quiet sigh, rolling onto your side and bunching the edge of the blanket into your fists, fingers curling tightly into the fabric. The scent of it was faint, but familiar— something herbal and calming. It was like being wrapped in him. You clung to it.

The cool linen pressed against your cheek as your breathing began to slow. Each blink felt slower than the last—your vision hazy, blurring around the edges as the pull of sleep became harder to resist. You fought it at first, stubbornly trying to stay awake, afraid of what your dreams might bring, of what memories might claw their way through the veil.

But tonight… the pull was gentler.

Your thoughts drifted like leaves in water. The memories of scarred skin, of twisted affection, of cruel voices—those lingered, but they softened as sleep took hold. They faded into the background like far-off echoes, distant and blurred by the fog of exhaustion. You didn’t feel fear creeping into your limbs like it had the nights before. Instead, there was a sense of disjointed quiet—a lull.

Your breath deepened, slowed. Your body relaxed, the tension in your shoulders loosening as the warmth of the bed enveloped you.

Sleep finally won.

And in that sleep, you didn’t fall into violence.

Your dreams were fractured and strange, like wandering through a forgotten house filled with half-familiar rooms and voices you couldn’t quite make out. A teacup sitting in a sunlit window. A red ribbon tied to a doorknob. A figure just around the corner, always out of reach but never threatening. The air was thick with meaning, but nothing ever turned to fear.

No strings. No screams. No glowing eyes.

Just that strange, meandering quiet that dreams often bring when they’re not nightmares.

In Pure Vanilla’s bed, you slept for the first time in days without jolting awake in a cold sweat.

And though you wouldn’t remember all the details when you awoke, you’d carry the feeling with you—that strange in-between peace, fragile but real. Like maybe, just maybe, your mind was trying to heal in the quiet he left behind

                                       •

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The morning had already risen by the time your body finally stirred. Your dreams had been a murky tangle of shadow and calm, but none of it followed you into the waking world. What did linger was the warmth of the blankets tangled around you, the quiet scent of rose and paper still clinging faintly to the bed where Pure Vanilla had once slept.

A sudden knock-knock broke through the silence, soft but insistent.

You stirred with a low groan, your body sluggish from sleep. For a second, you weren’t entirely sure where you were—the familiar smell, the different angle of morning light slipping through the curtains. Then it clicked. You were in Pure Vanilla’s room, and it was probably not ideal to be found here.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

You stumbled out of the bed, rubbing at your face and blinking away the last threads of sleep. Your feet padded across the wooden floor as you reached the door, fingers clumsy on the handle. You opened it a little too hard, the door creaking slightly on its hinges.

Gingerbrave stood there, his usual bright grin on his face, messy brown hair bouncing as he tilted his head. “Knew I’d find you here,” he chirped with a cheeky glint in his eye.

You blinked, expression flat for a second as your brain caught up. Your cheeks went warm, but you quickly waved a hand as if to brush the implication away. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, running a hand through your bedhead. “What do you want?”

“Relax,” he laughed. “I’m heading down to the harbor with Strawberry Cookie and Wizard Cookie. Figured I’d ask if you wanted to tag along. Fresh air might do you good.”

You hesitated for a moment. Part of you still felt glued to the silence of Pure Vanilla’s absence, like moving too much would disrupt some fragile piece of him left behind. But the idea of sitting alone again, stuck in your own head, felt worse.

“…Sure,” you said at last. “I’ll come.”

Gingerbrave beamed. “Sweet! I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes!” He turned on his heel with a bounce and took off down the hall before you could say anything else.

You stared after him for a second, the hallway settling into stillness again. With a quiet sigh, you turned and padded across the corridor into your own room.

It smelled different here—cleaner, cooler. Less lived in. You tugged open your wardrobe, pulling out something light and comfortable enough for the walk ahead. As you dressed, fingers moving with habitual ease, your thoughts drifted. You hadn’t been to the harbor before.

Maybe getting out really would help.

You fixed your hair in the mirror, patting down the flyaways and giving yourself a final once-over. You looked tired, still, but less haunted than you had in days. There was color returning to your skin, if only just.

You stood at the door, your hand resting on the knob, but something tugged at your attention—like a whisper in the back of your mind.

Your eyes flicked toward the nightstand.

There it was again. That ring. Dull in the soft morning light, glinting just enough to catch your gaze. The sight of it made your jaw tighten. You’d carried it around for so long now, never quite finding a reason to wear it… but never letting it go either.

You scowled lightly, your breath catching as the vision of him slipped into your mind—Shadow Milk. His laugh, low and amused. The sharp edge of his words. The gleam of his threads like spider silk. It made your gut twist.

But your mind didn’t stop there.

The image morphed—smoothed. Suddenly, you were back there, in the garden behind the white walls of his spire. You remembered the sun filtering through high hedges, the earthy scent of blooming dusk roses. You had refused to follow after him, stubbornly planted in the grass, jaw set, arms crossed. You remembered feeling petty, victorious even.

Until those threads came again—not binding, not threatening—but like an arm curling around your waist. Gentle. Almost curious. They lifted you off the ground, not roughly, just firmly, pulling you straight into him.

You remembered the jolt—the cool of being pressed against his chest. You remembered freezing not in fear, but in surprise. His face was so close, his grin softened in a way that was almost… endearing. Not a mask, not a sneer. Something genuine flickered there. His eyes weren’t sharp with mischief or malice then—they were quiet, warm, almost fond. It had been such a fleeting moment, buried beneath all the chaos that came after.

You blinked hard, pushing the memory aside like a puff of smoke. It clung anyway.

Your gaze drifted back to the ring.

You sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “What the hell am I doing…” you muttered under your breath.

Still, your hand moved on its own.

You stepped over to the nightstand, fingers brushing against the cold chain. You picked it up slowly, almost reverently. The metal was cool against your skin as you fastened the clasp behind your neck, tucking the ring beneath your collar where it rested close to your heart. You didn’t understand why it felt so necessary—but it did.

With a deep breath, you pulled yourself from the fog of memory. You crossed the room and paused by the mirror, giving yourself one last look.

The outfit was simple but clean. Your hair, neat. You looked composed—if someone didn’t stare too hard at the tiredness behind your eyes.

“Alright,” you murmured to yourself, voice barely more than a whisper. “Let’s just get through today.”

And with that, you left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind you.

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The air outside the inn was fresh, laced with the soft scent of morning dew and warm bread baking somewhere deeper in the kingdom. You stepped out, squinting slightly at the golden sunlight as your eyes adjusted to the brightness.

Just ahead, you caught sight of them—Gingerbrave standing on the edge of the cobbled path, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, as energetic as ever. Strawberry Cookie and Wizard Cookie stood beside him, the trio huddled together in quiet chatter. The moment Gingerbrave spotted you, he perked up, throwing his arm in the air with an enthusiastic wave.

“Hey!” he called out with a wide grin. “Took you long enough!”

You couldn’t help the small chuckle that slipped from your lips as you picked up your pace, making your way toward them. “Had to make sure I didn’t look like I just rolled out of bed,” you replied lightly.

Wizard Cookie turned at your voice, offering you a pleasant, if slightly more reserved, smile. “Good morning,” he said politely. There was always something a little precocious about him, like he took pride in being the “intellectual” of the group—but he was friendly all the same.

He stood out in his classic wizard ensemble—dark blue robe dusted in embroidered stars and moons, with a matching pointed hat that flopped slightly to one side. His signature scarf was looped snugly around his neck, fluffing out under his chin in a clear attempt to give the illusion of a beard. It made you smile every time. His white hair was a bit tousled, and his pale blue eyes sparkled with curiosity beneath the brim of his hat.

You nodded in greeting. “Morning, Wizard.”

He gave a slight bow, ever theatrical. “You’re looking well-rested.” He tilted his head slightly. “For someone who clearly wasn’t.”

You blinked. For a second, you weren’t sure if it was a sly jab or just an observation. His face was unreadable—but then a tiny smirk tugged at his lips, betraying the dry humor. You gave a mock-glare and shook your head. “Careful. I’m not afraid to toss a wizard into the harbor.”

That got a surprised laugh out of Gingerbrave and even a stifled snort from Wizard.

Strawberry Cookie, true to form, stood quietly a bit off to the side. Her oversized hoodie—styled like a ripe strawberry with a little green collar and seeds dotting the fabric—swallowed most of her frame. Soft pink hair peeked out from beneath the hoodie, brushing her shoulders. She glanced up at you shyly and gave you a tiny wave with a gentle smile.

“Hi,” she said softly.

You offered her a warm smile in return. “Hey, Strawberry. It’s good to see you.”

Her smile grew a little more at that, and she tucked her hands into her sleeves as Gingerbrave clapped his hands.

“Alright, let’s go!” he said with all the pep of someone who’d already had too much sugar. “The harbor’s only like twenty minutes away if we don’t get distracted!”

You rolled your eyes fondly but nodded, falling into step beside them as the four of you set off down the sunlit road—your ring tucked warm against your chest, its weight ever-present.

The path to the harbor wound through the edge of the kingdom, where the cobbled streets began to flatten into smooth stone walkways, warmed under the gentle touch of the sun. The chatter between the group was light—Gingerbrave occasionally darting ahead, pointing out interesting stones or oddly-shaped clouds, while Wizard and Strawberry Cookie stayed close by, their conversation a quiet murmur between them.

As you rounded a bend, the harbor opened before you, vast and bustling. The scent of salt water mixed with the aromas of grilled seafood, fresh fruits, and warm pastries wafting through the sea breeze. Boats—some small and rickety, others large and adorned with polished sails and glimmering gold trim—bobbed gently in the cerulean waves. The sound of creaking wood, distant bells, and seagulls created a soundtrack of the docks, overlaid with the hum of conversation and merchant shouts.

The larger ships were truly a sight to behold. Towering masts stretched into the sky, their sails tied and ready. Painted insignias decorated their hulls—some noble crests, others fierce creatures of the sea. You noticed one with bright blue sails stitched with a swirling sun motif, likely a royal cargo vessel. Another ship, smaller but fast-looking, was being loaded with crates stamped with the mark of the Dark Cacao Kingdom.

Lining the harbor’s edge were rows of stalls—vibrant little booths draped in colored fabrics and wooden signs. Merchants hawked their wares enthusiastically. Some offered skewers of grilled fish or caramel-drizzled apples. Others displayed polished gemstones, maps, handwoven clothes, and even small trinkets carved from coral or shell. The colors were overwhelming in the best way—pinks, oranges, and aquas blending together in a perfect seaside harmony.

“Whoa,” Gingerbrave breathed out beside you, eyes wide with excitement. “This place is way bigger than I remember!”

Wizard Cookie adjusted his hat. “It’s because you were too busy falling into a barrel the last time we were here.”

“I did not fall,” Gingerbrave huffed. “I jumped. With style.”

You chuckled, taking in the scene around you, letting your eyes scan the crowds and ships. Something about the harbor made your heart ache a little—maybe it was the memory of watching Pure Vanilla walk off into the distance, or maybe it was just the strange familiarity that came with the crashing of waves and the sound of sails flapping in the wind.

Strawberry Cookie tugged gently on your sleeve, her voice soft. “There’s a booth over there with sweet milk bread… it’s really good.”

You nodded, offering a smile. “Lead the way.”

As she led you through the stalls, you found yourself glancing toward the sea, the horizon stretching endlessly. Somewhere out there, Pure Vanilla was making his way through unfamiliar lands.

And as the salty wind brushed past your cheeks and tugged at your clothes, you tightened your grip on the ring around your neck—its cool metal a quiet reminder of the tangled past, and the uncertain future ahead.

You took a deep breath allowing your lungs to fill with a cool salty air, a smile curled on your lips subconsciously. The chatter of wizard cookie and Gingerbrave filling your ears as strawberry cookie led you deeper in the harbor. You couldn’t help but smile feeling a little bit lighter than you had this morning. 

Maybe today won’t be so bad.

Chapter Text

The sun hung high in the sky, golden and strong, but not unbearable thanks to the sea’s gentle breeze brushing against your skin. The smell of salt clung to the air, mingling with the sweetness of nearby pastries and the crisp scent of ripe produce. The harbor was alive with color and sound—canvas stall awnings fluttering in the wind, merchants calling out their best deals, and the low hum of the ocean tide rolling in and out in the distance.

You found yourself lingering at one stall in particular. It was a humble little setup with crates of vibrant fruit stacked high—plump peaches with soft blushes, glossy berries in little woven baskets, and sun-warmed citrus that gleamed like gold coins. You reached out, fingertips grazing the skin of a firm pear, testing its ripeness. The vendor, an older Cookie with sun-leathered skin and a straw hat perched on his head, smiled kindly at you but didn’t press for a sale. That was one thing you liked about the harbor—people here didn’t rush you.

The warm sun pressed against your back, contrasting pleasantly with the cool breeze that tickled loose strands of hair around your face. You breathed in slowly, savoring the quiet, the rare moment where nothing demanded your immediate attention. The others—Gingerbrave, Strawberry, and Wizard—had wandered off a bit ago, lost in the distractions of candy-shaped trinkets, spellbook vendors, and Strawberry’s soft protests over trying strange candied seafood.

You didn’t mind being left alone for a bit. In fact, you welcomed it.

It gave you a moment to think.

Your fingers hovered over a small box of strawberries—ruby red and dusted lightly with sugar crystals. It reminded you, faintly, of something. Not the fruit, but the way it was arranged, neat and with care. A flicker of memory surfaced: shadow milk’s quiet hand offering you something similar once—berries dipped in something you couldn’t name, sitting in the middle of a ruined garden. You shook the thought away, pushing it back into the recesses of your mind where it could stay.

You gave the vendor a few coins and picked up the basket of fruit, smiling politely. “Thank you.”

As you turned away from the stall, the salty wind tousled your hair again, and you adjusted the small chain around your neck out of habit—the weight of the ring resting just above your heart grounding you, familiar and foreign all at once.

You continued walking slowly along the docks, the distant chatter of children playing with sea-glass and vendors calling out “Two for one today!” echoing softly around you. It was peaceful here in a way you didn’t often get to experience anymore.

You bit into one of the strawberries as you walked, sweet juice bursting on your tongue.

For now, at least, you allowed yourself to enjoy the quiet.

The warm breeze tugged at your clothes as you meandered further along the bustling harbor, the steady sound of waves lapping against the wooden docks acting like a soft background hum to the murmur of the crowd. Your steps slowed when your eyes caught on something—leather packs slung over posts, polished canteens gleaming in the sun, and sturdy gear hanging in neat rows from a wide, canvas-covered stall.

You drifted toward it, curiosity nudging your feet forward. Your fingers brushed across one of the backpacks, the worn leather supple beneath your touch. It was built to last—weathered but cared for, the kind of thing a well-traveled adventurer might sling over their shoulder without a second thought. Your hand moved to a nearby belt, lined with pouches and loops for tools, and you wondered what kind of places one might reach with the right equipment strapped to their side.

Then your gaze shifted to the smaller table nestled beside the gear. It was mostly ignored by the few others browsing, but something about it pulled at you. Spread across it were intricately drawn maps—each one a miniature work of art, the parchment soft with age, borders adorned with elegant flourishes and delicate script. Mountains carved in sharp ink lines, rivers flowing in precise curves, and scattered dots indicating ancient ruins or remote outposts.

One map, in particular, caught your eye. It had a wild, jagged look to its terrain—deep greens, sharp peaks, and unfamiliar symbols scattered like warnings. You leaned in slightly, trying to make out the name etched across its bottom corner in bold lettering.

Beast Yeast.

“Not many eyes catch that one these days,” a voice said from beside you, calm and seasoned. You turned to see the vendor—a Cookie with a weather-beaten face and a travel cloak that smelled faintly of firewood and ink. He stepped closer, glancing down at the map you were looking at with a small nod. “That’s Beast Yeast. A beautiful place, if you don’t mind the danger.”

Your brows lifted, interest tugging at your expression. “Dangerous?” you asked, though the spark of curiosity was already flickering to life behind your words.

The vendor chuckled. “Oh yes. Beast Yeast is wild. Untamed. These days, not many venture there—at least not without a very good reason. The flora alone can be… unforgiving. Some plants have learned to protect themselves in aggressive ways. And the wildlife—unlike anything you’d see in these parts. Diverse, powerful. And very territorial.”

You leaned a little closer, fingertips brushing the map’s corner with reverence. “Has it always been that way?”

He hummed in thought. “Not always. There was a time when it was a place of great discovery—botanists, explorers, even mystics wandered its jungles and peaks. But things changed. It grew harsher. Less welcoming. And… well, rumor has it that darker forces began stirring in the deeper parts. Old temples, forgotten magic. Some say even things not even the Witches dared to toy with.”

Your mouth felt a little dry, but not from fear. Intrigue bloomed in your chest like a seed planted in fertile soil. You couldn’t help it—the unknown tugged at you.

The vendor tilted his head, watching you closely. “You planning a journey?”

You smiled faintly, unsure yourself. “Not yet. Just… wondering.”

He nodded like he understood exactly what you meant, then tapped the edge of the map. “If you ever do go, take someone you trust. Beast Yeast has a way of showing you who you really are—whether you’re ready or not.”

You lingered a moment longer, your gaze still fixed on the wild beauty inked into the parchment of the Beast Yeast map. Then, almost on instinct, you turned to the vendor.

“Can I buy it?” you asked, your voice calm but resolute.

The vendor’s eyes brightened, a grin tugging at the corners of their weathered mouth. “Now that’s what I like to hear,” they said, clearly pleased. “Tell you what—” They reached under the table, pulling out a soft roll of parchment string. “Most folks avoid Beast Yeast like a moldy muffin, so this one’s been gathering dust. I’ll give it to you for cheap.”

They quoted a price far lower than you’d expected. Before you could even thank them, they added with a chuckle, “If you’re headed that way, you’ve got more to worry about than coins in your pouch.”

You nodded, offering a small, appreciative smile as you dug out the coins and passed them over. You said nothing about how familiar the terrain on the map already was to you—how you knew the winding trails and jagged cliffs of Beast Yeast far more intimately than you cared to admit. You didn’t mention Shadow Milk’s spire, or how you’d once stood within the eerie quiet of his twisted garden, deep in that very same territory.

Some truths didn’t need to be spoken.

The vendor expertly rolled the map and tied it with care, then handed it to you with a firm nod. “There you go, traveler. And hey—if you ever decide to actually head that way, come back here first. I’ll give you a discount on gear. A little something to help keep you breathing.”

You took the map, fingers brushing the rough edge of the parchment, and tucked it carefully into your satchel. “Thanks,” you said genuinely, holding their gaze.

“Good luck,” the vendor added as you turned away. “You’ll need it.”

You gave a final nod before stepping back into the steady flow of the harbor crowd. The sounds of seagulls, the call of vendors, and the scent of salt and baked goods swirled around you, familiar and grounding.

But inside your bag, the weight of that map tugged at you. And somewhere deep in your chest, a quiet, uneasy stir reminded you that curiosity was a dangerous seed—once planted, it rarely stayed buried.

The harbor was alive with motion—sails fluttering high above, voices overlapping in a messy but comforting hum, and the salty wind tousling your hair as you wove through the crowds. The sun hung high in the clear afternoon sky, warm on your shoulders without being unbearable. The occasional ocean breeze carried the scent of brine and spices, keeping the summer heat in check.

You had wandered until your stomach had begun to quietly protest, reminding you of how long it had been since your last real meal. Near the far end of the market row, you spotted a modest food stand nestled between a bait shop and a trinket cart. They were serving fresh bread pockets stuffed with seasoned veggies and thin slices of roast fruit-glazed meat—a strange mix, but the scent had made your mouth water.

You bought one with a few coins and thanked the vendor, cradling it carefully in your hands as you strolled away in search of somewhere quieter.

Eventually, you found yourself on the edge of the harbor, where a long wooden dock stretched out into the glimmering blue. Most of the nearby boats were tied and bobbing gently in the calm waves, the water lapping softly against the wood. You sat down at the end of the dock, legs dangling above the sea. The boards were sun-warmed beneath you, dry and smooth from years of use.

As you bit into your meal, the salty tang of the sea mingled perfectly with the flavors. You let out a slow, content sigh.

Below, the water was crystal clear, dancing with light. Schools of fish swam lazily beneath you, their scales catching the sunlight like shards of colored glass. Blues, silvers, and flashes of orange flickered in and out of view as they darted and twisted together in mesmerizing patterns.

You chewed slower, watching them, allowing your mind to drift in time with the tide. There was something comforting about this quiet moment—no noise but the sea, no crowd pressing at your back, no lingering shadow following your every thought.

Just the sun on your face, the cool splash of the breeze, and a belly slowly filling with warm food.

You leaned back slightly, one hand bracing against the dock, the other still holding your lunch. For a moment, nothing haunted you. There was no mission, no confusing dreams, no distant smiles or lingering touches to overthink.

Just now. Just this moment.

And for now, that was enough.

The gentle rhythm of the waves below lulled you into a half-dreaming state, your lunch nearly forgotten in your hands as you watched the sun sparkle across the sea. The breeze tugged lightly at your clothes and hair, and for once, your thoughts weren’t at war with each other.

But the moment didn’t last long.

“Hey!! There you are!!”

The sudden voice snapped your attention back to shore. You turned your head, and sure enough, bounding toward you with endless energy was Gingerbrave, arms waving and a wide grin plastered across his face.

Behind him, Strawberry Cookie followed at a calmer pace, her hoodie drawn a little tighter around her face to shield her from the sun. Wizard Cookie trailed beside her, arms loaded with a couple of bags that looked stuffed with books and curious little gadgets.

Gingerbrave skidded to a stop in front of you, practically bouncing on his heels as he glanced between you and the items beside you. “Whoa! You went all out, huh? Did you see the gear stall? I got this cool compass—look!”

He crouched down next to you, eagerly digging into one of his own bags. A moment later, he pulled out a small bronze compass with a slightly scratched face. It looked old but still functional, and the needle spun gently before locking into place.

“Neat, right?” he beamed, holding it out for you to see. “The vendor said it’s real reliable, even near strong magic zones!”

You chuckled softly, letting his excitement infect you as you took a glance at the compass. “That’s a solid find,” you said, then added teasingly, “Though I doubt you’ll ever use it the way you run ahead of everyone.”

Gingerbrave laughed, completely unbothered. “Hey, you never know!”

Strawberry Cookie approached quietly, offering you a small but sweet smile as she lowered herself to sit beside you. She reached into her own bag and pulled out a tiny stuffed strawberry, dangling it from a loop on her bag’s strap.

“I thought it was cute,” she said shyly. You nodded in agreement—it was.

Wizard Cookie remained standing for a moment, arms crossed as he observed you all from behind his scarf, which was, as always, a little crooked from all the movement.

“I got some magical reagents,” he said proudly, lifting one of his bags slightly, “and a couple of scrolls from a shady-looking vendor that probably aren’t cursed.” A beat passed. “Probably.”

You raised a brow. “That’s… comforting.”

He smirked slightly, his usual dry humor shining through. “I’m nothing if not adventurous.”

As the three of them chatted and showed off their finds, the dock came alive again—not with the noisy press of the crowd, but with a small, easy companionship. You leaned back again slightly, smiling to yourself. For all the shadows that lingered in your thoughts… moments like this—quiet, warm, and full of harmless laughter—made the world feel a little more manageable.

Gingerbrave was still mid-ramble, talking animatedly about some odd sea creature he swore he’d seen in one of the fish stalls, his hands moving in exaggerated motions to describe how “its eyes were like—this big!” and how it had almost bitten Wizard Cookie’s cloak—when suddenly, he gasped.

“Oh! Oh, right!” he said, snapping his fingers and nearly knocking his lunch container off the dock in the process. “I almost forgot!”

You turned to him, mildly startled. “Forgot what?”

“I had to run back to the palace earlier ‘cause I left something—and that reminded me—someone left this for you!” he said, digging into his oversized hoodie pocket. He rummaged around for a moment, pulling out a random crumpled wrapper, a smooth stone, and what might have been part of a gear trinket, before finally letting out a triumphant “Aha!”

He held out an envelope, a clean, cream-colored one that stood in stark contrast to the chaos of his pocket. It was sealed with a golden wax stamp shaped in the delicate form of a blooming lily.

“For you!” he said, grinning wide.

Your breath caught for a second as you gently took the envelope from him. The weight of it in your hand felt impossibly familiar. The wax, the gentle curve of the handwriting on the front—graceful, meticulous, and unmistakable.

Your fingers brushed over the name written in soft ink. No doubt about it.

Pure Vanilla.

You stared at it for a moment, heart swelling in your chest, warm and aching all at once. A part of you wanted to open it right then and there—but another part, a quieter, more private one, urged you to wait. To find a quiet moment alone.

Still, you smiled, letting that warmth sit in your chest like a candle flame.

“Thanks, Gingerbrave,” you said softly, your tone carrying more weight than he probably realized.

He just grinned wider, oblivious to the emotional undertow in your voice. “No problem! The guy that delivered it said it was really important it got to you. You should’ve seen the look on his face—super serious. Kinda made me nervous, honestly.”

You chuckled under your breath, slipping the envelope into your bag with careful fingers. You’d read it soon—but for now, you sat back on the dock again, letting the sun warm your skin and the ocean air steady your breath.

You held onto the feeling. Of connection. Of care. Of him.

                                       •

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It had been a few hours since you parted ways with Gingerbrave, Strawberry, and Wizard Cookie. The harbor’s bustling noise had faded behind you, replaced by the steady rhythm of your steps as you returned to the inn. The sky had shifted into a rich orange hue, streaks of gold and amber dancing across the horizon as the sun dipped low.

The gentle creak of the inn’s wooden door greeted you as you stepped inside, the scent of spiced tea and worn parchment instantly wrapping around you like a soft blanket. A quiet calm settled over the building, most guests tucked away in their rooms or winding down in the common areas.

You made your way up the familiar stairs, each one creaking just slightly underfoot. Your fingers brushed the smooth rail, worn down from years of use, as you reached your room. With a soft click, the door closed behind you, muffling the outside world.

You didn’t bother turning on a lamp right away—the warm light from the fading sun still poured in through the window, casting long, soft shadows across the floorboards.

Your hands immediately went to your bag. You knew exactly what you were looking for.

With care, you pulled out the cream-colored envelope, still perfectly folded with the elegant golden wax seal now gently broken. Your heart beat just a little faster as you opened it, fingers brushing the parchment as if it might vanish at the slightest pressure.

You unfolded the letter and took a seat at the edge of your bed. The familiar, precise script greeted you like an old friend.

“Dearest,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’ve made it to a small village just outside the Golden Cheese Kingdom—nothing too grand, but the stars shine brighter here than anywhere I’ve seen in quite some time. The journey has been smooth so far, no cause for worry.

I know I promised to keep you updated, and I didn’t want too much time to pass without writing. I imagine you rolling your eyes at how predictable I am—but I hope my words bring you some measure of comfort.

I do hope you’re finding ways to stay well and keep busy. I imagine you wandering the harbor or scolding Gingerbrave for being reckless again.

Take care of yourself. Eat properly. Rest. And maybe, every now and then, think of me.

I’ll be home before long.

With love,

PV.”

Your heart swelled as you read it, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

The simple warmth of his words, the familiarity in the way he spoke to you—it was enough to make your chest ache just slightly. You held the letter against your chest for a moment, the corners of the parchment brushing your chin as you exhaled deeply.

For a little while, the ache you’d been carrying, the unease that had haunted your dreams, was soothed.

You carefully folded the letter back, placing it gently on your nightstand. Maybe later, you’d read it again.

But for now, you sat in the quiet glow of sunset, feeling something you hadn’t in a while.

Hope.

You flopped back onto the bed, the letter still fresh in your mind, every carefully written word playing over and over like a favorite song. A grin spread across your face unbidden, your heart fluttering with a warmth that had grown too familiar in Pure Vanilla’s presence. It hit you then—suddenly, clearly, overwhelmingly.

You had feelings for him.

The realization hung in the air like a sharp bell tone, impossible to ignore.

You shook your head, trying to shake the thought loose as if it were something physical you could rid yourself of. “No,” you muttered under your breath. “Don’t do this.” You brought your hands to your face, inhaling deeply and exhaling through your nose to calm the sudden thrum of your heart.

But the second your eyes wandered to your hands, you saw it again—the ring.

Your fingers instinctively went to it, tracing the cool metal now resting on the chain around your neck. The guilt settled in like a weight in your chest, a sharp contrast to the giddy flutter from moments before. The joy you’d just felt twisted into confusion. Into something tangled.

Why did it feel wrong to think of Pure Vanilla that way?

You didn’t need to ask. You knew why.

Shadow Milk.

Your thoughts betrayed you, dragging you into memories you hadn’t asked for. His voice, teasing and smooth, filled your ears. His fingers twirling strands of your hair while he leaned in just close enough to leave your heart racing. The way his strings would sneak around your wrist with faux-threats, his smirk always daring you to defy him. The moments where his eyes softened—when for a fleeting second, the monster seemed almost… human.

Your stomach twisted, and you let out a low groan of frustration before you flopped over onto your stomach, burying your face deep into the mattress. The cotton muffled your voice as you let out a string of muffled, incoherent sounds meant only to silence the noise in your own head.

Why couldn’t you stop thinking about him?

Why did it still feel like he was there, lingering in your thoughts like smoke you couldn’t wave away?

It was like an itch just beneath your skin—one you couldn’t reach, couldn’t satisfy. And no matter how warm Pure Vanilla made you feel… Shadow Milk haunted the corners of your mind like a ghost that refused to be laid to rest.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, willing it all to quiet down, to go still, just for a moment. But the ring stayed warm against your chest, and the confusion remained.

You weren’t sure which way your heart was leaning anymore.

And that terrified you.

You sat up slowly from your crumpled position, your face red and warm from being pressed into the mattress. You took a deep breath, trying to ground yourself, your gaze falling to the wooden floor beneath your feet as you forced yourself to focus on the logical—anything to avoid drowning in the sea of tangled emotions you could no longer ignore.

“You don’t like him,” you muttered aloud, voice low but firm—as if saying it would make it true. “You don’t have feelings for Shadow Milk. You’re just stressed and confused.”

You shook your head, a little sharper this time. “You can’t. You barely even know him.”

The words were weak. Empty. But you clung to them anyway, needing something solid to hold onto.

It’s not real, you told yourself. It’s just… curiosity. That’s all. Human curiosity. Maybe trauma. A leftover mess from being around someone so strange, so intense, so unpredictable. Someone who pulled you into his twisted gravity and never let you look away. Someone who blurred the line between threat and safety, cruelty and comfort.

You bit down on your bottom lip, hard enough to ground yourself in the present. That’s all it is, you continued to insist silently. It’s the aftermath. The residue. It’s not real.

But still, something in you refused to let go of the memory of his smile. That brief moment in the garden—soft and fleeting, when his eyes had crinkled ever so slightly, not with menace but something else. A fondness you couldn’t explain.

You let out another breath, shaky this time. You reached for the chain around your neck, gripping the ring and its familiar weight like a tether. You stared at the little thing, as if the silver could give you answers. It gave you none.

You’re being ridiculous, you thought, trying to bury it all again, deeper this time. You couldn’t afford to entertain something so chaotic. So wrong. You had Pure Vanilla now. Someone steady. Someone good.

So why did your chest feel like it was being pulled in two different directions?

Your fingers curled tightly around the ring.

“I need to stop,” you whispered. “I just need to stop.”

The room was silent, but your thoughts were not.

And despite every attempt to rationalize it away, one truth lingered beneath it all—quiet, undeniable.

You felt something.

You just weren’t ready to name what it was.

                                       •

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Night had fallen like a curtain drawn softly across the sky, casting everything in a gentle shade of blue. The room was dim, lit only by the warm golden glow of a single candle resting on your nightstand. Crickets chirped faintly outside the open window, their soft song blending with the distant hush of waves rolling against the harbor.

You lay nestled in your bed, cocooned in the warmth of your blanket. The fabric was soft against your skin, worn and familiar, offering a comfort that made the world outside feel far away. A book sat open in your hands, the pages catching the flicker of candlelight. You were reading, technically—but your eyes kept sliding over the same lines without really absorbing them.

You didn’t mind.

The silence in the room wasn’t heavy—it was calming. You let your mind drift, the words on the page becoming a soft blur as your thoughts wandered through the events of the day. You thought of the bustling harbor, the smell of the ocean, the laughter of the trio as they pulled you from your quiet moment on the dock. The little trinkets, the colorful stalls, the cheerful nonsense Gingerbrave had rambled about with such joy.

It had been a good day. Really good. You smiled faintly at the memory, letting it warm you from the inside.

But then, like a ripple over calm water, your thoughts shifted.

Your fingers absentmindedly fidgeted with the ring on its chain around your neck. You tried to ignore the familiar weight of confusion tugging at your chest—the way your emotions had twisted earlier, the guilt, the strange ache. The letter from Pure Vanilla still rested safely in your drawer, and just thinking of his words brought a flutter to your heart.

You pushed aside the mess of thoughts that followed—the shadowed memories, the garden, that unreadable smile. You didn’t want to feel torn anymore. You just wanted this moment of quiet to last. Just you, your book, the cool night air drifting through the window, and the candle flickering like a small guardian of peace.

You tucked yourself deeper into your blanket, finally letting your eyes return to the page with a little more focus. Not to distract yourself—just to breathe.

Tomorrow would bring more questions, more choices. But tonight?

Tonight was calm. 

Your eyelids drooped, heavy with the weight of the long day. The book in your hands blurred, the words swimming on the page no matter how hard you tried to focus. You blinked a few times, slow and lazy, trying to will your brain to keep up—but your body had other plans.

A soft groan escaped your lips as you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to rub away the thick haze of exhaustion that clung to you like a blanket. The candlelight flickered gently, casting dancing shadows across your walls, lulling you further into sleep’s slow embrace.

You stubbornly turned the page, determined to keep reading—just one more chapter, just a few more lines—but your grip on the book loosened, your arms going slack against the warm comfort of the blanket tucked around you.

Your head tipped slightly to the side, the soft brush of fabric against your cheek almost too soothing. The words on the page became meaningless symbols, your breathing slowed, steady and quiet.

Then, without even realizing it, sleep finally won.

The book slipped from your hands and landed against your chest, half-open. The candlelight continued its quiet vigil beside you as your breathing deepened and your body fully relaxed into the mattress.

You were still. Quiet. Safe—for now.

Wrapped in soft blankets and the gentle hush of night, you drifted into a deep slumber, the world around you fading into the silence of dreams.

The dream wrapped around you like silk—soft, surreal, and strange.

At first, it was just sensation. The air was cold but still. Your mind swam in a haze, sluggish and distant, until your senses began to anchor themselves—first to the music, a slow, haunting waltz echoing through an expansive room. Then to the feeling: the unmistakable press of a large, cold hand wrapped firmly around your waist, the other clasping yours in a practiced hold.

Your vision sharpened, colors blending together into ornate walls, high glass windows, and shimmering light spilling in from the moon above. You were in a ballroom. You didn’t recognize it. But somehow, it still felt familiar—as if your bones had once danced here in another life.

Your gaze slowly lifted to meet the figure leading the dance. Shadow Milk.

Dressed in midnight tones that bled into the dim room, he looked exactly as he always did—shrouded in a mixture of elegance and unease. His face, however, was softened in the glow of the dreamlight. No mocking grin, no sharp glint in his eyes. Just something quieter. Something unreadable.

The two of you swayed in a lazy rhythm, his movements guiding yours effortlessly, as if your body had no will of its own. It was strange, how natural it felt to be held like this. As though he’d done it a thousand times. As though you had let him.

His presence was overwhelming—cold skin, the smell of his cologne, the faint sound of his breath just barely brushing past your ear. You could feel him everywhere, like a thread wrapping around your ribs, tugging softly but tightly.

Then you felt it—his nose nudging gently against the crook of your neck, his lips ghosting just over your skin. A chill climbed your spine, a shiver of something you couldn’t name blooming beneath your sternum.

“It’s your move, darling,” he murmured, the words a low vibration that made your breath catch.

But before you could move—before you could think or react—the ballroom faded.

The cold hand vanished. The music slipped into silence.

And then—nothing.

Your sleep became still and dreamless once again, the last traces of the waltz lingering in your chest like a whisper that refused to be forgotten.

Chapter Text

The morning sun had crept into the sky hours ago, but it did little to lift the strange weight hanging over you.

You wandered through the cobbled streets of the kingdom, your steps slow, almost aimless. The dream still clung to you—like a ghost wrapping around your shoulders. Despite the bustle of daily life around you, it was hard to fully sink into the present. The images, the sensations, the lingering voice—it all replayed again and again behind your eyes.

The villagers around you moved with ease, smiling faces tucked into sun-warmed scarves, baskets of bread and fruits balanced in arms or across carts. You could hear the soft hum of casual chatter. Children giggled and darted between stalls, their laughter adding life to the air, and an old merchant was whistling a tune as he polished trinkets hanging from his small booth. The warm smell of baked goods drifted from a nearby bakery, curling through the crisp breeze. It was peaceful. Normal.

And yet, you couldn’t shake the phantom feeling of his hand at your waist. The chill of it. The ease with which he’d pulled you along the floor like you belonged to him. The way his lips had hovered, not touching, but close enough to leave your skin burning.

“It’s your move, darling.”

You stopped walking, breath catching. A flicker of cold danced up your spine again at the memory. Your arms crossed over your chest in a poor attempt at grounding yourself. It had been some days since the dream plagued your sleep but it seemed to linger as if it was embedded into your bones.

What unsettled you wasn’t just the dream’s vividness—it was the way it had felt. Intimate. Familiar. Too real. You could remember the way your body had responded, not with fear but with something closer to surrender. That terrified you more than anything.

Why did it feel like I was ment to dance with him?

It was so fluid, natural. Like breathing.

Why did it feel like I wanted to again?

You exhaled slowly and resumed walking, forcing your thoughts to quiet. It had just been a dream. Dreams were just echoes—scraps of memory, stress, emotion. You reminded yourself of that again and again, but the weight in your chest told a different story.

You let your feet carry you further down the winding path, past ivy-draped stone buildings and into a small square where musicians were setting up for the afternoon. A soft string melody began to drift out as they tuned, echoing faintly like the one from your dream.

You flinched.

Maybe some air would help. Maybe you needed to get farther from the town center. You turned down a quieter street, trying to find solace in solitude—trying, somehow, to pull yourself out of the grip of shadowed memories and the haunting comfort of cold hands that weren’t there.

You continued down the winding side street, your arms wrapped around yourself more for comfort than warmth. The further you walked, the quieter the city seemed to grow—fewer people, fewer distractions, and more space for your thoughts to echo.

But then you heard it. A voice—low, murmuring—but it caught your attention like a sharp pinprick of ice against your skin.

“…they say it was a caravan headed to Golden Cheese’s kingdom…”

You stopped in your tracks. The voice was coming from a small courtyard just ahead, half-hidden by flowering vines and low stone arches. You took a slow, careful step closer, your heart beginning to pound against your ribs.

“…attacked on the outer ridge near the canyons. Some kind of ambush, I think,” another voice replied, hushed but urgent. “I heard they were trying to assist one of the kingdoms with some kind of magical disturbance. Most made it out—but not all.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Your feet moved you before your mind could process. You stepped close enough to peer around the edge of the building, spotting two older cookies standing near a water pump, their baskets forgotten beside them. They weren’t paying you any mind—too deep in their conversation.

“I wonder if Pure Vanilla was with them,” one of them said thoughtfully, adjusting her shawl. “He was supposed to head out that way recently, wasn’t he?”

The second one nodded gravely. “I hope he’s alright. That kind of magic—if it was what I think it was—can unravel even the most powerful.”

Your breath caught painfully in your throat. A sharp, burning pressure welled up behind your eyes, and your fingers trembled at your sides.

No. No, he said he’d write again soon. He said the trip was going smoothly. He said he’d be careful. He—

You stepped back from the edge, heart in your throat, and turned down a separate path, walking faster now. You didn’t even realize you were heading toward the edge of the city until the buildings began to thin and the open road came into view.

You couldn’t tell if the chill you felt was from the wind or the dread curling tightly in your gut.

What if something happened to him? What if he didn’t make it to Golden Cheese? What if… what if he was—

You shook your head, physically trying to dislodge the thought.

No. Don’t assume the worst. Not yet. You don’t know anything for certain.

But the look in those villagers’ eyes—the seriousness, the weight of concern—told you they believed what they heard. And now that whisper of dread had sunk its claws deep.

You looked to the road leading out of the kingdom, the dirt path that led through the hills and toward the canyons they’d spoken of.

Your hand drifted to the chain around your neck, gripping the ring there without thinking.

You couldn’t just wait. Not if there was even a chance he needed help.

Your heart was already starting to make the decision your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

You spun on your heel, the hem of your coat catching in the breeze as you made a swift turn, your boots striking hard against the stone road as you started toward the inn. The quiet hum of the streets, the drifting smell of bread and citrus from the morning stalls—all of it faded behind the heavy pounding of your heart and the single, suffocating thought taking root in your mind:

Something’s wrong.

You didn’t know how much of what those villagers said was true, how much was rumor or exaggeration, but it didn’t matter—not to the fear now digging its claws deeper into your chest. Your footsteps grew quicker, heavier, until you were nearly running, weaving past startled villagers and bustling carts with a mumbled apology or none at all.

You needed answers.

You needed to move.

You needed to do something.

The inn finally came into view, its familiar wooden sign creaking in the wind, the ivy curling up its sides like lazy fingers. You practically shoved the door open, the warm scent of hearth and old wood brushing over your skin like a welcome you couldn’t feel.

You didn’t stop to greet the innkeeper.

You didn’t stop to catch your breath.

You stormed up the stairs two at a time, your palm flat against the wall for balance, your chest tightening with each second that passed.

Your door shut behind you with a hard click, and your hands were already yanking drawers open.

You tore open the wardrobe, grabbing the travel-worn bag that had long since gathered dust in the corner, dumping its contents on the bed without a second thought. The soft thud of spare clothing and supplies barely registered as your mind churned. Your fingers shook as you reached for essentials: water canteen, bandages, dried rations, a flint striker, a clean cloak.

Your eyes flicked to the nightstand.

The letter from Pure Vanilla lay there still, the wax seal now cracked and forgotten, the careful curve of his handwriting catching the light in a way that made your chest ache.

He had told you everything was going well. That he was almost there. That he’d write again.

So why did it feel like that letter was a goodbye?

You forced yourself to breathe—deep and slow—pressing a palm to your stomach to ground yourself.

“No. He’s alive,” you whispered to the quiet of your room, voice trembling. “He’s alive and he needs help. That’s all that matters.”

Your eyes flicked to the small drawer in your nightstand.

With a reluctant hand, you opened it and pulled out the now-familiar rolled map—the one of Beast Yeast.

You smoothed it out across your desk, eyes scanning the inked terrain, recalling the vendor’s voice from earlier. “Not many go there anymore. Dangerous flora. Wild ecosystems.”

But you knew those wilds.

You had walked them before—once, unwillingly. And though that time had nearly broken you, you had survived.

You could do it again.

Your hand drifted to your chest, fingers brushing the chain and the cool metal of the ring that rested against your skin. For a flicker of a moment, another face haunted your thoughts—Shadow Milk. The ache of conflicted memories flared like a bruise pressed too hard: his teasing voice, the sharp edge of his strings, the glint in his eyes when he let his mask slip.

You swallowed the image down.

Now wasn’t the time.

You pulled your bag tight, slinging it over your shoulder as you folded the map and tucked it into a side pocket. You gave one last look around the room—your temporary home, the place where you’d let yourself believe for a while that things were okay.

And then you left.

Down the stairs, past the concerned gaze of the innkeeper, and out into the amber-hued evening where the sun had already begun its descent, casting long shadows across the cobbled street.

The fear still sat in your bones, heavy and cold—but it moved with you now, no longer paralyzing. 

“Hey—wait!”

The voice rang out from behind you, piercing the dull hum of the street. You stopped dead in your tracks, your boot catching on the uneven stone of the road as your heart gave a nervous stutter. Slowly, you turned.

Gingerbrave.

He jogged toward you, but there was no bounce in his step this time, no wide grin plastered across his face like usual. His expression was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed in concern. It was a look that didn’t belong on him. It was too heavy. Too knowing.

His eyes flicked over you—over the travel pack strapped to your shoulders, the worn map just barely visible from your coat pocket, the tightened expression on your face. His gaze lingered on the ring around your neck, the chain barely catching the glint of fading sunlight. You felt like he saw everything.

He finally stopped in front of you, catching his breath. The wind tugged softly at his cape. For a moment, he said nothing.

“I figured you’d do something like this…” he mumbled.

Your stomach turned. You opened your mouth, but the words got stuck. Gingerbrave glanced down, then back up at you, frustration and worry flickering in his eyes.

“I heard the same rumors,” he said quietly. “The ones about the attack. And when I went to check the inn and your room was empty, I… I just knew.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I can’t just wait, Gingerbrave. I have to know if he’s okay. I have to at least try—”

“I know.” He cut you off, but his voice wasn’t angry. It was soft, understanding. Maybe even sad.

He shifted awkwardly on his feet before taking a step closer. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

The question hit like a punch. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just lowered your gaze, the silence between you thick enough to smother the air. After a long moment, you nodded.

Gingerbrave sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t go alone. Beast Yeast isn’t like before. It’s worse now. Dangerous. There are monsters out there that don’t care who you are or why you’re there.”

“I’ve been there before,” you reminded him, your voice firmer than you expected. “I made it out once.”

He looked unconvinced. His fists clenched slightly at his sides.

“Yeah. And I saw what it did to you.”

The words made your chest tighten.

He looked up again, a flicker of determination pushing past his worry. “If you’re really going… you should at least let me help you prepare. I know some shortcuts. Places you can rest. I even—” He hesitated. “I kept some healing potions. From when I traveled with Pure Vanilla before. I can give them to you.”

Your eyes widened slightly, touched by his quiet support. You hadn’t expected it. Not like this.

“…Thank you,” you said quietly.

Gingerbrave gave you a short nod, his serious expression still in place. “I’ll run to my place and grab what I can. Wait by the north gate. I’ll be quick.”

He turned to leave, then paused and looked back over his shoulder.

“Don’t disappear on me, okay?”

You managed a tired, fragile smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He offered a small, sad grin in return—then turned and took off down the road, his cape fluttering behind him like a banner.

As you stood alone once more, the weight in your chest didn’t ease. But somehow, it felt more bearable now. You adjusted your pack and turned toward the distant outline of the kingdom’s north gate, your steps slower now—but more sure.

You weren’t alone. Not entirely.

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You stood silently by the north gate, your arms crossed loosely over your chest as the night settled fully around you. The air was cooler now, the scent of grass and distant woodsmoke drifting faintly on the breeze. Insects chirped from nearby brush, a rhythmic background to the hush that had fallen over the slumbering kingdom. The stone beneath your boots was still faintly warm from the sun, but the moon now reigned high above, its silver glow casting everything in pale, solemn light.

Your eyes followed the worn trail stretching out past the kingdom’s edge, winding into the dark silhouette of Beast Yeast’s distant wilderness. You had stared at that path for what felt like hours, your thoughts looping in quiet turmoil.

Was Pure Vanilla okay? Was the rumor true? Had something happened and no one bothered to send word?

Why had your dreams taken such a turn?

Why did the memory of a certain other still haunt you like a whisper on your spine?

You exhaled softly, tension clinging to your breath as you tried to steady your thoughts. You didn’t want to hesitate when the time came. You couldn’t.

The sound of quick, steady footsteps on the path behind you snapped you from your spiraling thoughts. You turned your head sharply, muscles tensing—only to see Gingerbrave approaching through the moonlight, a small pack cradled in his arms.

“Sorry,” he puffed, slowing to a stop in front of you. “Took me longer than I thought. Had to dig through a few old boxes.”

He handed over the pack carefully. You took it, peering inside. Neatly packed within were a few tightly corked vials of glowing potion, a small, tightly rolled blanket, a bundle of dried food wrapped in cloth, and a few other trinkets—charms, a small compass, even a folded map of the surrounding area.

“I figured you’d have your own supplies, but these might come in handy.” He scratched at the back of his head awkwardly. “That compass belonged to Pure Vanilla, actually. He gave it to me before one of our old trips. Said it always pointed him home, even when the stars didn’t.”

You paused, gently brushing your fingers over the worn metal of the compass before tucking it away in your pouch. The gesture tightened your throat.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze.

Gingerbrave gave a small shrug, his face shadowed in the moonlight. “Just don’t die, okay? I’d rather not be the one to break the news if you don’t come back.”

You gave him a soft, grateful smile—one touched with tired resolve. “I’m coming back. With him.”

He nodded once, firmly. “Good.”

There was a long, comfortable pause. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms tightly around you in a quick but fierce hug. You blinked, surprised—but returned the hug after a second, holding on just a moment longer than necessary.

When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable—but you could tell. He was worried. But he trusted you.

“Go,” he said, nodding toward the path. “I’ll keep an eye on things here. And when you come back… I expect a good story.”

You smiled, slinging the pack more securely over your shoulder.

“You’ll get one.”

And with that, you turned—your boots crunching softly over gravel as you stepped beyond the gate, the path stretching out into the cool silver of the night. The kingdom faded behind you. The wild unknown loomed ahead.

And with your heart thudding a steady rhythm, you pressed forward into the dark.

The gravel crunched softly beneath your boots as you pressed on, the cool night air brushing against your skin like whispers of the unknown. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of the growing distance between you and the kingdom—between you and what felt like safety.

You paused once at the top of a gentle hill, turning back instinctively. The tall, spired silhouette of the kingdom’s castle was barely visible now, swallowed slowly by the dark horizon. Its soft golden lights were fading into specks, like stars flickering out. You wrapped your arms around yourself, drawing a breath into your lungs and letting it out slowly, your chest tight.

Crispia was so still. Quiet in a way that whispered of peace. A deceptive kind of peace that made it all the more jarring to know how close the chaos was—how close danger lurked just beyond the edges of this tranquil place.

You thought of Pure Vanilla. Of his calm voice, the way he always knew what to say to still your spiraling thoughts. You clenched your hands into fists.

“I’m coming,” you murmured to yourself, voice barely audible against the breeze. “Just hold on.”

You started walking again. There was no room for second guesses, not now. Each step forward was a vow. You wouldn’t stop—not for aching legs, not for fatigue, not for the cold creeping into your joints. You had already made your choice the moment you heard those rumors. If there was even the smallest chance that he was out there—alive, hurt, or waiting—you would find him.

The moon followed you high overhead, casting long shadows across the path ahead. Occasionally, you’d glance behind you, catching that last glimpse of home before it vanished entirely. You kept your pace steady, even as your boots began to bite at your heels. The small pack on your shoulders shifted with every movement, the weight of its contents grounding you.

Ahead, the road dipped into thick woods, the trees tall and old, their trunks wrapped in mist. Beast Yeast was still a long way off, but the air was changing, growing thicker. Wilder. You could feel it creeping into the wind already.

Still, you moved forward. Your muscles ached and your heart throbbed with worry, but your resolve held strong. You had no map for what you’d face ahead. Only a vow. And the soft weight of the ring around your neck.

So you pressed on through the dark, into the uncertain, unwilling to stop.

The crunch of gravel beneath your boots became your only companion as you trudged along the path, every step echoing the sudden chaos your life had become. Just days ago, things had been normal—or as close to normal as they could be with everything tangled up inside you. Letters. Dreams. Half-buried feelings. You had convinced yourself it would be okay to wait, to simply exist until Pure Vanilla returned.

But now? Now you were walking straight into the wild, into the unknown.

You kicked a small stone off the road, watching it tumble into the tall grass with an irritated flick of your foot. “This is insane,” you muttered under your breath, wrapping your arms around yourself as the chill in the air crept beneath your clothes. The night had grown colder, more biting than before. It slipped down the collar of your shirt and settled against your skin, causing you to shiver involuntarily.

The forest loomed ahead, a mass of shadows stretched tall and twisted under the pale moonlight. You could already feel the shift—how the air grew quieter, thicker, heavier as the trees drew closer. The road curved into its dark embrace like a beckoning hand, and for the first time since leaving the gate, you hesitated.

You stood at the edge of the treeline, looking back one final time. The soft orange glow of Crispia’s lantern-lit streets was gone now, swallowed by hills and distance. There was no turning back, no gentle voice to call you home. Not anymore.

You hugged yourself tighter, your thoughts swirling.

How did everything change so fast?

You had been curled in bed reading not long ago, warm and safe. But safety didn’t matter when your heart was tangled up in a whirlwind of fear and guilt and longing. You weren’t even sure what it was you were chasing—hope, answers, or something more dangerous.

You’re really in deep this time.

The truth of it stung. This wasn’t a quest you’d planned for. No exact roadmap, no clear destination—just your gut, your worry, and the burning ache in your chest.

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. The forest ahead was dark, but it was also your only path forward.

“Get a grip,” you whispered, fingers brushing against the ring resting on your chest. Its weight was a silent reminder of how twisted things had become. Of what waited in your memory, and what could still lie ahead.

You pulled your coat tighter, bracing yourself against the breeze, and stepped into the shadowed woods.

The trees closed around you like curtains, muffling the world behind. But you kept walking.

Because deep down, you knew—you wouldn’t forgive yourself if you didn’t.

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The forest pressed in around you like a living thing, thick with shadows and the whispering creak of branches swaying in the cold night wind. The moon, barely visible through the dense canopy, cast only faint streaks of silver across the undergrowth. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself and kept your steps steady, eyes flicking left and right as the path ahead vanished into darkness.

It’s just a forest, you told yourself. Just trees. Just shadows. Nothing to be afraid of.

But the air was too still. No crickets, no rustling of small animals. The silence was unnatural—oppressive.

Then you heard it.

A low, guttural growl rolled through the trees like a warning drumbeat, quiet at first but unmistakably close. You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The growl rumbled again, more forceful now, vibrating through your chest like thunder from beneath the earth.

Your heart kicked into a gallop.

Slowly, you dropped your bag to the forest floor and reached for your dagger, fingers closing around the worn leather hilt. The metal felt cold against your skin, but familiar. Comforting, in a way. You held it close and adjusted your footing, refusing to let your knees buckle.

You scanned the dark, the trees and underbrush blurring together—but then, in a flash of movement, something burst from the shadows.

A blur of white and deep blue lunged from the bushes, and you stumbled back with a startled yelp, the wind nearly knocked from your lungs. But you didn’t fall. You raised the dagger in front of you, your hand shaking but firm.

The wolf stood before you.

No—towered before you.

It was massive, easily the size of a small horse, its frame thick with muscle and silent power. Fur the color of fresh snow shimmered like frost in the moonlight, a mane of deep blue streaks flowing down its neck like ink spilled over parchment. Its tail lashed, similarly dyed in ethereal shades of night and sky.

And its eyes—those eyes were not of a beast. Shocking blue, luminous and intelligent, locked onto yours with unrelenting focus. They glowed faintly, catching the pale moonlight as if it bowed to them.

You took a step back, then another, trying to keep your breath even, your dagger up.

But the wolf didn’t lunge again. It stood its ground, head lowered slightly, watching you.

The growl had stopped.

You realized, almost distantly, that it hadn’t attacked yet. It could have. It should have. But it hadn’t.

Your grip on the dagger loosened just a hair as your mind raced. This wasn’t a feral predator. This was something else entirely.

You swallowed hard and whispered, more to yourself than anything, “What… are you?”

The wolf tilted its head ever so slightly at your voice, the way a curious dog might. That only made your chest tighten further. Something about it… something in your gut told you this creature wasn’t random. This was chance.

You glanced around the clearing, trying to decide your next move—but your heart already knew.

Whatever this was, whatever it meant… you couldn’t turn around.

Not now.

Not when the forest had already begun to change.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady your heartbeat as it thudded frantically in your ears. The dagger in your hand trembled despite your best efforts to keep it firm. The wolf hadn’t moved again—not yet—but its eyes remained locked on yours, glowing eerily in the pale slivers of moonlight.

“I… I don’t want to fight,” you said aloud, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt foolish to speak, but silence weighed too heavily, and the words felt like a fragile offering in the dark.

You knew it likely couldn’t understand you, not in the way a person might—but there was something in the way its eyes narrowed at your words, the flicker of something behind its gaze. Recognition? Suspicion? Whatever it was, the air between you shifted, thick and heavy, as though it understood more than it should.

Its presence wasn’t just imposing—it was familiar in a strange, almost suffocating way, like a half-remembered dream or a scent long forgotten until now. You couldn’t explain it, but your gut twisted with the sensation that you had seen this creature—felt this creature—before.

Swallowing the knot in your throat, you slowly raised your empty hand, palm open, fingers trembling in the cold. A peace offering. A silent plea. You inched forward with deliberate care, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. The wolf’s eyes widened, just slightly, its ears flicking forward.

One step. Then another.

Your hand was now just inches from its muzzle, the cold breath of the beast brushing across your skin. Your heart lifted, just slightly. You dared to hope.

Then—

SNAP.

A vicious snarl tore through the air, and you recoiled instantly, yanking your hand back just in time as its powerful jaws clamped down on empty space where your fingers had been a heartbeat before. The sound was deafening in the quiet, sharp like the crack of thunder in a snowstorm.

You stumbled, heart rocketing into your throat, your body falling into instinct. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger again, grip tighter now, knuckles white.

The wolf had dropped into a defensive crouch, its fur bristling, shoulders hunched. The air around it shimmered with a strange tension, like it was a breath away from striking. Its lips curled back, revealing rows of dagger-like teeth, but it didn’t lunge—not yet.

Your breathing was ragged, fear creeping back into your limbs like icy vines. But beneath it, something burned—a quiet fire of determination.

You wouldn’t run.

Not now. Not with so much on the line.

You shifted your stance, knees bent, weapon ready—not to attack, but to defend.

If this beast was here to stop you, it would have to try harder than that.

Because you were going forward. No matter what.

A suffocating silence blanketed the forest as you stood rooted to the spot, the weight of your fear pressing down on your chest. You stared into the wolf’s eyes—one a piercing frost blue, the other a softer, deeper shade like the sea at dusk. They looked so familiar, tugging at something buried deep within you, something just out of reach. Your mind strained to grasp it, but static crackled in your thoughts, like a memory wrapped in fog—there, but unreachable.

Your hand trembled around the hilt of your dagger, but you didn’t back down. Not this time. You held your ground, your stance steady despite the hammering of your heart. The forest watched in unnatural stillness, the trees like silent sentinels looming above.

Suddenly, the wolf’s head snapped to the side.

Its ears perked, muscles going taut. You instinctively followed its line of sight, but saw nothing—only shadows stretched long by the pale moonlight.

The wolf cast one last glance your way. That gaze—it lingered. Not threatening… but not friendly either. Assessing. Calculating.

Then, with a low, rumbling growl, the creature turned and bounded back into the woods, its glowing coat fading into the dark as if it had never been there.

The moment it disappeared, you let out a sharp breath, your chest aching as if you’d been holding it the entire time. You were still shaking, the adrenaline making your hands numb, but you forced yourself to move. Bending down, you grabbed your bag from the ground, slinging it back over your shoulders in one swift motion.

You took a step. Then another. The night whispered around you, full of unseen eyes and hushed secrets.

“Just keep moving,” you murmured to yourself. Your voice was hoarse, barely a sound, but it grounded you. “No matter what.”

With your dagger still clutched tightly in your hand, you pressed forward into the forest, further and further from where the wolf had stood.

You didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The days had blurred together in an unforgiving haze of effort. You’d lost track of how many sunrises had passed since you set out, only that each one had been earned—paid for with aching muscles, blistered feet, and nights curled uncomfortably on moss-covered roots or damp forest soil. The journey had tested you in ways that made time seem elastic, stretching moments of peace and snapping the painful ones taut.

Through dense forests you had wandered, startling wild creatures from underbrush with eyes that glowed at night, their shapes just out of reach. One night had brought torrential rain, turning the dirt paths into slick rivers of mud, soaking you to your skin and chilling you so deeply your bones ached. You’d trudged forward through it all. Other days, the sun bore down with merciless heat, baking your back and turning your clothes damp with sweat. Your pack felt heavier with every mile, your limbs dragging like iron weights tethered to your bones.

Now, for the first time since your departure, you sat still.

You were perched on a thick coil of rope near the railing of a large, weathered boat that gently rocked as it sliced through the sea. The distant cry of gulls echoed overhead, and the rhythmic splash of waves hitting the hull became a lullaby you hadn’t realized you needed. The wind was salty and wild, carrying the scent of open water and freedom. Your sore body sagged with gratitude, the cool ocean spray a balm to your overheated skin.

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the polished wood of the railing, and let your eyes drift out to the endless blue horizon. The sun was high above, casting bright streaks of gold on the waves as the ship cut across them like a knife through silk. Your skin was kissed by sun and wind alike, your hair tousled and damp with salt.

For a fleeting moment, you let yourself breathe—really breathe. Not the frantic, survival-driven inhaling of travel, but a full, calming breath. Your lungs filled with the taste of the sea, and your eyes closed briefly as if trying to capture this moment in memory.

Then a voice called out, pulling you back to reality.

“Oi! You there!” The boat hand appeared from the lower deck, wiping sweat and grease from his brow with a ragged sleeve. He was a stout cookie, his face sun-weathered and kind despite the gruffness in his tone. “We’ll be pullin’ up to Beast Yeast in about thirty minutes.”

Your head turned quickly at the mention, and you sat up straighter. Beast Yeast.

Your destination.

“Thanks,” you called back, voice a little raw from disuse. He gave a nod and disappeared below deck again.

You stayed where you were, gripping the railing now with quiet anticipation. Your thoughts churned faster than the waves around you. This was it—so close now. You didn’t know what you’d find when your boots hit the strange soil of Beast Yeast. You didn’t know if he was still there… or if the rumors of an attack had any truth behind them. But you were ready to find out.

Or at least, you had to be.

You leaned your forehead against the rail, letting your eyes close for just a moment as the boat continued toward the distant shore. The rhythm of the sea steadied your breathing, and though your bones were weary, your resolve was not. You had made it this far. 

You must have dozed off.

Your eyes flew open with a start at the sharp, echoing HONK of the boat’s horn. The sound reverberated through your chest, jarring you from the light slumber you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen into. For a moment, you blinked, disoriented, your cheek still resting on your arm where you’d propped it against the railing. The wind had shifted—less open and wild, more dense with the scent of moss and earth mingling with saltwater.

You sat up fully, rubbing at your eyes and letting out a long exhale as you looked ahead. The boat was gliding slowly into a harbor now, smaller and less bustling than the one back in Gingerbrave’s kingdom. No majestic ships or towering merchant vessels here. Just modest boats swaying gently in the tide, their hulls aged and worn from salt and time. The harbor creaked with familiarity, like a place that had existed quietly for centuries—unmoved by the chaos of kingdoms or the noise of war.

Still, it was something. It was real. A part of you had almost expected the place to be empty, lost to the wilderness like the stories whispered. But there were still signs of life.

As the boat pulled closer to the dock, you caught sight of a handful of locals—cookies wrapped in rugged cloaks, some with wide-brimmed hats to shield against the sun. They moved with an air of caution, their eyes sharp and watchful, but not unfriendly. One elderly merchant was setting out a spread of dried herbs and powders on a low stall, while another was stacking crates filled with unfamiliar fruits—thorny, deep purple things that looked vaguely dangerous to touch. A dog-like creature with mossy fur lounged lazily beside one of the stalls, lifting its head just enough to glance at your approaching ship.

As the boat bumped gently against the dock with a dull thud, the same boat hand from before approached, reaching out a thick-gloved hand.

“Easy now,” he muttered, helping steady you as you stepped from the boat to the wooden planks. The dock creaked beneath your weight, but held firm.

You gave him a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

He met your gaze with a serious expression, the salt wind tugging at the frayed edges of his coat. “Good luck,” he said simply. Not a farewell, not a goodbye. Just good luck. The kind that meant you’ll need it.

You watched as he returned to the ship, beginning to tie down ropes and shout instructions to the rest of the small crew. Then, slinging your pack more securely over your shoulder, you turned away and began walking down the dock.

The harbor was modest, quiet, but not abandoned. The stalls were few and far between, with no decorative banners or colorful signs like the markets you’d passed in Crispia. Everything here was practical—trade goods, tools, food. There was no laughter or idle chatter, only the low hum of conversation and the creak of wooden carts.

Still, the presence of others brought a strange comfort. Beast Yeast wasn’t empty. Life continued here. Perhaps, beneath its reputation for danger and wildness, it was still a home to many.

Your eyes scanned the edges of the harbor, where the trees crept closer, looming like silent sentinels of the deeper wilds. Somewhere beyond them was the spire. Somewhere out there was the truth behind the rumors—and hopefully, Pure Vanilla.

The harbor buzzed softly with life, the kind of hushed activity that seemed to respect the wildness of the land just beyond its wooden borders. You moved through it with practiced care, choosing stalls deliberately, minding your dwindling supplies and the unknown miles ahead.

You’d already picked up another canteen—lightweight, durable, and essential—and a few small containers of fire starter for your lantern, just in case the nights grew colder than expected or the damp forest proved too stubborn for kindling. As you chatted with the stall owners, many of them eyed you with veiled curiosity, their questions coming in cautious tones.

“Not many travelers come through here unless they’re lost… or desperate,” one of them had muttered as he handed over the fire starter.

You offered a polite smile, vague but warm. “Just passing through. Heard the region had its own kind of beauty.”

That usually satisfied them. You weren’t ready to share your real destination. Not yet.

You continued down the row of modest vendors, eyes scanning the goods—herbs, dried meats, tough-woven fabrics, old maps, and bundles of wildflowers, until something bright caught your attention. One stall stood out in stark contrast to the others. It was bursting with color—vibrant piles of dried fruits, preserved citrus in jars that glowed like little suns, and stacks of fresh breads, braided and dusted in sugar or dotted with seeds. The scent was mouthwatering, warm and sweet in the salty sea air.

You wandered closer—but then you froze.

The woman working the stall stood with her back slightly turned, arranging a basket of fruit, but even from that angle something about her struck you. When she turned to greet you, it hit like a wave.

She was stunning. Ethereal, really.

Her skin was a soft, pale blue—cool and smooth like sea glass—and her long, white hair was partially pulled back into a thick, elegant bow that matched the soft sky-blue of her hooded cape. The rest of her hair cascaded down her back in silken sheets, catching the faint sunlight like snow. Her dress was simple but tailored beautifully, white in base but cinched with a midnight-blue corset that matched the delicate ribbon accents near her sleeves and hem.

But it was her eyes that rooted you to the spot.

Two different shades of blue—one light like morning frost, the other deep like storm clouds. Something about them tugged at your memory, a half-familiar feeling crawling beneath your skin. Where had you seen that color before? You couldn’t place it. It was like the more you looked at them the hazier your mind would get.

“Hello,” she said warmly, brushing a lock of hair from her face as she gave you a small nod. Her voice was soft, almost melodic. “You look like you’ve been walking a while. Can I interest you in something to eat?”

You blinked, trying to push the haze of familiarity from your mind, and offered a polite smile. “Yeah… yeah, actually. The fruit smells amazing.”

She beamed at that, stepping aside so you could inspect the neatly arranged baskets. “Everything’s grown nearby or brought in from the inner groves. I dry most of it myself. Keeps better that way for those headed into the deeper wilds.”

You crouched slightly, picking up a small pouch of dried apple slices dusted with cinnamon, the scent warm and spiced. “This is really good work,” you said, half-meaning the fruit, half-meaning… everything. “I haven’t seen a stall like this in a while.”

Her eyes crinkled slightly with a smile, but she didn’t speak right away. There was a moment of silence, not uncomfortable, but weighty. Observing. Like she was trying to read something in you, too.

“You’re not from here,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” you admitted, standing upright again. “Just… traveling.”

A knowing look passed over her face, something ancient in her expression. But she nodded and began to gently gather a few items into a small satchel—fruit, bread, and a jar of preserved berries. She held it out to you.

“Consider this a welcome gift. For the road.”

You hesitated, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she said with a faint smile. “But I want to.”

You accepted the bundle with both hands, touched by the gesture. “Thank you. Really.”

The soft hum of the harbor faded beneath the quiet tension of the moment. You adjusted the bundle of fruit and bread in your arms as the stall owner fluttered her long white lashes, her strange, mismatched eyes meeting yours with an almost playful curiosity.

“So,” she said lightly, cocking her head to the side, “where are you headed, traveler?”

The question landed a little too directly.

You faltered. Just for a second, but it was enough. You glanced around, your eyes quickly scanning the surrounding docks as if searching for an excuse or a way to redirect the question. Your jaw tensed ever so slightly, the silence stretching a beat too long. You didn’t answer.

She noticed. Her smile softened, becoming gentler… but more discerning. Almost too understanding.

Without a word, she turned her head and called over her shoulder. “Apple?”

You blinked and looked past her, realizing—only now—that you hadn’t been alone at the stall. A young girl, maybe no older than a teen, peeked out from behind a curtain of hanging herbs at the back of the booth. Her hair was a soft, leafy green, styled into two fluffy tufts decorated with glossy green ornaments shaped like apples. Her eyes were round, large—almost startling in their clarity. She stared at you like she’d just seen a ghost.

Before you could fully process the moment, the stall owner swiftly stepped to the side, blocking the girl from view. It was a subtle but purposeful motion, her cape flaring slightly as she moved. You hadn’t seen the way the girl’s eyes widened or how she grabbed the edge of the curtain tightly.

“I need to head out toward the next town,” the stall owner said suddenly, her voice rising as though finishing a thought you hadn’t been part of.

You blinked, distracted. “Oh? Really?”

She looked at you again, her expression unreadable—pleasant, but with something beneath it. Her lips tugged into a soft, polite smile, the kind that danced on the edge of something clever. “Yes. Figured I’d head that way before dark.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then you froze as the implication settled.

She was offering to go with you.

Your heart skipped in that strange, uncertain way—half surprise, half hesitation. You fumbled slightly with the bundle in your arms, waving one hand awkwardly. “I-I appreciate it, really, but you don’t have to. I’ll be fine on my own.”

She tilted her head with a faint, amused hum. “Oh, I’m sure you would be.” Her words lilted like a laugh, light but sly. “But it’s no big deal. I’ve got my reasons.”

You stared at her, caught off guard by her sudden decisiveness as she stepped out from behind her stall. She moved with quiet confidence, a soft swish of fabric trailing behind her as she began walking along the path that curved away from the harbor and toward the inner forest road. Her white hair glowed in the low afternoon sun, her cape fluttering slightly in the salty breeze.

She glanced over her shoulder with a playful smirk, eyes narrowed just slightly.

And it hit you again—harder this time.

That feeling.

Familiarity. Like déjà vu wrapped in fog. Like you’d seen that same smirk on someone else, in some other place, in another life. But the moment you tried to hold onto the thought, it slipped from your grasp like sand through your fingers.

Your mind… stuttered.

Like something in your thoughts was actively misfiring, twisting itself to explain the sensation away. You frowned, your steps slow as you followed behind her, uncertainty blooming in your chest.

Why does she feel so familiar?

You couldn’t shake it.

The eerie haze crept back in like a thick mist, clouding your mind in ways you couldn’t control. The connection was there—close, within reach—but every time you tried to seize it, something turned your thoughts sideways.

Still… you followed.

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The winding path through Beast Yeast’s wild edge was quiet, save for the occasional chirp of unseen insects or the gentle rustling of wind through high grass. You and the woman had been walking for over an hour now, the harbor far behind you, and in that time a comfortable silence had settled between you both.

She didn’t press for conversation, and you appreciated that. The steady sound of your boots crunching earth and her lighter steps beside you was oddly soothing. Occasionally, your eyes would drift to her.

She really was effortlessly pretty.

The way her pale white hair swayed with her movement, how the soft blue of her cape glimmered in the scattered light peeking through the forest canopy—it was like she belonged in a painting rather than trudging along the dirt trail beside you. Her skin was cool-toned and flawless despite the sun, and the dress she wore—practical enough for walking yet still graceful—never seemed to wrinkle. Meanwhile, you were sure your travel-worn state was doing you no favors: your clothes dusted from the road, your hair slightly windswept, your cheeks likely sun-flushed. You silently cringed at the image.

Then, her voice broke the silence, calm but inquisitive.

“So,” she said casually, “do you mind telling me what exactly you’re doing way out here in Beast Yeast?”

You hesitated, the weight of her gaze resting on you even as she kept her pace. You didn’t respond immediately, unsure how much to give away.

She seemed to sense that, because after a pause, she added, “It’s just the two of us here. I won’t speak a word of it to anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Her voice held no mockery, no pushiness—just quiet sincerity.

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders loosening as you glanced down at the trail beneath your feet. “I guess… there’s no harm in telling you.”

And so, you started rambling.

About the letter.

About Pure Vanilla.

About the rumors and your worry and how something inside you just wouldn’t let you sit still and wait. How each passing hour without word clawed at your nerves, how the thought of something happening to him filled your chest with this tight, unbearable pressure. You tried to keep your voice neutral, casual—but it was impossible not to hear the subtle affection laced in your words when you talked about him. His patience, his gentle words, the way he always remembered to ask how you were doing.

You didn’t notice how her jaw tightened.

How her fingers, delicately holding her skirt to avoid a patch of brambles, curled just slightly inwards.

You only noticed when you finally looked at her again—expecting maybe teasing or skepticism—and found instead a soft expression, a smile that looked kind, if distant.

“You’re a good friend,” she said.

You smiled faintly at that, glancing forward again. “I’m just doing what anyone would do.”

She hummed lowly, then added under her breath, “A good friend, maybe… but a little foolish.”

You blinked, your brows furrowing as your smile faded into a confused half-frown. “Excuse me?”

You turned your head to look at her more directly, your gaze sharper now. Her expression had shifted, just slightly—not cruel, but unreadable. Like glass, reflective and closed.

She met your gaze and shrugged, voice even. “I only mean that putting yourself in danger like this… it’s not exactly smart, is it?”

That made sense. You relaxed just a little, nodding slowly.

But then you heard the words she barely let escape: “And the running after a man.”

You weren’t sure if you were meant to catch it. You pretended not to.

Instead, you kept walking.

Nodding again.

Choosing to ignore the sting in her tone.

Choosing to ignore the flicker of something odd crawling up your spine as the haze in your head once again thickened, pushing away the instinct that said: something isn’t right.

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting long golden shadows across the wide, open plain. The tall grasses swayed gently in the breeze, whispering against your clothes with every step. You had just emerged from the heavy quiet of the forest, and now everything felt somehow more alive out here—open and vast, the sky stretching endlessly above you.

As you walked, your gaze drifted toward a patch of soft color ahead, just slightly off the path. Your steps slowed, curiosity drawing you in until you veered toward it. The woman beside you paused a few steps back, watching with quiet curiosity as you approached the flowers.

You knelt in the grass, the tips of the delicate blooms brushing your fingers. Lily of the valley. But unlike the white ones you were familiar with, these had a gentle bluish tint, like pale moonlight reflected in water. Small and dainty, they nodded under their own weight, soft bells strung together on a single stem. Your lips parted slightly in awe.

As you leaned down to pluck one with care, the silver ring you wore around your neck slipped from beneath your shirt, catching a gleam of sun as it swung gently forward. You didn’t notice it as you stood and turned back toward the woman.

You held the flower out to her, offering a soft smile. “They’re really cute,” you said, a little shyly. “They’re called Lily of the Valley. I always liked them—there’s something kind of magical about them, I guess.”

She stepped forward, the hem of her cape brushing across the wild grass. But her eyes weren’t on the flower. They were trained sharply on your necklace—the ring dangling in the open air. Her gaze was steady, intense. You didn’t register it at first, caught in your own gentle enthusiasm as you rambled on about the flower’s shape and its uses.

“They’re usually found in cooler regions,” you explained, “and they’re one of the first flowers to bloom in spring, which I think is kinda symbolic, you know? New beginnings—”

You cut yourself off, your words faltering as you noticed her stare.

She was looking at you like she could read every etched line of the ring, every contour of its familiar shape. Her eyes, two mismatched blues, gleamed with something unreadable in the fading light. The attention was so intense it made you shiver.

Your cheeks flushed, warmth climbing up your neck as your gaze darted to the side. The mix of discomfort and something else—something fluttering and uncertain—sat heavy in your chest.

When her eyes finally flicked up to meet yours, she seemed to catch the color painting your cheeks. Her expression softened immediately, a sly grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

Without asking, her hand reached forward, her fingers brushing against yours as she gently took the flower from your grasp. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up your arm—not unpleasant, but startling all the same.

She turned the flower in her fingers, admiring it for a moment before speaking, her tone light and almost wistful. “They are beautiful,” she said, her voice almost too calm. “Delicate… graceful…” She paused, smile curling further. “And surprisingly poisonous, despite all that charm.”

You nodded, your lips parting to respond, but no words came. Instead, you turned your face away slightly, trying—and failing—to subtly fan yourself with your hand. Anything to cool the heat that had crept into your cheeks.

She smiled faintly at that, as if she found your flustered state amusing. With gentle care, she slipped the flower into the basket she carried, tucking it among other small goods.

Then, with a graceful motion, she gestured forward. “Shall we?”

You cleared your throat, nodding quickly and falling into step behind her. The grass rustled underfoot as you walked once again. The silence returned, but it wasn’t as comfortable this time—not because of her, but because of the lingering buzz in your mind and the odd twisting in your chest.

That ring around your neck suddenly felt a little heavier. And her presence, somehow, just a little too close.

The gentle hum of evening began to settle over the plains as the sun dipped lower, streaking the sky with gold and rose-colored hues. The shadows stretched long and thin across the ground, swallowing the edges of the dirt path beneath your boots. Your companion, still silent beside you, finally lifted a hand and pointed ahead.

“There it is,” she said softly, her voice almost lost to the breeze.

Your gaze followed her gesture, and sure enough, nestled into a dip between two rolling hills, a small village came into view. The thatched rooftops caught the light of the dying sun, flickering like embers in a fireplace. You could see a few sparse lanterns already being lit along the village paths, casting a warm glow that contrasted with the cooling air around you.

Relief settled into your shoulders like a long-missed comfort. Your body, stiff and sore from the days of trekking, nearly sighed at the thought of rest. “Thank you,” you said, offering her a short bow out of respect and sincere gratitude. “Really. I mean it.”

She waved a hand, brushing off your formality with a small smirk. “No need for bows. I didn’t carry you here.”

You chuckled softly, straightening. She pointed down a narrow, stone-lined road just off the village’s main stretch. “There’s an inn. Just a bit down that way. Clean, decent food. Not the palace, but not a ditch either.”

“Sounds perfect,” you murmured, already picturing a warm blanket and maybe—if the gods were kind—a real pillow.

You turned back to bid her farewell properly, but you froze.

She was suddenly much closer than before—barely a step away. Your breath caught in your throat.

Her pale hand rose slowly, resting lightly on your chest. Her fingers brushed against the silver ring hanging from your necklace, the cool metal catching on her skin for just a second. Her touch was soft, almost reverent. Her eyes—those mismatched, ever-watchful eyes—were focused on you, steady and unreadable.

“Take care, little traveler,” she said, her voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that felt like velvet and shadow.

You opened your mouth to respond, but your voice refused to come. So you just nodded, slow and unsure, your heart thudding far too loudly for your liking.

She smiled at that, something knowing and calm in her expression, then slowly drew her hand away. Without another word, she turned and began walking down the opposite path, away from the village. The echo of her steps on the stone road followed her for a time.

And then, you blinked.

Something flickered.

Her figure shimmered for the briefest heartbeat, and in the waning light, it looked like her clothes had shifted—her pale blue dress replaced with something darker, more jagged, and her long white hair drawn back differently. Her posture—still elegant—held something colder, more dangerous. Too familiar.

Your stomach dropped.

You blinked again, harder this time, and when your eyes opened, she was as she had been. Simple. Beautiful. Serene. Still walking.

You stared after her, the road now almost swallowed in twilight. The quiet swelled around you, broken only by the creak of trees in the distance and the chirp of crickets. That odd fuzziness crept into your mind again, clouding your thoughts like thick fog rolling off a cold lake.

You’re just tired.

That’s all. You just need to sleep.

You pressed your palm against your face, rubbing your eyes before pulling the ring back beneath your shirt and walking toward the inn. Every step suddenly felt heavier. The warmth of the village ahead should have been comforting.

But instead, it felt like something had shifted—something quiet, subtle, and dangerously unseen.

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The soft creak of the inn’s door closed behind you as you stepped into the modest, warmly lit space. The scent of old wood, cooking herbs, and faint traces of lavender filled the air—comforting, safe. The innkeeper, a kindly older cookie with round cheeks and sleepy eyes, barely glanced up from her book as you murmured a quiet greeting and received your room key.

The floorboards groaned gently underfoot as you made your way up the narrow staircase. Your limbs protested every step, worn from the miles you had traveled and the weight of your thoughts. The door to your room clicked softly open, and you entered into a small but tidy space—one bed, a desk, a chair by a window. A single lantern glowed on the bedside table, casting long shadows across the room.

You set your bag down with a tired grunt, shrugging off your cloak and easing onto the bed’s edge. The mattress was firm, but the linens were fresh and cool. You let yourself sit there in silence for a long moment, soaking in the stillness.

As you unlaced your boots and removed your gear, your mind started to wander—drifting through the day’s strange memories.

The unfamiliar plains.

The eerie beauty of the Lily of the Valley.

The woman from the market—her voice, her hand on your chest, the way her expression shifted like the tide.

And that unsettling moment her form had flickered into something… else.

You frowned slightly, lying back into the bed with a soft sigh, arms folded under your head as you stared at the ceiling. Your thoughts swirled like mist, restless and reaching.

And then—his face surfaced in your mind.

Shadow Milk.

You didn’t know why the image came to you. Maybe it was the eerie quiet of the night. Or the way the darkness outside the window pooled like ink, familiar and dense, as if it belonged to him.

You imagined him appearing suddenly in the shadows of the room, that grin curling on his lips like a secret only he knew. His eyes glowing faintly in the dark, watching you, studying you. The memory of his cool hand on your shoulder, of the waltz in that strange dream, made your skin prickle.

A shiver rolled down your spine.

The idea of him finding you—here, so far from the kingdoms, tucked away in some obscure village—should have terrified you. And in part, it did. But it was tangled with something else. Some strange, unwanted curiosity. A weightless kind of ache.

What if he was watching already?

What if he wasn’t?

You exhaled sharply and turned on your side, clutching the edge of the blanket and pulling it up to your chin. “It’s not him,” you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible over the creak of the lantern’s flame. “It’s just… everything. The others. I just want to see the others safe again.”

You tried to focus on Pure Vanilla instead—his gentle smile, the warmth in his letter, his promise to come home. That was real. That was safe.

And yet…

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your thoughts to settle, trying to bury that flickering image of Shadow Milk’s smirk, the weight of his presence behind you like a storm just beyond the horizon.

The blanket felt heavier now. Or maybe it was just the air.

Eventually, you would fall asleep.

But for now, the room remained quiet—your heartbeat loud in your ears as you tried to pretend that the feeling wasn’t there at all.

Chapter Text

The soft creak of the carriage’s wooden frame rocked in a slow, steady rhythm as it rolled down the worn trail, the horse’s hooves clicking against the hardened earth like a ticking clock counting down. You sat quietly, your back pressed against the sun-warmed bench of the carriage, the warm early afternoon light soaking into your skin, casting dappled shadows through the overhead canvas. A faint breeze carried the smell of dry grass, old wood, and dust stirred up from the road.

You should have felt comfort. The gentle motion, the sun, the stillness of the countryside—all of it was calming in theory. But your stomach twisted itself in knots beneath the weight of what lay ahead.

You had woken up before the sun even began to stretch over the horizon. The inn was silent save for the slow crackle of dying embers in the hearth. You had showered in cold water, the chill biting your skin and jarring you awake. You dressed quickly, methodically—your hands trembling only slightly as you laced your boots, pulled on your cloak, and checked your bag for the third time. Canteen. Rations. Bandages. Lantern. Dagger. Map. Letter from Pure Vanilla.

You clutched it briefly in your hand before tucking it safely away again, almost as if holding it gave you strength.

By the time the village stirred with life, you had already been standing by the outer road where the hired worker said he would meet you. A thin man with a tired face, worn gloves, and a wary expression pulled up on a modest cart led by a single dark brown horse. He said little at first—just a nod, a hand extended to help you up, and then a simple word: “Climb.”

Now, the landscape rolled past slowly. Trees became sparse, the golden grass of the plains turning more brittle, less lively. Every now and then a crow would caw in the distance, or you’d spot a fox darting into the brush. Despite the picturesque scenery, it felt like something was closing in. The road ahead darkened with the idea of what was coming. You were approaching the outer edges of contested territory. Beyond that, battle-scarred land.

The driver gave you a glance now and then—sizing you up perhaps, or maybe just trying to guess what would drive someone out here alone. Occasionally, he’d toss a few words your way.

“You sure you want to be out here?”

You’d nod.

He’d grunt.

Later he asked, “You from the city?”

You just said, “Far from here.”

He didn’t press.

He wasn’t unkind—just tired. Like someone who’d seen too much and had long since stopped asking why people did foolish things.

You found yourself gripping the edge of the bench harder than you realized. Your palms were damp. Your gaze drifted to the horizon, where the trees began to thicken again. You could just barely make out a distant ridge, one that your map had marked near the border of contested territory. You were getting close.

You glanced down at your bag again, at the faint bulge where your necklace and ring hid under your shirt. A sharp breath left you.

What would you find out there?

Would Pure Vanilla be safe?

Would any of them be?

And why did a part of you—not one you liked—wonder if he would be waiting?

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the sun on your face. For just a breath, you let yourself believe you were on some peaceful trip, not on the edge of danger. But your heart knew better.

The road ahead was not kind.

The change was slow, subtle at first. Tufts of green grew sparse, then patchy, then disappeared altogether. In their place came the dry rustle of sand scraping against the cart wheels, the soil beneath the horse’s hooves shifting from firm dirt to loose, powdery grains. The air, too, began to shift—once fresh with the scent of grass and earth, now it tasted dry, carrying the tang of sunbaked stone and dust.

You watched as the horizon turned into golden dunes and faded rock faces, distant hills painted in muted oranges and browns. Trees were a distant memory now—what remained of the landscape was harsh and barren, the kind of terrain that could swallow the unprepared.

The horse gave a tired snort, hooves stumbling slightly before catching traction. Then the cart jerked to a halt with a stiff creak. You glanced at the driver, whose grumble you couldn’t quite catch, but the frustration in his posture said enough. He swung a leg over and climbed down with a grunt, dusting his gloves as he circled the cart to your side.

You met his eyes as he stopped beside you—his expression was unreadable beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, but the way he squared his shoulders told you this was where the line was drawn.

“Can’t take you any farther,” he said flatly, voice like gravel. “Wheels’ll sink in the sand, and I’m not about to get stranded out here.”

You nodded once, slowly. “I understand.”

And you did. This was farther than most would take anyone, especially into the borderlands.

Your body moved stiffly as you stood, the ache in your legs and back a reminder of just how long you’d been sitting. The wind tugged at your cloak, and the heat hit a little stronger now without the trees to shield you. You reached back into the cart and slung your bag over one shoulder, adjusting the strap and brushing off loose dust.

The driver extended a hand—rough, calloused, and sun-darkened. You hesitated for a breath, then took it, letting him help you down. His grip was strong but careful, and you offered the best smile you could manage through the anxious fog in your chest.

“Thank you,” you said softly. And you meant it.

He looked you over, not unkindly. There was something tired in his eyes, like he’d seen too many people take this path with less certainty than they claimed to have. “You got water?”

You nodded.

“Enough food?”

You hesitated, then nodded again.

He gave a short grunt and adjusted his gloves. “Stay on the windward side of the rocks if it kicks up. Watch for sink patches.” He didn’t wait for confirmation, just turned back toward the cart. “Good luck, kid.”

You watched him climb back into the driver’s seat, the horse stamping once impatiently. He gave a soft click of his tongue, and the cart began to turn, pulling away with slow determination. You stood there, surrounded by silence and sand, until the cart was nothing more than a speck in the distance.

A gust of wind blew across the flat land, pulling at your hair and cloak, and you turned your face away from the sting of it. Everything ahead felt vast, open… and dangerous.

You pressed forward, one foot in front of the other, never veering from the straight line carved in your mind. The sand beneath your boots shifted with each step, loose and spiteful, clinging to every seam, finding ways to sneak into your socks, your clothes. The sun above beat down with merciless intensity, no clouds in sight to grant even a moment of reprieve. Its light shimmered off the golden dunes, creating the illusion of distant mirages—false rivers, shadows that moved when they shouldn’t. You ignored them.

Your cloak, now tightly wrapped around your body, clung to your back with sweat. You had drawn the hood low over your face, shielding what little you could from the elements, though it did little to stop the fine dust the wind carried. It settled into the creases of your face, stuck to your lips, crept into your lashes until blinking felt like scraping sandpaper across your eyes. You coughed into your sleeve, the air dry enough to make your throat ache.

Grumbling under your breath, you wiped at your eyes and kept walking.

“This is insane,” you muttered, voice cracked and low. “Absolutely insane…”

And yet, you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You knew what lay behind you—comfort, relative safety, warm beds and familiar faces. And still, you walked toward uncertainty.

Because someone out there might be in danger.

Because he might be in danger.

But more than that, you walked because something inside you wouldn’t let you turn back. Something deeper than logic, than loyalty. An ache. A need.

Your thoughts turned inward as you trudged forward, the rhythm of your boots on sand steady and hypnotic. You tried to remember—to really remember. But your mind gave you so little.

There were no vivid flashbacks, no perfect recollections. Just scattered fragments.

A smell.

The sound of laughter.

A flicker of light on a polished floor.

The weight of someone’s hand in yours.

The feeling of something precious slipping away.

You frowned, the thoughts making your head throb faintly. So many times you’d tried to piece it together, tried to build something whole from those broken shards. But it was like chasing shadows in fog. Just when you thought you had something, it slipped from your grasp.

Who were you, really?

What kind of person had you been before this strange new life? Before you found yourself thrown into kingdoms, magic, war, and strangers with too-familiar eyes?

You sighed heavily, dragging your hand across your mouth. Maybe you weren’t meant to know. Maybe all you could do was become someone now. Build something real, something solid, even if the foundation was cracked.

The thought gave you just enough strength to keep going. Just enough to lift your gaze and focus again on the path ahead.

The wind kicked up again, sending another rush of sand against your legs and cloak, but you braced yourself, narrowed your eyes, and pushed forward.

You didn’t know who you had been.

But you were starting to figure out who you were now.

And you were someone who wouldn’t stop.

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The sun hung like a blazing coin in the sky, unblinking and relentless, and you could feel every inch of your body screaming in protest as you pushed forward. Each step had become a battle. Your muscles trembled under your weight, boots dragging through the shifting sands as if the desert itself were trying to pull you under. The winds howled intermittently, kicking sand against your legs, into your cloak, against your face. Still, you climbed.

The dune was massive, a steep wall of golden grains that seemed to stretch toward the heavens. With every attempt to climb it, your feet sank, sliding back two steps for every one forward. You grit your teeth, heart thudding in your chest, the ache in your legs going from dull to sharp.

Your hands found themselves in the sand more than once, clawing for support, finding none. You growled out a curse, sweat running down the back of your neck as you planted your foot and shoved yourself forward one final time. And then—

You broke over the top.

You paused there, chest heaving, hands braced on your knees, just to catch your breath. But your eyes widened as they locked on the scene below.

A sprawling makeshift camp spread out before you. Tents in faded fabrics flapped violently in the desert wind. There were banners hastily hung, tables overturned, and you could make out the shapes of people—soldiers, workers, medics—rushing in every direction like ants scattered from their hill. The air buzzed with frantic shouting and the crackle of tension.

Then, a sudden boom tore through the chaos.

The sound was deafening, an explosion that split the air like lightning striking far too close. The shockwave hit you a second later—just enough to jolt your already-weak body. You gasped, instinctively flinching.

Your footing slipped.

With a startled cry, you felt your balance tip and the ground vanish beneath your feet. Your body toppled forward over the lip of the dune, and gravity took hold.

You tumbled, limbs flailing as sand whipped past you in a blur. You rolled once, twice, then more—sand flying into your eyes, your mouth, your clothes. Each bump of your body against the ground sent spikes of pain through your back and shoulders, and when you finally hit the bottom, it was with a soft but solid thump.

You groaned. The world spun slightly as you sat up, hacking out a lungful of sand, spitting it out with a grimace. It crunched in your teeth, bitter and gritty. You could feel it down your collar, sticking to your sweat-slick skin.

“Son of a—” you muttered under your breath, wiping at your face, your vision still half-obscured with dust.

You looked down at yourself. Your cloak was coated in golden dust, your arms scraped, your legs aching. You groaned again and flopped backward into the sand for a moment, staring up at the empty blue sky.

“Great start,” you muttered bitterly, voice hoarse.

But then you heard it again—voices, hurried and urgent. The camp.

You didn’t have time to rest.

Rolling to your knees, you coughed again, gripped your bag, and stood on shaky legs. Grit still clung to your lips, but your focus had sharpened. That explosion, the panic in the camp—something was happening. Something important.

You pushed yourself up from the burning sand, legs still trembling from the fall. A thick layer of grit clung to your clothes, and you brushed at it with a huff of irritation, your palms raw and sore from the tumble. Every inch of your body ached—your knees from impact, your back from the jarring rolls—but you forced yourself upright. You had to keep moving.

Then a voice—low and sharp—cut through the wind.

“Hey!”

Your head snapped toward the sound.

A man on horseback—no, not quite a horse, something native to this region, its legs longer and tail more tufted, like a cross between a stallion and a desert jackal. Its dark coat shimmered in the sun, kicking up small clouds of dust as it came to a slow stop a few yards from you.

The rider stared you down.

He sat tall in the saddle, his face partially shadowed beneath a wide, curved hat that looked vaguely familiar—something ancient, Egyptian maybe? But your thoughts were still a haze, too scattered to place the memory. His skin was dark tan from years under the brutal sun, and his attire suited the heat: long, sheer black sleeves protected his arms, while his chest and abdomen were bare, glistening faintly with sweat under the sun’s glare. A desert scarf hung loose around his neck, swaying slightly in the wind.

He didn’t speak right away. His mouth was set in a tight, unreadable line. 

“Who are you, and what are you doing all the way out here?” His voice was deep and steady, calm but edged in caution.

You swallowed and took a step forward, trying not to appear rattled. “I’m looking for someone. Pure Vanilla.” You paused, adjusting your cloak around your shoulders. “He was supposed to be out this way. I heard he might be in trouble.”

For a moment, the man didn’t move.

Then, something in his shoulders eased—just slightly. His head tilted, the edge of a nod barely perceptible.

“You’ve seen him?” you pressed.

Another nod. Curt this time.

He reached out suddenly, extending a strong, gloved hand toward you. You hesitated for a second—but only a second—before taking it.

His grip was firm, and with one fluid motion, he pulled you up onto the saddle behind him. You adjusted quickly, slinging your bag back over your shoulder and gripping the back of the saddle until you could find your balance. The creature beneath you shifted slightly, hooves pawing at the sand as if impatient to move.

“Hold on,” the man said, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his waist hesitantly—then more securely as he signaled the mount to move. It jerked into motion, and you tightened your grip instinctively, the warmth of his body radiating through your arms.

“We’ll talk when we get to camp,” he said over the sound of the wind picking up again. “It’s not far.”

You exhaled slowly. The scent of dust and leather filled your nose, and the rhythmic thudding of the mount’s hooves lulled your nerves ever so slightly. Your heart still pounded in your chest, but beneath it all was a flicker of hope.

As the camp loomed closer, the pit in your stomach deepened. The once-distant sounds of clashing metal and urgent voices became clearer, underscoring the gravity of the situation.

The man, still astride his mount, guided it to a halt just outside the camp’s perimeter. He dismounted with practiced ease and extended a hand to help you down. You accepted, your legs grateful for the support after the arduous journey.

“Thank you,” you murmured, adjusting your cloak.

He nodded, then turned to lead you into the camp.

“Wait,” you said, quickening your pace to match his stride. “I didn’t catch your name.”

He glanced over his shoulder, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his face. “Burnt Cheese.”

You blinked, the name striking you as peculiar, yet oddly fitting in this surreal landscape.

“Right,” you replied, choosing not to comment further.

Burnt Cheese led you through the bustling camp, weaving between tents and makeshift shelters. The air was thick with tension; medics tended to the wounded, their hands stained with blood, while messengers darted between groups, relaying urgent news. Weapons clanged, and the scent of sweat and smoke hung heavy.

He guided you into a large central tent, its interior a hive of activity. Inside, injured soldiers lay on cots, their wounds being dressed by harried healers. Others stood in clusters, discussing strategy or awaiting orders.

Burnt Cheese approached a soldier near the entrance. “Where’s Golden Cheese?” he asked, his tone brisk.

The soldier straightened, his eyes flicking to you briefly before responding. “She’s on the front lines, assisting Pure Vanilla and the others.”

Your heart clenched at the mention of Pure Vanilla. The thought of him amidst the chaos, facing unknown dangers, sent a wave of dread through you.

Burnt Cheese’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting to you. Though his eyes remained hidden beneath his hat, you sensed the weight of his scrutiny.

He placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Come,” he said. “We’ll find a place for you to rest and gather more information.”

The second you opened your mouth to argue against resting, the tent burst into chaos.

A shout—urgent, panicked—echoed through the canvas walls, cutting clean through the tense air. In an instant, the calm before the storm shattered. Medics shot up from where they were tending the less injured, bolting for the tent’s entrance with supplies clutched in frantic hands. The shift was sudden, practiced. They knew this rhythm—one that came only with witnessing catastrophe again and again.

You instinctively turned to follow the noise, but Burnt Cheese caught your arm and yanked you to the side just as a medic barrelled past, nearly knocking into you. The grizzled man’s grip was firm, commanding. “Out of the way,” he muttered, voice low but sharp. “Stay behind me.”

Your gaze snapped past him, catching the source of the uproar.

Soldiers were stumbling toward the tent—some supported by others, some barely upright. And some… being carried.

The sight turned your blood cold. One man clutched at his side, red pouring through his fingers like water through a sieve. Another had a twisted arm, bone threatening to punch through skin. But it was the one slumped between two others that made your stomach lurch.

His leg was gone. Just gone.

Only a torn, charred stump remained where it should have been. His face was pale, streaked with blood and sweat, his eyes vacant and half-lidded. He looked half-dead already.

You gasped and slapped a hand over your mouth, the sour tang of bile stinging your throat. Your knees buckled, but Burnt Cheese didn’t give you time to spiral. He turned on his heel and pulled you bodily away from the scene, gripping your arm tighter than before as he dragged you toward a smaller, quieter tent nearby.

Inside, the air was marginally cooler, the outside horror muffled by the walls of canvas and distance.

Without ceremony, he pushed you down onto a bench.

You sat, stiff and shaken. Your legs felt like water. Your fingers trembled in your lap.

Burnt Cheese stood near the entrance, his back to you for a long moment. He peered through the narrow slit in the tent flap, watching the scene you couldn’t bear to look at again. His broad shoulders rose and fell slowly—controlled, but heavy.

Then, he turned to you.

His face was still unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat, but his mouth was tight. Grim.

“You’re not ready to see all that,” he said simply. “Rest. Gather yourself.”

You wanted to protest. Tell him you could help. That you came all this way not to sit idle in a tent. But your voice had deserted you, replaced by the ringing in your ears and the image of that legless soldier burned behind your eyes.

So, you nodded. Just barely.

He watched you for another moment before stepping just outside, leaving the flap slightly open—just enough to keep an eye on you.

You sat there, breath shallow, heart pounding like a war drum.

So this was it. This was what you had walked into. Not just stories of danger or desperate warnings whispered behind kind eyes. This was real. This was pain, and fear, and blood in the sand.

The seconds dragged like hours as you sat there, the scent of blood and dust lingering in the stale air. Your ears rang with distant shouting, boots against sand, the occasional pained cry from beyond the tent walls.

You glanced up just in time to catch the sight of a soldier rushing toward Burnt Cheese, breathless and blood-streaked. The two exchanged quick, hushed words—too far away for you to hear, but the tension in Burnt Cheese’s shoulders said enough. His body stiffened, and whatever the soldier said made his jaw clench tight.

Your heart sank.

Your head dropped into your lap, arms wrapping around yourself as if to hold everything in. But it didn’t help. Your hands trembled violently in your lap, too unsteady to stop. You bit down on your lip until you tasted copper, tears pooling in your eyes and spilling hot down your cheeks.

You were terrified.

You had pushed forward without hesitation, marched through the heat, the wind, the exhaustion—thinking your fear would fade when you got here. That maybe seeing the others, being with them again, would be enough to ground you.

But this—this war zone—wasn’t something you were prepared for.

Before your mind could spiral any further, the flap of the tent rustled harshly, and Burnt Cheese stormed in, his broad figure briefly blocking the harsh afternoon light.

His voice was short, commanding. “They need me on the field.”

You looked up at him, startled and unsteady. “W-wait—”

“You will stay here,” he added, tone sharpening. “Don’t move.”

“No,” you snapped, pushing up to your feet. The movement was abrupt, emotional. “There’s no way in hell I’m just going to sit here after what I saw! I can help—I can do something!”

Burnt Cheese stepped forward before you could take another breath, his hand planting itself firmly on your shoulder and forcing you right back down onto the bench. The impact wasn’t rough, but it was unrelenting.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, tears spilling freely down your cheeks now. Angry tears. Helpless tears.

“I’m not useless,” you whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t come all this way to sit on the sidelines.”

Burnt Cheese looked down at you, unreadable beneath the shade of his hat, but something in his stance softened for a split second. Then, his voice came low but firm, final.

“You’ll only be in the way.”

Your breath caught. “What—”

But he was already moving.

With a swift turn, he exited the tent, soldiers falling into step beside him as they disappeared into the chaos of the camp. The flap closed behind them, leaving you in the sudden silence, broken only by the distant sound of battle in the distance.

You sat there, stunned. Frozen.

Staring at the spot where Burnt Cheese had just stood, disbelief clouding your expression

You buried your face in your hands, a mix of fury and helplessness tightening around your chest. But beneath all of it—beneath the hurt pride and the stinging words—was something deeper.

Your fingers clenched into fists so tight your nails dug into your palms. You barely felt the sting at first—just the surge of emotion, of frustration boiling under your skin. But soon a faint, warm wetness pricked your awareness. You looked down. Blood. Tiny half-moons carved into your flesh. You took a shuddering breath, trying to settle the hammering in your chest. But your heart refused to listen.

I can’t sit here, you thought, teeth gritting. Not while they’re out there.

The tent suddenly felt too small, too tight, suffocating. Your legs moved before your thoughts even finished forming, your boots scraping against the ground as you surged to your feet. The flap of the tent flew open, letting the sunlight slice into your vision. You burst out into the chaos of the camp.

Shouts echoed around you—orders barked, names cried, the distant boom of something exploding far too close for comfort. Dust swirled with every hurried footstep and galloping soldier, the ground shaking subtly with urgency.

Your eyes scanned the space feverishly until they landed on it—that familiar, tall creature with dark, scaled legs and thick hooves standing tethered near the edge of the camp, just where Burnt Cheese had left it. Its head lifted at your approach, sharp eyes meeting yours as if it recognized you.

You didn’t hesitate.

You sprinted toward it, heart racing like a drumbeat in your throat. Your fingers fumbled for the rope knotted around the fence post, yanking at it until it came loose. The creature shifted beneath your touch, its head tossing slightly, but it didn’t resist.

You dug into your bag, pulling out your dagger. The weight of it was reassuring in your hand—small, but familiar. You slid it into the sheath on your hip, then clutched the reins tighter, your knuckles pale against the worn leather.

“Alright,” you whispered to the creature, voice hoarse with tension. “We’re not waiting anymore.”

You gave a sharp nudge to its side, urgency pressing against your spine.

The creature didn’t need convincing. It surged forward in a gallop, hooves pounding against the sand as you held on, wind tearing at your cloak and hair. The edge of the camp blurred past you—tents, voices, wounded, healers—all slipping behind in a rush of wind and grit.

Ahead of you, dark smoke bled into the sky like ink, thick and unnatural, curling above the distant dunes. The sun still blazed overhead, but that smoke cast long shadows, painting the land ahead in grim, war-touched hues.

Your heart thudded in rhythm with the creature’s strides, your mind torn between fear and determination.

The sound of war engulfed the air as you rode forward—shouts of soldiers rang out over the rhythmic thundering of hooves beneath you. The sharp whistle of arrows, the distant clashing of steel, and the deep, earth-shaking rumble of explosions closed in around you with every second. Smoke drifted through the hot wind, stinging your eyes, making your throat dry and raw.

Then you saw it—through the dust and debris, a lone tent standing amidst the chaos. Unlike the medical tents from earlier, this one was larger, reinforced, worn but still intact. A base of operations, perhaps. A place of command and desperate coordination. The smoke swirled behind it in angry plumes.

Your heart leapt in your chest.

As soon as you got close enough, you swung your leg over the creature’s side and jumped down, your boots hitting the sand with a heavy thud. You stumbled for a moment, legs sore from the ride, but you pushed yourself forward. You ran with everything you had left in you.

Then—

You saw him.

A flash of soft, golden hair, dulled and tangled with dirt and ash, stood out like sunlight in the gloom. Your feet stopped dead in the sand. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes locked onto the familiar figure.

Pure Vanilla.

He knelt just outside the tent, bent over a wounded soldier who lay groaning in pain. His hands were placed gently on the man’s chest, glowing with warm, honey-colored magic. You could feel the hum of the spell in the air, even from where you stood.

But he looked… different.

Gone were the flowing white robes and the serene composure you remembered. His current clothing was practical—simple. A sleeveless black turtleneck clung to his frame, dust and blood smudging the fabric. A tattered cloak hung loosely over his shoulders, the clasp nearly broken. His hair, usually so neat, was pulled back messily and still fell into his face. Sweat clung to him, glistening on his skin, and soot left dark streaks across his tan features.

His eyes—once so full of warmth—were now dull with exhaustion. Haunted. But still, he worked, steady and unyielding, focused on preserving what he could.

Something in you broke.

A sob burst from your lips, sharp and uncontrolled. The sound tore through the air between you like a crack of lightning.

Pure Vanilla’s head snapped up immediately.

His hands stilled over the soldier, magic fading as his focus shifted completely. Despite the soot, the sweat, the fatigue etched into every line of his face—his eyes widened. Even without his staff, even squinting through the smoke and blood, he knew.

He knew it was you.

He murmured something low to the nearby medic, who stepped in at once to finish the healing process. His movements were stiff at first, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure you were truly standing there.

Then his body snapped into motion.

He crossed the space between you with long, determined strides, each step faster than the last. His arms didn’t immediately reach out—his expression unreadable, tense. There was a storm behind his tired eyes. A million thoughts trying to rise at once.

But you couldn’t stop the tears as he neared. The overwhelming tide of fear, relief, guilt, and hope all surged forward at once. Your knees nearly buckled, but he stopped just in front of you, breathing heavily.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the words didn’t come.

And for a second, everything fell quiet.

The battle still roared behind you. Soldiers still shouted. Smoke still billowed. But in that moment, standing there—seeing him alive, real, in front of you—you could finally breathe.

The moment you saw his face crumple, your stomach dropped.

Pure Vanilla—so often calm, so impossibly patient—looked furious.

His brows were drawn tight, his jaw clenched hard enough to tremble slightly. His lips were pulled into a tight line before they parted, and when he spoke, his voice was low and stern—deeper than usual, cracking slightly with strain.

“What are you doing here?”

Your body froze. You stiffened like a child being caught doing something wrong. His tone wasn’t raised, but it cut sharper than if he had shouted. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze—his eyes burned into you like a flame, intense and unreadable.

“I—” you swallowed thickly, voice soft and barely above the chaos behind you. “I was worried about you. I… I wanted to help.”

Your voice took on a quiet defensiveness, but it sounded hollow. It was hard to sound brave when your heart thundered painfully in your chest. You kept your gaze trained on the ground, unable to hold the weight of his expression.

His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles turning pale. “You shouldn’t have come,” he bit out.

Your head snapped up, your chest tightening in defiance. “I came to help,” you repeated, louder this time, the words sharper.

You weren’t sure whether you were trying to convince him—or yourself.

But before either of you could speak again, the sound of hurried steps approached.

Burnt Cheese skidded to a halt beside you both, his hat askew, breath ragged from running. “What do you think you’re doing?!” he whisper-hissed at you, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be in the tent—”

Pure Vanilla’s head whipped toward him. His expression darkened further, voice laced with disbelief. “You knew they were here?”

Burnt Cheese’s shoulders shot up defensively. “I told them to stay put. I didn’t think they’d—” He winced as Pure Vanilla’s fingers pressed into his temples, dragging down his face in a gesture that reeked of exhaustion and frustration.

Burnt Cheese took the hint. He muttered something under his breath and quickly retreated, but not without casting one last meaningful look at you. One that said you’ve really done it now.

And then it was just you and Pure Vanilla again.

He turned back to you—tall, imposing, powerful in ways he rarely showed. His large frame seemed to block the very sun, casting you in his shadow. His eyes had lost some of their fire, but they shimmered now with something worse: hurt. Conflicted emotion clouded his tired features. He looked angry, yes—but also deeply, sincerely worried.

“You need to go,” he said, voice low and strained. His arm lifted as he pointed back the way you came, hand steady and commanding. “Now.”

There wasn’t room in his voice for argument. It was the kind of tone that made soldiers snap to attention. It wasn’t the healer speaking. It was the commander.

You scoffed, jaw tightening, feeling the sting of rejection deep in your chest. “I came to help,” you snapped, your voice flat, your eyes narrowing. “I want to help.”

And you tried to move past him—tried to shoulder past the wall he was trying to put between you and danger.

But before you could take even two steps, his hand met your chest, firm and unmoving.

It wasn’t violent, but it was final.

The pressure was enough to push you back a step. Enough to say no more.

You stumbled, staring at him in disbelief. Your breath caught as you looked up at him, blinking past the sudden sting of frustrated tears. He wasn’t looking at you like you were weak—he wasn’t looking at you like he hated you.

But his expression…

It was one of someone who couldn’t afford to let himself feel. Not here. Not now.

“Please,” he muttered, barely audible. His voice trembled, just for a second. 

Without another word, Pure Vanilla turned from you.

He didn’t look back. His cloak caught the wind as he jogged away, disappearing into the chaos of the camp, the glow of his magic lighting around his hands as he knelt beside another soldier. The air was thick with smoke and tension. Your limbs felt rooted to the spot, your heart growing heavier with every beat—as if something fragile inside had finally cracked.

He had left you standing there. Alone.

The sharp sting of rejection settled deep in your chest, blooming like a wound. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and angry, but you blinked them away with a harsh breath. You couldn’t afford to cry. Not here. Not now. Not when others were fighting just to stay alive.

Swallowing down the ache, you turned and made your way toward the medic tent. Your legs felt like lead, your throat dry and raw. But your voice was steady when you approached one of the medics tending to a patient with a bloodied arm.

“I want to help,” you said, your voice firm despite the tremor you felt inside.

The woman—barely older than you, with frizzy hair tied back in a soot-stained bandana—looked up from her work. Her amber eyes were tired, ringed with shadows, but she offered you a small, appreciative smile. “We could use it,” she murmured. “Medical packs are over there—tend to the ones that aren’t critical. Mostly cuts and burns.”

You nodded quickly and rushed to grab a satchel of supplies, your fingers trembling as you fumbled with the straps. But you forced your body to move—to do something. The booming of distant explosions rattled the walls of the tent. Screams echoed from the battlefield. Every sound sent your nerves on edge, but you pushed through it.

One step. Then another.

You crouched beside a wounded soldier with a shallow gash on his side, muttering soft words as you cleaned and wrapped the wound. Your hands weren’t steady, but you were quick—each task helping to quiet the storm in your mind. You moved from one to the next: a man with a burned shoulder, a young woman with a cracked rib, a boy—barely a teen—curled up with a broken wrist and smoke-blackened cheeks.

All the while, your eyes scanned the camp.

You searched for him.

But Pure Vanilla was nowhere in sight.

Then, movement.

A figure caught your attention—tall and commanding, her presence slicing through the chaos like a blade. A woman, face streaked with soot, emerged from the smoke. Her skin was dark, almost bronze in the sunlight, and her eyes glowed a sharp, unnatural gold that pierced through the haze like twin beacons. Her armor—what remained of it—was scorched and torn, but she moved with purpose, proud and unwavering.

She walked directly to Pure Vanilla.

You hadn’t even seen him return, but there he was, standing near the edge of the tent, his posture rigid. He turned to her as she approached, and they spoke in low, hurried voices. The way she held herself… the quiet authority in her stance… It hit you.

Golden Cheese.

You recognized her from the stories. The one who had sent the call for help. The one who’d been fighting at Pure Vanilla’s side.

His eyes flicked toward you—just for a second.

A single second that sent your stomach twisting into knots.

And then he turned back to her. He nodded, tight and grim, before the two of them strode off toward the source of the explosions. Toward the fire and smoke and screams.

Toward the heart of the battle.

You froze.

Your mouth went dry. Your legs felt like they might give out beneath you. That twisting panic roared in your ears, drowning out everything else. You were supposed to help. You were supposed to find him, make sure he was okay—but he was walking into danger again, and you had no idea if he’d come back.

The thought of losing him made your blood run cold.

You looked down, realizing your hands were still working—still wrapping gauze around the arm of a soldier with a shallow knife wound. You fumbled the knot, muttering a shaky apology. The soldier, a grizzled man with tired eyes, just gave a weak nod.

You finished quickly. You stood.

You couldn’t sit here and wait.

Not again. Not knowing he was out there.

The satchel at your hip thumped lightly as you moved toward the tent flap, your fingers brushing against the hilt of the dagger tucked into your belt. The battlefield stretched beyond the tent’s edge—a storm of dust and fire and motion.

You were going after him.

Even if he didn’t want you there.

You jogged forward, pushing your legs to keep pace, each breath coming short and fast in the dry, smoky air. The battlefield was chaos incarnate—shouting soldiers, clanging metal, explosions rumbling in the distance. Dust and ash whipped at your face, coating your skin, stinging your eyes, but you pressed on. Your boots slammed into the cracked earth, your satchel bouncing at your hip, the dagger knocking lightly with each stride.

Around you, the clash of war played out in brutal fragments.

To your left, a soldier let out a war cry as he clashed swords with a hulking, four-armed brute. To your right, a medic dragged an injured fighter toward cover, blood streaking across the ground behind them. You caught a glimpse of something surreal—a woman whose lower half was that of a great tiger, her striped limbs rippling with muscle as she leapt across the fray, slicing down soldiers with twin blades. For a moment, your eyes lingered on her, mesmerized by the way she moved—wild, powerful, deadly.

But you forced yourself to turn back.

Focus.

You caught sight of Pure Vanilla and Golden Cheese a few yards ahead, weaving through wounded soldiers and exchanging hurried orders. You pushed yourself harder, trying to close the distance.

Snap.

The distinct sound sliced through the chaos, sharp and lethal.

Your head whipped toward the source, heart seizing in your chest. Your eyes locked on a glint of metal—an arrow slicing through the air, flying fast and precise, aimed straight at them.

Time seemed to slow.

There was no thought, no hesitation.

Just movement.

You surged forward in a dead sprint, the world around you fading into a blur. Your legs screamed in protest, lungs burning with the effort as you barreled ahead. You reached them just as the arrow closed the final feet of distance.

“Get down!” you screamed.

You launched yourself forward, shoulder slamming into Golden Cheese. The force of your momentum knocked both her and Pure Vanilla to the ground, the three of you hitting the cracked dirt hard just as the arrow struck—buried deep in the earth where they had stood moments before.

You gasped for breath, chest rising and falling in panicked heaves, the adrenaline pulsing through your veins like wildfire. Dust swirled around you. Your limbs shook.

A hand appeared in front of your face, open and steady.

You looked up—Golden Cheese. Her golden eyes met yours, wide with a mix of surprise and admiration. She grinned, a flash of white through the ash on her face.

“Well done,” she said simply, her voice rich with approval.

You took her hand and let her pull you to your feet. Your body trembled from the sprint, but you managed a stiff nod, brushing ash and grit from your clothes. You turned toward Pure Vanilla, and for a moment your eyes met his.

His expression was unreadable. Something unspoken passed between you.

But you didn’t let him speak.

You turned sharply back to Golden Cheese, your tone clipped, businesslike. “What do you need?”

Golden Cheese’s smile widened. She gestured with a jerk of her chin toward the chaotic sprawl of battle. “There’s a group pinned down to the east—medical unit needs backup. Think you’re up for it?”

You nodded again. “Point me.”

Pure Vanilla took a step forward, jaw tight, as if to argue—but the words died before they left his mouth. He looked at you with something softer now—fear, maybe. Worry. Regret.

But also… respect.

Golden Cheese clapped your shoulder firmly, already barking new orders to the soldiers nearby.

You didn’t wait for Pure Vanilla to speak.

You turned and ran toward the east. Toward the chaos. Toward those who needed help.

Even if your legs trembled and your chest burned.

Even if your heart still ached from what he’d said before.

                                   •

                                   •

                                   •

                                   •

You crouched low beside a wounded soldier, your hands moving with quick, practiced urgency. Blood slicked his pant leg, but the wound wasn’t too deep—just a bad gash along the calf. You wrapped it tightly, your hands trembling only slightly now. Around you, the unit fought with unwavering focus—some held the line with spears and blades, while others pulled the injured to safety. You were among them, drifting between combat and healing, caught somewhere between terror and duty.

The sounds of war pressed in close. Explosions thundered nearby, a concussive wave that rattled your bones and filled your chest with dread. Shouts echoed across the battlefield, sharp with panic and pain, but still you kept moving, kept helping—forcing yourself to be useful, to not give in to the fear coiling in your gut.

Then, out of nowhere—

“GET BACK!”

Golden Cheese’s voice tore through the chaos like lightning.

She leapt in front of your group, her gold cloak flashing as she turned, bracing herself between you and something behind her. But before anyone could react, her body was struck with bone-rattling force—slammed back as though hit by a wrecking ball. She flew through the air and hit the ground hard, her spear clattering beside her.

You barely had time to scream her name before the air was ripped apart by the monstrous swing of a massive axe.

Your breath caught as the weapon cleaved through the space where your group had just been standing. The wind from it alone was enough to knock you off balance. Instinct took over—you stumbled back, feet barely catching ground as you scrambled to avoid the crushing arc of steel.

And then you saw him.

The figure wielding the axe.

Everything in you froze.

He towered above the battlefield like a nightmare made flesh. His body was monstrous, muscles carved from stone and fire, his rose-terracotta skin covered in tiger-like umber tattoos that seemed to move with each flex of his arms. His torso was massive, shoulders like boulders, arms thick enough to crush stone. Even his legs, though shorter in proportion, carried a terrifying weight that stomped into the earth with each step, sending up clouds of dust.

His hair was impossibly long—a black, trailing mass that slithered over the ground like an omen. The contrast between the fiery tones of his body and the deep black of his mane made him almost spectral, like something not meant to exist in this world.

But his eyes were the worst part.

Slitted gold pupils shimmered with eerie intelligence, framed by burning sclerae the color of banked coals. They flicked over the battlefield with sharp amusement. As if this was a game to him. A performance.

You stood rooted to the spot, dagger still gripped tightly in your hand—but useless. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think.

The towering warrior let out a laugh—a deep, booming sound that cut through the clamor of battle. It was not mocking. It was enjoyment.

He was enjoying this.

Golden Cheese, with a grunt of pain, rose to her feet in a fluid, practiced motion. She retrieved her spear, the tip of it already sizzling with golden energy, and lunged at him without hesitation, a furious yell erupting from her chest.

You stumbled to the side, barely avoiding the path of their clash.

Sparks erupted as spear met axe, the ground beneath them splitting slightly from the sheer force of their blows. Dust and debris clouded the air. Around you, your group had scattered, trying to regroup and reform their lines—but many were disoriented. Frightened.

You ducked behind a fallen pillar, heart hammering as you watched Golden Cheese face off against the monster of a man—blades flashing in deadly arcs. The clanging of metal sounded like thunder, ringing in your ears.

You were terrified. Utterly, viscerally terrified.

But you couldn’t run.

Not now.

Not when Golden Cheese was fighting alone.

You crouched low, pressing your back to the stone, trying to calm your breathing—trying to think. Your eyes darted across the battlefield, searching. Where was Pure Vanilla? Could he see this? Did he know?

And what in the gods’ names was that thing?

The laughter rang out again, even louder this time, echoing across the battlefield.

And with it, the knowledge settled in your chest like a stone: this was no ordinary warrior.

This was something else entirely.

You crouched behind the broken slab of stone, heart slamming against your ribs, chest heaving as you watched Golden Cheese clash against the towering warrior. Her golden spear danced like lightning, striking and parrying with practiced fury—but even she was struggling, every blow from his massive axe sending shockwaves through the earth.

You were trembling.

You had no right to be out here. No armor. No strength. Just a small dagger and a foolish amount of stubbornness.

But something inside you twisted—something stubborn and desperate.

You can’t just watch. You didn’t come all this way to cower behind a rock.

You bit down hard on your lip, enough to draw blood. A grounding pain. You sucked in a sharp breath through your nose, your fingers tightening around the hilt of your dagger. You could hear your pulse pounding in your ears, louder even than the chaos around you.

“I’m not useless,” you whispered to yourself. “I’m not.”

With a low grunt, you launched yourself from cover, sprinting toward the melee.

Golden Cheese had just blocked another swing, her boots dragging furrows in the dirt as she braced herself. You slid in beside her, panting, raising your dagger high like you actually knew how to use it. Your stance was uneven, but your eyes burned with fear-fueled resolve. You threw up the fiercest expression you could muster—eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Probably more like a panicked animal than a soldier, but it was all you had.

The warrior laughed.

A deep, guttural sound that reverberated in your bones. His voice boomed like thunder across the field.

“Well, well,” he growled, flashing sharp teeth in a wild grin. “This will be fun.”

Before you could even process what he meant, his massive axe came crashing toward you in a horizontal arc.

Golden Cheese screamed, “Back up!”

You barely had time to throw yourself sideways. The blade missed you by inches, cutting a clean gouge in the earth where you’d stood.

You rolled—sand and grit biting into your palms—and scrambled back to your feet just as the warrior turned toward you fully. He seemed amused. Like this was a game. Like your dagger was a toy.

But your eyes caught something as he stepped forward—something glowing on his chest.

A jewel. Embedded just above his sternum, nestled in a carved setting of blackened bone and gold. It pulsed like a heartbeat—deep crimson, like burning coals. It radiated power. You recognized it. You didn’t know how, but something ancient and instinctive whispered in your brain.

That stone meant something.

You didn’t get time to wonder. A sudden impact swept your legs out from beneath you—swift, brutal, unexpected. You crashed onto your back with a strangled cry, the breath knocked from your lungs.

You wheezed, trying to suck in air—your head spinning, ribs aching. The sky above swam in your vision, distorted by tears and sunlight.

Then a shadow fell across you.

A heavy one.

You looked up.

The axe—massive and black as night—was already descending, a streak of death falling toward your face.

The world slowed.

You heard voices in the distance—shouting your name. Familiar ones. Maybe Burnt Cheese? Maybe… Pure Vanilla?

But they were so far away. Like echoes underwater.

You stared at the blade. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Time stretched, and your mind filled with static panic.

Is this it? you wondered. Is this how I die?

You squeezed your eyes shut, the image of the jewel burning behind your lids. Not ready. Not like this. You felt so small. So helpless.

You braced for the end.

You waited for the blow—waited for the searing pain, the deafening silence that would follow. But it never came.

Instead, the air changed.

You heard a cackle—high-pitched, lilting, and horrifyingly familiar.

Your eyes snapped open, and a shiver wracked your entire body. That voice… it couldn’t be.

Your gaze rose, first to the massive axe hovering just inches above your face—and then past it, to the figure now standing between you and death. Cloaked in a dark blue aura, hair drifting like tendrils of smoke, clothes near and draped with shadows… there he was.

Shadow Milk.

He stood casually, one hand outstretched—his fingers gripping the thick edge of the axe blade. The weapon’s sheer weight and power had cut into his palm, the metal sunk deep enough to draw blue blood that dripped steadily onto the sand below. The sight was surreal. Like the world had turned inside out.

Your breath hitched. He stopped it. Just like that.

He hadn’t even glanced at you yet. His eerie, blue eyes with glowing irises—always too wide, always too aware—were locked on the massive warrior in front of him.

“Well, well,” Shadow Milk said cheerfully, his tone sing-song. “Burning Spice. Been a while, hasn’t it, old friend?”

That same teasing, manic lilt twisted every syllable. Like this was all one big joke.

Your eyes widened as you followed the exchange, your body frozen beneath them. Burning Spice. That’s what he called the giant. The monster with the fiery eyes and towering frame. And the way Shadow Milk said it—it was like an old nickname. A memory.

Burning Spice let out a frustrated huff, yanking the axe back with a snarl. It slid from Shadow Milk’s hand with a wet noise, fresh rivulets of glowing blue blood trailing from his palm. The warrior slung it back over his shoulder, expression somewhere between irritation and… caution.

“What are you doing here?” Burning Spice grumbled, voice like rolling embers. “You always show up when you’re not wanted.”

Shadow Milk tilted his head, amused, like a cat watching a mouse that had finally noticed it was being toyed with.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he cooed. “I was just dropping by to grab something that belongs to me.”

Then, his gaze slowly turned.

And it landed on you.

You froze.

His grin stretched unnaturally wide. That same smile—the one that lived in your nightmares—unchanging, carved into his face like a mask. His eyes, hollow and glowing, drank you in like a predator that had just found its prey again after far too long apart.

Your body trembled, fear pouring into your limbs until you felt like you might collapse.

“Hello, little puppet,” he purred.

Your throat constricted. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. His voice was velvet and venom, and even now, even here, it still had that same edge of affection—twisted and wrong.

Somewhere behind you, you heard a scream—not from Shadow Milk or Burning Spice, but from Pure Vanilla.

“Get out of there!” he shouted, desperation laced through every word.

You whipped your head around.

He was crouched beside Golden Cheese, one hand pressed over her abdomen, golden light blooming from his palm. She was bleeding, eyes half-closed, but alive. His other hand was shaking, gripping his staff, and his gaze locked with yours.

You saw the fear in his eyes. Not the kind reserved for monsters. It was something deeper. Personal.

Everyone else had cleared the field. You hadn’t noticed it, but the soldiers had retreated the moment Shadow Milk appeared—an unspoken agreement that whatever this was, they didn’t want to be part of it.

And now, you were the only one left between him and… whatever he wanted.

Burning Spice groaned. “You always ruin the fun,” he muttered, glaring at Shadow Milk. “Every time.”

Shadow Milk waved a dismissive hand, blood still dripping lazily from his palm. “Yes, yes, I’m terrible company. But I do know how to make an entrance.”

Then his gaze fell back on you, and his smile softened just slightly—no less terrifying, but… eerily sincere.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, voice too soft for the moment. “You shouldn’t have run off like that. You were doing so well.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to scream, to do anything. But your limbs refused to move. You were locked in his gaze—caught like a rabbit under a hawk’s shadow.

Shadow Milk took a step toward you.

Pure Vanilla’s voice rang out again—sharper this time, more commanding. “Don’t touch them!”

Shadow Milk paused. Just for a second.

Then he chuckled, low and amused. “Oh, Pure Vanilla. Still playing the hero? You know I don’t like being interrupted.”

You felt your body finally react—your legs trembling as you began to scramble back, dagger still clutched uselessly in your hand. You weren’t unsure what to fear more: the blood-soaked warrior still watching with narrowed eyes… or the smiling shadow that called you his.

The battlefield was quiet now.

Every eye was on you.

Your body reacted before your mind could even catch up.

Instinct screamed at you, raw and primal. You scrambled to your feet with a lurch, legs burning as you launched yourself into a sprint across the bloodied sand. You didn’t even know where you were going—only that you had to move, get away, survive. Your lungs burned with the sharp heat of the air, and every step felt like it rattled your bones. But none of it mattered.

Behind you, a loud, exaggerated groan echoed across the battlefield, dragging with it a weight of dread that clung to your spine like ice.

“Must you make this difficult?” Shadow Milk’s voice drawled out, rich with amusement and venom. His words slithered past your ears like silk-wrapped chains. You could feel his glowing eyes boring into your back—those impossibly bright irises against the sea of darkness that was his face.

Your breath came in panicked bursts. Your heart hammered so loudly it drowned out everything else—until it didn’t.

“NUTMEG TIGER, DON’T!”

That voice—Black Sapphire. Sharp. Desperate.

But you barely had time to process it.

The world around you detonated.

A deafening explosion cracked through the air like thunder made solid. You didn’t even see where it came from—just a blinding burst of light, and then force.

The shockwave slammed into you like a wall, throwing your body like a ragdoll. You didn’t even scream. There was no air left in your lungs to scream with. Just the awful, crushing impact as you hit the ground.

Something cracked. Maybe a rib. Maybe the earth. Maybe your mind.

You laid there—sprawled out in the churning sand, your body screaming in silence. Your ears rang violently. A high, whining pitch that blurred the rest of the world to a distant hum. Everything hurt.

Ash and dust hung in the air, choking the sky into grayness. You couldn’t see the sun anymore.

Your blurry vision swam. Your fingers twitched against the scorched sand. Somewhere nearby, voices were calling—shouting names, issuing orders, cries of pain and panic.

None of it made sense. It all sounded underwater.

Your head rolled limply to the side, cheek brushing sand that stuck to the blood along your temple. That’s when you saw him.

A figure dropped into your line of sight, and for a moment you couldn’t recognize him. Not through the haze.

Then your broken gaze sharpened just enough.

Black Sapphire.

His hand cradled the back of your neck, lifting your head slightly. His pale lavender skin—usually flawless and cold—was now speckled in red. His sharp features were twisted in panic, mouth moving fast as he tried to say something to you. The words didn’t reach. You could only hear fragments—nothing whole.

His dark, obsidian-black hair framed his face in thick, wind-blown strands, some sticking to his brow with sweat. One eye was hidden behind the curtain of hair, but the other—his exposed violet eye—burned with intensity. It glowed in contrast to the grayed world around you.

And in that moment, you realized—

That blood wasn’t his.

You wanted to say something. Anything. But your lips barely moved. Your chest wheezed as it fought to draw breath.

Around you, everything dissolved into chaos.

Screaming.

“They’re down—evacuate, now!”

“We’re losing too many!”

“Pure Vanilla we need you—Golden Cheese is still bleeding out—”

But it all bled together. Your focus tunneled. Locked on Black Sapphire’s face. You’d never seen him look like this before—not so… frantic. Not so human.

Your vision pulsed. The sand beneath you trembled as distant explosions rattled the world. More shouting—farther now.

Your thoughts grew thick, disconnected.

What happened…?

Why can’t I hear…?

Why can’t I move…?

You felt pressure against your chest. A sharp jolt, then another—hands trying to rouse you. A voice cut through the fog, faint and hollow:

“Stay with me,” Black Sapphire begged. His voice, usually calm and sarcastic, now cracked with something else. “Stay awake. Don’t you dare black out on me.”

You tried to sit up.

It was a sluggish, agonizing effort—like trying to move underwater while your body screamed in protest. Pain lanced through your ribs, sharp and deep, and something warm trickled down the side of your face. But it wasn’t that which made you stop. It was the strange, dead weight on your right side.

Or—rather—the absence of it.

You tried again, to lift your arm, to plant your palm into the sand and steady yourself, but nothing responded.

A strange, hollow sensation bloomed in your chest.

Why can’t I feel my arm?

The thought drifted in slowly, almost dreamlike. Detached.

Panic started to stir in your chest. Your head lolled to the right, your eyes dragging toward your right shoulder, sluggish and dizzying as though you were trying to move through oil. You turned your gaze—seeking your right side, trying to will your body to obey. Trying to understand.

And then you saw it.

The world inside your head went silent.

You froze.

Your eyes widened—horrifically so.

There was nothing.

Nothing but a jagged, blackened stump, the flesh torn, scorched, and seared where your upper arm had once been. The skin was mangled, burned nearly down to bone, and blood gushed from the wound in slow, heavy pulses—already beginning to soak the sand in dark, muddy crimson. You could see muscle. 

The silence in your head shattered.

No.

No no no—

A choking noise clawed from your throat. Then another. Panic gripped your lungs like a vice.

Your lungs collapsed inward, a high, wet gasp escaping your lips. Panic surged like a tidal wave through your chest. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. Your heart thundered violently, and a ringing louder than any explosion screamed in your ears.

You began to hyperventilate.

Your entire body shook. The pain—the loss—the sight—it overwhelmed everything.

Suddenly, hands gripped your face.

Black Sapphire.

His lavender skin smeared with blood. His eye—just one visible beneath the mess of dark hair—blazed with pure urgency. “Look at me,” he barked, voice firm but desperate. “Stay with me—don’t look away, don’t look down. Just breathe. Keep your eyes on me, dammit—”

But it was already too late.

Your mind spiraled. You couldn’t hold it together. Your lips trembled, a broken sob tearing from your throat as the black dots began to creep into your vision like ink poured into water.

You were dying.

“Shadow Milk!!” Black Sapphire’s voice cracked as he shouted for help. “SHADOW—”

Shadow Milk hadn’t noticed. He was still lazily engaged with the retreating monsters, smirking, amused—until his eyes flicked over to you.

And then—he stopped.

His smile vanished.

In less than a heartbeat, the blue-eyed man was gone from where he’d stood—and suddenly there, beside you.

He shoved Black Sapphire aside with alarming force—more out of urgency than cruelty—his expression contorted in something unfamiliar: alarm.

Your mind screamed at you to fight—but your body was a traitor. Weak. You barely managed to lift your one remaining arm, your palm weakly slapping against Shadow Milk’s chest as he tried to examine you, your blood-slicked fingers pressed against his chest. A pitiful push.

“N-No—” you rasped, voice paper-thin, your fingers trembling. “G-Get off—”

But you weren’t strong enough to push him away.

Shadow Milk’s hands—usually careless and smooth—were deliberate as they held your face. He tilted your head, forcing your eyes to his.

“Eyes on me sweetheart” his voice was uncharacteristically gentle, fear seemed to be laced through the words. 

His mismatched irises glowed brighter than ever-the icy blue and storm-dark navy—swirled. They didn’t blink. They didn’t waver. They stared into you.

Your body attempted to fight back but your muscles soon felt like jelly.

“Shhh…” he murmured, the sing-song lilt in his voice dulled but still present. 

Your breathing slowed.

Your trembling eased.

Even the agony, the fear, began to blur, dulled to a distant throb, as though your body had slipped out of its own reach.

His voice murmured something soft—but the words barely touched your mind. You couldn’t hold onto them.

You couldn’t hold onto anything.

Your heart thudded—then staggered.

Your head lolled back into his arm, your lips parted in a breathless whisper, your thoughts finally collapsing into one last, desperate plea:

“Help… me…”

And then—

Everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Your mind was an endless void—

no color, no sound, no dreams.

Just an unfeeling dark. A space where time didn’t pass, where you weren’t entirely sure you even existed.

Then—

clink.

A soft sound.

Ceramic on ceramic.

Clink.

Again.

Like porcelain cups brushing on stone or wood—quiet, domestic, almost too gentle to belong in the world you remembered last.

The void shuddered. A thin, invisible thread began to tug at the edge of your consciousness, pulling you upward from the abyss. You followed it. Slowly. Unwillingly.

A breath caught in your throat as sensation started to return. Your body ached—not the sharp, panicked ache of injury, but the dull, heavy pull of something deeper. Something that had broken, and had only just begun to mend.

Your eyelids twitched, cracked open just enough for light to blind you. You winced. They were so heavy. Like stone lids, resisting every effort to move.

The world above came into focus by degrees, blurred at the edges. Shadows bled into light. Shapes blurred and stretched. You blinked hard.

Where… am I?

The question echoed weakly in your mind, detached and sluggish. You shifted your head slightly, then stopped as a wave of nausea clawed at your stomach. Your limbs… your limb—what remained of them—felt like lead. Your muscles refused to cooperate.

The softness beneath you—silk, warm fabric, maybe down—cradled you like a bed you’d fallen into a century ago. It wanted to keep you. Pull you back down into the dark. It would be so easy. So safe.

But something in you resisted.

You grit your teeth and attempted to move. A groan scraped its way out of your throat as you tried to pull yourself into a sitting position. Every joint creaked like rusted hinges. A white-hot tug in your shoulder stopped you—

or would have—

If not for the sudden hands on you.

They were firm, catching your shoulders before you could fall forward. They pressed you back gently but insistently, guiding you back into the pillows. Your bleary gaze flicked up—startled—and locked onto the figure leaning over you.

Your breath caught.

Black Sapphire.

He looked just as you remembered—just as he always did. His black suit was crisp, flawless. Not a wrinkle in sight. The silken material clung to his tall form in familiar elegance. His thick black curls fell partially over one side of his face, veiling one brilliant eye. The other eye—the one still visible—was striking violet, luminous in the soft light that bathed the room.

You stared at him, your dazed mind trying to remember how long it had been, trying to reconcile the perfect calm on his face with the storm you knew had come before.

His lips moved. He was speaking. But the words… didn’t reach you. They were muffled. Like he was talking underwater, or like your ears had been stuffed with cotton.

Still, his mouth moved in that patient, composed way. You saw the faint furrow in his brow—barely there, but present. Worry. He was worried.

You swallowed, throat dry. You tried to speak, but your mouth felt like it had been stitched closed with sleep.

The world still swam at the edges of your vision.

But even in your haze—even in this strange quiet—you knew one thing with certainty:

You were alive.

And Black Sapphire had stayed.

His hand, still firm on your shoulder, trembled ever so slightly. As if, for all his elegance, all his stoicism—he hadn’t quite believed he would see you open your eyes again.

You tried to speak—

to force sound from your dry, cracked lips.

The words felt heavy, like stone being pushed through a throat full of ash. Your mouth opened and you rasped, “Wh… where… where am I…?”

Your voice fractured halfway through. It came out hoarse and broken, barely louder than a whisper. You winced, your throat burning like fire. “What… happened…?” you tried again, weaker this time, the effort draining the little strength you had.

Black Sapphire’s head jerked up slightly, as if even that pitiful sound had struck him like a bell. His expression, ever composed and quiet, wavered just a little. His violet eye flicked over your face—searching, calculating, feeling.

Without a word, his hand moved. Gentle fingers, cool to the touch, brushed your hair back from your face, tucking the damp strands behind your ear. Your breath hitched. The contact was so soft—so familiar.

You hummed, barely audible, a half-conscious sound of comfort slipping out as your eyes fluttered. The weight of his hand was grounding, despite everything. Despite the storm in your chest. Despite the pain that pulsed with every heartbeat.

He seemed to hesitate before sitting at the edge of the bed, his form elegant even in uncertainty. He faced forward, not meeting your gaze at first—his hands folded neatly in his lap.

Then, with the faintest exhale, he finally answered.

“You’re in Shadow Milk’s castle,” he said softly. “Again.”

The word again struck your chest like ice.

Your body tensed immediately. The warmth that had briefly filled your heart shattered like glass.

Again.

Here. Here.

The place where nightmares whispered in every corner. The place you’d once fought to escape.

Your breath caught as panic stirred to life in your gut. Your limbs refused to move, but your heartbeat thundered, loud and hot. Your good hand clawed at the blanket, as if gripping it tighter might anchor you.

Black Sapphire noticed. His gaze snapped to you—he was quick to speak again, his voice lower, careful. “You were… dying.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “There was no time. You lost too much blood. We couldn’t get you to any other healer—not fast enough. You needed somewhere safe. Somewhere that could—” he paused, eyes darkening with something unreadable, “—hold you together.”

You blinked, your vision swimming again—but this time, it wasn’t from fatigue.

Tears gathered in your eyes, one rolling hot and slow down your temple. Your chest quivered. Your mind was spiraling again—memories of pain, of screams, of that moment when you realized your arm was gone. That it wasn’t coming back.

And now—now you were here.

Back in the one place you had feared more than the battlefield.

A soft breath escaped Black Sapphire. He didn’t reach for you again. He only sat there, shoulders stiff but hands motionless. His head dipped slightly, his curls falling over his eye again.

“I know,” he said, barely audible. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know what this place means to you.”

His voice was calm, but strained. The tension was there, buried beneath the silk. He looked down, his long fingers twitching as if he wanted to say more.

“I just…” his voice dropped, a tremor in the word, “I couldn’t let you die.”

The quiet after those words rang louder than any explosion.

In that moment, you weren’t sure which pain was worse—

The physical loss still echoing through your body,

Or the feeling of being trapped.

But even through it, you saw the guilt on Black Sapphire’s face. Not regret—never regret. But the ache of someone who had made a choice that hurt you… just to keep you breathing.

And for the briefest second, as your tears slipped silently down your cheeks,

You realized—

He had stayed.

He’d never left your side.

Even in a place like this.

You sniffled and raised your arm—your remaining arm—to wipe your eyes. The motion was sluggish, shaky, and weak, but it was all you could manage. Your skin was warm and sticky from dried tears, and your arm trembled with the effort.

You didn’t want to cry anymore.

You didn’t want to feel like this.

Small. Broken. Trapped.

Your gaze shifted slowly, dragging through molasses as you looked back toward Black Sapphire. His face was still turned slightly away, shoulders squared with tension. His expression was carefully blank—but not empty. You knew better.

Your dry lips parted.

“P… please,” you croaked, voice rough and hoarse, barely more than breath. “Help me… up.”

Black Sapphire’s eye flinched at the sound. He didn’t look at you right away. His jaw clenched. The words hit him hard—but not because you asked.

Because you had to.