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the7thcrow · 8 months

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Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 11

series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.

series masterlist | previous chapter

Part Eleven: a broken conscience, tenderness, and a final confrontation.

series rating: 16+

series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.

series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)

summary: as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.

chapter details beneath the cut ->

wc: 16.2k

extra chapter warnings: themes of self-hatred, brief mention of suicide. heed the violence warning for this one.

chapter summary:

“I don’t know what happened at the lake,” Seonghwa starts, tentative and unsure. Clearly cautious to continue forward. “But do you think you guys will be able to work things out?”

“I don’t know,” San breathes, and it’s true. “I really don’t know, Hwa.”

Seonghwa nods, taking this in. He begins to chew on the corner of his cheek, nervous. “I need to tell you something.”

a/n: me apologizing for taking eons to write is getting a bit old, so imma stop LMAO. life is just busy but what’s new. anyway, to be frank i adore this chapter. it's a wild ride. i hope you all enjoy. mwah.

“Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung hears someone call out to him, but he isn’t sure from where. Their voice appears close, yet far off all at once. As if they are speaking from beside him, and at the same time miles away.

His senses feel muddled. Eye-sight a bit faded, it’s as if he’s looking through a window in the winter season. Fogged and clammy with precipitation, almost translucent. His hearing is muffled, his footsteps creating a dull-echo through him, as if they’re coming from within his mind rather than heard through his ears.

Wooyoung ignores this, instead choosing to follow the voice, although really, he’s walking aimlessly more than he is following. He can’t tell where the voice is coming from, and the darkness that surrounds him is disorientating. When he looks down, he can see his own eyes staring back at him, the ground polished and reflective. However, when he looks forward it all meshes into a thick blackness, like a mirror facing the night sky.

“Wooyoung!”

He hears the voice again, and it sounds like it’s coming from behind him, but when he turns there is nobody there. Just more of the same darkness.

Wooyoung scowls. Something is wrong, although he can’t place what. An inkling of worry rests on his shoulders nagging at him to listen, but everytime he tries to grasp it, it slips between his fingers. Sliding like water over rock.

His frown deepens. Yes, something is very wrong. He should know what it is, and yet he doesn’t.

Wooyoung turns back around, walking back in the same direction from which he came, this time with more fervour, his cluelessness leaving him agitated.

However, as he turns it is not only blackness ahead of him, but a boy.

He faces away from Wooyoung so that the elemental cannot see his face, although based on his narrow stature and height, he’s no older than his early teens. Wooyoung, struck by a sense of familiarity, heads towards him.

Upon reaching him, Wooyoung reaches out to grab the boy's shoulder, turning him around to face him. However, just as the boy’s face is almost visible, he vanishes. Wooyoung blinks. Darkness sits before him, empty, his hand outstretched into the blackness.

“Wooyoung.”

He whirls around, finding himself face to face with the boy.

Wooyoung gasps.

The boy’s light eyes meet his, a rich grey colour that has always reminded him of a coming storm. His black hair has grown longer, shaggy as it curls around the boy’s ears. Although Wooyoung has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, the boy is still taller, even if only by an inch or so.

“Yeonjun,” he whispers, and then his arms are wrapped around him, pulling the boy close. Wooyoung presses one of his hands along Yeonjun's back, feeling his skin and the muscles along his shoulders, trying to make sure that he’s real as he remembers each of his skin’s crevices. Ensuring that he is not a trick of the mind, an illusion within the warped darkness.

But he is real. Completely solid, his skin as warm and soft as so many years ago. Wooyoung places a hand onto the back of his head, cradling it as he pulls Yeonjun close.

Yeonjun does not move to hug him back. He stands still, stiff. Arms planted at his sides.

“You’re dead,” Wooyoung whispers, because he doesn’t understand how this is possible. He tucks his chin over the boy’s shoulder, overwhelmed by the familiarity of it, even after all these years. There’s a rightness to it, like his shoulder was meant for Wooyoung’s chin to rest there.

Yeonjun doesn’t reply right away, and Wooyoung finally pulls away from him. Yeonjun’s deep grey eyes meet his, although there is a certain absence to them. Not of life, but compassion. His lips are pulled into a thin line, his jaw clenched tight.

It’s not until now Wooyoung realizes that Yeonjun is not happy to see him.

“You don’t have to remind me that I’m dead, Wooyoung,” Yeonjun says, and his voice is not how Wooyoung remembers it. Not in its actual sound, but in its tone. Wooyoung remembers Yeonjun’s voice within night’s spent up in the watchtower, huddled close together. He remembers it in whispers around the lunch table, jovial and bright amidst the darkness.

He does not remember Yeonjun’s voice being so cold, nor so pointed. So hateful.

“It’s not the kind of thing I would forget,” Yeonjun spits, releasing himself from Wooyoung’s grip. Wooyoung flinches, caught off guard by this ferocity of his words.

“I didn’t mean-” Wooyoung starts, reaching out to place a comforting hand atop the boy’s shoulder. Yeonjun slaps it away. Hard.

“Don’t touch me,” Yeonjun scowls. He takes a step forward, and Wooyoung finds himself stepping back. “Don’t you dare fucking touch me!”

“I-I’m sorry,” Wooyoung says, and his voice is small as he takes another step back, pulling his hand away completely.

“Don’t tell me that you’re sorry,” Yeonjun says, and then Wooyoung is flying backwards. Blown by a sharp gust of wind, he hits his back against the ground. It sends a sharp spark of pain along his spine, and he winces as he continues to roll, using his elbows to protect his face as he tumbles backwards.

When he finally comes to a stop, he looks up, watching as Yeonjun storms towards him. “You think that you being sorry is going to change anything? That it’s going to fix what you did?”

“No,” Wooyoung whispers, because it’s true. He has hated himself for what he did to Yeonjun. Dragging him into his plan to escape, the plan that ultimately got the boy killed. However, even with all of his guilt, regret, and self-hatred, he never once thought that he’d have to face Yeonjun again. That he would have to own up to his failure. His unforgivable mistake.

He deserves this.

“You’re right, I am dead,” Yeonjun says, no longer shouting, but the ice within his voice is just as powerful. “I’m dead and it’s because of you.”

A ball of fire ignites in Yeonjun’s hand that the younger boy pulls it back, before letting it fly towards Wooyoung. The fire hurtles towards him, its orange and yellow flames twisting and turning, growing in size with each passing second.

Wooyoung would never hurt Yeonjun. Not intentionally, not with his own hand or flame. So instead of firing back with his own, Wooyoung redirects the flame away from him, sending it sideways.

Except that he doesn’t, because the redirection doesn’t work.

Yeonjun’s aim lands true as the flames engulf him.

Wooyoung thinks that he is screaming, but he can’t tell, his ears having gone deaf amongst the pain that radiates throughout his entire body. The burning sensation starts at his skin, thousands of little needles stabbing him everywhere from his face down to his feet. He can’t think beyond the burning, the heat intolerable as it consumes him. He begins to roll around on the ground, wailing in agony as he desperately tries to put the fire out.

When the flames subside, Wooyoung can’t rise to his feet. He drags his hand along the ground, weak and shaking as he pulls it to his side, and he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored floor beneath him.

His skin bubbles and blisters, it’s once deep bronze having shifted to an angry and repulsive bright red. His hand twitches, shaking as he attempts to move it. He lets out a low whine of pain, tears glistening in his eyes.

He hears Yeonjun’s footsteps approach him. When the boy crouches down in front of Wooyoung, his eyes are full of malice. He does not smile, even as Wooyoung looks up at him through bleary eyes, weak and pathetic.

Yeonjun’s hand fills with fire, and instead of throwing it at him, he simply places it onto Wooyoung’s arm. Wooyoung watches in horror as his skin catches light, the needles returning as sharp pain cascades over his flesh. He lets out a broken cry, trying to move his other hand to put it out, but he’s too weak. His other hand merely shakes, awkwardly patting at the fire in a way that does nothing to put it out, but rather makes his other hand hurt even more.

“Use your gift, Wooyoung,” Yeonjun chides, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Or maybe you really are as useless as he claims.”

“He” meaning Warden. The only man Wooyoung has ever been genuinely afraid of. The only man who convinced Wooyoung that he was nothing. Has always been nothing.

Is nothing, even now.

Yeonjun leans in closer, and when he speaks, his voice is a low whisper. “You deserve all that’s coming to you, Wooyoung. Remember that.”

The fire spreads up his arm and onto his shoulder, and Wooyoung closes his eyes, losing himself in the pain. It continues through him, the fire eating away at his flesh and burning its way into his mind. He can smell the smoke around him, and it's reminiscent of his skin. Rotten and vile, he breathes it again, mouth agape as he wails in agony.

The fire consumes him until there is nothing left. His body gone, mind lost to the flames.

“Woo, get off of the floor,” a voice says from above him.

Wooyoung blinks. His cheek is cool against the ground beneath him, as is the rest of his body that is sprawled out above it. He glances forward at his hand that sits out in front of him.

It looks normal, the burns completely vanished.

He narrows his eyes, glancing at his reflection in the mirror below him. All he sees is himself staring back, disbelieving. Wooyoung’s skin has returned to its normal, deep bronze rather than bright red, the blisters having disappeared entirely. His reflection blinks back at him. It’s as if nothing happened.

“Did you hit your head or something?” The voice says again, and Wooyoung glances up. Seonghwa stands above him, looking down with a puzzled look on his face.

Wooyoung frowns, a burst of both excitement and shame igniting within him, although he doesn’t know where it comes from. Did something happen between him and Seonghwa lately? He can’t seem to remember.

“No, sorry,” Wooyoung replies, and Seonghwa extends a hand out. Wooyoung takes it, letting the blonde lift him back up to his feet.

Wooyoung glances down at himself, at his once burnt clothing now perfectly in-tact. His frown deepens. “Do you know-” He begins, but whatever he was going to say dies on his lips, as when he glances up Seonghwa’s eyes are already staring into his own.

Seonghwa is close, a little too close. His hand continues to hold Wooyoung’s, resting against Seonghwa’s own chest. His face is closer than Wooyoung thinks it’s ever been, mere inches apart, and Wooyoung can feel the heat that rises to his cheeks.

“I… I, um,” Wooyoung says stupidly.

“Hm?” Seonghwa hums, and a small smile grazes his lips. It’s coy, almost knowing, and if Wooyoung could feel the heat in his cheeks before then they’re practically burning now. “Were you saying something?”

Wooyoung swallows hard, and when he speaks again his voice is a whisper. “No.”

Seonghwa’s smile grows a little wider. “Good.”

Then Seonghwa kisses him.

It’s familiar in a way he can’t understand, almost as if he’s been here before, but also nowhere close. Seonghwa’s lips are soft, tender as they meet Wooyoung’s own. The empath’s hand is gentle as it reaches up to rest on the back of Wooyoung’s neck, whose mind melts.

Seonghwa clearly feels the elemental stiffen in surprise, smiling against Wooyoung’s lips. He lets out a breathy chuckle that is oh-so-familiar, and Wooyoung lets the sound flow through his ears and fill the rest of him. His mind, his heart, his body. He lets himself become wrapped in the comfortability that is one of his closest friends, his mind’s long-harboured desire.

Seonghwa’s hand drifts from the back of the elemental’s neck to the front, fingers dancing along his Adam’s apple, which bobs as Wooyoung swallows in anticipation.

Then Seonghwa begins to squeeze.

His grip is not gentle, nor is it suggestive. Instead it is tight, increasingly uncomfortable, and Wooyoung tries to pull his lips away. “Hwa,” he murmurs, although it’s difficult to get out through the way Seonghwa’s hand squeezes around his airway. “Hwa, you’re hurting me.”

“Am I?” Seonghwa speaks against his lips, his tone shifting from fond to something that resembles seductive, but not quite. Mischievous, or even dangerous. “Awe.”

Seonghwa's grip shifts from uncomfortable to painful as he deepens the kiss, nails digging into Wooyoung’s skin as he presses harder on his airway. Wooyoung tried to pull away, to protest, but Seonghwa forcefully keeps his lips on Wooyoung’s own.

Wooyoung places his hands on Seonghwa’s wrist, trying to pull his grip away. However, it’s as if Seonghwa has gained impenetrable strength, as his arm will not budge no matter how hard Wooyoung tries. Seonghwa finally pulls his lips away, looking down at Wooyoung, eyes full of a mocking pity.

“What’s wrong, Woo? Isn’t this what you’ve been imagining?” Seonghwa asks, and while Wooyoung opens his mouth to deny him, his squeezed airway prevents him from speaking. Seonghwa grins, squeezing tighter as he moves his face closer, his breath hot on Wooyoung’s skin. “Isn’t this what you’ve been dreaming about in that sick head of yours?”

Wooyoung tries to cry out but all that comes out is a choked, pathetic sound that makes Seonghwa snicker. Blackness creeping into the corners of his vision, Wooyoung’s head begins to become foggy, everything fuzzy but the pain and image of Seonghwa before him.

He can feel his eyelids drooping, his effort to pull Seonghwa’s hand away diminishing with each passing second. Seonghwa notices it too, as he coos in disapproval.

“You really thought I could love you, didn’t you?” Seonghwa says softly, grip tightening to keep Wooyoung awake. Tears begin to fill the elemental’s eyes as his chest aches, desperate for air. For release, one way or another. “That if anyone were able to love something as fucked up as you, maybe it would be me.”

Seonghwa leans in, and Wooyoung feels his eyes roll into the back of his head, nothingness beginning to replace the space his thoughts once resided.

“I could never love you, Woo. Nobody could. It’s time that you stop pretending otherwise.”

Wooyoung awakens to his cheek pressed against the cold mirrored floor. Again.

Taking a deep, gasping breath, he feels his lungs fill with air. Hand drifting to his neck, he searches for the pain of bruising, only to find that there is nothing there. His neck feels fine, his breathing having returned to normal, and he curses beneath his breath.

“What the fuck is happening to me?” He thinks, staring up at the never-ending darkness above him. He searches his mind for the memory of where he is, how he got to this strange place, but can’t seem to find anything. The answer sits on the tip of his tongue, but he cannot speak it, the words just out of his reach.

Anxiety pulses within his head, hands shaky as he pulls them down to his side. He feels as if he’s going crazy. Maybe he is. Maybe he already has.

Wooyoung rolls over, prepared to rise to his feet, only to be stopped by the sight of a man lying next to him. He faces away from Wooyoung, but from the outline of the muscles of his back that poke through his shirt and the strap of the eye-patch that wraps around the back of his head, Wooyoung knows that it’s San.

Wooyoung lets out a sigh of relief, comforted by the fact that San is with him. San always knows what’s going on, what to do when nothing seems to make sense. San will be able to put together what Wooyoung cannot.

He extends out a hand, letting it fall onto San’s shoulder, giving the swordsman a gentle shake. San’s skin is cool to his touch, smooth, and Wooyoung smiles at the comfortable familiarity of it.

“San,” he says, giving the swordsman a gentle shake. When San does not reply, Wooyoung shakes him a little harder. “San.”

When San still does not move, Wooyoung assumes that he is sleeping. It’s not surprising, as even for a man so keen and alert at all waking hours, he sleeps like the dead. Sitting up on his elbow, Wooyoung tugs on San’s shoulder, rolling him over.

Except that when Wooyoung’s gaze meets man’s face, San’s eye is not closed in peaceful slumber. It is wide-open, glazed, and worst of all, vacant.

Wooyoung knows that he is dead.

Time appears to stop for a moment, although it feels more like an eternity. Wooyoung stares down into San’s blank stare, the coolness of his skin suddenly making far too much sense.

San is dead.

“No,” Wooyoung murmurs, hand drifting from San’s shoulder to his chest, feeling for a heart-beat and finding nothing. Wooyoung pulls himself up onto his knees, leaning down to press his ear to San’s parted lips, listening for a breath. There is none to be found.

“No,” Wooyoung whispers, turning his head to press a kiss to the swordsman’s lips, one that goes unreciprocated. “No, no, no,” he protests, hands shaking as he grabs San’s jaw, pulling his mouth to his own.

San’s lips are cold, unmoving, and when Wooyoung pulls away from him his eyes are stained with tears. His throat swells, chest aching, and he lets out an open sob. It echoes throughout the empty darkness around them, over and over again, like a lament of agony.

“This is your fault.”

Wooyoung’s gaze shoots up. In front of him sits a young girl, no older than thirteen, her long black hair tangled and pale face stained with tears.

“Winter,” Wooyoung whispers.

“You couldn’t just let him leave,” she says, voice shaking as her hands clutch onto San’s tunic. They tremble around the light fabric, in desperation, in anger, in devastation. “He knew what you would do to him, but you couldn’t let him go, could you?”

“I…” Wooyoung starts, tongue feeling too big for his mouth, mind fuzzy. “I did this?”

He looks down at his hands. They’re coated in blood, as is San’s shirt. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it before.

“He loved you,” Winter says, eyes finally looking up to meet Wooyoung’s. The redness of her crying face and the gloss of her tears bring out the blue in them. “We both did. And this is what we get for it?”

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung says, his voice barely above a whisper. Winter says nothing, her sobs merely grow louder, and Wooyoung looks down at San. The man he ruined. The man he destroyed. “I’m so sorry.”

When San makes no reply, as he no longer can, Wooyoung’s tears transform into loud, broken sobs. His own hand grabs onto San’s bloodied tunic, needing to hold a part of him but not daring to let himself touch the man’s skin. Tarnish him any more than he already has.

“I hate you,” Winter whispers, and it takes Wooyoung a minute to realize that although he’s heard her say those words before, it isn’t Winter speaking.

Wooyoung looks up to meet your gaze.

Your jaw is tightly clenched, your lip quivering. Although, what affects him the most is your eyes and the deep emotion they hold. A fiery blaze of distaste, of fury, wrath, and pure and unadulterated hatred.

“I hate you,” you say again, face contorting inward on itself as you look at him. “For everything you’ve done to me. For everything you’ve done to them. For everything you are.”

“I know,” he answers, and when he speaks his voice is barely above a whisper, as he lets out an admission. “I do too.”

He doesn’t notice the knife in your hand until it is buried in his chest.

Wooyoung stares down at the knife protruding out from him, your hand wrapped around its delicately engraved handle. It’s the one they gave to you, the one he took from you that first night.

He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t attempt to pull it out or shove you away. He deserves it.

Blood pools around the wound in his chest, leaking down. He opens his mouth to speak, but instead coughs, blood splattering from his mouth onto your face. You don’t seem to care.

You lean forward over San’s body, pressing your lips against his ear. However, when you speak, your voice is not your own. It’s deeper, more masculine. Familiar, although from where Wooyoung cannot place.

“Tell me where she is, Wooyoung. Tell me where she is and I’ll make it stop.”

“The refuge,” the answer comes immediately to his mind, dancing on his tongue, although he doesn’t know where it comes from or what it means. “She’s with the refugees. Sharing a tent with a young red-haired girl. It’s just three turns from the entrance.”

But he doesn’t say these words, even as the pain within his chest deepens, even as he wants everything to disappear. Even as he craves for the darkness to consume him, to rid him of this terrible mess. The horrors of everything he’s done.

He doesn’t say these words because something in his mind screams that he can’t, something deep within him that pounds at the walls of his subconscious, that something is deeply, horrifically wrong.

“Fine,” you say in that same voice that is not your own, leaning back from his ear to face him, the anger in your eyes having faded to a cold disinterest. “Have it your way.”

You twist the knife deeper and Wooyoung dies, this time in even more agony than the last.

This sword is nicer than San’s old one.

His old sword had been gifted to him from Gloria's blacksmith when he was thirteen. A kind old-man who knew the trouble that had entangled San, and wished to give the young boy a chance in a life where his fortune had run dry.

The sword was nothing special, hilt not quite heavy enough and wrapped in a cheap leather that had become worn over the years. It was not as flexible as to be expected of a good sword, and even with the trips he’d taken to sharpen the blade, the metal was becoming dull and had lost much of its durability. San was also thirteen upon receiving it, so of course, the blade was not long. Even for a short-sword, it had become too small with San’s growing height.

This sword doesn’t have those problems, with its thick hilt coated in fine leather. It clearly holds a stronger durability than the last, almost nimble with its flexibility. It’s even a little longer, allowing him to reach an opponent from a few inches further back, granting him better protection.

The new sword is objectively better than his last in just about every way possible.

San hates it.

He hates the way the new sword glides through the air effortlessly, how the sharpness of the blade cuts deep against the wooden pole he strikes with a terrifying ease. He hates how it fits his hand so well, how the length suits him perfectly. It was made for him, fashioned for his grip..

There is no life to this sword. Not yet. It wasn’t given to him in a time of desperate need like his last, something to hold onto when everything else was falling apart. He has this sword because he simply needed a new one.

San misses his old sword. It’s heavy hilt and the roughness of the cheap leather against his palm. He misses how it wasn’t long enough, how he’d have to dance closer to danger within every battle. He misses the wrongness of it, and how right that wrongness felt. He misses the imperfection. The faults. The years spent getting used to those faults, of learning to navigate them.

San wants his sword back.

San also knows that he isn’t thinking about weapons anymore.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, San takes a breath before attacking the pole before him once more. In a flurry of motion, he hacks at the pole’s cheap wood, landing blow after blow. There is no grace, no tactical finesse, just violence. The excuse of training having faded a long time ago, San simply seeks to cause damage.

Then he growls, a low noise of annoyance in the back of his throat, before throwing the sword to the ground. It clatters against a couple rocks, before settling itself in the grass, almost invisible within the night's shadow. Good, he doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

San leans against the pole, feeling the many indents he’s created against the bare skin of his back. His tunic sits discarded on the ground next to him, having been soaked through with sweat. He’s been at this for hours.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks from over his shoulder. San turns to see Seonghwa standing by their tent, a sad expression on his face. He asks more out of courtesy than anything else. San knows that the answer is obvious.

“No,” San says softly, and the honesty surprises him, but after a moment it doesn’t. San is tired of hiding how he feels about things. Of pretending things are fine when they so obviously aren’t. If he still had the energy for it after the last couple weeks — although more like years, really — then it left alongside Woo.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Seonghwa asks.

“Not really,” San answers honestly. He’s been thinking about it for hours, the last thing he wants is to continue doing so.

“Alright, we don’t have to, ” Seonghwa says gently. San peers back over at him. Seonghwa’s arms sit folded over his chest, eyes big and full of concern. His hair is tousled, patches of blonde sticking out in opposite directions, as if he were trying to sleep but couldn’t. He likely has been. San wonders how late it is, how long he’s been out here for.

“Do you want to just come inside then?” Seonghwa offers instead, tilting his head towards the tent entrance. San considers this for a moment before deciding he would rather be anywhere other than beside this pole, and nods in affirmation.

Following Seonghwa inside the tent, San takes note of Seonghwa’s crumpled sheets, evidence of San’s assumption that the man has spent the last few hours tossing and turning rather than in rest.

“Do you want some tea?” Seonghwa asks.

“I’m alright.”

“Good. Whiskey then?”

San can’t help the chuckle he lets out at that. “Please.”

Seonghwa reaches into the basket Yeji had gifted them, filled to the brim with different delectables. San knew that it was nice of her to do, a kind gesture, but the cynical part of him saw the silliness of it. Here, your friend just got kidnapped for ransom, but maybe these scones will make you feel better about it.

However, maybe she also saw the futility of it, having added a rather hefty bottle of whiskey to the mix of sweets.

Seonghwa pours the whiskey into two ceramic cups before handing one over to San, who sits down on his own bed of blankets across from Seonghwa’s own. Woo’s remains between them, untouched.

Seonghwa extends his cup forward to meet San’s own in a form of cheers, although to what exactly San doesn’t think Seonghwa knows the answer either. They both take a sip, and the liquid burns slightly as it trickles down San’s throat. He makes sure to drink a bit more than he normally would.

Swallowing his own whiskey before San does, Seonghwa looks down at Woo’s bed between them, gaze contemplative.

“Have you ever told me how you and Woo met?” Seonghwa asks.

San quirks a brow at this, a bit amused but at the same time confused. “Many times, Hwa.”

Seonghwa nods at this, cheeks dusted with a faint shade of pink, as if he’s well aware of this fact and embarrassed to have been caught.

However, when the empath says nothing, San sighs. He knows that Seonghwa simply wants to talk about Woo, even if not about the situation at hand. The dire, horrible situation that plagues both of their minds with worry. The situation that San cannot bare to talk about, so lest he tear up this tent with his sword before heading up the mountain to kill the entire Dark Army himself

But how they met… he supposes he can talk about that. If it will bring Seonghwa some peace of mind, of course.

“We were both fourteen,” San begins, watching as an appreciative smile spreads over Seonghwa’s lips. “I’d been working a job for Jay, spying on an investor he suspected of embezzling The Cradle’s Funds. But I was still new to working for him, and hadn’t quite found my knack for stealth yet.”

Seonghwa closes his eyes as San speaks, as if what he’s saying is some sort of lullaby, a piece of comfort.

“He caught me hiding in the shrub garden of his courtyard and dragged me out by my hair onto the city street. He started screaming at me, before pulling out a knife from his back pocket," San says, and he can still remember that moment as clear as day. The terror that consumed him, that kept him frozen in place as the man advanced towards him.

San does not tell Seonghwa this, but what he remembers most is how in that moment he thought about how nobody would care if the man killed him. His father had left him, his mother and sister were both dead, and his expendability in Jay’s eyes was made blatantly clear by the fact that he sent San to deal with this man in the first place.

If the man killed San right then and there, nobody would have batted an eye. He would just become another one of the many nameless, faceless victims of Gloria’s streets.

“The man came towards me, and I remember closing my eye as he lifted the blade in the air. I didn’t want to see it enter me, I knew I couldn’t handle that.”

“But then Woo showed up,” Seonghwa says softly.

“Yeah,” San breathes, unable to help the smile that curves across his lips. “But then Woo showed up.”

San takes a deep breath, before letting his own eye close, reliving it. “Across the darkness I saw a bright flash of light, and could feel a sudden rush of heat across my face. I opened my eye in a panic. I thought that maybe I’d died, that he stabbed and killed me instantaneously, that the light had meant I’d ascended or that the heat was the fires of Hell.”

“But when I opened my eyes I saw the man standing before me, except that now his arm that was holding the knife was completely engulfed in flame. The look on his face when he saw it was priceless, completely in shock as he ran back into his house screaming for help, the poor boy in front of him that he was about to murder completely forgotten.”

“Then Woo walked up to me, standing up with his arms crossed. The light of the sun shone out behind him, and I remember at the time thinking he must have been the god of fire himself. Or maybe an angel that came to save me. It’s ridiculous knowing him now, but at the time I really believed it.”

“What was the first thing Woo said to you again?” Seonghwa asks, and San chuckles.

“He asked me ‘Were you really just going to sit there and let him kill you?’ I shakily replied yes, and then he said ‘That’s kind of pathetic, don’t you think?’”

Seonghwa laughs at this, shaking his head to himself. San gets it. Even now, so many years later, it’s a very Woo sort of thing to say.

“I thought about it, and then agreed that yeah, it was pretty pathetic. He laughed, and then somehow I found myself laughing too. He helped me up, and then that was it.”

“That was it?” Seonghwa asks, inquiring what he means by that.

“That was it. He never left my side after that. I joined him in his camp outside of the town. He helped me train with my sword even if his own knowledge on the subject was next to none. He never wanted to see me so helpless again. He joined me on countless missions that Jay sent me on, even the nasty ones, the ones that still keep me up some nights.”

San takes in a deep breath. “He was just… there. When I had no-one, he was there. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

San looks down at Woo’s sleeping mat between them. Pristine. Untouched. A testament to his absence.

Things between him and Woo have been horrible lately. It’s been years of build up, of the little issues growing larger, of San’s discontentment boiling beneath the surface. He knows that things with Woo will never change. He knows the elemental will never give San all of himself.

But it’s in these little moments, when he thinks about their past and everything that has happened between them, that he wants nothing more than to have Woo with him. In any form. In a blistering argument, in the cold quiet following, in his bed even when he knows the elemental will be gone come morning.

He simply needs Woo there. Even when it’s wrong, even when he knows it’s an awful, gut-wrenching codependence at times. He needs him.

And with Woo gone, taken from him, it’s now that he knows this more than ever.

But then he remembers the jealous spats over the last few weeks. The many morning’s waking up alone. The way that Woo jumped after him over that cliff…

“I don’t know what happened at the lake,” Seonghwa starts, tentative and unsure. Clearly cautious to continue forward. “But do you think you guys will be able to work things out?”

“I don’t know,” San breathes, and it’s true. “I really don’t know, Hwa.”

Seonghwa nods, taking this in. He begins to chew on the corner of his cheek, nervous. “I need to tell you something.”

“Go ahead,” San says, taking a sip of his drink as Seonghwa takes a deep breath.

“Woo kissed me.”

San chokes on his whiskey.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says as San sputters and uses a fist to pound at his chest, forcing himself to cough. “I should have waited until you swallowed first, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” San says through coughs, and while he tries to keep the blatant shock out of his tone, he fails miserably. “Woo kissed you?”

“Yeah,” Seonghwa answers, voice breathy and small.

“When?” San asks, bewildered.

“Before they captured him.”

“Before they captured him,” San repeats, more to himself than Seonghwa. He runs the idea of it through his head, although it doesn’t make much more sense to him.

Woo kissed Seonghwa. He actually did it. Recently. Just the night before.

“Are you mad?” Seonghwa asks.

“No,” San says absently, before really registering the question. He looks over at Seonghwa, who looks at him, knees drawn up to his chest. His fingers tap against the cup in his hands as he chews on the corner of his cheek, both nervous habits of his.

San realizes that Seonghwa is genuinely scared that he’ll be upset with him, and even amidst the shock, San’s heart softens.

“No. I’m not mad, Hwa,” he says gently, running a hand through his hair to pull it out of his face as he takes another small sip of his drink. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around this.”

San knew Woo had feelings for Seonghwa, he has for years. He could tell by the way Woo looked at the empath in absent moments, when he thought nobody was looking. That undeniable fondness in his gaze that told San everything he needed to know. He noticed as Woo stiffened at Seonghwa’s touch, the way his breath would catch in his throat, just as San’s own did.

Yes, San knew that Woo had feelings for Seonghwa. San just didn’t know that Woo knew that Woo had feelings for Seonghwa.

“I know, it was a lot for me to take in too,” Seonghwa says, before letting out a small laugh that doesn’t hold much humour. “Still is.”

“How did it happen?” San asks.

“We were arguing…about her, amongst other things,” Seonghwa says with a shrug. “And it quickly escalated to fighting. I asked— well, I yelled at him asking why he cared so much about what I do, and then he grabbed me and kissed me.”

It makes sense. If there is any scenario San could imagine Woo confronting his feelings, it’s in a fit of rage.

“After he kissed you, then what did he do?” San asks.

Seonghwa sighs, and when he speaks his tone is bashful, cheeks flushed as if he’s embarrassed to say it aloud. “He ran away.”

“For fuck’s sake, Woo,” San thinks, giving him a mental slap that he hopes the elemental can feel from miles away.

But San isn’t going to complain about Woo right now, because that’s not why Seonghwa brought this up, it’s not what the empath really needs. He just needs someone to listen.

“Do you know how you feel about it?” San asks, tone gentle.

“No,” Seonghwa says quietly. San catches a glimpse of annoyance in his eyes, as Seonghwa’s expression shifts from bashful to frustrated, lips drawing themselves into a tight line.

“No, I don’t. How am I supposed to know how I felt about it? If I liked it?” Seonghwa says, standing up from his sleeping mat and beginning to pace around the tent. However, given its small size he doesn’t have much room to actually pace, instead walking a mere few steps forward and back.

“There was no tenderness to it. It was nothing like a real kiss should be. He just grabbed my face and shoved it into his and then said ‘Sorry Seonghwa, you’re going to have to figure that one out on your own, I'm off to get kidnapped!’” Seonghwa says the last part in a high pitched sing-song sort of way, one that doesn’t really sound like Woo, but at the same time a lot like him in spirit.

Seonghwa sighs, taking a sip of his drink before pinching the bridge of his nose, as if he has a headache. When he speaks again, his voice becomes quiet. “That's not fair. I know it’s not fair. But neither is what he did.”

San looks up at the empath, contemplative. “Any ideas as to what it means to you yet?”

“No,” Seonghwa answers immediately, before appearing to think better of it. “That's a lie. So many. Too many. I don't know, it’s just…”

He trails off, giving San a nervous glance that tells the swordsman that Seonghwa is worried of making him uncomfortable. San gives him a gentle smile, a signal to keep going despite it.

Seonghwa takes a deep breath. “It’s always been you and him. Always, from the moment I met you both. There was never another option, so I never considered another option. It would have been unfair. To you, to him, to myself… So I don't know. I honestly don’t know if I think of him that way. I don’t know if I think of guys that way. But now he’s gone and that’s like, the least of our problems to be worried about right now, but I just…”

“I know. I get it,” San says, because he does. He’s been there. San hadn’t loved a man until he met Woo, and falling for the elemental certainly wasn’t easy. Figuring out Woo had always been like deciphering a puzzle, or even navigating a ship out on a foggy day at sea. Disorientating, frustrating, and requiring a strong will and patient temper.

Seonghwa sighs. “I don't know what to do.”

San see’s Seonghwa standing there, dejected and confused and what he’d dare to call a little heartsick, and the words come out of his mouth before he even registers that he’s thought of them.

“You could kiss me.”

Seonghwa’s gaze shoots back at him, and when he speaks his tone is hesitant, maybe even a little pointed as his lips hover above the rim of his glass. “That's not funny.”

San looks up at him, expecting to feel caught, or to begin back-tracking. Play it off as a joke and cover up his feelings as he’s so often done in the past, let them exist to him and nobody else.

Instead he says: “I wasn't joking.”

And he isn’t.

He isn’t because San realizes that Seonghwa is not repulsed by the idea of Woo kissing him, or of even Woo loving him. He’s upset that Woo didn’t do it more cautiously, that he didn’t let Seonghwa give any input on his own thoughts or feelings. He’s upset that Woo did all of this in a moment of anger and aggression, without asking, and without apparent thought or care.

Seonghwa is not upset that Woo confessed to loving him, he’s upset that he didn’t do so tenderly.

“San,” Seonghwa says, and his tone is difficult to read. He says it like a warning, telling San to think about what he’s saying, what he’s really offering here. But San is thinking about, a small part of him always has been.

“I’m serious, Hwa. Think about it,” San starts, and he tries to keep his demeanour nonchalant, even as his heart begins to rapidly pick up pace in his chest. “You said you aren’t sure if you’re into guys. Well, I’m a guy. I’m not horrible to look at. You’re comfortable around me. It might help you sort some things out.”

“But…” Seonghwa trails off, and his complexion has gone a bit pale, clearly taken aback by the proposition. “But it’s you. It’s us.”

“Look, if you don’t feel anything or don’t like it I’m not going to take it personally,” San says, and maybe that’s not completely true, but what he says next is. “I’m not going to let it ruin our friendship. I promise.”

Seonghwa stares at him for a moment, large brown eyes scanning the swordsman’s face, as if searching for something. Eventually he speaks, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

“Really?” San asks despite himself, unable to contain his surprise.

“Yeah, whatever, okay,” Seonghwa says, his voice breathy, small, and all-around nervous. He walks over to sit down in front of San, this time on Woo’s unused sleeping mat rather than his own. Seonghwa does so with such a quickness that San is pretty sure the empath is trying to commit to this before he can talk himself out of it.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Seonghwa asks, gaze meeting San’s own. When he speaks his tone is embarrassed, maybe even a little self-conscious. “I mean, it’s me.”

Seonghwa says “me” as if that’s something that would deter him. As if there’s no possible way that San would want to kiss him, of all people. As if that were something San should be repulsed by.

San decides that with this kiss, he’ll prove to Seonghwa just how wrong he is about that.

Reaching forward to take hold of the empath’s jaw, San’s grip is gentle as his fingers dust along Seonghwa’s cheek. Seonghwa’s skin is warm, a beautiful kind of soft, and San takes a moment to run his thumb along Seonghwa’s cheekbone, his own heart fluttering at the way the empath’s skin floods with a light shade of pink.

Seonghwa’s eyes flutter shut, lips parted open slightly, waiting for San to accept them. San waits for a moment, taking in the sight before him, registering that this is actually happening. That Seonghwa - the man he’s only let himself love in seclusion, in weakness, in devastating secret - waits for San’s lips to meet his own.

Closing his good eye, San takes Seonghwa’s face in his hand, fingers grazing the conjunction between his neck and jaw. The empath’s skin is warm and San wonders if he’s blushing.

Seonghwa’s lips are soft. Softer than San imagined them to be, admittedly watching the empath’s mouth at times rather than his eyes. Embarrassing. Foolish. Pitiful.

But perhaps not anymore. Not right now. Right now is anything but such cruel negativity.

San makes sure that the kiss is good. That it holds a sense of passion, by no means chaste or hesitant, but also is not aggressive or to the point of formidability. He grips Seonghwa’s jaw a little tighter, pulling him in deeper.

More than anything, San makes sure that the kiss is tender.

Seonghwa sucks in a tight breath, and for a moment San fears that he’s uncomfortable, repulsed by it. That this was a mistake. That the rejection he’s been terrified of for so long is just a moment away. Maybe Seonghwa won’t even be able to look at him after, he’ll be too disgusted.

But then Seonghwa’s hand finds itself on San’s arm. It rests there, Seonghwa’s fingers gently gripping San’s tunic. In that moment, the swordsman can almost feel as the fear and anxiety leaves his mind, draining from his body like a fruit squeezed of its juice.

Not rejection. Maybe not acceptance, maybe not a confession or admission on Seonghwa’s behalf. But not rejection.

And with no rejection to be found, San knows what he must do.

He pulls away from Seonghwa’s lips, albeit not far, as he rests his forehead against the empath’s own. He can’t look Seonghwa in the eye for this, he knows it will make him too much of a coward to get the words out.

“I need to tell you something now,” San says.

Seonghwa’s voice is shaky as he speaks, quiet as his breath grazes San’s lips. “Okay.”

San holds his breath, as if he is about to dive underwater.

“I love you.”

There is a pause, and while San knows that realistically it is no more than a few seconds, it feels far more like an eternity as they pass by. He imagines all of the things Seonghwa could say. All the many variations of rejection or denial he could utter, ranging from a simple “no” to an entire memoir on why Seonghwa would never feel the same.

Seonghwa says none of these things. Instead he asks: “As in how?”

It takes San a moment to register what Seonghwa is asking. “As in I’m in love with you,” San clarifies.

“But…” Seonghwa starts, and in the moment’s pause he finally draws away from San’s face. When he looks at San, his face gives nothing away, a surprise given the empath’s often animated nature. Perhaps it is because he also does not know how he feels, how to respond to such a confession. Seonghwa does not smile, nor does he frown. His eyes do not light up with joy, nor do they swim with despair.

In fact, the only emotion San can read is the wariness within Seonghwa’s gaze. A deep sense of caution. “What about Woo?” Seonghwa asks.

“I also love Woo.” San says, because it is true. Even after everything. Even after what happened at the beach the other night. Even with the line dug in the sand between them, a line that San himself has drawn, he knows that he will always love Woo. Always.

Seonghwa frowns, eyebrows furrowing together into a puzzled look, as if the possibility of loving two people in such a way had never occurred to him before. As if the possibility of San loving two people in such a way were impossible.

“I love him differently,” San admits, before thinking about it for a moment. “But at the same time, maybe not so differently either.”

“I don’t get it,” Seonghwa says, and for a moment San believes that he is talking about how San could love them both, but then Seonghwa clarifies: “How can you love me? For the last year you’ve kept me at such a distance. You’ve barely been able to touch me, let alone anything more than that.”

The words settle like a stone in San’s gut, and he thinks of their conversation at the fire after their run-in at The Desert Lotus. How Seonghwa had believed that he made San uncomfortable.

It was true. Touching Seonghwa did make San uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with how with each touch filled him with the desire to touch him more.

San’s voice is quiet as he speaks. “And why do you think that is, Hwa?”

“I don’t know,” Seonghwa answers, an immediate response, dejected as his gaze drifts away from San to look downwards. To Woo’s bed beneath them.

A flash of realization dawns on Seonghwa’s features, lighting up within the empath’s eyes.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” San says, unable to hide the amused smile that grazes his lips. “Oh.”

Seonghwa seems to consider this for a moment, before looking back up at San. “You know I love you too, right?

San’s eyebrows shoot up at this, and Seonghwa rushes to clarify. “Maybe not in the same way. Or maybe I do. I honestly don’t know. This is all new. I need some time to think about it.”

San nods. That’s fair. He hadn’t expected Seonghwa to immediately reciprocate his feelings. Although, maybe a little part of him deep down had foolishly hoped that he would.

Seonghwa seems to take note of the slight solemnity to San’s smile, and places his hand over the swordsman’s own. “But either way, I love you. And I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“You won’t” San replies, and it is instant. It is instinct. It is the truth. “Take all of the time you need.”

“Thank you,” Seonghwa says, giving San’s hand a soft squeeze.

A moment of silence passes between them, and despite its slight awkwardness, San finds it the least tense he’s felt around Seonghwa in a very long time. It’s as if a weight has been taken off of his shoulders, finally free of the deep sense of guilt in the quiet moment’s between them. When San’s mind would wander, and he’d hate himself for thinking such things about his closest friend, and then hate himself even more for being too much of a coward to tell his closest friend what he was thinking.

But now Seonghwa knows. He knows. And no matter the outcome, no matter what he feels towards San in return, San no longer has to hide or wallow in his own guilt.

It is freeing.

Seonghwa takes a sip of his drink. “That was a good kiss though,” he mumbles over the rim of his glass, and San laughs. A real laugh, bubbling up from his chest. It’s been too long since he laughed like that.

Then, as if a reminder of how not all good things can last, Yeji bursts in through the tent flap.

“She’s gone,” Yeji says, voice cracking with shock and worry. She’s wrapped in her blanket to cover her nightgown, her hair falling in tangled red curtains over her shoulders, clearly having just woken up. “She’s gone and a horse is missing.”

San’s heart drops down into his stomach.

He doesn’t need to ask who the “she” is that Yeji refers to, nor does he need to question where you went.

You’ve gone to find Woo. Alone.

You've gone to find Woo, alone, amongst men who are willing to pay a fortune to see you dead.

“Fuck,” Seonghwa breathes, voicing San’s own thoughts.

“Do you know when she left?” San asks, as it couldn't have been long ago. It had to be some time after San came inside the tent, otherwise he would have noticed you sneak out.

“Her bed is still warm. So recently,” Yeji answers, confirming San’s suspicions.

“Alright,” San breathes, before turning to Seonghwa. “Let’s go.”

Seonghwa nods in agreement, and without another word, they’re on their feet and heading out through the tent flap. Annoyance bubbles within San’s gut. He told you not to go. He told you to wait until he came up with a plan. A plan that meant getting both you and Woo to safety, not forcing you all to pick between one or the other. He is not one of the gods and has no interest in playing one.

You seem to have made the decision yourself, and while San resents you for not telling him or Seonghwa what you were planning, he understands why you did it.

Because San was never going to come up with a better plan. Time has been ticking since the moment he found the message scrawled in the alley, and his ideas have run dry. There is no better way, it was always going to end in you heading up the mountain to Woo’s aid. You wouldn’t have had it any other way, and deep down San knows he would have had it the same.

He just wishes that they were there with you. There to help you. To protect you. To kill these men with far too much power, who took everything from you.

Who took everything from him when they kidnapped Woo.

The sun has begun to set over the horizon as you ride along the Concorsus Mountain Pass.

An entire day having come and gone, your pace relentless as you rode in a restless pursuit, your body now aches in protest. Your thighs burn from their friction against the horse’s back, the muscles in your arms throbbing from maintaining your grip on the reins. Your stomach rumbles and groans, gnawing at your insides in hunger, head-pounding in demand of water.

But there is no time to eat or drink, not when only the god’s know what the black-clad men are doing to Woo.

You’ve had an awful lot of time spent in silence to consider the many possibilities of how they could be torturing him, all too gut-wrenching and grotesque to even think about. You try to push away the images of Woo bathed in blood, his face swollen with bruises and infected wounds. You hope that they have him in a room somewhere, untouched, awaiting your inevitable arrival.

You also recognize this as wishful thinking.

Pushing the thoughts from your mind, you focus on the trail ahead of you. The Concorsus Mountain Pass is not an easy ride, the ground full of jagged rocks and rolling hills that have put your elementary equestrian skills to the test. Looming cliffs rest on each side of you, the black-colour of the rock like two blankets of darkness threatening to crush you between them.

The black-clad men did not specify where along the pass you were to meet them, but as you continue to ascend higher and higher, the increase in altitude making you feel both dizzy and nauseous, you imagine that they are stationed at the mountain’s summit.

As far away from Bebbanburg and any chance at aid you could possibly be.

You swallow hard, riding onwards. You have no help here, no protection. Having abandoned the safety net that San and Seonghwa created, you are truly alone in this. Your only protection is the sword attached to your waist, as well as Minho’s elixir residing in your pocket— if you could even consider that protection. It’s old magic, not even the god’s know what it will do. You aren’t particularly keen on ingesting it.

But if it comes down to a choice between life and death, a matter of saving Woo, you will.

With this in mind, you approach a rock wall. It’s not particularly large, five-feet tall at most, but your horse whinnies in protest as it comes to a stop before it. You try to give it a bit of encouragement, but the animal does not budge, clomping its hooves in irritation.

You sigh. This is not a horse from the kingdom stables, bred to ride and trained to jump, you have to leave it behind. Letting yourself down from its back, you grab the cliff’s edge, pulling yourself up and over the wall. Crawling up off your knees, you cast the animal a glance backwards, to which it meets with its black marble eyes.

The horse continues to huff, neighing in frustration. You frown as the animal grows louder, squealing as it lifts up onto its back legs, crying out.

“What the…” you mutter to yourself.

“It’s trying to warn you,” a voice says from behind.

You twist around, hand reaching for the sword at your waist, but you are not fast enough. The stranger grabs your wrist as you turn around, his other hand digging into your scalp. He pulls your hair back, forcing you to look up at him.

He’s young, maybe only a couple years older than yourself, with dark eyes and pale skin. His light hair is made brighter through its contrast with the black armour he wears.

“Hey, Princess,” the man says, grinning. You spit in his face, but he simply laughs, giving your hair a sharp tug backward. His laughter is quickly accompanied by others, as more black-clad men appear from behind different dark rocks along the mountain walls. You count what appears to be a half-dozen of them, all different ages and sizes, appearances united only through the black armour they wear.

Giving your body a sharp twist, you catch the man off guard, before giving him a swift knee to the groin. He lets out a groan, his grasp on your hair relinquishing itself as he stumbles backward.

You’re prepared to run, to jump down from the cliff and back to your horse in hopes of finding more allusive passage, when you feel the coolness of metal along your throat.

“You’ve gained some spunk since we last saw you,” the man holding the knife whispers, seizing your wrist as he tugs your arm behind your back. You wonder if he was one of the men that chased you down the corridors following the besiegement, that hunted you in your father’s library. That killed Mingi in the stable.

“Good,” another adds, although which of the men is speaking you cannot tell. “It’ll make this all the more enjoyable.”

You were correct about their base being set at the mountain’s summit.

The men have been dragging you with them for what you assume has been roughly an hour, the setting sun having finally fallen victim to the night’s darkness. Stars glitter in the sky above you, and they are the only light present besides the singular torch one of the men carries, alighting the mountain pass in an ominous, orange hue.

They’ve remained silent since your capture, although the glances and cunning grins they’ve exchanged between one another have spoken loud enough. You don’t know what exactly is waiting for you at the summit, but you know it isn’t pretty.

The cave you approach at the top of the mountain seems fitting, as it's possibly the most unwelcoming entry-way you’ve ever seen. Sharp rocks align its entrance, each of them bleached white from sun exposure, creating the illusion of a monster’s gaping mouth.

You swallow hard, fear curdling within your stomach. It’s fitting, as entering a beast's mouth seems an awful lot like what you are doing.

Upon entering the cave, the initial darkness does not last long, as you spot light further up ahead of the winding tunnel. As you draw closer, you recognize the light to be lanterns, strown up and around the cave. The bustle of people fills your ears, their chatter growing louder with each passing step. When you finally leave the tunnel and enter the cave’s main area, you blink in surprise.

You aren’t sure what you were expecting. Solemnity, perhaps. A dark cave with minimal light, nobody talking. A monster’s domain.

Instead, it reminds you an awful lot of the refuge, albeit smaller. There are plenty of tents set up, people sharing in conversation between them. Others spend their time chopping firewood, or brushing dirt and gravel away from their own tent’s entrance. To the left of the camp-site is a massive ravine, haphazardly blocked off by wooden pegs stringed together with rope. You are not close enough to the edge to tell, but you imagine the fall to be hundreds of feet down. Deadly.

You glance around, watching the many men bustling about, as if this were merely a war-camp and not the station of murderess assailants.

Then you see him.

Woo resides on a makeshift parapet in the center of the camp, chains clamped around his wrists that are attached to large stone pillars on both sides of him. He sits on his knees, head hanging out in front of him, his hair falling in a dark mop that hides face. It appears that if it weren’t for the chains holding his arms up, he’d have already crumpled over.

Your blood runs cold.

The talking comes to a quiet as you enter, the dozens of black-clad soldiers all turning away from their conversations or menial tasks to face you. “Look who we found wandering,” the man holding you says, bringing his knife up from your throat to your cheek. He presses the blade against your jaw, forcing you to look up, displaying your face to the many men watching you.

Some of the men begin to snicker, a few even cheer as the man pushes the blade a little harder, piercing your skin. You can feel the blood trickle down your neck, although the sensation feels more like a dream than reality, as you catch sight of a man walking towards you.

Not just any man, but the one that chased you through the library. The one that cornered you in the stables.

The man responsible for Mingi’s death.

He walks slowly, almost a saunter as he appears to be in no rush. His posture holds a sense of confident ease, of power, and you’re certain that he is the commander of this army. His narrow, wrinkled face adorns a thick black beard. His eyes are dark, sharp as they scan you up and down, a satisfied smile plastered across his lips.

“Well,” the commander says, his voice not particularly deep, but intimidating nonetheless. “We were beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

You say nothing, merely stare back at him, venom in your gaze.

“I’m assuming you’re here to save your friend then,” he says, continuing despite your silence. “How very noble.”

You do not give him the satisfaction of a retort.

“You’ve become rather stoic since I last saw you,” the commander says, eyes flashing with something awful. Something cruel. “Before you wouldn’t stop screaming. Begging your other friend not to sacrifice himself— the tall silver-haired boy, wasn’t it?”

“Shut up,” you whisper, tears stinging in the backs of your eyes. They are born of rage, not sadness. You do not let them fall.

“I suppose this is some sort of retribution for that, isn’t it?” The man continues, tone calm, almost light. “He gave his life for you, so now you’ll give yours for another.”

“Shut up,” you repeat, this time louder and with far more bite.

“You should have heard him scream. You should have heard the sound it made when my sword entered him again and again-”

You’ve had enough of this. Tears sting your eyes, fists trembling at your sides. You don’t have to listen to this man, give in to his taunts. He simply wants to have some enjoyment before he kills you, some sick sort of pleasure. Your father always said it was impolite to play with your food, and for once you’d have to agree with him.

“Woo!” You shout, turning your attention away from the man in front of you, from his barbed provocation. When Woo does not look at you, nor move his head from its slumped position, you try again. “Woo, can you hear me?”

“Unfortunately, Wooyoung isn’t quite with us anymore,” the commander answers with a sigh, tone sympathetic, although the smile he wears is anything but. “Not mentally, anyway.”

You frown at the use of Woo’s full name. How does he know that? Did Woo tell him?

“What are you talking about?” You ask, your voice low as fury rises hot in your throat, pulsing within your mind.

The man grins. A mischievous, dangerous, evil grin. “Would you like to come and see?”

The commander nods towards the man holding you, giving a look that says— no, orders: “Let her go.” The man’s knife falls away from your throat as he reliquishes his grip on your arm. You can still feel the spot where his fingers were, aching where bruises will surely soon appear.

Nobody moves to grab you, and it strikes you that in this moment, you could try to flee. Bolt back down the tunnel, dozens of men sure to take after you and grab you once more. You’re certain they would be far less liberal on your second capture.

You could try and fight. Relinquish your sword from its sheath and take out as many as possible. It would likely be only one or two, considering they’d all be on you and you don’t have San here to coach you through it. By the god’s you wish that San were here.

But he is not, and thus instead of fleeing or fighting you follow the man, obeying as his hand beckons you forward. “Good girl,” he says, and your gut clenches in disgust, face twisting with repulsion.

If the commander is offended by the expression, he doesn’t show it. Instead he continues walking, the two of you winding past different groups of the black-clad men, each of their gazes falling over you. You feel like a gazelle in a den of lions, their stares hungry for your blood.

When you reach Woo, you take a step forward, unsure of what exactly you plan to do. Perhaps move the thick mess of tangled hair from his face, or give the chains some slack to loosen the pull on his wrists. You just need to do something.

The commander places an arm out, stopping you. “I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.”

“Well, good thing you’re not me,” you cut back through gritted teeth, moving towards Woo. You crouch down, reaching for the chain on his right wrist.

“Woo, I’m here,” you say, trying to keep your voice level, even as it shakes. The commander had suggested that Woo wasn’t mentally here, and while you aren’t sure exactly what that may mean, you know you should navigate this with caution.

When your hand touches the chain around his wrist, Woo lets out an awful, blood-curdling noise. You’d describe it as a scream, but that would make it too human. It is nothing less than animalistic.

Flames emerge from the elemental’s palms, scorching your arm. You yank your hand away, wincing as pain bubbles within your fingers. Despite yourself, you step back, clutching your burnt hand.

Woo looks at you, except that he doesn’t really. Instead his eyes almost look through you, unfocused and distant, although that’s the least of what worries you about his appearance.

Apart from the unsettling and distant look to his eyes, the whites of them have shifted to a strange and unnatural purple colour, like blooming lilacs during the spring season. It contrasts greatly against the many thick red veins expanding out from his pupils, which have spread across his iris’ in a way that reminds you of black marbles.

His wrists are laced with wounds, the metal of his bonds having heated up due to the fire he unleashed from his palms. The burns are clearly infected as they beam a revolting yellow, puss forming within their deep gashes. Those will scar, you have no doubt.

Sweat beads along Woo’s temple, trailing down his face and onto his neck. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his entire body is drenched, all of his clothes soaked through. He trembles, tremors seizing his body as he breathes heavily, chest heaving as he appears to not be able to get enough air.

“What did you do to him?” You whisper. The man chuckles.

“We gave him an elixir of sorts,” he answers, and your stomach twists at the thought. Old magic. The weight of your own potion grows heavy in your pocket.

Woo continues to shake, arms trembling as he continues to look through you. Tears form in his eyes as he begins to murmur beneath his breath, although what exactly you cannot make out. You didn’t know what the men would do to him, what state he would be in, but you never could have imagined this. Fury twists in your gut like a cheap ale, making you feel sick with ferocity.

“Why would you do this?” You ask, and it’s the question that has been pressing down on your shoulders ever since you watched the dagger enter your father's stomach. You twist towards the commander, and despite how he stands taller than you, you do not let yourself appear weak. Chin held up high, you meet his gaze.

“Why would you destroy my kingdom? Why would you spend so much time and effort hunting me across Burovia? Why would you place such an utter fortune of a bounty on my head?” You look him up and down. “Who are you?”

The man grins. “Me? I am nobody.”

“Enough games-” You snarl, but he merely shakes his head, giving you a dismissive wave.

“You think I care about a pampered royal brat bred by a kingdom of snakes?” The commander asks, his dark eyes glimmering in the many lantern’s light. “I couldn't care less about your disaster of a court, although I must say I enjoyed burning it to the ground.”

You frown. “Then why would you-”

“Because my employer cares,” he cuts you off, tone final. He folds his arms behind his back, a clicking noise filling the air as he taps his fingers along his black armor.

“Who is your employer?” You press further, ignoring how the noise matches the beat of your racing heart, that’s pace only increases with each passing second.

“I am not to say,” he answers with a shrug.

You grit your teeth, frustration building in your chest. “If you plan to kill me then what does it matter?”

The man hums, grin growing wider with satisfaction. “Does it scare you, the possibility of never knowing?” He takes a step forward. “Does it terrify you to never know why your kingdom burned to ash, to never know why your father was murdered?”

The man is close now, peering down at you, the crow’s feet along the edges of his ageing eyes more prominent as he stands before you. He reaches forward, running two of his fingers along your bare cheek.

“Does it frighten you that you’ll never know why you died?” He asks.

You do not flinch, even as he touches you, even as your body demands it. “You do not scare me,” you lie.

He chuckles at this, his hand still placed on your cheek, his calloused fingertips rough against your skin. “Your eyes say otherwise.”

The commander reaches to his side, pulling out a knife. Its long blade is serrated, details of stars carved into its wooden hilt. It reminds you a bit of the one Seonghwa gave you, the one Woo took on that first night you met them.

He extends the blade out towards you, hilt settled neatly in his open palm. “Would you like to do the honours? Or should I?”

You stare at the knife out before you, its blade a cool white, almost glowing within the cave’s dim lighting. He’s offering you a choice. Not of whether or not you will die, but how. Or better, by whom.

To do the deed yourself, or have it done by his own hand.

Your hand hovers out in front of you, fingertips a mere inch away from the hilt. You stare at the knife, at its cool iron, at its spotless white blade. Soon to be tainted. Your hand shakes despite your attempt to steady it.

It’s a horrible, horrible decision to make.

Fortunately, the arrow that embeds itself in the commander’s arm liberates you from making it.

Sticking out from the crook of his elbow, nestled within a small gap in armor that was designed for amplified movement, the man lets out a shocked groan of pain. The knife clatters on the cave’s rocky floor as he brings his hand to the wound, the blood emerging from the black fabric not noticeable until it coats his pale fingers.

In unison, both you and the commander twist in the direction from which the arrow flew.

Seonghwa stands atop a rock in the far corner of the cavern, bow drawn up, still in the position from which he let the arrow fly. You nearly let out a cry of relief. Joyous, unadulterated relief.

A scream cuts through the air, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor.

There’s another noise, a gargled and choked sort of cry, and you hear the sharp sound of the many black-clad men unsheathing their swords before you actually see them do it.

This is because your focus is not on them. It’s on San, as he holds a body out before him. It’s one of the men that captured you on the mountain pass, the young blonde. San’s sword sticks out through the man’s chest, blood pooling out from his mouth as his eyes grow dim.

It’s immediate, how the cavern erupts into chaos.

“Seize them!” The commander orders his battalion, before ripping the arrow from his arm. Despite the blood leaking from the now open wound, his movements are agile as he removes the sword from his own sheath. The blade is as black as night, matching its shadowy hilt.

You stare him down, relinquishing your own sword, your mother’s sapphire glittering.

You prepare to take a step forward, however, something presses up behind your back. You prepare to twist around, strike the oncoming threat. However, San’s voice fills your ear, quiet as he speaks over his shoulder. “We move together.”

“Alright,” you breathe, lifting your long-sword out before you as San’s back presses into your own. “Together.”

The black-clad men attack.

They move at you from all directions. San places his free-hand along your waist, guiding you with him. The two of you move with the grace of one being, fending off the dark wave of men that surround you like a swarm of hornets defending their hive.

You swing at one of the men, catching his shoulder as San pushes on your left hip. You move with it, narrowly dodging the strike of a different enemy blade, the breeze of his swing cool against your cheek. The failed strike catches the owner of the blade off-balance, allowing you to seize the opportunity to stab your sword into the soft spot of his breastplate, straight through the opening just below the pit of his arm. The man cries out, face knotting together in agony as he falls to the ground.

You do not allow yourself the time to dwell on how you’ve likely just taken that man’s life, how there are even more to come, as you slice your sword along another soldier’s neck. Save yourself, save Woo, save your kingdom. You can mourn the horrors of your deeds later, for now that is all that matters.

You catch a glimpse of a man in the corner of your vision, hair the colour of flame as he sneaks in behind the soldier whose chest you currently run-through with your blade. You won’t reach him in time, his sword is raised high in the air, another second and he’ll bring it down on your neck-

An arrow shoots right through his skull, entering near his ear as the point sticks out the other side of his head. Blood sprays out from the wound, splattering onto your tunic. The man crumples to the ground, falling in the direction of the arrow’s path. Dead.

Your gaze shoots to Seonghwa. He stands atop the rock, eyes wide as his gaze falls to the man on the ground. The man he killed. Horror is plastered across his own expression, as if realizing what he has done. Woo had once told you that Seonghwa has only ever wounded with his arrows. He’s never killed, not even beasts.

You worry he will crumble, just as you did after the mimic, just as you had the first time you’d taken the life of something. Instead Seonghwa swallows hard, a glazed look to his eyes as he gives you a nod, before removing another arrow from his quiver. You have a sense he’s also saving his pain for later.

San tugs you to the left, and your gaze is pulled away from Seonghwa and back to the battle before you. A man swings at you, and you push backwards against San to avoid the swipe. You worry it will cause San to tumble, but instead he sinks lower on knees, flattening his back. Using it for support, you fall back and into the air, giving the man in front of you a firm kick to the chest that sends him backwards, crashing into a few of the men behind him.

You grin. It’s satisfying, watching the men who took everything from you struggle.

And struggle they do indeed. You and San work as a tight-knit unit as Seonghwa picks off the stranglers with his arrows, as well as those attempting to crawl atop his residing stone.

“By the gods,” you think. “We’re winning.”

However, if you are aware of this, so is the man leading the operation.

You search for the commander amidst the swarm of black armour surrounding you, trying to pin-point his dark beard and aging face. He doesn’t appear to be a part of the mob.

“Do you know where he went? The commander?” You ask San, yelling over the sound of battle cries and the screams of the wounded. San does not respond immediately, likely searching for him amidst the crowd.

San lets out a sudden growl of annoyance. “He’s with Woo.”

You glance over your shoulder, seeing the commander next to the elemental. He stands behind Woo, lips drawn close to his ear, hand placed on the elemental’s shoulder. You cannot hear what the commander is saying to him, but you know that it is nothing good.

Woo’s eyes are wide, the purple where the white’s of his eyes should be growing darker. Tears stream down his face and they are a matching colour, like drops of ink. You can see Woo whispering something, and while you cannot make out the words, the desperation on his face makes you believe that he is begging. Although what he is pleading for you do not know.

Fire surrounds them, leaking from Woo’s fingertips and onto the cavern floor. The flames run thick, the consistency of molten lava. You’ve never seen that from an elemental before, didn’t even know it was possible..

“We need to make our way over there,” you say while stabbing your sword into the arm of a black-clad soldier. You can feel San nod his head in affirmation.

Wrapping his free hand tighter around your waist, San pulls you with him, the two of you spinning through an opening within the mob. You nearly trip over something, and upon looking down you see that it is a body. His dead eyes look up at you. They are a light hazel.

You would vomit if there was anything solid in your stomach.

San pulls you past the man before you can stare at him for too long, before you can memorize the features of his face, before you can wonder if it was he or you who killed him.

So much death. So much needless death. You close your eyes, only for the briefest of moments, for the split of a second. You imagine you are the person you had been a mere month ago. The girl who let her baths be drawn from her, her clothes picked out and placed on her body by others. The girl who sulked when Mingi left for battle training, who’d never held a sword in her hands, let alone ran someone through with it.

You open your eyes and know that you will never be her again.

San continues to pull you with him through the opening within the dark swarm, letting go of your waist as the two of you break through and sprint towards Woo.

The commander continues to whisper into the elemental’s ear, more molten lava dripping from Woo’s hands. It forms in pools on the cavern floor, slowly trailing down the parapet in a way that reminds you of the baby basilisks, like long thin glowing snakes.

It’s not until now that you realize what the commander is doing, as Woo grows more and more affected by his words, blood-vessel’s bursting in his eyes as red mixes itself into the purple. A mosaic of burning hues.

The commander knows that he is losing, which means he’s pulling out a last resort, willing to play his wild-card. He plans to use Woo as a weapon. He’ll do whatever it takes to take you out, even if that means his battalion goes down with you. Bastard.

The commander steps back from Woo, walking over to the top of the chain tied to one of the stone pillars. He will set Woo free, grant him full range of motion with his gift. After all, an elemental can only summon flame with movement, with the dancing of their fingers or full swing of their arms.

Only Woo is not your average elemental.

Before the commander can finish untying the first chain, Woo screams. It’s not as animalistic as his last, but far, far more broken. Fire flares out from around him, a massive wave of curling flames that tumbles in all directions, standing over ten feet tall.

You grab San’s wrist, yanking him with you as you dive behind the nearest rock. Face pressed to the ground, you do not see the fire as it stretches over top of you, but you can feel its heat along your back even through your tunic. Screams echo from all around, bouncing off of the cavern's walls, and you know that not everyone was so lucky.

Once the heat disappears, both you and San are quick to settle onto your knees, peering up over the rock. Woo’s head has fallen back down, shrouded in tangled black hair, chest heaving as he catches his breath. The commander, who had fallen to the ground behind him, rises to his feet.

You gasp.

While it appears he managed to find shelter before the flames completely engulfed him, he also did not make it out unscathed. The left half of his face burns a bright red colour, the skin bubbling with boils in a way resembles lumps of flour in unkneaded dough. His dark hair is gone on the affected side, both on his face and the top of his head, smoke billowing out from his disintegrated scalp.

With so much of his skin burned off, his eye nearly pops from his head, stark against his bright red skin. He looks undead, like a walking skeleton, the teeth on the left side of his mouth permanently visible due to his upper lip having been incinerated. His gums bleed, the red almost glowing against the whiteness of his teeth.

Your gut twists at the sight of him, and you have to look away.

Black-clad soldiers sit slumped around the cavern, broken moans leaving their lips as the fire was not enough to kill them all. The agony of their cries fills your ears, and although you fight against it tears sting your eyes. You know that these are bad men, men who killed your father and countless innocents in the castle, who ruined your life and want nothing more than to see your end.

But right now they are just men. They are just human, each one with their own life and story, and they are dying a slow and horrible death.

The blow to the back of your head stops you from becoming too absorbed in remorse.

It comes sharp and quick, carrying the heaviness of what you assume is a rock, and your vision momentarily sways. It doesn’t knock you out, but it does throw you off balance, giving the attacker enough time to seize your wrist. They give it a sharp twist, causing you to let out a whine of pain as your sword clatters to the ground.

The culprit drags you from behind, and you fight to remain on your feet. You shout to San, and while he twists to face you he is moment too late, as the person from behind shoves you away from them.

And into the arms of the commander.

The commander grins, his smile even more unsettling with his missing lip as he casts an appreciative nod to the young, brunette soldier who had grabbed you. He wraps his hand around the back of your neck, uncomfortably tight as he turns you to face away from him, chest pressed against your back.

With his spare hand he holds a knife to your throat.

“Enough of this,” the commander says. “Put your weapons down.”

The world around you stills as San comes to a halt, gaze sharp as his good eye flickers between you and the commander, analyzing the situation. He appears to come to no solution as he slowly retracts his sword back into its sheath.

However, not everyone follows his orders.

“Let her go.”

Seonghwa no longer resides atop the rock, likely having dived behind it to avoid the flames. Now on the ground, he stands roughly twenty feet ahead of you, his bow up and arrow drawn.

“What an awful accent,” the man laughs, and his voice sounds more manic now that he is on the verge of defeat. Of death. His cheek presses to yours, and you can feel his spittle against your skin, smell the rotten tang of his breath. “Like a Mainlander that swallowed his tongue.”

Seonghwa’s frown deepens, eyebrows furrowing together as he pulls the bow taught.

“You let that arrow fly and we both go down with it, boy,” the commander warns, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Such an awful smile. “Choose wisely.”

For a moment you don’t understand what he means, but realization sinks like a stone in your gut. The ravine resides behind you, hundreds of feet deep, the belly of a monster whose darkness would swallow you whole.

“Take your mutt and leave,” the man says to San, nodding towards Woo, who has returned to his slumped position, skin glistening with sweat as his arms tremble.

“So you can kill her as soon as we’re gone?” San bites back, tone venomous. “I don’t think so.”

“I promise to make it quick and painless,” the man says softly, before pressing the knife into your neck. Not deep, but enough to make you gasp in pain. “Otherwise I can make it very, very slow.”

Seonghwa’s hands grip tighter around the bow, San’s expression settling into a snarl of fury. However, neither of them move. If San moves to attack him, he’ll simply slice your throat. If Seonghwa fires the arrow, you’ll plummet with him. You try to reach Minho’s elixir in your pocket, but cannot manage it. Besides, even if you did manage to grasp it, there’s no way the commander would let you go long enough to down the liquid.

He has you cornered, and you all know it.

Well, that is except for one of you. You turn to Woo.

The elemental does not look at you as you speak. “Woo,” you call, the knife sharp against your throat as it bobs. “Can you hear me?”

“No, he can’t hear you.” The commander whispers into your ear, and you can feel the hollowness of his cheek as he speaks, the rough and ruined texture of his skin. “Or maybe he can, but who knows how much of him is even left in there.”

“Woo,” you call again, ignoring him, even as his words send a shiver down your spine. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but it’s me. It’s us, we’re all here. San, Seonghwa and I. We’re all here.”

Woo twitches at this, although he still does not lift his head. You hear him murmuring something beneath his breath, and it’s a moment until you can register what he is saying.

“You’re not real,” he whispers, voice shaky and blubbered. “You’re not real.”

You swallow hard. “I don’t know what he did to you, and I don’t know what you’re seeing or hearing or what’s going on, but I need you to lift your head.”

He doesn’t respond and you try again. “Please, Woo. Please, just lift your head for me.”

It takes a moment, but shakily, he does. His hair falls in dark matted clumps over his blood-shot, purple-stained eyes. His pupils still do not focus on you, a distant vacantness to the broken expression across his tear-stained face.

“Leave me alone,” he says, and it is a hoarse, beaten plea. “Please, please just stop. Let me die. Don’t bring me back. Please. I deserve it.”

Your heart twists at hearing Woo - confident, self-assured, unbreakable Woo - say something so self-demoralizing.

However, it’s with these words, these broken claims that he deserves it, that you have an idea of what horrors he may be seeing before him.

“Wooyoung,” you say, and you notice as Seonghwa’s brows furrow in confusion at the name, San raising an eyebrow. Perhaps it's the first time they’ve heard it. “Wooyoung do you remember our conversation by the fire?”

“Please just stop,” he whispers, shaking his head as more of the molten lava begins to leak from his hands.You don’t even know if he’s still listening, but this is your last shot, so you push on.

“You told me that you knew you should regret what you did to the wardens, that it should eat you up inside. But it didn’t, because they deserved it.”

Tears continue to stream down Woo’s face, which is contorted in a pained, agonizing expression. However, as he does not deny your words or continue his broken mumbling, you take his silence as a sign to continue.

“I haven’t been able to forgive myself for what I’ve done, and I don’t think I ever will,” you continue, and you know both San and Seonghwa are watching you as you can feel the heaviness of their gazes. The confused curiosity mixed with desperation that swirls within them, staring intently. Yet, you ignore them. You ignore the commander and the knife at your throat, the wails of agony in the air and the thick stench of burnt flesh.

Right now it is just you and the broken elemental before you. You and Woo.

“But that’s the difference between us,” you say, swallowing hard. “I chose to harm people that never deserved it.”

“Enough of this,” the commander says through gritted teeth, pressing the knife harder against your neck. Choking down the increasing pain, you ignore him.

“And you never deserved it Woo, any of it. Any of what Warden did to you, any of my father’s cruelty, any of my lies. None of it was ever deserved.”

Woo’s breathing begins to escalate, but this time it is not as if he’s having trouble taking in air, it’s as if he has realized that he finally can.

“Enough,” the commander says again, with more anger in his voice as he appears to come to the same realization about Woo as you do.

“You’re there,” Woo whispers. His gaze is still lost and distant, his limbs still trembling and words blubbered with misery and fear. But there is also something more. Something powerful.

“We’re here,” you say back, relief blossoming in your chest. Even as the commander twists the back of your wrist and you let out a cry of pain, you’re filled with an undeniable, unbridled sense of hope.

“We need your help, Wooyoung,” you say, and the elemental swallows hard in response.

“I can’t,” he says, voice a quiet breath as he shakes his head in denial.

“You can,” you say, tone firm. You have him, even if only for a moment, and you will not let yourself lose him again. “You’ve done it before.”

Wooyoung stops shaking his head as he realizes what you are suggesting.

“Stop this!” the commander says, and now he’s shouting. He means it as a demand, as a threat, but it sounds instead an awful lot like a plea.

“You can do it, Wooyoung,” you say, the softness leaving your voice and replacing itself with a hardened encouragement. You will not yield.

“How do you know?” He asks, and even though his voice shakes, its weakness has fallen away.

A grin spreads across your lips. Even with the knife to your throat, the burnt bodies around, and the commander rotting breath hot against your skin, you smile.

You smile because you know you’ve won.

“Because, Wooyoung,” you say. “He deserves it.”

You can feel the commander’s grip around the knife clench, his elbow brought higher as he prepares himself to slice it clean across your throat.

“I said enough-”

A blast of heat ignites from behind you, burning hot along your back, and you instinctively push forward. The commander's grip loosens without protest, the knife within his hand falling to the ground, clattering against the cavern’s rocky floor. A strong stench floods your senses, the same horrid and sickening scent that had previously hung around the cavern, only now increased ten-fold.

You twist around, putting yourself face-to-face with the commander, who’s entire body is engulfed in flame.

His screams leave him like waves crashing along the shoreline, powerful and ominous amidst their build-up but shattered and broken upon their downfall. The fire spreads across his body in a way that is almost unnatural, hugging close to his flesh as it eats away at his skin, a vicious parasite devouring him whole. He stumbles, and you cannot make out his expression, his face covered in the burning orange glow. Perhaps it is better that way.

He reaches forward blindly, his flame-covered hands extended outwards as he searches for your body. Even in death, he seeks to take you with him. Find his glory, his vengeance, even if it’s accompanied by his final breath.

And yet, even with all he has done to you, Woo, and your family, you grant the commander one final mercy.

A quick death.

Reaching forward, you place your palms flat against his chest, giving him a firm push. It burns your hands, although only for a moment, as he stumbles backwards. His foot catches on one of the pegs tied together with rope before the cliff, sending him tumbling backwards. Time appears to stand still for a moment, an eternity slipping by as he hangs in the air, a ball of glowing flame suspended above the ravine’s gaping mouth.

He falls, the glow like a spark slowly diminishing, until it disappears entirely. You do not hear him crash against what lays beyond the darkness.

There’s a moment of silence that follows as you stare over the ravine’s edge. You half-expect the commander to fly back upwards, to catch you in a moment of weakness, suddenly equipped with new fire abilities of his own.

He does not. There is only darkness.

You turn back around. Both San and Seonghwa stare at you, both of their expressions difficult to place. Mouths parted slightly and eyes wide, they appear to be in disbelief. Awe, even. You imagine your face looks the same.

Woo sits with head hung over, eyes closed. For a moment you fear he is dead, but from the shaky rise and fall of his chest, you know that he is merely unconscious.

There is the sound of footsteps as the few black-clad men left unscathed flee down the cave’s passage-way, leaving you behind.

“Well,” San whispers, his good eye drifting from you, to Seonghwa, to the scattered bodies around you, before finally settling on Woo. He laughs, shaky and unsure, but at the same time so, so sincere. “Fuck.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next chapter coming soon.

thank you for reading! feel free to come chat with me about any thoughts you may have, feedback is the one thing that keeps me going tbh. also, if you’re bored in the meantime, here are both my ateez and skz masterlists for your convenience. i hope to see you around :3

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hobicakess · 1 year

Text

IT WAS THE MONSTERS: 1

SUMMARY: You were born with the ability to see and spot spirits and monsters. From vampires to werewolves, demons, ghosts, and ghouls. Now, as an adult, you use this “gift” to help your clients overcome their worst demons. The “gift” you had never really caused you trouble now that you’re an adult, but you guess some monsters don’t like psychics who interfere with their fun.

RATING: 18+ (i am not a babysitter, you are in control of what you consume.)

PAIRING: ot7 x reader | poly!au

A/N: I spent so much time procrastinating this sorry hotties. Only at least 1k word, but It took so much out of me.

Second sight, passed on from the L/N bloodline from generation to generation. There was a sudden stunt in its flow for at least 8 of those generations, until you were born. Your mother complained throughout her pregnancy that she’d see visions of you in your past life but it was waved off. When you finally came into this world, your father says there was a flash of something in your eyes, a purple gleam that danced there as he held you.

At least, that's the story you get when you ask about your eye

Being that you were the first in 200 years to be sighted, you had no one to teach you how to control such a “gift”, at least that's what others called it. Though there are many that call you blessed, you'd beg to differ. Growing up, this quirk always got you into trouble.

Playful spirits yanked at your puffs and pulled out your barrettes and often caused your silky pressed hair to frizz. Some monsters take their time to torture you by sitting in your closet or under your bed, lurking in the shadows. Middle school was definitely your worst era. You had random outbursts and twitches that caused people to push away from you. It wasn't even your fault, but what could you really say?

“It’s not me! it’s the monsters!” That's ridiculous really.

Your parents took you to therapy for it but you could see the deceitful demons sucking and clinging onto them, so that never helped you at all. They were so quick to throw you a bottle of pills that it eventually stopped working.

As you get older, you learn to ignore it along with learning to be patient and more even tempered. During high school you were weird and lowkey, wearing huge black sunglasses from freshman to senior year. They helped block out your sight and question's about your eye.

You managed to make friends with a werewolf though he left unannounced in the middle of senior year. You guess he shifted early and went away to his home where people like him roamed freely.

Graduating as a below-average person, you decided to say fuck college and open your own business.

A “palm reader” , “physic” , “witch”, “Woman Jesus”. There were many terms that your clients and random people called you.

Your job was to find your client's demons and attack them. Any addiction, health issues, relationship problems. These were all caused by parasitic demons and they thrived off sucking the life out of regular people. You didn’t have the qualifications to banish anything by force, so you did help many people in a safer, smarter way with 3 easy steps.

Identifying the demon. This wasn't hard for you, since you literally saw the demon sucking the life out of a person

Acknowledge them

Taming them

The most common among all parasites are lust demons.

Their job was to suck you completely dry and leave you broken. Most people were too far gone before you could save them, but the ones who weren’t you changed their lives greatly. One night while you were closing your shop, two men walked in, one short and blond, the other dark haired, and taller than the other. They were both dangerously handsome and the energy that came from them was hot, sensual, and angry. The blond stormed up to you hissing, eyes turning an unnatural shade of black. “So you’re the one putting us out of business?”

Staring at his face, you could definitely tell this was one of the men disrupting the lives of so many men and women in this area. Most of your clients have complained about these two being a one-night stand at some club, then as days go on they invade their dreams, and every single thought. Jimin and Taehyung, the dynamic incubus duo.

You’ve never had a demon come directly to you for butting into their affairs. You guessed these two were fearless, but fortunately the underworld had rules. If any entity killed someone on second sight, they’d be banished back to hell for eternity, and you're sure these two parasites have been around for a long time.”

“ I’m sorry gentlemen, I'm not sure we’ve met?” You tilt your head, clenching your purse strap up on your arm. Taehyung scoffed, walking around your shop touching a few things every now and then, with a flick of the wrist, the shelf on the side of you tumbled to the ground.

You squeak, moving out of the way, tripping and knocking over a display table filled with tarot cards. “You are the only one in this miserable town with real second sight.”

While Jimin talked, Taehyung walked through your shop dropping shelf after shelf.

“No screaming tongues, or holy water.” the crashing of shelves halted and only the thud of Jimin's boots coming towards you could be heard. “Your banishing is less dramatic, more modern, effective and so you.”

You jumped at the sound of your crystal ball shattering above your head, making you scream, as tiny shards of glass cut into your hands. “Y/N L/N, that is your name now?”

When Taehyung spoke your name, the walls began to vibrate as did your body.

“Ah taetae, I don't think this is our little princess, just a sad little human of no morals or knowledge”J imin appeared in front of you, bending down to you, hand burning into your skin as he lifted your chin up to meet his blood red eyes surveying your skin. “Though you still possess an untouchable beauty”

You were speechless, scared, and confused. They talked as if they knew you from another lifetime. You can't say you didn't believe it was possible, since you saw devious things every day, but it was still nerve-racking to hear. ''Maybe we should just keep you little princess, and bring back those old memories ”

Your shop began to shake and tremble, all the shelves had fallen, glass shattering and books spinning around the three of you.

Standing, he made himself very loud and clear, “Don’t let us hear your name again,” and for their grand finally the front windows of your shop shattered around you.

TAGS: @tinymesblog @leilei-9 @starrlo0ver @uarmyhore @mageprincess @lachimolala22019

@eclecticranchzonkcookie @thedarkwinterrose@hey-syia @djodjom @scuzmunkie 1 @ilover ubberduckiez-blog @jamlessstars @rinkud

#bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts series #bts fic rec #ot7 x reader #bts x black reader #bts drabble #incubus jimin #incubus bts #bts imagines #jungkook x reader #namjoon x reader #jin x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader

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chrollohearttags · 8 months

Text

𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲 • 𝟏𝟎𝐊 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

so I’ve been contemplating for a while what I’ve wanted to do for a milestone/collab and seeing as how this is my first time doing something like this, I hope I don’t screw it up! 😭 but I’m super excited. I’ve talked about it before on here but when I was on WattPad, I did a multiverse mafia AU and it was so much fun but I’ve wanted to revisit and do it justice this time. Also, y’all know I’m a sucker for anything crime/true crime related. I couldn’t decide on which one I wanted to do after the poll (and I wanted to give everybody what they wanted 😭). Sooo…I present to y’all, the 10K collab event, Tales of the Underbelly!

.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡

𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖔: drugs, money, cars, glory….all the things synonymous with the fast lifestyle. A life that the average, everyday worker could only dream of. But underneath the surface of the glamour..lies a world filled with danger, adventure and deceit. In a country where several rival gangs fight to take the top spot as the head syndicate, they’ll do anything to achieve that power and they’ll get their success by any means. On the other side of the fence lies a legion of hard working individuals that’ll stop at no means to see these hardened criminals brought to justice. A task force comprised of the country’s highest ranking officers, hoping to take down the monsters responsible for ruining their cities. Not everything is black and white…bonds and partnerships like you’ve never seen will be formed to help either side see their dream to fruition. Which will you choose? The alliance formed on fast money and power or the brave crusaders fighting to restore order?

𝖗𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖘:

• all participants must be 18+ due to the type of content that will be written about. It will contain violence, smut, drugs, sexual content, mentions of death/murder and anything synonymous with every crime show you’ve ever watched.

• this is a multiverse AU (emphasis on AU so I’d prefer non-canon events although including bits of the story/character personas is fine!) event but it is anime themed (obv). Fandoms included are AOT, JJK, Demon Slayer, Tokyo Revengers, One Piece, JJBA, HunterxHunter, Haikyuu, KNB, Bleach, etc. (these are just the fandoms I’ve written for but feel free to write for whoever you’d like!)

• there’s no deadline on this or set date because I can’t guarantee when I’ll be able to update myself but if you’d like to join, shoot me a DM or inbox me! Tell me your characters, the genre of the fic and if it’ll be a drabble or full fic, brief plot summary and I’ll add you to the collab list!

• to elaborate further, you’ll choose your character(s), fandom, plot and story style (ex: gang leader eren x informant reader who’s working for the cops but falls for him and has to choose where she wants to align, full fic, smut or detective!Gojo x reader who’s dating mafia leader!nanami and decides she wants to bring him down, smut/angst) obv these are just examples, you can do whatever you want!

• OC’s are welcome!!!! It can also be x reader as well! Get creative, have fun.

• do as many stories as you’d like! Multiple stories with the same characters are allowed.

• if you have any questions or need me to clear up anything (because I suck at explanations 😭) feel free to message me!

I’m super excited for this collab and can’t wait to see who enters! 🫶🏾 happy writing ✨

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queen-of-scissors · 1 year

Note

I saw your "god of the multiverse" thing where reader tells them abt the other games theyve played and i just-- JFJSJFJEBOFJSNFEOFN I AM JUMPING SO HARD ON THIS HYPE TRAIN--

I only have two words for you.

Among. Us.

You're welcome.

BUT LIKE FR FR THO-- HOW WOULD THEY REACT?? Since the entire thing is literally cooperate or die for crewmate, or Eat Hot Chip And Lie / Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss for imp

And like, imagine them being named Dolos or Apate as a new epithet if they enjoy lying as crewmate to stir the pot or just regular lying as imp (dolos was the spirit of trickery, apate was the personification of deceit-- you can make either kaeya, albedo, ruebedo or dain give the title since theyre all from khanriah)

Or like-- they could also be rlly uncomfy with being imp and just being a model crewmate and they could be given the epithet Eleos or Anteros because of it

Just-- THSKFJSKDJWJ soooo many possibilities for reader/creator

And like-- oh my gOD IMAGINE THEM TRYING TO MAKE THE ACOLYTES PLAY IT AHAHAHA

The murder?? Theres gonna be a LOT

Sorry if there was a lot, i just rlly enjoy what you've written so far!! Have a nice day :))

GOOD SHİT GOOD SHİT THATS SUM GOOD SHİT RİGHT THERE!!!!

First, explaing the game.

Everyones reactions will be diffrent about it, no matter how you explain it;

The scared ones

Noelle, Diluc (brother flashbacks),Barbara, Bennett, Razor (lupical PROTEC lupical!! NO KİLL), sucrose, Jean, Yelan (you... Kill your friends??)

The impressed ones

Kaeya, Childe, Venti, Hu Tao, Yanfei (sees it as a usefull skill), zhongli (MF is impressed by anything u do smh), Lisa, Ei, Yae miko

The confused ones (what why would you?)

Ganyu, Xiao, Diluc, İtto (doesn't even understand the rules), kuki shinobu, Kazuha

"İ WANNA TRY!!! oh wait does this count as blasphemy-"

Childe, Venti, Albedo, KLEE (actually thinks it like a game), Yelan (ok since you said its not actually killing them i wanna try), İTTO, Nahida (knows its a game), Heizou

Now if we were the imposter you are right. İt doesnt matter if you are bad at it, they are going to call you as some god that has been assosiated with trickery.

İ wrote a story about it. But didn't make the reader as imposter because no one wouldn't dare to say you are an imposter. Even as a joke

ESPECİALLY if it was a traitor!AU. Tough im not sure that they would even play if that were the case

-----------------------

İ made the story of how you got the title a bit long, i hope you like it :)

More under the cut!

______________________________________

"Have you guys ever played 'vampire'?"

Your voice echoed in the throne room, they looked confused, they weren't expecting your answer to be another question.

You were bored out of your mind. Watching people come and go in the room just for them to ask for your guidance about daily stuff was a pain, both phsicaly and emotionaly. So you opened your phone to get a bit of a downtime while no one was there to ask for your divine wisdom.

"Forgive my rudeness, Your highness. But... What does that have to do with it?" Said Albedo, who got there for your divine wisdom.

"You asked what i was doing in my device, so in order for me to answer, you must for answer my question."

"Vampires..." He mumbled "aren't those imaginary, humanoid monsters that drink blood to survive?"

"Ah, ok. i see that you never played."

"Play what exactly?"

"So its a game about a group of villagers trying to find a vampire/werewolf among them.

You choose one host, and that person controlls the whole game, The other players all close their eyes and the host walks among them, and picks a vampire.

Each night, the vampire chosses someone to kill and that person is eleminated, and each day, the other players try to find the vampire and kill them.

İf they choose the wrong person that person is also eliminated."

Acolytes look at eachother, that sounds so fun?!(deffinetly not the kill eachother without killing eachother one is the reason not at aaaallll)

"Ohh, İ see," Kaeya said, impressed "so this game also tests you ability to not get caught and lie, as well as finding lies. This is interesting!"

"...turnes out, you might have a chance after all, since the creator favors imposters and all." Diluc half whispered to him.

Lets pretend we didn't hear him for his sake.

"Yeah so on my phone im playing it but this version is harder."

"OHHH i wanna try!" Klee said exitedly!

Jean stoped her "Klee, the creators device is a holy one, so we cant just ask them to give it to us for our desires."

"Actually i dont mind! Does anyone else wanna play?"

The smartest yandere ones were having a light yagami moment ("if i agree to play they might think im a murderer and discard me but if i don't play they will think im avoiding these types of games because im a murderer myself and i would get discarded again. Oh i know, i will wait someone to take the bait and say 'of everyone is playing then i will too' then no one will suspect me hahahahHAHAHA İTS ALL ACORDİNG TO PLAN-)

"İm... Sorry your Grace but... İ think i will just watch." The depressed Yaksha said, he hates to dissapoint you but he doesnt want to kill people that he concidered friends, even if its fake.

Zhongli looked at you and his gaze softened.

"İ shall join if Your highness would join as well."

"But of course!!" There is no way you're going to miss THİS OPPORTUNİTY.

_____________________________

The game.

This isn't the game where you taught them how to play. (Which... Took like.... 3 whole days. İm not writing that)

Yae and Venti (a dangerous duo smh) asked for your permision to make the event prised. You agreed, this might make things more fun! They didn't told you what it was though.

PLAYERS: ChildE, Bombombaku (Klee), windbornbard (Venti), foxlady (Yae miko), Rockhead (zhongli(venti messed it up)), (your choise of player name), COOLGUY (itto), Al Haitham, Ei, Dreamy (Nahida)

İt started as you being a crewmate. The god team were immediatly on your side, attempting to keep an eye on you. But as soon as you shot them an angry glare from across the room, they left you alone.

you were a bit worried that the imposter was going to get too scared and not kill you for the whole game just because you are the creator, and having the gods in Real life be at your Side even in the game might scare them even more.

You watched as rockhead leave the caffeteria, Ei going to the opposite direction from him. But windbornbard did not move at all. Not even an inch.

You made your character walk up to him, wondering if he is having connection problems, just as you tried to get him to move, he killed you and ran away.

..... That smart mother fu-

Honestly, you weren't mad at all, (just a bit if you game rage alot like me) because this could help to ease tention in the first few rounds.

You followed windbornbard a little, wondering if he is going to get another kill. You both passed the boiler room and through security camera room. Seeing other players and fake tasking.

DEAD BODY FOUND

Your toughts were cut short as they discovered COOLGUY's body.

Windbornbard gasped "the creator is dead?!"

Your throne room was filled with whispers, and angry mumbling, completely forgetting that COOLGUY is also dead (poor itto).

"Who would dare such a thing?! İ tought the gods were going to be at their Side the whole game!" ChildE said panicing, as if you actually got killed.

Al haitham picked on quickly, "if there was an agreement on protecting them. That can only mean that one of the archons is the traitor."

"Maybe, both of the imposters are gods?" Foxlady spoke in her teasing voice, profably to see Ei's reaction. "After all, theres only one way that they can get away with this, trap them and leave no witnesses behind."

"What you are saying is unlikely," Dreamy objected. "if that were the case, one of the archons would be dead as well, as all of us promised to protect them, one of us would have to witness the murder and the second imposter would kill the other god."

"Uhhhh... Guys?? İm also dead??? HELLO???"

Rockhead cutted in. "Sadly, we cant make any assumptions on who killed our creator, since we all parted ways to do our tasks by ourselves when..." He trailed off in the end, Coughing to hide his emberrasment, he didnt want to admit that he got scared.

"Then im voting to skip the vote." Windbornbard said. Someone find this man, you can't deal with his smug face if he wins!!

And thus, everyone skiped the meeting an no one got voted out.

-------

Next round you decided to do your tasks. That might help the crew a bit. While you go through the corridors you noticed Al haitham and windbornbard is going to somewhere together, and its not the first time you caught them walking Side by side. You're not sure if Al haitham got suspicious of venti or he is an imposter as well. Either way its an interesting duo. Maybe you should check the cameras.

You went to security room and looked through.

Blockhead was standing in the corridor, watchin Ei from a distance.

ChildE was avoiding everyone, immideatly leaving if the room has a player inside, he is taking it so seriously, he is profably not an imposter, you thought.

Klee was getting in and out of the rooms, Following random people and waiting just besides the door. İt suspicious but it could be that she is just exited to play.

You closed the security camera window, and looked across the real world room instead.

İtto placed the phone you gave him to his side and crossed his arms, pouting because he was the first one to die. Trying to look at other peoples phones from where he stood, to find the other imposter.

You could see the sweats forming at zhongli's forehead. He was SUPER concentrated. Why was he, amongst all of the other acolytes, being so serious about it anyway?

You looked at the traitor, who realised you were looking at him and smiled at you. You smiled back, at least one of them is having fun!

Suddenly his smile grew bigger and went back to his phone. Uh-oh he has an idea doesnt he.

EMERGENCY MEETİNG

"AL HAİTAM STOP FOLLOWİNG ME" he partly screamed.

"You misunderstand me, i was just following to make sure you are not a traitor."

"Oh realy?! Then explain why while we were in the room to the east, the doors were locked and you started to chase me?"

"...that did not happen."

Foxlady cutted in "now that you mention it, i do remember that one of the rooms that had my tasks was blocked by a door."

"İM VOTİNG AL HAİTHAM" windbornbard said. İts all going acording to plan hehehehehe. Some other started to back him up as well.

"Wait."

Everyone in the room turned to Blockhead.

"İ understand that all the evidence seems to be targeting hım. But i know my bard friend here for quite long, i can tell when he is being serious." He looked at windbornbard, "could it be that you are trying to blame Al Haitham for your crimes against our creator?"

"You seem to have quite the imagination old friend" he said calmly, imitiating him "it is as you say, we've known eachother for a few thousand years after all. So i too, can read your emotions."

Venti once again turned to you "your highness said so themselves, it is just a game afterall, so theres no need for me to treat it as a war between rivals. Of course im not in my serious mood."

He turned back to him "now thats out of the way, i must ask, why did you gets so offensive and tried to protect Al Haitham? Kind of... What was the world? SUS? don't you think?"

You almost burst out laughing, it was so funny hearing it from him, he sounded like a grandpa who is learning internet lingo, despite his youmg voice.

"Are you suggesting that, i am the one who killed the creator?"

"Now i didn't say that, you could be the one that killed 'COOLGUY', since you have strick policies when it comes to the creator."

They glared at eachother while Ei voiced her opinion. "What bard sais sounds very belivable, while mr Zhongli also made a convincing point. İ suggest that we vote Al Haitham, and if he does turn out to be an imposter, we can figure out from there."

"Well, it seems i can't get myself out of this one even if i try. İt was a very fun game." Haitham sighed. He accepted defeat, just like that? This isn't like him.

"İ expected for you to fight a bit more over this, not gonna lie"

"İ was more interested in the gameplay, rather than the prize itself. So being able to see the working mechanics was enough for me."

"Ah i see, maybe i can teach you sometime?" You asked innocently, not caring of the angry glares that turned to him as soon as you said that.

"İ belive the academia would bother us as soon as we got out, so that wouldnt be productive." He crossed his arms, knowing that this knowladge could profably get him killed. "But i do appriciate the tought, thank you, your highness"

Everyone hold their breath as the result was written in the stars.

AL HAİTHAM WAS THE İMPOSTER

-------------

Everyone, including the ghosts stayed in the positions they spawned in. What now? Do they do an emergency meeting again and vote zhongli off? But is this right to assume right away? Should they wait a bit longer for evidence?

Before the meeting cooldown ends, everyone finally made up their mind. They all went back to their tasks.

You almost finished all of them, but the bar was only half full. Acolytes are too busy trying to find the last imposter that everyone seem to forget doing tasks causes instant win.

This round was worse, the lights go out, random doors closing and opening, causing panic among people, but venti was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he is doing this because he paniced, He has to kill 6 players all by himself afterall.

EMERGENCY MEETİNG

Ei, Klee and Dreamy died

"hOLY shit- 3 people died?!" İtto screamed.

"This can only mean one thing.." childE said, he was the one that pressed the meeting button. "Mr. Zhongli, care to explain?"

Everyone in the room looked at both of them

"İm not sure what you mean, Childe, would you be as kind as to enlighten me?" He said calmly, but it was obvious that he was getting irritated.

"The whole round, the rooms were randomly opening and closing. İ can tell that was a trap to create confusion, windbornbard has experianced the same thing. Only the smart ones that are experianced with faking their identities can think of this trick."

Oh this was a personal attack-

"İ agree with your opinion, however, i suggest that you choose the next words carefully, afterall, there is only 3 players left. İf we happen to fail finding the imposter now. We might not win this game."

Foxlady stoped both of them, realising this conversation contains topics from Real life"now now, lets not fight, even though the prize is grand, it is just a game after all."

Yeah what is the prize anyway?

She added "But i must say, what you said is quite right, only the ones that has an experiance to fake their identities can in fact create confusion skillfully"

"See? She agrees with me-"

"Hey now, have some manners. Don't you know that it's rude to interrupt while a lady is speaking?" She teased. ChildE cursed himself for being overly exited while she continued;

"However, the reasoning for you to claim blockhead- ah i meant Mr Zhongli- is an imposter is not realy a strong one. Since everyone in this room have experianced acting as another person."

Venti jumped in "yeah, aren't YOU the one that uses a fake identity in the first place? Harbinger of shneznaya?"

"How curious," zhongli added "blaming people is exactly what the imposter would do. İf i hadn't known better, i would have said that you are the imposter that is trying to cover up."

Yae raised a Brow "hmm? Do you have something else to say?"

"Not that it matters of course, but i have noticed that my usually talkative friend seem to be rather silent." He eyed Venti "And we have accused hım for being an imposter before."

"İm just watching, as you guys make this whole game about yourselves. İ have been having fun with my tasks!"

"Oh realy?" Yae teased, "what was the last task that you have done?"

"İ... Uh... The wires?"

"Which ones?"

"İn the.... Upper part of the ship."

"İs there even wires on there?"

"Yes there is! İ meant the caffeteria!"

"You were having fun with matching colors? My aren't you childish~"

"İ uhh well- you asked me the last task i've done! Not my favorite one!"

"Why are you stuttering bard?" Zhongli pressed on.

"You never got questioned by the shrine Maiden?! She is scary" he whispered

"Of course not, unlike you, i am not someone that causes trouble."

"OH come on! Why are you all mean to me all of a sudden?!"

"Yeah im voting him." Said childE.

"İm only voting for you because you told me im scary and that hurt my feelings" she laughed.

"Well, Barbatos, any last words?"

"İ was sooo close, thats not fair ;;"

WİNDBORNBARD WAS THE İMPOSTER.

Crewmates win!!

__________________________

Childe stoped you from leaving. "Your highness, do you have a moment?"

"İ guess? What is it?"

"Since this competition doesnt realy have öne winner. How do we know who won?"

"Zhongli, Yae miko and you won, because all of you survived untill the end."

"....does that mean you will go on a date with all of us..?"

"Wait what-? A date??"

"Fox lady said that the winner is going to have a date with you."

"İ DİDN'T KNOW THAT????"

"THEY DİDNT TOLD YOU?!"

_____________

The whole tevat was mourning their loss. The day you were killed by the hands of someone they knew you held dear, there were offerings to your shrine, silent appologies were made.

The weather was rainy, as the world cried with your followers.

This is the scene you were greated with as you walked towards the shrine that made for you, after giving the winner the... Prize...

"Uhh guys.. im not dead?"

"Sometimes we can still hear their voice..."

Your acolytes was eternaly happy for your short visit ("guys i didn't leave-"). You never died. Anyone could still feel your presence when they looked at the sky, to the infinity.

You are the

İnfinity.

The undying one...

"Oh your Grace welcome how have you been? :D"

"The game was fun and all, but do you guys have to make everything dramatic?"

"Speaking of the game, were you the one that found the imposter? But got killed because of it? "

"Man i wish. Maybe next time i won't die immediatly!"

______

#genshin sagau #sagau #sagau brainrot #self aware genshin #sagau x reader #genshin impact sagau #genshin isekai #genshin impact venti #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin cult au #genshin imagines #among us

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blogforwritinggenshin · 2 years

Note

Hi I have a request for an sagou Au

This will be a imposter Au but ok ok here's the twist the Devine that the find first is Your twin and now they think your pretend to them so the reader is trying to go to their twin with out being executed

-☕️

Divine Twin

Note: I didn’t follow your prompt perfectly, just because the train of thought I had diverted very quickly. Heh, sorry (>_<;)

CW: Swearing, reader gets hurt

Nothing makes sense right now.

There’s no ”creator” in the game.

The only other person that looks like you is your twin.

Who you haven’t seen in weeks!

That’s why you were digging through their stuff in the first place. You usually wouldn’t go looking through their stuff but this was an emergency situation.

Where did they go?!

And then suddenly you’re on the ground in the grass and not their bedroom. Your senses overwhelmed by your new surroundings.

The way you’re so enraptured and in awe of the water and cliffs and statue of Morax is quickly interrupted by what sounds like a whoosh and then burning. Someone has teleported behind you.

You’re yanked off the ground and hauled to your feet, the voice of your closest adeptus friend– (at least that’s what you liked to imagine)– speaking darkly.

“How dare you. You think you can deceive me? Your attempt to copy my creator’s face has only earned you my hatred.” He summons his mask and spear, “you will have no mercy from me.” He thrusts forward, and you flinch back.

“Wait!”

The tip barely pokes through your shirt.

“Who dares protect this disgusting imposter?”

“Great adepti,” the tengu general runs up to you two, “I am not trying to protect them. I simply have a suggestion that may please our creator more than a lifeless corpse.”

You’re tense in Xiao’s grasp. You consider struggling, but your limbs betray you. You don’t even dare to breathe.

“We are both making our way to Stormterror’s Lair to see our great creator, right? Why not take this imposter prisoner and see that they feel the full gravitus of their crimes? We should see that they suffer under their own guilt and disgust for copying our creator’s face.”

You’re mortified by her words. You don’t want to hear any more. You don’t think beyond that as you start running, yanking yourself out of Xiao’s grip and running down the small slope. You should have known that it would be futile. Against an adeptus or tengu alone, winning would be impossible. Your odds are only made worse when a thin blue string suddenly wraps around you and Yelan suddenly appears before your eyes.

“Oh no you don’t.”

“Hmph.” Xiao looks at you in scorn. If looks could kill you’d be dead three times over under the gaze of these beloved characters.

You’re not sure you want to meet this “creator.” If they’ve ordered all the main characters to execute people based on looks alone, you’d hate to see what they do themselves. Then again… if they look like you, they could be your twin. But your twin isn’t that cruel. They can be a massive idiot and way too resentful at times but not murderous.

Then again… it only makes sense that you get the shitty side of this fate and your sibling gets the wonderful role of playing god. You swear that’s how it always happens. You always get the short end of the stick.

You squirm in your bindings and wince when they automatically tighten around you, digging into your skin.

“Stop resisting,” Sara is stern as always, “we should take them to the creator. It only makes sense for them to give divine punishment to such deceitful beings.”

“No. We shouldn’t bother them with such lowly scum.”

“...what if the creator gives them mercy?”

The two generals turn towards the spy.

“We should take this one to the creator. That way they can let everyone know what their decision is. If we execute this person now, when the creator would have spared them, then we’ll be the monsters.”

“But–”

“Xiao. I know. I don’t want this bastard to get away with this either. It’s revolting that anyone would have the audacity to try and mimic our supreme god, but this is the best decision. If we are punished for wasting the creator’s time, I will take full responsibility. Now come on. I don’t want to wait to see them any longer.”

Yelan tugs on the line, and you start walking behind her, fearing what might happen if you don’t comply.

Xiao holds his tongue and follows. He could easily teleport and make his way to Stormterror’s Lair, the creator’s chosen home, easily. But he wants to keep an eye on you, even if looking at you makes him angry.

Sara walks alongside Yelan, they briefly exchange greetings and introductions before going silent. All three of you travel in silence until you make it to the intersection where you can see Dawn Winery down the way, where you run into some of the Knights of Favonius.

Amber looks shocked to you, and Lisa’s vision starts to glow. Kaeya doesn’t even pass a witty quip. He and Diluc share the same serious, angry expressions.

You really have attracted everyone’s ire.

You look away from them. You wish you could disappear. You just wanted to find your twin. Now you’re walking towards your own execution at the hands of those you imagined to be your friends.

You try to speak to them, try to say something in your defense, but Kaeya shuts you up with a simple threat.

“Open your mouth again, and I’ll freeze your tongue all the way down to your stomach.”

You look down at your feet. You want to cry.

The journey to Stormterror’s Lair is long. You’re not used to walking for so many hours. You trip and stumble a lot more as time goes on. Diluc scoffs at your lack of coordination. He probably believes you’re doing this on purpose, trying to slow them down to prevent your ultimate demise.

Things aren’t perfectly silent anymore thanks to Lisa, who casually talks to the others. You can’t help but feel at ease by their voices. You loved listening to their voice lines, sometimes their battle lines got tiring but hearing them talk as real people is oddly thrilling and makes you happy. It’s especially comforting to feel the tension ease after being put under the heat of their stares.

You trip and fully fall over as you reach the entrance to the ruins of the city. You struggle to get back up with your arms pinned behind. Diluc seems to have had enough with you as he hulas you up, but instead of setting you on your feet, he throws you over his shoulder.

“C’mon. We’ve been delayed long enough. We should cover ground faster this way.”

You assume the others nod, because you hear nothing before you feel a sudden lurch and then wind blowing past you as your carrier starts running.

They make their way into the city quickly. You feel dizzy as you’re jostled around.

They make their way into the central tower, and you’re dropped on the cobblestone.

You look up to see that the tower has changed greatly. It’s no longer in ruins. It looks like a real palace. Banners hang against the columns, a hanging chandelier, and a large circular rug at the center. Most important of all are the archons standing next to the giant dragon who is laying on the rug. D’valin almost looks like a house pet, curled up on the rug.

You marvel at the sight. Zhongli, Ei, Venti, Nahida, even the Tsaritsa. She’s even more beautiful than you imagined.

As you follow along the dragon’s body you realize that there’s someone tucked under his wing, reading a book. That someone… They look just like you.

So the acolytes weren’t lying. Their great and marvelous creator is practically an exact replica of you. Except they have slightly different cheekbones, and their nose isn’t the same shape. This is definitely your twin.

You cry out their name and are instantly hit with a blast of ice.

“Who dares speak the creator’s name?” Zhongli’s rich, deep voice echoes through the tower.

You can feel the hairs on your neck stand up as electricity crackles in the air, which becomes restless as the winds pick up.

“We bring an imposter before you—,” Sara begins.

“Why do you waste the time of our great creator with such scum?” Even though she’s insulting you, you can’t help but be enchanted by the Tsaritsa’s voice.

“That’s what I said,” Xiao mutters.

“I deeply apologize if I have made a mistake, but I felt the need to bring them before the creator to ensure that the correct decision was made. I have heard the many stories of the creator being merciful to their enemies. I have also heard the many recallings of their strength and power. I did not think it appropriate of me to make such a decision on their behalf. Once I know their decree, I will never bother them with such a trivial matter again.”

You can’t help but feel amused and annoyed by all of this formality and praisal towards your twin. They certainly don’t deserve to be treated like a god when the last interaction you had with them was them bullying you about how you built your team and characters. You want to tell these poor people about all the times your sibling was a massive asshole to you. Tell them that they might as well be buying snake oil from them if they truly believe them to be their creator. Neither of you had anything to do with the creation of Genshin. They’ve got the wrong people.

Then again… if you mentioned that, you both might be executed.

You sigh, forgetting you’re being heavily scrutinized and thus are kicked in the stomach.

“How dare you act disappointed in the midst of our highest god.” It seems Xiao is finally getting his chance to take his anger out on you.

Why? Why aren’t they doing anything? Why aren’t they saying anything? Don’t they care that you’re being beaten up by these people?

You’re hauled by your biceps only to be dropped once again, but this time only a few feet from the archons.

The bindings dissipate.

You force yourself onto your hands and knees. You look up and see them all looking down on you. A deep, soul shaking shudder goes through you. Your twin looks distressed, but they say nothing.

Then…

I’m sorry

They mouth.

The Raider Shogun’s cold voice reaches your ears, “Let it be known that all imposters will be executed on sight.”

Vines climb up through the cobble and wrap around your arms and legs. You’re stuck in the position on your hands and knees. The stone quakes beneath you, and the temperature in the room drops. You feel the air start being sucked out of your lungs, the water in your body is painfully forced out of your pores, and your insides heat up. You aren’t even conscious by the time the Musou No Hitotachi comes down on you, ensuring that you don’t awaken from the darkness.

A tear rolls down your twin’s cheek. They can’t bear to watch you be executed.

Again.

But it’s the greatest mercy they can grant you.

At least you get to wake up.

At least you get to go back home.

Unlike them.

They’re trapped in this game.

Chained to a throne.

You always come back.

But they’re determined to make sure you don’t get trapped like them.

They hope one day they’ll be able to make it back out to you.

They at least want to share one more birthday with you.

One happy memory to help them endure every time they have to watch you be murdered by their…

friends.

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spacexseven · 2 years

Note

hello!!

i just wanted to say that i really love ur bsd mer au. so obsessed. so hopefully this isn't a bother but i just wanted to ask how do u think characters such as dazai or akutagawa or fyodor (or any other that u pick!!) would react to a darling whos got no sense of danger and is fascinated with them? darling is basically clueless and maybe a little bit..dumb. like for example they lean so close to dazai when he emerges from the water, cupping his cheeks and being just like :o! without even considering the fact that the creature they're holding is a human eating monster lol. i feel like some characters would find it really adorable, how naive darling is, some would even feel really bad since darling has no idea whats coming for them, while others have no words because they can't believe someone could be this stupid lolol. hopefully this makes sense :v

just like the previous ask this isnt a request, i just like to hear ur thoughts on the matter

have a nice day!! 🐡🐡🐡🐡

hi there !! it's never a bother lolol i love hearing from everyone ♡ i'm gonna do akutagawa, dazai and chuuya because these are the only characters i feel we have cemented the personalities of in this au :,) also i'm so sorry for how long it took for me to get to this !!

cw: yandere characters, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, jealousy, manipulation, unhealthy relationships, deceit, implied murder

dazai finds it hilarious. it's so stupid he can't help but laugh. how did you survive for this long with no sense of safety? some part of him only becomes more possessive over you, thinking he'll need to protect you against all the evils of the world. who's to say you wouldn't end up falling into a whirlpool one day? you obviously don't have any idea how to detect if one's in the area, do you? if you're so carelessly poking his tail and stroking his claws and asking him to open his mouth wider to glance at his teeth—were you just stupid?

and then you had to go and say you thought he was pretty. how could he just...let you be after that? what if you came across another mer and decided they were just as pretty (or god forbid, prettier) as dazai and grabbed them so senselessly? it would be very easy for his kind to bite your head clean off. or maybe they'd start liking you and you'd like them back and—he couldn't decide which situation was worse. silly human, you. he'll have to watch over you now, right?

chuuya is genuinely concerned. he's not thinking of how he can take advantage of your guillible nature just yet, at first he's more worried about how easily you could be hurt. other than the fact that you were human and brittle, you were also stupid??

saying something about how pretty he is, nd chuuya's flattered. he's all flustered and growly about how trusting you are of him. do you have any idea how many people his beauty has killed? do you know how easily it could have been you, too, affected by his spell?

did you think anyone else would let you stroke their tail and brush their hair without getting mad? some part of him feels guilty, knowing he shouldn't abuse your trust in him by manipulating you into thinking he was the only one who cared. but then, everytime you laid your head on his arm and pleaded with him to sing you to sleep—the way the soft moonlight graced your face and you grabbed onto him even in your sleep—he knew he could never let you get hurt. and there was nowhere safer than in his arms.

akutagawa would be terrified when he came by to leave you something, only to be greeted by you grabbing his arm. you go on and on about how cool his gifts are and how nice his hair is and—it's too much for him. he's shocked and leaves quickly. were you like this with everyone?

he feels bad for how he reacted, but he was afraid he'd hurt you if you kept on going. why were you so friendly? you didn't even know him! he wasn't even human!

why did you smile at him?

akutagawa learns more by observing you quietly. you're friendly to everyone, far too kind. too good for him. to be honest, this makes things easier. you wouldn't be repulsed by his feelings, and you might even like the things he brought you. but he wouldn't want to...take advantage of your state. isn't this what it is, taking advantage of how trusting you are, knowing he has no good intentions.

but it wasn't like he was forcing you, right? dazai would say you were simply reciprocating his feelings if you'd liked the gifts. akutagawa knew it wasn't so simple, but it was nicer to believe you liked him. liked him enough to touch his tail and swim with him if he asked. enough to follow him underwater, where you were helpless, and he...he could do anything.

but he tells himself to wait first. he couldn't hurt you like that. he wanted you to like him back, even just a fraction of how much he liked you. he didn't want to rush it. even if it tugged at his heart to watch you happily talk to your human friends, holding hands and laughing. he had to wait.

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typically-untypical · 9 months

Text

Their Emotions

Per @amateurmasksmith's request!

AU: Canon divergent

CW: None that I know of

WC: 1937

Date: August 11th, 2023

Janus pulled the gloves securely around his hands, lingering as he looked down at the yellow fabric. Yes he liked the aesthetic but that wasn't the predominant reason he wore the constrictive fabric. In fact, Janus didn't dress the way he did purely because the dark and mysterious vibe was a fun persona to play, rather his touch was a beautiful and dangerous thing. He doubted others were affected by his power, they had their own things to deal with. Thomas was a whole person, but they were fragments, pieces, and with that came certain quirks. Patton could literally starve if he wasn't touched; Logan turned into a statue when Thomas had brain freeze, and when he was younger, Virgil had wings as a part of the whole "Fight or flight" mantra. Not all of their quirks were tied to idioms, some of them were just because of how Thomas viewed the world, or how he wanted the world to be. Janus assumed that was how he turned out to be an empath, something along the lines of deceitful people being the most in tune to other people's emotions. Fortunately, it was only when he had skin to skin contact. He could hide behind his layers of clothing and be spared the other's feelings. It was overwhelming.

Back when Janus was still Self-Preservation, when he wasn't seen as a villain, his small hands would reach for Patton's. Emotions gave off such beautiful feelings, love and care that filled the sense in every way. Holding Patton's hand was like being encompassed by home, the smell of dinner cooking, the hum of happy melodies. Janus had loved holding tightly to Patton and that feeling. The gloves hadn't become a staple to his ensemble until they were in elementary school. Love didn't last, and the warmth turned to disappointment as Janus reached for Patton's hand. It burned worse than anything he had ever felt; it was a stabbing pain through his heart and he had pulled his hand away like he had touched fire. Patton's disappointment grew on his face. Janus and Remus were pushed away from Thomas shortly after that, and Janus wore gloves to keep him from reaching out for a comfort that would never come.

Long sleeves came next, a heated fight with Virgil turned nearly violent as the anxious side grabbed his arm.

"I need you to listen to me!" Virgil had screamed, but all Janus could feel was fear, pain, and anger. He had yanked his arm away, putting on his most deceitful smile as he fought to catch his breath. He had known about Virgil's pain but he had never understood the depths of it. He wish he could help the anxious side; he wished he could explain why they needed to hide, why they couldn't tell anyone about their feelings.

"Thomas isn't ready to know that much about himself, and it will only cause him pain in the end." He knew Virgil needed more of an explanation than that, but he was so focused on the pain of lying that he couldn't see the monsters around them, the way their life could fall apart if they told the truth. All Virgil knew was the pressure to be good, to share everything, the pressure not to lie. His fear lingered in Janus' heart, beating rapidly as he questioned his own decision.

Virgil looked at him disgusted, sneering "you're nothing but a liar" before walking away. That was when he started being called Deceit. No longer was he the side that wanted to protect Thomas, that was Virgil's job. Virgil was looking out for Thomas, trying to protect him from the world. Janus was just... deceit. That was also the day he stopped leaving his arms vulnerable to touch. Virgil's fingers left lingering prickles of panic. He never really figured how to get rid of the feeling, but it was fine. Janus donned a black shirt that covered his arms, a color Virgil favored, and everything was fine.

The capelet was next, a memory he chose not to focus on as pushed away the feeling of fingers on his throat. Anger was such an unpleasant feeling to experience second hand. He hated the idea that anyone could force him to lose sight of his job. Anger burned, anger consumed. It choked him with its smoke and fire as Nisus held onto his throat. Janus had spent so long pushing down his anger, pushing down the frustration and pain but Nisus had pulled it out with a single touch. The destructive path he left behind had scared even Remus.

Never again.

He didn't need to know what the others felt. He didn't want to know. He could no longer pull up the memories of Patton's love and care. Touch only brought pain, and so Janus stayed covered.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts as he walked into the common area.

"Morning Janus!" Patton was the first to greet him, disappointment had faded into pity, much the same way Patton had pitied Virgil in the beginning. It was a step in the right direction, but it was a far cry from the love Janus' heart remembered.

"Good Morning," He responded smoothly, walking over to his seat and surveying the others. He knew how they all felt about him. There was no need to brush his fingers against their arms, to feel the thrum of their emotions in his own heart.

Roman was discussing something with Virgil who was listening, but just barely.

Contempt. Betrayal.

Logan was reading a book, curled up in a posture he would yell at anyone else for having.

Nothing. That almost hurt worse.

Patton was walking over to him.

Pity.

"Hey Jannie, it's been hot the past few days so we were all thinking of going to the imagination to go swimming."

Swimming required a swimsuit, which typically required fewer layers. He could put on a wetsuit but the idea of wet clothes against his scales was completely unappealing. He typically loved the beach, curling up in the warm sand, allowing the salty water to occasionally spray him and cool him down. He didn't want to say no to a family excursion when they were all beginning to get along, but he couldn't risk touching them. He didn't want to know. He wasn't afraid... hesitant was a better word. "If I do join you I will most likely stay on the beach, I'm not a fan of swimming." He could stay in his full outfit and it wouldn't be a problem.

"I know you're supposed to be the lord of the lies," Remus chimed in from the air grate, sticking his head out. They had reinforced the air ducts for exactly this reason. "One of your favorite activities is laying on a rock in the sun while the cool waves brush against you. You won't even let me make the rock poisonous or anything like that."

Janus hissed at Remus who disappeared back into the HVAC system, giggling manically. Janus had taken years to be comfortable being dressed down in front of Remus, almost a decade even, but he was immediately beginning to regret that decision as the others looked at him. The problem was now, whether or not he told the truth they'd have their suspicions. He cautioned on another lie.

"Apologies, the truth is embarrassing which is why I didn't lead with that. I don't like being less than fully covered in front of others."

This time it was Virgil who snorted and chimed in. "You weren't always that way. You used to love showing off your arms and-" Virgil cut himself off and Janus knew they had both had the same thought. That was before Virgil and him were arguing, before Janus became a snake. Honestly, being part snake didn't bother Janus, but he was happy for Virgil to make that assumption.

"As I said, I'd be happy to attend, but I will remain on the beach." He tilted his head to the side, doing his best to give off an unassuming smile. He didn't focus on the way Roman rolled his eyes, or on the way Virgil glared at him like he was a puzzle.

"Well, if that will make you the happiest, kiddo." Patton chimed, his own voice strained and Janus was debating backing out entirely.

"I will also stay on the beach. I have a few books I would like to finish, but getting out in the pseudo fresh air should be good for all of us." Logan had set down his book and was looking at all of the others. The idea that Janus wouldn't be alone on the beach seemed to relax Patton.

"I'll prepare a picnic," he clamored, making his way toward the kitchen.

The four remaining sides sat in awkward silence. Logan looked like he had something to say. Roman was obviously trying to avoid looking at Janus. He still argued that things were getting better, but they certainly weren't anywhere near pleasant.

"Roman, don't you need Virgil to help you pick out your outfit for the beach?"

"What? I would-" His dramatic statement was cut off as Logan looked at him. The logical side wasn't being subtle but maybe he wasn't trying to be. That wasn't his strong suit.

"Right, of course, come on Virgil." Virgil looked between Logan and Janus before sighing.

"Yeah, okay, whatever."

Soon it was just Janus and Logan in the room, and Logan took a seat again, this time a little closer to Janus. "I don't understand what has you hesitant to be loosely clothed in front of us, but know we will respect your needs... at least, I will."

Janus snorted and gently shook his head. "That was never in doubt for me Logan, you are respectful to a fault."

"A fault?" His eyebrow quirked in question.

"Sometimes it would benefit you to be more selfish and demand your own needs be met."

"Although I don't necessarily disagree with you, I believe the conversation was supposed to be about your needs and wants and not my own."

"Do you truly believe I am not taking care of my needs?" Janus asked, putting his hand to his chest. "I am Thomas' sense of self-preservation."

Logan stared at him with a deadpan look. "And Virgil is Thomas' anxiety. He enjoys giving anxiety but also gets anxiety, we are facsimiles of people. We are complex."

It was kind for him to care, though, strange. "I stand by my earlier statement. You care more than you should." Janus shook his head. "By sitting on the beach I will be taking care of my needs. I will be able to remain fully clothed while continuing to build the bonds which will suit all of us and Thomas far more than our current situation does."

The other side continued to look at him with that quirked eyebrow but eventually relented. "If you would like to talk about the reason you are adverse to showing us your skin and scales, I am here to listen." Logan stood up. "I should also get ready. Patton will be wanting to leave the moment he is done in the kitchen."

As soon as Logan left, Janus let out a soft sigh. He knew how they all felt. He was sure he did... then why did his fingers tingle to reach out for Logan, to see if there was truth in his statement? Janus looked down at his gloved hands. One day. Maybe one day he would be able to reach out to one of them.

Tag List: @simplestoryteller @fantasticfangirl21 @joylessnightsky @glacierruler

#sanders side fic #fanfic #sanders sides #logan sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #Janus Sanders #Janus angst #hurt/comfort #mildly unresolved

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adastra121 · 8 months

Text

…I had an idea.

Touchstarved Witcher AU

Mhin of Eridia, the mighty witcher of the School of the Raven. And their ever-present sing-songy twit. Not pictured — the witcher's loyal cat Roach.

I also made a "Toss a Coin" parody below.

Toss a Coin to Your Hunter (Touchstarved Witcher AU)

When a humble Hound Graced a ride along With Mhin of Eridia, Alon came this song.

When the White Crow fought A multi-eyed devil, Its army of Soulless, The Shroud did they rebel.

It came after me With masterful deceit, Sliced off my arm, And it left me to bleed!

While the devil's claws Minced our tender meat, And so cried the Witcher They can't be bleat!

Toss a coin to your Witcher. Oh, Valley of Plenty Oh, Valley of Plenty, oh Toss a coin to your Witcher. Oh, Valley of Plenty

At the edge of the fog, Fight the mighty horde That bashes and breaks you And brings you to mourn.

They felled every beast Lurking in your streets Deep down in the shadows From whence it came.

They wiped out your pest, Got kicked in their chest. They’re a friend of humanity, So give them the rest.

That's my epic tale! Our champion prevailed, Defeated the villain, Now pour’em some ale!

Toss a coin to your Witcher! Oh, Valley of Plenty Oh, Valley of Plenty, oh Toss a coin to your Witcher! A friend of humanity.

Toss a coin to your Witcher! Their pockets are empty, Their pockets are empty, oh. Toss a coin to your Witcher! A friend of humanity.

Toss a coin to your Witcher! Oh, Valley of Plenty Oh, Valley of Plenty, ah-ah, oh Toss a coin to your Witcher, A friend of humanity!

Bonus — Mhin’s notes

Mhin: …That’s not what happened. I wasn't there when it severed your arm, and we would both be dead if there was a Soulless army. Alon: Look, Mhinny — can I call you Mhinny? Mhin: No. (Was that a short joke?) Alon: Fair enough—I like you, Witcher, but your attitude’s not gonna do much for changing the rest of the folks’ minds, so we’re gonna let your accomplishments do the talking — er, singing? — and if the truth needs some embellishments here and there to truly capture the spirit of it, well…that’s the job of a skilled bard. Mhin: You’re not even an actual bard. Alon: Besides, the number of Soulless you’ve slain over the course of your life has got to be enough to make up an army, right? So it’s not quantitatively a lie! Mhin: The truth died the moment you started singing, if that's what you meant by "capturing its spirit." Moreover, crows and ravens are two different species of birds, they can’t be used interchangeably. Alon: You try coming up with a good rhyme for “raven!” Shaven? Cravin'? Mhin: You…You didn’t even rhyme anything with “crow” in the song? Alon: Savin'? Haven? Depraven? Huh. I guess there are some good rhymes. “White Raven of Eridia…” Mhin: …………….What was that line about my pockets? Alon: Okay, you can’t be mad about that, that’s the one true part in the song. According to your standards, anyway. Mhin: Yes. *glares and twirls knife* And how did you know about that one true part? Alon: … Alon: *thrusts the coin-filled hat to Mhin* Hey, wow, look at that, buddy! Those pockets aren’t empty anymore, haha! Who said silvers are only for monsters, eh? :D

#honestly I didn’t change much from the original “toss a coin”#all the coins in alon's hat are from people paying them to stop singing #the drawings weren't very big to begin with so I struggled so hard to draw the tiny raven in Mhin's medallion #oh the struggles of traditional art #touchstarved #touchstarved game #touchstarved vn #red spring studio #touchstarved mhin #touchstarved oc #alon the hound #witcher au #touchstarved fanart #my oc #original character #my art #traditional art #Spotify

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foundtherightwords · 3 months

Text

The Firebird - Chapter 4

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: violence, minor character death

Chapter word count: 3.5k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 4 - The Gray Wolf

It was a scream of fear and panic, quickly cut short. Paul froze in his path for a moment, then ground his teeth and continued on his way. She'd said he was a burden. She could very well be a deceitful, dangerous witch. The fairy tales were full of those, weren't they? The princess who betrayed the hero because she didn't want to be married to him, the beautiful maiden who turned out to be a hag. Let her scream. He would not be duped by her again.

Another scream, more desperate this time. Paul bit his lip as his anger fought with his conscience. It was true that in the stories, the disloyal princess often repented and was forgiven by the hero, and the hag was usually under a curse and would become beautiful again once the curse was lifted. And never, ever did the hero walk away from a lady in distress, even if she was Baba Yaga herself. If he did, he risked getting punished by other magical beings he'd meet later. There were rules to these things.

He let out a deep sigh and plodded back.

As he drew closer to the oak tree, Paul began to think he'd made a blunder. The dense trees formed a wall in front of him, through which the faint moonlight only darkened the shadows without illuminating much, so he couldn't quite see what was threatening Zhara just yet, but what he was hearing did not exactly fill him with courage. There were the girl's frightened whimpers, and other sounds, scratching, accompanied by a low, throaty growl, and heavy, heavy breathing, like that of an animal.

Then the wall of trees thinned, and a terrifying sight met his eyes.

A wolf, the largest wolf Paul had ever seen, its fur shining under the moon like a silver coat, was standing on its hind legs at the base of the oak tree, its front paws swiping at the top branch, where Zhara was crouched, holding on for dear life. A ragged piece of cloth dangling from a knot on the trunk showed where she had clambered up the tree, and perhaps in the nick of time as well. The wolf was twice as tall as a grown man, its snout easily reaching the main fork where the trunk started splitting into branches. If Zhara had been only one branch lower, the wolf's jaw, with the two rows of white, razor-sharp teeth, would have closed around her leg and dragged her down. And by the looks of it, she wouldn't last until her transformation at daybreak—already the wolf was looking for a purchase to claw its way further up the tree. Paul had never heard of a wolf that could climb trees, but perhaps like most things in this world, its wolves were built differently.

As he contemplated this fact, Paul's heart dropped in dismay. How was he supposed to fight this monster? He didn't even have a weapon—his sword was just for show, it had no edge and was useless. Rather like myself, he thought bitterly. Should he go to the village for help? No. That would only convince the peasants that he and Zhara were bringing doom to their home. Could he sneak up on it and knock it out with a big rock? Or should he just turn and run? But on the flat and empty meadow, the wolf would be sure to catch him in just one bound of those enormous legs. At least in the forest, he would have places to hide.

Anyway, he couldn't very well run now, for Zhara had spotted him, and her eyes widened with relief. She opened her mouth to call out for him, then closed it again, apparently afraid of drawing the wolf's attention to him. At that very moment, Paul, while fumbling about searching for a more reliable weapon than his blunt sword, stepped on a treacherous branch. It snapped with a noise like a gunshot that reverberated through the forest and brought the wolf whirling around to him.

The animal fixed its baleful eyes on him, eyes that glowed with an unnatural green spark, sending shivers down Paul's back and freezing him in place. Moonlight glinted on something around its neck, and Paul saw that it was a gold chain with a medallion of some sort hanging off it. This was no ordinary wolf.

Somehow he found the strength to remove his sword from its scabbard and raised it, rather awkwardly, in front of him, while the wolf slowly padded toward him on paws the size of dinner plates. It leaped at him before he realized it had moved. He dove blindly to the side, swinging the sword as he did. The blade connected with a ribcage as large and hard as a beer barrel and flew out of Paul's hand. The force of the strike rang through his arms and his shoulders, rendering them numb.

The wolf landed lightly on its feet as though it had been hit with a mere twig and crouched low on its hind legs, getting ready to pounce once more. Casting wildly about, Paul's eyes landed on a flat rock at his feet. He scrambled over on all four and, with an effort no doubt strengthened by desperation, managed to lift it with both hands just as the wolf charged again. Paul let the rock go. It flew by harmlessly, missing the target by a mile. Cursing under his breath, Paul dodged the wolf's sharp claws, picked up the rock, and threw it again, willy-nilly. This time, the rock grazed one of the wolf's legs, not hard enough to stop it, but enough for it to draw back with a whine. Paul seized the opportunity to find his sword. It may not help much, but at least he could hold it, unlike the rock.

"Please don't hurt him!" cried Zhara from her branch. "He's a friend!"

"You think it can understand you?" Paul shouted back.

"I wasn't talking to you," she said, irritably, "I was talking to him!"

"What, the wolf?"

"He's not a wolf! He's been cursed, like me! He doesn't know what he's doing!"

As though to disprove her, the wolf chose that moment to come at Paul. He sidestepped, but not fast enough. The wolf's teeth snapped at his cloak and pulled the garment free with such force that it sent Paul stumbling backward until he hit a tree trunk with the back of his head. Stars exploded over his eyes.

Through the ringing in his ears and the pounding of his head, he could dimly make out the girl's voice, saying, "Alyosha Popovich, please! Remember who you are!" She had made her way down the tree and was slowly approaching.

The wolf growled, hesitating between the two preys. It started toward Zhara, only to retreat when fire burst from her hands. Deciding Paul was the easier prey, it turned on him again. Paul recoiled, but the tree was behind him and there was nowhere else to go. Zhara ran in front of him, brandishing her fiery hands, and the wolf shrank back, though only slightly this time. Then, with a flash of its eyes, it lunged forward anyway, and the acrid smell of burning hair hit Paul's nostrils. The wolf snarled at the flames in frustration, lips curling up to show dripping fangs, a blood-red tongue swiping across the burned patch on its snout.

"Why don't you just burn it?" Paul asked.

"I don't want to hurt him!"

"He's trying to hurt us!"

Ignoring him, Zhara lowered her hands and cautiously took a step toward the wolf. "Alyosha Popovich," she said. "Please, try to think. It's me, your friend Zhara. Remember? This isn't who you—"

The wolf interrupted her with an ear-splitting, hair-raising howl. Zhara shrank back, and Paul instinctively threw a protective arm around her while lashing out with his sword. He hit the burn on the wolf's snout, which only enraged the beast more. It sprang on Paul, so close he could smell its hot, rancid breath on the side of his face. There was a tearing noise. He felt liquid on his shirt, and for a confused moment, didn't know where it came from. It was only when a searing pain went through his arm that he realized the wolf had scratched his shoulder.

Flames ignited on his right. Zhara threw a fireball at the wolf. The beast howled and scratched his head between his paws, trying to put out the fire. The girl seized Paul's hand and dragged him into the clearing behind.

"It's the medallion," she whispered.

"What?"

"Did you see how it flashes along with his eyes?"

Paul looked at the wolf. It had managed to extinguish the fire. Its eyes, standing out amongst the burned fur, shone with a light more terrible than ever, and the medallion, green like malachite, was indeed flickering with the same strange glow.

"It's controlling him," Zhara went on. "Try to destroy it. I shall distract him."

Before Paul could ask how he could destroy a magical medallion, she had set her hands aflame again and walked out to face the wolf. Paul noticed his cloak, torn away by the wolf, was crumpled in a heap on the forest floor. An idea occurred to him. Ignoring the sting on his shoulder, he picked up the cloak. The wolf was circling Zhara, wary eyes fixed on the fire in her hands. It certainly didn't want to get burned a third time. This was his chance.

Running at the wolf from the side, Paul tossed the cloak as high as his injured shoulder allowed, mimicking the move of a retiarius, a net-fighter, that he'd seen in a picture book about Ancient Roman gladiators as a child. As soon as the cloak landed on the wolf's head, stunning the beast momentarily, he raised the sword with both hands and, forgetting his pain in the rush of the moment, brought the dull blade down as hard as he could on the medallion.

It fractured. The glow went out, and the wolf collapsed.

Clutching each other's hands, Paul and Zhara approached the prone form. Before their eyes, the wolf shrank. The silvery pelt disappeared, the paws were replaced by hands and feet, and there, sitting up under the cloak, was a young man, not much older than Zhara or Paul himself, with white-blonde hair and blue eyes. Even with singed patches of hair and the burned marks on his face, he was still handsome and his countenance remained noble, the perfect example of a bogatyr, a knight of the old tales. Paul, with his lopsided wig and torn shirt, felt positively wretched.

The man's eyes widened as they landed on Zhara. "Lady Zhara!" he exclaimed, his voice hoarse. "I am so sorry—I didn't mean to—I should've protected you, but your brother, he captured me and turned me into this—this—"

Zhara knelt and took the man's hand. "No, Alyosha, you mustn't blame yourself."

"And you! How have you managed to escape? When I last saw you, Illarion was hitting you with the curse..."

"I didn't escape wholly unscathed," Zhara said, looking down. "But my tale can wait. Tell me, what of your sworn brothers, Dobrynya and Ilya?"

"I haven't seen them. I pray Illarion wasn't hunting them as w—"

Alyosha didn't finish the sentence. His eyes bulged. He clawed at his neck, making a choking sound. The cloak fell off, and to Paul's horror, he saw that the chain, from which the medallion had hung, was now closing around Alyosha's throat, strangling him. Zhara tried to wriggle her hand between his neck and the chain to pull it off, but it kept tightening inexorably, and she was forced to pull back or lose her fingers. Alyosha's face had gone purple.

Paul could only watch in a state of helpless horror until her cry "Please help him!" jolted him into action. Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed the sword and wedged it between the chain and Alyosha's neck, to pry the chain off. With a dry snap, the chain broke the sword in two. At the same moment, Alyosha's eyes went still. He fell back and ceased moving.

Before Paul and Zhara could fully grasp what had just transpired, a wisp of green smoke emanated from the cracked medallion.

"My dearest sister," a sepulchral voice emerged from that smoke. Zhara fell back, her face deathly white. That voice was nothing like Paul had ever heard before. Both cold and oily, it penetrated one's ears like an icicle and crawled down one's spine like a serpent, setting one's teeth on edge. "You cannot evade me forever. Give yourself up, and I may show you mercy. If you continue to oppose me... well, you've seen how powerful I have become, what I can do to those who try to fight me. Think about it. I await you on Buyan. Be quick, sister, for my patience wears thin..."

Paul had had enough. He slammed the broken end of the sword he was still holding into what remained of the medallion—

Crack! It shattered into a thousand pieces, and the voice died out in a horrible, inhuman wail.

Merciful silence reigned over the forest once more. Paul staggered over to Zhara, who was still hunched over the motionless form of Alyosha Popovich. She lifted her red-rimmed eyes to Paul's face and sniffed.

"I suppose you want me to explain everything?" she said.

"Where, or what is Buyan?"

"An island off the coast of Arthania. It is said that at the center of it is a magical stone of great power, the Alatyr—"

"Please." Paul held up a hand. "Please, no more. The rest can wait until morning. Provided that we survive until then, that is." He couldn't take any more that night. No more curses and magic and monsters. No more anything. He wished he could just curl up and go to sleep, and when he opened his eyes, it would all be just a horrible, horrible dream. He would even take his mother's reprimands over this.

Zhara let out a long sigh. She, too, seemed exhausted. Her face had gone so pale that even in the moonlight, Paul could see the freckles standing out on her skin.

"We must give him a proper burial," she said, indicating Alyosha. "The leshy won't thank me for leaving him in the middle of the forest."

"But where was the leshy then, when the wolf—when Alyosha was attacking us?" Paul demanded indignantly. "He was going to kill me for throwing rocks, yet he sat by while a cursed wolf tore us apart?"

Zhara shook her head. "If you go searching for rhyme or reason in the way Lukomorians behave, you'll be disappointed."

"But—but there are rules to the stories! The hero always gets the princess, the orphan girl always gets to go to the ball, the youngest prince always defeats the evil wizard, and—and—" He knew he was getting hysterical, but all the fear and panic of the past two days were building inside him like floodwater, threatening to drown him.

Zhara tilted her head at him, eyes infinitely sad and weary. "Don't believe everything you heard in those stories, Pashenka," she said.

Her condescending tone made his temper flare. "Don't call me Pashenka," he said, scowling.

"What should I call you then? Pasha? Pavlushka? Little Pavlik?"

Paul's cheeks heated. "How dare you talk to me with such—such impertinence! You will address me by my proper title!"

"And what's that?"

"Your Excellency, Tsarevich Pavel Petrovich!"

A spark of anger flashed in her golden eyes. "You're not my excellency," she said. "Remember, Pavel Petrovich"—Paul wondered how she managed to pack so much contempt into those few short syllables—"you're no longer in your precious Rus'. You're in Lukomorye now, and here, we have our own tsars and tsarinas. I am a princess as well, don't you forget. My kingdom may be in ruins and I may be running for my life, but I am still a princess. So I shall call you by whatever name I damn well please!"

Sometimes, when one is afraid, sternness can work much better than gentleness to assuage the fear. Zhara's words, acerbic as they were, acted like a dam against the rising panic inside Paul, and he realized how utterly ridiculous he was, complaining about titles and ranks while they were standing over a dead body in the middle of a God-forsaken forest and an evil wizard was after them.

"How are we going to bury him?" he grudgingly asked.

Zhara regarded him for a moment, and some of the contempt and annoyance faded from her eyes. Without saying a word, she took the broken sword out of his hand and lifted her skirt.

"What are you doing?" Paul took a step back, alarmed, remembering how she had drawn her own blood to fight the Noon Wraith. Was that what it took to create a big enough fire—her blood?

"Calm yourself," she said, rolling her eyes. Taking the ragged edge of the broken sword, she tore a strip of linen from the bottom of her chemise and used it to bind his shoulder. Paul had completely forgotten about the wound. Fortunately, despite the blood, it wasn't deep.

"I guess we're truly equal now," Zhara said once she finished, gesturing to his cravat still wrapped around her arm with a rueful smile.

They spent the rest of the night building a funeral pyre for the ill-fated bogatyr in the middle of the clearing. It was almost dawn by the time they finished. Zhara lit the pyre with a snap of her fingers, and stood back watching the flames flicker and shroud the body, which was covered with all the fragrant wild herbs and flowers they could find. The leshy made no appearance, but his children, the toadstools and the leaves and twigs were back, standing just outside the clearing, eyeing the fire with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

Paul wondered if they should say a few words. He had never been to a funeral, not even his father's.

"We grew up together, you know," Zhara said. "My father had always hoped that one day we would—" She cut herself off and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. "But Alyosha was more interested in finding adventures. And I was definitely not interested in getting married. And so we remained friends. He was my most loyal friend."

Paul cleared his throat, not knowing if he should try to comfort her somehow. It had never occurred to him to consider another person's feelings, their grief or anger or joy, and now, he was surprised to find himself sympathizing with her. He, too, had known loss, even if it was the loss of a father he didn't remember.

He turned to her, wanting to say something, but the first rays of the sun hit them then, and Zhara disappeared in a glow of golden light, leaving her clothes to fall to the ground in a heap. A moment later, a gold-plumed head poked out of the clothes, and the bird flew up into the morning sky, while the fire continued to burn and consume, red-hot tongues licking all the way to the leafy dome overhead.

***

Despite their exhaustion, they walked for most of the morning, making use of as much daylight as they could. Unlike the previous day, Paul was silent. He was too tired. He had only been in this land for two full days, yet it felt much, much longer, for so much had happened. He concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other and tried not to think of the gray wolf, the funeral pyre, which remained smoldering when they left the clearing, and the cracked medallion with the terrible green smoke and the voice that was still ringing in his ears. The weight and warmth of the bird-girl on his shoulder were almost reassuring, after all that horror.

The meadow remained flat and empty, but in the distance, Paul could see a range of undulating hills and something colorful and gleaming on top of them, which must be the fortress. As the sun climbed higher and the day got warmer, they retreated into the forest once more to avoid the wrath of Lady Midday. Here they sat down to a simple meal of the remaining bread and cheese. Paul crumbled up the cheese and tore the bread into tiny pieces and spread them on a napkin for Zhara. Then he stretched out under the shade of an elm tree, his head pillowed on the bundle of clothes—her chemise and sarafan, and his cloak, all wrapped up and tied with a belt—for a nap, after the sleepless night.

"I'm sorry about your friend," he said. Somehow, he found it easier to talk when she was a bird. It was almost like talking to himself. Zhara, who was hopping about the napkin picking up the last of the bread crumbs, looked at him with her bright, sun-lit eyes. "I only have one friend back in my world, Andrei Razumovsky. We also grew up together, and he is like a brother to me, so if something is to happen to him—" He paused. Perhaps he shouldn't mention brothers to her.

But Zhara didn't seem to mind. She watched him for a moment longer, then came over, laid her head against his arm, and made a soft noise, somewhere between a chirrup and a coo, like that of a turtle dove, before flying up to the branches and finding herself a place to nap as well.

Paul watched her tail feathers disappear into the green canopy, while a strange feeling, unknown and unnamed, bloomed in his heart. The simple eloquence of her gesture had touched him more deeply than he'd thought possible. He knew she was thanking him for comforting her, but she also meant they didn't have to talk about it. He'd never understood another person so thoroughly before, and the fact that the person was currently a bird couldn't stop that strange warmth from spreading across his chest.

Chapter 5

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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life-winners-liveblog · 15 days

Note

So I just remembered when my friend started writing a Magnus Archives AU for our D&D game she made a little crash course on the fears to help us understand her madness since only 2 of people have watched it. I have not but here is the little guide to the entities to help other people enjoy the crossover.

The Entities (The Magnus Archives Lore)

In the world of The Magnus Archives, fear is the source of all supernatural occurrences, and all stem from one source: the Entities. Also known as the Dread Powers, sometimes believed to be gods, the Entities are fear made manifest, each representing a different aspect of fear. The Entities exist next to the known universe, outside but are no less connected to reality as we understand it. Wherever the supernatural is found, it is by an Entity’s will, each vying to bring its fear into the world- for the more, the world fears an Entity, the more powerful it becomes.

The Buried

Also known As… The Centre, Choke, Too Close I Cannot Breathe

The Fear of… being trapped, buried alive, drawing

Manifestations: caves, coffins, financial issues, underground transportation

The Corruption

Also known As… Filth, Hive, The Crawling Rot

The Fear of… Insects, decay, disease; the feeling of revulsion and that which causes it

Manifestations: Mold, bugs, the feeling of something crawling under your skin; unhealthy love and relationships

The Dark

Also known As… Mr. Pitch, Forever Blind

The Fear of… Darkness, the unknown, dangers hiding from view

Manifestations: Shadow figures/monsters, darkness, coldness, dark waters

The Desolation

Also known As… The Lightless Flame, The Ravening Burn, Asag

The Fear of… Pain, loss, and destruction- especially with senseless cause

Manifestations: Fire, heat, burns

The End

Also known As… Death, The Coming End That Waits For All And Cannot Be Ignored

The Fear of… Uncaring, unstoppable death; that all things will end eventually

Manifestations: Bones, the undead (zombies, mummies, skeletons, etc.), sometimes manifests in dreams

The Eye

Also known As… Beholding, Ceaseless Watcher, It Knows You

The Fear of… Being watched, followed, and having your secrets exposed; also pertains to the desire to know, even if what you learn might destroy you.

Manifestations: Eyes, cameras, a creature or figure that constantly watches

The Flesh

Also known As… Viscera

The Fear of… being little more than animated meat, (from animals) being born and raised to be eaten

Manifestations: Meat, corpses, body horror (twisted, strange bodies), butchers

The Hunt

Also known As… Everchase

The Fear of… being prey; being hunted

Manifestations: Predators, predatory monsters, animalistic traits

The Lonely

Also known As… Forsaken, The One Alone

The Fear of… Isolation, abandonment; being cut off from others

Manifestations: Fog, silence, empty rooms, crowds of faceless people

The Slaughter

Also known As… N/A

The Fear of… Unpredictable, unmotivated violence; pain coming at random, without rhyme or reason

Manifestations: Soldiers, murderers, music that either induces Slaughter or heralds its coming

The Spiral

Also known As… Es Mentiras (It Lies), It Is Not What It Is, The Twisting Deceit

The Fear of… madness, that the world you know is wrong; deception, lying

Manifestations: Spirals, fractals, and patterns; hallucinations and illusions

The Stranger

Also known As… I Do Not Know You

The Fear of… Others, the uncanny, the unfamiliar; the creeping sense that something is wrong

Manifestations: Things that provoke the “uncanny valley” feeling: mannequins, wax figures, and taxidermy; often seen in theaters and performances

The Vast

Also known As… The Falling Titan

The Fear of… heights, falling, large open spaces; being insignificant or meaningless

Manifestations: Void, wide-open spaces, vertigo, falling; something that should have an end becoming infinite

The Web

Also known As… The Spider, Mother of Puppets, The Hidden Machination, The Spinner of Schemes

The Fear of… Being controlled or trapped, especially being unaware of your entrapment; of being forced to act against your own will, being manipulated; spiders

Manifestations: Spiders, spider webs, web-like patterns, puppets

Avatars

Empowered by, and sometimes made of the power of an Entity, Avatars serve as vessels of fear in the world. Some are malevolent, some are just scary, but all are extremely dangerous.

^^^^^^^

This is a general overview, extra details will be given by the people you'll find!

Also the Exctinction isn't in this list probably because it was actually discovered very late into the series and this might have been written by @botanicalbard s friend before it's existance was confirmed.

#asks #author answers #botanicalbard

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the7thcrow · 11 months

Text

Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 10

series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.

series masterlist | previous chapter

Part Ten: a relic from the past, confession, and dark magic.

series rating: 16+

series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.

chapter details beneath the cut ->

wc: 15.3k

extra chapter warnings: panic attack, a non-consensual kiss, non-consensual drug use (but magical? idk?).

chapter summary:

“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.

Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.

“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”

a/n: guess who’s back :3 sorry this took me a million years to write, hopefully i can be a bit more consistent in the next coming months. hope you enjoy, and don’t be shy to let me know what you think! love y’all, thanks to everyone who has not abandoned this story after this massive hiatus LMAO <3

Seonghwa has never believed anger to suit him.

While Woo wears his anger like a loaded cannon, and San - like most other things - buries it until it inevitably rises to the surface, Seonghwa has tried to avoid fury when he can.

After all, anger is often the replacement of a different emotion. It comes easier than understanding, quicker than resolution. It’s the nasty, winding short-cut off the high road, and Seonghwa has learned that the high road is almost always the safer path in the long term.

Anger is ugly. It’s nonsensical and he doesn’t like how it looks on him. It’s why he prefers the cold shoulder to blind rage, sorting out his feelings on his own rather than lashing out on others. It’s the kind thing to do. The empathetic thing to do.

It’s never been overly difficult for him to settle this rage until now.

It festers in his mind every morning, as well as in the night before he falls asleep. Everytime he accidentally catches your eye over breakfast, letting his gaze drift away in hopes that you will think that his eyes were trailing by rather than staring.

He is so unbelievably angry with you, and he hates it.

From the moment the truth was revealed in the forest, it’s as if someone wrapped a hand around his lungs and began to squeeze, then never let go. A hot, burning fire in his chest that’s smoke rises up his throat, choking him with rage. It stings his eyes, fogs his senses. It feels unbeatable, indestructible. Blinding.

He knows that anger is just an emotion. A bad one, one that he’s had to expel from others countless times before. From San, after The Desert Lotus. It’s just another entity, another plague on the body. Settle down, feel it, think better of it, then let it be gone.

And yet now that feels an impossible task. Seonghwa doesn’t know the last time he was so angry. Perhaps it was the night in the kitchen with his mother, learning of the heights of human greed, the one he relives every time he uses his gift to expel the anger from someone else.

He supposes this memory may replace that one.

When he found out the truth about you it was like the last few weeks came crashing down around him. The closeness, the trust and understanding, the mutual respect and admiration.

All lies. All of it. And he feels like such a fucking idiot.

There was no trust, and by the gods, there was certainly no respect. He was a mere pawn in your game, a part of the plan, and all he can do is beat himself up about being too naive to not see it earlier. Woo has always harped on him for being too nice to people, or as the elemental would put it, “not behaving like an actual person, but more like a rock on a walkway that people like to kick around”. Seonghwa thought that Woo was just being grouchy, the pessimist he always is. But hell, maybe he was right.

After all, Seonghwa should have seen it coming. There was so much he could have done. If he had questioned why a beautiful stranger would have so much immediate interest in him in the first place, or why you constantly asked him questions while dismissing any deeper ones about yourself. If he wasn’t so passive about the parasitic emotions practically radiating off of you. If he looked past the ideal he so desperately wanted and dared to dig up the reality of what was underneath.

He’s not an idiot. The reality is that for you, it was never about him. It was about getting to Kuroku. For him it was about the journey, but for you it was always in the name of the destination.

And well, he certainly did his part in getting you there. He shared his gift with you as a token of trust, he took your pain away and made it his own, he vouched for you against Woo’s constant doubt.

All for a girl who’s name he didn’t even know.

The thought makes more anger - ugly, volatile, and oh-so-unflattering - surge within his chest, and he throws a rock into the lake before him. It doesn’t skip as he intended, and instead sinks with a loud plunk.

Seonghwa frowns. He grabs another rock to throw.

After being met with an even louder plunk, he groans, before creeping further up onto the shoreline to grab a flatter rock. His toes dip in the water, which feels colder than yesterday now that he’s no longer fueled by sheer terror and adrenaline.

The coolness brings him back to Maralya, when he and Yunho would sit on the fishing dock. Feet in the water, even though Seonghwa was older, Yunho was the one who had taught him to skip rocks. His half-brother always had a knack for things like that, or well, for everything it seemed. From medical skills, to scaling buildings, to setting a fishing line; Yunho could master whatever he picked up. He must have inherited it from his father, a man Seonghwa doesn’t really remember, as he died when they were young.

Seonghwa doesn’t remember his own father either, as he disappeared on an escapade to The Mainland directly after he was born. His mother told him that his ship was lost at sea, but Seonghwa is pretty sure he just left and never came back.

It doesn’t really matter, he’s never had much of a desire to know the man. After all, the only thing Seonghwa inherited from him was his foolishness. And maybe his nose.

Seonghwa sighs. Picking up another rock, this one flat and polished, he recalls the steps in his mind. Yunho's voice runs through his head as he goes through the form, before bringing his hand back and letting it fly.

Plunk.

He stares at the ripples surrounding the sinking stone for a moment, before sitting down. He must have forgotten a step. It was a long time ago.

He lays back so that his head presses into the sand, the little grains cold and damp against his scalp. It’s familiar. It’s a little like the shore at home, although the sand isn’t as white, and the water’s colder, nor as blue. There’s no sound of hustle and bustle from back in the village, or his mother yelling at him to take a dip in the ocean before coming back inside because he’s covered in sand and he can’t track that into the house.

So maybe it’s not so similar, but he will pretend.

Seonghwa sighs, grabbing a handful of sand, letting it fall between his fingers. It’s times like these, ones where he’s dejected, broken-down, and lonely, that he wants nothing more than to go home. Only then does he remember that there’s no home for him to return to.

He sighs, his anger drifting to sadness, and yet he doesn’t mind. He believes that at the very least, it suits him better.

Footsteps approach from far off behind him, and he knows that it’s you. Woo walks faster, heavier footed, and he likely wouldn’t have heard San until he was closer. Besides, you’ve been walking with a slight limp since the fall, and he can hear it in the thump of every second step.

A part of him wants to ask what happened, what hurts. If you’re okay.

The angry part of him won’t let the other speak.

He hears your steps stutter, coming to a sudden halt from what he assumes is about a dozen feet off. Silence follows, and he wonders what you’re thinking. If you’re nervous to approach him, taking the time to contemplate your words before you say them.

Eventually, you do come closer. “San and Woo want to head towards Bebbanburg,” you call out from behind him. “I said that I’d come get you.”

“Thanks,” Seonghwa says flatly, making no motion to move. He will, of course, but not until you head back to camp. He’d like to avoid the awkwardness of walking in a strained silence, pretending not to notice as you try to meet his eye.

Although when he doesn’t hear you leave, it seems as if he doesn’t have much of a choice.

Sighing, he pushes himself up into a seated position. Glancing back at you, he has to place a hand over his forehead to block out the rising sun blinding his vision.

You stand with your arms wrapped around yourself, watching him with a dampened expression. Your tunic billows in the wind, torn around the waist and covered in dirt and dust. Chewing on your bottom lip as your fingers tap along your arm, you appear on edge. As if you wish to say something.

Seonghwa hates the way he wishes to know what it is. He hates how he wants to smooth your hair that is violently blown by the wind and wipe away the smudge of mud that has hardened against your cheek.

He hates how even now, after everything, he yearns for you.

Perhaps this is how it always would have ended, anyway. Having grown more attached then he ever should, not ready to lose what he knew was never his.

“Seonghwa,” you say finally, although it’s a little strained. Rigid. “About yesterday, by the fire.”

Ah yes, that. You and San hadn’t noticed him at the time, but when neither he or Woo came back to the fire, the two of you went out looking for them. It only took a moment, finding them sitting against the caves outer wall. Quiet and avoidant. Woo had fallen asleep, but Seonghwa had met your gaze. He held it for only a moment, watching your own eyes widen as you realized he’d seen the whole thing. He looked away when your lips parted to speak.

“With San. I hadn’t expected it to happen,” you say, calling loudly over the wind, and yet somehow your voice still seems quiet. Trapped and tight. “I… I don’t regret it. But after everything, it feels unfair to you-”

“I don’t care about you and San,” Seonghwa butts in. Not aggressively, or overly angry, merely factual. After all, that’s not what he’s angry about. He doesn’t care about you and San. That’s your business.

He wants San to be happy. Whatever it takes, the swordsman deserves a bit of peace.

Besides, now that he will not, perhaps San will wipe the mud from your cheek.

“Oh,” you say, followed by a pause. “You just seem upset.”

“I’m not angry about that,” Seonghwa replies, lips pursing together. He swallows hard. “Just about everything you did before it.”

Your expression falls. Mouth dropping open into a small part, your eyes fill with a sudden sense of shame and hurt. Your hands grip your elbows, hugging yourself tighter, even if only slightly.

Your expression settles like stone in his gut, and he knows that what he said has made you hurt. He has made you feel that same pain that tightens in his chest and floods up his throat.

Seonghwa wishes he hadn’t said that.

No matter his anger, no matter the pain, Seonghwa has never wished to pass an entity on to another.

“I’ll meet you back at the cave in a moment,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say anything else that he’ll regret. He doesn’t want to force his gaze from yours while at the same time feeling a pull towards you like a beacon, begging him to take it away. Take it all away. All the horrible entities that radiate from you like a plague, a blackened sickness.

Turning back towards the lake, he waits. When he hears the sound of your footsteps - fading away, not growing louder - he lets out a sigh of relief.

He doesn’t like what this has made him into. The anger that has filled him, strangles him, stops him from drifting towards you like a moth to a flame. Sure to be burned, but the glow will be glorious.

No, anger doesn’t suit him. And yet he wears it, draping over him, akin to a stranger’s jacket.

If there is any luck to be found following your fall from the cliff, it’s in that at least you’ve found yourselves closer to Bebbanburg.

The journey to the small kingdom only took a few hours, the fact that you had nothing to carry but the clothes on your back having sped up the trek. It was spent in silence.

You know there’s certain to be some of the black-clad men poking around in such a populous city, so upon reaching the kingdom, the first order of business was to purchase you a cloak, as Mingi’s own had remained within a satchel on the horse’s back.

It weighs down on your shoulders, knowing that it’s gone, the final piece of him you had left. You’ve tried to view it as for the better, as the cloak of a Libaiyan Royal Guard could have attracted the attention of the wrong pair of eyes.

Even so, it hurts.

The cloak you wear now isn’t nearly as nice, a tattered brown fabric that’s itchy in the spots where it touches your bare skin, but it only cost a few bronze pieces. Considering that all the group of you have to your name is the pouch of coins attached to San’s waste, you have to know where to ration your spendings.

This is only on the necessities. San is trying to locate a cheap blacksmith to fashion him a new sword. Meanwhile, Woo and Seonghwa are searching if there’s anywhere for your group to stay that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. Bebbanburg is an expensive kingdom, and so long as you find a place with a roof and walls that doesn’t blow through all of your savings, you’ll consider yourselves lucky.

With all the men on their own errands and a new cloak purchased, you’ve had about an hour to kill before now, as you currently make your way to meet them back at the city center. You’ve spent it wandering, peering into shop windows but never making your way inside. You don’t have the money to spend, nor do you want the undivided attention of a shop-keeper when you’re trying to lay low.

You’ve passed a few of your wanted posters strown up about the town, plastered to bulletin boards, poles, and shop windows alike. On top of being newly adorned with a far more accurate portrait of yourself, they’ve also added the detail of your recent scars. Printed along the bottom is the following: “Last spotted travelling with three young men. Potentially dangerous. Approach with caution.”

As an incentive due to what you assume is the elevated danger risk, they’ve increased the reward for your capture or demise to 300,000 gold pieces.

Apparently, someone at the tavern ratted the group of you out. Likely Yeosang and his band of not-so-merry men, or perhaps the poor shop-keeper desperate for a bribe.

Either way, someone is on your tail. Considering the new addition to the posters, that someone is in this city.

You haven’t seen them yet, but you know that it’s the black-clad men. They have to be lurking around here somewhere, they’re just being quiet about it.

You swallow hard, pulling the hood of your cloak further down.

Fortunately, the street’s are bustling with people. Bebbanburg, while not quite as big as the four major kingdoms, is still a hub for tourism. With money to spend, the streets are clean, the buildings well-kept. Despite being a narrow path in the merchant’s district in town, the air smells fresh.

It doesn’t feel quite right, in your opinion. Between the few towns you’ve visited these past few weeks, there was a certain scent to the air that felt more…natural. A strange concoction of smells as different taverns and homes didn’t agree on a pre-set menu for the night, dirt and pebbles aligning the trails as hunters dragged home their latest catch, or the muddy hoof-prints left by horses that stick to the bottoms of your shoes.

Bebbanburg feels too polished. The sort of polished that takes an effort, that works extra hard to rid itself of anything it deems unclean.

Trying not to obsess too much over the fact, you do your best to retrace your steps in order to return to the city center, taking a turn down another street. A slight limp to your step, ankle still not having fully recovered from your fall off the cliff, you count the shop doors that you pass along the alley’s stone wall. You kept count on your way here in order to know which alley to take back.

Counting down the doors, you pass by a butcher’s shop, cafe, and Zarian boutique for rare gems, all of which you’d passed along the way here. Gaze fluttering passively over the alley next to the boutique, you nearly miss the pair of eyes that lock on your own. Cat-like gaze fixated on yours, the bottom half of the figure's face is covered by a black cloth, their head shrouded in a dark cloak.

You pause. Hesitant, you retrace your last few steps, peering back down the alley.

The figure’s cloak follows behind them as they disappear behind a winding turn.

Swallowing down the bile that arises in your throat as an unsettled chill creeps down your spine, you keep moving along your original route. It was just a stranger. You’re paranoid, on edge, searching to find shadows and enemies in places in which they are not there.

Nevermind how something about the stranger's gaze felt oddly…familiar. Although you cannot place from where.

You continue along your original path, turning down the alley that will take you back to the city center. Glancing over your shoulder, you see nobody behind you, just the bustle of people continuing their way down the mainstreet. You mentally scold yourself. You’re being ridiculous, and casting lingering glances as you loiter in one place for too long is only going to attract attention.

When you turn forward, you catch a glimpse of movement, as something disappears behind a wall up ahead of you. “Shit,” you think to yourself, rushing forward as you place your back against the stone wall, peeking an eye out to see if you can spot them.

All you can manage is the tail end of the dark cloak disappearing down another alleyway. You wait a moment, as if contemplating how daring - or foolish - you’re willing to be, before heading after them.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper to yourself, hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at your waist as you follow after the mysterious figure. However, even if unwise, you’d rather know your enemy and have them right in front of you compared to being stalked like prey. You’ll get slain in a fair fight any day before getting your throat slit from behind.

It’s a morbid thought, something San would likely say during combat practice, and you wonder if you’ve been spending too much time with these men.

Following the stranger, you keep quiet on your feet. Pulling the sword out from its sheath, you tread carefully, slowing your pace as you near the corner that the cloak had disappeared behind. Holding the sword firm in your grasp, you take a deep and shaky breath, before jumping to face your attacker.

Only to find there is nobody there, just another barren alleyway. Another alleyway that leads to nothing but a dead end, a stone wall looming tall before you.

You frown, confused at how this is possible. Your gaze darts around the narrow alleyway, searching for a cloaked figure, but it remains entirely empty.

Letting out a troubled sigh, you resheath your sword and turn back around.

Only to be met face first with the masked stranger.

Your breath dies in your throat, and you instinctively pull an arm back, aiming to strike them. However, as you swing forward, they narrowly dodge your strike, managing to grab your wrist instead. They twist it, not so hard as to dislodge anything, but enough that it disarms you. Then, using their free hand to push you backwards, they press you up against the stone wall. Elbow against your chest and hand gripping your upper arm, their spare hand grips tightly around your other wrist, rending you immobile.

Your chest heaves, not from tiredness but scheer panic. They’ve got you. Your gaze flickers up, to scan the face of your assailant. The person that will turn you in to the black-clad men, or is perhaps one themself.

The strangers' dark eyes meet yours from beneath their thick cloak, black orbs dancing as they move to scan over your face. Cat-like in their shape, with thick eye-lashes and brows.

Then the stranger laughs.

It’s not a menacing laugh, nor one you would expect from someone who is about to kill you. Instead it’s joyous, almost disbelieving.

“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.

Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.

“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”

The stranger’s eyebrows furrow together into a look of confusion, before lighting up in realization. “Oh!” They say, before doing the last thing you would have ever expected of removing their hands from you entirely. “Of course!”

The stranger pulls off the hood of their cloak, revealing a head of long, thick red hair. They follow the removal of their hood by doing the same with their mask, and with it, you are hit with a wave of not only relief, but scheer and unadulterated joy.

“Yeji!” You nearly shout, pulling your back from the wall and wrapping your arms around your old laundress.

She chuckles, and then you are both laughing. In happiness, in relief, in sheer and utter disbelief. You pull away, placing both of your hands along her jaw to cup her face. You scan every detail, to ensure that she is real and actually standing before you, not some sort of trick or illusion.

But is her, just as you had seen her last at the castle. Maybe not exactly the same, wearing far different clothes than the modest beige dress she had adorned as your laundress, hair worn loosely, and eyes holding more of an edge than they ever had before.

Still, it is Yeji.

Yeji with the shimmering grin and freckle on her nose. Yeji who you know, and knows you in return. Yeji from your castle. Your home.

Yeji, a relic from the past that has not been destroyed.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, following me around like that,” you laugh, taking one of your hands and giving her a slap on the shoulder, playful and not hard enough to actually hurt.

“Sorry,” she grins. “I didn’t want to attract any attention on the street. Figured it would be safer to lure you somewhere quiet, and you know, I also wanted to make sure it was actually you first.”

She then scoffs, returning the slap onto your own shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to pull out a sword on me! Where did you even get one of those?”

You consider answering, but a heavy cloud of unanswered questions hangs over the two of you, its presence loud and rattling like thunder. The jovial nature to your reunion cannot last long, not when there’s so much at stake, not when your world has crumbled to ash since you last spoke.

“What are you doing in Bebbanburg?” You ask, before realizing there’s a far more pressing question at hand. “How did you get out of the castle?”

Yeji smiles, placing her hand over one of your own along her cheek. “After what happened with the king in the ball-room, it was chaos,” she explains. “The Dark Army were rounding up and capturing all those who worked in the castle and may have been close to you.”

Your heart seizes at the statement, and your voice is quiet as you speak again. “Did they hurt them?”

“I don’t know,” Yeji replies, tone equally as somber. “A group of us laundresses escaped together using the underground tunnel system. I didn’t see what happened to those they had rounded up, but…”

She swallows hard, eyes pitiful as they meet your own. “But with how The Dark Army were talking, and the screams that followed behind us…I don’t think it would have ended well for them, Princess.”

Your throat swells at her admission, and it becomes more difficult to breathe as your eyes fill with the remnants of tears. Your mind is flooded with the unwelcome image of all of your old servants - your friends, as they had far surpassed their job description - tortured to try and probe them for information regarding you.

You wipe at your eyes with your hands, stuffing down the rising guilt and pain, placing a lid on these horrible thoughts. You will mourn later, when you have the time to properly grieve and honour all that they have lost because of you. For now, you must keep moving, deal with what is right in front of you.

“You keep calling them The Dark Army,” you begin, changing the subject. “Is that a made up title, or something they’ve defined themselves as? Do we know who they are?”

Yeji shakes her head. “Nobody knows who they are, it’s just what we’ve been calling them because of their armour. Not to mention the fact that they are about the sourest men I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve spoken to them?” You ask, scolding yourself for the fear that seizes in your chest at the thought of it. Of them being anywhere near her, or anyone you care about, for that matter.

She nods. “They’re poking around the city. Trying to keep a low profile, because Bebbanburg doesn’t like any semblance of war or conflict contaminating their streets, but they’re here. We try to keep to ourselves by not causing any trouble or disturbances and they mostly leave us alone.”

Your head buzzes at the confirmation that they are here, within the walls and perhaps a mere alley-way over, which is far, far too close.

“You keep saying we,” you note. “There’s more of you?”

Yeji nods, a soft smile grazing her lips. “Lot’s of us. We’ve set up a refugee camp on the outskirts of the city. Bebbanburg doesn’t want us here, because of course they don’t, but at least it’s safe. Not much crime or Anti-Libaiyan extremists in the city, so even if it’s not much, it’s all that we can really ask for.”

If she had told you this a couple weeks ago, you’d have been startled to know that there were Anti-Libaiyan extremists at all. However, having been given insight into the monstrosities your father was capable of, this no longer comes as a surprise, but rather expected.

“Can you take me to them?” You ask, and Yeji nods.

“Of course,” she says, grabbing your hand as she begins to walk back up the alley-way. “Although, I’d recommend keeping a low-profile, seeing that you're alive might cause a little too much excitement. Draw attention.”

You nod in agreement, following behind her through the winding alley-ways. It’s not until you’re almost back on the main city street that you remember why exactly you were trekking through the alleyways in the first place.

“Wait,” you say, stopping. Yeji turns to face you, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s some people I need you to meet first.”

“Where have you been?” Woo asks as you approach. The three men have gathered around the fountain within the center of the city square, water spouting from the tall and golden statue into a small pond embedded with various coloured jewels along its rim. The falling water casts a veil of mist around them, as well as the various other groups gathered beside it. Many of them are tourists from different kingdoms, which you can recognize by the various types of clothing they wear, such as the vibrant coloured patchwork of the group next to you that is distinctly Zarian. It seems a prime spot to talk, the definition of hiding in plain sight.

“You were supposed to meet us here a half-hour ago,” Woo says with a scowl, before he notices Yeji beside you. His gaze flickers up and down, as if assessing her potential danger. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself, before motioning to her. “You guys, this is Yeji.”

She gives them a smile to which none of the men return, and for a moment you stand in silence.

“We’ve heard that one before,” Woo says.

Your face warms with embarrassment, and you clear your throat before beginning to explain. “This is the real Yeji, the girl whose name I used. She was one of my laundresses back at the castle, as well as a close friend.”

Another moment of silence follows, as none of the men appear to know what to say, or how to approach the appearance of a stranger.

Eventually, Seonghwa speaks, tone polite. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, to which Yeji returns the sentiment. Although he isn’t looking at you to see it, you cast Seonghwa a grateful smile all the same.

“This is Seonghwa, San, and Woo,” you say, pointing to each of them in turn. “They have been helping me get to Kuroku.”

“Thank you for aiding Her Highness,” Yeji says, placing a hand on her chest while delivering a curtsy. A sign of respect. Although…exceedingly formal respect.

San’s lips pull together into a stifled smile, and Woo raises an eyebrow.

“You, um, don’t have to do that,” you say, placing a hand on Yeji’s shoulder and gently tugging her upwards. “It’s not really like that.”

“Oh,” she says, straightening herself as her eyebrows raise in surprise. There’s a silence that follows, as well as a sense of discomfort that hangs in the air, as Yeji chews nervously on her lower lip.

And for all the love that you have for her, you know exactly what she��s thinking, as it’s been drilled into her since the moment she began to work at the castle: The demands of Libaiyan proprietary.

She ponders that if the relationship with this group of men escorting you is not formal, then what is it, and how far have you stretched the rules of etiquette that bind you?

You wouldn’t even know how to answer that question even if she asked.

Instead of dwelling on the subject and the lingering discomfort, you turn to Woo and Seonghwa. “Did the two of you find a place for us to stay the night?”

Woo scoffs in annoyance while Seonghwa shakes his head, defeated.

“Not anywhere reasonable,” Seonghwa says. “There’s a few places we can go if nightfall comes, but we honestly might be better off sleeping in the woods. It should be a clear night, and at least it won’t cost us an arm and a leg.”

You frown, not fond of the idea of spending yet another night on the ground, especially without a tarp or blanket to shield you from the elements.

Fortunately, Yeji pipes up from beside you. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, we’ve formed a refuge on the outskirts of the city. I believe we have an extra tent to spare.”

Now this finally causes the men’s expression to shift, the discomfort and wariness on each of their faces replaced with a glimpse of relief.

“Alright,” San says, gaze shifting over to you even as he speaks to Yeji, and his expression is difficult to read. He appears almost bemused. “Lead the way.”

The refuge, while about as bleak as you expected it to be, fills you with an undeniable sense of glee. Mostly due to how big it is, meaning that even if the mass size of the refuge indicates that there have been hundreds driven from the Libaiyan kingdom, there are also far more people who survived and escaped the castle than you’d originally thought.

Gathered just outside of Bebbanburg’s walls, dozens of the beige and tattered fabric tents are clumped together, creating a sort of maze as people make their way between the narrow passages. Head shrouded beneath your hood, the five of you pass through the different camps, ducking beneath laundry lines hanging between tent poles and maneuvering through the small groups gathered around make-shift fire pits as they roast small rodents and birds for dinner.

You watch their faces, searching amidst them for anger, for loss and resentment. While some are quiet, dark circles of tiredness hanging beneath their eyes, others are not so beaten down. There is the sound of laughter in the air, and a group of children nearly bump into you as they recklessly chase each other through the labyrinth of tents.

You smile. All is not lost.

You’d been so focused on your own survival, of getting to Kuroku alive and fighting to give your kingdom a chance, that you hadn’t realized the fear you had of there being no kingdom to fight for. Of not only the castle being besieged, but the entire kingdom being left in ashes.

Yet, even if this is so, there are still Libaiyans left. There is still a nation, full of life, that will not let themselves be stripped of their pride so easily.

“This way,” Yeji says softly, trying not to draw too much attention to your party. A group of girls wave to her as you pass by, and you recognize some of them as your kitchen maids, although you were never close enough to have learned their names.

The women are seated around a small fire. With the setting sun, they gather closed together, a blanket stretched over them. Or, upon closer look, a Libaiyan flag, its golden sun bright against its stark white background.

There is a man playing the lute sitting beside them. He has light eyes and a soft voice, fingers dancing as he strums the small wooden instrument in tune with his voice.

The man sings a Libaiyan folk song, one about a man arriving home to a small Libaiyan village after fighting many long years at war. The song doesn’t make clear which war exactly, centuries old and deriving from a time of high conflict, but it doesn’t really matter.

After all, the song is less about the war, and more about coming home. The ghosts of his fallen comrades following him, cane in hand to support his leg that will never heal, and his love having left the village to marry another man from the kingdom city.

The song is normally sung in a minor chord. It’s sad and melancholic, painting a tale of loss and grief.

However, the man currently singing has changed its tune to a major chord.

A message of triumph. Of defiance. Of the man’s survival, even after all else is lost and destroyed.

A song of hope.

You want to join them. To listen to this man sing your nation's song, to let his tune of triumph fill not only the air, but your entire body. Your heart, even your soul. Reignite the reason you started this journey, why you couldn’t give up.

These people need you. Your people need you.

Yeji wraps her arm around your wrist, giving you a gentle tug forward as you linger near the fire for a little too long.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You’ll be able to hear his voice late into the night, even from your tent.”

You aren’t sure how to respond, how to depict your gratitude for all of this. For her taking you in and letting you hear these songs that you weren’t so sure you’d ever hear again, for being alive and granting you hope.

All you can do is reach to give her hand a soft squeeze, and hope she understands.

Yeji stops before a small tent, one that doesn’t seem big enough for two men, let alone three. “I know it isn’t much, but I hope it will do.”

“It’ll do,” Seonghwa answers with a smile.

“Especially considering we have no luggage,” Woo grumbles.

If Yeji hears the dissatisfaction in his voice, she doesn’t show it. “My own tent is just over there,” she says, pointing to what is only a few tents over. It’s a bit larger than the one before you, although not by much. She turns to you. “You can stay with me.”

You’re grateful for the sentiment, considering none of the men - except maybe San - would enjoy being forced to share such close quarters with you.

“There’s a table inside, if you’d all like to sit and regroup. I can catch you up on all that has happened since the siege,” Yeji says.

Her gaze flickers over to the three men, and it is hesitant. Curious, as it returns to you. “And you can do the same.”

“Scorpion beasts, a mimic, and a dragon-basilisk hybrid all in just a few weeks?” Yeji gapes, hands clutching tight around her mug of hot tea, as if she needs something to hold onto. “And you’re alive?”

“I take it your journey here wasn’t so exciting?” San asks, sipping his own mug. He seems in good spirits today, as he willingly engages in conversation with Yeji. Especially compared to Seonghwa - who is more hesitant, likely less willing to jump the gun on trusting a new stranger - and Woo, who sits with his eyes bearing down into the table, not touching his mug even as the tea inside grows cold.

“No, we took the main path down the Arila River, so far less rural,” Yeji explains. “Although it was a good thing you didn’t do the same. There were Dark Army ports all along its bank. We were stopped and searched at every one of them.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learnt from Yeji’s recollection of the besiegement and the time that followed, it’s that the black-clad men are relentless in their pursuit. They want you, at any cost. You only wish you knew who they were, so at least then you’d know why.

“I really am glad you’re alive, Princess,” Yeji says suddenly, hand drifting to rest on your own atop the table. “Libaiya has a chance to be strong again, so long as your blood sits on the throne. You’ll make the perfect Queen.”

You open your mouth to thank her, albeit bashfully, but are cut off as Woo pushes himself from the table. It rattles in protest, although the elemental does not seem to care, as he stomps towards the tent-flap. He does not meet any of your eyes as he disappears beneath it.

“I’m sorry,” Yeji says, tone worried. “Did I say something to-”

“It’s not you,” San reassures her. “He’s just been dealing with a lot lately.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” you say, because you have a feeling about what may be bothering him. Your blood, as Yeji had said. Although to him, it’s more like poison.

“No,” Seonghwa cuts you off, already rising to his feet. “You shouldn’t, I don’t think he’d take it well. I’ll go.”

You want to protest, as Seonghwa does not know about Woo’s past, about the orphanage. The Libaiyan orphanage, and all the horrors that happened there. But the empath is already heading towards the tent flap, and the words die on your lips.

Even so, maybe he is right. Woo is upset, upset about you and your nation, perhaps you are not the one who should attempt to console him. Besides, Seonghwa has always been far better at that.

Yet, as you watch Seonghwa disappear after Woo, you have the sinking feeling it may not go as the empath plans.

Wooyoung cannot breathe.

Making his way blindly through the darkness of the refuge, the sun having set over the horizon, he pushes past Libaiyan’s as he heads for the exit. They turn and look at him as he shoves past, and he wonders if they know. If they can smell it on him.

“You were his,” they whisper as he walks by, or is that just in his head? “One of his dogs. Our dogs. A machine for use. Worthless.”

The last word is in Warden’s voice, and Wooyoung places a hand over his ears to try and tune it out. The other clutching his chest.

He can’t breathe. By the god’s, he really can’t breathe.

Each short pant is as unsatisfying as the next. He feels dizzy, wanting to summon a ball of flame to guide him, but he can’t seem to move his hands in front of him. He pushes forward, searching for an exit through the mazes of tents.

Then he’s covered in something. It’s thin, engulfing him, and panic rises hot in his chest. They’ve gotten him. Again. It’s happening again. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

It’s only after nobody attempts to drag him away and he gets a whiff of soap that he realizes that what covers him is not a bag, but someone's laundry. With shaky hands, he untangles himself from the fabric, before glancing down at his captor.

It’s a Libaiyan flag.

The bright, golden, and horrible sun stares back at him. The same one hung in the cafeteria, the one he pledged allegiance to three times a day. The one plastered atop the ceiling of his bedroom, watching him every night. The one deckled on Warden’s shoulder, as he tortured them relentlessly, as he murdered Yeonjun.

Wooyoung throws it to the ground, hands still shaking as he walks over it, the dirt on the bottom of his shoe stark against the flag’s white background.

“Woo!” A voice calls from behind him, but it sounds far away. Maybe it’s also just in his head. He keeps walking.

He can hear the sound of the same man singing as when you’d all entered the camp. He has a nice voice as he sings Libaiyan songs. Songs he’s never heard. Songs that were reserved for Libaiyan citizens, not slaves.

Wooyoung’s throat burns with the taste of Libaiyan tea. Only one sip, and it will not leave his tongue.

It tasted like the infirmary tent after Assessment Day in the orphanage. Before Warden got there, but not before Wooyoung got beaten within the sparring ring. They’d given him the tea to calm him down, try and make him forget the burns lacing up and down his arms.

With the taste on his tongue it’s as if he can feel them again, the searing pain starting in his mind and seeping into his skin.

“Woo, hold on!” The voice calls again, closer than the last. This time Wooyoung knows it’s not in his head, as he recognizes it to be Seonghwa. The sound of foot-steps follows behind him, as the empath chases after him.

He does not turn around. He needs to get out of this place.

Wooyoung begins to run.

Tearing through the refuge, he sees Bebbenburg’s outer walls appear ahead of him, the light emitted from the lanterns hung on the outside fortress drawing him in like a beacon.

When he reaches the wall, he makes sure to take a few steps inside and past the gates, to ensure that he is no longer within Libaiyan territory. Here, he is within the Kuroken realm. Safe.

He pauses to catch his breath, less from the running and more from the panic that has seized him. Hands placed on his knees, Wooyoung lets the foggy haze fade from his mind, although it does not relinquish control so easily. His heart continues to race, ears ringing with a constant buzz.

Wooyoung doesn’t know why this is affecting him so horribly. He’s been to the Libaiyan castle since entering the orphanage, having stolen plenty of Libaiyan treasures and heirlooms on their heists within the castle.

Then again, that was in the dark of the night, when there were no songs to be sung or tea to be drunk. When the flags were shrouded in pure shadow, not wrapped around him like bonds of rope.

That was when he was in control. That was when he was taking from them. That was revenge.

That was before he entangled himself with their princess.

“Woo, what the hell?” Seonghwa asks as he approaches, slightly out of breath from chasing down the elemental. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” Wooyoung says, because it is all he can manage. He doesn’t look up at Seonghwa, instead staring at the cobblestone beneath his shoes, blinking blearily as he tries to direct his focus to its stone patch-work.

“Why did you just storm out of there?” Seonghwa asks. He’s not mad. Not yet. He genuinely wishes to know.

“Because of what that woman said,'' Wooyoung answers in his mind. “Because it’s true, she is the Libaiyan throne. Because it is her blood that’s done all of this. That did this to me.”

Wooyoung, of course, does not actually say any of this out loud. Seonghwa won’t understand. He doesn’t know, not only about Wooyoung’s past, but the orphanages in general. He’s from a small town within Zaria’s realm, far away from any news about Libaiyan political treachery.

He won’t get it, and Wooyoung isn’t going to even bother to try and explain it to him, especially when his tongue feels three sizes too large and his heart beats at a million times per minute.

“Leave me alone, Hwa,” he mutters, turning away from Seonghwa and heading deeper into Bebbanburg, hoping the empath will take the hint and piss off.

But he doesn’t, because after all, it’s Seonghwa. The blonde follows after him. “Where are you going to go, Woo? You saw the poster, it’s better to stay together, keep a low profile.”

“Leave me alone, Hwa,” Wooyoung repeats, beginning to walk faster, tone a little more pointed.

“Is this about her?” Seonghwa asks, and now his own tone is rising, annoyed as has to jog to catch up to the elemental. “Look I know you’re mad, I am too. But can’t you just push that aside? We’re almost to Kuroku, then we’ll be past it. We can move on.”

“Right. We’ll get to Kuroku. She’ll leave. San will leave. And then inevitably, you will too.”

After being met with silence, Seonghwa lets out a groan of annoyance, continuing to chase after him.

“Woo, stop!” He calls, reaching out to grab Wooyoung’s arm. Wooyoung slaps his hand away, perhaps a little harder than he should have. “Can’t we just talk about this? Can’t we have an actual conversation for once instead of you shoving me away?”

Wooyoung keeps moving, because no, they can’t. Not right now. Not like this. Not when he can’t think straight.

“I don’t get what you have to be so mad about anyway!”

Wooyoung stops at this, finally turning around to face Seonghwa. “What?”

Seonghwa stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and mouth parted with surprise that Wooyoung actually stopped. Then he frowns, eyebrows furrowing together, as if remembering his annoyance.

“Yes, she lied to you,” Seonghwa starts. “And I know it sucks. But it’s San’s money on the line, and clearly he’s been able to forgive her.”

Seonghwa swallows hard. “And even if I haven’t been able to do the same, even after all she’s done to me I’m willing to swallow my own feelings to get this journey done. For them.”

Them. By that Seonghwa means San and you. You, after all that you have done - to Seonghwa, to San, to Wooyoung himself - he’s still choosing you.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t, Hwa!” Wooyoung says, and now he’s shouting. It’s good. The anger provides him comfort, something familiar to latch onto. “She used you! She used all of us! I know you have this deep-seeded issue of thinking everyone and everything has good in them, but open your eyes! Not all that glitters is fucking gold! A pair of pretty eyes doesn’t repair what she’s done, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t rotten inside!”

“Just as you are too,” a voice reminds him within his mind, but he ignores it.

Seonghwa opens his mouth to cut back, but Wooyoung is not finished. “She lied through her teeth, and you’re really just going to let it slide? Keep quiet because it’ll make things easier for her? For the sake of the gods, grow a spine!”

“Why do you care so much about what I do?” Seonghwa yells back, taking a step towards Wooyoung. Seonghwa’s fist is clenched at his side, and for a moment Wooyoung thinks that Seonghwa might actually hit him. He almost wishes he would.

“Why do you care if I forgive her? Why do you care so much about whether I let people walk all over me? Why do you care?”

Wooyoung doesn’t know why he does it.

Maybe it’s the way his mind still buzzes from moments prior, hazy and foggy and unable to think of anything beyond his anger. Anything beyond the way his heart pounds rapidly and vision blurs with an anxious haze.

Maybe it’s the way Seonghwa’s words sting, more than Wooyoung wants to admit, and he wishes to prove the man wrong. Show him that it’s not so simple. Win, in a strange and possibly fucked up way, but win nonetheless.

Or maybe, more than anything, it’s the way Seonghwa is looking at him. Big brown eyes scanning his face, full of anger, but also passion. Desperately searching for an answer, as if there will be a solution to the enigma that is Wooyoung hidden somewhere on the elemental’s face.

Wooyoung knows what the answer is that Seonghwa seeks.

It’s the part of himself that Wooyoung has never admitted exists. The part that he has shoved down, smothered, pretended wasn’t there. The part that flutters at the sound of Seonghwa whining at his teasing. The part that stalls when Seonghwa lets his hand fall onto Wooyoung’s shoulder, thinking nothing of it, simply trying to get the elemental's attention or leaning in to point out something in the distance.

The part that broke the first night you and Seonghwa spent together. Defeated, angry, and beaten down, crawling into his bed that night in a drunken stooper, aching at the thought of the elemental being intimate with someone. Well, someone else.

The part that he once again shoved away the next morning, and had every day before and has every day since.

It’s that part of himself that he’s dejected and ignored that now comes crawling to the surface, invited by Seonghwa’s searching eyes, that unleashes its presence in a way that will make itself known. That will ensure it will no longer be forgotten, that it cannot be ignored or subdued again.

That part of Wooyoung unleashes itself in the form of a kiss.

It’s a horrible one, teeth smashing into teeth as Wooyoung grabs onto the collar of Seonghwa’s tunic and roughly pulls the man into him. In fact, it’s less of a kiss compared to two faces smashing together, Seonghwa clearly not prepared for it, but the message is sent all the same.

Wooyoung holds him there for three seconds, which feel far more like an eternity as they pass by.

Then Wooyoung pushes Seonghwa off of him, letting go of the man’s collar as the blonde stumbles back.

For a moment they stand in silence, and it’s a deafening one. Seonghwa’s hand drifts up to his lips, grazing them, eyes wide as he stares at Wooyoung. He’s clearly in a state of shock, as he says nothing, just stares with his mouth parted open in disbelief.

“There,” Wooyoung breathes. “Do you get it?”

Seonghwa continues to stare at him. Then his eyebrows furrow together, and when he begins to speak, Seonghwa’s tone is incredulous. “Woo, what are you-”

“Forget it,” Wooyoung cuts him off, because he doesn’t want to know what Seonghwa is going to say. He doesn’t want to hear the empath call him crazy, ask him what the hell he’s thinking.

Because Wooyoung doesn’t know the answer to that either. The mind-numbing fog has returned to his head, his heart racing even faster than it had before.

He needs to get out of here.

“Just go back to the tent, Hwa,” Wooyoung says, and then his feet are set in motion. He heads deeper into Bebbanburg, away from the Libaiyan tent. Away from you and San. Away from what he’s done, the irreversible mistake he just made.

He runs away, and this time Seonghwa doesn’t follow him.

“What were you thinking, what were you thinking, what were you thinking?” Wooyoung repeats the question to himself over and over again in his head, trying to make sense of what he’s done.

The look of bewilderment on Seonghwa’s face, followed by incredulity. Shock, then disbelief. Almost angry, and why shouldn’t he be? How could Wooyoung do something like this? Something so blatantly stupid and thoughtless?

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

Wooyoung still cannot come up with an answer, because frankly, he wasn’t thinking. And he still can’t.

He turns down one of the many alley’s surrounding him, head buzzing, not a clue of where he’s going. All he knows is that it’s away, and for now, that is enough for him.

Wooyoung closes his eyes, hand trailing along the wall beside him as he runs. He feels silly, running with his eyes closed, but he cannot bring himself to keep them open. This way, the world around him fades. He can simply be moving, feel the air rush past him, and pretend that nothing happened.

There are no Libaiyan refugees a few alleyways over. He does not care for the Liabiyan princess, nor did he lose San a mere night ago. He did not reveal his feelings to a man he loves and ruin their entire friendship in one fell swoop.

He is merely running in the darkness, chest heaving for air, fingers scraping along the cobblestone wall.

Maybe, if he keeps running like this, he’ll actually have escaped it all.

Or maybe, running like this is not such an acceptable option, as it stops him from noticing the figure that has been following after him.

Wooyoung does not notice he is being followed until it is too late. Until he’s already been shoved sideways, face smacking into the stone wall beside him.

At the very least, the blows knock him from his stupor, and his eyes fly open as he stumbles. Whirling to face his attacker, fire ignites immediately within his hand, dancing in between his fingers.

However, the second he turns, he’s met with a swift punch to the jaw that catches him off guard. Mostly because it does not come from where he can feel the man beside him - who now pins Wooyoung’s wrist to the alley-wall - but from the other side.

It’s not one attacker, but many.

“Shit,” Wooyoung thinks to himself, spitting out the blood that fills his mouth, the metallic taste thick on his tongue and gritty between his teeth. Eyes searching the darkness around him, his attackers are nothing more than blurs within the night, and he gives the one in front of him a swift kick to the groin. The man lets out a long string of curses, and Wooyoung uses the opportunity to try and rush forward.

It’s of no use, as another man (or two, maybe even three?) pins his wrists to the wall.

It’s not the most efficient way to capture a person, as it leaves their legs functional to kick and mouth free to spit, bite, or scream for help.

Unless, of course, you’re capturing an elemental.

Wooyoung tries to summon fire into his hands, and while it manages to dance around his fingers, the inability to move his arms stops him from managing anything greater. He tries to summon the flame with only his mind, staring at his hand with sheer determination. He knows it’s possible, he’s done it before. Once. The night Yeonjun died.

Of course, he didn’t exactly mean to, and apparently it isn’t the sort of thing he can do by will, as his hands remain barren of flame.

Instead, he’s left helpless, pulling against the grips of the men that bind him. His eyes dart amongst the shadows that surround them, and he tally’s roughly ten of them, although he’s certain that there’s more as he hears shouts from down the alley-way.

One of the men’s hands digs into Wooyoung’s hair, pulling his head forward before slamming it back into the stone-wall. Hard.

Stars dance before Wooyoung, and a darkness creeps into the corners of his vision. He continues to kick out in front of him, although each swing is far weaker than the last, as the pain leaves him sluggish.

The man yanks on his hair again, before slamming his head back into the wall once more, and suddenly Wooyoung is on the ground.

He doesn’t remember crumpling, but the stone pathway is cold against his back, so he must have passed out for a moment. He opens his eyes, vision swaying as he tries to make out the men surrounding him.

He can vaguely spot the face of the man above him. Middle-aged, with a dark beard and intense eyes. He speaks to someone beside him, although Wooyoung’s mind is too muddled to make out the actual words.

Likely not thugs then, as they aren’t even bothering to hide their identities. Besides, there’s too many of them to be a regular mugging. Too conspicuous, so it must be targeted.

But if it’s targeted, then who are they?

“W-who?” He asks, because the full sentence is far too much effort. His words are slurred and he sounds drunk. Which to be fair is an awful lot like how he feels.

The man above him doesn’t answer, but instead places a hand on Wooyoung’s throat, silencing him. With his other two hands, the man pins Wooyoung’s wrists to the ground.

No, no, that doesn’t make any sense. He can't have three hands. Which means it must be somebody else pinning his wrists to the ground, as well as another that slips the cloth bag over his head. How many were there again?

By the god’s Wooyoung really can’t think right now.

“Knock him out,” one of the men speaks from above him. Now that Wooyoung can make out.

Then the world goes black.

“And he seriously didn’t tell you where he was going?” San asks, arms crossed as he leans against the training post outside of the men’s tent. It’s covered in grooves, clearly crafted by a sword, and one in the hands of someone not too pleased. A testament to San’s opinion on Woo not returning to the refuge last night.

“I already told you,” Seonghwa replies. His tone is also frustrated as he sits at an outside table, fingers tapping anxiously in rhythm with his jittering leg. “No. He didn’t.”

“He just took off?” San repeats, and you can understand why Seonghwa is becoming a bit annoyed. It’s also the third time you’ve heard San ask, although you have a feeling the swordsman isn’t actually expecting the answer to change. He simply wants to hear it again, to let him fuel the flame of his annoyance. “Without a word? Without a reason? Out into a city we’re currently being hunted in?”

Seonghwa’s eyes shift to the ground. “Yes.”

“And you let him?”

Seonghwa scowls at this. “What did you want me to do? You know Woo, he’s going to do what he wants no matter what anyone says or thinks.”

Seonghwa has been in a sour mood all morning, and something tells you there may be a little more to Woo leaving than he may be letting on. However, now is not the time to ponder what it might be, nor is it the time to start a fight. You simply need to find him.

“Let’s not start bickering with one another just because Woo’s not around to start it,” you say, attempting to remedy the argument before it can start. Fortunately, neither of the men are overly confrontational, at least not with each other.

“You’re right,” San sighs, turning to Seonghwa. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed, I know it’s not your fault.”

Seonghwa gives San a sort of half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before staring back down at his shoes. He appears to immediately lose himself in thought, knee bouncing anxiously.

Yeah, something definitely happened last night.

“This isn’t like him,” San says, pulling his sword out from his sheath and spinning it around in his hand. A nervous habit. “Staying out for the night, sure. But he’s always back by the next day. Always.”

With morning long past, the sun high in the sky with the arrival of late noon, San’s statement of “always” is replaced with “until today”, and a sense of uneasiness passes through you.

Something is wrong. You can feel it.

And with both San’s sword spinning in his hand and the sound of Seonghwa’s fingers tapping the table, you know that they can feel it too.

“I think we should go looking for him,” you say, expecting immediate approval. Instead both men look at you, and San shoots Seonghwa a side glance, to which the empath returns.

“What?” You ask, uncomfortable at the fact that it appears they’re both in on something you’re not.

San sighs. “You shouldn’t come.”

“What?” You say, this time with far more anger than confusion. “If Woo’s in danger then of course I’m going to come-”

“If Woo’s in danger then it’s likely because of the men who are looking for you,” San cuts you off, and while his tone is not accusatory, it is pointed.

You prepare a rebuttal, but it dies on your lips. San is right.

If the black-clad men have done something to Woo, then you going looking for him is likely exactly what they would want for you to do. While the stubborn part of you wants to go anyway, put Woo’s safety before your own. Be daring, bold, and perhaps a little stupid, just as Woo is in the face of danger, you know that this is not an option.

You need to get to Kuroku, and if you aren’t yet certain of the danger Woo may be in, you cannot afford to take such blatant risks.

“Alright,” you say, tone defeated as Seonghwa rises to his feet, San making his way towards the path leading outside of the refuge.

You don’t manage the next words until they’ve already left. Leaving you alone, face shrouded by your hood, suddenly aware of the wind’s chill nipping at your skin. The seasons are turning.

“Good luck.”

They are back sooner than you expected.

You sit at a table with Yeji, playing a game of Skirmish. A traditional Libaiyan game meant for children, due to the fact it has few rules and never really ends, so it can keep them occupied for hours. You didn’t particularly want to play, but Yeji said it might help to keep your mind distracted. You figured it was worth a shot.

It didn’t work.

However, it doesn’t matter, as when both San and Seonghwa approach from down the refuge’s path, the cards are forgotten. Tossing your deck to the side, you give San a look, one that asks: “Any luck?”. Although, you’re fairly certain of the answer, as there is no Woo in tow behind them.

San does not give you a look of his own. In fact, he does nothing. He simply stares back at you, a dead look to his eye.

It’s that look, the emptiness of it, that tells you something has gone wrong.

“What happened?” You ask as he approaches, although San does not reply. Instead he gives Seonghwa a fleeting glance, and the blonde meets it. His own expression is not as empty as San’s. In fact, it is the opposite. Brimming with emotion, Seonghwa’s eyes hold worry, mouth drawn tight, jaw clenched. A look of nothing less than pure fear.

“Seonghwa?” You ask, your own worry settling deep in your chest. Something has gone wrong, but what, and how badly?

The blonde doesn’t answer you with words, instead he moves towards the table. You hadn’t noticed before, but he holds something in his hands. The paper is a light tan colour, the size also familiar, and you recognize it to be one of your wanted posters. Immediately you're confused, as why would Seonghwa show you one of these? You’ve already seen dozens of them plastered all over Bebbanburg.

However, as he lays it down onto the table, the answer is blatantly obvious.

The paper is smeared with blood. The red stark against its light colouring, it doesn’t coat the poster fully, but is rather smothered haphazardly, the semblance of fingerprints notable. It’s testament to a job done quickly, as whoever did this did so with one purpose: to get a message across.

The message is made even more clear by the thick, dark lock of hair tied to the corner of the page.

Woo’s.

Beneath the lock of hair is writing, scrawled in black ink.

The Concursos Mountain Pass.

Three Days.

Wooyoung awakens to the back of his head pounding in a violent, aching fashion. The world sways in front of him, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is exactly.

However, at the sight of tarps on all sides of him, the tent coated in darkness as only the light of the setting evening sun is able to get through, he remembers.

Right, the Libaiyan refuge.

Wooyoung groans, blinking as he tries to get his eyes to focus, his pounding head making his thoughts difficult to string together.

He moves his hand, attempting to wipe the sweat beading along his forehead, only to realize that he can’t.

His hands are tied.

Eyebrows furrowing together, he looks over his shoulder. The chains that tie his wrists to the chair that he sits in are thick and made of iron. If he tried to melt his bonds with the fire between his fingers, rather than catching fire like rope, they’d heat up and burn his wrists.

“What the…” He croaks out, throat raspy. Who would have tied him to a chair? Surely not Seonghwa or San. Not very likely you, as he couldn't see what good that would do you. Maybe your friend, the Libaiyan patriot? But why?

Wait.

Wooyoung’s brain pauses, mind doing a double-take as he stares at his bonds, noting bruising along his wrist. The massive purple marks are dark against his bronzed skin, and are almost line-shaped, as if someone had been holding him.

No, he’s not in the Libaiyan refuge, he’s somewhere else.

The memories of last night come rushing back to him. Running from the tent. The fight with Seonghwa. The subsequent kiss with Seonghwa.

His capture.

The shock of it is enough to cause Wooyoung to jolt awake, mind finally clearing even if the pain at the back of his head does not subside.

As if sensing Wooyoung’s realization, a man appears from under the tent-flap. He’s older, his face like a worn-glove, leathery and wrinkled in its places most used. His dark hair is cropped short, although his beard remains long, as well as scruffy.

Most notably, he’s dressed entirely in black armour. One of your predators.

“Ah, good. You’re awake,” the man says, and his voice is not as deep as Wooyoung expected.

“Who are you and-”

“Don’t speak. Not everyone has arrived yet,” the man cuts him off dismissively. “Besides, we’ll be the ones asking the questions.”

“Oh, my mistake, I thought-”

Wooyoung doesn’t know why he is surprised by the slap, but he is. Maybe because he hadn’t even had the chance to say the insult he was planning yet. Usually the hit would at least come afterwards.

These men, they aren’t playing around, that is clear.

His cheek stings, and he can imagine the bright red mark appearing along his skin as more men in dark armour appear from under the tent-flap. Wooyoung is surprised by the amount of them that manage to crowd into the space, almost a dozen.Then again, it is a big tent. Mostly empty, other than a small table in the corner, scattered with a variety of knick-knacks and spices that seem non-sensensical. Lunadore pollen, silver beads, Alagor Root, and a bunch of other rare ingredients the Wooyoung does not have time to make sense of, although set him on edge nonetheless.

If they plan to torture him, the table should be full of knives. Hammers. Maybe a few pliers to pull off his fingernails. Not plants.

The man who slapped him - their leader, it seems - clears his throat, and the group of men fall silent. Each of them turn to face Wooyoung, eyes glinting with something dark, something that says that they know more than he does.

Wooyoung makes sure to give each of them in turn a glare.

“I’m sure you know who we are by now,” the man says.

Wooyoung considers playing dumb, maybe earning himself a matching slap on the other cheek. However, he needs information, which means at least for now he must play along.

“You attacked the Libaiyan castle. Killed their king,” Wooyoung answers, meeting the man’s gaze. His eyes are sharp, intimidating, and Wooyoung makes sure not to look away. Not to show any fragility. Even if he has been made into the weakest in the room, he need not show it.

“People have been calling you The Dark Army,” Wooyoung says, and then because he can’t help himself, adds: “Cute name. Very scary. Did you come up with it yourselves?”

The man doesn’t answer his question, but instead smirks. “If you know who we are, I’m sure you also know what we’re looking for.”

You. That’s the answer the man wants. But Wooyoung won’t give that to him. “Power?” He ventures instead. “Glory? Access to the king’s many bejeweled robes?”

The man steps forward, grabbing Wooyoung's face in his hand. His fingers squeeze Wooyoung’s jaw, so much so that it not only hurts, but prevents him from speaking.

“Enough playing coy,” the man says. He still does not seem angry, face blank and tone almost bored as he grips Wooyoung’s face between his fingers. “Tell me where she is.”

He eases his grip just enough to let Wooyoung speak. “Where who is?”

The man’s grip tightens once again, fingernails digging into the elemental’s skin, and Wooyoung forces himself not to wince. “The girl you’ve been running all over Burovia with. The princess turned convict. Ring any bells?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wooyoung manages. At this the man lets go of his jaw, but it’s only to deliver another slap that burns along his cheek. The man grips his jaw again, and Wooyoung struggles to focus on the man’s face, blinking away the stars that dance across his vision.

“Yes, you do,” the man says, and this time his tone is almost soft, gentle as he attempts to coax out an answer. Somehow it’s far more unsettling than the blankness. “Is she with the refugees? At one of the hostels, or even a tavern?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth. This time the man does not slap him, but instead grips his hair as he brings Wooyoung face down into his knee. Pain radiates from his nose through the rest of his face, and when the man lifts him back up, it takes Wooyoung a moment to register the man’s face before him through the blurriness.

It’s not until now that Wooyoung realizes the severity of the danger that he is in.

They want him to hand you over to them, and Wooyoung can’t do that.

But why can’t he do that? It would be the easiest thing to do. Nobody would blame him, after everything that you’ve done, especially if it came down to choosing between his own life or yours. San and Seonghwa would understand.

You are the Libaiyan Princess. Your family sent him to the orphanage. Turning you in would rid himself of the volatile confusion that has plagued him, it would fulfill the dream that his younger self wished for every night and morning. So why can’t he do it?

He knows the answer. How he feels towards you has grown beyond hatred. It’s grown beyond mere toleration for San and Seonghwa’s sake. It’s grown beyond the excuses he’s been telling himself for weeks.

He’s not going to hand you over to them to die, no matter what that may mean for himself. Unfortunately, what that may mean for himself is not looking good.

“You’re going to tell us,” the man states, not to persuade, but to simply state as fact. “It’s just a matter of how much you’re willing to put yourself through before you do.”

“Well I have nothing but time,” Wooyoung answers, grinning, and he knows his teeth are bloody. Can feel the grittiness on his teeth, or maybe that’s still from the night before.

The man smiles back. “You have three days.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m just such lovely company?”

“Because that’s how long we’ve given her to come find you.”

Wooyoung pauses at this, and he knows he’s shown a glimpse of weakness. How did they get a message to you? Is he bluffing?

Would you really be stupid enough to come after him?

“Nobody will come,” Wooyoung says, and even he can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Surely you wouldn’t come after him. Not when you’re so close to Kuroku, to San’s freedom. You have to keep going, there’s no way you, San, and Seonghwa could take on a dozen armed and highly trained men, especially considering there’s more of them out there somewhere. It would be pointless, a suicide mission.

But Wooyoung also knows that none of you would leave him behind to die.

“That’s fine,” the man says with a shrug. “Either she comes to us, or we go to her with the information you’ll give us. It doesn’t matter.”

“You aren’t going to be able to torture anything out of me,” Wooyoung says with a scoff, tilting his chin up, defiant. “Pain? Yeah, I’ve been through my share.”

The corner of the man’s lip curves upward, eyes gleaming. “I know. That’s what they told me.”

Wooyoung frowns. They?

The man chuckles at Wooyoung’s weary expression, finally letting go of his hold on the elemental’s jaw. The group of soldiers step back, creating a pathway for him as the man heads over to the table covered with rare ingredients and spices.

The man begins to fiddle around with them, although what exactly he’s doing Wooyoung can’t make out, his vision obscured by the other men standing before him.

“Do you know what they say about those whose body cannot be broken?” The man calls over his shoulder, and Wooyoung catches a glimpse of what is in his hand: a small bowl and mallet, which he uses to grind down the Alagor Root.

“No,” Wooyoung answers, wary.

“Break their mind instead,” the man states, holding up a small vial of purple liquid that Wooyoung cannot identify, before pouring into the bowl. A strange, dark and odorous smoke wafts up from the concoction. It smells like something burning, although what exactly Wooyoung cannot place. That is, until he can. It’s burnt flesh. It reminds him of the infirmary tent, of his scorched arms.

An inkling of fear settles into Wooyoung’s chest as he becomes increasingly aware of the bonds on his wrist. He can’t move, run, fight back, or do anything, really.

For a man with so much power, he’s grown accustomed to never feeling powerless. For a moment, it’s like he’s thirteen again. At Warden’s disposal and no fire to call his own.

The man places the empty vile back down on the table, before grabbing something else Wooyoung cannot see, although he can hear the sizzling noise it makes as he adds it to the bowl.

Wooyoung cannot take the silence any longer, his curiosity - or better, fear - overtaking him. “What are you doing?” He asks.

Instead of answering him, the man begins to mutter something beneath his breath, making a strange circular motion with his hand above the bowl, which he has set back down on the table. Wooyoung cannot make out what he is saying, but the way the words leave his lips is almost rhythmic, like a priest delivering a chant.

Wooyoung scowls, opening his mouth to interrogate the other men around him as to what the hell is going on, but the words die on his tongue. He knows what the man is doing.

It’s part of the Old Faith. Old Magic.

Dark magic.

Wooyoung has never been a devoted servant to the gods. In fact, for all of his life he’s hated them. He hated them as a child for giving him a gift he could not use. He hated them as a teenager for cursing him with the power to destroy everything he held dear. He hates them as an adult for idly standing by as all of the horrible events of his childhood tumbled down one after the other.

However, even with his hatred towards the gods, he’s always considered worshiping them to be far more understandable than the Old Faith. More particularly, the Old Magic aspect.

It’s a breach of order. If the gods blessed the gifted with their powers, then Old Magic defies that. It’s taking from the earth what was not given to you. It’s blasphemous. Immoral and unnatural. At its very core wrong.

Wooyoung tugs at the chains around his wrists, which clatter in protest. Panic begins to rise in his chest, as one thought fills his head: “What the fuck are they going to do to me?”

The man finishes his chant, before digging into his pocket and pulling out a miniature knife. He uses it to create a small cut along the tip of his finger, holding it above the bowl as a drop of blood collects around the wound, before dropping into the potion.

Smiling to himself in satisfaction, the man takes the bowl with him as he heads back towards Wooyoung. Stopping before him, the man takes a moment to meet the elemental’s eyes, that glimmer of darkness potent within his gaze.

Wooyoung does not look away, but by the gods, he wants to.

“Well,” the man says. “Open up.”

Wooyoung keeps his mouth shut, lips pursing together. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, feeling its thump throughout his entire body. He can’t drink that. He isn’t sure what it will do, but he knows that its something horrible.

It will break his mind. That is what the man had said.

And while Wooyoung has always had confidence in his abilities, perhaps even relied on himself more than he should, for the first time that confidence falters.

“So this is what it takes for you to be quiet,” the man jests, earning a few chuckles from the others around him. “Good to know.”

When Wooyoung doesn’t reply, the man nods to a couple of the soldiers beside him. “Open his mouth.”

Four of the men approach him, and Wooyoung fights against the bonds of his chair, even if he knows it’ll be pointless. The chains against his wrists and ankles hold him still, and as two of the men grab his shoulders to stop the chair from rattling, he’s left with nothing but twisting his face away from the men who grab at him.

Hands blur across his vision as he feels one of the men press an arm to his throat. Another digs into his scalp, pulling his hair in order to bring his head back and face upwards. Fingers claw at the crevices of his face, digging beneath his cheekbones, into his ears, scratching along his lips.

It’s overwhelming, but Wooyoung stays focused, repeating over and over again in his mind, “Don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth.”

It’s not until the elbow pressing into his throat has been there for a little too long that Wooyoung registers that he needs to breathe. Black lines creeping into the corners of his vision, head beginning to feel foggy, he does his best to ignore it.

Until he can’t any longer. Against his mind’s will, when the man removes his elbow from the elemental’s throat, Wooyoung gasps for air.

The men do not waste the opportunity.

Fingers dig themselves into his mouth, and while he attempts to bite down on them, their force is too strong as the many hands pull back his cheeks. Limbs bound, hair pinned, and face pulled back, he’s left helpless as the man with the bowl approaches him.

As the man lifts the bowl above the elemental’s face, a smile grazes over his lips, and Wooyoung knows that he is enjoying this.

The liquid burns as it pours down his throat, rubbing like sand-paper along his tongue. It tastes familiar. Like stale bread, but worse. Rotten with mold. Wooyoung gags but the man does not stop, not until the final drops fall from the bowl and into his open mouth.

The men do not release him until he swallows the concoction, and he feels it as it settles down into his gut, twisting and turning like cheap whiskey.

Wooyoung attempts to catch his breath, chest heaving and sweat beading along his forehead as he looks at the man before him. He continues to smile that awful, wretched grin, empty bowl in hand.

“See? Now that wasn’t so hard,” the man says, for no other reason but to rub salt in the wound.

Wooyoung spits on his shoes.

The man does nothing, merely takes a few steps back as he continues to watch Wooyoung with an analytical gaze, as if observing whatever the hell is supposed to happen. For a few moments, Wooyoung feels nothing but the tension that hangs in the room as all of the men stare at him. He feels like a monster in a cage, like one of those griffin’s from a traveling circus he saw passing through Gloria many years ago. Undeniably dangerous, but stripped down to a mere display for people to gawk at.

Then he notices it. It doesn’t start as much, more of a feeling in the back of his mind than anything else. An uncomfortable tingling sensation creeping through him, like an itch beneath his skin, little prickles of worry like ants tunneling through his veins.

He blinks, and his vision goes blurry.

The men in front of him transform into foggy statues and he blinks again, but instead of focusing it only gets worse. He swallows hard, only to find his throat has gone dry, the saliva refusing to go down.

Heat settles itself in his gut, rising into his chest as an aching sensation washes through him. Wooyoung lets out a low whine, one that under any other circumstances would humiliate him, but he can’t bring himself to worry about that right now. Not when his body feels as if it’s rejecting him.

“What did you do to me?” Wooyoung asks, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. The man hums softly, reaching forward to hold Wooyoung’s chin. This time his grip is gentle, and Wooyoung wants to slap it away, but he doesn’t have the strength. In fact, if it weren’t for the man holding his head up, he’s certain his chin would have fallen down to his chest. Maybe it already had, Wooyoung doesn’t remember.

“This is the easy part, Jung Wooyoung,” the man says, and Wooyoung swears that that is the first time the man has said his name. Although the worry is replaced by agony as another ripple of pain rattles through him.

“Remember. You tell me what I want to know, I’ll make it stop,” the man says. “You’d be wise to accept that offer.”

Wooyoung blinks up at him, and he thinks thaf tears stain his eyes, although his vision is too foggy to notice a difference. “And if I don’t?”

“I don’t know,” the man says, giving a soft, condescending thumb-stroke along his cheek. “They always tend to comply.”

You cannot sleep.

The tent feels crammed, even though you’re well aware that there’s more than enough space. Yeji sleeps soundly, a few feet away and face turned from you as the peaceful sighs of deep slumber escape her lips. It is dark, only the faintest hint of moonlight seeping through the tent’s thin fabric, and yet it feels too bright.

You do not wish to sleep. There are things to be done. This is no time for rest.

They have Woo.

The men you’ve been fearing this entire journey. The ones that ambushed your father, that killed Mingi, that besieged your castle and robbed your life right out from under your feet. The men that have made you paranoid, always keeping one eye over your shoulder, creating wariness with each new city and step you have taken.

The men you have feared would kill you, they have taken him instead.

And somehow that is so much worse.

It’s not something you’d anticipated, always having assumed that if the black-clad men were to find you, you would be the one to face the consequences. The idea that travelling with the three men was putting them in the crossfire of the mysterious army hadn’t occurred to you. After all, it’s your wanted posters on every city street, not theirs.

How stupid you had been, and now Woo is gone. Captured by your family’s assassins, and only the god’s know what sort of danger he is in.

It’s your fault. It’s you they really want, he is just a pawn in their greater game. You’ve been outplayed, and Woo is the one forced to pay the price of your failure.

They could be torturing him for information. You know the sorts of things powerful men do to prisoners, having heard whispers about it in your halls, the dungeons located deep beneath the castle. Using a whip to lash the back until there's more blood left than flesh, spending hours drowning them within a bucket of water, pouring vials of liquid metal along the skin. Maybe one of them is a sadist, and Woo’s face is blistered and burnt beyond repair.

Maybe he’s already dead.

You roll over, eyes accustomed enough to the darkness that you can make out the ceiling of the tent above you. Although really, what you see is Woo, pleading for mercy as one of the black-clad men delivers the final blow. Woo goes silent, his eyes still open, and you know that it is over. He is gone.

Another person you care for, dead.

You cannot just sit here like this and let that happen. However, while you were prepared to head to the Concursos Mountain Pass the moment Seonghwa placed the message down in front of you, both he and San urged caution.

“This is clearly a trap,” San had said, wrapping a hand around your wrist to stop you from heading down the path towards the refuge’s exit. “They’re going to be prepared, which means we need to be. We need to come up with a plan before we do anything.”

“We have three days,” you snapped back, frustrated. “Yeji said the journey is at the very least a full day’s ride. We don’t have the time to sit here and twiddle our thumbs.”

“Then we have a day and a half to come up with something,” San replied, tone calm but also curt. He was not entertaining the possibility of going now, no matter how much anger you added to your glare. “Maybe we can form a group of some of the other refugees and leave together.”

“There’s only two horse’s between the entire refuge,” you cut back. “We cannot make it in time by foot. There’s no chance of us building our own army, if that’s what you're implying.”

“We’ll figure it out,” San said, still not budging. However, beneath his steady gaze, you could see the faintest hint of worry. Of doubt. Of knowing that there may have been no other option but to go alone, although he was not ready to admit it. Not ready to acknowledge the truth that weighed down on each of your shoulders.

The fact that it may come down to Woo’s life, or your own.

Thus, a second truth sat just as heavy. He would choose Woo. They both would.

It’s not until this moment, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, that you realize you would choose Woo too.

You will not have him die for you. You will not have the black-clad men take anything else from you. Not him. Not like this.

If they are to kill you, let it be your own doing. Not ambushed for the money they have placed on your head, or killed silently in an alley-way along the streets of Bebbanburg. You will not be your father, stabbed at his own celebration, unaware of what was coming. If you are to die, let you come to them with your sword in hand, fighting for a man who - even when you haven’t deserved it - fought for you.

Rising to your feet, you pull the blanket off of you, heading towards the tent flap. Stopping in place, you turn back, watching Yeji’s sleeping silhouette, chest rising and falling peacefully.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it is not only to her, but to all of them. All of the Libaiyan’s uprooted from their homes, left to wander Burovia with no kingdom to call home. They had finally been reunited with their princess, only for you to leave them once more. It is selfish. It is what your father would consider an abandonment of responsibility.

Maybe you are abandoning your royal duty, or perhaps you are fulfilling your duty to another.

Either way, it must be done.

Slipping out from under the tent flap, you can hear San and Seonghwa talking within their own tent, though you cannot make out what they are saying. Good, they're busy. They will likely not notice you’re gone until morning.

Scanning the field, the man continues to sing by the fire, and it is the same song as before. Lute in hand, he serenades the men and women surrounding him, although the number has depleted under the blanket of the night.

As you approach the horse tied to a nearby tent-pole, you sing along quietly beneath your breath, to the words you have known your entire life.

“My love for whom I do come home,”

“I’ve been bathed in scars, both body and soul,”

“And while I’ve returned beneath darkened gloam,”

“Without you this place may never be whole.”

Although, while you may sing his words, unlike the man within the song you will not be so passive.

You will find Woo, and you will bring him home. Even if you do not come back with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next chapter.

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