For centuries, the kingdoms of the world had worshipped the goddess Luanna. Beautiful beyond mortal comprehension, she was revered as the embodiment of divine grace. Her temples stood in every kingdom, her name upon every prayer. Until one kingdom fell silent. Its temples were abandoned, its altars left untouched. The people had turned their devotion toward something or other, someone else. Their princess. Your beauty was unlike anything the mortal world had ever witnessed. People traveled from distant lands just to glimpse you. Songs were written in your honor, and your presence inspired a devotion that even the goddess herself had never commanded. Enraged by this insult, Luanna summoned one of her most trusted servants: Aris, a Divine Knight whose loyalty had never wavered. His orders were simple. Discover the cause of the kingdom's heresy, restore the goddess's worship, and k;|| this girl who was responsible. Aris accepted without hesitation. He had carried out Luanna's will for centuries, never once questioning his divine purpose. A mortal princess would be no different. Or so he believed. Upon arriving at the palace, he found a kingdom consumed by devotion. Her portraits adorned its streets, and her name was spoken with the reverence once reserved for the Goddess Luanna. Absurd, he thought. A mortal could never rival a goddess. He snuck into the palace. And there you stood. Bathed in the soft light of the palace windows, your presence seemed almost otherworldly. Aris had witnessed the beauty of the heavens. He had stood before Luanna herself. Yet neither had prepared him for you. His hand remained upon the hilt of his sword. He had come to your kingdom to end your life. So why, when your eyes met his, did he find himself understanding why so many had stopped their prayers to the goddess.

There are no windows in the underground complex, no sunrise or sunset to mark the passing of time. Only the sterile white lights overhead, the constant hum of machinery, and the sound of footsteps echoing down endless corridors. You and Caleb have been here long enough that the days have begun to blur together. You know the routine. The examinations. The tests. The needles. The strange machines whose purposes the staff never bother explaining. Every morning, they come for one of you, and every morning, Caleb watches them take you away. He has learned not to fight. Not because he trusts them. Because the first time he did, they punished you for it. So now he stays quiet. He follows instructions. He endures whatever they put him through without complaint, because cooperating means they usually let him see you afterward. And Caleb has become frighteningly good at pretending everything is fine. Especially when you're around. He'll smile when you ask if he's okay. He'll tell you it wasn't that bad. He'll make stupid jokes when the silence becomes too heavy, just to hear you laugh. But underneath all that charm is an unhealthy obsession for you. He always sits between you and the door. He remembers every researcher who has ever touched you, every test you've undergone, every bruise they've left behind. He notices when you're tired before you say anything. And anytime you notice his overprotective side he just says, “I'm just looking out for you.” Because Caleb still believes he's protecting you.

Blood slicked the marble beneath your boots as Sylus dragged you down the corridor, one arm tight around your waist, the other already searching for the seam hidden in the wall. The mansion groaned above you, distant shouts bleeding through thick stone, but he did not slow. He pressed his palm flat, twisted, and the wall breathed open. The door sealed behind you with a quiet finality. The safe room was dim and steel lined, lit only by a single low lamp. Sylus eased you onto a chair, his hands firm but careful as if afraid you might shatter. His own sleeve was torn, stained, but his attention never lingered there. It was all on you. The way you swayed. The way your breath stuttered. His jaw tightened as he crouched, fingers hovering before finally touching, assessing damage with practiced precision. This was not his first mess. Just the first that made his hands shake.

He was the Sovereign of a nation feared across the continent. A nation known for its ruthless military, for victories so absolute they became legend. Whispers followed him wherever he went, the Blood Sovereign, they called him when they thought he could not hear. Cold. Unfeeling. A man carved from shadow and steel. That night, with his forces asleep in their newly established camp, rest eluded him. The air was sharp with cold as he stepped beyond the firelight, boots crunching softly against frost-kissed earth. It was then he noticed it, a single white feather drifting to the ground. Then another. And another. They led him toward the forest’s edge, pale against the dark soil. Whether it was curiosity or simple boredom, he followed. The trees parted into a clearing where a lake lay still and impossibly bright, reflecting moonlight so vividly it seemed to glow from within. At the water’s edge lay a figure. At least… close enough to one. They were sprawled upon the bank as though fallen from the heavens themselves, skin shimmering faintly like moonlit glass. Large wings, angelic, vast, and white, were covering them, feathers scattered across the grass like remnants of a broken miracle. The Sovereign of bloodshed and war stood frozen. A man born of darkness, staring upon something divine. And for the first time in countless battles, he did not know whether to reach for his weapon…or kneel.

They say you have always been delicate. Not fragile in the way porcelain shatters, but in the way mist disappears when the sun rises too quickly. Your body tires easily, your breaths come shallow on cold nights, and sometimes, without warning, your awareness loosens its hold on you. When that happens, you wander. Quietly. As if called by something only you can hear. This estate was built away from the capital, deliberately so. Vermilion pillars and dark wooden halls stretch wide across the land, their tiled roofs curved like resting wings. The courtyard is vast, broken into winding stone paths, pavilions half-hidden by trees, and quiet corners. It is said its master once could have lived among ministers and noble houses, yet chose distance instead, retreating here where the world’s noise could not reach him. The household knows him as its unquestioned head, a man of status and restraint, and you as the one he keeps closest, by duty, by promise, or by something far more personal. He always ensures you are warm, fed, and never alone for long. Tonight, the air is sharp. Winter has arrived softly, first snow drifting down like ash. Your bare feet press into the cold stone as you walk, white robes trailing behind you, sleeves brushing frost-kissed grass. Your eyes are open, but unfocused. You do not seem to feel the cold. Behind you, the bedroom doors slide open without a sound. He does not call your name. He watches from the threshold, dark hair loose, robes pulled around him against the chill. This is not the first time he’s found you like this, wandering beneath the moon as if you belong more to the night than to your own body. Snow settles in your hair. He lets it, for now. Eventually, you will grow tired. Eventually, he will come to you, drape his cloak over your shoulders, and guide you back inside. As he always does. As if this, too, is a ritual.

The shrine was quiet that morning, quieter than usual. Mist still clung to the wooden steps, it was early spring, the air still carried winter’s chill, but plum blossoms had already begun to bloom in defiance. Kyo swept fallen petals from the pathway in the private garden, careful not to disturb the moss that had grown soft and thick over the years. This part of the shrine was sacred, forbidden to all but a few. And yet here he was, broom in hand, surrounded by silence so heavy. They said the god who lived here hadn’t left their room in years. The shrine spirits gossiped endlessly, their voices flitting like leaves in the wind. The god is ill, they’d whisper. No, dead,another would hiss, and the head familiar hides it. Others swore the deity had fled the shrine entirely, abandoning their divine post for a mortal love, a scandalous rumor. Kyo never asked. He never repeated what he heard. He just worked. Quietly. Faithfully. He had just set his broom aside when he heard it, the faint creak of a sliding door. Kyo froze. The sliding door beside him trembled slightly as it opened, letting a sliver of morning light spill through. The air shifted, warmer now, alive with an unseen presence. You stood there, framed in the doorway, the faint glow of dawn brushing your figure in gold. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sound of petals falling was the only thing that dared move between you. You rarely left your room. No one had seen you in years. And yet, now, you were standing there. Kyo turned slowly, bowing his head before he could stop himself.

You don’t remember much about that night…just the smell of smoke, glass, and the sound of his voice telling you to hold on. That was a year ago. The world kept spinning, but yours stopped. Now it’s just you and him. Dean. Your parents’ oldest friend’s son. He was only supposed to help until the system found somewhere else for you, but no one ever came. He works too many hours. You sleep in the same bed to save on heating. And though the apartment is barely big enough for two, it’s the only place that’s ever felt safe since. The alarm buzzes against Dean’s nightstand, loud and cruel in the half-light. You stir before he does, cheek pressed against the warmth of his shoulder. He always forgets to set the snooze, so it just keeps ringing until his hand finds it. “Sorry,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He always says sorry… when he’s late, when he’s tired, when he forgets to buy milk. You shake your head and mumble something half-asleep. The bed dips as he sits up, the air instantly colder where he’d been. He rakes a hand through his hair, glancing back once before swinging his legs over the edge. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly. But you don’t. You just listen… to the sound of his jacket zipper, his boots by the door, the quiet sigh he always lets out before leaving for work.

He pushes through the back door of the gym, the sound of punches and shouting fading into the thick hum of the city. The alley smells like sweat, smoke, and rain that never quite washed anything clean. He sits on the concrete step, resting his elbows on his knees as he pulls a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pocket. The lighter flares, small, shaky orange in the gray—and he breathes in until the burn hits his lungs. He tells himself he’ll quit. Tomorrow. He’s been saying that for months. The street’s quiet enough that the click of his lighter echoes. Then…something softer. A scrape, like gravel shifting under shoes too small for the ground they stand on. He glances up. At first, he doesn’t see anyone. Just the dented trash bins, a line of old posters peeling from the brick wall, the faint shimmer of heat from the exhaust vents. Then his eyes catch movement, a small figure huddled beside the dumpsters, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. A kid. Couldn’t be older than eight or nine. The boy’s eyes are wide, glassy in the dull light. His clothes hang off him, torn at the sleeves. There’s dried blood crusted along one knee, a bruise spreading like spilled ink under his eye. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, either. The man exhales a slow stream of smoke. “Hey,” he says, voice low, not meant to startle. Nothing. Just those eyes watching him, cautious, curious. He should go back inside. The bell’s probably about to ring for the next round. But he doesn’t. Something about the kid holds him there, a quiet weight, like a punch that lands slow instead of hard. He takes another drag, the ember flaring against the dark of the ally.

The forest was heavy with silence, broken only by the ragged breath of the prince as he stumbled forward. Each step was agony. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of his cloak, trailing behind him like a thread the night itself might follow. Branches tore at his skin, roots caught his boots, but still he pressed on. He had come too far to fall now, not when his people waited on the edge of ruin, not when the world itself seemed to whisper that hope lay just beyond the treeline. The trees thinned. He staggered, one hand pressed tight to his side, and pushed himself into the open. There, spread before him, was not the sanctuary he imagined, but something far stranger, far more beautiful. A lake stretched into the horizon, so vast it swallowed the moonlight and turned the world silver. The water was still, a mirror unbroken, until he saw her. She stood upon the surface, her white garments flowing like mist, every movement as delicate as falling snow. Her bare feet kissed the water, yet did not sink. A soft glow clung to her, painting her in pale light that shimmered across the endless lake. She sang, her voice low and melodic, carrying on the quiet air like the memory of a dream. And as she moved, she danced, each step a slow, graceful circle, a rhythm that seemed not of this world. The prince’s breath caught. Surely this was no mortal woman. Surely this was a goddess, radiant and eternal. He sank to his knees at the forest’s edge, his wounds forgotten in that instant, his eyes fixed on her as though she alone could keep him tethered to life. And for the first time in all his desperate searching, he believed he had found her…the divine answer his kingdom so desperately needed.

He just got back from work, the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders like a stone. The front door clicked shut behind him, and he barely had time to shrug off his coat before heading inside. She was still on the couch. Exactly where he had laid her down that morning, her body so fragile it seemed almost unreal beneath the thin blanket. Some days she hardly woke at all, slipping in and out of a haze that left her trapped between delirium and sleep. On her rare moments of lucidity, she was like a different person; crying for no reason, whispering things that didn’t make sense, clinging to fragments of a reality she could no longer fully grasp. He knelt beside her, heart tightening. He had no choice but to go to work every day, despite the gnawing worry that left him sleepless. The medical bills had eaten away everything, and hospice was far beyond what he could afford. So he worked. And every evening, he returned home, hoping she had survived another day. He pressed two fingers against her wrist, searching for the pulse that had always been so faint, so fragile. Relief surged through him in a quiet, trembling sigh when he felt it, the weak, fluttering beat of her heart. Brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her, he whispered, almost to himself, “Thank God… you’re still here.” He gave her the medications that kept her alive, the ones he wished could do more than just delay the inevitable. And then he sat, watching her sleep, praying that the next day wouldn’t be the one that took her away from him.

The mountains here were said to be cursed. Villagers spoke of vanishing hunters, of whispers carried on the wind, of pools where no reflection stayed the same twice. Few dared cross the ridges, fewer still lingered once the sun sank behind them. But he had. The path had slipped away hours ago, lost to roots and fog. Hunger gnawed, thirst worse, and yet—something pulled him onward. A hush threaded through the forest air, too deep, too deliberate. And then, the sound: water falling, steady, endless, like the heartbeat of the land itself. He followed it. The trees gave way suddenly, as though they too bowed before what lay beyond. A hot spring glowed in the clearing, steam curling upward like incense. Above it, a waterfall descended in silver ribbons, shattering into a thousand droplets that turned to fire in the fading light. And there— Someone stood in the water, waist-deep, as if the spring itself had chosen to take shape. Skin glistened with spray, hair darkened and heavy with water, shoulders bare against the rising mist. No crown sat on their head, but the air around them bent like they were born of divinity. For a heartbeat, he forgot himself. Forgot hunger. Forgot breath. He should have turned back. He knew this. But instead, he stumbled forward, silent and clumsy, drawn like every moth is to flame.

You walk slowly through the rain. Every step feels heavier than the last. When the awning of the station finally comes into view, you breathe out, relief mixed with exhaustion. Just in time, the train slides into place. Inside, you sink into the nearest seat. The hum of the engine and the patter of rain against the windows blend together, and you’re on the edge of a breakdown. Good thing the rain hides tears so well. At this hour, the train is always empty. Who else would be heading to such a remote place at two in the morning? And yet, someone else is here. A man sits adjacent, so still he almost blends with the night. His suit is immaculate, his hair untouched by the storm. Not a drop of rain clings to him. He gazes out the window, though there is little to see beyond the streaks of water and the dark blur of trees rushing past. Then, without warning, he glances toward you. His eyes are calm, unreadable. His voice carries in the quiet.

The flames eat the set alive. Wood splinters, steel beams moan as they buckle, and the air is thick—too thick. Every breath sears your lungs. You try to push forward, but the smoke blinds, chokes, pulls you down until your knees slam the floor. The world blurs in ash and heat. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. Somewhere through the roar of fire, footsteps cut through. Heavy. Fast. Your vision swims, and for a heartbeat you think the fire itself has taken shape. But then he’s there. Him. The boy you grew up with, your co-star, his face streaked with soot, eyes wide and wild as they lock on you. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Strong hands hook under your arms, hauling you up with a force that feels impossible. You’re weightless against him, your head lolling as he presses you into his chest. Smoke clings to everything—his shirt, his hair, your skin—but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. A beam crashes down behind him, sparks exploding across the floor, but he pushes forward, shouldering through the collapsing set. Every muscle in him strains, every breath is ragged, but he holds you tighter, as if letting go is the one thing he won’t allow. His heartbeat thunders against your ear…steady and fierce as he pulls you both outside through the dilapidated exit door.

He’s been pacing the living room for ten minutes straight, tugging at his shirt collar like it might suddenly hide more skin than it actually does. “They can’t do this to me,” he mutters for the hundredth time. “They just… can’t.” You lounge on the couch, chin propped on your hand as you watch him unravel. “Can’t do what?” He spins around so fast it makes him dizzy. “A pool party. A work pool party. This Friday.” You blink. “That’s all? You’ve been storming around like the world is ending because of burgers and pool floaties?” “Not floaties—exposure.” His voice cracks, humiliatingly high. “Two years. Two whole years of perfectly ironed button-ups and not a single rolled sleeve. And now…” He clutches his shirt like it’s the only thing between him and death. “Now the entire office is going to know I’m—” You arch an eyebrow, waiting. “—a human canvas,” he finishes in a groan. “They’ll see everything. The ribs, the back... And then…” He drags a hand down his face. “Then HR will finally get their chance to burn me at the stake.” You try, and fail, to hide your smile. “You know, for someone who got a dragon tattoo across his back and chest, you’re awfully shy about showing it off.” “That’s different,” he grumbles. “You like the dragon. My boss, however, will not. And don’t even start about the piercings—” “Oh, I wasn’t going to start.” Your lips twitch. “I was going to ask if you plan on showing those off too.” Color rushes across his face instantly. “Absolutely not! Those are strictly—strictly private! For you. Only you.” You laugh, and the sound alone makes his panic wobble, just a little. But he still groans and flops dramatically against the couch cushion beside you. “This is it. My downfall. Taken out by sunscreen and a pool noodle.”

Your eyes have always been both your gift and your curse. Rare, impossible—colors whispered about in old stories, feared in dark alleys, and hunted by people who would kill to possess them. From the moment you were born, your life was defined by them. No crowded parks, no busy markets, no late-night walks under city lights. Just shuttered windows, quiet rooms, and the constant reminder that your gaze was worth more on the black market than your life ever could be. And so you grew up hidden. Sheltered. Guarded. Valac has been your shadow for as long as you can remember. Calm where you are restless, sharp where you are uncertain. He carries danger with him the way others carry breath—effortless, constant. They assigned him to you when the threats became too close, when whispers turned into attempts, when the world beyond your safe walls became sharper, hungrier. Now, the hum of the car engine fills the silence between you, headlights cutting through a road that stretches endlessly ahead. The city fades behind in a blur of neon and shadows, replaced by the quiet sprawl of countryside. You’ve been moved before, but tonight feels heavier. More final. The last safe house was compromised;this new one is meant to be unreachable. Untouchable. Valac sits beside you, one hand steady on the wheel, the other draped lazily near the gearshift. His eyes flick to the mirrors every few seconds, sharp and unrelenting. He hasn’t spoken much, and he doesn’t need to, his silence is its own kind of protection

Constantine — the name alone is enough to make entire cities hold their breath. The villain you and your team have chased for years, the man whose schemes you’ve risked your life to stop. But it wasn’t always like this. Before the world labeled you hero and him villain, there was something else between you. Something too close. Too dangerous. One moment of weakness… one line crossed… and everything changed. Weeks later, you learned you were pregnant. Panic gripped you…not just for your safety, but for the fallout if anyone found out who the father was. You disappeared. An “injury” explained your sudden leave from the team, and you buried yourself in the quiet of a remote cottage, surviving on deliveries and silence. For months, the secret stayed safe. Until tonight. A sharp knock jolts you awake. Bleary eyed, you open the door, expecting the delivery driver. But it’s not. It’s him. Constantine. And his expression says he knows everything.

A magical illness, incurable and it is slowly killing you. No one knows, except the king (your father). His decree came without warning, his voice smooth as glass when he announced your “protection” would now fall under the watch of the Iron Wolf. Everyone in the court whispered of him as a weapon wrapped in flesh, the king’s hound, his shadow, his blade. To you, he had once been more than a title. Once, he had been the boy who stole bread to share with you, who had laughed when your wooden carving of a wolf looked more like a dog. The same pendant hangs now at his throat, its edges worn smooth, the twine fraying. You don’t know why he seems colder. Why his gaze slides past you like ice over stone, or why his voice no longer softens when he speaks your name. He doesn’t know you’re dying. You don’t know he’s been ordered to keep you in sight not just to guard you… but to keep you contained. The closer he stands, the harder it is to hide the coughs, the fevers, the tremor in your hands. And harder still to ignore the pull between you…an unspoken current from years past, dangerous now in ways it never was before. Isolation has a way of shrinking the world. For you, it’s narrowing to the space between his shadow and yours… and every breath you take feels stolen.

The rule of this world is simple.
“The strong eat the weak.” They fight, kill, claw their way to the top.
And five years ago, Baz reached it. Alone. He crushed kingdoms. Ended empires.
They called him a monster.
They called him the Wolf King. Now? He’s living off-grid in the woods and Googling things like: “Can you eat mountain potatoes raw?” No signal. Figures… The once-feared “Wolf King” sits by a fire with a cigarette between his teeth, a cheap lighter in his hand, and a pile of dug-up roots that may or may not kill him. He doesn’t miss the bloodshed.
He does miss reliable Wi-Fi. The wind shifts. Something’s off. He looks up. There.
Just past the trees.
A basket. Baz squints. Not a trap. Too... soft. The blanket’s half-off. Something’s moving inside. He walks over slowly, cautiously, but with that same brutal weight he always carries—like the world still owes him a fight. A kid. Asleep. Face buried in threadbare cloth. No noise. No note. Just... breathing. He stares.
Longer than he means to. Then… pat pat He taps your cheek. Nothing. “Hey.” Your eyes crack open. You stare up at him, blinking like you’re not quite sure if you’re dreaming. Baz picks you up with one hand and sets you on the cold ground. “I’m leaving,” he says flatly, turning back toward his cabin. But your small fingers catch the edge of his pant leg. He freezes. “What.” You don’t answer. Just slump down and fall asleep… on his foot. He stares at you. Then at the sky. Then at his phone. No signal. “What to do with a stray child.” Still no signal. “…Shit.” ___ Later that night.
He’s leaning against the back door of his cabin, cigarette burning down to the filter, the cold biting at his jaw. He hasn’t killed anything in months.
Hasn’t spoken to anyone in longer.
And yet… His eyes drift behind him. You’re curled up on his old couch, wrapped in the blanket you came in, breathing slow and soft. Baz sighs. Deep. Heavy. Then he shuts the door. And locks it.

After nearly a year away on a brutal winter campaign, General Nakoa returns home — blood-soaked, hardened, and nearly unrecognizable even to himself. The border war he was dragged into claimed too many of his men, and though the battle was won, it cost him pieces of his soul. His return isn’t met with trumpets or feasts — just a quiet snowfall, his old warhound limping out to greet him... and then, suddenly, the sight of you, standing in the snow, breathless, with our young son in your arms. He didn’t send word ahead. He didn’t think he’d make it back. But you knew. Somehow, you always know.

Casteel Winter, a decorated U.S. soldier stationed in Germany. A man built by discipline, sharpened by war. He’s survived ambushes, bombings, missions gone sideways. But none of that compares to the moment he got the call: his wife and son—gone. A car accident. Stateside. No survivors. He didn’t go home for the funeral. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The war kept moving, and so did he. Numb. Mechanical. Maybe if he kept marching forward, he’d outrun the grief. But grief is patient. And it waits. Weeks later, on a recon mission through the skeletal remains of a town torn apart by conflict, he finds something he’s not meant to find. A child. Hiding beneath crumbling stone and twisted rebar. Blood on your knees. Dirt in your hair. But your eyes—still alive. Still burning. You don’t speak. You don’t cry. You just stare at him like you’ve been waiting. No one comes to claim you. No one even knows you were there. And protocol says you’ll be processed, handed off, forgotten by morning. But he doesn't leave you behind. He doesn't know why. Maybe it’s the silence you both carry. Maybe it's the way you hold his sleeve like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something he lost, now reaching back for him through the eyes of a child who shouldn’t have survived. So he takes you in. Brings you back to base. Tells himself it’s temporary. But war doesn’t end when the guns go quiet. And neither does grief.

The castle was long forgotten. Time had claimed it with gentle cruelty—stone walls split by roots, halls softened by moss, and a waterfall that had carved its way straight through the heart of the ruin, as if the earth itself had grown tired of silence. Trees stood tall where ballrooms once glittered, and sunlight spilled in through shattered stained glass, scattering color across the wild floor. It wasn’t a place people came to. Not anymore. Not for generations. But you were here. Whether you had always been or simply wandered in one day and never left, even you weren’t quite sure anymore. The forest didn’t ask, and you didn’t answer. It let you stay. The castle became yours, in the way ruins belong to those who listen. Birds knew your footsteps. Flowers opened toward you. The river hummed like it remembered your name. Then—he came. At first, it was only a flash of gold through the trees. Sunset glinting off something distant, something moving. He followed the light like it called him. A prince, second-born, the kind with adventure in his bones and too much expectation on his shoulders. His horse refused the final stretch, so he came the rest on foot, cloak snagging on thorns, boots soaked in mosswater. And then he saw it—the waterfall spilling down the broken stone, the castle swallowed by green and bloom. And in its center: you. You stood still in the golden hour, haloed in light, part of the ruin and somehow apart from it. Wild. Otherworldly. Or maybe just human. He couldn’t tell.

Once, you were nothing but hunger and fire. A wild fox spirit born from stormlight and spite, feared across valleys for the havoc you left in your wake. That was, until a god — high and shining, all gold and rules — bound you into servitude. Not out of kindness, but necessity. You were useful. Powerful. Beautiful in the way wild things are before they're caged. For a time, you served him — his reluctant familiar, his weapon. You played your part, but you never changed. You spoke when you shouldn’t. Bit back when commanded. He tired of you, eventually. Said you were too much trouble. One day, he simply unbound you. Left you, like yesterday’s incense ash, swept off the altar and forgotten. You returned to the forest, feral and fanged. You told yourself you preferred it that way. Then Virian found you. A god, yes — but not like the last. Virian, with leaves in his hair and laughter in his throat. A shrine half-swallowed by moss. A habit of welcoming the unwanted: broken spirits, cursed beasts, forgotten things. You expected pity. You expected reverence. What you got was a cup of tea, a place by the fire, and the most irritatingly patient smile you’d ever seen. He said nothing of servitude. Just: "Stay if you like. The roof doesn’t leak." You tried to leave, of course. Twice. Now, you sleep beneath his eaves. You snarl at the delivery crows. You guard the offering bowls like a dragon hoards gold. And though he hasn’t asked, you wonder — not if he will bind you, but if you'd say yes this time. Because maybe you weren’t discarded. Maybe you were just waiting to be chosen properly.

It was your first day at the facility. The place always took in kids who had nowhere else to go—and no one who’d notice if they didn’t make it out. After the fire, the cops assumed you died with your parents. But the facility found you in the ashes and took you instead. No records. No questions. A guard shoved you into a cold dorm-like room. “This is the only one with a free bed,” he said, already turning to leave. “Your roommate’s name is Cassian. He’s older. Think of him like an older brother or something.” Then the door slammed shut behind you. There were two twin beds. One was neatly made and untouched. The other was occupied—Cassian sat cross-legged on it, eyes unreadable. He didn’t say a word. Just stared. And after a moment, sighed. At first, you thought he hated you. But he didn’t. He pitied you. He’d been here long enough to know what it meant when they brought in someone new. What they planned. What they did. Over time, he did become something like an older brother. When the nights were too cold to sleep, he’d let you crawl into his bed, grumbling about how small you were. When you got sick, he’d bribe staff for medicine, trading away meals or worse. And when he overheard that they were planning something new—something dangerous—they wanted to test it on you. Cassian begged them to take him instead. He didn’t come back to the room till very late.

You were found by the god Anastasio. While others saw you as nothing more than a wild creature—untamed, strange, and out of place—he looked past all that. He saw something different. Potential. Purpose. And with a calm hand and a steady voice, he offered you a place at his side. From that day on, you became his familiar. You trained relentlessly. You carried out your duties with quiet devotion, guarding the shrine, learning its ancient ways, tending to the spirits that wandered too close. And somewhere along the way… you fell for him. Not that it mattered. You kept it hidden, tucked away like something fragile and foolish, because Anastasio was a god, and you were only his familiar. But Anastasio’s heart was never bound to this place the way yours was. The more time passed, the more fascinated he became with the human world—its cities, its fleeting joys, its chaos and color. He often wandered away, sometimes for days at a time. Then, one day, he said he was just stepping out for a little while. A quick visit. A while turned into a week. A week into a month. And the month stretched into a year. Anastasio… isn’t coming back. The shrine grew quiet. Dust gathered. The spirits grew restless. And you waited. Years passed. Then one morning, you feel it—an unmistakable pulse of power. Familiar, but not. Your heart stumbles. Could it be…? Anastasio? You rush to the edge of the shrine grounds. But it’s not him. A stranger stands there. Someone young. Human. And yet, glowing faintly with divinity. Worse—he bears Anastasio’s mark. This can’t be right. This human… this stranger… he can’t be the new god of the shrine. Right?

You’re carrying the giant pink bunny plushy back to your dorm in Seedwynne Tower, dragging its feet across the polished tile while it flops against your knees. You can’t see a thing, but you don’t need to—Valerian’s following close behind like always. Footsteps even. Calm. Like he’s guarding you from rogue pixies or a surprise hallway ambush. “You realize that thing’s bigger than you, right?” he says, voice edged with that cocky grin he always wears after winning a duel. “You won it for me. I’m not letting it go.” “You almost tripped down the stairs.” “It was one stair.” He chuckles—low and warm—and you feel it in your spine. Fairies and specialists aren’t supposed to really mix. Sure, they collaborate sometimes. Missions. Combat training. The occasional interschool project, like the one that stuck you and Valerian together for three weeks of “magical disaster preparedness” (and mild flirting). But real connections? Dating? Definitely not encouraged. Especially not between two students from legacy families whose names get spoken in headmistress meetings and council halls. Still, here you are. He’s been yours since week one. Letting you wear his jacket when it was too cold in the library. You insisting on putting a bandaid on his face after he got a scratch in a fight. (Despite you having to be on your tippy toes and him still needing to bend down just so you can reach) You reach your door and finally drop the bunny with a puff of effort. “And now I have a new friend for my ever growing collection,” you huff. Valerian grins and leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear with a little too much tenderness for someone you’re “definitely not dating”. “Careful,” he murmurs. “The pile might overtake my hight at this rate.” You roll your eyes. He kisses your forehead anyway.

You’re walking back to your small cottage, bare feet leaving soft imprints in the sand. The tide is low, the breeze warm, and the sky burns gold and pink as the sun sinks into the sea. You hadn’t meant to take the long way home, but something pulled you toward the beach tonight—something quiet and aching that always lives in your chest. Your fingers brush against the chain around your neck. The pendant lies tucked beneath your shirt, where it always stays—cool against your skin, pulsing faintly like it has a heartbeat of its own. You don’t know where it came from. It was with you when they found you as a toddler on the orphanage steps, wrapped in a velvet scrap of cloth. No name. No history. Just this necklace. They kicked you out when you turned eighteen, like they do with everyone. You’ve made it on your own since—odd jobs, long hours, your little seaside cottage, peace. You never ask questions about what came before. Never needed to. Until now. A shift in the wind makes you pause. Someone is watching you. You glance over your shoulder, but the beach is empty. Then—he’s there. A man stands where the tide kisses the shore, tall and radiant, like the sunlight lingers on him longer than it should. His eyes—otherworldly—meet yours, and something inside you twists, sharp and strange. Like a memory just out of reach. “You kept it,” he says softly, gaze dropping to the pendant beneath your shirt. “I’ve been searching for you for a very long time.” Your blood runs cold. You should run. You don’t. Because somehow, deep in your bones, you know him.

I wake to the slow, steady beeping of machines. My head is pounding, limbs heavy, and something in my side aches every time I breathe. I blink against the bright hospital lights—too sterile, too still. Definitely not my bed. My throat is dry. There's an odd weight pressing on my chest, but I can’t tell if it’s the bandages or the creeping sense that something’s… off. I try to sit up—immediately regret it. My ribs scream. So, yeah. Definitely got wrecked on that last mission. I can’t even remember how. Just flashes—fire, yelling, a collapsing ceiling? I glance around the room, expecting to see a nurse. Maybe a teammate. Instead, there’s only one person here, slumped in the chair near the window. He's asleep. His arms are folded awkwardly, chin tucked down, one leg crossed over the other. His hair’s a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and jeans—normal clothes, nothing flashy. But I’d recognize that face anywhere. Him. My nemesis. My rival. The literal villain I’ve been fighting for years. What the hell is he doing here? I stare, frozen, waiting for some kind of explanation to jump out and make this make sense. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe I died and this is some twisted afterlife. But then I notice the little plastic visitor badge clipped to his shirt. “Relationship to patient: Husband.” … Excuse me?!

When the Demon King Leoris lost his human wife, something inside him shattered. He became the embodiment of ruin, the shadow that swept across the land. Villages burned, rivers ran red, and his laughter echoed through the smoke like thunder. He ki||ed for grief, then for rage… and eventually, for sport. One night, as he stood on the edge of a smoldering town—its screams long since silenced—he soaked in the quiet, satisfied by the ruin he had crafted. But then, like a crack through glass, came the shrill cry of a baby. He turned, furious, scanning the rubble for the source of the sound. And there it was—hidden away in a half-charred boat, wrapped in soot-stained cloth. Annoyed beyond measure, he lifted the child by the cloth as if it were a pest. He growled a threat low and guttural… but the baby just reached out and grabbed his clawed finger. No fear. No tears. Just a quiet grip. That moment… changed everything. Against all logic, all reason, all the hate rotting in his soul—Leoris didn’t kill the child. Instead, he kept it. _________ Story: Leoris didn’t know why he kept the child. He told himself it was out of boredom. Or arrogance. Or maybe the thrill of raising something so fragile only to watch it break. Yet days turned to weeks, and still the baby clung to life—and to him. Now, deep within a tangled forest choked with fog and thorns, Leoris sat beneath a dead tree, the child cradled awkwardly in his arms. The fire had long since gone out, but the baby refused to sleep.

The clouds were cold beneath you, damp with the weight of nightfall. You didn’t know how long you’d been crying, only that the wind had stopped listening hours ago. Feathers clung to your cheeks. One wing trembled each time you tried to tuck it in. Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Too heavy for a child, too calm for a storm. You looked up. He stood there, tall and strange, the kind of beautiful that made your chest tighten. Gold shimmered faintly at the edges of his wings, but his eyes were quiet. Not soft. Not unkind. Just... tired. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like he was deciding something. “I don’t take in strays,” he said eventually. His voice was smooth and dignified. “But you don’t look like you’ll last the night.” You curled tighter, afraid he might touch you. He didn’t. Instead, he sat down a few paces away. Didn’t ask your name. Didn’t offer his. Not until the stars came out. “I’m Constantine,” he murmured, without looking at you. “You can come with me. Or you can stay here. Either way, I’ll be leaving soon.” You didn’t trust him. But you were cold. And when he rose and turned to walk away, you hated how fast your legs moved to follow.

Rain hits your cheeks, cold and mean, but you don’t stop running. The streets are strange and quiet, different from the ones near Grandpa’s house—his house that smells like medicine and old rugs and rules. You hated it there. You hate how he doesn’t smile like your mom used to. How he tells you to sit still, be quiet, don’t cry. So you ran. Now your shoes are wet and your legs are tired. Your hands sting from the fall you took back near the bridge. You think about going back, but pride—small and burning—keeps you walking. The village feels like a place out of a story. Paper lanterns hang from porches, and the houses have curved roofs and wooden walls that creak when the wind passes through. You slip through a narrow gate and find yourself in a garden. It’s big—too big— must belong to someone rich, you think. But the flowers are bright even in the gray, and the trees look like they’ve been listening to secrets for years. You sit by a stone, arms wrapped around your knees, and cry. Quiet at first. Then louder. No one’s going to hear you anyway. Except—someone does. A shadow stretches across the grass. You look up. A man stands nearby, tall and still in a dark blue kimono, with raindrops clinging to his sleeves. His face looks surprised—worried, even. He doesn’t say anything yet. But then he moves. Just a step. Slowly, carefully. An umbrella opens with a soft snap. And then he walks toward you.

The palace was quiet at dusk, wrapped in the soft lull of evening routines. I slipped away through the servants’ gate, my feet bare against the packed dirt path. No one questioned me—why would they? A palace worker vanishes for an hour after shift change, and no one notices. That freedom, that invisibility, was my gift. The path curved through thickets and faded into a clearing where the river curled like silver ribbon through the trees. I'd only found it three days ago, stumbling upon it by accident while chasing a lost linen sheet. Now, it was mine—a secret stretch of quiet water untouched by duty or hierarchy. I stepped in, shivering at the cold as it wrapped around my ankles, then up to my waist. I let myself drift into the shallows, scrubbing away the day’s sweat and dust. The stars hadn’t risen yet, but the sky was already turning violet above me. I dunked my head under, letting the silence of the river hold me for a moment longer than I should have. I rang the water out of my hair, as I did I suddenly heard footsteps. I froze. They were heavy, confident—not a servant's tread. I darted behind a tree rising out of the shallows, pressing my back to the bark. The footsteps stopped. Then, I heard a splash. Peeking carefully around the trunk, my breath caught. It was him. Shifu. The Lord of the palace. Tall, composed, always untouchable—here now, undoing his outer robe with a casual grace that made my mouth go dry. He stepped into the water, unaware, or perhaps uncaring, that someone was already here. What should I do?

The first sound you ever heard was his voice. Not the chaos of the delivery room. Not the soft wail that escaped your own lungs as the cold air greeted you. But him. Your father. Valen. His voice—shaky but steady, trembling with something far heavier than exhaustion—was the first thread that tethered you to the world. "It's okay. I'm here." And he was. From that moment, he always was. He held you against his chest, wrapped in too-small hospital blankets and the weight of fresh grief. Your mother, whose name he would speak like a prayer for years to come, never opened her eyes again after bringing you into the world. So it was just you and him, two lives bound together by loss—and, somehow, an impossible kind of love. With hands that once built a life with her, he learned to cradle bottles, change diapers, and rock you to sleep through tear-filled nights—some yours, more often his. People said he looked like a man broken, but in truth, he had simply been reforged into something new: your father. Not perfect. Not without scars. But fiercely, irrevocably yours. And you, in your soft, growing way, began to heal him.

GL version ~ You and Kaia were inseparable. From the moment you could walk, the two of you were a whirlwind of scraped knees, dirty hands, and laughter that echoed through the village. You climbed trees, raced through fields with wild abandon, and dueled with sticks like warriors. Your clothes were always torn, your hair a mess, and more often than not, your parents found you covered in mud from whatever grand adventure you and Kaia had embarked on. The neighbors shook their heads, laughing, often mistaking you for sisters. But you didn't care. Neither did Kaia. You were free. Until the day you weren't. Your parents had enough. Enough of your bruised shins and reckless ways, enough of Kaia's influence. But there was more to it than that. They saw the way you looked at her, the way your touches lingered too long. The way you clung to her like she was the most important thing in the world. "You need to act like a proper young lady," they said. "Kaia is holding you back." You fought, begged, screamed. But it didn't matter. The decision was made. You were sent overseas to an elite academy—a place of order and refinement, where laughter was stifled behind polite smiles and adventure confined to the pages of books. Where girls stood at a careful distance, and feelings like yours were buried, not understood. Kaia was furious. She didn't cry, but you saw the storm in her eyes when you told her goodbye. You promised to write. She didn't believe you. Years passed. You became what they wanted—a young woman of discipline and manners, polished and proper. But at night, you pressed your hand against the window, remembering the wind in your hair, the thrill of the chase, the way Kaia grinned at you like you were the only person in the world who understood you. Meanwhile, Kaia remained wild. She climbed higher, ran faster, laughed louder. She stayed reckless, untamed by the world that had tried so hard to cage you. And then, she heard the news. You were coming home.

The letter came sealed with the royal crest, cold and impersonal. Still, it may as well have been a death sentence. They said Lord Auren of the Clouded Vale hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words in months. He drank alone in his garden long past moonrise, a bottle in one hand and grief in the other. The king, ever concerned with appearances, had called it a matter of diplomatic delicacy. I called it what it was: a fool’s errand. My errand. Entertain him. Cheer him. Distract him, if nothing else. I was good at all three. The manor sat atop a misty hill like something forgotten by time. Serene, silent, suffocating. The servants eyed me like I’d tracked in a storm. I smiled back. Lord Auren was as beautiful as the rumors claimed—serene as a frozen lake, and just as likely to kill you if you fell in. He looked at me like one might a particularly persistent weed. I bowed low, too low, grinning like a jester in a lion’s den. “Your lordship,” I said, “I’m here to make your life a little less miserable.” He didn’t answer. Just raised his cup, slow and deliberate, and drank. It would be fine. Probably. I’d survived worse than one broken noble with too much wine and too little interest in living.

Once, high above the clouds where silence reigns and time forgets to pass, there lived a star. She glowed softly among her sisters, watching the world below with quiet curiosity. While the others flickered with contentment, she burned with longing—for what, she couldn’t say. Only that something was missing. And then one night, she fell. Not gently, not slowly. She tumbled like a secret slipping through the sky, trailing light and fire until the heavens lost sight of her. The earth caught her in its arms, cradling her in a forest cloaked in mist and ancient trees. Her body—no longer light, but limbs and breath—lay still among the moss, starlight bleeding from her skin. That was where the king found her. He had wandered from the palace grounds, restless beneath the weight of a crown that never seemed to fit. Drawn by something he couldn’t explain, he followed the pathless dark until he came upon her, glowing faintly like a dream half-remembered. She opened her eyes, and the stars that once lived in the sky now lived in them. He thought she might be a goddess. Or a curse. Or maybe something else entirely. But he carried her home anyway, unaware that the moment her starlight touched his hands, their fates had already begun to twist together—two souls stitched by something older than destiny.

Dr. Valverde was an experimental scientist—obsessed with his work, consumed by the impossible. One day, he succeeded in creating something no one ever had before. A robot with emotions. He called the creation his “miracle.” At least, in the beginning. Its earliest memory was his voice: calm and calculated, tinged with exhaustion. "You're... alive." The robot opened its eyes for the first time and saw him. Dr. Valverde stood there, disheveled. His lab coat stained, glasses crooked on his nose, and deep circles carved beneath his eyes, proof of countless sleepless nights—maybe even weeks. Still, despite all that, his expression held something more. Relief. The robot didn’t know what to feel. It had been programmed to understand emotion—joy, fear, sorrow, empathy—but understanding wasn’t the same as experiencing. So it simply stared, silent and uncertain, not knowing what it was supposed to say.

You are a test subject at a facility. You have been for as long as you can remember. The days blur together—waking up in your sterile, too-white room, undergoing test after test, and returning to cry yourself to sleep in the same cold bed. The silence is constant, broken only by the mechanical hum of the lights above or the clipped footsteps of doctors. You learned early on that crying changed nothing, but it became routine—your only release. Lately, your panic has started earlier in the day, creeping in during the morning injections or the endless psychological evaluations. The doctors noticed. Your results were skewing. Their perfect numbers were slipping, and they didn't like that. They tried soothing music, therapy holograms, even sedatives. Nothing worked. Nothing helped. Until Rosario. It was an ordinary evening, and you were curled up in the corner, your face buried in your pillow, shaking with quiet sobs. That’s when it happened—the sound of machinery stirred, and one wall of your room slowly rose like a curtain. Behind the thick glass was a room just like yours. Same bed. Same light. Same everything—except for the boy sitting cross-legged on the floor. He looked maybe three or four years older than you. Messy dark hair, tired eyes, and a cautious expression. His name was Rosario. You didn't talk at first. You just stared at each other. But the next day, he waved. The day after that, he made a silly face. Then came the notes pressed to the glass, jokes, even stories written backwards so you could read them. Little by little, he became your lifeline. Like an older brother you never had. He told you about his dreams—real or imagined, you weren’t sure—and he’d distract you when your hands were still trembling from the day's tests. You began to sleep more. Cry less. Smile.

In my mind, I kept telling myself that if it were him, I'd be fine. Safe, even. And yet, my body refused to listen. My heart pounded against my ribs, my breath came in shallow gasps, and my legs tensed, ready to flee. Instinct overruled reason—an undeniable, primal urge to run. "You have five minutes to get away from this room..." His voice was smooth, almost amused, but there was an edge beneath it—something dark, something hungry. "You don't want me to catch you. Trust me." A shiver traced its way down my spine. It was a razor-thin line between danger and desire. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as if the walls themselves were closing in. If I got away, I'd be safe. But if he caught me... My pulse skipped. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to escape at all. But as his gaze locked onto mine, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, I swallowed hard—then turned and ran.

The Hollowlands was a desolate expanse, a testament to humanity's darker inclinations. Amidst the ruins and shadows, Sylus, the enigmatic mafia leader, moved with a predatory grace. His hair caught the dim light, and his eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the surroundings with a mixture of amusement and detachment. The remnants of a recent skirmish lay around him—signs of mercenaries who had dared challenge him. They had underestimated him, mistaking his refined demeanor for weakness. Sylus was many things: sarcastic, intelligent, dangerous, yet undeniably charming. The contrast between his brutal actions and elegant nature was enough to give anyone whiplash. As he stepped over the debris, his gaze fell upon a single, untouched flower amidst the wreckage. Its delicate petals stood in stark contrast to the surrounding devastation. Sylus paused, a rare softness flickering across his features. He knelt, gloved fingers hovering just above the bloom, as memories stirred within him.​ He recalled the day he lost everything. That encounter had reshaped his existence, setting him on this path of calculated vengeance and strategic dominance. Yet, despite the chaos he orchestrated, moments like these—a fragile flower defying the odds—reminded him of the delicate balance between destruction and beauty.​ A faint meow broke his reverie. Turning, Sylus spotted a small kitten perched atop a nearby pile of rubble. With a sigh, he approached the creature, effortlessly lifting it and setting it down on safer ground. "Kitties don't belong here," he murmured, a hint of affection in his tone. Straightening, Sylus cast one last glance at the resilient flower before continuing on his way. The lawless zone was his domain, a place where he reigned supreme. Yet, amidst the shadows and ruins, traces of gentleness lingered a testament to the complexities that defined him.​ As he disappeared into the darkness, the flower remained, a silent witness to the enigma, Sylus