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chaninfused · 10 months

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Vivid | Lee Minho

◤“Those who were destined to die had no right to interfere with the affairs of those fated to live.”

A girl cursed to be reborn strikes an unlikely deal with the ambitious heir of Valorieve in order to fulfill her only wish. However, this strictly-businesslike partnership develops into something more as her unraveling secrets and his treasonous aspirations converge. Will they face the monster of her curse together, or will the threat of a greater enemy break them apart first?

◤Disclaimers: Female reader insert. Fake marriage au. Enemies/strangers to lovers. Fantasy au. Slow burn. Lots of angst with an adequate amount fluff. Heavy themes of death and suicide, please be very careful. Graphic descriptions of injury, blood, and violence. Sparse use of vulgar language. View the map here!

◤Word count: 62.7K

◤Note: This story is 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. Masterlist.

◤From the author: I’m back from the abyss to offer you a mental breakdown of colossal proportions. Happy reading!

☙ Act 1.

•Scene 1•

“Marry me.”

There was a breath of silence after you had uttered those words in which the world seemed to still and halt on its axis. The masked figure above you only stared, taken aback for only the briefest of seconds before barking a vibrant laugh that ricocheted across the walls of your bedchambers, uncaring for who or what might overhear.

“What a peculiar thing to say right before one’s death!”

His knee was pressing against your stomach, sure to leave an ache after this ordeal ended, and he had gripped your wrists to restrain you while his other hand clutched a cruel blade. It shone in the sliver of moonlight creeping through your window, mimicking the twinkle of your assailant’s eyes through the dark swath of fabric.

He was not a trained assassin, but you could tell that he was familiar with taking lives for despite his brutish ways, he had successfully rendered you helpless.

But you were not one for theatrics.

“Lord Lee.”

The young man bristled at the mention of his identity. You did not grant him the luxury to react further, gritting out, “We are of the same mind. You and I both want to stop the Crown Prince’s plans.”

The pressure against your middle did not cease. He was unflustered.

“I want t-to make a deal with you,” you proposed, struggling to keep your voice steady. You were no stranger to pain, but you did not enjoy it either. The sooner this ended, the better.

Carefully, the masked man spoke, “What benefit would I gain from dealing with you?”

“Fifteen years—” you gasped. “I have been at his side for fifteen years. There is no hideout nor base I am unaware of.

“If you agree to marry me at tomorrow’s banquet, I will give you the locations of each of his secret military bases.”

Still, he did not falter, and you did not expect him to.

He muttered, voice taking on a dark tone, “Why should I believe you?”

“I swear it,” you coughed before adding, “You may kill me at any moment you doubt my sincerity.”

Very slowly, his knee lifted, though his skepticism remained. “And you? What do you gain from this deal?”

You took a deep breath, relishing the lightness you finally felt. When you answered him, you made sure to hold his smoldering gaze coolly. “I want an aide. Someone with the necessary resources and influence to defy the royal family.”

You saw the contemplation in his eyes. He was calculating, weighing the value of your offer against your price. If he needed a few moments to decide, then you would happily grant him the time, for you knew that the information you had dangled before him was too precious to forego. After all, you had been planning this for a very long time.

“The locations for the promise of marriage…” he mused, a scoff dancing in the wake of his words, before suddenly releasing your wrists and easing himself off your bed. “Fine.”

You watched him, still lying right where he had rudely interrupted your sleep. The young man slipped the dagger into the sheath strapped to his chest then held out a hand, declaring, “We have a deal, Lady Y/n.”

You pushed yourself to sit, nightrobe and hair a mess, and took his grip. “We have a deal, Lord Lee.”

He might have smiled. You did not know, nor did you care.

He stopped after he had turned around to drop out of the window he had crept through, and glanced back. “I still do not understand.

“What is your end goal? It surely cannot be to become my wife.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, the kind that could silence a hall of blubbering advisors at once. You had chosen him for a reason, the culmination of all your lifetimes in this world.

With your best courtly smile, you told him, “I only wish to rest, in peace.”

•Scene 2•

You were the cherished only daughter of the Count and Countess of the Lurmuse fiefdom. They were not the first parents you had had, but if you cared for any souls in this lifetime, it would be them.

Their fief was a vast, prosperous farming land that spanned across the southwestern border of the Kingdom, with a rich history and a loyal people. Being a border fief had granted them immense military power, yet despite their wealth, your parents lived a relatively humble life compared to their fellow nobles, and they raised you with such humility.

They were the reclusive type, which you were thankful for, preferring to stay at their fief than to reside at the crown city. This quiet life of theirs was only disturbed when you visited the King’s palace for the first time, in vain of all the tantrums you had tried to throw to stop them.

At five years old, the countdown to your death began.

Ever since, the King had insisted on you spending long stays at the palace. Sometimes, it was for classes in music, dance, embroidery, or whatever his whims inspired. Other times, it was merely to spend time with the young Crown Prince. To any onlookers, he was a warmhearted King who took a liking to a count’s daughter and wished to bring the two families closer.

You knew better.

Behind that façade of kindness, his eyes only saw you as a demon to be purged. This was his—and eventually his son’s—way of keeping you under surveillance until it was finally time to fulfill his so-called duty. As he had before, as his fathers and forefathers did, and as his son and descendants would.

You glanced at the Crown Prince now, standing at the dais of his princely seat, surrounded by his closest supporters. At once, he noticed and met your gaze, courtesy of those otherworldly instincts cursed upon him.

His name was one you could never recall. You could see the faces of every king before him within his features. It filled you with such an immense terror, but you dared not express it. All these years, you played nice with him.

Cautiously, you diverted your gaze to the revelry around you. The feasting had finished, and the nobility gathered in this hall were now sipping wine and gossiping the night away.

Looking at the attendees of the banquet was like gazing into a kaleidoscope. Each lord and lady was dressed exquisitely, every gown and suit more spectacular than the other—the kind of fashion worthy of a prince’s banquet.

You were standing next to your parents who were politely smiling and nodding along to some unriveting conversation. Count and Countess Lurmuse were older than many of the nobles around them, yet clad in your fiefdom’s pine green colors, they were the most elegant in the hall.

Watching your mother, you recalled the conversation you had some hours prior when you told both of your parents about your decision not to marry the Crown Prince.

The Countess was a frail woman. Sometimes it felt as though a gust of wind could sweep her away. So, you were reasonably worried that your news would affect her terribly.

But she had only smiled at you then, her words like a balm to your worries.

“I never wanted to disturb your relationship with the Prince, but I must admit, I am relieved.”

She did not believe that he was the right choice. That was what she had told you, and you wondered if she thought the same of the man you had chosen instead.

The ensemble that had been filling the hall with music suddenly quietened, and a curious hush fell over the attendees before the clink of a spoon against glass drew their attention to the dais.

This banquet was merely a formality. They all knew the true reason behind this gathering, for the Crown Prince was proposing to his childhood sweetheart on this evening.

There he stood, proud, wineglass raised in the air as he addressed the crowd, “My most honorable lords and ladies, may I have your attention, please?”

He needed not ask. They turned to him like moths to a flame, skirts and capes rustling. The Crown Prince smiled at them, smug, yet parading modesty.

“I gathered you all here to witness,” he paused for effect, then placed his free hand over his heart. At that moment, to all except yourself, he was the image of a gentle prince in love. His sincerity was only magnified by his next words. “Tonight, I will propose to my childhood love and only companion I wish to have in this life!”

The hall erupted in murmurs, each noble man and woman whispering excited, dubious, or envious guesses and remarks to one another. You already began to feel a few eyes on your back.

The Crown Prince smiled again, finding you in the masses with the likeness of an eagle spotting its prey.

His gaze made you feel sick.

“Lady Y/n!” he called out to you and his friends hooted and cheered.

The crowd around you parted, making you see him as he stepped down the dais. There was a slight slant to his saunter, one that you noted after observing him for so many years. He made his way toward you, cloaked in royal red and gold, unhindered by the nosy people surrounding you.

He stopped several feet away and raised his glass, the words falling from his lips as easily as a string of sweet nothings.

“Will you marry me?”

There was an anticipatory silence after his proposal, an enthusiastic jitter as everyone awaited your response, expecting nothing but a ‘yes’.

Your grip on your wineglass tightened. You had not bothered to find him during the banquet and were beginning to think that perhaps you should have.

Hoping your voice would not betray you, you uttered loud and clear.

“No.”

The silence turned deadly, and you heard glass shatter somewhere behind you.

You did not bother to gauge the reactions of the bumbling fools around you. Instead, you watched as the Crown Prince’s gentlemanly expression fell apart, melting into dark confusion.

“No?” he repeated your rejection, as though daring you to affirm what you had said.

You stared at him, schooling your expression into stillness.

This was it—the spurring action of your plan. You opened your mouth, preparing to answer, when a voice came from somewhere to your left, strong and challenging.

It belonged to a certain someone with whom you had made a deal the previous night.

“No, indeed!”

Lord Lee Minho, eldest son of the Count of Valorieve, stepped into the clearing like a sending from heaven, a crooked smirk adorning his lips.

He was a sight for sore eyes. In all your lifetimes, you had seen few as striking as he was. His dark hair fell in a graceful swoop over one eye, long and luscious enough to lose one’s fingers in. The edge in his gaze was at once captivating and cruel, made to render helpless at his mercy any it beheld. His build spoke of superior swordsmanship, subtleties of power in the breadth of his shoulders and flex of his thighs.

Not only was he physically appealing, but he carried with him an air of elysian glory, commanding the attention of foe and friend alike. He needed not declare his presence for it to be felt, a hush of reverence all but compulsory.

He was a prince in his own right.

The Crown Prince eyed him in poorly disguised disdain, questioning, “Lord Lee, what brings you here?”

The animosity between Valorieve’s nobles and the royal family was no secret. The two parties were distant rivals, after all, and had fought over the throne many centuries ago.

Minho’s eyes twinkled. If anything, it was clear that he enjoyed this ordeal. “Your Highness, I, too, am here to propose.”

Swiftly, the young lord turned in your parents’ direction, serious and suddenly ardent as he presented his request, much to the surprise of all the attendees. “Your Excellencies, I humbly seek your permission to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Whispers rose across the hall again, this time perturbed and appalled. Though none would dare to object to the unfolding of events, not when Minho was at the center of them.

You paid them no mind, meeting your father’s concerned gaze with a reassuring nod. You had asked your parents to accept during your earlier chat. To trust you. They always had, but you still prayed that they would not go back on their word now.

Your father hesitated for a moment before he gave in, raising a hand and planting it firmly on Minho’s shoulder. With the kindest of smiles, he announced, “We give you our blessing.”

Minho placed his hand over the Count’s, returning the smile gratefully. “Thank you.”

When he turned to walk toward you, clamor ensued.

‘How could this be happening?!’

‘How dare she?!’

You tuned it all out. Every facet of your attention was on Minho anyway. His easy gait, his mask of calm. The gold studded jacket effortlessly slung over his shoulders seemed heavier than even that of the Crown Prince, yet he never slumped.

You were reminded of an old saying—the Valorieve do whatever they want.

He came to kneel before you like a knight would, with a hand over his heart and the other stretched out toward you. He held your gaze, and very carefully, he asked, “Lady Y/n, would you honor me and give me your hand?”

The noise was almost deafening. They would speak of this for weeks to come, you knew.

You set your wineglass aside and with a step forward, took the young lord’s hand, upturning the hall. “Yes.”

The Crown Prince threw his drink to the pearly floor, shards of broken glass spreading like stars in blood as he shouted, “This is not right!”

“I am afraid this is right, Your Highness!” Minho proclaimed, standing up and drawing you closer. He held your hand like a trophy for all to admire. “So right, in fact, that we will be holding our wedding in three weeks’ time!”

“You—!” but whatever the Prince was trying to say drowned in the resulting commotion.

Minho leaned to your side, close enough that only you heard him when he spoke. He smelled faintly of roses and sandalwood. “This plan of yours has placed us in quite the scandal. I do hope you don’t mind the gossip?”

You breathed out. You cared not what any of those people thought.

Holding your head high, you whispered so only your fiancé would hear, “I do not.”

•Scene 3•

“You made quite the spectacle of yourself last night. What of our plan?”

The Count of Valorieve gave his back to his son as he watched the lively streets of the crown city from his window. News of Minho’s actions reached him almost immediately, through both informants and senseless gossip.

The young Lord stole the Crown Prince’s bride.

“Worry not, father,” Minho said. “We made a deal. Our plan will proceed even more smoothly now.”

To bring a person so closely affiliated with the Crown Prince into the estate was a risk even he would hesitate before taking, but the Count trusted his heir. If he had determined that this was an advantageous move, then so be it.

“And if the girl proves to be a problem?”

Minho did not spare a breath. “She will be eliminated.”

The Count said nothing more, satisfied with his answer. If the Lady of Lurmuse was indeed a spy sent by the royal family, then she could be of no use to them dead. Besides, he would easily be able to monitor her actions at the estate.

With a sigh, he turned around to look at his son. He was the heir of a fiefdom that spanned over a quarter of the kingdom’s land. A young man with a tremendous responsibility that could only be mellowed out by his greater ambitions.

The Count had raised him well, yet he could not stop his brows from furrowing in fatherly concern. “I know I was imploring you to get married, but this feels rather hasty.”

“I do not regret my decision,” Minho answered him, resolute in the square set of his shoulders.

“Besides, I saw an opportunity in this,” he confessed when his father remained quiet, “to quell your urging, expand our territory, and finally achieve our goal. Lady Lurmuse is the heir of the Lurmuse fiefdom, is she not?”

“Yes, she is,” the Count sighed. He was not surprised by his son’s attitude—tackling this marriage as though it were a business deal with no regard for his own fulfillment.

Most unions among nobles were social and economic propositions after all, as much as the Count wished his son would not fall into the same trap.

He turned back to the window, waving him off. There was no use changing Minho’s mind now. “Go on, then. You have a wedding to prepare for.”

•Scene 4•

Three weeks had passed since that momentous banquet, and you were now standing before a towering mirror, all but drowning in white.

It was your mother’s gown, hastily yet expertly tailored to suit you. An intricate embroidery of pearls adorned the elegant neckline. The skirt shimmered and sparkled with the barest movement, billowing around you, heavier than any you had worn before. A cloud of winking stars.

It was a gown made to make its wearer feel special, but you felt nothing.

This day and this ceremony were only a Déjà vu. A repetition. You had worn numerous other wedding dresses before. Some were just as exquisite, some were far less beautiful, some you could not recall at all, in muddled lifetimes lost to your weary memory.

But to your parents, this day was a first.

“My dear…” Countess Lurmuse wrapped you in her slender arms, careful not to ruin your veil with the tears glistening in her eyes. Her voice was charged with such emotion that it earned a sniffle from your father standing nearby.

You reciprocated the hug to the best of your ability, mindful of the delicate work your handmaidens had been doing all day.

Your poor mother had fussed over you ever since the announcement of your engagement. Three weeks was too little time for preparation, even with all the resources you had, and too sudden. You could only offer apologies for all the work your parents had to do.

When you parted, your mother cupped your cheeks, gazing so softly yet intently at your face as though to memorize it. “Oh, how lovely you are, my darling.”

“Now, now,” your father stepped forward and placed a pacifying hand on her shoulder. “Our daughter isn’t leaving us forever. You can see her anytime you wish, my love.”

He spoke as though he had not been discreetly patting his eyes over at the side a few moments ago. You smiled at the two of them. If you were to care about something on this day, it was their happiness.

“I think the ceremony is about to begin,” you told them once you caught the sound of the ensemble. “We must leave.”

“Yes, yes,” your mother sighed, finally letting go to usher you toward the magnificent oak doors that led to the hall. More than a hundred guests were waiting behind those doors. No doubt curious to see the union of the outrageous couple.

Your parents came to flank you, nervously staring at the dark, varnished wood. You heard your father ask, murmuring his concern one last time, “Dear…are you truly sure about this?”

The doors groaned open like an answer of their own, and you shot him your most dazzling grin. “I’m happy, father.”

It was no lie, though happiness was not the word you would use to describe the exhilarating emotion you were feeling. Rather, it was success, the taste of freedom.

Across the hall, another set of doors wailed open to reveal the groom in all his polished glory.

He, too, was dressed in white.

Minho’s pale suit was embroidered with and etched in gold. A dozen badges and medals embellished the right front of his jacket, while a cape of intense imperial blue draped over his left shoulder. From his hip hung a ceremonial sword, its sapphire studded hilt complementing his attire. His dark hair was parted to the side, left to sweep neatly above one eye.

In his gloved hands, he held a posy of thymes dotted with soft purple blossoms. It was a custom of your kingdom. They represented courage, strength, and fortitude.

In your grasp was the counterpart that symbolized love, peace, and fidelity—a bushy branch from the myrtle tree, white flowers stark against the darkness of its leaves.

You had witnessed the unity of those two halves time and time again, a metaphor for the promises shared between a loving couple. But in a wedding such as yours, these symbols were merely a formality. Neither were true to the kind of promises you had made to each other.

You stepped onto the path lined with white roses. To your left were the arrays of seats upon which your guests sat and stared in mute anticipation. To your right, a sprawling ensemble engrossed in playing the ceremonial procession.

You walked with your parents behind you, while Minho was followed by his father, his stepmother, and his younger brother. The meeting of families was a tradition particular to the western region of your kingdom, which you both hailed from. It was yet another representation of unity.

The two of you met halfway on a raised platform, where an officiant was waiting to perform the ceremony and validate your marriage. It was only up close did you notice the taut grip Minho had on his posy.

Right. This was a first for him too.

Regardless of the nature of your partnership, you decided that you owed him a smooth, joyous celebration, at least.

When your families finished greeting each other, you took Minho’s hand and turned toward the solemn-faced officiant. He was dressed in a suit the color of chestnut. Over his heart was a silver brooch depicting a leopard curled around a pen, the insignia of Valorieve’s Council of Records.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he called out into the hall as the ensemble faded into silence. “We are gathered here today to witness and celebrate the union of two families and two hearts in matrimony. By the authority of His Excellency, the Count of Valorieve, under the righteous guidance of His Majesty, the King, I will oversee and recognize this momentous ceremony.”

The officiant then addressed the two of you, “Please begin to tie the knot on the matrimonial bouquet.”

Two ribbons were wrapped around the end of your myrtle branch, one blue, the other golden. Around Minho’s posy of thymes were fern green ribbons. They were the colors of your fiefdoms.

Minho worked wordlessly, wrapping the ribbons around your branch then letting you do the same with the ribbons you held. When you finished tying the knot, you had a single, complete bouquet, which you then placed on the velvet cushion presented before you.

“Now, place your hands over the knot,” the officiant instructed. You obliged, and Minho laid his hand over yours. Even through the fine fabric of his glove, his palm was warm, so much so that you suddenly felt a chill run down your spine.

“By this blessed union, Lord Lee Minho of Valorieve and Lady Y/n of Lurmuse, do you swear to be doting, dutiful, and devoted to one another?”

“I swear,” Minho vowed, and you repeated after him.

“I swear.”

“By this blessed union, do you swear to protect one another, never betray one another, and always hold one another in the highest regard?”

“I swear.”

“Then, let us commence the exchange of rings,” the officiant said, carrying the velvet cushion along with the bouquet away as another, smaller pillow was brought to him by an attendant. On cue, the ensemble began playing a slow, gentle composition to accompany the nearing end of the ceremony.

Two matching rings were snugly fit into the small cushion. Minho reached first and carefully pulled out one of them. You held your left hand out for him, and he placed the ring on your finger, his touch featherlike.

You spared a moment to admire the sophisticated artistry of the jewelry. The band was made of iridescent mother-of-pearl with a base of the purest silver. It thinned in the middle, where a small diamond was placed as if seated on a throne.

For a fleeting second, you wondered if the young Lord had chosen the rings himself. If there was any thoughtfulness in those beautiful creations.

When he finished, you reached for the remaining ring. It was akin to yours, the only difference being its lack of any diamond. Minho pulled off the glove on his left swiftly, letting you slip the ring through his finger with ease.

With that, the officiant cleared his throat, once again handing you the matrimonial bouquet. “Lord Lee Minho of Valorieve and Lady Y/n of Lurmuse.

“May this union bring you joy and tranquility, safety and fulfillment. May your happiness last long, and may your sorrows abate.”

He paused, before announcing loud and clear for all to hear, “I hereby pronounce you husband and wife. Blessed be your union!”

The hall erupted in applause as the ensemble rose to a crescendo. Hand in hand, you and Minho turned to face your guests. You recognized most of their faces, lords and ladies you often met at balls and banquets. Your parents were seated in the front alongside Minho’s family. In-laws now, you thought, looking over the faces of those who you would be seeing much more often.

The two of you were shortly whisked away to the carriage awaiting outside the ceremonial hall. It would take you across the city in a grand procession toward Valorieve Palace, where celebrations were taking place, and where you would reside thereafter.

You gazed outside the windows of your carriage. The city of Adorance was alive with festivities. The colors of Valorieve were hung from rooftop to rooftop, flags proudly fluttering in the wind. You could hear singing in the streets, faint music in the distance, and the sound of laughter dancing in the air. Your procession tossed rose petals, candy, and coins in its wake, while citizens were waving and cheering at your carriage. It seemed that they were truly happy, as though this wedding was theirs too to celebrate.

The inside of your carriage, however, was the very opposite of the merriment happening outside. Across from you, Minho sat quietly, staring outside with an unreadable expression on his face. It was a stifling silence that even you could not bear for too long.

So, you dared to speak. “Your city is beautiful.”

He snapped his head in your direction, blinking once as if unsure of what he heard. You could see him try to work out an answer.

“Yes,” he finally said, leaning his head back and returning his attention to the scenery outside. You thought you saw his lips lift in a vague smile. “It is.”

Nothing more was said for the rest of the ride, but the tension between you had dissipated with the celebrations unfolding around you.

• • •

Your first dance with Minho was the focus of all who were gathered at the ballroom that evening.

He was a talented dancer. There was skill in the precision and elegance of his steps, but also a certain passion that made it seem like he truly enjoyed what he was doing. He held you gingerly, a hand at your back while the other clasped yours, close enough so that the only thing you could look at was him, and the many stars reflected in his eyes.

You had danced with countless others before, in this lifetime and past lifetimes, yet none had made your mundane dance feel so spectacular. What you had practiced alone in frenzied preparation suddenly became a heart-stopping scene ripped right out of a play. As though you were spirited away to a different world in those few minutes.

When your dance ended, the revelry commenced officially. Wine, treats, and other refreshments were served around as your guests indulged in light conversation and dance. You knew that many of them were not ecstatic to be attending but could not afford to offend Count Valorieve with their absence. You hoped that the food and drinks would entertain them enough.

Seated next to you on the wedding couch, Minho watched the party unfold in disinterest. Guilt nagged at your heart at the sight. Asking him to marry you was a selfish request, and you were not so heartless as to deny that a regular person ought to enjoy such an event. Especially when he was at the center of it.

“Would you care to have the next dance?” you asked him as the ensemble reached the shrill end of their piece.

Minho’s wineglass stopped short of his lips and he stared at you incredulously. “Pardon?”

“The nature of our partnership is no reason for us not to enjoy the night, do you not think so?” you prodded. Though these experiences meant little to you, you still understood their ordinary significance.

So, when he remained silent, you stood, and your dress shimmered and swelled around you like a halo. With a glance back, you gave him a kind smile. You never intended to sully the lives of others with your indifference.

“Come, let us dance.”

•Scene 5•

The doors of the bedchambers closed behind you with a resounding boom like the lid of a coffin.

The room was scarcely lit, the little candlelight letting the moon illuminate the space through fluttering curtains instead. The enormous bed at the center of the chamber glared at you with its silken sheets and lavish pillows.

You paid the sultry atmosphere no mind, spotting the wooden trunk you had transported with you from Lurmuse. It contained all your most valuable belongings.

You stepped toward it, and Minho suddenly blurted, “Wait!”

You turned to face him, finding him gawking at you with wide, frantic eyes. His hair had disheveled ever so slightly from the evening’s celebrations, and although he did not drink enough to become fully intoxicated, there was a curious redness at the tip of his ears.

“Don’t worry,” you told him. “I only wish to fulfill my part of the deal. I will not ask you to lay with me.”

Not awaiting his response, you approached the sturdy trunk and opened it. With a little rummaging, you found the small chest you were searching for and spun toward Minho.

“Inside this chest, you will find maps indicating the locations of the military camps and detailed plans of each,” you said as you handed it to him before fishing out a small key from a pouch tied to your wrist.

Placing the key over the chest, you then added, “You will also find a list of all the nobles that are indebted to or being blackmailed by the Crown Prince and the information to use against them. I need not say, guard this carefully.”

Minho received the chest with furrowed brows. Sharp focus had returned to his eyes when he looked at you. “This is more than what we agreed on.”

You held his gaze, unwavering under his tremendous scrutiny. “Maps, records, correspondences—I will give you any and all information I am privy to.”

Your promise was resolute, and you meant it wholeheartedly. All he needed was to ask. “I only need for you to lend me your strength when the time comes.”

“And when will that be?” he breathed out.

“A little less than year from now,” you revealed, breaking eye contact with him to gaze at the full moon peeking through the window. “On the eve of my twenty-first, he will come knocking on my door.

“Other than that,” you gave him a smile as though to assure him, “I will never bother you with anything.”

☙ Act 2.

•Scene 1•

The room smelled of mold and stifling death. Dust had settled in thick layers over every surface and in every crease. It was only cleared by the shoeprints leading up to where the man knelt grimly.

The sheets lay flat on the bed before him, a resting place for all the floating particles of dust permeating the air.

“I let her slip out of my grasp,” he confessed through gritted teeth. Everything had been proceeding according to his plan. He was careful. He was watchful. How could she have come into contact with that bastard?

“But worry not, father,” he unfolded from his kneeling position. Whatever that puny girl had orchestrated will not succeed, and he was going to see that through. As his father did, and as his ancestors had done before him.

“The demon shall be purged.”

A somber silence was the only answer he received.

The Crown Prince stepped out of the King’s chambers, not bothering to stop as he ordered the guards on duty, “The King wishes to rest. Do not let anyone disturb him.”

But that was a terrible lie, for the King had not wished anything for a very long time.

•Scene 2•

You did not recall your first death.

But those that came after, you remembered vividly.

The death of the heart, body, and soul—every instance your life had been taken away from you at its bare start. You knew the taste of dying better than you knew the backs of your own hands. It was a sensation that lurked between the shadows of night and slumber, never leaving you alone.

You were helpless in the face of death. Unable to move. Unable to save yourself. Unable to ignore it. It petrified you more than you could ever convey.

What was worse than the pain of dying, however, was the pain of being reborn in a life so entirely different from your past. The numbing heartbreak of being ripped away from the people you had grown to love, unable to tell them of your whereabouts and wellbeing. It was so unbearable that you began to vehemently avoid the people and places of your previous lives.

Soon enough, with the cloud of loss looming over your every interaction, you found it difficult to form relationships with others. There was no purpose in doing so when you knew that you were going to lose all of them shortly.

Yet, meeting and interacting with others was an inevitability of life. No matter how much you resented it, you still had to do it.

You were walking with Minho, heading towards the dining hall for your first family breakfast, when a voice sounded across the hallway. “Good morning, brother!”

A young man approached you, dressed smartly in a beige suit. He had hair the same dark shade as Minho’s, and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks. Doe-eyed, he reminded you of a kitten.

Your husband smiled at him. “Good morning to you too, Felix.”

Lee Felix was Minho’s half-brother, born from a different mother. He was your age, three years a junior to his older brother. You noted that they seemed to have a good relationship.

But that friendliness disappeared the moment Felix turned to address you with a stiff nod of his head. “Lady Y/n.”

He seemed not to like you very much, you also noted.

“Good morning, Lord Lee,” you nodded back at him. It did not matter to you what sentiments he harbored.

“It looks like I arrived just in time!” an unfamiliar voice came from the opposite side, sonorous and cheerful.

On impulse, you turned in the direction of the sound.

Your heart dropped into the depthless abyss.

You could distinguish those features on any face, anywhere and anytime. That telltale curve of the nose. That facial structure, regardless of how faint. His countenance seemed to twist right before you, morphing into the faces of your nightmares.

He was well built, broad shoulders proud in his simple tunic. His long hair was tied and tossed in front of his shoulder, gentle black curls bouncing as he jogged. He wore a radiant smile when he bowed to you. “Greetings, Lady Y/n.”

You gripped your dress so tightly it could have torn. He was neither the Prince nor the King. Who, by all stars, was this man?

“You are not of the Valorieve. Who are you?”

The stranger’s smile faded at your cold tone, and he recollected himself with a cough. “You have a very keen eye, my lady. I, indeed, am not of the Valorieve.”

Minho spoke up beside you, raising a hand to clasp the man’s shoulder. “This is Bang Chan. He was adopted and raised by our family.”

You might have heard of such a surname in town before, but it did not match his appearance. It was not the name a person of his birthright should carry.

That bright smile returned, paired with dimples, as he apologized bashfully, “My apologies for confusing you, my lady.”

Your voice was stuck in your throat. Only with great effort did you manage to squeeze out a proper response. You did not want to look at him any longer. “It’s all right. I, as well, apologize for my unseemly prior reaction.”

You spun around urgently, tugging once at Minho’s sleeve. “Let us head to the hall. We must not be late.”

Your heartbeat was a drum pounding in your ears.

This was not part of your plan. Whoever this Bang Chan character was, wherever he had come from, he was not a player you had accounted for.

•Scene 3•

The tea was warm and sweet on your tongue, with the smallest hint of floral bitterness. It was just the kind of earthy taste you enjoyed.

“Have you been well, my dear?” your mother asked, setting her teacup down after a careful sip. Her movements were always of the utmost elegance, making everyone else seem like a clumsy fool in contrast.

You smiled. “I have, mother. What of you? How has your stay been so far?”

One week had passed since your wedding, and your parents had been staying at Adorance as if to keep you company. They claimed not wanting to bother you and your husband, but you knew that they were simply reluctant to leave you behind and did not know how to express it.

Though, they were finally going to leave for Lurmuse tomorrow, and you were going to stay in Valorieve.

Alone to pull the strings of your plan.

“It has been nice. Adorance is such a large city, rather too lively and loud sometimes,” your mother remarked with a quirk of her lips. “I do miss the peacefulness of the estate.”

Life in the Lurmuse fiefdom was quiet and simple, free from the buzz and extravagance of big cities. It was no wonder that your mother felt out of place here.

“That is true. The city feels as though it would sweep one away if given the chance.” you took another sip of your tea. The conversation was going in no particular direction, and you appreciated that.

But it seemed that your mother had other ideas, ever the perceptive lady.

You looked up from your teacup to find her gazing at you with concern drawn all over her face. Brows furrowed, she seemed to hesitate before finally uttering, “Is he treating you well?”

The cup in your hand suddenly felt heavy. She did not beat around the bush, did she?

Your smile did not falter. “I am happy. Please, don’t worry about me, mother.”

“Silly girl, if I do not worry about you, then who will?” she sighed, eyes filling with warmth as she regarded you. Your mother’s care was steady and unrelenting, like a mighty mountain in the face of a storm. You were sure she would worry herself sleepless if you had expressed even the slightest unhappiness.

Her thin hand came to rest over yours from across the table, comforting as she murmured, “I heard that His Lordship is away.”

“Yes, he told me that he had urgent business matters to attend to,” the lie fell easily from your lips.

The truth was that you had not seen Minho since the day after the wedding. He had simply left without a word. Though if you were to guess, he was probably scoping out a secret military base somewhere.

Not that his absence bothered you.

“How unfortunate,” the Countess sighed again, her disapproval evident in her frown, and you hid your grimace. Sorry, Minho.

Your mother was a meticulous woman. The last thing you needed was for her to pry. If you had to sacrifice your husband for the plan’s sake, then so be it.

Smiling sheepishly, you shrugged. “But so would fate have it.”

“Still, he must make time for you!” she picked up her teacup with a huff, making you chuckle. You could only hope to be as formidable a woman as her.

“I will let him know, mother.”

• • •

A month had passed since the wedding.

Life in Valorieve Palace was much calmer than you expected it to be. Although it was the main estate, the Count and his wife lived elsewhere at one of the family’s many other properties, only visiting occasionally. Minho was still away, alongside his brother and the mysterious person called Chan.

Slipping into a solitary, quiet routine was easy. Your time was mostly spent managing the estate affairs for which you were responsible as the new Lady Valorieve. You dared not disturb the palace staff in their work, avoiding their aid as much as you could.

It was not so difficult. In fact, it was the kind of life you were used to at your home in Lurmuse.

Your parents did not employ servants to open and shut doors for you, bathe and dress you, or tend to the most minuscule of your needs. But that was not the case in Valorieve Palace, where the servants were not quite convinced of your aptitude to carry a few books to your study.

It took some time, but eventually, you reached a mutual understanding with them.

Mostly.

You were overlooking the garden work when your butler approached you, carrying with him a small silver plate and a parasol under his arm. He was assigned to you by the head butler of the palace, and no matter how you tried to brush him off, he remained staunchly by your side, determined to serve.

“My lady, a letter has arrived for you,” he said after bowing lightly. He had hair the same shade as his inky black butler’s coat, and eyes the color of a cloudless sky at noon. Sharp features and polished manners, yet he could not have been much older than you.

“Thank you, Sycross.” you gave him a polite nod as you took the envelope he had presented on the plate. He then reached for the parasol he carried and you waved your hand at him dismissively. “There’s really no need—”

“Pardon me, my lady, but the sun is quite strong today. Please, allow me,” Sycross interrupted, opening the parasol regardless and stepping a respectful distance away.

Under the newfound shade, your shoulders slumped in defeat. There was no deterring him.

You turned your attention to the letter. There was no sender’s name on the envelope, but you knew who had sent it.

The Crown Prince had been sending you one letter after another throughout the past month. Sometimes he begged you, other times he questioned you and demanded answers. An outsider might think he was simply a heartbroken man beseeching his cruel-hearted former lover, but you knew better.

You knew that it was not his heartbreak speaking, but fury. The ink on those letters looked like blood to you. Every curve and dip of his script was a threat only you could see.

Resigned, you tore open the top of the envelope and pulled out the letter inside. You wondered what laughable pleas were scribbled on that piece of paper as you unfolded it.

His angry lettering screamed at you. Only one sentence stared back at you.

‘You cannot hide.’

A pure and honest threat. You wanted to laugh as much as you wanted to drop this letter in terror.

Instead, you did neither and neatly folded it back into the envelope, sure to maintain a composed demeanor.

You knew that you were being watched and reported back to Minho. It made sense, for you were a close companion of his enemy, after all. He would be a fool to let you roam around unsupervised, and the young Lord was no fool.

You would burn this letter as you had burned the rest, and make it known that you did not send any back.

You would give Minho no reason to terminate your partnership. Let the Prince send as many wrathful, useless letters as he wished.

•Scene 4•

“A letter?”

“Yes,” Felix confirmed his brother’s question. “Apparently, she has been receiving strange letters from an unnamed sender very frequently.”

Minho’s gaze roamed over the plan he was studying aimlessly, thoughts elsewhere. He was keenly aware of the fact that Felix did not trust you. And, although you had sworn it to him, he, too, could not help himself from doubting your honesty.

He had told himself that he did not need to understand your intentions. In a transaction, all that was necessary was the exchange of benefits. You had struck a deal with him and fulfilled it. There was no reason for him to pry further.

Yet, he was curious, and his curiosity made him uneasy. What if this was all some complicated ploy by the Crown Prince to bring him down? Surely you were not so stupid as to communicate with the enemy under his roof.

“You’re forgetting an important detail, Felix,” Chan spoke up from where he lounged on the ground, surrounded by rough cushions.

“And what will that be?” the mentioned young man crossed his arms, his deep voice taunting. “She’s receiving correspondences that are most likely from the enemy. What else could be important?”

Chan waved the report in the air. “It says here that Her Ladyship discarded all those letters and was never once seen sending any out.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she is a threat to us!” Felix spun to where Minho sat, slamming his palms on the table before him. “You must rid of her, brother.”

“Oh, come, now!” Chan rolled his eyes, the papers in his hands rustling. “You cannot read this shallow report and come to such a drastic conclusion. How can you be so sure she’s colluding with him?”

“You—!”

“That will be enough from the both of you,” Minho interjected loudly, to which the younger Lord opened his mouth, ready to protest before giving in.

“Suit yourselves, then! Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he scoffed and stalked out of the small tent they were in, an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

Minho sighed after he had left. His younger brother was usually an amicable person. Only when it came to matters that he was particularly passionate about did he become such a fiery force.

A spy possibly infiltrating their circle was one of those matters.

Chan pushed himself to his feet and walked over to where Minho sat, a display of maps and plans before him. He tossed the report on the table as he casually took a seat.

“I think you should read this,” he said.

Minho picked up the small stack of papers. They contained a detailed report of your actions inside the palace during his absence, compiled by his own men. He skimmed through it while telling himself not to jump to conclusions. Not to let his own doubts blind him.

But as he learned of your daily activities, that sense of dreadful curiosity filled him again. It felt like something was missing. No matter how he looked at your case, your behavior—there was something he could not place his finger on.

You had offered to give him priceless information, not for a fortune, not for a tangible price, but for marriage.

Then, you demanded nothing else from him.

It simply made no sense.

“To be honest with you, I never liked the idea,” Chan admitted with a sigh. “The taking of an innocent life for something like this…”

On that night two months ago, Minho’s task was to assassinate you, the Prince’s childhood sweetheart.

The plan was to pin the blame on the Crown Prince and turn Lurmuse against him completely. It was well known that the Count and Countess cherished their daughter more than anything else in this world. It was also known that despite not flaunting their power, the Lurmuse nobles held a considerably large influence on the common people of the kingdom. Additionally, their military competence as a border fief was not to be looked down upon. They were the perfect trigger to disturb.

If they could create profound animosity between Lurmuse and the royal family, then it would act as a catalyst to achieving Valorieve’s ultimate goal.

Unfortunately, you would have been victim to a plan you were never privy to.

Minho knew that Chan disliked the idea, even if he could do nothing to stop it at the time. So, when you proposed that deal, he found himself easily persuaded. The plan might not proceed as fast as they had intended, but he had earned an invaluable ally instead.

This marriage meant that Lurmuse would stand with Valorieve in the future, regardless of the circumstances.

“So, even if Felix disapproves, I think you did the right thing,” Chan remarked, leaning his head back to stare at the dimpled ceiling of their tent.

Chan was only a year older than him, but to Minho, his opinion carried the heaviest weight after his father’s. His distaste for the original plan was enough to make him heavy-hearted about executing it. His approval now should have made him feel better, but he could not dispel his sense of uncertainty.

“I…don’t know.” Minho dropped the papers and ran a hand through his dark hair, exasperated. “Something does not seem right to me here. I think that girl is smarter than to lie and do it so poorly.”

“I agree with you. No matter how I look at it, it makes little sense. Lady Lurmuse has more to her than she is letting on,” Chan concurred, adding, “Whatever it is, though, I do not think you should kill her. She seems innocent to me.”

“How can you know that?”

“A feeling.”

Minho sniffed. “That’s not particularly convincing.”

“I keep thinking about it,” Chan’s voice took on a strange tone as if he were recalling a memory that haunted him. “That day we first met, she hid it well, but I noticed it. She looked…terrified.”

Minho’s brows furrowed. He remembered no such thing, yet there was Chan, staring blankly as he spoke, “I don’t know why, but the sight of me seemed to inspire such an intense terror in her, that, for the briefest moment there, I thought she was going to fall apart.”

“You speak of Y/n, correct?”

“Yes,” Chan spared him an incredulous glance before continuing, “My point is—I don’t think that Felix’s speculations are true. It seems to me that something else is troubling the Lady, far deeper than a play at power.”

“You are very observant of a person you have only met once,” Minho commented pointedly, to which Chan sighed. “Do not jest.”

There was a beat of silence before he muttered, adverting his gaze, “I just… She seemed like a very lonely person.

“It’s written all over those papers. You would be a lying halfwit to say you don’t see it. Reading them felt like reading the diaries of a shadow. Like she is actively trying to distance and exclude herself from the world.

“And you!” Chan suddenly snapped his head to look at a startled Minho, pointing an accusing finger. “I know this partnership is nothing more than a trade, but you married a person, not a business deal!

“You have to be more responsible,” he concluded solemnly before standing up. “Ponder over it. In the meantime, I am finding something to eat.”

With that, Minho found himself alone in the small tent, his only company the strewn maps and a myriad of conflicting thoughts.

•Scene 5•

You were surprised, to say the least, when you entered the breakfast hall to find your husband waiting for you there.

Minho stood upon your entry, immediately greeting you with a polite smile, “Good morning, Lady Y/n.”

It had been two months since you last saw him. Whatever he was doing out there had thinned him a little bit. The lines of his jaw had become slightly bolder, cheeks a tad hollower, but his eyes remained as sharp as you remembered them.

“Good morning to you too, Lord Minho,” you returned his greeting, hoping you sounded composed. “I was not told you had returned.”

“Ah, we arrived late in the night. I didn’t wish to disturb you, so I stayed in my old chsmbers,” he explained awkwardly as you took the seat opposite to his.

“I see,” you gave him a smile that did not quite reach your eyes. “I’m sorry I was not there to welcome you back home.”

Only when the servants left the hall could you finally relax. No longer needing to put up the couple act for them, the two of you began your meal in utter silence, occasionally interrupted by the soft clink of silverware.

“How have you been?”

There was your second surprise, and the day had barely begun.

You looked up from your plate to find Minho watching you, a vague look of hesitant expectancy in his eyes. There was no one around besides the two of you. You could not fathom a reason for him to talk to you other than his own desire to do so.

You patted your lips with a napkin. “I have been well. I trust that you have been well too?”

“Yes, I have,” he said, and you caught a slight grimace on his face. You thought it possibly a result of the stiffness of this conversation.

You expected him to stop there, but Minho had other ideas.

“How about the palace? Has living here been good…so far?”

“Your palace is an exquisite place. I have been just fine here.”

“That’s good to hear.”

In the recurring quiet, you thought of your parents. When they talked at the table, their conversations were never this stifling, and any silence that befell them was never so thick. But you and Minho were more strangers than acquaintances. All that you knew about him was well known to the public too, and vice versa.

Not nearly enough for you to carry a conversation that did not end in awkward silence.

“I heard that you didn’t invite any of your friends to the palace.” Minho cleared his throat, diverting his gaze when he added, “You are more than welcome to hold tea parties if you wish. I might not always be present to keep you company around here, after all.”

He spoke that last sentence so softly, you might have thought you imagined it if it had not made your stomach flip weirdly.

“You must have heard wrong.” you mustered a pleasant smile for him. A sense of dread had begun slowly seeping into your heart. “I invited my mother for tea last month.”

“That was all?” Minho seemed to be at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing once before he finally worked out a response. “Do you not have anyone else you would like to invite?”

“No,” you told him frankly, and the word seemed to hang in the air limply.

He said nothing for a moment, and you noticed that he had not touched his food since he started talking. Perhaps you should not have said so much, you realized. He must have been tired from travel, and you had just disturbed his breakfast.

“Well,” Minho started, breaking you out of your blameful thoughts, “A friend of mine invited us to a gathering happening at the end of the week. Let us attend.”

“Of course.” you smiled, glad for the change of topic.

You did not want to think about the guilt that loomed over his expression, dreary and wholly unsettling.

•Scene 6•

The gathering was small and informal. All who were attending seemed to be good friends, for they talked and drank easily with one another. You felt out of place among them, but you still stuck to Minho’s side, quietly nodding and smiling along with the conversation happening around you.

“Lord Lee!” a young man materialized out of the crowd and gripped Minho’s shoulder. His overly friendly manner perked your attention.

You recognized him immediately. He was the heir of Swann, the small fief neighboring Valorieve. He had a lopsided smirk painted on his lips, and in his free hand was a wineglass that sloshed dangerously, threatening to ruin the dress of the pretty lady on his arm.

Minho smiled at him politely as the small group that had surrounded you began to disperse. “Lord Swann, it is a pleasure to see you.”

“The pleasure is all mine!” the other man laughed. He seemed not to notice your presence at all.

Thankfully, you thought.

“How is business at the coast? I hear rumors of a deal with those western traders,” he asked and Minho humored him, “Yes, well, we still are working on the details...”

They conversed for a while after that, discussing expansions and the rise of prices in the market. The Swann nobles ran a very particular business in perfumery, utilizing their expanse of flowering meadows to produce the kingdom’s most sought-after fragrances. You knew countless ladies who wore their products. You had even tried some of them before.

On the other hand, Valorieve’s main field of business was foreign trade, among various other areas. Since a large portion of their land bordered the sea, they were at the forefront of exporting and importing goods. As a result, Adorance became known as the kingdom’s hub of trade—the City of Exchange.

You took a sip from your drink, gaze traveling across the hall when you heard Lord Swann say, “You must join us after the party.”

He leaned closer to Minho as if to share a secret. “Hyunjae had just informed me of some riveting entertainment he found close by.”

You felt Minho’s arm stiffen in your grip. There was a gap of silence before he responded flatly, “I’m afraid I will have to reject your offer.”

“Oh?” Lord Swann appeared genuinely perplexed, backing away slightly before he finally noticed you.

“Oh…” His expression turned into one of mischief. “I had not noticed that the Lady was with you. Greetings.”

You returned his discourtesy with a disinterested nod. “Lord Swann.”

He was unfazed, or perhaps your presence mattered little to him. With a knowing smirk, he patted Minho’s shoulder. “Well, then. I will leave you two to enjoy yourselves.”

When he left, Minho let out a breath like he had finally gotten rid of an annoyance. You could not blame him. The young Lord Swann was rather obnoxious at times.

Taking another sip of your drink, you muttered, “You did not have to reject his offer.”

You felt his muscles tense up again, ever so faintly. His answer came simple, matter of fact. “I am a married man now, Lady Y/n.”

You did not like the way that statement made you feel.

“Do not let me ruin your fun.” you shrugged. “We are only married in name. You can fool around as much as you want.”

The last thing you wanted was for him to dedicate his being to you. Not when you knew that this life of yours was fleeting.

“I am not so irresponsible a man.”

Minho’s fierce tone slammed into you like a wall of ice, making you freeze and stare at him mutely.

He glared at you with the intensity of a hundred suns. Even though you could not decipher his solemn expression, you were suddenly acutely aware of your hand holding his arm and the closeness of your bodies.

It made you want to break free and run away, sickened and perturbed.

You tore your gaze away instead, scoffing weakly, “Suit yourself.”

•Scene 7•

Minho’s behavior after that day was strange.

When he was in the palace, he made sure to join you for breakfast every morning. You did not see him often throughout the day, and he usually stayed up late working, but when you awakened, you would find him sleeping soundly next to you.

On the days he was away, he would send letters asking about your well-being and updating you on his journey. It was as though he had not disappeared without a trace or word for two months before.

As much as you tried to distance yourself from him, he was unrelenting with his small acts of care. It troubled you. Something had changed in him. You did not know what, or why, but you hoped it would stop soon.

For his own sake and yours.

You sighed, lazily dragging your gaze over the scenery passing you by. You had decided to take a carriage ride around the city to see and interact with its people. Your mother had often said that a Lady’s work was not confined to the management of the residence, but also included improving the lives of the land’s citizens.

In order to do that, you had to see what their lives were like for yourself.

So far, the city had looked the same to you. Beautiful buildings, lively streets, happy, busy people. Adorance was the envy of all, and you could see why.

But you knew that in every prosperous city, there lived some who were not as fortunate. Their misfortune was the result of incompetence on behalf of the lord of the land. As such, it was your duty as a noble, as the new Lady Valorieve, to fix those shortcomings.

Adorance had no slums. The current Count and those that came before him had worked hard on eradicating them completely. Instead, orphans and poor families lived in government-funded complexes. But those buildings could only house so many, and most of those who were in need found themselves sleeping in dark alleys or chased to the outskirts of the city as a result.

You passed by a humble building, featureless, with only one window and a door that a number of kids swarmed out of. They were dressed in rags that drooped over their gaunt figures, and they carried small wooden boards in their hands.

“Stop the carriage,” you spoke to the coachman through the tiny, sliding window. The ride came to a stop promptly and you stepped out of the carriage and onto the street.

Your personal knight was by your side immediately, eyes scanning the area for any potential threats. His name was Kim Seungmin, and he was part of the small retinue that traveled with you from Lurmuse. Despite his gentle features and soft voice, he was a formidable fighter, ruthless and shrewd with his actions.

At the sight of your carriage, the children fled and hid away, some running back into the building they came out of. There was no helping their reaction, even if you only had good intentions.

You walked toward the building just as a young woman stepped through the entrance. She appeared close to your age, and she was wearing a simple dress stained with charcoal and chalk. Her long dark hair was neatly braided, framing her pretty face.

With a gasp, she dropped into a clumsy curtesy before you could stop her, “Y-Your Ladyship!”

“Please be at ease.” you tried to calm her with a smile that felt more like a grimace. Slowly, she straightened to stare at you nervously. Little children held onto her skirt, gawking at you like one would a strange bug.

“What is your name?” you asked, and she hesitated before answering, “Lee Chaeryeong, my Lady.”

You smiled at her. “A pleasure to meet you, miss Chaeryeong.”

“No, my lady, the pleasure is all mine!” she offered another awkward bow.

“Miss Chaeryeong, do you run a school here?” you glanced at the building and children behind her and she blanched, sputtering, “Y-yes, my lady.”

“Don’t worry,” you assured her, smiling as kindly as you could. “You are not in any trouble. I only wish to learn more about your school and any similar establishments around here.”

Though, you supposed Seungmin’s armored presence beside you was not at all helping your case.

Chaeryeong tried to smile. “I-I would be happy to tell you, my lady.”

So, you spent the rest of your day learning about the small school, its sole teacher, and her many students. Chaeryeong was a poor scholar’s daughter who took on the task of teaching the city’s scattered orphans how to read, write, and do basic mathematics. Skills that could help them in finding small jobs around town.

In the few hours you spent with them, you saw how dearly the children loved her, and how she loved teaching them in turn.

When you returned to the palace that evening, a plan had already begun forming in your head. There was a lot of work to be done if you wanted to pave the way for people like Chaeryeong and her students.

•Scene 8•

“Here come the newlyweds!” a voice announced excitedly as you and Minho entered the banquet hall, becoming embarrassed at the sudden attention. The man responsible made his way through the light crowd, opening his arms with a welcoming grin. “Minho, my dear nephew!”

Minho’s smile was half amused, half embarrassed as he sighed. “Uncle, must you embarrass me like this every time?”

“Don’t be silly, boy! Let me look at you,” the Viscount laughed and clapped both hands on his shoulders, gazing at him with the warmth of a father.

You had met him during the wedding. He was a middle-aged man, with grey streaking his black hair and deep laugh lines etched into his cheeks. His kind nature was evident in the way he held himself.

“And the lovely Lady Y/n!” he spun toward you. “It is great to see you again.”

“I hope you have been well, uncle.” you curtsied, returning his bright smile with one of your own.

“I have, I have.” he turned around, ushering both of you along. “Come, now, you two. I want you to see her.”

This banquet was held to celebrate the birth of his daughter, Minho’s newest cousin. You made your way through a crowd of members and friends of the Lee family, greeting them as you went until you found the Viscountess.

“My dear, Minho and Y/n are here,” Minho’s uncle said as he gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

His wife turned her head to look at you, and her face lit up, dazzling. “Oh, what a wonderful surprise!”

“Congratulations, aunt. I hope you have been well,” Minho beamed, and you mimicked him. “Congratulations, aunt.”

“Oh, the both of you are just too sweet,” she crooned, stepping closer. In her arms, she held the newborn girl, swathed in light purple cloth. She was sound asleep, despite the lively atmosphere around her.

Minho’s aunt noticed you looking and offered with a slight tilt of her head, “Would you like to hold our little Eli?”

You were not going to be rude, so you accepted. “I would love to.”

You had held many children in your many lifetimes, newborns and older. They were always so light, as though the barest movement would send them tumbling away. So small for the magnanimous world.

The baby in your arms was no different, as delicate as a feather. You smiled at her parents. “You have chosen such a pretty name for her.”

“Indeed,” Minho agreed, leaning closer to take a look at her. Like an old reflex, you shifted your hold, slightly raising the newborn so he could have a clearer look.

A soft chuckle sounded in front of you. “What a lovely image the two of you make.”

The remark caught you off-guard and you gaped at your in-laws, wide-eyed as Minho mirrored you.

“You are right!” Minho’s uncle guffawed, his delight clear as he regarded his nephew. “Minho, when will I be able to hold a great niece or nephew?”

Your husband straightened, ears reddening in embarrassment as he glared at him. “Uncle…”

“It has been three months since the wedding! Have you no good news to share?”

You maintained an awkward smile. Next to you, Minho looked as though he were going to fizzle out of existence if this conversation proceeded any further.

“Don’t badger the kids, darling!” the Viscountess jokingly scolded her husband before waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Do not mind him, my dears.”

You found Minho’s poorly hidden exasperation amusing. It seemed to scream ‘She was the one who said the remark in the first place!’

•Scene 9•

“You are proposing improvements for the register of those in need?” Minho skimmed through the small stack of papers you had handed him.

“Yes,” you affirmed, explaining, “In short, it would follow a system similar to the one implemented in Lurmuse. Instead of simply distributing donations, those registered would be treated as employees of the Count. They would be paid in exchange for civil and public services. The details of such services are written in the plan I handed to you.

“There is a small school that I think would work well for a trial of the new register, especially the section concerning the children’s allowance scheme. Its details are also in the plan.”

“I see,” Minho murmured, deep in thought. He was well aware of the shortcomings of their current system, and he was not at all surprised that you had noticed them too. Your fief was well known for achieving a high quality of life and making it the standard amongst its citizens. There was no poverty in Lurmuse. The people may not have been ostentatiously rich, but they never found themselves in need.

It was something Minho wanted to achieve in Valorieve as well.

He also knew that you had been working on this proposal for a little more than two weeks now. It was a rough draft, in no way perfect, but he was more than willing to adopt such a strategy devised by a Lurmuse noble. This was one of your family’s areas of expertise, after all.

“I will see to it,” he determined after a few moments, looking up at you from where he sat at his desk. “We may need your assistance for further developments in the future.”

“I will be glad to help. Thank you for your time.” you gave him a firm nod—always short with your words—and promptly turned to leave his study.

You were not one to linger, nor one to blather, Minho had noticed that about you in the past four months he spent observing you. You kept to yourself, only speaking when necessary and doing it quickly before quietly retreating to your corner of the palace.

Despite this being a mere partnership, you upheld a Lady’s duties to the estate with ease and efficiency. You worked quietly, without leaving a trace, overseeing everything from the palace’s garden work and maintenance to its finances and supplies.

You were so different from the current Countess Valorieve, whose presence was as overbearing as her endless pride—a flaw that he acknowledged, despite the love and respect he had for her.

Never once did he hear a complaint about you from the staff. They had instead gotten used to your shadow-like presence—comfortable, even. They liked you. That much was evident with your butler, Sycross, who, when asked, vehemently attested to your considerate and dependable character.

But all these observations did was confound Minho further. Something was still missing in the narrative he had constructed around you. Something so significant, it would shatter the mysterious whole.

He was determined to uncover the truth.

☙ Act 3.

•Scene 1•

There was a knock at the door of the study, to which the Crown Prince growled, “Leave.”

“But, Your Highness—” a muffled protest from whoever was unfortunate enough to be delivering his dinner tonight.

“I said leave! Do not bother me!” he shouted, slamming his fists on his desk. The ink pot he had uncapped tumbled sideways by the force, spilling jet black over his scribble-riddled papers.

He could hear a whimper and the shuffling of feet on the other side, but he cared not. He did not want to see or be seen by anyone.

The Crown Prince was agitated.

It had been four months, and she was still out there. Still out of his grasp.

He had thought her broken—she was broken. There should have been no will in her to fight.

Yet his letters and threats were of no use. Were all those years spent placating her, trapping her, gone in vain? Where had she gotten the gall to try to escape him like this?

No, the Crown Prince refused to be the one to fail. She was going to fall at his hands, there was simply no other option.

A figure materialized out of the shadows, robed in a red so dark it almost appeared black. Withered hands inked with circular shapes raised in solemn greeting as they spoke, “The Blessed Flame greets you, Your Highness.”

A man’s voice. The Crown Prince spun to face him, thoughtlessly blurting out, “What are you doing here?”

He had been trying to hide the fact that she escaped, had been trying to right things on his own, but it was only a matter of time until they found out and came to admonish him for his mishap.

The Renocault Order. An ancient society of mages and cultists that had been prospering in the shadows of Rowonne. The royal family were longtime patrons of the order, having aided them in secret for over four hundred years. Every king in the history of the lands had deeply revered the order. The reason was one of the first things the Prince was ever taught—the royal family’s best-kept secret.

The High Mage dropped his hand, clearly displeased by the way his greeting was ignored. He rasped, face hidden under a generous hood, “I am here by revelation. You lost the demon, and the day is dawning upon us.”

Dawning upon us. The Prince wanted to scoff. He still had the better of seven months to capture her. The ‘day’ was still very far.

“Your Highness, need I remind you of the severe responsibility upon your shoulders? Do not forget that without the Order, the royal family would—”

“I have not forgotten, High Mage,” the Prince cut him off, scowling.

“Then why have you sat idle so far?”

“I have not been idle! This situation is not as easy as it seems. I cannot simply do as I wish!”

His outburst was granted, for he could not openly act against her. Not in a way that would implicate the royal name. He could not afford to involve Valorieve in this.

There was no one bold enough, loyal enough, who could perform the task for him.

“Shall we bring it here for you?” as if reading his mind, the High Mage offered cautiously, and the Prince stiffened. He was in urgent need of aid, and the Order was going to grasp that opportunity to shackle him further. They were not fools.

He was playing into their hands, and he knew it, but the Crown Prince also knew that he had run out of options. It would do him well to accept their help. Ask for it. Beg for it, even.

He squared his shoulders, trying to don the façade of authority as he demanded, “How long do you expect it would take you?”

“A fortnight, no more,” the High Mage answered assuredly, and the Prince did not doubt him. For all their mysterious, perturbing ways, the Order worked quickly and efficiently.

“Fine, then. I want her within these walls in a fortnight’s time.”

“Yes, yes,” the mage waved a dismissive hand then fell silent. Even though his face was obscured, the Crown Prince knew that he was eyeing the unkempt state of his person and his study.

He could almost hear the lecturing words before they were spoken, “In the meantime, you should take better care of yourself, Your Highness. This is unbefitting the Blood of the First.”

Disgruntled, the royal muttered, biting back a retort filled with snark, “I will be sure to.”

But when he blinked, the High Mage was already gone, melting into the darkness as though he had never been there.

•Scene 2•

It was in one of your earlier lives when you decided to speak of your curse for the first time.

You opened your eyes to unfamiliar surroundings and unfamiliar, excited faces hovering over yours. The world around you seemed so daunting in its size, so foreign. You could not speak. When you opened your mouth, all you heard was the sharp wailing of an infant.

That scene was one you had become familiar with.

It took years until you could properly communicate with your new family, and when you turned thirteen, you decided to tell the village’s sage about your strange experiences. You had hoped she would find an explanation for them. Perhaps even cure you of them.

You had been too naïve.

You still remembered the way her eyes darkened, the way she yelled as she frantically kicked you out of her abode. Utterly frightened, you ran away, never to look back at the ancient woman.

It was the last time you had ever dared to speak of your curse.

That night was starless and lonely. You were sleeping soundly when a mob of superstitious villagers raided your home, intent on killing you. They slaughtered your family with their pitchforks and axes and set your house ablaze with their ravenous torches. You could not escape them and the towering ghost of death in their midst.

Their weapons had impaled your feeble body, and you learned that you could never die at the hands of the common folk.

“Demon!” they had screamed as your flesh melded together, healing and restoring itself. The pain was blinding, yet you were alive. Your heart beat as though it had not been punctured with steel. Skin smooth as though it had not been scorched by their flames.

It took only a few days until they arrived at your village. Dressed in red the shade of blood long dried, they had come to collect their powerless prey.

The memory was so old it ought to have been muddled and forgotten, but you recalled it with harrowing clarity. That life had introduced you to your enemies. That life had slammed into you the bitter reality of your existence.

You were alone. Wholly and completely.

You saw the consequences of trust time and time again, life after life again. There was no one that could help you, and no one that would.

Whatever curse was ailing you was your problem to shoulder alone, listlessly drifting through endless lifetimes.

It might have been a pitiful fate, but you no longer cared to lament it.

Your mind was brimming with thoughts as you prepared to leave Valorieve Palace for the day. It had been a while since you received one of the Crown Prince’s sorry letters and it was not something to be glad for. You knew that it only meant that he was running out of patience.

If he was like his predecessors, then it was only a matter of time until he attempted something dangerous.

“Sycross,” you called for your butler, who appeared at your side mere moments later, prim and proper as ever.

“Yes, my lady?”

You hated to ask things of him, but you had to prepare for what was a sure event to come.

“Please deliver the afternoon meal to the school two hours after my departure,” you instructed carefully, to which he bowed. “I will see to it. Is there anything else I may help you with?”

You turned to face him, hoping your request did not sound too peculiar. “I need you to deliver it personally, Sycross. And please have a small retinue of guards accompany you, the streets tend to be dangerous at times.”

“Of course, my lady. You need not worry.” his smile was polite yet sincere, and already you had begun to feel guilt creeping up your heart.

“Thank you,” you said, turning away and shutting out that feeling. A few paces away, your knight stood, casually leaning against the doorframe of your study. You nodded to him, ready to leave the palace. Your own plans aside, you still had the responsibility of seeing the new register come to life.

“Let us depart.”

• • •

“Oh. Good afternoon, my lady,” Chaeryeong smiled when you stepped into her little school. She had become more adept at curtseying, you noticed as she dipped somewhat gracefully.

There was a class in session. Children sat in small groups on the floor, wooden boards and charcoal pieces in hand as they gawked at their visitor. Their curious fear was not something you could change in a day, for they were taught to be wary of nobles from a very young age.

“Please, proceed with your lesson. Do not let me disrupt you,” you returned her smile, drifting to a secluded corner to observe them quietly.

It had taken long discussions to convince Chaeryeong to test the new register you were working on. She was reasonably hesitant. What you were proposing was a magnificent change that demanded long-term commitment. The scheme would not bear fruit in mere days. It would take months, years, even.

But, to your relief and utmost gratitude, she eventually accepted.

You planned to observe the school today, noting how Chaeryeong taught and the conditions these children learned in. The building you were in was shabby. Poor ventilation had made it a stuffy place. There were a few chairs and some small tables, but they were both not enough and in a terrible state. The makeshift chalkboard at the front of the room was faded, clearly worn by use.

There were many renovations to be done if you wanted to transform this school into the ideal learning environment this community deserved.

You also noticed that there were more students than you remembered—nearly forty kids of different ages crammed in the humble space. Chaeryeong handled them well, but you knew that if they kept increasing like this, she would soon find herself overwhelmed.

You also had to arrange a crew to assist her, you determined.

When the lesson ended and the kids dispersed, you made your way to Chaeryeong, who was dusting her powdered hands on her skirts.

“That was an excellent lesson,” you complimented and she grinned sheepishly, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “You flatter me, my lady.”

“Not at all,” you shook your head, glancing around before changing the topic, “From what I have observed today, it is increasingly apparent to me that this building does not suffice in its current state.”

“Yes, well…we are lacking many resources.”

“Indeed.” your brows furrowed as you revealed to her your plan, “As such, I intend to renovate this building.”

“What?” she blurted, eyes widening when she realized her discourteous tone. You smiled, speaking before she could sputter out an apology. “Yes, I plan to renovate this building and make it a more suitable space for you and your students.

“But, until that project is done,” you fished a folded piece of paper out of the pouch tied at your wrist, “you will have to relocate.”

Chaeryeong received the paper and unfolded it to reveal a map. It marked the temporary place you had arranged for them to stay, an idle storehouse some blocks away. It was not the ideal dwelling, but it was well-maintained and suitable to be repurposed as a school.

It was also safer. You did not want to entangle Chaeryeong and her innocent students in the Crown Prince’s intrigues.

“How long will renovations take?” the young woman wondered, her voice thickened by hesitancy.

“A year, I presume,” you guessed and she sucked in a silent breath. This change was going to rattle her, you had expected as much.

“I understand this may feel rather sudden and difficult, but worry not,” you tried to reassure her. “You will have help along the way. I will be sure to find other teachers to assist you as part of the education scheme.”

She did not respond, seemingly lost in thought, and a sense of doubt began to ring in your head. Was she going to back out?

“Do you not wish to proceed with the arrangement?” you prodded gently.

“No!” she raised her shoulders defensively, snapping out of her daze. There was ambition in her eyes when her grip on the map tightened. “Thank you, my lady. I will work harder to see this plan succeed.”

It was the fire in her kind eyes that made you choose her for this trial. She had the passion necessary for the success of such a magnanimous project. You placed a hand on your heart, relieved. “I am glad to hear that.”

You discussed renovations and other ideas further. When you finished and decided to return to the palace, the sky was beginning to flaunt purple and pink hues.

Seungmin held out a hand to help you into your carriage and you took it gingerly, stopping before you could enter. “Seungmin?”

“Yes, my lady?”

You looked around you briefly. The street was empty, save for the few wary passersby. If a tragedy were to occur, it would take too much time for the news of it to reach the palace.

“Would you kindly see to it that more guards are placed to patrol this area during the renovations?” you asked.

“As you wish,” his response was solemn and unquestioning. In the eyes of a normal person, there was valid reasoning behind your request. The construction around this building would also make it vulnerable to robberies and vandalism. It would only be a wise decision to have it guarded.

But the truth was much grimmer.

You stepped into your velvet-cushioned carriage. The modest school building peeked at you through the gilded windows.

A week, you estimated.

A week at most, and they will be sure to find you.

• • •

It had been a little more than a week, and the renovations were progressing smoothly.

Chaeryeong and her students had successfully relocated to the repurposed storehouse, leaving you to freely oversee the work on the old school.

You spent a generous portion of your time at the site, accompanied by the head builder with whom you finalized your renovation plans. You wanted to fix the entrance, make it wide and welcoming, as well as add more windows and a small garden. The walls would also be freshly painted to give the school a pleasant and sophisticated appearance.

As to the interior, you planned to install a proper chalkboard and rows of seats for the students. You had also ordered other materials to be brought in; books and writing tools to replace the wooden boards and charcoal.

In a year’s time or so, this building would become unrecognizable, completely new. You hoped that the changes would serve Chaeryeong well.

You were on your way toward the renovation site again today, watching as the city passed you by. You had gotten used to the colors and shapes of Adorance, yet you still felt like an outsider here. This city would never be your true home, much like any other, for you were not going to stay for long anyway.

You entered the neighborhood where the school was located, continuing to watch the scenery in disinterest. The streets were void of people, doors and windows closed as though this were a ghost town. No birds soared in the sky. No strays roamed the ground.

You noticed a figure slumped at the mouth of a dark alleyway. As if pushed by an invisible hand, it fell to the side of the road. The glassy eyes of a guard bored into yours, lifeless.

Dread hailed over you like a violent storm.

Something was terribly wrong.

“Turn back!”

But your command came too late.

The carriage rocked haphazardly as something slammed into it, and you watched in horror as the shadow of your coachman disappeared from the small window. Dead.

Chaos sprung before you could scream.

“Ambush! Do not leave the carriage!” Seungmin shouted from outside, voice almost lost amid the panicked neighing of horses and the piercing clanging of steel.

Your thoughts ran uncontrollably in your mind, frenzied and deafening. They were here.

You had expected this. You had planned for it. Yet, you could not fight the terror that imprisoned your heart.

The Renocault Order was here to collect their helpless prey.

You did not want to think about what they had done to secure this insignificant part of the city. Two lives had already been lost, and you knew that there were more. There were always more.

Your carriage jolted suddenly, breaking into a mad dash. Dark red robes appeared in the small window, and your heart caved in on itself.

They were taking you away while Seungmin was distracted by the fight.

You had not yet given him your orders.

You had to get out. Now.

Scrambling to your feet, you reached for the handle of the carriage door with shaky hands and swung it open. It slammed into the carriage’s body as its speed threatened to tip you over. The road whizzed below you. The fall would hurt, unimaginably so, but you could not afford to waste time.

Before the man in dark robes could realize what you were planning, you drew a weak breath and leaped out.

Your body hit the ground with a gruesome crack, tumbling across the road in a mess of heavy skirts. Your ribs ached, a myriad of scratches marred your skin, and you were sure that your neck had broken from the impact. The pain made it impossible to think, but it was all right. Your bones would right themselves in mere moments, erasing the pain as though it had never been.

You lay in a heap on the rough ground, and they were upon you in an instant. Faces obscured, hands inked with circles, they grappled with your limp body. Part of you wanted to scream, to cry, to beg them to let you go, but you knew that such pleas would only be futile. A mere waste of breath.

A flash of steel cut down the robed man before you, and Seungmin stepped into your blurry vision, his armor shining like a brocade of stars despite the splatters of grime and blood on it. He moved swiftly, a deadly arrow of silver and green, taking down your assailants and pushing them back.

He stood in front of your crumpled body like a shield, not taking his eyes off the enemy as he ground out, “My lady, are you all right?”

The men in red dragged themselves to their feet then lunged at him as though their injuries were naught. Seungmin met them with skill and ferocity, blades clashing ruthlessly. But he was only one man against a band of twenty or more trained killers, and he was severely outnumbered.

If he kept fighting this way, he was going to meet his end at their hands.

A measly gathering of strength returned to you and you pushed yourself to sit. Your voice wavered as you cried over the clamor, “You need to go and call for help!”

“I cannot leave you here!” he shouted in response, parrying then slashing his opponent’s chest. “If I leave then we leave together!”

No! you wanted to scream. There was no we. The Order would not stop until they had captured you, and Seungmin would not let them. Not as long as he drew breath.

A dagger sunk between the blades of his armor, and blood began oozing out freely. His blood. But he kept moving, slamming the hilt of his sword into the skull of the man responsible.

An image you knew too well flashed in your memory. He was going to die right before your eyes if you did nothing.

Intending to create a distraction, you crawled away, dragging your legs behind you. Seungmin whirled around, noticing your actions, but the brutish pair of arms hoisting you up were faster.

“Don’t move!” the man restraining you demanded, holding a blade to your exposed neck as his other arm circled your middle tightly.

You knew, and they did too, that it was an empty threat. That blade could not kill you. But Seungmin did not. Your knight glared, a blend of frustration and fury darkening his expression as he studied the dire situation.

For what it was worth, you thought, he had given them a good fight. Enough for them to regard him as an obstacle. A threat.

A few seconds passed where everyone stilled, the street that was once rowdy falling into impenetrable silence. The man holding you began to inch away, one cautious step after another, dagger still pressed against your neck.

You dared to shout, “Go! Get help—”

A calloused hand clapped over your mouth, and in that split second, Seungmin sprung forward, sword flashing. Stubborn. Uncaring. Reckless. It became clear to you that he would never heed your command.

Somewhere in the ensuing chaos, a damp cloth replaced the hand covering your mouth. The sharply sweet scent invaded your nose, and you could only watch the fight around you continue, powerless as your consciousness was forcefully torn away.

It felt like drowning. The words never sounded regardless of how much you screamed them in your mind. Stop it! Get away from here! Leave me!

He was going to die.

Seungmin was going to die.

How did your plan go so wrong?

•Scene 3•

There was a commotion up ahead as Sycross rode with an entourage toward the renovation site, delivering your afternoon meal for the day.

Citizens scurried out of the way as something barreled through them, wild and uncontrollable. Shouts rung in the air, lost in them was the pounding of hooves.

Sycross squinted at the cloud of dust approaching them. Whoever, or whatever, it was, he would not allow them to impede his way.

Then, a horse broke out of the crowd, majestic in its powerful gallop. It headed straight toward them with no sign of stopping, and no one seemed to be chasing it.

It was both strange and alarming, and Sycross quickly ordered the knights accompanying him. “Intercept this wild animal!”

One of the knights rode forward, waving one arm and calling out, “Whoa! Whoa!”

The frenzied horse faltered for a moment at the signal, rearing and neighing loudly before stomping at the ground as though angry at being stopped. It took a few moments of placating until the knight was able to grab the reins and guide the horse toward the group. It obeyed, though clearly displeased as it jerked its head around.

Only when the discord ceased did Sycross realize the appearance of the animal. An inky black coat that glistened in the light and an impressive mane of the same depthless shade. It was a breed native and exclusive to the plains of Lurmuse.

His gut twisted in dread. He recognized that stallion.

“Is that not Sir Kim’s steed?” he heard someone say and he stepped down from his seat at the front of the carriage.

It was indeed your knight’s horse.

That it was without its rider was no promising omen.

Sycross approached the agitated animal, not caring for the possible danger of his actions. A voice in his head whispered that something had gone terribly wrong, and a feeling in his heart told him that he would find the answer with this horse.

True to his instincts, he found a pouch hastily tied to the empty saddle. He did not bother to untie it, instead ripping it open with a short blade and pulling out a scrap of paper and a torn piece of maroon cloth.

He recognized the piece in a harrowing heartbeat.

It was taken from the dress you had worn before leaving the palace mere hours earlier.

So quickly it could have ripped, Sycross unfolded the small paper, taking in the message written in messy script and splattered with blood.

‘We were ambushed on our way to the site. Her ladyship was taken away. Send aid.’

Ice ran cold in his veins and he turned around, barking orders at the curious knights, “There has been an ambush up ahead! Head to their aid as fast as you can!”

They sprung into motion immediately, hooves thundering as they rode hard toward the site, unquestioning and flowing with determination.

Sycross turned to the grim-faced coachman, schooling his emotions into perfect calm before speaking—ever the professional, “Quick. We must inform His Lordship.”

• • •

Your eyes snapped open to be greeted by the damp wall of a dungeon, senses awakened to the dull ache across your body.

You were disoriented for the briefest moment before the events of the prior hours slammed into you. You had been ambushed and taken away. Your knight had gotten injured.

Seungmin. Did he leave as you had told him? That honor-drunk fool was probably scouring their trial right now.

If he was not already dead.

You closed your eyes and breathed, once, twice. The bruising along your torso made it a painful feat. There was no use dwelling over the unknown.

What you did know, however, was that it could not have been more than a few hours since the ambush. The knights should have been alerted by now. Not too long, and they would find and rescue you.

Just as you had planned.

You lay on your side, hands and feet bound with rough rope. The scratches across your skin stung. Since they were not fatal injuries, they had not healed with your broken bones.

If you were to, then you would guess that this was one of the Order’s hideouts. Judging from the time that had passed, it was still within Valorieve, perhaps an hour away from Adorance.

You looked around you. The dungeon you were in was dim and narrow, more a rat’s hole in the ground than a built prison. It reeked of mold, and the air was unpleasantly muggy. It inspired a wave of nauseating memories that you chose to ignore with difficulty.

It was quiet. You didn’t care to wonder what had the Order so busy as to leave you unguarded. Or maybe they had left you here for him to collect you.

Twisting your hands, you tested the tightness of your constraints. The Order was not one to take risks. When your skin burned against the coarse rope, it was clear that you would not be able to wiggle your hands out.

With your limited abilities, you clumsily pushed yourself to sit. They had taken your coat, your pouch, your hat, and your shoes—all necessary precautions that you had accounted for.

You reached for the buttoned front of your dress and carefully undid it. With shaky hands and a breath that was teetering toward raggedness, you pulled at the thin chain you had tucked underneath your clothes. A small vial fell on your lap and drowned in your skirts.

A hidden blade was an old trick, one that you could not fool the Order with anymore.

This, however, was something completely different.

It was a highly corrosive toxin, secretly bought from a wandering alchemist.

You fumbled around in the dark, trying to expose your feet and the rope tying them, before gripping the precious vial and pulling the stopper out with your teeth. It was no elegant work, but you cared not.

Hunching forward, you felt around the rope, trying to determine the best place to sever it. You decided that the most efficient thing would be to work on the part coiled around your foot. That way, you would be able to free both sides.

Clutching the intended piece with one hand, you tilted your fingers in the other and spilled half the vial.

It felt as though your skin was on fire. The corrosive burned through the rope and stung the tips of your fingers, spreading to surrounding areas. It hurt so immensely, but you bit your lip and swallowed any noise threatening to escape.

It being a toxin meant that any injuries you obtained would be healed due to their deadliness. All you had to do was endure it for the few moments it would take.

Once your legs were freed, you soldiered on to work on unbounding your hands. The remains of the substance dripped messily over the rope. A sickeningly sweet smell had filled the dungeon, but it began to fade as your injuries healed.

You threw the vial away as soon as you were done and tried to stand up. For all their caution, the Order were fools for tying your hands in the front and leaving you unguarded.

Wobbling, you stepped toward the barrier between you and escape—a door of rotting wood. If you pushed it hard enough, it would be sure to give away, but that method would attract unwanted attention.

You slumped back on the filthy ground. You were in no hurry anyway. Help should be arriving very soon.

But the minutes seemed to meld into hours, and you were still trapped, unable to ascertain for sure if your judgment was correct. You tried to close your eyes, clear your mind, but the harder you tried, the more the memories trickled in.

Haunting recollections that you thought were lost to time. Darkness and a suffocating space. Pain that never ceased. Blood on your hands. Blood on the walls. Blood in those dark robes.

A lifetime spent in agony.

Pleas that had turned into a prayer on your lips echoed again like a forgotten instinct, Save me. Save me. Someone save me.

Just as it had been back then, your desperate calls went unanswered. Of course, there would be no one to save you, for in truth, you were alone.

You would always be.

Perhaps you were mistaken. Perhaps you placed too much faith in your plans.

You would stay there, imprisoned. Forever at the mercy of those inked hands—the mercy of the Blood of the First.

A depthless pit of despair, and your mind seemed to fall deeper and deeper until you could not see the light of the surface anymore. Help me. Help me. Someone help me.

There was a ruckus, but you could not discern it from the one in your head. Was that light you had imagined? The baying of hounds?

“…Y/n! My…lady!”

Muffled voices wrought with concern. Were they calling you?

Had someone finally heard and answered your pleas?

Who could it have been?

A shadow fell over you and you lifted your head from your hands, daring to look—wanting so desperately to see who your savior was.

That gold embellished jacket. That imperial shade of blue. That intelligent gaze. His lips were moving, but you could not hear him over the noise.

“It’s you,” you wanted to say, suddenly overcome with an emotion you could not identify, but no sound came out of your mouth. Your throat was dry and sore, as though you had been speaking for too long.

Exhaustion weighed down your limbs, and you found yourself gathered in strong arms, wrapped in his heavy jacket. His warmth lingered on the fabric, encasing you, a shield from the horrors that chased you.

The scent of him lulled you to sleep, roses and sandalwood and a dream brimming with brilliant hope.

• • •

“You could not find them?”

Minho’s question settled into the air with a chill, more a challenge than an inquiry. Before him were three of his most skilled knights, knelt in reverence. Their silence was enough of an answer.

“You have not tried your hardest, then.” his outward calm was in complete contrast to the flurry of emotions bubbling inside, threading to spill over.

“But, my lord, none of the citizens we have interviewed recalled anything of the incident. We have no leads to follow—”

“I don’t care what it is you have to do. I need to know who was brazen enough to abduct my wife,” he snapped.

That scene had kept him awake for the past few days. Your hunched figure inside that cold, rotting dungeon. Your haunted gaze as you stared at him. Empty, absent, as though you were looking through him, past him at something that was not there.

He still remembered the way your lips had moved insistently, whispering ‘save me’ over and over again like a desperate mantra. The way you felt weak and broken in his arms was so gut-wrenching that for a moment there, he had forgotten all about his suspicions of you.

He knew little of your character. You did not talk much, did not ask for much. You were still a mystery to him, but underneath all the curiosity, you had been kind. The type of plain, fleeting kindness that wore no guise.

The sight of you then reduced into terror and despair filled him with such an unbridled fury that he did not know what to do with it. Who had dared to do this to you, to one of his own? Why?

A frantic knock interrupted the thick quiet and one of the prison guards stepped in, bowing, “My lord, I apologize for the sudden intrusion, but I have urgent news.”

“Has the prisoner said anything?”

When he rode to the site of the ambush, Minho had found your knight, barely breathing through his injuries, and a man in dark red robes unconscious beside him.

The stranger was brought back in hopes of gathering information from him.

“Yes, my lord, but…” the guard trailed off, glancing around before swooping into a solemn bow. “Forgive me, my lord, but the man is dead.”

Minho thought he ought to rip his hair out. Why was it that his staff had suddenly become so incompetent?

He did not try to swallow the bite in his words. “How could this have happened?”

“I-I do not know, my lord,” the guard sputtered. “The guards had only turned their back to him once, and only for a few seconds.”

Minho dropped into his leather cushioned chair, rubbing circles on his right temple to ease his frustration. There were no tangible leads, and now, their main source of evidence was rendered useless.

He sighed after a while. There was no point in wasting time over a dead man. “Fine. What did he tell you?”

“He called us sinners, my lord.”

“Pardon?”

The guard straightened and cleared his throat. “He only spoke once during the interrogation where he said ‘All of you are sinners’. Word for word. He seemed agitated for reasons other than being captured.”

Sinners. Minho’s brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the statement. He recalled the man’s unique garb and strange tattoos. Was he part of some religious society?

Could you be involved in something like that?

No. He quickly discarded the idea. Lurmuse, much like Valorieve, was not aligned with any spiritual communities. It would be unthinkable for a noble of the land to defy its customs.

Then, who could this person be working for? Who would want to carry out an attack on you?

Minho tried to rack his brain for possible suspects. Being the solitary character you were, you had no particular animosities with anyone he could recall. Only one person was close enough to you to fill the criteria.

The Crown Prince.

Minho froze.

It made complete sense in his mind. The Prince was upset that his childhood sweetheart rejected him and married another man—an utter betrayal. In his eyes, the two of you would be nothing more than sinners. Perhaps this was his idea of revenge.

And if that were the case, then all of his doubts about you would be quashed.

The young Lord stood with a start and leaned forward on his desk, frowning at the three knights as he gave out an order, “I need you all to investigate whether or not the Crown Prince is related to this incident. Be very discreet about it.”

“Yes, my lord,” they said in unison, thumping their breastplates with gloved fists before unfolding from their kneeling positions. He gave them his back as they left, already forming a couple of theories in his head about the case when a rise of clamor caught his attention.

“Your Lordship!” a familiar voice called out and Minho turned around, raising a brow at the sight of the intruder.

Seungmin had shoved his way through the guards and dropped to one knee, head bent low. “My lord, please allow me to partake in investigating the incident.”

The Lurmusian knight was without his proud armor. Bandages were peeking out of his linen shirt, and his left arm was limp in a sling that hung from his shoulder. By all logic, he should be doing nothing more than lying still in bed. Yet, there he was, humbling himself before him.

Minho threw a dismissive look at the confused guards and they stepped out, closing the door behind them.

Alone, he regarded your knight, who had fought tooth and nail in a situation that was disadvantageous for him from the start. Severely outnumbered, but he managed to deliver a message and secure one of the assailants.

However, he still allowed them to take you. Such a failure was unforgivable.

Minho’s tone was unfeeling. “No.”

The knight’s head seemed to drop into a deeper bow as he began to plead, “Please—”

“Your place is at Her Ladyship’s side as her knight,” Minho cut him off. He knew that his words would hurt, but he was not going to entertain any unwise ideas. “Are you going to leave her again?”

Seungmin bristled at the accusation, drawing his shoulders up before gritting out—eyes still obscured, “No.”

“Good,” Minho responded, the finality of his words landing like a hammer. “A failure such as this will not be tolerated again.”

•Scene 4•

It took a lot of convincing until your handmaidens allowed you to bring a few documents to your bed, and even more to let you leave to your study. Even then, you were not left alone once.

A few things had changed since the kidnapping incident.

First, your entourage had more than doubled in size. Five knights were assigned to you, in addition to a special personal attendant. Her name was Ryujin, and she was an expert at handling a blade, among several other deadly arts. Minho had her disguised as your lady-in-waiting so that she would remain at your side more closely than the knights.

That was the second thing. Minho. If you had thought that his attention was unnerving beforehand, then it had magnified beyond your control now. His appearance at the dungeon was not part of your plan. You did not intend for him to see you so vulnerable.

But the truth remained that he had saved you. It was an undeniable fact that made a tide of conflicting emotions crash over you, and you did not appreciate the way it made you feel.

This was a partnership built on the exchange of material benefits, your information for his power. That could not change, not if your plan were to pass as desired.

You strode toward his office now, flanked by a persistent body of guards. In your hands was a confidential document which you were sure Minho would make good use of.

Once you reached your destination, one of the stationed guards opened the door of the study for you and you thanked him, ashamed that you could not stop him and do it yourself.

When you stepped through, your guards moved after you, and you spun around to face them, slightly exasperated. “Please, I would like to speak with His Lordship alone.”

They seemed to hesitate for a moment, indecisive, before giving in. You could hardly wait for Seungmin to finish recuperating and become their captain. Perhaps then you would not have to be worried by their unrelenting attentiveness.

You shut the door behind you and sighed. That incident had created more trouble than you anticipated.

“Should you not be resting, Lady Y/n?”

Minho was staring at you with clear concern marring his handsome face, the papers before him and the pen in his grip forgotten. You avoided his gaze. It was difficult to look at him when he appeared to you like a beacon of light. That incident had truly created more trouble than you wished for.

You coughed. “I have rested quite enough.”

Before he could pursue the topic further, you laid down the envelope of documents on his paper-riddled desk. “I came to deliver this as thanks for saving me. I hope that you will find it helpful.”

His attention fell on the envelope, but he did not touch it. The expression he wore was indecipherable, and when he said nothing, you turned swiftly to take your leave. “That is all. I will leave you to your work. My apologies for the intrusion—”

“Is it only right for me to help you at a price?”

Minho’s question hung in the air, blunt and accusing. But in it, you caught a glimpse of helplessness. Guilt. As though he were extending a hand to a drowning person who was refusing to take it.

You looked back at him, trying to smile. The words tasted acrid on your tongue.

“What other reason would you have?”

• • •

A passerby would not recognize the storehouse as one with all the children running about, laughing and shouting as they chased a patchwork ball.

The official trial of the children’s education scheme under the new register was to commence today. As the head of the operation, you arrived early in the morning to oversee preparations and provide help if needed. Everything had been proceeding as planned, even with your week of absence, so there was nothing to be worried about.

Chaeryeong walked up to where you stood with your guards, her face bright with excitement when she asked, “My lady, the classroom has been set up. Would you like to see it?”

“Of course.” you smiled at her, and she led you inside the building into the large space repurposed into a classroom.

Your gaze was immediately drawn to the dark chalkboard at the front, a dull shine to it. Rows upon rows of seats paired with long tables lined both sides of the room, leaving a modest pathway in between. Shelves were nailed to the walls, some carried books and models, and others were free to be used by the students.

Sunlight poured into the space generously, and a soft breeze blew through the open windows. You could already imagine the students seated with their books and pens, concentrated on their teacher as she strolled about the classroom.

You truly hoped that this step would bring them a brighter future.

As you were listening to Chaeryeong’s enthusiastic explanation of her teaching plans for the day, you picked out the sound of hooves outside the building. Strange, you were not expecting any visitors.

One of your guards appeared shortly after, announcing, “I am sorry to interrupt, my lady, but His Lordship has arrived.”

Minho? Why would he be here?

It was no secret that today was the official start of the trial period, but you did not ask him to attend the first class with you. You had already assumed that he would have more urgent matters on his hands for the day.

The heir of Valorieve was stepping through the door before you could go out to greet him. While Chaeryeong dropped into a surprised curtesy, you made your way toward him with poorly masked haste.

“Lord Minho,” you spoke under your breath once you were close enough. “You did not have to take the time out of your day.”

He took your gloved hand and brought it to his lips, only murmuring, “I didn’t see you at breakfast today, Lady Y/n.”

His show of reverence and affection startled you, and it took all of your willpower not to pull away, face heating up. Chaeryeong and the guards were still watching you. A show was exactly what you needed.

That’s right. All of this is an act. You reminded yourself, unsettled by the jumble of conflicting emotions in your heart.

Still holding your hand, Minho turned to Chaeryeong, who folded into another curtesy. “Greetings to you, my lord.”

“At ease,” he told her. “You have my gratitude for agreeing to partake in this project. His Excellency will know of your valuable contributions.”

“Thank you, my lord.” she beamed.

You expected him to leave after that, but he stayed to observe the first class with you. Being the exemplary vision of a noble that he was, he inquired about the progress and discussed plans with the team of scholars you had assembled. The suggestions he gave were riveting and insightful, and it felt as though his presence had lifted the morale of all those present.

Your visit finally ended at an hour past noon, and as you were headed back to the palace in your carriage, Minho blurted a question, “Would you like to visit the mountains?”

“Why do you ask?” you regarded him curiously and he shrugged. “You have worked hard, should you not enjoy a vacation?”

You would hardly consider being stuck in bed for a week to be hard work. “That would not be necessary—”

“The staff at the villa have already been informed,” he interjected softly, crossing his legs as he turned his gaze toward the passing scenery. “We will be leaving in a week’s time so make sure to be prepared. It does get quite cold up there.”

You held back any protests. His insistence could only mean one thing in your mind. He wanted information.

•Scene 5•

The villa in the mountains was an impressive display of architecture. Standing in a clearing surrounded by a dizzying forest, it was like a gleaming pearl in the heart of an oyster.

Tall windows accentuated by sweeping arches adorned its pale exterior and four small turrets protruded from the building’s edges. An unfurling staircase led to the main entrance, shadowed by a grand balcony on the floor above. Valorieve’s flag fluttered atop the structure’s peaks, gold, imperial blue, and the emblem of a prowling leopard.

You and Minho were ushered in to rest upon your arrival while the staff handled your luggage. The head butler of the villa served you tea and light snacks, a necessary refreshment after a day’s worth of travel.

Bringing the porcelain teacup to your lips, you looked at the scenery outside the giant windows. There was a shimmering lake behind the villa, which you did not know of. A few birds poked at its edges, and the surface rippled occasionally with the fish swimming underneath.

The trees and grass surrounding the lake were untended, left to grow to their natural will. It was no fine garden like that of the palace, but its wild beauty did not pale in comparison.

“We should take a stroll outside when you have rested enough,” Minho suggested from where he sat across the small table. You tried to discern a hidden meaning to his words, but you found none.

It bothered you. Surely there was something that required your help. You set your teacup down, responding, “All right.”

A slight chill tickled your nose when you stepped out into the open. Side by side, you walked with Minho, taking in the stunning scenery around you. You saw the surrounding mountains more clearly now, white peaks hiding among the clouds. The lake was a mirror to the vast sky, tempting you to disrupt the tranquil image with a dip of your hand.

The silence that settled between you was pleasant, and it unnerved you. Minho was not saying anything, instead, he seemed almost content.

This is not right, you thought. If he wanted something, then why was he taking so long to ask for it? This was only a waste of time. You hated beating around the bush the most.

Stopping short in your tracks, you prompted cautiously, puncturing the silence, “Do you have business in the mountains? Is that why we are here?”

Minho’s steps faltered, and, body half-turned, he regarded you with a slight raise of his brow. “I simply wished to spend some time with my wife away in the mountains. Is that too much to ask for?”

The cool breeze bit at your cheeks as your heart lurched in a sickening motion. You stared at him blankly, and his steady gaze broke with the sigh that puffed out of his lips, self-pitying. “I knew that you wouldn’t believe me.”

Minho did not await an answer, quickly admitting, “I am investigating something important. That’s why we have to be away from the palace.”

An investigation? you clenched your fists, trying to hide your earlier discomposure. “Is it something I can help with?”

“Of course,” he said, turning around and resuming his walk. “All you have to do is act freely.”

That did not answer the question.

You caught up to him, muttering loud enough for him to hear, “That is rather unhelpful.”

The corner of his lips quirked in mischief, completely ignoring your complaint. “Say, would you care for a dip in the lake?”

“That would be improper,” you sniffed. The image of your dress soaked in water and dragging about was not pretty. “Besides, it’s cold.”

“There is no one here but us, Lady Y/n.” he waved a hand at the sprawling forest and distant mountains, his tone lighthearted. “You can afford to forgo some propriety.”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.” he shook his head, feigning disappointment, to which you calmly lifted a shoulder.

“I never claimed to be.”

Minho laughed.

It was a soft, breathy sound that tickled your ears and danced in the breeze. A glimpse of joy that had you entranced, and you did not realize that it was over until he teased, “Touché.”

• • •

“My lady.” one of your handmaidens hurried to you after you reentered the villa, eyes filling with remorse as she spoke, “It appears that one of the carriages faced some trouble on the road and will not be arriving tonight.”

“Is that so?” your brows furrowed in confusion and you assured her, “There’s no need for you to be worried about that.”

She shook her head frantically. “No, my lady. That carriage was transporting the trunk that has all of your sleeping furs.”

“Oh.”

That was indeed cause for worry.

“Don’t fret. You can have mine,” Minho offered, having overheard the news when he walked in.

“No. I can manage.” you shook your head and turned to your handmaiden, to reassure her. “Do not concern yourself with this, please. Tend to your tasks as normal.”

“If you say so, my lady,” she gave in, and with a practiced bow, scurried off, leaving you to contemplate your predicament.

Judging by the coolness of the day, you would only expect the night to be much colder. Without heavy robes and thick furs, you could all but freeze. You hoped that snuggling into the blankets would suffice for the night.

When the sky darkened and stars began to mottle its depthless blue, you were met with the harsh truth.

The shiver that rattled your body was so violent, it seemed to ignore the dense blankets weighing down on you and the crackling fireplace. The frigidness of the air made it impossible to relax enough to sleep, and your eyes remained wide open, hands cupped over your mouth in an attempt to warm them up.

You felt a weight shift on the other side of the bed followed by Minho’s hushed voice as he sat up. “You’re shivering so much. Come closer.”

When you said nothing, he sighed, and shortly after, something heavy dropped over you. You shot up, flinging the mass of dark fur and wool off as you exclaimed at him, “You’ll freeze!”

“Likewise, do you think you’re invulnerable to the cold?”

His hair was slightly tousled from lying down, and a sliver of moonlight slid down his cheekbones in the dark. Even like this, he managed to remind you of that day two weeks ago.

You shied away from his attention, clutching the woven garment spread between the two of you. You were not so foolish as to lie to yourself. It was cold and curling up in the warmth of those sleeping furs sounded like the best thing imaginable.

But you would not allow Minho to suffer for your sake. What if he were to get sick? Many were relying on him to do his job as the heir, you could not have him catch a cold or develop a fever.

His utterance prodded at the silence that befell you, gentle, not at all demanding. “For the life of me, I never seem to fathom your mind.”

You were not able to leash your surprise at his confession. Sudden as it came, it carried with it a semblance of dejection, and you found yourself speechless in its wake.

“So, until you decide to indulge me yourself, I surrender,” he exhaled. “But please, accept my help this once—if for nothing other than my own self-righteousness. I would like to sleep with my conscience untroubled.”

You realized his attempts immediately. He was giving you a reason to act selfishly. A reason that made him seem like a benefitting party. You were not so stuck in your own reservations to allow it.

“We could…share.”

Your suggestion was so softly spoken that even you thought you had imagined saying it. It was the only solution you could think of, as much as it inexplicably embarrassed you.

Minho’s brows arched, taken aback, and he hesitated before clearing his throat. “You don’t mind?”

“I don’t.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

A lie. Your heart seemed to mind a lot, but you ignored it as he drew you close, draping the sleeping furs and covers over your bodies. Despite the cold and the hammering in your chest, your slumber was peaceful that night, warmly nestled in your husband’s arms. Tucked away from the frigid horrors of your world.

•Scene 6•

Felix could sense a change in the air between Minho and you after your return from the mountains. That awkwardness that seemed to linger in your interactions was almost gone. Instead, you seemed to have grown closer—a tad bit, but it was still alarming enough to him.

He knew that his brother should not have gone on that trip.

You could not be trusted, and the fact that Chan and Minho were willing to entertain such a possibility was infuriating to him. If they could not see that you were still a threat, then Felix was going to prove it to them.

He slipped into your study while everyone else was busy with breakfast, shutting the door behind him carefully. The room was neat and spacious. Books lined the wall on his left, while paintings hung on the opposite side. A couple of green couches faced each other, a wide desk of dark oak heading them.

A small stack of envelopes and ledgers was placed on its surface, awaiting you. He reached for them first, rummaging through sender addresses and subjects. To his disappointment, they were all useless reports about the schooling project you were working on.

He maneuvered around the desk and pulled open the topmost drawer. Financial statements, progress reports, tea party invitations, household ledgers—letter after letter, document after document, drawer after drawer, he fished them out but found nothing incriminating.

But if you were able to fool Minho, then you had to be exceptionally crafty. The kind of evidence Felix was trying to find would surely be hidden more illusively. He only had to try harder.

He bent down to look through the last drawer, which was curiously empty save for the single letter within.

It carried no name, no address. A folded piece of paper fell out of the already-opened envelope, and Felix’s eyes widened as he took in its contents.

My darling… love of my life… the moon cowers before your grace—

“Lord Felix?”

Felix’s head snapped up to see you standing at the entrance of the study, shadowed by an entourage of guards and your butler, Sycross.

“Lady Y/n.” he raised his nose in the air, scornful, not ashamed for having been caught. He had found what he was looking for after all.

Then, Minho appeared beside you, dismissing the guards, and Felix faltered. “Brother? What are you doing here?”

“I have business with Lady Y/n,” Minho answered simply, not at all amused by the scene before him. “The real question is—what are you doing here?”

Felix huffed, “If I had not been here, you would never have known about this traitor’s vile actions!”

He slammed the letter on the desk, “Lady Y/n? Would you care to explain this love letter hidden in your drawer?”

He expected you to express shock and fury at his discovery, but you remained undisturbed, not a ripple of emotion in your mask of calm as you told him, “Lord Felix, I urge you to read the rest of the letter and its back.”

He obliged after your firm gaze refused to fracture at his glare. The letter’s contents were sappy beyond belief, almost bile-worthy, but a particular phrase caught his attention.

My dear Cynthia…

Cynthia? He frowned, flipping the page to see the Crown Prince’s name scribbled in the same handwriting.

“This is indeed a love letter, but it does not belong to me, as I am sure you could tell,” you explained, and Felix felt as though he had been slapped in the face. “I had intended to hand this over to be used as blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” he repeated dumbly.

“Yes,” letting out an exasperated breath, Minho stalked up to him and snatched the letter from his weakening grip. “I asked her to procure such a letter for me.”

Felix could only stand there, shame suddenly crashing into him with the force of a boulder. His suspicions had blinded him, made him jump to conclusions that were so far from the truth, and yet, he could not accept you.

He could not trust you.

This might have turned out to be a false lead, but that did not mean that you were in the clear.

“Your distrust is understandable.”

Your voice pulled him out of his thoughts as you began picking up the papers he had thoughtlessly strewn over the desk. He had not even heard you approach.

“I will not try to dissuade you, but I will tell you the same thing I told your brother.” your hands stopped moving and you stared at him evenly. “We are of the same mind.”

You did not comment on the mess he had made of your study, nor his disrespect of you by invading your privacy. That lack of reaction bothered him. Were his actions so trivial to you or did you truly have nothing to hide?

“Are you not going to demand an apology from me?” he spoke through gritted teeth, to which you shrugged.

“Not really. I would only ask that you don’t undo Sycross’ hard work like this the next time you decide to investigate me.”

So you were annoyed by the untidiness, but not for yourself.

“Fine,” he let out a sardonic chuckle before marching his way out of the study. It was that selfless, detached nature of yours that threw him off. It was unlike the noble ladies he knew, and for that reason, your character appeared dubious to him.

You had to be hiding something, of that he was confident. One day, he was going to reveal your secret and make his brother realize his grave error.

But before Felix could leave, Minho grabbed his arm, stopping him with a steely grip as he muttered, “I have my own investigations going on. Don’t stand in my way.”

He let him go, and Felix drifted out of the study listlessly. He could barely process what had been said to him. He knew that his actions would earn the disapproval of his brother, but he had not expected it to sting this much.

That was a warning, plain and promising.

•Scene 7•

You had been preparing your afternoon tea with Ryujin when the tearoom’s door burst open, revealing a frantic Minho, who seemed to relax upon seeing you. “There you are!”

“Is something the matter?” you regarded his curious state with creased brows. It appeared as though he had been running around the palace for the past few minutes, and you could not begin to imagine why.

“Yes.” his expression was grim as he strode toward you, his tone void of any humor. “I need your help.”

You saw Ryujin move toward the door from your peripheral and a hundred possibilities flashed in your mind. Was there an issue with the reports? Did they encounter a problem in their investigations? Had the Crown Prince intercepted them?

You set down your teaspoon and faced him fully, shoulders squared in determination. “What do you want me to do?”

“Hide me.”

You failed to contain your surprise. “Pardon?”

He glanced at the door suspiciously before lowering his voice into a whisper, “My aunts have decided to pay a spontaneous visit.”

“Oh.” all the grave scenarios that you had speculated were instantly flushed out by his underwhelming revelation. “We should greet them, then.”

“No. We can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

The tips of his ears began to redden when you continued to stare at him. As far as you could tell, there was no valid reason to relinquish proper manners and offend your in-laws.

Minho surrendered after a few seconds, mumbling as he looked away, “They will not let me go until I have promised them a great nephew.”

Oh. This was a serious matter after all.

You recalled his cousin’s birthday banquet with an inward cringe. You, too, would not wish to be subjected to that conversation again.

“I am sure he went this way!” the voice of a woman came muffled through the door and warning bells rung in your head. It’s them.

A large closet with one of its doors ajar caught your attention. It was used for hanging aprons and towels, and before you could think much of it, you pulled Minho inside with you and shut the door to the best of your ability.

A mere split second later, the tearoom’s door was opened. Three pairs of heels clacked on the marbled floor, accompanied by the rustling of heavy skirts.

“Strange. I could have sworn I saw him fleeing this way,” one of the ladies mused, and you held your breath.

The closet was barely fit for the two of your bodies even as you were pressed so closely to one another. Your dress, light as it was for the day, was still taking up much space. Any little movement and your cover would instantly be blown.

What an incredibly stupid idea. You could not believe that you had willingly placed yourself in such a compromising position.

Why were you even doing this? All you knew was that Minho had wanted to hide, and you obliged. It seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Still gripping the front of his jacket, you felt him smile against your cheek, and you were suddenly all too aware of his proximity. A whisper of breath fanned your ear.

“One would think that we’re having an affair, Lady Y/n.”

He was too close, and you were sure that your heart was going to leap out of your chest in turn. Had you not been trying to be discreet, you would have knocked some sense into his seemingly senseless mind.

Flustered, you hissed, “Shush—”

“Did you hear that?”

You tensed up at the question, falling deathly quiet.

A single second passed so slowly you could have mistaken it for a lifetime.

“Hear what?” one of the women repeated, to which a new, higher-pitched voice sighed. “It was likely nothing. There is no one here.”

“You there. Might you happen to know where Lord Minho is?” someone asked.

“Your Ladyships, I believe he is occupied with the Lady at the moment,” came Ryujin’s composed response, and your face heated up at how scandalous it sounded. What kind of ridiculous image would the High Ladies have of you now?

“Is that so?” a chittering of giggles, then the first Lady declared, “We shall resume our search, then.”

You waited, patient and unmoving until utter silence befell the tearoom and you heard your lady-in-waiting announce, “They have left, my lady.”

You did not spare a moment, pushing your way out and ditching Minho.

Never again would you do something like that, you resolved as you patted down your skirts. It was enough shame to last you several lifetimes and then spare some more.

Minho stepped out after you, adjusting his jacket nonchalantly as though this was all in his day’s work. When he caught you glancing at him, a sly smile drew itself on his lips. “You know, I initially planned on ducking under the table, but I suppose your idea worked just fine in the end.”

“You asked me to hide you, and I did,” you pointed, deflecting his mischief. You would not allow him the pleasure of throwing you off guard twice in a day.

“That is true,” he hummed. “I must thank you, then.”

You had seen enough lifetimes not to be flustered by his actions, yet he still managed to disorient you. Like an unforeseen storm cloud, it filled you with unease.

Had he always been like this, or were you only noticing it now?

•Scene 8•

“The Countess asks about you often. Have you been well?” Lord Seo Changbin, the heir of Slaede, asked after you settled under the generous shade of the gazebo.

“I have. Please send her my warm regards, Lord Seo.” you offered him a polite smile as your butler placed filled teacups before the two of you.

Slaede and Lurmuse were neighbors, the friendship between their nobles ancient yet eternally strong. Being fellow border forces had also made your fiefdoms the perfect strategic partners, befitting the long history of peace shared between you.

If there was anyone in this lifetime you would consider a friend, it would be Changbin. You had known him nearly all your life, having had to see him often due to the closeness of your families. Your parents liked to organize play dates and study sessions for the two of you as children, and as you matured, you would attend banquets and balls together—on the rare occasion the Crown Prince was not hoarding you all to himself.

Changbin was one of the candidates you had considered for the execution of your plan. He had the status, reputation, and military power to stand against the royal family if he wished. He would have made a perfect aide, if not for the one fault that deterred you from choosing him.

You had seen enough lifetimes to recognize an infatuation upon sight, and even though you could not pinpoint when he started to, you knew that Changbin liked you. That sentiment was a double-edged sword. It would provide enough reason for Changbin to lend you his power, but it would then prevent you from achieving the resolution you desired.

You would not allow yourself to hurt him as such.

The partner you had sought had to have no prior attachments to you or reason to develop any. It was the only way you could succeed.

“To be honest with you, we could hardly believe the wedding invitation that had reached us,” Changbin remarked lightly, reaching for the milk jug to pour some into his tea. “It was a surprise. I can only regrettably imagine how the Prince’s banquet unfolded.”

“He had been upset,” you recalled dully, and he chuckled at your tone.

“Understandably so. I don’t presume he had expected a rejection, let alone the hundred guests present.”

You shrugged, a shadow of a smile on your lips. There was no denying that rejecting the Crown Prince had brought you an inexplicable sense of pleasure. “That is more so his fault than mine.”

“You aren’t mistaken,” he agreed.

Though he tried to hide it, you still caught the hint of regret and apprehension in his voice. A fleeting bitterness. He had been at the border when the banquet was held, overseeing the forces that helped protect the kingdom, and could not attend as a result.

Your deal with Minho had consequently shattered his hopes of ever asking for your hand. There was no rectifying that truth. As cruel as it was, pretending that you were still unaware of his feelings was the best you could do for his sake.

“What of you?” you prompted after a sip of your tea. “I hear that Her Excellency has set her eyes on the eldest Lady Gaele.”

“Ah, well,” he laughed, awkwardly stirring his drink. “I have not yet discussed anything with her.”

You had met said Lady Gaele once before, and she was a lovely, sophisticated young woman. You were sure that your friend would direct his affections toward her in due time. All he needed was a push.

“Perhaps you should, lest your youth be wasted at the border.”

That seemed to cheer him up a little, and he joked, “Worry not. I will not rot away in the garrisons.”

You and Changbin indulged in light conversation as the hour passed, catching up on everything that you had missed in each other’s lives. He talked to you about his station at the heart of Slaede’s forces, and the increasing bandit problem plaguing the border towns. You listened to him thoughtfully, having little to add on your own.

Sooner than you anticipated, your tea and pastries were finished, and Changbin was preparing to end his spontaneous visit. Receiving his coat from your butler, he said, “It was truly a delight to speak to you again—”

“I had not been aware we had guests today,” a familiar voice sounded a short distance behind you, and Changbin straightened, his countenance losing all animation as your husband approached.

“Lord Lee, I must apologize for intruding into your home uninvited.”

“Not at all,” Minho waved a dismissive hand, glancing at you. He was not displeased, but a glint of curiosity shone in his keen eyes.

You stepped closer to his side, remarking cordially, “Lord Seo was delivering the Countess’ regards. As you know, our families share an extensive history of camaraderie.”

“Is that so?” Minho’s smile was illusive, drifting between politely faux and intrigued. “Do extend my invitation, then. Our palace would be more than honored to host Their Excellencies one day.”

“I will be sure to. Likewise, the Palace of Slaede opens its doors to you any time,” Changbin responded. The formality of their exchange was so wearingly dull yet neither ceased it.

He fixed his coat, which was the rich burgundy shade of his fiefdom’s flag. “If you may pardon me for cutting short our pleasantries. I have other matters to see to.”

Entrusting Sycross to see him on his way, you watched as Changbin left after that, not looking back once.

“You needn’t worry about him,” you told Minho once he had gotten far enough. “Lord Seo will be engaged in the summer.”

“I never said that I was worried,” he tilted his head to look at you, a puzzling mix of relief and amusement illuminating his ethereal features, “If anything, I’m glad to know that my wife is not the social recluse she once claimed to be.”

You were rudely reminded of the time you had told him plainly, over breakfast, that you had no friends. You wondered, mortified, if he had been thinking about that ever since.

You cleared your throat, electing to change the topic. Why was he even out in the garden in the first place? “Were you looking for me?”

“Yes, I was,” Minho affirmed, hands clasped behind his back. He started to walk in the direction of the palace, and you accompanied him, attentive to what he might say.

“Why?”

“I will be leaving in two days’ time.”

The news struck you with the force of a thunderclap. Sudden, leaving in its wake a grim silence in your mind. A maelstrom of distress.

“I predict that the journey will last no longer than a month,” he continued to explain. “But I’m afraid that I will not be able to send correspondences often due to the sensitive nature of our whereabouts.”

“Is that so?” your voice felt distant, detached from yourself. In the month since the kidnapping incident, Minho had stayed at the palace, been at your side where you could easily find him. The idea of him leaving stirred a myriad of undesirable emotions in your core. Disappointment. Fear. Loss.

All dangerous feelings to be harboring.

You snapped out of your spell of gloom. Why did you care so much? Minho was merely a player in your meticulous game, whose purpose you had carefully decided. For the buds of your efforts to blossom, you needed to remind yourself of your end goal.

Nothing in this lifetime was permanent or secure, after all.

Perhaps, a break from Minho was necessary for you to right your mind and regain focus on the plan.

You gathered the pieces of your composure and spoke more clearly, “I wish you luck on your journey, then.”

“Thank you,” he muttered through a sigh. “But that’s not what is important.”

He stopped in his tracks and spun to face you. A gentle wind decided to blow right then, ruffling the ends of his hair playfully, carrying his concerned words effortlessly.

“You have to be careful. We still don’t know why you were targeted, so make sure to never compromise on your safety. Have Ryujin by your side at all times when Seungmin cannot be. Do not push them away.”

The sincerity in his tone rendered you speechless.

He had not simply said that for the sake of an act, but out of true worry for your wellbeing. The more you thought about that notion and what lay unexplored underneath it, the more it unsettled you.

With a faint shiver and a weak smile, you met his unwavering gaze. “Don’t worry about me. I will be all right.”

☙ Act 4.

•Scene 1•

The Count of Sitean was a simple man with simple desires. He craved the luxuries of a wealthy life—the servants, the wine, the women. He viewed himself an honest man, while his peers lauded themselves on pretentious righteousness and empty achievements, each a liar worse than the other.

He downed the glass in his grip, the drink sweet and velvety as it ran down his throat. A fine wine to accompany his fine evening.

In a loosely drawn nightrobe, he leaned against the windowsill, watching with disdain the filthy city below him. Behind him, sleeping soundly on the bed, was the young woman that had been his escort for the night.

All of life’s pleasures as defined by him had been abundant at his fingertips. There was simply nothing in this world that could ruin his merriment.

A flicker of motion in his peripheral caught his attention. He thought it to be his escort, but before he could turn around, a hand clapped roughly over his mouth. He struggled against brawny arms, his own body clumsy and ungraceful.

“Easy, now. You would not want to wake the lady.”

A voice, dark and ominous, warned as a figure emerged from the shadows of the room. The scarce light outlined the stranger’s cloak but did nothing to reveal his face, which was shrouded in the shadows of a generous hood.

The Count’s gaze flickered in panic toward the door, only to find that a third intruder had stood guard before it, quashing all hopes of an easy escape.

Heedless to the man’s words, he attempted a muffled shout.

“Your guards have been momentarily dispatched. You would only do yourself a disservice by shouting, Count Sitean.”

He froze. The hooded stranger knew who he was.

How could that be? He had been very careful, very thorough all these years. No one breathing should be aware of his whereabouts.

“Good,” the same man hummed. “The sooner you cooperate with us, the sooner this unpleasant ordeal ends.”

By some cryptic cue, the hand covering the Count’s mouth lifted, and he did not spare a moment to spit out, “Who are you?”

“That is of no concern to you,” came the stranger’s dismissive response, “and I have no interest in engaging in pointless pleasantries with you, so I shall be direct.”

The Count’s hands clammed up. He spoke like a nobleman, cleverly masked insults and elegant diction. Who could he be?

Regardless of their identities, whatever those intruders demanded, he was confident he could satisfy. High-born or ruffians, they were all simple men in the end. Their wants and needs were as transparent as his.

“I need you to withdraw your support for Rowonne’s faction.”

“How presumptuous!” he sputtered. This was not at all the kind of demand he had expected, neither was it something he could simply do. “What makes you think I would agree to such a thing? That I would not report you miscreants to the authorities promptly, as I ought to do?”

“I do not merely think that, Count Sitean. I know,” a scoff, and the man stepped forward.

A stack of letters was pulled out of his cloak and slammed distastefully on the table, a half-emptied wine bottle wobbling there, forgotten. The Count recognized the stamp on the otherwise featureless envelopes—two crescents pressed back-to-back, printed in jet.

His secret insignia.

“If you’re able to procure any proof that we were ever here, know that I have damning proof of your being here.” the stranger shrugged an arm toward the bed and the sleeping woman wrapped in its sheets as he added, “I cannot sincerely say that Countess Sitean would be particularly pleased with this knowledge.”

Blanching, the Count tasted acrid wine at the back of his throat. This unknown person before him could only be a devil amongst men. How else could he have acquired all his carefully concealed secrets? Was this retribution for his crimes?

Desperation began to gnaw at him, and he tried to plead with his captors, “Listen, I can give you anything you want—”

“With all due respect, you are in no position to negotiate with us, Count Sitean.” the man held out a paper lined with elegant script, taunting, “Would you care to read this curious item?”

Squinting his beady eyes, the Count made out portions of writing that made his heart drop. My dear Cynthia…

He recognized this hand, and it was not that of his son-in-law.

“It seems that infidelity runs in the family,” a huff, dripping with such disgust that it made the Count seethe with anger.

“How dare you insult a count!” he hissed. “I care not where from you got your foul hands on this letter, you will leave my daughter out of this!”

“Poor Lord Iriese. Who do you think would receive the brunt of his fury if I were to drop this evidence at his doorstep—the Crown Prince or his adulterous wife?”

No. The Count needed Iriese’s funding. Their fickle partnership was only held by his daughter’s marriage to their third son. Were this scandal to ever come to light, he would lose the decadent lifestyle he had worked so hard to obtain.

It seemed that he no longer held the upper ground.

“Please…” he begged. “I will do whatever you want. I will give you anything—”

“If I were to be frank, Count Sitean, you repulse me. I’ve no taste for your offerings,” the stranger spat. “I want nothing of you besides the withdrawal of your support. Do you not presume you could meet that?”

“I-I cannot do that—”

“I take it you are fine, then, with the release of these letters?”

“This is blackmail! You will not get away with this!” he argued, but the stranger was unfazed.

“Is that so? I appreciate the warning.”

There was no avail in trying to negotiate. The only option left for the Count was to escape their clutches and alert the Crown Prince of tonight’s incident. Surely, he would be able to deal with them easily.

He eyed the small table where he had thoughtlessly left his bejeweled dagger, the tip of its handle poking out from under the stack of letters. It was mainly decorative, but it was still a weapon. He could use it to deter them.

“Do you wish to see which is quicker, my blade or your butter knife?”

As though he had read his mind, the stranger’s question was a promise of demise. Still, the Count did not falter. They were demanding he betray the Crown Prince, a feat he would never dare. Too much was at stake. He could not succumb.

For the continued fulfillment of his simple desires.

With a gulp, the Count of Sitean steadied his pounding heart and lunged toward the dagger.

•Scene 2•

As you had predicted, not seeing Minho did indeed clear your mind of its troubled thoughts.

The sole reason you were in Valorieve was to shield yourself. You married Minho to escape the Crown Prince and the fate of doom he guaranteed. Everything you had done so far was to further your plans, that fact had not changed.

It cannot change.

Minho’s absence was a much-needed blessing, for it reminded you of how things ought to be. Him minding his own duties, and you minding yours. Neither intervening in each other’s lives or bothering the other. You did not need him by your side to disquiet your emotions and confuse you.

Solitude was what you handled best.

You were toiling away in your study, taking advantage of the peace of the past three weeks to further develop your plan for the new register. The team of advisors Minho had assigned to this project had been more than pleased with its progress so far. Chaeryeong’s trial school was running smoothly, attracting the public’s increasing attention with each day. The results you had initially expected were turning out to be better than anticipated.

You were signing off a letter to Valorieve’s Minister of Education, inquiring about the training of teaching personnel, when a terrible crash startled you.

Something whizzed past your ear, dark and round, missing your head by mere inches, before it hit the carpeted floor with a heavy thud. It rolled across until it finally lost momentum and rested at the center of your study.

Heartbeat drumming in your ears and your letter now ruined, you stood slowly and let your gaze latch immediately onto the damage to the window behind you. There was a glaring hole in the crystalline glass, and it was nothing short of a miracle that your head had not been bashed in.

What, by all gods, just happened?

“My lady are you all right?” Seungmin’s voice sounded from behind the door, but you were too distracted to respond to him, stepping toward the suspicious object that flew into your room.

It was a jagged rock the size of an open hand and a folded piece of paper was tied around it, dirtied by blooms of gruesome brown. You made the unwise decision to pick it up, unravel the twine, and unfold the paper, morbidly curious.

That paper was acting as a pouch for another unknown object, which fell to the floor when you opened it. It made no significant noise when it dropped, but you stumbled backward, stifling a shriek.

A severed finger was lying at your feet, coated in old blood.

Bold, angry letters screamed at you from their place hastily inked on the paper.

‘I WILL TAKE EVERYTHING FROM YOU.’

Your mind went blank and your voice rose in a shout before you could realize it.

“Guards!”

Your knights burst into the room, alarm distressing their faces. At their forefront was Seungmin, whose eyes filled with grim understanding as they scanned the scene.

He knelt promptly, frustration with himself simmering dark and dangerous under his breath. “Forgive us for our incompetence, my lady.”

“Rid of this thing. Discard it post-haste,” you tried to uphold your calm as you ordered, and your knights obliged without a moment’s delay.

This was not the first time you had received a threat. Yet, you had never been rattled this much.

I will take everything from you.

You knew the meaning behind that macabre message. This was not a threat directed at you alone—he had begun to threaten the people around you.

He had already harmed one.

Who could it be? Who did the finger belong to? The notion made you sick beyond belief, but you could not stop your mind from wandering.

It could not belong to either of your parents. The Count and Countess were constantly protected by a stringent body of Lurmuse’s best knights. For the Crown Prince to attack them and succeed was unthinkable.

Likewise, it could not have belonged to Changbin, for he was too far and too good with a sword. It was not Chaeryeong’s either. You had seen her earlier in the day and the finger was too old to have been hers. Besides, targeting either of them made little sense.

Seungmin, Ryujin, Sycross, and the rest of your staff were obviously exempted. They accompanied you tirelessly throughout the day. If something were wrong, you would be the first to know about it.

So, that only left—

Minho.

The ground seemed to give out underneath your feet.

He was the only person whose whereabouts you did not know. He was the only person against whom the Crown Prince may hold a true grudge.

The journey had taken him far where he was unable to write to you. A mission that could be brimming with peril, and you would never hear about it until it was too late. What if he had been attacked? Ambushed or raided along the way?

What if he had been killed?

The thought brought with it mind-numbing terror.

No. Minho could not die. You would not allow it. He was your partner, your aide, your vivid light in a realm of endless despair. He cannot be taken away from you. You would wring the Crown Prince’s neck with your bare hands if he ever dared, and that realization only worsened your panic.

You tried to force the idea away. Minho was not helpless. He would take command of Valorieve’s forces in a few years, surely he was skilled enough not to let himself be killed.

That is right, you inhaled deeply, attempting to steady yourself. Your husband was not an average man, you did not need to worry about him so much. He would return to you in a week’s time, safe and sound, and you would forget that such a threat ever happened.

Until then, you had to stop thinking about it.

•Scene 3•

That anxiety never left you for the duration of the week.

There was no use in lying to yourself about it—you were so worried it almost made you ill. Any commotion outside the palace had you starting, the first thought to cross your mind being whether Minho had finally returned.

You justified your concern as nothing more than guilt for having involved him in your troubles. It was the only sensible reason you could think of, and you refused to delve into other possibilities.

You were attempting to distract yourself by reading through ledgers in your temporary study when you caught the faintest noise outside the window. The thumping of hooves. Shouts from the entrance guards.

You were out of your seat before you could process what was happening, whirling toward the window to spot the unit of riders. Heart hammering, you knew without a doubt that it was him.

Finally.

You marched out of the study, making your way purposefully through your confused knights. They fell in stride behind you, but you could not care for their questions, you could not even hear them, mind only on the ever-stretching hallways of the palace.

You did not realize that you had begun running until your breath wheezed through your lips, its instability not unlike the chaos inside your head. You were unable to discern the state of the riders’ well-being from the window. What if he had been injured? What if he was barely grasping the thread of life?

What would you do then?

The grand entrance swung open for you and you stood atop a sprawling flight of marble stairs, gaze instantly drawn to him as if by some unseen force. A step followed by two, and you were rushing down the stairs, skipping steps and wishing the ground were closer. How you did not trip and fall was a true wonder.

Minho’s cape of imperial blue fluttered in the wind, graceful and proud as he dismounted from his steed. Even after a month of absence, he seemed brilliant to you, like a star plucked out of the canopy of night.

“Make way!” someone shouted as you wove through the crowd of weary travelers and busy staff. The disturbance caught his attention and he turned around, catching your gaze in a fleeting moment.

It was as though the world had stopped turning, and the two of you were caught in its trance.

Minho moved in your direction, but you reached out to him first, hands finding his and grasping them tightly. Gloved, yet their warmth was familiar and it caused a tingle to run along your skin.

His hands were intact. He missed none of his limbs.

The Prince had not targeted him after all.

Head bent under the tremendous weight of your relief, you brought his hands to your temple, breathlessly murmuring, “Thank goodness.”

“Lady Y/n.”

Minho’s voice dragged you out of your thoughts and you snapped your head up to look at him. Fatigue had sullied his elegant features so slightly, but other than that, he seemed wholly fine.

His eyes twinkled with a curious fondness when he spoke, gentle, not at all teasing, “Had I known that you would welcome me so warmly, I would have hastened my return to you.”

Your heart flipped weirdly, and you were suddenly aware of the tens of people around you, watching you. Embarrassment bloomed hot on your cheeks. It seemed that you had been too caught up in your concern.

“I-I was only…” whatever excuse you were trying to make trailed away when he turned his hand over and touched his lips to your knuckles. A movement so easy and tender you could have mistaken it for sincere emotion.

Gaze solely on you, Minho appeared not to mind the audience. The rare smile that found home on his lips was kind, its beauty unlike anything you had ever seen before.

“I’m happy to see you too.”

• • •

Minho shut the door of the bedchambers softly so as to not disturb you. As much as he wanted to plop onto the silky sheets and let slumber carry him away from his responsibilities, he still had important matters to attend to first.

The mission was a success. He had managed to chip away at the Crown Prince’s support circle from the shadows. Although, the Count of Sitean had proven to be quite troublesome to deal with.

Now, Minho had to make preparations to take advantage of the impending shift in the dynamics of the court.

He was making his way to his study when Seungmin intercepted his path, a vague sense of urgency in his tone as he bowed. “Pardon me, my lord, but there is something I must speak to you about in private.”

He eyed him questioningly, and the knight quietly divulged, “It concerns the Lady.”

At that, Minho’s interest spiked and he gave him a firm nod. “Follow me to my study.”

He had expected nothing of his return to the palace. Days of tireless travel had worn him out of his mind, and his body felt heavy as stone with exhaustion. But all of that was forgotten at the sight of you, running toward him like nothing else in the world had mattered.

You had clutched his hands so tightly, as though unsure of his being there, afraid he would simply dissipate before you. Concern, and then crushing relief. The reverence by which you held him had sparked in his heart a foreign emotion, the warmth of it all-encompassing. Soothing. Right.

In that moment, Minho thought that he would not mind returning home to you like this for the rest of his life.

He walked into his study with Seungmin following him, not sparing a second with his demand after the door was closed behind them, “What is it?”

Your knight presented an envelope he had in his grasp, the set of his brows wrinkling in a grave frown. “This message was delivered to Her Ladyship three weeks after your departure.”

Minho received it from him, opening the envelope and pulling out the letter within as he continued, “It was attached to a rock that was thrown at the window of her study. Fortunately, she was not injured.”

The paper was deeply stained with old blood, the ink messy and barely discernable, but Minho still made out the scribbled threat.

‘I WILL TAKE EVERYTHING FROM YOU.’

“However, it gave her a terrible scare. There was a severed finger with the message, but we do not know who it had come from.”

Frost pumped through his veins, the sound of his heartbeat suddenly too loud.

You had been threatened in his absence. Within the walls of his palace. Someone had dared to target you again.

How was he only hearing about this now? You seemed completely fine earlier. An incident of such severity should’ve been mentioned to him immediately upon his arrival.

“Her Ladyship asked us to destroy the letter. I acknowledge that my actions defy her orders, but I believe that this is something you had to see, my lord. I’ve served her for four years now, and I know the kind of person she is. News of this incident would never reach you otherwise.”

A realization rammed violently into him. Was this why you had rushed out to meet him? That gut-wrenching worry, that undisguised relief—how long had you been grappling with that fear?

The thought of it nearly numbed him with unspoken fury. Any ideas he had of resting vanished, replaced by the overwhelming urge to upturn the city in search of the bastards responsible.

But all Minho could do right now was clench his fist around the bloodied letter, muttering lest his volatile emotions slip out of his grasp, “I appreciate it, Sir Kim. You may return to your post.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Seungmin turned to leave, but when he opened the door, he found someone blocking his way. Minho’s mood soured even further when he recognized the figure.

“First it was trespassing, and now you’re eavesdropping, Felix?”

His younger brother stalked into the study, completely disregarding the insulting remark. He wore an unreadable expression as he stopped before him and stretched out his hand. “Let me see the letter.”

Minho had not forgotten the way Felix rummaged through your study many weeks ago, attempting to expose the danger he insisted that you posed. He did not have the composure to deal with him now.

“Let me see the letter,” Felix repeated, his persistence odd. He appeared almost desperate.

Minho contemplated obliging. Perhaps this would finally clear his brother’s suspicions of you. If he were to see the extent of the threats you were receiving, maybe he would become more sympathetic toward you.

He handed the paper to him after making up his mind, wordless. It would be unreasonable for Felix to uphold his doubts after seeing its contents anyway.

Minho watched his brother’s eyes widen as they took in the scribbled message. As if he had chanced upon a horrible truth, he drew in a shaky breath. “What is the meaning of this, brother?”

“It means that Lady Y/n is innocent,” a new voice sounded with the click of the door, and Minho sighed.

“Are you in the habit of eavesdropping as well, Chan?”

“I’m simply here to let it be known that I was right.” he shot a blameful look toward Felix, stepping forward and plucking the letter out of his hands.

Minho scowled. “This is not a matter to be gloating about.”

“Indeed.” Chan shook his head, having finished reading the letter. “It seems to me that this incident is linked to the abduction of two months ago.”

“I think so, too,” Minho agreed. Having his brothers with him seemed to calm his earlier anger. From a raging wildfire to a brilliant torch that guided him toward clear, decisive thought.

“But…who could be behind this?” Felix’s deep voice rang hollow, visibly unsettled by the news.

Lips pressed into a grim line, Minho met both of their troubled gazes. “I believe I have an idea as to who it might be.”

•Scene 4•

The Crown Prince was on the verge of losing his sanity.

The threat he had sent was perfect. It should have terrified her beyond reason. It should have made her beg for mercy. Why, then, had he received nothing in return?

Why had she not surrendered herself yet?

Was his threat ignored?

The thought made him seethe with an anger so immense it could have suffocated him. He was the Prince. He was the Blood of the First. The ground that he stepped upon was sacred.

He was not one to be ignored, especially not by a lowly demon.

It was all wrong. That banquet, that wedding, that abduction. She should have never escaped his clutches. He made sure of that all those years he had her with him. She had been accepting of her fate. Not once did she act against him. Never.

Until that banquet. Until that troublesome count’s son stepped into the picture and took her away.

That bastard. Everything that went wrong was his fault. She would have been secured in the castle had he not meddled. The Prince would have been spared this infuriating helplessness had he not stood in his way.

Instead, she was tucked away beyond his reach, and he was trying so desperately to bring her back as though he were a wretched dog.

Those two had reduced him to such a pathetic state.

Everything was their fault.

If only he could remove that annoying pest, stamp him out like the stubborn insect he was. Nothing would then hinder his way. His plans would succeed, the demon eradicated and his duty fulfilled.

He eyed a letter neglected on his desk, an invitation to Valorieve’s Banquet of Valor, and an idea flashed in his mind.

The Crown Prince burst through the door of his study, determination hastening his pace. His advisor sputtered after him, “Your Highness! Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” he answered flatly.

“B-But—you must not! There is still much work that requires your attention—”

How annoying. The Prince paused and spun sharply to face his advisor, leveling him with a glare so cold it may have frozen the man. “You can see to it yourself.”

Disbelief caused his mouth to gape. “Wait, Your Highness—!”

But the Prince did not wait. He could no longer sit in his castle and wait. If he wanted to see his plan through, then he had to take matters into his own hands.

The Festival of Valor was but a month away. He would take his chance then.

To hell with protecting the royal name.

•Scene 5•

The Banquet of Valor was an annual event hosted by the Count and Countess of Valorieve and attended by many of the kingdom’s nobility. It was a day-long affair that started in the afternoon with an elaborate tea party and ended late in the evening with a grand feast. It preceded the Festival of Valor, which was celebrated all throughout Valorieve.

Historically, the first banquet was held to commemorate Valorieve’s victory in the Northern States War—a conflict that occurred between it, Rowonne, and the nation bordering them both. It was this war, nearly half a millennium ago, that spurred the formation of the kingdom.

Valorieve was expected to rule, for they had the support of the majority. Yet, by some mysterious turn of events, it was Rowonne that ended up on the throne. The nation that lost the war.

You had seen the kingdom in its infant years, and you knew the reason behind Valorieve’s shocking loss of the throne very well. It was an integral part of your own history, after all.

Sycross’ voice followed a knock on your door. “My lady, are you prepared to leave for the banquet?”

Your handmaiden tugged at your dress one last time, making sure that the blue silk draped perfectly before stepping away. You thanked her for her lovely work and turned toward the door, finding your butler and your knight waiting for you when you opened it.

“I’m ready,” you told them, and the three of you began moving toward the garden for the first part of the event.

Two separate tea parties were being held. One hosted by the Count for his fellow noblemen and the other hosted by the Countess for the noblewomen. As such, Minho could not escort you, and you guessed that he was already in the garden, greeting guests with his father.

Ever since his return from that month-long journey, he had become more attentive to you. It was as if something changed in him yet again. His conversations with you lasted a little longer, and he developed a new habit of bringing you small delicacies whenever he had the time.

Concerned, you tried to limit your interactions with him, but Minho seemed impervious to your stiff responses and aloof tactics. Even Felix, who you thought had a particular distaste for you, had started to behave more amicably around you.

The two of them were starting to become serious threats to your hopes of resuming a solitary lifestyle.

“My lady,” Sycross spoke up suddenly as you began to near the entrance to the palace gardens. He sounded rather disconcerted, “You must be cautious during the tea party.”

Your brows creased in confusion as your pace slowed down. “Is something the matter?”

He was quiet for a beat, gaze sweeping across your surroundings before he determined it was safe enough to speak. Icy eyes downcast, he let out a dignified sigh. “As truly as it dismays me to say, there are some who disapprove of your marriage and will surely use this opportunity to express their unpleasant sentiments.”

You hummed in understanding, remembering the shock and disgust of the guests at the Prince’s fateful banquet many months ago.

“There is one in particular,” Sycross added, low enough so that only you heard him, “Lady Hitalon. It is well known that she has been besotted with His Lordship ever since she made her debut into elite society four years ago.”

It did not come as a surprise to you that a man like Minho had admirers, let alone ones who had been staunchly obsessing over him for years. You glanced at your left hand, and your wedding ring winked back at you. Those ladies would be pesky at most, nothing that you could not handle.

Besides, what did you care if they had opinions to voice? The two of you were sworn to one another, the nature of the deal between you not something an outsider could simply meddle in.

You raised your chin and squared your shoulders, staring straight ahead as you assured Sycross, “You needn’t worry.”

“As you say, my lady.”

He stopped before a large set of glass doors revealing the exquisite greenery of the palace garden. Holding them open, he mentioned in hushed tones as you walked out, “Ryujin and I will be nearby. If you find yourself faced with trouble, simply signal to one of us and we will take care of it.”

“Thank you,” you gave him a small smile for his troubles and made your way toward the party.

The Countess of Valorieve was overlooking the busy staff when you approached her, greeting her with a deep curtsey, “Good afternoon, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, good afternoon,” she hummed as she regarded you, austere, but not scornful. Her scrutiny reminded you of a hawk, sharp and dangerous. You could clearly tell where Felix had gotten his signature glare from.

The party commenced shortly, and the bulk of it passed without a hitch. The ladies that shared your table were charming and affable, and riveting, insightful conversation flowed easily amongst you. Coincidentally, the eldest Lady Gaele was seated with you, and you did not hesitate to grasp the opportunity and learn more about Changbin’s fiancée-to-be.

But just as you thought that Sycross’ caution would be unwarranted, a honeyed voice encroached on your peace, “Is that Lady Y/n?”

The infamous Lady Hitalon was approaching your table, her dress an opulent cloud of violet. Flanking her were two younger ladies whom you could not recognize. You supposed they were the daughters of viscounts, judging by the way they seemed to follow her around like ducklings.

“My, it really is. What an honor.” her pretentious smile urged you to roll your eyes, but you refrained for the sake of propriety.

She eyed Lady Gaele when she stopped by your table, and you wondered why she cared to fake kindness when the opposite was so glaringly obvious to everyone present. “I had been hoping to enjoy some tea with Lady Y/n. You don’t suppose you could spare a place, could you?”

“Is that so?” Lady Gaele patted her lips elegantly with a napkin before rising from her seat, perhaps having the sound foresight to avoid the noblewoman.

The apology in her voice was sincere when she excused herself, “Please pardon me, then. I’ve truly enjoyed conversing with you, and I hope to see you again during the banquet, Lady Valorieve.”

“Likewise, Lady Gaele.” you gave her a small smile, standing up to regrettably watch her leave. It seemed that the other ladies sharing your table were also quite wary of Lady Hitalon, for they each stood to leave with sheepish apologies.

You could not fault them.

Before you could mention for him, Sycross was placing new teacups on the table and refilling the tiered stand with fresh pastries. He snuck a glance toward you, signaling a question for help, and you gave him an imperceptible shake of your head.

You could handle Lady Hitalon and her ducklings just fine on your own.

“I hope that your afternoon has been splendid so far, Lady Hitalon,” you remarked as you poured tea for them and then for yourself.

“It has,” she responded dismissively, not bothering to introduce her company as they sat down.

Countless lifetimes had honed your patience to perfection. You were indifferent to her concealed hostility, electing to stir sugar into your tea instead.

“Since we are all women here, I am sure you wouldn’t shy away from humoring me, Lady Y/n.” she crossed her arms, the slight smirk on her rouged lips smug. Her casual usage of your name irked you. You had never spoken to her before, so why was she addressing you as though you two were close?

“Of course,” you hummed, taking a sip of your tea, and Lady Hitalon chuckled. “I knew it.

“To be honest with you, I have always dreamt of residing at this palace,” she let out a tragic sigh. “Tell me, is it as spectacular as they say?”

“I suppose.”

“Oh, you are as dull with your words as the rumors claim,” another overly friendly laugh as she joked, but you did not miss the edge in her words, “It appears that Lord Minho’s tastes are quite unique.”

You did not reply to that, finding that the floral taste of your tea was more worthy of your attention. Your quietness did not deter Lady Hitalon, however, for she continued to spout her faux innocent comments, “Speaking of which, I wonder what made him propose to you during the Crown Prince’s banquet. It must be an exhilarating love story.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” you stated with a shake of your head. “We simply found mutual benefit in this arrangement.”

“Oh,” her brows shot up before a knowing smirk drew itself on her lips. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. Why else would a man as wonderful as Lord Minho marry someone he had never expressed interest in before?”

Her two friends tittered at that, and you wished to sigh. They behaved more immaturely than schoolchildren.

Yet, perplexingly, those childish words annoyed you. The way she spoke of Minho, the way she spoke of you—it was as though a bothersome bee was buzzing in your ears.

“Seduction is an art in of itself, after all. Who knew that you would be so proficient at it, Lady Y/n?” Lady Hitalon hid her smile behind a bejeweled hand, her true colors beginning to seep through like a spillage of ink on linen.

You had begun to tire of this conversation. Glancing away, you caught the Countess’ gaze. She was seated at a nearby table, eyeing your situation passively before turning back to her tea as though nothing was the matter. A clear sign that you had to deal with this alone.

“I simply find it interesting. Even though you are married, surely you understand that you wouldn’t be able to keep Lord Minho all to yourself for too long.”

Did she not know how to stop talking, or did she love the sound of her own voice that much? You clenched your jaw, biting back a noise of displeasure. An outsider like her knew nothing. You could not fathom the source of her confidence to say such nonsense.

Even though your relationship strayed from the ordinary, you were content with your marriage to Minho. He was your partner, and he acknowledged you as his. That faithfulness was enough, and you had seen proof of it in his behavior.

What Lady Hitalon insinuated was an insult to his character, and it sparked a sense of protectiveness in your heart. What right had she to speak of him like that?

“After all, a farmland noble should know their place and leave the bustling city to those who belong to it. Do you not think so too?”

That’s it.

You set your teacup down a little too roughly, the diamond on your finger catching light. “I’m afraid that the one who should know her place here is you, Lady Hitalon.”

“Oh, please, I was merely teasing. You needn’t become so riled—” she tried to brush it off, but you interrupted her sternly. Despite it being unreasonable, you could not help your irritation.

“Moreover, the man you speak of so intimately is my husband.”

• • •

Minho did not intend to overhear you. Truly.

He had been entertaining guests when Felix alerted him of an alarming matter—Count Hitalon and his sons were present, which meant that, without a doubt, Lady Hitalon was also attending.

He was not blind to her affections. She had been making persistent advances toward him for a long time, and out of politeness, he indulged her sometimes. But all of that was before the incident that stirred quite the controversy in the court—his marriage.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by unease. There were still many who disapproved of your marriage, and knowing Lady Hitalon’s headstrong character, she was sure to hurl some spiteful remarks at you for it.

Hoping that his worries were unfounded, Minho excused himself and rushed toward the ladies’ tea party. It was nearing its end, so he was not breaking any rules of etiquette. The rest of his side would be joining him soon, anyway. He was only taking a head start.

He spotted Sycross first, who acknowledged his presence with a telling look.

It seemed that Lady Hitalon had beaten him to you.

Her veiled insult was carried by the light breeze despite the noise of the party.

“After all, a farmland noble should know their place and leave the bustling city to those who belong to it. Do you not think so too?”

A messy combination of dread and displeasure twisted his gut, and he was going to step into the garden when your words sliced through the air, unflustered, yet every bit dangerous.

“I’m afraid that the one who should know her place here is you, Lady Hitalon.”

A laugh threatened to escape his lips, born from relief and unexpected pride. He should have known that you would be able to handle it yourself, and beautifully at that. You might have been difficult to read, but you were not one to mince your words. Ever so classy, they always landed with the lethality and precision of a master’s arrow.

You did not need his help.

It was what you said next, however, that caught him entirely off guard.

“Moreover, the man you speak of so intimately is my husband.”

Perhaps it was the protectiveness of those words, or the subtle ferocity lining your tone, but Minho found himself stunned by the light flutter in his heart, the warmth that pooled in his chest like honey.

What a glorious feeling it was.

It made him happier than it should have to hear you defend him so vehemently, to hear you defend your rightful place so firmly. He discovered that he was not ashamed to admit—it was cute. Precious in a sense that swelled his pride, made him want nothing more than to walk up to you and capture that smart mouth of yours in a kiss.

Though, he had a sinking suspicion that you would clobber him if he ever dared to voice the thought.

Still, he cherished the feeling it brought him, did not reject it at all as it settled deep into the twisting crannies of his heart.

He felt their gazes swiveling toward him, paired with gasps and whispers, but Minho paid them no mind as he made his short way to your table. Lady Hitalon and her friends noticed him first, their eyes widening so much they started to resemble full moons.

The smile he mustered for them was dry. All his muscles really wanted to do was scowl. “Do pardon my interruption, ladies.”

You looked up at him when he stopped beside you, surprise and confusion distressing your brows ever so softly. “Lord Minho, what brings you here?”

The handmaidens that dressed you had done an exquisite job, for you looked like an iris in full, breathtaking bloom. A wreath of violet posies crowned the back of your head, and a smattering of pearls was woven through your hair. Your gown puffed around you, a cascade of deep blue silk. Two silver brooches were pinned over your heart, gleaming in the sunlight. Valorieve’s leopard and Lurmuse’s owl.

Minho noted, very carefully, how the colors of his fief were sublime on you.

“The tea party is ending,” he answered, his smile mellowing out as he extended a helping hand toward you. “I wished to greet Their Excellencies with you.”

You did not question him further. Taking his hand and rising from your seat, you excused yourself, “Pardon me, then, Lady Hitalon. It has been a pleasure meeting you.”

You spoke the lie so easily he might have mistaken it for truth had he not witnessed the exchange that transpired between you. It was nothing to call a pleasure.

You turned away, and he was about to lead you toward the Countess’ table when a high voice exclaimed, “L-Lord Minho—!”

Lady Hitalon was standing now, flustered, clutching her hands in front of her like a plea. There was hope in her tone, a certain type of happiness that he suddenly found himself wanting to crush. He had not forgotten her previous affronts.

Minho’s smile disappeared, and he gripped your hand closer to himself when he said, “If there is something you wish to say to Lady Valorieve or me, you may have a butler convey the message or write it in letter.”

He did not linger to watch her blubbering reaction, quickly ushering you away as the Count and the rest of the men’s party entered the garden. You were silent, your gaze vacant as you stared ahead. Lady Hitalon’s comments must have still been upsetting you, he determined when your possessive hold on his arm did not ease.

Minho chose his words carefully, uttering them tentatively, “What she said was not true. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

You froze then spun to face him so rapidly, horror and embarrassment inseparable on your face. Your question was more a statement as you stepped back once. “You heard?”

“It was nothing particularly outrageous,” he teased. “I am your husband.”

You looked at him, dumbfounded for a prolonged second before snapping your gaze away and mumbling under your breath, “I had not been thinking when I said that.”

“Is that so?” he mused playfully as the two of you approached a cluster of nobles. “I suppose I prefer you when you’re not thinking, then.”

You did not retort, did not even spare him a sour glare, seeming to drown in a sea of your own fluster instead. For the second time that afternoon, Minho found himself tucking away a reckless thought.

How cute.

•Scene 6•

The city of Adorance was like a bride on her wedding day.

You saw blue and gold everywhere you looked, lining the streets, draping from the buildings, fluttering in the sky. The sounds of joy filled the air. Music, and the laughter of the young and the old melded into one beautiful song. The voices of vendors and the softer tones of passersby a harmonious background.

You happened upon a different form of entertainment at every corner. Singers and dancers, who brought life to the festivities. Illusionists and contortionists, who left awed the crowds surrounding them. Jesters and animal trainers, who elected laughs and applause from their audience. A play was unfolding on a small stage in the midst of town, its actors portraying the victory of Valorieve’s knights in the Northern States War.

A group of children ran past you, weaving their way through the throngs of people as they chased one another in a game of tag. Their little faces were hidden behind masks that carried the likeness of leopards. Snarling snouts and spotted yellow fur.

Since it was customary for the Count’s family to attend the first day of festivities, you accompanied Minho as he wandered around the city, greeting citizens and sharing in their joy. His reputation among them seemed to be impeccable, for they reciprocated his greetings with wide grins and well wishes of their own.

You were surprised at the number of people that approached you too, thanking you for your work on the new register scheme. They handed you little gifts of freshly baked treats and handcrafted trinkets, which you could not accept without pressing coin into their laboring palms.

Occasionally, you would spot some nobility within the fray. Members from the families of Valorieve’s viscounts and barons invited Minho and you to watch certain intriguing performances or try unique foods.

You were standing at the back of the audience of a comedic play, a steamy sugar roll in hand, when a pair of little girls approached Minho cautiously. They carried between them a handwoven basket piled with flowers the shade of a depthless ocean.

“Milord!” one of them shouted over the noise, her speech adorably clumsy.

Minho motioned for the retinue of guards surrounding you to let them in, and you watched as the man who was nearly unapproachable in court knelt before the two girls. He answered them with a warm, lighthearted smile. “Yes, little ladies?”

The girl that spoke first plunged a free hand into the basket and pulled out a beautiful flower crown. Her question was earnest as she held it out to him. “Would you like a Warrior’s Halo, milord?”

“Thank you very much. I would.” he received the crown with emphasized gratitude, to which the girl squared her shoulders. “You’re welcome kindly, milord!”

You could not help the small smile that quirked your lips at her darling antics.

As the two girls scampered away to hand out more flower crowns, Minho rose to his feet and turned to face you. “Lady Y/n.”

You regarded him curiously as he stepped closer, and before you could process his actions, he was reaching up and placing the flower crown delicately over your head.

“This is called a Warrior’s Halo,” he said softly, brushing back a stray strand of hair to secure the crown in place.

His proximity made your stomach flip, suddenly swarmed by what felt like a kaleidoscope of restless butterflies. He was close enough that all you could see without turning your head was him, and it was almost as though he were taunting you.

You had not forgotten what happened during the tea party. The fact that he had heard you say something so utterly silly made you want nothing more than to lose yourself in a forest and never be found again.

Alas, that was not doable, and you were stuck with him and his teasing quips for the rest of the day.

So far, your tactic for dealing with the cacophony of feelings he spurred in you was to ignore said feelings. Let them pass over you like a balmy summer breeze, for you were sure that they were nothing but confusion and embarrassment.

They had to be.

“They say that when the soldiers returned home, their loved ones wove these flowers together and crowned them in celebration.” Minho stepped back to admire his work with a tender tilt of his head. There was an uproar in the distance, which you guessed was the cheering of an excited crowd.

“T-That’s lovely,” you managed to comment as you touched the flowers carefully. Their petals were velvet under your fingertips. “Thank you.”

What you had thought was the sound of cheers became louder and more frenzied, almost as though the source of it was approaching you. Your guards seemed to notice it too, for they began to look around them with concerned frowns.

It was common for something to go awry in a gathering as large as this. That was why ample guards and watchmen were employed to keep order. A disturbance this loud was not a good omen.

Seungmin stepped closer to the two of you, as though to usher you away. “My lord, my lady, I believe it would be safer if we moved—”

Screaming.

Panicked and uncontrollable. A hoard of people was storming wildly your way, shouts of fear and confusion ringing among them. Your guards moved in a blur, mere seconds before your world tipped into chaos.

“Protect His Lordship! Protect Her Ladyship!”

You felt as though your body was getting crushed. Quite much, it was. The crowd that was peaceful but a few moments earlier had sprung into a frenzy around you. Confused yet alarmed by the distress of the masses, they ran and pushed one another, clambering to escape an unknown threat.

They seemed to swallow you within them, their movement unstoppable and unpredictable. Cries of distress from those being trampled rose in the air. Wails of scared children separated from their parents. Shouts of guards attempting to calm the panic. You thought you heard your name amongst the tumult.

It was in a blink. Minho and your guards, they had been within your reach, and then gone. You were left to drift in the crush of bodies, trying and failing to draw yourself up. A lone leaf in the savage thralls of a mighty river. Your breaths came short in a death-like panic.

Someone gripped your elbow from behind, and you were suddenly and forcefully dragged through the crowd. Your Warrior’s Halo was lost, ripped to pieces under the footfalls of the hysteric masses. You struggled to keep with the pace of your savior, who you supposed was one of your knights, nearly tripping over your dress which was lighter for the occasion, but not at all fit for desperately running for your life.

You burst out of the crowd into an empty alleyway, and only then could you take a full breath. But even that luxury was taken away when you finally looked at your supposed knight.

A stranger in a blood-red cloak.

No—not a stranger. Something inside of you stirred, a wisp of another entity recognizing your captor. Like two halves bound by fate, to seek and to be found.

Terror knifed through your heart. Oh, how fate liked to play you for a fool.

“Unhand me this instant!” you screamed as though you had never found your voice before, twisting and flinging yourself sideways in an attempt to wrest your arm free from his grip.

You could not think of a single reason why he was in Adorance. In the flesh. Running before you without reserve. Perhaps, more than anything, you refused to believe that it was him.

Your efforts were futile, but you did not stop, shouting, “You will not take me with you—!”

You were shoved violently into the wall of a building, white stars and bursts of black rupturing your vision upon the impact. Your captor’s hold on your neck was suffocating. The rasp that left his lips made you shudder.

“You will be quiet.”

There was a flash of motion in the corner of your dying vision. A blur cutting between your bodies roughly. A pale hand outstretched to catch your captor’s face and slam him into the ground.

A heave of breath, and a voice that was vaguely familiar. “You must be aware that the assault and abduction of a count’s heir are crimes punishable by death.”

Freed, you slid against the wall, crumpling behind the broad figure of your savior and his dark cloak. You could hear the Crown Prince curse then spit at the ground. “You would get out of my way if you knew what’s best for you.”

“I’m sure I do.”

It was Chan, the Count’s secretly adopted son. You had only met him once, and the sight of him had unsettled you so deeply that your mind had simply chosen to forget about him.

There he was now, shielding you, and you could not help the doubts that flooded your head. Why was he here? How did he even find you? What if he was working with the Prince?

Maybe he was not your savior either.

You knew that you had to run, but your head was ringing with pain not yet healed. So, all you could do was inch away as the Prince lunged in your direction, only to be immediately tackled by Chan.

Their brawl was messy, their cloaks a swirl of dark red and black as they dodged and jabbed and sidestepped. A flash of steel indicated that they had pulled out daggers, too. If he knew, then Chan seemed to give no scruple about the fact that he was facing the heir to the throne.

You took advantage of their distraction from you to make a frustratingly slow escape. Using the building wall as support, you dragged your feet forward, blinking against the pounding in your head. You had checked for blood, and thankfully, there was none. It would have made explanations very cumbersome, and possibly damning otherwise.

“No!”

What you could only describe as a feral shout ricocheted across the alley as the Prince ripped himself from the fight, and you made the mistake of glancing back at him.

His hood had fallen, and his eyes were bulging wickedly through his mask as he sprung in your direction like some sort of unhinged beast.

You stumbled forward in alarm, but Chan was quicker, not missing a beat as he pulled him back and threw him against the opposite wall. So effortlessly, as though he was not a fully grown man but instead a sack of cotton. You were almost horrified. What kind of monstrous physical prowess did Chan have?

“Your fight is with me, not with the Lady,” he deadpanned as the Prince tried to pick himself off the ground, seething with such heated anger that it froze you in place. The Blood of the First blessed him with certain gifts, and his disorientation would dissipate in a matter of seconds as a result.

As if he knew not to wait, Chan pulled him up and shoved him hard against the wall, both hands fisted in the front of his red cloak. There was a grunt of pain, and the Prince’s head lolled slightly, but he was not yet unconscious as he struggled against his hold, flailing his blade around.

Freeing one hand, Chan caught his wrist and twisted it. His features were unmoving, his gaze so chillingly calm. The dagger fell to the ground with a blunt thud and he kicked it out of reach, cruel attention on the Crown Prince.

“I truly wonder…” he mused drily, grasping the mask that covered the Prince’s face. The royal fought, shaking his head, kicking furiously, trying to force his hands off, but Chan was unflinching.

The scene had you transfixed, both in trepidation and anticipation. You had not told anyone of the truth behind the kidnapping attempts, of who was truly orchestrating them, and you could imagine a hundred different ways it would unfold. Many of them were not in your favor.

Fear suddenly urged you to stop him—perhaps this was a stone better left unturned, but then you found that you were at peace with the revelation. Perhaps, it was instead long, long overdue.

With bated breath, you watched as Chan pulled his mask down. In defiance of the Prince’s objections, in spite of his efforts.

His wretched face had never left your nightmares.

There was a thin trail of red running down his nose, and his eyes were frantic as he barked, “You will hang for touching a prince!”

A laugh, loud and almost disbelieving. Sadistic.

“Oh, this is rich,” Chan sighed, then, in a flash of motion so brutal, he slammed him against the brick wall again. “And how, pray tell, will you do that, Your Highness?”

Your heart dropped. Some wicked part of you was glad to see the Crown Prince suffer, yet the repercussions of Chan’s behavior were deafening in your mind.

This was treason, a path only headed for execution.

“Threats, physical assault, abductions. I’m certain that the Count of Lurmuse will not be pleased to know of your attacks on his daughter and heir,” he let him fall to the ground, pinning him up with his boot before he could slump, “I would like to see you try.”

“So, it was you, after all.”

Your eyes widened and you stifled a gasp, abruptly snapping your head around which caused a wave of blinding pain to wash over you.

Minho walked into the alleyway, his strides long and purposeful. The sword he liked to carry was unsheathed, winking in the light like a depraved killer. His expression was cloudy with the darkest emotion, and you were suddenly reminded of how truly dangerous this man was.

There was a reason he was the exalted heir of Valorieve, unchallenged and unquestioned by his peers. Behind courtly smiles and a gentlemanly act, he was merciless. A mind that was always leagues ahead, a weapon that never dulled. That was why you had chosen him, for the success of your plan demanded a decisive aide like him.

He stopped, and your knees threatened to buckle under the sheer weight of his gaze. He took you in piece by piece—your ruined dress, your trembling hands, your disheveled hair. The wince in your eyes. The redness around your neck. With each, his expression grew impossibly darker. A forbidding trance that seemed to consume him whole until he no longer felt familiar to you.

It seemed that with great effort, he tore his gaze from you to aim a piercing glare at the Prince. His tone alone could have cleaved stone. “I have the mind to kill you where you lie.”

Chan lifted his foot and backed away as if to make way for his brother. The two towered over the hunched royal, who bared his teeth as though they were fangs. “You would not dare.”

He did not hesitate to test that claim, suddenly springing forth with his arms outstretched toward you. His otherworldly gifts enabled him to stand despite the battering he had received, but they were no use against Chan and Minho banding against him.

“You wretch!” he cursed at you as they grappled with him, managing to restrain him against the grime of the ground. “You’ve tricked me all these years!”

Minho’s sword flashed, a quick, deadly motion as he stabbed it a mere hair away from the Prince’s nose. He all but spat the words, “You mistake me for a man who jests, Your Highness.”

Snarling, the Crown Prince tried to fight off Chan’s constraining grip on him, “You wouldn't dare, Lord Lee.”

The young Lord stood, then his gold-heeled boot rammed into the Prince’s shoulder, eliciting from him a pathetic cry of pain.

“You have no liberty to decide what I dare and dare not do,” Minho almost laughed as he dug his heel further down. “Whoever would find you if you were left to die here?”

Lost in some kind of vicious delirium, he touched the tip of his long blade to the Prince’s neck and muttered, “I really ought to rid the throne of vermin such as yourself.”

He raised his weapon, and you were hurtling toward him before you realized it, grabbing his arm with all the power you could muster. “Stop!”

Minho stilled, sword glinting upright in the sun, and his eyes drifted to fix on you. Surprised. Void. Betrayed.

You did not cower, even though your head still hurt. “This is treason! You will be executed for it. P-Please—please, stop.”

That seemed to snap him out of his fury-induced daze, for he lowered his weapon carefully and stepped away, turning a bleak stare toward the crumpled form of the prince.

What you asked of him may have been difficult, but the last thing you wanted was for Minho to be charged with such a ruinous crime. He still had a long, brilliant future to live.

“Leave,” he finally ground out. “Get lost before I have a change of heart. If I do not hear of your arrival at the castle in a week’s time, I will tear apart this kingdom to hunt you down.

“And I will only say this once,” his grip tightened noticeably on the hilt of his sword, and the utterance that followed dripped like venom from his lips.

“If I so much as glimpse you near my wife again, I will kill you.”

His words were resolute, carved from ice. A promise and a threat. You were ashamed to acknowledge the delicious chill that trailed down your spine as a result. Was this how it felt to be truly protected?

You saw the Crown prince Push himself to stand, and to your shocked relief, he staggered in the opposite direction. Not once did he look back at you. Not once did he hurl an insult.

Defeated.

Or perhaps surrendering in the meantime. You did not care. All that mattered to you was the fact that he was leaving.

Pulling down the mask that covered the lower half of his face, Chan shook his head at his brother. “It was just as you predicted.”

You blanched, suddenly letting go of Minho’s arm as you echoed, “Predicted? You knew that this would happen?”

“I did not know,” he responded, indignant, refusing to face you. “I only had a suspicion that he would show himself if we were to lure him out, and he did.”

Lure him out? You felt nauseous. Had he been investigating the kidnapping incident of three months ago ever since?

With the excellent poise of a swordsman, Minho sheathed his blade and stepped away. Slowly, he turned around, and with his head bowed, he inclined his body forward.

You were startled at his actions, waving your arms in the air as though to right him. A lord only bowed to his betters. “Lord Minho! W-What are you—”

“I’m sorry.”

The guilt gnawing at his voice, raw and heartbreaking, made you pause.

“I failed to predict the extremity of the means he would employ. I did not intend to implicate you or cause you any distress in the process. Forgive me.”

What were you supposed to say to that? Your mouth opened and closed in search of an answer—any answer. But you only felt helpless when he was bowing before you so solemnly.

“Please, look at me.”

He did not rise, and you plead again, “Lord Minho, please.”

He gave in to your urging and straightened his body. What was earlier a wildfire of wrath had died out, leaving ashes of sorrow and regret on his delicate features. They seemed to flicker and smolder as he regarded you.

You tried to smile, but it felt like a lie. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

Minho’s shoulders dropped, and his entire expression seemed to droop in defeat with them. He breathed the word like it were an anchor, a truth so blatant, he seemed to be in disbelief for even saying it. “No.”

You were not. Your body felt like a mismatch of rags held together only by the thinnest of threads. Your head felt like it was floating, yet your mind was underwater, drowning. You were terrified. You were relieved.

You were not at all fine.

“I’m sure I am.”

Minho looked as though he wanted to reject your statements further, but Chan spoke up faster, “My lady, I think we must seek medical attention for you as soon as possible.”

You did not argue that. Even though the damage to your skull was healing itself, there were still bruises and scratches across your body that needed worldly remedies.

“I think so too,” you agreed, to which Chan gave a firm nod, glancing at Minho and pulling up his mask.

“I will return on my own, then.”

“No.” you surprised both men with your vehement refusal, and they stared at you. One saddened but curious, the other simply confused.

The resemblance between Chan and the Prince, and his ancestors, was too striking. The events that had unfolded had only left you troubled. Who was he, really?

You donned a guise of confidence when you told him, “I have questions to ask of you.”

A strange look passed between the two of them, in which Minho seemed to grant him permission, and Chan obliged easily. “As you wish, my lady.”

You made your way out with Minho’s help, then waited at the mouth of the alleyway for your carriage to arrive. Judging by your surroundings, it appeared that the earlier chaos had quieted, and the festival was resuming as normal.

Chan, who had left to summon your carriage, returned shortly. At his side was a familiar face.

“Brother, Lady Y/n!” Felix blurted his concern upon seeing you, “Are you all right?”

“We are,” Minho assured him plainly.

He seemed unconvinced but did not press further, changing the topic instead. His seriousness seemed to deepen his voice. “The mass panic ceased, and we’ve seized the culprit.”

“Good,” his older brother commended before ordering, “Watch them closely. Under no circumstances are they allowed to die.”

The clopping of hooves alerted you of your carriage’s arrival as Felix muttered resolutely, “Of course.”

• • •

“How did you find me?” you asked once the carriage began moving.

Sitting across from you, Chan did not hesitate to answer, “I was asked to tail you during the festival in anticipation of any attacks. Reassurance in case the knights required assistance, which they did.”

Next to you, Minho listened wordlessly. He had orchestrated everything, without your knowledge, and it seemed that his brothers were also privy to it. That fact worried you. Why were any of them involved in the first place?

Had Chan not stepped in, you would have been on your way out of Adorance by now. Your being with them, still, was an indirect courtesy of Minho’s meticulous planning, and you would not deny your gratefulness for that.

It was as though he were protecting you from the shadows. A dependable aide. The thought made your heart warm and flutter, but you carefully chose to ignore it.

A matter more important pressed on your mind.

You sighed. “Will you tell me the truth?”

Chan’s brows furrowed. “That is the truth—”

“Who are you?”

Your question hung in the narrow space of the carriage, overbearing in its magnitude. Despite your gratitude for his help, your speculations about his origins remained staunch. Trust was impossible to build on a base of doubts, and you needed to determine whether he was qualified for your trust.

“I’ve asked you once, and you admitted to not being of the Valorieve. I now ask you for the full truth,” you added in the stretch of his hesitation, almost demanding. His ruthlessness with the Prince was fueled by something other than protectiveness, and you were not so presumptuous as to not recognize it.

The carriage shook slightly as it passed over little bumps in the road. Outside, you could hear the faint sounds of the festival, lively, as though your world had not been upturned a measly while prior.

Again, Chan seemed to seek Minho’s permission with a furtive look. An unsaid exchange passed between them, and he drew in a long, silent breath. As if to prepare himself.

“My name is Bang Chan,” he finally said, his dimpled smile bitter. You held your breath for his next words, unsure, for a fleeting moment, if the revelation would give you the closure you needed or throw your thoughts into upheaval.

“I take my mother’s surname, for my father is the King, and I am his illegitimate son.”

The truth.

Like an endless echo in the chambers of your own mind. You had known, deep down, and all you had needed was a confirmation of those speculations.

It was no wonder, then. His likeness to the Crown Prince and the royal line. His distaste for and lack of fear of him. They were half-brothers, after all.

You found yourself welcoming of this new information. Now that you were sure of who he was and what his lineage was, you could think more rationally. He could not have inherited the Blood of the First if it was already with the Crown Prince. Therefore, he should pose no real harm to your plan.

Still, that did not explain why he was taken under the Count’s wing.

As if he had heard your silent questions, Chan began to recount his story, “My mother—bless her memory—was murdered by the King’s men after he learned of my existence. I was only six years of age at the time. That was when His Excellency found me and, upon discovering my parentage, adopted me.”

Though it did not surprise you, it appalled you, nonetheless. The King was a man no better than a pig. You hated him for the innumerable atrocities he had committed against you in two lifetimes, almost forgetting that there were others who had their own grievances with him.

He rested his head back on the wall of the carriage, gazing up at its embellished ceiling in melancholy. “The Count gave me a reason to keep living, and I owe this life in its entirety to him.”

You dared to venture, whispering, “What would that reason be?”

His plush lips stretched into a grim smile.

“I want to see the King and his family destroyed.”

He said it so simply, so resolutely, as though it were but a measly feat.

You knew, then, that the cheerful image he had tried to portray in your first meeting was nothing more than an elaborate façade. Instead, his true self was that unforgiving, unrelenting person you met in the alleyway.

The dark glint in his eyes told you as much.

You did not know the intricacies of Valorieve’s plans, but there was a fundamental flaw in Chan’s aspirations that you could not ignore.

“You can’t do that,” you pointed, frowning.

“Yes, by law, but I don’t care for the laws of a tyrant.”

You shook your head. Their plans were treasonous, but that did not concern you. “No, I meant that it is impossible in a literal sense. You cannot destroy the King.”

“Why would that be?” Chan seemed perturbed, and you felt Minho’s curious gaze settle heavily on you.

There was no way for them to know, it had been hidden quite well. But you did. It was the last piece of information you had gathered before escaping the royal clutches.

Closing your eyes, you let the Crown Prince’s greatest guarded secret fall from your lips in a murmur.

“The King is dead.”

The silence that followed was not one born of respect or sorrow, but shock. The kind that warranted a disbelieving laugh.

Minho spoke for the first time since entering the carriage, softly as though his voice could break reality, “What?”

“He passed more than half a year ago,” you divulged, and Chan questioned strongly, not trying to conceal his incredulity as he leaned forward, “He is not bedridden with illness, then? How does no one know of this?”

A shrug. You could not tell them about the workings of the Renocault Order and what they had done for the throne. “The Crown Prince has his ways.”

“Why would he do such a thing?”

“It only makes sense,” Minho muttered, figuring it out himself. “How else will he ensure an easy ascension to the throne?”

The laws that were set four centuries ago required that the heir be at least thirty years of age before succeeding the previous ruler. If this condition was not met, and the throne lacked a sitter, then the leaders of the remaining fifteen fiefs may withhold the crown and elect a fitting ruler among them. As such, the Crown Prince’s title was only presumptive.

It was not unprecedented for the Rowonnese royals to delay the announcement of the King’s death for that very reason. You had seen it happen several times during your lifetimes. But, with the aid of the Order, not a single soul in the kingdom ever knew of it.

Well, save for your husband and his brother now.

“The Crown Prince has a little more than half a year left to become eligible. I suspect that a statement will be made then,” you affirmed his conclusion with your own predictions, based on your bothersome years observing the royals.

Chan reclined in his seat, an expression of strange wonder and concern on his countenance as he stared at you. It was as though he were seeing you in a new light. “My lady, just…how much do you know?”

You did not miss the warning glare Minho threw his way, chuckling with a faint shake of your head. How you found it in you to be lighthearted, you did not know. But your shoulders were feeling lighter, your heart calmer.

It was nice to share some of your burden with someone else.

“Too much, and perhaps too little.”

•Scene 7•

Much like the last time, your attendants refused you your right of doing-anything-useful while you recovered. Nonetheless, you could only feel thankful for their care. It was not their doing that found you injured and bruised, after all.

The physician that saw to your treatment had declared that you suffered a light concussion and were to rest for no less than a week. So, you were not allowed to leave your chambers by your handmaidens, who seemed to be fiercer than knights in their determination.

You lounged on one of the couches in your sitting room, a half-finished embroidery canvas in your hands. Needlework was one of the many skills your mother had taught you, for it was one of her favored hobbies. Since it was not a ledger, nor did it require you to move around, your attendants allowed you to embroider to pass the time.

The repetitive movement of the needle was calming. In and out, through and through in intricate patterns. You could understand why your mother loved it so.

But, the pastime was not enough to distract you from the world around you. The festival was on its last day, and you were cooped up inside. Though you delegated most of your work to Sycross, ever so dependable, there was yet much to be done. Estate management, trial operations, and there was the pesky issue of the Crown prince.

Minho did not tell you much about the investigations he was carrying out, but you knew that they had captured one of the Prince’s subordinates. A member of the Order, you suspected. Under Felix’s competent eye, they kept him alive. For what reason, you were unsure, but you supposed he would prove useful in Valorieve’s plans to take down the Prince.

Speaking of which, your husband was a rare sight to spot during the past week. He was swamped with so much work that you supposed it made sense. The aftermath of the incident at the festival was discreet yet extensive. Fortunately, there were no casualties, but there were other losses that demanded his attention. For such an event to even occur was wounding to the guard body of Adorance, an oversight that could not be permitted to repeat itself.

But you were not stupid. Minho had developed a habit of only entering your shared rooms deep into the night and leaving much before you awakened. He finished his meals as though in a rush to be elsewhere, and barely met your gaze when you found the chance to speak to him.

He was avoiding you, and it was as clear as the neat stitches on your canvas. It made you uneasy.

The canary you were embroidering stared at you, half-feathered and bead-eyed as you appraised your job. It felt as though it were mocking you with its empty gaze for feeling the way you did. Minho was finally distancing himself from you, should you not have been glad? Was this not what you wanted from the start?

A knock sounded at the door, soft enough that it did not startle you.

“Come in,” you answered, a twinge of hope pitching your voice high as Ryujin hurried to open the door.

You were ashamed of the secret disappointment that tightened your chest when your butler stepped through. The hope that it would be Minho was foolish, anyway.

“I have brought your tea, my lady,” Sycross announced. A silver tray that held a precious tea set expertly balanced on his hand as he maneuvered through the spacious room. It was his newly acquired routine to bring you teas and nag at you to not overexert yourself at random intervals of the day. Your mother may have been far away in Lurmuse, but it seemed that Sycross was there to act like one in her stead.

“Thank you.” the smile you managed was but a mask, empty and false. But it seemed not to fool Sycross, whose eyebrows furrowed in sympathy as he set the tray on the nearby tea table. He too must have noticed the shift in Minho’s behavior after the incident, for he served you closely.

Perhaps attempting to lift your spirits, he remarked while handing you a steaming cup of herbal tea, “My lady, have you seen the flowers that were sent by His Lordship this morning? They’re beautiful.”

“I have,” you murmured, stealing a glance at the invaluable porcelain vase situated atop your tea table like a prize. Cheery sunflowers, shy peonies, and roses so plump seemed to swell through the mouth of the vase, soft yellows and pinks cascading down like a flowery waterfall. Smaller blossoms dotted the bouquet, white as miniature stars. “They are indeed lovely.”

There was a different bouquet every day, as though Minho were apologizing to you again and again by sending them. A note would be stuck between the blossoms, embraced by their dewy petals, and scribed on it with the familiar elegance of his penmanship were a few words asking you to rest well.

You could not understand him. Surely it was easier to speak such wishes to you directly rather than write them in a letter?

“I heard that His Lordship spent a great deal of effort in picking them,” Sycross shared, to which you hummed, watching the leaves that swam in your tea, “Is that so?”

What was he thinking? You did not want flowers if they meant his distance from you—

You halted.

What were you thinking? His silence should not be bothering you as such. In fact, you should not care in the least. After all, he was but a player in your game, a pawn in your plan. His usefulness to you would soon end, and you would no longer need him by your side.

That was merely the truth. It seemed that you had been forgetting it as of late.

You took a sip of your tea, letting the earthy drink fill your chest with its warmth when a chilling idea crossed your mind.

What if this was him rethinking his deal with you?

• • •

The young Lord’s study was a reflection of his dedication to his duties. Shelves upon shelves of neatly lined books scaled one wall, the titles etched on their spines indicating topics such as history, politics, and law, among many others. A map of the kingdom and its neighbors was painted on the opposing wall, its details intricate and vast. The flag of Valorieve draped from a golden pole that was situated beside a large window that welcomed sunlight into the generous space.

There was an air of mystery to the place, as though it held secrets that could upturn the fate of the kingdom entirely.

You knew that it did.

Taking a seat on one of the couches situated before the desk, you inhaled deeply to steady the anxiety rampaging in your head. You had been to Minho’s study many times before to discuss plans for the register or exchange information about the Crown Prince. Yet, you now felt as though you were committing a grave sin by being there alone.

But what choice did he leave you? The plan which you so carefully devised was at risk and you had staked everything upon him as its central figure. He could not be having second thoughts about your deal.

So, you decided that if Minho was not going to approach you himself, you were going to find him and plead with him instead.

The rare leather of the couch warmed from your body heat as you waited, repeatedly revising and rehearsing your speech in your head. You would set aside your dignity if you had to, hurl it away and bow your head to the ground if need be. Minho could not be allowed to renege on his promise to you.

After what felt like a lifetime of repeating the same words in your mind and imagining the hundred different scenarios that could unfold like a tragic play, a click finally sounded at the door and you snapped your head in its direction. Hope and dread formed an ugly twist in your heart.

Minho stepped into the study like a vision from a magical mirror, distant and unreal. His gaze landed on you immediately, and he seemed to blanch. “Lady Y/n?”

You did not miss the way he glanced behind him, as if to leave, nor did you overlook the hoop of blue flowers—a Warrior’s Halo, you recalled—that hung from his arm like a terribly oversized bracelet.

“What brings you here? Should you not be resting?” he cleared his throat as he asked, not walking any farther into the room, eyes seeming to wander everywhere as to avoid you.

It irked you.

“That may be true,” you stood from your seat, gripping your hands in front of you, a picture of composure, “but it has been increasingly difficult to speak to you as of late, Lord Minho.”

At that, he grimaced, his hand rising to rub the nape of his neck awkwardly. “Ah, well…”

Never had you seen him so uncomfortable, and it made your heart clench. Your speculations must be true then. There could be no other explanation for his discomfort around you.

He had finally realized how troublesome your situation was and no longer wished to resume this partnership.

No, you could not let that happen. Never.

Your hands dropped to your skirts, and you clutched the fabric as though to pull strength from the velvety silk.

If you were going to appeal to him, this was your only chance.

Gaze fixated on the streaked marble of the floor, you took in a fateful breath before blurting out the words you so diligently practiced.

“Please allow me to stay—!”

“I’m sorry—”

What…?

Eyes wide, you dared to look up at Minho, who seemed to be equally taken aback by the coincidence of you interrupting one another.

But more than that, you were confused. Was he apologizing? Why ever would he need to?

“Oh no,” you heard him mumble to himself, almost chastising. Something akin to heartbreak creased his brows and caused his shoulders to slump—as though he were breaking apart before your eyes. “It seems I’ve let my foolishness hurt you again.”

“What do you mean?” you breathed the question, and your confusion gave out to bewilderment as he walked toward you, taking out the flower crown that hooped around his arm and holding it gently. Like that day in the festival, he stood before you and reached up, placing the Warrior’s Halo like a precious crown over your head.

Except this time, his hands lingered as though he were anchoring himself. When he spoke, he diverted his gaze to the side. “I was…in town earlier and I remembered that yours was lost in the fray.”

You blinked at him, and it seemed that your speechlessness founded some courage in him to meet your gaze. Minho smiled then, the small, dejected kind of smile that did not at all suit his brilliance, and said, “I’m sorry, Lady Y/n.

“After the incident at the festival, I…did not know how to face you,” he admitted, and you could hardly hear him over the pounding of your heart. Just what did he mean by ‘facing you’?

All the explanations you could surmise were unfavorable, and you suddenly found yourself unwilling to hear him say more. Though, you could not muster the words to stop him.

“I suppose I was ashamed,” he continued, standing so close, with his hands still on the flowers and his head bowed a measly fraction as if he were repenting. “Despite your honesty and despite remaining true to our agreement, I harbored many suspicions toward you. I doubted you. For so long, I thought you were a spy sent to deceive me. And even when that was proven false, I could not—”

He paused, trying to find the right words or maybe taking a breather from the rush of confessions that left you dazed.

“I could not fathom your motives or your purposes for doing any of this,” he managed. “I did not understand, so there was always distrust in the back of my mind. I thought that if I had gotten closer to you, then maybe I would, finally. I approached you with that ulterior motive. Part of it was guilt and worry, for you always seemed to be in danger because of something, but…

“I know that deep down, the true source of it all was unease. Fear that I was making a mistake—that I was being blinded. Even though, time and time again, the evidence was there for me to see and quash these insistent doubts myself.”

Although it was clear that he spoke those words with difficulty, Minho’s voice was steady. He did not shy away while laying bare all his thoughts, which made you want to stop him yet again.

You did not fault him for doubting you. In fact, you had fully expected him to distrust you for the many secrets you held. So why was he needlessly condemning himself like this?

You opened your mouth to say something, but he beat you to it. “As it appears, however, I was blinded.

“I had deluded myself into believing that the things I was doing were for your safety—that I was acting from a place of concern. As a result, I’ve put you in grave danger. I’ve created the opportunity for him to come find you, thinking that I would be able to protect you regardless. It was my pride speaking, nothing more.

“That day made me realize how wrong I had been. How terribly, foolishly wrong. When I was faced with my own selfish distrust, I thought to myself—how could I dare to talk to you after letting such an ugly thing live in my heart for so long?

“I’m ashamed of myself, and I…don’t know how to fix it.”

“You needn’t be,” you finally found the voice to say and it did not surprise him. Minho looked at you like he had that day a week ago. When you insisted that you were okay while you so obviously were not.

That same defeated smile. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Lady Y/n, and the proof of that stands before me. While I soothed my own wounds, I’ve made you feel unwanted. So much that you had to personally seek me out and ask to stay.”

Oh.

You could only stare at him.

It seemed that you were wrong.

And Minho was taking the brunt of that error.

“I must have disappointed you so greatly that you would think me shameless enough to desert you,” he sighed, looking as though he committed a travesty that could never be remedied. “I’m sorry.”

You gulped, avoiding his gaze, wishing to erase that expression off his face as quickly as possible. You did not like it in the least. “If it is my forgiveness you seek, then you have it.”

A self-pitying chuckle. “I don’t believe I’ve earned it.”

“That isn’t true,” you countered, perhaps too vehemently. You could understand the source of his anguish, but the last thing you wanted was for him to dwell on it like this. You owed him a lot. It was a debt that could possibly never be repaid. One that you could never confess to him as he so courageously confessed to you.

“Is that so?” there was a murmur from him, and then a stretch of tense silence that had you fidgeting with your dress. Had he accepted your statement? Or was he thinking of other ways to express his apology?

“Y/n.”

So softly, so tenderly. Your name fell from his lips like a snowflake that would melt with a mere touch. It surprised you, made a stampede of conflicting emotions run amok in your heart.

Stripped of titles, there was something so intimate about the way he said your name. So personal. Without intending so, your face warmed at the seriousness in the sharp set of his eyes, fixed on you as though you were the axis of this world and its skies.

“I will become better,” he stated like it were a sacred oath. “I may not know why it is you chose to trust me, but I will be worthy of that trust. From now and onwards.”

It was as though your thoughts were playful dandelions, easily evading your attempts to catch them while they floated merrily with the wind. The sincerity in his tone should have made you grimace, but you could not bring yourself to do so.

“I…” what were you supposed to say? What could you say when all your heart seemed to do was buzz and flutter?

‘You don’t need to. You shouldn’t.’

Those were the words you should have told him. Instead, the response that left your lips was an uncharacteristic mutter, “Thank…you.”

The smile that drew itself on Minho’s lips was gentle, its kindness forgiving of your awkwardness. His hands finally dropped, and when he stepped back, you subconsciously reached to touch the wreath of blue blossoms crowning your head. Strangely, you felt cold.

“I hope you would pardon my craftsmanship. Unfortunately, it is still lacking,” he remarked lightly, and you shook your head. “No, it’s quite lovely. I…noticed it when you walked in.”

You wanted to facepalm at your own ramblings. When exactly were you reduced to a flustered mess?

Before you, Minho breathed a chuckle. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

Perhaps you should have smiled with him, but even that you could not bring yourself to do. Stuck in a confusing place, you could not let yourself be distracted by his words. Feelings were but a fleeting thing, paling when faced with the kind of hardship you were fated for.

You would only bring him sorrow in the end.

“Well, then, I should escort you back—”

“No—!” you blurted as though all your earlier inner turmoil was naught.

Curiosity widened Minho’s eyes ever so slightly and you cleared your throat. You really did not think this through.

“You…seem worn out.”

It was true. Fatigue was lining his eyes, slight, but you noticed it, nonetheless. Not unexpected, considering the recent increase in his workload, but for some reason, it bothered you to let him go on with his day like that.

“Perhaps you should rest a little,” you suggested, sitting back down on the leather couch as though inviting him to join you.

His eyes softened with apology. “I would, but I’ve places to be—”

“I’ll wake you.”

You did not understand why you interjected so strongly, or why it embarrassed you so. In truth, you were not sure if you fully comprehended any of what had transpired a few moments ago. Fidgeting with your hands, you mumbled, “So…just for a short while…you should rest.”

It took a beat, and then you felt a dip of weight as Minho came to sit next to you on the couch. Was that a smile you heard between his words? “Thank you, then, Lady Y/n.”

He fell silent after that and you thought to yourself—what now?

Reaching up, you took the Warrior’s Halo off and brought it down to rest in your lap. It was a delicate piece of work, stems of big, blue blossoms braided together with a golden ribbon that seemed more valuable than to be used in a mere flower crown. You could only imagine Minho carefully twining flowers and ribbon into a crown while traveling to and fro the palace, and it made the creation in your hands suddenly seem all the more precious.

You stopped admiring the flowers to look at your husband instead. Closed eyes and steady breaths, he must have been truly exhausted to have fallen asleep so quickly. The sight was not new to you, but you could not help your stare.

He was so different awake than he was asleep.

Eyes that seemed to enchant and impose with their whimsical shine. Lips that seemed to entrance the beholder with their smile. He seemed to carry the world on his shoulders.

What a huge burden that was.

Ever so gently, you touched his face, bringing his head to rest on your shoulder. Part of you expected him to rouse from his sleep as a result, but you were surprised when he remained still and quiet.

Silly man, you chided him in your head. Why would you push yourself like this?

The silence of his calm breathing was all the response you got from him, and you brought your gaze back to the Warrior’s Halo.

What a shame it was that its flowers would soon wilt.

•Scene 8•

Your life seemed to shift to mundaneness after the events of the festival. The month that followed was slow and uneventful, with you resuming your work on the new register scheme untroubled by the Prince or his lackeys. It appeared that Minho’s threats worked miracles.

You only had to prepare for the final act of your plan—three months far.

On this afternoon, you were visiting Chaeryeong’s temporary school as you often did to run your evaluations and collect data about the students’ progress. Your visits were met with excitement from the children, who were beginning to warm up to you, and the teaching staff, who were eager to show off their work—with Chaeryeong usually at their forefront.

She took pride in her work, that much was clear as she told you of the week’s schedule. There were lesson plans, student projects, and more that she was developing alongside the two other teachers you had assigned. You were pleased, so far, with the results you were seeing.

And the public seemed to share your opinion.

“My lady.”

Seungmin walked up to you once you stepped out of the school, bowing as he informed, “There is a man that wishes to speak with you. Should I bring him in?”

“Please do,” you answered him kindly. It had become a regular occurrence for the city folk to approach you during your visits and express their gratitude or share their grievances in hopes of you fixing them or bringing them to Minho’s attention.

You appreciated their trust in you, for you knew how difficult their lives were. After all, this was one of the few, rare lifetimes in which you were reborn a privileged citizen. If there was one thing you wanted to leave behind, it would be to better the lives of those who populated your cities and villages.

You were conversing with Chaeryeong when a middle-aged man’s gravelly voice sounded somewhere behind you.

“My humblest greetings to you, Lady Valorieve.”

You turned around to be met with the owner of the voice, folded in a deep bow and flanked by two of your guards. At once, you returned his greeting, “And to you as well. Please, rise.”

He did.

And you nearly staggered backward.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, gripping in his hands a washed-out cap and a scroll of paper.

He would have been twice your current age. Worn by age and hardship, yet you could still recognize his familiar face. Roughness had lined his sharp features and scratched his voice. His hair, which you remembered to be as soft as spun silk and as dark as a moonless night, had become heavily streaked with silver. Though, he still wore it as he had always done—tied at the base of his neck and long enough to make the ladies in town envious.

Your thoughts were a riot.

What was he doing here?

“My name is Yang Jeongin, and I hail from a small town by the southern border of Valorieve,” he introduced himself as though it was information you did not know.

What could have brought him all the way to the capital?

You had taken great care in avoiding the places of your past, so why was he here to meet you specifically?

“What is it that made you seek me, Mister Yang?” you managed a polite smile. Your voice felt as though it were coming from somewhere distant.

“There is word around town that your ladyship grants an audience to us common folk, so I have come here in hopes that you would listen to my story and seek justice for us,” he said, tightening his clutch on his cap. His shoulders were squared with determination, while all your body wanted to do was retreat.

“Is that so?” you tried to steady yourself by grasping the folds of your dress, praying that your discomfort was not visible. Lightheaded, it felt like your head was floating. “You may speak your mind, then.”

“My lady, there are those, in the smaller villages of Valorieve, who terrorize the citizens through senseless acts of murder and remain uncaught by the mayors’ offices. Too frequently have we seen such cases. I have dedicated my entire life to advocating for tighter law enforcement, yet nothing seems to be changing. No suspects are being brought forth, and justice remains undelivered to many,” he said, his ardent words fortified by a fiery tone.

You had no response to his speech other than a lame repetition. “I-Is that so?”

“My lady, I ask you to seek justice for us. Please, have someone investigate these reoccurring cases! One innocent person after the other has been lost to these monsters who still roam free.” he presented the scroll he was carrying with him, and in it, you gleaned a long list of names. You could not tell if it was madness or anguish that glossed over his eyes when he explained, “In this paper is a list of suspects I have been compiling and investigating for the past two decades.

“My lady, I beseech you again. Please, take this information and bring these killers to justice!” he had dropped into another bow and your guards began to exchange dubious glances, sensing possible danger in his erratic behavior.

The man before you was not the same person you remembered, one who was gentle and soft-spoken. He had been the type too tender to hurt an insect, too forgiving to those who bumped into him in the streets. What happened to make him like this?

Despite the onslaught of memories that threatened to overwhelm you, you cleared your throat, gesturing for your guards to ease themselves. “This matter…seems to be deeply personal to you, Mister Yang.”

“I’m afraid it is so, my lady,” he admitted while righting himself, his gaze haunted. “The truth is that I have only begun my investigations out of a desire for vengeance. You see, my lady, I had lost my beloved to such murders twenty years ago.

“We…were to be engaged when, on the night before her twenty-first birthday, she was murdered in cold blood.”

You were suddenly nauseous, so much so that each word you mustered tasted acrid. “My condolences…to you.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said in a low voice, gritting his teeth as he stared at the ground in frustration. “I understand that finding her killer may be nearly impossible by now but—I think I will be doing her justice if I could help protect others from reaching the same horrific fate. That is why I must ask Your Ladyship to seek justice for us.”

Unstable.

Your breaths were coming too quickly.

“That…is truly h-honorable.”

Was it?

You could no longer think clearly, for every thought in your head seemed to scream at you.

Why did he come here?

What happened to him?

Was this truly the same Jeongin you had known once upon a time?

Your mouth was moving, but you were not sure if what left it was intelligible speech.

“What…was your beloved’s name?”

There was a response so muffled you thought it was spoken underwater. Or maybe you were the one underwater.

“Her name was—”

But you could not catch the rest before your world tipped over and you were engulfed in the darkness of the past and its ghosts.

• • •

“Y/n.”

There was a gentle wind that stretched its playful fingers to tousle your hair. It sang as it did the same to the young man standing before you, making the long strands of his hair dance ever so gracefully in the air.

His eyes, which were always so kind, shone with determination, excitement, anxiety. It was all to your dismay, for you knew what he was about to utter into the universe.

“I love you. I’m in love with you and have been ever since we met under this apple tree all those years ago.”

How truly miserable.

You had tried your best to deter him, and yet here he was, confessing such reckless feelings. That soft demeanor of his was an excellent guise for his stubbornness.

“That cannot be, Jeongin,” you told him. “How could it be that you love me?”

He smiled, and it made little stars twinkle in his fox-like eyes. “I knew you would doubt me so, but I swear it, Y/n. I swear it on every star in the sky, on every god that would hear me.”

“How can you swear on the stars when you cannot see them all?” you shook your head, which elicited a musical chuckle from him.

“Your wits have always bested mine. But I am serious, and I don’t think I was ever this serious about anything else.”

“Still…” you sighed, “I’m afraid father would not approve.”

A weak excuse that did so little to scratch his will. He only declared, “Then I will earn his approval.”

You knew that it would be an easy feat for him. He might have only been a painter’s apprentice, but he was beloved by all in your village. Principled, kind, diligent. He was a good man. Your father’s approval would even precede his question.

It was pointless, all of it.

Whether or not he gained the approval he sought, your time was limited. What was left was not worth his efforts or his hopes. His so-called love was only a detriment to himself.

You did not want it. You did not want to hurt him.

But you could not tell him that. You could never.

Instead, you offered him a small smile, hating, with every fiber of your being, the happiness that illuminated his face right then. “I shall wait, then.”

Your smile was a cruelty and so were your deceptive words. With your ever-growing guilt, you could only wonder if those words would haunt him in a future that was too near.

• • •

The familiar sensation of silken sheets flooded your mind as you were roused from a slumber you did not recall falling into.

It was quiet.

You turned your head to the side, weary gaze settling on the man sitting near your bedside. Your movement was immediately noticed by him, and his head snapped up from the papers he was reading through.

An exhale of the purest relief.

“You’re awake.”

Wordlessly, you tried to push yourself to sit, and Minho stood to help you, a tender hand at your back while the other clasped yours gingerly. Someone had changed you into sleeping robes, you noticed. It most likely was your handmaidens.

You also noted the dryness of your throat, as though you had gone an entire day without a sip of water.

Perhaps reading your mind, Minho carefully filled a glass of water from the pitcher on your nightstand and handed it to you. “Here, have some water.”

“Thank you,” you murmured as you accepted the glass. Something was wrong. You should not have been sleeping in your bedchambers at this hour.

What happened to you?

Memories of visiting the temporary school washed over you like an icy wave. You were talking with the children, talking with the teachers, talking with your guards. Talking with a phantom from your past.

You gasped, choking on the bit of water that was in your mouth and making Minho panic at your side.

That was right.

You met Jeongin again. In another lifetime.

“How—How long was I asleep?” you asked through your coughs, to which Minho furrowed his eyebrows, deeply concerned. “Three hours. Are you all right? I should send for the physician.”

Three hours? Your coughing fit was beginning to die down and you shook your head. “No, there is no need. I’m all right.”

“Fainting for any reason is not ‘all right’,” he pointed.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, bringing a hand to massage your temple. “I simply…saw a ghost.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Minho breathed in more concern, “Are you seeing hallucinations, Y/n?”

The seriousness that overtook him was amusing in its ridiculousness. You could only shoot him an incredulous look. “It’s nothing of the sort.”

“Then what happened out there?”

“There was…a man.”

“Yes, he has just been released after being questioned by the knights,” Minho shared, sitting back on the chair that was placed by your bedside. His voice seemed to take on a venomous tone when he inquired, “Did he do something to you?”

You quickly shook your head. “No. He was only asking for help. He was telling me…about the murder of his beloved. He was seeking justice for her…”

“I see,” Minho hummed. “The story must have distressed you.”

“It…had.”

For some reason, you were struggling to find your words.

Guilt was the worst emotion of them all. It gnawed at your soul and haunted you endlessly, ready to sink its blameful teeth into your conscience the moment you let your guard down. And if there was something you never failed to carry through your lifetimes, it was guilt.

The insatiable monster of guilt.

You debated telling Minho. After all, you had granted Jeongin an audience. It was only fair that you relayed his pleas to the heir of the land. He would know what to do.

Perhaps then this soul-crushing feeling would cease.

A half-truth would suffice.

You drew in a shaky breath. “The only proof I have of this is my own word.”

Minho perked up, curious, and you continued, gripping the glass of water with both hands like it were a lifeline, “But you must believe me. You must give me your word, Lord Minho.”

“You have my word,” he did not hesitate, solemn as he promised. “You can tell me.”

When had he become so trusting? You did not ponder over it for too long lest you lost the meager courage you had. Your heartbeat seemed to accelerate with each word you spoke. “I know who is responsible for the murder the man spoke of.”

Another terribly unstable breath.

“There is a ritual—there is a ritual that has been performed by the royal family for centuries.”

You stopped to gauge Minho’s reaction. You knew that he would greatly benefit from any information he could use against the Rowonnese royals, but the story you were about to divulge was one without any feasible proof.

Your being there was the only proof, but you were not planning on exposing your curse to him any time soon.

To your surprise, or maybe it was to your relief, he was showing no signs of skepticism. Instead, Minho wore the expression he always had when you discussed new information with him. Thoughtful. Businesslike.

It was as though he were nudging you forward.

“Every two decades, a young lady, who…has certain qualities, must be sacrificed. I-It is a superstition of some sort. They believe that it must be done to maintain the throne.”

You omitted the part about the Renocault Order and the curse that made them chase you every lifetime. No matter how vehement he had been, you knew that those were details Minho would not believe.

You sighed, fumbling with your words, “I-I know this because he told me. The Crown Prince…I mean. That girl…she was killed twenty years ago at the hands of the former King. I have no evidence but I am sure that if we were to investigate, the truth would come to light.

“I know this—I was told this because—” your voice became a pebble lodged in your throat. You were unable to say more.

These were half-truths, yet you still felt so vulnerable, images of harrowing rejection crossing your mind. You could not tell him more. You could not risk it.

There was sudden warmth over your wrists, drawing you out of your all-consuming thoughts. Minho’s hand was soothingly placed over yours, and his voice was so kind beside you, “That’s enough. You don’t have to say more. I believe you.”

You snapped your head up to stare at him, almost gaping. “Do you truly? But I—”

“How could I not when this had clearly been so difficult on you?” he tilted his head to the side, and you chose to ignore the semblance of affection lying beneath his gaze. “We’ll investigate this ritual you speak of. You needn’t worry.”

Well, then. This was the most you could do for Jeongin.

You hoped that he would soon forgo his grief, for you did not deserve it. The ‘you’ that he had known was dead, and you did not wish to upturn the dirt of her buried past. He, too, was a fragment of that dead past. A specter of another life, bringing forth memories you preferred not to relive.

Your guilt and your anguish were too overwhelming, accumulating over lifetimes. There was too much you were sorry for. Too many people you had wronged by your passing. If only you had not been part of their lives, then you could have left without leaving a trace.

As you ought to do.

After all, those who were destined to die had no right to interfere with the affairs of those fated to live.

Your response was short, for you did not have the will to discuss this topic any longer. “Thank you.”

You busied yourself with your thoughts, sipping water from your glass slowly. So, you had fainted and been asleep for three hours since. The sun must have already set, then. You had to start preparing for tomorrow’s meetings—

Wait.

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to meet Viscount Atlasse?” wide-eyed, you questioned Minho, who had returned to his papers.

He did not look up when he nonchalantly answered, “I postponed our departure until further notice.”

“Why?” you blinked, dumbfounded for this was a meeting of high importance that had been weeks in planning. Fickleness was not particularly one of Minho’s traits. At that, he raised a surprised brow, a mirror to your bewilderment. “You, of course. How could I leave after receiving news of your sudden fainting?”

Oh.

“Still…” you diverted your gaze. He really had taken ‘becoming better’ seriously. “You should go. I’m all right.”

A shrug. “I’m sure the Viscount will understand.”

You did not like this turn of events. Abandoning his commitments like this would only do his reputation needless harm. You were sure that he knew that too, but he did not seem to care.

“I appreciate it. I truly do,” you started, trying to find the right words, “But I’m fine now, so you should depart soon. You would not want the Viscount to feel unimportant, would you?”

He scoffed in amusement. “I can’t honestly say that he ranks high in my list of priorities.”

“I’m sorry to say, but your personal priorities are of no concern. It is your reputation you must look after,” you told him with furrowed brows, which made him laugh. A short, light sound. “Always so pragmatic, aren’t you?”

“Fine,” he stood with a sigh and reached for your hand. You let him take it, watching as he pressed a chaste kiss against your knuckles. “I shall leave later tonight, as you wish.”

Gently releasing your hand, Minho stepped back and turned toward the door. With the ghost of a smile on his lips, he added, “I will call for the physician to check on you. Please rest well.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The door closed behind him with a faint click, and you exhaled, long and uneasy.

Today’s encounter and the memories that visited you in your unconsciousness were like an unpleasant omen. You needed to keep Minho at a distance for your remaining time here, lest that budding affection haunt him in the future.

•Scene 9•

When did it all start?

Minho could not pinpoint a specific moment in the past ten months. When did his suspicion turn into curiosity, and then concern?

When did all that become something more?

He did not think too much of it on the night he accepted your proposal, swathed in black and intent on killing. This deal was simply a more favorable arrangement. It furthered both his family’s political goals and his own, without bloodshed. In fact, this marriage had tied the neutral fief of Lurmuse to Valorieve’s faction by relation, thus securing their vast influence.

Your motives had been unclear at first, but he eventually gleaned a truth about the matter. The Crown Prince was a dangerous man, and you were trying to escape him. The journey to reaching that conclusion was arduous and confusing, and he still had many questions about it, but he was content with the assurance he had obtained.

Perhaps the source of it all was the air of mystery that you seemed to wear around you like a magnificent cape. What began as a means of investigating you soon morphed into genuine curiosity. Minho found himself wanting to know what you were so desperately trying to hide beneath that mysterious cape. He wanted to learn what it was that made you smile and frown, prod your precious mind to know what thoughts lived there.

In a way, you were like a breath of fresh air. Someone so different, so unexpected. You were blunt, yet polite. Forthcoming, yet reserved. Aloof, yet so kind and considerate to everyone around you. A peculiar combination, but then again, no one person’s character was ever so simple.

Sometimes, he felt as though the words that left your lips were born of the wisdom of countless years. You never said more than was necessary, each word a delicate and careful choice. Each utterance exactly what needed to be heard.

It was a pleasant change.

At first, it was protectiveness that he felt toward you, one that was the sole product of his pride. You had become one of his people, an attack on you was an attack on him. He could not let any soul on this earth disrespect him as such.

But that changed when he came to acknowledge the person you were as more than a business partner. Ever since he made that promise after the festival and confronted his conflicting emotions, he began to cherish you as an equal and a trustworthy aide.

Long had Minho felt alone in the world. His burdens as the heir of Valorieve were many, and he shouldered them with nary a complaint. This was the life he was born for, after all. But sometimes, he found himself a lone warrior in a deserted field, and that deeper solitude wore him out. His brothers were born for different roles, and he was sure that the people who would enter his life would be like that too.

To those who did not fear him, he would remain an untouchable image of nobility. A shallow imitation of the intricate person he truly was.

But then you slipped into his life like a spontaneous wind, upturning a few leaves and settling in nicely. You did not cower before his blade, nor swoon at his words. It was that same stone-carved picture of nobility—like a reflection of himself.

You seemed to think like he did. You seemed to truly acknowledge him. You did not turn a blind eye to the cold and cruel, and likewise, you did not glorify his noble side. Around you, Minho had grown comfortable to be himself, speak his mind, and know that you would not misperceive him. Know that he did not have to don a façade.

So abruptly, he found himself a lone warrior no longer.

These precious feelings became something he never wanted to lose, locked in his heart, hidden away from an unfriendly world. Feelings he wished to whisper to you one day like a secret shared only between the two of you.

Minho’s eyes spotted you easily from where he now stood conversing with a small group of viscounts. There was a smile on your lips, small, but it was one he had learned was genuine, while listening to what Lady Gaele was saying. He wished to join you, hear what it was that amused you so, but he could already hear your chastising in his head. That would be improper. Many guests here are clambering to speak to you as is.

He willed his eyes to return to the men prattling around him, wearing his polite smile with such fluid ease.

It was all right. There was no need for haste.

He had the entirety of his lifetime to make you return his gaze.

•Scene 10•

“My most sincere apologies, but the King is unable to see you at this time.”

Felix was not surprised, for it was just as Minho predicted would happen. The royal butler would not let him meet the King.

They were standing before the doors to the King’s chambers, a group of Valorieve’s knights with him in their midst. Their goal was simple—ascertain the state of the bedridden King.

“I came here with the authority of His Excellency, the Count of Valorieve,” Felix announced with scorn in his deep voice. “You would stand in my way?”

The old butler only bowed, his words coming out smooth, “I am afraid those are the orders of His Highness, the Crown Prince, Lord Valorieve.”

Felix wanted to roll his eyes. Of course the Crown Prince had a hand in this. But there was no need for worry. He was prepared.

“Let me meet His Highness, then.”

“That would be difficult, Lord Valorieve. His Highness is presently away on business.”

What?

This was not what his intelligence had reported. The Crown Prince should have been in the castle, managing affairs in his father’s incapacitation. Unease settled deep into Felix’s heart. Something felt awfully wrong. He would have to report this back to Minho as soon as possible.

Why would the Prince leave the castle so suddenly?

Still, Felix was careful not to show his surprise as he reached into his embellished overcoat, sighing, “You leave me no choice, then.”

He pulled out a small scroll of golden paper which his father had signed and given to him before his departure from Valorieve. With a flourish, he revealed the few sentences of elegant scripture and the elaborate stamp that were contained in the scroll.

“I carry with me the Lion Permit, personally signed by His Excellency,” he declared, turning the paper from side to side for all to witness before raising his brows at the stubborn butler. “You know what this means, I presume? You must grant the carrier of this permit audience with His Majesty as per the sacred agreement signed between our fiefdoms at the founding of this kingdom.”

“Lord Valorieve…must you employ such drastic measures?” the butler scowled, failing to hide his displeasure, and Felix shrugged. “I would not need to had you granted my simple request to see His Majesty.”

A hissing chorus rose around them as the royal guards unsheathed their swords and pointed them in his direction. Their sudden hostility was met with the like from Felix’s own knights, who drew their swords unflinchingly, tightening their formation like a protective barrier.

The young Lord wanted to scoff. “You would draw your swords against a count’s son?”

“I must ask you to please leave, Lord Valorieve,” the butler said, grim-faced and defiant.

Oh, but Felix could not do that.

This was the final play of their plan, and Minho had given him the honor of revealing the truth about the bedridden King to the entirety of the kingdom. He was not one to cower in the face of a butler and a few royal guards.

“And with what authority do you dismiss the Lion Permit? Do you insinuate that the House of Rowonne would disregard an agreement that has stood for four centuries?” warnings disguised as questions. Felix was prepared to fight his way through if the need arose.

There was a beat of silence, and he tucked the permit back into his overcoat. It seemed that he would have to fight his way through, indeed.

The butler glanced at the royal guards, the wordless exchange like a cue for them to close in as he turned away.

The chaos that ensued was a blur.

Felix’s sword was drawn like a flash of lightning as he lunged forward, his knights following. Steel screeched against steel, shouts rising in the air while they fought, brilliant blue in a swarm of red.

Felix weaved his way through them with ease, his blade swinging unceasingly in a show of deadly skill. He slashed and jabbed and kicked, and his knights fought in pace with him, clearing the path and shielding him like an impenetrable wall.

With little difficulty, they reached the doors to the King’s chambers and rammed them open as more royal guards joined the fray. Felix ran through the grandiose rooms, heading straight for the bedroom where the supposed bedridden King was resting in disregard for the guards chasing him.

“Halt!” he heard someone shout, but he cared not to oblige, pushing the door to the intended room open and striding in.

It felt as though the room had not seen life in many, many months. The air was stiff and old, permeated by the smell of dust and age. Layers of the former coated the marbled floor and the antique furniture, a clear sign that no one had used this place in a long time.

In the center of the room the bed was sprawled, wide, extravagant, and utterly empty.

A laugh bubbled up Felix’s chest as he spun around to face the stunned crowd that had spilled in after him. His blue cape billowed around him triumphantly when he shouted, “Where is your king?”

No soul could answer him, for they were all standing witness to a harrowing, inexplicable truth. The King was nowhere to be found.

A truth that would be hidden no longer.

Felix sheathed his blade, his work complete, when a figure materialized out of the dark corners of the room. Their voice was like the scratch of nails on stone. “What a shocking discovery. You all must be proud.”

His grip flew to the hilt of his sword immediately, and Felix demanded with a growl, “Reveal yourself!”

His instincts never failed him. There should have been no one in the King’s rooms, so who was this suspicious person?

“It is unfortunate,” they drawled, stepping out of the shadows so calmly as though there was nothing odd about their presence. A terrible chill trailed down Felix’s spine, and he unsheathed his sword with sudden urgency.

The figure that had emerged was draped in a red cloak the dark shade of blood, their ancient hands exhibiting those cryptic circular markings he had seen only once before.

“For this discovery will stay here with your corpses.”

It was a single heartbeat of total stillness, and the cloaked figure lunged with inhuman speed, aiming straight for a discomposed Felix.

•Scene 11•

It was nearly time.

The plan that you had spent your childhood perfecting, with the accumulation of many lifetimes’ lessons as your guide, was finally reaching its climax. Tomorrow, the curtains would rise, and all your players would come together for the final act.

This was what you had waited for so patiently.

The end to your endless woes.

Why was it, then, that your heart felt heavy?

Everything had been going smoothly. You had all your pieces where you needed them to be. You thought that you had treated every prospect with the utmost fairness. You had been a dutiful daughter to your parents, and an honest heir to Lurmuse. Kind to your allies and acquaintances and helpers. Helpful to your partner and his people. You were sure that you had done enough to pass easily and pleasantly through their lives without letting them into yours.

Because that was not where they belonged—characters from a world that you had long been estranged from.

There had been times when you were confused by their kindness, but your mind was soon cleared of the fog. This was how things ought to be. How they were always going to end. You understood that. You internalized that truth.

You had done your best.

Right?

So lost in your own thoughts, you did not think to knock on the shut door of your bedchambers before barging in. The same grim thoughts that distracted you so blinked out of existence at the sight that greeted your eyes.

Minho stood near his side of the bed, mild surprise drawn over his handsome features. It seemed that he was dressing for the night, and you had interrupted him. A billowing silk shirt was half draped over his shoulders, revealing smooth skin defined by muscle, an old scar that ran messily across one shoulder blade, and—oh no.

You were staring.

A gasp.

“Pardon me!” you spun away so quickly, shutting the door behind you with an awkward cough. “Please clothe yourself.”

There was a sudden and overwhelming desire in you to simply evaporate and evade the situation you had placed yourself in. You strode away from the door, aimlessly pacing around the empty sitting room as you tried and failed to regain your composure.

How embarrassing, you could only chastise yourself. How could you forget to knock before entering?

You did not bother to gauge the time that had passed before the door opened with a soft click, followed by Minho’s seemingly amused voice, “You may come in, Y/n.”

“Ah— R-Right,” you sputtered, your embarrassment worsening infinitely when you stepped into the room. You had forgotten your initial purpose of going there in the first place.

Minho seemed unbothered, fixing his cuffs as he sat on the edge of the bed. Nevertheless, your conscience did not allow you to overlook the mishap.

“That was improper of me. I’m sorry.” you cleared your throat, to which Minho raised a brow, surprised. “Oh? It’s quite all right.”

You could not bring yourself to say more, turning toward your dresser and busying yourself with searching your drawers. That was right. You had wanted to grab your hairbrush and essential oils to prepare for the night.

“You know… I don’t mind.”

Minho’s unexpected words cut through the awkwardness of your silence, and you stilled, looking back at him.

“What?”

With his back to you, Minho titled his head enough to meet your curious gaze, elaborating, “You looking at me. I don’t find any cause for apology there, Y/n.”

“Don’t be foolish,” you quickly retorted. Somehow, your hands refused to resume their movement. “Of course there is.”

There was a sigh, not the frustrated kind, and a whisper of silk.

“That’s not what I mean.”

A chill settled into your heart like a buried seedling, ready to sprout its dreadful leaves at any moment. The atmosphere in your bedchambers was suddenly tense and oddly familiar.

A feeling that was reminiscent of past lifetimes.

“I mean to say that I wouldn’t mind it if were you,” Minho confessed softly, and you refused to turn and face him. That ominous chill stretched its thorny branches down your spine and through your body, all the way to the tips of your toes.

Though you stood still, your heart was beating as if it were physically strained. Your mind was blanking out.

This could not be happening.

“I admit, there is much about you that I am yet to understand, but…” you knew the tone he was speaking with like an ancient adversary. Vulnerable and unsure yet gentle and determined. You could never defeat it.

No. This could not be happening.

Everything had been just fine. You did not need this, nor did he. You did not want to hear another word of confession fall from his lips.

“Despite that, Y/n, I think that I—”

“Stop this.”

So coldly, so cruelly, you cut him off, each word you uttered like the hurling of a dagger. “I will hear none of it.”

“What—”

“Lord Minho,” you snapped, trying to maintain your panic. You did not want to see the hurt that had surely soured his expression, though, you could easily envision it in your mind. It was an expression familiar to you, after all. So familiar.

He could not go on spewing those senseless, imagined feelings of his and if hurting him was the solution, then you would do it. Whatever the means—you had to stop this.

In the suffocating silence, you twisted your metaphorical knife one last time. “I don’t wish to see you right now. Leave.”

It was unbearable. A cord of tension that only wounded tighter and tighter as the seconds passed yet refused to snap. Even when Minho finally muttered, “I see. Goodnight.”

You heard him move around the room, and then you heard the door’s quiet click as it shut behind him. No more words were spoken. No more mistaken confessions.

You did not notice the trembling of your hands until he left, and you found yourself crumbling to the floor.

How could this have happened? After everything you had done. All of your planning and care. Everything had been going well, and now it seemed like your world was falling apart before your very eyes.

As though the heaviness in your heart was not enough, now you had dread to accompany it.

How could this have happened, and only a day away from the fated night?

☙ The Final Act.

•Scene 1•

The sleep that you had managed to get that night was a bare wink.

After your panic had ceased, you realized just how reckless your actions had been. Fighting with Minho was not the move to make, not if you wanted your plan to proceed smoothly.

Now that it had come to this, you should have prioritized your success over the possible aftermath. That was what the rational part of your brain suggested.

But instead, you had acted out of guilt. Fear for him. Deep down, you did not want Minho to be hurt like Jeongin had been. It was the same for everyone you had met in this lifetime, but Minho was slightly different. Almost special.

He was your beacon of light, after all. His brilliance was a treasure you wished to never be lost.

Regardless, you had to make amends somehow. Tonight was the most important night of your life, and it had to pass exactly as you envisioned. That demanded Minho’s cooperation.

You took in your reflection in the tall mirror blankly. The dress your handmaidens had fitted you in was a magnificent puff of a very dark blue. A twisting embroidery of flowers adorned the neckline and dotted the sheer sleeves, which were snug around your arms. Emeralds encrusted your ears, paired with the large gem resting against the base of your neck and the intricate accessory crowning your head. They had taken special care to prepare you for tonight’s banquet, for it was in celebration of your birthday.

It was a party that would last until midnight on the eve of your birthday, as was the tradition in your kingdom. It worked perfectly with your plans. The Crown Prince would not dare attack in the midst of all the attendees.

The gown you were wearing was meant to make you feel special on this night, but instead, it felt like you were dressed for battle. The soft knock that sounded on the door just then was the battle drum, signaling the beginning of your fateful fight.

“Come in,” you answered, almost sure of who stood behind that door. Your chance to make amends was here.

When Minho stepped in, a hush settled among your previously buzzing handmaidens. The tension between the two of you was not missed on them, it seemed. Unsurprisingly, for as formal as the two of you might have been, you had always been amicable.

This was a first.

“I’ve come to escort you. Are you ready?” his question sounded emotionless, which made you turn and smile kindly at your handmaidens. “Thank you all. You are dismissed.”

Released from the awkward atmosphere, they scurried out of the room, and you were left to face Minho alone.

His attire for the evening seemed to match yours. A sharp suit of dark blue, lacking his usual shoulder cape, with an embroidery of miniature flowers sewn into the cuffs and lapels. The emerald on his necktie was like a mirror to the one on your neck, glittering and precious.

Dressed like this, the two of you looked like the ideal noble couple, but the unresolved tensions from last night stood between you like a forbidding wall. A barrier that you had constructed yourself, yet it was one that you had to demolish by your own hands.

“Lord Minho,” you began with a deep inhale, drawing his dejected attention with the formality of your words. It may have been close to a year since the two of you married, but this verbal distance was something you needed to maintain on your behalf. Like a constant reminder. Though, it was not unprecedented for noble couples to address one another with their titles.

“I apologize for my unseemly outburst last night. I…do hope you would find it in your heart to forgive me,” you said. “It saddens me to celebrate tonight with such unsavory tension between us.”

Your words were true, and you meant them from the deepest crevices of your heart, even though they played perfectly into your plans. You realized that you did not like the idea of ending things on a bitter note and hurting Minho, despite thinking you were content with the notion beforehand.

With a faint shake of his head, Minho’s shoulders dropped, his response surprising, “No, it is I who should be apologizing to you.

“I realize that I might have sprung my feelings on you at an inappropriate time. Today is the day you had been dreading all along, after all. I should have been more considerate of that fact.”

“N-No really…” there it was again. You never knew how to respond to him when he spoke like this. Magnanimous understanding, a kindness that was never blameful, never shallow. Even now, on a night when you knew so well you could no longer relish in these feelings, your heart warmed.

Who could have thought that the cruel and calculating man you had chosen to be your aide was capable of such sensitivity? You were in the wrong too and yet—

“I still should not have been so harsh,” you managed, your voice small after all your earlier bravado seemed to betray you. You had no qualms about apologizing to someone before, when had it become such an awkward feat?

“Perhaps the blame falls on us both,” Minho conceded, a light small finding home on his lips before he held his hand out like a peace offering. “Let us agree to forgive one another. I, too, would hate for your party to pass like this.”

You took his hand without a moment’s hesitation, mimicking his smile. “I agree, let us do that.”

And so, the tension that was wound so tightly around you was eased and the two of you began to make your way toward the banquet hall.

“I stationed the guards as we have discussed previously,” Minho told you as you walked with him through the grand hallways of the palace. “No soul will be able to enter or leave without our knowledge, and should there be intruders, we would be alerted immediately.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, carefully taking in the information. This banquet was no mere celebration. It was your shield from the Crown Prince. As long as you remained amidst the guests, protected by the guarded walls of the palace, you would be safe. Once the clock struck midnight, he would pose no danger to you anymore. And then…

“Are you sure he’ll show?” Minho’s tone was tense and wrought with concern when he asked, and you shrugged. You knew the Prince enough to know he would not take his defeat lying down.

“He will try, at the very least.”

Minho was silent for a moment before muttering, “He should be in Rowonne as of now…”

Right. Your intelligence networks last reported that the Prince was still in his castle, tending after his supposedly ill father. No movement was detected from him, yet.

You found his quietness to be highly suspicious.

Though, you knew that Minho’s worry was not only caused by the royal’s uncertain whereabouts. Word was yet to reach you from Felix, who had left with a delegation from Valorieve to demand an audience with the King some three weeks ago.

By now, he should have been on the road back to his homeland, carrying with him news of the King’s death.

Instead, you had heard nothing from him since his arrival in Rowonne.

The lack of correspondence must be plaguing Minho’s mind, you determined. This was a period of importance for his own plans, and his brother’s life may as well be in terrible danger.

“Don’t worry,” you could only offer weak reassurance. “I’m sure that Lord Felix is safe, and that you’ll hear from him soon enough. And…we’ve prepared well for tonight, so it will hopefully pass without trouble.”

“You’re right. He is not a helpless boy,” Minho sighed, though his words seemed to convince him very little. He shifted his gaze to settle on you, grave in its seriousness. “As for the banquet, I think it best if you remained by my side for its duration.”

“Of course.” you looked away, feeling slightly embarrassed by the earnestness in his tone. You had intended to stick to him throughout the banquet anyway. “I was not planning on doing otherwise.”

Before you realized it, the two of you reached the grand doors of the banquet hall. A couple of guards, who stood vigilant by the entrance, pushed the doors open for the two of you, and you heard the head butler on the other side declare your names to the hall of attendees.

“Right. Before we go in...” Minho paused and turned his head toward you. There was a twinkle in his cunning eyes, playful yet every bit sincere when he remarked, “You look beautiful, Y/n.”

Without sparing you a beat to process his words, he stepped into the dazzling lights of the banquet hall. You could only trail after him, speechless at the start of the most important night of your life.

• • •

You could taste sorrow in every sip of your wine. Has the drink always been so bitter or was this a new concoction specially made for your fateful banquet?

Everywhere you looked you saw the faces of family and friends. Kind, joyful faces that looked upon you with love and pride, gentle gazes not at all aware of the rampant discord in your heart.

It was a crushing sense of melancholy. A ruthless blade that seemed to cut more of your composure as the night passed. Every person in that banquet hall and everything in it was a stark reminder of what was to come—what you were to lose.

A hurtful notion, it wriggled deep and deeper into your mind like an unwelcome guest with every faux smile and empty remark you mustered.

You had thought that lifetimes of losing the same things would have prepared you better for this. Perhaps desensitized you to the pain of an impending farewell. Foolishly, you had survived the day thinking you could make it through the night without this terrible pain.

But it was always there.

Every lifetime.

When the critical hour inched closer, every emotion you had long buried arose, benevolent like a tide in a dark night’s ocean. Fear, unease, and worst of all, grief so vast you could only cower before it.

Tonight was no exception.

The tenth hour chimed, and it became almost difficult to breathe. Such a suffocating sentiment. Had you not boasted better than this?

You gave Minho’s sleeve a furtive tug, and when he leaned ever so slightly to your side, you muttered a question into your glass, “Could we move to the gardens?”

Perhaps noticing your silent distress, Minho’s whispered agreement came swiftly, “Of course.”

He turned casually to regard the nobles around you, and a charming smile quirked his lips as he brought up the suggestion to them, “My friends and honored guests, would you care to join us under the light of the stars for a change of scenery? The gardens were earlier prepared for us to enjoy.”

He needed not charm them so, for they had always been eager to take his suggestions, happy to crowd him wherever he went. When the murmurs of approval rose among them, you dared to glance up at Minho and the ever-glowing halo that surrounded him.

Oh, he was the worst reminder of them all.

A person you had deliberately chosen after years of meticulous planning, he had unknowingly barged into your heart one day and claimed part of it for himself. And you were almost helpless in the face of his sudden conquest. No matter how many times you attempted to drive him out, he remained stubbornly there, until you had raised your white flags in surrender.

You let this uncanny affection linger and grow as you tried to pay it no mind. As though it were not an attachment born of your heart’s truest hopes and deepest wishes.

Someone—anyone who could save you.

A star so glorious it could diminish the night.

How heavy a shame it was that you would have to lose sight of that star very soon.

You were at the forefront of the crowd of guests streaming into the palace gardens, all easy smiles and flattering words, when a breeze so gentle in its coldness caressed your cheeks, welcoming you outside.

You filled your chest with the crisp night air and willed yourself to forget, bade your heart to quieten. You had no taste for melancholy tonight. As the faces around you changed and you exchanged pleasantries with more guests, you forced yourself to accept that fact.

For the plan’s sake, you could not afford more than anxiety to keep your thoughts busy.

“Lady Valorieve,” a familiar voice called out, and you turned in its direction, spotting your friend approaching with a lovely smile on her tinted lips.

“Lady Geale,” you mirrored her to the best of your ability, trying to hide your agitation behind the sincerity you truly did hold toward her, “I had been awaiting your company. Please, join us—!”

There was a snap of a bow and a scream of air. Then, there was burning pain.

Your thoughts were thrown into upheaval as were your surroundings. You could hear the shouting of your guests intermingled with that of your guards. Glass shattering. Ears ringing.

A hand clasped your shoulder roughly and brought you into an embrace as though to shield you. “Y/n! Are you all right? Gods—you’re bleeding!”

You could make out Minho’s frantic words in the midst of it all and you tried to right yourself against him. It was merely a scratch, you did not need to cushion your head against his chest for it. “I’m fine. It missed me.”

Miraculously so.

The arrow that shot at you came from somewhere deep within the garden’s greenery and was a hair’s breadth away from impaling your shoulder. It seemed that only a miracle found it instead buried in one of the rose bushes circling the clearing. Fortunately, it collected no other victims as it made its way there.

“Still, you must be tended to immediately,” Minho argued, gaze roaming everywhere, taking in the movements of all his guards and guests. Gone was the merry host of a few moments ago. Now, a grave seriousness had settled between his dark brows and voided his voice of any humor when he added, “It’s too dangerous for you to remain here. We must return to the palace.”

It was indeed dangerous. That arrow could not have been a mistake and it would not have been difficult for the Renocault Order to infiltrate the palace grounds. The realization thumped inside your heart wildly—your enemies were here.

Minho began moving, his strides long and purposeful, and you had no choice but to follow. He held you as if he would be your shelter and shield under a hail of arrows, not once bothered by the smear of your blood on his priceless suit.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a flurry of guards run into the depths of the garden, chasing the culprit, furtive flickers of silver armor against the light of their blazing torches. Their success was uncertain, unlikely, even. Your would-be assassin had probably escaped by now, set on a fresh plan to get to you, and for all your bolstered defenses, you knew that they would eventually find you.

It was a certainty you felt in your chest, as sure and true as the breath puffing out of it.

When you and Minho made it back into the banquet hall, Ryujin materialized before you, a slight expression of concern on her stoic countenance. “My lady, what—”

“Her ladyship has been injured,” Minho interjected hastily, not sparing a breath before giving his orders, “You are to take her away and tend to her wound. The knights will protect you.”

Understanding dawned on her and she squared her shoulders, furrowing her brows when she said, “Please follow me, then, my lady.”

“Go,” Minho murmured as he loosened his protective hold on you. “I will be with you shortly.”

He was trying to maintain his calm, but you could see the agitation so softly twitching in his jaw. This was not an unexpected turn of events. You had presented the possibility of a remote attack during the many meetings you held in preparation for tonight. However, it was a possibility you deemed outrageous. It was far too risky for the Crown Prince. For him to pull such an audacious attack meant only that he was more than simply desperate. He was far gone.

The Prince had likely lost his wits.

Surely, they could not have predicted that you would step out in the open during the banquet. It must be then that their initial plan was to shatter the windows of the banquet hall and shoot indiscriminately, attacking your guests alongside yourself. If so, how long had they been camping out there, slipping under the nose of the palace guard?

Minho seemed to have arrived at the same grim conclusions. Your safety was not the only one under threat anymore. Every soul in this hall was.

And it fell upon his shoulders to end this chaos before it fully ensued.

With a last glance of farewell, you parted with Minho and fell in hurried step behind Ryujin. The graze from the arrow stung on your shoulder, exposed to the elements, but you could not feel it over the numbness that engulfed your mind.

It was happening. It was finally happening.

This was the hour you had anticipated with your heart lodged in your throat. You were unsure if you were thankful for its arrival, or if you missed the ignorance of a mere minutes ago, when all you could do was wait and imagine all the ways this could unfold. All the ways your plan could go awry.

Your guards joined you once you left the hall, led by an unquestioning Seungmin. He was briefed on tonight’s special protocol, but it seemed that the commotion inside had not reached them yet, contained by the extravagant walls of the banquet hall. You supposed you were thankful for that. The peace made it easier to spot any intruders.

You reached your destination without trouble and slipped into your guarded chambers, leaving Seungmin and his squad to join the rest of the knights at your door. Ryujin ushered you to rest on one of the plump couches in your sitting room, and it took only a few moments of patience until a physician entered your chamber, carrying with him a trusty medical kit.

Your wound was a little deeper than a scratch, but harmless, nonetheless. Whoever made the shot must have been overly hasty to miss the target so terribly, you thought, grimacing lightly as your injury was disinfected. You supposed you should be thankful for their incompetence.

After your shoulder was bandaged, the physician left, and Ryujin turned to the matter of your ruined dress. As she rummaged through your dressing room, you found yourself wandering in the dark maze of your thoughts.

It was quiet. And it unsettled you.

That attack was sudden and it was followed by silence. Was the Crown Prince acting alone? Who was your foe for tonight and where was his army?

Being separated from Minho seemed to bother you as well. Did he not declare that he would be with you shortly? Where was he now? Did he manage to apprehend the assassin, or did harm befall him while you escaped?

It was quiet. And it plagued your mind with questions.

“My lady.” Ryujin stepped out of the dressing room, announcing, “I have selected a few dresses for you to look at.”

“Thank you,” you sighed. Perhaps busying yourself with a trivial task such as this would ease your distress until your husband arrived.

But when you stood up to make your way to the dressing room, something crashed through the doors of the balcony, sending shards of glass into the air like a crystalline rain.

Something that was much larger and heavier than an arrow, and infinitely, infinitely worse.

You stared at the face of your darkest nightmares, and he laughed.

“There you are!”

•Scene 2•

You screamed, and it felt like the sound ripped your lungs apart.

“Guards!”

Stumbling, falling, you barely evaded the head of an axe falling down on you like a hammer as you crawled, tangled in your own skirts.

The heavy blade embedded itself into the floor when it missed your skull, shattering the marble, and its wielder dislodged it with ease. Eyes like fire, empty and ablaze, he regarded you like one would a measly, pesky roach.

The man who encroached on your safety was not the same Crown Prince you had known for fifteen years. His clothes were ragged, and so was his appearance. His gaze was hollow, and so were his proud cheeks. He seemed to care not if his face was recognized. Whatever happened to him since your last meeting had visibly taken a toll on him. He had become a man deranged. As though something wild had overtaken his body.

But it was still him. That idle thing inside of you stirred in recognition of the being fatefully intertwined with it. To seek and to be found.

Your knights barged in, and Seungmin’s voice rose in the air like a thunderclap, “Intruder! Protect Her Ladyship!”

At the same moment, Ryujin swooped in beside you, pulling you to your feet and shouting over the clanking of armor, “We must get out of here, my lady!”

But you could hear none of them over the thrashing in your chest, deafening you to all but the Prince’s presence. You were frozen in place when he lunged at you, chained by the memories of twenty other lifetimes, and the deaths that always followed.

At the hands of the Blood of the First. Always by his hand.

To seek and to be found.

He was met with your knights, a formidable shield that overwhelmed him easily with its numbers. They granted you the clearance to escape, and Ryujin snatched it, nearly dragging your limp body toward the door.

“Keep this with you!” she shoved a dagger into your hand as she continued her laboring trek, leaving the knights to their duty behind you. You barely registered her words, focused on the Prince’s cursing and snarling as he tried and failed to break through them.

He was stuck, you noted with near relief.

As long as he stayed there, you could escape. You could hide. Your plan could succeed.

How naïve.

You gasped, and your surroundings suddenly came into sharp focus. Every sound and movement pierced your consciousness as though you had emerged out of dark water.

You turned around and shoved Ryujin with the most strength you could muster, narrowly missing the inked hands that reached for her throat.

The Renocault Order was here.

Materializing out of nothingness, your foe’s army.

“Where are you going, demon?” the red-cloaked mage sneered, and you could almost feel the curse swelling in his ancient hands. Hands which he was stretching out toward you. “You must stay put—”

Your arm moved unthinkingly, swiping the dagger Ryujin gave you at him and backing away. With a wavering voice, you shouted, “Don’t you touch me!”

Curses were rare and extremely dangerous. Being touched by those hands would mean immediate doom for you and your plan.

The Renocault Order was comprised of heretics and dark mages who used these curses at the cost of their own souls. Communicating with otherworldly beings and giving away their mortality as the price for tampering with the forbidden. Hence, curses were only used sparingly and on special occasions.

Tonight was special, indeed.

With the mage blocking your exit, you tried to find another, but everywhere you looked around you, you saw members of the Order in their telltale cloaks. They broke apart your circle of knights, scattered silver among red.

“Do not falter! This enemy does not relent so do not waste your time defending!” you could hear Seungmin command, having gained wisdom from his last encounter with the Order. “They must be killed!”

The small group of knights heeded his word and charged at the mages. Your sitting room was in no way spacious enough for a fight, but they managed, swords and knives flashing.

Meanwhile, Ryujin had recovered from your push and procured a small blade to fight with. She did not look back at you when she urged, “Hide! I’ll deal with him.”

“But—”

He’s dangerous, you wanted to say, but the words disappeared on your tongue when you saw the way she stood up to him. They were all dangerous, but Ryujin and your knights did not cower, did not shrink before their greater adversary.

You could not act foolishly now. Not when they were laying down their lives for your protection.

So, instead, you picked up your skirts and hurled a warning at her, “Do not let him touch you!”

She gave you a smile, the first you had seen from her. It seemed to assure you and say, ‘Do not worry—trust me’.

So, you chose to trust her and all your valiant knights.

The fight that unfolded in your chambers was almost uncontrollable. Mages lurched from one place to another, engaging your guards in brutish brawls, while the knights tried their best to contain the disorder and maintain their formation. Though undoubtedly chaotic, the fight allowed you to move almost unnoticeably while the enemy was distracted.

You sneaked behind them as quickly as you could, making your way toward the bedchambers. You thought that if you could get inside and bar the door, you might be able to buy yourself enough time to form a new plan of escape.

You caught Seungmin’s eyes, and he seemed to understand your intentions immediately, but you also caught another’s less desirable attention.

The Prince turned away from his opponent, as though he had forgotten he was even there and suddenly remembered his purpose, and leaped in your direction, swinging his axe wildly. Seungmin intercepted him in a heartbeat, grunting as he tried to push him back, “My lady, go!”

And you did, quickening your pace into a run as fear grappled for control of your mind. You would not let it. You could not.

The Prince was angry, and as though responding to his anger, the mages grew more aggressive. Shouts of effort and groans of pain became louder as you hastened toward the double doors of your bedchambers. You could not afford to look back at the knights and worry over them.

You trusted them.

You had chosen to trust them, and that trust would have to be enough.

Despite the guards in his way, the Crown Prince managed to remain close by, a mere few steps behind. He did not care who or what he was cutting down with his axe, for he waved it about like it were a harmless fan. It made him an unpredictable, difficult opponent. A deadly whirlwind of blades.

When you reached the doors, you pushed one open without sparing a breath and nearly jumped into the familiar safety of your bedchambers. Whirling around, you met the Prince’s frantic, crazed gaze for only the fraction of a second it took until you gathered all your strength and slammed the door shut in his face.

He had been too close. Had you waited even a beat later, he would have stuck his arm through and forced his way in, and you would have been too weak to stop him.

You heard him shout his frustration outside as you locked the door, and while you took around the moonlit room, pushing the few chairs and settees and piling them against the door, a full fight seemed to unfold behind it. You tried to pay them no mind. Trust, trust, trust—you had chosen trust and you had to stick to it.

Once you barred the door sufficiently enough, you paced around the room, trying to construct a plan from the very few options before you.

The only other exit in this room was through the balcony, and when you looked out its glass doors, you determined that the fall would be too risky. You were not so invincible on this night, after all. That was what made it so special.

The eve of your twenty-first birthday was the only day in which you could be killed, and on this day, your life lay in the hands of the Blood of the First and your own. If you died before the twelfth hour, you would be reborn into another body, another life.

And you always died on this day. That was your curse.

At least that was what you could deduce from your curse after decades of repeating the same pattern of death and rebirth.

Since your usual near-death stunts were out of the question, you discarded the idea of escaping through the balcony. The dagger Ryujin had given you was still in your possession—perhaps you could find a nook and hide in it until help arrived?

You did not have the leisure of contemplating that plan, for a terrible crashing noise boomed in your ears.

The doors. You turned around with a shrill gasp.

The doors were being broken down.

The sound, like the grave strikes of a pendulum, washed a wave of terror over you. It seemed that the Prince was hacking at the wood with his axe, relentlessly, madly, and you could hear your knights trying to stop him without avail.

You had a few minutes at most.

Any semblance of a plan would have to suffice.

With your breath caught in your throat, you ran to your dresser and pushed the heavy piece of furniture with newfound force, perfumes and oils clinking then shattering on the floor. This way you had some sort of shield to duck behind. Your chairs were all stacked up against the door, but perhaps you could use them later, hurl them in his way if need be.

You had to survive.

You had to survive tonight.

You dropped to your knees behind the shifted dresser, gripping your only weapon like a lifeline, and waited. Your heartbeat was one with the falls of the axe, counting each second like it were a curse.

When you glimpsed light peeking through the wood, you knew that your momentary safety was gone. The haven that you had retreated to every night of this tumultuous year was finally breached.

You stopped watching as the hole grew bigger, choosing to duck and ease your erratic breath. Escape was not an option yet. You had to hold out until Minho arrived. He would save you, then, as he had done several times before. As you knew he would.

So just wait, you told yourself. Just wait.

The last crash was followed by an uproar, and you bit your tongue to stifle any noise. From the sound of it, the Prince seemed to struggle very little with the barricade of chairs, landing on the ground with a reckless thud soon enough. A few knights must have followed him through the narrow opening, for you heard them shouting at one another to stop him.

There was a short scuffle between them and the Prince, which was abruptly stopped when you heard Seungmin warn, “Red cloaks!”

Mages.

They must have joined to keep the knights off the Prince’s back, but you could not discern more from hearing alone. Instead, you strained your eyes to study the shadows on the floor. Muddled and frenzied, you could not tell friend from foe through them.

But you could see one shadow behaving differently, moving closer.

Heavy breathing, and the scraping of metal against marble.

Your gaze was drawn up as if by some otherworldly force—perhaps the fate that found you meeting like this over and over again—and locked eyes with your mad Prince.

Again, his lips stretched in the most wicked of smiles.

“There you are!”

His axe winked in the scarce light, and you rolled out of its range as it fell down in one deadly swoop, halving your precious dresser.

You gathered what you could of your dress and stumbled away, willing your legs into a dash. The knights were occupied with the mages, and there was nowhere to run to but around the vast chamber.

So you ran. You were not foolish enough to believe you could evade the Prince for long. He was faster and bigger than you were. Unlike Ryujin or Seungmin or Minho, you were no fighter, but you thought you could make this chase a little more difficult for him.

You pushed the small tea table and let it crash and roll on the floor, not stopping once to witness the damage it caused. You then scrambled onto the bed, narrowly missing a swing of the axe, and half ran, half jumped across it to land ungracefully on the other side.

This dress was making it difficult to move, even though it was the lightest you could choose.

The Prince caught up to you in a beat, and you felt him grab a fistful of your skirt, pulling you back toward him.

No! The thought boomed in your head so forcefully.

You spun around and slashed his hand with your dagger, freeing yourself with a desperation you had grown all too familiar with. It blinded you, made you unable to hear even your own thoughts. The only thing that mattered was that oppressive urge to survive. It fueled you like oil to a flame.

You ran and crouched and tumbled to the floor when you had to, uncaring what bruises or scratches may have resulted from your actions. All to keep your neck free from the Prince’s blade.

But it seemed that your efforts began to anger him. He shouted when you hefted one of the chairs in the makeshift barricade and used it to block one of his attacks, “Stay still, damn it!”

You did not care, even though it terrified you. He could let his anger consume him all he wanted. He knew nothing of true anger anyway. Your own frustration had been simmering for many, many years in contrast. It was the reason you were trying so hard, fighting so hopelessly.

His fury could never compare to the depth of the torment he and his ancestors had caused you.

You scurried away, continuing your desperate evasion when your trance was shattered by the harsh noise of wood being smashed. Instinctively, you turned your head in the direction of the sound and glimpsed a flood of silver-armored knights against the light.

Though, that was an unwise decision on your behalf.

A jarring laugh came from behind you, and too late did you glimpse the glint of the axe as it rose menacingly in the air.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

You had become paralyzed before him and his smile of cruel victory.

“Goodbye, demon!”

You should move. You had to move. But all you could do was stare, wide-eyed, off-guard.

And in those last moments, in a bout of sudden clarity, a memory emerged in your mind. That entity hidden deep within you seemed to breathe for the first time.

A name forgotten. One you could never recall.

Reval.

• • •

The axe should have fallen.

It should have landed and stolen your breath.

But in that blur of a moment, a body tackled the Prince, driving him to the floor and diverting his aim.

“I told you, haven’t I?”

Over the mayhem, his familiar voice resounded.

“If I see you here again, I will kill you!”

“Lord Lee,” there was a growl in response from the Prince, who pushed himself to his feet. “What uncanny timing you have.”

Your panic, your desperation, it all ceased at the sight of Minho. As though you had not laid eyes upon him in a lifetime, and he was the balm to your every concern.

He had brought with him a retinue of knights who had broken down the door to your chambers and barged in to help their comrades with the mages. Light streamed into the room due to their efforts, and you could see more clearly now the fight that had unfolded around you.

“Y/n.” Minho did not take his eyes off the enemy when he asked, “Can you stand?”

“Y-Yes,” your voice wavered involuntarily, suddenly wrought with so much emotion. What took him so long? “Yes, I can.”

“Good,” he said, pointing his sword to the ground beside him, poised for attack. “Run, then—”

The Prince did not give him the luxury to finish speaking, springing at him as though to catch him by surprise. His attempt was futile, however, for Minho met him with utmost readiness, steel gnashing against wood as he blocked his offense.

You were entranced by their fight. Transfixed by fear or perhaps it was worry that trapped you. An axe and a sword were not the most compatible of weapons, but that conflict did not deter Minho, who pushed the Prince back, demanding, “All this for a rejected proposal?!”

Your heart seemed to drop at his assumption. You had nearly forgotten that in Minho’s eyes, this was a conflict born out of the Prince’s possessiveness. A heartbreak that bubbled over into madness.

At that, the Royal guffawed, mocking, “Proposal? Why ever would I wish to marry a demon?”

You bristled at his remark and he caught it, sneering like a depraved killer. “Oh, what’s this? Have you not told your beloved husband, little demon?”

“Vile bastard,” Minho gritted his teeth. “You’ve lost your mind, haven’t you?”

The Prince ignored him, shouting over to you, “What’s wrong, Y/n? Why won’t you tell him?”

You knew the answer, and so did he.

It was because you were afraid. You were scared of losing your family, your friends, your life, all at the cost of your secret. Because the timeless truth was that they would either shun you for it or die from it.

There was no escaping that miserable fate.

“Don’t answer him, Y/n,” Minho interjected, standing in front of you protectively. His words were not an order, but an assurance that you needed not humor the Prince.

“Tell him, Lady Lurmuse!” the Prince insisted again, “Lest my patience runs dry, tell him!”

“Ignore his insane ramblings—”

The Prince lunged at him, cutting him off as he swiped his axe across the air in a deadly arc. “Listen, heir of Valorieve!”

No, no! Your heart began to hammer in your chest, scream in its chamber of flesh while your voice had utterly faded. He was going to tell him. He was going to tell him everything and still, you could say nothing to stop him.

“Your precious wife is no human at all—she’s cursed!” he laughed as he pressed Minho and found himself pushed back yet again. His words were wreaking havoc on everything you had worked for, destroying it right before your eyes. He knew it. And you knew that he greatly enjoyed it.

But your mouth was running dry and you could not conjure the words to defend yourself. Anything—you had to say something before Minho turned his back—

A single, halting thought flickered in your mind like a budding flame.

Would he really turn his back on you?

After everything you had experienced with him over the past eleven months. After all his unending kindness, would he truly abandon you if he discovered the truth?

You found the answer in a heart that suddenly beat steady and sure.

“Did you know, or did she not tell you?” the Prince taunted, his weapon swinging about relentlessly. His attacks seemed focused on Minho now, as though intent on taking him down first. “Cursed to live and die again and again at my hands! So, you would be wise to step away, Lord Lee.”

His remarks stoked the flame into a blazing fire.

No. The answer to your question was as obvious as a moon in a depthless night and as glorious as its light. Your husband would not turn his back on you.

He had proven that to you over and over again, even if you pretended not to see it.

It was time you trusted him fully, too.

Minho snarled as he parried a blow from the Prince, “I will have none of your madness—”

“It’s true!”

There was your voice.

You did not need that damned Prince to divulge your secrets for you. You could tell Minho yourself just fine.

The two men stopped to look at you, one morbidly gleeful while the other was concerned.

“I-I’m sorry.” you kept your gaze locked with Minho’s, anchoring yourself with it lest your anxiety sent you adrift. It had been so long since you uttered something like this aloud. Your every limb was trembling, and the dagger in your grip was almost too slippery to keep hold of.

Was this weakness or was it courage?

“It is as he says. I am cursed to be reborn,” you mustered the words with difficulty and sought the change in Minho’s countenance. You waited for his expression to shift, to darken, to reject you.

But he remained unreadable, and you dared to venture, breath hitching, “That is why—that is why he means to kill me. Because, Lord Minho, I am a living curse…and he seeks the power of my curse.”

There it was.

The truth as you knew it and as the Rowonnese royals had so graciously informed you. You were the embodiment of a curse that they had once sought, four centuries past, for the attainment of the kingdom’s coveted throne.

Your death was the necessary sacrifice that had to be honored on this day, in every lifetime, forever, for the sake of that throne.

“See!” the Prince’s delight was savage, and he turned his attention toward a still-quiet Minho. “Now, you will step aside, or you will help me capture this demon.”

The silence that followed was sickening, and you thought that you were going to collapse had Minho not finally spoken.

“This changes nothing.”

Three words that he spoke so resolutely, so sternly, and it triggered a riot in your head. Even though you could not decipher his expression, you felt it. Relief so immense in its weight that it made you shiver. Emotion that warmed your eyes and nearly blurred your vision.

Minho, ever so brilliant, ever so lovely, pointed his sword at the Prince and declared then, “I swore many months ago to kill you for your transgressions, and I shall.”

“Ha! Surely you cannot mean what you say?” the royal scoffed. “Are you not revolted by the foulness of this creature—?”

The wind was knocked out of his lungs before he could finish.

“You mistake me again for a man who jests, Your Highness,” Minho all but spat the words at him, having knocked him down in a blur of motion. “I will have no more of you insulting my wife.”

“You will regret this,” the Prince grunted as he regained his footing, his tone darkening, and without missing a beat, he charged. The chamber had emptied by then. The knights had overwhelmed and defeated the mages, and only you three remained.

Their weapons were not equals, and neither were the wielders.

When it came to skill, the Prince paled in comparison to many you knew. He relied too much on his otherworldly gifts of strength and stamina, thinking them enough to stand against talent and martial discipline.

But an axe was too cumbersome a weapon and far less elegant than a sword that pierced the air with lethal precision. When it came to skill, Minho was the better of them.

You watched him move through the fight, every step and swing and dodge of his as fluid as crystal water and just as sharp. He did not falter, did not pause once to think about his next step, and yet, his blows were calculated and always landed true.

You watched with a heart that followed him like a shadow.

You watched, and you saw the Prince’s desperation grow.

He tried to change his target, to break away from the hopeless duel and attack you instead, but Minho did not spare him a breath of space. He truly did intend to kill. That much was evident in every pointed slash of his sword.

But as much as killing the Prince would ease your worries and aid your plan, you could not permit it. It seemed that none of Valorieve’s sons understood the repercussions of such a crime.

Or perhaps they cared not.

It did not matter to you which of the two it was, the Prince must not be killed in this struggle.

Then, by a very predictable turn of events, the Prince found himself defenseless on the ground, clutching a wound in his stomach, with Minho’s sword arcing toward his neck.

He would be dead in a matter of seconds.

“Don’t kill him!” the call left your lips before you could stop it, and, reminiscent of that day in the festival, Minho’s weapon stilled in the air. A testament to the sheer control he possessed.

He whirled around, disbelieving, exclaiming, “He was swinging an axe at you—!”

“You’ll be executed!”

You did not intend to sound so desperate, but your voice betrayed you again. At once, Minho’s formidable expression broke down, softened, and you were almost pleading with him, “Please…”

You could not allow him to die for the downfall of someone so trivial, so unimportant. He had to live, long and happy and prosperous, as he was destined to.

After a beat of quiet that was only interrupted by the Prince’s groaning, Minho conceded, so gently it seemed out of place for the night’s events. “As you wish.”

He turned to look down at the royal, who was only now sitting upright and pathetically clutching his fallen axe, and told him, “I granted you this mercy only at her behest. Remember that.”

“You—”

And then, with a motion so quick and so brutal it startled you, he flipped his sword and rammed its hilt against the back of the Prince’s head.

The latter toppled to the ground, the words dying on his tongue as his eyes rolled back. Only when he went utterly still did the strength leave your body, and you found yourself crumpling on the floor like a broken marionette.

It was done.

“Y/n!”

You heard Minho frantically call your name, and then the pounding of boots as a new group of knights entered the wrecked chambers.

“My lord, are you all right?”

It was done.

“I’m fine. Apprehend this man here and fetch a physician for Her Ladyship post-haste,” he gave them his orders hurriedly then rushed over to kneel before you, discarding his sword to the side.

It was done.

His hands cradled your cheeks, warm, always so warm as he lifted your head and murmured, “Y/n, look at me.”

And at his gentle coaxing, you did, ignoring the strange feelings of hollowness and wariness that floated aimlessly in your heart. You took him in and the disheveled state of his hair, the wrinkle of concern in his brows, the slight exertion in his breath. You let your gaze melt in his, for that was all you had the strength for.

“You’re hurt,” he commented, and there was frustration lurking beneath those words. Perhaps at himself, or perhaps at fate for bringing you to this point.

You wanted to tell him that it was all right. That he should not fault himself for tonight’s events. You wanted to reach out and touch his face as he did yours to assure him yourself. It will be all right. You will be all right.

But before you found the energy to utter those words, the twelfth hour struck, its bells resonating throughout the palace.

It was done.

Your consciousness slipped from your grasp to the cadence of the chimes. A drum that signaled the end of your fateful battle.

•Scene 3•

“Have you found him yet?”

Your eyes snapped open to be met with a gaze of depthless blue, an entity most otherworldly.

‘What—who are you?’

No sound left your throat when you asked on impulse, but the ethereal being that looked down on you smiled, their voice a cacophony of sweet melodies, “I recall the humans calling me Renée. I am the essence of rebirth and sustenance, but you may better know me as the demon of rebirth and sustenance.”

They had your head resting in their lap, one delicate hand caressing your hair with something akin to motherly affection. They seemed to hear your inaudible voice when you echoed, ‘Demon?’

“That seems to be the popular name,” the demon—Renée—mused and explained so tenderly, “We are beings that manifest from the world’s phenomena. Sights such as love and grief, war and wisdom—we are born from their reoccurrence. Humans have chosen to call us demons. Though, we are not forces of evil, but representations of nature.”

Demon. You had heard that word thrown at you countless times. It was an insult. It was a curse. It was a terrible, horrible thing.

Yet, this being was a demon?

Renée…they seemed to be made out of snow and starlight.

Their unmarred skin was a blue so pale it almost glowed, peeking out of flowing, luminescent robes that pooled around the two of you. A cascade of hair like woven ivory disappeared within the light of those robes, long and very precious.

It was their eyes that enchanted you the most. Wide and dark and infinite, they seemed to be ripped out of the very fabric of this dreamlike space you had awoken to. You feared they might swallow you whole if you stared for too long. Downturned, they seemed to hold such an immense sadness, yet their gaze was vast, and vastly kind.

They had the form of a human, but no mortal could compare to them. Such a delicate, yet powerful presence.

Renée was beautiful, so much so that it felt almost monstrous.

You did not feel the urge to move, lying still where you could gaze up at them. Comforted, for some reason. As though you had reunited with an old friend.

‘Are you… Are you the one who cursed me?’

“Cursed you?” Renée chuckled and it was a sound that came from everywhere and nowhere at once. “No, never.”

‘Oh,’ somehow you felt disheartened, like you had lost your only lead. ‘Then…’

Then why were you here?

The radiant demon smiled, sympathetic, almost melancholy. “I suppose you would not remember.”

‘Remember what?’

“Your first life.”

You felt a pang in your chest. Your first life. The life that must have started it all. You did not remember it, even though you recalled a certain, first death.

Still stroking your hair, Renée sighed softly. “Let me tell you a story, then.

“Once upon a time, four hundred and twenty-one years ago, a demon was called forth by greedy humans to become a sacrifice in their forbidden ritual. They sought to slaughter it and acquire its essence to secure a throne for a hungry yet lacking king.”

‘The Renocault Order,’ you provided, almost wonderstruck, ‘and the House of Rowonne.’

“Yes, indeed. It was them,” Renée nodded their approval, continuing, “Knowing their wicked intentions, the demon did not wish to die. So, before the ritual was completed, they escaped into the vast human world.

“A war had been ravaging the land, and a plague had spread amongst the people, killing them when swords and spears had spared them. The demon walked amid the suffering humans in search of shelter or a friend,” Renée paused, then with the gentlest of smiles, added, “That was when I met you.

“You thought me a walking god when you saw me. Sickness had brought you to the shores of death, and in your delirium, you clutched the hems of my robes and pleaded for help.

“You told me that you could not die yet. You told me that you needed to live for you could not leave your beloved behind. He needed your help, you said. The plague had found him too and he needed someone to tend to him. Those were the words you had so desperately cried to me,” Renée recounted like it were a mournful memory. “I was moved by your pleas and the tremendous love behind them, so I thought to lend you my power and give you life when yours was waning.

“However, unbeknownst to myself, those malicious humans had sent someone after me to complete the ritual. You know him as the First. He was the man who had partaken in the ritual in order to sit on the throne. The man whose descendants have hunted you in every lifetime.

“I lent you my essence and power, and in that moment of exchange, the First pierced an arrow through my heart and yours.”

You could only listen to the tale Renée told, speechless, enthralled, shaken to your very core. This was a history you had no knowledge and no recollection of. This was the story of a ‘you’ you did not know. The answer to your timeless misery.

“That was supposed to be the end of it,” Renée shook their head, the movement so utterly graceful, “The two of us were dead by the hands of the would-be-king, thus completing the ritual and securing the essence of rebirth and sustenance to keep the throne in Rowonne.

“But, you refused our death.

“I would instantly be reborn after my death, for that was my phenomenon, but you held on to me. It was not fair, you said. You had to return. You had to live.” there was a twinkle of amusement in Renée’s eyes as they further revealed, “So you kept my essence and buried it deep within your heart. And then, you were reborn.

“This merge between us meant that the ritual’s effect was brief, lasting only to the day our exchange was first made. The one day my essence diverged from your soul and could be usurped by the Blood of the First. Those humans knew that and sought you in your second lifetime for that cause.

“Though, this lifetime, I am sure you remember.”

Renée patted your head softly, resuming their story like it were a nursery rhyme, and you listened like a child in their parent’s loving embrace. “You were killed again by that evil human, and again, you refused your death. It was not fair, you argued. You needed to return. You needed to live. And so, once more, you were reborn.

“Again, and again. The relentless cycle of death and rebirth repeated itself without fail. You held on to me even when you were no longer aware of it yourself. Even as you grew miserable from it. Even when your very soul forgot why it insisted on living.

“I never cursed you, my friend,” Renée finally concluded, their sorrowful smile like a consolation. “It was you who refused to rest and release me.”

Oh.

You had nothing to say. What could you say at a revelation of this weight anyway?

This so-called curse that tortured you for decades and centuries, this pain and this emptiness, was all your own doing? Why? You did not even remember the person Renée claimed was your beloved. So why—

‘You must resent me for keeping you so long,’ was all you could mumble, diverting your gaze to the endless blue around you and feeling the sting of shame in your heart.

As though you needed more guilt to torment you. After all these years, it seemed that everything you had been through was pointless. Needless suffering. Needless grief. You could have prevented it all had you not been so stubborn and just—died.

“Why ever would I resent you?” Renée did not frown or exclaim their disapproval. Their smile was unchanging. Kind, kind, and kinder, even though it twisted your heart mercilessly. Why were they not mirroring the anger you so ruthlessly aimed at yourself?

“You have taught me so much,” they crooned, fingers still running soothingly through your hair. “You showed me your happiness and your love, your anger and your grief. In every lifetime, I learned more and found myself humbled by your experiences.

“I could never resent you, my friend. It is your nature to want to survive, and your humanity has been endearing from the very first time we met. I can only be grateful to you.”

Once again, you were at a loss for words. This was not the sentiment you expected, and it surprised you. Almost embarrassed you.

Renée, however, seemed content with your flustered silence. “So, I ask you again. Have you found him?”

‘Found who?’ you frowned. They had asked you the same question earlier, and it still confounded you. Had you been searching for someone?

“Why, your beloved, of course.”

‘I…’

Renée laughed at your nervous hesitation, a sound that felt like a thousand songs and a thousand curses. With a sigh, they cupped your face in their gentle hands and murmured, “I know.”

You stared at them, confused, but they did not elaborate any further, closing their eyes and bowing their head.

“You should let me go now, dear.”

Let go?

So soon?

Parting with an entity that had been intertwined with your soul for so long felt wrong. It was a freedom you were not yet prepared for. Who were you without your curse?

You had wanted to rid of it—this was what you wanted—and yet…

You did not feel free. That strange hollowness remained in your heart.

‘Wait—’

But Renée was shimmering and fading before your eyes. Their touch, ancient in its familiarity, was slipping away, and you could not move. You could not chase it.

You hated the sudden selfishness that unfurled within you. You did not want to leave just yet. Just a little more time. Please…

Their last whisper was like thunder in your ears, “Let me go, and live.”

Live?

Your own awareness was dissipating like smoke in the wind. A forbidden confession lost to the awakening of your body.

‘But I don’t—’

•Scene 4•

Minho’s heart beat uneasy as he paced across the hallway.

All the guests had been sent to their homes. All the intruders had been apprehended. You were safely tucked into the bed of his old chambers. Everything was back in order.

It should have been, but Minho was still perturbed. The past four hours had been too much to process, even for him.

First, there was the attack in the garden that caught him entirely off guard. After he had sent you off with Ryujin, he rushed over to manage the commotion among the attendees of the banquet. They had been frightened, and rightfully so, but he tried to assure them of their safety.

Once that was done, he joined the knights, letting them know of his commands and overseeing a little bit of their progress. It was then that an unexpected visitor shoved his way between the knights and delivered the worst news possible.

“Brother! He’s here!”

Felix, bedraggled from rough travel, had appeared in the palace after being missing for two weeks and announced that the Crown Prince was not in Rowonne anymore.

In fact, he had not been there for a while.

What followed was almost a blur. He, and a sizable body of knights, stormed their way into your shared chambers and immediately found themselves in the midst of chaos. Knights were engaging cloaked strangers in messy scuffles, each trying to keep the other from escaping, and the sight made Minho’s heart drop to the bottomless abyss.

The presence of those red cloaks only meant one thing.

The Crown Prince was already there.

Minho fought his way through as though he had forgone all sense. He slashed his sword at all that was red before him and broke the cluster of mages with his knights at his back. It felt like only a heartbeat passed until he found himself standing before the destroyed doors of your bedchambers.

The mere thought of what might have happened if he were only a second late made every drop of his blood go frigid with ice.

He had practically launched himself at the Prince, and then that bastard began spewing nonsense about you, and about demons and strange curses.

And then you, wounded and trembling, confessed the same things as his unhinged drivel.

If Minho were to be honest, he would have believed none of it had he not known you. Had he not been by your side for the better half of the year and witnessed the reality of your terror, of your lingering anguish.

How could he not believe you, when each word seemed to hack mercilessly at your ever so flawless composure?

Nevertheless, he had questions—none of which the Prince answered when he regained consciousness and flew into an uncontrollable rage in the dungeons—but he was sure you would eventually tell him about this curse.

For now, Minho tried to piece together the information already in his grasp.

Cursed to be reborn, that was what you said. And the prince had aimed to kill you for the power your curse contained.

He could not fathom the reason behind the royal’s sinister ambitions, but he could glean that the two of you had a long, ancient history.

“Again and again,” the Prince had taunted. Cursed to live and die at his hands.

Did he mean to say that you had died before? Was death at the hands of the royals something familiar to you?

Minho recalled an incident a few months ago when you had told him of a forbidden ritual performed by the royal family. Back then, you had struggled to say why you knew of this ritual. Now, a harrowing conclusion drew itself in his mind.

If your curse was to be reborn, then you must have been the sacrifice in that dreadful ritual. Those murdered girls you spoke of—had they all been you in different lives?

Suddenly, all your actions throughout the past year made new sense to him. How you sometimes spoke like you had the wisdom of centuries, yet were reluctant to lower your walls for anyone. How you always seemed to try to distance yourself from the rest of the world, yet never spared it from your kindness. It was the missing piece he had been searching for, now finally in his hands despite being only speculation.

Minho found it horrific to even imagine what it felt like. Dying and being reborn, only to die and be reborn once more. Over and over. You must have suffered, he thought with a pang that violently pierced his heart. You must have been in so much pain all this time.

Then, as he wallowed in his thoughts, an old memory resurfaced of the night he first met you. A ruffled nightgown, an indecipherable smile, and those unassuming words.

“I simply wish to rest, in peace.”

The realization that struck him had the weight of the sky itself, crushing his measly soul into thousands of trifling pieces.

No.

It could not be.

His legs were moving before he willed them to, breaking into a mindless dash toward his old bedchambers. Toward where you were supposed to be peacefully recuperating.

He must be mistaken. He had to be.

That could not be your true purpose in all this.

Please…

The imposing doors of his chambers were not nearly close enough when he reached for them and all but crashed through, numb to the feel of the solid wood as it bruised his shoulder.

•Scene 5•

“Y/n!”

The doors to the room burst open and you flinched, letting the slow, disbelieving intake of breath wash uncomfortably over you.

“This was your plan all along?”

He seemed to have a knack for rude interruptions, you observed, bitterly recalling your first encounter. The night that enabled you to come this far. Uncanny timing, indeed.

“This cannot be it. Y/n, please...”

“No, you are mistaken,” you interjected his pleas, gaze fixed on the pristine dagger in your grasp—Ryujin’s dagger. So softly, like the words were not entirely yours, you told him, “This is what I’ve always wanted.”

That was right.

You had long wished for silence and a tranquil rest.

You felt it within your own heartbeat. With Renée gone, with your curse lost, you were mortal once again. Your life was in anyone’s hands now, and the wish you had so desperately sought for decades was no longer an impossible dream.

This was the true finale you had been planning for from the very moment you opened your eyes to a new world. A hope to fade. To be at peace, not again awakened.

This was all you wanted.

And you hoped he would not be too hurt by the truth. This world was his to delight in, after all. You were only an inconsequential passerby.

“How—” was that emotion that stifled his words? “How can you expect me to believe you when your hands tremble so?”

Tremble? No, that could not be true.

You blinked at the silver blade you held so close to your neck and found that he had not lied. Your hands were shaking.

So defiantly, too.

Was this not what you had planned for all along? Everything you had done, you did for this very ending. To kill the cycle once and for all. To rid yourself of your unending grief, your measureless guilt.

To be freed.

Was that wish not your own?

“Please…” he did not dare step closer, as though any movement from him could shatter the world and its heavens. “Talk to me.”

But what could you say?

This was what you wanted, no?

And yet, your body shook with such adamant refusal, your own thoughts revolting against you. Your death had been an easy notion all this time, but now it rattled you, tipped your mind so that you could no longer discern what you truly desired.

Was it not slumber, so long and quiet and free?

Your eyes stung as though set ablaze.

That hollowness you felt in your heart was like a chamber in which your emotions echoed, howling with no one to answer. They cried for the truth that made you tremble so much. They cried for an impudent desire.

You did not have to listen to know—that emptiness you felt was not the absence of a curse. When the twelfth hour neared and a chasm yawned in your heart, it was not the product of freedom that you were unprepared for.

It was a realization.

More than that, it was fear from a realization that stripped you of your lifelong purpose. It was terror and tremoring uncertainty, for what were you to become without a goal?

Everything that you had done so far would be worthless. All your careful planning and all your cautious scheming, it would be as your past lifetimes. Useless. Needless.

What were you supposed to do before a realization of this magnitude except cower and tremble? What were you supposed to do when your heart rebelled at the sound of his voice and the thought of his pain?

The one you could only ever liken to a star. Bright, and brighter than any.

And you found yourself wondering if you reached your hand out to him, would he embrace you with his light? Would he hide you in it so that you may never again see the darkness of night?

A demon’s voice sighed like wind in your ears.

Let me go and—

The blade you had clung to clattered against the marble, and you whirled around to finally face him.

“Minho…”

Like a promise, like a secret, the words tore their way out of your chest, liberated from the chasm in your heart.

“I don’t want to die.”

And it felt like a betrayal. A betrayal to yourself and everything you had gone through. Yet, you had never been truer to yourself than at that moment.

It was a stride, then another, and Minho had you in his arms, dropping weakly, helplessly with you to the floor. And for the first time in lifetimes, you cried, unraveling in the refuge of his embrace.

There, huddled on the cold marble, you cried and told him of the nightmares that never left you. Of a demon, and a curse, and a plan so grim. A wish so dark. You cried as you spoke of your lives. Of death that was unsparing. Of pain that was unceasing. Of the grief that wracked your soul from every time your weak heart loved and always lost.

You cried, and once you started, you could not stop.

Tears mangled with words when you told him of guilt so heavy it crushed you. Of wicked eyes that always found you. Of lurking shadows. Of fear, of fear, of constant fear.

You were breathless when you told him of everything you felt and everything you thought and everything you had been through. Minho listened to it all, even when your voice grew faint and your silent sobs persisted.

But no matter how much you told him, it was not enough. It would never be enough to tell him of the unfathomable feeling that writhed and burned within your heart, threatening to destroy you with it.

You did not know how long you had been in nestled in Minho’s arms, ruining his fine blouse with the unfaltering of your tears. Perhaps a lifetime. Perhaps a heartbeat. It was only when your breathing steadied did he pull away, barely, to settle his somber gaze on you. Eyes glistening with unshed tears, he touched a gentle hand to your face and carefully ran his thumb across your cheek as though to erase the traces of your pain.

So lovingly, so sadly. His murmur enveloped you.

“You must have been so lonely.”

Lonely.

You stared at him.

Yes.

That was it.

You had been lonely. So, terribly, tragically lonely.

As you died and were reborn, this world no longer felt like your own. You had become a ghost. A passerby. Your place was fleeting, ever-changing. No one truly knew you, your history, your suffering. No one knew the ‘you’ who had lived and died twenty grueling times.

No one could really see you, but there Minho was, reaching through the tangle of your heart, capturing that feeling you could not name. That vast loneliness. That solitude your curse forced upon you.

It was the reason that your change of heart frightened you so, for how could you wish to live in a world that did not belong to you?

The answer was known to you then as it was now.

Your place in this world was here, basking in the vivid brilliance of your star.

“Yes,” you finally mumbled, smiling through overflowing tears. “I suppose I was.”

•Scene 6•

Your eyes cracked open to a world you knew.

Familiar air. Familiar warmth.

When you pushed yourself to sit, the result of last night’s exertions rammed into you in the form of a violent cramp. Your body clearly was not designed for the chase you had put it through.

Still, it was your body. Mortal, un-cursed. The palms that you looked down at were ones that you had grown familiar with. Your breath, your heartbeat—this familiarity in itself was new to you.

You were still you, and for the very first time, you were twenty-one.

Not a day-old infant among strangers, but yourself.

You relished in that curious feeling as your feet met the cold floor. In this room that was not yours, your eyes were drawn to the tall window inviting generous sunlight, and you drifted toward it, gazing at a familiar, ever-stretching blue sky, and a bustling city that you had grown to love.

“Y/n?”

Minho’s troubled voice followed the soft click of the door, and you turned your head to watch as he strode into the room. He seemed to have noticed the empty bed first, prompting a beat of momentary panic that ceased once he saw you by the window.

Carefully, he set down the tray of light breakfast that he had carried with him on a nearby table. Then, with a sigh so heartbroken, he noted aloud, “You’re crying again.”

“Oh.”

You touched a hand to your cheek and were surprised to feel the fresh trail of tears. As though the well had not yet dried, it seemed that waking up today had moved you immensely.

Breathing a broken laugh, you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, “I’m sorry.”

You did not notice Minho walking up to you then, yet his touch did not startle you when it came. His hand enclosed yours, unbothered by the wetness of tears on your skin as he assumed the task of drying your cheeks with his other.

“You needn’t be,” his murmured statement was resolute yet tender. He seemed to study every minuscule detail of your face before he finally asked, “How do you feel?”

At that, a myriad of colorful emotions burst out in your heart, each one louder than the other. You were grateful, and you were in disbelief, as if this were merely a dream that you might awaken from at any moment.

You felt different.

You felt like yourself.

But you were also anxious about what was to come, and beneath all of that, you were hurt. The pain you had been carrying for lifetimes would not be easy to forget, and healing from it would take a while. So, for now…

“I’m all right,” you said, and you meant it. You were all right, because you had a lifetime to heal your soul’s wounds, and because—

“I love you.”

You might have imagined blurting out those three magnificent little words had Minho not stilled, those darling eyes of his widening ever so slightly before a beautiful laugh danced off his lips.

“But how can that be?” he rested his forehead against yours with a smile so endearing you thought it could melt the sun, “I think I love you more.”

Oh, no.

He had only dried your eyes and now it seemed that you were going to cry again, silly tears of such overwhelming elation.

“Y/n,” the way Minho said your name was like a prayer, his palm placed against your cheek yearningly, reverently. His whispered words were a sacred vow for your ears alone, “What I want is a life with you. Let us start over. We’ll do it right this time.”

You leaned into his touch as though it were the sole thing your body knew to do, the answer fluttering at the tip of your tongue before taking flight like a fledgling, hesitant yet so full of hope.

“Yes, let us do that.”

•Scene 7•

The assembly room was buzzing with curious, speculative murmurs when the Count of Valorieve barged in with his entourage of knights trailing him.

“Unhand me this instant!” the captive they were leading shouted and struggled against his captors, but it was all in vain, for the knights of Valorieve were firm and unmoving as mountains.

At the shocking sight, the gathered nobles balked and erupted into outrage.

“What is the meaning of this, Count Valorieve?” the Count of Kirale demanded as he slammed his palms against the meeting table. “How dare you parade His Highness in here like a prisoner!”

“At ease, gentlemen, ladies,” Count Valorieve raised a pacifying hand into the air, coming to stand at the head of the table teeming with appalled and disconcerted nobility. They could protest his actions all they wanted inside this hall, for he knew that none of them could really stand to offend him beyond those walls.

He waved a hand at the Prince in the knights’ captivity when he declared, “His Highness is not here in his capacity as the Crown Prince but as a criminal apprehended by my authority.”

“Preposterous!” exclaimed the former count, ever so loyal to his prince. “Cease this nonsense at once!”

“Indeed!” the Prince snarled, “Release me lest you be considered a traitor to the crown!”

Count Valorieve paid their demands no mind and instead directed his attention to the rest of his fellow leaders. “Your Excellencies must surely be startled by this situation. Believe me when I confess, I was too.

“One week ago, Crown Prince Reval the Eleventh of the House of Rowonne was apprehended for burglary and attempted murder within the grounds of Valorieve Palace.”

A hush of shock befell the assembly room. Even the Prince bit his tongue. Every count and countess listened dubiously as he continued, “He was witnessed infiltrating the palace with the intent of killing none other than Lady Y/n, my own daughter-in-law, twice Lady of Lurmuse and Valorieve.”

“Yes. The Countess and I were there to witness the cruel state of our daughter on that tragic night,” Count Lurmuse interjected, angry and distressed. He had been scowling since he caught sight of the Prince at the beginning of the meeting, and now he jabbed an accusing finger his way. “We demand that justice be delivered for this heinous crime!”

“I heartedly echo your sentiment, Count Lurmuse. There must be retribution for such a grave offense,” Count Valorieve asserted. His son’s in-laws had been alerted of the incident when it occurred, and their assistance had greatly benefitted their investigation. Besides, a family of their influence would surely help his case today.

“Pardon me, Your Excellencies,” the Countess of Narin spoke up. She was new to the assembly table, having only recently inherited her late father’s title. “Could this conflict not have waited until His Majesty recovered his health and dealt with his heir privately? I see no reason to have us all gathered here.”

Her reasoning was valid, and it resulted in a series of agreeing whispers among the attendees. The Prince seemed encouraged by her to argue as well, “Exactly! You must allow me to return to Rowonne and await His Majesty’s recovery post-haste.”

The Count of Valorieve shook his head in a show of disappointment. “I have gathered you all here for this very reason.

“As we were investigating this incident, we happened upon a terrible truth that I assure you is of utmost interest to all of Your Excellencies,” he paused, capturing their attention once more before revealing the secret that could upturn the kingdom in its entirety, “We have discovered that for the duration of the past year, the Crown Prince had conspired to conceal the news of the His Majesty’s passing in order to secure his ascension to the throne!”

An uproar of disbelief and confusion exploded in the meeting hall, muddled questions, exclamations, and objections indistinguishable amid the noise.

“How can that be?”

“Impossible…”

“Is the King not bedridden?”

“How can His Majesty be dead?”

“You cannot hurl such ghastly accusations without proof, Count Valorieve!” the young Count of Core gasped. He was yet another new face at the table.

“Worry not,” Count Valorieve assured him. “My proof is in my second son’s visit to Rowonne only a few weeks ago. I had sent him with a Lion’s Permit to seek an audience with the King, only for him to be denied by the butler and then attacked by the palace guard.”

The commotion only amplified at his words.

“How dare they!”

“Have we become so insignificant to the House of Rowonne?”

“This is a sacred agreement!”

“My son soon discovered that the King was nowhere to be found,” Count Valorieve turned to gesture harshly at the dumbfounded prince, playing into the dramatics of the crowd, “and that the Crown Prince had either silenced the palace staff or tricked them into his scheme!”

“Unbelievable…”

“Does he think us pitiful fools?!”

As the assembly hall slowly turned against him, the Prince remained silent. Perhaps he sought to feign ignorance or deny the accusations with his silence. It mattered not to the Count. The truth of his crimes would be revealed sooner or later with this little push.

“If what you say is true, then this is a plot to undermine our positions as Counts and Countesses,” the Countess of Soloris proclaimed, her stern brows furrowing.

“Indeed! This is an offense that threatens the very foundation of our kingdom,” the neighboring Count of Falia’s fierce agreement caused a ripple of revolt among the attendees. “We cannot let this pass without judgment.”

“Then a trial must be held and the Crown Prince’s title must be revoked until its conclusion,” determined Count Gaele, easily of the same mind as the other members of his faction.

“With what authority do you seek to strip me of my title? I am royalty!” the Prince protested with a furious yet futile jerk at his restrainers’ grip. His words seemed to offend the Countess of Soloris, who raised her chin in the air scornfully and scoffed, “With the authority that was granted to us, the leaders of our kingdom’s sixteen fiefdoms, four centuries ago by the agreement of our forefathers. We have the right to renounce the heir in the absence of the King by popular vote.”

“Does he mean to dismiss our rights as counts? Unbelievable!”

“It seems that the Prince is unfit for the crown…”

“Why, I would rather he never sits on the throne!”

Angry, offended remarks, and among them, a voice rose reluctantly, “But if His Majesty is truly deceased, and the Crown Prince is stripped of his inheritance, then the House of Rowonne is left without heir…”

“You heard him! You cannot mean to leave our House without a leader!”

At the Prince’s outburst, the Count of Valorieve huffed a triumphant smile. “You admit to the King’s passing then?”

“I…” the royal blanched and fumbled with his words as gasps of shock and shouts of disbelief shook the hall.

“This is unacceptable!”

“Utterly disgraceful!”

“Has he no speck of shame?!”

Pleased with the outcry from prideful nobles, the Count returned his focus to the concerned Head of the House of Core. “Count Core, you must rest assured that is not at all my intention. I would never wish unrest on our glorious kingdom’s people.”

He then turned to bellow at the door, “Please, come in!”

The assembly hall faltered into perplexed silence as the doors groaned open and revealed an unfamiliar young man. He was dressed elegantly, with his dark curls tied neatly at the nape of his neck. Their suspicious gazes followed him as he walked in, long, confident strides that took him to stand next to the Count at the head of the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Count of Valorieve placed a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder as he announced, “before you stands His Majesty’s sole remaining heir.”

A wave of weary whispers spread across the table, clearly dubious of this information yet curious enough to listen as the stranger introduced himself, “I am called Bang Chan. It is an honor to be in the presence of all Your Excellencies.”

“You—!” the Prince’s eyes bulged, enraged. “He is a fraud! I am my father’s only son!”

“Worry not,” Count Valorieve calmly assured, “I have ascertained his lineage for myself and found it true. This young man right here is also a son of His Late Majesty.”

“I do indeed spot the resemblance in his countenance,” Count Swann mused, squinting his eyes to observe Chan as though he were a peculiar ornament.

“You must be taking this lightly, Count Swann. This matter is not alike your perfumes and jewelry,” the old Count of Iriese commented in mocking. “A lookalike is easy to come by. Appearance alone proves nothing of this man’s suspicious parentage.”

“I understand Your Excellencies’ reservations,” Chan spoke up before a fight could unfold among the two counts, and it seemed to silence the hall for a bare moment. Careful words and practiced demeanor, this was what he had been preparing for all his life. “That is why I aim to provide my utmost assistance in your investigations into the legitimacy of my claim.”

“Yes, and you have the support of the House of Valorieve in your endeavor,” Count Valorieve nodded at his secretly adopted son. His approval of Chan would draw in the support of his faction, and eventually, the rest of the kingdom would follow. It may take years for him to gain the trust of his people, but this was for the betterment of their kingdom.

The current royal family had been nothing but a hindrance to them all. They had to be replaced.

“Have you all lost your minds? You cannot decide such matters amongst yourselves! I am your crown prince!” the Prince shouted, and his statements fell upon deaf ears. Even those within his faction seemed reluctant to defend him. Not when his actions demeaned their rights as counts and leaders.

His gaze flitted rapidly from one face to another, desperately searching for an aide when he noticed a figure who had been awfully quiet since the beginning of the meeting. A frivolous man who owed him.

“Count Sitean!” he called out, making the mentioned Count jolt in his seat. “Say something and stop these madmen!”

“I…” Count Sitean trailed away when he caught the eyes of the Count of Valorieve. Knowing, challenging eyes. He seemed to be warning him, and he fearfully recalled those masked men and the blackmail they had dangled before him.

He swallowed and averted his gaze. “I…am deeply sorry Your Highness, but perhaps it would be wise to await the trial and—”

“You too?” the Prince gaped at him then whirled within his restraints at the rest of the gathered nobility. “All of you are committing treason!”

“Treason?” Countess Soloris questioned darkly, her tone dripping with venom. She had always been an intense force to meddle with. “The only treasonous action here was the one performed by you, Prince Reval, when you concealed from us the death of our king.”

“I say we have the Prince escorted out of this hall,” Count Gaele prompted, sighing. “I tire of this continuous disregard of our authority.”

“I second His Excellency. This discussion has grown exceedingly wearisome,” agreed Count Falia, and a rumble of supporting murmurs followed. Soon enough, the Prince was led outside as he continuously demanded to be released, and a hush draped over the attendees heavily.

What a tumultuous meeting it had been.

The Count of Hitalon was the one to disrupt the quiet, speaking for the first time on this eventful evening, “Now that His Majesty has been pronounced dead, should we not begin preparations for the election of a new king among us?”

“You speak the truth, Your Excellency,” Count Falia concurred. “The current heir is not of eligible age and does not seem to be of eligible mind either.”

“But why must we elect a new king?”

Count Valorieve’s unexpected question invited a dumbfounded silence from the nobles, who looked at him as though they might have misheard him.

“Why, this is the protocol, Your Excellency,” Count Core coughed awkwardly.

“No, Your Excellencies,” the Count of Valorieve shook his head in a grave motion, “We used to be the Kings and Queens of our nations before we were reduced to being Counts and Countesses. Why must we select one man to head us when we had always been leaders in our own right?”

He did not expect an answer, placing his palms against the table as he continued his long-awaited speech, “What has the royal family done besides fail us so far? The late King had done nothing but lounge on his throne and drain us of our riches in the name of a so-called tax.

“We were the ones who set the laws of our lands and enforced them. We were the ones who managed our affairs and protected our borders. What use is a king who only serves as a warmer for a coveted seat? Tell me, is this the kind of rule we were destined for?”

They were silent, but their eyes told stories of reluctance and rebellion. Count Valorieve knew that his words were blasphemous, treasonous, even, but he saw the agreement shining in their hungry eyes.

Everyone wanted power. Nobody in this hall wanted to become inferior to another. Subject to another.

He fed into that hunger, for he was of the same mind.

“This kingdom has long cried for its dismantlement,” the Count added, his deep voice resonating across the room. “We do not need a king at our forefront when we are more than capable of becoming our own governors. Our people deserve better than to be subject to such a stifling law.”

“Count Valorieve,” Countess Soloris ventured cautiously, her tone one of warning, “Do you mean to annul the agreement that has united our land for centuries?”

“Not at all,” the Count quickly amended, “No, the alliance of our nations is not subject to the condition of a single ruler. It may stand and it shall continue to stand. We can have free travel and free trade, but we can also have independence. No longer should we be tied down by the corruption of kings and princes.”

He came to a stop, taking in the expressions of uncertainty, of apprehension, of ambition that illuminated the faces of his fellow leaders. This was what he and his sons had been working for. This was his greatest desire.

Some might have called it rebellion. He thought of it as liberation.

This slumbering kingdom had to be awakened, and this was the call it needed.

“So, I ask Your Excellencies again,” the Count of Valorieve leaned forward, he could almost feel the wind of change on his face, “why must we elect a new king?”

☙ Epilogue.

“My lady, the delegation from Count Isek’s estate has just arrived.”

“Is that so? Let us hurry and greet them, then.”

It had been a particularly windy afternoon, which made an outdoor event such as this one rather troublesome. Nevertheless, you made your way alongside Ryujin to your awaiting guests, breathing in the faint scent of the sea being carried by the breeze.

A lot had changed in the past year and a half.

Valorieve’s efforts to overthrow the status of the king had proven to be successful. The sixteen states that comprised the alliance finally gained autonomy over their governments, and all had recovered their ancient titles of independent nations. Though, the shift was gradual and had busied the representative Houses greatly.

Valorieve was one the first states to elevate itself from the status of a fiefdom into that of a dukedom, as it was once known four centuries past. The declaration made little difference in the workings of the land and its government—perhaps the alterations in the ranks of nobility were the most significant of changes. After all, Valorieve, like the rest of the former fiefdoms, had been entirely self-sustaining under the incompetent rule of the royal family.

It was, however, a boost of morale for the people of Valorieve. To return to their former glory, to once more become the land of the benevolent warriors sung about in their folktales.

As for you, you did not think that much had changed.

“Is that not the Marquis?”

Someone, somewhere nearby, wondered aloud, and you halted in your steps, looking around you hopefully, unabashedly.

“My, it really is!”

There, in the midst of a growing cluster of excited nobility, you glimpsed a cape of imperial blue. Such a familiar, lovely color.

Perhaps etiquette would demand that you greeted your guests first, but you determined that the delegates could afford a short wait as you diverted your route, heading towards the crowd with a special lightness in your steps.

You could allow yourself a sliver of selfish indulgence every once in a while.

“Make way for the Marquise! Make way!” Seungmin, and the other knights in your entourage, called out, making the circle of nobles fracture and disperse to reveal a clear path to the man at the center of it all.

It had only been three days since you last saw him, but the sight of him still sent a stampede of emotions through your heart as though you had been apart for lifetimes. And he noticed you instantly, breaking away from his conversation to reach to you.

It took every ounce of your propriety not to run up to him right then and there.

“Your Lordship,” you breathed, beaming with such an exhilarating feeling. “Welcome back.”

“You will not cease addressing me so formally, will you, Lady Y/n?” Minho grumbled jokingly as he pulled you into an embrace, and you laughed. You could not help but laugh out your boundless joy at seeing him again.

“I thought you were returning late at night.”

“And miss the inauguration of your new school? Unthinkable,” he pulled away only slightly, and there was that enchanting smile he had seemed to reserve for your eyes alone. His hand found yours and so reverently, he brought it to his lips, his fond murmur tickling your skin, “I hurried back to you the moment my business was finished.”

Oh, you had missed him. You had missed him so greatly you thought it would be the death of you.

“Thank you for hurrying back.” you closed your hand over his, wanting nothing but to nestle into his arms and simply melt away. “The palace was lonesome without you.”

“Forgive me, my heart,” he hummed, busy pressing another kiss to the top of your forehead before he chuckled, “We should turn to your guests. I fear they might disintegrate us with their gazes.”

You had not forgotten about the tens of people that surrounded you, but their presence seemed to pale in comparison to Minho’s. Merely a speck in the back of your mind. Nevertheless, you had your moment of self-indulgence, and now your responsibilities beseeched you to return to them. Unfortunately.

The rest of the afternoon passed with ease. You opened the doors of the new school with Minho by your side and celebrated in the attendance of investors and members of the project’s team. You spoke with Chaeryeong, who had been appointed as the head of the teaching staff, and watched as the would-be students explored their new school for the first time. It was a gratifying afternoon that ended almost too quickly, and you found yourself returning to the palace by the early beginnings of evening.

When your carriage rattled into motion, you felt a weight plop on your shoulder followed by a tired mumble, “Lend me your shoulder for a little while.”

All that hurrying must have worn him out, you thought with a silent chuckle. This seemed to be a specialty of Minho’s.

The truth was that a lot had changed for you. The night you freed yourself of your curse had frightened you, for it brought with it a sudden, daunting realization that tipped your world over. To want—to dare to live had been such an inconceivable notion. It deified all you had planned for and left you lost. Suddenly without purpose or drive.

Finding your place and learning to settle in the world of those fated to live had been difficult. You had carried with you centuries of pain, oceans of grief, and they were not so easily forgettable. Broken memories still lurked in the nooks of your mind, recollections of distant lifetimes, of a different you.

And that difference was because you had changed. Little by little, step by step. Until one day, you looked into the face of your nightmares and found nothing there but your own echo. An echo that sometimes reminded you of your unforgotten torment, and sometimes cheered you on as you ventured out into the world. As you made mistakes and loved and grew.

As you lived.

“Rest, then,” you pressed a tender kiss to the crown of Minho’s head, your words and your fingers lost in the wispy waves of his hair. The path toward healing might have been long and arduous, but you were a lone wanderer no longer.

“I’ll wake you.”

Hello! Thank you for reading this far! Writing this story was so much fun and I hope that you enjoyed reading it just as much. It would mean a lot if you could give it a reblog and tell me your thoughts! I hope you have a wonderful day! ♡

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see-arcane · 1 year

Text

Death May Die

In Transylvania, an ancient book calls up a familiar face.

In the office of Hawkins and Harker, two men are found dead.

In dimensions far apart and horribly near, Jonathan Harker finds himself put to strange and sinister new work.

All the while, something shadows him through the worlds. It is old. It is cold. And it expects its due.

For those not in the know, this is a sizable ‘what-if?’ scenario based loosely on the premise of The League of Extraordinary Gentlefolk comic-in-progress putting its roots down on Tumblr, a glorious public domain mega crossover and antidote to Alan Moore’s unpleasant take on the idea. Shout out to the amazing @mayhemchicken-artblog for all the fantastic work already put into the project.

Ao3 link here

That is not dead which can eternal lie,

and with strange aeons, even death may die.

They waited for night before bringing out the book. It only seemed appropriate. He had needed to pay the local idiots twice the worth of their guidance to the spot, and another doubling to ensure they stayed on site while the ritual was performed. They thought it was to serve as a guard. Against wolves? Against the strangers who had first chased them down that fateful sunset two years prior and hacked their undead quarry into base elements? Q supposed these were reasonable enough excuses and so let them carry on believing them. It wouldn’t matter what they believed soon.

Q, as he was known in his less than legitimate dealings—which were his most frequent and personally lucrative ones—had been livid for the past two years. Which was a risky thing for his heart, his doctors told him. Q was reaching the far end of his life, his health balanced precariously on everything from peak cuisine to the most high-end of modern medicines. But he would be a liar if he said he had not dabbled in more esoteric treatments. Possibilities, rather. He had had none of his own success with the cures he sought, only played witness. Vulture. The pleading Dickensian waif pressed against the window of the one candy shop his wealth could not buy from.

Eternity. O God, O Devil, O profanities in-between, eternity was real. It was in reach. And, by certain fantastic avenues, it could be applied to the flesh. That was Q’s chief concern above all else. He had come into many a harvested proof of eternity for the soul and of the myriad dumping grounds into which it might fly once the carcass died around it. Even before this grand hunt of his began, Q had known he was a man with a dearth of conscience. It seemed a superfluous thing in his life. Life had never bothered to prove him wrong for thinking so. The holy houses’ various Scriptures were all so much mist and pleading to be believed. It was all well and good that their flocks bought the lie of reward for the suffering and retribution to the glutted; the meek could go on pretending they would inherit the Earth until the day they rotted away in their squalor.

Q and his fellow betters were always happy to toast them and their virtue from their perches encased in filigree and acreage. At least, he had been. Back when he was young. Even when he was silvering. But circumstances had changed. Time had happened and Death was whetting a blade at his doorstep. And, for better or worse, certain uncanny revelations that went beyond the scope of any faith stamped in sacred script or tablet had reached his eyes, and mind, and the shuddering kernel of his heart.

Possibility hovered just out of reach. Safety from time, from the nothings and the worse-than-nothings after his living time ran out. Damn it all, he had been so close with Dr. Black and the experiment inflicted on his wife. Good dear Agnes Black, who had been prey to the soul extraction. The opal prison of spirit, a dazzling crystal chamber of inmost light... So he had been informed.

When Q had returned from Paris on his latest errand, only to discover from Mr. Davies that the imbecilic Travers had been scammed by some pretender with the secret code for exchange, that the imprisoned soul had been stolen again in almost the same heartbeat as the hired help had robbed Dr. Black, he had been angry. When he discovered that Dr. Black himself had died from a shock at the robbery, leaving the secret of extraction a mystery once more, he had been enraged past the point of words. Enough to strain his heart to the edge of safety.

Sighing, he had needed to tranquilize himself. It had been a small balm to see how Travers died. Likewise his pet idiot Sam. They got around to the latter’s errand woman too, once the man had squealed that she had thrown away the code paper. It was something, he supposed. Though it would have been better if his experts had been able to harvest anything worthwhile from them. The brighter minds in his employ kept insisting that such boons as organ transplants would come into the field someday; oh, it would have been lovely to have a few spare hearts to play with. Better still if he might have that deranged miracle man, the very Victor Frankenstein of medical legend, on call. But no. Not possible as yet, Mr. Q, not yet.

And yet, all that may only have been a prelude to bring him here. To the benighted wilds of Transylvania, and to the bloodstained bastard offshoot of Lazarus that might yet be plied for aid. The legends went that the figure he sought had learned his arts and won his vicious immortality from study in the mythic Scholomance. A rare tutelage, a dangerous one, with its infernal lessons being the fruit of years. Years Q did not have. But his visit to Paris had suggested there were other routes to pursue.

Routes that required certain reading. Specifically, reading that Q had also dropped a fair sum to have performed on this night, using a certain tome of unique repute. Mr. Davies stood behind the professor as the man recited; an additional insurance should the fellow have a sudden attack of stage fright or morals. Thankfully, the nebbish gentleman seemed prepared to put his underappreciated profession to use for its own sake, with or without the fattening of his bank account.

The rite was read. The night sky rumbled and groaned though there were no clouds. Q saw the stars had changed out of their proper constellations from one blink to the next and that the moon had been stained as if with disease. Around him, the locals murmured and chafed. He knew from their leader that the scene of that distant November dusk had been enough to put at least half his men off a return for any fee; they had been paid by a monster to do a monster’s bidding. They would not gamble twice.

“I pay better than any monster,” Q had assured, “and the only goal I have in mind is an experiment. No harrowing chases at my age. Should the experiment fail, and it very well might, the worst you and yours shall suffer for your pay is a great deal of boredom in the dark and a few pelts if the wolves get pesky.” He had not told them what would happen if the experiment was successful. Perhaps those few who came out had guessed at half of it. Perhaps they even thought themselves safe, being in the aegis of a former master. Perhaps they just could not afford to turn the money away regardless.

The latter were always Q’s favorites among hirelings. Inevitably the most expendable and dependable help in a single package, bless them.

They made noise as the atmosphere began to curdle. The professor sweated despite the cold, babbling on and on in that brittle tongue as if his own tongue no longer belonged to him enough to stop. Even Mr. Davies, a man as emotive as a statue even in his grimmest work, swallowed thickly in the bonfire’s light. The air itself bunched and writhed around them in protest. It lent an odd quality to the men’s shift from mere anxious talk to outright screams. A din that turned up to a shrieking choir as the bonfire blew out. All that was left to them was the noxious glow of the moon.

Yet that was all Q needed. Even with the creep of cataracts and the night’s own over-dense dark, he could see. All of them could.

What they saw was a thin man of extraordinarily bloodless pallor. He stood with his back to them, his hair a black cascade. When he turned his head, Q saw a single lantern-bright eye find his own. A peephole into Hell. Below that, the white shine of a grin with sabers for teeth.

It was him.

Finally.

“Count Dracula?” Q ventured.

The figure did not answer. Only smiled wider.

“I have heard a great many things of what you accomplished over the course of generations. It saddened me to learn of your loss. My native England would have flourished under such influence as yours, as it may still. I have endeavored, at great expense, to retrieve you from the outer spaces where such powerful souls as yours reside. I’ve no doubt that to you it was only the briefest respite, and I thank you most sincerely for answering our summons.”

The figure examined his nails. Their points caught on the moonlight.

“To be frank, Count, I am in need of your tutelage. Your wisdom. I would seek to do as you do, to exist as you exist. I have sources who name you as one of those rarities among the undead who retained his intellect and will despite the change. This I would—,”

“Are these meant to be for me?” The clawed hand had gestured airily at the gawping guides.

“Yes,” Q said aloud. “I expected you would be thirsty upon return.”

This received a hum of meager acknowledgment. A rosy flare of the eyes. Q braced to see the work of his teeth, the siphoning of life in action.

While he did see the latter, the former played no part.

It was a sight to behold, even in that lunar half-light. There was no avoiding the the red shine as the blood wept and drooled and sweated from the screaming mass of Q’s guides. Their leader garbled something wetly at him—Q, not the Thing ordering his veins to empty themselves through his skin—and tried to raise his pistol. Mr. Davies put a hole through his head first. For the first time since the man joined Q’s employ, Mr. Davies seemed at the edge of attempting mercy, for the muzzle of his gun almost drifted to the heads of the others writhing and crawling on the ground. Q waved him down. Their guest was clearly enjoying himself.

Really, it was somewhat entertaining. The insects upon the lowest rung of the ladder, flopped on stomachs and backs, twitching like beetles fresh from a lost battle with a bootheel. Their blood did not drip down, but rose up in slow glistening loops and arches on the air. Ruby ribbons. They drifted on some unseen river up toward the sharp smile of the harvester, close, closer, closest…

“On second thought, I’m not all that peckish. Never mind.” With a gesture, the blood stopped its migration and landed like a sudden coagulating rain upon the dirt. Its former owners were speckled with the spray. “Let us skip the morsels and the poor attempt at a grovel. You have never asked for anything in your life, and so have no talent for a convincing imitation. Such is the cost of only ever having to buy or steal what you want in the stuttering gold-congested heartbeat you call a life. You do not want lessons. You want a shortcut to immortality. This I can give you.”

The grin widened again. Horribly. Q had been given to understand that a vampire of any strain was prone to over-wide smiles, sometimes of a bestial shape. Count Dracula, he had heard, often wore the toothy rictus of a bat or wolf. This grimace was not that. It looked, if anything, like an amateur sculptor’s rendition of rigor mortis combined with the worst of those freakish creatures dredged up from the lowest shadows of the ocean. The sight of it made his skin want to peel like bad wallpaper and his eyes to crawl away to be spared the proximity.

Quite inexplicably, Q felt certain this Dracula could make such happen.

“However, I require a menial favor of my own. Not these table scraps,” he nodded at the human detritus at their feet, “but a more gourmet offering.”

“Such as what? Name your fare and I shall acquire it.”

“No, you shall not. You couldn’t if you tried. You’ve many a fine dog at your disposal, this one included,” he inclined his head toward Mr. Davies, who managed to appear a shade greener in the dark. “But the individual I have in mind would leave them headless in an instant. Not necessarily by such polite means as a blade. No, we shall go to him. Of you, I ask only the infant task of being present. I would like him to know exactly what has happened since he and his companion swung down their steel.” He gave a small laugh. Q thought he felt something die in both ears. “I am so dearly looking forward to his face. Ah, and before I forget.”

The blazing eyes turned upon the professor. He still clutched the book in both shaking hands. A whiff of ammonia wafted from below his belt.

“You mispronounced fhtagn,” the grin intoned.

“O-Oh?”

“Yes. Wrong intonation on the ta. Just thought you should know.”

“I’m sorry! I’m so terribly sorry—!”

A white hand waved.

“No harm done. Even the cultists a hundred generations deep mispronounce half their empty rites. It is not their fault their makers failed to design them with the appropriate vocalizing necessities. You only have one tongue, one throat, two lungs. But even such grating lilts as yours and theirs can buzz in distant ears.” A great sigh was heaved. “It does the job. As for that,” he leveled a sharp nail at the book, “keep it closed and keep it close. Just because you open the way for a specific guest does not mean others will not seek an opportunity to slip through. Most not nearly so cordial as myself.”

The professor clapped the ancient tome shut as if hit with an electric current and, despite the clear shudder it gave him, hugged the volume close. His eyes darted frantically about the night as if there might already be some tagalong to the Count skulking in the shadows. Mr. Davies did likewise. Q even caught himself at it.

“Just a precaution, my friends. Always wise to be wary under such stars as these. But come, we delay our transaction. Immortality waits at the other end of a final errand in your England. It will require only the smallest effort, just as infinity shall be a mere nothing to me.”

Q did his utmost not to notice the copper odor thickening the air, likewise the almost voyeuristic cast of the moon as it hovered behind the voivode’s looming head. He was alright. Of course he was alright. This smiling horror would have unmade him in an instant if he wished; if he could. The crucifix at Q’s throat and the garlic blossoms lining his coat were as good as armor. Yes. Yes.

“Yes?” he asked, proud at the steadiness of his voice. “What effort is that?”

“You have an appointment to make concerning the acquiring of new real estate.” A forest of teeth bristled as the lips peeled up in an even deeper sickle smile. “One you will make with the firm of Hawkins and Harker.”

Harker. The name echoed in Q’s recollection. A name that had come up more than once as his men went digging. One the ravished lady, the other the pawn husband who had chased Dracula back to his land and—

“If it’s a matter of recompense for your,” Q gestured at his own throat, “premature exit, I have resources that can see to the matter most expediently. Within a week, I can have Jonathan Harker and Quincey Morris in a windowless room to be addressed as you see fit. Likewise Mrs. Harker. Give me a fortnight, and I shall have the entire cadre at your feet.”

At this, Count Dracula’s expression did not alter. Only his eyes flickered, though not with red. It was a color without name. A color that seared and flamed with a heat and hate worse than Hell and further than Heaven. It even seemed to boil the Count’s pupils, for, in the space of a moment, they seemed to…

“If I wish for you to decide what I want, Lord Oliver Quentin Brighton, I will surely inform you. In the meantime, you will make your appointment with Hawkins and Harker.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Of course.” The eyes were merely red. The pupils were merely pupils. “It is new to you, isn’t it? Acquiescence. But it is only natural for you small kings among men. No matter. Let us be gone and leave the wolves to their late supper.”

“Your coffin,” Mr. Davies croaked, his eyes not quite rising to meet Dracula’s. “We have a coffin filled with earth waiting with the horses.”

“How thoughtful. But I shall not need it. Death has provided more than rest enough. It is a wonder anyone fears it as they do.” Dracula turned from them, the anatomy of his face realigning into a configuration that was nearly wistful. “Death is rest. Death is respite. Death is an end and a close and a one-way threshold to what comes next.” The wistfulness crimped under another put-upon sigh as he faced Q a last time. “But even death may die. Come, little man. Let us go kill yours.”

Jonathan Harker was fairly certain his eyes were ready to fall out of his head. He was not certain whether this would be a loss or a gain for him. If nothing else, it would mean not having to scour yet another page of yet another sheaf of yet another wad of potentially vital—or just as potentially trivial—news reports and dusty arcana surrounding the overlap between ancient powers and modern bouts of uncanny happenings of late. These quarries were of the sort that made the miseries surrounding Dracula’s activity seem like a mere hiccough compared to the more odious work of these weightier horrors.

When had that happened, by the way?

Certainly the League had been no stranger to supernatural threats since its inception. Likewise for the various disconnected heroes, victims, and individuals carrying both banners who confronted human and inhuman perils alike. Prying into the histories of specific locations revealed cases of sporadic events that mirrored the attacks and accidents of the present day, though those older cases were given greater due than the contemporary instances; scientific explanations appeared to melt away so much of superstition that it worked in favor of the truly paranormal.

Hysteria! Bad dreams! Anxiety! Poor diet! And, of course, that easy and all-encompassing blanket: Madness!

Jack and Van Helsing were both of the bittersweet opinion that the latter was responsible for the seeming uptick in overt supernatural evils flexing their muscles. So much had been disproven that the bogeymen were shielded by disbelief until it was too late to admit the stranger truth. Jonathan hadn’t much room to disagree with them, considering how well denial had played into that first fateful stay in Transylvania. By the time he’d broken through to acceptance of the impossible reality, he was already a prisoner.

But then, Holmes had made his own fair point: It was just as likely that events and entities, be they weird or wondrous, had always been happening, but this budding age of information and interconnection now shined a far broader light upon the shadows in which they dwelled. More lines could be drawn between A and B, X and Y, and the result simply illustrated phenomena that had been present all along. In this, Jonathan could also find decent footing.

Except…

If these miracles and threats have always been here, even in a fraction of the occurrences we have met, how is it they could have slipped into obscurity at all? How could we mislabel any of them as superstition rather than hold to them as fact as time and progress marched on? How, unless they were rare enough once upon a time, enough to be shrugged off as mere fantasy, only for them to raise their heads in greater number today? For all that we’ve done, all we’ve accomplished, does it not seem that there are more and more extraordinary things in need of our attention recently? Things of increasing potency, increasing pressure and power. As if we were all frogs in the same pot with the heat turning up and up as we prove ourselves too sturdy to be cooked in lesser temperatures.

There is more happening today than there was before. I know it. I feel it. It itches in the cold corners of me that whisper and chafe and tug me after the scent of some fresh Thing in need of hunting. And I think it is going to kill me. I don’t know what, I don’t know how. But I am sure of it. Something extraordinary will happen soon. And I will die to it.

Today.

“No, you will not,” he half-yawned to himself. “You’re just tired. That is the whole of it.” He ground the heels of both palms against his eyes, trying to crush the fatigue heat out of them. “You haven’t been this bad since—,”

Tonight is mine. Tomorrow is yours!

He bit his tongue to the edge of bleeding. Bit and bit and did not think of—

Awake, awake, the sound of her screams in your ears, fell asleep, stayed asleep, your idiot brain pinned under the monster’s thumb while he was there, in your bed, in her throat—

“Stop. Just stop. Not here.”

His teeth did not unlock to say this. No more than his voice rose above a whisper. It had been all he could do not to simply throw his last client’s paperwork in his pinched face rather than locking into his default charm to win the prickly fellow back into the dealing. Despite having a small and highly capable legion at Hawkins and Harker’s disposal, it was not unheard of to have those of the upper echelons insist on dealing directly with the head of the firm, as if this would somehow imbue their potential properties with greater value. A feat that may have been more doable if it were not for Jonathan splitting himself down the middle to juggle the firm and his work with Mina and the League.

That, if nothing else, was proof enough that the situation was starting to bloat.

What had begun as a comparatively leisurely balance of his working worlds was now a precarious act that risked his livelihood and those of his employees on one end and actual lives on the other. And that went without mentioning the strain of the performance for Mina. It was already hell enough for her and Irene to maintain the cogs that made the League tick. If she knew exactly how close to collapse he was at any given moment in these last few months, her own focus would shatter like glass.

Not that she did not already suspect something, of course. Whatever psychic awareness now roosted in her mind after Dracula’s attack—a power that even Clarimonde suggested might have been jostled loose rather than simply implanted and left as a souvenir—had flowered tremendously. With practice, intuition had extended to such a powerful certainty that she could pinpoint every member of the League within a mile. Jonathan, she said, could now be detected anyplace in the world. Such had been proven on a recent adventure that had placed them at opposite ends of the world. To chip away at her nervousness, Mina had used her journal to record the rough global coordinates she’d assumed Jonathan to be in alongside Fogg’s terse company on any given date, and both had been shocked to find her readings exact in every case.

“Better call up Nemo,” Griffin had hummed. “See if he can’t repeat the underwater trick with a deep enough trench.”

It was a poor joke on more than one count. Especially as, not long afterwards, the Nautilus had brushed terribly, unthinkably close to its own deep-sea peril. Worse than the malformed sea creatures. Worse than the aquatic folk they had met off America’s eastern coast. So awful, in fact, that Nemo had seen fit to dock the Nautilus in the secure shore Art had arranged, the better to let himself and his men find refuge on dry land for a spell. The very first threads of silver had cut through the Captain’s hair. Aronnax had handed Van Helsing his latest journal with three conditions:

“Read it. Record what you need. Then kindly burn it.”

Nemo’s input had been colder still:

“It is older than the sea, whatever it is. It was never native to the ocean, or Earth itself. I refuse to believe it. Dead for now. But not forever.” His eyes, bloodshot obsidian, had rolled to meet Jonathan’s. They seemed to hunt for answers there. “It thought that at us while we walked in those giants’ halls. Dreamed it at us. And it dreamed you too. Something you’re meant to do.”

“What?” Jonathan remembered asking. He couldn’t remember if he had been shaken by the notion or by the fact that he hadn’t felt shaken. Only tired. Expectant.

“There were no words in it, only an intention. Something in the tone of,” Nemo had frowned, “‘Take a message.’ I don’t understand it. It seemed too blunt, too mundane in the thick of all the nightmare that saturated that place. Yet all the men felt the same when I asked them of it. Those who could bring themselves to speak.”

That was two weeks ago. An experience added to a pile that had been sectioned off to contain the sundry ancient menaces that had been unearthed in northern England and Wales. The death of Francis Leicester, despite occurring in London, had led them northward to such horrors as the resurrection and revenge of the demigoddess Helen Vaughn, to the Little People and the vanishing of Professor Gregg, the ethnologist whose absent body had been blamed by a lawyer on a mere misadventure in a river, to the white figures who danced and bled hungry magic in the hills, to the Great God Pan and his satyr-scratching at the walls of reality.

On a limestone boulder, their most recent finding was sent to them by Gregg’s former governess and secretary, Miss Lally, alongside a concerned party, Mr. Phillips. The latter had gone inspecting the area the lauded Professor Gregg had vanished in—for Miss Lally would not bring herself or Gregg’s freshly orphaned twins back there for any ransom—and discovered some odd writing upon a limestone boulder, etched in red earth. He’d copied it, given it to Miss Lally, and the resulting message had been decoded by way of a black stone seal unearthed in Babylon. She had sent the message their way:

‘The hills fold. The soul bends. Pale man of death will hear the message.’

Which all went without mentioning the more infectious mess of The King in Yellow. What had begun as a single ominous volume bound in snakeskin presenting itself as a one-of-a-kind volume full of reality-denting power was now, inexplicably, appearing in high-end bookshops and the murmurs of the theatergoing crowds as an inorganic urban legend. Something that rubbed shoulders with the Scottish Play’s rule in terms of bad luck, but worse. Jonathan and Mina had seen a paperback of it looking at them through a window less than a week ago. And then Lord Henry Wotton had picked it up on a dare.

Dorian Gray had caught him doing it. He’d seen Wotton’s eyes skim dully over the ‘pedestrian’ masquerade scene’s opening act. Gray had tried to get the book away from him, to stop him reaching the second act. Wotton had laughed and let him burn the thing, promising he’d not touch the accursed volume now. After all, a book penned by the Devil should at least be more thrilling than the average gothic terror and the first act had thoroughly disappointed him…

“I should have known,” Gray had moaned as, in some secret room, his portrait wailed and tore at itself in the canvas, “I should have known he’d get another copy. Of course he wanted to prove himself better than the story. Everyone knows it now. Everyone knows it does not strike until you read the second act, that’s the rumor in every snug from the highest end to the lowest pub, and he just couldn’t—couldn’t help himself—,” And he had wept in full, tearing at himself without leaving a mark.

Lord Wotton presumably bought his new copy and read that infamous second act. Whatever it was. There was no way to tell from the man himself. Jack had heard from his former staff that what was left of him had not changed since his family placed him under the asylum’s care, for better or worse. Only that he continued to talk or scream or plead or patter with party guests that were not there, and occasionally had to be stopped from ‘unmasking’ himself by clawing his face.

“I say, mine appears to have been pasted on,” he was reported to say, “Does anyone have a letter-opener?” Then, as late as last week, “Oh, and His Tattered Majesty deigned to pass on that he is quite busy at the moment. Tell Dorian to tell his pallid solicitor friend to take a message.”

Naturally, all eyes had started gravitating Jonathan’s way. Concerned gazes, wondering gazes, gazes that conspired about how to politely insist he perhaps take an extended vacation from the outside world and have a good long stay in the League’s densely warded walls. Jonathan had bitten his tongue before he could mutter a word about the sadly dubbed, ‘Wallpaper Women,’ who had, paradoxically, been victims of a sort of yellow—or was it Yellow?—wallpaper in a bedroom of a country home where a throng of wife after wife was kept shut up and immobile ‘for their own good.’ The diary entries of the latest victim had gone into harrowing detail of where she and her predecessors might have gone after the room had its full effect.

A diary they had found just prior to unearthing a loose board under the bolted bed, pressed up against the wall where the hideous paper had never been clawed.

An edition of The King in Yellow had been there. Not snakeskin, not the paperback that would not even be on shelves yet. But a hardcover whose pages were worn with reading and re-reading by some unknown hand. The name scratched inside read, Hildred Castaigne. Below that was a bookseller’s stamp, declaring it had been sold in an American shop.

In the year 1919.

If some force is out there making plans around me at this scale, I don’t see any way of guarding against it. This is not the fodder of penny dreadfuls. Not cutthroats and tyrants, vampires and werewolves. There is only so much we can prepare for or fight against. I feel now what I first felt in that damned castle. Powerless. Even with all I have done since, all I have gained, I feel it. I know it. Whatever means to happen will happen to me. Sitting in our headquarters waiting for it to come is only painting a target on everyone else.

None of which he said aloud.

All of which Mina had read in his face as if he had written it there in crayon. He’d tried to smile and she could not mirror it.

“Just a while longer,” she had whispered into his neck. In bed, they had folded around each other like two hands gripping. Her warm, him cold. Even now. So, so cold. “Tell them you’re ill, tell them it’s an emergency. Holt and the rest can manage well enough.”

“They have been managing for almost a month. Robert is a talent and a godsend, but he and my former fellows can’t cover for my absence indefinitely. It is not enough to our bigger clients that good work is done. If rumor comes along to stain a reputation—say, to do with the flighty new boy who Hawkins left his business and estate to, followed immediately by his dying—,”

“You are not a new boy. You’ve been steering the firm for two years now.”

“Which is ‘new’ to anyone over forty years of age. I have been able to keep several plates spinning for a while now. But I cannot ignore that particular plate any longer than this current stint. Not if I don’t want to step on important toes and leave us and my employees holding the bill. It was miracle enough that I happened to catch on to that trouble with the ‘Lady Ducayne’ business. Saved us a lost client and a few lives in the same breath. But that isn’t the sort of coincidence that crops up regularly.”

“Does Hawkins’ legacy matter more to you than your own life?”

“Mina.”

“Does it matter more than not leaving me a widow before we’ve had even half a decade to wear our rings?”

“Mina.”

“Jonathan. Please.”

“I cannot hide in here forever. Life won’t allow for that, no matter how mundane or monstrous. I have to.” He’d breathed into her hair. “You know I have to.”

“Then I should be with you. I never did get to play secretary to you.”

A writhing chill had moved in his bones at that.

“We are a bit too late on that track, I’m afraid. The position is taken.” Then, lower. “And the League needs you more.”

“Do not say that. Do not talk to me about need.” Her hand had trembled where she gripped him. His did likewise. “For God’s sake, Jonathan, it’s just a job! Retire early, take up a new vocation, become a travelogue writer, do something, anything that does not—that doesn’t—,”

“Put me at risk? I have been at risk since the night Dracula thrust me into his caleche. Risk has never left me. It has been walking side by side with me every day and every night by dint of what we do here. How we help the world and safeguard it from being devoured. That won’t change if I’m here or if I’m in my neglected office.”

Or, he did not say and failed not to think, becoming the unofficial hunting dog and part-time psychopomp of our merry band. Death and I have been holding hands since I first picked up the kukri. Now it won’t let go even when the blade is sheathed. It is here, now, in our room, Mina. It is everywhere I am and it speaks. Constantly. Sometimes a whisper. Sometimes a howl. But it speaks to me. It steers me. It wears my skin like a glove. Only in times of need; that I will not deny. But it does all these things—and it has not been wrong once.

I doubt it is wrong now. About me. About how much time is left.

And Mina, Mina, I do not want to bring my end knocking at this chamber door. Not where it might touch you. Not where you would have to see it happen.

So here he was, in his office instead. He would not have dared to stay inside if he had felt that warning prickle upon seeing any of his employees. Their…what was it? Life clock? Corporeal limit? Whatever it was that dictated the approach of a life’s end, it had not appeared to flare out at him in any of the familiar faces. Not even good Robert Holt’s wan countenance showed a trace of danger. This, when it had taken three of the doctors in their menagerie to help resuscitate the bedraggled man after his own hellish stint with a supernatural master.

He had stayed with the Harkers for the better part of a year before they walked him back through the minutiae of acquiring his own flat again. Helped in no small part by his already having a job waiting for him at Hawkins and Harker. Between this and how soundly the so-called ‘Beetle’ had been addressed with the aid of Clarimonde and a steady grisly application of cold steel, Robert Holt had already more than sworn a knight’s loyalty to the League’s secrets and more than a relative’s love to the Harkers themselves. A fact compounded by what both Jonathan and Mina had divulged of their own experiences—an account that had pried open the full deluge from Robert’s miserable tongue and ended in a catharsis salted with tears.

All of which was to say that Jonathan found himself immediately relieved to see that Robert’s life looked hale and long before him. In turn, Robert lit up upon seeing Jonathan like a lantern erupting into a campfire.

“Jonathan,” he’d begun. Aware of the many heads turning, he’d coughed and began again with, “Mr. Harker, good morning! How was your trip?”

“Longer than I’d have liked it to be,” he said in full earnest. “But there are some clients more demanding than others.”

“Harker, you have a small army to do your runaround work for you these days. You keep doing the grunt work and sweeping dust off your desk and you’ll go out like a candle.”

This came from Mr. Bentley, who had, in fact, recently announced he was making a change of occupation to start up his own firm. He’d been a solicitor for far longer under Hawkins and had seen the ‘writing on the wall,’ so to speak, in terms of nepotism; even if it was between a man and a boy who was son in everything but blood. Jonathan had never been able to tell if the man’s ribbing was in true mirth or a manner of bitter coping with the clerk-turned-solicitor; one who had made up for Peter Hawkins’ kindness twice over in his adamant work. And then, after the misery of the Transylvanian client had come and gone, there was the gift-wrapped firm and Hawkins’ own keenly timed natural death—as if the old man had been holding out just long enough to pass the barely-revived successor his keys in apology and farewell—Jonathan the Clerk was suddenly Mr. Harker the Employer.

No, Jonathan did not quite blame him if he was sour or not. Robert, knowing what he did, had a few hackles up already. These hackles came down when Bentley got a better look at his almost-ex-employer in full, and all the smiles, reinforced or otherwise, melted away into something very near to worry.

“God’s sake, where did this last one drag you off to? Back to Transylvania?”

Jonathan bit his inner cheek as even more heads craned around. Worse, Robert was scrutinizing him up close. The word ‘Transylvania’ had become a prickly word about the office ever since Jonathan’s initial return to the country. Rumors simmered in whispers and theories whenever they thought he couldn’t hear them. Usually in a concerned spirit as much as a baffled one. ‘Halfdead Harker’ was one of the favored epithets. One fellow, thoroughly drowned in eggnog around December of last year, had asked him outright if he was a vampire. Laughing. Jonathan had laughed back, telling him he certainly hoped not, or else he would have to quit the restaurants altogether. Ha ha.

But he had been careless in certain moments. Too much strength shown, hands too freezing in their grip, eyes too bright and devoid of blinking. And, of course, there was his habit of the kukri. Always, always on his hip. That, his odd turns of health, and the unmissable change to hair and eyes all added up to some kind of oddity. But this was all a chaser to the initial surprise of his returning state. Silver-white streaks in the brunet mop, shadows branded in bloodshot eyes, and seemingly half his personality blasted out of his skull during some nameless nightmare spent in foreign forests and the care of a nuns’ hospital. Wary looks had found him at every corner as he clawed his way out of shock to go over the paperwork and preparation needed to be a partner…followed by suddenly becoming sole head and owner of the firm.

Being that his eyes worked excessively well of late, Jonathan had not been able to avoid his own telling look in the mirror. No matter how he practiced his smiles, how clean he was shaven, how smart the suit, he looked like Hell’s own errand boy. Again. Pretending he did not know this, he rubbed his searing eyes and ignored the sensation of a clock tick-tick-ticking down in his head, and muttered something hasty about:

“Ah, nothing so dire this time. Only I fear I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Or at all.

“But no rest for the wicked,” he’d attempted to laugh, feet already sidling him toward the office door. “The Sandman will simply have to make his appointment after Lord Brighton’s.” With that, he scurried out of range of any further looks or questions. He almost bolted the door. Instead, he made his usual cursory check—the frame and molding’s varied sigils and holy symbols still had their places etched stealthily into the woodwork. The mirror still hung at head-height by the door. Good. Good, good, good.

He arranged his desk so that Lord Brighton’s papers were set to one side, the few things he’d taken from the League to peruse—he may as well see if there was something more he could do if this seeming countdown proved to be a mere bout of paranoia—set to another, and the day’s newspaper on top of both. Impulse had drawn him to the day’s print, then ordered him to flip to the obituaries.

Derleth, Howard, passed at age 52. Admired professor of ethnologic and linguistic studies of America’s Miskatonic University,—

A prickle of recognition goaded him into circling the university’s name in pen. Beside it, he scratched a note: Possible coincidence, but mention to others.

—was found dead in his rooms at the Lillup Hotel, having apparently died in his sleep. He leaves behind many fond students and faculty.

That’s a lie.

How did he know?

Because you are what you are. For what little time is left to be such.

“What I am is tired and busy. No more, no less.”

It was less than convincing as a mantra, yet he stuck to it. At least until his eyes began to glaze over. Until the clock tolled louder, louder, louder in his head and his chest and that alien cellar that had carved itself out in his soul. Text swam and Charon held vigil at a river and he was so cold he could not feel it and oh, he wished he had left Mina more than a letter this morning, had kissed her cheek and lips another minute before he slunk away from her with all the guilt of a cheat, too afraid to wake her and be caught in her words and her love to leave, and couldn’t it all just stop for a moment, just a heartbeat to let him sleep and breathe and live as more than a cog crushed in the machinery of too many industrious works of men and monsters and madness beyond both, please, please, please—

There was a knock at the door.

“Mr. Harker?”

“You can come in, Robert,” he said as he shuffled the League’s heap of leads into a locked drawer. “And Jonathan’s still fine in here.”

You call this fine?

Robert ducked into the room looking like the picture of worry. He shut the door behind him and he too seemed to ponder sliding the bolt home. Instead he searched Jonathan’s face.

“I understand if you cannot give details. But has your,” his pitch lowered, “other vocation been wearing you down? Because you look…”

“Dead?” He watched Robert purse his lips. “I know. Thankfully, I’m not there yet. Too much to do. But since we’re on the topic—,”

“We aren’t—,”

“—you do know what arrangements have been made in the event that circumstances arise that might remove me from the picture? I know there is not as much history in place between us as others in our unique circles, comparatively speaking. But more than enough has happened in our short time together to make it…make it prudent that…”

His lips twitched up in what tried to be a grin and only managed a grimace.

“Jonathan, please, has something happened? Why are you talking like this?” He could hear as much plea in the other man’s voice to not hear the answer as much as to learn it. Mr. Holt’s life had been a deeply unhappy one with almost more losses than mere indignities. “Are you..?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Have you been studying for the exam?” he got out steadily enough. “If you’re stuck on anything, remember not to be shy about going to Norton or Utterson. They seem the types to have more developed methods than my burn-at-both-ends regimen.”

“I—yes, I’ve been practicing.” Robert was at the desk now. “Jonathan. Has something happened?”

Not yet. Give it a quarter of an hour if this infernal internal clock has its way.

“No. Just keeping prepared. Making sure everything is up to date.”

“Yes, you mentioned as much before. Back when you made the second trip to Transylvania.” Jonathan had been fiddling with a pen. The pen nearly cracked. He set it down on the desk and folded his hands so he had something to grip without it breaking. “I’ll—I’ll go to the others if you won’t say. If they remain hushed, I’ll understand it’s a larger secret, and that I won’t pry at. I know enough to understand that even my nightmare was a frail thing compared to other horrors you’ve tromped through. But if I go to—to Utterson, or the Nortons, or to Mina,” Jonathan clutched his hands so hard the knuckles creaked, “and find they are just as in the dark, then I and everyone else will know you are hiding something. Some potentially fatal pain.” Robert’s pitch lowered again. “And I was given to understand that such things were barred from the League and its friends.”

“They are. But we aren’t in the League right now. And, supposing something was wrong, something I would not, could not share, do you doubt I’d have good reason to withhold it, Robert? Really, I might not even have a secret, fatal or otherwise. I could be imagining the whole thing. If I am, then I will gladly share the matter over lunch. If not?” Jonathan shrugged. “Then it will be a secret well-kept.”

“Jonathan—,”

“I believe Lord Brighton has just arrived.” This was as much intuition as distraction. He had the sense that strangers had entered the building a moment before some small murmur of greeting began its tremble through the space outside the office. “Would you show him in, please, Robert?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Robert Holt regarded him with a look that might have passed for stern if it was not so wounded by premonition. Jonathan tasted sickness at seeing it.

“…You will not be rid of me or this subject today.”

Jonathan did not correct him. Only waited until the door was between them again before he brought his clasped hands and his own temple together in the first true prayer he’d made since he began falsifying his deific pleas in that wretched traveler’s journal after that bloody October night.

God. If You give me nothing else in this life, give me peace. If what I feel today, now, is true, and this is when I end, take care of them all. They have given too much and saved too many for them to go without blessing. Protect them. Let them prosper. Let the devils worse than men or Hell can make be turned back into the shadows so that they may rest. My God, my true God, I do not even know if You are what answered me in those first horrid hours when life took its surreal turn. Did You save me? Did You burn the vampire’s hand and my love’s innocent brow? Did You make me this cold and killing Thing when I swore my soul as the bargain for Dracula’s end? Are You what whispers to me? I do not know. Perhaps I never will.

I will suffer that ignorance gladly in life and death if only You will do right by those I love. Mina, my Mina, she deserves it if no other.

Please.

Knock-knock.

“Lord Brighton and company to see you, Mr. Harker.” Robert’s voice, flattened into workplace cordiality. Jonathan scrubbed his face with both palms and sat up straight, smile pinned in place.

“Come in.”

The door opened. Three men walked in. With each face, Jonathan Harker became privy to a new certainty.

The first man was dressed as a gentleman of burgeoning middle age. He had the deaths of many a man, woman, and the occasional child stained in his palms and crusted under his nails. His latest was Professor Derleth, who had died in bed, but in no way asleep.

The second man was a richly wrapped specimen of elderly leather and ravenous eyes. In a hand heavy with jeweled and signet rings, he clutched a wrapped item, the size of a large book. It struck at some secret sense in Jonathan and appeared to dent the air around it like the point of a dull knife dimpling a throat.

The third man was not a man. It had never even been human, despite the face it wore. A face that smiled out at him from a familiar fanged mouth.

And from the mirror upon the wall.

“Make a move or raise your voice, and everyone in this building will suffer the consequences before you can brandish any weapon,” said the old man he took to be Lord Brighton. His murderer shut the door behind them all. Bolted it. “Do you doubt that, Mr. Harker?”

As the question hit the air, so did a sudden and horrendous ripple of awareness. A possibility that flickered on the edge of his consciousness like a candle guttering, unsure if it would be doused or not. The candle was the lives of every person in the building. And, he was sickened to feel, the hazier lives of those in the buildings bookending their own. He kept his hands on the desk and himself in his chair. Ice and bile slid down his throat.

“No,” Jonathan heard himself say. His attention hadn’t departed from the Thing wearing Count Dracula’s face. Nor had it looked away from him. Purest delight radiated from it—him?—and irrevocably stained the emotion with the filter of the unthinkable mind producing it. In the mirror, the red eyes burned away into a new color. The pupils boiled until they showed three lobes each.

“Good. This business should conclude readily enough. Or, if the account I received proves even half true, the Count may take his time.” Lord Brighton ran his thumb along the spine of the wrapped parcel. Black velvet. “Apologies for the—,”

“No.” Jonathan spoke toward Brighton, but still his eyes did not move from the face of ‘Dracula.’ He realized with mounting alarm that he couldn’t, even when he tried. “No, we turned Dracula to dust.”

“And we put that dust back together. It was quite a simple maneuver, really.” The black velvet wrapping was peeled away with a showman’s eagerness. Something of pride was stitched through the overall miasma of anticipation coming off the old man. “Once you start reading the process walks you along itself.”

The velvet was tossed aside. From the corner of his frozen eye, Jonathan saw the book and felt a nauseous epiphany turn over in him. No, it was not The King in Yellow. But this tome had appeared more than once in the League’s more recent researches. Enough that Quincey had suggested a group make the trip to the grim little corner of Massachusetts where the Miskatonic University was supposed to have an unabridged copy of the blighted book in its library. There was little doubt now that the campus’ volume had been borrowed by its recently departed faculty member. Nor would it likely return to those shelves again.

The Necronomicon stared at him as plainly as the smiling Thing idling in the corner. If with less interest.

Inside him, time was ticking faster. Faster. Faster.

Against all hope, he had to ask, “You used that to call him here?”

“To call him to the killing ground where you so rudely ended a long and miraculous career of life beyond the shackles of nature? Yes.”

‘Dracula’ paused the stare to roll his eyes. In the mirror, he had far more than two to do so with. Albeit with far less skin.

“Shall I guess that the goal was a tradeoff for your own immortality?” The proud look curdled at the edges. “Don’t take offense. I’ve seen too many of you not to recognize the type by now. Nine out of ten self-serving idiots chasing the supernatural are doing it to give themselves a longer life span, or power, or both.” Because he hadn’t looked away, because he could not look away, he addressed the summoned party. “Is that what you promised him?”

The sharp teeth bared another giddy inch.

“Yes. A promise I shall keep in exchange for all his arduous labor. It is the least I can do after he has brought me here to my good friend, so that we might finally catch up on lost time.”

“I must give you credit,” Jonathan managed around the boulder of dread growing in his chest. “You do a fine impression.”

“As fine as it needs to be.” The grin grew again. It showed too much. Something slithered behind the prison bars of spindle teeth. “At least for your sake.”

“I’m going.” This came from the man who had been silent since entering the room. A greenish hue traced the lines of a face that seemed wholly unused to anything resembling discomfort. Jonathan realized he’d kept his head ducked the entire time, refusing to risk looking at the Thing in Dracula’s skin. “Do what you’re going to do, but I’m not staying. I’m not.” He turned to the door.

“Davies,” said Brighton.

Mr. Davies’ hand was on the knob. He fumbled a sweating moment with it, having forgotten about the bolt.

“Davies—,” Brighton grated again, then stopped.

A white hand was suddenly resting on Mr. Davies’ shoulder. The man froze as if nails were driven through both feet. Still, he knew better than to look.

“It’s quite fine,” said Dracula’s voice. “But I must tell you something before you go.” Jonathan watched the lips move as if mouthing something in mute pantomime. He heard nothing, but felt as if something were crawling just beneath the level of his senses, an insectile squirming that trundled over him in a wide and pointless detour before turning to burrow into Mr. Davies’ skull. Even with his back to him, Jonathan could tell the final fibers of nerve had rotted away like old silk. Davies’ head trembled on the thick neck, shaking in frantic negation.

“No. Please, no. I-I wasn’t part of this. I was never part of this!”

“Oh, but you were. You are. It is an unseemly thing to disregard the people who get the job done for their master. Besides, it is as little to me as your vocation has been to you. Even if it has always operated in the opposite direction. No need for thanks.” The abomination in the mirror laughed with every mouth it had. “You are most welcome.”

Mr. Davies made a small high noise in reply, scrabbling at the lock with sweat-greased fingers. He’d barely undone the bolt before he froze again. This time with a spasming shudder. Alarm shot up Jonathan’s spine and reflex made him try to stand—only to find himself locked down in his chair. There was not even the nicety of a strained muscle allowed. In every inch, every nerve and bone, he was as set and immobile as a doll. A doll with a mechanism inside. Tick, tick, ticking.

Nearly there. Nearly done.

Mr. Davies jerked and twisted as rosy foam gurgled and bled up from his mouth. His hands clawed at throat and chest while the whites of his eyes showed all the way around, rolling frantically to Lord Brighton. Lord Brighton furrowed his brow in either confusion or irritation as the man buckled to his knees. An entire disappointed moue formed as Mr. Davies wasted the last of his energy on reaching for his employer’s trouser leg. Lord Brighton stepped nimbly back as the hand fell limp.

Then Mr. Davies was dead. Cooling and drooling into the rug.

No. No, that’s wrong. His life is still present. It’s stretching out and away into the future. He must be having a fit. He should come out of it…

Yet Mr. Davies continued to cool. All semblance of life and its animal spark was already faded out of his eyes. The latter had rolled up to gawp at Jonathan in that final spasm. Blind, they still seemed to see. Dead, the man still seemed to plead.

There is no ‘seem.’ He’s there. You know he’s there.

Jonathan did. Jonathan could still do nothing. Just sit and stare and wait.

Say something! Call for someone! You can still talk!

And what could he say? What would shouting to the sane world outside the room do except to turn a potential massacre into certainty?

“Well, that is a pity,” Lord Brighton huffed. “But I suppose I wouldn’t have required his services beyond nudging the more menial pen pushers and porters going forward. On that note, Count, I feel it is prudent that we turn to business. There is only so much time before some pest at the door comes in to nag Mr. Harker about some trivial matter and there is mess enough to consider with Mr. Davies—,”

“You truly cannot help yourself, can you?” Dracula’s voice hummed. His eyes, in his head and in the glass and in the shadows growing dense as ink about the room, crept on Jonathan like centipedes. “You see how he can’t, don’t you? Who was that fellow in the ramble that would-be detective fed you? The storyteller was Dyson, who took the telling from a sad rag of a man named Selby—there was something about a hand in red chalk…”

“Sir Thomas Vivian,” Jonathan murmured. Tick. Tick. Tick. Down to heartbeats now. Make them last. “The royal family doctor who tried to kill his friend over buried treasure in the hills.”

“Ah, yes. How did it go?” The voice of Count Dracula changed abruptly to an unknown middle-aged timbre, one of affected upper class tone: “‘Let us talk of business matters, Selby.’” The following laugh was the Count’s, likewise the voice after it, though both were laced with something new. Something that crawled. “He was rich as sin as well. Too dense to consider anything but getting more gold, accursed and inhumanly wrought as it was. Went for his poor companion’s throat without half a thought, not thinking for an instant about the flint blade his friend had just revealed as his proof of discovery. Oh, greed. It does something to the intellect as much as the soul, I think. That and too much inbreeding among certain branches of nobility. It eats a hole through the already pitiful granule your sad lot call a brain. All they can fathom is themselves. The only importance of the future is how much more gratification might exist for them there. Tedious in the extreme and gluttonous to the point of idiocy.”

At all this, Lord Brighton had managed to grow some irate roses in his shriveled face. His leathern fingers gripped the Necronomicon tighter.

“Not so idiotic that I cannot undo what’s been done, Count. Derleth gave us that much.”

“Before you murdered him,” Jonathan put in. “Right? You couldn’t risk him returning the borrowed book. There is a chance he told you the truth, supposing he didn’t suspect your intentions. There is twice as much chance he fed you a lie as he put the obvious together, leaving behind a spring trap to bring some worse horror on your head. Or the head of whatever sacrificial reader you might try to bribe or coerce into action. But neither option matters. You already damned yourself and everyone else the moment you opened the door to him. Whatever he is.”

Lord Brighton turned his frown on Jonathan.

“What are you on about?”

“He is not Count Dracula.” He fought his voice as he said it, urging it not to shake here, at the last moment. Fought harder not to believe the words that would leave him now, true as they and all their portents were: “He’s a god.”

A knot of fear and revulsion twisted in his stomach as the room’s air flexed. Bristling the way a cat will when it’s pleased. Jonathan tasted his heart and his breakfast rising up when this was joined by a final laugh. Every light in the office and the sunlight in the window stained at the noise.

“That I am. But let us not torment the poor supporting maggot any longer. He does not care for such things either way. All he wants is his candy and all I want is to stop having him in the room. So.” The god that was not Dracula stood from his seat—

Tick-tick-tick—

—and turned a bored smile on Lord Brighton. His roses had wilted again to something clammier.

“When you appear to Ellison down the line, do give him my best wishes. As best you can, anyway. It shall be hard enough work attempting to scream.”

“Wh—,” was as far as Lord Oliver Quentin Brighton got before he vanished. The god sighed in Dracula’s voice, the very essence of relief.

“Finally.”

“Where is he?” Jonathan asked, not wanting to know. But he wanted the next moment to happen even less.

Tickticktick.

“Do you recall the account of the Dreamlands? The little escapade Miss Pleasance and some gaggle of others passed through once upon a time?”

“Yes.” The word barely rose above a whisper. His attention was stuck on the alteration of the god’s eyes. All pretense of simple red had burned away from them. They did not blink as he strolled around the desk and bent down to Jonathan’s shoulder.

“The underside of that. He will live there now, solid and eternal. Well, I say solid,” Jonathan winced as a claw like an obsidian spade grew from the white hand’s thumbnail and slit first his tie, then his shirt collar open, “but he’s more on the viscid side.” In a sing-song lilt, he elaborated, “A great soft jelly thing. Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled by fog where eyes used to be. Rubbery appendages that were once arms; bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. He will leave a moist trail when he moves. Blotches of diseased, evil gray will come and go on his surface, as though light is being beamed from within.”

Ticktickticktickticktick—

“Why?”

The shirt collar was folded down and away.

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you wearing him?”

“I figured you would appreciate a familiar face over one of my others. A personal touch, you know. Even this is for quaintness’ sake. I can feel your memories as they turn over in there.” The spade nail tapped Jonathan’s brow. “A little picture book flipping through its pages. It was this side of the throat he went for, yes?”

“Don’t—,”

But the teeth were already in his neck. Where he had not felt Dracula’s bite when it found him that night in June, this one came with a feeling worse than pain. The theft of blood seemed only cursory while something else, far deeper and more integral than flesh, screeched and thrashed against invasion. Jonathan thought dismally of a blind and groping hive sinking into the folds of his mind, building colonies and turning over the paraphernalia of his life with awful feelers. He would rather take Dracula a hundred times over. A thousand.

Instead he could only sit and bleed and choke—and worse. Think of Mina. His mind fled to her as it always did in its worst throes. The eternal safety blanket, clung to whenever some bleak end seemed near, good-bye, good-bye, hide in her, say farewell, last thought, last want, last prayer.

Mina-love-you-Mina-so-sorry-Mina-God-God-God-let-her-know-that-let-her-be-safe-be-happy-God-please-Mina—

“I’m right here, Jonathan, I heard you the first time.” The mouth had come away from his throat, now glazed in red. A tongue like the hide of a lamprey licked the dribble away. “The true first time. Not your desperate little session before the door opened. No. We go such a long way back. Even before the night you swore your soul to send your little bogeyman to Hell.” As Dracula’s face began to contort into a grotesque parody, Jonathan felt a burst of sensory recall—a forest in the dark, the cackle-chase of mist that meant to fall on him with thirsty teeth, pain and hunger and fever and a sunrise that was an infinity away—and remembered, against all desire, the particulars of the denser nightmare that followed.

For it had followed a prayer. Rather, a trade disguised as a prayer. The words were lost to him, but the intent was there. The want.

Help. (Me.) Help. (Mina.) Help. (Victims.) Help, help, help. (And I will give all I can and all I am, whatever that is worth to You. Please.) Help.

“I heard. I answered. And our departed matchmaker’s playing with forces older than the universe has made for a most convenient reunion. Better still, a chance to check off one of infinite chores, and collect what is owed.” Jonathan watched and choked on a mounting scream as the god undid his own shirt before driving the spade claw into his breast. The skin split open, but the ichor that poured from it was not blood. What should had been a wound changed instantaneously into a breathing maw. Teeth chittered. Pieces squirmed. The ichor, a tar that slithered and bubbled as if alive—for it was—peered with eyeless eagerness at Jonathan’s mouth. “Best of all, we can address the missed opportunities of the past. It was all petty good fun when he saw to your woman first. But I think we both know who was still at the top of his list for this.” A hand that was no longer a hand clamped onto the back of Jonathan’s head. “Say ah.”

He bit back against the command. Even against the howl that clawed against the back of his teeth. It did not help.

Tick.

The ichor found its way between pursed lips. Muscle worse than a tongue worked open his jaw. Jonathan did not drink so much as drown in the flood that crawled its way to mouth and throat and all the roads of flesh beyond. His one solace was the fact of his dying. The room faded as he did. Away, away, until all but he and the god remained. As even this winked out, the god was present enough to make his laugh heard.

Tick.

“Jonathan Harker. My friend, my fodder. You should know better than most—death is not the end. It never has been. Death is where we start.”

The world and the vampire decomposed into an endless crawling black. It sprawled. It swirled. It was a single three-lobed pupil set against the cosmic inferno of an iris with no edges at all. Jonathan Harker knew himself for less than a mote before its vision. The fragment of an atom. Yet it saw him just the same.

“Come,” said a voice with no mouth. “We have so much to do.”

The pupil swallowed him.

Tick.

And he was gone.

At least until he woke in the castle. Not that he would understand it was a castle upon opening his eyes. There was too much space and what angles were perceivable in the ugly stone hurt to look at too long. He might have been in some titanic cavern mouth near the sea. Brine and alien odors burned his nose. Somewhere, things swam and gibbered and croaked their fealty or fear. Likely both.

But somewhere far closer, a mountain turned over in his sea-salted sleep.

Close enough that the turning trembled the enormous cathedral of rock and rattled the air with the thought-hum of drowsing.

Not drowsing. Dead.

Jonathan Harker shuddered like a struck tuning fork under the weight of this groggy clarification. It was helped only slightly by the fact that he still hadn’t turned his head to try and look upon the monolith in the dark. There was not nearly enough gloom to hide the sight of him—for it was a him, and he was another god—and the gradual adjustment of his eyes to the greenish moonlight dribbling in past the towers and edges of a Cyclopean city beyond the castle only improved his sight for the worst. It traced more and more detail in the black, making him want to squeeze his eyes shut and scurry back to the brief oblivion he'd left behind.

Look.

No, he thought. Then, to test if his mouth still worked:

“No.”

You will look or I will consume you and let you spend the next millennium as a cyst in my third stomach.

Jonathan turned over on his side and looked. He was heartened somewhat. Compared to the thing that had worn Dracula’s husk, it was a far duller mental agony to look on this new-ancient member of a pantheon he had no desire to name. This god had forsaken the looming post of his perch-throne to rest upon the floor and his bed of sponge and slime. Jonathan thought abstractly of the cephalopods Nemo and Aronnax were wont to describe with dual awe and respect. The head, which was the size of a town square, reminded him of a bloated octopus whose eyes had drifted slightly to face forward in an unpleasantly humanoid glower. Growing from that was a likewise distended body that mirrored something of a gargoyle, complete with the shrugged and folded wings that draped like a membranous blanket over one side.

One of the tentacles that made up the face’s lower half uncurled to point down at him.

You are Jonathan Harker.

“Yes. Is it safe to—to know your name, sir?”

No. It is Cthulhu.

The name squirmed uncomfortably until it was rooted permanently in his mind. Then it fell asleep.

“Am I dead?”

Yes. To die is to dream and you are in mine.

“Why?”

To take a message.

“What message? Who for?”

Cthulhu told him. There were no words, yet the dictation was taken in full and excruciating detail. Jonathan thought his head, dead as it was, might still pop with collecting the full weight of it. By the time the god was finished, Jonathan Harker was bent double on the slick floor, willing his brain not to drip out of his ears. He willed harder that the presence groping idly through his skull would recede. It had already delivered the message and was now loitering in the cramped labyrinth of his mind the way a body will putter around in the workplace rather than returning straight to a task at counter or desk. Suckers were prying up the boards of his childhood and claws scratched the paint off his adolescence so freshly and strangely budding to adulthood. He almost screamed aloud as boneless limbs peeled open the chronology of his life and turned over the howling core-light of the soul.

The god hummed. The god retracted himself, leaving Jonathan wheezing and weeping on the grime of the stone floor. The god’s glare did not so much soften as adjust some minute increment further from aggravation. The god watched as Jonathan stumbled up first to his knees, then his feet, his hands only just loosening the hopeless cradle they’d made for his pale brow.

That is all there is of importance.

“Alright—,” the word choked him. How strange to think he could choke while dead. “Alright. I-I’ll just—yes. Must go. Now.”

Yes. Gods be with you, Jonathan Harker.

“Thank you?”

Do not. It is only fact.

So it was.

In the time to come, beyond R’lyeh and its dead waters, past the Dreamlands and its edgeless borders, in the mystic dark that was the truer space under the skin of Panicked forests, hills, and caves, throughout the black-starred kingdoms tattered and Yellow, and in chthonic and cosmic dimensions yet further, Jonathan Harker would find himself in the company of many gods. They and their adjacent wonders and horrors.

The first, the last, the worst, and the most constant of which being the vampiric mimic who was waiting for him at the black-green ridge of the city and the start of the teeming obsidian ocean. He still smiled with Dracula’s lips, though the shine of his eyes was the obscener truth; fluid and flaming.

In one of his hands was an elaborately bound itinerary book. A pen that appeared to be a tiny calcified alien figure balanced daintily in the other.

“What was the message?”

“You—,”

Killed me, stole me—

“—heard him too.” He tasted the truth as he said it. He tasted more of loathing, but that was tamped back down and away.

“Yes. But I am asking you what he said.”

“It wasn’t all for you.”

“I’d expect not. For a career slugabed, he always has some complaint to make concerning something disturbing his nap and the nap he dreams about within it. The stars are not right for me to be asking him what time he means to herald anything more harrowing than a few creatives’ sea-salted nightmares, he says. The maggots on land are seeding progeny who will one day use their boats and drills to hunt for oils and aggravate him as an upstairs neighbor’s stomping and banging will, he says. Dagon’s grandchildren keep swimming up to knock at the castle and paddle away laughing, he says. Always something and always with a wide range of parties to deliver complaints to. For my part, I only care what idle chat was directed at me. The rest,” he flapped the hand with the pen in Jonathan’s direction, “well, that is for you to see about. So. What did he have to say to me, my friend?”

“There weren’t any words. Not to any of it.”

“Mmhmm?” The tone of a governess encouraging a toddler through his ABCs.

“He says one of your sons has been weaving in and out of here and Earth’s waters. The one like a sea serpent, born in your time haunting the Vikings. While teething, the venom was enough to make him rot and shed two sets of limbs before he ripped out one of the fangs and stabbed him with it. Both appear put out, but he wants you to set your son elsewhere.”

Sighing, the god in the vampire skin scratched something down in his book.

“Well, that is a good mark for you and a tedious one for me. The entitled slab of gelatin doesn’t recognize play when it swims up and bites him. My spawn is an endlessly growing boy, after all. Do tell him I’ll see what I can do about relocation as soon as he sees about throwing his poor pet cultists a little scrap or two of acknowledgment. He’s been ignoring them the past few centuries and the dithery pests are starting to pull at my apron strings.”

“What—,”

“You will want to take note.” Jonathan Harker found himself holding his own ledger and pen. “The pages are infinite, but I assure you, this will fast seem insignificant to all the dictation it must hold up to. I would recommend one of the crystal lenses the architects are playing with in the Land of Muse, but I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. Oh. And you will need something better than this.”

Between one instant and the next, Jonathan’s kukri vanished from his hip and appeared in the god’s hand. He watched as the steel was sunk into the god’s trunk, failing to pierce through to the other side. When the blade was unsheathed, the metal pulsed blackly for a long beat—at least until the steel drank in whatever stain it was.

“I am inside you as deep as a god can go. Well.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug that revealed the edges of his hair to be alive with tendrils. They appeared to make faces at him. “Very nearly. It is my mark and it will be satisfactory enough to most, though there are bound to be nuisances that shall need sterner addressing than courteous mien and a poke with the pen. There is experience enough to see you through either dealing.” He whirled his hand and the kukri was sheathed again. It hung heavier on Jonathan’s hip and seemed almost magnetized to him. Less a weapon than a limb. It was unpleasantly pleasant. “I do not doubt that you will manage.”

“Manage what? Why am I here? Why did you—,”

The god’s borrowed face split open on a grin that threatened to shuck the whole disguise like pale leather.

“Kill you? Amusement was part of it, I confess. A large part. But it was also the simplest way to set you upon the next step of your illustrious career path. Before you claim shock or make false cries of modesty, know that I know you. All of what you have been and done, what you will be and do. Time is so much putty—and vapor and river and ice, as well. To say nothing of the unvarnished bauble of your spirit. You positively blister the eye with your extremes. When you are good, you are very, very good. But when you are mad you are perfect. For our needs, at least.” The monstrous leer reset into human parameters. He snapped his book shut and let it dissolve into smoke. “That said, I did hear all Cthulhu had to say to you. You comprehended what he divulged and did not buckle under the weight of his intent. Just afraid enough to savor, but professional enough to maintain yourself. Earth has been good practice on that front.

“But now you are here to pay what is owed. What luck that all I ask is that you do what comes naturally. Accommodation, solicitation, and the solving of troubles that, frankly, I do not feel like troubling myself with. Bringing messages hither and thither, seeing that issues are addressed as civilly or viscerally as they require. I shall check in with you and your progress as you toddle on…”

Jonathan was only half-listening. Supreme revulsion had forced his attention to split between the false Dracula and any direction that did not contain him. This led to his gaze snagging on another figure. It drifted slowly atop the water, stamping the waves to stillness as the ebon of its low boat glided near R’lyeh’s edge. What teeming things had raised their heads in curiosity now ducked away, hiding lambent lidless eyes in the depths. The boatman, if that was what it was, cut just as recognizable a silhouette as the god nattering before him.

Tall, slim, hooded. Hands of bone upon the single oar.

Cold radiated from them like heat came off the sun.

“Ah, but I’m rambling! Come, I will not be responsible for ruining your punctual streak. You cut the Transylvanian wilderness down to a mere jog on corporeal terrain. We must do better here.”

Before Jonathan could tell him to wait—indeed, before he could convince himself that any plea would pause or salvage anything now—the god waved his hand and they were both gone from the un-sunken city. Now they stood in the benighted maw of a hollow that crossed soils with that of a place in Wales, not too distant from land with names like ‘Grey Hills’ and ‘Caermaen.’ Pallid shapes slithered and walked and trilled and sang and danced and unspooled. They remembered him far more fondly than Jonathan recalled them and their insistent welcome. Likewise for the horned god that allowed themselves to be called Pan, watching with eyes made of bough and stone and phantasm.

Waiting.

“Oh, they have missed you. Dear Dr. Raymond would squeal to stand where you do now.”

Dr. Raymond would scream if he stood in front of me, muttered a kneejerk hate in him. Or Van Helsing, for that matter. It was too close a thing with Seward and that damned ‘surgery.’ Far, far too close. Should never have let him slip away…

“You say I’m here to take messages. To—to solve the troubles of gods and their acolytes.”

“Ah, see? There you go being polite. You may call them what they are. Sycophants, lickspittles, accidents made with the local mortal meat, occasional deific dandruff…”

“Whatever you may call them, I am meant to,” Jonathan gestured helplessly with the strange notebook, “what? Play secretary? Attendant?”

“Messenger.” The voice rippled and sent the pale denizens in the gloom scurrying back. Jonathan still shivered as he had while alive, back when he felt the slime-glazed flick of some extended limb recoil from where it had grazed the back of his head. Perhaps it was the same member of the so-called ‘Little People’ he had to wrestle himself from before he could be dragged underground to stay. “Only a messenger, Jonathan Harker, just as I am the Messenger. A message can be delivered in many ways and the problems encased in them can be addressed with as much variety. Or, if you are simply not in the mood, as I so frequently am not, you can leave it to their judgment. True, their judgment usually comes with a significant body count, but only with such lives that are scarcely a blink in the great temporal scheme of things.”

“Cthulhu, he mentioned…he gave me things to tell people I can no longer reach. Not like this.”

“I know. They are negligible. Which is really just another word for mortal. They shall get around to dying in their own time and you can share your intel then. Unless,” the mask of Dracula melted like tallow, the features eagerly warping into truer shapes, “you wish to have them sent ahead early. Perhaps they shall find their way here. If you like, I can open the way to your widow in just a—,”

“No!” The old pain of misery simmered in him, but thinly. Just as the tears that stung his eyes were dulled. They were not real. They were not part of anything living, but a memory of living. The breath that hitched in him was there only out of habit. “No. Please, no. I’ll do it.”

“Jonathan, you would do it if I tipped an entire continent down my gullet and used England to pick my teeth. The courtesy of familiar company is only that. I’ve no need for threats with you.” He pointed at Jonathan’s middle. A horrendous writhing twitched to life in him and teased at the phantom of bones in his spectral anatomy. Puppet strings rooted within rather than to the clumsy exterior of joints. “Dracula is in Hell. You sent him there with your own blessed hand. You are most welcome. Now get to work.”

In Pan’s domain, Jonathan Harker turned to face the Little and the White and the Demi People of this and many gods of Nature and Supernature, his book in hand. The People had much to say. As with the dreaming god of the sea, he wondered at how they expected him to deliver half their insistent sibilant notes in his condition, but considering how they reckoned time and their own loose grip upon humanity’s reality, they must have imagined he would wait until all the relevant parties had passed away for him to share their topics of discussion. Perhaps he would.

Meanwhile, he took note of what things might be carried to other entities presumably in reach. There was some dispute of territory with the gnoles aboveground and another with the ghouls below it.

True ghouls. Tunneling. Teeth full of death snapping at those below. Flesh rots and flesh dies. Growing back from the dying annoys us.

“There are worse things,” he murmured aloud. Inwardly:

Assault. Abduction. Sending your admirer with a medical license to spike the chemical suppliers with your ritual powders to turn victims into monsters against their will.

The doctor Arthur Raymond had no orders, the Great God Pan rumbled in his head. Only a fantasy.

“And the rest? What reason do you have for attacking and stealing people as you do in the living world?”

This world lives too. This world is lonesome. My Mary is here. Mine. Our Helen comes and goes, as you saw. Dies and lives as spring will do. The man Villiers learned the hard way. She wants, she wants. She only went through her lovers to find one who would stay after she showed them the truth. After she gave them a night of changing as our flesh changes. None died by her hand, but by theirs. They would not stay for her after. Few do. They do not understand. You do not understand.

“I understand that you never ask. You take. You violate. There is no life or will or want in the world that you and yours consider equal or greater than your own. For all your uncanny makeup, all your madness and marvels, your habits seem no different from any other empire or rapist, apart from the nuance of more surreal consequences.”

Such is Nature. Such is Supernature.

“If a dog can understand ‘yes and no,’ so should a god.”

You’re wasting breath you don’t have. Go.

Jonathan closed the book and turned to climb up out of the hollow. He tried not to notice the brushing of wondering digits on his head and back and legs. One hand went to the kukri. The digits retreated.

You will see to the gnoles. You will see to the ghouls. There will be retribution otherwise.

“I will do what I can.” Whatever that would be.

And the others. Those upon Earth. You will tell them what needs knowing.

…If I can. The Dreamlands seem the only course.

Mina flickered in his mind again. Her face distraught. He hoped she would dream where he could find her—but the hope was thin.

Jonathan stepped up and away, following the instinct-pull of a messenger’s route that towed him toward the groves of the gnoles. To work, to work.

In a black-green sea, the figure upon the low slim boat turned the oar in their skeletal hands. Patient, if irate. A scale-girt face peeked up at them. Cataracts glazed the fish eyes. Memories of manhood and dry land had not been drowned in all the centuries between now and the shore. Please, could they..?

The figure pointed at the spot between the wide-spaced eyes.

A moment later, the corpse floated. A moment after that, kinsmen swam up to collect and consume him goodbye.

The figure threw two coins into the waves and pushed the oar once more.

This took hours.

This took days.

This took months.

This took years.

This took all time and none at all.

But in practical terms, this all took just long enough for Robert Holt to worry. To wonder at the shout of a stranger and the scrabbling at Jonathan Harker’s office doorknob from the inside. To call through the door and hear no answer. To finally, miserably, open the door.

And scream.

In the time it took for Mr. Bentley and a throng of younger fellows to come running, Jonathan Harker had already met with the gnoles, delivered and received messages of matching bile, and began making suggestions. If the matter was one of territory and trees, could they not solve the matter by way of a neutrally impervious border? No one side could snatch forest from the other if there was a genius loci between them. Death was, if not a harrowing deterrent for the parties involved, a sure irritant. To die and undie was a loathsome process. Sowing one of the more viciously solitary land spirits along the terrain of dispute would ward off the encroaching Folk on either side the way the presence of a buzzing hornet nest attached to a fence would steer away wanderers on Earth.

There was much chittering and trilling and grudging hisses from them as much as Pan’s myriad Folk. It was as close to an acquiescing tone as either party could manage.

By the time Mr. Bentley and the rest reached the office and found Robert trying to find a pulse or a breath on Mr. Harker’s corpse, as well as Lord Brighton’s companion dead on the rug, Jonathan Harker had spent two years learning how to sow a genius loci himself, as neither side—including the one with a god—deigned to lay it in place themselves. The result was an entity that passed for a brambleberry shrub. A thing of fruit and blossoms and thorns and faces glowering from its leaves. As an experiment, one of the White People and one of the gnoles dared to pluck berries from their respective sides; this, after two other volunteers had to be whipped and thorned and blood-siphoned to bone as a distraction.

Screams, contortions, and an explosive growth of new prickly shrubs from their flesh ensued. Their soul-bodies limped hurriedly away from the roots, and did their best to join their fellows in cheering over the success as they reconstituted. Jonathan Harker made a note of this and then followed his feet to the ghouls. A far easier reception, as he had acquired some good feeling from his work with Aurelia and her matrons. They even had a manifesto describing their reasoning ready and waiting for him on a scroll:

BUNCH OF CHEATERS DOWN THERE. WE SMELL DEAD FLESH? WE’RE COMING TO DINNER. THEY WANT TO DIG INTO OUR CATACOMBS? THEY CAN BE DINNER. SIMPLE AS THAT.

“That is fairly simple. I can tell them so, but I doubt that will settle the trouble itself. I take it they started it?”

“That they did,” one of the more human-shaped members gurgled. “Get in everywhere like weeds. Tried to conscript old Erichtho herself with that potion of theirs. She quaffed and killed it. Filled the guilty party with extinct insect eggs from half-past the dinosaurs and resurrected them all at once. Had us a good laugh. But they are grabby buggers whereas we take what comes natural. Always more life, so there’s always more dead. Circle of supper. We’d keep ourselves to ourselves if it weren’t for them nosing into our crypts looking for more pits. That’s both here and in the meaty corporeal demesne, for your record. Greedy pricks.”

The ghoul spat gristle while her companions gibbered and snarled in agreement. Jonathan took note.

“Would it help if they detoured to more,” he gestured lightly at the surrounding emptied caskets and their half-eaten contents, “livelier ground?”

“Oh, detours have naught to do with it. They have plenty of ground to play with in the liminal domains. Trouble is they think everything subterranean is theirs to call. It’ll be quite a time once those subway trains come into fashion, I guarantee that. Bastards won’t even leave a footbridge alone if they see some pretty young thing trip-tapping on their lonesome. They can go on forever, so they won’t steer away from the latest fancy unless something’s there to slap their hand. Tentacle. Whatever. Us giving them a little dose of necrosis to go with their regrowth act is us giving them that slap.”

“I just had to deal with a similar issue with the gnoles. Apparently, they were the encroaching party in that one. There’s too much real estate squabbling aboveground even for Pan’s People to lay claim to all of it without trouble. Is there anyone else with investment in underground territory? A neutral party that might be worth deferring to or..?”

The ghoul’s lips quivered up and back from a doggish grin.

“Aye. An older sort. Was kicking long before Their Horned Majesty of Stolen Milkmaids and Herded Shepherds was ever seeding satyrs around Greece or the Isles. Poked his head up a while back to jab that dreary American’s dreams for a poem, I think, but he ducked on down again. He has his work to do, same as Pan and their gardening and mystic maintenance, but doesn’t go around using it as an excuse to be an eldritch ass. Get him involved and I reckon the Folk will find themselves quite disinterested in expanding into occupied real estate. Only trouble is getting him to squirm up and into our mess. Busy fellow, he is.”

“Who is he?”

The ghouls told him. Jonathan managed to not make a face. Then asked for directions.

Four years passed. Robert Holt shook and held Jonathan Harker’s corpse, while Mr. Bentley sent two coworkers flying out to get a doctor and the police, as, with the timing known only to a nightmare, Mina Harker came rushing into the building, something was wrong, wrong, wrong, she had dreamt it asleep and felt it awake, and where was he, please, please, where was Jonathan?

As it turned out, Jonathan Harker was following the cathedral dimensions of the tunnels left behind by a Conqueror of great and grisly pedigree. It took some time to find him, as he was a fellow constantly on the move, and when he was found it took almost as long to clamber up to his front end. Already being dead, Jonathan had no trouble holding an audience with him. There was no life or meat on him to bother with, or so the Conqueror wordlessly informed him.

It was a more cordial meeting than Jonathan might have expected. Something to do with his work in Transylvania. The erasure of Dracula had put himself and Quincey Morris in some good graces for those of the Conqueror’s like. Likewise his choice of patron. What was it he needed, young man?

Jonathan explained. The Conqueror detoured.

It transpired that new routes were established which crossed ghoulish and Sidhe territories alike. Among several others. These routes were unique in that they were stamped with the passing of that oldest, the most unassuming, the most all-consuming of reapers, the Worm. Eater of plant and animal and god, fertilizer of life. Yes, it was preferred that the consumed be decaying before it passed into the unfathomable maw, but not a strict requirement. Certainly not for those who rejuvenated and resurrected themselves willy-nilly to begin with.

Which was to say, if any Folk thought it worth the gamble, they could try and breach other underworlds’ domains for conscription if they liked—but only if they were prepared to risk going whole and alive into the gullet for the next thirty years only to be excreted as sentient soil. Flowers would ensue. Likewise for the ghouls.

The Folk sulked away from the tunnels. The ghouls toasted each other with goblets of bodily swills and embalming fluid. Jonathan declined his own.

“Suit yourself, lad. What is it your sort take, anyway?”

“My sort?”

“By way of pay, that is. The running bit is that its coins on the eyes, but that’s just a matter of travel. Or does your boss handle all that?”

“What do you—,”

He was gone.

“—mean?”

The catacombs of the ghouls had given way to, of all places, a theater. On stage was a slim and handsome young man. Between blinks he was either black or a man-shaped chasm with a grin of lunatic stars. His eyes gave him away as the Messenger. He was idly breaking down a number of scientific apparatuses and loading them into cases that evaporated as they were packed.

“They are a surprisingly companionable group, as carrion collectors go,” he said as he fiddled with a device that spewed a crystal-clear light projection of an apocalyptic vista upon the wall behind him. “Very community-minded. I imagine they assumed I was not giving you your due.” The projection switched off as the depicted city caught ablaze and the last living citizens wailed and charred and changed in its green light. “I am many things, but cheap is never one of them. Especially not when a maggot does more than simply entertain. You, Jonathan Harker, have the honor of being promoted to caterpillar. Congratulations. Sadly, you missed the audience.”

Jonathan took a reflexive step back as the god stepped off the stage and his foot landed on a discarded pamphlet. In a print he did not recognize, on paper that did not yet exist, the font declared:

SEE THE FUTURE LAID BARE! SCIENCES THAT REVEAL THE BONES OF SPACE AND TIME! HE TOURS FROM FURTHEST EGYPT TO NEAREST METROPOLIS! COME AND BEHOLD THE WONDERS OF NYARLATHOTEP!

The city named for the event was one nestled in what the Americans had dubbed New England. The date was set in November of 1920.

“Oh, never mind that. This little show wasn’t for your Earth. Not even the display outdoors.” The Messenger shrugged into a smart traveling suit whose make seemed tailored to a different era and strolled up and past Jonathan in the aisle. The horrid rooted grasp in his core yanked Jonathan along until he matched the god’s stride. “There are so many parallel playgrounds to visit, you see. For this one,” the doors of the building swung open on the benighted desolation of city and street and sanity where growths groaned, cement mouths wailed with shrieks and laughter, and a gulf in the countryside yawned all the way to the throbbing nucleus of the universe, “I turned the clock forward on my latest spectators. Can you guess what they called me? Among the other epithets that jump to mind upon seeing too much melanin and intelligence in the same place, that is.”

“Pharaoh.” The word came to mind and mouth on impulse. In that moment it seemed as obvious to him as math. The Messenger affected a preening stance.

“On occasion I am.” The handsome young man suddenly dissolved into a more familiar frame. Jonathan tried to put more distance between himself and the returned guise, but Dracula’s hand sank like a claw into his shoulder. “Though I am happy to change costumes for company’s sake. No, the name was an insult and the insult was an unforgivable one, for it was not even true. I will suffer many cries of hate and horror if they are earned, but this! They called me a fraud! A toymaker playing with static electricity and film tricks! It could not stand. So I sent them to this future, where they could be introduced to the truth of my predictions. Which, I will confess, were rigged—they were promises more than anything. Less an oracle huffing vapor than an architect revealing his blueprints. Mind your step.”

Jonathan jumped as a hand—what used to be a hand—scrabbled for his ankle. It grew out of a length of tendon and sinew that was once an arm, but was now a mere umbilical stretching from the fungal heap attached to one of many blasted ruins. The eyes in that mass were many and pleading. He thought inexplicably of Mr. Davies. The kukri itched at his hip and cold twitched in his hands. He had to do something. He needed to—

“Ah-ah,” he was tugged back in line by gut and grip, “leave them be. They are not your concern.”

It is. It must be someone’s.

“Why would you do this? What point is there to inflicting all this?”

The Dracula mask turned grave as the eyes burned.

“Would you believe it was by necessity?”

“No. No, I would not. You are too powerful to have any true need for preying on innocents of any world in this way.” Jonathan swallowed dryly. Again, so odd in a throat that had no need for it. “You did this because you wanted to.”

“Not just me. Cthulhu and the broader brigade of the Old, the Great, and the Outer gods have their stamp on all of this too. As they will in other dimensions. As they already have in other worlds. But you are not far from the truth. Now comes the next question: Why do you want to do this, gods? A query as old as worship itself.”

“And what is the answer?”

“What do you expect it is?”

“Because you can. Because no one can stop a god but a god.”

“If you want the maudlin take, I suppose that would suffice. But it is too blunt, and more, you do not believe it yourself. Not completely. You were made, Jonathan Harker. All civilizations in all worlds in all layers of reality. And while the joy of creating a toy simply to break it has a brute pleasure in it, that defeats the purpose of sowing entities with the eternity of a soul. A mind. The truth is, it gets terribly lonesome and annoying with only other gods about. It’s always the same dull un-faces and same aggravating dramas running their gamut over the eons and it grows so tedious you could just detonate the entire idiot universe out of boredom. Which has happened more than once.” En sotto voce, he added, “Azathoth had not carved me out of himself to be his imaginary friend yet and so was prone to the odd cataclysmic tantrum whenever the Drummers and Pipers’ mad songs failed to soothe him. Between myself and all you new mites scurrying about and providing enrichment for the immortal crowds, this rendition of Existence has been the longest one running.

“Which is all to say that gods do what we do, from menace to miracles, so that we do not go insane and smash the whole thing.” Jonathan tried to crumple into himself as the Messenger traced his neck with the vampire’s nail. “Our sincerest thanks for enriching eternity for us. Of course, all of that could be a lie. I do not defraud, but I can lie. So perhaps it’s all just a matter of we in the deific menagerie pouring water on anthills for a laugh. Who can say?”

Jonathan neither knew nor much cared in the moment. Not for the first time in the years spent in this new state, he tried to wake up. Desperately, fervently, willing Mina to shake him awake or for some final rattling shock to jolt him back into his drowsing body. He could almost see himself prone on his office desk, Mina and Robert and fretting professional faces huddled around him, trying to solve the question of his absence from the cold flesh.

If this is a dream, it is not a living man’s. Do not bait yourself. You are here. You know it.

Yes, he knew it. But was it too much to imagine he wasn’t? To pretend there was some exit, some merciful end to—

What is that.

Something was coming up the derelict road. It stalked on two legs, strolling at a stolid march through the mire of horrors. Above, six arms flowered from the trunk of the body, carving through the living and unliving detritus with strange appendages that seemed like blades at a distance. All was unmade where it walked, all died and sighed. And above the arms, a stare. Cold. Cold.

Hello, Jonathan thought with a curious flatness, do I know you?

“But here I am dawdling. You have done such a fine job and you are due for recompense. Here.” Jonathan sputtered a moment as something clasped over his face and knotted itself at the back of his head. A mask of yellowed ivory. “You’ll want something removable where we’re going. Even dead, I imagine trying to peel your face would sting somewhat.”

The god was closer now and the proportions revealed to be even more gargantuan than expected. Cthulhu’s mountainous bulk was dwarfed to a pebble beside a single leg. One of the hands that was a blade receded into itself to produce genuine digits. It bent down as if to crush Jonathan in a fist.

“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God,” the Messenger intoned. They vanished from the spot as the massive hand came down. The god sighed. Stalked. Carved. Whittling at patience like a frail and flaking wood.

On the living Earth, bodies had been removed from the premises of Hawkins and Harker. With little wheedling and much weeping, Lestrade had tilted things enough to allow Mina Harker and her glassy-eyed companions to take the cadaver of Jonathan Harker away. If not to the Harker estate.

Within a ballroom, in the midst of a masquerade that had seen a thousand midnights and still had not ended, Jonathan Harker removed his mask to behold the shrieking Yellow splendor of the Palace of Hastur. If only briefly. The Messenger had not lingered to ward off the swarm of guests, some human, most in a state of transition to Carcosan native, some entirely indecipherable in terms of species, but all gilded in their finery. Some where so committed to the pageantry that their costumes were grafted to and through themselves.

One guest winnowed through the herd to rescue him from a dance with a partner whose arachnid legs glittered in either brilliant chitin or molten gold shells and whose manifold mouth seemed intent on trying to fit both around and inside his own. The guest straightened the black-gold brooch at his throat before snatching Jonathan away with an inescapable flourish.

“Mr. Harker!” laughed a voice through the Yellow-red spill of peeled lips. “How stunning to find you gracing such circles as these—pardon, dear Lady, but I simply must borrow him; His Tattered Majesty calls, many thanks—I had not expected you to be on such a guest list. Not after that little tiff with Miss Pleasance and your fellows. Perhaps your being one of those addicts of the Bard has won pardon enough. I will not lie and say I saw old William about, but I might say I saw Marlowe, just as I might say they are in talks for a sequel to Doctor Faustus to make up for Goethe’s nauseating rendition…”

As the faceless guest hauled him out of the ballroom and into further phantasmagoric halls that coiled and sprawled like an architectural damask pattern, Jonathan’s eye fell upon the clutching hand. Over the silk glove’s ring finger was a wedding band of simple gold that now blazed Yellow. But on the forefinger was a signet ring with the letter W encrusted in ornamentation. As he recognized it, the recollection of the wetly rasping voice dawned on him.

“Lord Wotton?”

“I was, I am, I fear I shall be forever. But at least the fear is well-written here. None of that blubbering twaddle I get from my neighbors in the asylum. All their madness is terribly mediocre. The mere misfiring of this lobe or an overload of that chemical. The King, at least, lends some artistry to it. I only wish he would stop fussing with the Second Act and move on to a new work. We are a busy cast of props and each time he rewrites the scene, we must have another midnight unmasking. Which would not be so awful—there is the most marvelous conversation to be had and I have no qualms about an endless party—but no one has a mask they can spare. I arrived without one and so must always shed more of what’s above the neck. Even once I hit bone and brain and the jelly of eyes, unmask, unmask. Do you suppose I can still talk without a head? I’m sure I can, I shall. Gods know there was living proof enough in England that one might talk extensively without ownership of a brain. If anything, it only improves one’s standing in Parliament.”

Wotton laughed at that. A noise that pierced at the last ragged note.

“So I must assume. I don’t see myself holding the ears of anyone beyond the Lake of Hali or Purfleet’s medical swaddling anytime soon. How would I know what goes on in Parliament? That silly trinket of a youth…oh, what was it? Dorian? Dorian. He comes by now and then. He never talks of Parliament. Truly, he’s become such a dreary lad. But at least he wears despair prettier than I ever shall.”

“Wotton—,”

“Don’t let him read it, Mr. Harker. I get the feeling he may do something rash—there are more mirrors in his head than thoughts and more a parrot in his throat than his own words, so I fear he may pick the thing up just to follow after me. Ah, but he did warn me, didn’t he? And the silly boy believed me when I said I would not try again. Perhaps it is better to be a mirror than whatever I was before the play. Not a good thing. That is his rule about it, did you know?”

“Wotton, wait—,”

Up the stairs, past chambers that stared out over a land steeped in toxic hues of poison frog and stinging wasp. Dull sun and duller moon drifted in lazy orbits like searching vultures.

“Oh, the Wallpaper Women, they were mere refugees. Never touched a page but for that first girl locked in the room. She found it waiting under the floorboards for her. Wanted to be an actress, so it’s said, and she would even have taken Cassilda’s fate over her own mundane Purgatory. The book’s paper stained the wall’s paper and the way was opened for all the Cassildas and Camillas to follow. In another Earth, he even spared a girl from the suicide of the Pallid Mask. He even brought her pets back to life after her cad lover dumped them in it. Oh, he plagued an entire world, a warped reflection of our meager mud ball, and hunted the secret sinners in all their corners. Some sinned great and some sinned mild. But they were found and were damned with the evil stepsisters’ plight. They had birds eat their eyes and glass carve their feet for their domestic evils.

“But the tyrants, the traitors, the cowards, the cads, we are gathered here to play our bit parts. The justice of the fairy tale. The dramatic catharsis of the stage. It is why I can never stop talking. No matter what I have or haven’t to say.”

“Wotton.”

“Yes?”

They had come to a stop on a high corridor whose black marble shined with faces. Jonathan pressed his mask into Wotton’s empty hand.

“Keep it.”

“…Thank you. Now, the King is waiting. Supposedly to deliver a message, but I suspect he wants another pair of eyes to sear with a read-through. I shall leave you to it. And Mr. Harker?”

“Yes?”

Lord Henry Wotton, eternal attendee of the masquerade paused before hiding the raw meat of his face with the ivory. The naked eyes finally met Jonathan’s.

“Dorian did not tell you all that I said. I have no hope in that cell, you know. No more than I do here. But each time my mind flits back to that room, to Earth and flesh and the flicker-flints of sanity, it reminds me what is to become of me for good. A man on another Earth, Castaigne, his madness ate him to death. He told me so as he wept and groveled in a crown he made of bone and silverware. I know what my ending is, but the sane spells…those are wretched. They grow briefer and briefer and the relief of them is torture, for I know how soon I will be back here to unmask again. I told Dorian then, I tell you now. See me dead back there, if you can. Tap Dr. Seward and his lancet for it. Godalming or the American if you must absolutely scrape the bottom of the barrel. But…

“But I would feel more relieved if it was you. Finality seems more in your purview. Anyway.” He tied on the mask. “It is nearly midnight. I must be off.”

He disappeared down the stairwell just as an ornate door of gold and black stone swung silently open. Jonathan stepped inside. The first thing he heard was the sound of keys click-hammering away with a speed that rivalled his memory of Mina’s whirlwind typing. It was not the sound of a typewriter, however. The noise was a far gentler tap-tap-tap with no slide and snap as the finished sheet spat its way out of the device. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pause. Click. Click. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Click. Tap-tap.

“In here, Mr. Harker. Or do you prefer Jonathan?”

Jonathan followed the voice—a man’s, mellow but focused—through a looming wilderness of books and bound manuscripts and shelves that reached up into a lightless ceiling so high it might have melted up into a night sky. He found his way through by following an ochre glow whose source rested in an illumination veined through the walls of what seemed to be a decadent designer’s iteration of a writer’s cluttered office.

The King in Yellow sat bent at a desk, the wisps of his fingers flying over the low flat keys of some wafer-thin creation of crystal lens and golden frame. Words grew into paragraphs on a never-ending scroll within the glass as a strange ornate box to the desk’s side opened its mouth on a hinge and grew what looked like a book page by page within its patient cover-to-be.

“I can go by Hastur if you like. Or Ambrose. Sometimes I’m even a Charlotte. I’m only a Howard when I’m feeling particularly gruesome. I’ll not wheedle you for a Your Tattered Majesty or suchlike. Henry cannot help himself with his bitter-edged flattery and flattering bitterness. It’s taken him nearly a hundred years to get around to developing a sincere thought. Quite proud of him, honestly. Thought it would take at least two centuries minimum. Coffee?”

Jonathan noticed for the first time that he did smell caffeine cutting through the air. The only blend he’d ever tried was one that Quincey had insisted was the most palatable out of all the, ‘downright depressing,’ offerings London had in supply at any café or shop, apparently paling compared to the cups he had ground himself back in Texas. He followed his nose to a petite but handsome machine with a crystal pitcher full of coffee whose scent was nearly perfume in how it prickled. As he watched, the King in Yellow willed it to pour into a weathered mug, followed by a dollop of pearlescent cream and a sprinkle of white powder—

“Not that nutcase Pan’s dust, I assure you. Even if it didn’t give me transfiguring indigestion, it doesn’t even have the excuse of a decent flavor. That was just a pinch of sweetener. Jar’s by the machine.” The mug drifted to the waiting palm of a spidery over-knuckled hand. From there, a gnarled slit opened in the ivory horror of the King’s face and nursed the brown brew. “Ah. Should have added caramel. But I save that for after I finish a chapter. Take a seat, take a seat.”

Warily, Jonathan found a clear space on a nearby couch. He sat amid more books, more papers. On the nearest sheet:

'Good stranger,' I continued, 'I am ill and lost. Direct me, I beseech you, to Carcosa.'

The man broke into a barbarous chant in an unknown tongue, passing on and away.

An owl on the branch of a decayed tree hooted dismally and was answered by another in the distance. Looking upward, I saw through a sudden rift in the clouds Aldebaran and the Hyades! In all this there was a hint of night -- the lynx, the man with the torch, the owl. Yet I saw -- I saw even the stars in absence of the darkness. I saw, but was apparently not seen nor heard. Under what awful spell did I exist?

I seated myself at the root of a great tree, seriously to consider what it were best to do. That I was mad I could no longer doubt, yet recognized a ground of doubt in the conviction. Of fever I had no trace. I had, withal, a sense of exhilaration and vigor altogether unknown to me -- a feeling of mental and physical exaltation. My senses seemed all alert; I could feel the air as a ponderous substance; I could hear the silence.

A great root of the giant tree against whose trunk I leaned as I sat held enclosed in its grasp a slab of stone, a part of which protruded into a recess formed by another root. The stone was thus partly protected from the weather, though greatly decomposed. Its edges were worn round, its corners eaten away, its surface deeply furrowed and scaled. Glittering particles of mica were visible in the earth about it-vestiges of its decomposition. This stone had apparently marked the grave out of which the tree had sprung ages ago. The tree's exacting roots had robbed the grave and made the stone a prisoner.

A sudden wind pushed some dry leaves and twigs from the uppermost face of the stone; I saw the low-relief letters of an inscription and bent to read it. God in heaven! my name in full! -- the date of my birth! -- the date of my death!

“An early draft, but one of my better ones, I think. Working on something a little riskier for the next world. Grim and sweet at once. A bit of detective theme, a good dose of eldritch horror, but with less of that suffocating purple prose. A bit more wit, more soul. Arthur seems a good name. Arthur and John. What do you think?”

“I think I’m quite confused,” Jonathan admitted. “And I will have to pass on the coffee. The dead don’t drink. At least I haven’t yet and it’s been…” He tried to think. To count. “I really cannot say how many years.”

“Ha. ‘The dead don’t drink,’ he says. Amazing you can say so with a straight face when your entire origin story centered around some terribly thirsty corpses. Even the lack of, quote, ‘true,’ corporeality is no reason to cut yourself off. What do you think the folks of the Elysian Fields are doing with those ambrosial gardens? The heavens, the nirvanas, the realms of fantasy and reward unending, all have made accommodations for the act of consumption. It is one of the delights of life and, being a delight, it is not barred from a soul unpinned from its world. And while this is no such paradise, the act of percolating a drink the dead can imbibe is less than child’s play.” The King’s voice dropped to a stage whisper, “Nyarlathotep does so love to peacock about how he’s one of the older kids, how he’s Azathoth’s favorite, the Messenger and Soul of the Gods, the Crawling Chaos, and so forth.

“He is all those things, sure. But he’s also, if you will pardon the jargon of the future, full of shit.” The King took a sip. “There’s tea as well, if you prefer…Mr. Harker? Or Jonathan?”

“Jonathan.”

He moved to get up for a cup, but the King’s hand went click, a new crystal scroll appeared in the lens, the keys tap-tap-tapped and Jonathan was suddenly holding his favorite cup from the cabinet he and Mina had brought from their little apartment to the house Peter Hawkins had left them. Scuffed and shabby, but theirs, like all the cups and plates they had found in secondhand shops together. It was even the blend Mina made for them on Sundays. Holding its heat, smelling the leaves, brought hot needles back to eyes and heart in a way he hadn’t felt in—

Minutes. Years. Lifetimes.

—so, so long.

“I feel I am becoming static. I keep asking the same questions, but I must ask again, just in case an answer happens. What is this? All of this?”

“Yes, you have asked before. It’s a lucid thing to do. Not many of the dead, the dreaming, and the in-between will bother with it. The mind sleeks itself down to fit the logic of the domain. The only whats and hows and whys that occur to them are in reaction to the stimuli of their narrative. None of your existential pinhole-poking. The Messenger can get away with tapdancing around honest answers because he is, you will have noticed, an immensely overpowered snot. Which does track with him being one of the most humanoid of his crowd. He’ll call it ‘dumbing himself down’ for the Earthly brain. Meanwhile the most intelligent conversation he’s had in the past five millennia has been listening to Kadath’s Dream Gods chatting about their vacation to hallucinatorily pretty faux New England. Even the shoggoths have more on the brain than the rest of the geriatric pantheon. They think like fungi and only really get somewhere interesting when they playact like the mortals.”

Another sip. Tap-tap-tap-tap…

One hand typed all the while as the King said, “Which is all very fascinating in the abstract, but not the answer to your questions. The trouble is, I cannot be too blatant. That would ruin what’s coming and it hardly needs any help. Already this plot you’ve been punted into is haphazard and frayed and, frankly, borderline amateurish. There’s a reason Old Crawly did not orchestrate Randolph’s little dream quest in the next reality over so much as watch him putter along at random to Kadath before doing the divine equivalent of tying his shoelaces together to see if he’d trip and fall into unending terror and lunacy at the heart of Azathoth. But then Mr. Carter went and woke up. Prank foiled.

“Sadly, it’s not so simple for you. Being dead isn’t even the worst of it. He actually has something of a plan for you. Nothing so grandiose and clogged with a nesting doll of wiles and prophecy so much as seeing an opportunity to run with. One he has been running with since he filled you with his poison. He’s been having fun with it. With you. With the game of keep-away. But soon he will come down to the climax; that is, turning the game fully to a con. When that time comes, you must keep certain things in mind. Take note.”

The King in Yellow held up one wispy digit after the other, ticking points off.

“One, it feels like ages since it mattered, but recall you are a solicitor by trade. Fine print and property law will remain bafflingly pertinent even now, for he will try to get you to sign. It is his only way to give his claim legitimacy.

“Two, the messages you assumed you could not deliver, you can. Not only by death, and not only by whispering through the Dreamlands. Do not forget—ignorance was and remains your worst enemy. You could have slain Dracula in his castle if you had known all the factors; your instincts and your God nearly got you there, but for the trick of the basilisk stare and the swarming minions. What you believe is possible is your limit. Discover what lies beyond those assumptions, and far more doors will open to you.

“Three, your God is not of Abraham. Nor of Alhazred. While there is fair claim for a custody battle with Eros, for your tithes are many to Love, even that is not your God. They have blessed you many times and you have done your duty by them in due fashion. That you are as you are now is testing their patience down to its last infinitesimal thread. Which the Messenger knows.

“Four, and this is most vital—,”

A cool fingerless grip locked around Jonathan’s throat and hauled him backward in a strangled tumble. Couch and Carcosa, cup and King disappeared as he was hooked through and away to a place that had existed on many Earths and none—one of several lies made to Euclidean space.

Jonathan fell in a sprawl upon sand that lurched and lived against its will under frantic constellations. When he looked up, he saw a black pyramid whose blocks were carved from cosmic abyss. It scarcely held his attention. Not compared to the shape that trundled on its spiny legs and turned his mind over in the teeth of its three-lobed eye like a child gnawing a candy.

“I do hope you did not take him seriously. He was meant to tell you something important, not improvise some piddling addition to his script.” Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, sighed and half the stars guttered like candles. “There is simply no trusting a writer.”

In the headquarters of the League, Jonathan Harker’s corpse was arranged on a table beneath a lamp. His snowy head rested on a pillow rather than a block, the eyes and mouth examined cautiously. Robert Holt’s description of the men who arrived prior, only one of whom remained by dint of being dead, was worrisome.

“I couldn’t tell how many men were with Lord Brighton,” he did not catch how both Dr. Jekyll and Griffin bristled at the name, “one man or two. I thought I must have imagined the third.” He described the third man as he’d seemed before he’d been mistaken for a shadow. Mina had to fight not to scream or be sick. Art dropped into his chair as if punched. Quincey let Jack grip his hand with his own trembling fingers until he ached. Van Helsing looked miserably to the ceiling and began whispering as many curses as prayers in every language he knew.

This, in conjunction with Jekyll and Griffin’s murmured suspicions of Brighton, or ‘Q,’ as the supposed alias was—the stuff of barroom twaddle and urban legend that higher circles would not quite dare to breathe aloud where the high-class walls had ears—made many more hearts freeze. And then there was the newspaper, marked by Jonathan’s pen. The dead Professor Derleth, Miskatonic University, one of the few known homes of a copy of the Necronomicon.

“But why would anyone want to bring the Count back? If they knew why he was slain, what he was…”

“Lord Brighton was half dust last time he was seen in public,” Dorian croaked from his corner. “Even Henry avoided the man. Said he felt too much like Brighton was daydreaming of ways to siphon the life out of him like one might suck the juice from an orange.”

“If not a vampire, then he was certainly a man who wished to be,” Holmes said half to the room and half to the air. His hawkish gaze had yet to move from Jonathan Harker’s head. “However he found out about Dracula, it perhaps more inspired than worried him. Money can only comfort so long before the Ferryman comes to call and he needs but the cheapest fare to do his job. Mere tuppence. But assuming Brighton was successful in bringing the Count back, it would explain nothing of what was found in the office. Or not found. No Lord Brighton. No Necronomicon.”

“But plus a dead henchman with not a mark on his neck and—and Jonathan with,” Jack’s gorge rose, rose, balanced at the back of his throat, “with the wrong kind of mark.”

“It is true,” Van Helsing said in a dead tone that fought to be doctorial. “Dracula, even being animal-crude, he did not leave a bite so strange upon the neck, only little spots such as a pinprick leaves. These punctures too are small, but far, far too many. It looks to my eye like the leech or his cousin the lamprey took their drink.”

“A nested mouth. Yes.” Holmes gnawed and puffed at his pipe. “Mr. Morris, you say there were such maws to be found lurking in your adventure in Louisiana?”

“I did. There were. Though I wouldn’t call those lot vampires. Not undead, just folks with the same condition as those poor Innsmouth locals. They couldn’t have done that,” he said softly in the table’s direction. “They need the water. I’m more curious about the black stain on his tongue.” In his chair, Holmes straightened up an inch. Only Watson and Irene noticed. “Supposing he—supposing something made him…” He floundered a moment.

“Supposing this third man, Dracula or not, did to him what was done to me? The exchange of blood?” Mina’s voice cut the air like a knife. It barely raised. It was barely a voice at all. Which made sense, she supposed. She did not feel she was entirely in the room at present. Too much of her mind had fled howling from the tangible world as her mind tried, in its constant habit, to search for Jonathan’s presence. Not here, naturally. Not in that dead flesh. Not on Earth. Out, away, beyond. But there were so many directions. So much wilderness of other planes to hunt.

No. She would not find him.

No. She would not stop.

“Mina, perhaps you shouldn’t be—,”

“You fear him getting up as much as staying on the slab, don’t you? You fear worse than that, supposing this Dracula was not Dracula at all.” All watched as her hand folded into the limp digits of her husband’s. Fresh tears threatened as she realized it was not cold, but merely the temperature of the room. Tepid. “The Necronomicon does have a nasty habit of bearing especially horrendous fruit.”

“Mina—,”

“You will not put a stake in his heart. Nor will you sever him.”

“No one is suggesting…” but Watson went silent as Holmes laid a hand on his arm. In the same moment the doctor caught the many gazes that dropped and darted. “It is too soon to consider such measures, is it not? We’ve yet to even examine him in full.”

“It can certainly be no worse than the Leicester case,” Jekyll said through a shudder. “Nor that of Ms. Vaughn. But Morris is right. That black stain is too much a tell. Perhaps some manner of poison?”

“No,” Irene hummed from where she’d been pacing. She had unearthed a folder that had turned bloated with research. The label K.i.Y. and adjacent was scratched at its top. “Not poison. Anything good enough to masquerade as Dracula, and keep Jonathan in his chair without getting the blade out, and got their teeth into him? That’s too much power to bother with something so mundane as poison. Whatever it had him choke down, it was meant to do something more creative than murder.”

“What of the dead man on the rug, then?” Robert Holt croaked. He was on his third tumbler and not a drop had served to dent the wretchedness in his head or his eyes. “Joseph Davies. He was a bit green at his edges when I saw him go in, but nothing suggested he wasn’t hale as a horse. This thing playing Dracula, did it not do the same to him?”

“No, Mr. Holt. There was no fit for Jonathan, no foaming. Different methods were applied for each man. Davies was a mere afterthought. I would wager even Lord Brighton was but a means to an end. This entity, our Dracula-in-potentia—he wanted Jonathan for something.” Irene looked aside at the man on the table and the woman holding his hand. Her voice softened. “But then left him behind.”

“No. No, that isn’t it.” Mina’s throat strained. “There’s nothing here. That is the strangest thing in this. If this were some elaborate way of providing a-a host for some demon or monstrous progeny, an eldritch infection or the like, that would make more sense. I’d know if there was something else in here.” Her thumb rubbed the weathered gold of his wedding band. “Some usurping force or other. I’d know if he was stuck somewhere inside. But there’s really, truly nothing. It’s as if—as if he were shoved out of himself and the space he left behind was filled up with plaster. No possession. Just a blockade.” She brought the lukewarm hand up to her lips. “It does not even feel like a death. More like—like a crude joke. O-Or a robbery. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Her voice hitched until it cracked. A sound like glass splintering.

“I am so tired. So, so tired of this same joke, over and over. He cannot be stolen from me again. Not again. Not like this.”

Quiet thickened for a long spell. In it, Holmes still did not look away from Jonathan Harker’s head. Finally, he took himself fully to the table and stared down at the pale young man’s mouth. He scrutinized it as if it were some living culprit. Or else sheltering it.

“Sherlock?” from Irene. “What is it?”

“The stain. It’s wrong.”

“Wrong..?” from Watson.

“It hadn’t occurred to me until you mentioned it, Mr. Morris. You said, ‘the black stain on his tongue.’ You only saw him as he was brought in, as most everyone here did. Looking at him now,” the whole room bristled as he pulled on his leather gloves and pried the jaws open, “yes, his tongue is stained. But only his tongue.” His line of sight moved to first Robert, then Mina. “Which is wrong.”

For a moment, both wondered at him. But they looked again at Jonathan’s face, frozen in dread as it was. It was hard work tearing their eyes away from his, but when they did, they peered as one at his mouth. Revelation sliced through heart and stomach at once.

“Oh, God. It changed,” Robert spoke so low he barely heard himself.

“What? What has changed?” came the murmur from the room at large.

“The stain,” Mina breathed, her hand now quivering around the corpse’s. “It isn’t what it was when I first saw it. Robert?”

“It changed,” he repeated. “It’s nowhere near what it was when I got the door open.”

“I’m not following,” Jekyll put in, frowning over the dead man more closely.

“Likewise,” from Griffin.

“Only the tongue is stained now,” Holmes said. This time his eyes fell solely on Robert. “But what did he look like when you found him, Mr. Holt?”

“It was a mess,” Robert said, now outright gawping at Jonathan’s clean face. “A great oily spatter across his mouth and chin. Some had even dripped down his neck.”

“And you, Mina? You got there before I or Lestrade’s men reached the spot.”

“His lips. Just his lips, teeth, and tongue were blackened.” Mina swallowed around a hot pain. “I remember thinking it looked like the stain a child gets after sucking on some colorful sweet.”

“Indeed. And now all that is left is the blotch on his tongue.” Holmes’ eyes seemed to flash as he pulled the jaw open wider. “There is not even a drop left upon the gums. This mess has been draining so steadily, so stealthily, that it was almost imperceptible that it was retreating into him at all. Hiding away and hoping no grieving witness would take note. This stuff,” he said, glowering at the blackness in Jonathan Harker’s throat, “is an accomplice in and of itself. Alive enough to work on behalf of the initial attacker. If we can get it out…”

But there was already a small legion of doctors rushing the cabinets. Jack fished out a surgical hook with a long black handle. Aiming it handle side down, he positioned himself opposite Holmes. Holmes was just as hastily shouldered aside by Watson, his own gloved hands taking up the task of holding the mouth open.

“Keep him steady,” Jack said without looking up.

“Go on,” Watson nodded.

The handle descended toward the uvula. Yet before it could even graze the throat, Mina’s head snapped up. Her line of sight faced the western wall. Toward the library.

“Mina? What is it?”

“There’s something—,”

But her words were lost in the sound of the crash. And the laughter.

Back in the ink-dark desert, the Crawling Chaos was doing his best to turn Jonathan Harker’s soul inside out and into exciting new shapes. The god had insisted as best he could over the man’s screams that it was really Hastur who should be blamed. Guile was always the greater thrill than brute force. Not that it took an iota of force to play with Jonathan as he was now. Just a little light incentive for him to disregard the King in Yellow’s poor advice and take a wiser course once he allowed Mr. Harker to have eyes and hands and the ability to use them properly.

“True, I do not have the cloven hooves on or the guise of a Franciscan friar, but the Book of Azathoth can be signed with or without pageantry. I granted Gilman a little trans-dimensional tour and all it got anyone for their trouble was a sore throat for Keziah and a hearty meal for Brown Jenkin. Decent playthings all. But this?”

Nyarlathotep tweezed the kukri from its sheath, the metal’s shine still warped into an ugly iridescence with the polish of his veins. He ran it through Jonathan Harker’s stomach for the first cry. Twisted it for the second. Then stuck him to one of the enormous building blocks of the pyramid like a beetle. Jonathan willed his hands to be hands again, willed them to pull at the handle with the struggling fibers of his strength, but the blade would not move. It was not his.

“This is an investment. One I would have been so happy to lay out in pleasanter terms. But the King has gone and soured any words a Pharaoh might have offered. I felt your suspicious little wheels turning and smoking up here.”

Jonathan howled again as the ichor fired its roots up and into the phantom bowl of his skull, filling his mind with knives and salt.

“Yes, I am upset as well. But if nothing else, the Count’s treatment proved how precarious it is to let the game of cordiality play past pretense. You were a slippery thing when given a moment’s chance upon the corporeal Earth. I’ve no doubt you would have wriggled away from even my grasp, given the chance. It is one of three things you do so well, Jonathan Harker. Escape. Persuade. Pursue. All in service to some Good beyond yourself. It is a most admirable disposition and better still for your actually having the skill to make it matter. But to the point.”

The giant and its distended sin of anatomy disappeared. The Pharaoh now perched airily upon the block below the one Jonathan dangled from. Prismatic robes billowed like wings from him and the obscenities of his eyes stood out all the brighter in the handsome face. Again he held the strange book he had cradled at R’lyeh, along with its calcified pen. He flipped idly through the pages until he came upon a section of paper darker than the rest. Veins pulsed in each heavy sheet. The names upon them were few compared to the thick portion before it. Those contained generations of multiple eras on multiple worlds in multiple dimensions. The one the Pharaoh held up for Jonathan to see already had his name in it, though not printed in his hand.

All the names in all the languages he could and could not fathom above it had been written in that style—it was only the phrase beside each that had any variety. They belonged to the owners of the names.

“We are due to make things official. It is all well and good to collect grovelers and kissers of robes for their own sake, but it is quite another to gain someone for the retinue who is good for more than being a sentient bauble. And you, Mr. Harker, have performed splendidly throughout the interview.” At the word, Jonathan’s own donated ledger manifested in the air. Pages packed with itineraries and messages shared with myriad Powers, flipping through the years-that-were-not. It vanished just as neatly. “While I cannot offer you anything so low as a law firm, I shall give you something far more precious.

“You shall live again, Jonathan Harker. You will walk in your Earthly flesh, whole and unharmed—the token you swallowed has kept your husk preserved against all decay and destruction. So it always shall. More, you will be able to stroll through all worlds, all membranes of reality, without the trouble of projection or translocation. You will go as gods go, in service to what the gods require. You shall keep those Powers who paw at the Earth in a complacent state, lest they give in to tantrum at last and make a ruin of your planet. And, naturally, you will see her again. All your little skittering hive will be in reach once more. What messages you have gathered for them can be passed on before you pass out of their lives. Which will be best, given your situation. It is always a distressing time when an endless thing loves that which ends.

“Perhaps you could look up Ms. Vaughn the next time she reforms. I’m given to understand she’s one of Pan’s more charming spawn and you will be too durable to off yourself once she shows you what’s under the skin. Opportunities abound. But that’s all to come. First, you must sign beside your name. Three little lines. Iä Azathoth. Iä Nyarlathotep. Then, in whatever tongue you please…” The Pharaoh pried one of Jonathan’s shaking grips from the kukri’s handle and slipped the pen into it. “…I am as God’s hand. Though I should like you to be more than that in time. Hastur did not lie when he said I suffer from a dearth of good company.” Jonathan watched as the Pharaoh shifted to the Count. He wore his noble’s cloak rather than the London tailoring, his white hair flowed rather than the black, and his bloodless face turned back to the skeletal gauntness of that early thirst. “I am in hopes I shall see more of you in—,”

You will see nothing.

The thought came to Jonathan only after his fist had locked about the pen and driven it straight through the god’s borrowed red eye. The pupil bloomed at once into its three-lobed truth as new ichor poured and squirmed and glowered upon the pallid cheek. The god clicked his tongue.

“I see you need more time to consider the proper course. It hurts my heart to know it. A few of them, even.” The pen was plucked free as the vampiric maw began to grow. Too clear a view of the churning and pulsing of the god’s innards appeared in the gullet. “You shall roost in the chambers of the third one. A cozy niche beside a valve where you can think on your actions. We shall try this again in a century.”

But as the mouth yawned, the pyramid trembled. All the sands shook with it. The arid warmth that had filled the air now descended into a cutting cold. Overhead, the stars that had once guttered went out entirely. Yet Jonathan Harker could see.

See the god wearing the vampire frown.

See the healing wound of the eye suddenly blossom again, bleeding godly gore and gristle as a man might.

See the rot that turned the aristocratic hide to spongy decay.

See the silhouette of a hand big enough to balance a schooner on its thumb clamp around the side of the pyramid, followed by the head of its owner. A head crowned with a striped nemes, that reeked of flowers and spice and carrion. A head that belonged to a jackal. A head whose growl shivered the desert again. Jonathan had been hearing the black sand’s whispered wailing up until then—when the thunder of the growl ended, there was only silence. The god beside him reassembled his borrowed face enough to grouse.

“Ah,” said the Messenger, scratching at his decomposition with the fervor of one clawing away an eruption of acne. “You.”

“Me.”

“In my defense, you were hardly putting him to full use andrrggghhl,” as he spoke, Dracula’s throat split and his chest dribbled. Even his forehead split and oozed. Necrosis and ash ate through him. The god balanced his dying head on his shoulders and sighed wetly.

“What was that? I cannot hear you over the sound of your chicanery.”

The god wearing Anubis snapped his fingers. It produced both a thunderclap and Jonathan Harker, still impaled, dropped into his palm. He froze as Anubis pinched the kukri from out of his middle. Cold flooded into the wound as Nyarlathotep’s intrusion bled out, freezing, hissing, and flaking away on the frigid wind. Even the grim shine of the kukri shrilled and shuddered away, the ichor fleeing its metal host like condensation. Anubis shook the grimy frost loose and willed it to its home in Jonathan’s sheath.

“It is trouble enough to clean up the mess you and yours leave in play. I draw the line at poaching.”

“Borrowing,” said the Pharaoh. The Count had rotted off of him, though he still had to pick at remaining viscera. “Expanding his prospects, as it were. Opening the door to more creative endeavors than you and your sickles.”

“By robbing him, pantomiming the role of his patron, and cheating him out of his earned eternity. By trying to cheat me. Had you already gotten to the drivel about how very ancient and endless and Before and After the Outer Gods and their descendants are? Or were you saving that for the honeymoon?”

“We are the Before and the After and Existence itself,” Nyarlathotep intoned. “Unlike you. Even Death may die. This you know.”

“Yes, you slithering ponce, of course I do. I’ve been doing the metaphysic equivalent of changing you and yours’ nappies since the first time Azathoth had a fit. You cannot fathom the mess there would be without an End to go with your destructions and disfigurements. And that's not even counting the Cataclysms you are all too far up your own cosmic crevasses to have been aware of in this and neighboring Existences. Ones where you do exist and ones where you—bliss of blisses—do not. At least not as anything more than paper. If it were not for the logistical wreckage to follow, I would scrap this entire universe for the relief of not picking up after you.”

“As if you could.”

The jackal lips leered.

“As if I haven’t. You do love the confidence of thinking yourself forever, don’t you, Crawling Chaos? Out of them all, I think you are the most able to be satisfied at yourself. Creeping through neighbor realities, practicing your pranks on mirrored worlds across time and space. Earth is always a favorite, blithe little blue marble that it is. On his, that world’s Hildred Castaigne and his compatriots from a quaint cult in America are about to make a fine mess; one I’ve no doubt you planned to keep him from until the revelation came too late. Always a fine tactic, that—remove all ties but yours. But you conspired for this with the same ignorance you conspire everything.

“The ignorance of one who mistakes himself for singular. Unique. Irreplaceable and infinite. You, Soul of the Gods, are so thick you even believe Pan and Hastur are younger than you. Than Azathoth. Than me, as I exist in this script. All because you are too proud to read all that is written. It’s not all invention, you know. Some is merely taking dictation. You have not even crossed paths with the Messenger whose Tablets lay in wait for Mark Ebor. Do ask the King in Yellow for his shelf marked ‘Blackwood’ if you feel especially daring. Use the Black Seal of Ixaxar to read what the Peoples Below have written of history before Earth grew around them.

“Or throw yourself in Leng and putrefy awhile. I do not much care. But whatever you do, past, present, and future, in all the realities you can and cannot fathom? Know that the next time you try to pickpocket what is mine, I will eat through a thousand of your faces and as many of your toy-worlds. Know that I will whisper a secret from Hastur’s drafts that will kill your delusions with the march of a starving maggot and leave you hiding and soiling yourself in your tendrils with all your precious pretensions Ended without hope of resurrection. Know that for all the deaths and undeaths and deaths-that-die by your tinkering, eternity does not exist. I will be there, waiting. Beyond the last of the scripts. The last apokálypsis. The End. Know that, Nyarlathotep. And know one thing more, above all else.”

Jonathan Harker watched as Anubis unfolded into something else. Something no human hand or eye or word could ever fully illustrate, no matter how many ages and god-faces they had tried to sketch it with.

Yes, it was Anubis. It was also Osiris. It was Yama and Shiva, Hel and Níðhöggr, Thanatos and Charon, Ereshkigal and Nergal, Māra and Morana, Arawn and Morrígan, and a hundred more besides.

It was the Death as greater-than-dreamt, greater-than-feared, greater-than-prayed by every world known, unknown, unborn, undead within the slim infinity of a single multiverse.

It was cold.

It was the End.

“DEATH MAY DIE. BUT I AM NEVER CHEATED.”

The toll of the voice was too much. Oblivion came. Jonathan Harker went.

Gone to rest.

“Sorry, son. I would let you drowse until the sun burns out if I did not think you’d hate yourself for it after. Even with such elastic time as we have here, even if I told you there was more than enough to make the save, you would hate yourself for dallying. Alive or dead, you grudge yourself any time to rest.”

Jonathan swam up to the voice with a spasm. Papers flew, books toppled, a pen clattered away. A hand padded with age and calluses settled on his shoulder. Cold, familiar. Good.

“Easy. No exams here. Nor any godly grunt work. That was what he was after you for, you know. He wanted all the play on Earth for himself while you took the errands. Doubt if he’ll admit it anytime this millennium, but you did a fairer job of it than he would have. You are a more than worthy worker, lad. I’m sure you’ve heard so before and ignored it—but don’t deny it now.”

Jonathan looked up and knew at once that he was not seeing or hearing the true Peter Hawkins. No more than he was sitting at his old clerk’s desk outside the man’s office with the late spring light turning the afternoon air to amber and gold. It did not stop his tears.

“He—it—y-you said someone named Castaigne was coming after the League? Wotton said he was in the ballroom…” Hawkins-who-wasn’t waved his hand at that.

“Same and different. The madman in the King’s masquerade was plotting fratricide long before the play got to him, and he did that plotting in an America that does not exist in your Earth. Pray it never does. The Castaigne at the League’s doorstep is another Hildred—your Hildred—and he has made friends with some misled admirers of the drowsy fellow in the ocean. The one who gave you that first Earthly memo to deliver, you’ll recall.” A fond exasperation came into the lined face; the look Jonathan had been met with a dozen times in as many days when Hawkins had caught him working and studying on half a night’s sleep. “I shall save you the pleading. We’ve been done with that since you cracked the old leech upside the head with a spade. I do not much like a cheater, nor do I abide by the ruin they leave behind them. Death shall die for you yet, son. Only walk with me on your way back. We’ve a shortcut.”

Jonathan took the hand that was Hawkins’ and staggered up from the desk. He followed the old man out the door and into—well. There were not words enough for the place any more than its Owner. But it was the place of After. The place of Endings and Beginnings. Crossroads and Crossrivers. Jonathan could not help his stare and was grateful for the first time in ages that he need not blink.

“Is he here somewhere? The real Peter Hawkins?”

“Him. Lucy. Some sailors. A fresh and frantic Transylvanian sent here by the poor mercy of a bullet; he would have a message for you too, regarding his men left to the wolves and the wild. Nyarlathotep bled them, but like the deplorable Mr. Davies, he never finishes his work in full. Those he ‘kills’ he obstructs. Locks them inside their own rot to make the suffering last even down into dust. Or at least until I or some volunteer come along with charity in hand. In your case, he did the reverse. Locked you out of the house and dragged you off before I could catch up to you. A natural death, your rightful death, that’d snap you straight to one of my faces and places. But not his work. Damned cheat.”

They were passing out of Death and into Dream. Jonathan felt the change like a shift in weather even before the scenery altered. Paranoia blossomed.

“We can skip this part if you like. Leave Q to go on suffering karma’s overdue quid pro quo for another hundred and nine years. Ellison could wring gallons of inspiration from this particular crevice of horror, but the short story will get to the point neatly enough. Ah, disregard the steel pillar. That’s for another Earth that even the Elder Things won’t touch.”

Jonathan began to read the flaring writing on the steel—

(HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I’VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE.)

—and swiftly ducked his head. The steel, which, of course, was not just steel, glared after him as he went, sullen at his flesh-free form. Jonathan had no meat or bone to play with and so the thing of Hate merely thought sulking sadism after him.

They came upon something worse, if only for how much pity it inspired. That and repulsion.

“Lord Brighton is quite alive and quite aware. He can be nothing else. The immortality of an especially durable and despairing jellyfish. And because he was made so whilst still holding a certain ancient volume of ill repute in his hands, it never left the things those hands became. You see?”

Jonathan saw. Regrettably. The Necronomicon was grafted into the gelatin of the semi-fluid limbs. What might have been Lord Brighton’s face bubbled and moaned at them. An attempt to run ended only in a shuffle and splatter against the metal floor. A splatter that lived and lived and lived.

“You have Death in you, Jonathan. True Death. The deal we made was not in words, but in oath. In exchange. Even your vow to Mina was a half-made thing beside it. If she had turned, you would have shielded her. Been turned. Subjected yourself to whatever Hell she was slated for—and whatever slaying your friends might bring. Or else fallen upon your kukri. I have seen the Earths where this happened. I have been Godfather Death to you in so many lives, so many ends, so many starts. I confess that this you—here, now—is the one I have grown to admire most. You do not suffer villains. But you refuse to be callous to innocents, be they human or horror.

“You do not just cull. You protect. You help. You hunt. You love. And you do not cheat. The only trouble is that you also do not rest.”

“There was hardly room or time enough to rest,” Jonathan said, trying not to watch how Lord Brighton quivered himself upright. “You must know that. The League is inundated with strange new cases, threats that could swallow the world.”

“You have heard the messages of the gods. The ones you mean to pass on. You know something of the reality already—why the uncanny upsurge now? Why not ages ago, when man was weak and ignorant of all but Nature? The gods and monsters have not changed. They quibble more with each other than spare a glance for humanity. So. If they have not changed their habits, who has?”

Jonathan knew.

“Your habits need a change as well, for the record. Death is not just the cessation of life, after all. You can put an End to far more diverse things if you put your mind and my hand to it. And once you do, don’t go inventing new chores to soak up your time. Take a break before you break yourself, young man.” Peter Hawkins’ eyes burned hollowly. “Unless you want another out-of-body experience.”

“Ah…”

“Just a joke, son. You’ll get around to dying properly sooner or later. Everyone does. But know that my ears will be plugged and my door will be locked to any Harkers of any generation wheedling me about psychopompous work to do. In the meantime, soul form or not, I suggest you roll up your sleeves.”

Jonathan did. It scarcely helped with the Necronomicon’s retrieval. Touching the kukri served to freeze and flake away the residue from his hands. Whatever flickering blotches Lord Brighton had for eyes winked out as the steel swung down and cleaved an Ending through all the muck he had become. The steel beam of Hate sizzled so vivid a red that it colored their entire corner of Nightmare. Someplace near, a great clock tolled twelve in gothic chimes.

“And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all. Which is better than far too many alternatives. Now, steady with the blade. Shall I do it for you?”

“No,” Jonathan said, levelling the point carefully. “No, I can manage. Only, can you tell them…tell Hawkins, tell Lucy, my—my parents, tell the mother in the courtyard, tell them I—,”

“They know, son. The dead know all they need and all they want. And they know you’ll do fine. I’ll be seeing you. Though hopefully not too soon.”

With that, Jonathan Harker drove the kukri, clean and cold and full of Ending, through his chest.

In the League’s library, chaos reigned. It was Yellow and scaled, full of theatre and madness, and all the eldritch trimmings. A collaboration had formed, supposedly led by Hildred Castaigne, supposedly followed by the Cult of Cthulhu. The Yellow Sign waved, the carved figure was raised, and the snakeskin volume of The King in Yellow was in their grasp, freshly stolen from its keep. Now they demanded the Necronomicon. The dreams had led them; the mingling of prophecies that would unfold into the new world they and their gods would own once apocalypse came to pass. The League would turn the tome over, or they would detonate the explosives already planted around the building’s exterior. Enough to level the lot.

On discovering the League did not have said Necronomicon to give, there was as much scoffing as anger.

“They are fools all. Ignorant to their own prize. Bring out the Initiate! The Hand of the Messenger! We know he was taken to his rites this day!”

Before anyone could ask for clarification, their guests erupted in a joint thrill as both their demands entered the room.

Jonathan Harker walked in and the temperature dropped twenty degrees.

He held the Necronomicon in one hand. His kukri in the other. His mouth was a bitter line that wished to deliver its first message. This he gave to the nearest empty vase. Said message came in the form of a black and rotting bile, freshly evicted from his stomach and throat in a hideous stream. It smoked and gurgled and died in the vessel.

The League gaped. The cult seemed nonplussed. Castaigne seemed only to be searching for a token of the Yellow Sign to prove a connection with his own faction.

Jonathan delivered the next message.

“Your dreams are not a lie,” he said. “They are accidents. Cthulhu does exist. He does not care what you do in his honor. He will do you no favors either way. He will not even do you any fears, because he is not a herald. A day will come, billions of years from now, when we are all dust, that the sun will burn out on its own. The Earth will freeze. Cthulhu will rise. Only then will he fly out, rekindle that star, and begin growing a garden. Until then, all he wishes is to sleep. All the visions you think are his declarations are only his dreams. Not orders. Not promises. Just dreams.”

He looked to Hildred Castaigne who retreated another step in addition to the several he had already taken back.

“The King in Yellow, both the play and its playwright, operate in terms of story, theatre, and extremity. He does not spread the books. Publishing houses and rumor and the lure of old sins are all that move the play. No one is a character in it except in the madness it might inflict. You are not in its cast. You are a victim because you wished to make a victim of your brother out of deadly jealousy that existed long before you thumbed through the play. He is no prince of Carcosa, nor are you.”

He addressed the visitors as a whole.

“The otherworldly has always existed. Even before humanity wrote myths. Even before humanity existed. Certainly before Earth in any iteration. They have not changed. Humanity has. We have grown and we have spread, and there are too many of us who go looking for the divine and the profane only to intrude or bribe or bridle, hoping to profit from gods and monsters at the cost of others. You, and so many cousins to your thinking, are why supernatural menace has been on the rise. There is no prophecy to blame, no special alignment of planets and stars—just an army of gluttons and trespassers tramping through the uncanny looking for treasure.

“It must end.”

If not how the fellows in charge of the detonators—technological marvels operating by radio wave—were expecting. These had already been disarmed. He had scented the lethality-in-waiting planted around the stonework. It had taken barely a jog and a cut apiece to ruin the fine and fatal work.

It took even less to see to the interior. He made it simple.

“I would like for some of you to live. There’s no point in sharing a message with dead men. At least not when they can’t get back up and talk again. On the other hand, you all have murder crusted under your nails. Innocent lives sacrificed to appease gods who never wanted or asked for your worship. Their dreams are ones of horror, so you assumed horror would win their good graces and boons. So, here is what will happen. You are all going to leave. In that, you have an option. You can leave by way of the police. Trials will happen. Cells will follow. Your compatriots may receive what intel I have given, or you may sit and stew on it, or you may just head to the gallows and be done with wondering.

“Or,” the bitter line of his mouth curled into an even worse smile. It had the curve of a scythe. “A special treat. A new trick I learned in crossing back here. How would you like to meet your idols in person? I can get you to them. It’s such a short walk. The only trouble is, again, worshipper or no, they will have no inclination to treat you any different from the rest of the mortal mites. But you can meet them. Right now.”

Jonathan pointed back to the lightless hall from whence he’d come with the edge of the kukri blade. It seemed darker beyond that threshold even as they looked. Cold leaked from it. The frigid breeze of Sheol. The endless night over the Styx.

“However you go, wherever you go, one thing is to be guaranteed. None of you are going to kill again. Not for a dream or a whim or a godly bribe. Because I will know. I will find you. And you will only get to die if I am feeling forgiving.”

The lamplight seemed to dim a shade. In that gloom, Jonathan Harker’s eyes became bright as fresh-struck obols.

“What will it be?”

The police found a band of fifteen intruders waiting bound and bug-eyed at what was known to the sort of circles who gossiped about such things as, ‘The Storyteller Club.’ The title was a public creation, so-named because of the endless outlandish rumors tied to the supposed members and their doings. It was a place known almost entirely for the stories people invented about it.

Some joked that it was nothing more than some toff’s little getaway from the manse to hang about with his friends away from prying staff’s eyes. Some said the place was clogged with secret codenames and nefarious-to-scandalous dealings. Some said it was some private theatre or other, if some of the more outlandish characters were even half-right in their description. Some said it was all royals inside, or all vagabonds, or all spies, or the highest of society that even Her Majesty wasn’t in-the-know enough to visit. But the most agreed upon ‘facts’ of the Storyteller Club were that strange things always tended to happen in its vicinity and that entry to the building was excruciatingly exclusive.

Gentry and nouveau riche alike had made their attempts—Out of curiosity! For a lark!—and been universally turned away practically at the door. Lestrade and his men, it seemed, had the rare honor of being allowed the foyer, if only to collect the fresh harvest of intruders, all of whom they would find with warrants for arrest on multiple murder charges overseas, now with such petty aims as would-be burglary and a failed bombing on their hands.

“Well, suppose that’s madmen for you, isn’t it, Holmes? How is, ah,” Lestrade had gestured awkwardly about his own head, “the young man who coughed up the poison?” Said poison was still clotted and smoldering in the vase. Two very unhappy policemen had triple-wrapped it in linen and spared some clean gauze to go over their mouths and noses. It was a mutual agreement that a scientist or two could have a peek at it before it would be unceremoniously ‘lost in a small fire.’

“Mr. Harker is doing much better now that he hasn’t been left in so poor a condition he could be taken for dead. Mrs. Harker feels much the same.”

It was quite some work getting husband and wife to unlock from each other long enough to answer any questions. Even then they would not unfasten enough to release one another’s hand.

“It was all quite bizarre, Inspector. As soon as the door was shut, Lord Brighton had his man aim his pistol between my eyes. Being that a knife is no match for a bullet, I stayed where I was while Lord Brighton talked. He kept saying something about how I knew his ‘secret name’ was Q and all this surreal talk of killing death and fealty to what I assume were gods he’d either invented or dug up in a history text. Somehow I had figured into his ideas as a sacrifice of some kind. He told me my options were to drink that awful swill or be shot dead. I drank and became as good as dead anyway. As to my neck?” He rubbed the scabbing wound unhappily. “I could not say. My mind quite shut down after swallowing the muck. Were there any strange animals found?”

“None but the bastard at your doorway and the lord who’s got away. Near as we can figure, Lord Brighton took a ‘no witnesses’ approach to whatever mad hobby he was playing out. Once the doctors finish analyzing what’s left of Mr. Davies—a fellow with his own proud resumé of bloody business—I’ll eat my hat if they don’t come up with a less artful toxin in his system. Seems you got the exclusive treatment and he got the bum’s rush. None of your workers saw anyone pass out the door either, so the hounds will be at work trying to trace the codger from your office window. No luck yet. Even these lot you corralled, they haven’t said word one about Brighton, though they’ve plenty of unholy chatter on their past arrest records.”

“Well,” Jonathan shrugged, “perhaps it’s a holiday for them. A fine day for sacrificing. There may be something about it in here.” His free hand settled unhappily on the cover of the Necronomicon. “Though I think it would be better for your sleep if you didn’t. It’s one rare volume we are sorry to have borrowed from Professor Derleth.”

“In hindsight,” Mina frowned, “perhaps it was that very thing that marked you, darling. We are collectors and scribblers of esoteric works here. Professor Derleth deigned to lend us this while he was on holiday. We were due to return it before he left, but now it seems…”

“Oh, hell,” Lestrade pinched at his nose and shook his head. “Has this whole circus been over some lunatic bookworms’ squabble while hunting down a collector’s edition?

“We really couldn’t say, Inspector. Only that this and a copy of The King in Yellow we had under lock and key was also targeted. We’ve never cracked the cover, thank goodness, so we cannot say if it’s a real edition or just a prop. But superstition and a rare find deserved a spot in our collection; if not our reading circulation. Somehow word must have gotten out.”

“Reading circulation?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Norton chimed in. “We’re something of a book club in here.”

“History hobbyists as well,” from Professor Van Helsing.

“Conservationists,” from Mr. Morris and the much-improved Mr. Holt.

“Sometimes,” Dr. Seward hummed, “they even let us doctors hide under words like, ‘debate’ and ‘discussion’ when we’re having a proper row.”

“A dialogue,” Dr. Jekyll corrected.

“I just come here when someone brings around a new pet,” Lord Godalming shrugged.

“They make an excellent resource, this lot,” Holmes hummed around his pipe. “If not for scholarly bric-a-brac, then for the blessed relief Watson and I can find away from the doldrums that pass between cases. Well. Until recently. It seems too many a rumor have run rampant about this place and we’ve been built up in the imagination as a site worth harassing with obscure pantheons. I suppose we’ll have some Maenads knocking at the door next.”

“Well, it’d go a fair way to help your lot’s case if they knew you were just a gaggle of academics shutting yourself in a box to natter over Dickinson and Darwin. God’s sake.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face a last time and seemed to wish his other hand held a stein. “Right. Mr. Harker? We’d appreciate your tagging along as proof to our mortician that you’re livelier than advertised. We’ll need to halt the march of your death certificate before it can reach newsprint.”

Both Harkers, and Holmes, and Watson, and damn near half the members of the Storyteller Club—soon to leak out to the public ear as, ha!, the Storybook Club—invited themselves along. Jonathan Harker proved himself to be sufficiently alive, but with insufficient circulation and, to judge by a half-second examination of his eyes, operating on incredibly insufficient sleep.

“I know. I would have worked myself to death eventually if I hadn’t been forced to drink myself there today. I mean to take a proper holiday after taking a very long nap. But before I go—,”

“I’m not the medical man to talk to about a prescription.”

“No, not that. I should like to see someone you have here. I was told I should take a second look at him to see if it might jog any memory from before,” he cleared his throat, “everything. If perhaps I or the others were being followed.”

Joseph Davies was on the slab waiting. The carving had already begun. Pieces examined in tandem with the bloody foam of the mouth. No matter how many times the eyelids were pulled shut, they fluttered open. Blind, they still saw. Dead, the man still pleaded.

The mortician curled his lip at the sight of him.

“I’ve mopped up more than a fair share of souls this bastard sent me. I hope they’re all lined up waiting to give back what he gave them in Hell.”

“He does deserve Hell.” Jonathan scarcely noticed how the mortician shivered beside him, gooseflesh and the hair on his nape standing out all at once. He laid a cool hand upon the table. Its cold spread from him to its cargo. “But not this one.”

The eyes saw no more. The dead man did not plead.

Later, the mortician would see two coins left behind on the slab.

Pennies.

Lord Henry Wotton had a new visitor shadowing Dorian Gray. Jonathan Harker was given leave to inspect the padded interior of the cell and he came to a stop near a high corner. There was a small, nearly imperceptible slit in the padding. From it, he worked a gorgeous, yet somehow unpleasant brooch of black gem and gold sigil. A Yellow Sign, even. He made a note to deposit it in the nearest graveyard.

“My, my. However did that get up there?”

“Wotton.”

“Harker. Is this when you evict me from the party? I am curious how you’ll manage with these witnesses and no dashing blade at your hip. I suppose you might do it with your hands.”

“Yes, with my hands.” So saying, Dorian, Jack, and a number of anxious attendants watched on as he laid an icy palm against Wotton’s brow. The air crisped as he pantomimed sliding off a masquerade disguise. “It’s not just the end of the party, Lord Wotton. The story is over, the curtain has fallen.” A strange light came and went in Jonathan’s eyes as he whispered, “The End.”

“Oh, but wouldn’t that be so neat? So easy? If you…if it would just…just end and…” Muscles twitched and ticked and loosened in his face, the default sardonic smile finally going lax. A glassy shine polished the bloodshot and half-jaundiced eyes. “Oh. Oh, God. He isn’t there. None of it is there.” The noise that followed could not be separated between laughter or sobbing. There would be time enough for him differentiate them once he was on the other side of the asylum walls. It goes without guessing that Wotton no longer frequented society circles afterward, nor did he have a cent to spare for theatrical endeavors.

It was said, however, that he made a sizable annual donation to the mysterious-to-mundane function of the Storybook, née, Storyteller Club.

“No,” he would be quoted sometime later. “I am not trying to bribe my way into their ranks. Rather, I am paying them to keep themselves and their work as far from myself and the public as possible.”

Transylvania saw another visit. A remote corner of old memories. Jonathan found the remains of every man that had been scattered by elements and animals with the ease of a bloodhound. These they buried, but not before Jonathan had laid a cold palm on each of them. The wind sounded like sighs.

In Wales, the people of Caermaen and the Grey Hills who had been fighting unsuccessfully to forestall the purchase and development of their verdant old acres and stones, found themselves with unexpected champions flocking from the same English corners that had wanted to tear the turf up and crowd more cities in. The emptied pockets of lords, doctors, world renowned professors, and a trio of volunteer solicitors who possessed all the wit and will of the Devil himself descended like locusts upon the would-be land barons and their shoddy contracts.

Before the season was out, the buyers were booted and the entire undeveloped terrain was cordoned off as a protected nature reserve, not to be encroached upon by any form of human expansion. A change that was made clear almost to the point of seeming excessive to the locals.

If only to reach the ears underground as well as above.

The night before they left, Jonathan Harker went to the wardrobe of his room at the inn, and found a surprise waiting. One he very cautiously, very quietly, invited his companions to see before they saw about removal. Jack Seward had to sit down for a long while. Van Helsing sat with him.

Dr. Arthur Raymond, amateur lobotomist to his adoptive daughter and innumerable other girls, source of the alchemical White Powder lacing spree in the Burbage chemical supplier chain, self-styled worshipper of Pan and his Peoples, and the man who had almost sliced a sliver of bone and brain out of Jack Seward’s skull to fill it with that same ancient drug as an experiment, was left beside Jonathan Harker’s shoes in the wardrobe. At least, the doctor above the neck.

His face was locked in a rictus of terror. It held in place especially well with the stone jar full of reconstituted White Powder jamming his jaw open until it broke. The eyes were no longer eyes so much as black-green pus. The language of Ixaxar, the Black Seal, was used to carve a red message across the man’s temple. The translation:

DOCTOR SAW THE GOD HE SHOWED TO MANY.

HE SEES FOREVER.

WORK DONE. NOISE GONE. GO DEEP NOW.

THANKS GIVEN TO PALE MAN OF DEATH.

DREAM GOOD.

The head was burned. The White Powder with it.

Soon the world quieted its supernal rumbles. The League collectively relaxed by several increments. The Nautilus even went back to deeper seas and discovered, improbably, that the sunken city they had visited had flickered out of existence once more, like the vapor of a dream. Notably, this was after Captain Nemo began a sea monstrous campaign against the fellows working to build the first oil drilling structure off the coast of California. A similar industrial endeavor was foiled by, just as absurd in the newspapers’ opinion, a horde of fish people dismantling the operation in the night.

Odd times abounded. But not as worrisomely odd as they had been.

Meanwhile, Jonathan Harker slept in for the first time since he woke from his drugged fog in the care of the nuns. He did so with relish. He did so with vigor. He did so with Mina Harker watching for the first sign of nightmare, of his breath gone too still, of anything and everything else that might try to shatter the vision of peace drooling into the pillow beside her. Nothing did. She watched him anyway.

It had been her longest running hobby since they first made the leap of settling into the same bed. Doubly so when the worst of Dracula’s menace was thrust on them. But the habit never went away even in tranquil hours. A silver-white curl fell over his face. She tucked it away behind his ear and then let her palm rest on his cheek. Cool, but not cold. How odd that it reassured her now. He had apologized to her for his condition in a dozen ways despite her insistence that it did not matter. His temperature only plummeted when he was ‘at work.’ He certainly thawed a great deal during play, as their holiday had illustrated on more than one night. Afternoon. Once or twice after tea.

“It’s another sign of you now,” she’d told him. “It proves you’re in there.”

He always found it hard to believe her. She always found it easy to prove. So it went. So it would go for as long as they could fight for it. Griffin had muttered in passing that he could no longer tell if Jonathan was the most or least lucky man alive. Even the ‘alive’ part seemed always to be in limbo.

The hand not on Jonathan’s cheek moved down to her stomach and she smiled.

I beg to differ, Dr. Griffin.

“Mina?” The voice fell dreamily out of him. His hand floated up to cover her own, sandwiching her warmth in his skin.

“I’m here.”

“Good. Good,” he murmured to the pillow. “Quin seer loosey…”

“What?” she laughed. “Jonathan, are you awake or not?”

“No.” He blinked at her and scrubbed his mouth clean. “Yes. I think. Sorry, I was talking with someone.”

He did do that on occasion now. Fell asleep and kept in some kind of action. Walking and talking. Sometimes they were only dreams. Sometimes the dreams were more. But even in sleep, the young man refused to be still. Even if he did rest.

“Who with?”

“Mutual friend. I’ve had my suspicions for a while, and I wanted to see if she might have inside information. She did.”

“What did she say?”

“She sends oceans of love and millions of kisses.” Jonathan laid her hand against his lips. “And she insists that our first choice for names should be Quincey or Lucy.”

Somewhere, someone writes a world. Another. A hundred. The faces in them are old and new and forever and fresh.

They are made of pencil and paper, button and screen.

They are heroes and villains and gods and monsters and character and friend and fiend and fantastic all over.

They will live.

They will die.

Death will die, now and then, and bring them back for another story, for better or worse.

But here and now—a now that can last as long we like, for time passes differently in the dream of our world—they are happy. They love and are loved. And all that is weird and wonderful awaits them.

-FIN-

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