Chapter Text
The world of the popular otome game: Mercurial Hearts, began as Mojang, the embodiment of an infinite, formless void.
From Mojang emerged the first primordial deities, who gradually shaped its universe and cosmos into the familiar order known to its players.
Grian, the Divine Architect and eternal foundation of all life, whose breath awakened the first living souls and whose will weaved the countless threads of existence into a thriving tapestry.
MinuteTech, the Keeper of Beginnings and Endings, sovereign of all that is born and all that must fade.
Within his boundless mind rests the sum of all knowledge, wisdom, memory, and fate, making him the eternal witness to every age.
Alongside them arose countless other gods and goddesses, each entrusted with a sacred dominion and purpose.
Some governed the stars and celestial heavens, others the seas, storms, dreams, death, and destiny itself.
Together they became the Pillars of Reality, divine beings whose power sustains the balance of Mercurial Hearts' universe.
Grian, the Divine Architect and Mother of the Spores, molded the land from the raw substance of creation.
With his hands he raised mountains, carved valleys, and spread fertile plains across the newborn world.
From his breath drifted the First Spores, sacred seeds of life that took root in stone, soil, and sea alike.
From these spores sprang the earliest forests, fungi, beasts, and mortal people, each carrying within them a fragment of Grian's creative essence.
Thus the world flourished, and life spread across every corner of existence beneath his watchful ubiquitous gaze.
When Grian divided the sacred land into three great fractions—Carcosa, Cindercrest, and the South—the first and greatest of these was Carcosa.
Carcosa grew into the strongest continent of the mortal world. Its vast cities, sprawling roads, and towering sanctuaries connected every corner, making it the center of commerce, politics, faith, and divine authority.
Yet Carcosa's prominence was not merely due to its size.
Beneath its soil and throughout its territories appeared an unusually high concentration of Trial Gates—ancient divine structures left behind during the earliest ages of creation.
These mysterious gateways were said to have formed where the powers of the primordial first intertwined, creating tears between the mortal world and higher planes of existence.
Those who survived their trials could obtain sacred relics, divine blessings, forgotten knowledge, and most important of all: magic and power.
Recognizing their immense value, the rulers of Carcosa swiftly claimed dominion over the gates. Over centuries the kingdom established an absolute monopoly over nearly every known Trial Gate in it. This monopoly transformed Carcosa into the most powerful nation in existence.
At the pinnacle of this powerful kingdom sits MinuteTech, God of Beginnings and Ends, holder of knowledge.
Though he rarely intervenes directly in mortal affairs, MinuteTech is recognized as the eternal sovereign of Carcosa.
From his realm, he watches the flow of history and records every event that transpires beneath the heavens.
Assisting him are the Handmaidens of Fate, a divine court composed of goddesses who serve as his loyal attendants and executors of his will.
GeminiTay, The Goddess of Passage, guardian of transitions, journeys, birth, death, and rebirth.
JumperWho, The Goddess of Records, keeper of laws, contracts, and divine decrees.
Hannahxxxrose, The Goddess of Prophecy, who delivers fragments of fate to the saints revealed through visions.
Together these goddesses govern Carcosa under MinuteTech.
Its armies are vast, its scholars unmatched, and its influence extends far beyond its borders.
Yet such power has bred envy.
The rulers of Cindercrest resent Carcosa's monopoly over the gates, while many in the South believe no nation should wield such control over pathways meant for all mortals. Rumors also persist that some Trial Gates remain hidden beneath Carcosa's foundations and are sealed by MinuteTech and the other goddesses themselves.
Thus Carcosa stands as a kingdom of divine authority, sacred knowledge, immense wealth, and carefully guarded secrets, where every beginning is recorded, every ending remembered, and every destiny ultimately passes beneath the omnipresent gaze of MinuteTech.
Although MinuteTech is acknowledged as the eternal ruler of Carcosa, the God of Beginnings and Endings, he seldom descends from the Heavenly Realms. The affairs of the kingdom therefore fall to a mortal dynasty chosen by an old divine decree: the Royal Family of Carcosa.
According to legend, the first monarch was blessed personally by MinuteTech during the Age of Foundations. The god entrusted his bloodline with the stewardship of Carcosa, commanding them to govern in his name until the true end of all things.
As a result, the royal lineage is regarded as sacred.
The reigning monarch of Carcosa bears the title of Custodian of the First and Final Gate and serves as the highest mortal authority in the kingdom.
His most famous gift is the All-Seeing Eye, a blessing inherited from the keys. Through a single glance in the eye, the King can discern truth from lies, glimpse fragments of a person's past, and recognize those favored by the gods. Though powerful, the Eye is most definitely not omniscient.
Using this ability, the King chose and adopted three heirs: Prince Spoke, Prince Parrot, and Prince Zam.
Though all laws, titles, military appointments, and more derive their legitimacy from the Crown, the King's power is not absolute.
For there was the Church of Ventumnus, the holy institution devoted to MinuteTech, Keeper of Beginnings and Endings.
Bound not to the Crown but to divine law, the Church stood as one of the few powers beyond and fully independent from the King's direct authority.
This privilege originated from an ancient decree issued during the Age of Foundations by the goddess JumperWho, Lady of Divine Order and Sacred Oaths.
In her eternal decree, JumperWho declared that no king, noble, or mortal ruler would ever hold dominion over the faith of the gods. Thus the Church was established as an independent vassal, answerable only to the heavens themselves.
From this sacred order arose the Vessels of the Gods—those chosen to carry out the divine will upon the mortal realm.
Yet among all the Vessels of the Gods, none were held in greater esteem than the reverent Saints.
Chosen directly by the divine, Saints served as living bridges between heaven and earth.
Through sacred artifacts bestowed upon them by their patron deities, they could receive visions, revelations, and guidance from the gods themselves.
Their presence carried an almost supernatural charisma, a blessing known as Charm Magic, which inspired trust and devotion in those around them.
The Church itself wielded considerable influence throughout the world. Every ordained priest and priestess possessed healing magic, allowing them to mend wounds, cure illnesses, and provide aid to rich and poor alike.
As a result, churches served not only as places of worship, but also as hospitals, sanctuaries, and centers of learning.
Each church was further protected by sacred statues dedicated to the gods. These holy relics acted as conduits of divine power, creating wards that shielded the faithful from curses, evil spirits, and other supernatural threats.
However, divine favor came with divine obligations. Every Saint was bound by a sacred oath determined by their patron god.
Some swore to protect the innocent, others to preserve knowledge, uphold justice, or spread their deity's teachings. So long as they remained faithful to their oath, the gods' blessings remained with them.
Which is why Zam's adoption drew particular attention, as he was already an ordained Saint.
Possessing both the sacred authority of the Church and a claim to the throne, Zam became a source of tension between the Crown and the faith.
For while the Royal Family sought order and stability, the Church followed the teachings of MinuteTech above all else.
No matter what.
Bound to aid the suffering and preserve life's natural course, its clergy often traded and negotiated even with rebels, outcasts, criminals, and enemies of the Crown when they deemed it necessary.
To many peasants and nobles in the kingdom, Zam's adoption threatened to blur a boundary that had stood since the Age of Foundations.
One that may cause the world's impending doom.
Prince Zam, formerly known as Saint Zam, has betrayed the Time God, bearer of all knowledge and witness of all ages.
As a Saint—as an extension of MinuteTech's divinity, a vessel through which the god's will is made manifest—you are expected to embody the teachings of the heavens.
One of the most fundamental of these teachings is simple:
A sound mind requires a sound body.
How could one preserve knowledge, guide the faithful, or carry out the will of a god while collapsing after a short flight of stairs?
Saints were expected to maintain themselves in peak condition. They trained their bodies as diligently as priests studied scripture and knights honed their blades. Discipline was devotion, and physical strength was considered a form of worship.
Which is why Asaemon, or a much more accurate label: Wemmbu, was currently in a very tight pinch.
Asaemon is supposed to be able to use his abilities in order to continue on his duties as saint.
To listen to the plights of the kingdom’s people and provide guidance under the teachings of MinuteTech. Unfortunately for Wemmbu, the sacred artifact that could help him communicate with his supposed god is missing.
Lost during the night Rejoice had passed.
Whether it had been stolen, destroyed, or simply misplaced amidst the chaos that occurred, nobody knew. What mattered was that it wasn’t here now. And without it, communicating with what a previous fictional deity that he supposedly chose to serve was little to none.
And if that wasn't enough, another realization that he made during his resting period.
Despite having not one, but two keys residing within his body, he couldn’t use either of them. At all.
He couldn't channel any of his powers. Or rather, he has no idea how to channel it.
He looked at his wrist again.
Two keys. Two laurel tattoos.
How could he act like Asaemon?
What would Asaemon do?
What could he do to survive?
To survive, he needs to find a way to practice Asaemon’s magic. To act like Asaemon, he needs to do his duties dutifully without triggering any suspicion from the Vessels.
What would the previous owner of his body do?
Use Magic.
How to use magic? No fucking idea.
He frantically rereads his notes about what he currently knew. And none mentioned how the characters harness their prowess!
Yup. Nothing.
Not a single information was retained in his head about how people actually used their magic.
Curse the developers. Curse the Mercurial Hearts Writers. And curse past Wemmbu for not paying attention to the lore and instead decided to thirst over the male leads.
Maybe it works through concentration?
He pressed his palms together and shut his eyes.
Pitch black darkness greeted him.
He waited one second.
Five.
Ten.
And nothing.
It’s been ten seconds and he felt nothing. Not a surge of power, not even a hint of magic rushing through his veins.
“Okay…”
He opened one eye. Maybe gestures were involved?
He flared his fingers dramatically and pointed them at the wall.
“Fire!” Nothing.
“Lighting!” Nothing.
“Air!” Not even a breeze.
The universe remained unmoved. Wemmbu groaned and dragged a hand down his face.
This was absolutely ridiculous. He probably looked like a complete idiot.
After several minutes of accomplishing nothing, he finally had the answers to his previous questions.
How could he act like Asaemon? He couldn’t.
How would he survive? He probably won’t.
And how was he supposed to do magic? He still has no idea.
To sum up everything: he is completely and utterly cooked.
Cooked as a roasted chicken. And not even the edible kind. Maybe burnt was the better adjective for this…
Shitshitshitshitshit—
How was he going to survive Mane’s training next week?
An unfortunate realization struck him.
His current body may be a body the Greeks would fight for, but damn he can’t maintain this shit. He was not built for anything remotely resembling exercise, much less the probably rigorous training Asaemon was used to.
Ask him to run a mile and he’ll give you a meter. That’s for sure.
Fuck his life.
The days flew by quickly, and before Wemmbu knew it, he was standing right in front of Manepear.
Captain of the Holy Knights of Ventumnus.
The tanned, handsome ripped man was mouth-watering. Wemmbu stayed frozen as Mane loomed above him, the giant’s chest blocking out everything else, giving Wemmbu a little shade.
Mane’s athletic and active lifestyle was prominent in how he appeared. Every breath the taller man took made those hard abs and pecs shift and flex inches from Wemmbu’s face. His chiseled abs looked like glazed donuts and caramelized apples that left Wemmbu craving, especially as the sweat of his body rolled down his torso, catching on the ridges before dripping lower.
Before he knew it, his eyes traveled further, following another drop of sweat that ran down Mane’s toned body, disappearing when it fell to the captain’s treasure trail.
He low key wants to lick it clean. He wants to drag his tongue over the abs that reminded him of his favourite treats, even under the scrutiny of the heat. He truly was a healthy horny teenager– OKAY, OKAY LOCK IN. STOP.
“Wemmbu. Are you paying attention to me?” Manepear’s voice huffed over him. He rolled his eyes while his arms were crossed, clearly annoyed and bothered by Wemmbu’s staring.
The saint snapped back from his thoughts, face turning flush and shy. “Uh, yeah my fault.”
He can’t believe Manepear caught him.
Mane only arched his brow with suspicion, but opted to not drag the topic further.
Wemmbu’s time to figure out how to utilize his magic and mana has run out. And now he has to suffer this training session exhausted to the brim.
Manepear nods at him, waiting for him to start doing something.
Wemmbu nods back, hoping he looked like he knew what the hell he was supposed to start doing.
He tries to remember the slight amount of information about a saint's training that he got from the library, wishing that it might be enough to work.
He took a deep sigh, and held out his right hand, and only there did Manepear start instructing.
“Right, if I remember correctly, Saint, we were finishing the fifth physical lesson no?” Manepear asked, walking in front of Wemmbu; watching him, assessing him already.
The saint gulped quietly, the knight's gaze was not helping him think.
Manepear gently grabs his arm, steadying him. “Be firm in your stance. You're trembling right now and it’ll affect the strength of your spell.” the taller male whispered, his tone sending a tingling sensation throughout his body.
“On the rare occasion that I won’t be by your side, you need to know how to protect yourself.” Manepear’s hand slides towards his shoulder while the other points towards a target ahead of them. His mouth was too close to Wemmbu’s ears, it was seriously interfering with his ability to concentrate. “Now, be a good student and try to aim for that one.”
The saint's ear tips were turning red, against his own wishes.
Wemmbu tries his best to copy what Asaemon did in the game, starting by closing in his eyes, trying to reign in the power within himself even if he wasn't confident.
Yes, he is trying to bullshit his way through survival. Just like how he did with the morning prayer.
If he was being honest with himself, he felt nothing. It felt like trying to pull at an empty void. There was none of that flourish of magic or the holy glow of Asaemon’s abilities. The scene from afar looked ridiculous in his opinion. He was leaning against the Captain, his face scrunched up in concentration but nothing was happening.
Mana was the divine energy Asaemon possessed. Mana was supposed to flow naturally for saints, especially one with two keys. Yet every explanation for his struggle was nonexistent.
He could feel the eyes watching him from afar, the vessels seeing his tomfoolery. There was no strange sensation awakening beneath his skin, only his embarrassment creeping in.
Minutes passed, and not a single hint of sorcery was shown.
His mentor’s disappointed gaze left him crushed. Damn, he is fumbling so hard right now.
The afternoon sun beat against his shoulders while sweat gathered along his brow. His raised arm had begun to tremble from holding the same position for too long.
F-fuck…
But a hint of concern laced Mane’s face as the scene unfolded before him. The man was too disciplined to voice it directly, especially in public where Ventumnus may be tarnished,
He shall not allow even a speck of dust taint the pristine image of Lord Minute.
Although Manepear did seem as frustrated as him for his failure, the Captain chose not to make a scene about it. His shoulders were tense but in front of the many eyes of the church members, being discreet was preferable. He leads Wemmbu to a secluded area of the training grounds, away from all the scrutiny and heat.
While he may be the Captain of the holy knights, he was first and foremost Wemmbu’s protector and mentor.
A gentle hand cups his cheek, bringing his gaze up towards Manepear’s blindfold. To Wemmbu himself, it did feel a bit unfair that Mane could read what he was thinking about just by looking at him while he can't even begin to decipher Manepear’s thoughts.
“Are you still unwell even after a week’s break I’ve given you?”
Wemmbu could feel that suffocating feeling building up inside his chest once more and that stinging in his eyes. It was a mix of his and Asaemon’s emotions blending together, overflowing and overwhelming him in every way. Without meaning to, the tears start spilling out.
It felt awkward, trying to comfort his young student. He envelops Wemmbu in his large arms, whispering what he thinks would be comforting words but it only made the saint sob harder.
“Hey…. It’s gonna be alright… I think?”
Sometimes he forgets that Wemmbu was still a kid. Fifteen and the world already has set expectations and requirements on him. He’s been training from a young age and already given so many duties—more than what was expected of his age.
Wemmbu has been in the custody of the church before he even reached puberty. Since then, day and night, the boy has to live up to the crushing weight of labour of the church and the harsh judgement of the people of Carcosa.
Being a saint isn’t all sunshines and rainbows.
Manepear would never say it out loud but he was impressed that the boy had kept it all inside him, never once breaking from the pressure and burdens of being the chosen saint of MinuteTech. Even when he does patrols in the night, never once did he see the saint cry.
He should have expected that the trauma of his best friend dying was what finally broke his composure.
“Shh, shh, Wemmbu. Please, stop crying.”
His voice was cracking, the uncertainty in the words spewing out of his mouth was evident. Minute, what was he supposed to say to a vulnerable boy crying in his arms?
Wemmbu’s sobs are becoming more and more incoherent by the second, the tears drenching the shirtless captain hugging him.
Even in the midst of his crying session with Mane, the slight burning sensation of his marks doesn't go unnoticed but Wemmbu didn't want to leave the warmth of Manepear’s embrace to check.
The longer Manepear held the saint in his arms, the more his mark was starting to ache. It wasn't enough to elicit a reaction from the captain, but it did raise the question of why his god was displeased. Every holy knight receives a mark when they pledge allegiance to the church, not as grand and noticeable as the Saint, but it was one that showed their loyalty.
Was he upset that the Saint was crying? Was he displeased that Wemmbu abandoned his duties for weeks? Was their god agitated by such closeness between the knight and his saint?
Questions filled his mind but at the moment, Wemmbu’s well being was what mattered.
“I.. I’ll make sure to ask for permission to exempt you from performing your duties for now. Rejoice’s death has taken a toll on you, so it’s only fair that we give the Saint a grace period for mourning just like how the people of Carcosa are given time to grieve.”
For now, he could only hold the saint in his arms and hope for the best.
Manepear internally sighed.
Meanwhile, Wemmbu was turning flush, not even because of the fact he was crying his eyes out, it was because he was being crushed by Mane’s pecs.
He was at the moment trying his hardest not to start drooling, and be banished by Minute himself from the church and possibly even Carcosa.
Well, who wouldn't if they were met with a pair of large, squeezable– WEMMBU PULL YOUR ASS TOGETHER NOT CLUTCH IT AND BE TIGHTER OH MY—
Wemmbu was starting to try and calm himself down, ignoring the fat, juicy– okay. I need to calm the fuck down.
He breathed in and out, sniffling lightly as he tried not to grind against Manepear.
Wemmbu’s gears started turning on their own, and he froze suddenly, even surprising Manepear with his sudden steadiness.
Oh shit.
He was technically fifteen years old here… meaning…
Oh yeah. He would definitely be banished immediately if he were to do any of his thoughts in real life.
Wemmbu reddened even more at the thought, embarrassment filling him.
I'm such a fucking creep…
The weeks of Saint Asaemon’s absence from the public’s eyes had resulted in some very interesting rumors circulating around Carcosa, painting a target on his back and damaging the reputation of the church.
Stories and speculations regarding the Saint have spread far and low, some unfortunate and fortunate for the church's image, reaching the ears of mercenaries and assassins alike. Most of the people assume that Saint Asaemon has lost the favour of his beloved god, deeming him unfit to be a Saint, while many others empathize with him having heard of the death of a servant of the church.
Of course, hearing that the Saint now lacks the protection of his keys, it provided the opposing factions of the kingdom with the chance to eliminate one of the most prominent figures of Carcosa and cripple the usually unconquerable influence of the church. For years the church’s shady dealings with rogues and outsiders have drawn the ire of the nobles, especially after the recent news of the crown princess having lost favour with MinuteTech.
He scoffs at the sight of the noticeboard, riddled with nothing but bounties and dangerous tasks. The pay for completing them has been decreasing even more over the years due to the surge of people obtaining keys and killing the monsters themselves. It put a damper on his funds lately, leading him to having to do menial tasks and high risk missions that barely gets him by.
But one notice has caught his attention.
A mission so absurd but the pay was almost too good to be true.
If he were to complete it before anyone else could, then he’ll have enough. Enough to leave this wretched place. Enough to go and relax by the sea. Maybe he could even purchase a ship and sail away to somewhere unknown. Explore for treasures and live a life of luxury.
I'm so fucking delusional oh my–
He glances at the other patrons of the pub, noting that none of them were paying attention to the mission board. It must have been new or buried under the other posted jobs. The raven haired man surveyed the room full of drunkards and hooligans one last time before ripping the offer from the board and disappearing into the night.
He needed to prepare.
In the darkening halls of the Church of Ventumnus, Wemmbu paced around the entrance of the library, the staggering amount of books piled upon each other couldn't give him the answer he needed to use his powers.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck why are all of these books so vague?” He groaned.
Each line was as vague as the next, ‘to feel the rush of adrenaline..’, ‘one must tap into the core of their body…’, ‘channel your inner..’, every single author had described it as a sensation that comes from channeling the energy inside their body. Which doesn’t help him in any way. He can’t feel it, if he doesn't know what the feeling is supposed to be.
What's far worse for him, is the fact that his entire job and character is quite literally magic. If it was to come out that he, the saint, couldn't use magic— he was going to be utterly fucked.
He groaned louder, his hands shaking.
If they weren't in the church right now, he would definitely be cursing Minute out loud. Or maybe he should curse the developers of Mercurial Hearts for their vague magic system. The lack of explanations for how the keys work in the game itself should've been a question he asked in one of the online QnA’s.
He heavily regrets asking about the male leads instead of the magic system.
What did it feel like to even channel magic?
What does ‘tapping into your core’ even fucking mean?
What help is adrenaline rush going to do for him?
The frustration at his inability to tune in to his powers were about to boil over, tears slowly clinging onto the corners of his eyes. His vision slowly darkens, snapping him out of his self loathing as the surroundings changed. There were mild cracks in the walls and the ceilings, the void staring back into him as glowing blue eyeballs appeared around him.
The glitch!
He thought to himself as his surroundings phase from being normal to cracks in the universe.
A faint voice ringed in his ears, reverbing throughout the barren halls. He flinches at the intensity of it, clutching his ears in pain as he tries his best to listen in on the mysterious voice.
“W…t..out. Beware th… Ja…”
“What? What the hell are you on about?” He panted. ‘Beware what?’ What is the voice trying to relay to him?
The glitching environment continues to break apart, more cracks appearing.
“J….n is…s…r..ng… f… you.”
The floating eyeballs disappeared, the overwhelming presence no longer exerting pressure. Wemmbu could finally calm down, letting his hands slowly drop from his ears. He breathed a sigh of relief when the ringing was no longer affecting him.
“Tonight… h… Ja… ing.”
Another flash, the cracks healed, the environment shifting to normal.
Wemmbu's thinks he'll never get used to that.
He takes a moment to gather himself, smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of his robes and fixing the ornaments in his hair.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
‘Beware, you, tonight.’
So something is going to happen tonight?
Despite his efforts to contact the mysterious disembodied voice once more for clarification, the voice never manifested. He only looks crazy trying to communicate with the empty air.
Danger? What danger could there be that some higher being is trying to send him messages?
Unless…
The routes.
Rejoice’s death, Zam running away, the stolen artifact.. Who helped her cover up the death in the game?
The only known male lead that was present so early on in the game was Jaden! The wannabe pirate and one of the many skilled mercenaries in the underworld.
This whole transmigration and being a Saint thing was genuinely driving him insane. He wasn’t even close to being religious.
He needs to think about this rationally. There must be a reason why that voice said tonight..
Something is happening tonight.
But what?
What could be so game-breaking, that the strange looking seraphim had to come back and warn him?
If he himself is an unexpected variable thrown into the game, then surely it has affected other aspects of the game. Rejoice’s death was never known in the original timeline, he was said to only have disappeared.
But his presence has altered the game progression. He was ruining the game.
Without Zam there to distract Jaden, he probably knew by then that the artifact he stole didn't function in the way he intended. He probably thinks either the artifact is faulty or it's a fake. And knowing his character, there is a chance that the mercenary would get revenge or try to get even when he thinks he's been fooled.
Wemmbu pulls his pillow close to his face, a muffled scream escaping his throat.
Maybe if he suffocates himself with his pillow, the mercenary would take pity on him. Maybe Wemmbu could show the pathetic side of himself in hopes that he would end his life swiftly.
Yeah hell no. He’ll probably have an even worse death if he did so.
Maybe get sold to a slaver… maybe become a slave to the mercenary before dying painfully… maybe–
He shuddered at the far too many ways for this night to end.
But Jaden can be reasonable. Compared to the other male leads, he’s generally seen as the more sane one, the more merciful one. A character who is driven by his greed and self serving nature, if Wemmbu could offer a deal capable of changing his mind, then he’ll have a greater chance at living.
So what would someone as greedy as Jaden would want that would benefit him greatly in the long run?
Wemmbu lays down, staring at the ceiling, looking aimlessly at the carefully painted murals and meticulously arranged decorations. It really hits him hard just how different his current situation is. Everywhere he looked, there were marbled floors and pillars, diamonds on the chandelier and gold lining the walls and doors.
Velvet curtains, silk pillows and plush blankets. It was too extravagant. It wasn't something Wemmbu deserved. He sighs once more before turning over to lay down on his side. Sleep came infuriatingly easy. He couldn't deny that luxury is comforting to the body as his consciousness starts to drift away.
But old habits die hard.
Even when he should feel safe and warm in his bed, fast asleep, there will always be a part of him that remains alert. Always searching for the sound of heavy footsteps, listening for the quiet clicks of locks and labored breathing.
So when the soft sound of the balcony doors slowly creaked open, Wemmbu was wide awake.
The cool night air wafts into the room, goosebumps on his skin as he sits up straight.
There on the balcony a figure stood still, the moon’s glow enveloping their body.
Dark blue eyes stare into his own shining purple.
Oh good lord.
Wemmbu held his breath.