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Chapter Text

The beast will come on the morrow, the Watchers murmured. They repeated it to themselves in fragile, disbelieving whispers, a wary chant –The beast will come on the morrow.   

Under normal circumstances, the people of the Dark Cacao kingdom would have welcomed a visit from Pure Vanilla Cookie with open arms. A comrade of their king’s was a comrade of theirs, and he had an infectious pleasantness to him that could thaw even the iciest of cookies. The council elders recalled his gentle mannerisms, at odds with the often brusque nature of their men; the children recalled his blonde hair, a rarity among them, likening it to the whitest part of the hearth flame. When rumors of his upcoming visit had first sown through the inner citadel, they should have brought with them anticipation.

Instead, there was only dread. 

The exact contents of Pure Vanilla's letter were privy to only Dark Cacao himself, but it went something like this: Pure Vanilla Cookie had returned to the Vanilla Kingdom with a Beast in tow. Instead of binding it away, as their lord had done with the nefarious Mystic Flour, he had chosen to – to befriend it, somehow. Now he wished to visit his dear friend and see how the kingdom was faring after its bout of plague...with the Beast at his side. 

“My lord, you cannot allow him entrance!” one of the councilmen had demanded, breaking the silence that had befallen the assembly chamber. The men beside him inhaled sharply at his outburst. 

He hastily cleared his throat and amended, albeit less demandingly, “I...I mean, my lord...”  

A humiliating quietness swelled like a licorice tide, swallowing up the hall's occupants. The distant shouts of Watchers practicing archery floated in through the ceiling-tall windows. Smoke rose from decorative braziers, forming a thick, amorphous curtain, its silvery motes blurring their king’s towering visage. It hid all from sight but the tight curl of his fingers around the throne’s armrests. 

“Is he not a Beast?” the man finished weakly. 

“The Beast of Deceit, no less,” another councilman added, lip curled in distaste. “How can he be trusted to act accordingly? Pure Vanilla Cookie could be under his influence.” 

Many nodded in agreement. During his few visits, they'd noted Pure Vanilla's caution and sensible wisdom. He’d appeared a pragmatic individual, oddly cheerful but relatively rational. It didn’t seem possible that in the course of a few months he could have thrown all of it to the wayside in the hopes of rehabilitating something clearly not keen on embracing civility.  

He had assured them that the Beast would cause no harm, but this request alone suggested either exceptional control, or, more likely, a trap.  

“How could we invite a Beast into our walls after the ravages of Mystic Flour Cookie?” said another, their youthful face stricken with fear. “The people would never accept it. To ask this of us...it is impossible.” 

“It is an insult,” someone muttered, and there was a hissing susurration as robes swished against the floor. Councilmen craned their necks, trying to locate who had said the offending words.  

Dark Cacao’s dissenting voice cleaved through their whispering, as clean and quick as a guillotine.  

“Enough,” he commanded, and the silence was instant. “I seek counsel, not debate. Your concerns are reasonable, however...” 

He had reread the letter countless times, searching its depths by candlelight. Pure Vanilla insisted on keeping his decades-old braille typewriter instead of acquiring a new one, and since its backspace key didn’t work, he had to manually blot out errors with paint. The letter was a hodgepodge of dots, and several were coated in a thin sheen of white ink.  

There were other details, too. The multiple crease lines, alluding to Pure Vanilla’s numerous attempts to line up the edges of the parchment just right for the envelope. The subtle anise scent of tickweed flowers, which Pure Vanilla ground up to make golden ink for his signatures, the only part he didn’t write in braille.  

If this was truly a Beast impersonating him, he was doing an impressive job of it. 

No, after much thought, Dark Cacao had surmised that this letter was too authentic to be from anyone but Pure Vanilla Cookie. But this didn’t make the contents any easier to swallow. 

If you prefer it, my castle is always an option.  

That was out of the question, not when his kingdom was preparing for its most vicious winter yet. The deadliest licorice monster attacks always struck during the early months, and after the Pale Ailment, everyone was unsettled.  

Ironically enough, a visit from Pure Vanilla Cookie would have been the perfect thing to rouse everyone’s spirits. If only there hadn’t been such an unexpected caveat. 

“My lord?”  

Dark Cacao sighed, rubbing his temple. Mystic Flour’s vacant expression flashed beneath his closed eyes.  

“I trust Pure Vanilla Cookie. I trust in his mind...his strength. If he has the Beast contained, it must be for good reason.” Not logical or sound, but good – he'd learned quickly enough that they did not always coincide. “I won’t allow the Beast within the citadel until I can see the subjugation with my own eyes.”  

The murmuring returned, councilmen’s mouths opening and closing as they tried to find a way to call this decision unwise without implying that their king was, too. The discontent reminded Dark Cacao of his previous royal advisor and seneschal, Affogato Cookie. Conniving as he was, he wouldn’t have struggled to placate the councilmen with that silver tongue of his.

“My lord, what if Pure Vanilla Cookie truly is ensorcelled?” 

“My lord, what do we tell the villages on the outskirts?” 

“My lord, shall we shift our forces to the inner citadel?” 

“My lord-” 

“Silence!” he demanded. “This assembly is finished. I will relay further details to Caramel Arrow Cookie. Begone.” 

None of them had finished talking, but their king’s command left no room for rebuttal. They rose in a flurry of silks and took their dissatisfied whispering with them. Dark Cacao overlooked the empty table, the brazier smoke forming serpentine shapes in the stifling air. He immersed himself in the smell of charring wood, trying to ground his thoughts. 

The letter was tucked in his cloak pocket, all four pages of it, folded into a tiny square. He had not divulged everything that was written, but he nearly wished he could confide in someone over its more...questionable contents.  

Pure Vanilla Cookie had gone on multiple tangents in this letter, another indicator that it was indeed written by him, but they were all about the Beast – which he was now addressing as simply “Shadow Milk,” a level of familiarity that only increased over the course of the page.  

He spent a few aimless sentences discussing Shadow Milk’s indecisive nature; his tendency to change the palace staffs’ costumes or wallpaper on a whim. After writing about assorted stately matters, he veered into talking about the Beast again. Following that was a brief apology for going off topic wherein Dark Cacao could practically hear the rueful chuckle that would’ve accompanied those words. 

The first time Dark Cacao had read the letter, he’d felt a sense of shame creep up on him, like he was a voyeur looking in on something intimate. These were no hollow ramblings. Who wrote about the resplendent gleam of a smile and the timbre of one’s laughter with such artistic detail, other than poets? Who noted these things, in such scribe-like manner, about someone who was meant to be a prisoner? A prisoner who was apparently free to traverse the lands under Pure Vanilla’s jurisdiction, when anyone else would have kept him locked away – and for good reason.  

Did this mean he thought Shadow Milk was no longer a threat? How was it possible that he had grown lax in the presence of a Beast, enough to refer to them with undeniable...fondness? 

Dark Cacao didn’t know what to make of it, but he refused to believe that Pure Vanilla’s assurances could be so easily manipulated. Regardless, Mystic Flour was forever fresh on his mind. As much as he trusted Pure Vanilla’s judgement, anything involving a Beast rendered him unconvinced. They were a conniving kind who sought to taint the mind, and would latch onto any available avenue, any variant of kindness – whether that be mercy or clemency - to exploit.  

Which was why it was imperative that he assess the Beast’s condition with his own eyes. “Caramel Arrow Cookie?” 

She emerged from the hall, her shoulders dusted with snow. Her ponytail draped over her back like a gleaming copper tassel as she dipped into a low bow. “My king. How may I be of service to you?” 

Her presence soothed him. Amid all the troubles that had befallen his kingdom as of late, she was the dependable anchor beneath the waves. “I have made up my mind about Pure Vanilla’s visit. Tell the Watchers to prepare weapons and have the tents mended. We shall set up camp outside the citadel and greet Pure Vanilla there.” 

“Right away, Sir. Will the Beast be coming after all?” 

“He will be present. Our forces will surround the area and ensure the safety of the surrounding villages. Will you join us, Caramel Arrow?” 

“Of course.” Her response was immediate. “I will always fight by your side, Your Majesty. I shall relay your commands. Is there anything specific we can prepare for in regards to the Beast?”  

His eyebrows narrowed. “Specific?” 

"In case he becomes...malignant. I understand that he is under Pure Vanilla’s watchful eye, but it is our duty to the citizens of Dark Cacao to prepare for every circumstance. Surely there is some information out there about it? Its magic, perhaps?” 

Dark Cacao shook his head. “Records of the Beasts are largely rooted in fiction. We cannot reliably base our strategy on old ballads and centurial poetry. Our experience with Mystic Flour Cookie is our greatest strength. We have already bested his kind once.” 

“I see.” She bowed again, retreating to the chamber door. “Let it be according to your word, then.” 

With Caramel Arrow at the forefront, preparations would be finished in a few days’ time. Despite this knowledge, he felt little comfort as she exited the hall. There were far too many variables that he couldn’t prepare for, and the one thing that should have felt familiar, Pure Vanilla Cookie, had joined them. On top of that, they hadn’t seen each other in the flesh for months. He could not even begin to guess at how the meeting would unfold, or how his friend had changed since his encounter with the Beast. 

He returned to his study, where a fire roared in the hearth. Night had descended over the citadel, but soldiers still trained by the range. Laborers mixed the tempered chocolate that would reinforce their walls. And, as usual, the Licorice Sea was never quiet. 

The letter fluttered out of his coat pocket. He retrieved it, fingers roving over the parchment.  

In his experience, when battling a foe, you catalogued every vulnerable moment and cradled them close to your chest, like a blade, ready to strike back at the first opportunity. If there was any exuberance to your enemy’s smile, it had the gleam of a knife. If there was any echo to their laughter, it was inescapable, banal. And it was likely you wouldn’t remember those features at all when the chance for retribution reared its head. 

In his reports about Mystic Flour Cookie, he’d managed a few curt sentences about her appearance. They were memories he’d had to scrape out from the bottom of his consciousness – her pale dough, the flatness of her lethargic voice; eyes as void of warmth as the frigid starlight depths. He would have cast those images away forever if he’d had the liberty of doing so. 

Pure Vanilla’s words suggested that he’d examined Shadow Milk, but not with the suspicious scrutiny of a warden, or the strategical skepticism of an opponent.  

His was the gaze of an admirer.  

The air was crisp with winter chill. A fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight, thin enough that it cracked like crème brûlée under the marching feet of Dark Cacao’s soldiers. They moved about like distressed ants – some helped assemble tents, driving stakes into the snow. Others chopped firewood, working with almost reckless speed. Watchers filled their quivers. From Dark Cacao’s vantage point, he could glimpse Crunchy Chip Cookie feeding nibs to his cream wolves, repeating encouraging platitudes into their fur. 

The camp was composed of six tents, all dyed a prestigious indigo and erected in half-moon shape, the farthest of the tents facing the snow drifts. Dark Cacao’s tent assumed the central position, the flaps tied open with rope. Its main occupant was outside, his coat's thick, wool collar shielding the hard line of his mouth from view.  

Sharp-eyed Caramel Arrow was the one who spotted them first. “Your Majesty!” she called, sprinting over the white dunes. Though the distance was short, her next words were accompanied by an uncharacteristic breathlessness. “They’ve arrived.” 

She pointed to the labyrinth of trails leading into the forests. In spring, they were clear to the naked eye, wet with melting slush and bordered by grass shoots. Most of the year, though, only locals could discern the paths’ direction. Milk villagers marked the way with ash markings on trees, but those methods were not easily decipherable for foreigners. 

Pure Vanilla was no stranger to the lands, and something of a itinerant himself. A little ways down the path was a dark, shadowy smudge in the fog, signaling an approaching figure. A flickering glow, reminiscent of a lantern’s shifting flame, pulsed eerily above its silhouette.  

Pure Vanilla’s soul jam? No, this was much brighter than the soul jam, and it lacked its pale blue tint. Dark Cacao's eyebrows furrowed. 

He extended a hand towards Caramel Arrow and the Watchers who had gathered around her. “I will greet them first. Do not give any orders until I say.” 

“Yes, your Majesty,” they chorused. Whether it was instinct or anxiety, their fingers treaded towards the polished curves of their bows. Caramel Arrow Cookie kept her gaze ahead, her ponytail snapping whip-like against her back. 

Pure Vanilla Cookie materialized first. The roiling fog, which had clung to his shoulders, seemingly melted away. So did the snow in his vicinity – with every step he took, the snow beneath his feet shrunk into sheer puddles that the Earth drank in greedily. Layers of ice flanking the path’s torso melted into thin streams, rivulets that looked like silver veins threaded in the dirt. A prickling warmth emanated from him.

He wore the moon’s silken shell over his skin, ivory-white robes gleaming with each sway of his limbs. A golden stole was draped over his shoulders, inscribed with symbols. His hair had grown even longer than Dark Cacao’s, spilling behind him in a bridal veil. The staff he’d once carried, with its blooming orchid eye, now possessed a shining mass of light floating amid lacquered petals – the light Dark Cacao had mistaken for the soul jam’s glow. Before he knew it, he was striding forward to greet him.  

“Dark Cacao?”  

That voice, hopeful as the first rays of spring, was enough to make the old king smile.  

“Pure Vanilla...” It came out a croak. He swallowed thickly, throat burning with emotion. It bled into his words anyway. “How long it has been. It is a relief to see you well, my friend.” 

Pure Vanilla let out a small sigh, smile still affixed to his face. “Yes, well...and I hope the same has been true for you and your kingdom. I understand it’s been an uphill battle.” 

“That will never change, just as the strength of this kingdom will never falter.” He gestured towards the encampment, but his arm grew limp when he noticed how quiet it had become. Tent flaps hung silent. His soldiers’ murmurs died out. The raging Licorice Sea sent sticky spittle flying as it crashed against the cliff, but there was no sound as its viscous waves tore at crumbling crags. 

Mystic Flour’s presence had been an abscess of nothing, a black hole given form. What she touched crumbled; what she turned her gaze upon became obsolete. Her Beastly mark could scarcely be called a stain – it was rot, and it festered until there was nothing left to consume.  

Shadow Milk Cookie’s mark was transformation. Snow hardened, grew roots, and unraveled into thorny overgrowth. Buds blossomed into fruit with glossy shells, then died in heaps of sickly, dripping sweetness, all in a matter of seconds. The world metastasized under his magical influence. Sugar mice buried beneath the snow bulged with excessive growth, their fur flaking in patches of blue and white, whiskers curling into hypnotic spirals. Roosting birds’ beaks grew spikes; their feathers turned into silverware. Foxes and deer stumbled out of the forest, predator and prey stitched together in horrific chimera.  

The descriptions in Pure Vanilla’s letter had implied softness. He had somehow parsed charming smiles and a tenderness to the eyes from a creature whose existence served to disrupt the balance of life. It might have been understandable if the Beast possessed an unnatural, illusionary beauty.  

But Dark Cacao could hardly coincide the image his friend had painted with the cookie standing in front of him.  

His mouth was composed of sharp, thin teeth, pressed closely like piano keys. Fingers tapped irritably against the scepter he carried, long and insectile. Disregarding the cold, he wore a suit with shifting diamond patterns, a sartorial nightmare that descended to the bells tinkling death’s toll on the tips of his curled boots. Black silk stretched over arms too long, too elastic. He was a patchwork of doll parts, something a child might draw to satisfy an imaginative whim, paying no mind to how marionette limbs would fit on the shoulders of a kabuki doll.

“You,” he sneered. “Beast of Deceit.” 

“You,” Shadow Milk Cookie echoed smoothly, eying him with disinterest, “His Imperial Majesty, Lord Snoozefest.”  

“You dare speak with such impudence?” 

The mock-smile sharpened. “Oh, geez. I suppose it’s his Royal Majesty, since you’re only a king, not an emperor. My sincerest apologies.” 

“Shadow Milk.” Pure Vanilla’s tone was neutral. 

His head lolled forwards. Any further and it would have snapped clean off. “You had your sentimental reunion, didn’t you? Do you insist on staying in this dreary place?” 

“My business here is not finished. Don’t insult Dark Cacao Cookie while he graciously offers us his hospitality.” 

Shadow Milk’s unimpressed gaze swept past the camp. “Hospitality,” he repeated flatly. 

“Of course. And might I remind you that you chose to join me of your own volition?” 

Own volition?   

Pure Vanilla turned towards Dark Cacao, his smile measured. “I apologize for the wait, my friend. Shall we?” 

He was far too calm. It should have been a visible warning, but Dark Cacao couldn’t immediately discern whether sorcery was at play. Pure Vanilla had remarkable patience, so for him to brush aside the Beast’s abhorrent mannerisms was not unlike him. What was concerning was the Beast's complacency. Where was the source of his obedience? The extent of it? If it was still able to mar the land with a brief touch, then perhaps he was not so restrained after all. 

A pounding sensation thrummed at the base of his head. In due time.   

The wave of congregated soldiers split apart, reverence propelling them to step back methodically. They glared at Shadow Milk as he floated past, gazes filled with clear distrust. Few of them had met a Beast personally, but they all knew someone who had fallen ill at Mystic Flour’s hand. Only the party he’d brought to Beast-Yeast knew what she looked like, since painted depictions of her were forbidden. Even the brief description he’d written for the records was only accessible to a handful of cookies. The rest of the populace referred to her in epithets, picturing her as a pale, veiled wraith that lacked any distinct features.

To the public, the Beasts were a vague, singular manifestation of all the wrongdoing in the world, and though Shadow Milk was not directly responsible for Mystic Flour’s wickedness, he was seen as merely an extension of her will. Another vessel for destruction. The hazy visage of Mystic Flour had now gained additional attributes – a cracked porcelain dish for a smile; the jingling sound of bells from somewhere underneath her veil.  

For his part, Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t seem to register the hatred directed his way. Occasionally his gaze would meet another soldier across the snow, and his smile would split into a fiendish laugh. Otherwise, he occupied himself by spinning his scepter in lazy circles. Even the inherent harmlessness of this action kept the Watchers on edge, their postures stiff as they waited for the inevitable moment when the jester’s grip would slip and the scepter would fly out to bash one of them in the head.  

His boredom, Dark Cacao noted, was just as unsettling as his mirth. 

His tent was no bigger than it needed to be, just enough that all three of them could assemble themselves by the stout table. It was set with two empty cups and a freshly brewed pot of tea. One of his attendants, Pepero Cookie, was poised patiently by the pot, awaiting instruction. 

The Beast examined the seating arrangements, letting out high-pitched sounds of disapproval. Unsurprisingly, a complaint followed: “Some friend! There’s hardly any room in here. Quite a long way to go for spite’s sake.” 

“It is enough,” Dark Cacao answered, choosing not to address the final comment. He lowered himself to his knees - Pure Vanilla followed suit, carefully smoothing down the opalescent trail of his robes as he sat. The Beast hovered cross-legged, so close to his designated cushion that he may as well have just sat down like the rest of them. Of course, he didn’t. 

Pepero Cookie poured tea into each cup, dipped into a bow, and retreated to the back of the tent. Shadow Milk’s gaze went from the teapot, the two cups of tea – positioned in front of Dark Cacao and Pure Vanilla respectively – and back to the teapot.  

It had not occurred to him that the Beast would wish to partake in drinking tea – in truth, he had never expected they would get to this stage at all - but he had also not given direct orders for the Beast to be excluded, either. He subtly pivoted to look back at Pepero Cookie. 

She stood remarkably still for a newly trained servant, but she wasn’t entirely motionless. Her hands tugged with vicious intent on the sash strung around her waist, twisting the sheer fabric into knots. Her lips were pressed thinly together; her eyes had narrowed into slits. She made no attempts to null her disgust.  

To purposefully anger a Beast was, objectively, a fool’s errand. Still, he commended her courage. Pursuing vengeance was not an easy path, and if it meant small retribution in the form of missing cups, so be it. He would allow her this small avenue of satisfaction, and a part of him wanted to see how the Beast would respond to subtle disrespect. Would it lash out, force Pure Vanilla’s hand?  

Shadow Milk shook his head with faux solemnity. “No cup? Well, what can you do.” He seized the teapot in his clawed fingers and took a long guzzle from the spout.  

Dark Cacao blanched. Pepero Cookie let out a soft gasp. “How uncouth,” she hissed. 

“Ooh, harsh. Don’t tell me you’re all like him.” Shadow Milk licked his lips, grinning. His forked tongue shouldn’t have come as a surprise. “Now that would be a tremendous disappointment.” 

“Shadow Milk! You could have drank from mine,” Pure Vanilla chastised. He leaned into Shadow Milk’s vicinity with ease, and the Beast made no moves to shrink away. His focus had latched onto Pepero Cookie, who met his gaze with renewed tenacity. 

“You know,” he began, swinging the teapot handle on his finger, “I would have far preferred being poisoned. I could have played dead! We could’ve had a noir mystery at our hands! You’ve taken all the fun out of it, my dear. That,” he punctuated this statement by shattering the teapot in his hands, “is the most insulting part of this farce. And, of course, that you thought this little slight would be worth any of my wrath.” 

Shards cascaded over the floor. Pepero Cookie swallowed, still fidgeting with her sash. Dark Cacao took the reins before she could say something irreversible. “Pepero Cookie. You are dismissed.” 

Her body bent into a bow, a fan snapping shut at the hands of an irritable noble. The tent flaps flailed as she slapped them open on her way out. 

Pure Vanilla picked up a broken piece of pottery, frowning. "Was that necessary?"

Shadow Milk harrumphed. "On the contrary. I should have done worse."

Pure Vanilla collected the discarded fragments into the thin fabric of his stole. He sat down again, lifting his cup to drink. "Shall I count this as an improvement?"

Shadow Milk snatched the cup from him, taking an obnoxiously loud sip. “Don’t get cheeky now. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“I’m not,” he said, lips curved in amusement. Then, “You would rather be poisoned?” 

“I require effort.” 

“Yes,” Pure Vanilla said dryly. “I’m well aware.” 

Dark Cacao cleared his throat, and their attention snapped towards him as though they’d just recalled he was present. Pure Vanilla Cookie smiled merrily, redirecting his attention. "Apologies, my friend. May I dispose of this properly? I can replace the teapot, of course."

"There's no need. We can replace it with ease."

"I insist."

"And I implore you not to worry over such trivial matters," Dark Cacao said firmly.

"The Dark Cacao kingdom's royal heirlooms are no such trivial matters."

"It is not necessary to go to the trouble."

"Oh, but it would be no trouble at all-"

Shadow Milk pointed his clawed finger at the teapot's remains. Each individual shard rose, eungulfed in a magical outline that resembled tar, and reassembled themselves. The result was not a perfect replica of the previously unscathed teapot; the clay had now taken on a blue tinge, and ooze seeped from the visible cracks. On the lid, an eye, just likes the ones in Shadow Milk's hair, blinked blearily. 

He yanked it up by the handle, facing the two of them. That sharp, irate smile had returned. "Go on now!" he bade, waving a flippant hand, like he was addressing sheep. "Spare me the nauseating niceties and talk about something interesting, will you?"

Dark Cacao's lips pulled into a deep frown, but soon his friend's soft beckoning drew his attention. The rest of their exchange went smoothly; the Beast, to his surprise, rarely spoke up. His remarks were written all over his expressive face, from annoyed, dull stares to goading, serrated sneers. Shadow Milk didn't meet his gaze very often, but when he did, his eyes glimmered with piercing, unmistakable animosity. It was a bewildering contrast to the bored smile tacked beneath, eerily mismatched. Then again, there was nothing there that felt like it belonged, anyway.

The conversation that followed had been, among other things, enlightening. It had not, however, served to bid away the headache forming at the base of his skull. 

Dark Cacao sat at the table, nursing a cup of old tea. Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk had long ago been escorted to a tent – their tent, Pure Vanilla had emphasized – leaving him alone with his thoughts. He’d summoned Pepero Cookie earlier to serve him tea, and she’d been there since, poking at coals with weary eyes. 

The hot, bitter taste of lapsang forged his musings into a fine-point tip. First – the Beast, for all its jesting, was still a threat. It feigned vain disinterest most of the time, preferring to inspect its reflection in the scepter it carried when Pure Vanilla and Dark Cacao’s conversation veered into recollections of their past, but there was still a part of it – Dark Cacao could not gauge how large - that relished cruelty. He’d gleaned that much from its interactions with Pepero Cookie, and how it seemed to drink in the poorly masked abhorrence of his soldiers.  

Still, he was not a threat to Pure Vanilla Cookie. He was impolite, yes, when he should have been groveling at the undeserved opportunity he’d been given, but the two engaged in mutual rapport. With every offhanded comment came a rebuttal, and oftentimes they would enter heated debates of their own, descending into a separate realm on the other edge of the table, unaware of how delighted their expressions looked to the sole witness present. 

And then there was the proximity. It was one thing to sit close to one another. It was another to play idly with the other’s hair, or flick them lightly on the cheek when they said something you disagreed with, or share sips from the same teacup. Dark Cacao didn’t want to linger too long on those memories, but they were fresh on his mind, having occurred only moments earlier. 

The casual intimacy reminded him of the observations about Shadow Milk in Pure Vanilla’s letter. After an afternoon spent with the Beast, he couldn’t glean any of those details himself, and truth be told, he did not desire to. Shadow Milk held no ethereal beauty. He seemed to shift between substances. He could be as wooden as a carved puppet or as expressive and stretchy as clay; his edges were either sharp or sagged with decay. He was not a pleasant sight by any means, yet Pure Vanilla had noted his laughter, the twinkle of affection in his eyes, like a painter who noticed daubs of color at the edges of a canvas. He had found, beneath all the rust, something alive and worth treasuring. 

If there was good to be found, let it be him that nurtured it. Dark Cacao knew he could never – would never – be able to do the same. 

The thought bought to mind something else. “Pepero Cookie.” 

Her head flicked up, instantly attentive. “Yes, your Majesty?” 

“When did you begin employment here?” 

She blinked. “I...it was a few months ago, your Majesty.” The coals sparked, sending miniscule droplets of fire cascading over her dress. “Several days after you returned victorious from your expedition in Beast-Yeast.” 

“After the funeral rites, then.” 

Her expression faltered. “Yes.” 

“Who was it?” 

A pause. The words were stuck in her throat, but she managed feebly, “My mother.” 

Her fingers clung tightly to the spoke. Dark Cacao let out a deep sigh, his first of the evening. “My deepest condolences. She fought valiantly until the very end.” 

“You don’t-” she cut herself off. “My Lord, I apologize for the...disturbance I caused. I put the entire kingdom at risk for the sake of pettiness.” Her head lowered, shoulders trembling. “Please mete out my punishment.” 

“You will not be punished.” 

She stared at him, disbelieving. “But I could have condemned us all! I could have-” 

“And you did not.” He lowered his teacup. “I cannot blame you for your anger, even if your actions were reckless. Countless others would have done the same. But loathe as I am to speak it, the Beast is a companion of Pure Vanilla Cookie, and thus, our guest. The rules of hospitality extend to even the likes of him.” He met her stunned gaze from across the room. “This cannot happen again.” 

She swallowed, smoothing her soot-stained hands down the side of her dress. “I understand.”  

Silence hung over them, a sodden blanket. The teapot whistled its irritable chorus. Pepero Cookie rose to bring it off the flames. Her lips were pressed flat again, in that silent bitterness from earlier.  

“So it’s true, then?” 

"True?” 

Her eyes flared, but when she spoke, it was a low whisper. “That the Beast isn’t truly a prisoner. That he may do what he likes.” 

His private thoughts were not so plain that he should share them with a stranger – in the staunch environment of the citadel, rumors were coveted like pearls, and servants tended to be frequent buyers. The information itself, however, was not anything unique to him; other soldiers could have determined the same things themselves. The only other person he might have confided in was currently standing guard outside Pure Vanilla’s tent, and likely wouldn’t be back until morning. 

“He is not a prisoner,” he affirmed, setting his cup down with a solid thunk against the table. “He is free to make his own choices, and go where he pleases, so long as he doesn’t interfere with the livelihoods of other cookies.” 

“Does that mean he chose to come here?” she prodded. “To what aim?” 

“His full intentions are unclear. He has the capacity and the capriciousness for destruction, but he seems more interested in being...impertinent,” he decided on, “and engaging in uncivil acts.” 

“Yet he is no common delinquent,” Pepero Cookie muttered. “I don’t understand why Pure Vanilla Cookie would entertain him. Does he plan to wait until the Beast grows bored of complacency?” 

“I cannot speak for him,” Dark Cacao said sharply. The veiled accusations thrust his friend’s way did not go undetected. “I cannot say that I would ever follow in his footsteps, but that is why he holds the Light of Truth, and I do not. He has always believed in the potential for good, from both the worthy and the undeserving. It is not my place to determine who he extends his benevolence to, even if I find the endeavor pointless...even if I vehemently disapprove.” 

She bit her lip, glancing up at the slit in the tent’s flaps as though something might overhear. Faint, flickering lamplight cast ink blots over the snow; soldiers meandered by with their bows, their conversations muffled by the wind.

“I don’t know how he looks at him and feels anything else but anger.” She spoke so quietly, Dark Cacao had to strain to grasp the words. “I don’t...” 

The memory of the letter emerged in his mind. No more words were exchanged throughout the evening. 

Chapter Text

The annual Hollyberry ball was known for many things – elaborate gowns that rivaled cakes with their layers of velvet and silk, the endless rounds of dancing; Queen Hollyberry’s personal favorite, the infinite, iridescent fountains of berry juice.  

And with every revel, of course, came conversation; rumors and scandal and the like. Last year the gossip had centered around House Cranberry’s supposed involvement with the black market; the year before that, House Blueberry had been under scrutiny for their alleged bastard heir. Even the esteemed House Raspberry, who were renown for their spotless coat of arms and matching reputation, had been victim to their fair share of hearsay. 

This year, however, the aristocratic houses breathed a sigh of relief – the spotlight would, for once, be elsewhere.  

It began when the palace herald, a shrewd old man from House Gooseberry, announced: “Hailing from the skybound Vanilla Kingdom, His Majesty Pure Vanilla Cookie has arrived!” 

The crowd erupted into whispers, nobles peering over their sugar-crusted goblets to catch a glimpse of him. Guests from the Vanilla Kingdom were uncommon already, but the king himself had never made an appearance at any Hollyberrian ball. Before the Dark Flour War he had frequented a few festivals, mostly at the urging of Hollyberry Cookie, and was more partial to solitary activities. You would sooner see him tending to flowers or herding sheep than attending a ball. Hollyberry herself been uncertain if the populace would even be up for a ball after the nightmare that was Eternal Sugar Cookie, or if it was the wisest thing to do so soon after their battle.

Ultimately, she’d determined that there was nothing better for morale than a celebration. Besides, to break such a sacred and long-standing tradition would surely send the people into a frenzy – a good party stopped for nothing: not a monsoon, or a dragon siege, or even a Beast; a testament to the unshakable spirit of the Hollyberry Kingdom. 

But she held no such expectations for other kingdoms, much less their rulers – her friends – who were surely preoccupied with their own people in the wake of the Beast’s return. She scarcely believed her eyes when she saw Pure Vanilla Cookie descend the stairs. 

“Oh my,” remarked Queen Jungleberry Cookie, arching one regal eyebrow. “Now there’s an unexpected guest.”  

“That’s for sure,” Hollyberry chimed heartily, rising from her seat. Oh, it had been ages since they’d last shared a table! She’d learned that he’d emerged from his battle in Beast-Yeast unscathed, but it was another thing to see him in the dough. “I’ll give him a proper welcome.” 

She wove through the crush, pausing to wave to the cookies milling about across the dance floor. Pure Vanilla had already drawn a gawking crowd, his smile tinged with something like annoyance as Lady Cranberry Cookie laid a sly hand on his elbow.

“Pure Vanilla Cookie!” Hollyberry bellowed. The aristocrats stepped back, some muttering in disappointment, all dipping into low curtsies as she strode past them to gather him up in a tight embrace. “My friend! It’s been far too long!”

She squeezed him once then lowered him to the ground. He hurried to smooth down his mussed hair, his facial expression shifting quick and fluid as a candle flame, before returning her smile. 

“Hollyberry Cookie!” His joyous shout nearly matched her own. She’d never heard him so... loud. His grin was rife with delight. “Yes, it has. I wanted to notify you of my arrival ahead of time, but that would’ve ruined the surprise.” 

“And I am thoroughly surprised,” she agreed. Turning to one of the servants, she plucked two glasses from their outstretched platter and offered one to Pure Vanilla. To her begrudging surprise (the night seemed to be full of them), she didn’t need to haggle with him to get him to accept it. His gloved hands wrapped eagerly around the slim champagne flute. “What changed?” 

He took a long sip of wine, savoring the taste. “Changed?”  

“Well, you’ve never attended before. Always a busy-body! And with everything that’s happened recently, I was sure you’d remain at home.” 

“Busy, hm?” Pure Vanilla’s smile widened. “Right as always, Hollyberry. I thought I could use a break.” 

“Oh? I bet that spiffy Black Raisin Cookie got you to agree, didn’t she? An adamant one, her. Even more stubborn than you can be.” She nudged him lightly, directing them away from the stairs, where more nobles’ arrivals were being announced. Eyes trailed after them as they walked towards the refreshments table. “Nothing used to pry you away from the palace back in the day. At least, that’s the Pure Vanilla Cookie I remember.” 

“Ah, well, it’s as you’ve said.” He tilted his head, relishing another sip of wine. “Things have changed.”  

Somehow, the words put a damper on her mood. She shook her head, trying to stifle the sudden surge in sorrow. A Hollyberry triumphs over all doubts, after all. “Nevermind that. Come, let’s dance!” 

Once again, where she had expected hesitation, she instead received enthusiastic agreement. Pure Vanilla himself led her onto the dance floor. She didn’t recall him being a very skilled dancer, but throughout the song’s runtime, he directed each move with stunning grace. Perhaps the long robes he’d always worn had held him back, but even with this in mind, his improvement seemed far beyond a change of clothes.

Confidence radiated from him in cool, stinging rays, and the other dancers gravitated closer, celestial bodies drawn to their shining star. Layers of chiffon and cream flared out from velvet bodices, rings of fabric around rotating planets. The dancers’ once regal sway grew erratic, their steps locked in Sisyphian sync. Onstage, the musicians were possessed with single-minded desire for speed, choking out frantic, discordant melodies from their neglected instruments. 

When Pure Vanilla Cookie thrust her out of his grasp during a spin, it was almost forceful, stretching her dough. She’d been reeled back in with all the gentleness of a fisherman dragging its catch out of the depths, slamming against his chest. The shock jolted her out of her reverie, but then he dipped her low against the ground, jagged laughter spilling from his lips, and...well, he looked happy.

No, that wasn’t the word. But it had to be something close to happiness, or she wouldn’t have swallowed down her uneasiness and endured another round. 

Midway through the dancing, Hollyberry excused herself for a glass of juice. She balanced her cup under the pouring juice and filled it to the brim – the bitterest stuff they had supplied. She’d finish this up, then find Pure Vanilla and insist (gently suggest) they do something else. Why, she hadn’t even offered him their delectable selection of jellies! Being a poor hostess was not an option – she’d make sure he indulged in all the delicacies available. 

“For him to show his face here tonight...bravery or foolishness, which do you think?” 

A triad of nobles lingered at the other end of the table, chattering amongst themselves. The one who had spoken tittered behind the length of her fan. Given her manner of dress – the blue petticoat, creamy blonde updo, and crystal-blue jewelry emblazoned with the Madeliene insignia – her nation of origin wasn't too difficult to determine. 

 “Perhaps a combination of both,” the woman continued, pressing a delicate hand to her pert mouth. “Or maybe it’s as Lady Bumbleberry Cookie said, and the rumors hold no credence at all.” 

“They are not rumors,” the second noble insisted. Her hanbok was dyed the prestigious purple of the Dark Cacao kingdom. Golden wefts in circular patterns gleamed with every defiant jut of her hip. “My betrothed was there. He saw it with his own eyes, all the Watchers did.” 

“Did he really let the Beast into the citadel?” the third noble asked dryly. Lady Cranberry Cookie parsed her fingers through the segment of hair covering her left eye, bored. “And here I thought that Dark Cacao Cookie was of the rational sort...” 

“Watch your mouth.” The second noble sent her a sharp look. "His Majesty is a beacon of resolution and sensibility. Of course he would feel no threat - it’s only another Beast. He’s already overcome the Pallid One twice and banished her forevermore.” 

"Only another Beast?” the House Madeliene cookie echoed, astonished. “How can you dismiss their power so quickly? Was your kingdom not suffering from sickness?” 

Lady Cranberry Cookie sniffed. “Lady Yakgwa Cookie's family was untouched by the plague. She spent the whole of it here, in the Hollyberry kingdom.” She scoffed. “Ambassadors.” 

Lady Yakgwa’s dough flushed and she took a long, avoidant sip from her chalice. Addressing the other cookie, she prattled on, “Regardless, they are not rumors, Lady Lace Cookie. Pure Vanilla has appeared to befriend that Beast. They even shared a tent when they visited the Dark Cacao kingdom.” 

Lady Cranberry rolled her eyes. “How else would he keep an eye on the it?” 

“What are you so incensed about? I’m only repeating what I’ve heard.” 

“As you’ve proved is your strength,” Lady Cranberry snapped her fan shut, irate. “The Beast is a prisoner. A prisoner with a lenient warden, but a prisoner nonetheless. Have you ever considered that Pure Vanilla Cookie might be keeping it alive to consolidate power? A Beast for an ally...it’s genius.” 

“It’s risky and not guaranteed to work,” Lady Lace argued, eyebrows furrowed. “And if that was the case, Pure Vanilla could have dispelled the Creme Republic’s doubts by simply saying so. Yet he evades all questions about the Beast, and furthermore, hasn’t responded to any summons.” 

“But he’s shown up to a ball?” Lady Yakgwa gawked. 

“Either his priorities are askew, or he’s ignoring the Convocation.” Her white powdered-eyelids lowered in distaste. “His reputation in shambles, all because he wants to harbor some creature. Then to appear here, and make merry? For my home to have ties to this tactless man...how humiliating.” 

Hollyberry had heard her fill. She swiveled around, goblet in hand, and faced the trio. The tallest of them, Lady Cranberry Cookie, barely reached her shoulder. They looked up at her in shock, trapped beneath her shadow. “I must say, that is quite enough.” 

“Queen Mother!” Lady Cranberry cried. 

“Your Majesty!” Lady Yakgwa bumbled, crouching into a low bow. “We did not know you were – that we were so loud. Did we disrupt your solitude?” 

“That’s one way to put it,” she said sternly. “Is the ball so boring that you’re resorting to rumors to pass the time?” 

“Ah, well-” 

“It’s as Lady Yakgwa Cookie said,” Lady Lace interjected smoothly. “These are no rumors, your Majesty. We are only discussing politics, as well-educated ladies of the court do.” A placid smile hung from her face. “I’ve been told that the Hollyberrian Queen prefers to stay out of politics...but perhaps you’d like to join us?” 

Lady Cranberry nearly dropped her fan, the only outward sign of shock. Lady Yakgwa’s jaw fell.

Hollyberry found herself yearning for a wider glass, fingers tightening around the neck of her fragile goblet. When it came to nobles from the Creme Republic, it was almost certainly preferred to navigate their verbal stratagems while drunk. Somewhere in the back of her head, Wildberry Cookie’s warnings echoed – absolutely not, your Majesty.  

I’ll heed you just once more, Wildberry Cookie. “Join in your ceaseless slander? I most certainly will not.” 

“Slander?” Lady Lace echoed. “How can it be slander when it’s true? Surely you’ve heard of the debacle by now.”  

Hollyberry had heard about the Beast, and was probably the last person in the kingdom to accept it as fact. She’d been quick to brush it aside, just another bit of fodder for the rags, until she received the same story from a letter sent by a Dark Cacao delegate. Then she saw blurbs from other reputable sources, morning papers with sketch-artist renditions of the Beast on their front pages, his features blazing within harsh charcoal strokes.

It didn’t help that no one was keen on traveling to the Pure Vanilla Kingdom, and the airship ports were closed anyway, preventing cookies from getting an inside story on the current state of affairs. Soon, the truth was too intwined with myth to be told apart. 

Pure Vanilla Cookie is housing a Beast. It lives within the walls of the Vanilla Castle. It terrorizes the marketgoers and changes the weather on a whim and does whatever it likes, whenever it likes, and to look it in the eyes is to be forever haunted with its visage.  

Pure Vanilla Cookie is housing a Beast, and no one is doing anything to stop him.  

Hollyberry had intended to ask him about the situation, but she hadn’t wanted to do it during the ball, when they were supposed to be enjoying themselves. And, in all honesty, she herself didn’t know how to feel about this news. She was unfamiliar with the Beast of Deceit, but if he was anywhere near as manipulative as Eternal Sugar had been, she knew he must be dangerous. 

Welcome to Elysium, Eternal Sugar had gushed in that seductive, velvety voice of hers. Where valiant heroes come to rest. Eat and drink to your heart’s content, my dear. Listen to my lyre-song and feel the weight of worlds fall from your shoulders.   

She squeezed her eyes shut to banish the memories flooding her mind - the noose of Eternal Sugar’s pale arms looped around her throat, her bewitching smiles, her crooning voice and hot breath against her ear; that ravishing touch skirting over her skin like a butterfly's kiss. 

You and I... Her soft fingers had reached up to caress Hollyberry’s cheek, have forever.  

“I have heard,” she managed, desperately wishing for another cup of wine. “But I’m certain there’s an explanation for it.” 

“Oh?” Lady Lace Cookie cocked her head. “He hasn’t even told you, one of his closest friends?” 

“He wouldn’t keep anything from me that he felt was important for me to know,” she said firmly. At least, that was what he promised, back then. 

That blank, languid smile from earlier appeared in her mind. Well, it’s as you said. Things have changed.  

“I should hope that the matter of his house-guest would be considered important information.” Lady Lace continued, her invective tone piercing through Hollyberry’s thoughts. “I believed you of all people would be privy to his thoughts. It seems he’s shutting everyone out in favor of that Beast.” 

Hollyberry’s gaze narrowed. “You’re making many bold assumptions.” 

“All we can do is make assumptions,” she replied cooly, “because Pure Vanilla Cookie refuses to admit anything. This could all be solved if he made his intentions clear, but he allows disbelief to persist. It appears to me that he does not care for the people’s input, and by extension, the people themselves. How can you ask me not to condemn that?” 

Hollyberry’s fingers clenched tightly around the glass. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Lady Lace Cookie. I never said such a thing. If you’re so curious about his intentions, why don’t you go up and ask him?” 

“Yes,” came a voice, “why don’t you?” 

A gloved hand landed on Lady Lace’s shoulders. She flinched, wine sloshing against the sides of her goblet. There was no need to confirm who stood behind her, if the stunned expressions of her companions were anything to go by.  

“Your Majesty,” Lady Cranberry Cookie dipped into a reverent curtsy. “How honored we are to stand in your presence. It is not often that you grace the Hollyberrian court.” 

“I ought to visit more often. Marvelous dancing, fine dining, and such-” His fingers dug into the dark blue fabric at her collarbone. Lady Lace Cookie whimpered. “- compelling conversation. It’s a shame I’ve missed it all this time.” 

Hollyberry’s rejuvenated mood dipped. The uneasiness that had rippled through her earlier, during their dance, spiked sharply. “Pure Vanilla Cookie, may I-?” 

“Wait just a bit, Hollyberry.” He didn’t look at her. His eyes strained in their sockets, ready to be plucked like milky berries – they glinted with recognition that shouldn’t have been present.  

She realized, then, that he’d had his eyes open the entire night: from the moment he’d materialized at that staircase, to this very minute, drawing out muffled sounds of panic from the noblewoman in his grasp. His other hand was empty.  

Where is his staff? He’d had it at the beginning of the night, and he would never be so careless with his aide. Had he misplaced it?  

He spun around, and Lady Lace spun with him, petticoat twirling. “Care for a dance?” he chirped, but it wasn’t really a question. His arm was pulling her away from the other two women, even as her feet tripped over themselves and her cheeks flared red with lividness.  

“Unhand me this instant! What on Earthbread has gotten into you?” 

“Are you Creme Republicans always this uptight? No wonder he doesn’t want to see you.” 

Confusion seeped into her expression. “Pardon?” 

The pair slid out of view, nestling deep into the hive of courtiers. Hollyberry abandoned the other two and rushed after them. The checkered-chocolate tile beneath her heels seemed to stretch on forever, and she lifted her skirts to not trip over them in her hurry. As she hopelessly wove through the crowd, partygoers danced directly into her path. They bowed with flustered, babbling apologies – We’re ever so sorry, your Majesty. We don’t know how it happened. We’re usually quite careful...  

Pure Vanilla and Lady Lace arrived at the center of the dance floor. Dancers switched partners and formed a wall around them, frolicking in rapid circles. The musicians’ dough merged with their instruments, and they were the ones made to play, singing out in a clear, haunting chorus.  

Pure Vanilla Cookie spun Lady Lace around like a top, her dress flaring out in a loose spiral. Her hair fell out of its neat bun; strands plastered to her cheeks. She breathed raggedly. “You...you...” 

“Out of breath so soon?” He cooed. “You were so full of words earlier.” 

“Let me go,” she demanded, her chest heaving. “This is beyond crude. To think someone of your status would act like a lawless fiend under the influence!” 

“Such is the magic of alcohol,” he sing-songed, grinning as they side-stepped together.  

“Don’t be absurd,” she hissed, trying to wrench away from his grip. Pure Vanilla spun her away from him, her tresses curling like clouds as she hung suspended from his arm. He reeled her in again; dipped her so that her skirts kissed the floor. His pale hair draped over them, spilling past his shoulders and gathering against her neck.  

His smile split further. “I’m afraid absurd is all I can be. It was baked into my very dough.” 

 “Quit speaking riddles,” she hissed. “I shall-” 

"You cookies are all the same, prying into things that are simply none of your business! Talking and talking and talking.” He sighed. “It’s to be expected of politicians, but you aren’t one yourself, are you? You’re just a part of one of many aristocratic houses of the Republic. A dime a dozen, and you know it.” 

She shook with a quiet, seething rage. “How dare you?” 

“I’m quite daring. And charming, and handsome, but that’s beside the point. All this nattering of yours is just an effort to increase your worth in the eyes of society.” He yanked her upwards, and she nearly buckled under the sudden gesture. “That’s what the rest of them do, too. You aren’t special. You feign pride but will beg for scraps of attention from the right people. You say his name, but he was never like any of you.” 

The chorus’ voice rose into a sharp, agonizing wail. Lady Lace looked around her in horror, but no one else noticed the ghoulish change in music. Their eyes never strayed from their partners, their legs poised at perfect angles. Pure Vanilla’s whimsical smile remained unmarred. 

“Now, I love a good rumor. They’re such a flawless concoction of truth and deceit, how could I not?” He twirled her around again. She tripped over her inner skirts, sprawling out onto the floor. Lady Lace Cookie sat limply, blinking through the smear of sweat in her eyes, sagging with exhaustion.  

Her right arm snapped up, then the left. Each limb began to move on its own. Her dress’s bulbous, bellflower skirts wilted as the legs underneath struggled against unseen forces. Feet dragging against the floor, she was carried back into Pure Vanilla’s arms.  

“Since you’re so fond of them, why don’t we make one up about you?” he suggested. “Lady Lace Cookie of House Madeleine...so ambitious, so greedy! Her penchant for rumors makes her oh-so difficult to place trust in, and she simply has no respect for authority. Besides, how can she ever hold a seat in court if she can’t even submit to the Hollyberrian queen?” 

“What?” She stumbled through their dance. The questions on her tongue had all but evaporated, replaced with poorly veiled fear. “What are you saying?” 

“Oh, dear. It’s far too late in the game to act stupid now.” 

“This is – this is-!" 

“Slander?” His head tilted in disbelief. “But how can that be? It’s true, isn’t it?” 

The echo of those previous words drained the rest of her resolve. Pure Vanilla’s face contorted, exaggerated as an opera mask, shadows lurking in the gorges of the once-gentle, sloping lines of his jaw and mouth. 

“Don’t be so cross,” he crooned, tracing the line of her jaw. “Can’t you see I’ve done you a favor? You can’t even handle a bit of truth, and you want to immerse yourself in politics? Silly, silly cookie!” 

With that, he released her. Whatever magical strings had been puppeting her limbs vanished, and she crumpled in a heap of chiffon, trembling where he’d touched her. She tried to gather up her words, her questions, her relentless criticisms, and each sentence crumbled before it could begin. Indignation burned on her dough, though none of the other dancers paid her any mind. She didn’t exist to them, her boundless humiliation concentrated in the six-by-six square she'd been disposed on.

The ridicule of the Hollyberrian court might have been preferable to the man watching her. His gaze was a lighthouse’s shine razing through her soul. “Your disdain is far from unique, but I can see why you thought your rumor-mongering would destroy him. To cookies like you, your reputation is all you have.” 

“But if Pure Vanilla Cookie is going to fall,” he told her, turning his back on her, “it won’t be by your insignificant machinations.” 

The crowd of dancers closed in around his receding body, caging her in and out of sight. 

Hollyberry Cookie found him on the balcony ledge, feet swinging to an unheard melody. 

"Who are you?”  

Throughout the entire incident with Lady Lace Cookie, she’d found her mind turned to slush. It couldn’t have been drunkenness; she hadn’t consumed nearly enough to reach her limits. It was a good enough explanation for the other attendees, though the dancers were unable to figure out why the soles of their expensive shoes were falling apart. Surely they hadn’t enjoyed themselves that much. 

With a cheerful violin rendition of Mark of the Dragonslayer, the incident was easily swept under the rug. Only Lady Lace Cookie looked troubled. She’d hobbled over to a corner with the hem of her dress trailing behind her, skin glimmering with perspiration. No amount of urging from her companions could convince her to rejoin the floor.  

Hollyberry Cookie could recognize magic when she felt it. The general uneasiness that she’d experienced all throughout the night had reached its peak, so when she saw Pure Vanilla disappear through the balcony doors, she went to confront him. 

The imposter frowned. “So impatient! I came here for you, you know.” 

Her shield’s soul jam pulsed in tune with her thrumming heart. “Wearing his face."

“I know,” the imposter mourned. “It pained me greatly to resort to his...less than ideal countenance, but I thought it’d be more interesting that way. The drama, the gossip, the wonderfully complicated ensembles! Makes me almost miss the aristocracy.” 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she warned. “Who are you? Despite your magic, you haven’t taken great care to act like him. I’m certain the other guests noticed your odd behavior." 

“Ooh! Such confidence! But why would they?” As he spoke, the dough on the right side of his face began to sag, its color and warmth oozing out like candle wax. It splattered against the ground in thick chunks, revealing another face underneath – eyes like cherry pits gouged into his sockets, juxtaposed by lustrous, white eyelashes, and a smile filled with more pointy teeth than a dragon’s maw. 

“You see, I intended for you to eventually realize what was going on. Any moment of suspicion you had was carefully cultivated by me. With other cookies, it doesn’t matter if I slip up here and there. What do they know about him?” His pinhole gaze bored through her armor. “If I’d wanted to, you would have never known it wasn’t him.” 

She bit her tongue - Hollyberry liked to think she would recognize her friends through thick and thin, but she couldn't deny that she had been deceived for a time. 

Deceived... 

“You!” she shouted in realization. “You’re the Beast of Deceit!” 

He rolled his eyes. "Took you long enough." A bow, sardonic. “Shadow Milk Cookie, Cookie of Deceit. Not at your service, but always available for a good drink. I’m sure you enjoyed my company tonight in that regard.” 

“About as much as one can enjoy being deceived,” she muttered, resisting the urge to flinch when his head began to bob up and down unnaturally, like a bobble-head trinket on the verge of snapping into pieces. 

Perhaps he had a point in donning a disguise, even if she wished it wasn’t the visage of her friend. Though the average Hollyberrian was familiar with their own local beasts, namely the dragons, Shadow Milk Cookie was an entirely different form of horror. Eternal Sugar had been strange to gaze upon, too, but only because her beauty was overwhelming. Hollyberry couldn’t exactly describe just what quality of Shadow Milk’s was overwhelming, only that he was, and that it took a sizeable amount of her willpower just to maintain eye contact. 

“Deceit...you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”  

Her head snapped up. “Just what are you accusing me of?” 

“Quick on the draw,” he noted cheerfully, tapping his chin. “Don’t be so prickly. I’m only referring to this little bash of yours. I found it oh-so-interesting that you were having a party right after that whole...” he made a gesture. “Eternal Sugar fiasco."

“It’s an annual tradition,” she defended. “I was intent to see it through this year, regardless of the troubles on the horizon. The citizens need to feel that their festivities are intact, that their livelihoods are secure.” 

“The citizens need it? Or you?” His eyes curved in pleasure. “No wrong answers here! Take a guess.” 

She grit her teeth. “I’m not interested in partaking in your mind games.” 

His pupils narrowed into slits. When he spoke, however, his tone was lighthearted. “But you already are, and without any interference from me! This whole party is, as you’ve so eloquently put it, a charade. For yourself, an idle distraction. For your people, a confirmation that Eternal Sugar Cookie is no real threat, so much so that they can still party to their heart's content. Kind of a dangerous notion to peddle, no?” 

Hollyberry tried to gather her thoughts, but they all slipped from her fingers, oily as fish. Shadow Milk Cookie shook his head, almost in pity. “I told you, Hollyberry Cookie. I came here for you. To admire your handiwork.” He spoke softly, mockingly. “It’s a beautiful little lie you’ve built here.” 

She knew this song and dance. Eternal Sugar had spoken to her in much the same way, her words syrupy even when she was malicious. She'd said similar things herself, though most of her emphasis was on making sure Hollyberry's passion was muted; keeping her emotions bottled up and contained in a way that was easier to control. Shadow Milk toyed with her emotions, too, but he treated them more like game pieces shifting across a board. He had a plan for where he wanted them in the end, one that was most assuredly intended for his personal gain.

And yet, unlike Eternal Sugar, not everything he'd said was a lie. 

Admitting that alone was a difficulty, but a part of her had already known that this party was a distraction. Ever since her encounter with the winged Beast, she'd nearly forbidden herself from any form of merriment, guilt-ridden and unable to do much but wallow in the recesses of her memory. The days grew into a circuitous nightmare, a constant torment. She should've done this, and this, and this. She shouldn't have done this, shouldn't have fallen for this, shouldn't have faltered then. A prison constructed entirely out of imaginary scenarios that would never come to fruition, because this was the future she was in, and she had not done anything she should have. In her mind, she had failed the minute she chose not to attack upon glimpsing Eternal Sugar Cookie for the first time; her pale body gilded like a statue as she rested in the glade, eyes closed in the illusion of vulnerability.

It was only through the urging of her friends and family that she was able to climb out of that mindset. The party was a distraction, yes, but a necessary one. Something to remind her of the joys her life had to offer, of the people she had managed to protect regardless of her mistakes. Her subjects had already suffered their share when Eternal Sugar's spell reached the kingdom - they had all fallen into a deep sleep, shrouded in thorns and roses like princesses awaiting a princely kiss. She would not deprive them of this, too.

So she looked up at Shadow Milk and said, "You're right."

His smile seemed to fragment, just noticable in the twitching skin it hung on. "What?"

"This party is a distraction," she admitted, leaning against the ledge. "For myself, for my subjects. But it's also a reminder of the glorious days to come. It's true that I've prioritized their comforts, but that does not mean I will ever compromise their safety. Of all the things I'm unsure about, this is not one of them."

Shadow Milk studied her, lips tugging downwards, his sneer like a knife gash across his cheeks. "Psh. There goes my fun." He crossed his arms defiantly, disappointed. "How dull. At the end of the day, you're just another sorry practitioner of his outdated ideals."

"Outdated ideals?" she chuckled. Immediately, the action surprised her. Laughing with a Beast? Maybe I really am drunk. 

His mouth twisted, an errant smear of marker on his face. "Truth. Honesty. Friendship." Each word was heavy with derision.

"Friendship is no outdated ideal," she chastised. "It's the spirit of living! The essence of all cookiekind, the very root of nations. I'd say there's nothing that's withstood the test of time more. There are few things stronger."

"Hogwash," Shadow Milk dismissed. With a flick of his wrist, his disguise stitched itself together, tanned dough spreading out like a fast-healing scar over the oil spill of his true face. Pure Vanilla gazed back at her once more, his gaze calm, appraising, eyes lidded. "Delusions to lull yourself to sleep with."

"Aren't the Beasts your friends?"

His expression flickered, that candle-flame of transforming masks. "Awfully nosy, aren't you?"

She cocked a brow. "I ought to be able to ask some questions, too. And on that matter, are you not friends with Pure Vanilla Cookie?"

A long pause. Shadow Milk's body teetered on the balcony ledge. Though she knew it wasn't truly Pure Vanilla, seeing the illusion of her friend on the verge of falling filled her with fear. "Is that what you think?"

"I heard other things," she admitted, "but when I dwell on it...that seems like the only explaination. He could have sealed you away, as my other companions did, but he did not."

"Mercy," Shadow Milk said, tone brittle, "is not friendship."

"Maybe not. But what of everything else? Keeping you at his side is one thing. Allowing you to do as you please is another. He trusts you. I don't believe he would extend that much trust to someone he didn't consider a friend. Or, at the very least...I don't think he would extend that much trust to someone he considered an enemy."

Pure Vanilla's laughter had always been a pleasant sound, but not now. Shadow Milk wiped an imaginary tear from his eyelids. "Oh! Now that's a good one. Truly, you think too much of him!" His eyes curved with keen, glittering pleasure. "There's another tricky part of friendship - the inability to find faults in your dearest, closest pals. Pure Vanilla Cookie would extend that much trust. He's a bit of a fool, if you've yet to notice."

"So is that what you are to him?" she asked, gaze narrowing. "His enemy?"

"Enemy, ally," Shadow Milk said flippantly. "Such miniscule terms to describe something far more all-encompassing."

"Friend, then," she settled on.

"Stubborn, aren't you?"

"It's as you said." Her lips tilt into a smirk. "I'm a sorry practitioner of his outdated ideals."

"Real cute," he said flatly. 

"Why, thank you." He rolled his eyes. "But I don't say it in jest, you know. I recall now all the things people have said about him, especially tonight. The nations of Earthbread doubt him, and they doubt him because of you. They...the things they've said about him, I'm sure he's heard by now." Her fingers tightened around the cusp of her shield. "But he holds no fear. He goes about his business, ruling his kingdom, refusing to bend to their questioning when it could make everything easier for him. Who else would he risk his reputation for if not a friend?"

Shadow Milk's disguise began to drip again - a momentary lapse in control. There was hatred written there, easily identifiable amongst the slurry of other emotions swirling openly on the canvas of his face.

"Haven't you been listening?" His voice was quiet. "It's because he's a fool."

His leering face was the last thing she saw before he leaped off the balcony - Pure Vanilla Cookie’s likeness, twisted into a forbidden shape of angry, angry guilt.

Chapter Text

When Smoked Cheese told her about Pure Vanilla Cookie’s current misadventure -  the word he’d cautiously used was “entanglements” -  Golden Cheese Cookie hadn’t believed him. 

“I am not partial to gossip, Smoked Cheese Cookie,” she told him crisply, wings fluttering with irritation. “I told you to collect intelligence on Dark Enchantress’s movements. Do tell me you’ve gathered something of value.” 

Smoked Cheese mumbled something under his breath - she could tell by his creased nose that he was resisting the urge to snap back at her. Uncharacteristically, and without argument, he handed her an envelope from the satchel around his waist, which hung heavy with overflowing correspondence - scrolls and newspapers and the odd stone tablet. “See it with your own eyes, then, your Radiance.” 

The epithet came with a sarcastic edge. She arched one regal eyebrow and inspected the envelope – creamy white with a familiar gleaming seal. With a quick swipe of her claws, she tore at the envelope’s lip. A letter from Pure Vanilla Cookie was nothing unusual (as it may have once been), though she was much more acquainted with Black Raisin Cookie’s dark, impatient scrawl than his neat rows of braille. 

Her fingers descended the sheet, fingers treading over the lined stubs. Smoked Cheese watched her with lidded eyes, his eye makeup whetting the intense, appraising nature of his gaze. Seldom a ripple of emotion cascaded through the his irises even while the first signs of anger appeared in her own.

Her azure-painted mouth dragged downwards, tugged at the ends by an invisible hook, splitting apart to reveal fanged teeth gritted in discontent. “Impossible,” she said at last. 

“I thought so myself,” he agreed. “But I received undeniable evidence from your friend when I requested an audience with her. Hollyberry Cookie confirmed the story wholeheartedly. She claims to have even met the Beast, face-to-face – he attended their annual ball, if I recall correctly.” 

Golden Cheese stared at him, aghast. “He...what?” 

Her general cleared his throat noisily. Carefully, he added, “She says he said he was bored.” 

A sharp, disbelieving laugh came out of her, dislodged from the rapidly shrinking space in her lungs. She leaned against the column behind her, partly for strength, partly to place her hands against its cool, pockmarked surface and remind herself that she was in the most precious chamber of the mines, where the soul cheeses of her beloved citizens laid in temporary slumber. She could not lash out here, lest she risk its structural integrity, but the anger refused to die down. The ludicrousness of Smoked Cheese’s statement only provided her with a cursory respite, in which, for a moment, she wished with all her heart that this was a joke gone too far. But for all her general’s teasing, even he wouldn’t go to these lengths to initiate her fury.  

Somewhere, nestled in their sarcophagi, she felt the spectating eyes of her people. A goddess did not know panic. She breathed out and began to compose herself. 

Her thoughts returned to the crumpled letter in her fists. She strained to discern its contents, though she’d just read it moments ago: there had been a brief, harmless string of words. A cheerful greeting, followed by an inquiry about her health. Together they comprised a delicate preamble that hardly prepared her for the news ahead.  

Pure Vanilla was kind, overly so. This was indisputable. In their youth, he had always insisted on pausing their journey to tend to wounded cookies along the path, occasionally animals. He tore at his own clothes for slings and makeshift bandages so often that his sleeves were a patchwork of scrap cloth. He waited until they had each scraped the pot before eating his portion. Over time his smile grew too large for the thinness of his face. 

He pried out his kindness, dispensing gleaming scale after scale, until he was left with nothing with to protect himself, until he was bare-backed and stripped to the core. She had once admired the tenacity that accompanied such self-destructive generosity, though she’d known he was no fool. He knew there was no selflessness without suffering. He knew it made him vulnerable. It was a conscious choice to forsake his desires, his safety, his doubts – all to pry just one more scale from his dough. 

And yet it had gone so far beyond that. He had welcomed a Beast, the object of his near demise, into his home. Into his arms. After all he had endured, he embraced his tormentor like a friend. It was the sort of mercy that the elders of the Golden City hoped their descendants would possess – nestled in life lessons about loving thy enemy and lowering thy weapon. But those children weren’t meant to see war, to ever learn the fruitlessness of such anecdotes. They were only meant to be greedy, and to want for nothing. 

They’d learned, one way or another, that such stories were rubbish.  

“Your Radiance?” 

Smoked Cheese’s tentative voice was the anchor she needed. She strode away from the column, reaching for her spear. A surge of energy sent her rattling off the walls like a billiard ball. 

“Your Radiance?” he repeated, puzzled at her sudden movement. “Where are you going?” 

“Correction,” she said, adjusting her headdress. “Where are we going: the Pure Vanilla Kingdom. We shall commence straightaway.” 

Her general sputtered. “Wha - at this very moment? But we haven’t talked about the information I gathered-” 

“We can discuss it on the journey there.” 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Would it crumble you to explain yourself for once?” 

“As you said, Smoked Cheese. I must see it for myself." She offered a reassuring beam, a flag of compromise, but his gaze sought deeper than that. He could sense her apprehension, the tremble beneath her words. Once, she would have hated the mere implication that someone could so easily parse her weaknesses, but Smoked Cheese had seen her at her frailest, and she had witnessed him at his ugliest, and still they stood by the other. 

She was grateful. She wanted a companion, not a devotee. “I see,” he said quietly. His face returned to impassivity, glass-smooth. In silence, they began their ascension to the upperworld. 

That night she dreamed she’d invited Burning Spice Cookie to dinner.  

His back was hunched in the cramped mining chamber, parashu slung across it. He had not forgone his armor, and it clung against the sleek handle of his axe each time he readjusted his hulking body. Eyes of molten amber smoldered into her own. Sweat sprouted like weeds over her dough. Something dripped down her back, hot and viscous as fondue. 

In his grasp was a chipped teacup. The sight of it was laughable - such a tiny, brittle thing in his large hands. He smiled at her, and she could not tell if his teeth were yellow with gold or rot. She wanted him to stop. He continued smiling blithely in between sips of tea. 

Then, abruptly, he lowered his teacup. He began to speak as though they’d been conversing the whole time. “I brought only the freshest cuts for us to share,” he told her in his low, rumbling voice. His breath stank of jasmine, a scent that should have been comforting. “You enjoy meat, do you not?”  

His hands abandoned the teacup and reached for her face. She couldn’t move, stuck to her seat as he reached forward and seized her chin roughly, nails digging into her dough. He directed her face downwards, forcing her to acknowledge the wide platter that lay between them.  

Her torn wings lay there, one on top of the other. Their feathers were ruffled, a few plucked in an obvious struggle, tinged red. Bones protruded from each wing’s base, gleaming knuckle-white in the dim lantern flame. Several dripped thickly with jam, a dark crimson bloom spreading through the table’s wooden whorls. 

Her throat prickled with nausea. Being confronted with them like this was worse than the realization of being grounded, the pain of phantom limbs, the inescapable chill of that prison cell. At least back then, she hadn’t had to face the reality of it all immediately. And when she did, she’d had Smoked Cheese with her, his guiding hand on her back like a salve over the burning absence of her wings. His presence meant that she would not taste failure yet, but he was nowhere to be found now. The room seemed to shrink even further with this realization.

Jam dribbled down her shoulder. She closed her eyes and pretending the snapping sounds she heard were the whip and sway of a tree’s boughs in the wind. She pretended what she soaked in was only the cool waters of a lassi spring. Even in her dreams, she refused to cry in front of him.

The Vanilla Kingdom was peaceful. It was immediately suspicious. 

She’d only visited a handful of times, too preoccupied with her own lands to depart for extended periods of time, and her most recent visit had been just before Pure Vanilla’s expedition to Beast-Yeast. It was a fraction of her own kingdom’s size, small in a quaint way. There were no dazzling temples or gilded streets, and the most imposing structure was a palace painted in homely shades of yellow and blue. Not quite her style, but comforting nonetheless.  

Modesty had never suited her anyway. 

It was much the same now, which came as a shock. She expected a ghost town, with all the citizens shut up inside their homes, just as the Kulfi tribe had done when news of Burning Spice’s return had reached them. Instead, thin crowds milled about the town square engaged in various activities. A baker’s assistant set a fresh tray of tarts onto a windowsill, shooing away a flock of blueberry birds who’d gathered there. Vendors sold their wares, debating with persistent hagglers in a chorus of no and yes and oh, alright. Children flew kites with flapping ribbon tails, languishing in the cool shade that Pure Vanilla’s sugar quartz statue granted them.  

“Somehow this is not what I imagined,” Smoked Cheese Cookie mused, dragging his cloak’s hood over his eyes. He’d insisted they wear one each to maintain some anonymity, a notion she’d found pointless but ultimately agreed to, if only to placate his need for secrecy. “It appears...relatively normal.” 

“The Beast is a master of illusion,” she informed him. “What we look upon now may only be another one of his tricks. Our answers lie within the palace.” 

“About that, your Radiance.” He caressed his chin, assuming his dreaded scheming pose. “What do you think you’ll find in there?” 

She’d turned the thought over in her head countless times during their journey. “A Beast puppeting Pure Vanilla Cookie. An imposter on the throne.” It was the answer she wanted to be true, the answer she needed to be true. Pure Vanilla was kind, but not this kind. Hollyberry was mistaken. Perhaps the Beast’s influence had spread to her, too. She would free them all and end this madness where it stood. 

“Then,” Smoked Cheese continued, “did you plan to simply strut in there and cut him down with your spear? Truly your battle prowess is unmatched, my Radiant queen, but we cannot approach a new enemy with old tactics. Burning Spice’s cat-and-mouse games were hardly a mental exercise. Shadow Milk Cookie’s strengths, however, lie in deception.” 

“And what are you suggesting?” 

“I’m suggesting a strategy. We have the advantage of surprise. He may not hinge on brute strength, but we can't afford to underestimate him.” 

“I hadn’t planned on it,” she huffed, “but I see your point. However, I fail to understand how lingering here will help. We don’t have time to waste.” 

“Time spent consolidating power is never time wasted, my Queen.” His lips pulled into a wily smile. “How many guards do you think Pure Vanilla’s castle has?” 

She paused to regard him. “I suppose...a handful for each visible entrance. Ah, and there are the waffle statues, too.” 

“Wafflebots,” he corrected. “It’s most likely that the Beast has a few additional eyes on the lookout as well. Espionage has never been your strong suit, but we’ll have to make do.” He strode forward, the tail of his headdress dragging against the ground, just barely visible beneath the long trail of his cloak. He walked with purpose, carefully weaving between the congregation steadily building in the central plaza. 

“We’re going to sneak into the palace?” she asked, keeping in step with him. “Your little getup may have fooled the populace, but I doubt it will work on trained guards." 

“Not to worry, my Queen. I’ll handle it.” He gestured towards his staff, which was concealed beneath the thick velvet swaths of his cloak.  

Of course. To anyone else it would have looked like a walking stick; the lacquered wooden tip striking the earth was the only indication he was holding anything at all. She was unsure as to the extent of its hypnotic capabilities and whether it would be useful against the Beast, but at least it would prove a surefire solution to the guard problem.  

By now the palace was so close she could see the shuffling shadows of servants through the crystal window panes. Smoked Cheese had not brought them to the main entrance, instead seeking an alternate – and highly informal – route through the furthermost sector of the royal gardens. He led her past rows of neatly trimmed bushes and blossoms cloistered together in shades of soft lilac and russet ochre; flocks rested by burbling fountains, fat from the plentiful birdfeeders. The air was heavy with an overwhelmingly floral scent, a suffocating sweetness.  

She wasn’t paying too much attention to her surroundings, but eventually small abnormalities began to make themselves known.  

A few birds by the fountain had beaks bent into convoluted spiral shapes, and their downy feathers carried an unusual checkerboard pattern. A few fountains she could have sworn were pale-faced now had horrific gargoyles carved into their stone napes. Tree branches reached out to snag in her hair. Their roots, thick and gnarled, crawled out of the dirt to trip their steps. 

She snarled as a tree’s knobby fingers tangled through her curls, smacking the branch away. She suspected this was the Beast’s doing. Little dabs of disorderliness here and there, irritating but harmless. The tree bent in an unseen gale, its boughs folding in the stark image of pouty defiance, like it was a child she’d just scolded. Then came a rasping, hollow laugh from the tree’s rustling leaves. Her jaw tightened, and the momentary speck of guilt she’d felt faded instantaneously. 

Not entirely harmless, then.  

Unsurprisingly, there were two guards stationed by the garden’s main entrance. They blanched in confusion at the sight of two strangers emerging from the foliage. Dressed in cloaks on a warm summer afternoon, the pair were the vision of conspicuous. 

“This is not a public zone,” one informed them, brows pinched together like the folds of a dumpling. “I must ask you to leave, before you are forcefully escorted from the premises.” 

“There’s a lovely greenhouse outside town square,” the other offered timidly. Their senior  shot them a stern look and they retreated into their shell of armor, doe eyes blinking blearily. 

“No need, gentlemen.” Smoked Cheese Cookie declared, tone jovial, as though they were acquaintances sharing an inside joke among themselves. His dazzling smile distracted them from the serpentine threads of smoke slithering out from underneath his cloak, the hardening of his voice. “You will permit us to enter.” 

“We...will allow you entrance,” the doe-eyed one repeated sluggishly. His arms slackened, spear falling into the grass as he stumbled aside. His companion’s face bent into shock, a single moment of hardheaded willpower, before he, too, succumbed to the smoke. Smoked Cheese glided past them and swung the doors open.  

She recognized the Solarium of Unity immediately. There was no sight grander in all the kingdom, and she was ever so partial to grandeur. Dappled light poured through the mosaics, casting the length of the hall in a shimmering luster, bejeweling the polished tile with pinpricks of glitter. Carefully cut shards of amber made up her window pane, glowing like warm honey as the sun’s gaze burned through the glass halo of her hair.  

“Such craftsmanship,” Smoked Cheese whispered in awe. She smirked – that open fascination was not an expression she was lucky enough to witness often. “How remarkable. I wonder how long it took.” 

“Quite a while, from what I recall.” Her fingers laid against the glass, drinking in the luxurious warmth held within. “I never get tired looking at it.” 

“You never get tired looking at yourself,” he deadpanned, swiftly pivoting so she wouldn’t have a chance to glimpse another one of his secretive smiles. “Where do you think the Beast resides? The throne room feels a little too on the nose.” 

The mention of their target strummed the strings of discontent trembling beneath her dough. She closed her eyes, attempting to temporarily dispel her discomfort for the sake of their mission, but the agitated flap of her wings gave her away. Her general was given no chance to comment on it before the solarium’s light abruptly dimmed, plunging the hall in a dull silver tide. She thought perhaps a cloud had rolled past the sun, but as she turned to examine the mosaics, her anger flared tenthfold.  

The glass tiles aged a sickly blue, dulling their surroundings. Each portrait flickered with the fickleness of a stained film reel. Individual shards went dark, then shone again with new lines carved into them. Sharp-edged ruffles extended off the collar of Hollyberry’s armor. Dark Cacao’s blank face gained a curved, crescent smile crammed to the brim with teeth. Golden Cheese’s flaming hair became an oily mass of darkness. Piece by piece a new image was assembled and revealed to them slowly. 

By the time the glass stopped flickering, three out of five mosaics had been replaced with images of what Golden Cheese could only assume was the Beast. Unlike the originals, his glass likeness included eyes and a mouth, though she sorely wish they didn’t. He was depicted in stock ballet poses, lanky limbs tossed high with abandon. From left to right: plié, relevé, arabesque, his dark hair unfurling behind him like tangled ribbon.

His expression contained an inappropriate, impish joy, as though he’d been caught in the act of something terrible. 

Only two windows were left untouched – Pure Vanilla’s and, to her utter surprise, White Lily’s. After a moment, all the mosaics returned to previous states. She almost wondered if she’d imagined it until Smoked Cheese said, “I suppose that’s our answer.” 

“Our answer?” 

“How to find the Beast.” He tapped the floor with his staff. A master of illusion himself, he was unphased by the color-changing tiles. “We follow the trail of distortions, and they will lead us straight to him.” 

They traversed the maze of corridors, keeping a critical eye out for anything odd.  It didn’t take long. 

Discrepancies crept up like rats, skittering in and out of sight but impossible to forget once you saw them. Paintings that watched you, blinking sleepily from the confines of their canvases, or walking into the adjacent portraits to bother their neighbors.  Doors flew open as they walked past – an unfortunate Smoked Cheese ended up being smacked directly in the face. Candlelight would shoot up in columns, flames licking at their dough, hoping to get a taste. Pianos played themselves – she felt like a fool, scrambling about to the tune of Turkish March and Csikós Post.  

The Beast was fond of spiral shapes, and fonder still of eyes. It was strange – back home, such a symbol warded off evil. They were a means of protection, of strength and healing, carved at the bottom of their serving bowls, and now they would lead her into the bowels of a creature intent on ruin. 

The letter flashed in her mind. She could not imagine Pure Vanilla at his writing desk, typing away with a serene smile. It was a lie. He was locked away, imprisoned in the castle that had never had a dungeon. He was glued to his throne, a figurehead for a puppet. He was crumbled and buried. He was ensorcelled, tongue laden with secrets he would never be able to keep, smiling blithely forever and ever. His horns had been sheared. His wings were torn. He was suffering, because that was all the kindness a Beast could give. He was, he was- 

He was talking to it like an old friend. 

The scent of lilies purged her descent into panic. Smoked Cheese Cookie extended a hand, stilling her movements, and motioned with his fingers: quiet. He watched the pair with intense focus.

Pure Vanilla stood obelisk-tall in a blindingly white sea of lilies. She could see the curve of his cheek, his lips mouthing muted words. His hair was held half up, half down, longer than she’d ever seen it; new gleaming robes spilled to the floor like folds of melted white chocolate.

And then there was the Beast. 

He hovered over the flowers, just high enough that Pure Vanilla was forced to tilt his head upwards to maintain eye contact. The solarium’s mosaic had captured every sharp line of his body, including the boomerang-tilt of his grin. Bronze bells tinkled on his clothes, sewn into dark fabric embossed with rhombi, the closest things to jewels. When Pure Vanilla said something he found amusing, his rubbery dough would stretch wide, and he would laugh with that serpent’s tongue hidden within his nest of teeth. It hurt to listen to. 

She thought of Burning Spice’s copper-stained grin and understood, at that moment, that the Beasts were not so different from each other as others believed, and that the privilege of differentiation was not one they deserved. 

Shadow Milk Cookie laid a hand on Pure Vanilla’s shoulder. It should have been a gesture of comfort, and perhaps if it had been anyone else witnessing this moment, they would have thought it to be. But as his hand lowered to plant itself on Pure Vanilla's shoulder, she felt a ripple of fear. Smoked Cheese hissed a curse as she slipped out of their hiding place, spear poised.

She thrust her spear forwards, a dividing line between the Beast's hand and her friend's shoulder. The intent was to warn, but her weapon’s blade ended up scratching his cheek, and she couldn't muster up any pity. Jam dribbled from the shallow cut. His smile fractured into an ugly sneer as droplets splashed visciously onto his frilled white collar.

Pure Vanilla’s face was pale with shock. “Golden Cheese Cookie!” 

She studied him. His eyes were wide with concern, mouth twisted in confusion. There were no outward signs of magical interference, but he also looked far too well for someone who was in the constant company of a Beast.  

“Golden Cheese?” he repeated. 

Her gaze whipped towards Shadow Milk Cookie, blazing with hatred. She aimed her spear directly at his face.  

“Nice toy you’ve got there,” he drawled. 

“A toy? I will cut you down where you stand, jester. What have you done to him?” she demanded. “Tell me, lest your final words be a lie." 

“Oh-ho!” the Beast exclaimed. He spoke with such lighthearted sarcasm that it was impossible to assign sincerity to anything he said. “Final words? My, aren’t you bold.”  

She raised her spear. 

“My Queen!” Smoked Cheese piped up, words tinged with desperation. He’d emerged from their hiding place, abandoning his cloak by the wayside. “Let us not be so hasty.” 

She met her general's gaze and prompted him to continue. “You know as well as I do that no task is beneath me," he went on. "I only think you ought to speak with Pure Vanilla Cookie first.” 

"How convenient that you should only suggest this now,” she said dully. Still, something nagged at her. She thought back to how he'd examined the two earlier, when they'd hidden themselves behind the greenhouse foliage. What had he seen that she hadn't? “How can I, when he’s clearly not in the right mind?” 

Pure Vanilla regarded her with a frown. “Right mind? Golden Cheese Cookie...my friend, what are you referring to?”  

His denial was only further proof in her eyes. “See!” 

“Ah, you think I’m brainwashing him,” Shadow Milk remarked, inspecting his reflection in the curved surface of his scepter. His finger brushed over the thin scar she’d given him, and the cut vanished. “I’m honored, really! If anyone would be doing the brainwashing, it’d be me. Your assassination attempt leaves much to be desired, though.”  

“Shadow Milk.” Pure Vanilla intervened before the Beast could completely sever her thinning patience. “Please grant us a moment of privacy. I sense there’s been some confusion.” 

His expression was unreadable for a moment. She expected outright refusal, but the Beast only tsked, demanding haughtily, “I’m giving you ten minutes tops to sort out this mess. If you’re a man of your word, as you so desperately claim, you’ll be on time.” He tossed his hair with an exaggerated, airy flick of his wrist, slipping into the shadows of the gazebo. 

His final parting words slithered out from the darkness. “You know how I hate to be kept waiting!” 

An icy layer of quiet descended over the greenhouse in his absence. Frustration crackled over Golden Cheese’s skin, stinging her to the bone. The part she'd smothered ever since she’d first opened that damned letter pushed persistently against the stubborn shields of her heart. It whispered treason to her: is he in trouble at all?  

Pure Vanilla turned to face them. “Come, my friend,” he said, his smile achingly familiar. “Sit with me.” 

He began with a gentle preamble, just as he wrote his letters. “I admit, I thought you would visit, but certainly not so soon.” 

Golden Cheese Cookie stared blankly at the empty teacups laying on the gazebo table. She was grateful for Smoked Cheese’s staff; its violet fumes overpowered the fragrant scent of lilies. It was a sour, ashy smell, and she inhaled it deeply to ground herself.  

When she didn’t respond, he pursued another avenue. “Do you still believe I am not of the right mind?”  

“I,” she said, “do not know what to think, Pure Vanilla.” 

“I understand now that a letter wasn’t the most considerate way to explain things,” he confessed. “I only wished that you would find out the truth from me first, and not from a rumor. I meant what I wrote there, I swear it.” 

“Stop.” Her eyes squeezed shut, then opened them blearily. “Do not swear it, please. Not on this.”  

Birds flew in through the greenhouse’s windows, resting on the gazebo’s carved dome. Their high-pitched, trilling birdsong held little comfort. She watched as they flew freely in and out, gorging themselves on seeds and sweet water before resting like blots of paint in the soil. Such content creatures, unaware of the static roiling under her dough, of the bleak visions flashing in her mind. It was easier to focus on them than Pure Vanilla across the table.

“You used to fish for us.” 

“What?” 

“When we first met, you were a treasure-hunter, searching for glory and riches. Your spear was your prized possession. You said you would never sully its splendor by using it as a knife, yet you used it to hunt and cook our meals when we traveled together.” His smile was small and private, the barest hint of it visible on his face. 

“Ah.” It was a memory even she had forgotten – hours spent frozen over the river’s harsh, blade-like current, waiting for just the right second to stab through the waters. An olive branch, a promise that he was the Pure Vanilla she had battled with all those years ago. 

It should have been good that he was able to prove he was free from magical influence, but Golden Cheese Cookie felt no better than before. At least if he had been enchanted, she could explain everything he had done. She could pin it on the Beast. It was easier to believe that he’d had no autonomy than to believe he would do something that would break everything she had built between them.

“What has he done,” she said, exerting every last bit of effort to keep her voice level, “to earn your kindness?” 

“Kindness is not earned.” 

It’s given. She knew the end of that adage, and despised it. “Perhaps he ought to earn it, after all he’s done. Do you still believe you are worth nothing, not even an apology?” 

“On the contrary,” he said, laying his hands in his lap. Pale eyelashes obscured the thoughtfulness of his gaze. “I believe that I, and the countless others he’s harmed, deserve more than an apology. We deserve change. There is no cookie exempt from personal transformation. I know he has the capacity for it, just like anyone else.” 

“Will change erase what he’s done to you?” she prodded. “He’s a Beast, for goodness sake! He will be a drain to you and all that you treasure. He will bask in your kindness and leave you a husk. This is a fool’s errand.” 

A hum of acknowledgement. “He said the same thing.” 

“What?” 

“He told me I was a fool for offering friendship, that he didn’t need my help.” His expression was faintly fond. “He believed I was trying to pity him, as you do now. But let me be clear – I do not pity him. I understand him. He is Shadow Milk Cookie first, to me, and the Beast of Deceit last.”  

Her fists clenched. “His redemption is not your burden to carry.” 

“I do not consider it a burden.”  

Golden Cheese lowered her head into her hands. “Of course you don’t,” she ground out. “While you continue with these delusions, he plans your downfall. What is there to understand about him? What has he done to deserve understanding?" She looked up at him, her wings closing in around her, shielding the bitter twist of her mouth from view. “Is this even mere kindness anymore?” 

“He does not want my kindness, at least not yet. He wants my companionship. Perhaps there is nothing rational in that desire, but he understands me like no other.” He gingerly placed his hand where hers lay across the table, thumb brushing over her calluses.  

“I don’t expect your wholehearted support,” he said quietly. “I would never ask that you forget all you have endured, because I have not. But you are my friend, too, and deserve to know that this is the choice I’ve made.” 

Images cascaded through her mind, vivid and severe: Pure Vanilla gazing up at the Beast with admiration, and Shadow Milk’s hand resting on his shoulder, nails clinging possessively. His eerie, jeering smile. An aching in her back, the feeling of being submerged in her own jam, the crack of bones. It surged back into her like a tidal wave, leaving her half-drowned on the shore of her own thoughts, drenched and alone. 

Golden Cheese Cookie withdrew her hand from where it rested in his, using it to grip her spear instead. “Then the Beast is right about something. You are a fool.”  

She rose, turning around before she could see his expression. Smoked Cheese, who had been sitting on the outer steps of the gazebo during their conversation, leapt to his feet. His kohl lined eyes watched her with veiled concern – this time, he hadn’t been able to keep it off his face.  

In that moment, she recalled how he’d acted towards her the first time she’d awoken him from his sarcophagus moons ago. He’d shouted a barrage of insults about how no reasonable queen would allow him to keep his position after what he’d done – that she was a fool, the greatest fool in the kingdom, for her mercy. 

He understands me like no other.  

Golden Cheese Cookie paused, her bare feet brushing against the grass. She stood very still.  

Without turning, she added, somewhat brokenly, “If anything happens to you because of him, I will not spare him. I will return to fight at your side if you call.” 

She could sense Pure Vanilla’s tentative smile with her back turned - of course, she thought bitterly. She'd always been able to feel the most radiant things in life.

She strode through the greenhouse in silence, her general following dutifully. White lilies swayed in the faint breeze, turning their heads to her, watching as she departed. 

Chapter Text

In truth, White Lily Cookie had not known about the Beast’s presence until she’d arrived at the Vanilla Kingdom.  

She knew very few details about the second battle between Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk Cookie, except that it had occurred within the very confines of his castle, and that he’d won. This much she’d been able to determine from the news her attendants (spies, she now knew – that was how Elder Faerie remained updated on the happenings in Crispia) delivered her.  

After hearing reports of Pure Vanilla’s victory, she began preparations to return to the continent. Her primary concern was to assess his well-being, of course, but a hundred questions itched on her dough like flaking bits of crust, begging to be plucked away. How, exactly had he defeated Shadow Milk Cookie, and relatively unscathed, at that? What did ‘defeat’ entail?  

Pure Vanilla Cookie was unhelpful in this regard, betraying no clues in his letters. He’d secured her a ship from the Republic that would take her straight to the castle in a few days’ time, and after relaying her this information went on his typical tangents, mostly filled with repeated worries about her own safety. Ironic, considering the ordeal he’d just gone through, but completely unsurprising. She’d picked apart every available detail in his words, but either he was either guilelessly ignorant to her veiled concern, or purposefully not addressing it.  

She occupied herself with her thoughts throughout the flight’s lengthy duration. The lack of cookies onboard surprised her, but perhaps that was just because she’d grown used to having an entourage in the Silver Kingdom. It had taken extensive persuasion for them to allow her to travel on her own – Mercurial Knight Cookie had clearly been displeased with her choice, but his allegiances to his queen surpassed any doubts that might have made themselves verbally known, so after a meager back and forth, he relented. 

Silverbell was a different story – for all his trust in White Lily Cookie’s power, it had been him to patch up her wounds after her foray with Silent Salt, and he’d remained pinned to her side during her recovery. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have minded his company and protection, but now it came with the added risk of furthering his unhealthy attachment. He’d truly believed that if any harm befell her while she was out of his sight, it was his fault; his failure to contend with.  

She’d never seen him so shaken, and when she’d softly confessed her plans to sail alone, he’d been near inconsolable. Please, your Majesty! He still called her that – they all did – even when she’d told them they could refer to her by name. Just let me come with you. I’ll keep you safe, I swear!  

She understood his fears, but it was her responsibility to sever that line of thinking. She knew what all-consuming guilt felt like, and she wouldn’t allow Silverbell Cookie to shoulder even a fraction of that misery. If she allowed him to journey with her, she would be invertedly placing that weight of responsibility upon his shoulders. What he needed was space from duty, something rather difficult to grant in a place with values as duty-driven as the Silver Kingdom, but this was a start. 

White Lily Cookie sighed. She missed him already. He would have delighted in exploring the Vanilla Kingdom – she simply couldn’t imagine living her entire life in one place. How many years had he walked past the same foliage, slept beneath the same stars? She would never admit it to the fae, but she could hardly stand the thought. Part of her was relieved for this chance to travel, even if it wasn’t under the most jovial circumstances. She would get to see Pure Vanilla Cookie again, satiate her need for answers, and get some much desired breathing room. 

The airship landed after another half-hour, and the pilot blearily mumbled their time of arrival into the intercom before trudging out of the cockpit for a smoke. White Lily Cookie thanked them and stepped onto the sunlit dock. 

I’ll send a friend of mine to escort you to the palace. There were a few maintenance crew cookies dressed in overalls who were inspecting another airship’s hull. A figure dressed in all-black leaned against the railing with a distant expression on her face, crows – or grackles, perhaps? - roosting on the broad hill of her shoulders. Her sights eventually landed on White Lily Cookie, and she leaned up, gaze sharpening instantly.  

“White Lily Cookie, yes?” she confirmed, approaching in three swift strides. Up close, White Lily could make out pale scarring on her tanned skin. Her dark, choppy hair was held up in a high ponytail, a couple messy segments covering her left eye. “I’m Black Raisin Cookie." 

"It's nice to meet you," she said, extending a hand. Black Raisin Cookie made frequent appearances in most of Pure Vanilla’s letters, and she was just as he’d described, at least physically. Her familiarity with the city was obvious; she knew how to navigate the busy sectors without drawing too much attention to them, although occasionally someone would wave to her and she would lower her scarf to flash them a small smile in return. 

“How was your trip?” Black Raisin asked once they were halfway to the palace, walking behind a line of shops. “I’ve never been inside one of those ships myself.” 

“It went well,” she said honestly. “It was my first time in an airship like that. The Creme Republicans must be very technologically advanced.” 

“I guess you could say that. A lot of their tech has become a part of this place. It’s all pretty useful.” She spoke these words in a careful, mild tone. Before White Lily could think of a response, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a raisin bun, tearing it in half. “Want some?” 

White Lily tilted her head. “What is it?” 

“A raisin bun. Most people outside of the tribe don’t like ‘em. They prefer mostly jellies, but I think-” White Lily opened her palm to accept the treat, and Black Raisin paused. “Oh. You actually want one?” 

“I’ve never tried a raisin bun,” White Lily admitted. “But it smells wonderful.” 

“You really think so?” 

She seemed happy when White Lily nodded. The raisins were faintly sweet and warm in her mouth. It was also very filling, and she suspected that one could get by for a long while after eating just a few. 

As she chewed, her thoughts trailed back to the airships. “I saw another ship being inspected at the docks. Do Creme Republicans visit the Vanilla Kingdom often?” 

“Eh.” Black Raisin shrugged, wiping crumbs off her cheek. “They stay on their island. Most visitors are delegates sent by the Convocation. Pure Vanilla’s in a meeting with some of them right now, actually.” 

“The Convocation?” 

“Their leaders,” Black Raisin clarified. The guards at the castle’s back entrance lowered their spears when she approached, allowing them to part through. “They don’t venture here in person; their diplomats do it for them. Pure Vanilla could probably explain it better than me, but...” 

“I see,” she said, fisting her cape in her hands. “How long do you think the meeting will last?” 

Black Raisin Cookie made a face. “Considering...things, probably another half-hour at least. I’ve got a few rounds to make, but you can wait out here ‘till it’s done.” 

White Lily Cookie sat where Black Raisin led her, a narrow, high-ceiling corridor lined with the Vanilla Kingdom’s famed crystal windows and a strip of velvet-upholstered benches. Everything shone with renewed, sunlit luster. It was a little too bright for her tastes; she preferred the mellow lighting of the faerie kingdom by contrast, with blinking fireflies and glowing plants casting the earth in soft shades of green. Still, it was familiar, achingly so. She’d spent long evenings in these halls, knew each niche and crevice by heart.  

She was surprised to find that the castle resembled its previous iteration. Pure Vanilla had chosen not to change much at all, at least from what she could tell when they’d made their way through. There were a few minor differences she found odd, however. His statues were gone, and some of the paintings she’d passed by earlier contained disturbing images – beheadings, landscapes with bleeding skylines, smudged faces in portraits - when she was certain he’d never select art like that for the castle walls.  

She thought the unease she’d felt earlier was the scrutinizing eyes of the servants descending on her back, but even now that she was alone, the sensation of being watched refused to fade.  

Voices reverberated from the council room door. There was an argument going on, clearly, but she couldn’t catch many of the things being said, nor recognize any voice but Pure Vanilla’s. She found herself straining to hear, almost leaning her head against the wall. She grasped a few shouted terms: unacceptable, outrageous, inane, which only fueled her curiosity even more. She’d originally posited that this was some minor political matter (now that she was technically a queen, she’d had to learn a bit about governing, much to her dismay), but this was no mundane trade debate.  

Then, through the haze of disgruntled mumbling and muffled speech, she heard a title she recognized: Shadow Milk Cookie.   

Just the name alone was enough to send her mind spinning. It was possible they were discussing Shadow Milk’s defeat, but she couldn’t imagine these political figures sounding so viscerally upset over what should have been good news - unless Pure Vanilla hadn’t permanently locked Shadow Milk away, as had been done with some of the other Beasts. She had no idea what the alternative punishment would be in this case, but the angry muttering she heard suggested that it hadn’t been thorough enough to placate the delegates.  

A prickling sensation trickled down her spine. Perhaps she was getting away with herself. Speculating on bits and pieces would only give her incomplete answers in return, but she couldn’t help it. She wasn’t daring enough to enter a meeting uninvited, which meant she’d have to wait for it to finish before she could interrogate Pure Vanilla. How much had he left out of his letters? 

A jingling sound echoed down the corridor, forcefully drawing her out of her thoughts, but it was only a maid driving a silver cart stacked with refreshments down the hall. She wore the standard uniform – a white apron tied around a dark blue dress with yellow trim, knee-high socks, and loafers. Her pale, coiffed hair was arranged in half up, half down style, and the frilly edge of her mobcap kept her eyes hidden from view.  

She was humming a familiar tune as she crossed the distance with her cart, its wheels whining against the tile, heels clicking in tune. The prickling sensation multiplied tenthfold. 

The maid halted outside the council room door. In the next few moments, White Lily Cookie noted three things: 

First, the refreshments, which were moldy and unfit for consumption, but presented as though they were fresh. Secondly, that the atmosphere had become dim, as though a cloud had rolled over the sun, casting the hall in a great shadow. Thirdly, the jingling sound, which was coming from the small bells tied to the ribbons holding the maid’s hair, hair that was partitioned in long, trembling tendrils that writhed without wind, slithering like ermines.  

Without bothering to look at her, White Lily said aloud, “Shadow Milk Cookie.” 

The humming ceased. In the council room, the argument went on, but their voices seemed distant and mulled. The maid pivoted, her motions wooden, bells clinking hollowly as she moved. Tink, tink, tink, a tittering chime.  

Her chin rose, either in acknowledgement or haughtiness. 

Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice, now feminine, let out a cooing sigh. She clasped her hands together in an approximation of sorrow. Sincerity was not her specialty. "Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” 

White Lily’s mouth pulled into something like a frown. She hadn’t thought she’d be wrong in her assumption, but this new detail put a pin in her sprawling thoughts. Had Pure Vanilla not defeated Shadow Milk? No, he must have, or else the palace would most assuredly be levelled by now, or transformed into a shrine of deceit, and the townspeople would not be so relaxed as to go about their daily routines. She doubted this was all an illusion either – living among the faeries, who prided themselves in their glamours and potions, she had grown rather adept in identifying when a mirage was being woven before her eyes. 

He’d been defeated, but he clearly wasn’t being punished in the conventional way, if at all. He had enough freedom to be strutting around the palace in a maid getup, and if the conversation through the door was worth anything,  no one was happy about it. But why? What arrangement had Pure Vanilla proposed to Shadow Milk Cookie? And was it so preposterous that he felt he would be unable to explain it by letter? 

“Ahem,” Shadow Milk called sharply, snapping her fingers in front of White Lily’s face. She startled, scooting away from the Beast's lacquered nails. “Hello? Earthbread to White Lily?” 

He referred to me by name, instead of... She’d anticipated the return of ‘Half-a-Cookie,’ or some other underbaked insult. “Shadow Milk,” she said carefully, “what are you doing here?” 

Shadow Milk rolled her eyes. “I live here.” 

White Lily blinked. “Here? In the castle?” 

“No, in the clouds. Of course in the castle!” she snapped. “Sheesh, your head is thicker than his.” 

“And Pure Vanilla Cookie...knows this?” 

“He’s the one who insisted.” Shadow Milk punctuated that last word with a sugary lilt. She picked up a tray of rotting macarons and plopped onto the upholstered bench. White Lily’s frown grew deeper. “Want one?”  

“No, thanks,” she said dully. She didn’t know whether Shadow Milk’s laid-back behavior was puzzling or irritating. “I’ve just had a raisin bun.” 

“Bumped into Black Raisin Cookie, hm? Don’t know how she stomachs those things, really.” Shadow Milk bit into a macaron, paying no mind to its moldy meringue shell. She summoned a footstool with a lazy spin of her pointer finger, crossing one leg over the other. 

White Lily’s eyebrows narrowed at the casual use of transformative magic – she noticed the missing tiles beneath the stool’s silver perch – and the question of the extent of Shadow Milk’s freedom was yanked to the forefront once more.  

“Why are you here?” 

Shadow Milk's fingers pressed hard on the shell of the macaron in her hands, expelling the frosting in a startling explosion of cream. Pale yellow splotches of the stuff dripped from the opposite wall. Still, Shadow Milk’s expression remained genial. “You’re so terribly impatient. What’s the matter? Unsettled?” 

White Lily studied the splotches of frosting staining the floor. She had half a mind to ask her the same question. “I wanted to ask Pure Vanilla,” she said calmly, “but he’s occupied.” 

“Ah, yes. His meeting with those gnats from the Creme Republic.” Shadow Milk untied the mobcap on her head, tossing it haphazardly to the side. Her pale bangs were shiny and smooth, parted in the middle to reveal eyes bordered by wispy lashes, lowered in contempt. “And would you look at that! Something else in common.” 

White Lily stared at her. “What do you mean, something else in common?” 

Shadow Milk flashed a mink’s smile. “Why, don’t you know? They hate us both!” 

She bit her lip – a bad habit from her academy days that she had yet to shed. The information didn’t surprise her at all, but hearing the truth out loud did her slick palms no favors. She reminded herself who she was talking to, hedging, “What are they discussing?” 

“You mean to say you don’t know?” Shadow Milk tapped her chin, lip jutting out in puzzlement. Each tap dug into her dough, drawing out clotted clumps of red jam that dribbled down her jaw, splashing onto her collar. She went on with this gesture as though she didn’t notice the rapid staining of her clothes. “And here I thought I’d caught you eavesdropping. You see, they don’t care very much for the company Pure Vanilla Cookie keeps. They find it very foolish of him to allow my presence here. I suppose by now they’ll have suggested locking me up again. They’re very keen on threatening it.” 

Her painted lips stretched into an unearthly shape, a mix between a sneer and a smirk. “I find it such delightful timing that you, O Guardian, happened to show up amidst that discussion. Did the mere thought of shutting me away forever appeal to you that much?” 

White Lily studied her for a long moment. The twitch in Shadow Milk’s shoulder did not go undetected. “Is that what you think of him?” 

Shadow Milk feigned ignorance, snorting. “Him?” 

“Elder Faerie Cookie,” she said, her tone like stone. Just saying his name aloud made her chest ache, but she refused to let her hurt show. “Do you think he enjoyed being your jailer?” 

A sharp laugh careened through the hall, skittering against the walls. She would never grow used to that sound, no matter how many times she’d heard it, both in her dreams and reality. “I’d imagine anyone having parties all the time must have something to celebrate, huh?” Shadow Milk snarled. “That drunken sod. He practically lived in that damn armor, barely ever saw battle. Instead he prattled on about honor and duty and loyalty . Always best at talking about things he didn’t know a wit about. What is it they say? Immortality suits the fools best.” 

"You don’t know anything about him.” 

“Isn't that adorable. Young love really does live up to its name – especially the young part.” 

“You don’t know anything about him,” she repeated steely, ignoring the jab, “Nothing at all. How can you say you know what he wanted when he didn’t even know it himself? He never wanted to be your jailor. He never wished to be the Guardian.” She lifted her chin, meeting Shadow Milk’s furious gaze.  

“But you don’t realize it. You were only ever thinking about yourself.” 

The edges of Shadow Milk’s disguise wavered, silken fabric trembling on the loom, splitting to reveal a tight tangle of thread beneath. White Lily glimpsed gnashing teeth, nails growing into claws, eyebrows narrowed like arrowheads – then the image corrected itself, stitching the poised maid's illusion together again: dress creases ironed flat, collar pristine and radiantly white, hair brushed out and each strand smoothed into perfection. 

“Bah!” Shadow Milk snapped, reaching for the discarded mobcap. “Forget it. Talking to you was a mistake.” She lifted her head in a sneer. “You’re just like Elder Faerie. Except maybe you’re a little smarter than him. That fool knew the truth and shut up like the good little servant he was. You...You might actually have the guts to do something about it.” 

The council hall door swung open, a dozen or so cookies dressed in shades of cream and gold striding out. They were deep in conversation among themselves, barely sparing the other two a single glance. Shadow Milk rose gracefully, wiping her hands on her apron, and gave them all a quaint smile.  

“Refreshments, gentlemen?” 

A delegate with russet curls noted Shadow Milk’s presence and let out a gruff sound of agreement, accepting the offering of scones and tea. One by one they approached and took their fill, their sour moods dissipating temporarily as they enjoyed the desserts. Their teeth bit into moldy scones and sour marzipan without question. They hummed in relish, exclaiming out loud: how delicious! Might I have another?  

Shadow Milk looked up at them with the adoration of a lover, eyes glittering, and pressed more rot into their outstretched palms. They ate with uncontrollable appetite, until every stinking morsel was gone from the cart. 

“Eat your fill, gentlemen,” Shadow Milk crooned, holding a metal tray in her hands. “You deserve it.” 

The group left after polishing the cart clean, chattering amiably as they exited the hall. Shadow Milk straightened the bow in her hair, shaking its musical bells. She checked her lipstick in the crystal windows. Satisfied, and bright with amusement from the trick she’d played, she sashayed into the council room. 

White Lily followed, hesitant, nausea roiling in her gut – and shame, too, for during the whole ordeal, she had been unable to say a word. What could she say, that it was an illusion? How would she prove it? 

Why, don’t you know? They hate us both!  

She shook her head to dispel the memory, dashing in before the doors could close on her face.  

The air glittered, dust motes suspended in the sunlight like fallen stars. The table was small, fitted with five chairs, one of them occupied by a weary-looking Pure Vanilla Cookie. A flurry of documents were laid out on the wood before him, but his staff was elsewhere, head tilted up in exhaustion. 

“Hm,” Shadow Milk said, humming low in her throat as she assessed Pure Vanilla’s slumped form. “You look dreadful.” 

“Thank you for your invaluable input,” Pure Vanilla replied, amused. “Have they all left?” 

“Back to their cushy little airship, and good riddance.” Shadow Milk hopped onto the table, feet swinging, and swiped at one of the documents. “What’d they say this time?” 

“They suggested...a tower.” 

Shadow Milk laughed. “Like a princess? Oh, that’s too good! Tell me more.” 

“No stairs, nor a door.” 

“Classy. Continue.” 

“No window, either.” 

“But how am I meant to be rescued if there’s nowhere for the prince to enter?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.  

“That would be the point,” he said, smiling up at her. “They weren’t thrilled when I rejected their proposal. Would you mind sitting in on next week’s meeting?” 

Shadow Milk snorted. “Why, so I can be bored to tears?” 

“So that you-” Pure Vanilla reached out to swipe an errant strand of hair from Shadow Milk’s face - “can prove to them that you aren’t planning anything nefarious.” 

Shadow Milk smirked, leaning into the touch. “I’m always planning something nefarious. But sure, I’ll come to your meeting. Who knows – it could prove to be a lot of fun.” 

“Would this fun have to do with your nefarious plans?” 

“Possibly.”  

White Lily broke in, somewhat stunned. “Pure Vanilla Cookie?” 

He startled, reaching for his staff. That familiar orchid met her gaze. “White Lily Cookie!” He shot up from his seat to embrace her, his robes enshrouding her in warmth. Despite her confusion, she smiled into his elbow. It had been months since she smelt this familiar fragrance, and it wrapped around her like a shawl, another beacon of familiarity with which to lean on.  

“I'm sorry, White Lily,” he said into her shoulder, his voice vibrating down her spine. “I would have greeted you myself, but – I trust Black Raisin Cookie-?” 

“She did,” White Lily affirmed, managing a nod. They withdrew to inspect each other. “You’re unharmed?” 

“As much as one can be during these times,” he joked, though she couldn’t see the comedy in it. “And you...are you truly alright?” 

Of course not, but the most important bits of her were intact. She responded with a half-truth, coupled with a smile of her own. “I’m doing well, Pure Vanilla.” 

“Come, sit,” he beckoned, drawing her over to the table. Shadow Milk watched her with an appraising look – around her, the papers left behind by the delegates folded themselves into origami creatures. “How were your travels?” 

“They went well,” she said, an echo of her previous statement. “The airships are a very efficient method of travel. Do all the Vanillians use them?” 

“When they need to get to the mainland, yes,” he said, setting his staff against the wall, where it could comfortably see both Shadow Milk and White Lily. His hair, now as long as hers, was tied into a similar braid, wheat-colored strands escaping at his nape. The mark on his forehead had changed somewhat as well, forming an octagram. “But I doubt you’ve come to hear me talk about that.” 

“Obviously,” Shadow Milk muttered. 

“Shadow Milk,” Pure Vanilla began, “could you-” 

Before he could finish his sentence, the Beast slid into the shadows and disappeared without a word, and uncharacteristic surrender. Pure Vanilla blinked. “...alright, then.” 

White Lily didn’t waste any time. “Pure Vanilla, what are you planning with him?” 

The question hung between them for a moment. The eye in his staff slid towards the origami animals on the table, which moved about in flocks – sheep, she realized. “I don’t have one.” 

“You defeated him when you fought for a second time, yes?” 

“I suppose you could say that.” 

This sudden vagueness was new, and it was more than frustrating to maneuver. She found herself wishing she had been there, so she could examine firsthand what occurred to allow this future in which they talked like old acquaintances. Shadow Milk did not take defeat in stride. She remembered his rage at her interference, the way he’d screamed and clawed behind the wooden bark of the Silver Tree, cursing her a thousand times for stalling his release. It was why she would never be fooled by his jests or his smiles – they were all fronts to hide the truth of his underlying, everlasting bitterness.  

“What happened during your first battle?” she asked at last. “At the Spire.” 

“It wasn’t much of a battle,” he confessed. “And I did not so much as win as I tricked him.” 

“Tricked him?” 

“Yes.” His head bent to the side, strands escaping his braid. She could sense he didn’t want to discuss it, but she was desperate to know what had transpired. If only she had the full picture, things might become clear. “I had originally thought he’d come for my soul jam. To an extent, that was true.”  

When she said nothing, he continued. “At the cusp of our battle, I told him that I would stay at his side forever. I offered myself and the soul jam both, and he accepted. For a brief time, I was the second Cookie of Deceit. I shared control of his other-realm, which he believed he had partially bequeathed to me.” 

White Lily Cookie tried to process this information. “What could he possibly want with you? He had the soul jam." He won.

“But he’d changed his mind,” Pure Vanilla said softly. “That was not all he wanted.” 

She couldn’t believe it was something so simple, so familiar. Perhaps he was seeing something that wasn’t really there. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

“You said that you would stay by his side forever. Was that the trick?” 

“Oh, no.” His smile was wan. “That was true.” 

Her thoughts clamored like soldiers in battle, making it difficult to focus on the conversation. Each answer he gave was like dust in her eyes, making her vision grainy, stalling her motion.  

“The trick,” he went on, “was my subservience. After my soul jam awakened, I did not withdraw my previous offer. I wanted friendship on equal terms. He rejected it the first time, and accepted it the second.”  

“So Shadow Milk Cookie is now your...friend?” 

“Yes.” She searched for the doubt in his voice, and could not find it. 

Her mind drifted to the moments beforehand, when he hadn’t been aware of her presence in the council room. Shadow Milk’s smile, which was widest when Pure Vanilla’s staff was turned away. His quick quips, snapping back like a reptile’s tongue. The hand on Pure Vanilla’s cheek - a small, sincere gesture, heavily contrasting against the violent ones sprinkled along the maid’s repertoire. There was tenderness there. After her time with Elder Faerie, she’d learned to recognize it.  

Yet there also remained a keen sense of hunger in Shadow Milk’s gaze, like he wanted both to possess Pure Vanilla and sink his teeth into him, but couldn’t decide which.  

“That’s just like you,” she said, her voice quiet, fond. “You always see the best in everyone. But Shadow Milk isn’t just anyone. He’s committed horrible crimes. You can’t wash away the jam on his hands with your mercy alone.” 

“I know,” he admitted.  

“You know,” she said gently, “but you still try. It won’t be enough.” 

“I don’t expect it to be. I cannot solely be responsible for his change.” 

“Do you think he has?” she asked. “Changed, I mean.” 

“I do.” 

“It could all be another ruse.” 

“He is not so great at lying as you think.” 

She couldn’t say that wasn’t true.  

White Lily shifted in her seat, head pounding. “I won’t force you to make a decision now. But...please,” she pleaded. “Consider everything he’s done. I don’t want you to get hurt because of him. He only cares about himself.” Elder Faerie emerged in her mind, and a brief pulse of anger swept through her body. She sucked in a breath, shaking her head. “Just...think about it.” 

Pure Vanilla said nothing in response. The origami animals nibbled at his fingers, and he reached to gingerly pet their paper hides. “I won’t lock him away unless he’s given me a reason to."

She gave him a sorry smile. “Then we are at an impasse.” 

She was tempted to suggest they reconvene tomorrow - she needed time to think - but she had waited all this time to see him, and didn’t want to be parted just yet. Still, she couldn’t open her heart in this regard, not after everything that had happened.  

And, a part of her whispered – if she departed, Shadow Milk Cookie would be there to console Pure Vanilla. After all, he had never truly left the room.  

Chapter Text

Every night, Pure Vanilla Cookie had the same dream.  

The halls of the castle blurred past him like a unraveled scroll, wall after wall of brick and crystal. Windows were smashed open, thin shards scattered over the checkered floor like the star-studded Milky Way. Through those jagged jaws of glass, the moon’s light spread in curtains of silver, cutting past the shadows aggregating at the hallway’s end.

Despite the destruction present everywhere else, when he felt around the door’s hinges, it appeared intact, its polished surface reflecting Pure Vanilla’s face as he stood at the entrance.  

The Solarium of Unity had never had a door.   

His once-delicate pearlescent robes yoked him downwards, heavy as an animal pelt thrust upon his sagging shoulders. His scepter now served as a walking stick. To the best of his ability he used it to move the shattered glass aside, but a fragment or two ended up imbedded in his dough. Jam dribbled from his ankles and smeared against the floor in the clumsy streaks of a novice painter, smudging this way and that as he dragged himself across the checkerboard tile.  

Every part of him throbbed with exhaustion. The few servants employed had long since evacuated, and in the hours following their departure, he’d been engaged in battle. It seemed that his opponent’s intentions were to evade him forever, and thus, prolong their battle until Pure Vanilla gave up.   

He expected the wooden door to rot before him, or collapse into a pile of sludge at his feet. Nothing of the sort happened. It creaked open slowly, emitting a treasonous, high-pitched whine that sliced through the thick layers of silence.   

Then he heard it: a much more quiet, strained noise; laborious breathing that struggled to align itself. There was a swallowing sound, the same sort as someone emerging to the water’s surface after being submerged for too long, followed by a shaky, painful exhale.   

Pure Vanilla heard when Shadow Milk Cookie turned, heard the swish of his dissolving hair over the tile. He would not see how Shadow Milk Cookie’s face was split in the middle, cracked like an egg, amorphous dough oozing out the fissures. He would not see the exhaustion on the latter’s face, the trembling rise and fall of his chest, the weak slant of his crumbling gait, the hand clinging to his staff for balance.  

Pure Vanilla Cookie was only privy to Shadow Milk’s rage, which he beheld in two tightly spat words.  

“Get out.”  

It was a rare sight to see Shadow Milk sleeping. 

Pure Vanilla awoke in a sea of blankets, hair completely unwound from the braid he’d wrangled it into the previous night. He blinked, rising on sleep-numb limbs with all the agility of a newborn lamb, and brushed his wispy bangs away from where they lay plastered to his cheeks in wet whorls. His fingers brushed against his nightstand, flailing about until they curled around the familiar, sand-smooth handle of his staff. 

At first, he thought Shadow Milk was only reading. His posture was slightly hunched, but he wasn’t hunkered over Pure Vanilla’s work desk. If the rim of his book had been any higher, Pure Vanilla wouldn’t have noticed that Shadow Milk’s eyes were closed.  

He inched out of bed, tip-toeing the distance. Pure Vanilla had seen the other cookie's face many times before, but there were always new details to archive each time he glimpsed it. His dough was constantly making minor adjustments to itself; a clay mask that melted and hardened larger than its past iterations. Today there was a mole underneath his left eye, and his lashes were more luxurious, low and sweeping and precise enough to poke.  

There were also things that stayed the same. His hair, as thick and pliant as ever. The snaggletooth over his lower lip. The white tuft that hung over his left eye, which he often felt the urge to gently brush away so he could better meet Shadow Milk’s gaze.  

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He tried to stifle the laughter threatening to pour out, but he wasn’t fast enough. Shadow Milk stirred, right eye flickering open. 

“The old age getting to you already?” he asked, snapping his book shut. Pure Vanilla put a hand to his mouth, trying to hide the smile splitting across his face. “What’s there to giggle about, geezer?” 

Giggle – he felt like he was back in his schoolboy days, when laughter and lovesick sighing came easily. “Nothing. Your posture reminded me of something, that’s all.” 

His head tilted clockwise. “Oh? Something flattering, I presume?” 

Pure Vanilla coughed. “If you find giraffes flattering, then...” 

Shadow Milk’s eyes bulged. “Giraffes?” 

“Um - I only meant that...since giraffes sleep standing up...you reminded me of them.” 

“Oh! In that case, your comparison is perfectly sensible. Carry on.” 

It was getting increasingly more difficult not to laugh. “You may lambast me for my poor imagination now.” 

“No, no! I applaud you.” Shadow Milk’s neck began to stretch like taffy, his head towering over Pure Vanilla’s. “It takes a true visionary to think up something as absurd as that.” 

“If you go any higher, you’ll hurt your head.” 

“I’ll hurt my head? How about-” His neck bent down, long and sloping, until his face was in front of Pure Vanilla’s - “you worry about your own twisted noggin?” 

“Is that what I am now?” Pure Vanilla said bemusedly. “Twisted?” 

“It’s nothing new for the likes of you,” Shadow Milk informed him matter-of-factly, his neck reverting to normal – his head fit snuggly into his ruff, legs crossed in an illusion of professionalism. “The diagnosis: an overdose of Truth.” 

“An overdose of Truth?” 

Spectacles materialized on the bridge of Shadow Milk’s nose. He frowned, dissatisfied, and tapped them thrice, replacing the glasses with a monocle. “Yes,” he said in an uppity tone. “Did you know that not all thoughts should be spoken aloud?” 

“I seem to recall you pestering me until I told you,” Pure Vanilla reminded him. 

Shadow Milk scoffed. “Psh. You’re supposed to lie, fool.” 

“Why would I?” 

Shadow Milk yanked off his monocle. “You’re shameless.”

“Hm. You aren’t wrong.” Pure Vanilla’s lips curved into a small smile. “I don’t feel any shame here, with you. Should I?” 

There it was: that blush, a violent shade of Prussian, spreading across his face in a bloom of color. For all Shadow Milk’s tricks, he couldn’t change the natural reactions of his dough. With a swish of his head, his blotchy cheeks eased back into their usual cool hue.  

“You should,” he hissed, turning towards the chamber’s balcony entrance. His scepter had found its way into his hands, and he slapped it against his palm. It was meant to be an idle, disinterested motion, but there was too much force involved. “It’d do you a world of good.” 

Pure Vanilla made a considering noise in his throat. “I thought you weren’t concerned with either ‘the world’ or ‘goodness.’ What an unexpected change of pace.” 

Shadow Milk rolled his eyes. “I miss when you weren’t so insufferable.” Before the other cookie could speak, he added, “which you always were. Don’t get cheeky.” 

“I would never.” He would admit that he enjoyed these early morning talks, rare as they were. They didn’t discuss anything particularly enthralling, but Shadow Milk knew how to turn even the most mundane topics into hours long conversations – he could often be contrarian for the sake of it, but he never let things get dull. And Pure Vanilla enjoyed teasing him all throughout, glimpsing which new expressions he could coax out of the beast.  

Of course, this was reciprocal. “Breakfast!” he suddenly declared, waving his scepter with flourish. “I’m simply famished. Lead us downstairs, won’t you, ‘Nilly?” 

The use of Nilly was faintly suspicious, and images of a flour decimated kitchen began to flit through his mind. He began striding towards the door, but his walk was cut short when he tripped awkwardly onto the floor. His hands lowered, feeling around for what he’d tripped on, only to realize that it was his own hair. Upon further inspection, it seemed to have been tied firmly around his ankles, like rope. 

“Shadow Milk!” 

“Don’t look at me! That’s just what happens when you can’t take care of yourself.” He drawled, judgmentally surveying him from where he levitated mid-air. “What a mess you are.” 

Pure Vanilla felt around for the knot, trying to undo his binds. Without his staff, however, this task was proving largely unsuccessful. 

“Oh, keep struggling!” Shadow Milk gushed. “It’s such fun to watch.” 

“Shadow Milk.” 

“Shall I unhand you this instant?” he mocked.  

“Oh, no,” said Pure Vanilla. “I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind bringing breakfast up here. Black Raisin brought over some pomegranate jam the other night that I believe would go wonderfully with toast. And it’s been some time since we’ve eaten here, yes?” 

A heavy thud rattled the chamber. Shadow Milk had lodged his scepter into the wall behind him, its impact shaking them both. “Ha! You think you’re in any position to bargain with me?” 

“I’m not bargaining. I’m requesting.” He added after a moment, “Humbly requesting.” 

A pause followed this. There was an exaggerated sigh. “Well, if you’re begging...I might be inclined to help.” 

He hummed. “I will not be doing that.” 

“Then stay here!” Shadow Milk snapped, prying his scepter from the wall. “I’ll help myself to those reserves while you wallow away in your misery.” The door slammed. 

Pure Vanilla finished untying the knot at his ankles and rose, combing through his hair with his fingers. He freshened up with a splash of water to the face from the fountain at his bedside, slid on his robes, and went downstairs.  

He found Shadow Milk floating above the table, where two plates had been set, a steaming tray of buns placed between them. He was balancing a knife on his finger, using magic to keep it from toppling onto the fine porcelain below. When he spotted Pure Vanilla, his bored expression transformed into an unimpressed glare.  

“You should be tied up.” 

"Ah, yes. Wallowing in my misery. Which of us was meant to play that part, again?” 

An exaggerated sigh left the other cookie’s yawning mouth. “Just sit down, you old codger.” 

Pure Vanilla beamed. “It would be my pleasure.” 

Yes, he thought, helping himself to a hot bun, reciprocal indeed.   

“Shadow Milk,” Pure Vanilla called, stepping over the broken glass. His voice was frail.   

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Shadow Milk hissed. “Aren’t you tired?”  

“I am tired,” Pure Vanilla confessed, moving closer. “But I tire of this pointless chase, not of my purpose.”  

“Purpose,” Shadow Milk spat, his words sharp with mockery. “To lock me up for good – or, better yet, just kill me where I stand! Such noble purpose. Should I weep? Leap into your arms like the fool you think I am?”  

“I do not take you for a fool, Shadow Milk. Don’t put words in my mouth.”  

“But it’s true, isn’t it? That’s why you despise it. You’re a liar. Your castle is in shambles. Your people have deserted you. You can’t possibly forgive me. Not this time. So go,” he said tonelessly. “Go on and get out.”  

Silence. Pure Vanilla strode forward, robes billowing behind him in a stream of gleaming fabric. He was close to Shadow Milk; he could tell by the pulse of his soul jam, which invertedly drew them together regardless.  

“I can’t let you go.” Pure Vanilla’s head rose, moonlight painting his face in startling shades of white. “You already understand this.”  

There was a sharp intake of breath. At last: a dry sound that resembled wheezing, filling the solarium like deadly gas. Shadow Milk’s shoulders shook as though he were vomiting, eyes wild with rage even while he laughed. His scepter clattered against the ground.  

As Pure Vanilla reached for his hand, Shadow Milk transformed.  

“Whatever’s in those letters can’t possibly be more interesting than me.” 

Pure Vanilla sighed, folding up his latest letter and sealing it with a firm press of his wax seal. “Shadow Milk, we’ve been through this.” 

“Been through what? I’m bored out of my mind, I’d love to have been through something.” 

Pure Vanilla arched an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly entertained, either.” 

“And who’s fault is that?” Shadow Milk goaded. “I told you to ditch this stuff hours ago.” 

“I’d have loved to go into town with you, but this couldn’t be put off any longer,” the other told him remorsefully, his fingers click-clacking away at the keys of his typewriter as he drafted his third and final response to a recent letter from Gingerbave and Co. “We can go tomorrow, if you like?” 

“Sounds like a lot more waiting.” Shadow Milk peered over his shoulder, gaze snagging on the unopened letters. “I read, you write. Then you’ll be done with this and have no excuse not to go out.” 

The typing paused. “That’s...actually not a bad idea.” 

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m the smartest cookie here, after all,” Shadow Milk told him. He swiped a letter off the pile, prying away its alabaster seal. “Ahem. Here’s the first one – Dear Pure Vanilla Cookie. I hope this letter finds you well....preamble, preamble, preamble, formality, formality...Oh? Listen to this. The Creme Republic thinks you should hand over ‘custody’ to them.” 

“Custody?” Pure Vanilla frowned. He was quick to understand, even with the missing context. “You’re no object.” 

Shadow Milk’s smile was sharp and joyless. Still, he carried on in that mischievous tone. “To think they wish to swipe Shadow Milk Cookie from your paws! How egregious. What are you gonna do about it?” 

“Decline,” Pure Vanilla said simply.  

“Bo-ring. A declaration of war wouldn’t hurt. How about I write them back? Just a little note, so they know where they stand.” 

“I don’t wish to make an enemy of the Creme Republic yet.” 

“But you already have!” Shadow Milk said with glee. “Everything is so...ah, what’s the term politicians are so fond of... sensitive right now. One wrong word and you could blow your alliance with them to bits!” 

“Which is why I am writing the response letter,” Pure Vanilla reminded him, unphased, “and you are not.” 

“But this does concern me, doesn’t it? Since, you know, I’m the object at stake here. Perhaps you should hold an auction. Highest bidder keeps my company forever.” 

“I would do no such thing.” 

“Too broke to bid?” 

Pure Vanilla chuckled, folding up the response and slipping it into a nearby envelope. “I would never suggest an auction in the first place, because I don’t intend on giving you away to the Creme Republicans. Not for payment, not for anything. Unless, of course, you wish to go with them yourself. I would not stop you.” 

Shadow Milk stared for a moment, then, realizing the silence had gone on far longer than was comfortable for him, laughed. “Of course you wouldn’t. Be grateful that this place is only marginally less boring.” 

He missed Pure Vanilla’s soft, small smile. “Ah, monotony. Your worst plight.” 

“Second to maintaining company with you,” he shot back, but there was little venom to be found. “Next letter! Just one merciful page long...and that kind of brevity can only belong to one very, very dull cookie. And isn't it just like him to start this off with Salutations.” 

“Dark Cacao Cookie,” Pure Vanilla guessed, ignoring Shadow Milk’s additional commentary. He made a confused hum. “We only returned from his kingdom a few days ago. He must have sent this letter immediately after our departure, then. Did something happen?” 

“Something happening in a kingdom as lackluster as theirs would call for celebration,” Shadow Milk drawled, eyes skimming the page with disinterest. “The old man’s fine. Very curt, but what’s to be expected of someone so devastatingly expedient? He’s practically begging for there to be less space on the page.” 

“Dark Cacao Cookie is a bit more verbose in person,” Pure Vanilla admitted.  

“Oh, for certain. Especially when it comes to moments of rage. He’d make an excellent actor – although I suppose he is one already.” Shadow Milk tossed the letter aside. “Ooh, Hollyberry Kingdom. What’s this...an invitation?” 

“Ah. You can set that aside.” 

Shadow Milk’s gaze narrowed. “You can’t be serious. It’s an invite to-” 

“-the Annual Grand Ball, yes.” Pure Vanilla sighed. “I can’t make it this year.” 

Shadow Milk’s eye twitched. “And why is that?” 

“I have a meeting with the town council that day. It would be careless if I were to abandon it for the sake of attending a party.” 

"Careless? You might as well attend shirtless for all it matters. Your reputation is already six-feet-under." He sang the last three words, each in a lower pitch. 

Pure Vanilla sealed off the latest letter with a stamp of determination. “This is something I must do. I’ve put off meeting with the other kingdoms for this reason. Before I can talk to any of them, I must settle things with my own, first. That’s what the town council meeting is for. To rebuild trust between the citizens and I.” 

“Trust...such a fickle thing,” Shadow Milk murmured. “So unreliable, so fragile, just like the cookies who forge it.” 

“You’re right about it being fragile,” Pure Vanilla agreed, turning to face him. His hands were in his lap, a frustratingly neutral pose, eyes closed in thought. “But mutual trust will always be reliable.” 

“Oh? Like the mutual trust you and your dear, dear friends have?” he asked, head cocked at an irregular angle. “I’m sure that’s why Dark Cacao is sending you these letters, and why you haven’t written to the others about your little situation.”  

His grin split further, a gorge carved into his face, descending into ridges of teeth. “To them, this looks like another grievous betrayal. It won’t be so hard to believe. A tough pill to swallow, but they’ve swallowed it once before. Shouldn’t be too difficult to accept the truth this time around, don't you think?” 

Pure Vanilla’s mouth drew into a hard line. “White Lily Cookie did not betray us.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie interrupted him, laughter at his lips. “Now, who ever brought her up? But, since you insist on dragging the poor soul into this...didn’t you believe she’d betrayed you all? For a time, yes?” 

“It was a misunderstanding, Shadow Milk. You’re well aware of this.”  

“Ah, yes, just a misunderstanding. Yet she keeps her distance. She’s not obtuse.”  

Pure Vanilla didn’t say anything for a long moment. He recalled the few moments after her resurrection, when she’d asked to be alone, even after all those years asleep. Her somberness as she stood over the bridge, the edge of her braid ghosting the water’s surface.

“Before meeting her again in the Silver Kingdom, I hadn’t really known her.” Pure Vanilla looked at the vase of lilies on his night table, their stems drooping from negligence. “Isn’t it strange? We were friends at the academy. I was privy to some of her most innate desires. Yet there was always distance between us, an understanding she had that I did not.” 

He smiled wanly up at Shadow Milk. “And without knowing her, it was easier to doubt her. It was easier to believe what evidence laid in front of me, instead of challenging it as I should have. I...failed her as a friend in many ways. I know I can’t repair her relationship with all our old friends, but I must try. Now she has what she deserved from the start.” 

“Your trust?” Shadow Milk taunted. “Do you really believe that will do anything for her?” 

“I have to believe it will help.” Pure Vanilla opened his eyes, and they searched for the echoes of Shadow Milk’s voice. “It worked with you, did it not?” 

With his staff against the door, he didn’t see Shadow Milk tear his gaze away. 

Shadow Milk Cookie’s transformation was an unraveling. Dough peeled off him in strips and reattached elsewhere on his body, adding bulk, increasing his size. The excess dripped away into a puddle at his feet, smelling of overwhelming sweetness, like apples left to rot in the sun.

Fur broke through his skin, bristling and matted, the palest blue of quicksilver. His face elongated: a snout, jaws filled with snapping white teeth. A wolf broke through the shell of Shadow Milk’s previous form, scratching viciously at the floor.  

Still, Pure Vanilla held onto his paw steadfastly. Shadow Milk scraped frantically at his dough, jam dripping from his claw marks. He moved with ermine speed, body lean and slippery, trying to dash out of Pure Vanilla’s grip. His jaws tore at the wide sleeves of Pure Vanilla’s draping cloak, dug deep into his wrists. Pure Vanilla willed himself to stay silent, healing his wounds as they came; as best as he could while the wolf’s hind legs dug shallow gashes his thighs; as it bolted up, howling in fury, trying to escape through a powerful jump only to be weighed down.  

The fur peeled away, replaced by lacquered black scales and no paw to hold. Pure Vanilla grasped him gently by the tail. Shadow Milk bolted around his neck like a noose, squeezing until he choked. His body constricted, crushing Pure Vanilla’s throat. The latter gasped for breath, eyes wide with pain from the scratches and the aching of his lungs. Slowly, his trembling, bloodied fingers rose to pry Shadow Milk’s serpentine form away from his nape. Shadow Milk hissed, biting the hand that tried to rid of him. The color began to drain from Pure Vanilla’s face.   

In the moonlight, he resembled one of hallway statues, eyes closed as though in death.  

With an anguished grunt, he ripped Shadow Milk away. There was no time to gather his breath; the Beast was transforming again. A ghastly chimera, with three writhing heads, the lashing tail of a scorpion, and appendages stitched on his melting torso. Shadow Milk stood on his chest, compressing Pure Vanilla’s abdomen and the delicate organs beneath his dough. He stood there, listening to the quiet whimper of encroaching death, and waited for Pure Vanilla to let go.  

He did not.  

In a rage, he transformed once more: a swarm of wasps that surrounded the ancient’s head, stinging mercilessly at every available sliver of skin. Wings beat in tandem, swallowing up the air, suffocating him. Pure Vanilla stumbled onto his feet, his body shaking with the effort, clothes stained with blood and bits of dough. His trembling palms closed over one singular wasp and kept it in the dark warmth of his flesh-made cage, even as he was stung over and over.   

Then a searing heat burst through his hands, and the wasps drew closer, engulfed in smoke. Shadow Milk unfurled from his singed palms, blue tendrils of flame leaping towards the ceiling. A narrow beacon of fire, flaring at the edges, burning Pure Vanilla’s battered hands. He had no choice but to cry out in pain this time. Tears pearled at his eyes, falling into the flames with little more than a wisp of steam.  

What followed was a blur – a lurid stream of colors and shapes and abstract beings, all that he held onto as best as he could. He recalled the beak of an enormous bird, pinching and tearing at the carrion of his dough. He recalled cupping a crystalline pool of water, which then became sand, escaping his fingers in coarse grains that itched to touch. Ice, devouring the length of his arm; a tree, trapping him in its gnarled black roots, rhombus shaped leaves falling into his hair, clear nectar like tears dripping from the bark.  

Morning came. His mind buoyed between consciousness and the darkness beneath it.   

His head dangled like a fruit just close to snapping off the stem. Hair was plastered against his face, a curtain of wiry, dirty yellow strands. The floor was sticky with his jam. Outside, the birds chirped sweetly, and in tandem, he coughed wetly, spitting up red clumps from his throat. The glass shards embedded in his foot from hours ago throbbed absently.  

His hand held another, cold and thin.  

Shadow Milk examined his reflection in the mirror and scowled. 

Pure Vanilla spoke up from where he sat on the bed. “Are you alright?” 

“I’d be a lot better if I didn’t have this scar messing up my mug,” he groused, tossing the handheld mirror aside.  

“Scar?” Pure Vanilla rose, leaning closer. His fingers were soft as they traced the line over his cheek. “Oh, you’re right. Is this...was this from Golden Cheese Cookie’s spear?” 

“Who else?”  

He gave him a confused look. “Didn’t you heal it earlier?” 

“A simple illusion,” Shadow Milk said flippantly, waving his hand. “Couldn’t have her watch me bleed. She’d enjoy it too much.” 

"She would not." He said firmly, scooting closer. His hand rose to brush against Shadow Milk's skin. “May I?” 

Wordlessly, Shadow Milk tilted his head towards him. Pure Vanilla laid his hand over Shadow Milk’s cheek. It was warm as a coal, almost blisteringly so, but he’d always relished the brief spark of pain. Then the sensation subsided into something more comforting, rushing through his veins like the sting of hot, sweet cider. Shadow Milk had never known such a thing as solace, but he believed this might be close. 

Pure Vanilla’s hand thrummed with faint warmth as he finished. He began to pull away, but Shadow Milk reached for his wrist and kept it there.  

“How was your talk?” he asked, eyes closed. 

“It went about as well as I expected.” 

“Terrible, then.” 

He could practically see the sheepish expression on Pure Vanilla’s face. “She was not inconsolable, but she was still...unsettled. I suspect she won’t be keen on speaking to me for a while. She’ll need space.” 

“How much space?” 

“However much she needs.” 

“She lives forever, if you’ve already forgotten that little caveat of the soul jam,” Shadow Milk drawled. 

“I’m prepared to give her forever.” 

“Prepared.” Shadow Milk let out a breathless laugh. “You have no idea how long forever is.” 

“Perhaps. But I’ll have you here with me while we weather it through.” 

Pure Vanilla’s hand burned again, a flush of heat that smothered Shadow Milk’s cheek. He swallowed a sigh, head twisting on the pillows. After a moment, he said, “It’s been a while since you’ve done this.” 

“Healed you?” 

“Mm.” His eyes opened. Pure Vanilla laid on the other pillow, his hair brushing over the silken fabric.  

“You don’t tend to get hurt often. The last time was...quite a while back.” 

“Do you remember what I looked like, then?” 

A soft laugh. “I didn’t see you.” 

“How could you not have seen me? You had your staff.” 

“Yes, but my awakened staff does not help me see.” 

Shadow Milk’s eyes opened, staring at Pure Vanilla’s peaceful, smiling face. A long quiet stretched between them, the distance of the sea. 

“Is something wrong?” He said the words sleepily, rubbing at his eyelashes. 

“No,” Shadow Milk mumbled at last. He tugged the blanket over their bodies, Pure Vanilla’s warmth seeping into him, settling in his bones. Somehow, he felt little shock. This made more sense than what he’d thought before. Of course Pure Vanilla Cookie would leap into that battle with nothing but his faith. Of course he would grope around in the darkness, searching for the thing that hated him, hoping to embrace it without knowing what shape it took.  

He wondered, faintly, when he’d begun to recognize Pure Vanilla’s kindness as the truth. 

No, it was not possible that he’d been carried. But he couldn’t have dragged himself into his rooms at the highest floor of the castle in his state. Yet, he was also in his bed, and his hair was out of the way, and he had bled through the bandages he’d never dressed himself with.  

Day in, day out. He awoke alone, the room’s windows cracked open wide, just the way he liked it. There would be a tray of food at his nightstand, often too much for him to finish. Piles of jellies and toast, enormous mugs of tea. He would be so full afterwards that sleep found him easily.

When he awoke again, it could be night or day, the window still open, that sweet, merciful breeze brushing through his scalp like a cool, fine-toothed comb.   

When he looked to his desk, there were no paper to be found. It was clean of any documentation, any letters or related correspondence. It was almost like the world had stalled just for him to get his bearings. Why did he need to get his bearings? He couldn’t recall. He drank his tea and itched to do something, but before he could figure out what, exhaustion overtook him. He was walking around a hole, unsure of what was missing but knowing that something most certainly was.  

It didn’t come all at once – when had Shadow Milk ever shown up all at once? Instead, he received pieces, pressed into his palms like coins. The frills of a ruff. Glinting eyes, twinkling with cruelty and mischief, but occasionally, desperation. That voice, filled with such familiar self-loathing. A smile, sharp-toothed, almost affectionate. Close enough to it. The halcyon sound of bells.  

One evening he rose from bed. Slid on his robes splattered with dried jam. His limbs still shook, but not so bad that he couldn’t descend the stairs. He couldn’t find where his staff was, but he’d never needed it when it came to his own home.  

He traveled the castle like a wraith, pale white fabric billowing at his feet. The halls were empty. He remembered, then, that there would have been no nurse to take care of him.  

He found Shadow Milk in the solarium. He felt no scattered glass on the floor.  

Pure Vanilla heard when Shadow Milk Cookie turned, heard the swish of his hair over the tile. He would not see how Shadow Milk Cookie’s face was split in the middle, half nervous, half relieved. He would not see the exhaustion on the latter’s face, the trembling rise and fall of his chest, the anxious slant of his gait, the hand clinging to his staff for reassurance.  

He was only privy to Shadow Milk’s hesitation, which he beheld in three breathless words.  

“Pure Vanilla Cookie.”  

“Do you insist we wait another minute?” 

Shadow Milk rolled his eyes. “They’re getting too haughty. Let them sweat.” 

Pure Vanilla gave him a pointed look. “Is this really the time for this?” 

“There’s no better time,” Shadow Milk said with a smirk. “Politics is the birthplace of theatrics, you know.” 

“I can’t argue with that,” Pure Vanilla said wryly. “Are you ready?” 

“For the inevitable boredom?” 

“I trust you won’t let it be boring for long.” 

Shadow Milk smiled. A maid skirting around them flinched, but Pure Vanilla only smiled in return. “Trust is a fickle thing.” 

“So I’m told.” Inside, he could hear Clotted Cream Cookie’s voice rising over the council’s, demanding their attention.  

Shadow Milk offered up a hand. Pure Vanilla lowered his own into the Beast’s. “I see we’ve forgone caution altogether,” he joked.

“How cute,” Shadow Milk cooed, a clawed thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Pure Vanilla Cookie, pretending that he ever exercised caution in the first place.” 

“I have!” 

“No need to be petulant. I’ll always welcome a lie.” He grinned at the doors. “Shall we?”

Pure Vanilla's free hand brushed against the brass knob. The following months, he determined, would be the most tumultuous of his reign. He'd spent long evenings wondering if secrecy should have been an option, only to shut that line of thought down quick as it came. Neither him nor Shadow Milk would settle for that, and he couldn't keep something this important away from his friends. He'd listened to their concerns, their fears, their scorn. What this would do to their friendship in the long run, he could not say. He couldn't even guess. But he would stay by their sides, as their friend and ally, for as long as they tolerated him.

He was in no place to ask for understanding, knowing what they'd all been through, but for once, he had found something he could not budge on, despite his mistakes.

Pure Vanilla Cookie had imagined this day a dozen times before - the pandemonium, the undercurrent of distrust, the outrage. Now he found that his mind simply didn’t go there at all. Perhaps it should have.

Still, the regret did not come.