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Chapter Text

The sky dimmed as echoes of what-if’s and regrets flowed with the breeze as it grew colder. The threat of war loomed once again over the whole of Crispia.

It was almost… nostalgic: The quaintness of it all as though it was all just the beginning —here were where Cookies had first been baked, now set to roam, create, and work with one another.

If a different approach had been taken, could they have prevented more? To know what comes next?

The Ancients with their armies lay ready with their swords, staffs— fear. This was no ordinary war: This was it. Jam will be spilt, it is inevitable as deaths would be unpreventable.

Above, the night cloaked Earthbread in indigo velvet. The moon, nearly full, hung like a silent sentinel over the gathering chaos. Its pale light spilled across armor and sand, making steel glint and eyes appear ghostly. High above the confrontation, it watched—serene, flickering at times behind wandering clouds as if withholding judgment. There was no warmth in its glow, only a quiet awareness, as though it knew what had come before… and what was still to unfold.

It did not weep, nor smile. But in those flickers, those subtle winks of shadow, it seemed to peer deeper than even the stars could—past pride, past glory, into the marrow of truth each Cookie carried. Where torches burned and magic clashed below, the moon merely bore witness, unblinking, to the turning of a world.

Quietly, where the Ancients stood atop a hill, nothing but a jungle below them, the trees in the far distance shivered. Cries and howls of a legion then scurries and whimpers of its inhabitants... Too many are heard. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of creatures: Cakehounds… Lab-made cookies, Licorice monsters. A grotesque sight to see as they lunge unnaturally before halting under the command of a dark figure. 

Before long, the sky grew darker, red lightning glimmered, it would have been a spectacle if it were not for the current situation. It scattered as it all redirected back as a staff was held up. The strikes halted as the staff was lowered. They knew who was here, she’s returned once more.

“So we meet again.” Dark Enchantress Cookie has arrived and as if to announce her presence once more, her sinister laugh echoed, sending waves in the form of air that shook the very dough of Earthbread to it’s core. “I will be merciful” she drawled, her staff lowering ever so slightly. “Surrender yourself to darkness, let it devour you. We will all be one, under one nation.”

A pause, a little grin as though she was doing them a favor. Her hand raised to her forehead, the back of it touching her cool-dough, “Is that not what you and your friends all strive for— unity?”

Her goal still remained unclear. They all knew she wanted to control Earthbread, let it resign under the witches and her reign, but… to what extent?

Another pause, the air heavy with the threat of either crumbling, succumbing to eternal slumber, being used as playthings for a daunting forever-show, or simply not existing without warn.

“Be ready, my friends.” Pure Vanilla Cookie had stepped up first, and his beholder’s gaze was sharp. Followed suit were his friends: Their weapons drawn as they eyed one another. “Dark Enchantress Cookie, you of all cookies should know that truth always prevails. We will never fall to your darkness.”

“Not when I am alone.” A reply without a beat, a sinister laugh rippled through the air once more as she tapped her staff on her horns. “If I’ve learned a thing or two from you, Pure Vanilla Cookie, is that having friends is quite important, no?”

Another flash of red embedded in the ever-greying clouds above before she had echoed the Vanillian’s lines. “You of all cookies should know that.”

Her hand raised as she ushered a few of her subjects forward. 

The crowd obediently stepped aside, dispersing as a few walked through, revealing five familiar cookies. Their counterparts each stood beside one another. It was like looking through a mirror, a direct parallel of the past . They glanced at each other, then at the opposing team.

Each wielder of the current souljam made eye contact with the previous. Their gazes at one another varied: Disappointed, Resignation, Expected, Surprised, and Upset.

The silence that followed was nothing short eerie, as if the looming presence of the witches were above themselves, ready to strike when one steps out of their line. 

By the looks of it, the beasts were no different than their last meeting with the ancients though all stayed uncomfortably still, somehow obedient. Still, it was clear—an unspoken agreement bound the Original Souljam holders. 

A hushed promise to one another, a connected weave of power through all vessels present. When Shadow Milk met the gaze of his counterpart’s beholder, he could taste the bitter disappointment through its stare, which alone made his stomach swell. The words that threatened to leave his lips somehow silently passed through their very weave of connection through their jams. Out of all the promises, all the apologies, clever improv, and genuine hatred, one word was uttered through the link. ‘Trust’

Each of the originals had similar interactions with their counterparts. The words sent through their respective links varied: Ally, Change, Relax.

They— the beast —all had one goal and as selfish as it is, they acted accordingly and suddenly.

Soon after, the army of the Ancients was all struck with a large blue strike, instantly they all turned into helpless little tarot cards. Said cards lifted in the air, quite a show before forming a neat deck. Shadow Milk flew across the air with such grace as he swiped it. Golden Cheese Cookie met him in the air, intending to clash. A menacing giggle escaped the jester’s lips without much restraint as he shuffled the cards.

The jester took on the more defensive approach which was unlike him. He focused on maneuvering, avoiding the sharp spears of the Empress. It was not long before she had gotten distracted, a white fog blocking her gaze and when it had dispersed enough to see silhouettes, she was alone.

The other winged beast flew across, releasing a loud burst of pink fog through Dark Enchantress’ army, lulling them to a state of tiredness as she looked at her purple comrade and nodded before he disappeared, leaving a wake of mutilated corpses of the slumbering army as he eventually appeared on the other end. The slice of their sword was barely visible, their attacks only seen as the red-tinted sky reflected. The only presence seen was a trail of sliced-up lab-made cookies before a dark figure appeared at the end of it.

A loud roar came up next and with a wicked grin that matched his insanic swerves of his axe, cutting cakehound after cakehound. He did not agree well on the part of giving the foul creatures a merciful death. Should they perish, it is by a fair fight, only then will they be awarded a dignified death.

The ancients simply observed, stunned into silence as they looked amongst themselves then the scene in front of them. They were not sure what to do as… They all seem to be fighting one side.

Confusion rippled through them as allies became indistinguishable from enemies. Hesitation froze even the most seasoned general. It was not mercy that stayed the hands of the opposing forces, but something deeper—a recognition of purpose. Despite their history, their clashes, even their betrayal, a single, silent thread connected every souljam present: the truth, though different in everyone’s view. And in that fragile moment, before the sky bled red and fate sealed itself, the notion of unity did not seem so far-fetched: It just didn’t belong to the darkness.

Dark Enchantress Cookie let out a screech of indignation at the scene, scowling as she realized what was going on. “Traitors— TRAITORS!”

She didn’t even hear the incantation. Only the high, searing crack of red lightning as it tore through the air, fired straight from the tip of a staff thrumming with corrupted energy. The blast struck with a shriek of fury, unmistakably personal, and it moved too fast for most to react.

Golden Cheese Cookie barely managed to turn, her hand instinctively reaching for a Souljam—too slow.

But the impact never came.

Instead, something slammed into her from the side, hard enough to knock the breath out of her lungs. Her body was sent sprawling, tumbling across the cracked earth until she hit the ground with a graceless thud. The golden circlet she wore slipped sideways over one eye, and her wings were bent awkwardly beneath her as she lay in a heap of dust and indignity.

For a moment, all she could hear was the ringing in her ears and the throb in her skull. Her vision danced with static.

And then—laughter. Familiar, infuriating laughter.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking away the haze, and saw him. That towering, red brute of a Cookie standing over her, arms crossed, smoke still trailing from his shoulder. Burning Spice Cookie stood tall and smug, chest heaving with adrenaline, a faint scorch mark across his arm from where the blast had grazed him instead.

“Was that supposed to be graceful?” he barked out between snorts, baring his teeth in a crooked grin. “Didn’t expect Her Highness of Hoarding to go down like a sack of flour.”

Golden Cheese groaned and shoved herself upright, brushing the dirt from her arms with theatrical disdain as if the ground itself had offended her. “Do you have any idea how delicate these wings are? They're gilded, not armored!” She adjusted her crown with a sharp, practiced flick, chin tilted high. “If I find so much as a crack in one gem, I’m billing your entire bloodline.”

Burning Spice scoffed, rolling his shoulder where the lightning had kissed it. “Yeah? Try taking a spell meant to kill you without flinching. That blast had your name carved into it. You’re lucky I’m faster than your oversized ego.”

She snarled, more out of embarrassment than anger. “You could’ve warned me, you walking wildfire!”

“I did,” he said with a shrug, “Just not with words.”

She glared up at him, wings twitching in irritation. But even as she spat back, the crackling tension between them wasn’t entirely hostile—there was heat, yes, but not just anger. The two of them were flames fed by pride, by rivalry, by some unspoken need to keep pushing each other.

Golden Cheese grumbled, rising to her full height and brushing herself off. “Next time you shove me like that, I’m taking one of your gauntlets for my trophy hall.”

Burning Spice tilted his head with a smirk. “Then I’ll make sure to leave scorch marks on it first.”

She rolled her eyes. “Brute.”

He grinned wider. “Canary.”

And just like that, they turned back to the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder. Two fires that refused to be extinguished—burning side by side, even if it meant singeing each other along the way.

“Fools! What on Earthbread are you doing?! You’re all still under my command!” Dark Enchantress Cookie let out an irritated ‘Ugh—!’ at the scene in front of her.

The red-robed Cookie soared upward, gathering arcs of lightning at the tip of her staff, aiming it at the defenceless and sad excuse of herself, who she once was.

With a surge of raw strength, Dark Cacao Cookie propelled himself skyward, his cape whipping violently behind him as he let out a roar that echoed across the battlefield. In one final, defiant motion, he hurled his sword downward—not to strike, but to stall. The blade embedded itself into the scorched earth below, ancient runes flaring once before sputtering out. The weapon cracked at the hilt, sacrificed in exchange for a fleeting breath of time. Just enough.

From his grasp, the twin dragons surged free—shadows and flame woven into one last act of defiance. They spiraled through the air in a great arc, colliding with the rapidly forming mass of red magic above. The impact burst outward in a violent shockwave, dispersing the worst of the spell’s growth. But not all of it. A few trailing embers of pure, unfiltered energy still broke through.

One struck him.

The magic crackled against his armor like a branding iron—sharp, searing, and briefly overwhelming. But even as pain flared through him, he noticed something strange. The energy clung to him for only a heartbeat before it crumbled into dust—no, not dust. Flour. It fluttered around him like the last remnants of something undone. Unmade.

He barely had time to register it.

His body twisted midair, momentum stolen, vision dimming. There was no strength left to steady his fall. As he descended, time seemed to stretch—each breath shallower, the ground rushing to meet him with cruel inevitability. He braced for impact—

But it never came.

Instead, his fall was caught by something impossibly soft. A lattice of silk, pale and glimmering, was strung delicately between the trees below, woven so fine it seemed unreal—like magic made tangible. It cradled him gently, slowing his descent as if the forest itself refused to let him break.

Above him, drifting effortlessly like a ghost stitched to moonlight, was Mystic Flour Cookie.

She glided across the battlefield in complete silence, her form lit only by the silver gleam of the moon. Her feet skimmed the canopy, robes trailing behind her like ink in water, barely touching the world she moved through. The threads she wove—thin, luminous, impossible to follow with the naked eye—stretched between tree and sky, forest and star, as though she were walking upon the very weave of fate.

Her face remained still, untouched by the violence that had consumed the land below. The hem of her robe shimmered faintly with flour-dust, and in the still air, she looked like a figure painted into the sky—half-ephemeral, wholly unreachable.

Their eyes met.

For a brief moment, Dark Cacao’s breath caught in his chest—not from injury, but from the sudden weight of that gaze. Mystic Flour Cookie dipped her head in a single, precise nod—a gesture so restrained, so deliberate, it felt more like a verdict than a greeting.

Then she turned away.

She landed without sound, her stance steady, expression unreadable. She stared out across the ruined field, but not at the fallen or the victorious. Her eyes were fixed on something farther—beyond the battlefield, beyond time itself. Something no one else could see.

There was no hostility in her presence. No warmth, either. Only a deep, immutable calm. And beneath it, something else. A quiet resignation. Not apathy, but acceptance—of choices made, of fates sealed, of things already too late to change.

The dragons returned to his sword at his will. He would have been embarrassed at his excuse of a distraction, though he had not much time for it as he rushed to aid Golden Cheese Cookie.

Hollyberry Cookie braced herself behind her shield, straining against the relentless force battering her defenses. Every blow from the other side sent shockwaves through her arms, but she stood firm—unyielding, immovable. Her shield held just long enough to give her allies the precious seconds they needed to complete the binding ritual. The ‘Ultimate’ Cookie—feral, unstable, and seething with raw power—let out another inhuman screech, a sound so sharp it sliced through the air like shards of glass. It stabbed into their ears, forcing even the most battle-hardened warriors to flinch.

From the edge of her vision, Hollyberry caught movement. An archer stood nearby—not one of theirs. The glint in his eyes was cold, calculating, and his arrow was already nocked, aimed dead at the pink beast who had once been one of their own. But it wasn’t justice in his gaze. It was something crueler. Quieter. A promise to end what he saw as a threat, regardless of who or what it was.

He let the arrow fly.

Hollyberry reacted instinctively, lunging to intercept. Her shoulder slammed into the archer with force, knocking him off balance. The arrow veered—just barely—and skimmed past the pink Cookie’s Souljam, missing by inches. The warrior grunted as she landed hard, glancing back to ensure the Souljam was unharmed.

Across the battlefield, Eternal Sugar Cookie had seen it too. The momentary panic in her counterpart’s eyes hadn’t gone unnoticed—and it sparked something primal inside her.

Her wings flared wide, feathers bristling like unsheathed blades. A shriek tore from her throat, high and furious, a sound far more terrible than any spell. It wasn’t magic—it was wrath.

“You dared aim at her?!” Eternal Sugar screamed, her voice shrill with unhinged fury. Each syllable was sharp enough to wound, her rage reverberating through the battlefield like a war cry from a forgotten god. “You dare touch my other half?!”

Her eyes locked onto the archer with a savage intensity, irises gleaming with something unearthly. It wasn’t just anger—it was the promise of ruin. She stepped forward, the ground beneath her feet curling with residual magic as her voice turned venomous.

“I should tear the strings from your cowardly hands for that.”

The archer, now scrambling back from Hollyberry’s tackle, had just a moment to register the incoming storm that was Eternal Sugar before her presence consumed the space between them. Her anger alone seemed enough to strip the color from the sky.

...

Pure Vanilla Cookie could only watch in awe as his counterpart descended, slow as moonlight breaking through dusk. The faint rustle of his cloak was the only sound in the stillness, save for the cautious rhythm of his own breathing. Despite the gravity of the moment, he still managed to shoot a scowl at the Vanillian—sharp, suspicious, and laced with unspoken accusations.

The Vanillian merely smiled, maddeningly serene, as if no tension cracked the air between them. With an almost performative flourish, the jester shoved a deck of cards into Pure Vanilla’s hands—stacked, symbolic, and deliberate. There was no need for words; the question was already written in the narrowing of the king’s eyes.

“…She planned to dispose of us afterward,” the jester said, voice quieter now, lacking the usual performative edge. “She wanted the Souljams… that included ours. A pawn played is still a piece to be swept off the board once the game ends.”

There was a moment of silence. Heavy. Listening.

Pure Vanilla’s grip tightened around the cards, and he looked to Shadow Milk Cookie, his expression softening despite the conflict stirring behind his eyes. “Shadow Milk… I trust you.”

The words fell like a hush across the gathering tension. A quiet truth. A risk offered like a hand outstretched.

Shadow Milk’s gaze flickered—not wide-eyed surprise, not acceptance. Something unreadable. A muscle in his jaw tensed, and he looked away, as though even hearing those words weighed heavier than he expected. He said nothing. Not yet.

Instead, the king turned. Purpose in his steps, he faced White Lily Cookie.

She stood ready—staff clenched tight, resolve steeled behind tired eyes. Moonstone glinted faintly in her other hand, the artifact pulsing with a dull light as though uncertain of its next command.

“She can’t do it alone,” Shadow Milk said, quietly, almost to himself.

She didn’t have to.

Before White Lily could speak, before doubt could catch in her throat, a soft blue aura emerged—gentle, but resolute. It wrapped around the crystal like a comforting hand, then surged upward. The Moonstone lifted, weightless, caught in the unseen current of magic. It hovered midair, its glow sharpening.

There was still silence, still doubt, but something had shifted. The deck of cards remained in his grasp—chaos contained, for now. And behind them, Shadow Milk stood quietly, watching the rise of the crystal. 

White Lily already knew who it— the blue aura —was and paid no mind as she needed to focus. Already reciting the runes as Dark Enchantress Cookie shot back with all her might.

“You really trust him?” White Lily asked under her breath, eyes flicking to Shadow Milk.

“I do,” the king said simply. Then, after a pause: “Even if he doesn’t trust himself.”

Shadow Milk’s expression didn’t change. But this time, he looked away.

Red orbs of electric hatred beamed at the crystal, its edges cracking before a sharp blue snap severed the connection. The crystal had faltered, but before it had a chance to fall, Gold and Pink wings managed to hold it up enough and at the right angle as instructed by the normally apathetic cookie.

Dark Enchantress Cookie growled before regaining her momentum. Her staff wielded amongst the clouds as arcs of lightning gathered once more before she aimed right at the jester. Shadow Milk Cookie was about to shield himself, cutting his contact with the crystal, yet he hadn’t had a chance as the scent of light magic got to him first, absorbing the arcana on the other end before shooting it back through rains of gold and white.

Shadow Milk Cookie would never thank Pure Vanilla Cookie directly though he did nod and grumbled out something along the lines of ‘I can defend myself, thank you very much.’

The growls of cake hounds drew closer, but none of the mages could attend, preoccupied. They braced, though the growl ceased, replaced by the booming laugh of Burning Spice Cookie and the grunts of the Dark Cacao Warrior who had no trouble taking care of them. Silent Salt was beside Mystic Flour Cookie as they observed the currents of magic flowing through the air. Using her Volition, she willed the currents of arcana neatly, weaving them into one and focusing on passing them through the crystal, making the connection brighter, more powerful.

The clash of White and Red enveloped the air once more, the crystal in the middle of the connection as it colored itself a nice bright pink. Eternal Sugar would have complemented the colour, though knew it was not the time. The others on the ground could only watch and stall as needed.

Time seemed to stretch, pulling taut like sugar before it snaps. The colors danced like flowers across the field— red, white… then blue and yellow joined shortly later— each hue carrying with it a fragment of what could be a new, different future. No one spoke, but they all felt it: this was more than a fight for Earthbread. This was a reckoning. The magic in the air didn’t just crackle, it grieved, the yellow echoing the pain of generations who had built and bled for peace that never came, the blue came through waves of regrets, resentment for not being understood, and known. The white of faults, and self-loathing as the dire consequences of through preventable decisions lay heavy. 

And yet, even within the chaos, there was beauty — in sacrifice, in resistance, in the sheer defiance of hope. As their powers collided, it wasn’t clear who would win… the only guarantee would be change.

After what seemed like an eternity, the silence was yet again so palpable as the magic through the air let out their most vulnerable faults: The truth. The red receded, shrinking with each passing second—until, at last, she let out a final scream as the cascade of colors consumed her.

The sky had turned blue as the crystal dropped on the ground, now gleaming with red and swirling in black. From the deck, Pure Vanilla Cookie had pocketed prior, erupted cheers and claps. 

No jam was spilled, and no one had passed for the ‘greater good’. Was this it? 

…

To say everyone was exhausted was an understatement. The jester, who was afloat previously, had collapsed, landing on his knees with a small thud. The red brute had panted, his hair an unrecognizable, sheer mess. The Pale Cookie had smudges of mud in their normally pristine robes as her hair, untied and lying aflow behind her, held what little grace had remained. Eternal Sugar had landed with grace, then promptly collapsed as she went to catch her breath. Balancing the weight of the crystal, constantly shifting with magic on both ends, was no easy feat after all.

The ancients were in no better state, each having collapsed one after another as well. They all silently gathered their breaths until Pure Vanilla spoke up. "Thank you, comrades.” A tired pant.  “Your aid was far greater than it appeared—for without it, darkness would have prevailed once more, and this time, not even a glimmer of light would have remained within reach. You changed the very fate of all of Crispia, and I am forever grateful."

The opposing cookie in armour was the only one stood up straight, untouched it seemed. He stepped forward though a good distance away from the Ancients. 

None of the beasts had approached the Ancients. Even after they were thanked.

Soon, they stood in a line beside one another and in order of their corruption: Silent Salt, Eternal Sugar, Burning Spice, Mystic Flour, and finally Shadow Milk Cookie. They kept quiet as each made eye contact with their other half. They looked quite different now that the Ancients had a better look at their counterparts. The similarities between both two ranks were uncanny. 

Silent Salt gave a court nod as he stepped back. Eternal Sugar smiled softly at Hollyberry, though she had bags under her eyes and her wings askew behind her.  Burning Spice Cookie hadn’t met direct gaze with his counterpart as he rubbed his arms. Mystic Flour slowly opened her eyes, her Pale met against Purple as they simply blinked in acknowledgement. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t have time to react, a scowl escaping his lips as he was tackled by Pure Vanilla Cookie.

He wriggled in the Vanillian’s grasp and turned away exasperatedly. “You little gnat! Let me go!”

The others did not know how to approach the two though left them in their moment. Perhaps only wielders of the same souljam could truly see the other half, and no one else can understand the depth that power held. 

…

Only a few days had passed as a scheduled discussion took place in the Council of Heroes.

“Order in the Council!” A voice hushed the rowdy denizens,  members, and heroes alike. “Heroes, what will your decision be?”

The beast cookies— much to the general public’s dismay —were sitting right there across the council though they did not maintain eye contact with anyone. They were eerily quiet, as though every written work of history of them had not existed.

Despite the news of their aid during the final battle against Dark Enchantress Cookie, the denizens of all kingdoms still are— and rightfully so —hesitant of the change. Some say there is an ulterior motive, some call it a change of heart. Too many questions yet so few answers as the ‘Originals’ were distant… Off .

The clamouring group of cookies disrespectfully gathered around the beasts, microphones in hand, notebooks on the other, a few flashes here and there. Clicks and questions loudly prolonged the start of the supposed trial. The other guards have already tried luring out the nosy reporters to no avail, as they were only cookies; these were mobs.

“Enough, please leave. Answers will be given shortly.” Clotted Cream Cookie, with the help of Pure Vanilla Cookie, using his former status of ‘king’,  managed to usher out the group of reporters, leaving only the heroes, their counterparts, and a few respectable cookies. “I apologize, Pure Vanilla Cookie— had I expected this, I would have never allowed them entry.”

Shadow Milk Cookie had bit back his tongue, the genuine hatred tasted of acid as it threatened to leak out. Mystic Flour Cookie silently observed, the crowd was quite similar to hers when she still had cookies beneath her. Burning Spice was acting the most abnormal to say the least: too quiet, too reserved. The only remnants of himself were through the battle earlier— the familiar sinister grin, the wicked laugh as he swung his axe at the cake hounds. Silent Salt remained as expected, quiet and unbothered. Eternal Sugar was the same, though more often than not, her gaze was out the window and her ears elsewhere.

…

The trial had, for the most part, followed proper procedure—if one were generous with the definition of “proper.” The voices in the hall rose and fell like clashing waves, some nearly boiling over into shouting matches, others derailing into personal jabs or petty vendettas masked as legal arguments. Still, despite the tension, the process dragged on with the stubborn, formal pacing of bureaucracy. It had been well over an hour, and no conclusion had been reached. The question that had drawn them all together—the fate of the so-called beasts—still hung unanswered in the air, growing heavier by the minute.

The beasts themselves sat in silence, a striking contrast to the bickering council. Their features were unreadable, their postures still. Not even a twitch betrayed what they were thinking or feeling. They had fought hard, bled harder, and now—strangely—they seemed almost detached. Withdrawn. No one knew what was going on behind those guarded expressions, and no one dared to ask. No one had dared to speak to them directly since the trial began, just as no one dared to meet their gaze for too long.

It wasn’t fear alone that silenced the room when their eyes shifted. It was guilt. Curiosity. Dread.

If anything, the debate raged most furiously among the Ancients themselves. The supposed paragons of wisdom and judgment stood divided, huddled at the center of the grand hall like bickering nobles at a masquerade—each certain of their own virtue, each unwilling to concede ground. They argued not with detached clarity, but with passion, and the occasional venomous word thrown like a dagger across the table.

It would have been almost entertaining, if not for the stakes.

“The harm they’ve caused me—to us—is not something to just be brushed aside with some noble gesture and a bow!” Golden Cheese Cookie’s voice rang out across the chamber, crisp and gilded with fury. She rose to her feet, bracelets clinking, her golden cape fanning out behind her like a sunburst. “I will not deny their actions held merit in the end, but that does not erase the danger they posed, the chaos they stirred. They should be restrained, if not sealed.”

There was a beat of silence—broken only by the tense rustling of robes, and the distant creak of stone under strain.

Then, a scoff, low and unmistakably amused, echoed from the back of the chamber.

All heads turned.

Burning Spice Cookie leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He looked as though he had something particularly sharp and irreverent ready on his tongue—a barbed retort designed to stir the pot and throw Golden Cheese off her pedestal.

But the words never came.

Across the room, his other half—Golden Cheese Cookie herself, having noticed the look etched on his face—had turned her head just slightly. Her expression was blank, but her eyes were not. They pinned him in place with a quiet, withering stare that spoke louder than any flame. A silent warning. The kind of look that said: Don't. Not now.

Burning Spice Cookie swallowed the comment. His smirk faded into something more neutral, and he exhaled through his nose, almost like smoke leaking from a banked fire.

Golden Cheese, for her part, didn’t even blink. Her chin remained lifted, her arms poised like a monarch about to deliver judgment. “I see some of us have found this amusing,” she continued coldly. “Perhaps you’d like to speak up instead of hiding behind scoffs and silence?”

Burning Spice Cookie’s fingers drummed once on the table. Then stilled.

But he said nothing.

No one else spoke either. The chamber fell into a still, suffocating quiet. The beasts did not move. The Ancients watched one another with narrowed eyes. And somewhere above them all, the weight of fate continued to press down, demanding an answer that none were yet ready—or willing—to give.

…

Another half hour had passed. The mood in the chamber had dulled into a sullen, inevitable crawl. The conclusion was nearing, drawing itself like a noose around the necks of those on trial. The murmurs grew sparse; the Ancients leaned heavier into silence. It seemed the verdict was all but spoken.

Back to the tree they go.

Of course, what other fate could there be? To be sealed again—bound in ancient magic, buried beneath roots and stone—was the only ending this council had ever truly entertained. Their freedom had always been a borrowed moment. A pause in punishment. Not a reprieve.

Then—quietly, a voice cracked through the silence like the first tremor before a quake.

“Without their aid,” White Lily Cookie spoke, “we, too, would have crumbled. If mercy had not lingered long enough for them to act in our place.”

The entire hall froze. Her voice, usually soft as petals in morning dew, rang clear beneath the domed ceiling. Not with force, but with conviction—and something even heavier.

Regret.

All eyes turned to her as she stood, hands clenched tightly around her staff. Her head bowed slightly, as if she wasn’t sure she deserved to meet the eyes of those she addressed.

“I…” she inhaled sharply, then continued, her voice trembling beneath the weight of confession. “I could not have sealed her away. Not with my magic. Not even if I had tried.”

A murmur swept through the hall like wind through brittle leaves.

“I knew,” she whispered. “I knew this… and I told no one. I believed—foolishly—that I would be able to, should the day come. But when the moment arrived, I… faltered.”

She looked up at them at last. Her eyes shimmered not with tears, but shame. “I am sorry. My friends. I nearly failed you all again.”

A beat.

Silence fell again—thick, leaden, and impossible to breathe through. But it wasn’t silence born only of guilt. There was something else beneath it now. Reverence. And fear.

Because now they all understood: if not for the beasts—if not for those they were about to condemn—the world could have fallen again. And none of them would’ve stopped it.

A beat. Then another.

“I wish you had told us,” Pure Vanilla Cookie spoke at last, his voice gentle, not unkind. “Even if it was only to me, White Lily… we would have found another way. I’m simply glad we’re safe again. Thank you for telling us now.”

But the moment of quiet was promptly shattered.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” came Shadow Milk Cookie’s sardonic drawl, leaning back in his seat with a wicked grin curling his lips. “If incompetence were magic, you’d be the next Sorcerer Supreme.”

He received a sharp glance—deadly, chilling—from his other half across the room. Still, the smirk stayed.

Golden Cheese Cookie stood abruptly, her chair screeching against the polished stone with a jolt. Her palms slammed down on the ancient table, hard enough to rattle the candles nearby. Her voice rose—not shrill, but fierce, fury held in every syllable.

“Have you any idea the catastrophic damage you could have caused us once more?!”

Her voice cracked at the end, though whether from anger or fear, it was impossible to tell. Her eyes burned with more than pride. This was personal. She stopped in her tracks, quiet as she sighed softly. It was now clear that her words were fear dressed with fury.

“—That is why the efforts of the beast should be held to a higher degree.” Dark Cacao Cookie glanced at Mystic Flour Cookie and nodded, “Restraining them would only do more harm, prolonging the problem for future generations to handle.”

“Perhaps,.” Golden Cheese Cookie— albeit, still seething —sighed again and slumped her shoulders as she glanced at White Lily Cookie. “I’m sorry, I just need time, but… I do appreciate you telling us this.”

“Hm.” The rumble of Hollyberry Cookie’s voice cut through the tension like a blade—not with aggression, but with the weight of someone who had carried both shield and burden for far too long. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the carved table, gaze flicking from Eternal Sugar Cookie to the rest of the council. “I’ll speak next.”

The room quieted. Even Golden Cheese Cookie’s fury stalled at the sound of her voice.

“Eternal Sugar… had good intentions,” Hollyberry said slowly, thoughtfully. “Unorthodox, sure. She outright pushed me to confront the heavy weight of my past—forced me to look it in the eye, to admit what I had refused to carry all this time.” She gave a quiet laugh, low and a little bitter. “And yes, through some… peculiar measures.”

Her fingers curled into the grain of the wood, but her expression remained open. Vulnerable, even.

“I had buried my pain beneath laughter, beneath strength, beneath wine and celebration. I thought protecting others meant I had no time to tend to my own wounds. That grieving was weakness. But she saw through that. Tore it open. And in doing so… reminded me that strength isn't the absence of pain, but the willingness to feel it and still stand tall.”

A pause. Her tone softened.

“So no. I don’t believe restraint will do any good. Not to her, nor to the ones she stands beside. Whatever they were made for, they chose differently. She could have broken me—she did and through that I have. healed—through chaos, through conflict… through truth. ”

Hollyberry stood taller, eyes resolute beneath the weight of centuries. “That deserves more than a seal beneath the roots. That deserves a second chance.”

The Ancients looked at Pure Vanilla as he looked at his counterpart. 

The mirrored halves had always shared a bond deeper than most could grasp—two sides of the same coin, origin and outcast. The souljams, once split by necessity, had created not just power, but pain. Every Ancient knew this. The bond between the current wielder and the originals wasn’t just magical—it was spiritual, emotional, as if their very essence had been carved from the same sugar. To cast them away now would be like severing a limb: possible, but irreversible.

“I believe in a world of better for all of cookiekind, including them. Only we can understand them as wielders of their other half: Their struggles, burdens, the weight they carry.”

A pause

“I believe with guidance, we will start seeing good in them once more. The battlefield is proof enough in itself—”

“Psshh, We only did that because that little stale-doughed wanted our half as well.” Shadow Milk Cookie spat as he turned his head away. Eternal Sugar had nudged his side; “Do you truly wish to return to that ratched silver tree?’ , receiving a hiss in return from the jester before he turned back at his counterpart. 

“Still, you needn’t shield our armies, and yet you did so, sacrificed a better part of yourself for it.” Dark Moon Magic’s price for it to be wielded is one greater than any magic user could comprehend. “...Why is that?” 

For a moment, it was easy to forget they were once feared. These were not the monsters from bedtime warnings or the shadows cast on cave walls. They looked tired—worn. The rage they had once embodied ever since they left the Silver Tree seemed dulled, if only slightly, by something far heavier: memory. Not of who they were, perhaps, but of who they used to be. That sliver of hesitation, of empathy, was more telling than any excuse they could offer.

The silence was enough of an answer in itself.

“Then it is settled. Each of us will bear with our other half, help them see the light they once lost. Not to change them— but to bring back who they once were.”

Might of the king’s voice was still held firm despite he’d long gone rid of that title. The other ancients nodded and trusted the decision. Hesitancy was normal, though the point made was right: To reseal the beast is to only prolong the problem and to let the hatred simmer once more from both ends till the next inevitable escape.

“I have trouble trusting in your faith, my friend” Golden Cheese Cookie sighed as she eyed her own counterpart, off put by this silent demeanor. “Very well, there's no challenge I can’t gain from.”

When the news will eventually spread beyond the marble walls of the Council Hall, the world would not understand this choice, not yet. The wounds were too fresh. But change—true change—rarely begins in comfort. It begins with risk. If the beasts could be guided, if even one could find a sliver of the cookie they used to be, then maybe, just maybe, Earthbread could be whole again. It was a fragile hope—but sometimes, that was enough.

Pure Vanilla had extended his hand once more, similar to their last encounter, as a silent offer was hushed.

Shadow Milk Cookie stared at his reflection in the Vanilla beholder’s eye for a long, tense moment—then, with a reluctant sigh, shook the other’s hand.

Chapter Text

The travel to the snowy region of Crispia, despite being treacherous, proved quite uneventful. The mountainous locale known for its inhabitants— the fiercest of cream wolves and the inconsistent mood of the weather also homes the Great Dark Cacao Kingdom. Its walls are a metaphor in themselves of great power, strength, and persistence of the king’s stubbornness.

Their journey had been silent for the most part, with only the groan of timbers and the occasional commands, or the howls of the wings breaking the hush. The snow-specked wind painted frost across their armor, the front deck, and sails.

Mystic Flour Cookie was leaning against the railing of the quarterdeck just below the Mizzen, seemingly undisturbed by the rapidly chilling air. The breeze had roughly tugged on her robes, her elegant silk-woven Hanfu slightly glazed by freshly fallen snow. Wisps of her pale, now-untied hair danced like mist in the wind, their ends catching the little droplets of snow. She gazed ahead, not at the horizon, but through it.

The ship’s hull groaned under the pressure of the licorice waters, its timbers creaking with each roll of the waves. Dark Cacao Sailors murmured low chants beneath their breath, stories, prayers half-forgotten—passed down by salt-worn tongues. One grizzled navigator upfront kept tracing circles into the frost on his map, a futile attempt to track their slow crawl toward Crispia. Mystic Flour felt none of it—her thoughts stretched beyond the frozen horizon.

Her eyes remained shut as the ship slowly swayed side to side. The sun, or what little light that managed to cast through the heavily snow-filled clouds, gently cupped the indents of her pristine features.

She was always the most reserved one, the most thoughtful, the most outcasted one of her group. She barely turned as she heard the clacks of footsteps slowly approaching behind her. She doesn’t need to learn who it was by the smell of worn-out iron and that familiar bitter chocolate scent, carried through the same breeze that had cascaded her hair.

…

“Are you not cold?” The cladded cookie asked as his arms were crossed on his chest. “The temperature is very different from where you are from.”

As if on cue, the wind shifted slightly, carrying with it not only the bite of Crispia’s cold but the distant scent of dark chocolate. ‘They were close to the Citadel’   was the conclusion Mystic Flour had observed.

“As I’ve noticed,” The other replied after a few seconds, her voice mimicking the air: Cold and distant. It was devoid of anything else. “The cold…” A pause, “does not bother me.” 

“You speak as if cold is merely weather,” Dark Cacao murmured. Despite her words, he shrugged off his outer cloak and draped it over her shoulders. Whether she appreciated the gesture or not, it did not show.

She merely hummed and turned to face him. For the first time since the battle, a faint light returned to her gaze. “I do not need this.” She stepped forward, unfastening the garment he had given her, folding the cloak neatly before offering it back.

Dark Cacao studied her for a moment, then took it back, his expression unreadable.

Her tone gave nothing away—not offense, nor warmth, nor pride. With a flick of her hand, her own cape—woven of white silk—fluttered behind her. The mantle curled around her form, and despite the harsh winds, it flowed with quiet grace, trailing slightly behind her steps.

A small huff of amusement escaped the warrior’s lips, prompting a curious glance from Mystic Flour.

“Hm?”

“So the cold did bother you,” he mused.

Mystic Flour Cookie gave a faint sound that could be mistaken for a halfhearted scoff, then walked back to her where she originally was. Her new mantle whispered against the deck.

It was the first time Dark Cacao had taken the opportunity to observe her so closely. Her long white hair, when not bound, fell to her calves. The sash around her waist bore ancient runes, subtle but intricately woven. Even with his surface knowledge of arcana, he recognized the olden text: Wishwright.

…

The shore slowly grew visible across the horizon, and the familiar architecture of the Citadel loomed over the great hills and lands. It was still hard to make out further details as the coat of snow lifted in the air obstructed the view. The crew fell into a rhythm, their boots thudding against the deck as they prepared for docking.

Their descent was soon to come by as the ship slowly docked. The warriors moved in perfect synchrony—one dropped the anchor, another cast the rope to secure the ship to the port, and a third lowered the gangplank to bridge the vessel to the port.

Her lady, Mystic Flour Cookie, had two warriors, one on either side of her. They carried her belongings, given by the Council as a sign of their gratitude. Though meaningless in her pursuit, she accepted the offerings, though not intending to use the ‘Pagoda’ themed satchel given.

It wasn't long before she was gently guided off the port, her steps quietly clacking against the floorboard as she crossed the newly lowered gangplank. The chill in the air deepened with every stride inland, and a biting wind nipped at the edges of her silken cape. Her escort—silent warriors cloaked in similar fashion, dark armor—led her through a narrow path framed by jagged cliffs and frosted evergreens.

Soon, the great outer walls of the Dark Cacao Kingdom came into view, towering above the snowy expanse like ancient sentinels carved from stone and ice. It wasn’t awe she felt—it was something older. Like recognition. This place, though foreign, did not feel unfamiliar— her time in the Silver Tree had allowed her to resonate with the now Souljam of Resolution, visions that come in her dreams of this place through the other holder’s eyes.

Their sheer scale and craftsmanship commanded reverence. Whether she was impressed or unmoved by the display, her expression betrayed little. But even in her stillness, it was clear: the fortress was a sight to behold.

As she passed under the shadow of the portcullis, the whisper of snow-speckled air kissed her cheek. She had seen this wall once—through another's eyes, long before her own steps had drawn her here. During her long sentence, the Souljam of Volition, now Resolution, showed her a boy standing proud and too small for his armor, his shadow cast long against these stones. That same stone now bore frost, cracked in places, but still unyielding.

The Dark Cacao Kingdom was an empire in its own right, deeply rooted in culture and tradition, which shaped both its identity and its people. The residents' attire was crafted to withstand the relentless cold, and their cuisine reflected both resilience and innovation born of necessity.

Mystic Flour Cookie observed the denizens, the settlements, and the overall atmosphere. It was tense, yes, presumably of her presence, though she hadn’t blamed them. Not after what she had caused. Yet, no ounce of regret or remorse is seen. To her eyes, shaped by the crumblings of old foreign temples and cloud-dusted plains, the austerity of this place felt useless as time would show little to no mercy to these mortal planes.

Following the Warriors surrounding their King, she was soon led to the kingdom itself through the inner walls. It was grand–yes, though not much of a difference was seen compared to the other residences.

…

She walks with the king, who then leads her to her soon-to-be chambers. The hallways were embedded in depictions of history themselves, from paintings to scrolls. One thing, however, stood out—a large section of the center wall in the atrium was missing a portrait, leaving behind a perfectly preserved spot of untouched wallpaper.

Mystic Flour didn’t have much time to ponder as the King stood in front of a large door. “This is where you will be residing in the meantime.”

She courtly nodded as Dark Cacao opened the door. She stopped for a moment before her footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor as she entered after him, not with hesitation but with detachment. A traveler used to temporary roots. Every room was a chamber of passing; every roof overhead, just another stop before the next storm. That is what time had taught her after all.

The interior matched perfectly with the overall aesthetic of the palace. Dark and dull royal purple and black embedded the walls as it blends opulence with somber elegance, matching the ruler’s personality, it seemed. 

The guest room lay shrouded in muted shadows, its walls draped in heavy velvety tapestries dyed in shades of midnight. Ornate wooden panels, carved with intricate heraldic symbols, framed the room, their dark mahogany hues absorbing the flickering light of the wrought-iron sconces. A grand four-poster bed dominated the center, an imposing canopy hung above it. The only form of light for the day was a large ellipse window on the other end of the room, and for the night, candelabras hung on each pillar of the wall. 

She drifted to the window and ran a finger along the sill. Dustless. Not a sign of recent use, but preserved nonetheless. With slow, deliberate movements, she retrieved a small woven charm from her sleeve—three strands of thread, knotted in spirals. She tied it to the bedpost without a word. Not for protection. For remembrance.

“Hm.” Is the beast’s simple reply as she stepped into the room. “You may see yourself out.”

The King though curious, kept silent and huffed slightly, turning to leave the room. Though before he did, he looked at her. “Would you fancy a game of Go?”

“Go?” Her response came quickly. Still, she did not turn to face him.  “I did not know you played.”

“On my journey to beast-yeast, a group of Dumplings offered to play—” Dark Cacao huffed at the memory.  “They have peculiar methods of giving me advice.”

“During your voyage to me? They, the remaining residents within the Pagoda, are as wise as they are cunning. Time sharpens minds as much as it wears them thin.” Her gaze did not meet his, instead, she observed the scenery through her window. “Maybe another time.”

"Are you afraid to be bested in?" the King prodded, his words a subtle lure. All he received in return was a quiet, knowing hum—neither denial nor admission.

“Victory and defeat—are mere whispers in the endless dance of time. What weight have they, when the world turns regardless?” Mystic Flour turned to glance at Dark Cacao, her gaze ever still. 

The silence that followed was palpable, only broken by a silent sigh of resignation on the warrior. “How about a new rule added?”

“A new rule?” Mystic Flour hummed questioningly.

“One question for each territory claimed. One truth in exchange for every defeat.” Dark Cacao replied. “If you wish to play another time, then–”

“And should the game continue… what truths do you seek, great king?”  Mystic Flour questioned again. “How will you know what I answer is of truth?”

“You shall find out.” The warrior mused before pausing for a moment, calling over a passerby servant. “Could you fetch us a Go board, please?”

…

“Perhaps. But even stubbornness has built kingdoms. Your stillness—what has it preserved? What legacy comes from watching the storm instead of withstanding it?”

“And yet, in your fire, you burn those who cannot carry your weight. I offer stillness. I am the balm for wounds ambition forgets. Peace lies not in striving... but in release.” Mystic Flour Cookie murmured as she eyed the board, placing her piece in the far left corner. 

Somewhere between a specific question unfolded a small, quiet philosophical debate. The two Cookies sat cross-legged, facing each other with the board and an empty bowl between them. Candelabras—tall and wrought with silver—lined the corners, their flickering flames the only source of light. The small flames casted shadows on the pale cookie’s features, softening nothing.

He claimed a central cluster, then leaned back. “Have you ever mourned someone still alive?”

She didn’t answer at once. Her fingers hovered above the stones.

“No,” she answered at last. “The living still wound. The dead, at least, stay still.”

Dark Cacao said nothing. Her move was bold—a sacrifice, or a trap.

“You held your ground well.” Dark Cacao eyed her movement before quickly placing another near hers.

Placing it just near enough to provoke thought—strategic in its position, yet cloaked in an air of feigned naivety as he claimed her territory. Mystic Flour tilted her head slightly, as if uncertain of her own intent, though her eyes betrayed a quiet calculation.

A small pause as Dark Cacao Cookie leaned his head down to meet her gaze. She awaits for his question.

“Peace born from surrender is no peace at all. It is a silence forced, not earned. True growth demands discomfort—a choice to act, to care, to try.” Though his voice remained calm, there was steel beneath it, and something else too: the ache of memory, and the fragile hope that she might see the difference between the two: “How could you call that suffering… not strength?"

“To forever go through the cycles of failing… to gain a little victory is inconsequential… “ She answered simply as she tilted her head, eyeing the pieces on the board with little interest.  “Win or lose, it matters not as eventually, it’ll all return to dust in the expanse desert of time. Is that not suffering? The futility of either victory or defeat—the grain of meaning it creates, only to be scattered eventually?”

Dark Cacao’s gaze remained fixed on the board, but his hand stilled above the next move. Her words lingered in the space between them—quiet, cold, and heavy. Something in him recoiled at the resignation in her voice, that quiet surrender to impermanence, yet he could not deny the truth buried in her reflection. Still, he said nothing. The stone in his hand was set down at last, firm and deliberate, as if to push back against the weight of her words with action alone.

After a while, the game neared its end.

“You always play for territory,” Mystic Flour murmured, placing a white stone with deliberate grace. “Predictable. Honorable. But heavy.”

“And you play for influence,” Dark Cacao replied. “A web that might collapse with a single misstep.”

“The board reflects the self,” she said.

He paused. “Then I fear my self is less orderly than I believed.”

She raised an eyebrow, lingering in the air and unbeknownst through their link: Distrust . “You do not fear that. You simply hope I’ll think you do.”

He did not correct her. How could he? To do so would be to confirm it — that his every gesture, every phrase, was more blade than balm.

“Then tell me,” he said at last, quieter now, as though afraid of his own voice. “What is it you see, if not fear?”

Her gaze flickered toward the board, then back to him. “A man who hides apologies inside metaphors. Who turns regret into performance so he won’t have to bleed where others can see.”

He looked away, eyes tracing the delicate curve of a captured stone. “You speak as though I’ve never bled.”

“Not where it counted.”

It was a cruel thing to say — or perhaps just a precise one. In her mouth, even cruelty was naught.

Mystic Flour placed her final stone on the board with slow certainty, the faintest echo tapping against the lacquered wood. Her hand lingered there a breath longer than needed—then she hummed, low and distant. “...You play too cautiously. In guarding your territory, you forget—every stone you place can be taken just the same.”

Dark Cacao Cookie scanned the board. There was no question now—he had lost. By a narrow margin, but a loss nonetheless.

“How often does your striving end in ruins, Great King?”

At last, she met his gaze, eyes steady as a slow blink followed—her words hanging in the air like frost on pine. The stillness grew heavy: that enough was of an answer she was somewhat pleased with.

“A few more defeats... and you, too, shall understand futility.”

“You play a good game, Mystic Flour Cookie.” Dark Cacao Cookie watched over the board for a moment and slightly slumped his shoulders before holding a hand out. “Perhaps we could have another rematch soon?”

Mystic Flour Cookie’s gaze lingered on the hand in front of her and sighed softly before reaching out. Her slender, smooth fingers met the warrior’s calloused grasp in a quiet, small shake. “Perhaps so.”

Dark Cacao Cookie left the room soon after. It was already past nine by then.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon. As the door closed behind him, she stared at the board for a while longer, eyes lingering not on the pieces, but on the spaces between them—empty territories, unclaimed truths, unanswered questions. ‘What exactly had the King intended in this match?’. 

She rose from her seat with the grace of melting snow, the hem of her robe brushing gently against the stone floor. Her steps carried her to the tall arched window, where the cold night met her in silence. Outside, the world lay hushed beneath a sky swept in deep ink.

 The moon hung high—aloof, but unmistakably present—its light flickering faintly as if stirred by wind. It did not shine with warmth, but it watched all the same, pale and unmoving, the eye of a witness too ancient to blink.

Mystic Flour Cookie stared back at it, unflinching. The moon’s glow caught the edge of her brow and turned the glass to silver. In its gaze, she felt neither comfort nor intrusion—only a strange familiarity; The flicker in the moon’s light graced across her face, just enough to make her wonder if it, too, pondered the moves made on their quiet board.

…

The sound of the door clicking shut behind him was the only confirmation that the game had ended—not in victory, but in reflection.

The quiet gloom that settled over the hallways was always a good place to think, to regroup his thoughts. Their little match had given him a glimpse of her: her mind, her words, her strategies. 

It made him wonder—what drives a Cookie to such a state of detachment? How does a cookie dissociate from everything around them? To be so at peace with the wind that you allow it to carry you, no resistance, no direction of your own. At times during the game, he envied her. To be unfeeling is to be ignorant, which to him was a brief but very much needed respite. Though he would never heed , never surrender to apathy as she did, he couldn’t help but wonder what it might feel like—to drift unanchored, unburdened, like the wind itself.

For he bore the weight of ruins—ruins that could have been spared. Preventable, yet inevitable deaths. The heavy consequence of his choices.

He shook the thoughts from his mind. Regret would do no good now, not in his state of weariness. The match had taken more out of him than he expected. Perhaps it was her words—quiet, detached, and yet so achingly familiar—that had stirred the dust of old, coaxing the past from where he had long buried it beneath duty and silence.

Playing against a Cookie who embodied pure neutrality was no simple task. Her moves, though graceful and skilled, carried no pattern—no logic he could anchor his tactics, or next moves to.

And yet, despite her disinterest in defense or offense… somehow, he had still lost.

His feet had led him back to his chambers, clacking purposeful strides of the way. The premise always had a heavy air to it, as if it too could recognize the hidden grievance its owner hid. The only sounds in the room were the hushed winds, then the creaking of the mattress. A heavy sigh, the king released, his shoulders slumped.

He shrugged off his armour, haphazardly placing it on the edge of his bed, his sword in a similar manner: perched by the headboard near his pillow. The metal glimmered against what little moonlight that had managed to slip past the curtains.

Dark Cacao Cookie leaned back on his bed, running a hand through his hair as he stared off in the distance. The faint light of his kingdom was blanketed by the fog brought in by the snow. Fires lit in small areas, as little chatter could be heard around them.

Breakfast tomorrow would be interesting as it would mark their first official meal. He didn’t count on the swiftly prepared bits of chocolate they had eaten during their little match.

…

It was around 11 pm by now, the chiming of the clock at the end of the room told. He was still awake, very much so, as his mind kept replaying their little match, her words invoking thoughts that cut too deep in his resolution. Her words always had a way to do such, yet it never deterred—swayed him, though that was not to say it didn’t get him to think.

Dark Cacao sat at the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees as the chill of the mountain night crept through the stone walls. The chamber was quiet save for the fading echo of the eleventh bell, its final chime echoing. His eyes, though fixed on the floor, saw little of it—drawn inward, replaying each move of the game, and each syllable of her voice.

They—her words—slipped past the armor he still wore in spirit, and despite being a warrior, it needled in the places no blade had ever reached. He was tired, more than he cared to admit, but not from the match. It was the thinking, the remembering, the knowing that some part of him agreed… and that, perhaps, troubled him most.

The pieces were gone, but the game lingered on. “You play too cautiously.” Her words had been gentle, almost offhand, but they carried the sharpness of truth he could not deflect. “In guarding your territory, you forget—every stone you place can be taken just the same.” He clenched his jaw slightly, unsettled not by the loss itself, but by the meaning, her words a taunt that was deeper than just game-talk.

Had she done that on purpose?

Her questions struck deeper than strategy: “And yet, in your fire, you burn those who cannot carry your weight.” That one had stung, as if she had seen through to the weight he carried—through to the ruins left behind. Her voice—soft but unyielding—echoed like judgment in the quiet, and for a fleeting moment, he could not tell if the burn he felt was anger… or shame.

Then, the one that had lingered in the longest: “How often does your striving end in ruins, Great King?”

Another soft sigh escaped him.

His hand brushed against the edge of the hilt near his bed, its grip worn where his fingers had clutched it too tightly in years past. There had been a time—before the frost claimed his son, before the silence of the council—that he believed every decision was righteous. 

But what victory had he truly held onto? The silence of his halls was louder than any battlefield.

This was progress in some way, he had to remind himself—getting her to talk, to open up, even in a manner where his thoughts and ideal fray.

“More often times than not,” he muttered again, this time softer. To the blade. To himself.

Chapter Text

Adorned in jewels and quiet pride, the empress watched as her companions departed. The airship assigned to them ascended steadily, rising higher and higher until their parting waves blurred into the sky. Her radiant wings, having caught the golden light of the sun, glinted with the solemn brilliance of farewell. Til’ the next battle, she supposed.

Burning Spice Cookie stood by the railings of the Airship, the signature flag of the Creme’ dela Creme Republic flew above. Leaning on its edge as he allows the breeze to flow in between his locks, the beast observed the other’s farewells, light mockery, and judgment etched on his features as he let out a light scoff.

Golden Cheese Cookie did not speak as the airship broke the veil of dusk, its wings glinting faintly beneath the last gold-painted clouds. The roar of its engines faded into a dull ache in the distance, swallowed by the breathless hush that followed. 

The empress softly sighed, her wings folding behind her as she turned to face her beast. She eyed him warily as she approached. There was at least 5 feet worth of distance in between the two. 

“So.” The brute hadn’t responded. How rude, it's as if he weren’t in the sight of such radiancy. It was almost unnerving, the way he was acting now in comparison to their last interaction prior to the battle.  

“Burning Spice Cookie?” Golden Cheese queried, tilting her head to the side a bit to meet his gaze, or at least— attempt to. “Have you been cursed?”

Red eyes questioningly met gold, “Cursed?”

“Ah, it appears not.” 

…

The flight back to the Golden Cheese Empire, or what was left of it, was quiet— a little too quiet. She hadn’t bothered to strike up a conversation with her counterpart, not that the other cookie cared or minded anyway.

Below them, the clouds drifted like resting waves, and the world felt suspended between dusk and dawn. In the hushed hum of the Aerostat’s engines were lingering questions. Both souljam wielders, due to their close and quiet proximity, hummed with unease. The Light of Change had purred at the little contact, somewhat pleased that both halves were within the same vicinity.

The sensation was subtle, yet there. Abundance had tried to ignore the pull, though it stayed persistent. Golden Cheese looked at her counterpart and couldn’t decipher if he, too, had felt it.

“What is it?” She murmured into the breeze, her hand tracing the embedded gemstone on her forehead. Abundance turned toward destruction. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?” came the simple reply as the other rubbed his chest.

“That.”

Burning Spice exhaled sharply, his eyes at last lifting to meet hers. “What of it?”

‘So he did.’

Strange, how peace could feel just as tense as war —watching the two interact without malice, without intent. The air between them stayed unnervingly still, heavy with a silence that only thickened. A few seconds later, Golden Cheese Cookie shook her head and turned back toward the horizon, where the distant sun had begun its slow descent.

“Nothing,” she finally answered.

The low glow of the setting sun cast long shadows across the cabin. She recalled the clash of her harpoon blade against spiced steel—the moment when she stood over Burning Spice Cookie, the heat of battle urging her to deliver a final, irrevocable strike. But she hesitated then, remembering the potential for redemption she’d seen flicker in his merciless eyes. Now, as the engines droned between them, she felt that same conflict ignite anew. Could she trust her mercy, or was it weakness in the face of a hardened flame? 

Had she gambled her conviction on a hope that would only burn them both?

Another huff, though not another word was uttered to follow. That’s how the rest of the journey went.

…

At first light, the Airship descended toward the dunes that stretched like golden seas, their ripples kissed by the pale blush of dawn. Harsh winds whispered through the cabins’ open hatches as the desert floor came into focus—endless waves of sand interspersed with skeletal outcroppings of sun-bleached bones and crumbling sandstone arches.

The desert from above resembled a broken mosaic—sun-struck and solemn, a tapestry of dust and shattered dominion. The empire’s bones stretched below in quiet decay: once-gilded towers now hollowed out, their domes caved like overripe fruit beneath the glare of an unforgiving sun. Between them snaked dry canals where once rivers had gleamed, threading light through the heart of the city like veins of molten gold. Now, only heat shimmered, rising in silent plumes above the ground.

The rising sun cast long, cool shadows, turning each dune’s crest into a glowing ridge of molten gold. The faintest glimmers of ruined ramparts and half-buried turrets hinted at the once-proud sprawl of the Golden Cheese Empire.

Golden Cheese sighed at the view as the Aerostat finally touched the ground. She wore a small turquoise scarf embroidered with gold over the lower half of her face. She descended from the ship with regal poise, her shawl gliding behind her.

A separate entrance led to the main chamber of the airship, where the captain was said to be. She offered her trusted friend a warm, familiar smile.

“Smoked Cheese Cookie,” she greeted, her wings fluttering with soft clinks of gold and turquoise as the desert breeze caught their edges. The cookie before her, cloaked in familiar silks and pride, bowed with a stiffness that belied his loyalty.

“Your Radiance,” he returned, tone clipped yet respectful.

Golden Cheese Cookie turned then, just as another presence descended the airship ramp with less grace and far less ceremony.

“Burning Spice,” she called out.

The brute halted mid-step, his gaze sharp and irritated, as though the very act of seeing her had soured his mood. He didn’t speak immediately—only glanced at her through narrowed eyes, arms hanging loose at his sides like a lion unwilling to sheath its claws.

She raised an eyebrow, her voice lighter than before, perhaps to defuse the tension. “How was your sleep?”

The silence was telling enough. Burning Spice Cookie said nothing, his gaze sweeping over the crumbling expanse of the empire that stretched before him. He had glimpsed it once through her eyes—reflections shared in fleeting moments via the Light of Change—but standing here now, with sun-bleached ruins and ghosted grandeur underfoot, the reality struck differently. Harsher. Emptier. ‘Not a kingdom of gold anymore,’ he noted.

He knew of the Dark Flour War and the travesty of destruction it caused—he could only pray to witness, but never much out of that. Seeing the once most-advanced civilization of Earthbread now simply dust did not bring the pleasure he so thought it would. “This is it?”

Smoked Cheese Cookie scoffed, eyes narrowing as his arms snapped into a crossed stance. “Did your desert scorch your dignity along with your manners?”

“It is quite alright, Smoked Cheese Cookie,” the Empress said coolly, a warning flicker behind her eyes.

 Smoked Cheese Cookie jeered nonetheless, his voice curling with bitter defiance. “Of course it is—when mockery comes from the mouths you choose to pardon.”

“Surely you jest, your Radiance.” He decreed with another huff a few moments later. “Are you not the first one to sing praises of your kingdom, and yet you do not defend when it is being belittled?” With a defiant flicker in his eyes, Smoked Cheese Cookie met his queen’s gaze—then turned away, words slipping beneath his breath like dust. “Your Radiance is a moron.”

Golden Cheese Cookie quipped, jabbing at her subject lightly. “That is enough from the both of you.”

Her beast let out a low, rumbling snarl but offered no words in return. Instead, he exhaled a slow plume of his own smoke from his nostrils and, with a heavy sigh, turned his gaze away.

The Empress took on her proud stride, wings clamouring with small trinkets that rang harmoniously amongst the quiet and occasional howl of the wind. She had led them into the palace, and as desolate the outside was— it still held its former glory on the inside. 

Golden Cheese Cookie stepped forward, her footfalls as soft as fur. The soles of her sandals brushed against the golden inlay on the floor, now dulled and half-buried beneath a film of drifting sand.

Burning Spice Cookie followed, slower, eyes sharp and wary. The last time she had stood beneath these arches, the souljam had pulsed with music and fury. Recently, it slept, encased in silence. Even the very air here seemed brittle.

All she needed was time, and as an embodiment of eternity, that is all that she had. Since the Dark Flour War, or after it, she has spent her time rebuilding her once-prided of a Kingdom— that is not to say that she isn’t proud of what it is today. Golden Cheese Cookie shook her head as she whistled, the large velvety door embedded in jewels opened.

At the center of the chamber, the altar still stood. Cracked, but not broken. A relic. A reminder. Golden Cheese’s gaze lingered on it as one might look upon a former lover—equal parts longing and caution. Her fingers hovered above it, not touching, only remembering.

She continued her ascent.

A dark red carpet was draped on the floor and dragged to the hall of the chambers of the former residents of her place. Smoke Cheese Cookie recognized the room at the end of the hall, what it had behind the doors: It had once safeguarded the soul cheeses of her Radiance’s fallen kin—the very first duty he had failed since his revival. The weight of it pressed on him anew as he paused at the threshold. He shook his head, a quiet sigh escaping him.

The corridor was hushed, a stillness she’d grown accustomed to, broken only by the occasional squawk of cheesebirds perched overhead. Their excitement at her return echoed faintly against the dusty walls. 

‘Her Macheezty!’ — ‘She has returned!’ — ‘Sound the horns!’

…

After Smoked Cheese Cookie was dismissed with a flick of her jeweled hand— the latter, who was clearly reluctant, though he obeyed nonetheless —bidded her with a bow. The Empress guided her beast through the hollow corridors of the golden stained hall, their footsteps echoing through the whispers of a bygone court. She stopped before a grand chamber—vaulted ceiling, soft lamplight, and windows veiled in embroidered silk. This would be his quarters for now.

“If you need anything, ring the bells.” Golden Cheese Cookie pondered for a few seconds afterwards. She hesitated before she sighed softly. “How are you faring, Burning Spice Cookie?”

“Ha, still blazing, as always.”  He answered without missing a beat, the words rolling out with the ease of habit, of pride perhaps too long carried. A grin carved across his face—not the roguish, arrogant one of old, but something tempered. A shadow of worn.  “The air has yet to snuff out my fire, Little Bird.”

‘Putting up an act? Similar to his trickster of a friend.’  

That grin—sharp at the edges, hollow at the center. It was the kind of expression meant to distract, to draw attention away from the weariness settling behind the eyes. She had seen it before, worn it herself once upon a time. 

She pondered for a moment, then simply nodded. A sly grin, her wings unfurled with quiet pride—radiant, defiant, and newly reborn, as if to say look at what I have become—boasting not through words, but through the gleam of something renewed, something glorious.

Burning Spice Cookie’s gaze narrowed—half in admiration, half in warning. The lazy grin didn’t fade, but his next words came quieter, slower, a smoldering edge creeping in.

She arched a brow, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I wouldn’t dream of stepping too close,” she purred, “unless invited.”

“Uninvited?” It was playful, but there was a note of something else there. Curiosity? Caution? A dare?

“You’re not the first flame I’ve circled, darling,” she replied smoothly. “But few have ever dared to flare back.”

“Tread lightly, little canary,” he murmured, almost fond, almost dangerous. 

Whatever the feeling was, it eluded her grasp. It wasn’t fear—no, never that, but something restless, something on the edge of thrill. Her voice curled with amusement. “ Inviting me to another dance, beast? And so soon… How bold of you.”

“A dance?” Her words were a snare dressed in silk, and though he saw the glint of it, biting at the lure of her words, he played a long, unwilling to retreat, or simply unable to resist.  “Perhaps. If your steps have kept up with time.”

She laughed—low and gleaming like coins tossed into water. “You always did rely too much on brute momentum.” Her eyes flashed. “Let’s see if that holds on the cliffside.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to catch you when you fall.”

A moment passed. His expression shifted, no longer smirking, not quite serious. Something unreadable sat in his gaze. Not challenge. Not amusement.
Something older. Quieter.

“Tomorrow at dawn.” She declared, her wings folded neatly behind her—their golden edges chiming softly in the hush of the room. “By the cliffside. Light Jamshed.”

Burning Spice Cookie leaned against the carved post of the bed again, arms folded, firelight flickering in his eyes. “You’re no fun,” he muttered, though the hint of a smile lingered.

She turned with the finality of someone who never begged for permission to leave, only left when it pleased her. The golden edges of her wings caught the light as she walked—slow, deliberate, regal. Not quite taunting, but purposeful.

 Then:
“At dawn?”

She didn’t turn back, but her voice echoed back like sunlight catching gold:  “At dawn.”

He watched her go, flame licking gently behind his eyes.

…

Burning Spice Cookie was anything but asleep. He was cold—an unfamiliar, biting sensation that curled around his limbs like a silent accusation. It wasn’t just the chill of night or the desert winds slipping through stone cracks.

He sat at the edge of the grand bed, elbows on knees, facing the open balcony. Beyond it, the dunes slumbered beneath a velvet sky. Above, the stars wheeled in their ancient rhythm. He tracked their cycle with weary eyes, recognizing a few constellations from memory—worn fragments from a time long buried.

With a groan, he rubbed at his forehead, knuckles brushing the horns above his brow. He shivered subtly and cursed himself for it.

His gaze, as if drawn by instinct or fate, lingered on the moon. Pale and watchful. Hers.

He felt her presence in the cold glow of it. Not physically—no. But as though she were still looking at him from beyond time, from the edge of judgment.

The last time he had truly looked at the stars had been during his sentencing.

The moon hung high above the horizon, its light not soft but stark—silver carved into shadow. It glinted off the marble and sand alike, cool and unwavering, like an eye that never blinked. There was something in its glow tonight, a glimmer not quite still—something that shifted faintly, like a smile half-formed, like quiet mirth barely restrained. It didn’t offer comfort. 

It noticed . 

And it wasn’t the fall that haunted him—it was the knowing. The moment of stillness before the end, when even flame cowers. That hollow stretch where the skies gave no answer and the universe seemed to hold its breath, just long enough for fear to sink in.

He’d fought, of course. Desperately. Clawed and burned and begged. But just like his comrades, he too had fallen.

He shook his head, he did not reflect. The Great Destroyer does anything but.

Burning Spice Cookie rose from the bed with a sigh and crossed the room in silence, the soft padding of his steps barely audible against the ornate flooring. Without hesitation, he slipped into the corridor, the heavy door groaning faintly shut behind him.

The hallways were steeped in shadow and stillness, lit only by the flickering glow of enchanted sconces. As he walked, his gaze curiously traced the architecture. It was strange—uncanny, even—how similar their empires were, despite the chasm of time and temperament between them.

The archways bore carvings that mirrored his own homeland’s ancient stonework. The scripts etched into marble pillars sang of glory and collapse. Runes whispered in a language nearly lost, save to those who remembered.

And the murals—grand, solemn things engraved directly into the golden walls—told of battles and ascension, divine favor and inevitable ruin. He paused before one in particular, watching the chisel marks play in the firelight. It could have been his own people’s tale. It could have been his.

He frowned slightly, unsettled by the familiarity. What did it mean when even two enemies shaped their legacies in the same style?

‘Is not it unfair?’ She was walking, taking the same paths as he did, though she rose, he fell.

…

“Hmn.”

“Burning Spice? Is that you?” 

The beast froze, his hand still hovering near the wall’s engraved surface. Slowly, he turned.

Golden Cheese Cookie stood a few paces away, her silhouette framed by the golden glow of a wall-mounted lantern. She wasn’t adorned in her usual regalia—no crown, no flourish—just a simple turquoise silk robe and a half-curious, half-weary look in her eye.

“Can’t sleep,” he said, voice unusually gravel-soft. “It’s cold… and quiet.”

She stepped forward, her expression unreadable. “Strange. Most find it comforting. Peaceful.”

“Pfft, peace,” he echoed with a bitter edge. “That word rarely belongs to those who survived war.”

“Hm.”

Her eyes flicked to the mural he’d been studying. “You recognize it?”

The mural stretched across the wall like a gilded tapestry, rendered in painstaking detail. She sat at its center—Golden Cheese Cookie, radiant and enthroned, draped in imperial robes that shimmered with embedded jewels. Her wings, wide and luminous, framed her like a sunburst. One hand held high a chalice that spilled golden nectar onto her subjects below, their faces upturned in worshipful joy, arms raised to receive her blessing.

It was a scene of abundance. Of reverence. Of order.

Burning Spice Cookie stared, jaw clenched. The mural glorified her rule as divine providence, bountiful, and eternal. And yet, to him, there was something haunting in the static joy of her followers. Their smiles were too perfect. Their eyes, hollow with devotion.

“You paint yourself a God,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and unreadable.

“Am I not?” Golden Cheese Cookie huffed, her voice carrying a trace of challenge beneath its silk. She stepped closer, the soft rustle of her robes brushing the silence between them. Her chamberstick, modest in its glow, cast flickering shadows that danced up, its light across the mural’s surface—onto painted jewels, onto smiling mouths.

She stopped a few paces beside him, posture regal, but her tone—less so.

“It is meant to capture prosperity,”

“Prosperity,” he repeated, the word cracking in his mouth like overbaked sugar. 

“It’ll all wither with the tide of change,” Burning Spice said coolly, his gaze unmoved from the mural. “Why cling to golden relics when even mountains bow to time? All this—” he motioned vaguely to the painting, to the palace walls, to the opulence stitched into her very being— “will fall, crumbled by the very change you claim to wield.”

He glanced at her then, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“Unless, of course,” he drawled, eyes gleaming with that same infernal smirk he wore in battle, “it’s not change you serve… but its glory.”

He stepped closer, the shadow of his presence brushing against hers.

“Truly, your greed knows no bounds.”

As he stepped closer, the air between them seemed to tighten, charged with something unsaid. The light that clung to her robes shimmered slightly, as if disturbed by a breeze that wasn’t there, and a faint glint danced across the cracks of his facade. The space between them pulsed—not outwardly, not visibly, but like the hush before a storm, where silence feels shaped by sound not yet spoken. 

A short pause. “At least I need not destroy to entertain myself.”

The words weren’t shouted—they didn’t need to be. 

Burning Spice Cookie's smirk didn’t falter, not even for just a second. The silence that followed wasn’t hollow—it rang, deep and cold.

She turned slightly, letting the mural cast its radiance across her face. “You call it greed,” she droned. "And what if it is? When one has ruled over splendor, then rubble, they learn to treasure what endures— Perhaps when one has built something worth losing, they learn to value more than just the fire.”

“Hmn.” A short grumble from the beast before he simply shrugged. 

“...You should get some rest, Burning Spice.” Golden Cheese hummed softly as she turned to face him. Her wings glittered under the moon’s gentle cascade, catching silver light between flickers of candle glow—radiant, regal, and unmistakably divine.

‘Unfair.’ — “I don’t need sleep.”

“Yes, but it’ll do you no harm.” 

Burning Spice Cookie offered no reply, only a pause—a long, quiet stillness where words might have once lived. Then, with the weight of something unspoken, he turned. His footsteps were slow, steady, echoing faintly through the corridor as he made his way back to his chambers. No huff, no remark. Just the faint rustle of his dhoti, a silken, saffron, dull yellow cloth.

He hesitated, a short sigh then paused in his stride. Though, he did not turn, he spoke. “Tomorrow, then?”

Another short silence, then an amused hum. “At dawn.”

The already dim flames in his eyes dimmed to embers as he disappeared down the corridor, the silence between them stretching comfortingly. He didn’t slam the door when he reached his quarters. He simply closed it firmly.

He only replayed the somewhat civil conversation they’d shared—brief, strained, but not without a flicker of understanding. He didn’t linger on it for long. Letting it echo once or twice in the back of his mind, he dismissed it with a scoff as he begrudgingly sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of his armor creaking against the silence of the room.

His hand drifted to the souljam embedded in his chest—the souljam of destruction. He rubbed it absentmindedly, feeling the faintest thrum beneath his fingers. It had resonated earlier. Just barely. A flicker, a whisper, as if stirred by the nearness of its counterpart. Almost pleased. Almost... content. 

‘The space between them pulsed—not outwardly, not visibly, but like the hush before a storm, where silence feels shaped by sound not yet spoken.’

He sighed, not with weariness, but with the quiet frustration of a soldier who'd long since grown wary of fate’s games. 

He eased back onto the bed, the old mattress protesting beneath him. He stared at the ceiling—blank, unmoving—and let the quiet settle over him like ash. 

“You can not be greedy,”

Chapter Text

It was quiet when he first awoke. The hush in the bedroom clung to the walls, a blanket of unease and unfamiliarity. He wouldn’t have needed to ask where he was if not for the familiar beige hue of waffle-cone-themed interior.

The bed, nestled in a frame of dark chocolate wood, looked perfectly turned down, with thick, cream-colored blankets and plush, marshmallow-like pillows inviting a weary soul to rest. A small crystal lamp glowed dimly on the bedside table, casting a soft shimmer across the polished caramel floors. Outside, the night was hushed, the kingdom draped in a soft shadow. 

The quiet was almost unnatural, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting. The faint scent of vanilla and caramel lingered softly in the air, blending with the cool night breeze that slipped through the curtains. Every detail—from the faint creak of the floorboards to the soft rustle of the blankets—seemed amplified in the stillness, wrapping the moment in fragile calm. Everything about the room whispered peace, like a lullaby.

How sweet, he internally cringed at the setting.

Shadow Milk groaned, slowly pushing himself upright, propped on his elbows, only for a sharp ache to jolt through his arms. He winced, eyeing them with suspicion before giving one a slow stretch. Overexertion, Figures.

He’d pulled off that ridiculous tarot display for an entire army—hundreds at once. The toll clung to his limbs like invisible shackles.

His hands tiredly ran across his face before gliding down his chest where—

Gone.

His eyes flew open, sudden clarity crashing into him like a cold wave as he whipped his head around the room, breath held—
—And sighed in relief when he spotted his Souljam resting safely on the bedside table. He cursed himself under his breath for not noticing it sooner.

His brooch rested on the bedside table, glistening faintly where a shard of moonlight happened to fall.

With practiced ease, Shadow Milk clipped it back on, letting the familiar magic course through him like a second skin—or a comfy blanket. The magic hummed softly as it settled back against his chest, a familiar warmth radiating through his veins. It was a comfort, a tether to a self he wasn’t sure he fully recognized anymore. He shook his head and rubbed the remnants of sleep left over in his eyes.

Then,

He heard his souljam hum, soft—barely, but enough to point it out.
“You’re awake.” A familiar voice rang gently as the door creaked open.

“Figures.” Shadow Milk’s tone was flat as he acknowledged the other, but the weight behind it dragged. “Go on, then. What gave it away?”

The other simply rubbed at his own souljam in response.

Shadow Milk Cookie turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the figure framed in the doorway. He simply hummed. “Mm.”

Pure Vanilla stepped into the room, the beholder’s gaze flitting across the chambers before landing on the figure lying down on the bed. “How are you feeling, Shadow Milk?”

“Like I’ve been chewed up and spit out,” he muttered without a beat, voice dry, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. He lay still, every limb aching with a dull, lingering weight. Something in him felt unmoored, like the magic hadn’t settled yet. A silent question whispered through the wind.

“You exerted a lot of magic.” Pure Vanilla Cookie started. “The adrenaline wore off—it’s all catching up to you now,” he then explained softly, concern lining his words. “I can’t imagine how you were physically able to do that.”

Shadow Milk exhaled through his nose, bristling, eyes flickering toward the ceiling. “You doubt me, really.” His voice was flat, almost listless, but carried a sharp undercurrent. 

The bed dipped as Pure Vanilla moved closer. “...How—there were exactly 614 soldiers. Did you not think about what that would do to you? That kind of spell would’ve torn any other cookie apart. I truly don’t understand how you pulled it off.”

“Gee, thanks.” Shadow Milk’s tone was dry, but something flickered behind his eyes. He bristled—just barely—a twitch of his shoulders, a subtle narrowing of his gaze. Not anger, not yet. But the irritation was palpable, like static in the air. “This? This wasn’t the worst I’ve done.”

A pause.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to downplay what you endured.”

“You didn’t,” he replied coolly, though the tension in his jaw betrayed a flicker of his irritation. “But I’m not here to impress you.”

“Still,” Pure Vanilla said gently, almost too gently, “it’s difficult to ignore that a single cookie— you —managed something of that scale.”

Shadow Milk scoffed, tilting his head just enough to glance sideways at him. “Uhm, hello? Former fount of knowledge? Ring a bell?”

Then, after a beat, his lips quirked—barely.
“...But sure, keep the praise coming, ‘Nills. ’ You’ve got a way with bedside manners.”

Pure Vanilla smiled faintly. “I suppose you really aren’t just any cookie.”

Shadow Milk let his eyes close again. “Suppose? You, out of anyone, should know that.”

“Hm.” Pure Vanilla hummed before he asked softly. “...How are you?”

Shadow Milk Cookie snorted. “Pfft, I know you’re old, but do you have to repeat yourself?

Pure Vanilla blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You just asked me that.”

“I asked how you were feeling ,” Pure Vanilla replied with a sigh, his gentle, infuriatingly serene smile still plastered on his face. “Now I’m asking how you are , Shadow Milk Cookie.”

Shadow Milk let his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling like it might rescue him from the conversation. “Tch. You’re exhausting.”

Figuring he’d not get a single straight answer from the other cookie, he stopped beating around the bush. Pure Vanilla’s gaze drifted to the sugar-stained glass, where the Vanilla Kingdom shimmered faintly under moonlight. A distant tower gleamed in silver-blue.

“At the Spire—”

“Don’t.” Shadow Milk’s voice cut in, a quiet plea slipping out before he could snatch it back. He internally grimaced at the sudden softness. “You’re making me regret saving your sorry little lot.”

“At the Spire,” Pure Vanilla continued anyway, his voice still calm—irritatingly so. “When our Souljams reunited… it felt—”

“Whole. Obviously.”

“You could’ve taken it from me,” Pure Vanilla said, eyes distant, the Beholder’s eye shut. “I was at my lowest. But you didn’t. You waited. Watched me fall on my own. Why?”

“A playwright never reveals his script. A magician never gives up his tricks—or whatever the saying is.” Shadow Milk waved a hand dismissively, voice smooth with practiced indifference. He wasn’t about to make this easy. Cooperation was never part of his act.

“I want to understand you. I know you need someone. That’s why you—”

A blur of motion—then a gasp. Pure Vanilla found himself pressed hard against the vanity, its edge biting into his side. The air between them grew heavy.

“Careful what you say, Nilly.” Shadow Milk loomed close, voice lilting with a mockery that barely masked something darker. His fingers curled tight around the other’s collar, knuckles pale. “You have no idea what you're talking about. You will never understand me.” A beat. A quiet hiss, low and guttural:
“I hate you.”

The silence stretched thin, heavy between them like a fragile thread. Shadow Milk’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, the storm behind his eyes slowly simmering into something quieter, more guarded. It was a moment hung in balance, the space between rage and something softer.

Almost like a plea for connection disguised as defiance.

Pure Vanilla’s smile only faltered for a moment, grimacing at the small ache in his hip. “Then, would you allow me to understand you?”

Solemn, quiet. Then, a simple answer from the other as he backed off. “No.”

Irritated, Shadow Milk Cookie’s hair flicked, the eyes in it tearing up faintly. He turned away without another word, gaze locking with her—
The moon. He could feel her gaze heavy on him: Judgement.

“Always watching, never reaching,” Shadow Milk muttered bitterly— a weak attempt at changing the topic that his other half hopefully humors. The jester’s fists balled on his sides as the heels of his feet finally met the floorboards with a dull thud. “She observes. She never acts. Just… watches.”

The moonlight cast long shadows that seemed to pulse with something underlyingly heavy. She was a witness to secrets and solitude, her pale glow both cold and kind.

“She?” Pure Vanilla asked, though the answer already shimmered through the stained glass.

He followed the jester’s vague gesture upward, towards the moon.

“Her.”

“I see.” Pure Vanilla’s eyes lingered on the soft silver glow above them. He stepped closer, his tone quieting with the weight of memory. “I used to speak to her here. In this very room. Ask for guidance.”

A dry laugh escaped the jester as he turned, that familiar crooked grin returning. “And what could a king possibly need help with?”

Pure Vanilla didn’t smile back, his hand gently gliding over the brooch of his chest. “When I first touched my soulj—”

“Not yours,”  he corrected with a slight huff. 

“Touched our souljam”

Then, another—sharper this time. “My souljam.”


The beholder’s gaze grew amused before he continued. “—I was lost. After the Dark Flour War, the truth slipped through my hands like sugar dissolving in the rain. And I left, searching for it. And no matter how far I wandered… she was always there. Silent. Steady.”

Pure Vanilla’s voice softened, almost as if speaking to the stained glass itself rather than to anyone in the room. “I would ask her… how do you carry the burden of knowing? Of having only seen the beginning and still walking towards the end?”

The jester tilted his head, the grin on his face faltering for just a second. He could’ve asked why Pure Vanilla was telling him —of all cookies—this. But instead, his voice dropped, quieter, edged with something unreadable. “And did she answer?”

Pure Vanilla looked up at the sugar arc, now dimmed by the pale moonlight filtering through. “She never gave answers. Only silence… and stillness. But in that stillness, I found my own voice.”

There was meaning in his words, Shadow Milk knew of it, yet he refused to read in between his counterpart’s lines. “Sounds like her,” he scoffed, his words traced with light mockery. “ ‘Found’ your voice.”

“...My friends and I grew up together, she, along with us.” Pure Vanilla continued again with a sigh, the weight of an old memory pressing gently against his chest, fragile. He reminisced about a time, long ago, when he and the others had nothing to fear but scraped knees or being it . 

“It's as if fate has been written by her.”

Shadow Milk despised her. She had never once interfered—only watched, distant and silent in her throne of stars. She was there through it all, gazing down when he began to lose himself, when the whispers first took root in his mind, when he faltered and strayed from what he once was. 

Yet on the day of his sentencing—when the world turned its back on him—she was not. As if even she could not bear to witness what he had become. To watch was one thing. But to turn away , now of all times… it stung more than any judgment. She had always seen him. But in that moment—when he was most alone—she dared not look.

“We view the moon differently,” Pure Vanilla said softly, his voice nearly lost to the silence of the chamber. His beholder’s gaze drifted to the other. “But I promise you this—I will never be her.”

There was no grandeur in his words, no kingly resolve or righteous tone—just quiet sincerity. A vow made not to the world, but simply to the Cookie before him.

The tension between them thrummed quietly, a fragile dance of proximity and distance. Shadow Milk’s hair bristled like a storm gathering, his body resisting the warmth Pure Vanilla offered yet craving the understanding beneath it. It was a push and pull, old wounds brushing raw against tentative hope.

He stepped forward with deliberate care, the gentle rustle of his robes echoing in the stillness. Shadow Milk shifted uneasily, his hair fraying at the edges like storm-torn threads. The ends bristled, sharp and trembling, as if recoiling from the closeness. He took a single step back, uncertain. “...hm.”

Pure Vanilla stopped a few feet away—close enough to reach out, but far enough to let the other breathe. He didn’t press further, merely studied him with a softness that was not pity, but recognition.

“...How were your old friends like?” he asked after a pause, the question falling from his lips like a leaf drifting in the wind—gentle, genuine.

Shadow Milk didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the stained glass reflections scattered across the floor, fragmented moonlight dancing between them like ghosts of what once was. Then, finally, he turned his face away.

“You don’t deserve to know.”

The bitterness in his voice was undeniable—raw, cracked, and laced with something deeper than hatred: grief. The kind of grief that time couldn’t smooth out. His words were not a blade, but a wall, built high and thick over years of abandonment and silent wounds.

Pure Vanilla did not flinch. He merely stood there, letting the silence settle once more. Not to break it, but to share it.

Because sometimes, words were not the bridge. Presence was. And for now, that was enough.

“Tomorrow, I will be in the kingdom’s market.” Pure Vanilla hesitated for a breath, studying the other’s expression with quiet patience. “There’s no formal purpose—just —” A faint, wistful smile touched his lips. “I wish for you to join me.”

Shadow Milk shot an incredulous look at the king, tilting his head to the side.
“What exactly would I be in service for should I come?” He scoffed lightly, arms crossing by his chest. “Parade around with a bounty on my head? Sign autographs for frightened children? No thanks—”

“I think it would do good for you to be outside,” Pure Vanilla offered gently, voice laced with that ever-persistent kindness. “You’ve been... away from the world for quite some time now.”

“What do you mean?” Shadow Milk arched a brow, his head tilting with mock curiosity. “And just how long was I ‘ away’ for, then?” His tone danced somewhere between amused and irritated, like a card balanced on its side.

Pure Vanilla hesitated, just for a breath. “After the decision the Council of Heroes made…” he began slowly, as if still unsure how much truth the other could tolerate. “You were led here to rest. You needed it. Your souljam… it flickered.”

He met Shadow Milk’s gaze, trying to search through the dark veil of sharp wit and concealed wounds—but he couldn’t quite read them. He rarely could.

“It’s been… at least four days since then.”

A pause. And then—

“And you decided to just tell me now?” Shadow Milk let out a short, sharp laugh devoid of joy. He flung his arms wide in theatrical mockery. “Bravo! I must say, Your Majesty, you really know how to time your honesty.” His voice curled into a snarl at the edges, before falling into something quieter. “Was I supposed to be grateful for being kept in the dark?”

Pure Vanilla didn’t respond immediately. The silence between them was filled with everything unsaid.

“I apologise, Shadow Milk Cookie.” Pure Vanilla’s voice was calm, measured, yet firm with sincerity. His gaze did not stray from the other’s, unflinching in the quiet gravity of his words. “It hadn’t crossed my mind to tell you right away. I was… trying to give you peace, not ignorance.”

Shadow Milk scoffed under his breath, turning his head just enough that the pale glow of the moon caught the edge of his expression—contempt laced with something harder to name.

“Peace?” he echoed, low and sharp.

He took a step forward, not threatening, but enough to draw tension into the space between them. “You of all Cookies should know: silence doesn’t mend. It festers. Just as it did with her. Just as it did with me.”

“And yet… you’re here, speaking with me. That means something, doesn’t it?” Pure Vanilla didn’t move. Didn’t flinch as he noticed the topic shifting to something deeper— reading clearly what Shadow Milk had meant in his lines of anger. “You’re upset, but not at me.”

Shadow Milk was quiet for a long moment, eyes narrowed.

“I haven’t decided if I’m angry at you,” he said softly,

“You would not be talking if you were.” Pure Vanilla answered for him. He knew he was getting somewhere with the cookie in front of him.

Despite how their conversation wandered—from how the other is to cryptic remarks about the moon, to casual talk of the markets, to flares of resentment and half-buried wounds—it always circled back to one truth: Pure Vanilla simply wanted to know him.

To understand the Cookie behind the shadowed name.

If it meant earning Shadow Milk’s scorn, if it meant prodding at old scars and enduring cold glares and sharp remarks, then so be it. He would bear it all. Not for forgiveness, not even for peace—but for the truth of the other’s heart. For the chance to see it unguarded, if only for a second.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Pure Vanilla murmured— forgetting the invite to the marketplace momentarily —his voice nearly swallowed by the hush between them. “I only wish to understand. Even if it means you’ll hate me for it.”

Shadow Milk said nothing at first. His eyes flicked toward him—distrustful, unsure—but there was no fire behind them now. Only smoke, and the ghost of something older.

“…Then you’re more foolish than I thought,” he muttered, though the bite in his voice had dulled, barely yet still noticed by his counterpart.

“Perhaps,” Pure Vanilla smiled faintly, “but I’d rather be a fool who tries, than a king who looks away.”

Shadow Milk stared at him for a beat, and then laughed.

Not a soft chuckle, but a jagged cackle that bounced off the walls like glass shattering in the dark. He tossed his head back, the sound unhinged and gleefully cruel, a jester basking in his own absurdity.

“A king playing the fool? How rich,” he sneered, eyes glittering with scorn as he had a hand clutching his stomach. “Did you not know that it was the jester’s job to entertain the king—not the other way around!”

Another snicker as he dabbed his eye with a pretend cloth. “Hah, that’s rich, really.”

After a while, he turned, taking a slow step away, the grin still sharp on his face. “Careful, your Majesty. Keep acting like this, and soon you’ll be juggling your crown.”

A small, hesitant laugh slipped from Pure Vanilla’s lips as he turned his gaze away. It didn’t quite carry warmth, but it wasn’t cold either. Just... uncertain.

A hush draped over the room. Not hostile, but far from comfortable—it simmered in that strange in-between. The silence was full of things unsaid, stretched thin between two Cookies who had shared too much and still not enough. The kind of quiet that neither soothed nor stirred, only lingered like fog after a storm.

Shadow Milk sighed—no, huffed—sharp and reluctant, the sound escaping him like smoke through clenched teeth. He rolled his eyes for dramatic measure, his head cocking toward the other with theatrical annoyance. His voice followed, lazily sardonic but tinged with something more resigned.

“I’ll go with you to your stupid markets.” The words fell heavy, but not begrudgingly. He didn’t mean it kindly. But he meant it.

The room went quiet, and for a moment, the air shifted—lighter, almost hopeful. The weight of unspoken burdens lifted just a fraction as Pure Vanilla’s enthusiasm filled the room, chasing away some of the shadows. It was a small, unexpected truce, stitched together by mundane plans and the promise of ordinary moments.

Noticing the change, Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow. “So, let me get this straight—you want me to traipse through the market, haggle over— what was it? Uh —candied violets and star anise, all while playing the part of the reformed villain? Sounds like the grandest punishment I’ve ever heard.”

He gave a slow, mocking clap. “Really, ‘Your Majesty,’ this itinerary is fit for a jester’s retirement party, not a soul on the brink of collapse.”

Pure Vanilla Cookie lit up as if Shadow Milk hadn’t just insulted half the itinerary. “You may mock, but it’s the little things that hold us cookies together—the familiar scents, the gentle routines.”

“I don’t do routines—I thrive on improv!” Shadow Milk Cookie scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Sticking to a script? How dull.”

“Come along.” Ignoring what the other said and without waiting for a reply afterwards— he turned and strode toward the front door. “I’ve been meaning to draft a new list—there’s so much we’re low on. Fresh herbs, rosewater, powdered sugar, saffron—oh, and the tea merchant mentioned a rare chamomile strain just last week! I should write this down.”

He was already halfway across the hall, rummaging through an ornate drawer for parchment, humming to himself.

Shadow Milk Cookie scoffed as he followed slowly, floating beside the king as a frown twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you doing the shopping, anyway? Doesn’t this castle have, I don’t know, staff for that?”

“They don’t know the vendors like I do.” Pure Vanilla’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement, undeterred by the jibe. “There’s something about meeting the people who tend the stalls,” he said softly. “They have stories in their smiles.”

Shadow Milk smirked, crossing his arms with a slow, almost predatory grace. “Stories, huh? I suppose if you’re collecting pretty tales to distract yourself from the wreckage inside, that makes sense. But don’t expect me to pretend this stroll through the market is anything more than a gilded cage.”

Pure Vanilla looked up, blinking, genuinely puzzled. “I wouldn’t.  Besides, it’s good to get out. Keeps things grounded. And I can usually barter better—especially for the candied violets.”

Pure Vanilla pushed open the door to his study, and the familiar scent of warm vanilla greeted them like an old friend—gentle, comforting, and unmistakably his. The room was softly lit by the gentle gaze of the moonlight filtering through gauzy curtains, casting barely lit patterns over the shelves of herbal tomes and neatly labeled apothecary jars.

 A few pieces of parchment lay scattered on the floor, curling slightly at the edges as if they'd been swept aside in a moment of inspiration or forgetfulness. Shadow Milk drifted in behind him, nose wrinkling with mock disdain. 

“How original,” he muttered, voice soaked in sarcasm, arms folded like a critic judging a museum piece.

Pure Vanilla barely seemed to hear the jab, already half-lost in thought as he sifted through the disheveled papers on his desk. “Let’s see… I need fresh star anise, maybe some candied chestnuts if Hollyberry’s traders are still in town—oh! And there’s a stall that sells these lovely moonberry preserves I haven’t seen in seasons.” His eyes lit up with each item, hands fluttering as if sketching the list midair. “And I promised to bring back honeyed almonds for my staff. Some say they help with focus, though I think they just enjoy the crunch.”

Shadow Milk exhaled in disbelief, flopping into a chair. “Unbelievable. You’re excited about this.”

Pure Vanilla beamed, parchment in hand, already scribbling.

The room, softly lit by silver strands of moonlight spilling through tall windows, held the strange symmetry of their presence. Two Cookies—sun and shadow, healer and haunt—sharing the same quiet space. One spoke animatedly about sugared almonds and fresh herbs, while the other lounged with a look that could sour milk. And yet, despite everything, he was here. Still here. Still listening.

As the quill danced across the page, he added warmly, “I’m so glad you’re coming to help.”

Shadow Milk didn’t look up. “You’re pushing your luck.”

Chapter Text

The room was overly bright—unnaturally so. Moonlight poured in through the torn curtains like a wave, silver beams carving lines across the floorboards as if trying to brand the space. The glow pressed into the walls, into the ceiling, into her skin, until the corners of the room felt too close, too loud, like they were inhaling.

She was on the floor, curled low, but not at rest. Her knees jutted outward, disjointed in their angle, feet tucked beneath her as though she had folded in on herself wrong. Her wings, usually poised with silent grace, were now crumpled awkwardly at her sides, half-spread as if they'd tried to shield her, then failed, now twitching with every sharp breath. 

Her back rose and fell in uneven bursts. The floorboards beneath her bore fresh scratches—marks left by her own talon-like fingers, tracing and retracing the wood in a frantic, aimless pattern. Her nails caught on splinters, yet she didn't stop. Couldn’t.

Her hair was tangled, a wild curtain that clung to her damp forehead and veiled most of her face, all but one eye visible—wide, bloodshot, unblinking. It stared past the light, past the walls, seeing something not present. Or perhaps something too present. Her breathing came in short, serrated gasps, the sound swallowed up by the room, which seemed to shrink and pulse with each passing second.

At some point—she didn’t know when—her hands had found the wallpaper. The motion was desperate, thoughtless. Fingers curled into talons and tore at the soft gold trim as if peeling it away would buy her space to breathe. The pattern warped and shredded beneath her touch. She clawed down until she hit plaster, and then further, splinters of paint and dust caught beneath her nails. If she could just open it, break it, make the walls stop pressing in, stop watching—maybe then the air would return.

She flinched when the wind stirred the curtains. The fabric shifted, and moonlight changed direction, slashing across her shoulder now, then her spine. Her body tensed with each flicker of shadow. There was no safe corner, no place in the room untouched by her light or the walls or the silence. 

She pressed her palm flat against the floor, then her forehead, as if trying to anchor herself to something solid. But the floor was too smooth, too polished, too close. The air too still. Her skin crawled as if something beneath it wanted out, needed out. Every breath was an effort, each inhale a silent plea for the walls to stop breathing with her.

Just beyond the thick doors, the guards exchanged glances—unspoken tension tightening their jaws. They had knocked once, then twice. Each time harder, less certain. They had heard the sounds: scuffling, sharp gasps, something like furniture shifting—or scraping. Then silence, and something far worse than silence. A deafening screech was enough to spring the guards into action.

One guard reached for the handle, gauntlet rattling as his fingers brushed the cool brass. But a second—older, perhaps wiser, stopped him with a firm hand to his shoulder, her head barely shaking.

“No,” she murmured, eyes narrowing toward the corridor’s far end. “Call her Majesty.”

The younger guard looked back at the door before rushing to find their once-queen, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. He could still hear something—barely. The soft drag of claws. A breath that wasn’t right. Like the sound of someone drowning in air.

The guard, not long after, met Her Majesty in her study. He didn’t speak—didn’t need to. One look, one breath stolen by the fear still clinging to his armor, and she understood. Her highness’ expression changed not with alarm, but with a sharpened calm. 

One of the guards outside the study door turned to the other, younger one, and then to the dark window behind them.

The younger guard tightened their grip on their halberd, knuckles pale beneath gilded gauntlets. They’d never heard a scream quite like that—like she was being unmade.

Despite no words being exchanged—she nodded.

No one had needed to explain. Not when it’s about her.

The doors opened wider. Hollyberry Cookie stepped through.

He swallowed. Then turned—only to tumble slightly, caught off balance as Her Majesty swept past him in a blur of velvet and golden drapes. He hurried after her, boots tripping over the polished floor in a scramble to keep up.

Her footsteps rang out like war drums down the corridor, pounding into the marble with conviction. And when they faded, only silence remained—a silence that stretched like drawn string, taut with dread.

The remaining guards stood still, backs pressed firm to the wall, staring at the door as if it might come alive. One of them muttered a quiet prayer under their breath, words lost to the still air. Another couldn't tear their gaze from the uneven light leaking through the frame—unsteady, pulsing, as though the very room breathed on its own.

And then—
a sound like thunder.

Slippers thudded against the carpet, quick and heavy. Her night robe trailing, voice already rising even before she reached the threshold.

Then—
“—Eternal Sugar—?”

She didn’t need to open her eyes. That voice—bright, brimming with fire and fretting like thunder rolling in a pink sky—could only belong to one Cookie. Hollyberry.

There was always something so intolerably earnest in the way she spoke, even when she tried to be gentle, like she couldn’t help but love too loudly.

Why is she here? Why now?

Eternal Sugar didn’t move. Couldn’t. The floor felt too close, the walls too tight, the air too full of sound and light and voices that didn’t stop . She would be fine, she thought— she just needed air. Space. Quiet. Not hands. Not eyes.

“Eternal Sugar!” Hollyberry cried, sharp with worry now, calling to guards who clattered behind her like armor-clad ducklings. “Fetch water—no, wine—no! Yes, water! And a towel! And for heaven’s crust, open the blasted windows!”

The room bore the marks of a flurry already passed. The wallpaper, once soft gold trimmed with flourishes of cream, now hung in shredded strips where talons had raked through it—curling and peeling like sunburnt parchment. Feathers were scattered across the rug, some bent, some torn. 

One of the curtains had been half-ripped from its rail, the moonlight spilling into the room in skewed slants. Even the floorboards groaned beneath the weight of what had transpired, scored by frantic, clawed scratches in every direction—fragments of her unraveling laid bare in wood and silk.

Boots shuffled. Orders barked. The great hero-queen knelt.

“Sugar—do breathe, now. Nice and slow, that’s it—like you’re counting grapes in your garden, mm?”

A small pause. “—Witches— Gardens, that's it—!”

But Eternal Sugar screeched—high and sudden—at the nearness. Her body lurched away, clutching at her scalp like she could pull her own thoughts out through her roots. She curled tighter, blind behind strands of her hair, fingers twisted in it like ropes, nails trembling with too much feeling. She didn’t scream words. Just sound. Just pressure.

She didn’t want to be touched.
She didn’t want to be seen.
She didn’t want to be this .

And still, Hollyberry didn’t leave.

She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t try to grab her again.
She only waited. A queen , waiting in silence—her brow creased not with judgment but something impossibly soft. Hollyberry’s hands stayed by her sides, fists opening and closing, as though restraining the urge to hug her by sheer force of will.

When Eternal Sugar’s lungs stuttered between gasps, the scent of honeyed wine and iron faded, replaced by something gentler. A shift in the air. A promise.

“I won’t crowd you,” Hollyberry finally murmured, voice lower now, nearly reverent. “But let’s get you where the sky can breathe with you.”

Eternal Sugar didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Her legs moved when someone helped her rise—Hollyberry’s guards, perhaps, or Hollyberry herself, though she couldn’t remember feeling hands. It was like being carried by the clouds.

And then—

The balcony.

The door creaked open, and moonlight flooded in. The cool breath of night spilled across her cheeks, threading through her ruffled feathers and tangled hair. The sky stretched wide, without walls, without ceilings, a canvas of stars too distant to hear her gasps.

Eternal Sugar exhaled.

Not a sob. Not a word.
Just the kind of breath that comes after you’ve been drowning without realizing it.

Behind her, Hollyberry stood tall, arms crossed now, holding back the instinct to hold her. But she was there. Watching. Guarding. Not as a ruler, not as a warrior—but as someone who refused to leave.

“Good,” she said at last, with the quiet triumph of someone who had once wrestled bears. “See the gardens, sweetheart?”

And Eternal Sugar, barely swaying in the night air, could almost believe it.

Slowly—like a clock reluctant to tick forward—Eternal Sugar began to breathe again.

Her chest rose, not with ease, but with effort: shallow at first, then a little deeper, as though the air was negotiating with her lungs. She didn’t dare look up. Not yet. Not even when a shadow lingered nearby, and a small weight of a golden vial was offered into her hand.

She didn’t want help. Didn’t want to be seen like this, feather-frayed and cracked at the edges, breath still unsteady. But she took the vial anyway.

A sip. Hesitant.
The cool sweetness kissed her tongue, and she let it sit there a moment before swallowing. A soft exhale slipped out, quiet and frayed, but it no longer caught on barbed panic.

Behind her, she heard it—Hollyberry Cookie’s voice, bold even when lowered.

“You’ve done well. All of you. Back to your posts now—yes, that’s an order. Thank you kindly.”

There was a rustle of armor, followed by the echo of boots retreating into the halls. Even now, she dismissed her guards like old friends, with a laugh hiding behind her words and an unmistakable dignity in her presence. No fanfare, no spectacle. Just command softened by care.

Then it was quiet again.

And at last, Eternal Sugar looked up.

Hollyberry’s eyes met her own, bright and storm-warm. Hollyberry stood near the railing, but not too near, arms crossed beneath her great red mantle, her hair tousled from rushing and the wind. There was no pressure in her expression. No demand. Just patient concern, still blazing, still so unbearably sincere.

Eternal Sugar hated it.

Not Hollyberry herself, no. But the way she stood there, unfazed, utterly unwilling to turn her back. So kind. So passionate . So maddeningly hopeful. Always throwing herself heart-first into war and peace alike, laughing at pain, swearing she'd rebuild the world on joy and justice alone.

Eternal Sugar's voice caught in her throat.

What was she supposed to say?
"Thank you."?
"I'm sorry."?
"Leave me alone"?

Every word felt too small, too sharp, or too late. Come to think of it, they hadn’t much conversed since… hm.  Eternal Sugar’s gaze turned elsewhere.

Her feathers twitched with unease. Her gaze then drifted to the night sky again, chasing comfort in its expanse. The stars blinked quietly in their distant scatter, and the moon hung above them—silent, indifferent, flickering dimly behind a passing veil of cloud, like a witness, as she always is.

But Hollyberry's presence remained—gently unmovable, like a banner that refuses to fall.

“You don't have to say anything, sugarplum,” Hollyberry said finally, breaking the silence not with softness, but with her usual bold, rumbling tone. “You stood through worse. You'll stand again.”

Not a plea. Not a question.
Just faith. Offered without strings.

Eternal Sugar almost wished she had yelled instead. That would’ve been easier. A fight she could understand.

But this?
This quiet belief that she was worth helping, worth waiting for? It stung. Because part of her wanted to believe it too, and that part terrified her more than the panic ever had.

She looked away. Gripped the vial a little tighter.

And said nothing.

But she didn’t retreat either.

That was enough for now.

…

Hollyberry noticed the way Eternal Sugar’s shoulders remained tense, how her breath still came in shallow bursts despite the fresh air on the balcony. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Without a word, she reached up and began gathering her fiery hair, twisting it into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. The motion was calm, deliberate—an unspoken offer of steadiness. Then she lowered herself to the stone floor, settling across from Eternal Sugar with a measured grace.

“My garden,” Hollyberry began gently, her voice warm but steady, “is quite similar to yours, no?”

There was no response. Just a faint, almost imperceptible hum, the smallest acknowledgement of her words.

Hollyberry smiled faintly and pressed on, hoping to bridge the silence. “Do you grow Cindernellia? Those fiery blooms with petals like flickering flames—I’ve only ever seen loads of them deep in the jungle. But I can never seem to coax them to grow here, no matter how much sun or care I give.”

Eternal Sugar’s one visible eye shifted just slightly, as if caught by the memory.

“It grows in shades,” she murmured at last, her voice low, almost lost beneath the night breeze.

Hollyberry’s face brightened with gentle enthusiasm, clasping her hands together like a child sharing a secret. “Ah, is that so? What else is there about them?”

She waited patiently, letting the silence stretch comfortably, hoping the softness of the conversation might ease the tight coil within her other half. 

“There’s… a sting in their scent. Sharp. But sweet, too.” Eternal Sugar’s knees slowly crept up to her chest.

“I never quite got the hang of gardening,” Hollyberry admitted with a sheepish smile, her voice softened by memory. A chuckle slipped out, light and a little tired, like steam rising off a morning cup of tea. “Always so much to do—routinely at that. The same times, the same care, the same trimming and tending. That sort of thing never sat well with me.”

She leaned back against the balcony’s railing, her gaze lifting to the moon, half-veiled behind a drifting thread of cloud. “I prefer to live in the moment, you know? Just… freely do what I want. Go where I feel I’m needed. Or not needed at all. If something grows, let it. If it doesn’t, well—something else will. That’s always been my way.”

From across the stone floor, Eternal Sugar offered a quiet hum. Neither cold nor dismissive—simply listening.

Hollyberry tilted her head, watching her out of the corner of her eye, then looked down at her own calloused hands resting in her lap. “I suppose I used to think—after the first war, after all that darkness—that if I just kept moving, kept doing, I wouldn’t have to feel… still. Stagnant. Like I was waiting for something to break.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “You start to think if you pause for too long, the weight of everything you’ve outrun might finally catch up.”

Another hum. A shift of feathers. Eternal Sugar’s eye remained on the horizon.

“But the kingdom needs roots, doesn’t it?” Hollyberry continued, voice lighter again, as if chasing the mood away. “Not just banners and laughter and big promises. Sometimes, I wonder if all this time I’ve been too afraid of planting anything. Afraid I’d have to stay to see it grow.”

Still, no reply. But Hollyberry didn’t mind. She had learned to speak into silences, to trust in the weight of a presence.

“I’m trying, though,” she added quietly, drawing a slow breath. “Even if my hands aren’t made for pruning.”

Eternal Sugar’s eye shifted toward her, just slightly. Her feathers ruffled once in the night breeze.

“…you talk a lot,” she whispered, not unkindly.

And Hollyberry, with a grin she didn’t bother to hide, gave a hearty laugh under her breath. “Ah—yes. That's supposed I do.”

The moon hung above them like a silent witness, pale and unwavering in its vigil. Its light spilled softly over the balcony, catching on feathers and curls, gilding the stone beneath their feet in silver. It did not intrude, nor illuminate too boldly—only flickered now and then behind passing clouds, as if blinking in thought. From its high perch, it watched them—two Cookies carved by history, cloaked in different silences—without judgment, without urgency. Just watching. As it always had.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them stretched—not awkward, but fragile, like dew on a petal that hadn’t yet decided whether to fall. It wasn’t the silence of strangers, nor of friends. It was something in between. A truce held gently in the dark, shared between two Cookies who had both endured too much noise in their lives. The moonlight spilled across their feet, and the breeze stirred only when it pleased, rustling the feathers of one, the curls of the other. It was a silence waiting to be trusted.

“I don’t like…” She gestured to her chambers. “…rooms,” Eternal Sugar admitted at last, her voice almost lost in the wind as she chuckled softly. “I never did well in enclosed spaces.”

Hollyberry blinked, startled. “Oh my— I apologize, I hadn’t—” She trailed off, her hand instinctively reaching toward her chest in quiet concern. It made sense now. Of course it did. Eternal Sugar, with her distant eyes and light steps, was always slumbering up high, wrapped in the pink frills of her clouds and endless sky, her garden floating above the world. The sky had always been her comfort, the open air her only refuge.

“It is alright,” Eternal Sugar murmured, her wings now lying flat behind her, no longer tensed to flee. “You couldn’t have known.”

Her voice was calm, not unkind. Just tired. Like someone long used to excusing their own unraveling.

Hollyberry nodded slowly, her gaze softening. “Still,” she said gently, “next time, I’ll remember.”

And the moon, flickering once more behind a wispy veil of cloud, continued its quiet watch.

“…Say, you did have an impressive garden back at Beast-Yeast,” Hollyberry mused, her tone casual but tinged with genuine admiration. She leaned back against the balcony rail, the moonlight catching the glint of gold in her nightrobe as she turned her gaze toward Eternal Sugar. “I remember the way the vines curled around the arches like they belonged there, like they were spun from the wind itself— Impressive really.”

A little embarrassed by her gushing, she turned her head away, though she continued to speak. “Think you can teach me a thing or two?”

Eternal Sugar’s gaze shifted, just faintly. She studied the queen from beneath the soft curtain of her hair, one brow lifting ever so slightly. “I thought you didn’t want to be… stuck in a routine?” she murmured, her voice as light as her wings, though there was something amused curling at the edge of her words. A challenge, perhaps. 

Hollyberry chuckled—rich, warm, self-deprecating. “Well, maybe that should change,” she replied, clasping her hands together and resting them atop one bent knee. “There’s still plenty I’d rather do on a whim, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve found that too many whims leave holes behind, you know—Empty spots where something might’ve grown, if only I’d tended it.”

Eternal Sugar said nothing at first, though something in her eyes softened. Not quite approval—but understanding. She knew the underlying meaning Hollyberry had in her words. Deeper than just simply being about gardening.

“I suppose,” Hollyberry added with a crooked smile, “there are worse things than getting your hands dirty every day for something you care about.”

Eternal Sugar looked back at the moon again, her wings shifting slightly. “It isn’t always about the tending,” she said at last, quiet but clear. “Sometimes… It’s just about letting things live. Without trying to pull too hard.”

Hollyberry hummed, considering that. “Then perhaps I can teach you that in exchange.”

For the first time that night, Eternal Sugar let the corners of her lips lift. Just slightly. A ghost of a smile, fleeting as a falling petal.

“I’ll consider it,” she whispered.

And again, the moon kept its soft, silver vigil, as if blessing the tentative bloom of something new.

“Do you want to head down to the gardens?” Hollyberry asked, rising to her feet with a groan softened by affection. Her voice was light, but not careless. There was a hopeful lilt to it, restrained beneath her usual bravado. “It’s nothing impressive, really. A bit overgrown, honestly—but it’s quiet. Peaceful, sometimes.”

Eternal Sugar hesitated, her fingers brushing idly over the feathers tucked at her side. Her gaze flicked toward the stars, as though searching for an answer in their ancient glimmer, before she replied—too fast, too raw, as if her mouth had outrun her caution.

“…Yeah,” she said, blinking down at the words as though surprised they’d come from her. “I’d like that.”

The moment they left her lips, she winced internally. A flicker of vulnerability tightened her shoulders. It was too soon. It felt… too eager. Too exposed. But Hollyberry didn’t tease, didn’t raise a brow or laugh in that booming, boundless way of hers. She simply smiled, warm and easy, as if she'd been waiting to hear those words for some time.

Hollyberry offered her hand, a silent offer. Eternal Sugar hesitantly placed her hand on the others ' and allowed herself to be pulled gently to her feet.

“Think you can walk with me down the halls?” Hollyberry asked, quieter now, her voice barely skimming the surface of the wind between them.

Eternal Sugar tilted her head, her grin deepening, but she didn’t answer—not with words.

Instead, she took one deliberate step forward, and with a flourish both elegant and mischievous, she unfurled her wings. They weren’t pristine—weathered by her earlier episode, their edges slightly frayed like a cloak long worn—but they were still a beauty, a radiant one in the moonlight. 

She offered her hand with the same flair, the old spark returning to her gaze— 

There it was—that smirk. Or at least the ghost of it. The barest curve of her lips, subtle and softened, like a flame banked under ash.

Hollyberry’s eyes widened slightly before she caught herself. She reached out—not timidly, not with simple pleasantries—but with something close to trust. 

Her knees trembled for a moment, her wings still not fully tucked, but the other held steady.

No further words were needed.

With one step back and a beat of wings, the two of them left the balcony behind—carried not just by air, but by the fragile beginnings of something unspoken, and quietly, finally, shared

“—You are going to drop me!”
Hollyberry frantically gasped as her feet left the ground, the sudden lift tugging a surprised laugh from her throat as much as it did panic. Her cloak billowed behind her like a flustered banner, and she clutched at Eternal Sugar’s arm with a grip that could rival her grip on a goblet during a feast.

They had only just begun to float—rising slowly, steadily, but entirely against her instincts.
The great warrior-queen had fought beasts, storms, and armies alike… but being carried midair with nothing but feathers and faith? That was another matter.

Eternal Sugar only exhaled through her nose, half a sigh, half amusement. “I’m not going to drop you,” she said, wings unfurling fully now with a flourish as if to prove her point. “You're lighter than you act.”

“That is just—slander!” Hollyberry huffed, but her laugh betrayed her.

Chapter Text

It was cold—almost unforgiving. The kind of cold that didn't bite but seeped in slowly, lodging itself deep within dough and soul until it became a weight too heavy to shiver off. The air, unmoving and dense, held the sharpness of something waiting to break.

 A stillness that was suffocating, not for its silence, but for how intimately it pressed against him, like a secret trying to whisper itself into his ear.

The familiar bars of the Faerie Kingdom framed the edges of his sight. Too familiar. He did not look at them anymore. He had traced their patterns once, since the day he had arrived, counting the imperfections in the gilded iron as if they could tell him something—where he was, or more importantly, who he had been—a reflection of sorts. Now, he let them sit in his periphery, as meaningless as the breath he sometimes forgot to take.

He sat in the far end corner of the dim chamber, legs drawn loosely toward him, arms resting on his knees. Unmoving. Watching nothing. Listening to the soundlessness. Even the small flames resting atop the candelabras hesitated to burn. They sputtered and flickered as though fearful of his breath—soft, shallow, yet enough to make the shadows tremble. The room did not welcome him, but it did not expel him either. It simply... endured his presence.

Time was no longer something he chased. Down here, it blurred like fogged glass—no sun to track, no moon to guess by. Only the low hum of silence echoing off the walls similar to dripping water. Still, he knew it was late. His instincts were carved into him like grooves in stone—deep, unchanging, sharpened by silence.

His gut rarely lied. It told him the hour was long past dusk. That the world above was asleep or pretending to be.

…

The door opened.

He hadn’t even needed to look. The sound alone—soft as it was—split through the stale quiet, like a blade. A hinge creaked, metal groaning with slow reluctance. The faintest trace of perfume—floral, unfamiliar to this damp underbelly—brushed against the air, carried in with the intrusion.

He still didn’t move. Didn’t so much as twitch an ear. Still as a carved effigy. As if the arrival had been expected, already accounted for, filed away somewhere behind his unmoving eyes.

Silent Salt’s chambers —as they were half-mockingly, half-fearfully referred to—were not meant for visits. No one came here. Not willingly. The guards changed shifts like they were walking to the gallows. Officials spoke of him in hushed tones, when they spoke of him at all. Rumors coiled around his name like smoke, curling through the halls of the Faerie Kingdom—of what he had done, what he was capable of, and the quiet terror of what he might become if provoked.

But the one who had opened the door did not fear that.

He could tell by the way the handle had turned—without hesitation. No pause, no tremble. The footsteps that followed were steady, unhurried. As though they belonged here more than he did.

Only one. There was only ever one brave, maybe foolish enough to step in.

His gaze stayed fixed on the cold stone wall across from him, as if its cracks held more worth than the presence behind him. But he felt them enter. Not just in sound or scent or shadow—but in the shift of air, the quiet demand of attention that only a few in the kingdom could command without ever raising their voice. As she stepped closer, the candelabra flames recoiled again: their light shrinking away as if unwilling to illuminate what stood between them now. His chamber—if it could be called that—was no more than stone, bars, and breath. Yet now, it held something else.

He blinked once. Slow. Measured. As if giving time permission to move again.

And still, he did not speak.

The silence between them was not empty.

She stood just beyond the edge of the candelabra’s uncertain light, her silhouette a faint curve of softness amidst the harsh lines of the stone room. Her robes, pale as mist, whisped against the floor. There was no ceremonial aura about her tonight. No trailing petals, no priestess's glow. Just her, and the steady, deliberate gravity of her presence.

To others, her arrival might have been a warmth, like spring’s first breeze after a brutal winter. A kindness distilled into form.

But to him... it wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t cruel either.

She was merely a presence, nothing more, nothing less. Not cold. Not warm. Just there —an inevitability cloaked in grace. Her arrival stirred nothing in the room, but everything in him.

Silent Salt did not turn his head, but he felt it the moment she crossed the invisible threshold between distant observer and close proximity. It wasn’t her closeness that unsettled him; It was what it awakened.

A low hum vibrated through his core. Not audible, but felt—deep in the sugar-forged ridges of his souljam. An ancient resonance, rare and unfamiliar. Like pressure building behind a dam that had never known movement before.

His souljam pulsed once.

Then again.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t fear.

It was recognition.

The light of freedom. That was what she carried. And even in this dim, forgotten place, that light extended itself outward—soft, insistent—reaching with gentle fingers toward something buried within him. Toward his light.

The light of solidarity.

Rooted, silent, unmoving—but steady. Unyielding. Like salt crystalized in a sea that had long since dried.

Her presence brushed against it, not forcefully, but with the patience of wind meeting cliff. His souljam stirred again, reluctant, as if remembering something it had long suppressed: that even solidarity, for all its stoic endurance, could be seen. Could be understood. Could be joined.

He drew in a breath, not because he needed to speak, but because the silence had become too full of something else. Something that wasn’t entirely his.

She stepped closer.

Still, he did not look at her.

But his souljam did not stop humming.

“How are you faring, Silent Salt?” she asked softly, her voice as gentle as snowfall, echoing faintly in the stone-bound chamber.

She made no move to breach the bars. Instead, she lowered herself gracefully to the floor, folding her robes beneath her like the settling of petals. Her posture, composed. Her gaze, steady, not prying, but open. As always.

She expected no reply. Nor did she require one. Silence, after all, was something she understood well.

There had always been a distance between them. Not just the bars. Not just the war. But something else—an inward turning, an unspoken pact he had made with himself, to stand apart even when present. She had seen it even then—during the battle, where chaos roared and courage was worn raw. He had moved like wind: quietly, precisely, vanishing when not needed, reappearing when most vital. He had distracted the mobs, drawn blades away from the vulnerable. Helped— always helped. But never joined.

Never let himself be known.

She folded her hands in her lap, eyes still on him.

“Today was…” she paused, not for lack of words, but to choose the ones with care, “...a trial. The winds above carried worry. Cracks grow where we thought roots had held fast. But I doubt you wish to hear such burdens.”

Her smile was faint, gentle, but never indulgent. She had done this every day since his arrival; Just talking, it mattered little whether a response was given or not.

“I simply needed to speak aloud to someone who listens,” even if they do not answer again. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.” She didn’t speak of victories, nor casualties. Not yet. Her words were as seeds placed in careful soil—not demanding to be watered, but hoping they might be rained.

Her gaze did not press him for a reaction.

“Would you care to join me on a walk?” she asked, her voice a gentle echo that seemed to bypass the ears. “The moon is quite lovely tonight.”

The words, light as they were, struck deeper than they had any right to.

The moon. He hadn’t seen it in what felt like lifetimes, and deep within his chest, his souljam pulsed again. Above his ribs—where his brooch rested—there was a subtle shift. Barely a flicker. A faltering in its rhythm. A momentary tightening of something held too long, too tightly.

It wasn’t the idea of walking, nor the company, it was the sky. The openness of it. The vulnerability it demanded. The gaze of the world that could no longer be ignored once you stepped beneath it. The moon had no bars. No shadows deep enough to vanish into. It revealed things, not in cruelty, but with the calm persistence of truth.

And he was not ready to be seen.

Not by the sky.

Not by her.

Not even by himself.

Still, his body didn’t betray the tremor that passed through his core. He remained as he was—still, measured, an unreadable statue in the half-light, but to those who knew how to see, something had shifted.

The smallest movement: his hand, resting against his knee, curled in slightly. Not a refusal. Not acceptance. Just… a pulse of something unsure. His eyes, fixed on the floor just beyond the bars, did not rise. But they no longer stared blankly. They were focused. 

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring—trembling, not from tension, but from the quiet enormity of what lingered unsaid. He had not moved, not spoken, yet the air around him shifted, stirred by her presence and the unbearable lightness of her invitation. Then came the sound—clink—soft, decisive. 

The iron doors groaned open with a slowness that betrayed reluctance, not mechanical but spiritual, as if even the cell had grown used to his solitude and was now unsure how to let him go. His eyes rose, just slightly.

White Lily Cookie stepped back after she had unlocked it. She only watched, patient and composed, the embodiment of grace without pressure.

“I thought,” she said, voice low as a lullaby, “that perhaps the sky might help your silence breathe.” No demand. No command. Only a door, now open, and the weight of a choice pressed against the quiet drumbeat of his souljam. 

He did not answer.

Not with words.

Silent Salt Cookie rose, the movement slow and deliberate, as if each limb required negotiation. There was no grace in it—only resignation, and a quiet resistance that clung to his frame like sea-wind to worn sails. He did not want to walk, nor did he want to step into the open air or feel the chill of night slide across his shoulders. But he knew the alternative far too well. He knew what happened when silence turned inward and curled into thought. What shape it takes. What voice it borrows.

To be alone with his thoughts was more perilous than any blade.

It whispered in half-memories and left him stranded in scenes that no longer existed. And so he moved—not toward her, but away from the prison of his own mind. Begrudgingly. Wordlessly. With that same solid dignity that defined him even now. He shook his head at the thought

White Lily glanced at him expectantly. 

Her voice was soft as she climbed, each step echoing faintly against the cold stone walls of the spiral staircase. The hem of her robes brushed the edges of moss-worn steps, trailing behind like parchment unraveling in a pastry. The knight followed a few steps behind her, never wavering to close to accidentally step on the trail of her cape or to simply invoke a conversation.

“There was much to rebuild,” she murmured, more to herself than to the knight behind her. “And it seems the weather is determined to make the effort twice as difficult.”

She offered a quiet, almost tired smile as her fingers skimmed the wall, seeking balance more from habit than need. Silent Salt did not urge her to go on, nor did he say anything otherwise, so she continued. “The sugar settlements meant to dry today—completely ruined. A sudden downpour at midday. The roads were slick, and the workers exhausted. And I—” she paused, the next step heavier than the last, “—I fear I gave them little comfort.”

The air grew cooler as they climbed, but she persisted without missing a breath.

They reached the landing in silence, footsteps echoing softly as they moved down a long corridor veiled in muted moonlight. The walls here bore the memory of a kingdom older than her rule—faded murals painted in crushed petals and honeyed pastes, each stroke a whisper of eras past. Stylized depictions of harvest rituals, long-forgotten treaties, and celestial rites unfolded in a quiet rhythm along the stone, as if the walls themselves still hummed the lullabies of those who came before. 

White Lily's gaze lingered briefly on a panel of a crowned faerie blessing a spring—its meaning unclear, yet oddly intimate. History here was not spoken aloud. It sang, and one had to listen closely to feel its tune.

She sighed before she continued. “Truthfully… I am still not sure I’m doing any of this right. I’ve spent so long tending to answers, not cities. Gardens, not armies. And now I’m expected to make decisions that affect entire provinces by sunrise.”

Her laughter—if it could be called that—was brief and dry as rose petals in winter. “They call me Queen. And I suppose I wear the title well enough. But sometimes… I still feel like a guest in a dream someone else was meant to have.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then, eyes briefly meeting Silent Salt’s unreadable expression.

“But perhaps I’m not the only one walking paths I didn’t ask for.” 

A beat. 

“First ones to fall, I— we should understand each other.”

Silent Salt raised a brow, though the movement was hidden beneath his helmet. His body stiffened, a subtle tension rippling through him like a drawn wire. The weight behind her words settled heavily, unwelcome.

“Those who stand in the shadows carry wounds no light can reach. They hold pain quietly, like a winter bloom waiting for spring’s mercy.”

She blinked slowly, eyes tender yet unwavering. “I believe in the silence between us—that even when words fail, the— our heart remembers.” Her souljam gently shimmered, as if agreeing with its holder. “Beneath the armor, beneath the stillness… There must be something more.”

Her words floated gently, fragile as petals on water.

A bitter laugh— or if you could even call it that.

“You will never understand me,” he said at last, voice low and rough like gravel scraped bare—though he bit back the sharper edges before they fully escaped. The words hovered on his tongue, bitter enough to sting his own mouth. Especially not here. Not in this place, wrapped in false hope and whispered prayers.

“We are not allies in this silence,” he added, colder now, every syllable measured but hard as flint. “I am not made for comfort or understanding.”

His gaze dropped again, unreadable, as if retreating behind his own shadow. The bitter taste lingered—unwanted, yet undeniably real.

They moved in silence through the winding corridors, the stone walls narrowing until the heavy oak doors loomed ahead. With a steady hand, White Lily pushed them open, and the cool night air spilled in like a breath held too long. Outside, the moon hung low and luminous—a pale sentinel casting silver light over the quiet grounds. Its gaze fell upon them both, steady and unblinking, as if watching not just their forms but the weight they carried beneath. The shadows softened beneath that glow, yet the chill remained, wrapping around Silent Salt like a reminder: even in light, some things remained unspoken.

“I–.” White Lily’s voice was soft, almost a hum carried on the night breeze as she stepped forward. “I’m sorry.”. Her footsteps light against the worn stone paths leading toward the garden. Silent Salt followed silently behind her, each step measured and deliberate, like the steady ticking of a distant clock.

Her gaze softened, touched with something like understanding—an unspoken offer of patience, and perhaps, of something more.

The garden awaited them ahead, wrapped in moonlit silence, where old stones held whispered memories and the night air promised both rest and reckoning.

"I just thought-" She paused beneath the silver gaze of the moon, her eyes lifting to meet its familiar glow as if seeking strength from its ancient light. “It is unfair of me to cage you when we have both walked similar paths,” she said, voice tender but resolute, “We are carrying shadows no one else sees.”

The moonlight gently cascaded down upon her robes, revealing the delicate sparkle woven into her dress—a gentle constellation caught in fabric. For a brief moment, she seemed almost otherworldly, a beacon of fragile hope amidst the quiet night. “I may not understand you.”

"You don't."

“I may not understand you,” she repeated, her voice still soft, each word stitched with intention rather than assumption. “But…”

A quiet hum escaped her lips, barely audible over the breeze as she turned to meet his gaze, eyes settling not on the cold metal of his armor but on something deeper—unseen, but not unfelt. “I wish to… if you’ll allow me.”

There was a pause. A long, still stretch of silence, heavy as sea-stone.

Then came his voice—low, rough, and brimming with something colder than mere refusal.

“You do not truly want to know.” Silent Salt said it like a warning, not just the mere ‘truth’. “You think understanding is a kindness. But it’s not.”

He lets out a shallow breath, his fist clenching as he turns away. “It is not mercy to open old wounds.” His steps slowed, boots grinding against gravel. “It is not grace to dig through ash for what has already burned.”

He turned his head slightly towards her, the moonlight catching only the edge of his helm. “I am not a soul to be mended. I am what was left behind.”

Another breath—sharper now. Bitter.

“I will never let you see.”

The words hung between them like frost, unyielding. And though the garden ahead still bloomed under the moon’s light, something colder bloomed too—quiet, and fierce.

…

She spoke again—quietly, as if gentleness alone could earn trust. “I may not understand you,” she began, each word placed with care, too deliberate to be innocent. Too soft to be safe. And yet, there was no condescension, no false warmth. Just that persistent intention in her voice, like she truly believed understanding was still possible. Like it mattered. “...But—”

“I wish to… if you’ll allow me.”

She spoke with that same softness again—gentle, unwavering, as though kindness alone could unravel iron. As though the moonlight that danced across her robes might reach where no light had before. Words about understanding, about wishing to know. As if wanting was enough.

Foolish.

There was no comfort in being seen. No salvation in empathy. Understanding only led to pity, and pity was the cruelest thing of all.

The breath that escaped was shallow, tight with restraint. A fist closed at his side—not from rage, but to keep the rest from spilling. Turning away felt easier than holding her gaze, easier than seeing that hope flicker unbroken.

It was not mercy what she asked for. Not grace, to sift through the remains of what had already burned down to nothing. Ash did not bloom.

His steps faltered, the gravel beneath his boots grinding like distant thunder. Words rose like salt in his throat—dry, stinging, unwilling. A soul to be mended? That had never been his role. He had not survived for healing. He had survived because ruin clings harder than peace.

And still, she stood there.

“I will never let you see.”

The air thickened in the wake of it, cold despite the garden’s moonlit bloom. Between them, something sharp settled in the silence—older than wounds, and far less willing to fade.

“I see.” That was all she said.

Disappointed, he figured. Though her tone barely shifted, he could feel the weight of it in the quiet. Not anger—no, she wasn’t made of such fire. But the soft ache of hope was unanswered. He hated it more than fury.

“You are foolish to hope as such,” he muttered, words falling like stone, sharp and intentional. Not a warning. Then, the truth. "Your curiosity will be your downfall."

“Perhaps,” she replied—simply, with no defense.

The breeze stirred faintly around them, stirring the hem of her robes like petals drifting too close to a cliff’s edge. And still, she stood there, unshaken. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t want to.

She sighed, the sound light but laced with weariness, and with a fluid motion of her staff, she traced a slow arc across the field. Soft illumination followed in her wake—gentle, drifting lights that rose like embers, hovering in the air between them. Fireflies, pulsing with quiet rhythm, were the only creatures undisturbed by the weight their presence carried.

“Fireflies,” she murmured, watching them swirl with a faint smile, as if naming them gave the moment peace.

Silent Salt tilted his head, the motion subtle beneath his armor. The edge of his voice cut through the calm. “I know.”  Flat. Unamused.

White Lily smiled faintly at that. “Such gentle creatures they are.”

“Useless.” 

“Their light allures curious folks.”

“They do not bring knowledge?”

“Maybe,” she mused, her voice a gentle thread in the dark. One firefly drifted close and settled on the tip of her finger, its soft yellow glow seeping into her skin like a quiet breath. She gazed at it for a moment, then turned her eyes to him.

“Curious folk still chase their light,” she said, almost to herself. “Even when they know it will not lead to truth or treasure. Something in us still follows, not for gain—but for the wondering.”

A pause.

“The flaw of them,” he replied, his tone low and clipped, “is that they wonder at all.”
His eyes did not follow the fireflies. “That is the flaw of us. ”

“I know.”

White Lily stepped closer, unhurried and unafraid, her presence soft but certain. The firefly rested on her fingertip, its glow still warm, still pulsing. With a care that felt almost sacred, she reached forward and set the tiny light upon the cold curve of his shoulder.

It stayed.

Their souljams whispered—quiet and tentative, yet unmistakably aware. As though stirred by some ancient rhythm neither had invited but both now heard. A low hum, not of words, but recognition. Resonance. The kind that didn’t ask permission. The kind that simply was.

Still, he did not move. But something in the air around him stilled, less like resistance, and more like breath held too long. “They are the closest things we have to being truly alive. ”

“The freedom we have of choice: To do something right or wrong. “She turned her eyes to him, calm but unwavering. “It isn’t perfection that makes us Cookies. It’s the breaking, the doubting, the choosing to keep walking despite it. Sentience is not in knowing—it’s in wondering. ”

A pause, light as breath.

“Even if the answer never comes.” A breath she did not know she held escaped her lips. “Even if the answer comes harshly.”

…

The pale moon hung low in the velvet sky. She watched silently, a quiet sentinel to their fragile exchange, casting long shadows upon the two. There was a hint of amusement in her cold glow, as if she recognized the stubbornness in Silent Salt’s stance—a silent defiance wrapped in stillness, daring the world to pry open what he refused to share.

“…We were no longer talking about fireflies, no?”

“Perhaps.” She said again,

White Lily’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the world seemed to still be around them. “We are the only ones who can come close to truly understanding one another.” Her voice was quiet but certain, carrying the weight of shared experience.

Silent Salt said nothing, though he looked away. That in itself was an answer White Lily seemed pleased in.

She let the silence stretch like a quiet sigh before the firefly she had set upon his shoulder drifted away on a breath of air. Her eyes followed its faint, flickering light until it vanished into the dark folds of night. Then, with a soft and careful voice, she asked, “Would you like some tea?”

“..No,”

“Hm.” She sighed again, soft and slow. She should have known he wouldn’t budge. “About the room you currently stay in…” Her voice trailed, neither pressing nor dismissive—merely inviting. She hesitated for a moment before she continued. “I apologize for keeping you… down there,” Her words trailing like a fragile thread between them. There was no accusation in her tone—only quiet regret, the kind that settles deep in the chest when one recognizes a shared burden. “I had prepared you new quarters to reside in earlier.”

Silent Salt did not respond again: Rather, he kept his gaze lingering in the far distance, on the forest behind them.

White Lily only smiled faintly. “I hope to understand you.”

Silent Salt’s gaze finally met the others.

“I truly do.”

No response from the other, as she expected. Though as she began to walk away, the other had softly spoken. 

"Foolish and stubborn—" He chastised, averting his gaze from her to the moon.  "—you are." 

"Perhaps," She said again without turning around, a faint smile etched delicately on her face that he could not see.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since her supposed ‘Judgement’ or ‘Fate’. She did not dwell much on why did the others blindly trusted her so much as to change her ways, to suddenly see a different path other than the one that had shaped her through the millennias she was alive. She shook her head slightly, the thoughts dissipating with practiced ease.

Mystic Flour Cookie does not dwell.

Quietly, within the hush of her quarters, she sat on the cold stone floor—unbothered by its chill, her silk night robe cascading around her. One hand clumsily tangled in a scatter of scarves, the other guiding a needle with deliberate grace. Thread slipped through fabric, binding colors and textures not by utility, but by taste: Scarves in shades she had chosen, though she would never wear them as is.

There was no pattern to what she stitched. No plan. The logic was not one of function or fashion, but of feeling—one side of the fabric called to another, and she obeyed. 

She did not know why she had asked for them. When the king had asked her what had she needed, she could have replied or asked for anything, and yet, of all the things she could have requested from Dark Cacao Cookie himself—be it a relic, a scroll, a sword—she had asked only for fabric. 

It was useless to indulge in her old hobbies. Pointless, yes. But it passed the time. 

The thread had run out twice. She hadn’t minded. Each pause gave her time to stare at the flicker of the flame. Her fingers worked with absentminded precision. The rhythm lulled her—not into peace, but into something close enough that she did not resist it.

When it was done, she rose in silence. Her limbs protested faintly—unused to such stillness for so long—and she moved toward the window where the light of the candle she had lit poured like cool milk over the tiles. She held the finished fabric aloft and observed.

It was beautiful. If she remembered that word correctly: If it still meant what it used to.

She hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t thought, only weaved—by muscle, by some thread of instinct of old. And yet, in her hands now was more than a simple patchwork of scarves.

Beauty was once a weapon. A snare of silk and scent and lullabies. Now it felt like something else—quieter, lonelier. Not something to wield. The hanfu did not glitter. 

It was a shape she knew. A silhouette from a dream she hadn't meant to recall.

A delicate white hanfu; Soft, flowing, ghostlike in the little casted light. And woven into it—faint, precise—were the little ivories she had once braided with bare hands.

Mystic Flour Cookie had not meant to remember the Ivory Pagoda, though some part of her still did. 

She pressed her thumb against the stitched hem, as if grounding herself in the present. The Ivory Pagoda no longer stood—stone swallowed by the hands of time.

This hanfu was always worn alongside a companion—an animal, regal in its own right, chosen to mirror her station. Every courtly ensemble came with its bonded creature, a symbol of harmony between grace and strength. She shook her head softly, as if to dislodge the memory before it settled too deeply.

…



Morning arrived gently, the light seeping through the curtains. Mystic Flour Cookie did not sleep, she never did such even before, as she did not need it. There was always someone else she needed to tend to.  

In the light, she moved with the hush of it, rising from where she sat on the bed, stepping behind the Dark oak bark divider without sound, the hanfu folded neatly in her arms. 

She dressed slowly. Not out of vanity—only care. The fabric fell into place with practiced ease, the weight of it familiar, almost remembered. Each seam lay smooth. Each fold knew where to rest. The sleeves, long and flowing, brushed past her hips.

It fit—not just her form, but her bearing. Measured. Composed.

There were no flaws. No misaligned stitches or wandering threads. What she had made in quiet was, somehow, perfect. Not in the way of pride, but in the way of something made true. 

The hanfu did not demand attention. It simply was—elegant, restrained.

She stood in it a moment longer, her gaze meeting her own in the tall mirror across from her. Not to admire—she had long since lost the habit—but to breathe in the image’s familiarity. She did not recognize her.

Her hanfu held her reflection still, as if time paused with her. Her hair it had been a while since she saw it free. It went down, reaching her knees.

Mystic Flour Cookie’s hands rose without thought, moving through the length of her hair—slowly, carefully—fingertips combing through strands until they gathered in a smooth, deliberate bun. No excess, no flourish. Her hands remembered herself through acts without question.

From a nearby tray, she took the old fanzi Dark Cacao Cookie took in her very Pagoda. It was worn, but well-kept, and pinned the bun in place. The motion was second nature, the gesture almost soft.

She hummed—a soft, absent thing—as she turned toward the front door. The light outside had grown steady and pale; it must have been seven o’clock. The handmaidens were never late.

Right on cue, there were two knocks—precise, no more than needed—before the door opened and the three stepped inside.

The door creaked open, and in stepped her three attendants.

Her usual attendants: Cocoa Ganache Cookie, Truffle Cream Cookie, Hazelnut Husk Cookie. Each was draped in the same deep-toned livery of the Dark Cacao court, similar in silhouette, but contrasting in every detail beneath—voice, gaze, and personality.

Mystic Flour Cookie gave only a simple nod in greeting.

Cocoa Ganache Cookie entered first, ever the gentle one, her arms steady as she carried the lacquered tray with practiced grace. Steam drifted from the bowls she bore—an herbal Molten Cacao Broth, brewed with bitter jellyroot and firefruit pulp, meant to warm the body. Alongside it were black barley cakes wrapped in frostvine leaves and a small dish of candied pine resin.

“My Lady… Mystic Flour,” Cocoa Ganache said softly, setting the tray down on the low table near the window. Her voice was warm, velveted in admiration. “You look beautiful, My Lady.” She bowed slightly—not just in courtesy, but in quiet awe before she tended to the windows, drawing the curtains open before pinning them to their side.

Mystic Flour Cookie did not respond right away. She merely turned her head slightly, acknowledging the comment with the faintest tilt of her chin. She did not answer.

Next came Hazelnut Husk Cookie, taller than the others. She never wasted motion. With a fur-lined cloak folded over her arm and a bundle of dried firebloom logs strapped at her back. 

She moved to the hearth and knelt, feeding the kindling into the embers. “If you plan to wear such thin silk today, we’ll be doubling the braziers in your chambers,” she said, her voice low and practical, with a hint of protective scolding beneath it. “The mountain winds won’t spare grace for beauty.”

A spark caught. The fire flicked up with a sigh.

Mystic Flour Cookie only nodded once more. “I do not have plans to leave.”

“That never stops the cold from entering,” Hazelnut replied simply.

The last to enter was Truffle Cream Cookie, younger, brisk, and exacting. Her pale gloves were already stained with ink and herb dust from her early errands. She bowed quickly, then began adjusting the day’s arrangements—replacing the old incense stick with a fresh one soaked in snowstem oil, laying out her Lady’s writing implements on the table with silent precision, and smoothing out the folds in the tapestry along the wall.

She paused mid-motion, finally turning toward Mystic Flour. “Was it your own hand that stitched the garment?” she asked, not out of curiosity but quiet admiration for her skill.

“Yes,” Mystic Flour replied simply, her voice soft and steady. “What is the ink and parchment for?”

“It is beautiful.” Truffle Cream Cookie hesitated, rubbing the back of her neck in a rare show of bashfulness. “Oh-uh… Your Majesty requested some to be placed in your chambers,” she said carefully, “Should you wish to write.”

Cookies. They're so easily pleased to say words for their gain, and yet she had not much to give them. So why would they say such lovely words?

A quiet pause settled between them, then Mystic Flour nodded once, her expression unreadable. “I see.”

She did not reach for the parchment, nor did she dismiss it. Instead, her eyes lingered on the inkstone, the lacquered wood dark and undisturbed. The brush lay neatly beside it, unused. Waiting.

Behind her, Truffle Cream Cookie lingered. Her other handmaidens have already bowed again and excused themselves—but she, ever precise and slightly too earnest for her station, remained rooted in place. Perhaps unsure whether her duty had ended.

Mystic Flour finally glanced over, subtle but clear. “Is there something more?”

Truffle Cream Cookie straightened at once. “Ah-no, my Lady. Only that…” She hesitated, biting lightly at the inside of her cheek before continuing, “I’ve never seen you wear something so— I am not sure how to go on about it.”

Mystic Flour tilted her head slightly, not out of offense. “Does it not suit me?”

“Oh, no—it does,” Truffle Cream said quickly, voice rising before she caught herself. “It suits you very well. I only meant that it feels… different.”

“How so?” Mystic Flour studied her then, a faint trace of interest behind her usually impassive gaze.

Truffle Cream fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, eyes briefly darting to the soft drape of the hanfu, then back up. “It’s not your usual… presence. You’re always composed, yes—but this looks…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Gentler. Almost wistful, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Mystic Flour turned her gaze back to the mirror, her expression unreadable. “Wistful,” she echoed softly, as if tasting the word. “A fragile sentiment.”

“I didn’t mean to imply weakness, my Lady,” Truffle Cream said quickly.

“I know you didn’t,” Mystic Flour replied. Her tone held no reprimand—only thought, like a stone dropped into still water. She glanced down at the hanfu’s fabric, fingers brushing its embroidered hem. “It is not something I chose with intent. The form came as I worked.”

Truffle Cream’s voice softened. “It looks like something from before.”

Mystic Flour did not reply right away. A long breath moved through her, not quite a sigh. “Perhaps memory lingers even when we think it doesn’t.”

There was a brief pause before Truffle Cream added, almost hesitantly, “If I may… it feels like something a storyteller would wear. Not a warrior. Not a wanderer.”

That earned the faintest curve of a smile—barely there, but present all the same. “Then it seems I’ve confused even the threads.”

“No,” Truffle Cream said, almost reverently now. “I think you remembered something you didn’t know you’d forgotten.”

Mystic Flour regarded her for a long moment, the room still save for the whisper of wind beyond the window. “Be careful with insights like that,” she said at last, her voice nearly a murmur. “You’ll start sounding like him.”

Truffle Cream blinked. “Him?”

Mystic Flour did not clarify. “You’re quite attuned, for someone so young.”

Truffle Cream flushed, caught between pride and embarrassment. “Thank you, my Lady. I notice much of things.”

“A useful habit,” Mystic Flour murmured, almost to herself. Her hand hovered once more over the parchment but did not touch it. “And what is it you think I should write, if such was the King’s intent?”

Truffle Cream blinked. “I wouldn’t presume, my Lady. But perhaps… something only you could. Letters. Reflections. Records. The King believes there are things worth preserving, especially now.”

Mystic Flour looked away at that, her gaze drifting toward the narrow window where pale winter light crept along the wall. “Preservation?” she echoed, the word quiet on her tongue. It was the very word against her ideals. 

“Yes,” Truffle Cream didn’t answer right away. Then, a voice gentler than before: 

At that, Mystic Flour’s gaze returned to her, and for a moment something unreadable passed between them. Not quite approval. 

“You may go,” Mystic Flour said, but the words were not sharp. They held the soft finality of her bell’s last chime.

Truffle Cream Cookie bowed quickly—more solemn this time—and turned to leave, but before she did, she added in awe: “You remind me much of my mother, My Lady.”

With that, Mystic Flour inclined her head slightly, seeing the faintest sign of gratitude on the other’s face. She waved her hand gently and dismissed her handmaiden.

As the door shut softly behind her, the incense smoke curled in the air like script unfinished, the brush still dry by the parchment’s edge. 

Mystic Flour remained at the table, her hand resting near the inkstone, unmoving.

For a while, she only watched the faint ripples of incense smoke curl upward, as if reading something in its shape.

Eventually, her fingers brushed the edge of the cushion on the floor, then lowered with slow intent. She sat down. Her robes folded neatly beneath her, the long sleeves of her hanfu slipping across the lacquered wood as she settled.

She picked up the brush.

She held it poised between her fingers, then dipped it lightly into the ink, letting the tip soak. A slow circle. The black pooled and bloomed into readiness. She hovered the brush above the page, not yet writing—just letting the weight of the moment collect.

There were no words in her mind.

She did not know if what she wrote would be for herself or another. Perhaps it was only to prove that she still could. Her hand remembered how to make something other than war. Other than prophecy. Other than endings.

The parchment remained blank a moment longer.

Then, softly, the first stroke touched down. Then another. Until finally, A character.

‘缘’

…


Mystic Flour moved through the dim corridors of the Dark Cacao Kingdom, her steps soft, and only the clacks of her geta were heard. Her new attire, the delicate little thing, brushed silently against the stone floors. 

She had always been an observer, a poised listener. A wishwright. Those habits, useless now in her position, can not be forgotten as quickly as her thoughts.

She noticed the eyes of those she passed lingered a moment longer than necessary, whispers following suit—but she paid them no mind. Whatever they thought, felt was theirs to carry, not hers. She did not seek approval or acknowledgment.

The cold air inside the halls brushed past her as, eventually, she reached the grand atrium—its vaulted ceiling soaring above like the canopy of an ancient forest, resin-stained glass casting muted hues across the floor. This space, the very heart of the Dark Cacao Kingdom, where the lineage and history of her people lay heavy in the air, embraced her.

She stepped into its center, standing still as the light shifted through the panes, spilling warmth upon her pale face and igniting a soft glow in the folds of her robes. The light seemed almost to honor her presence.

Her gaze drifted slowly to the far wall. There, at the heart of the wallpaper, was a perfect rectangle of untouched space—a deliberate blankness amid the intricate patterns that covered every other inch. No cracks marred it. No stains, nothing. As though something was removed.

She walks forward, only stopping a foot away from said wall. Her hand lifted gently, hovering just above that silent patch, fingers trembling faintly. She did not reach out, not yet.

The emptiness spoke volumes. It was the space where something once had been—something erased, forgotten, or hidden. It was a wound held open, delicate and unresolved. 

From the untouched wall, something stirred.

Her Souljam responded—not with effort, but instinct. A faint pulse, like breath beneath ice. Small white flashes broke against her vision, momentary and unbidden.

In the flickers, she saw a tall figure, proud and composed, lifting a great canvas with careful hands. He stood before the wall in reverent silence, placing it with slow, deliberate grace. At his side, a smaller one, cloaked in dark, his red eyes wide with wonder. The taller leaned down, said something—quiet, almost playful—and the child’s face lit up in response.

The vision shifted.

The same room—darker now.

The tall figure again, standing with the other. This time, their voices rose—not clear enough to make out, but sharp. One demanded. The other refused. There was no violence, but something heavier than that: a severing in silence. The younger figure was gone.

Another flicker.

An older man, alone now, his armor worn, his expression carved in stone. He looked up at the painting, still and wordless. His hand moved once, slowly—and then it was gone. Taken down. Removed.

Then, the light simply dimmed. Slowly, with a breath as soft as the morning light, she drew her hand back and turned away, the weight of silence settling deep within her. 

It was not the first time that the fragments of her souljam’s other half had blinded her, yet instead of seeing through his eyes, it was as if instead, she were a simple bystander. Curious .

“Hm.” She hummed, gently clasping her hands in front of her, resting them on her front.

“Mystic Flour Cookie?” 

She did not turn to the call of her name, to the same man in the vision.

“Dark Cacao Cookie.” She simply greeted. Acknowledge in turn.

Dark Cacao Cookie said nothing at first. He regarded her in stillness, the weight of his gaze on her back,  steady and grounded.

The white hanfu, flowing and precise, stood in stark contrast to the somber palette of his court. Yet it did not clash—it commanded its own space, as she always had, he supposed. The fabric caught the light like frost in morning shadow. 

He did not speak immediately, but something in the faint narrowing of his eyes suggested recognition—not of the garment alone, but of the time and tradition he remembered seeing during his own voyage of her Ivory Pagoda.

“There is always something on your mind.” She broke the silence, Dark Cacao only then having realized that he was staring.

“Ah,” he said at last, voice deep and low, touched faintly by approval. “Your handmaiden informed me of your change in attire.”

“Truffle Cream Cookie?” She asked, and the other nodded as her cold gaze met his. “I see.”

“It is… fitting. You wear it well, Mystic Flour Cookie.”

His voice, though steady, carried something underneath—distant, perhaps, but not sadness.. His gaze, however, did not linger on her for much longer. It shifted past her shoulder, drawn to the wall behind her.

To the untouched space, to what was no longer there.

For a time, he said nothing. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, only full. Then, a faint exhale escaped him, quiet and measured.

“What brings you here?” he asked at last.

“I do not have a reason.” Mystic Flour’s gaze didn’t waver. “Must I have one?”

Dark Cacao Cookie’s brow moved slightly, the faintest change—whether it was from amusement or weariness was hard to tell. He slowly crossed his arms, tilting his head down.

“…I suppose not,” he answered, voice low again.  

Mystic Flour’s gaze did not linger long on the empty space as well. Instead, her eyes shifted toward the tall windowsill, where the citadel stretched beyond, carved into the bones of its snowy region.  

She did not know when he had crossed the space between them. One moment, the weight of his presence stood at a respectful distance, and the next, she saw the edge of his cloak within her periphery. He did not announce his steps; he never did, she figures. But there was no need.

“This citadel,” he began, his voice steady as ever, following her gaze through the frost-laced window. “I will forever defend it as it stands, as I breathe.”

There was no fire in his tone—only the certainty of a vow repeated too often to be questioned. The same vow, perhaps, that had built the walls beneath them and worn down the man beside her. 

Mystic Flour Cookie did not turn to him. Her gaze remained outward, eyes tracing the harsh geometry of the fortress and the white breath of winter that clung to its spires like old sorrow.

“Fickle desires,” she said simply, her voice quiet but not unkind, not exactly warmth either. “For nothing is everlasting. All of this—stone, legacy—will return to flour, through the passage of time. By my hand or not.”

“Is that so?” A challenge, maybe a dare.

“Always fighting,” she chastised lightly, to herself more than to him. “Putting yourselves through pain, burying what cannot be undone... and for what? A passing moment, a flicker of warmth mistaken for triumph?” Her gaze did not waver from the distant snow-covered barracks. “Willingly, you all chase that little naught that is called victory."

She did not scoff nor scorn. There was no malice in her voice. Only quiet resignation.

“A cycle wrapped in iron and pride. You bleed for it, again and again. As if it will one day be worth the scars.”

Dark Cacao Cookie’s eyes flickered with something unspoken—perhaps a flicker of old pain, or the faintest trace of understanding. He shifted his weight slightly, the sound of his cloak brushing softly against the cold stone floor breaking the silence that had settled like a shroud between them. “I can see why you think that.”

“You speak of cycles,” he continued slowly, his voice almost a whisper, yet each word was deliberate, carved with the weight of years. “Cycles of pain, of loss, of scars that never heal. But tell me, Mystic Flour, what would you have us do instead? Lay down our swords? Forsake the walls that shelter us? Abandon the memory of those who bled to build this place?”

"I wish for everything to cease in its existence: To suffer no longer." Her gaze remained fixed on the landscape outside, the brittle trees stripped bare by winter’s hand, their skeleton branches stark against the pale sky.

“I do not ask you to lay down your swords,” she added, voice steady and soft, like wind over untouched snow. “I ask you to question the cost of what you defend. Victory is not merely a moment’s triumph. It is the weight of all that must be and has been sacrificed—shattered hopes, broken lives, the relentless erosion of your own soul.”

He let out a slow breath, the sound mingling with the faint creak of timber in the citadel walls. “And you? You who speak of erosion—what have you sacrificed? What soul have you bled dry in pursuit of your own vision?”

Mystic Flour’s eyes flicked briefly to him, sharp and unyielding. She did not answer. Dark Cacao let out a soft scoff.

He then stepped closer, the faint scent of bitter cocoa mingling with the cold air between them.

“Loss…” he echoed, voice lowering, almost reverent. “It is the cruelest teacher. We learn to wear it like armor, yet it is the armor that weighs us down until we can barely move.”

For a long moment, silence wrapped around them, a fragile thread connecting two souls worn raw by war and time. Then Dark Cacao’s voice broke through, softer now, almost tentative.

“Do you ever regret it? The choices you have made? The paths you have taken?”

 

Mystic Flour’s gaze turned inward, distant. “Regret is a luxury I cannot afford. There is no ‘what if’ in my world—only ‘what is’ and ‘what must be.'"

Dark Cacao’s eyes met hers, steady and searching. “Do you believe such a thing is possible? A different path you can start?”

“I do not know,” she admitted quietly.

He smiled then, a small, weary curve of his lips. “You speak like a poet, Mystic Flour. Sometimes I think you see the world not as it is now.”

"It is foolish of me to assume that the world has changed." She folded her arms, eyes darkening. “Hope… it has a bitter edge. It can cut deeper than any blade.”

“Yet it is the only thing that can heal,” he replied, voice steady and sure. Dark Cacao looked away then, his gaze drifting to the shadows that pooled at the base of the walls.

“Hm.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” he murmured. “Perhaps we have forgotten how to hope.”

Their silence stretched once more, filled with the heavy stillness of the citadel and the distant echo of a world scarred but still breathing. Mystic Flour’s eyes softened, just a fraction, and she turned to look at him fully for the first time since he had entered.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to set down your burdens? To be free of the weight of this place, if only for a moment?”

He met her gaze, and for the briefest instant, vulnerability flickered in his eyes. “I would not be a cookie if I didn’t.”

“And yet you stand here, sworn to defend walls that will not last beyond the turning of the ages.” Her eyes slowly close for a moment. "Apathy will grant you peace. No lives shall ever be burdened and yet… once again, selfish desires overrun knowledge."

“It is not the walls I defend,” he said quietly, “but the people who call this place home. Even if the stones crumble, they will endure. Through culture, through traditions. Even if it will pass through time, it has existed."

She nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgement passing between them. "Perhaps,"

Dark Cacao’s hand brushed against the stone beside him, fingers tracing the cold surface. “We fight not for stone, but for memory. For those who came before, and those who will come after.”

“And in that fight, you find meaning?” Mystic Flour questioned.

He inclined his head, the faintest gesture of respect. “Meaning forged from pain and hope alike.”

Mystic Flour regarded him, a quiet acceptance in her eyes. “Then perhaps it is enough for the mortal lives being."

He smiled, a slow, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. “Sometimes, that is everything.”

Dark Cacao Cookie stood unmoving beside her, her words settling around him. He did not answer immediately. For a moment, only the distant wind replied.

Then, quietly:

“It is not victory I seek.”

“Hm.”

“Nor do I believe in glory.”

His voice was low, carved from something deeper than pride. “I do not lift my sword to chase triumph… but because I must.”

He turned his gaze to the walls that had withstood countless winters, and the kingdom that endured beneath them.

“I have seen what happens when we do not fight. What is taken when we stay still.” A pause, and something near the edge of bitterness in his tone, quickly buried beneath years of control. “Some wars are not chosen. And some burdens do not ask your permission before they settle onto your shoulders.”

He glanced at her then—just briefly.

“You speak of meaningless cycles. Of futility. Perhaps you are right. But if I must carry it, then I will carry it to the end. For the sake of those who cannot. For those who still believe this place can mean something.”

He faced forward again, his voice softening—not in doubt, though.  “I do not fight to seek victory, Mystic Flour Cookie . I fight so that what I love is not lost.”

“And what exactly has that rewarded you?” Her words did not rise. They did not need to. And still, they are sharp, a dagger that slipped straight past the cladded armoury he wore with ease.

“I have seen many chase purpose like you do,” she said, voice quiet but certain. “To protect. To preserve. To serve something greater than themselves. They call it duty. They carry it until it consumes what little of them was once their own.”

A breath.

"You believe it is your responsibility in becoming what the 'greater good' needed. That fulfillment would come from being useful." Her fingers brushed together faintly. "There is no reward in losing yourself, even for something noble."

“Is that what your time and people have taught you?”

His voice retaliated, clashing with her dagger—meant to meet her words.

Silence, watchful. As if they were both waiting to see what would give way first: her answer, or the tension that now gently bridged the distance between them.

 And finally, with an honest answer, she replies. “Yes…, and sooner or later, you too will learn that.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as quickly as it came. Barely there, and yet undeniable. He hadn’t meant to let it surface.

Still, it remained long enough to be noticed. The smallest lapse in his granite-like composure.

“Sometimes I wonder,” he murmured at last, his arms lowered to his sides with slow deliberation, one gloved hand brushing against the familiar weight of the baldric at his hip. The faint hum of his souljam stirred. “How are we of the same?”

The question hung between them, a quiet disbelief.

There was a pause. Then, without turning, Mystic Flour finally replied.

“In battle, I suppose.”

Another brief silence passed before he let out a soft, almost imperceptible exhale through his nose.

“You wield a sword?” he asked, the faintest edge of lightness in his tone—not exactly mockery, though wrapped in the bluntness of his usual manner. Something like amusement flickered behind his voice.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, a single, elegant movement.

“Oh,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching in response. Not quite a smile, but something near enough. 

“Ahem.” Then, after a long moment, his gaze returned to hers fully.

“Speak.”

“It would be… instructive,” he said, as if stating a tactical observation. “To see how you wield it.”

Mystic Flour turned her head, brows faintly raised in an unspoken question.

“A demonstration,” he clarified, though there was a glint of something behind his eyes now—challenge tempered with respect. 

“Hm,” she hummed softly, her gaze drifting once more toward the great citadel beyond the frost-framed window. The towers stood tall and quiet beneath the winter sun, veiled in pale light. Her eyes lingered there as though the weight of his question had already dissolved into the wind.

“Perhaps not,” she said at last, voice even and unbothered. “There is little use in swinging a sword for the sake of it.”

Dark Cacao Cookie regarded her in silence for a beat, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “It is never in a Lady’s nature to fight.”

But his words, though quiet, were not idle. There was a deliberate lure woven into the tone, as if fishing for the edge beneath her calm. Not a taunt, but a test—cloaked in courtesy. A nudge against the borders she kept so well-drawn.

He turned his head slightly, not fully toward her, but enough to watch her from the corner of his eye.

Mystic Flour turned her head slightly, mirroring his motion, but her expression did not shift. There was no reaction to his words, no flicker of offense, no glimmer of pride. She neither confirmed nor denied his observation, and in that silence, she offered her answer: she would not take the bait.

Of course, she wouldn’t. He should have expected that.

Dark Cacao Cookie exhaled quietly through his nose, the smallest concession to something like amusement—or perhaps resignation. Her deflections, her stillness… they were not shields. They were simply her way of being. She fought in silences, and perhaps, in that, she was far more dangerous than she appeared.

He lowered his hand from the hilt entirely, letting it fall to his side with quiet finality. The tension in the air faded—not dissolved, but folded back into the space between them like a sword returned to its sheath.

“Perhaps,” he said, voice softer now, more grounded, “some tea instead?”

There was no command in it, only a suggestion. A quiet offering.

The way he said it—not as king, not as warrior, but simply as a man—carried a faint, almost imperceptible hope. One that crept into the edges of his tone like the slow warmth of fire returning to frost-bitten stone.

He did not look at her as he said it, perhaps because the invitation was genuine.

Mystic Flour raised a single brow—not in jest, but in quiet suspicion, as though his words required further scrutiny. She did not speak, only regarded him with that ever-measured stillness.

“Where?” she asked, evenly.

Dark Cacao answered without hesitation. “My chambers.”

A pause followed.

The silence was not long, but it was potent. Her expression did not change, yet something in her gaze sharpened. She said nothing, yet the look she gave him spoke with quiet precision.

Dark Cacao Cookie faltered—barely, but enough. His mouth parted slightly, words catching against the wall of his own informality.

“N–Not like that,” he said, quickly. Too quickly for a king, so usually composed. He cleared his throat, posture rigid once more. “What I mean is… the hearth is lit there. And there is peace to speak, should you wish it.”

He glanced aside, eyes resting on nothing in particular—perhaps the floor, perhaps the weight of his own words.

“I only thought,” he added, more slowly now, “you may prefer the quiet.”

The offer stood, plainly spoken, without embellishment. But beneath the surface—beneath the stone of his voice, just… sincerity.

Mystic Flour let out a soft exhale and nodded. “Of course.”

…

They walked the corridor in hush. No words were needed to fill the space; even their silences had begun to learn the shape of each other.

Every now and then, Dark Cacao Cookie would glance sideways—not fully turning his head, but enough that he could sense her there, just a fraction behind. She did not hurry to match his stride, nor lag in defiance. She walked as she always did: quietly, deliberately, with the kind of self-possession that could make even the wind seem hesitant.

“Have you always walked so quietly?” he asked at last, his voice low, more a murmur than a question.

Mystic Flour Cookie did not answer immediately. 

“It is not silence,” she replied softly. “Silence implies there is no presence.”

His brow knitted faintly at her answer, but he said nothing, letting her words settle into the corridor like a stone in a riverbed.

“I do not take up space I do not need,” she added after a moment. 

Dark Cacao Cookie’s expression remained unreadable, yet something in his breath caught—so subtle it might have been mistaken for a sigh.

“You and I,” he said, “are alike in that.”

When they finally reached the doors to his chambers, he paused, hand resting on the ancient wood. He has not opened them yet. Instead, he glanced at her—this time fully, searching her face not for answers, but for permission.

She gave a faint nod, then pushed open the door.  She had seen it countless times through his eyes during her time in the silver tree. She watched as he opened the doors, holding them so for her to enter.

His chambers were dim but warm, steeped in the quiet scent of burning cedar and ink. The hearth crackled low, amber light painting the cold stone with something like life. On the low table beside it—a familiar sight now—waited a Go board, stones in their lacquered bowls.

He moved first—not to the board, but to the hearth, tending it briefly before gesturing for her to sit. She did, gracefully, settling opposite him in the faint glow of flame and firelight.

“I find I still owe you a proper match,” he said, reaching for the bowl of black stones first. His voice was calm again, low and even, but there was a faint gleam beneath it now. “The last one was interrupted.”

“Interruption?” Mystic Flour raised a brow, her hands clasped behind her as she tilted her head. “I recall having won.”

“Hnm.” Dark Cacao inclined his head with a wry glint in his eye. “So you did. But I was not in the proper state of mind to offer you a challenge worthy of your skill.” He set both bowls of stone on the table with a quiet tap. He moved to sit down on one of the cushions on the floor before gesturing for her to do the same. “Tonight, I would like to amend that.”

She regarded him, then the board. She met his expectant gaze before she, too, sat down across from him. Her fingers brushed the rim of the white stone bowl without yet lifting one. “And if I win again?”

His gaze did not waver. “Then I will consider the matter settled between us.”

She tilted her head, intrigued. “And if you win?”

The pause that followed was brief, but not thoughtless.

“Then we spar,” he said simply.

The pause that followed was brief, but not thoughtless.

Mystic Flour’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but something near it—bemusement edged with curiosity. “You wish to fight me?”

“I wish to know,” he said. “How you move when it matters. "You’ve already crossed words with me. Let us see what happens when we trade something sharper.”

She hummed thoughtfully, lifting a white stone between her fingers. “Very well,” she said. “But should I win again, I will name my own price.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “Within reason,”

…

The Go board lay between them on the coffee small table. Both cookies sat across from one another and beside, their cuts of now-warm tea untouched.

It was near noon by then, so the sunrays were at their brightest, casting the normally dim room into something warmer.

 Dark Cacao Cookie placed his first black stone near the corner, a classic opening—safe but full of potential.

“Corner first,” Mystic Flour remarked quietly, nodding. She responded by placing her stone on the opposite corner, mirroring his intent. 

Dark Cacao studied her move, lips twitching almost imperceptibly. He shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as they traced the edges of the board.

“You always guard your territories too well.”

“Territory is but one part of the game,” he answered, a hint of challenge threading through the words. “You’ve taught me influence controls the flow.”

His next move was bold—a black stone planted near the center, threatening to extend his reach.

Mystic Flour hummed faintly, responding swiftly with a white stone that formed a pincer attack, boxing in his expansion.

“An aggressive stance,” she observed. “But overreach can lead to isolation.”

Dark Cacao inclined his head, acknowledging the wisdom in her words. “True. Yet to yield too soon invites defeat.” His gaze lingered on the pattern before lifting to meet hers, the faintest spark flickering within his dark eyes. 

In the quiet moments between their moves, Dark Cacao Cookie found himself drawn not just to her skill but to the way she seemed to embrace the unpredictable, to find beauty and purpose within nothing—something he himself struggled with. His own life had been carved from conflict and duty, a fortress built from necessity but haunted by the fractures he could not control.

Mystic Flour Cookie's presence was like the unpredictable swirl of dust caught in the wind, simply aimless, unfeeling in the guise of freedom. It unsettled him, yet it called to a part of him that longed for something beyond the rigid lines of his own existence. To an extent, of course.

“You and I, we're two halves of the same Volition, yet our ideals, the ones you surrendered yourself to, are so different…” he finally said, voice low and thoughtful. “Perhaps that is why I am drawn to you.”

Though she was not looking at him, at the board rather, there was a subtle, almost secretive shift. Her fingers hesitated briefly above the board before settling decisively, claiming a more offensive position. She stiffened, unsure why his words unsettled her so. “And perhaps that is why you hesitate,” she murmured.

He reached for another stone, pausing just long enough to let the question hang between them. “What do you think I hesitate for?”

“To surrender,” she answered quietly, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of something deeper beneath their strategic dance. “To measure if the gain is worth the price,”

Dark Cacao did not speak immediately. He placed his stone with practiced grace—one move that shifted the pressure just enough to alter her territory’s shape. Still subtle. Still careful.

Then, his voice came, low and composed. “You speak of cost as if you have never measured it yourself.”

The words were not an accusation, but they struck with the weight of an observation too close to truth.

Mystic Flour’s hand hovered above the board again, for a heartbeat too long. When she moved, it was not with the same quiet certainty as before, her gaze had dimmed into thought.

“I measure differently,” Mystic Flour said at last. Her voice was like snow brushing against a windowpane, too soft to be a warning, too present to be ignored. “What I lose does not weigh the same to me as it might to you.”

Dark Cacao studied her in that moment, though his eyes remained on the board. “And yet you still play.”

A corner of her mouth lifted in quiet mirth. “Even those who walk away from battle still remember the choreography. You should know that too well.”

“You’ve been in battles.” His hand paused above his next stone. “You think this is one?”

“You treat it as though it is one.” She gestured lightly to the board. “For players, there’s strategy, conquest, and territory. Even a code of honor.”

Dark Cacao lowered his hand, setting the stone down without sound. “Honor does not win games. Discipline does.”

“And instinct?” she asked, laying her next stone with almost careless elegance. It slid into place with a quiet finality that belied how it disrupted his path. “Where does that fit in your hierarchy of values?”

He considered. “Instinct has its place. But without control, it leads to ruin.”

“Perhaps ruin is necessary sometimes.”

His brow creased faintly. “Spoken like someone who has seen it too often.”

They fell into a lull again, the sound of stones being placed becoming a language of its own. Black, then white. A slow exchange of intent and caution. The board was growing dense now—possibilities narrowing, tensions deepening.

“You once said you’d defend this citadel for as long as you drew breath,” she said quietly.

Dark Cacao nodded once. “I did.”

“And if defending it meant abandoning everything else?”

“Then so be it.”

She tilted her head slightly, appraising him. “Even yourself?”

“A king does not place himself above the realm.” His next stone was slower, more deliberate. “Is that why you think I hesitate?” he asked finally. “To preserve myself?”

She did not respond, not to his question exactly.

“I wish for a world where everyone is of the same, nothing to lose or to gain,” Mystic Flour said finally, placing her stone a little harder than necessary. Her words, if one listened closely, hinted at a deeper care for Cookie-kind, though veiled beneath indifference. It was not apathy that shaped her path, but a desire to rid the world of the burdens it stubbornly carried, by means only she could justify.

“I do not linger on inconsequential matters as do you.”

“...That, too, is a form of hesitation,” he replied. Not unkindly, yet not gently either.

“You said once I only ever see what is broken,” she said.

He inclined his head. “I did.”

“That is not entirely true.” She placed another stone. “I see what can no longer be made whole. There’s a difference.”

“A painful one,” he said.

“But true.”

A long pause stretched between them.

“What do you see when you look at me?” she asked, the question quiet but not fragile.

Dark Cacao did not answer at once. Instead, he played his turn, defending a territory she had been quietly encroaching on.

“I see someone who doesn’t know where to stand,” he said. “Because every side she once trusted now feels like trespass.”

She didn’t look away. “And yet you still invited me here.”

“Perhaps I’m curious if you will claim your own side again.”

Her next move was quick, reclaiming the space he had tried to fence. “Or perhaps you simply want to test if I can.”

Mystic Flour did not flinch, but something behind her eyes flickered. She returned her attention to the game, lips pressed together in a line of quiet control. “You do not play to win,” she murmured after a stretch of silence, watching as he slowly edged closer to a decisive shape. “You play to endure.”

“And you?” Dark Cacao placed another stone, softly. “You play to end .”

A final exchange of stones. One corner stabilized. Another collapsed. “You play well, Mystic Flour Cookie.”

Mystic Flour studied the board in silence. She did not sigh. She did not smile. Only after a moment did she look up, and there was no resentment in her eyes—only reflection, and something quieter beneath. "A narrow win,"

He nodded. “But a win, nonetheless.”

"I suppose," she hummed.

Dark Cacao met her gaze evenly. “When time allows… You owe me a spar.”

Another nod after, before, at last, she said. “…Very well,”

Chapter Text

Burning Spice Cookie  lingered on the cliff's edge where he and his thief had spared. It had been too long since he’d simply sat, no enemy at his back, no cause to fight for, just stillness. And yet, he remained.

It had already been two, maybe three weeks since the decision. And already he was bored.

The first rays of dawn spilled across the eastern mountains like molten gold, igniting the valley below. Cheezebirds cried out in scattered bursts, their wings catching the light like coins flung into the air. Off in the far west, beyond the curling ridges of stone, something stirred—a shift in color, a flicker of distant motion.

“My,” came a voice behind him, bright and amused.

He did not turn. He didn’t need to.

Golden Cheese Cookie’s laughter danced like sunlight on cracked marble. She raised her golden goblet with a flourish, as if to toast the morning itself. “Good morning to you, brute.”

“Golden Cheese.” His voice was flat. Acknowledgment, never affection.

She moved beside him with the ease of someone who never asked permission. Her gaze followed his toward the west, where the sun had not yet reached.

“Ah. The Pepperjack Mountains,” she said, as if naming a long-lost friend.

He frowned, barely. “Pepperjack?”

“The air there—” she took a lazy sip of her nectar, lips curling faintly “—has the same bite as the winds in Beast Yeast."

He said nothing. But his fingers curled once against the stone.

Golden Cheese did not press. She never did. Today was different.

“Burning Spice?” she said at last.

A flick of the ear. Just enough to signal he heard her.

She didn’t press at first. Only swirled her cup in a slow, lazy circle, watching the sunlight catch on its rim like it was something alive. Her voice, when it came again, was light—but sharp beneath the velvet.

“Pray, tell me why you are…” Her gaze swept the horizon, then landed, pointed, on him. “Quieter.”

He did not answer.

The breeze shifted—hot, dry, laced with dust and distance. He kept his eyes on the western ridges, where smoke from a campfire, maybe, or a gust of ash, rose faintly in the air. Golden Cheese did not notice where his gaze had landed.

Golden Cheese tilted her head. “It’s unlike you, you know. This silence.” Her smile remained, but her voice dipped into something more dangerous. “Makes me wonder what you’re plotting.”

He turned his face slightly, just enough that she could see the faint line of a smirk—not humor, not warmth, but something like acknowledgment. He was many things. But never harmless. Never above ‘dirty’ fights.

“I’m just watching the sun rise,” he said.

Golden Cheese narrowed her eyes, her goblet pausing mid-sip. “And since when did the war dog care for mornings?”

He didn’t answer that, either.

Instead, he rose to his feet. The cliffside crunched beneath his boots—scarred stone, brittle at the edge. For a moment, the two stood in contrast: one forged in fire, the other in gold. He didn’t look back.

“Keep your watch, empress,” he said over his shoulder, voice low, steady. “I haven’t sheathed my claws. Only tucked them in for now.”

And with that, Burning Spice Cookie walked away, the wind catching the edge of his cloak like trailing flame, leaving her standing alone at the cliff’s edge, cup in hand, eyes still sharp with suspicion.

"Yes, it appears so ." Golden Cheese sighed softly as she finished her nectar. "And that is what worries me."

…

It was already near noon. Golden Cheese Cookie had spent the better part of her day sequestered within her private chambers, buried beneath borrowed tomes and fading scrolls. The light seeped in through the thin candied tulle that draped across the windows.

From one book to another, still no answer she could find: The ancient texts from the Vanilla Kingdom were too kind, too abstract. The Faerie Kingdom’s lore—too arcane, riddled with riddles more than truths. None held what she needed.

No answer for the Soulcheese’s return.

Her head rested against the crook of her arm, golden curls spilling like silk across aged parchment. Her wings, usually held with proud flare, now folded close against her back, quiet, heavy with thought. A long breath left her lips, warm with fatigue.

She reached out, fingers grazing the edge of a half-read volume. Pages fluttered in response, whispering secrets she had already failed to decipher with dust clinging to their corners.

She was a ruler of sun-drenched halls, a monarch sculpted of ambition and mirage—and yet, in this dim-lit room, she felt more like a ghost of her own kingdom. A caretaker of ashes. A queen without a cure.

Golden Cheese Cookie stared across the cluttered desk, past the citrine gleam of her relics and the hollow weight of crowns not worn. Somewhere beneath the fortress of gold, in the very marrow of her being, a quiet truth pressed in:

She was failing them.

And she could not retreat to her paradise—not again. That place, no matter how beautiful, was hollow. A construct. A curtain of glitter draped over a wound still bleeding beneath. Illusion could no longer suffice.

She needed more than comfort. She needed redemption.

Redemption... hm, curious.

A knock.

A knock that came more sharp and frantic—more a warning than a request. Before Golden Cheese Cookie could even lift her head, the doors to her study flew open with a clang that echoed off the gilded walls.

Only one Cookie in her kingdom would dare.

“Your Radiance!” Smoked Cheese Cookie’s voice broke through the dust-heavy silence like a blade through silk.

He stumbled in, panting, the smoke trailing from his cloak less refined than usual—scattered, agitated. He stopped just short of her desk, bent over with hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His spectacles hung slightly askew, fogged from his rush.

Golden Cheese rose slowly, her expression unreadable, save for the narrowing of her eyes. “Smoked Cheese,” she said coolly, voice like chilled honey. “If you’ve come bearing nonsense, I suggest you dress it in better silk.”

He straightened, chest still heaving. “It’s the beast—Burning Spice Cookie. I—he was at the cliffside this morning, where you last left him. I thought he’d returned to the inner halls, but—” He swallowed. “I’ve lost him. I’ve searched the perimeter. He’s nowhere.”

For a beat, silence. Even the hum of the golden magic in the chamber seemed to falter.

Golden Cheese Cookie did not speak at once. She simply stared at him. The lines beneath her eyes were sharper than usual, more defined. The flicker of her wings stilled to a tense shimmer. Only the tapping of her jeweled fingers against the desk betrayed her shifting mood.

“Gone,” she echoed, a whisper coated in gold. “You let him out of your sight?”

Smoked Cheese stiffened. “I—I thought he was meditating. He hadn’t moved for hours. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think?” Her voice cut through the room, still elegant, but rising like a sun-drenched wave before the crash. “He’s not a tame ember in a brazier! He’s wildfire. I entrusted him to you.”

Her mind raced. Burning Spice wasn’t just any warrior. He was a relic of war, scarred and half-feral beneath his silence. He didn’t vanish without reason. And if he’d left the palace walls... it could only mean something had cracked. Or someone had gotten to him.

Golden Cheese Cookie inhaled slowly, fighting to steady her pulse. “Prepare a sun carriage. Now.”

“Shall I call for the cheesebirds' aid?”

“No,” she said, voice now calm with icy command. “This is not a matter for spectacle. I’ll find him myself.”

Smoked Cheese hesitated. “Alone?”

Her gaze snapped to him. “Do you doubt me?”

“N-never, Your Radiance.” He bowed his head deeply, smoke curling low at his feet.

“Good.” She strode from the room in a sweep of gold and perfume, the door slamming shut behind her like the closing of a vault.

…

The wind was drier out here.

Burning Spice Cookie had crossed the outer threshold of the palace grounds hours ago—if time even passed the same once you left the shimmer of Golden Cheese's domain. Out here, the world lost its golden filter. The sand was raw and pale, the sky a stark, endless blue. The wind howled not like music, but like an old beast dragging its breath across stone.

He hadn’t looked back.

The cliffs soon gave way to sharp valleys, where the sun carved shadows into every ridge. That was where he’d seen it earlier—just a wisp at first, no larger than a dying flame. But it was there. Smoke. Out west, just beyond where most dared to tread.

Now he walked alone, the heat licking at his shoulders, his boots grinding against bone-dry rock.

He hadn’t meant to stray this far.

Not really.

But something in him had stirred at dawn. Not anger, not even restlessness—something else. A sensation behind the ribs. A murmur in the spine. It wasn’t thought. It was... instinct.

And that instinct had teeth.

The further west he went, the stronger it grew. A pull, not from the earth, but from within—like a half-forgotten rhythm trying to guide his feet. He scanned the horizon again. There was no more smoke, not visibly. Whatever had been burning was long done. But the scent lingered. Not of wood. Not of incense.

Char. Spice. Old battlefields.

His eyes narrowed.

He could feel it now, stronger than before. Something was here.

He reached a rise in the land, a jagged hill that once might’ve been a fortress or a shrine—now little more than a wind-swept ruin. His hand brushed against the stones. Warm.

Too warm.

He exhaled sharply, smoke curling from his lips. His body was ready to fight, but his mind was not yet sure what he should be preparing for.

Something’s here, he thought. But it had no shape. No voice. Only that tightening in his gut, that ache in his bones, that told him he was not alone.

He took another step forward, the silence pressing in thick around him.

It didn’t seem like the regular type of smoke, no, though he could never be too sure. Seeing the familiar marks on the ground, his expression shifted from wary to part relief, part amusement.


…

She saw him from above—just a speck at first, a dark figure on a pale ridge, standing perfectly still where the land cracked like old clay. The wind tossed her curls back, and the wings of gold-light woven at her shoulders shimmered against the blinding sun.

There he was. Of course.

Not hiding. Not running. Just standing there , as if the world owed him answers.

Golden Cheese Cookie landed with a flourish, the sun carriage already left behind. Dust curled at her heels as she strode forward, her gilded robes trailing like a banner of flame. She didn’t wait for him to turn.

“Burning Spice Cookie,” she snapped, voice honeyed but edged in steel. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just glanced at her, slow and sideways. That look—half-smirk, half-challenge—like a beast who knew he’d been found and didn’t care.

“I could ask you the same,” he said at last, in that dry voice that carried heat like embers beneath ash.

She stopped a few paces short of him, wings flicking once with irritation. “ You vanished without a word. You’ve stirred the guards into a frenzy, and I had to abandon my studies to chase you across a valley of ruins.”

He tilted his head, as if surprised. “You came all this way just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She crossed her arms, the sun catching on every gem embedded in her cuffs. “You were acting strange this morning. Now you’re standing out here like a broken sundial, staring into the wind. You’re up to something. ”

His smile deepened—just slightly. “Maybe.”

She stared, brow twitching. “Don’t play coy with me. I know that look.”

“Do you?” he mused, turning away from her to face the ruin again. His hands were clasped behind his back, deceptively relaxed. “Maybe I’m simply appreciating the view. Maybe I’m waiting. Maybe I’m lost.”

“Liar,” she snapped. “You’re never lost. You track storms for sport. ”

He chuckled—an amused exhale, not a laugh. “Storms are honest. They don’t pretend to be thrones.”

Golden Cheese stepped closer. “You’re avoiding something. Or sensing something. And if you won’t tell me what it is, then—”

He raised a hand slowly. Not in warning, but in mock grandeur. “I’m doing nothing, Golden Cheese.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes glinting like scorched metal. “That’s the whole point.”

She stood there, tension rippling just beneath her skin. There was nothing she hated more than being out of control—and nothing he enjoyed more than reminding her how fragile control really was.

She wanted to shout. She wanted to drag him back to the palace by the collar and force whatever truth he was keeping from his throat.

Instead, she took a slow breath through her nose.

“If you’re playing with something dangerous,” she said, voice low, “and you get my kingdom burned in the process—”

He interrupted, soft and maddening. “Then you’ll put me down yourself, won't you?”

Her silence was answer enough.

He turned fully then, stepping toward her with slow, deliberate weight. Not threatening. Not mocking. Just... watching.

“Stay close, Empress,” he murmured. “You’ll want to see what happens next.”

The air shifted.

Burning Spice Cookie’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. The wind went still—no, not still. Held . As though the desert itself had taken a breath.

Golden Cheese felt it too.

A low rumble vibrated up through the stones beneath them, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Dust shook loose from the cliff face. Far below, a flock of cheezebirds scattered into the sun.

Burning Spice tilted his head back and let out a single, sharp whistle—low, resonant, and unnatural.

Golden Cheese Cookie’s wings flared. “ What did you just do. ”

He grinned, that maddening, tooth-bared grin that always spelled trouble. “Called the locals.”

She didn’t even have time to roll her eyes.

With a deafening roar and an explosion of sand, the earth erupted.

A massive creature tore from the ground—serpentine and vast, easily three stories high, plated in jagged chitin the color of sun-bleached bone. Its maw split open like a blooming flower, lined with concentric rings of jagged teeth, glowing faintly with heat and venom. It screamed—a sound like thunder dragged across stone—and the wind that followed nearly knocked Golden Cheese off her feet.

She staggered back. “ Are you insane?! ”

Burning Spice Cookie stood calmly, loincloth above his Dhoti flaring in the updraft, eyes alight with something dangerously close to joy. “There it is.”

“ You summoned a sandworm! ”

“Didn’t summon. I asked. It listened.”

It dove toward them, mouth gaping wide. In the blink of an eye, both Cookies scattered—Golden Cheese lifting into the air in a sharp vertical burst, wings cutting through the sky, while Burning Spice dashed across the stones below, leaving a scorched trail in his wake.

The worm slammed into the ridge where they’d stood. The earth shattered like brittle glass.

“I hate you,” Golden Cheese shouted, diving to hurl a barrage of glowing javelins at the beast’s flank. The golden constructs slammed into its hide and detonated in flashes of molten light—but the worm barely flinched.

“Likewise!” he called back cheerfully, gathering heat in his palms. Flames coiled along his arms, then launched forward in a searing arc. The worm reeled with a hiss, its flesh blistering, but still it lunged again—faster, angrier.

Golden Cheese swooped low, wings leaving golden aftertrails as she darted past the beast’s snapping jaws. “We need to blind it!”

Burning Spice was already moving, circling wide. “Draw it to me!”

She growled, but obeyed, darting past the creature’s head to gain its attention. It lunged again—this time, too slow. As its head rose, Burning Spice leapt high into the air, flame spiraling around him like a comet.

“ Burn. ”

He crashed down onto its skull in an eruption of fire, punching molten energy straight into its sensory ridges. The worm shrieked, convulsing, its head thrashing wildly.

Golden Cheese narrowed her eyes, golden light dancing at her fingertips. “Are you always this dramatic, or is this just for me?”

“I aim to please,” Burning Spice called back, grinning over his shoulder as he leapt off the worm’s head before its jaws could snap up at him. “Besides, you’d be bored without a little fire in your life!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffed, raising both hands. Ribbons of radiant energy spiraled upward, coalescing into a spear of golden brilliance. Her voice was taunting as she cooed. “I’ve had hotter.”

He barked a laugh. “Now that’s a lie.”

The sandworm surged upward again, massive jaws flaring open, a roar of wind and sand tumbling from its throat. For a moment, it nearly swallowed them both whole.

Golden Cheese dipped too low—sand and shockwaves threw her off-balance, and in the chaos, the worm’s tail swept toward her in a blur.

“ Tch— ”

She didn't see the flare of red until the last second.

Burning Spice blurred past her, catching the tail’s force with a wall of flame that sent him skidding back several meters. “Pay attention, Empress! You’ve got that whole ‘graceful ruler’ thing going for you, but it means nothing if you get flattened.”

She huffed, brushing grit from her cheek as she regained her footing. “And here I thought you liked it when I crumbled.”

“Oh, I do. But not when it ruins the view.”

She let out a short, incredulous breath. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I live for this,” he said, flames curling around his arms as he dashed forward again. “Besides, it’s nice to have a sparring partner that’s not made entirely of ego and smug one-liners.”

She followed him in, golden energy flaring in her wake. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however your imperial pride can stomach it.”

The worm roared again, lunging—this time at Burning Spice, who leapt, spun midair, and hurled a cascade of fire into its gaping maw. It reeled back, screeching, the inside of its throat alight.

Golden Cheese Cookie flew wide, circling to keep distance—but a second lunge came too soon.

The sandworm twisted unnaturally fast for a creature of its size. A spray of shattered stone erupted as its segmented body slammed into the cliff’s edge, the shockwave knocking her off balance midair. She faltered—just for a heartbeat—and the worm’s maw reared up beneath her, impossibly close.

Her wings flared to compensate, golden shields rising from reflex, but they weren’t enough. Not fast enough. Not this time.

“Watch yourself, Empress!” came a sharp bark of amusement.

Fire exploded across the worm’s flank as Burning Spice Cookie tore up the ridge behind her, flinging a blast of compressed flame at the creature’s side. It screamed and reeled back once more, smoke hissing from the scorched plates.

Golden Cheese twisted in midair, regaining control, brows furrowed in frustrated grace. “I had it.”

“You were about to be had by it , you mean!” he said with a grin, planting his feet in the sand as flame crackled along his arms. “There’s a difference, if you couldn’t tell.”

She swooped low, conjuring another wave of radiant javelins. “You think destruction is some glorious sport—”

“It is ,” he cut in, hurling another blast at the worm’s open flank. His words, as sharp as her spears, lunged next. “Better than clinging to a crumbling empire of false plenty.”

“Excuse me?!” Her eyes flashed with part rage, part sadness, covered in fury. “Better than setting the world ablaze just to watch it scream? To what—entertain you!?”

The worm surged forward again, interrupted only by another explosive spear of golden light erupting at its side.

“You build palaces of gold to distract from rot,” he snapped between strikes, ducking as the worm’s tail tore past him. “Tell me, how many hollow halls have you filled just to feel powerful again?”

She didn’t answer. Her next strike—a whip-crack arc of burning radiance—spoke for her, slicing through one of the worm’s sensory tendrils and leaving behind molten flesh.

“And you?” she shouted back, hovering just above his shoulder. “How long can you burn before you’re just ash in the wind, no kingdom, no kin, no name?”

His laugh rang out like flint meeting steel.

“That’s the point, my canary . Fire doesn’t need a name.”

The worm shrieked again.

Golden Cheese saw her opening.

She summoned a golden spear—twice the length of her arm, forged of pure, condensed brilliance mixed with fury—and with one clean, elegant motion, hurled it straight through the worm’s gaping maw.

The spear hit true.

With a final, keening wail, the beast collapsed—half-buried in the sand it once ruled, heat rising in waves from its carcass.

Silence fell.

Dust drifted down. The wind returned.

Golden Cheese hovered for a long moment, panting, her golden glow flickering faintly.

The impact was blinding. The beast gave a final, gurgled cry—then collapsed, its titanic form crashing to the earth in a cloud of burning dust.

Silence followed. Wind. Heat. The hiss of cooling flame.

Golden Cheese landed beside the carcass, her chest rising and falling. Her wings folded in tight.

“You’re reckless,” she muttered, not even looking at him.

“And you’re too careful,” he countered, still smiling. “That’s why it works.”

Burning Spice Cookie stood at the base of the corpse, arms crossed, smirking up at her.

“Well,” he said casually. “Wasn’t that invigorating?”

She descended, slow and graceful, landing with just enough force to send sand flying at his boots. “You knew it was here. And you called it. ”

He shrugged. “I was curious. And bored.”

She took a long breath, straightened her posture, and dusted off a bit of ash from her sleeve.

“Next time,” she said coldly, “warn me before summoning giant cookie-eating death worms.”

“No promises,” he said, grinning.

She turned her back to him, wings folding neatly, though her voice remained razor-sharp. “I should let it eat you next time.”

Behind her, he chuckled.

But neither of them walked away just yet.

The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows across the worm’s carcass, turning bloodied sand into shades of rust and bronze.

Golden Cheese’s hands settled at her hips, silent for a moment too long. Then:

“You meant what you said.” Her tone was deceptively calm, but it cut clean as obsidian. “Back there. About rot. About hollow halls.”

Burning Spice didn’t answer right away. He knelt briefly to scoop a handful of sand, letting it sift between his fingers like scorched silk.

“I meant most of it,” he said at last. “Though you’d fight better if you were angry.”

She turned slightly, her golden eyes narrowing. “ You provoked me on purpose? ”

“Of course I did.” He rose and dusted his hands off, flame still faint on his fingertips. “You fight too clean when you’re thinking. Too measured. You get lost in the angles and legacies and appearances.”

She bristled. “That’s called discipline. It’s called strategy. Not all of us flail through combat like dragons in heat.”

“And yet,” he mused, stepping around the worm’s body to meet her gaze again, “when you were cornered, you hesitated. You —the Empress who once called down storms of gold to defend her empire. I had to remind you.”

Golden Cheese glared, hard and glittering. But behind it, a sliver of truth wormed its way in. A hesitation she’d felt. A moment of falter.

“I didn’t need your help,” she said, less certain this time.

“No,” he agreed, smiling faintly. “But you needed the push.”

She didn’t answer immediately. The silence stretched between them—hot, tight, as though the air itself was listening.

At last, she exhaled. “You’re insufferable.”

“I try,” he replied, mock-bowing. “It’s a talent.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back toward the ruined horizon, wings twitching once as she finally caught her breath.

"Why are you here, exactly?” she asked at last, over her shoulder.

He gave no answer, just stared at the falling sun like it might offer one for him.

The quiet stretched.

Golden Cheese Cookie didn’t move, wings poised like folded blades. Her voice, when it came, was airy—almost idle.

“If you’re so bored, ” she said, “why not make yourself useful? The cheezebirds are trying to rebuild the lower temple.”

Burning Spice Cookie didn’t even flinch. “You want me to stack bricks with squawking pigeons?”

She smiled faintly. “You did summon a sandworm in their general direction.”

“It was already near,” he said lazily, arms crossed, his grin as casual as ever. “I just gave it a nudge.”

Golden Cheese Cookie scoffed under her breath, half-turning to face him again. “A nudge, he says.” Her tone dripped with amusement, but her golden eyes shimmered with something more pointed—thoughtful, even wary.

She studied him for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her gaze flicking down—deliberately—to the Souljam resting on him. “And what are you nudging now? The Souljam of Destruction?” Her voice had lost some of its teasing lilt, sharpening just enough to cut. She hadn’t known why she suddenly changed the topic— perhaps it's because the other has already lowered his guard, lowered enough to talk. “You wear it like a trophy.”

He didn’t reply immediately. His grin faltered—only slightly—but it was enough for her to catch.

Her gaze didn’t waver. “It wasn’t always called that, you know.”

He scoffed. “Spare me the history lesson.”

“It used to be the Souljam of Change. ” Her tone sharpened slightly, slipping past his indifference like a needle. “Before the world decided to call it something else. Before you did.”

That got his attention. Briefly, his eyes flicked to her, jaw tightening. “Change is just destruction with better marketing.”

“And abundance is just emptiness with glitter, is that it?” she said coolly. “Funny. I thought you, of all Cookies, would recognize the difference.”

He turned fully now, expression a mix of annoyance and something colder—older. “The world burns whether you plan for it or not, Empress. I’ve merely stopped pretending to stop it. Aid it even.”

“And yet here you are,” she said, her voice silk over steel. “Lurking at the edge of every blaze you claim to love. Close enough to scorch, never far enough to leave. Tell me—what is it you’re waiting for, Burning Spice ? A reason to stay, or an excuse to run?”

He didn’t answer, but the flame at his shoulders flared subtly.

She pressed on, gentle, coaxing—but surgical. “You could descend that hill and turn the stones back upright with a flick of your hand. Show the birds how to shape fire into scaffolds. Melt the broken copper into supports.”

He laughed, abrupt and humorless. “And become a builder now? What’s next—herbal tea with the Faeries? Singing lullabies to wounded Doughlings?”

She stepped closer. “You already destroyed it once, didn’t you?”

His mouth twitched.

“Perhaps you owe them a roof.”

The wind shifted. The burnt air still reeked of sulfur and scorched feathers.

“Careful,” he said, low. “You’re starting to sound like someone who thinks redemption is real.”

“Careful,” she echoed smoothly, her grin matched his during combat, “you’re starting to sound like someone who wants it.”

For a long time, neither of them moved. Neither of them blinked.

Then, with a groan like it physically pained him, Burning Spice Cookie finally exhaled and turned his gaze to the distant temple ruins below.

“I’m not hauling rocks,” he muttered.

“Of course not,” Golden Cheese replied, already smirking. “You're far too important for that. Just melt the sand into glass pillars and terrify a few forebirds into order. They'll get the message.”

He gave her a sharp look. “You’re mocking me.”

She raised her cup—half-dusted with ash, somehow still regal—and sipped. “Only a little.”

Another moment passed. Then, slowly, grudgingly, Burning Spice Cookie began to descend the slope toward the smoldering remnants of the temple.

Golden Cheese watched him go, her gaze unreadable.

A whisper of victory curled at the corners of her mouth.

But she said nothing. Not yet.

…

The sun hung low now, casting molten rays across the broken temple and its scattered copper bones. The cheezebirds had long since abandoned the lower court, frightened off by smoke and flame and the residual tremor of the worm’s passing.

And yet—amid the wreckage—he worked.

Burning Spice Cookie knelt, palm pressed to the scorched earth. With a motion both violent and elegant, he sliced his hand across the sand and watched it hiss and solidify into sheets of amber-hued glass. Pillars followed—fluid strokes of heat sculpting form from ash. Sharp angles, strange symmetry. Not quite how it was before, but strong. Brutal. Lasting.

Golden Cheese watched from a distance, her arms folded, eyes narrowing with something unreadable.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she said after a pause.

He didn’t glance up. “Don’t sound so shocked. I know how to make things.”

‘Before you learned how to unmake them.’ She stepped closer, wings tucked in, gaze lingering on the strange precision of his structures—how the glass and copper seemed almost to hum in harmony.

“You’ve always talked as if creation disgusted you.”

“Only when it’s dishonest,” he said, rising. “You build something pretty just to mask a rot underneath—pretend things are whole when they’re not. That kind of creation? I’d rather burn it.”

Her jaw tightened slightly. “Not everything beautiful is a lie.”

“No,” he agreed, brushing soot from his gloves. “But everything pretending not to decay is.”

She stared at him. The way his molten fire curled beneath his skin like veins. The way the pillars behind him cast cathedral-like shadows on the dust.

“What do you see when you look at life, then?” she asked, quieter now.

“Everything born is fated to die. That’s the truth of it—change is the only law. “ He turned toward her, eyes glowing dim like embers banked under ash. “Heat, pressure, collapse, rebirth... over and over. Nothing lasts. All this change, and yet—this cycle? It never changes. That’s the irony, isn’t it? The only thing eternal... is ruin remade. Yourself is proof of that, no?”

Golden Cheese said nothing. Her expression was unreadable.

He stepped closer. “You don’t disagree. You just wear nicer gold over your wounds.”

Her lips parted—ready to refute him. But nothing came.

Instead, her gaze drifted to the half-finished arch behind him, glowing faintly in the evening light. It was rough, mismatched. And still, it stood.

“You speak of collapse with such reverence,” she said. “As if to burn is always to purify.”

“And you speak of abundance as if it's endless,” he returned, “as if it doesn't crush with its own weight when left unchecked.”

They stood across from each other, flame and brilliance, both shimmering with power—and something dangerously similar under the surface.

“I built the empire because I believed in what could grow,” she murmured.

“And I burned empires because I saw what festered inside them.”

The wind stirred. Dust curled around their feet.

She looked away first. Not out of defeat—but out of discomfort. A crack. The thought forming quietly beneath her ribs:

We are too alike.

When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “It frightens me. How much sense you make.”

Burning Spice Cookie smirked—though not triumphantly.

“It should.”

And then, with a lazy wave of his hand, another column rose behind him—arched glass glowing like dusklight caught in molten crystal.

He turned away, footsteps slow.

Golden Cheese didn’t follow. Not yet.

She simply watched as the one who claimed to worship destruction wove structures into the ruins, shaping the wreckage of war into something new.

And she shuddered—quietly—because for one terrible, brilliant moment… she almost understood him.

She shook her head and followed despite her better judgment, despite every instinct screaming that closeness with him was not only dangerous, but damning.

Her voice, when it came, was sharp enough to flay. “You speak like a martyr, Burn. Like fire is noble because it burns clean.”

He didn’t stop walking, but his head tilted slightly, catching her tone.

She continued after a small hum. “They’re just... what’s left when you’ve run out of reasons to build.”

He didn’t stop walking. But his head tilted—just slightly—as if her words struck a nerve he hadn’t realized was exposed.

Encouraged by his silence, she pressed forward, her golden voice laced with venom and something more brittle beneath it.
“Destruction is easy. Collapse doesn’t take wisdom, only force. You call yourself the Herald of Change, but you only ever show up for the fall. Never the aftermath. Never the hard parts. You see a crumbling pillar and tear down the whole temple. Is that change? Or cowardice?”

A long pause.

The wind stirred dust between them. The last light of day glinted off her wings, turning them almost sharp.

“You think I’m a coward,” he said at last, voice low, each word falling with weight. “You don’t know even the tip of what I’ve endured.”

“I think you’re afraid,” she replied. “Afraid that if you ever stayed long enough to build, to plant roots, to try —you’d prove yourself wrong. That maybe the world doesn’t need to burn just to be reborn. That maybe... fire isn’t always the cure.”

He turned to her now, fully. No more restraint in his posture. The air around him shimmered—not with rage, but with the density of everything he wasn’t saying.

“You gild your empire in abundance,” he said. “But I’ve seen what grows unchecked in endless wealth. Decay. Greed. Lies lacquered in gold. You call me afraid—but you built a paradise that collapsed the moment you stopped looking.”

She flinched, ever so slightly. But her chin lifted, defiant.

“That’s why I fight to rebuild it. To make it better.”

“You rebuild it in your image,” he said, stepping closer. “And expect the world to thank you for it.”

His voice dropped, quieter—more dangerous for its softness.

“You speak of courage like it’s forging temples. But I’ve stood in temples while the screams echoed through the stone. I’ve seen kings beg for mercy when they realized their dreams were just monuments to themselves. I’ve watched beauty rot. Over and over.”

“And you think that gives you the right to burn it all down?” she shot back, wings flaring.

“I think it gives me the eyes to see what’s already dying.”

They stood, breathless, heat and gold clashing in the failing light. Two halves of a shattered ideal.

He looked at her—not with scorn, but something heavier.

“You think fire is a final act. But it’s not. It’s a beginning. It destroys, yes—but it clears the rot. Makes way for something that might survive next time.”

“And if there is no next time?” she asked. “If all we do is burn and burn until nothing’s left?”

Burning Spice Cookie stared at her for a long moment. Then, with a voice that cracked like a fissure opening in stone, he said:

“Then maybe nothing deserved to last in the first place.”

A hush.

“You know,” she said at last, tone brittle and sugar-dipped with disdain, “it’s convenient. Preaching collapse, calling it fate—when you've never had to build something from love. Only from rage.”

That stopped him. Dead in his tracks.

Golden Cheese Cookie took a few more steps, standing just behind his shoulder, golden light curling at her fingertips.

“I had to bleed for what I built,” she continued, voice low. “But at least I didn’t hide behind destruction and call it philosophy.”

His shoulders rose, breath pulling in tight. Then he turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Do you think you suffered, Empress?” His mouth twitched—not a smile, something bitterer. “You had to watch one kingdom fall. One golden dream shattered beneath your pride.”

He stepped toward her now, the heat rippling around him—not boiling, but pressurized , like lava beneath rock.

“I watched hundreds , Golden Cheese Cookie. Hundreds of kingdoms fall. Some by my hand. Some, despite everything I tried to stop.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Not yet.

He laughed, but there was nothing joyful in it. “You think that kind of ruin doesn't cling to you? You think being the Herald of Change is a choice? When every empire rots in your shadow—whether you burn it down or not?”

Golden Cheese’s jaw set, wings taut behind her. “So this is pity, then?”

“No,” he snapped. “It’s unfairness.” 

His voice cracked like dry kindling. “You built something once and now drape yourself in regret as if it makes you wise. But I—” He paused, shoulders trembling as his fists clenched on his side. “I’ve lived through endings you couldn’t comprehend. Again and again. Always watching. Always blamed.”

He looked her in the eyes, and for the first time, there was no fire.
Only a deep, old grief.
And something else—something tired.

“Did you not think how many times I begged for them to take me instead?” In the midst of the quietness of the hall, a singular drop was heard. Echoed. “For them to destroy me, to make me feel every bit of everything I had failed for it was the most deserving punishment?”

Above them, the moon hung swollen and pale, cloaked in a thin veil of ash-kissed clouds. It looked almost indifferent in its glow, as if it had seen this before—this clash, this pain, these broken gods of sugar and soul. A witness to the fall of kingdoms and the rise of pride, over and over again.

Burning Spice Cookie turned his gaze toward it, his voice suddenly rising—not to her, but to the sky itself.

“Why?” he demanded, bitter and cracked like scorched earth. “Why does she rise while I fall?”

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling—not from fury, but from the unbearable weight of remembrance.

“I bore your will!” he growled, stepping forward, as if daring the moon to answer. “I carried your curse. I changed what needed changing. I watched kingdoms burn—not for power, not for glory—but because no one else would.”

His voice dropped then, hoarse.
“I have never asked to survive.”

Golden Cheese stood behind him, still. The wind brushed past her wings, fluttering the folds of her silks, but she said nothing.

Burning Spice Cookie looked down at his hands—scarred, ember-lit, shaped more for ruin than redemption.

“She ruled one kingdom,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “Fell once. Just once. And the world lets her rise again… praised for rebuilding what she broke.”

He turned to her now, and there was nothing playful in him. Only raw, unshelled anguish.

“I watched my world fall hundreds of times. And each time, they looked to me as if I had held the torch to it. When so many times I had tried to save it. ”

Then, after a long pause, he asked—low, desperate:

“…If the soul that breaks the world is the same one that tries to mend it… which half deserves to be remembered?”

He looked her in the eyes, and for the first time, there was no fire. Only a deep, old grief.
And something else—something tired.

“…Tell me, Golden Cheese,” he asked quietly, “does a cookie like me even deserve anything else? After all that?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Because in that moment, he wasn’t just fury and flame. He wasn’t even wrath. He was consequence. 

And for once, she didn’t have an answer wrapped in honeyed gold.

The silence between them stretched. Heavy. Grit-laced. The moon bore down on them like an old, uncaring god. Amidst said silence, their souljams hummed, beated. Thump, thump, thump.

Then—he laughed.

A low, bitter sound scraped raw from somewhere deeper than his core. Not loud, not mocking. Just… tired. A laugh without mirth, the kind one lets out when the only thing left is the edge of the truth.

He shook his head slowly, his back to her now.

“Of course you don’t have an answer,” he muttered. “You never needed one.”

He took a step forward, toward the cliff’s edge where the wind bit colder.

“You were made to shine. To be loved. To fall once and rise to applause. They wrote forgiveness into your story before you ever had to ask for it.”

Another step. He didn’t look back.

“But me?” he said, voice sharp now—sliced clean and cruel. “They made me a warning. A beast once I measly made my first own decision and not one written by fate!”

He turned his head just enough for the moonlight to catch his profile—shadow and flicker, all smoke and fracture.

“Hah, funny, isn’t it?” he said, tone turning to ash. “How I was never given a lesson instead of banishment?”

The light of change hummed. Abundance gently whispered ‘Abandonment’ 

Then he was gone—just like that. Swallowed by distance, swallowed by the dark.

And all that remained in the cold, still air was the ghost of his words. And the ache of a truth too old to bury

…

The air still trembled where he’d stood—his form fading into shadow, his voice hanging like smoke in the cold night.

Made to shine.

Loved.

Forgiven before the fall.

She closed her eyes, the memory of his bitter laughter carving into her like a blade. How easy it had been for her—one kingdom lost, one failure to bear—and still, the world waited, patient and kind, to see her rise again.

Does he envy me? The thought pricked sharply, unwelcome. Or was it something darker—resentment? A bitter truth she hadn’t dared name.

And yet… she could build. She could fight to mend what was broken.

Could he? Or had he truly become the endless ruin he claimed to be?

Her fingers tightened around the rim of an invisible cup, the taste of ash bitter on her tongue.

If he is consequence… then what am I?

Mercy? Forgiveness?

Her empire of light, of golden abundance—what was it but a fragile promise? A tapestry woven from hope and regret, always at risk of unraveling.

The moon watched silently, a pale sentinel to their tangled fates.

And in the silence, Golden Cheese knew—some questions weren’t meant to be answered. Only lived through.

Golden Cheese wandered through the restless night, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone path. Had it been hours or minutes since she left the temple? She couldn’t say—time felt fractured, slipping through her fingers like grains of sugar. Her mind churned with half-formed thoughts, sharp and bitter like cracked caramel. Somewhere, in the quiet of the dark, the weight of their last conversation pressed on her chest, refusing to let go.

Her steps led her to the very few remnants of her kingdom’s history. The tapestry of abundance, of wealth and greed shared amongst her and her subjects.

Then, without warning, she saw him—Burning Spice—standing still beneath the familiar archway where the moonlight pooled like liquid silver. He said nothing. The silence between them was heavier than any words could be.

Golden Cheese scoffed, folding her arms, her pride like armor against the ache inside. She refused to soften, refused to apologize; she hadn't needed to anyway, for feeling anything less than betrayed.

Her voice cut through the silence, crisp and deliberate.

“Explain it to me.”

She tilted her head, eyes sharp, unapologetic.

“How easy was it, exactly? To lose everything—your kingdom, your people—and still be allowed to rise again? To be forgiven before the ash even settled? Tell me, what’s it like to carry regret as a crown, instead of a chain?”

For a long moment, Burning Spice said nothing. His gaze dropped, flickering like a dying ember, then slowly lifted, dark and fierce.

“You want to know how easy it was?” he began, his voice low, almost measured. But beneath the calm, a flicker of something restless stirred.

“It wasn’t easy. Hah, it’s never been easy.” His eyes locked onto hers, and the quiet between them thickened, tightening like coiled steel. “I’ve borne the weight of every kingdom that fell—by my hand or by fate’s cruel design—each ruin a scar I carry beneath the ash.”

He took a slow step forward, the fire in his voice growing, burning brighter.

“Every scream that echoed through the ruins, every dream turned to dust—it’s all branded into me.”

The anger was no longer contained; it rippled through him, raw and bitter.

“I am not some noble flame that cleanses and renews. I am the ruin you fear, the collapse beneath your gilded towers.”

He paused, breathing ragged but unyielding, his eyes searching hers—not for mercy, but for truth.

“You think I don’t know pain? You think I haven’t watched everything I loved, burn? Over and over, until the ashes swallow the light?”

Golden Cheese’s breath hitched, her walls trembling for a heartbeat, but she held steady, voice sharp and unyielding.

“So what then?” she pressed, voice colder now. “If you carry all this—this endless ruin—what are you fighting for, Burning Spice? If not for the chance to build something new?”

The moon’s pale gaze seemed to hold them both in its quiet witness, the night stretching thin between them, fragile as spun sugar. “Why do you linger? If you are the ruin, why are you still here, still fighting?”

“Because the world won’t stop burning, no matter how many times it falls.” Burning Spice’s mouth twitched in a bitter, humorless smile. “Because change doesn’t stop. And neither do I. Nothing is eternal, and yet I am.”

a pause, letting the insinuation curl around them before he continued.

“Don’t think I haven’t tried.”

His voice was rougher now—like old embers stirred to life.

“I tried to walk away. Tried to be something else. To stay still, settle down, be at peace. I tried silence. I tried hope. I tried destroying change entirely! ” His lip curled faintly. “Didn’t stick.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch her reflection in the moonlight. “It never leaves, you know. The knowing. That whatever you build, someone like me will be called when it ends. Maybe not to break. But to be there when it breaks.”

His hands clenched loosely at his sides, glowing faintly under the skin.
“I've tried to save what I could. I’ve tried to stop the collapse. But the truth is... I show up, and the world’s already halfway gone.”

He finally looked at her, and for a moment, his fire dimmed—just enough to see the scar beneath the flame.

“Do you think I wanted this? To be the one they name when things fall apart? I wasn’t born to destroy. I was made to change. But no one tells you that change doesn’t always look like growth.”

Golden Cheese said nothing at first. The wind caught in her golden silk, her wings still as stone. There was no victory in his admission, no power in watching him come undone. Only the cold, sharp sting of truth pressed too close to her own.

Burning Spice turned from her without ceremony.

No final word. No parting glare. Just the soft grind of his boots against sand and stone, fading steadily with each step into the moon-silvered dark.

Golden Cheese stood frozen in place, the chill of the night finally finding her skin. She opened her mouth—then shut it. Pride tasted bitter now, like metal on her tongue. She hated this. She hated not knowing what to say.

But the words clawed out anyway.

“Burning Spice.”

He slowed.

Did not turn.

Just the silhouette of a back framed in silver, the line of his shoulders rigid, barely breathing.

“I…” She hesitated, wings twitching against her spine. “I’m sorry.”

The pause that followed stretched, taut and brittle.

Then, his voice—low and tired, but still edged like a blade left too long in the fire.

“No, you’re not.”

That made her flinch.

He tilted his head slightly, though not enough to show his face. “You’re sorry because I cracked. Because I bled in front of you. And now it feels wrong not to offer something in return.”

Golden Cheese’s voice came softer now. “You think that’s all I am? You think that lowly of me?”

“I think you don’t know what it means to carry a wound you never stop bleeding from,” he said, tone dark as embered earth. “And I think you hate that I made you see it.”

The silence between them trembled like glass.

“I don’t deserve a sorry,” he added, almost to himself. “Not from you. Not from anyone.”

Chapter Text

Shadow Milk Cookie lingered within the gloom of his quarters—both a physical shadow cast across the stone and a deeper, more persistent shadow that clung to his thoughts. He had folded himself into the farthest corner of the rooftop alcove, where the light of day dared only to glance before recoiling. The sun had risen hours ago, but here, beneath the overhang of crumbling stone and thick curtains of silence, it felt like dusk had settled permanently.

Sleep had never been a necessity for him, not in the conventional sense. He had lived countless years without it, subsisting on the rhythm of knowledge, the pulse of secrets, the silent hum of ever-turning thought. Still, there were moments like this when the idea of sleep—a dreamless, undisturbed reprieve—seemed not like weakness, but mercy. A surrender, he would not mind offering himself.

But he couldn’t.

There was something wrong. He felt it in his sugar, in the way his limbs twitched with phantom tension, as if being pulled by strings he had not agreed to. Something foreign crawled just beneath the surface of his dough, threading itself through the core of his magic like a splinter in glass. It did not hurt, not in any way he could define—yet it unsettled him more than pain ever had. His power, once an extension of his will, no longer moved with him but around him, resisting touch like an animal turned feral.

He had once held the sum of all knowledge. Omniscience was not just a crown he wore—it had been part of his essence, his structure, a lightless star burning behind his eyes. Even now, stripped of its full force, traces of that all-seeing clarity still echoed within him. He could still follow thoughts like rivers, still predict the turns of conversations before they were spoken, still sense truths others had yet to consider.

But not this.

Try as he might to categorize, to classify, to name the sensation unraveling inside him, he could not. He could file no logic to it, no equation or historical precedent, no prophetic whisper tucked between the lines of ancient scripture. That was what unnerved him the most. The unknown was a thing he had once owned.

And now, it stood before him, faceless.

His hands curled slightly, not into fists, but into something more uncertain—tight enough to ache, loose enough to tremble. The corners of the room stretched longer in his gaze, as though the darkness itself was inching forward to embrace him.

He did not speak. He had no words to give to this presence.

And that silence— that was what frightened him.
It was not just him.

Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but undeniable. The change wasn’t loud or dramatic; it whispered rather than roared, creeping beneath the usual noise of wind, leaves, and distant bells. A scent lingered in it, faint and elusive, like the ghost of a place long abandoned. It was familiar . That was the strangest part. It curled at the edges of his awareness like the echo of a dream half-remembered—just enough to stir discomfort, but never enough to name.

His senses strained, reaching not outward but inward, toward the lattice of memories still buried in his core. No answer came. No definition. Just a gnawing certainty.

As if the very life in nature had breathed something out—something old, something watching. The breeze that slipped through the cracked windowpanes no longer felt empty. It felt intentional . Observed. And though he had grown used to the silence of this rebuilt kingdom, this was different.

He had once walked among celestial threads, seen the patterns of fate woven in their first draft. He knew how the world whispered before it screamed. And now, it was whispering again.

The word surfaced in his thoughts before he could stop it:

Guardians.

He had not thought of them in years. Not in such a direct way. Not since the days when old forces moved like tides beneath the world, silent custodians of balance and destruction alike. Why his mind clung to that term, he could not say—but it lodged in him with the certainty of instinct, of prophecy not yet spoken.

It was a sign.

Whatever had stirred beneath the crust of last month’s war—the clash that had nearly broken them—had not settled. It had only started. The silence that followed had not been peace, but a pause. A breath held before the plunge.

He dragged a hand over his face, fingers cool against his temple. The air felt thinner now. He no longer trusted it. Something ancient was watching, testing the weight of their resolve.

And for once, Shadow Milk Cookie had no answer ready.

Too much in his thoughts that Shadow Milk did not hear the fourth call of his name, the figure looking around the room.

He scoffed—quietly, bitterly—as Pure Vanilla’s presence brushed against the edges of his sanctum, an almost laughable attempt at subtlety. Footsteps too soft, aura too loud. As if he wouldn’t notice.

Had he even knocked? Of course not. The gall. The intrusion. Was this disregard for boundaries some cherished tradition among the nobles of the Vanilla Kingdom?

Shadow Milk Cookie did not bother to rise from the shadows, only let his voice ripple out like oil across still water.

“Truly disappointing,” he murmured, each syllable dripping with amused venom.

The sudden flinch that followed—oh, that was satisfying.

“You stumble about like a lost novice,” he drawled, as Pure Vanilla turned sharply toward the sound. “And without the decency to announce yourself. Tell me—are manners no longer taught in your pristine halls, or were you simply born without them?”

He emerged just enough for his shape to distort the gloom, his eyes catching the light in a way that made them seem carved from something ancient and unblinking.

“Interrupting my sleep,” he went on, tone colder now, more deliberate, “is not the sort of offense I overlook lightly… even if sleep, for me, is a courtesy I grant myself only in times of peace.”

A pause. A smile—sharp, not kind.

“And you’ve just reminded me we are not in such times.”

Pure Vanilla Cookie took a slow breath, steadying himself beneath the weight of Shadow Milk’s words. 

“I apologize,” he said softly, his voice a balm against the cold. “You’re right. I should have knocked.”

His gaze searched the shadows, not with suspicion, but with something far more earnest— worry , yes, but also a quiet, aching familiarity.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. I only…” He hesitated, choosing his words with care. “You’ve been distant. More than usual. And after everything—we haven’t spoken. Not truly. I thought… I feared something might be wrong.”

“Hmn.”

His hands remained at his sides, open, unthreatening. He knew better than to chase shadows—they only fled further when cornered. Still, there was something unshakable in the warmth of his presence, a constant in a world that had changed far too much.

“I can leave,” he offered gently, though his voice didn’t waver. “If you wish. But I would rather stay—if only to know you’re alright.”

A low, amused exhale slipped from Shadow Milk Cookie—half scoff, half sigh. He remained cloaked in the corner of the room, his figure half-swallowed by the darkness, as though the shadows themselves welcomed him like an old friend.

“How noble,” he drawled, voice curling like smoke through the air. “A king creeping through corridors… driven by concern , of all things.”

Pure Vanilla Cookie paused, letting the words settle. “Would you have preferred I sent someone else?” he asked quietly.

Shadow Milk tilted his head, the gleam of his eyes catching the faintest shard of light. “No, no—this is far more entertaining,” he said. “You, all robed in virtue and light, worried sick over me. Me , of all Cookies.”

“I worry because I care,” Pure Vanilla replied, not flinching. “You’ve been silent. Shut away. You don’t look well.”

“Ah,” Shadow Milk sighed, melodramatic and cold, “so I must be unraveling for you to finally grace me with your attention.” His voice dripped sarcasm, but it didn’t quite mask the ache buried deep beneath. “Or has your concern simply become another duty? Right alongside ribbon-cuttings, smiling politely at nobles, and carrying the unbearable weight of peace?”

“I didn’t come here out of obligation,” Pure Vanilla said, stepping closer, slowly, cautiously. “You’re not an appointment in my schedule. I came because I haven’t seen you— really seen you—since the battle ended. And because I know what silence like this can mean.”

Shadow Milk let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. “Spare me your shining sympathy,” he hissed. “You speak as though I’m a wounded creature you need to nurse back to grace.”

“I speak to you as someone who knows what it’s like to carry too much alone.”

That made Shadow Milk pause—just briefly, just enough for the mask to flicker.

Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he melted further into the shadows. “If it soothes your royal guilt, then stay,” he muttered. “Watch. Study me. Whisper your private concerns to the council afterward.”

“I’m not here to fix you,” Pure Vanilla said simply. “I just want to be here. If you’ll let me.”

Shadow Milk’s smile returned, sharp and tired. “Then do me one favor, won’t you?” he murmured. “Don’t pity me out loud. It grates.”

“I don’t pity you,” Pure Vanilla said, almost a whisper.

The room seemed to breathe, long and slow. Shadow Milk Cookie did not answer at first. The flicker in his expression—too brief for most to notice—passed like a ripple through still water.

Pure Vanilla continued, gently. “There’s something I meant to bring up… I received an invitation from Blueberry Yogurt Academy. They’re unveiling a new library wing. The headmistress asked me to attend, maybe say a few words.” He paused, then added, “I thought… it might be good for both of us. To get away from this place for a while.”

At the name, the air shifted.

Shadow Milk’s posture didn’t change, but something behind his eyes narrowed—slightly, sharply. The darkness around him seemed to still, as though listening.

“…Blueberry Yogurt Academy,” he repeated, slowly, like an old incantation. “Hmph.”

There was a long, thin silence.

“I didn’t expect you to know it,” Pure Vanilla said, his voice light with honest humility. “It’s rather secluded. But they’ve been trying to reestablish themselves after the war. Rebuilding. Reinventing. I suppose that’s why they reached out to someone like me.”

Shadow Milk’s smile was faint, tight. “Yes,” he said. “Reinvention. They’re good at that.”

“You’ve… heard of it?” Pure Vanilla asked, almost cautiously.

Shadow Milk tilted his head, not quite looking at him. His voice was casual, but layered—like glass hiding a fire. “Only in passing. Little whispers here and there.”

Pure Vanilla nodded, thoughtful. “I always imagined it as a quiet place. Scholarly. Gentle. A place for young minds to grow without fear.” His eyes flicked toward Shadow Milk. “I thought it might be… refreshing.”

Shadow Milk gave a soft, humorless chuckle. “Refreshing,” he echoed, the word strange on his tongue. “Yes. I suppose it might be.”

He didn’t speak of the stone that formed the Academy’s foundation—stone he had summoned himself. He didn’t mention the echo of his voice that still haunted the highest halls, or the star-carved sigil he had etched above the library doors in another lifetime.

No one remembered that part. Not anymore.

“I’m not asking you to be part of the ceremony,” Pure Vanilla added. “You can keep to the shadows if you prefer. I just… didn’t want to go alone.”

Shadow Milk looked at him, truly looked at him, and something unreadable passed between them.

“You have a gift, a raw talent of annoyingness…” he murmured, “for convincing.”

Pure Vanilla blinked. “Should I take that as a yes?”

Shadow Milk leaned back into the gloom, voice soft. “If I go, it won’t be for the yogurt.”

“I’ll bring tea,” Pure Vanilla said with a small smile.

Another silence passed, but it was gentler this time.

Shadow Milk stared toward the far wall, where memory lingered like dust on old portraits. He didn’t correct him. Didn’t reveal what the headmistress surely had forgotten. Didn’t mention that he had walked those halls long before the world ever knew the name Blueberry Yogurt —when it was only stone, silence, and a dream carved into stars.

Let them call it reinvention.

He would go.

As the silence stretched, calm but strange, Pure Vanilla shifted ever so slightly—uncertain whether the moment had passed or merely transformed.

“I was also thinking…” he began slowly, watching Shadow Milk from the corner of his gaze, “while we’re at the library… perhaps we could look into new methods of reinforcement.”

Shadow Milk’s gaze flicked toward him, cool and unreadable.

Pure Vanilla pressed on, voice measured, gentle. “The Moonstone Crystal… its seal won’t hold forever. We both know that. I’ve tried every holy binding I’m permitted to perform under the Ethical Code, but she was never bound by light to begin with. She was born out of something older, darker.”

Shadow Milk said nothing, though his stillness deepened.

“I thought,” Pure Vanilla continued, “perhaps something more… ancient. Archaic. Like the Silver Tree.”

The room chilled, subtly—but unmistakably. Not in temperature, but in air. Something bristled around the edges of the walls, like the shadows themselves tensed, listening.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. Controlled. “So you want to plant another tree of purity to chain down the void?”

Pure Vanilla blinked, caught off guard by the phrasing. “That’s not what I meant. Not exactly.”

Shadow Milk rose, slowly, letting his limbs stretch into form as if the darkness reluctantly released him. His face remained neutral, but his tone sharpened, each syllable cut with glass.

“You think there’s a scroll buried in that library with instructions on how to lock away something like her?” His eyes glinted. “Perhaps beside a guidebook titled ‘How to Redeem a Tyrant in Ten Easy Spells.’ ”

“I don’t expect redemption,” Pure Vanilla replied, calm but unwavering. 

“Oh,” Not giving her a second chance~? Not sparing her of your kindness?”

“—I only want to ensure she doesn’t rise again. Not while we’re still recovering from the last war.”

Shadow Milk turned away, but not before something flickered behind his eyes. A memory. A ruin. Something too old to speak aloud.

“You speak of the Silver Tree as if it were flawless,” he said, voice lower now, threads of bitterness coiled beneath it. “But you forget what it cost to grow it. What was buried beneath its roots.”

Pure Vanilla took a breath, quiet and long. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“You weren’t there,” Shadow Milk replied, not unkindly—but with the finality of someone who has lived through what others only imagine. “You saw the blossoms. I saw the soil.”

The silence returned, but not cold this time. Not cutting. Just... quiet.

“I’m not asking for another Silver Tree,” Pure Vanilla said, softly. “I’m only saying we may need a new way forward. One that neither of us can find alone.”

Shadow Milk didn’t respond right away. His gaze drifted to the dark window, where a sliver of moonlight struggled to pierce the clouds.

“Blueberry Yogurt Academy has more than books,” he said at last, almost to himself. “It has echoes.”

“And perhaps,” Pure Vanilla offered, “a forgotten answer or two.”

Shadow Milk exhaled—tired, theatrical, but this time not mocking.

“If we’re doing this,” he muttered, brushing a gloved hand through the shadow coiled near his shoulder, “I’m choosing the library aisle. I refuse to be caught near the alchemy club. They smell like regret and poorly handled ambition.”

A soft chuckle rose from Pure Vanilla, warm and fleeting.

“Deal,” he said.

And so, without speaking it aloud, the two began the slow march toward a past only one of them remembered—and a future neither could yet define.

…

The conversation hung in the air long after the words had faded—like smoke curling from a long-extinguished flame. Neither of them acknowledged it, not with words. Instead, they let the silence stretch as they walked side by side beneath the vaulted ceiling of the library.

The corridor opened up before them, quiet and vast, where the walls were lined with tomes older than kingdoms—scripts bound in forgotten alphabets, whispering to anyone foolish or wise enough to listen.

Shadow Milk’s steps made no sound. He moved like a shadow given shape—neither guest nor intruder, but something that had always been here, just overlooked.

Pure Vanilla, in contrast, walked with the steady calm of someone who believed in the sanctity of this place, even now. His hands remained folded behind his back, eyes scanning the shelves with quiet reverence.

The hush of the library deepened as they walked—stone tiles echoing softly beneath their steps, the air fragrant with dust, ink, and old enchantments.

Shadow Milk had not come as himself.

Gown sweeping with every motion, in midnight silk that shimmered with cold starlight. Her veil floated like mist behind her, fastened beneath an obsidian brooch that pulsed faintly in rhythm with her magic. Her eyes, obscured by illusion but still unmistakable to those who truly looked, held that same signature—sharp, weary, and far too old for kindness.

The Beholder floated a pace behind her, silent but watching. Its presence warped the air ever so slightly, as if reality held its breath wherever it drifted.

Pure Vanilla said nothing at first, merely adjusting his staff as they walked side by side. But the way his gaze lingered on her hem, then rose—unbothered, perhaps even quietly amused—betrayed his thought.

“You are truly beautiful,” Pure Vanilla said softly, gaze lingering with a quiet kind of wonder. "Shadow Milk."

"Not my name."

"Lady Azure,"

She turned slightly, veil still drawn, though the corner of her mouth curved with something between amusement and restraint.

“Careful, Vanilla,” she murmured. “Praise me too often and I might start believing you’re sincere.”

“I’ve never been anything but,” he replied, and his smile, faint as it was, remained unshaken. “Even when you didn’t want to hear it.”

She didn’t answer right away. Only continued forward, the Beholder gliding soundlessly behind her, its eyes flicking once toward Pure Vanilla with something unreadable—guarded, but not hostile.

Together, they passed beneath a vaulted archway etched with timeworn runes, into the deeper chamber of the library.

“The layout is still the same,” Shadow Milk muttered eventually, glancing up toward the ironwork arches above. “Though the lighting’s less offensive than it used to be.”

Pure Vanilla allowed himself a slight smile. “The apprentices used to complain. Said the glowroot sconces were too harsh. They replaced them with moonweave glass.”

“Hm,” Shadow Milk responded, though whether it was agreement or disapproval was unclear. “Still reeks of optimism in here.”

They turned down a narrower aisle, where the light dimmed slightly, and the books bore older names. Some tomes still bore burn marks. Others had been sealed shut by golden wax, sigils pulsing faintly beneath the dust.

“I didn’t realize you remembered so much of the old seals,” Pure Vanilla said, tone even. “The way you spoke of them... it wasn’t just theory.”

“I didn’t study them,” Shadow Milk said dryly. “I lived through them and their aftermath. There’s a difference.”

He stopped before a shelf marked with a faded sigil—three concentric rings, barely visible under time’s hand.

“And this,” he added, fingers brushing over a spine wrapped in cracked violet leather, “was shelved under mythology last I checked. It does not belong here.”

“It was,” Pure Vanilla admitted. “Until you walked back into the world.”

“Hm.”

Shadow Milk didn’t answer. He simply slid the book from its place and opened it with care that belied his sharp tongue. The pages crackled faintly. He scanned them, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice softer, almost reflective, “this library used to be mine.”

Pure Vanilla blinked. “Yours?”

A pause.

“I mean that loosely,” Shadow Milk said, closing the book with a quiet snap. “Once. Long before your kingdom claimed it as part of the Academy. I was its first curator. Before the Academy had a name. Before it had rules.”

The name rang between them: Blueberry Yogurt Academy.

He had not said it aloud, but it lingered in the pause.

Pure Vanilla looked at him then, truly looked—at the way his eyes drifted across the rows, not with wonder, but recognition. As if he were walking through the halls of a home that had been renovated without permission.

“You were the first?” he asked, almost hesitant. “The first headmaster..”

Shadow Milk only smiled, thin and tired. “I was the fool who thought knowledge could be cataloged without consequence.”

They moved on in silence.

It was Pure Vanilla who spoke next, his voice carefully neutral, a change of topic very much needed. He could settle into the weight of new knowledge afterwards. “While we’re here… there’s another matter. The Moonstone Crystal.”

Shadow Milk’s gaze flicked toward him, wary.

“I was thinking,” Pure Vanilla continued, “if we’re already digging through lost bindings and half-erased seals… perhaps we might find something—something more stable. Not a replica of the witches’ seal, but something that could hold. Maybe even draw from something older. Like…”

He trailed off.

“Like the Silver Tree?” Shadow Milk finished, dry.

Pure Vanilla nodded slowly. “Not the Tree itself. But something drawn from the same principles. Its structure. It's resonance.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Then Shadow Milk let out a slow breath, colder than before.

“The Silver Tree,” he repeated, voice like dust. “So perfect. So sacred. And yet…” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“Remind me again—how did I walk free? How did the warlocks, the cursed, the exiled—how did we all find the cracks, if that Tree was so unbreakable?”

Pure Vanilla didn’t respond.

Shadow Milk took a step closer, not threatening, but firm. The way storms were firm—impossible to ignore, inevitable in presence.

“Do not speak of the Tree to me as if it were salvation. I saw what it couldn’t hold. I was what it couldn’t hold.”

He turned away again, cloak brushing the floor like a curtain closing.

“If you want to seal her again, don’t look to hollow roots. Look to the things you fear to name.”

And just like that, he disappeared down the next aisle, swallowed by the shelves.

Pure Vanilla remained still for a moment before carefully lifting the violet-bound book Shadow Milk had left behind.

He opened to the marked page, where faded ink described a seal that never should’ve existed.

“A name is the first imprisoned,” the line read. _________ Milk Cookie.

“And the last to break.” … ______ ____.

He closed the book with quiet reverence. Something was erased, but it was easy enough to fill in the dots.

And followed her.

Shadow Milk Cookie turned, walking not away, but along the edge of the shelves, trailing her gloved hand along the worn wood, fingertips brushing over spines as if reacquainting himself with old names. His steps were unhurried, measured, yet there was something precise in the way he moved. Not browsing— remembering.

He passed by rows of tomes that had outlived empires, titles half-erased by time or protective enchantment. His hand paused briefly on one with a missing sigil, the mark scorched away. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed.

“These shelves know more than most oracles,” he murmured, more to the dust and parchment than to Pure Vanilla. 

“And unlike the living, they don’t forget so easily,” Shadow Milk added with a hum.

Behind her, Pure Vanilla lingered near the pedestal, watching. The crystal fragment still pulsed faintly under its containment field, like a heartbeat muffled through stone.

Then—suddenly, quietly—the air shifted.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… changed.

A subtle static crept through the silence, like a breath held too long. The candlelight seemed to flicker without a breeze, and a pressure, barely-there but unmistakable, pressed at their senses.

Pure Vanilla stiffened.

Shadow Milk stilled mid-step, his fingers halting just above the spine of another book.

Their eyes met across the library chamber. No words were needed.

You felt that too.

Shadow Milk’s brow furrowed faintly, the expression more thoughtful than alarmed, though the Beholder’s eyes fanned wider behind him, adjusting, twitching, watching.

Pure Vanilla turned slightly, scanning the space with quiet caution. “Something shifted,” he said softly. “Something in the foundation just wavered.”

Shadow Milk nodded once, slowly. “Something’s listening,” he said. “Or remembering.”

He reached into the gap between two shelves and pulled a hidden lever—an old mechanism, nearly forgotten. A second layer of the shelf clicked open with a subtle groan, revealing a compartment lined with velvet and spells meant to keep even thought from leaking out.

A single scroll rested within. Sealed in red wax. Unmarked.

He stared at it.

“Where are we…?” Pure Vanilla stepped closer, his expression unreadable but calm.

“My study.” Then, just above a whisper, he said, “I didn’t leave this here.”

“Then who did?”

Shadow Milk didn’t answer.

But he took the scroll.

The doorway—half-hidden behind the retracting bookshelf—opened inward like an exhale. Cold, dry air swept outward, tinged faintly with something metallic. Old enchantments lingered here like perfume long faded. Dust had settled in the corners, yet the space was untouched by time’s usual decay. Preserved, almost reverently.

A circular chamber greeted them, high-ceilinged and dim, the lanterns on the walls dormant until they stepped across the threshold. With a flicker, pale azure flame lit one by one, tracing the curves of ancient arches and faint sigils inked onto the stone.

The room was elegant but unassuming. Not built for show—built for thought. A constellation map stretched across the domed ceiling, pinned with tiny enchanted stars that still glowed, though some flickered irregularly— A chalkboard etched in runes, a pattern only he could see —A weathered desk sat at the far end beneath a tall window, draped with sheer fabric with several unpublished books laid askew on top. Dust clung to the hem like shadows unwilling to leave.

Shadow Milk walked ahead, slow, like a dream he hadn’t dared return to. He ran a hand over the back of the chair—the exact angle it had been left in, slightly askew, as though its occupant had simply stepped out for a moment and never returned.

Then his eyes fell on a book.

A thick, leather-bound volume sat in the center of the desk. No lock. No clasp. The cover bore no title—just a mark: a crescent eye inked in silver.

He recognized it instantly.

He didn’t move to touch it. Not yet.

Pure Vanilla approached carefully, gaze passing over a nearby shelf half-collapsed under the weight of time.

“You used to live here,” he said, easily connecting the dots. His words were not quite a question. “Before the Academy became what it is now.”

Shadow Milk didn’t look at him. His voice, when it came, was flat. “Before they whitewashed my walls, repainted the corridors, rewrote the archives.”

“And this place?”

“They forgot about it,” he murmured. “I sealed this off long ago… No one was meant to come back in it, not even me.”

He reached down at last and opened the journal.

The pages whispered as they turned—dry, fragile, but intact. Ink scrawled in a hand less precise than his current one, erratic in some places, but unmistakably his.

He stopped at a page halfway through. The writing there shifted—structured thoughts giving way to something looser. The lines fractured, dipping into fragmented phrases, alchemical notations, half-poetic metaphors wrapped in paranoia.

“That is yours.” Pure Vanilla stepped behind him, close but not hovering. He recognized the book but couldn't place where exactly, though he knew it was Shadow Milk’s. “Your last entries?”

Shadow Milk nodded once. “The last sane ones.” His fingers paused on the ink. 

He read silently, eyes narrowing as he followed the words he barely remembered writing.

How dare they leave me. I had not ask to be made with knowing in my bones and silence for a mouth. I kept their secrets, cradled their forbidden knowledge like glass in trembling hands, waited in rooms they never returned to. Was it some cruel performance, this abandonment? A test of loyalty masked as apathy?

I stood where they placed me, still and faithful, while the others fell or fled or burned—and yet I was the first they called broken. I had bared their will, and this is what I get?

I never wanted this. I never wanted to become the shadow, the whisper, the thing children feared in libraries. I waited for them to come back. For answers.

What was I meant to do if no longer did they seek old knowledge? My will was to spread it, and so I did! Twisted little harmless things and.. 

 

Shadow Milk's breath faltered slightly.

I waited for them to say they hadn’t forgotten me. And when the silence answered louder than any voice, I began to wonder if this was all they’d written for me from the start. If I was just one final curtain.

 One last act. Very well, I wrote that day, ink already running with spite. If they want theatre—then I shall give them a masterpiece.

He closed the book slowly.

“This room shouldn't exist anymore,” he muttered. “Which means someone wanted me to find it again.”

A low pulse echoed from the scroll still in his grip.

Pure Vanilla looked at him carefully. “Do you think she—?”

“No,” Shadow Milk said sharply, but too fast.

He hesitated. Then added more slowly, “Not her. Not yet.”

They stood in silence for a long moment.

Then Pure Vanilla glanced back toward the shelves, the shifting constellation map above, the silent walls still breathing with forgotten spells.

“If this is where your sanity frayed… maybe it’s where we start putting it back together.”

Shadow Milk gave a hollow smile, dry as parchment. “You’re always so hopeful. It’s almost offensive.”

“And you’re always deflecting,” Pure Vanilla said with a faint breath of amusement.

“Force of habit.”

But he didn’t turn away. He looked back down at the journal—his own thoughts, staring up at him like echoes waiting to be answered.

And quietly, the Beholder coiled beside the desk, watching the door.

Waiting.

But Shadow Milk didn’t turn away. He looked back down at the journal—his own thoughts.. And quietly, the Beholder coiled beside the desk, watching the door. Waiting. Pure Vanilla was beside him, a little too close, though he didn't mention anything.

Then something made him pause.

A prickle at the base of his neck. A hush, deeper than silence.

Shadow Milk turned his gaze to the tall window draped in sheer, age-stained fabric. With a slow, wary motion, he pulled it aside.

What greeted him was not the familiar courtyard of Blueberry Yogurt Academy.

No students. No worn paths etched by generations of footsteps. No ivy creeping along clean-cut stones.

Instead, the world outside was... earlier.

The trees were younger, wilder, their leaves flushed with hues long since bred out of the modern grounds. The skies hung heavier, darker, with constellations misaligned by centuries. And the buildings—fewer, rawer, shaped more by hand and spell than by architecture—stood where memory insisted they no longer should.

Shadow Milk narrowed his eyes. There was no illusion shimmer. No glamor net to pierce. It felt real. Felt remembered.

He glanced over his shoulder at Pure Vanilla, who hadn’t yet noticed.

“This isn’t…” he started, his voice low, unsure. “What..?”

He turned back to the window.

Pure Vanilla finally stepped beside him, drawn by the shift in Shadow Milk’s tone. He followed the other's gaze, expecting the familiar view of the courtyard—the same old stone benches, the gentle hum of spell-threaded wards, the quiet breath of a place long tended.

But what he saw instead made him still.

The landscape outside was tinted in an older kind of magic. Not dead, but unwritten. Trees that no longer existed cast shadows they shouldn’t. The moon hung closer, too large, as if watching from a different sky. A fountain stood in the center of the square—one Pure Vanilla had only ever seen sketched in age-worn tomes.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked, brows furrowed, the weight of time folding strangely around them.

“This… isn’t right,” he said softly. “This can’t be now.”

“No,” Shadow Milk murmured. “It isn’t.”

The air pressed in tighter.

Pure Vanilla looked over at him, eyes searching. “A memory?”

“A fold,” Shadow Milk replied distantly, voice as faint as the glass between them. “A wrinkle in the weave. Something old enough to remember me remembering it.”

He pressed a gloved hand to the windowpane. It didn’t feel cold. Didn’t feel like anything at all. Shadow Milk was specific with his choice of words, he always had known something.

“They’re showing me something,” he said. “Or someone is.”

“And you think it’s the witches?” Pure Vanilla asked quietly.

Shadow Milk didn’t answer. Not yet. He only scoffed.

But the Beholder twitched—eyes blinking in rhythmic succession—then slowly turned toward a narrow stairwell that hadn’t been there before, lit by a distant, flickering glow.

Shadow Milk didn’t answer. Not yet. He only scoffed—a quiet, humorless sound, more breath than voice.

“Oh, now they notice,” he muttered, his gaze still fixed on the stairwell. “Centuries of silence, and suddenly, they remember I exist.”

The Beholder twitched again, its eyes pulsing in sync with the flicker below, as if drawn to it—called by it. Pure Vanilla stepped away for a moment to glance at the window.

Another shift, this time— more noticeable. It was not just the air.

Shadow Milk flipped through his old journal, reading his thoughts silently. Every page turned the world along with them… as though grieving along side him.

Milkcrowns were now visibly spored from the ground, stretched as far as the eye could see.

“They left me to rot in the seams of their forgotten stories,” Shadow Milk went on, voice low and bitter. “And now, when it suits some grand design, I’m summoned like a prop. Another piece moved across the board they abandoned.”

He turned from the window, cloak whispering behind him, and faced the steps with narrowed eyes.

“Fine,” he said, more to the air than to Pure Vanilla. “Let’s see what script they’ve written this time.”

Without waiting, he began down the stairs, the Beholder floating silently at his side, its gaze never leaving the firelight below.

The moment Shadow Milk stood up, the world outside the window seemed to quiver. He was angry and the world with it.

Not violently—no, it was subtler than that. The trees trembled without wind. The fountain’s reflection shimmered, not with ripples, but as if reality itself were struggling to hold its shape. The sky—too close, too dark—pulsed faintly, like a wound beneath thin gauze.

Pure Vanilla turned, catching the shift just in time. “Shadow Milk…” he began, but stopped.

Because something in the air had changed.

The magic around them frayed at the edges, threads pulling loose from the seams of time. The Academy—this version of it—groaned quietly, like a memory being stretched too far. The stained-glass windows above the corridor hummed with a soft, sorrowful resonance, their light bending at strange angles.

Shadow Milk didn’t look back.

If anything, his shoulders only squared further, each step deliberate, teeth clenched in a half-swallowed fury. The Beholder drifted behind him like a tethered storm, its blinking eye open wider now, more alert. More aware.

What had once been longing in his silence—an ache to return to when everything still made sense —had curdled into something else. Something colder. And the world around him responded. Not as if resisting... but mourning.

Pure Vanilla watched the shimmer of the world outside falter, watched the color drain slightly from the sky, and understood—not all at once, but enough to know that whatever held this place together was unraveling with him .

And with Shadow Milk’s silence.

He reached out gently, not to stop him, only to remind him he was not alone.

“You’re not a relic, you know,” Pure Vanilla said softly, walking just a pace behind. “Not something forgotten or used. I don’t believe that’s what this is.”

Shadow Milk didn’t slow, but his steps grew stiffer, less fluid.

“I think,” Pure Vanilla continued, calm and steady, “this place is still listening because it remembers you. Because you mattered. You matter . Whatever they did—whoever left you behind—”

“Don’t,” Shadow Milk hissed, the word slipping out too quickly. He stopped mid-step, head bowed slightly, hands clenched at his sides.

Pure Vanilla did not flinch. He only waited.

Shadow Milk exhaled—sharply, unevenly. “You don’t get to stand there with your soft voice and your gilded hope and pretend it’s enough. They left. You didn’t see what it was like, what they made me carry.”

“I don’t pretend to know that,” Pure Vanilla replied, quieter still. “But I know what it’s like to be left behind. And I know what it’s like to carry guilt that doesn’t entirely belong to you.”

Shadow Milk turned to him then, slowly. His eyes weren’t furious—but they burned, a low, smoldering ache beneath the surface. “Do you, now?”

His voice was venomous as a snake’s bite. And bitter too.

“Did they seal you away in a vault and forget the key? Did they build a kingdom on your silence and call it wisdom?” He took a step closer, a bitter smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “No, King of Compassion. You were loved. ”

The air grew heavier between them.

“But me?” His voice cracked, barely. “I was left with echoes.”

The Beholder let out a soft, warbling hum—not warning, not threat. Just presence. Just witnessing.

Then, just as suddenly, Shadow Milk turned back to the stairwell.

“You learned from my mistakes—every one of you little friends did.”

Shadow Milk chuckled, but it cracked on the way out—too dry, too sharp. It wasn’t humor. It was something unraveling at the seams. His illusion wavered for a moment, the elegant edges of Lady of Azure flickering with static, like light refracted through a broken mirror. Something far older shimmered beneath.

“We had no one ,” he spat, pacing now, voice rising with each step. “No ancients holding our hands. No kingdoms forged in kindness. We didn’t get scrolls or staves or pretty little libraries filled with safe spells and garden walks.”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, clutching his stomach. “We built morality! Ethics! Everything good— overshadowed by everything we misdid.” 

He gestured wildly to the walls, to the peeling edge of illusion, to the phantom echo of the academy he built with trembling hands and sleepless nights.

“You grew up , Pure Vanilla! You've got to grow. You had time to fail. You had mentors. You had friends. You had choices. I was already baked when they handed me the burden—up there on a pedestal before I even understood what the stage was.”

His voice cracked again—barely.

“No room for mistakes. No room to be anything but perfect. And when I faltered—when I shattered —they didn’t stay. They ran. ”

The illusion fully broke for a heartbeat.

Not just his disguise—but the room itself. Dust swirled through cracks in the floorboards. Books turned to ash and back again. For a moment, the weight of his memory pulled the world under.

“I was the blueprint,” he said, quieter now. “The first to fall so the rest of you could learn how not to.”

He stood still, trembling under it.

“Tell me, how noble that must’ve seemed to them—watching me burn so your golden age could shine a little brighter.”

Then silence.

And when he next spoke, it was a whisper, bitter and broken… and so gentle, as if he were a doughling as of this very moment. 

“I didn’t want to become this. I just wanted to be enough. ”

Shadow Milk whirled on him, and the room darkened . The illusion of the academy buckled again, shadows curling at the edges like smoke scorched by memory. “They called me many names, never a Cookie. Never as just someone.”

“…You were the first to fall? I—I thought—”

“That’s what you heard ?” he snapped, voice raw and furious. “Out of everything I said, that is what you pick up on?”

The Beholder stirred uneasily, its eye dilating, reflecting the storm behind its master’s voice.

“Of course you did,” Shadow Milk spat, taking a sharp step closer, face drawn tight with fury that had nowhere left to go. “Because that’s all anyone ever remembers. Not the work, not the sleepless years, not the blood etched into the foundations—no. Just the fall. Just the part where I break.”

He shook his head, teeth clenched. “Do you even know who named me that? The first to fall?” His voice dropped, but it lost none of its heat. “It was Salt. Silent Salt. ”

His expression twisted. “He sat in my halls. Walked in my shadow. Never said a word—and yet he knew . He knew what I was chasing. The knowledge. The truths the witches buried. And he took it. Slipped past me with that soft voice and colder soul, and disappeared into history with the very thing I gave everything for.”

He laughed, once—bitter, humorless. “He took my life's purpose and wrapped it in riddles. And the world calls him wise. Calls me fallen.”

The Beholder floated lower, watching. Waiting.

“Hah! Salt met the witches— he got answers that he refused to share!” Shadow Milk’s voice lowered again, but it trembled with restraint. 

“You think I wanted this? That I woke up one day and chose to be twisted by the things they left behind? So yes! Be it! I was the first to fall. ”

His gaze locked with Pure Vanilla’s, burning.

“I was the first they let fall.”

The walls groaned.

Not like stone or wood—but like memory itself, stretched too thin. The shelves twisted inward, the books dripping like candle wax, ink running down spines in rivers of black. The air shimmered, then tore . What was once the library—then the hidden study—melted at the edges, as if some great hand had wiped the illusion away.

And in its place, silence.

Cold. Vast. Familiar.

They stood not in a building, but beneath a sky that did not belong to Earthbread. The Dark Side of the Moon loomed around them—ashen plains, fractured crystal, and that faint blue radiance that pulsed beneath the stone like veins beneath skin.

But this time… Shadow Milk was here.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He only stared outward, shoulders tense, eyes reflecting the endless dark stretching beyond them.

Pure Vanilla stepped beside him, his cloak catching gently in the moondust. “We’re not in the academy anymore.”

“No,” Shadow Milk muttered, his voice shaattering, hollow but almost fearful. “No—NO!”

His knees buckled before the scream even tore from his throat. It was raw, guttural—ripped from somewhere far deeper than his lungs could reach. He fell forward into the moondust, hands digging into the cold earth as if he could claw his way back through time, back to the moment it all splintered. The air around him pulsed with ancient magic and unbearable grief. 

He didn’t hold back. Not this time. The sobs came in shuddering waves—ugly, cracking things that echoed across the lifeless plains. His disguise slipped entirely, melting into nothing, revealing not the elegant Lady of Azure nor the proud farmer with acres of land, but just a Cookie broken open by memory. 

“I didn’t want to be this,” he whispered between gasps, voice warbled and low as he finally lets the few remaining bits of his delicate mask fall along with him. “I tried. I tried to hold it together. I gave everything— everything —and they left me. They left me. ”

The Beholder hovered close to his side, quieter now, almost reverent. Its many eyes blinked slowly, in sync with the strange heartbeat pulsing in the ground.

”…How is that fair? That you were allowed to make mistakes… That you were allowed to be. That you rose and I…” Shadow Milk sobbed, his fists clenching as he hit the ground, cracks forming all around him as hordes of Milkcrowns glimmered. Craddling the cookie. “Why am I like this?”

All around them, memories stirred.

A chalk circle, half-etched in the dust.

A broken staff, split and scorched.

A voice— his voice—echoing in the air like a scar too old to close:

“Let them leave. Let them all leave. I will remain.” — ”Answer me!” —

This was more than a place. It was a wound. And Shadow Milk stood at the center of it.

His breathing hitched, chest heaving as though the weight of a thousand unspoken years had just come crashing down on his brittle frame. His hands trembled, not with rage, but with a kind of fragile despair—the kind that had no room to scream anymore. Just silence, and the way his fingers curled into the dust like a child looking for something lost.

And then he broke.

A single, strangled sound escaped him—half-choked, half-plea—and he folded into himself. No poise. No performance.

Just Shadow Milk Cookie, shattered by the echo of who he once was. The sobs that came were no longer bitter, no longer angry. They were soft, frightened, young . The kind of sound one makes when realizing no one is coming back.

And slowly—almost imperceptibly at first—light seeped in.

Not the blinding brilliance of battle or judgment, but a soft, amber warmth. It touched the corners of the crater, filtered through the ruin of memory like sunlight through cracked glass. The shadows didn’t retreat—they relented , curling gently around the edges, no longer hiding him, but holding him.

Pure Vanilla Cookie said nothing.

He only stepped forward, silent as breath, and placed the Beholder aside. It closed its eye obediently, sensing it was not needed now.

And then, he knelt.

He gathered the trembling Cookie into his arms—not with pity, not as a king or savior—but simply as someone who stayed . His embrace was steady, his hands gentle, one resting behind Shadow Milk’s head, the other at his back.

“I’m here,” he murmured, voice barely above the hush of moondust.

“And I won’t leave. I promise.”

The words lingered, soft as the dust beneath them, and for a moment—just a breath—it was as if time dared not move.

Then the world began to shift.

The cold ash of the moon, the cracked glass plains, the sky that held no stars—all of it started to fade. Not suddenly, not like a door slammed shut, but gently, like a dream loosening its hold on the waking mind. The glow beneath the surface dimmed to a quiet pulse. The broken symbols in the dust blurred, smudged away by invisible hands. The oppressive silence gave way to the subtle hum of magic slowly righting itself.

The shadows uncoiled from around them—not banished, but calmed—retreating into the places they belonged. The moondust that clung to their cloaks lifted in motes, dissolving like mist into a soft, gold-filtered light.

And then there was wood beneath them. Stone walls. Books—real, tangible, worn with age—settled back into their places. The scent of parchment and ink replaced the sterile emptiness of space. The Blueberry Yogurt Academy library emerged like a memory remembered rather than rebuilt.

They were back.

Pure Vanilla held him still, even as the world reassembled itself around them. Even as the illusion unraveled and truth took its place. He did not loosen his hold.

And Shadow Milk, though trembling, did not pull away.

Not this time.

Shadow Milk stirred in Pure Vanilla’s arms, breath hitching as the warmth of reality crept back in—the scent of old tomes, the familiar groan of wooden beams, the filtered sunlight slanting through stained glass. He blinked once, slowly, lashes damp but eyes steady now. There was no more sobbing—only the weight of what had been released, lingering in the silence like an aftertaste.

Then, as if compelled by reflex, he let out a low, shaking laugh—bitter at first, but softening at the edges.

“Well,” he murmured, voice frayed velvet, “what a mess I’ve made again…”

He leaned back just enough to look at Pure Vanilla, his expression caught between weariness and worn amusement, like a curtain drawn too many times.

“You should’ve seen me in my prime,” he said, lifting a hand dramatically despite its tremor. “Witty, elusive, a master of mystery and monologue. And now… look at me. Crying into your robes like the tragic fool in the second act.”

He smiled, faintly. Not mockingly. Not fully in control either. Just… honest.

“I don’t know whether to bow or ask for a rewrite.”

And then, quieter—softer, like the first moment of light after eclipse:

“...Thank you. For staying.”

"For as long as I exist."

Pure Vanilla turned his gaze toward the window. Beyond the pale glass, the view unfolded like a long-forgotten memory: the gentle curve of the hills, the silver-streaked sky, the spires of the Academy standing exactly where they always had—unchanged, yet touched by time.

They were back.

...

The Vanilla Kingdom was quiet at this hour—hushed in that way only known to places that remembered war too well. From the tall windows of the castle, the moon cast its light across stone courtyards and winding ivy, silvering everything it touched. And in one of the upper chambers, Pure Vanilla Cookie sat alone beneath the soft glow of a crystal lamp, quill poised above parchment.

The room was his, though it never quite felt like it. Too clean. Too undisturbed. As if it were preserved more as a monument than a place to live.

A single candle flickered on the desk. Wax pooled quietly. Beside it, the beginnings of a letter, neat but unsteady in its spacing, written in the same hand that once signed decrees, peace treaties, and names of the fallen.

To my friends,
The Academy is no longer silent—
and neither is he.

He paused. The ink welled at the tip of the quill. He could still hear the echo of Shadow Milk’s steps beside his own, heavy and unwilling, yet taken all the same.

He dipped the pen again.

There is something within its halls, the academy White Lily and I used to attend, older than either of us remembered. It breathes in the walls, stirs in the dust. I cannot tell yet if it welcomes us or warns us.

His hand hovered, hesitant. Then, in a smaller script—more vulnerable than he meant to be:

He stayed. Even when I didn’t ask him to. That alone feels heavier than any magic I’ve known. Something is admist the air as we speak and I fear it may include the guardians as Shadow Milk had mentioned in his daze.

I am not sure of what is this to become but with the fount of knowledge on our side, we have little to fear. I know I am putting a lot of trust in his words but I trust this has merit, has truth in it.

I request a letter back in regards to how are you and his comrades and how they are doing.

 

I hope you all are doing well, 

Pure Vanilla Cookie.

A gust of wind whispered against the windowpanes. He glanced up, eyes drawn to the same view he’d known since before the war. The orchard trees, the distant flicker of lanterns in the village, the long stone bridge that led to the gates.

Home. At least, the shape of it.

Pure Vanilla exhaled, setting the quill down with the finality of someone who had more to say, but no more words. 

Shortly after, he sent the letter.

Chapter Text

The sunlight spilled through gauzy curtains with a warmth far too gentle, far too golden. It kissed her eyelids like an old friend, and Hollyberry stirred—not with the grunt of one begrudging the morning, but with a quiet confusion threading through her limbs. Her lashes fluttered. The ceiling above her was the same carved stone she had always known, and yet not quite. There was a softness to the air, a brightness to the room that didn’t match her recollection of her chambers.

She sat up slowly, the covers rustling like dry leaves. The sun’s gaze poured in—steady, almost reverent—as though the morning itself had paused to watch her. But it wasn’t the sun she knew. This one hung higher, glowed younger, too polished in its shine. She moved toward the window with a quiet unease, each step betraying more of the strangeness.

Outside, the world looked familiar—lush vineyards draping the hills, tiled rooftops rising proudly—but everything shimmered with a strange newness, like a painting too recently finished. Trees that should have been ancient now stood unbowed, with bark too smooth, leaves too green. The banners bore the correct sigil, but they swayed as if they had just been stitched. Her fingers curled slightly against the sill. It looked like home.

But it wasn’t.

She blinked.

And the room was gone.

The scent of stone walls and linen vanished, replaced by the crisp breath of mountain air and the faint perfume of ripened fruit. She stood now in the open fields of the Hollyberry Kingdom—vast, golden, and rolling across the hills like a memory too bright to trust. Rows of crops stretched far into the distance, each furrowed line carved with almost reverent care. The sky above was bluer than she remembered, almost too blue, the clouds too still—as if the world were holding its breath.

Hollyberry turned slowly, boots pressing into soft earth. This was hers. This was familiar. But it shouldn’t have been. Not like this. The fields had long since changed, their crops rotated, their boundaries shifted with time and war and weather. But now they looked as they did years—decades—ago.

Her chest tightened. She reached instinctively for her shield, the weight that always grounded her.

It wasn’t on her arm.

A quiet panic prickled at the edge of her chest as she turned, eyes narrowing. There—just behind her, half-buried in the soil—her shield lay tilted in the dirt, its red and gold face gleaming as if freshly forged. Not a scratch, not a dent. Untouched by time. It should have brought her comfort.

But it didn’t.

She stepped toward it.

The distance stretched.

She frowned, tried again—just one firm stride. And yet the shield remained just out of reach, as though the field itself breathed and shifted, pulling it further. The furrows in the soil seemed to widen, the sunlight warping the air between them like heat on stone. She picked up her pace, boots thudding into the earth—but the more she moved, the farther it seemed.

It was right there, wasn’t it?

Then, as she looked around, something soared above her—swift, vibrant, and unmistakable.

Pink wings sliced through the air like a ribbon of joy, catching the light just right, casting fleeting rose-colored shadows over the fields. Hollyberry’s eyes widened before a small, unbidden smile touched her lips. That shape, that laughter—it tugged at something deep in her chest. 

Before she could call out, the figure dove.

Now she could see that aside from the beauty it had presented, the figure looked distraught, only relieved, barely, at the sight of her.

A blur of warmth and feathers slammed into her with startling force—not with claws or fury, but with arms thrown tight around her, laughter ringing in her ear like bells. She stumbled back a step under the weight, wide-eyed, arms instinctively reaching to steady.

The pink-winged beast clung to her with a fierceness that wasn't feral—it was familiar. Loving. Desperate. Frantic.

“Hollyberry Cookie!” the voice broke against her shoulder, thick with sobs, trembling like a dam had shattered. Arms clutched her tighter, as if letting go would unravel the world itself. “Oh, thank the stars—you’re here, you’re here—”

Hollyberry stood stiff, breath caught. Her soft voice, the way it trembled, cracked—like the one calling her had just outrun something terrible. She slowly brought her hands up, meaning to hold her, to steady her.

“Eternal Sugar?” she whispered. Her arms gently guiding the beast to kneel down alongside her. 

But the other Cookie only wept harder, wings folding in tightly, as if to shield them both. “I thought— Goodness…,” she rubbed her eyes as she leaned back enough to really look at her. “I— Thank the witches you are unharmed…” Her words frayed into tears. “I–I’m sorry… Hollyberry, I tried— I promised!”

“What do you mean?” Hollyberry asked, voice low, something cold uncoiling in her chest. “What did you see? Sugar, what’s happening?”

“You stubborn thing,” she whispered hoarsely, burying her face in Hollyberry’s shoulder. “Why do you always run toward the fire?”

She pulled back, but Eternal Sugar Cookie was no longer holding her.

She was gone.

No flutter of wings. No flash of light. Only the whisper of wind through the fields, and the hollow ache of arms that had just been full.

—

The soft chatter and rhythmic clicking of talons against her windowpane stirred the morning stillness, tugging Hollyberry Cookie from the warm cradle of slumber. A low, rumbling sigh escaped her as she turned over in her thick, berry-red blankets, reluctant to abandon the embrace of her bed.

It had just been a dream, thankfully, of something strange, yes, something that clung to her mind like morning dew to grass. Fields that looked too perfect, skies that felt too still. A shield she couldn’t reach, no matter how fast she ran, and arms—soft, trembling—wrapped around her with such aching familiarity it made her chest tighten even now.

Eternal Sugar Cookie’s voice still echoed faintly in her ears, breathless and afraid, as if warning her of something she no longer remembered. By the time she stirred fully awake this time, the dream had already begun to fray, leaving only the weight of something unfinished pressing gently against her ribs.

Hollyberry shook her head. She would check on Eternal Sugar later.

The morning light trickled in like a nosy guest, and when she cracked one eye open, the first golden ray promptly met it with an unceremonious glam! that had her grumbling. Perhaps she was a bit dramatic, but who isn’t at being woken up during these early hours?

The window across the room kept tapping, it was no wonder who it was as a familiar chirp clacked.

“Alright, alright…” she muttered at the sun, shielding her face with a large, calloused hand. Another tap came again—more insistent, impatient. 

She groaned. “By the Dough, it better not be another diplomatic summons…”

Stretching with a deep, bear-like yawn, she sat up slowly, her muscles creaking like old wood from years of battle and bedrest alike. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and finally stood as the little taps on her window grew louder, impatient. Her night-robe, a deep red embroidered with gold threads, pooled around her as she finally, begrudgingly, made her way across the room.

When she opened the window with a grunt, the culprit revealed itself: a plump bluebird, bright-eyed and far too cheerful for this hour. It chittered briskly, fluttered its wings, and dropped a rolled-up parchment tied with a vanilla-gold ribbon onto her palm.

“Good Morning to you, too, old friend.” Hollyberry raised a brow.

Just as she reached to unroll the letter, the bird gave her a sharp peck on the knuckle.

“OW—alright, alright, greedy little courier. I know your tricks.”

She turned with a scoff, though the corners of her mouth lifted in fond amusement. Her eyes landed on a small leather pouch resting atop her desk—Pure Vanilla’s own handiwork, emblazoned with his emblem and stuffed full of tiny dried nuts and fruits. A gift, or rather a commandment given to her and the other ancients: “Always feed the birds, Holly. They bite less.”

“He says that as if I’m the one who needs taming,” she grumbled, but with no real heat.

With exaggerated slowness, she tossed a handful of treats toward the windowsill. The bird chirped in triumph, hopping in place before diving into its reward.

“Picky little thing. You lot are more spoiled than his nobles.”

She set aside the letter, thinking that she’d revisit it later—after their morning tea.

Soon after her morning shower, now fresh and wrapped in the faint scent of berry soap and steam, Hollyberry Cookie tied her damp hair into a loose braid and toweled off the last beads of water clinging to her shoulders. The heat from the bath had done little to ease the knot in her chest—one she hadn’t noticed until she stood in front of the mirror, staring at her own reflection a beat too long. 

There was something distant in her gaze, a heaviness nestled just beneath her smile, but she shook it off with a quiet hum and reached for her robe.

The dream had unsettled her; usually, she was able to shake the feeling off. Disregard it till later.. To not linger on them for long, but this one— this one seemed different, and she isn't sure why.

Dressing in light, garden-worn silks, she let the sunlight follow her from window to hallway, gilding her every step. 

Hollyberry set out to the kitchen, humming softly under her breath, the remnants of sleep still clinging to her shoulders like a shawl. The halls were quiet, touched only by the gentle groan of old wood and the far-off chirping of birds just stirring in the hedgerows.

In the kitchen, her hands moved with practiced ease—slicing ripe berryfruit, toasting thick-cut bread before placing a jar of rose jam on its side, and brewing the fragrant leaf blend that Eternal Sugar always favored. The steam curled like a lazy wisp toward the ceiling as she arranged everything on a polished tray.

Once finished, she carried it carefully through the halls, balancing its contents with the same care as ever, whether it be for her family or simply just acquaintances. The sun that poured through the windows now, warm and golden, illuminating dust motes that danced like sugarflakes in the air.

Hollyberry stepped out into the garden—their garden now. The stone table beneath the ivy arch was just as she remembered it, flanked by two seats that had seen laughter, arguments, and quiet mornings alike.

She set out to the gardens to look for Eternal Sugar Cookie, only to find her still slumbering in the little makeshift gazebo that had become her chambers.

The morning light filtered softly through the linen canopy, casting pale, rippling shadows over the sleeping Cookie’s wings—folded neatly like petals at rest. A small pile of books lay forgotten at her side, one still open beneath her hand. Even in sleep, there was something furrowed in her brow, as though her dreams had weight. Hollyberry lingered at the threshold, unsure whether to call her awake or simply watch, letting the silence wrap around them both like a shawl too worn to let go of.

Despite her better judgment, Hollyberry stepped inside, placing the tray on the little coffee table before she lowered herself onto the floor, letting her legs fold beneath her with a quiet grunt. She leaned back slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile stillness, and rested her head against one of the wooden posts. The scent of flowers curling in the air, and for a brief, suspended moment, the ache in her chest ebbed.

It was foolish, she knew—sitting like this when she had things to tend to, the letter from Pure Vanilla to read, questions to answer. But none of it seemed urgent now. Not with the peaceful rise and fall of Eternal Sugar’s breath on her canopy near her, not with the quiet birdsong threading through the garden leaves, not with the sun warming the edge of her robe.


…


Hollyberry woke to the faint rustle of wings and the soft tug of fabric.

She blinked, momentarily unsure of how much time had passed. The garden light had shifted—gentler now, more golden. Beside her, Eternal Sugar Cookie sat with her knees tucked to her chest, wings swaying idly with a breeze that hadn’t reached Hollyberry’s skin. Her fingers, delicate and fidgeting, were curled around the hem of Hollyberry’s robe, smoothing and twisting it in slow, absent motions.

She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t noticed she was awake—or perhaps she had.

The moment Hollyberry stirred, even slightly, Eternal Sugar stilled. For a heartbeat, she lingered in that quiet closeness, as if savoring it… and then flickered away like light catching a prism—soft, sudden, and nearly soundless.

Gone again.

Hollyberry exhaled, not startled, not even disappointed. She didn’t mind the closeness; if anything, she welcomed it. There was something fragile about Eternal Sugar these days, like glass catching light: Beautiful, but stretched thin. She was worried, as despite the calmer— the more at-ease demeanor —there was something different.

And though she hadn’t said a word, something in the way she lingered spoke more than any greeting.

Hollyberry stretched slightly, letting out a low, amused sigh as she glanced to the side where Eternal Sugar had just vanished. “You know,” she said aloud, her voice still thick with the weight of sleep, “We can share a patch of sunlight.”

There was a pause.

“I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to be strange,” she murmured, hands wringing together. “I just didn’t want to bother you. You looked so… peaceful.”

“‘Peaceful’ is generous,” Hollyberry chuckled, brushing a stray petal from her braid. “I probably snored.”

“Maybe,” Eternal Sugar’s lips twitched into a smile, reluctant but real. “Only a little.”

Hollyberry tilted her head, patting the space beside her. “You can sit. I don’t mind the company.” A beat passed, then she added, more softly, “It was… nice.”

There was hesitation again—Eternal Sugar’s gaze flickered between her and the floor—but then, slowly, carefully, she stepped forward and sank down beside her once more. Her wings settled with a faint rustle, brushing gently against Hollyberry’s arm.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

This time, when she leaned in, Hollyberry leaned back.

The silence between them was a comfortable one—filled with birdsong, the rustling of leaves, and the slow shifting of sunbeams across the floor of the gazebo. Eternal Sugar’s head rested lightly against Hollyberry’s shoulder now, her wings tucked close. For a while, they said nothing. Just existed, like roots beneath the soil—hidden, quiet, but undeniably there .

It was Hollyberry who spoke first, her voice low and a touch playful.

“You know,” she murmured, “I’ve been thinking about that silly patch of herbs by the kitchen window.”

Eternal Sugar shifted slightly, not pulling away. “The one you forgot to water for three days?”

“You counted?”

“I can see the window from here.”

“Excuse me,” Hollyberry said with mock offense, “I watered it. Just… not in the right order. Or the right amount. Or maybe I watered a different pot entirely.” She shrugged with a grin. “It’s the intent that counts.”

A soft huff came from Eternal Sugar—almost a laugh. “The thyme didn’t survive your intent.”

“No, but the mint's still kicking,” Hollyberry replied. “Stubborn thing. I like it. Doesn’t care if it’s ignored, just keeps growing.”

There was another pause. Then, Eternal Sugar murmured, “I used to think you were like that.”

“Like mint?” Hollyberry blinked, amused.

Eternal Sugar nodded slightly. “Wild. Resilient. Always reaching for the sun, no matter what happened the day before.”

Hollyberry was quiet for a moment, her expression softening. “And what about you, then?”

“I…” Eternal Sugar hesitated, then closed her eyes. “I think I used to be a rosebush, original answer, I know.” A soft laugh before she continued.  “Too many thorns. Too much pruning.”

“I quite like roses,” Hollyberry said, resting her cheek lightly against Eternal Sugar’s head, “Though, if I had to choose, I’d say you’re more like wisteria now.”

“Wisteria?”

“Clings to what it loves. Still grows, even if no one tends to it. Beautiful and strong in quiet ways.” She gave a small shrug. “A bit dramatic, maybe, but I’m fond of dramatic things.”

Eternal Sugar didn’t answer right away. But her hand found Hollyberry’s, fingers curling loosely around her calloused ones.

“You still talk too much,” she whispered, the barest smile in her voice.

Hollyberry grinned, squeezing her hand in return. “And you still never say enough.”

A soft breeze stirred the hem of her robe, brushing the edge of her robe that pooled underneath them—and then her eyes caught the corner of something familiar.

“Oh—right,” she blinked, pulling back just slightly, her free hand patting her knee as if to jog her own memory. “I nearly forgot—I brought breakfast.”

She gestured toward the small stone table just beyond the gazebo’s arch, where the tray sat patiently in a patch of sunlight. The steam had long stopped rising from the teapot, and the bread might’ve gone a bit cool, but the berryfruit still gleamed like polished jewels in the bowl.

“I thought we could share it here, under the sun,” she added, glancing sideways. “Seemed nicer than a table full of papers.”

Eternal Sugar looked over to the tray, then back at Hollyberry. “You remembered the rose jam?”

Hollyberry huffed, feigning offense. “Of course I did! What do you take me for—a brute with no sense of taste?”

“You forgot the plates.”

“I—” Hollyberry paused, looked at the tray again, then barked out a laugh. “Alright, fair. But we’ve eaten out of worse, haven’t we?”

Eternal Sugar’s lips curled into a small smile. “There are no utensils either.”

“Ah.” With a groan that was more for show than effort, Hollyberry stood and offered a hand to Eternal Sugar, cleverly switching the topic soon after. “Come on. Before the mint scones turn into paperweights.”

Eternal Sugar accepted her hand and rose with ease, wings trailing lightly behind her. For a moment, their fingers remained laced together as they stepped out into the sunlight—no war behind them, no throne ahead. Just tea gone slightly lukewarm, a jam with neither plates nor utensils, and the quiet comfort of company they hadn’t realized they’d missed until it returned.

They settled on the stone bench just beside the lavender hedges, where bees hummed lazily in the air. Hollyberry poured the tea with exaggerated care, almost ceremoniously, as if to make up for the absence of proper tableware. Eternal Sugar simply sat quietly, eyes drifting across the garden, far away.

“Can I admit something?”

“Always.” Hollyberry nodded, twisting open the rose jam jar.

“It’s strange,” she said at last, fingers wrapped around the cup Hollyberry handed her, though she hadn’t yet taken a sip. “The way I still feel heavy.”

Hollyberry glanced at her, one brow raised. “Mm?”

Eternal Sugar’s fingers tightened around the cup, fine porcelain creaking ever so slightly. “Do you know,” she began, voice barely above the breeze, “there was a moment—right after Beast Yeast was sealed, when the cheers were still echoing—where I looked at you and felt … anger.”

Hollyberry’s brows lifted, more curious than wounded. She waited. “I know,”

“I’d spent millennia believing happiness could be grown the way I coaxed honey‑buds to bloom—consistent care, the right sweetness, pruning every bitter edge.” Eternal Sugar’s wings fluttered, restless. “But on that battlefield, you laughed—loud and reckless—and the troops rallied because of it. No careful plan, no orderly nurturing. Just this raw pulse of life.”

“And they were saved, they were happier than I could ever make them. … And my way suddenly felt so small.” She drew a slow breath as she set the cup down, knuckles white. “In that flash, I hated you for proving me wrong. For showing me that all my perfect tending couldn’t outrun one burst of your joy.”

Hollyberry stayed still, gaze soft. “And yet,” she prompted gently.

Eternal Sugar’s shoulders sagged, wings folding in like petals at dusk. “Yet I couldn’t hold onto it. Because while I was busy nursing resentment, you were… just there, you saw through it, my intent .” She gave a quiet, rueful laugh. “How do you hate someone who keeps proving there’s nothing unworthy in you to hate?”

‘How could I ever hate you, Hollyberry Cookie?’ She hesitantly met her gaze, softening her grip on her cup. ‘How could you not hate me?’

Silence stretched, heavy but not suffocating. The lavender rustled; a bee drifted past.

Hollyberry reached out, brushing a thumb over Eternal Sugar’s tense fingers. “If my laughter felt like thunder, it was only because your patience laid the soil for it to matter.” She shrugged, a smile crooked. “Roots and storms—can’t have one without the other.”

“That’s what makes it matter, doesn’t it? That it doesn’t stay. That we have to notice it while it’s here. Like—” Eternal Sugar’s fingers brushed over the rim of the teacup, “—like blossoms that bloom only once a season. You don’t love them less because they fade. If anything… You love them more. You taught me that then.”

She turned to look at Hollyberry, then, something unspoken, trembling just beneath her gaze. “That’s what I never let myself understand. I kept trying to make joy last forever. You just… let it live.”

Hollyberry answered with a gentle squeeze. “Then let’s keep making that live with us—loudly, quietly, however long it takes.”

And for the first time since Beast Yeast fell, Eternal Sugar let her head rest fully on Hollyberry’s shoulder—bearing the weight of years, and finding it, at last, shared.


They ate with the careless grace of those who had long since stopped worrying about propriety.

Hollyberry tore a piece of the still-soft bread with her hands, dabbing it straight into the rose jam and handing half to Eternal Sugar without ceremony. Eternal Sugar accepted it without complaint, fingers brushing Hollyberry’s for the briefest moment. 

The fruit was shared much the same—split open gently, juice trailing down their fingers as they passed it between them. A smear of jam bloomed at the corner of Eternal Sugar’s mouth, and Hollyberry chuckled, leaning forward with a casual swipe of her thumb to wipe it away.

No plates. No utensils. No crowns. Just sunlight warming their shoulders and the distant chirp of morning birds weaving through the air.

Hollyberry licked the sweetness from her finger absently, then glanced toward her companion with a sudden shift in tone—quieter now, edged with something contemplative.

“Did you feel it?” she asked. “Earlier, before you woke. That strange... stir.”

Eternal Sugar tilted her head slightly. “A stir?”

Hollyberry’s gaze drifted past the hedges to the gentle roll of the hills. “Like a tug at the edge of a dream. Like something that shouldn’t be there was trying to reach in.”

Eternal Sugar didn’t answer immediately. Her wings twitched once, faintly. “I... don’t know,” she admitted. “I only remember being cold. Then warm. Then... here.”

There was a long silence between them. The breeze stirred the herb leaves, carrying the sharp tang of rosemary.

“I saw you,” Hollyberry said softly. “In the dream. Or wherever it was. You were crying. And when I tried to ask—”

“You woke up,” Eternal Sugar finished, voice unreadable.

Hollyberry looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “So it was real?”

Eternal Sugar didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, she plucked a berry from the bowl, turned it in her fingers. “Maybe not real,” she murmured. “But not imagined either.”

The berry’s dark skin split under the pressure of her nails. Juice welled up, clinging scarlet to her fingertips.

“I dreamed,” she said at last, voice so low Hollyberry had to lean in to catch it. “Dreamed you were walking toward something I couldn’t see—through wheat as tall as the sky.” She paused, studying the stain on her skin. “I tried to call you back, but the field kept swallowing my words. Every time I pushed forward, the ground turned to glass, and my wings—” She flexed them, just once, a tremor catching in the feathers. “My wings were too heavy. Dew, maybe. Or something colder.”

Hollyberry reached, brushing a thumb along Eternal Sugar’s wrist, smearing the berry juice to a brighter streak. “You know me,” she said, half‑smile tugging at her mouth. “Stubborn as a cactus in a drought. Dreams or no dreams, I always find my footing.”

Eternal Sugar’s throat bobbed. “That’s what frightens me.” The confession slipped out like breath on a cold morning—visible, delicate, impossible to take back. “You kept choosing the path that broke or will break beneath you. And I… This time it…” She swallowed. “I couldn’t pull you away.”

Hollyberry fell silent, sunlight glinting off her braid as she considered. At length, she gave a small shrug, equal parts rueful and fond. “You’ve always had more faith in my safety than I do,” she said. “But I’m still here, aren’t I? Still eating jam without a spoon. Still laughing too loud.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Eternal Sugar finally lifted her gaze. There was no accusation in her eyes—only a deep, aching worry. “If the dream returns, and I’m there again—trying, failing—promise me you’ll slow down long enough to hear me call.”

Hollyberry’s grin softened into something gentler, almost solemn. “I can promise I’ll try,” she said, and squeezed the hand still speckled crimson. “Can’t do better than that, love. Adventure runs in my dough.”

Eternal Sugar exhaled, the knot in her shoulders loosening by a thread. She pressed the crushed berry to her lips, tasting its tang before setting the rest in Hollyberry’s palm. “Then I’ll keep calling,” she whispered, “until you do.”

She didn't mention the figure she saw; she hadn't seen a need to do so. She will, of course, once she is sure of what that exactly is.

As the silence settled once more, Eternal Sugar let her mind drift—reluctantly—back to the dream. She hadn’t wanted to think on it, not with sunlight warming her feathers and the taste of summer fruit still on her tongue. But the memory clung to her like pollen in the folds of her wings.

If Hollyberry had seen it too—if her dream mirrored Eternal Sugar’s, even in fragments—then it wasn’t just a figment of worry or old wounds resurfacing.

Someone, or something, was trying to tell her something.

—

The field unfurled beneath an unnatural sky, vast and golden, but wrong— too golden, like it had been lacquered over, painted to resemble something warm. And above it all, the sun loomed—not bright, not blinding, but pale, leached of color, like old bone polished too smooth. Its light gave no warmth, only the illusion of day.

Eternal Sugar stood alone at the edge of that impossible wheat. The stalks hissed as they swayed, but there was no wind. Only the sound. Only the shimmer of a world pretending to live.

Then she saw her.

A flash of scarlet and bronze cut through the grain. Hollyberry. She walked with familiar weight, the confident gait of a warrior, shoulders squared and laughter spilling from her lips, bright and defiant, as if daring the world to try again. She didn’t see Eternal Sugar. Didn’t hear her. Her path was fixed.

But the field was not empty.

A shape moved ahead of her, warped and rippling, like heat on the horizon if heat could devour . Wherever it passed, the ground didn’t bend—it cracked. The wheat blackened, turned to dust in the air. The path it carved through the golden sea looked like a wound, raw and unnatural.

Eternal Sugar’s breath caught.

She stepped forward—then ran. Then leapt into the air, wings bursting open behind her in a spray of shimmering pink.

She soared above the field, desperate, focused on Hollyberry’s form below. But the closer she flew, the farther Hollyberry seemed to drift. The wind didn’t push her back—there was no wind. No resistance. Just distance that bent like time, like space was stretching itself between them, no matter how fast she beat her wings.

She flew harder. Wings pumping, heart racing.

Still, Hollyberry remained a smear of red in the wheat, unbothered, unaware, heading straight toward the shadow that wanted to consume her.

The sky changed.

It breathed .

A soundless inhalation made the clouds tremble. The color began to fade from above—blue bleeding into gray, gray into white, then into nothing . The sun loomed larger, pressing down as though gravity had inverted, and the sky itself was descending.

Panic surged through her chest. Her wings faltered.

The air thickened.

It clung to her feathers like oil. Flying turned to falling, and then to drowning midair. The sky had weight now—it pressed against her, pushing her back toward the field. The moment she looked up, it was as if the world turned upside down, and she was no longer flying but sinking .

She hit the ground.

Knees, palms—dirt biting at her skin, the field no longer wheat but shards. Yellow stalks sharpened into glass. Around her, the ground heaved. Walls of clay rose again, fast, too fast. They grew like roots in reverse, towering overhead, confined, closing. The field became a box. A box became a tomb.

She scrambled to her feet and ran.

Hollyberry was just ahead—closer now—but still unreachable. Eternal Sugar reached out, screaming her name, but her voice turned to dust. The walls moved inward. Her wings crashed against them— no space . No escape.

It kept breathing down on her, each breath weighing a ton as her own failed to escape out of her lungs.

She reached again, fingers brushing the hem of Hollyberry’s cloak—and then the ground gave way. Crumbling, collapsing. The box sealed itself overhead.

And Hollyberry turned, just once, with a smile that was too calm for what was coming.

Eternal Sugar fell.

No sky. No air.

Just the sound of the wheat hissing like it was laughing at her. Mocking her.

Eternal Sugar pressed her palms to the cracked ground, trembling. Her wings ached—each feather sluggish, soaked in dread—but they hadn’t failed her. Not completely. Not yet.

She gritted her teeth.

One beat.
Then another.

They lifted—not fully, not gracefully, but enough. Just enough.

Her breath came in ragged pulls as she forced herself forward, stumbling, half-crawling through the splintered wheat. The walls loomed closer, the sky now a slab of silence above, but still— she moved . Her wings dragged behind her like torn silk. Each step felt like walking through a nightmare made of syrup and smoke.

But she saw her.

Hollyberry. Still walking. Still so brave and foolish and herself. Unaware of the closing dark. Unaware of the thing that loomed ever nearer, teeth bared in silence, hunger ancient and cruel.

Eternal Sugar didn’t think—she leapt .

With what little strength she had, she threw herself forward. Her body surged past the weight, past the thickening shadows, past the dream’s cruel laws of distance and delay—and finally, finally—she reached her.

A blur of red and gold.

And then— impact .

She tackled her—not to harm, but to shield. Arms locked around Hollyberry’s frame, wings flaring as wide as they could manage. She curled around her, desperate, breath heaving as she held her like something sacred. Her body trembled from the force of it all, but she didn’t loosen her hold.

Eternal Sugar barreled into Hollyberry before she could think, her tears spilling hot and unchecked. The moment her arms locked around the warrior’s broad shoulders, the last of her composure splintered.

“Hollyberry Cookie!” The words burst out of her, thick with sobs, trembling like a dam had shattered. She held tighter—too tight—terrified that letting go would somehow undo reality itself. “Oh, thank the stars—you’re here, you’re here—”

Hollyberry’s body went rigid beneath her grasp, and Eternal Sugar felt the sudden hitch of the other Cookie’s breath. She sensed Hollyberry’s confusion, the quiet alarm in her steadying hands as they rose to cup Eternal Sugar’s shoulders, coaxing her down to the soft earth.

“Eternal Sugar?” Hollyberry whispered, the name landing like a question meant to anchor them both.

Eternal Sugar’s wings folded in by reflex, wrapping protectively around them as she pressed closer, heart pounding. The raw memory of whatever it was she had seen clawed at her throat. Words rushed out in half‑formed fragments as she tried to wipe away the tears blurring Hollyberry’s face from view.

“I thought— Goodness…” She rubbed at her eyes, choking on a sob as she leaned back just enough to take in Hollyberry’s whole, unbroken form. “I— Thank the witches you are unharmed…”

The relief gave way to guilt so sharp it stung. Her voice splintered again. “I–I’m sorry… Hollyberry, I tried— I promised!”

Hollyberry’s eyes narrowed with gentle urgency, a chill layering beneath her calm. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice low but unyielding. “What did you see? Sugar, what’s happening?”

Eternal Sugar’s breath stalled. Images of crumbling wheat, crushing walls, and a sun of bleached bone flashed behind her eyes. But facing Hollyberry’s steady gaze, all she could do was shudder—caught between the terror of the dream and the impossible relief of reality—and start to explain.

“You stubborn thing,” she whispered hoarsely, burying her face in Hollyberry’s shoulder. “Why do you always run toward the fire?”

No answer.

Only the tremble of the field beneath them. The walls shuddered. The shadows paused. The wheat hissed louder, but didn’t touch them.

She held tighter as a strange stillness settled between heartbeats—too quiet, too sudden.

And then Hollyberry was gone. Simply gone.

No burst of light. No crumbling into dust. No whisper of parting breath. Just—absence. The kind that hollows the air around it, that leaves the arms aching from what they no longer hold.

Eternal Sugar stumbled forward with the momentum of the vanished embrace, hands grasping at nothing. Her wings flared open in panic, feathers rustling like panicked whispers. The space where Hollyberry had been was empty, the grass unbent, the light too still.

“No—” she breathed, the word scraped from her lungs.

She blinked once. Twice.

Only the wind answered. The dream had shifted again. Or perhaps it had ended. But the ache remained—sharp, echoing—and in her chest bloomed a terrible, quiet knowing:

She hadn't saved her. Not yet.

Eternal Sugar whipped around, heart hammering, eyes darting across the endless field. “Hollyberry?” she called, but the name fell flat, swallowed by the heavy quiet. There was no echo, no rustle of movement. Just wind skimming through the wheat and the sharp thud of her pulse in her ears.

She searched—desperately for anything. A sign. A shimmer. A trace of warmth left behind.

Then, in the far distance, just past the sway of golden grain, she saw it.

Something tall. Dark. Motionless. Unnervingly silent.

It stood like a monolith against the horizon, its silhouette sharp and foreign—wrong. And behind it, a terrible brilliance began to rise. A light so piercing, so pure, it was blinding. It seared through the dream like a blade, outlining the dark figure in a halo of impossible glow.

Her breath caught. She stepped back.

The light pulsed.

And she woke.

A gasp tore from her lips as she bolted upright, chest heaving, wings flared wide and trembling. Morning sunlight spilled in through the cracks of the gazebo—too soft, too golden—and yet her skin felt chilled. Her hand flew to her chest as if expecting it to break open.

She stayed like that for a moment, suspended in the quiet between dream and waking, her lungs too tight, her throat burning from a scream that never escaped. The edges of the vision still clung to her: the towering figure, the blinding light, the vanishing warmth. She could still feel it—Hollyberry disappearing in her arms. That unbearable emptiness.

But then—she heard it. Soft. Steady. Real.

Breathing.

Her eyes snapped to the side, wild and searching, and there she was.

Hollyberry Cookie. Slumped gently against one of the gazebo’s carved posts, blanket half-draped over her broad shoulders, one arm limp in her lap, the other curled slightly like she’d meant to reach for something before sleep had overtaken her. The morning light kissed her hair and traced the line of her brow, softening her features, casting her not in gold, but in peace.

Eternal Sugar didn’t trust the sight at first. Her breath hitched. Her heart ached as if daring her to believe it.

She rose without realizing, her movements slow and tentative, like stepping across fragile ice. Her wings dragged behind her, feathers stirring the loose petals on the floor. And then she knelt. No words, no sound. Just lowered herself gently, carefully, like she feared the moment would crack open if she rushed.

The space beside Hollyberry was still warm. That warmth—so ordinary, so grounding—felt like the first thing she could trust since the dream.

She sat there, silently. Watching her chest rise and fall, the way a quiet little snore slipped past her lips, how a curl of her hair had fallen messily across her brow. She looked so real, so impossibly present.

Eternal Sugar’s hands, still trembling, reached to adjust the blanket back over her shoulder. She tucked it in like she was wrapping a wound, with a touch too gentle for someone so often called distant.

And then, slowly, she leaned in.

Their arms brushed, just slightly. She closed her eyes at the contact.

She let her wings curl around the two of them—not entirely, not to shield, but to hold.

As if, by remaining still enough, quiet enough, she could borrow just a little more time. As if she could stay here—before the questions, before the fears—and simply exist in this small, sunlit moment.

—

“That’s not what I mean.” Eternal Sugar finally lifted her gaze. There was no accusation in her eyes—only a deep, aching worry. “If the dream returns, and I’m there again—trying, failing—promise me you’ll slow down long enough to hear me call.”

Hollyberry’s grin softened into something gentler, almost solemn. “I can promise I’ll try,” she said, and squeezed the hand still speckled crimson. “Can’t do better than that, love. Adventure runs in my dough.”

Eternal Sugar exhaled, the knot in her shoulders loosening by a thread. She pressed the crushed berry to her lips, tasting its tang before setting the rest in Hollyberry’s palm. “Then I’ll keep calling,” she whispered, “until you do.”

…

A hush fell over them—not heavy, but tender. The kind of silence that arrives not from absence, but from understanding. Birds chirped somewhere distant in the garden, their calls muffled by the gentle rustle of leaves swaying in the early sun. A breeze stirred through the gazebo’s curtains, lifting a lock of Hollyberry’s hair as she shifted, slowly setting the now-empty tray to the side with a soft clink of porcelain against wood.

She didn’t speak at first. Her hand lingered on the tray a moment longer than necessary, fingers curling around the edge like she was grounding herself in the texture of the world.

Then she turned slightly, eyes meeting Eternal Sugar’s—not stern, not playful, but gently searching.

“…Are you alright?” she asked, voice low, steady. There was no pressure in the words, just the kind of care that asked for honesty, even in silence.

Eternal Sugar didn’t answer at first. Her gaze had fallen to the folds of her robes, where a smear of crushed berry still clung to the pale fabric—bright, staining, like a wound that wasn’t quite bleeding. She brushed it away with her thumb, though the mark remained faint.

“I’m not sure,” she said at last, quiet as a falling petal.

She lifted her head, but not to meet Hollyberry’s eyes just yet. Her gaze drifted instead to the treetops beyond the gazebo, to the way the sun laced through the branches like threads through lace. There was something unreadable in her face—something that flickered between calm and something far older. Older than words. Older than kingdoms.

“That’s alright.” Hollyberry simply hummed as she looked across her gardens, her voice wrapped in quiet reassurance. The sunlight brushed gold across her cheeks, and for a moment, it seemed like she let the weight of Eternal Sugar’s words settle gently on her shoulders—without brushing them away, without denying them. Simply holding them, as she would a fragile bloom.

“But you know,” she began after a pause, her tone lighter, touched with something warm and teasing, “you’ve done quite the number on these gardens. I hardly recognized them since I returned.”

“And I thought I was the lazy one.”

“Hm,” She turned slightly to glance at Eternal Sugar, a lopsided smile playing on her lips. “I used to think this patch of land was just for show. Rows of berrybushes that barely bore fruit, wilting vines too stubborn to climb—tried once to prune a hedge and nearly lost my patience with the shears.” She chuckled, the sound rich and low in her chest. “And now look at it. Everything’s blooming. Everything… softer.”

Her eyes softened too, tracing the delicate paths of vines curling along the gazebo’s posts, the bursts of color peeking from between trimmed hedges, the perfume of petals carried on the breeze.

“You must’ve whispered to them or sung lullabies, or whatever it is you do,” Hollyberry added, voice playful but not insincere. “Because they listen to you. They stay.”

She let the words settle for a breath, then nudged Eternal Sugar gently with her shoulder. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I never had the hands for tending—but it seems like you had enough for the both of us.”

And though her smile was tilted with mischief, there was no denying the earnest glint in her eyes, or the way her voice had softened just so—like this was her way of saying thank you without calling it gratitude, of pulling them both back toward light.

“You must teach me,” Hollyberry said, lifting her chin with mock pride. “I get enough nagging from Wildberry as it is—says I should have a hobby or something.” She waved a hand dramatically, as if swatting away the very idea. “Apparently, throwing boulders doesn’t count.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Eternal Sugar’s lips, though she tried to hide it behind the soft curtain of her hair. Hollyberry noticed, of course, and leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. “Oh, don’t think I didn’t catch that. Aha! A smile. I knew there was still one in there.”

Eternal Sugar shook her head, quiet laughter escaping in a breath. “You are loud,” she murmured, but there was no annoyance in her tone—only the gentleness of someone used to warmth and learning to let herself bask in it again.

“I could teach you,” she added, after a pause. “But you’ll need patience.”

Hollyberry puffed out her chest. “Patience? Me? I have plenty of patience! I’ve had to put up with a royal court full of squabbling nobles for years. How much harder can a few flowers be?”

Eternal Sugar gave her a look. One long, knowing look that said you don’t fool me at all.

“Alright, alright,” Hollyberry relented with a good-natured groan, scratching the back of her head. “But I’ll try. Just don’t expect me to talk to the soil or sing to seedlings or whatever it is you do.”

Eternal Sugar plucked a petal from her sleeve and let it drift away on the wind. “You don’t have to sing,” she said softly. “Just staying isn't enough.”

And for once, Hollyberry didn’t have a witty retort. Just a glance downward, and a soft, almost sheepish smile. “Staying?”

“Mhm,” Eternal Sugar simply responded as she rose from the bench, offering her hand out. “While it does grow better with company…

Her voice was quiet, but the weight behind it pressed gently—like the way light lingers on glass just before it warms. 

“Some plants don’t bloom just because they're in a good environment,” she continued, her fingers still outstretched. “Sometimes they need to feel someone nearby, yes. But the sun simply being there is not enough… Plants need pruning, they need care by not just presence.”

Hollyberry looked at her hand, then slowly reached out to take it. There was something in her chest she didn’t name, didn’t need to—not yet.

Eternal Sugar smiled, and it was smaller this time. Sadder, maybe. But real.

“They’ll grow,” she said, her voice barely above the rustle of the garden leaves. “Not always in the ways we hoped... but in the ways they need to. And maybe that’s enough.”

She didn’t say who she meant—didn’t need to.

Eternal Sugar hesitated before she met Hollyberry’s gaze. “...How is Sugarfly and Pavlova? I heard they now reside in the Faerie kingdom.”

Hollyberry’s expression shifted, thoughtful, as she let the question settle.

“They’re alright,” she said slowly. “They’ve found a place in the Faerie Kingdom. Sugarfly’s still practicing on flying, so as I’ve heard—Pavlova’s gotten into the arts.”

She paused, fingers gently tracing a loose thread on her sleeve. “Black Sapphire is there too, though… has been quiet. Watching more than speaking. I think he carries too much still, even if he won’t say it. And Candy Apple…” A wry smile touched her lips, faint and tired. “She hasn’t let go of the idea of revenge. She says it sweetly, like it’s just another promise she’s keeping. But White Lily says she sees it in her eyes—that she means it.”

She looked to Eternal Sugar then, the garden’s warmth doing little to lift the weight behind her voice. “They’re surviving. But peace… that still feels far off.”

“I didn’t know Black Sapphire and Candy Apple were there too.” Eternal Sugar’s voice softened, the relief barely masked beneath her usual quiet restraint. Her gaze lingered on the patch of sunlight between them, as if the warmth there might stretch far enough to reach the ones she spoke of. At least Sugarfly and Pavlova are alright, she thought. That, for now, would have to be enough.

“What of Cloud Haetae?” she asked after a pause. “And… Nutmeg Tiger Cookie?”

Hollyberry’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, and her gaze drifted beyond the garden, past the hedges, as if searching for a silhouette that hadn’t returned. She didn’t answer at first. Only when Eternal Sugar’s fingers brushed lightly against the back of her hand—gentle, coaxing—did her shoulders ease.

“Cloud Haetae still refuses to leave the Pagoda,” Hollyberry murmured. "They said their master hasn’t given them permission to go yet. Paces the roof tiles day and night, waiting simply."

“And Nutmeg Tiger?” Eternal Sugar prompted gently.

At that, Hollyberry’s gaze fell to her lap.

“No word,” she said, low. 

“She is strong. Fierce,” Eternal Sugar said, her voice quiet but steady, like a root sunk deep in the earth. “I am certain she is fine.”

There was a calm certainty in her words, not born from hope but from knowing. The Land of the Spice was no stranger to storms—those who came from it were forged in fire and sun, stubborn as stone, and twice as difficult to fell. Eternal Sugar had once seen Nutmeg Tiger Cookie walk barefoot through embers and come out laughing.

“They don’t break easily, those from her soil,” she added, her gaze distant now, as if recalling a memory flavored with heat and ash. “They don’t bend without reason. And when they vanish... It’s usually because they’ve chosen to.”

Hollyberry gave a faint nod, her grip on Eternal Sugar’s hand tightening just enough to be felt. A part of her wanted to believe that. A bigger part did. “I believe you.”

Eternal Sugar didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stepped closer. Her hand, still wrapped around Hollyberry’s, gave the softest tug as her wings folded slightly. She leaned in—just enough for her forehead to rest gently against Hollyberry’s temple.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” she murmured, voice low like a hush meant only for the garden and no one else. “Not to you.”

The wind carried the faintest scent of dew-warmed herbs and blooming citrus, brushing through the trellises above them. Somewhere nearby, a finch trilled lazily, unaware of the way the world could shift in the smallest of silences.

Eternal Sugar’s thumb brushed gently over Hollyberry’s knuckles—slow, grounding, the kind of quiet reassurance that asked for nothing but offered everything.

A small cough sounded near the edge of the garden.

It was restrained, perfectly measured, and unmistakably intentional.

Hollyberry didn’t move at first, only exhaled through her nose like a deflating bellows. “You’ve been practicing that cough, haven’t you?” she muttered, already turning her head.

Hollyberry gave Eternal Sugar’s hand one final squeeze before gently pulling away, the warmth of their shared moment still lingering at her fingertips. She stood up straighter, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, a quiet apology in her eyes, though she didn’t voice it. 

There stood Wildberry Cookie, tall and rigid as ever, framed by a cluster of blooming hollyhocks. One gloved hand rested behind his back, the other held outstretched—not in greeting, but in presentation. A letter, crisp and still sealed, rested in his palm. Upon his shoulder, a very round and very indignant bluebird sat fluffed in visible offense, as if personally insulted by Hollyberry’s negligence.

“I would not dream of interrupting, Your Highness,” Wildberry said, voice even. “But it seems… this letter still awaits your attention.”

Hollyberry squinted at the envelope. “That again? I left it on my study desk.”

“Indeed,” he replied without hesitation. “Since this morning, atop an untouched stack of training schedules and at least one tea-stained napkin.” He paused. “The bird has been most vocal about your disregard.”

The bluebird let out a sharp chirp , punctuating the knight’s words with all the dignity of a miniature herald.

Eternal Sugar watched with faint amusement as Hollyberry leaned forward, plucking the envelope with the air of someone being handed a chore they could no longer avoid. “Well. If I had known my correspondence had a beaked warden…”

“The bird attempted to fly in the middle of my shower earlier,” Wildberry added, dry as stone. “One of the handmaidens, luckily… intervened.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Hollyberry, short and sincere. “Suppose I owe you both my thanks.”

She turned the envelope over in her hand, her expression sobering just slightly as her thumb traced Pure Vanilla’s seal. The moment between them—quiet, easy—shifted again, as if something awaited behind the paper. But for now, she tucked the letter gently beside her, the sun catching the gold trim as it fell into place like another piece in a shifting puzzle.

“Tea first,” she said. “Then the letter. If the bird allows it.”


—

The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the curtains of Hollyberry’s chambers, casting warm lines across the wooden floor. Outside, birds chirped somewhere in the hedges, the kingdom alive with its usual bustle—but within these walls, all was still.

She sat at her desk, her armor exchanged for softer clothes, her hair loosely braided. The letter rested in the center of the desk now, no longer untouched, no longer ignored. Her fingers traced the edges of the parchment once more before she unfolded it fully and read it again, slower this time.

To my friends,
The Academy is no longer silent—
And neither is he.

Her brows drew together. She could hear Pure Vanilla’s voice in the cadence of the lines, gentle but tinged with unease. And though the writing never once said his name outright beyond that cryptic "he," Hollyberry knew exactly who it referred to. Shadow Milk.

She leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking beneath her weight, and let her eyes skim further.

It breathes in the walls, stirs in the dust... Something within the halls... older than either of us remembered.

She remembered the Academy. White Lily’s old stories, the faded maps, the tomes that bled forgotten languages. She remembered being told that place was built on knowledge, but never that it had bones that breathed.

Her fingers tapped once against the desk.

He stayed. Even when I didn’t ask him to. That alone feels heavier than any magic I’ve known.

She paused there.

She could see it—Shadow Milk, with that heavy look in his eyes, the kind that came from dragging the past behind him like a broken sword. She had never spoken with him properly, not for long. But even the little she had glimpsed told her that his silence wasn’t hollow. It was full of regret, of knowing, of watching.

...the guardians, as Shadow Milk had mentioned in his daze.

She frowned deeper now. Guardians. Had he seen something?

She turned her gaze to the window briefly, watching as a group of knights passed below, laughing. The sound didn’t reach her.

I trust this has merit, has truth in it.

Of course he did. He always had. Even when they doubted, Pure Vanilla clung to the goodness in others like it was a lifeline. Hollyberry rubbed her temple.

When she finally looked down again at the end of the letter, she lingered on the last few lines.

I request a letter back in regards to how are you and his comrades and how they are doing.
I hope you all are doing well,
Pure Vanilla Cookie.

She closed her eyes, letting the paper fall lightly against the desk. 

She reached for a fresh sheet of parchment from her drawer. The sunlight had begun to shift again, and though it was still day, something in the air felt... off. Like the breeze had changed directions.

She picked up her pen.

And she began to write.

Perhaps she could mention the dream she had earlier—no, not a dream. It had felt too vivid, too threaded with something old and unspoken as well. A vision, maybe. A whisper of something not entirely her own. Magic had never been her strong suit—she was more steel than spell—but even she knew enough to trust when the wind shifted in her sleep.

It unsettled her, the way it clung to her ribs like a warning half-formed. And though she couldn’t explain it, not yet, she supposed it was worth writing down. If only to keep it from festering in silence.

It was especially unnerving to find out that she and Eternal Sugar had shared it, too. She should also note of that as well.

…

To Pure Vanilla Cookie,

So the Academy stirs again. I won’t pretend to know its halls like you or White Lily did, but I trust your instincts. I always have. If the walls breathe, then listen closely—but don’t let them breathe you in.

We are… well enough. The gardens are growing again—though Eternal Sugar deserves the credit more than I. She has taken to quiet mornings and stubborn roots. I think it suits her.

White Lily and I have been in correspondence as of late, and from what I have heard, Sugarfly and Pavlova are with Black Sapphire and Candy Apple in the Faerie Kingdom. The former has grown quite silent, and the latter is still all fire and vengeance. I don’t blame her.

Cloud Haetae refuses to leave the Pagoda, no matter what I or anyone else says. As for Nutmeg Tiger Cookie… no word yet. That silence is heavier than I’d like.

 

There’s something else. I hesitate to write it, because I do not often trust things I cannot grip in my palm or stare down with a raised blade. But I had a dream—no, a vision. One I can’t quite name. Eternal Sugar had it too. Not the same, not exactly, but close enough, it chilled the marrow in me.

It felt like I was being watched. Not with malice, but with a weight. Something old. I won’t go into the details now, not until I understand them better. But I am writing them down, as you asked. For now, that will have to be enough.

Write back when you can, and do update me on the others as well. And tell him —Shadow Milk Cookie—that if he insists on performing another little sacrificial stunt of his, he better not crumble before we get the chance to yell at him.

 

With all the warmth I can muster,

Hollyberry Cookie

Chapter Text

Quietness. Quaintness. Devoid of anything was the space that coiled, held him tight that he couldn’t breathe. Silence, in which normally comforted him, now gathered around like an unseen tide, at once feather‑light and crushing as stone. It coiled around thought as tightly as around flesh as each heartbeat sounded to his inner ear like a question posed: What remains when all else is taken?

Silent Salt is plagued by nothingness—an ache without shape, a weight without center. Nothing feels right, and perhaps that is the point. The world moves around him with the illusion of purpose, but to him, every motion rings hollow, like wind echoing through abandoned halls. 

He walks, he breathes, he even reaches—but nothing answers. It isn’t even he who moves himself. He is but a doll, a vessel for a greater purpose with strings at every end of his limbs. Is that why all is so meaningless?

He knows nothing is. Not a question, not a metaphor. Simply is . A presence in the absence, a thing that clings to him more tightly than breath itself. When he tries—truly tries—to cry out, to scream, to rupture the silence that cages him, nothing emerges. Not even a whisper. Not even a breath to betray the attempt. His throat tightens, but it is not pain that stops him—it is the terrifying familiarity of silence.

The thought coils tighter, sinking its teeth into his mind, gnawing at the fragile thread of self that still dares to endure. The silence grows louder—deafening in its emptiness, unbearable in its weight. He feels it pressing down on his chest, not like a hand, but like the absence of one. No warmth. No contact. Just the oppressive void where something should be.

Then—

A snap. His eyes fly open.

He jolts upright as if drowning, lungs dragging in air like it’s fire—burning, ragged, frantic. His hands claw at his chest as though trying to dig out the weight still sitting there. His mouth is open, wide with a scream that still refuses to come. Only gasps escape. Choked. Hoarse. Like a voice learned to forget itself.

Sweat clings to his skin in cold beads, as if his body had remembered fear his mind tried to deny. Around him, the world is dim, quiet, but real. Or so it claims. But even here, awake, the nothingness lingers as residue.

Silent Salt shook his head, running both hands over his face. His palms dragged down slowly, catching on the angles of fatigue etched deep beneath his eyes. With a low exhale, he turned to the window.

He squinted at the horizon and figured that he’d slept no more than two hours—if it could even be called sleep. Dawn was nowhere near close, judging by the position of the moon.

His eyes flicked to the helmet resting on the bedside table, the metal catching what little light the room offered. It sat there untouched, a quiet sentinel to sleepless nights. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the bed. Trying to sleep any longer would be pointless—he knew that much by now.

He wore the scabbard which held his sword, lying discarded on the side of his bed. 

His footsteps echoed softly, a steady clack against the cold floor as he slipped out of his room and into the hallway.

Silent Salt never wandered the Faerie Palace. There had never been a reason to. Ornate halls and glowing lanterns weren’t things he sought, not when the stillness of his room suited him better. Still, he figured walking was better than sitting and letting his thoughts fester like they had for the past two months. Maybe—just maybe—it was time for something different.

He noticed the moon as he passed one of the high-arched windows—still full, still watching. Its light spilled across the marble floor in pale, ghostlike ribbons, catching the edge of his shoulder. He paused, gaze lifting slightly.

The moon was out.

Silent Salt frowned, almost imperceptibly, as if the sight confirmed some quiet dread. It was not the kind of night he wanted. He had hoped for clouds, for rain—anything to mute that gaze. But no, the moon hung there, heavy and still, casting its silver scrutiny upon him like it knew too much.

Its light touched his shoulder, and though it weighed nothing, it felt like a hand he couldn’t brush off. Uninvited. Unblinking. He rolled his shoulder, but the sensation stayed.

He glanced down through the tall window, eyes falling on the field beyond the palace walls—the one his counterpart had led him to once. He recalls the fireflies, how the conversation had drifted—inevitably—to stars and of the moon.

“…Hm.”

The sound left him quietly, barely more than a breath, as he turned from the window. Without much thought, he moved toward the spiral staircase tucked into the side of the corridor, its polished banister gleaming faintly under the moon’s pale reach. His footsteps echoed down the stone steps, steady, unhurried, the sound folding back into the stillness of the palace.

He passed through the outer halls, silent sentinels of glass and gilded edges, then through a gated arch that led into the sleeping gardens. The cool air met him there, tinged with the faint scent of dew and late blooms.

The boundary of the Faerie Kingdom lay ahead—not a wall, but a shimmer in the air, like moonlight caught in a veil. He stepped through it without pause.

The outside world greeted him in a quiet hush. Wild grasses rose gently on either side of the worn path, and far beyond, the field stretched open, waiting. The moon was higher now, and its light followed him still.

He stepped into the field, the tall grass brushing against his boots, whispering against his legs with each careful step. The wind here was softer, less refined than the palace air—wild, untamed. It carried the scent of moss and old flowers, and something older still, like the breath of forgotten seasons.

He paused at the center where the grass bowed lower. He remembered how White Lily Cookie had stood there, calm and open, her hand raised gently toward the sky as if she were not summoning, but merely asking. Her staff gliding across the grass as fireflies had gathered then—dozens, maybe more—like they were drawn to her warmth, her stillness, the kindness that lived beneath her voice. They had drifted around them like falling stars while she was the moon, flickering between words and silence.

Silent Salt Cookie lifted his hand now, mimicking the gesture. His fingers curled slightly, palm open to the wind. He stood there a moment, waiting. Expecting. Hoping? Though he wouldn't have called it that.

Nothing.

He tried to glide his hand over the tops of the grass, and still nothing. The field remained as it was—quiet, untouched. No glow. No wings. Only the soft rise and fall of the grasses swaying with the wind, and the moon’s watchful eye above.

He lowered his arm slowly, the motion stiff, a little more bitter than he intended. Of course, it hadn’t worked. He wasn’t her.

For a moment, he stood very still, his eyes tracing the space where they had once danced—those little lights, fleeting and bright. It was silly, he thought, to expect anything else. Foolish, even. But still, he had tried nonetheless.

His souljam tugged. Softly.

He froze.

It whispered, the sound unintelligible.

Then it tugged again. Stronger.

Without a word, he followed.

The field gave way to trees, the tall kind that bent inward as if trying to shield the path ahead. The air grew cooler, the wind quieter. But something else hung in it now—a scent, faint but familiar. Earth and ash. A hint of something sweet. Something he couldn’t name but knew all the same.

His Souljam hummed in warning, a low, uneasy sound beneath his ribs. It didn’t hurt. Not yet. But it thrummed like a held breath, a quiet pulse that said he was walking toward something he shouldn’t.

Still, he didn’t stop.

He had his sword—he always did. It hung at his side now, the weight of it a quiet comfort, steady against the unknown. His hand hovered near the hilt, not drawn, but ready. Just in case.

The forest thickened, shadows pooling like ink beneath the trees. Every step deeper felt like crossing into something forgotten.

A patch of moonlight broke through the thick canopy above, falling in a narrow beam that lit the forest floor in silver. The trees loomed tall and close, their branches arching overhead like ribs, enclosing him in a living cathedral of quiet. Darkness lingered just beyond the light, thick and watchful.

Yet, something about this place felt… younger. Not in age, but in spirit. The air buzzed faintly with life, subtle, breathing, as though the forest was listening. Watching. Not hostile, not yet. Just aware.

Despite the weight of shadow, the world here felt more awake than the palace halls ever did. In what he could see within the dimly lit crevices, everything had an air of longing, everything was young. It did not seem right, none of it did.

His ears caught the faint trickle of water, steady, soft, like a lullaby whispered just beneath thought. He turned toward it, careful not to disturb the quiet, and soon found a narrow stream weaving its way through the underbrush. The moonlight caught on its surface, turning it to liquid glass.

Without thinking, he followed it.

The stream twisted gently through the trees, drawing him deeper into the woods.

He stepped over roots and rocks, the sound of the stream his only companion. His Souljam thrummed stil, —faint, uneasy. As if urging caution. But the pull was stronger. Not forced. Just... familiar.

And so he wandered farther, drawn by a thread he couldn’t name.

Then, she was there.

Standing just ahead, where the stream bent and the trees parted enough for moonlight to spill across her figure like a blessing. Her long white hair flowed behind her, cascading down her back in soft waves, like a waterfall of gentle snow caught mid-fall. The wind stirred it slightly, but she stood still—almost too still, as though she were part of the forest itself.

Silent Salt stopped in his tracks. His breath caught before he even realized it. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was real or if the forest had shaped her from memory and mist.

He hesitated. Then, carefully, quietly—

“…White Lily?”

His voice broke the stillness like a stone dropped in water. But she didn’t respond. Didn’t speak. Only turned her head slightly, just enough for the edge of her face to catch the light.

Her eyes met his.

And then—gone.

Only the stream continued on, steady and soft. As if nothing had happened at all.

Then—light.

Not searing, not holy, but something more alive than either. A figure burst past him in a sudden rush of brightness, trailing silvery luminescence in its wake. It moved with impossible speed, too fast for his eyes to hold onto, too fluid to belong to something earthly. The air around it shimmered in its passing, trembling as if touched by heat, though no warmth followed—only stillness.

His breath caught sharply in his throat.

It wasn't just light. It was familiar. Was that…

His body reacted before thought could catch up—he stumbled back, heart pounding against his ribs in wild panic. The Souljam inside him thrummed loudly, deep, no longer cautious but overwhelmed. It pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat, louder than the stream, louder than his gasps for air.

That movement, that presence, as silent as wind.

He spun around, eyes darting through the trees, desperate to catch another glimpse. “No…” he muttered under his breath, voice cracking, unsure if it was denial or recognition. “That wasn’t…”

But he couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t breathe right.

The forest had changed again. The leaves trembled even though no wind stirred them. The stream barely made a sound now, muffled beneath the weight in his chest.

He didn’t know whether to run toward it or away.

The figure’s radiance gathered, then lifted, quiet as a breath leaving the earth. It rose through the treetops in one effortless sweep, branches bowing beneath its passing glow. For a heartbeat, it hovered above the forest, a single star that had strayed too close to the ground.

“Wait—don’t!” Silent Salt’s voice ripped from his throat, raw and urgent. He lurched forward, boots skidding on moss‑slick stone, arm outstretched as though he could snatch the light back with his bare hand. His Souljam hammered so hard it hurt.

The figure ascended faster.

“Please— GET AWAY! ”
The cry shattered the hush of the woods, echoed off trunks, and fell into the stream’s hushed rush. But the light kept climbing, a wordless answer, someone as silent as wind.

Higher—past the last reach of the branches.

Higher—into the open vault of night.

It met the moon’s pale face, and for an instant, the sky seemed to hold two moons: one ancient and steady, the other bright and fleeting. Then the smaller glow folded into the larger, as though the moon itself inhaled, and the figure vanished—gone without ripple or trace.

Falling down, now a figure of black, engulfing him whole it seemed.

Silent Salt stumbled to his knees. His shout thinned into a hoarse whisper that the forest swallowed whole. Only the silver light remained, pouring softly over the leaves, indifferent to the emptiness it had left behind.

A hand touched his shoulder.

He flinched, half‑drawn blade gleaming in the moonlight, until the scent of faint garden herbs and parchment met him—unmistakable. White Lily stood beside him on the field, the tall grass brushing the hem of her pale night‑robes.

“Silent Salt,” she said, low and steady. “You’re trembling.”

His gaze snapped to her, wide but distant. It took a second before his shoulders dropped slightly, as though only then did he realize he’d returned to the present.

“It was here,” he murmured. “Light. A figure—someone. He rose to the sky—no, flew—and vanished into the moon. I called out. Tried to stop him. Nothing came.”

His voice cracked at the end, raw with confusion. He rubbed at his chest as though trying to calm the Souljam’s unsteady rhythm. “I tried everything to stop him… I had never wanted to be… this.”

White Lily tilted her head, watching him closely, she could not understand what he fully intended, though did not question further. “There was no light, no movement. When I saw you—you were standing here, still as ever.”

He faltered. “It felt real.”

“I believe you.” Her voice didn’t falter. 

He looked up at the moon, expression unreadable. “It did happen,” 

White Lily followed his gaze. “Perhaps it did. Some things come only to remind us what we’ve lost. Or what we still carry.”

“How do you always know what to say?” 

She said nothing for a long moment, only stared upward, the weight of what the other saw—or imagined—pressing hard into the hollows of her ribs.

Eventually, she stepped beside him. “Come. The night won’t answer you now. But daylight might.”

As White Lily turned to head back through the moonlit field, her robe brushing softly against the tall grass, Silent Salt reached out—not forcefully, but enough to stop her. His fingers curled gently around her arm, the gesture brief, almost uncertain.

“…Wait.”

The word left him more as breath than command. As soon as he realized what he’d done, he withdrew, his hand retreating like it had touched flame. He looked away, jaw clenched, a familiar edge of guilt shadowing his features.

“Apologies,” he muttered, rubbing his temple before dragging a hand back through his pale hair. The motion was agitated, but quiet—controlled. Always controlled.

White Lily tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable, though there was a softness in her eyes. Not pity—never pity. She had long learned the difference between a soul that needed help and one that only needed room to unfold.

Silent Salt gestured toward the grass, the tall reeds gently bending in the night breeze.

“…Could you call them?” he asked finally. “The fireflies. They only listen to you, it seems.”

Her gaze shifted to the field. For a moment, she didn’t answer.

“Here, they come when the air is still,” she said after a pause, voice as even and fragile as porcelain. “When the heart is open"

His lips twitched in something between a frown and resignation. “Then they will never come to me.”

“One stayed, no?” she replied, glancing at him. “That night—do you remember?"

He didn’t look at her. “That was before I knew how little they cared to stay.”

“They left because you willed them to,” she said softly, not accusing. “Even silence can drive things away, if you wear it like armor.”

He exhaled slowly, the night’s cold drawing the sound thinner. “Is that what you believe? That I’ve willed all things from me? That I am the architect of my own emptiness?”

“No,” White Lily said. “But I believe you’ve mistaken solitude for penance. And penance, for worth.”

He turned toward her now, a flicker of something in his eyes—resentment, or maybe recognition. But it faded quickly. He lowered his gaze instead to her hand, which now hovered just above the grass.

Without another word, she knelt slightly and extended her palm. The field responded slowly, almost imperceptibly—the hush of wings, the faint pulse of golden lights emerging from between the stalks.

One by one, the fireflies began to glow. Quietly. Steadily.

Silent Salt watched them, his breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

“They don’t fear you,” White Lily said, rising to stand beside him again. “But they wait for you to stop fearing yourself.”

“Pfft,” He was quiet for a long time. Then, without looking at her, he said, “They’re fools, then.”

“No,” she replied gently, “they are fireflies. They know when to glow.”

As if in quiet agreement, one drifted closer—its light a soft pulse, not bright, not showy, but steady. It hovered near her for a moment before settling lightly onto her outstretched fingers, its delicate wings folding in stillness.

White Lily watched it in silence, then slowly turned to Silent Salt. Her movements were calm, deliberate. Not hesitant, but careful—as though she were treading through the delicate hush of snowfall. The firefly’s soft glow reflected in her eyes, flickering like the sun made gentle by time.

She reached out—not to force, never to persuade—but to offer. Her fingers brushed his, as light as falling petals. And though she felt the instant tension in him, the way his muscles coiled instinctively, she didn’t flinch or withdraw. Her hands remained steady, patient.

Silent Salt did not move. His breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat. Touch had always been a rare thing to him—too personal, too uncertain. Something easily misunderstood. But White Lily was never abrupt. Her gestures never carried demands.

So when her fingers gently curved around his, he let them.

Carefully, with the same reverence she reserved for seedlings and sacred texts, she opened his palm. The firefly still glowed faintly in her other hand, a soft golden light that didn’t pulse with urgency, but rather with calm, steady life.

“This belongs to you too,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, like she didn’t want to disturb the stillness.

And then she placed the firefly in his hand.

It sat there, small and weightless. A gentle warmth settled against his skin, one that had nothing to do with heat, and everything to do with presence. It didn’t buzz or flutter or try to escape. It simply remained.

Silent Salt stared at it, unmoving. His eyes, usually dulled by weariness and memory, now shimmered faintly in the moonlight. He didn’t breathe for a moment, as though the slightest exhale might scatter it like ash.

But it stayed.

And so did she.

White Lily didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her hands had withdrawn now, folded loosely in her lap, but she remained close. The tall grass brushed her robes, rustling faintly in the night wind, yet even the wind seemed quieter around them.

“It’s not afraid,” he said at last, voice raw with something he didn’t know how to name.

“No,” she replied softly. “It never was.”

He looked at her then—not with the guarded sharpness he usually wore, but with something more open, uncertain. “Why?”

White Lily’s eyes reflected the moonlight the way still water might. “Because it saw you. Just as you are.”

He swallowed. His thumb, calloused and worn, hovered over the firefly in his palm but didn’t touch it. He didn’t want to frighten it. Or maybe, he didn’t want to break the moment that felt so impossibly fragile.

“I’m not… the kind of person things like this come to.”

“You are,” she said, gently but firmly. “You always were. You’ve simply spent too long believing you’re not.”

He looked down again, the glow reflecting off the edge of his armor. There had always been something distant in him—something not quite reachable. Like a cliffside that crumbled if one stepped too close. But tonight, there was stillness in him, if only for a moment. A rare, rare stillness.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to do anything,” White Lily replied. “Let it be. Let yourself be.”

“How… foolish.” 

They sat like that for a long while, not speaking, not shifting. The field breathed around them, dew gathering at their feet. A frog chirped in the distance. The stream whispered its song through the trees.

The firefly sat quietly in his hand, its small glow a fragile thing—alive, yet asking nothing of him. Silent Salt stared at it, his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between awe and hesitation.

White Lily watched him for a moment longer before letting her hands fall gently back to her sides. The night around them breathed softly again—neither heavy nor light, just still.

Then, with the same gentleness she always carried, she shifted the air between them.

“…What brought you out here?” she asked, voice calm, though tinged with genuine curiosity. “It’s not like you to wander this far from the palace alone.”

He blinked, slowly closing his hand around the firefly before it could drift away. “You make it sound like I’m allergic to grass.”

Almost teasing, though her tone remained light as she said. “I’ve seen you flinch at flowerbeds—”

“With bugs.”

“It was a caterpillar.”

A short breath escaped him—too dry to be a laugh, but not quite a sigh either. “Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered after a pause. “The moon wouldn’t let me.”

She tilted her head slightly, thoughtful. “Strange. I always thought the moon was kind to those who speak little.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Then it must be growing tired of my presence.”

White Lily said nothing to that. She only looked up at the moon—round, high, quiet in its usual way.

After a moment, he turned his gaze toward her, something sharper flickering beneath the surface of his calm. “How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t,” she replied, meeting his eyes. “But I felt something change. A shift in the stillness… a call, here.” Her hand moved to cup her brooch where her souljam lay.

He looked away, jaw tight. “Then I suppose I disturbed your slumber.”

“No,” she said softly. “Not at all.”

The firefly flickered again in his hand, but it still stayed.

Above them, the moon cast its gaze like a watchful sentinel—neither judging nor forgiving, only seeing. Its light spilled across the field in a pale wash, softening the tall grasses and glinting faintly on dew-laced leaves. It touched them both gently, as though it, too, were listening.

The glow caught on Silent Salt’s sharper features, carving out the contours of his face in quiet silver: the proud line of his nose, the tension held in his brow, the slope of his cheekbone worn by time and silence. His long, violet hair drifted behind him, lifted slightly by the breeze, strands catching the moonlight like threads of ink stirred in water.

For all his rigid poise and muted presence, in that light, he looked almost ethereal—like something the night had shaped and the dawn had never claimed.

Beside him, White Lily stood in quiet contrast—her hair cascading like snow, her face calm, open.

“You wear the helmet well,” she said softly, almost like an afterthought. “It suits you—its weight, its silence. It makes sense.”

He didn’t respond, only kept his eyes on the firefly still flickering gently in his palm.

“But,” she continued, her voice quieter now, “I like this better.”

That made him glance up, brow shifting just slightly—not quite surprise, but something near it.

“This?” he echoed, almost skeptical.

She gave a small nod. “The one standing here. No mask, no steel. Just… you.”

The wind stirred again, and his hair swept lightly across his shoulders, catching the moonlight anew.

She turned her gaze forward once more, not pressing. She had said what she meant.

The firefly, as if sensing the tension still coiled in its holder’s palm, lifted gently into the air. It hovered for a moment, delicate wings whirring like a distant breath—then, with an aimless sort of grace, drifted upward…

…only to bump directly into Silent Salt’s nose.

He flinched, just slightly, brows drawing together as he cringed and instinctively pulled his hand back, the motion brisk, almost embarrassed. Whatever quiet reverence had been lingering in the moment was promptly shattered by the soft, glowing insect’s clumsy farewell.

White Lily blinked, then let out a gentle laugh—low, melodic, the kind that curled at the edges like petals catching morning dew. Not mocking, but warm, like she had seen a flicker of something real and rare.

“I suppose even the fireflies aren’t afraid to be a little bold,” she said, smiling as the tiny light veered back into the grass.

Silent Salt exhaled through his nose, the faintest ghost of a scowl on his face. “It was deliberate,” he muttered, half to himself.

“Perhaps,” White Lily said, amusement softening her tone. “Or perhaps it thought you needed a reminder not to take yourself so seriously.”

“You are awfully poetic.” He gave her a sidelong glance, something like resignation flickering behind his eyes—but he said nothing more. And though his hand remained by his side now, it wasn’t as tightly clenched as before.

White Lily tilted her head, the moon catching in her eyes. “It’s the only language that fits you, I think.”

He huffed, not quite a laugh, but softer than silence. Resignation flickered behind his gaze again, the kind worn by someone who’s long given up arguing against gentleness. He said nothing more. His hand, still at his side, was no longer clenched.

The fireflies had scattered now, drifting back into the grasses and shadows, their brief audience with them complete. The stream murmured nearby, steady and indifferent, as though nothing odd had happened at all.

White Lily turned toward the path leading back, her steps slow, deliberate. Then she paused and looked over her shoulder.

“We should get some rest,” she said, her voice gentler now. “Whatever found you tonight, it’s gone—for now.”

He didn’t move, not yet. His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the trees, searching for something the night refused to return.

Still, she continued, as if offering him a door he didn’t have to walk through yet. “And perhaps,” she added, “if you’d like... we could share a cup of tea in the morning. I’ll even let you choose the kind.”

That drew his eyes to her again.

He didn’t answer right away. But after a long pause, he gave the faintest of nods—barely there, like a petal caught in the wind.

“I suppose…” he said at last, voice low. “ I could tolerate that.”

White Lily smiled, not triumphant, but content. And with that, they began the quiet walk back to the palace, the moon keeping its silent vigil overhead, as if it too had found peace in their unspoken accord.

…

White Lily stirred as morning light crept gently across the ceiling, filtered through the sheer curtains that swayed with the faint breath of dawn. Her eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft hues of the waking world.

She lay still for a moment, eyes half-lidded, hand resting lightly on the fabric over her chest where her Souljam pulsed with quiet consistency. No dream. No whisper of magic or nightmares tugging at her. Just the gentle ache of a long night’s quietude, and the memory of a man standing in moonlight like something the darkness had forgotten how to hold.

She rose carefully, brushing aside the light blanket and letting her bare feet meet the cool marble of her floor. The air held the scent of damp earth—dew still clinging to the ivy, a sign that morning had only just broken. Outside, the gardens were still shaded in soft gray-blue, untouched by the sun’s full light.

She moved to the window, pulling back the curtain with one hand.

There, beyond the hedges, beyond the first gate of the palace, lay the field. Empty now, still, but she could almost see it—the way he stood last night, hands rigid, eyes caught somewhere between fury and wonder. The way the firefly had collided with him, and how, for a heartbeat, he let himself be instead of holding everything in.

She smiled faintly, not out of amusement, but something gentler.

Turning from the window, she moved to dress—choosing a simple robe, pale lavender edged in white. Something soft, something quiet. Something that didn’t speak too loudly in a world already filled with noise.

Her hand paused over the porcelain tea set resting on the low table near her shelves. She hadn’t used it in weeks. But she thought of his words. “I suppose I could tolerate that.”

A small smile ghosted over her lips again. She touched the rim of one of the cups, then gently began preparing the tray.

There was no need to ask if he’d come.

She would brew the tea either way.

She spent most of her time in her room as well—some days reading, some days simply letting the breeze keep her company. She never minded the quiet. It gave her space to think, to breathe. Because of this, she had already arranged a small corner for tea near her window, a place she could reach without ever needing to leave her chambers.

White Lily moved with quiet care. She set the porcelain cups onto the tray first, adjusting them slightly so they faced each other. Then came the teapot, still warm in her hands. The scent of the blend rose with the steam, soft and steady. She placed a small dish of honey nearby, though she doubted he would touch it. He never did.

She folded a cloth napkin and tucked it neatly beneath the pot. Everything is in its place. Everything calm.

Just as she reached for the tray, a knock sounded at the door.

Soft. Measured.

She didn’t jump, but her hand paused, hovering above the tray’s edge.

Another knock.

White Lily turned, her robe brushing against the floor. Her expression stayed composed, but her eyes warmed just slightly.

She moved to the door and opened it. He stood there, just as the morning had promised.

“Good morning, Silent Salt.”

He dipped his head in a faint nod, hands behind his back, posture still as ever.

White Lily smiled gently and stepped aside, not minding his lack of answer as she gestured for him to enter. 

He stepped into the room without a word, gaze flicking briefly to the corner where the tea was already prepared. The soft scent of herbs lingered in the air, and the warmth of the pot told him she’d been expecting him—even if she hadn’t said so.

“You’ve made two cups,” he noted, voice quiet as usual, but not cold.

“I had invited you for tea as well,” she replied, settling onto the cushion beside the table. “Please, sit. It’s lavender and chamomile today. Something to ease tired thoughts.”

He looked at her for a moment, then sat across from her, his movements deliberate. His eyes scanned the table, then landed on the cup in front of him.

“You believe I have tired thoughts?”

She tilted her head slightly, pouring the tea. “I know you do. But I won’t ask what they are. Only offer this.”

He watched the steam curl from the rim of the cup, fingers brushing lightly against the porcelain but not lifting it yet. “Offering something without expecting anything in return. That seems... dangerous.”

“It’s only tea, Silent Salt,” she said with the faintest curve to her lips. “Not a contract.”

He was quiet at that, though something unreadable flickered in his eyes. He lifted the cup, held it for a moment, then took a slow sip. “I thought you said I would choose the tea.”

“Maybe next time?” She hummed, her words a quiet lure with the gentle persuasion of more times of this to come.

He noted her words and nodded once again. She smiled once more.

The silence between them was soft, not stiff.

After a while, Silent Salt said, “You left before I could thank you. Last night.”

“There was nothing to thank me for,” she replied simply. “I only walked where I was needed.”

He gave her a long look. “And how do you always know where that is?”

White Lily’s gaze turned toward the window. “I listen,” she said, gently rubbing her souljam.

His lips pressed into a line, but he didn’t argue. “You are good at that. Listening.”

White Lily poured herself a second cup, her movements slow and precise. “It’s a skill like any other.”

He gave a quiet hum in response, eyes fixed on the steam rising from his cup. The quiet between them settled once more—steady and undemanding.

Then—

A soft thump against the window.

Both turned. Perched clumsily on the sill was a plump blueberry-colored bird, round as a teacup and twice as fussy. Its feathers shimmered with a dusky sheen, and its small wings flapped once with a puffed indignation, as though slightly offended by the journey. A tightly rolled scroll was bound to its leg with a pale blue ribbon.

White Lily rose, her robes brushing lightly against the floor as she crossed the room. She opened the window with care, and the bird gave a satisfied chirrup before waddling inside. It blinked up at her with beady, impatient eyes and lifted its leg expectantly.

“A bit dramatic for a messenger,” Silent Salt noted, one brow raising slightly as she retrieved a small pouch of nuts and dried berries for the bird, scattering them on the window. “Of… that size.”

White Lily gave a faint smile as she untied the ribbon. “They’re Pure Vanilla’s. He says the seeds calm their nerves. I’m not convinced.”

The bird gave a short whistle, fluffed its feathers, then flew with an awkward flap to the edge of the tea table, landing with a wobble beside the honey dish.

White Lily gently unrolled the scroll and read in silence, her gaze moving slowly, steadily. Her fingers tightened just slightly at the bottom of the parchment.

Silent Salt set his cup down. “What is it?”

She looked up, eyes clear but thoughtful. “A letter from Pure Vanilla. He asks for us both.”

“For what purpose?”

“There’s been a magical disturbance,” she answered calmly, though her tone grew more focused. “One tied to the Souljam archives. Something old… and stirring.” Her eyes flicked to his. “It includes the guardians.”

“Of nature?”

“So it seems.”

Silent Salt didn’t speak for a moment. Then he stood, movements slow but purposeful.

“I’ll retrieve my armor.”

“No, we…” White Lily said, setting the scroll down beside the tea tray and gently guiding him by his hands to sit down once more, “We will finish the tea.”

Silent Salt paused, caught in the quiet firmness of her words. He allowed her to guide him back down, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly as he settled into the seat once more. He didn’t argue. He rarely did when her tone carried that sort of calm authority—one not borne of command, but of clarity.

White Lily poured another cup for him, then one for herself. The scroll sat between them now, a fragile thread between morning calm and something deeper—older—beginning to stir.

Silent Salt’s fingers flexed once beneath hers, the instinct to rise still pulsing through muscle and memory. A warrior’s habit was not so easily dismissed, but White Lily’s touch remained firm— not with command, but with quiet conviction. He sank back onto the cushion, though his spine stayed straight, as though armor were already on his shoulders.

“There is urgency,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the letter that now rested beside the teapot. “Every breath we waste—”

“—is a breath, the situation will still be waiting for,” White Lily finished, her voice unhurried. She poured fresh tea into his cup, the pale steam curling between them like the first line of a spell. “Calm has kept more kingdoms from ruin than haste has ever saved.”

Silent Salt studied the surface of the tea. His reflection trembled there, broken by ripples of rising warmth. “Calm alone never wins a war.”

“We are not at war,” she replied. “Not yet. And if something in those archives has chosen to wake, we will need steady minds more than hungry blades.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “The guardians of nature,” he repeated, as though tasting the words for bitterness. “They were never meant to leave their sanctuaries.”

“And yet they stir,” White Lily said, folding her hands in her lap. “If the Balance calls them, the cause must be weighty indeed.”

Silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft clink of porcelain as she set the pot aside. Beyond the window, the palace gardens swayed under a morning breeze, their blossoms nodding like an audience too polite to interrupt.

He observed as White Lily began to write her response.

To Pure Vanilla, 

We hear you. And we are listening. The silence of the Academy has always been a heavy one, but if it stirs now—truly stirs—then we know it is not without cause. The old magic never forgets its purpose, even when we forget our place within it.

After a few quiet sips, she reached for a fresh sheet of parchment from the small writing drawer beside her table. Her hand moved with practiced grace as she dipped the quill in ink, her expression focused but gentle. The little blueberry bird watched curiously from the honey dish, its round body puffed contentedly as it preened its wings.

White Lily set her quill down and read over the lines she had just written. The ink was still wet, the words sharp against the parchment. She glanced across the low table to Silent Salt, who sat quietly with his cooling tea, gaze fixed somewhere past the window.

“Pure Vanilla feels something is stirring,” she said, her voice soft enough that it barely disturbed the steam curling from the spout. “He writes that the Academy itself seems to breathe—older magic, restless in its walls.”

Silent Salt’s eyes shifted to hers. The faintest crease formed between his brows. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the cushion. “Something old enough to remember things we’ve forgotten,” he said, more to himself than to her.

You speak of something ancient, breathing in the walls. I do not doubt this. I have felt it as well, just last evening as of writing this letter. Though faintly—like a breath down the spine of the world, too old for names. 

Silent Salt lifted the cup, letting the steam brush his face before he drank. The tea settled in him like a slow tide, warming places armor could not reach. “And if the whisper becomes a roar?”

“Then we answer,” she said simply. “With clarity, not clamor.”

He studied her—a scholar draped in lavender, hair like fresh snow, eyes that saw too much and judged too little. In the hush of her room, with its scent of pressed herbs and parchment, he felt the echo of something he rarely named: trust.

“You always choose tea before steel,” he said.

“I choose what mends before what cuts,” she corrected gently. “There will be time for swords. And armor. And every hard thing we were forged to bear. But a mind sharpened on fear alone is brittle.”

“Did you sense it too, then?” she asked. “Anything… pressing against the edges of the night?”

“I did,” he said, voice low. “Last night.” He looked down at his hands. A memory of silver light—of a figure rising to the moon—flickered behind his eyes, but he let it pass unspoken. Instead, he closed one hand over the other and answered, “Something isn’t right. I felt it, yes. But I can’t name it.”

He could not argue that. Instead, he reached for the honey dish—a rare concession—dipped a fingertip, and tasted. The sweetness startled him, brief and bright.

White Lily let out a faint chuckle before she took her quill once more.

As for Silent Salt, he is well. Tired, perhaps—but not broken. He will never say it aloud, but I believe the moonlight softened something in him. It didn’t undo the silence, but it made space within it. That is enough for now.

He has felt the change as well, though its shape eludes us. 

 

“That is enough for now,” White  Lily replied, returning her gaze to the letter. She added a single line beneath her last paragraph:

Silent Salt felt the change as well, though its shape eludes us.

Silent Salt let the silence return for a beat. Then: “It felt familiar.”

“To you?”

He hesitated. “…Yes. But not like a memory. Like a shadow of one.”

The others remain steady. We are preparing what we can, though the shape of this magic is still unclear. If the guardians are being drawn into this, as Shadow Milk once mentioned, then we must tread carefully. Slowly. 

“His gaze dropped to his gauntlet‑scarred hands. “I still believe fear keeps the blade ready.”

“Fear dulls it, eventually.” White Lily’s tone softened. “But purpose—purpose tempers it.” She lifted her own cup, cradling it between her palms. With a little boldness she could muster against her usual timidness, she asked. “Tell me your purpose, Silent Salt. Beyond duty. Beyond the reflex to fight.”

The question hung, fragile as spun sugar. He searched for an answer in the swirling tea, but purpose was not a thing reflected. At length, he spoke, voice low. “To be certain the wrong things never wake again.”

White Lily nodded once, accepting that truth. “Then that is where we begin. Not with panic, but with certainty.”

A light tap at the doorframe drew their attention—an attendant delivering a satchel of fresh parchment and sealing wax. White Lily thanked them with a nod, then turned back to Silent Salt.

“We will need records,” she said, untying the satchel strings. “Old maps of ley lines, catalogues of guardian sightings, testimonies from academicians who studied the Souljam resonance. If something ancient is shifting, the echoes will already be in the texts.”

“Words on parchment cannot stop an avalanche,” he muttered.

“No,” she agreed, “but they can tell us where the mountain will crack.”

“Hm, what else did Pure Vanilla mention?”

“ He stayed. Even when I didn’t ask him to. That alone feels heavier than any magic I’ve known.” White Lily began to read. “Something is admist the air as we speak and I fear it may include the guardians as Shadow Milk had mentioned in his daze.”

A pause.

“He stayed,” she murmured, continuing, more to herself now. “That’s what Pure Vanilla wrote. He stayed, even when I didn’t ask him to.”

Silent Salt’s gaze narrowed slightly. “Shadow Milk?”

She nodded. “Do you think he knows what it is? Or just that it’s waking?”

“Likely so,” Silent Salt replied. “He’s always known more than he says.”

She paused, tapping the quill once against the rim of the inkwell. “We can speak to Pure Vanilla when we arrive, should we choose to visit. Perhaps the four of us together can give this unease a name.”

Silent Salt lifted his cup, drank the cooled tea without complaint, and set it back down. “Names won’t stop it,” he said quietly.

White Lily nodded. She signed the letter—Warm regards, White Lily Cookie—then folded and sealed it. As she tied the blue ribbon around the parchment, she looked back at him.

“Thank you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “For trusting me with your silence.”

He met her eyes. “Thank you for listening to it.”

With that, the plump blueberry bird fluttered back to the sill. White Lily secured the scroll to its leg and released it into the bright morning. They watched in companionable quiet as it vanished over the gardens, carrying their answer toward the waiting halls of the Academy.

“You’ll be careful with this, won’t you?” she asked, gently fastening the scroll to its leg.

The bird tilted its head and gave a very self-important whistle.

White Lily laughed softly, brushing its feathers once. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She stepped back, allowing the bird to leap from the sill. It flapped once, twice, then caught the breeze and soared upward—round and bumbling, but determined, disappearing into the morning sky.

She watched it go, then turned to Silent Salt.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, walking back toward the tea table. “For trusting me. Even just a little.”

He didn’t look at her right away, but there was no resistance in him now.

“…Thank you,” he said, “for not asking more than I can give.”

She nodded, settling down across from him again. The tea was cold, but neither of them seemed to mind.

“You are more than you let others see, White Lily Cookie.”

She smiled, and it reached her eyes. “A lesson tea teaches better than swords.”

Minutes passed in companionable quiet as she drafted additional notes for Pure Vanilla—questions about the precise wards around the archives, requests for spectral readings, inquiries into which guardians had stirred. Silent Salt spoke occasionally, offering succinct observations.

“Perhaps a visit is due.”

“I will watch over the youngens—”

“You are coming with.”

“What about them?”

“They will come with.”

When the letter was done, she sprinkled drying sand across the ink, waited, then folded and sealed it with a press of her signet. She tied it with a ribbon the color of dusk.

We will come soon. The Academy may no longer be silent, but neither are we.

Warm regards,

White Lily Cookie.

Chapter Text

Mystic Flour Cookie often kept to her chambers; it was rare to see her elsewhere, though today she stood on the balcony, still as ever, looking out at the overcast sky. The wind tugged gently at her sleeves, but she didn’t move. Her thoughts seemed far away—too far to be reached by anyone nearby.

Truffle Cream Cookie had noticed. She always did. Younger than most in the estate and always quick on her feet, she didn’t wait to be asked. Carrying a fresh cup of tea, she stepped onto the balcony with quiet but purposeful steps.

“I made you tea, my Lady,” she said, holding out the cup. “It helps warm the stomach."

Mystic Flour Cookie looked at the tea for a moment before taking it. Her fingers barely touched the porcelain. She didn’t thank her—she rarely did—but Truffle Cream didn’t seem to mind.

“Warm, hm.” She said after a sip. Her voice was soft and distant, more like a thought spoken aloud. "And quite bitter."

Truffle Cream folded her arms. “That's how tea is in the Dark Cacao Kingdom.” She said it without force, just matter-of-fact.

Mystic Flour didn’t reply right away. Her gaze drifted back to the horizon, where clouds gathered thick over the mountains. The wind shifted again, catching the edge of her sleeve. She stood like that for a while, quiet and unmoving, as if carved from the pale stone beneath her feet.

Truffle Cream Cookie lingered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She looked like she wanted to speak, then hesitated, then did.

“…Is it true you used to live in the Ivory Pagoda?” she asked, keeping her tone light, but not flippant. “The ones up in the cliffs with the wind chimes on every level? Where wishes come true?”

Mystic Flour Cookie’s expression didn’t change, not visibly. But something in the way she held the cup shifted, just a little closer to her chest. Her eyes, though still set on the mountains, had narrowed.

“…Yes,” she said at last, voice quiet and detached, as if answering out of politeness rather than interest. “Wishes… fleeting words, dressed up as meaning. Cookies say them when they forget nothing listens.”

Truffle Cream Cookie gave her a side glance but didn’t bite. She kept her tone steady. “Did you live there long?”

There was a pause. Mystic didn’t blink. “Long enough.”

She let the words settle, like dust in a room that hadn’t been touched in years. The wind curled around the pillars of the balcony and rattled a nearby lantern chain, soft and hollow.

“It was cold,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“As cold as here?”

“No, the southern wind kept company well enough. Carried wishes, voices from far-off valleys. Sometimes you could hear bells. Sometimes nothing at all.”

Truffle Cream waited, sensing more. But none came.

“And the others?” she asked, quieter now. “Did you live there alone?”

Mystic didn’t answer right away. She looked down into her cup, then took a small sip, letting the bitterness coat her tongue before swallowing.

“There were others,” she said at last. “Teachers. Pilgrims, students.”

The last word wasn’t said with any weight. Just a flat, passing thought. A word left behind like a note no one would read.

Truffle Cream frowned faintly. “Do you ever miss it?”

Mystic Flour let the silence return, longer this time. Then she exhaled—not quite a sigh, but something close.

“What is there to miss?” she murmured. “It is no longer as it is. Dwelling on it will do little to no change.”

She turned the teacup slowly in her hands, watching the steam rise and twist.

“I don’t see the use in remembering if nothing ever answers back.”

Truffle Cream looked at her for a moment longer, brows knitting slightly. But she didn’t argue. She knew better than to try and pull the past out of someone who had long decided to leave it buried.

“…Still,” she said, stepping back with her usual brisk nod. “The view must’ve been something. The people too, no?”

Mystic Flour said nothing. But this time, her eyes did shift—just barely—to Truffle Cream’s retreating form. Then back to the clouds. The tea was cooling in her hands now.

Truffle Cream stepped away, stopping at the threshold, fingertips resting on the cool stone. She didn’t look back, but her words drifted across the cool air.

“Even silence keeps a ledger,” she said. “When we remember, we acknowledge the entry. That’s all meaning ever asks for—to be counted once.”

Her footsteps faded into the corridor.

Mystic Flour remained, porcelain cooling against her palms. Memory, she mused, suppose ​​was proof that an undeniable mark that something had just been. 

The clouds had thickened, casting a grey hush over the mountain line. Her gaze drifted lower, past the balustrade, down to the tree line where the forest met the wild hills. There—barely noticeable against the fading light—a thin ribbon of smoke rose into the air.

A fire. Small, deliberate. Someone had lit it near the outskirts, just beyond the safe paths. She narrowed her eyes, not out of concern, but curiosity.

A lone figure sat by it, curled inward, the fire’s light flickering against their back. They looked unaware of what lingered beyond the trees—three sets of eyes glinting low in the shadows, careful, patient. Wolves. Watching. Not yet close enough to strike, but near enough to taste the thought of it.

Mystic Flour watched the quiet scene unfold like a painting held too long in the hand.
She did not react.

No alarm. No urgency. No movement to call a guard or send a spell through the stones. The world, after all, moved the way it wished—fire flickered, wolves waited, and cookies sat in their own quiet choices.

The cup rested loosely in her hands.

She only blinked once then slowly, as does with the wind, her mind had drifted. Her thoughts along with it.

It had been a quiet match then, as their games always were. Just the sound of stones clicking against the polished wood and the distant mutter of wind along the curtains. But unlike the previous, this one had weight. A wager, spoken plainly: “Then we spar,” And she, perhaps out of boredom, perhaps something else, had agreed.

She had played well. As well as anyone could. Each placement deliberate, each corner challenged. But in the end, one wrong move—a single misread in a late joseki—and the board had turned against her like the tide pulling out.

A narrow loss. But a loss nonetheless.

As if on cue, either that or fate had simply listened in.

Dark Cacao Cookie approached without fanfare. No armor today, only the long cloak over his shoulders and the sound of his boots against old stone.

“Dark Cacao Cookie.”

Mystic Flour spoke his name plainly, the way one might acknowledge a passing bird—calm, without ceremony. Her gaze met his—rare, but no longer unusual. Of late, it had begun to happen more often to which the other hadn’t complained despite acknowledging it every time. 

“Mystic Flour Cookie.” He greeted in turn, his expression softening. “Your gaze, they’re gentle.” Only, when he stopped beside her, arms crossed and gaze resting on the horizon, he asked—quiet, but not unkind, “Would you like my coat?”

The question hovered in the cold.

Mystic Flour didn’t look at him. Her eyes remained on the forest. The fire below flickered weaker now.

“No,” she said at last, her tone as distant as always. 

A hush passed. He said nothing, and she did not move. And yet when she finally turned to face the mountains once more, the weight of something warm brushed her shoulders. Not heavy. Just enough to notice.

She did not shrug it off, not this time.

“I see you are getting friendly with Truffle Cream,” Dark Cacao Cookie hummed, his tone carrying the low weight of amusement as he shifted slightly, leaning to one side in an attempt to meet her gaze once more. “Fine young lady. Disciplined. Quick on her feet. Decent warrior, too. And—surprisingly—quite the artist.”

Mystic Flour Cookie raised a brow, her eyes sliding toward him with the barest hint of interest. “Artist?”

“She carved a sparring dummy from ice once,” he said, nodding. “Said it was temporary. It lasted longer than the ones we made.” A pause. “Even gave it a name then eyebrows.”

Mystic didn’t smile, but something in her posture relaxed, if only slightly. “That sounds like her.”

“She also sketches,” he continued. “Draws the court during meetings. I found one tucked into a book—made me look twenty years older.”

“Accuracy, then,” Mystic murmured without a beat, taking a sip of her now-cold tea.

Dark Cacao chuckled low in his chest. “She has an eye for the details others ignore. You’d like her work. It reminds me of yours.”

She stilled at that—just a beat—and lowered her cup.

“…I used to draw.”

“I know.” Dark Cacao’s voice held no surprise, no need for elaboration. Just quiet certainty, as though the knowledge had always been there—gathered from observation, not confession.

The silence stretched between them, but not uncomfortably. The kind that breathed rather than pressed.

Mystic Flour set her cup down on the stone railing. Her fingers lingered near it, tracing the faint rim with the side of her nail. “It used to help me think. Or keep me from thinking.”

Dark Cacao tilted his head slightly, watching her from the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t matter. You did it.”

She hummed—neither agreement nor dismissal. “No one is needed to teach you what to do when your hands grow still.”

To that, he offered no answer.

The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of pine and ash. Below, the fire still flickered, the lone figure now lying beside it, curled tight. The wolves had not yet moved.

“You used to be quieter,” she said after a moment, glancing at him.

“I had less to say,” he replied, tone even.

“Now you talk more.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “Only to those who listen.”

She didn’t respond, but didn’t look away either.

Then, with a shift of stance and a weight behind his voice, he said, “You still owe me a spar.”

It was not a command. Nor quite a request. More like a familiar rhythm between them—a returning step in an old dance.

“Suppose I do.” Mystic Flour’s gaze didn’t waver. “It has been a while.”

“It matters not,” he said, “I simply wish to see how you wield.”

She studied him. Not suspiciously, not reluctantly—just a long, measured glance, as if weighing the air between them.

“Why?” she asked simply.

“Because your hands are still,” he said. “And mine wishes to be no longer.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, she turned away from the railing, letting the wind catch her sleeves.

“I’ll decide after I’ve had something hot to drink.”

“You’ve already had tea,” Dark Cacao said, and meant it—his tone dry, though a faint trace of amusement tugged at the edge of his voice.

Mystic Flour glanced at him, unbothered. “Truffle Cream told you?”

“No,” he replied, casting a look at the cup resting on the stone railing. “You’re holding the teacup.”

She looked down at her hand, still loosely curled around the delicate porcelain. The tea had long gone cold, barely a ghost of steam rising from its surface. A blink passed, slow and unreadable.

“Mm,” she murmured. “Sharp eyes.”

“I notice what you don’t say.”

She exhaled through her nose—whether in amusement or exasperation, even she didn’t know.

“Then you’d also know,” she said, tone cool but edged with something sharper, “that I didn’t say yes.”

“I noticed that, too,” he replied calmly, folding his arms. “But you also didn’t say no.”

He took a step beside her, his presence unhurried. “Years of watching for blade shifts and flickers in armor. A teacup is hardly subtle in comparison.”

She didn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitched—barely.

“Perhaps I’ll bring something stronger, then. To make you work harder for your deductions.”

“Only fair,” he said. “You’ve made me work harder to meet you in your Pagoda.”

“You say that as if you’ve tripped on the stairs,” Mystic Flour replied, her voice dry.

"Hm," Dark Cacao looked away a fraction too quick to say his hum held no merit.

Mystic Flour's lip curved, a small, amused smile. “I’ll meet you in the circle,”

Dark Cacao nodded once. “I’ll be waiting. Always.”

…



The room was bathed in the soft scent of sandalwood and tea leaves, warmed by a brazier that crackled quietly in the corner. Silk robes had been set aside; today was not for reflection but for ritual. For motion. For steel. As the handmaidens had mentioned. Perhaps it was more dramatic, though Mystic Flour, despite never vocalizing it, appreciated the concern.

She sat at the center of the room on a low cushion, unmoving as a statue while her handmaidens moved around her with practiced familiarity.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Truffle Cream Cookie muttered, fastening the inner layer of the armor at her shoulders. Her voice was tight with concern, but she kept her hands steady. “Sparring him, of all Cookies. It’s foolish.”

“It is only fair to fulfill my side of the bargain” Mystic Flour replied, voice soft and unbothered. “Foolishness and honor often wear the same face.”

Truffle Cream pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced.

Cocoa Ganache Cookie appeared behind her with the twin belt sashes, her touch gentle and motherly. “You haven’t sparred in centuries, my dear. Not properly. And that old king doesn’t hold back.”

“I wouldn’t respect him if he did.”

Ganache sighed deeply, her hands smoothing the silk-lined leather with care. “Then I suppose you’ll both come back with bruises and pretend it was a meaningful exchange.”

“I don’t pretend,” Mystic said. 

Hazelnut Husk Cookie entered next, carrying the lacquered case that held the twin blades. Unlike the others, she didn’t speak at first. She set the case down in front of Mystic Flour with a soft but deliberate motion, her eyes steady and unsentimental.

“Stand,” she said.

Mystic did, wordlessly.

The three of them worked in quiet coordination—strapping the breastplate of ornately patterned lamellar over her shoulders, sliding the arm guards into place, wrapping the bindings over her palms where the hilts would rest. The armor was ceremonial in design but made for combat, inspired by ancient lines, stitched with silver thread and deep crimson dye. The sleeves flared just enough to allow motion; the skirt split for mobility. She moved only when asked, a figure carved of moonlight and discipline.

Hazelnut opened the case and tilted it forward. Twin swords rested within—sleek, curved, and perfectly matched. The Ssanggeom. They reflected no firelight, only shadow.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Truffle Cream said, her voice low, brushing a strand of silver hair back behind Mystic’s ear. “He respects you already.”

“This isn’t about proving,” Mystic answered, reaching for the blades. Her fingers closed around the hilts like they had never forgotten the weight. “It’s about remembering.”

Cocoa Ganache looked down for a moment, lips pressed together. “Then at least don’t lose too beautifully, dear. We’ll never hear the end of it from the palace guards.”

Mystic gave a slow blink, then offered the faintest curve of her lips—too faint to be called a smile, but enough to be felt.

“I’ll return by dusk,” she said.

Hazelnut Husk Cookie gave a firm nod. “Don’t let him corner you.”

“No one has ever,” Mystic said, lifting the swords, letting them breathe air again after so long.

She could have liquefied stone with a thought, reduced steel to drifting grains—everyone in this chamber knew the stories, what she had done to their townsfolk not too many moons ago. Yet these three moved around her with the ease of friends, scolding, fussing, knotting straps tight as if she were merely another Cookie in need of tending.

A strange heat pressed at the edge of her chest: something like gratitude, something like an ache. Why? she wondered, eyes turning inward even as her face stayed calm. The power that once made others bow—granting wishes spun from flour-white starlight—had faded. If that gift was gone, what claim had she on anyone’s care? But they still worried, still pampered, still called her dear.

They worry for her. That much was clear—in every tightened strap, every carefully checked buckle, every glance that lingered just a little too long. It shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did.

Mystic Flour Cookie had long grown used to reverence, to fear, to the hollow kind of politeness that came from those who wanted something from her: a wish, a miracle, a shortcut through fate. But this—this quiet, persistent worry—was different. It held no request. No bargain. Only warmth.

She turned slightly at the doorway, the twin swords now resting against her back in their scabbards. Her expression was composed, unreadable, but her voice softened just enough for the three of them to catch the shift.

“It’s fine,” she said.

Truffle Cream stepped forward, frowning. “You always say that when it isn’t.”

Mystic’s gaze drifted to her, then to Cocoa Ganache, who had clasped her hands together, and finally to Hazelnut Husk, whose arms were crossed, but whose brow had furrowed almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not walking to a battlefield,” Mystic added. 

“Please, be alright, sweetheart.” Cocoa Ganache murmured, wringing the edge of her sleeve. “I only wish for you to be safe.”

Mystic Flour’s eyes briefly dropped to the floor, then returned to meet theirs, distant still, but not cold.

“I…” she said, her voice softening. “I shall grant that.”

They didn’t argue. But as she stepped into the corridor and the doors began to close behind her, she felt it again—that strange weight in her chest. Not the armor. Not the swords.

But the fact that someone still chose to stay worried.

…

The halls were quiet this time of day. Soft light filtered in through tall windows, pale and cool, dust catching in the air like drifting flour. Mystic Flour Cookie walked without hurry, each step a quiet echo along polished stone. The twin blades at her back moved with her, not like weight, but like shadow—familiar, remembered. Her armor whispered with every movement, not loud, but just enough to remind the palace walls that something old had awakened.

She passed under carved archways and along narrow courtyards, where petals had fallen from trees she no longer stopped to name. The wind smelled of metal and salt. And still, she moved forward, as if drawn by something that was not entirely hers.

The dojo stood at the far end of the western wing—circular, austere, its floor smoothed by generations of footsteps. Inside, the air was cool, but not cold. A quiet reverence lived in the space. No audience. No banners. Just two Cookies.

Dark Cacao Cookie was already waiting, standing near the practice circle with his blade grounded and his eyes lifted. He watched her enter—not guardedly, never possessively, but wholly. As though the sight of her in full armor, silent and composed, was something he did not see often enough. Something he might miss if he blinked.

"You wear it well," he said, voice low but certain. “The armor. The swords.”

Her gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. “You say that often,” she replied simply.

He gave a short breath of a laugh, nodding. “How could I not?”

She stepped into the ring and slowly drew her blades. The polished metal sang as it left the scabbards, soft and clear like glass cutting through air. She gave no preamble, no stretch, no show of ritual. Just presence.

Dark Cacao stepped forward slightly, gesturing with his free hand. “Your left hand—lower it. The cut will rebound if your wrist folds inward. Let me show you—”

Before he could finish, Mystic shifted. A breath. A blur. One of the twin swords sliced in a perfect arc—fluid, balanced, effortless. Three hanging rags placed on wooden stands fell in silence, cleanly parted, as if they had never been whole.

The room was still.

She exhaled through her nose and straightened, blades pointed down but not sheathed.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, without boast.

Dark Cacao stood there for a moment, blade still at rest, watching the fabric flutter to the floor like petals loosed from the branch.

“…No,” he said finally. “You haven’t.”

And he stepped into the ring.

The air shifted—not colder, not warmer, only deeper. As if the room itself held its breath, knowing what stood between them was not just combat, but something older than form or stance. A conversation in motion.

Dark Cacao Cookie approached with deliberate steps, his sword still lowered, his eyes steady on her. There was no tension in his body, only readiness—like a mountain that had decided to move, but not to crush. To meet.

Then he did something unexpected.

He offered his hand.

Palm open. Not as a challenge, not as a demand, but as a gesture of respect. An old warrior’s courtesy. The kind that says: I know what you are. And I do not take this lightly.

Mystic Flour Cookie looked at the hand for a moment. No emotion passed her face, no flicker of surprise. But something in the room shifted again, just slightly—a silence acknowledged.

She did not take his hand.

But she gave him a nod. Small. Sharp. Accepting.

Then, in a single smooth motion, she stepped back into stance—blades poised, weight balanced, breath steady. No flourish. No threat. Just readiness.

Dark Cacao nodded once in return, drawing his own sword with slow precision.

Then they spared.

The first clash came not with a roar, but a hush—like thunder held beneath silk. Mystic Flour moved like flowing ink: no hesitation, no pause, only motion honed by silence. Her twin blades met his single, heavier sword with deceptive ease. A parry, a twist, a sweep.

It seemed old habits die hard, when said habits flows deep within blood. It was clear that even then, Mystic Flour was more than a wishwright. She was like him, who had a kingdom in need of protection. Dark Cacao only had this realized as of now as she chided him for every his every flaw.

“Too high,” she murmured, deflecting the downward strike with a simple lift of her twin blade, the force of it gliding harmlessly off her guard. “Your shoulder lifts when you commit. You give away the weight before it lands.”

Dark Cacao barely had time to respond—she was already moving, gliding around him like silk pulled by wind. He pivoted low, switching directions mid-step, his sword sweeping toward her flank in a fluid, practiced motion. But she caught it—not with brute strength, but with the flat of her off-hand blade, twisting her wrist to divert the blow with surgical control.

“You hesitate before the turn,” she said, voice even, not mocking, but pointed. “It makes the motion loud.”

He frowned—not from insult, but from the rare experience of being read so clearly. The silence that followed was not strained, but analytical, mutual. A beat passed. Then he stepped forward again, sword raised—not brute force this time, but testing her timing.

“You fight like a mirror,” he said between blows, his strikes sharper now, more refined. “Always turning back what you’re given.”

“And yet you still look into it,” she replied, sliding between his reach and circling to his blind side. “What does that say about you?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He turned faster, feinted high, then came low again—but she saw the shift in his heel before the blade moved. The tension in his stance. The flick of warning in his elbow.

Her twin swords rose in unison, intercepting the strike mid-motion. Metal met metal with a chime, a sound almost gentle in how clean it was.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture,” he grunted, pivoting sharply and striking again.

“You came here to fight,” she corrected, stepping into his swing instead of away from it, sliding her blade along the length of his. “And if you swing without listening, then what’s the point of either?”

Dark Cacao’s brow furrowed, but not in frustration. If anything, there was a glint in his eye—half focus, half something close to pride, more so to admiration. Still, he pressed on, his strength undeniable, his reach greater. He drove her back, but only by inches.

“You lean too far in.” Clang— her swords locked with his. “You forget I don’t play by reach.”

He broke the lock, sliding back into stance. She followed, blades crossing in an arc too fast for most to track.

“You wait too long to counter.”

“Careful,” he said with a breathless smile. “You’re starting to sound like you care.” He grunted as her twin blades tapped against his shoulder pauldron—not deep enough to bruise, but enough to count. Again, he stepped forward with a sweeping motion, and again, she danced around it.

Another clash. His blade came down hard, and she caught it with both of hers, wrists steady despite the weight behind the strike. Their faces were close now—eyes locked, breaths measured.

“You always favored strength,” she said, voice quiet. “And I let you. Because strength’s easy to read.”

Dark Cacao narrowed his gaze slightly, then shoved forward, forcing her to break the lock. He stepped in quickly, his blade cutting a tight diagonal toward her shoulder.

“Power is not rhythm.” She chided

He pushed again, this time feinting, his blade curving upward, only for her to catch it mid-motion, twisting it off-course with one sword while the other rested at the edge of his chest plate.

“And rhythm,” he added softly, “is not control.”

They held there for a breath—his sword hovering near her arm, her blade ghosting above his heart.

Dark Cacao exhaled slowly. His voice, when it came, was even. “You’ve sharpened more than your swords.”

“I never dulled,” she replied.

He looked at her, then—really looked. Not at her form, her armor, or even her blades, but the stillness beneath it all. The quiet discipline that had never left her. The way she spoke not to wound, but to remind.

“You’ve grown sharper, Mystic Flour." He said again, gentler. "Not just in form, but in thought.”

“I was always sharp. You just never listened.”

That made him smile—wry and weathered, the kind that didn’t rise often but sat deeply when it did.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m listening now.”

“I see that now.” She replied, still as ever. The question to why went to the tip of her tongue— why had he seemed so genuine, so curious of her. 

He smiled, just faintly. “Again?”

She gave a small nod, sliding back into stance. “If you can keep up.”

…

The sun had long surrendered its white edge, leaving only deep late-afternoon gold seeping through the lattice screens of the dojo. Their spar had grown quiet—less the clash of rookies testing edge against edge, more the slow breath of two scholars trading footnotes in steel.

Dark Cacao’s swings were measured now, no longer the brute arcs of a king who broke sieges, but condensed strokes seeking the truth of a line. Mystic Flour met them with twin crescents, her motion so lean it felt like a thought made visible. Between each exchange she offered the soft critique of a tutor, yet every word carried a second blade: a question of principle.

“Strength that announces itself,” she said while sliding under his guard, “is strength that begs to be challenged. Why dress power in bells?”

He counter-cut, forcing her to retreat half a pace. “Because bells warn the ones I swore to shield. A silent blade protects no kingdom.”

She parried high, crossing both swords above her head: cling. “Or perhaps the bells soothe only the bearer—reminding him he still matters.”

He answered with silence and motion—pivot, low thrust, heel dig—until their swords rang together again. She tested the lock, felt the tension in his wrists.

“Too rigid,” she murmured. “You defend your crown as though it were a wall. A wall repels, yes, but it also cannot reach.”

“A king who reaches too far becomes a tyrant.” He broke the bind with a short, brutal shove that scattered sparks from crossing steel. “Distance keeps citizens safe from the darker parts of me.”

Mystic stepped aside, letting the momentum flow past, and struck back with a sweep calculated to end two finger-widths from his throat. At the last instant she halted, the tip suspended. “And what of the darker parts of them?” Her voice softened. “Walls can’t mend hunger.”

The quiet after her question pulled at something behind his sternum. He exhaled and pushed her blade away with the back of his gauntlet. “You speak like one who never ruled.”

“I granted wishes once,” she replied, melting into the next stance, twin blades poised like halves of one idea. “Ruling is merely granting the loudest wish over the quietest.” Then she launched: a flurry of cuts—left, right, reverse, stop—each a test of his guard and of his certainty.

She found him sturdier than before—angles corrected, breath disciplined, his earlier flaws patched mid-fight. Yet she also felt the invisible tremor: a heartbeat of hesitation in every drive forward. The echo of history he carried like armor under armor.

They separated once more, circled, shadows long upon the floor. Mystic waited until the rhythm steadied, until his shoulders rolled without thinking, until his blade sought her again.

“Your reach has improved,” she granted. “But you still pause at the threshold—” She slipped inside his swing, the edge of her sword grazing varnished pauldrons. “—the same pause you wore the day your son walked away.”

A breath caught—his, then hers. The dojo seemed to grow smaller around the words. Dark Cacao’s next swing was nothing like the measured exchanges that preceded it: it was the strike of a father whose memory hurt more than flesh. Edge slid past her guard and kissed the dough of her upper arm. Pain sparked bright and hot; crimson jam flowed in a narrow ribbon down to her palm.

She did not flinch. Instead she regarded the wound with clinical calm, as though curious which layer of herself he had reached. Then she lifted her gaze, unblinking, to meet the storm he tried—and failed—to bury behind royal composure.

“Well struck,” she said, voice low but clear, and there was something new shining at the corner of her mouth: not mockery, but a small, genuine smile. “You found the moment, not just the opening.”

Regret flickered across his features. “I—”

She angled her head, silencing the apology before it bloomed. With her free hand she pinched the air. Gossamer threads of moon-pale silk spun themselves from emptiness, wrapping the wound in concentric spirals. In three heartbeats the silk dulled, then evaporated like morning mist. Her arm emerged unmarked, the jam wiped from existence—as though even injury refused to linger around her.

Dark Cacao watched, sword lowered, chest rising with slow, ragged breaths. “Your magic endures,” he said at last, the awe in his voice gentled by sorrow. “I feared that gift had left you with the wishes.”

“A memory is still a blade,” she answered, sheathing one sword while testing the mended flesh with the other hand. “And grief, as you know, is sharper still. We choose whether to wound or to carve something finer.”

He considered that—considered her—until the anger in his shoulders loosened into weary understanding. “I swung to wound,” he admitted. “You parried with truth. I have more to learn.”

“You listened,” she said, returning the second sword to its sheath. “That is lesson enough for today.”

They stood amid rag remnants and scuffed floorboards, the dojo’s gold light fading to rose. Somewhere in the outer halls a gong marked the turning of the hour, soft and distant.

They stood amid rag remnants and scuffed floorboards, the dojo’s golden light fading to rose. Somewhere in the outer halls, a gong marked the turning of the hour, soft and distant—less like a chime and more like the end of a sentence that had taken hours to write.

Dark Cacao stepped toward the rack to set his blade down, but didn’t move to leave. He cast a glance her way, then out toward the arched opening that led to the corridors beyond.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked, his voice low, no longer holding the edge of command but the shape of a suggestion—quiet, careful, as if unsure whether the weight of the day had worn too thin for company.

Mystic Flour looked at him for a breath. “Walk?” she said, though her tone was not dismissive. “…very well.”

As they turned toward the door, he hesitated again, then unfastened the heavy cloak draped along the peg near the entrance—the one he often wore when the wind was cruel. Without a word, he held it out to her.

She regarded it briefly, as if weighing the practicality of warmth against the implication of care.

But then she took it.

The coat was heavy, fur-lined, and too large on her. She did not adjust it. Let it drape, let it fall. There was no protest on her face, only quiet acceptance—rare, but sincere.

They left the dojo by an unadorned side‐door that opened onto a rear colonnade. The marble here was older, veined with hairline cracks and mottled flecks of volcanic stone—testament to battles long past, when the citadel itself had shuddered under siege. Evening light pooled between the pillars in ribbons of apricot and garnet, brushing pale halos over the snow that drifted across the open arcade.

“I never took you for someone who lingers after combat,” she said after a time. Her voice was quiet, conversational now, not sharp. “You strike, conclude, retreat.”

“That was true, once,” he replied. “But things change when you’re no longer certain the conclusion was right.”

She gave a soft hmm. “Or when you realize your opponent is no longer trying to win.”

He looked at her sidelong, the faintest edge of a smile near his scar. “And what is it you’re trying to do, then?”

“Remember,” she said simply.

Beyond the archways, a stairwell descended in long terraces toward the outer ward. At each landing an iron brazier burned with steady, blue‐white flame—the kingdom’s rune-cold fire, bright as lightning yet chill to the touch. Mystic Flour’s shadow slid across each flame in passing, stretching and folding like a petal caught in gusts. Dark Cacao kept pace half a stride behind, choosing silence until the clang of the portcullis chain faded behind them and the living hush of pine swallowed the stone echo.

They passed through the citadel’s western gates, which creaked faintly as the guards opened them. Neither of them spoke until they were beyond the walls, where the cold air met them like a breath held too long. The snow crunched beneath their boots. Winter had not fully arrived, but it was close enough to taste.

“I used to come here with my son,” Dark Cacao said, his voice softer now. “When he was younger. Before the weight of the crown grew teeth.”

Mystic Flour said nothing at first. Her gaze wandered over the expanse of ice, her breath visible in pale ribbons. Then: “You remember the warmth, but you speak only of the cold.”

“I remember both.” He paused, then added, “The cold came after.”

She nodded, slow. “As it often does.”

Eventually, the trees broke open, and the ground sloped downward—revealing a frozen lake, glassy and still. Its edges were ringed in silver grasses, bent with frost. Beyond it, the mountains brooded under low clouds.

He watched the way the wind lifted strands of her hair, the way the coat—his coat—hung loose around her frame. She had always been a contradiction: porcelain and void, mercy and mirror.

“I’m not sure he’ll forgive me,” he said, not as a plea, but as a truth set down between them. “Even if he returns. Even if I do everything differently.”

“Forgiveness isn’t earned,” Mystic Flour said. “It’s granted. Or withheld. You do not get to shape the hands that give it.”

He exhaled, almost a laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve become a philosopher in your solitude.”

“No,” she replied. “I’ve simply had time. And silence. One teaches. The other listens.”

They stood like that for some time, watching the world darken by increments. The lake did not move, though the sky above it did—shifting, always shifting, like time through locked doors.

Eventually, Mystic Flour drew the coat tighter around her.

“You’re heavier than you look,” she said, referring to the cloak.

He chuckled softly. “That’s what they say about kings.”

A hush had claimed the birch ring, draping the frozen lake in moon-washed stillness. Only moments ago, Mystic Flour and Dark Cacao had stood like two silhouettes folded into the calm, trading quiet reflections that felt almost fragile in their newly spun trust. But a shift crept in—first as a taste, faint yet caustic, back at the rim of Mystic Flour’s tongue.

 Most fragrances in this valley were clean: pine, woodsmoke, the soft sugar-dust of fresh snow. This new tang was harsher, metallic, edged by burnt citrus. Familiarity usually soothed her, yet this echo from memory cut deep, stirring something more vicious than nostalgia. Acid, she thought, a note she remembered from an era when wishes ran red and miracles sat chained beneath stone.

Dark Cacao halted beside her before she spoke a word; his instincts still read shifts in mood faster than weather changes. 

“What is it?” he asked, gaze sliding east toward a copse of black pines. In that moment, the wind delivered another sign—distant, but unmistakable: metal shrieking on metal, a clash too frantic to be practice. As if to punctuate it, a cry tore through the night. It wasn’t the disciplined shout of a soldier or the rally of a hunter. It was desperation, pitched high and raw enough to chill the blood.

Mystic Flour’s eyes narrowed. “That scent—acid and baker’s lye—it’s alchemy, the cheap kind,” she murmured. “I know it.” 

Her words were calm, but she was already shrugging the king’s cloak from her shoulders, letting it fall on frost-bent sedge. Twin blades hissed free an instant later, silver catching moonlight like shards of frozen starlight. “Dark Enchantress’ Cookie’s hordes.”

Dark Cacao drew in a slow breath, recognizing that scent now himself. “Though— hadn't White Lily and Shadow Milk sealed her off already–?,” he said, anger threading through the gravel of his voice. “How could—?”

“Old followers,” Mystic replied, already stepping forward. “Loyalty dies deep within her clan.” She advanced smoothly over the frozen grasses, eyes fixed on the shadows between birches.

 Dark Cacao matched her stride, sword unsheathed, cloak billowing behind him like a dark banner. Under the lake’s hush, their footfalls sounded unnaturally loud, the quiet cracked open by distant clangor and the staccato panting of someone—or something—fleeing.

They broke from the birches into a wider clearing. Ahead, the ground sloped into hollows where sagging snowbanks pressed up against broken masonry: old watch-pillars left from an abandoned outer wall. In the moonlight, amid toppled stones and frost-stiff weeds, moved shapes that were unmistakably cookie-shaped—yet wrong. Limbs too long, torsos warped, heads misshapen as if half-risen in an oven gone awry. Their dough was blotched with crystalline ulcers, exhaling puffs of caustic steam each time they flexed. The air around them shimmered, as though heat and cold fought for the same breath.

Mystic Flour sucked in a hiss. “Lab-baked Derivants,” she said quietly, naming them with the clinical certainty of someone who had studied the recipe page. “Dark Enchantress’s old prototypes. I saw them tested—once.” Her tone carried a residual ache, barely audible but heavy with buried memory. “They burn their own flesh for fuel. They never stop ceasing. Death is not their end.”

Dark Cacao’s jaw set. His very presence seemed to widen, a living bulwark between those monsters and whatever victim lay ahead. “They were supposed to be gone…” he muttered. “We destroyed the labs, scattered the reagents. How many?”

“Six… no, seven,” She answered, tracking the warped silhouettes. “And one more farther back. Perhaps the handler.”

Sudden movement: the lead abomination surged forward, slamming into an overturned pillar with enough ferocity to crack granite. Dust and shards erupted. From behind that pillar scrambled a lone figure—small, cloaked, stumbling through snow. 

Even in weak moonlight, Mystic Flour saw enough to judge: a young cookie, no rank or uniform, likely a traveler who’d strayed too near the ruins. Their breath came in uneven spurts; they clutched a satchel to their chest as if it were a lifeline. They could not see who it was, a hood draped over the figure.

The Derivants howled—an insectile screech that clawed the stillness. Acidic vapor sprayed from rents in their doughy skin, hissing where it hit icy ground. The lead creature vaulted a block of granite and bolted after the fleeing figure. Its distorted limbs carried it with horrifying speed, leaving a flicker of green-tinged afterimage in its wake.

She moved first, a ripple of silver as she dashed downslope. She felt the lake’s hush crack behind her, the world sharpening into fractured possibilities.

 “You shall no longer move, 斷念結網，萬絲歸靜。” She hummed softly, the tune carrying and echoing in the air. Her voice melachony… whisped of silk bounded the creatures. “Cut the handler. They will unravel without orders.”

The king responded with thunderous agreement, boots hammering snow. “Be safe.” His cape streamed, sword glinting.

Mystic Flour bent low, blades trailing pale arcs. She overtook the lead Derivant in three fluid strides and struck crosswise. The bite of steel met corrupted dough; sparks flew where acid splattered and hissed, but the slice still landed true, cleaving fluidly from clavicle to hip. The monster shuddered, missing a beat as if confused, then collapsed into smoking, jellied ruin that stiffened in the cold.

Behind, Dark Cacao waded into the throng, his great sword sweeping broad crescents that lit the night with a steel halo. Each blow shattered limbs, cracked spines, splattered loaf-corrosive juices across the snow. Where acid hissed on his armor, runes flared bright, dissipating the chemical like mist meeting flame. He became a storm of obstinate mass—unmoving heart, moving edge—diverting the horde’s focus from the fleeing stranger.

Mystic Flour darted onward. Her eyes locked on a taller silhouette perched atop a broken plinth near the treeline—a handler indeed: its body less deformed, its eyes glowing a hotter crimson, a rod of twisted Souljam crystal embedded in one arm. It barked guttural orders in an alchemical dialect, stringing lights of foul magic that puppeted the Derivants below.

She adjusted her grip, feeling the memory of ancient form settle into bone. Though she no longer granted wishes, remnants of that primordial craft still lay coiled inside her. A whisper of that power flowed into her blades. Moonlight bent, creating a thin mirage that doubled each sword’s edge—a phantom reflection poised to cut spirit as much as flesh.

The handler noticed her too late. Mystic leapt, twisting midair, twin swords carving intersecting arcs. One spectral edge met the crystal rod; the other sliced ragged dough. The conduit shattered with a piercing crack, scattering shards that burned neon before dulling. Simultaneously, the creature’s torso tore open, steam pluming out like a poisoned sigh. 

The handler teetered, reached for broken magic that no longer obeyed, then fell from its perch, dissolving before it hit snow.

A swell of silence followed, as if the forest exhaled. The remaining Derivants faltered, spasms rippling across their warped bodies; severed from command, their corrupted energy lost cohesion. They collapsed in stages—some folding in on themselves like half-baked bread, others crawling a few sad inches before freezing solid. The acidic haze thinned, leaving only moon-lit snow and ash-tasting air.

Dark Cacao lowered his sword, chest heaving. Flecks of acid ate small blossoms in the steel of his gauntlet, but he shook them off. He scanned for threats, found none, and strode toward Mystic Flour, who stood over the remains of the handler.

She watched him approach, twin blades dripping bright emerald ichor that fizzled and cooled. “This is far from finished.”

“I will report this to Pure Vanilla,” Dark Cacao answered, voice tight. 

Mystic turned toward the frightened traveler who now crouched behind a pillar, shaking. A younger cookie, chestnut-hued, pressed one hand to their chest while the other clutched that satchel like a life raft. Wide eyes darted between the two warriors and the ruin left behind.

Dark Cacao sheathed his blade and knelt to meet the stranger’s gaze. “You’re safe now,” he said, his timbre softening. “Were you pursued for that bag?”

The figure did not speak, his  crimson eyes only meeting his father’s gaze.

For the span of a heartbeat the king forgot the ache in his sword arm, forgot the hiss of acid still eating shallow pits in his gauntlet. The world tightened to two silhouettes facing one another: father kneeling, son half-crouched behind a shard of broken masonry, the satchel clutched against his ribs as though it were the only thing still anchoring him to breath.

Dark Choco did not answer the question. He simply held his father’s gaze, and in that gaze churned too many storms to name—shame, defiance, years of half-extinguished fury. He looked thinner than the last time the king had seen him, the purple of his cloak dulled by travel and ash. Acid had splattered the plating on his right arm, leaving warped blisters in the metal that matched the raw tremor coursing through him.

He does not know whether to sob, to scream… so he stays still.

Behind them Mystic Flour Cookie stepped back, blades lowered but eyes hawk-bright, reading each twitch of muscle like a text. She recognized the raw edge of reunion, recognized too the smolder of an old curse vibrating in the dark-glass sword strapped across the young cookie’s spine. The lakewind tugged at her sleeves, urging her to intervene, yet she stood silent. Some battles were not hers to translate.

Dark Cacao set the satchel gently at the boy’s feet, then eased both palms open—empty, unthreatening, though they still shook with adrenaline and something larger than fear.

“Dark Choco,” he said, voice pitched low enough that it would not fracture. “You’re hurt.”

No response—only a raw swallow, the bob of a throat working around words that refused shape. The prince’s shoulders hitched once, as if memory itself had stabbed him, but no sound followed.

“It’s all right,” Dark Cacao tried again. He kept his distance, mindful of how many miles lay knotted in the space of three steps. “You are safe. We will see to your wounds—”

A flicker of emotion passed through Dark Choco’s eyes—something like bewildered anger at the offer of safety, as though the concept had grown foreign. He drew a slow, shaky breath that fogged the air between them, but still no speech emerged. His hands, however, betrayed him: they loosened on the satchel’s strap, fingers flexing in silent argument with themselves.

Mystic Flour watched those hands, then spoke softly—her voice the whisper of parchment turning. “The vials you carry… did you take them from those who brewed these Derivants?”

Dark Choco’s gaze flicked to her, recognition sparking. He gave a single, clipped nod. His lips parted, closed again. At last a hoarse answer slipped free, barely more than breath:

“...They’re the raw magic used to create… those.. I–I thought it would be important—”

Mystic Flour only had nodded as she took the satchel gently.

At that, Dark Choco’s control faltered; a tremor traveled up his arms and he bit down on it so hard the muscles in his jaw jumped. He still didn’t cry out—perhaps didn’t know how—but a slow, wet brightness filmed the edges of his eyes. He swiped it away with the heel of one gauntlet, the motion quick, almost angry.

Dark Cacao straightened, the weight of armor creaking. “Home is not a place you earn,” he said, careful, deliberate. “Home is the place that will hold you, even when nothing else can.” His voice hitched then, a wisp of grief slipping through. “If the citadel can still be that, let it try.”

The younger cookie’s shoulders buckled; for a moment it looked as though he might collapse forward under the burden of that invitation. Instead he staggered upright, jaw clenched. The cursed sword at his back rattled against its fittings, as if the relic itself rebelled at the notion of forgiveness.

Mystic Flour stepped closer, sheath tapping her leg. Her gaze softened, but her words were cool as frost. “You tore these vials from dark hands,” she said. “That is a beginning."

Dark Choco’s eyes flicked from her to the king—searching, circling, unsure which anchor would hold. At last he exhaled a sound that was almost a laugh—brittle, pained. He took half a step, then another. The frozen grass squeaked under his boot. When he was near enough, Dark Cacao drew the edge of his cloak forward and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders, just as he had done for Mystic Flour hours earlier. It dwarfed the boy, but the gesture steadied him; some part of that long-kinked bond straightened, if only by a thread.

The king did not pull Dark Choco into an embrace—he sensed the brittleness that would shatter—but his hand rested against the cloak, a silent promise.

Around them the birches hissed in the wind, and the frozen lake began to sing its twilight groan—ice adjusting to night’s deeper cold. Mystic Flour sheathed her remaining sword, the scrape of metal sliding home loud in the hush. “We should move,” she murmured. “Guards will be here soon, and that satchel should be warded.”

Dark Cacao nodded. He looked into his son’s shadowed face, found there a question neither of them could yet voice, and answered with the simplest directive he had left:

“Walk with me.”

Dark Choco’s mouth quivered, then firmed. He dipped his head—not obedience, but a fragile truce with hope—and matched his father’s pace as they turned back toward the citadel lights.

Mystic Flour fell in a step behind, watchful. The path was the same, yet the air felt irrevocably different—charged by the sharp ache of reunion. Acid still bit upon the breeze, a reminder that comfort could be cruel. But another scent began to seep through: pine resin, hearth-smoke, something humble and old that lived in remembered halls. It mingled with the bitterness, weaving the first tentative strand of something like healing.

No one spoke as they entered the birch arcade. Words would come later, or not; silence, for now, was a ledger they all understood. Ahead, lanterns wavered in the hands of approaching guards. Behind them, the lake settled, its surface unbroken, holding what had passed beneath its moonlit skin.

And in the space between, father, son, and witness walked on—toward walls that might one day become doors, and doors that, with patience, might finally open.

…

Night had deepened over the citadel, turning the stained-glass windows of Dark Cacao’s private chambers into dark mirrors. Inside, only a low brazier lit the room, its coals pulsing amber and casting long, shifting grids across the polished floor. In one of those glowing squares sat a go board, stones in careful tension: white arrayed like creeping frost, black massed like storm clouds.

Dark Cacao and Mystic Flour crouched on opposite sides, knees nearly brushing the tatami mats. Their earlier battle felt distant now, replaced by the quiet, cerebral rhythm of pieces lifted and placed. Neither had spoken in several turns; the hush felt companionable, weighted only by the soft crackle of the fire and the hum of thoughts neither of them quite voiced.

Tap-tap-tap.

A crisp rapping broke the silence. Both glanced up. The sound repeated—sharp, insistent—against the lattice of the tall window. Dark Cacao rose first, crossing the room with a soldier’s ease despite the stiffness in his shoulders. As he unlatched the casement, a plump, midnight-blue bird all but rolled inside, landing with a muffled thoomf on the sill.

Mystic Flour’s brow lifted. “Pure Vanilla’s courier,” she said, recognizing the blueberry-hued plumage and the tiny bronze tube strapped to its leg. What she hadn’t expected was the bird’s attire: a hand-knitted, cream-colored sweater, complete with a ridged collar that puffed around its neck like a cozy halo.

The bird fluffed itself once—snowflakes drifted from its feathers—then strutted forward, chirping imperiously. Dark Cacao knelt, unfastened the tube, and offered the creature a morsel of candied cacao nibs from a desk bowl. Only after the bird was satisfied did it hop to the brazier’s edge to preen, sweater bobbing with every puffed breath.

He unrolled the parchment and spread it on the tatami between them. Mystic Flour settled beside him, her sleeve just brushing his elbow as they read together, the go stones momentarily forgotten.

To my friends,

The Academy is no longer silent— 

and neither is he. 

 

There is something within its halls—older than either of us remembered. It breathes in the walls, stirs in the dust. I cannot tell yet if it welcomes us or warns us.

But I felt it. And I know he did too.

He stayed. Even when I didn’t ask him to. That alone feels heavier than any magic I’ve known. Something is amid the air as we speak, and I fear it may include the guardians as Shadow Milk had mentioned in his daze.

I am not sure what is to become, but with the fount of knowledge on our side, we have little to fear. I know I am placing a great deal of trust in his words, yet I believe they carry merit—carry truth.

I request a letter back regarding how you and his comrades are faring.

 

I hope you all are doing well,

Pure Vanilla Cookie

They read it twice. The fireplace popped; the blueberry courier gave a self-satisfied chirrup, as if to remind them of its importance.

Dark Cacao exhaled slowly and rested one gauntleted hand on the tatami. “Blueberry Academy awakening… and Shadow Milk with it.” His voice held a quiet gravity.

“It is no surprise he awakens with it.” Mystic Flour hummed.

“How so?”

“He was the founder.” Mystic Flour’s gaze lingered on the final lines, as if the weight of her words weren’t much and were of common knowledge. 

The king gave a small nod. Then, with deliberate care, he plucked a white stone from the board and set it neatly beside the parchment—a silent promise to respond. “Perhaps” he murmured. ”It is better to speak of this matter in person.”

Mystic Flour answered by placing a black stone beside his. The move was not on the board, but on the parchment: a joint reply already forming between two quiet minds. “Must I accompany you?”

Dark Cacao let out a soft chuckle as he looked at the board before taking one of her territories. “Does that answer it?”

“Unfortunately so.”

The blueberry bird, content with its task, tucked its beak beneath its woolen collar and dozed by the brazier, sweater shimmering in the fireglow—patient courier waiting for dawn’s next flight.

After a few quiet turns—just a few stones from the game’s end—Dark Cacao finally broke the silence.

“Mystic Flour Cookie,” he said, his voice low but certain.

She glanced up, one brow lifting, the faintest trace of curiosity behind her otherwise unreadable gaze.

He met her eyes. “I can’t begin to express my gratitude to you,” he said. “My only wish, all this time, was for my son to find his way again.”

His words hung in the still chamber, catching gently in the folds of firelight and silence. Then, slowly, almost carefully, he reached into the folds of his robe and drew something out—an elegantly carved bracelet of pale jade, its surface worn smooth with age. The color caught the brazier’s glow in delicate shades of sea-glass and snow.

“It’s not much,” he said, “but it is an heirloom. Passed through the hands of rulers before me. Worn for wisdom, for luck, not for war.”

He extended it, open-palmed. “I want you to have it.”

Mystic Flour looked at it for a long moment, unmoving. It wasn’t refusal. But it wasn’t acceptance either. The weight of meaning sat too close to the bone, too quietly. She hadn’t expected something like this. She hadn’t asked for it. And part of her still struggled to understand why anything sacred should be given to her at all.

Dark Cacao did not wait for her to reach. Gently, with a kind of reverence rare even in him, he took her hand. Cool fingers, worn from sword and ceremony, fastened the bracelet around her wrist. The jade sat lightly against her skin—fitting, yet unfamiliar, like a story whispered in a tongue she almost remembered.

She lowered her gaze, unreadable as ever.

“…Then I shall grant you that wish,” she murmured, voice almost weightless.

But something softened in her eyes as she said it.

Chapter Text

Golden Cheese Cookie had grown accustomed to the rhythm of repetition.

There were always things to tend to—scrolls to unroll and decipher, walls to mend with sun-baked stone and molten gold, and if time allows her, a beast to spar with beneath the blinding heat. Her empire moved like a great clockwork, and she, its keeper, marched within it tirelessly. The days melted into one another like candlewax—bright, fervent, and fleeting for all but her.

She no longer remembered when the weight of time stopped pressing against her shoulders. It was not a burden, not quite—not anymore. Rather, it passed over her like sand over stone, soft and constant. Change came in the faces around her, in the subtle erosion of customs and songs, in the slow fading of names etched into palace walls. The price of eternality was not pain, but witness. And she had learned to bear that witness in silence.

This day was no different.

She sat in her study again, the golden light of late afternoon pooling across sandstone floors. The air was warm with the faint scent of ink and sun-dried papyrus, and around her, books lay open like relics.

Some pages bore the curling script of old testaments from the Dark Cacao Kingdom; others came perfumed with the floral wax seals of the Hollyberry court. She studied them all, eyes half-lidded with a weariness that was not exhaustion but age. And still, no answer to what she had truly wanted to know. A question unasked, born from the results of the Dark Flour War.

Then came the chirp.

A soft, round sound that pricked the air like a bell in fog. She turned slightly, one brow rising in amused recognition as a plump blueberry bird stumbled gracelessly onto her windowsill. It waddled forward with a comical sort of dignity, tripping over the frame as it tried to enter.

Golden Cheese let out a quiet huff through her nose—too soft to be laughter, but close.

“Well, come in then,” she murmured, rising with a grace carved from centuries. She knelt and gently helped the bird upright, fingers deft and practiced as she untied the silk-threaded message bound to its leg.

The scent hit her first, light, familiar, unmistakable.

Vanilla blossoms and parchment. Of course.

Even before opening the seal, she knew. A letter from the Vanilla Kingdom. Likely one of their usual missives, gentle check-ins, or records shared from their vast archives. Always polite. Always thoughtful. She stroked the bird’s soft feathers once, twice, before placing a small cluster of seeds in a shallow dish.

It chirped in thanks, more graceful now as it nestled into the tray’s corner.

Only then did Golden Cheese return to her seat. She did not rush. With movements deliberate and ceremonial, she unrolled the letter, letting her eyes wander over the opening lines like one tasting a familiar vintage.

Outside, the sky bled orange over the dunes. Inside, golden eyes scanned words crafted with care, while the bird at her side fluffed its wings and settled into the quiet hum of a kingdom built on stone, sun, and memory.

“Hm.”

The sound escaped her lips like the faint clink of metal—measured, restrained, but not without weight. Golden Cheese Cookie’s gaze lingered on the parchment a moment longer, then drifted past it, unfocused. The words had stirred something—not quite alarm, but recognition. She, too, had noticed it. The shift. 

The air had been different lately. Even the heat bore a strange edge to it—less like flame, more like breath withheld.

Pure Vanilla’s words, gentle and measured as ever, had only given form to what she had already begun to feel: a wrongness that could not be named. He wrote of disturbances, of quiet unease, and of Guardians. Though he never said it outright, the concern beneath his ink bled clear.

Her thoughts, unspooled now, turned to Burning Spice.

He had grown quieter. Not in the way of sulking warriors or smoldering tempers—but something deeper. Something unspoken. His silences no longer brimmed with fire, but with... vacancy.

That, more than anything, unsettled her.

He still challenged her on occasion, of course. Still strutted into her court with that familiar arrogance and a blade to match. But there was a hollowness to it, as if the provocations were a performance for an audience he no longer believed was watching. She humored him when time allowed—more often than not, she did. But even in combat, his strikes landed without conviction.

And then, there it was again.

A pull. Subtle, yet undeniable.

Her Souljam stirred against her chest. Not quite a hum—no, it was more instinctual than that.

She blinked, glancing out the tall, arched window beside her desk. Her breath caught.

Night?

The skies had darkened entirely, painted in deep indigo and studded with the first shy stars. That couldn’t be right. She was certain—certain—it had only been late afternoon. The sun had still kissed the stone when she’d begun reading.

Her Souljam tugged again. Firmer, now.

Golden Cheese Cookie stood without hesitation, the letter left half-folded on the table, the ink still drying at the edges. There was no grand declaration, no spoken vow. Only a motion—a choice already made.

The call of Abundance had always been soft, but absolute. And when it summoned, she obeyed.

Golden Cheese Cookie pushed away from her desk, movements sharp, controlled, but slower than usual. She didn’t like this feeling.

It was absurd, in a way. To think that the moment she finished reading Pure Vanilla’s letter, things began to shift. Shadows are growing longer. Time slipping through the cracks. It was almost laughable, if not for the weight gathering behind her ribcage.

It was as if something had been listening.

No— was listening.

The heels of her feet thumped firmly against the sandstone as she walked the corridor, the golden trim of her robes trailing like dry brush in her wake. The thud of her steps began to echo louder than they should have, each one drumming with more urgency. Her Souljam pulsed again. This time, it pulled.

Abundance didn’t often insist. When it did, it was never for nothing.

And then—
The ground vanished beneath her.

She did not fall so much as drop , as if pulled by gravity, unnatural and cruel. No time to shout. Her wings, symbols of her pride, refused her command. Useless—like heavy ornaments clinging to her back. She tried to right herself, but there was nothing to grasp, no wind, no light—only the fall.

Then, stillness.

The place where she landed was not land at all. It was surface —glassy and vast, like blackened gold polished smooth. She staggered to her knees, breathing hard, then looked down.

And froze.

It was her face, reflected in the floor—but not her . Not the Golden Cheese she knew. Not the ruler who stood high on palace steps or offered grain and coin to her people. No, this one… this one looked hollowed out. Her crown was askew. Her robes were in tatters. Her eyes—tired beyond centuries.

The reflection rippled. Swirled.

Then came the vision.

Crispia’s first war, caught in the last light of its ending. Screams already swallowed by dust. The golden desert cracked and blackened by the aftermath of forbidden power unleashed. Her people— her people —clinging to each other beneath broken stone, mothers shielding their children, priests clutching relics to their hearts. And then—

Gone. Just like that. The blast didn’t roar—it devoured.

And where was she?

Standing. Still. Alone atop a dune, wind lifting the edges of her feathers as the heat burned away what was left of the city she once called her own. Her treasures had shattered. Her fountains buried. Her temples unmoored and half-sunken.

Her treasures had vanished, yes. But it was the faces that haunted her. The absence of them more. The silence that followed.

She hadn’t moved. Not even once.

Golden Cheese Cookie’s breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t just failure. No… it was witnessing failure. With her hands clenched at her sides, powerless not because she had no power, but because—deep down—she hadn’t known how to wield it in that moment.

Empress of Abundance. She had lived through plenty, offered much. But what had she saved ?

Her knees gave in first, crashing to the mirrored floor with a soundless thud, gold and silk bunching around her like fallen laurels. Her hands trembled, fists unfurling against the surface as if to brace herself—no, as if to fight it.

“Stop this,” she muttered. Her voice cracked. Not like metal this time, but like earth , dry and breaking beneath the weight of old droughts. “Stop this at once!”

The vision still danced beneath her. That version of her— hollow , helpless , crowned in shame—stared back with the eyes of one who had lost everything and hadn’t even wept. The reflection smiling, smirking almost.

“No—no, that isn’t—” she hissed, fingers now clawing at the floor. “That isn’t who I am.”

She dragged her palm across the reflection, as if to smear it away. Her gold-plated bracelets scraped against the glass, but the image held fast. The dunes still burned. Her people still vanished. Her silence still echoed.

Again, she struck the floor—open palms, then closed fist.

“ Enough! ”

Her voice, layers of it, all three at once; One was who she was when first bestowed by abundance, another at her worst, begging for everything to change , and her now, grieving. She pressed harder, elbow to elbow, both hands grinding into the memory as if sheer will could blot it out. Like scrubbing soot from marble. Like trying to erase an echo with more silence.

But the past did not move.

It had already been written, carved deep into the foundation of her reign. It lived beneath her empire like an unspoken oath: Never again.

And yet here she was, still chasing the shape of what she could not undo.

Her shoulders shook. Not with sobs—no, Golden Cheese did not weep. Not aloud. But the tremble in her arms, the way her head lowered, her crown dipping into shadow, spoke louder than any grief.

Her voices came barely above a whisper. 

“…I should have saved them.”

She had little time to reflect when she heard another voice—hoarse, desperate, splintered by grief.

“No.. NO!” Another voice, “Take ME! I can burn! Leave MY GEMS ALONE! ”



…

If the witches had the quaintess idea of their own creations, through their hands they have weaved and baked purposely. To the first five who were not supposed to be flawed: To where he is the only thing unchanging despite being change itself.

His thoughts lingered. The kind that is reflection to an extent, though does more harm than good. That is what time does to him; Witches, they know. And yet, he still, despite everything, bore their will.

He had created lives more than he can count, even with the millennials he has lived through. He built palaces, empires. And likewise, destroyed them. He is change, no? Whatever happens, it is his doing.  

Burning Spice Cookie had been restless again.

The kind of restlessness that no walls could contain—no sparring match, no conversation, no sleep. So he walked.

Even in the evening, with the stars veiled behind windblown clouds and the desert dim beneath a cool haze, his eyes saw clearly. The world never truly went dark for him. Flame had long since burned away the fear of shadow.

The dunes rolled before him like silent waves, endless and ancient. Golden in daylight, but now they wore a coat of silver ash, the moonlight pale against the wind-carved ridges. He moved with practiced ease, boots pressing into the sand without hesitation.

This was the place.

The same dunes where he had summoned the sandworm three months ago in that reckless, glorious fight. Where the heat of the battle had sung in his veins, where the crack of lightning had met the roar of fire and gold. Where Golden Cheese Cookie had met him blow for blow against it, unflinching, furious. Utterly magnificent.

He remembered the clash of her spears with his flames. The sting of sand in his eyes. The way her laughter—sharp and sunlit—had cut through the chaos like a war-horn.

A grin, bitter and thin, tugged at the edge of his mouth.

That had been the last time he truly felt alive.

Since then… nothing. No great battles. No cities to level. No armies to defy. Only reconstruction. Negotiations. Routines. And her—Golden Cheese—always busy, always watching, but distant in ways he couldn’t name.

He crouched low, dragging his fingers through the sand. The heat still lingered here, faint and buried deep beneath the cooled layers. His flames had once scorched this land, just enough to awaken what slept beneath. The memory of it stirred something inside him.

Something he didn’t quite know what to do with.

He looked out over the quiet horizon, breathing deeply. The air was dry, but not harsh. He should have felt peace.

But peace, he had come to realize, was far crueler than war.

It left him with too much space to think. To remember.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t decide if he missed the sound of battle more… or the way she looked at him when they fought.

Eternal, the only thing change can’t defy.

The only thing change fears. Loves .

The wind shifted.

It came suddenly and strangely, curling not across the surface of the dunes but deep beneath it, like breath exhaled from something sleeping in the earth. Burning Spice Cookie rose from his crouch, eyes narrowing as the grains trembled underfoot. A ripple passed through the sand.

Then another. Stronger.

He stood still, unmoving, the air around him beginning to hum.

And then the world quivered.

The dunes trembled like a struck drum. Distant ridges shuddered and collapsed, and a sound—low, ancient, guttural—echoed through the belly of the desert. Burning Spice took one step back, then stopped. It was too late.

The ground cracked.

Golden seams split beneath his feet, then widened into gaping mouths. The sand he once commanded betrayed him now, shifting like liquid glass. With a sharp, startled breath, the earth gave way beneath him, and he fell.

No resistance. No time to summon fire.
Just the sudden weightless pull of memory reclaiming him.

Then— darkness.

And when the darkness receded, he saw it .

Not sand. Not sky.
But ash.
Burned stone. Melted towers. Screaming turned to echoes.

His boots landed soundlessly on a scorched courtyard—the heart of the first kingdom he had ever touched with flame. Not summoned. Not challenged. Destroyed.

His breath hitched.

The fire hadn’t just taken the palace—it had spread like a curse. Gardens turned to charred husks. Houses caved in with no one left to run. The fountains—he remembered those—once the pride of the city, now hissed with steam and blood.

It had been beautiful.

Once.

And he had reduced it to nothing.

He turned, slowly, dreading what he knew he would see—and there they were. The people. What was left of them. Coughing, fleeing. Parents cradling children with soot-stained faces. Priests holding relics aloft as if shielding them from divine abandonment.

Then the worst of it—
A small figure crawling from a wrecked home. A girl, maybe. Cookie barely old enough to walk. She turned to look at him with wide, cracked eyes.

Not in fear.
In confusion. In utter betrayal.

“...herald?” She whimpered. “Why..?”

She never understood why it had happened.

And neither did he.

He dropped to his knees. The girl vanished.

The memory had no mercy. It was a tide with no shore—unrelenting, merciless, dragging him under over and over again.

He could not even ask why: Why now? Why this sudden? What is going on?

He stood on the fractured edge of it, unable to look away. A witness to his own destruction, to the monster he had been, and maybe still was.

His past self stood tall—back straight, face alight not with courage but with mania. His flames danced across the skyline like banners of war, twisting higher with every beat of his pulse. And they obeyed him with joy. They devoured homes. They carved scars into palace walls. They licked up everything that once had color and turned it gray.

He didn’t just burn the enemy.

He burned everything .

The fountains were first—he remembered them. Grand stoneworks once carved by artisans, now long dead, were symbols of peace that had stood for generations. They erupted in steam and shards as his fire boiled the water within, stone cracking with pressure, beauty turned to rubble in an instant.

Then the statues, sacred ones. He remembered hating them—how they looked down at him with serene eyes, how they stood tall when he felt small. He remembered how the fire leapt from his hands as he screamed at them, how their marble faces blackened and crumbled, how he had laughed when they fell.

Not out of joy. Out of disbelief.
Out of madness.

He thought, for a brief moment, that maybe he was laughing with someone—some audience, some unseen force watching him. But there was no one. No cheers. No fanfare.

Only silence beneath the roar.

He moved on.

The marketplace was next. He didn’t mean to aim for it, not really. But it was there, and his fire needed something . The stalls caught quickly—fabric, fruit, books, talismans—lit up like paper. He remembered the smell. The sweetness of burning citrus, the bitterness of scorched ink. Candied almonds and perfume and parchment, all consumed in one breathless inferno.

He remembered the screams, too.
Not far away. Not ghosts— real. Then.

Cookies running. Falling. Crying out for loved ones who had vanished in the smoke. Children with wide eyes and scorched feet, pressed into corners that offered no safety.

And what had he done?

He had kept going.

His fire leapt from rooftop to rooftop like it knew what he wanted more than he did. His hands ached from channeling it. His heart pounded. Somewhere deep in his chest, he thought— If I keep going, if I make it big enough, loud enough… maybe the emptiness will finally go quiet.

But it didn’t.

The fire only got bigger. The sky turned to smoke.

The temple came next. That had been the final act, hadn’t it?

An ancient structure that had survived wars long before his name ever meant anything. It was said to be protected by forgotten magic. He wanted to test it. No— he wanted to break it. Something in him whispered: if he could bring that down, maybe he'd feel something. Anything.

He didn’t hesitate.

The fire hit the base of the temple with a force that cracked the earth. Pillars groaned, stones screamed as they twisted. Light—blue, golden, then blinding white—flashed from the runes as they tried to fight back.

But it wasn't enough.

The dome crumbled.

And inside it?
More relics. More history. More families.
All gone in the collapse.

And still—his past self stood, flames now wreathing his shoulders like a mock crown, chest heaving, smile dying slowly on his lips. The laughter had faded. The thrill had passed.

And what was left?

Nothing.

No celebration. No triumph. Only ashes.
Ashes and a silence so thick it pressed against the bones.

Burning Spice Cookie in the present fell forward, hands gripping his skull, knees buckling beneath him.

He had destroyed everything.

Not out of strategy. Not for survival. But to feel . And when even that failed, when even destruction brought him no peace—

A darker thought bloomed, one he had buried again and again:

If everything always ends in ruin… then why let anything exist at all?
Why build what time and fire would only take?
Why love, why hope, why dream—if it all ends the same, like this ?

He could feel the heat of the memory still curling around him, could taste the soot on his tongue.

Somewhere deep within, the boy who had once wanted to protect something wept for the man who could no longer believe in anything worth protecting.

And then—nothing. Just smoke.
And silence.

Burning Spice Cookie stood above a mountain, formed from the dust of his aftermath. He clutched his head, trembling, elbows to the scorched stone. His breath turned ragged.

This wasn’t the glory he told others about. This wasn’t the tale he polished and spat out like a weapon.

This was ruin.
His ruin.

And all he could do was kneel in the center of it and whisper to the air that would never answer back—

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t— mean to. ”

The words tumbled from his mouth, barely coherent, choked on breath and ash and memory. Burning Spice Cookie’s knees gave way beneath him, hitting the scorched stone with a dull, echoing thud. His palms pressed against the shattered ground as if to steady a world long since broken, but it was no use.

The earth remained indifferent beneath his touch.

He tilted his head back slowly, ragged gasps cutting through the air, and his eyes found the sky.

The moon was there. Still and pale. Watching.

But it did not weep. It did not speak. It did not blink.

It flickered.

A cruel trick of the clouds, or a reminder of how even light could falter. How even the moon, which once bathed his empire in gentle silver, now only cast shadows.

His breath caught—then shattered.

He screamed.

It wasn’t a single sound.
It was thousands —layered, tangled, discordant. A chorus of agony built from every century, every memory, every moment where fire had consumed more than he intended. The sound burst from his lungs like flame given voice, like molten sorrow turned to thunder.

“No.. NO!”  

It cracked through the air, shaking the bones of what remained. The ruins trembled. The sky did not answer.

“Take ME! I can burn! Leave MY GEMS ALONE! ”

He screamed again.

Each one layered atop the last.

A voice too big for one body, too ancient for one lifetime.
The scream of him newly baked, who first lost everything.
The herald who thought strength would fix it.
Thousands of himself afterwards, all finding reasons, solutions.

Then...

The beast who mistook destruction for meaning.
The cookie who stood now, alone.

The sound curled around him like smoke—chaotic, manic. But underneath the madness was something raw, something devastatingly human:

Desperation.
Grief.

He didn’t just scream to rage—he screamed to beg.

Let it not have happened.
Let it mean something.
Let it be undone.

But the past did not shift. The moon did not reply. The ruins only echoed his agony back at him, until the sound of his cries became part of the landscape. A ruin in itself.

Then— silence.

The scream fell apart mid-breath, torn from his throat like fabric ripped too thin. What remained was only the sound of wind curling through the ruins, brushing past him like pity. Or maybe indifference.

Burning Spice Cookie knelt there, unmoving, every breath dragging through him like coals pulled across flesh. He looked up again. The moon still lingered above, distant and pale, its flickering light untouched by the ruin below.

He stared at it for a long time.
As if it might blink. As if it might turn away.
But it only watched. As it always had.

And then the words came. Not loud. Not fiery.

Soft. Cracked. Begging.

“…Take me instead.”

His voice was barely more than a breath. It trembled.

“Take me .” He pressed his fists to the broken earth, head bowed. “Not the city. Not the people. Not them. ”

His shoulders shook.

“Wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that why I was made?” His voice rose, still too fragile to echo. “To change? To destroy? To simply end things?”

He looked up again, eyes bright with unshed fury and despair, gold and ember and shadow.

“Isn’t that all I’ve ever been?” His hand curled against his chest. “If I was never meant to build things to last… never meant to hold, or save , then why— why give me the virtue at all?”

He laughed, but it broke halfway through, cracking into silence.

“They must’ve known. From the beginning. That I was made to burn.”

And now?

Now there was nothing left to burn but himself.

The moon gave no answer. It simply shone in flickers and fragments. A cold witness to a fate already sealed.

And Burning Spice Cookie, kneeling in ash, could only lower his head again—

—and plead to a sky that had never answered him.

He laughs again.

A sound pulled from somewhere deep —not from his chest, no, but from the pit of everything he had buried. It wasn’t joy. Not even close. It was a laugh that cracked like lightning through brittle skies, one that came only when pain had outgrown its shape. It burst from him uncontrollably, jagged and high, like a broken instrument that still played despite being shattered.

And then— harder.

He laughed until his shoulders ached from the convulsions. Until his throat burned as if begging him to stop. But the laughter kept rising, wild and sharp, until it twisted at the corners into something grotesque. It bent his spine, curled him forward. His fingers dug into the dust of the ruined world he had once called his own.

The laughter didn’t fill the silence.

It devoured it.

Tears spilled now—not the soft kind that came with mourning, but the kind ripped from a soul at the edge. They fell freely, cutting streaks through the ash smeared across his face. Salty, stinging, human . And it was that, perhaps, that broke him the most.

Because wasn’t he supposed to be more than that? More than flesh and regret and grief?

He was fire .

He was the one they summoned when nothing else would work.

He chose to be destruction.

Once again, he was there .

The cliff.
That cursed, windswept precipice above the red dunes of Crispia, where the air still remembered the scream of steel and the roar of flame. Time folded cruelly, dragging him back to that moment, where the sand burned, where the sky bled orange, and where fate chose silence.

They were fighting.
Fiercely. Desperately.

It was the kind of battle the bards would never sing truthfully. There was no elegance to it now. No ceremony. Just the raw violence of conviction crashing against conviction.

Golden Cheese Cookie moved like a star pulled from orbit—bright, resolute, exhausted. Her wings, though dimming, still beat against the dusk air with the weight of legacy. She parried, struck, stumbled, rose again. Her Souljam flickered with each blow, like a lantern in a storm.

And Burning Spice… he was all fire.

There was no hesitation in him. No restraint. The Souljam of Destruction glowed molten in his chest, veins lit like rivers of magma, eyes searing with the heat of something unholy. Each swing of his Parashu cracked the earth beneath them, each step forward sent tremors spiraling down the cliffside.

She faltered. Once. Choosing to rescue the little Kulfi who was almost buried underneath the rubble.
That was all it took.

He went behind her and struck, she flew across the desert, crashing into stone.

Panting. Chest heaving. The sun barely there, licking the horizon. He smirked—wild, empty, high on the madness of triumph. He laughed.

Laughed as he watched her struggle, her radiant form twitching in the sand, her breaths ragged and wet, drawn through clenched teeth.

He shook his head in disappointment as he hovered her over a cliff.

“All the waiting I’ve endured… FOR THIS?!”

“Your Majesty!”

Burning Spice paid no mind to the wretched minion below this.

“No… This wont do. No, no, no.” He grew more enrage within every second that ticked by. “The bird hunt can’t end like this! Where's the thrill?!” 

And then…

“Ruler of a fallen kingdom. The tide of change will swallow you whole.” His expression grew darker. “You will crumble and become dust, like all those trinkets you treasured so.”

Within one swift move, he ripped off her wings. Her scream almost music to his ears.

…

She stilled.

Just once. Just long enough. Her eyes slowly shut. Her Souljam dimmed to a pulse. Her golden hair fell forward, framing a face slack with exhaustion, with silence.

His laughter stopped.

The grin drained from his face like water through cracks.

“What…?”

He took a step back.
The fire didn’t follow.

“No. No, you—get up,” he barked, voice cracking. “Come on, get up. That’s not how this ends!”

She didn’t move.

“ Golden Cheese! ”

His voices broke the sky. The clouds shuddered. But she did not rise.

He dropped to his knees, hands hovering above her as if afraid to touch her. As if his touch was what did this.

“She’s supposed to be eternal,” he whispered. “You said she was eternal. She was meant to outlast me— all of us.”

He looked up at the sky—burning red, the sun now a retreating ember on the horizon.

“You hear me!? This isn’t how it ends! She was supposed to shine forever! She was suppose to awaken! ”

He shook her shoulder now, gently at first, then harder.

“Come back. Please. Please, get up. You don’t fall. You’re the one who never falls! Ruler of Abundance! SPEAK AT ONCE!”

But still—nothing.

The light in her wings was gone. Her Souljam flickered one last time, then dulled to a faint glint of gold glass.

And Burning Spice Cookie broke.

He screamed again—this time not in power, but in pleading. His voice was hoarse now. Raw. His palms pressed against the scorched earth beside her as his head bowed, pressed to her arm like a penitent sinner before an altar of what once was holy.

“She was supposed to endure … She’s all that held this place together.”

He gasped through tears that burned worse than flame.

“If she’s gone… then there’s nothing left worth saving.”

And in that moment, alone on that cliff beneath a sky that only watched, Burning Spice Cookie begged—not as a warrior, not as a destroyer, but as a child before something sacred.

“…Please. Rise again.”

Everything grew darker again. It was as if someone was playing with his very core. Precisely weaving, showing parts they knew would…

Why… why did it hurt like this? Why did it tug at his heart?

Why did the silence ache? Why did the memory of the girl crawling from the flames refuse to leave his mind? Why did his hands still shake, centuries after the last ember should’ve faded?

Why did it still matter?

He let out one last bark of laughter, strangled by a sob that caught in the back of his throat.

Then—he reached for it.

The Parashu that had appeared beside him. As if testing him, taunting him. Yelling at him to do it.

Its blade still gleamed, clean and unforgiving, untouched by the ruin around him. It was the only thing that hadn’t aged. The only thing that had never changed. It had always been sharp. Always ready.

Just like him.

The metal pulsed faintly with heat, responding to his grip like a living thing. Familiar. Faithful. The haft rested against his palm with reverent ease. And as he held it, he felt nothing.

No thrill. No rage. No purpose.

Just… stillness. Cold, and awful.

He laughed again, quieter this time. Not manic. Not even bitter.

Just tired.

Then, slowly, he turned the blade in his hand.

The point of it shifted toward him. Toward his chest. Toward the burning red jewel nestled just beneath the layers of cloth and cracked armor. The Souljam of Destruction.

It shimmered faintly on his chest—always humming, always waiting. A reminder of what he was. What he had been made to carry.

He stared at it. Felt it pulsing.

Like a second heart.

He remembered when it was first embedded, baked into him. The pain. The power. The silence afterward, when everyone looked at him differently. They called him many names though never just a cookie. He was like a weapon they’d unsheathed for war and were too afraid to put away again.

Burning Spice was a Herald, the Herald of change. No one understood, not even the witches as they mercilessly strapped, bounded him in that wretched tree. No one understood that change hadn’t always meant good.

He remembered the way Golden Cheese Cookie had once stared at it—at him—not with fear, but something heavier. Something like disappointment. 

His fingers tightened around the Parashu.

It would be easy.
One movement. One act. One final strike.

The tip of the blade pressed against the Souljam.

It responded—quivered. Not in protest. Not in pain. In recognition.

Burning Spice inhaled, chest trembling.

He thought of the cities. Of the people. Of the sacred temple he had turned to molten stone. Of the way the children screamed. Of the firelight dancing on ruined walls. Of the empty throne rooms and broken idols and scrolls burned to ash.

He thought of the day he laughed in the middle of a crater that used to be a kingdom. How proud he’d felt. How empty it had left him.

He thought of her.

Of how Golden Cheese still walked the halls with gold-dusted dignity. How she still rebuilt , day by day. How she still chose to look at him, even when she didn’t speak. Even when her eyes said everything her lips did not.

He didn’t deserve it.

He never had.

The blade slid forward.

A sound split the air—not steel on flesh, but steel on something deeper . Something old. The Souljam cracked.

Not like glass. No, it was more resonant , like a bell struck too hard, ringing through the marrow of the earth. A crack spidered across its surface, blood-red light spilling from it in slow, beautiful veins. It pulsed—violently—like a beast writhing in its final breath.

Burning Spice gasped. The pain hit second, like a slow, searing wave that curled from his chest to his throat to the edges of his vision. It wasn’t pain like fire or blade. It was undoing.

As if something that had been woven into his being was tearing free.

He dropped the Parashu. It clattered to the ground beside him, forgotten.

His hands curled around the gem instinctively, breath caught in his throat. Light bled through his fingers, flickering, wild. His vision blurred—not with heat, but with memory.

Every moment.

Every life taken.

Every city lost.

Every time he thought destruction meant purpose.

Every time it didn't.

The Souljam pulsed, refusing to shatter.

A burst of red light exploded from his chest, not outward, but inward , swallowing sound, heat, memory—all of it. And for a moment, there was only silence.

Not peaceful silence. Complete silence. Like the world itself held its breath.

He collapsed forward.

Hands in the ash. Chest heaving. Light barely there…

The witches granted him no mercy, the mercy of ending it all, to just cease this ache that was too sharp to dull. Even with time itself.


Hands dug into the ash, fingers curling against ground that had tasted too much grief. His chest heaved, spasming with each breath, lungs dragging in air thick with smoke and salt. Light flickered dimly beneath his ribs—what little remained of him, pulsing in time with the last fragments of what he used to be.

The fire was gone.

The rage had quieted.

He could feel nothing but the tremble in his bones and the ache behind his eyes.
He kept them shut, too afraid to look. Too afraid to see what he had done again.

And yet… something changed.

The darkness behind his eyelids began to shift—not in the way that nightmares do, but softly. Almost imperceptibly. Like a breath warming the frost.

A faint glow. Gentle.
So warm .
So impossible to ignore.

It crept in like sunrise beneath a closed curtain—first golden, then brighter. Not harsh, not searing, but alive. It brushed across his back, kissed the tips of his trembling fingers. There was a pulse in it. Steady. Real. Almost like…

He shuddered.

A sob fell from his lips before he knew it. A jagged, breathless thing he hadn’t meant to release. Then another. And another. Not screams this time. Not curses.

Just sobs —raw, broken, just a cookie.

He didn’t even realize he was crying. The tears streamed down his face in silence, mixing with soot, with dust, with the grime of everything he had destroyed.

And still that warmth pressed against him. Not demanding. Not consuming. But steady. Like a presence. Like a memory that refused to fade.

His hands sank further into the ash, as if trying to disappear. His shoulders curled in, ribs shaking. His whole body trembled—not from weakness, but from release.

From something he never thought he'd feel again.

A hand might have been placed on his shoulder. He didn’t know. He couldn’t lift his head. Couldn’t bear the weight of hope.

But the warmth didn’t leave.

It stayed .

A light, familiar and unwavering, beginning to rise behind his closed eyes. Not red like his flames. Not silver like the moon. But gold .

Radiant.

The warmth grew brighter, not blinding but full—full in a way that filled the hollow spaces in his ribs where guilt had carved its name. It wrapped around him, weightless yet undeniable. And when he opened his eyes, breath catching—

He was no longer in the ruin.

No longer kneeling in ash or shattered light.

He was back at the dunes.

Before the collapse.
Before the screaming.
Before he was swallowed by the earth and forced to relive his worst self.

The wind was softer here, stirring the sand like breath on silk. The stars had not yet turned cold. The sky still glowed with the aftercolors of twilight, and the moon hung quiet above—no longer condemning, merely present.

And there—before him—stood Golden Cheese Cookie.

Alive. Whole. Radiant in a way only time-worn grace could be. Her armor, though dulled by effort, still held its shape. Her crown sat crooked with the wind. Her Souljam glowed low, pulsing like a steady heart. There was weariness in her shoulders—but not distance.

She didn’t speak.

She only stepped forward.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t find words. His breath caught somewhere between a sob and disbelief.

And then—

She embraced him.

Firmly. Fully.

Not the polite, formal embrace of rulers past tragedy or to form alliances. No. This was something else.

Her arms wrapped around him as though trying to gather every broken shard he had become. Her cheek pressed gently to his shoulder at first, sobbing along with him. Grieving. 

Her forehead slowly lowered to his chest—and clink.

Their Souljams met. 

The soft, delicate sound of crystal brushing crystal echoed through the dunes. Gentle. Resonant. A sound he hadn’t heard in centuries. Like chimes on a wind only they could hear.

His Souljam, fractured and dim, pulsed weakly in answer. Hers, soft as sun-kissed honey, shimmered brighter in response.

And for a moment—just one—everything was still.

Even time would turn its gaze away, just at this time as though having never laid its gaze on such intimacy they bore.

He trembled. Not from battle. Not from rage. But from the unbearable ache of being held.

“…Golden Cheese…?” he managed, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

But she didn’t answer with words. She only held him tighter. As if she knew he would try to run from this. As if she knew the part of him that thought he didn’t deserve warmth. Didn’t deserve this moment. 

His arms slowly—haltingly—lifted and returned the embrace.

One breath.
Then two.

She exhaled against him, a sound small but steady, like wind catching on silk. A sound that reminded him they were both still here. Still breathing. Still trying.

The stars above blinked. The dunes lay still.

And somewhere deep in him, something loosened. Not healed—not yet. But loosened .

And for the first time in a very long time, Burning Spice Cookie did not feel like he had to burn.

“I’m… I’m so sorry…”

The words escaped like heat through broken stone, fragile and long buried.

His breath hitched, hands tightening slightly on the back of her cloak. The wind no longer howled. The sands beneath them stilled. Time itself seemed to bow for this confession— this surrender.

“I never wanted to be a beast ,” he whispered. “But it’s like that’s all I was meant to be.”

Golden Cheese said nothing. She did not interrupt. Her arms never loosened.

He kept speaking—no, spilling .

“It wasn’t fair,” he said, voice growing hoarse, bitter with memory. “You got to rule. To learn. To make mistakes, to rebuild— to fail and still be called glorious.”

He pulled back just slightly, just enough to see her face—not to accuse her, but to let her see the truth he’d carried alone.

“I was made to change. That's what they wanted. What they forged me for. I was their solution , their warning, their perfect balance… Why had one side outweighed the other? Why did they only see me for everything wrong I brought?”

His eyes were wet again. Dust clung to the corners of his lashes, mixing with tears.

“I am the example of what not to become. Why?”

He laughed, but there was no joy in it. Just hollowness, worn from being too loud for too long.

“They taught others how to avoid being me. They pointed to the craters I left and said: ‘ See? That is what happens when you lose control. ’”

He looked away then, ashamed. The wind kissed his cheek like a hand wiping soot away.

“I didn’t get to grow. I wasn’t allowed to be wrong and come back from it.”

Golden Cheese Cookie was silent a moment longer, watching him with eyes that had seen far too much—empires rise, cities crumble, fires burn for too long. But even in that stillness, her warmth never wavered.

Then, gently, she pulled him back in.

A hand—scarred, steady—rested against the nape of his neck.

And she held him tighter

“It wasn’t fair,” she finally said. Her voice was low, worn at the edges like gold rubbed thin by time. “It still isn’t.”

Burning Spice stiffened but her embrace didn’t falter. Her next words came softer, threading into the cracks of his guilt.

“You weren’t meant to be a monument to regret.”

He closed his eyes again. Let the words in. Let them stay.

“You were hurt.” She whispered. “So unbelievably hurt.” 

He let out a breath that was almost a sob. His head dipped, forehead touching her shoulder.

“I ruined everything.”

“Yes but,” she said gently, arms still around him. “You survived everything.”

His breath trembled against her armor.

“They still call me the Flame of Destruction,” he whispered. “I’ll never be called anything but.”

“You are consequence.” She only replied. 

Burning Spice Cookie said nothing more. And she asked for nothing ore.

Because she knew what it cost to carry a crown. And now, perhaps, he knew what it cost to put it down.

And… they just lay there. Two ruined monarchs on their own ways, in the bones of a burning land. Not enemies. Not conquerors. Just tired, aching, still.

And above them, the stars blinked into being—silent, silver, and distant—watching not with judgment, but with the kind of stillness that belongs only to those who have witnessed centuries. The moon climbed higher. The dunes cooled.

And the two of them remained, shoulder to shoulder, soul to soul. No longer running. No longer fighting.

Just… breathing .

The air around them feels… disappointed, as if this was not meant to happen. It was alarming, both wielders of change noticed though could not bare to ruin such resonance with one another, not when the walls had finally broke.

Golden Cheese knew she had duties, a letter in reply was needed as soon as possible but for now, she lets her greed take over. As per usual.

Chapter Text

The moon tonight seemed… quieter, as if dozing itself. Its soft glimmer hushing on through the cracks of leaves, landing on the blades of grass. Occasionally, its light dimmed, only by a bit—barely noticeable—but still, dimmed.

Moonlight hummed over the soft silk of an off-white robe, each delicate fold glinting as it stirred with the wind, grazing the meadow’s tall, shifting grass. One Cookie moved ahead in silence, as though even the night bowed gently in their passing. Beside him walked another—his drapes a deep navy blue, threaded with flecks as though unintended spills of glitter. The colors quite clashed in tone—It wasn’t his preferred garb—anyone could tell that. He did not voice it, but the quiet flicker of his eyes made his thoughts clear.

“The night air will do you some good,” Pure Vanilla Cookie said softly as he turned slightly, offering a faint smile. “Perhaps it will help you sleep more soundly.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gave a dry, short laugh, arms crossed over his chest as if shielding himself from the very idea. “Sleep is a waste of vigilance,” he muttered. “And don’t pretend you believe in it either. You of all Cookies know how rarely we rest.”

“I believe in rest,” Pure Vanilla replied, clasping his hands behind his back as he continued walking, the hem of his robe trailing through the dew. “Whether we find it in dreams or in moments like this—quiet, unburdened. It still counts.”

“Tch.” Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like a lullaby. Do you intend to sing me to sleep next?”

“If it would help,” Pure Vanilla said with a chuckle. “Though I fear my singing voice is better suited for spells than serenades.”

“You mistake me for someone who’d let you get that far,” Shadow Milk shot back, though there was no real venom in his tone—just his usual dusk-hardened edge.

A pause, long enough for the stars to blink overhead.

“You’re still not sleeping, are you?” Shadow Milk said suddenly, more a statement than a question.

Pure Vanilla didn’t answer right away. “Not easily. But I try.”

“Hmph. Try harder,” Shadow Milk muttered. “You look like a candle that’s been left burning too long.”

“And you look like you’ve never been lit at all,” Pure Vanilla answered smoothly, a rare note of mischief in his voice.

Shadow Milk glared at him, but something in his expression wavered—an almost-smile, or at least the shadow of one.

“Don’t expect me to say thank you for dragging me out here,” he said, looking away. “It’s cold. And pointless.”

“Not everything has to serve a purpose,” Pure Vanilla murmured, gazing up at the moon. “Some things simply are. Like moonlight. Or company.”

Shadow Milk didn’t respond, but he stayed . And that, Pure Vanilla thought, was answer enough.

“…Company,” Shadow Milk echoed dryly, as if tasting the word and finding it bitter. “You speak as though we’re dear old friends.”

Pure Vanilla let the breeze answer first. Then, calmly:

“Must we be enemies, then?”

Shadow Milk didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on the moonlight reflecting off the grass, pale and sharp like frost. “…I don’t trust easily.”

“I never asked you to,” Pure Vanilla said. “I only asked you to walk.”

Another pause.

Shadow Milk exhaled, slow and sharp through his nose. “You have a way of making silence sound like kindness.”

“I find there’s more truth in it than most words,” Pure Vanilla replied gently, stepping ahead again, hands still folded behind him. “Though I’ll admit, your silence is particularly… pointed.”

“Tch. Don’t flatter it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” A soft smile curved at the edge of Pure Vanilla’s lips.

Shadow Milk clicked his tongue but followed anyway. “You’re lucky I’ve grown used to your voice. Any other Cookie trying to draw conversation from me would’ve been frozen out by now.”

“You wound me,” Pure Vanilla replied with a faint laugh. “But I suppose that means I’ve earned something of your tolerance.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Shadow Milk grumbled.

“Never.”

They walked in silence again, but this time it felt less like a standoff and more like… a shared absence of noise. The wind murmured through the hills. A nightbird sang once and then went quiet.

“…You’re still holding on to too much,” Shadow Milk muttered after a while, not looking at him. “You try to carry everything. Even now.”

“I know.”

“And you think walking under the moon will fix that?”

“No,” Pure Vanilla said, voice barely above a whisper. “But maybe it helps remind me I don’t have to carry it alone.”

For a flicker of a moment, Shadow Milk’s steps faltered. He looked away sharply.

“You’re too soft for this world,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Pure Vanilla murmured, gaze cast toward the stars. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll change.”

Shadow Milk stared at him sidelong, the pale glow catching in his eyes. Then he scoffed again, but it was quieter now—less like irritation, more like something being exhaled from deep inside.

“…Hmph. Keep walking, then. If only because I’d rather not be left alone with the silence.”

“I’m glad to accompany you,” Pure Vanilla said simply, a flicker of warmth in his voice.

They walked a little longer, the hush of the meadow folding around them like a blanket. The air had cooled, but not sharply—just enough to bite gently at the sleeves. Crickets murmured beneath the underbrush, and in the distance, a brook whispered to itself in the dark.

Soon, the trees opened to a small clearing. Moonlight pooled in it like milk spilled across velvet. The grass here was short, dew-laced, and tucked against the stones were soft, barely audible bleats—dozing sheep, curled in tufts of white like clouds fallen to earth.

Shadow Milk Cookie slowed to a stop. His eyes adjusted quickly—too quickly, always trained for shadows and the quiet threats that lurked in them. But there was none here. Only the soft warmth of wool, the gentle sway of branches above, and the rhythmic hum of living things simply... existing.

“Tch.” He exhaled through his nose. “How domestic.”

Pure Vanilla stepped beside him, his smile small but real. “They’re safe here.”

“I can tell.” Shadow Milk’s voice was quieter now. “Nothing hides in a place like this.”

“Not even us?” Pure Vanilla asked gently.

Shadow Milk didn’t answer. He looked down at one of the sheep nestled by a flat stone, its breathing slow and steady, its tiny horn barely visible beneath thick fleece.

“…They trust too easily,” he muttered.

“Perhaps,” Pure Vanilla said. “Or perhaps they simply know when there’s no need to be afraid.”

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head slightly, gaze slipping toward the older Cookie. “You keep saying things like that. Like the world is still kind.”

“I believe it tries to be,” Pure Vanilla replied, voice soft as moss. “Even when we don’t make it easy.”

He stepped forward, kneeling by the stone where a sheep dozed. His hand didn’t reach out, only hovered slightly above, as if blessing the quiet.

“You should rest,” he said, not looking at Shadow Milk now. “Just for a moment. You don’t have to sleep. Just… be still.”

“You think stillness is something I’ve earned?”

Pure Vanilla looked up at him then. His eyes were tired but kind. “I think it’s something we all deserve. Even if only for tonight.”

Shadow Milk Cookie stood in silence, the wind brushing against his robes. Then, with a slow exhale, he lowered himself to sit on the grass, not beside Pure Vanilla, but near enough that their shadows touched.

“…I suppose I could humor you,” he said at last.

The silence that followed was not strained, but full. The kind of stillness that came only after long storms and longer silences—when nothing needed to be said, and yet the company still mattered.

A gentle wind passed through the clearing, rustling the grass with a sigh. One of the sheep stirred in its sleep, made a soft bleat, then curled back in on itself.

Shadow Milk Cookie sat still, arms loosely draped over his knees, watching the moon cast long shadows between the stones. His sharp profile was lit in silver—still, severe, unreadable.

Pure Vanilla Cookie eventually broke the hush, his voice low, as if reluctant to disturb the peace.

“…There’s something I should tell you,” he said, eyes still on the moonlight. “A letter arrived not long before I found you tonight.”

Shadow Milk didn’t move, but the slight narrowing of his eyes signaled attention.

“It was sent from the Golden Cheese Empire,” Pure Vanilla continued, tone careful. “Dated four days ago. Knowing the distance, they may arrive by tomorrow.”

That earned a sharper glance. “…They?”

Pure Vanilla nodded once. “Golden Cheese Cookie. And Burning Spice Cookie.”

The name cut through the air like a blade drawn from a sheath.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s expression didn’t change all at once. It hardened slowly—like ice reforming over a once-thawed stream. His jaw tensed. His gaze, once distant, dropped to the grass as though something buried there had resurfaced.

“…You should’ve led with that,” he muttered, his voice suddenly brittle.

“I didn’t want to ruin the quiet,” Pure Vanilla said gently.

“Hmph. You’ve done it anyway.” Shadow Milk stood sharply, his movement swift, robes rustling like wings through the clearing. “What do they want?”

“We’ll find out,” Pure Vanilla replied, still seated, watching him calmly. “The letter was brief. Courteous. I’ve spoken about the academy and what may lie. Perhaps they want to know more.”

“With me ?”

“They asked to visit me , but,” Pure Vanilla’s eyes softened, “we both know that’s never the full story.”

Shadow Milk turned his back to him, hands clenched loosely at his sides. “She’s a queen again, isn’t she?”

Pure Vanilla didn’t answer at first. Then, honestly, he sighed: “She’s trying. Rebuilding. So is he, I assume.”

“He shouldn’t be.” Shadow Milk’s voice dropped low, almost inaudible. “He shouldn’t be anything at all. He lost that nature.”

A long silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the sheep’s shallow bleating, the whisper of the grass.

“He hasn't spoken to me. Not once. Not since—”

“You are afraid,” Pure Vanilla said quietly.

“Millennias,” Shadow Milk continued, breath catching slightly. “Millennias we haven’t spoken. The war does not even count, as that was a necessity.”

“You don’t have to see them,” Pure Vanilla said after a moment. “I won’t make you. This kingdom doesn’t demand that of you.”

“No,” Shadow Milk hissed, still not turning. “But he will.”

“Are you guilty?”

He let the silence drag for a beat too long, then crossed his arms tightly, as though holding himself together.

“…I’m not ready to apologize.”

“I didn’t say you had to be,” Pure Vanilla murmured, he did not think to ask what could have possibly happened, though he lets the silence in between fill those gaps. “I only wanted you to know. In time.”

Another gust of wind swept the clearing. Shadow Milk’s silhouette stood rigid in the moonlight, shadow trailing long behind him.

“…I don’t deserve to see him,” he muttered. “I..”

Pure Vanilla finally stood, brushing the dew from his robes.

“When you speak like that,” he said gently. “It makes me wonder.”

Shadow Milk didn’t respond, but he didn’t walk away either.

“You wonder too much,” he said, quieter than before. “And I think you see too much.”

“Only what’s there,” Pure Vanilla answered. “Even when you’d rather I didn’t.”

The wind moved again, drawing shadows through the grass, bending the trees ever so slightly. One of the sheep stirred but didn’t wake.

Shadow Milk’s gaze lingered on the stones at his feet, as if something might rise from them to explain what he could not. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. Thinner than usual. He allowed himself to be vulnerable; his conscience or whatever was left of him gnawed fervorously.

“…He was always loud, you know,” he said, eyes never lifting. “Burning Spice. Couldn’t walk into a room without setting it ablaze with his voice. His laugh.”

Pure Vanilla said nothing, only listened.

“And I thought—” Shadow Milk stopped. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, leather creaking faintly. “I thought if I just… let him burn it out, he’d find his way back. That he was strong enough to walk through whatever fire he was building.”

He laughed then—short and bitter. “Turns out, sometimes fire doesn’t cleanse. It devours.”

Still, Pure Vanilla didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t stop him,” Shadow Milk murmured. “I didn’t try. I watched from the edge. Like a coward, or a witness. I don’t know which is worse.”

The wind carried his words away like ashes.

“I tell myself it wasn’t my place. That he wouldn’t have listened. That I didn’t owe him anything. But—” He broke off again, jaw tightening. His eyes glittered, but not with tears. Not yet. “But there was a moment. One. Where I could’ve said something. Just one thing.”

And then, finally, he fell silent.

“I could have listened when he had asked for help.”

Pure Vanilla stepped closer, his robe brushing against the grass, quiet as snowfall. His hand didn’t reach out—he knew better than that. But his voice came closer, warmer, anchored.

“And now you carry the silence that followed,” he said softly.

Shadow Milk’s breath caught. A single, sharp inhale. But he didn’t deny it.

“…What would I even say,” he rasped. “If I saw him again.”

“I don’t know,” Pure Vanilla answered honestly. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. But the fact that you’re asking—that matters more than you think.”

Shadow Milk shook his head once, sharply, like trying to clear water from his ears. “He’s not going to want to hear it.”

“Maybe not,” Pure Vanilla agreed. “But you still deserve the chance to speak.”

The moonlight caught on the edge of Shadow Milk’s face now, carving shadows beneath his eyes. Something in his expression cracked—not fully, not visibly, but inward. A hairline fracture along old stone.

“…I’m not ready,” he said again, and this time it was not a deflection. It was an admission.

“And that’s alright,” Pure Vanilla said. “Tomorrow only asks that you meet it. Not that you conquer it.”

For a long while, neither moved. The sheep stirred once more, then settled. The stars above blinked quietly—unjudging, ancient, and slow.

And Shadow Milk Cookie, still standing in that clearing of sleep and memory, did not walk away.

He still stayed.

Pure Vanilla watched him for a moment longer, his gaze soft, almost reverent. Then, with a small breath that curled like mist in the cool night air, he turned slightly toward the distant castle lights blinking faintly on the horizon.

“It’s getting late,” he said gently. “We can head back, if you’d like. The halls will be warmer.”

A pause. The grass rustled underfoot. One of the sheep let out a faint, drowsy bleat.

“…No,” Shadow Milk said, his voice low. “Not yet.”

Pure Vanilla looked back at him.

“I want to stay here,” he added, barely above a murmur. “Just… a while longer.”

He didn’t explain why. But he didn’t have to.

Perhaps it was the quiet. The way the world forgot itself here. No expectations, no masks, no thrones.
Just a patch of earth, moonlight, and the sound of sheep breathing in sleep.