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Shadow Milk was not merely a jester.
He was a spectacle. A storm of glitter, wit, and mischief wrapped in bells and silk. He could juggle with knives while reciting limericks, play haunting ballads on foreign stringed instruments, and spin tales that had the nobility laughing so hard their chests ached and their wine spilled.
But the true heart of his craft wasn’t in the tricks or tunes.
It was in the sharpness behind the smile the barbed truths wrapped in laughter. He mocked ministers. Parodied generals. Poked fun at the King himself. And no one could stop him, because his role was sacred.
The Fool could say what no one else dared.
To the nobles, he was entertainment.
To the King, he was a mirror.
To himself… he was still figuring that out.
But one thing was certain. Life was better now than it had ever been. And it was all because of one man.
Pure Vanilla.
The gentle-hearted King of the Vanilla Kingdom.
His golden lamb.
They had met during the chaos of the Dark-Flour War, though calling it a "meeting" was generous. It was less fate and more manipulation.
Back then, Shadow Milk wore another name. He had no painted smile, no jester’s garb, only steel in his hands and poison in his veins. He was a spy. An assassin. Sent by the enemy to infiltrate the Vanilla Kingdom and kill the prince before the land could rise.
It was almost laughably easy.
Pure Vanilla, even then, was open-hearted to a fault. He welcomed Shadow Milk with warmth, listened with genuine interest, trusted with foolish speed. They became close. The prince laughed more when he was around. Confided more. He treated the stranger not as a guest or a subject, but as a friend. A companion.
They played chess in the evenings, even though Pure Vanilla was hopeless at it — always leaving his king exposed, always too kind to sacrifice a piece. They talked under the stars about philosophy, duty, fear.
Shadow Milk offered counsel from the shadows of his heart, advice that often steered the prince’s decisions a strange mixture of manipulation and accidental sincerity.
And yet, when the night came — when the stars aligned and there were no guards, no eyes, no barriers between the blade and the target — he couldn’t do it.
In one of the many palace gardens, beneath a curtain of moonlight, Shadow Milk stood ready.
His dagger was cold in his palm.
The prince stood just a few steps away, humming softly to himself. Peaceful. Trusting. A lamb meant to be slaughtered.
And for a moment, Shadow Milk tried to picture it, tried to see the prince’s blood blooming against the white lilies. But his hand wouldn’t move.
Because somewhere along the way, in all the pretending, he had stopped pretending.
He’d grown attached. Maybe worse.
He let the blade fall into the grass.
And when Pure Vanilla turned to face him, Shadow Milk braced for the scream, for the call of guards, for chains.
But none came.
Instead, the prince offered his hand. Not in judgment, but in welcome.
"If you have nowhere to go," he said softly, "you can stay. If you want."
And Shadow Milk — the liar, the traitor, the ghost of a man — took it.
He took that hand like a man reaching out of drowning waters.
The war eventually ended. But peacetime brought its own battles.
Pure Vanilla ascended the throne. And with the crown came a world of fangs and false smiles. The court was not kind. The realm was not forgiving. Enemies wore rings and robes now, not armor.
And the King… remained the same. Still too gentle. Still too trusting.
Shadow Milk watched in quiet agony, knowing exactly how quickly that kind of softness would be devoured…
He couldn’t allow it. Not after everything.
So he became a wolf once again.
He donned the painted face of a fool by day capering through court, making ministers laugh, disarming threats with laughter and flair.
But by night, he became the whisper behind the throne.
He listened where others dared not. Dug through secrets. Disguised himself in places jester’s bells couldn’t go. He became the King’s shadow, collecting truths like knives. And when the time came, he placed them all in the King’s hand.
He told Pure Vanilla which allies were snakes, which nobles were plotting. He advised him when mercy would backfire. He crafted traps behind smiles.
And Pure Vanilla — sweet, reluctant, brilliant — used those tools. Not joyfully. But wisely
So his golden lamb could keep walking in the light, untouched.
Because Shadow Milk lived in the dark, so he wouldn’t have to.
Their relationship? It never really went back to what it was. It became something deeper.
Shadow Milk made it his mission to be the first face the King saw every morning often appearing in the royal chambers with a new ridiculous trick or illusion that left the King groaning through laughter.
Their morning routine always ended the same way: Laughter. Eye contact. Something unspoken lingering in the quiet between.
After duties, they walked the palace gardens together. The same garden where the blade once fell. They talked half jokes, half truths and jabbed at each other with practiced mischief. Their conversations danced between politics and nonsense, between careful silences and veiled meanings.
Sometimes, Shadow Milk flirted.
A teasing remark. A wink. A brush of fingers too brief to be called an accident.
And Pure Vanilla, ever the innocent, would return it with a bashful smile or a playful jab, but never pushed him away.
There were looks between them. Lingering,questioning, warm. But neither crossed the line fully.
Not yet.
And when courtiers whispered, when ministers raised brows at the closeness between King and Fool, Shadow Milk never cared.
Let them talk. Let them wonder.
He was not the villain in this story anymore. He was the wolf who’d chosen to guard the lamb.
And he would guard him with teeth bared for as long as the King allowed him to stay.
---
Everything had been perfect. For a time, Shadow Milk believed nothing could shake the rhythm they’d fallen into. It started with little things.
Harmless things. Pure Vanilla began ending their chess games early, mumbling weak excuses like,"I’m tired today." or "Ah, I forgot there’s a meeting I must attend."
And Shadow Milk — who once could read the King like a book — suddenly found the pages missing, torn out or turned blank.
At first, he brushed it off. But the distance kept growing, and the reasons kept thinning.
The Fool, for all his masks, felt something real crack beneath his painted smile. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the King's absence hurt. And one day, after another half-hearted goodbye, Shadow Milk made a choice.
He followed him.
Keeping to the shadows was second nature. He watched silently as the King slipped away through a side gate, dressed in plain traveling clothes, the sort a common man might wear.
Then he saw her.
She waited in the town square, standing beneath an oak tree just beginning to bloom. A young woman, near the King’s age, perhaps younger. Her long white hair shimmered in the light, contrasting sharply with the deep red of her eyes. She wore a soft green dress, simple but lovely, and her smile when she saw the King nearly stopped his heart.
Shadow Milk remained hidden, watching from behind a stone wall as they embraced. As they laughed. As they strolled side by side like old lovers.
Something in his chest tightened. Then twisted. He couldn’t name the feeling. But it felt like drowning.
Back at the palace, the Fool wore a wider grin and louder bells. But inside, his mind burned.
Who was she? Who was this mysterious woman?
He set to work immediately, digging through records, eavesdropping in taverns, slipping silver into the right hands.
The answers came quicker than expected. Her name was White Lily. She had no noble ties, no prestigious family lineage. She was a schoolteacher well-liked, educated, and, most surprisingly… already a mother.
A child. Born out of wedlock. From a man long gone.
This, Shadow Milk thought grimly, would shatter the King.
So, like the loyal friend he was, he planned to tell him. To break the news gently during one of their evening walks. To be there, as always, to hold him through the heartbreak.
But he was too late.
The woman appeared at the palace suddenly. Arriving one morning in a modest carriage, escorted by King himself.
And that very afternoon, Pure Vanilla made an announcement.
He was to marry her.
The court erupted in whispers. Not one soul had even heard of her before, and now the King was announcing an engagement? Rumors spread like wildfire: that she was a gold-digger, a fraud, or the most popular a witch who had enchanted their beloved ruler.
Of course, no one said these things aloud. Not in front of the King. Especially not when Shadow Milk was also in the room. He forced himself between the King and the court’s doubts. He smiled. He joked. He charmed. And when that wasn’t enough, he threatened.
Subtly, of course.
But he had a plan.
If he annoyed White Lily enough, perhaps she’d leave on her own and everything could go back to normal.
But it didn’t work. If anything, it only made her dig her heels in deeper. He grew tired. Worn. Fraying at the edges. Accompanying them on their outings, seeing them hold hands, watching her kiss Pure Vanilla’s cheek with a softness that once belonged to him, it made his skin crawl. His smile turned bitter, his jokes sharper.
And then, at last, a quiet evening came where he found the King alone sitting in the palace library with a book in his lap, half-read and forgotten.
“Ah, Shadow Milk.” Pure Vanilla looked up with a tired but warm smile. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
Friend. The word tasted like ash.
“Your Majesty,” Shadow Milk replied with a mocking bow, the kind that once earned a laugh but tonight, it landed awkwardly. Foreign. Distant.
The King gestured to the seat across from him. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with you. There’s something important I wanted to ask.”
“Funny,” the Fool said, settling into the chair. “I was going to say the same.”
“Oh? Then go on.” Pure Vanilla smiled again, that same soft expression that always unraveled him. “What is it, my friend?”
The words wouldn’t come. Shadow Milk looked at him and for a moment he forgot why he was even angry.
But then he remembered her face.
“It’s about your soon-to-be wife, Your Majesty,” he said at last.
He watched as the King’s expression shifted — not in confusion or surprise, but something deeper.
Disgust.
It passed quickly, replaced by the usual calm. He had never seen Pure Vanilla look at him like that, not even during the war.
“I know what the court is saying,” the King said quietly, rising from his chair and walking toward him. “But you don’t have to worry.”
He took the Fool’s hands gently in his own. Warm. Familiar.
“Yes, she’s not a noble. Yes, she has a past. But I love her. And that is enough.”
The words slammed into Shadow Milk like cold rain.
“But… what about her child?” he asked, his voice hollow.
Pure Vanilla’s face softened, sorrow blooming in his eyes. “So you found out about Matcha Cookie,” he murmured. “I thought you might.”
So he knows already. Shadow Milk didn’t reply.
The King leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know how cruel court gossip can be. White Lily is clever, but she wasn’t raised for this world. She’s going to need help navigating it.”
Then he looked up.
Directly at him.
“That’s why I want you to teach her.”
Shadow Milk froze.
He waited for the punchline. The joke. Some glimmer in the King’s eyes that said this was all part of one of their old games.
But there was nothing but sincerity.
“Why me?” he asked, barely managing to keep his voice steady.
The answer came without hesitation.“Because you are my most trusted friend.”
The word hit harder this time. Final. Heavy.
“Would you do this for me?”
Shadow Milk already knew the answer. He had always did.
“…Of course I will,” he whispered.
The King smiled. Not the soft, distant smile he gave to the court, but the real one. The one that still made his heart ache. And then he pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Thank you.”
And in that moment, Shadow Milk wished — wished with everything in him — that time would stop. That the moment would stretch on forever. That the King would never let go.
But of course…He always did.
---
White Lily was a quick learner.
Only a week had passed since their first lesson, but already she moved with the elegance of someone born into court. She had memorized the names and titles of every noble within three rings of the throne, adjusted her posture to match royal expectation, and could recite the King’s schedule from sunrise to supper. A model pupil.
And yet… something about her was off.
Shadow Milk saw it — the way her smile faltered a half-second too early, the way her gaze sometimes drifted, unfocused, toward the gardens when she thought he wasn’t watching. There was a crack behind her eyes.
Today, their lesson took place in their usual spot — a quiet alcove in the garden, shaded by willow branches and wrapped in ivy. A small sable table was set between them, laid with fine porcelain, crystal goblets, and an unnecessarily full array of silverware. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, painting the grass in patches of gold.
They were rehearsing for the wedding dinner.
“And which fork,” Shadow Milk intoned with a dramatic flourish, “is for dessert?”
White Lily blinked, reached without hesitation, and held up a polished silver fork.
Shadow Milk made a buzzing sound and shook his head. “Wrong,” he grinned, mimicking the shrill tone of a disapproving noble. “That’s for salad.”
He stepped closer, plucked the proper fork from its resting place, and held the two side by side.
“See the difference?” he asked in a singsong voice, the bells on his sleeves chiming softly as he tilted them for emphasis.
But she wasn’t looking at the forks.
She was staring past them, her eyes cloudy, unfocused.
“Shadow Milk,” she asked suddenly, quietly, “do you think I’ll be a good queen?”
He stilled. Her voice cracked at the end — just a little — but enough to betray the tears pooling in her eyes.
“Do you think… Pure Vanilla choosing me was the right choice?”
The words hit like a blade in the dark.
No, he thought. He was a fool to choose you. I wish you’d leave and never come back. Maybe then, everything would return to how it used to be. Maybe… he’d come back to me. Only me.
The thought flared through him, hot and ugly and wild ,but he buried it, smothered it under the weight of years of masks and discipline.
Instead, he tilted his head, voice light.
“Where did that thought come from, my Queen?”
White Lily sighed, eyes downcast. “I just… after Elder Faerie, I never thought I’d love anyone again. We never had the chance to marry.”
So that was it. The ghost she carried.
Shadow Milk arched a brow. “Do you still have feelings for him?”
Her pause was long. Thoughtful.
“I do,” she admitted. “But I love Pure Vanilla as well.”
He smiled. Or something like it. On the outside, he looked unbothered even warm. But inside, something hopeful died. Again.
When she looked up, her eyes were softer. A gentle smile touched her lips.
“I never thought I’d see him again,” she whispered. “After Elder Faerie died in the war, I came here to start over with my daughter. Falling in love wasn’t part of the plan.”
Her fingers moved to the ring on her hand — Pure Vanilla’s ring — and turned it slowly on her finger.
Shadow Milk nodded along, more out of instinct than anything else. He knew grief. Far too well. He sat beside her, his bright silks rustling as he lowered himself onto the seat.
“The war was a cruel thing,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “We all lost people. Even the King… His parents. His sister.”
He glanced sideways, expecting surprise, but instead, her face only softened more.
“Ah, yes. What a tragedy,” she murmured, lowering her gaze. “Poor Vanilla Orchid.”
Shadow Milk blinked hearing the King’s sister's name.
A name he’d only heard once, long ago, in a whispered confession one night when grief cracked the King’s voice like porcelain.
He stared at White Lily. Pure Vanilla had never spoken of her not to him. Not even during the war. Not even when they'd sat under the stars and shared their scars.
“How did you know her name?” he asked carefully, his tone light, but his pulse suddenly sharp.
“Oh, that’s easy,” she replied, distractedly. “We were friends, once. She used to sneak out of the palace to play with us. She… she was kind. She was there when no one else was.”
Her voice broke, and for the first time, the tears fell freely.
Shadow Milk didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. Something cold coiled in his stomach.
He knew her. Personally. He never told me. But his face stayed neutral a jester’s mask, flawlessly applied.
“I’m sure she meant a lot to you,” he said softly. And he meant it.
He reached out and brushed away her tears with the back of his hand — his touch gentle, the same hands that once held daggers now offering comfort.
“I lost my family, too. My brothers died on the front line. My older sister was a nurse… her hospital was leveled in an air strikes. And my youngest…” He paused, swallowed. “I don’t know what happened to her. She just… vanished.”
His voice had a weight it rarely carried. Sincere. Vulnerable.
White Lily looked at him, her eyes red and wide. “Shadow Milk… you don’t have to—”
He placed a single finger against her lips. “No, my Queen. We all carry ghosts. You deserve to mourn yours however you need to.”
They sat like that for a long time. Lesson forgotten.
Just two people sitting beneath a blooming tree, shadows stretching long behind them, and grief curling softly between them.
---
After that conversation, something shifted.
It was subtle at first — a softened glance, a longer pause between bites during their shared meals, laughter that no longer felt forced. The air between them no longer bristled with hostility or envy, but something warmer. Gentler.
Shadow Milk hadn’t planned it, but slowly… he found himself speaking to White Lily as if she were more than the Queen-to-be.
As if she were simply a person.
They started to talk in the quiet moments between lessons. Conversations bloomed naturally now, winding like vines over topics both heavy and light. Grief still lingered in the corners, yes, but it no longer ruled their dialogue. There was something else rising in its place.
One afternoon, beneath the shade of the same garden tree where they had first truly spoken, White Lily tilted her head and asked:“Do you… play chess?”
Shadow Milk had grinned. “Only every day for the past decade,” he quipped.
“Though I warn you, my strategy is dangerous. I once beat a general so badly he surrendered twice.”
But when the board was set between them, and the game began, he quickly realized his usual antics wouldn’t save him.
She was brilliant.
Unlike Pure Vanilla — whose kindness made him chronically reluctant to sacrifice even pawns — White Lily was sharp, ruthless, and precise. She played like a tactician. A queen already in mind, if not yet in title. After losing the first match in less than twelve minutes, Shadow Milk stared at the board, genuinely stunned.
“I think you cheated,” he muttered, eyes narrowed.
“Some sort of witchcraft, perhaps. I’ll need to see your sleeves.”
White Lily laughed — a real, open sound that startled them both.
From that moment on, chess became a daily ritual. They’d play in quiet corners of the palace — between lessons, after meetings, during tea — their pieces moving with a dance-like rhythm, their conversation flowing like a river alongside it. And gradually, Shadow Milk’s jokes changed. Less barbed. Less biting. Now they were tailored to her — crafted not to provoke, but to coax smiles.
He even began sharing his most valuable currency: gossip.
“Did you know,” he began one morning, setting down a pawn, “that the head chef and the castle librarian have been exchanging love notes disguised as bread recipes?”
White Lily gasped in mock horror. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” he grinned. “Or do we simply need to check the next ‘sourdough’ recipe for hidden poetry?”
She giggled behind her hand. “That’s awful. Tell me everything.”
He did.
And somewhere between whispered scandals and cunning gambits, Shadow Milk realized something dangerous.
He liked her.
Not in the way he loved Pure Vanilla — that ache was deeper, older, tangled in years of loyalty and longing and sacrifice.
No, this was different.
He liked her as a friend. As a companion. And maybe even something more. And that… surprised him more than anything else.
After all, he had no other friends. Not really. Most of the palace staff feared him and for good reason. He knew their secrets, their lies, their affairs. One smile from him could mean a ruined career. And as for the nobles? Please. They were boring, predictable, hollow behind their powdered faces and practiced sneers.
But White Lily? She was something else. Something real.
Maybe that was why he found himself drifting closer. Sharing a little more. Laughing a little louder.
And maybe — just maybe — that was why it hurt so much more now.
Because with every passing day, every game, every joke that made her eyes crinkle with joy, he saw more and more of them together. Her and him.
He tried not to look when Pure Vanilla kissed her in the corridor. He tried not to listen when she whispered in his ear, head resting on his shoulder. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter.
But it did.
Because every time he saw the King reach for her hand — so gently, so intimately — something in Shadow Milk’s chest twisted tight.
And he couldn’t quite tell who he was jealous of.
Was it White Lily, for daring to kiss Pure Vanilla so openly, so passionately, with hands that wandered up his chest like she had the right?
Or was it Pure Vanilla, for daring to look at someone else like that — with that same expression he used to give him, in moments Shadow Milk used to believe were sacred?
He didn’t know.
And that terrified him.
Because if he couldn’t tell which of them he envied… how could he ever hope to protect what he still believed in?
How could he guard the golden lamb when his own heart — fractured and traitorous — couldn’t decide whether it wanted to devour or be held?
So he did what he always did.
He smiled. He laughed. He played the fool.
---
It was getting harder and harder to mask the ache in Shadow Milk’s chest — especially when the two of them, Pure Vanilla and White Lily, seemed so determined to include him in everything. Every outing. Every dinner. Every quiet walk that used to be his.
They never meant it cruelly. And that almost made it worse. If he didn’t know any better he would have thought the other two were marrying him not each other.
Finding excuses to escape them grew more difficult with each passing day — but thankfully, one thing never failed.
Babysitting.
Since White Lily had taken up permanent residence in the palace, just as Pure Vanilla had gently suggested, her daughter came with her — Matcha Cookie, the little whirlwind.
The toddler wasn’t easy, not at first. She clung to her mother like a barnacle, panicked around unfamiliar faces, and shrieked if separated from the King too long. But strangely, for reasons none of them quite understood…
She liked the jester.
Maybe it was his bright clothes. Or the way he spoke in silly voices. Or the endless supply of shiny coins and puppets he seemed to pull from nowhere. But whatever the reason, Matcha Cookie had taken to Shadow Milk like bees to sugar.
And so, Shadow Milk became something else entirely.
A babysitter.
Today was no different.
The little girl’s room was a cocoon of soft pastels and gentle light. Wisps of sheer curtains fluttered at the window, stirred by a breeze carrying the scent of garden jasmine. Toy animals — all plush and terribly royal-looking — were arranged with suspicious precision along the bed’s edge, watching with glassy eyes.
Shadow Milk sat cross-legged on the floor, bells jingling softly as he opened a thick, beautifully illustrated book.
“Alright, little crownlet,” he began in a theatrical voice. “Today we have a tale of—”
“That one’s boring,” Matcha interrupted, flopping onto her pillow with a dramatic huff. “I want a new story.”
The Fool paused. Then smiled.
“Ah. A true connoisseur of the arts, I see. Fine.” He closed the book with a flourish and leaned forward, voice dipping into a stage whisper. “Let me tell you a story, then. One you’ve never heard.”
He waited.
Matcha’s eyes, wide and curious, told him all he needed to know.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a garden.”
“A garden?” she echoed, nose wrinkling.
“Yes, a garden,” he replied gravely. “But not just any garden. This one was magic. The animals who drank from its rivers or grazed its grass were blessed. Their fur shimmered like gemstones. Illness dared not touch them.”
He leaned closer, his painted smile dimming into something soft, secretive.
“But only those whose hearts were pure could enter.”
Matcha sat up slightly, transfixed.
“Outside the garden… things were different. Cold. Bleak. Food was scarce, and the wind howled with hunger. And far away, in a dark forest, a pack of wolves gathered.”
His voice dropped low.
“They plotted to destroy the garden. To devour everything that lived there. And one wolf — the cleverest, the most handsome — stepped forward and said, ‘I’ll disguise myself as a sheep. I’ll sneak inside. And when the time is right... I’ll strike.’”
Matcha gasped. “That’s mean.”
“Indeed,” the Fool agreed. “So the wolf wrapped himself in a cloak of wool, and cried at the garden’s gate: ‘Help! Please! I’ve escaped the wolves! They chased me through the woods!’”
"And who should answer,” he said, “but a young lamb. Not just any lamb — his fur shone like sunlight on snow. He rushed out and cried, ‘Are you alright? Come in, quickly!’ And so... the wolf entered.”
He paused dramatically.“They played together. Told stories. Slept under starlight and shared meals of fresh clover.”
“But wolves don’t eat grass,” Matcha interrupted with a frown.
Shadow Milk raised a brow. “Do you want to hear the ending or not?”
She clamped her mouth shut, eyes huge.
“The wolf,” he continued, “found himself smiling. Laughing. He stopped thinking about the plan. Because for the first time... he was happy. But guilt festered like rot. So one day, he shed his disguise and revealed his true self.”
He paused.“And the golden lamb did not run.”
Matcha leaned forward, whispering, “He didn’t?”
“No. He simply said: ‘It’s good to see you... in your true form, my friend.’ And they stayed together. Inseparable.”
The Fool’s voice dropped low again.
“Until one day, a new sheep came to the garden. Her fur was silver, like the moonlight. The golden lamb fell in love with her. And the wolf... became jealous.”
“But,” he added quickly, “the silver lamb was kind. Sharp and funny. And over time, the wolf and she began to talk. Then laugh. Then understand one another.”
He smiled faintly.
“The wolf realized his jealousy was foolish. The garden was meant for all hearts — not just his. In time, they all became friends.”
“And then they kissed and lived happily ever after!” Matcha declared, bouncing up with a grin.
“Wha— No! No, no, no,” Shadow Milk stammered, suddenly flustered. “It wasn’t that kind of story. They were just friends. Very close friends.”
Matcha’s smile drooped. “But I like romance.”
The jester huffed, pulling the blanket gently over her tiny shoulders. “Well then,” he said, softening, “they can kiss in your version. When you tell the story.”
Matcha beamed, eyelids already fluttering closed.
“Okay.”
Shadow Milk leaned down, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Goodnight, little crownlet.”
The lamp clicked off with a soft flick, casting the room into quiet shadows. And by the time he shut the door behind him…Matcha Cookie was already fast asleep
For a long moment, Shadow Milk simply stood there, hand still resting on the doorknob. The silence pressed in around him, thick as velvet. The corridor outside was bathed in twilight gold — the sun just dipping behind the far-off hills, staining the palace windows with streaks of amber and rose. Dust motes danced in the shafts of dying light, swirling lazily like memories that refused to settle.
He let his hand fall away and turned, walking slowly.
The laughter, the warmth, the pretend — it all peeled off like layers of old paint. With each step, the fool’s smile faded. The jingle of bells on his sleeves sounded lonelier now, echoing faintly in the stillness like the ghost of joy.
He didn’t go far.
Just a short walk down the hall, past the portraits of long-dead royals and the scent of lilies wilting in marble vases, until he slipped into one of the smaller drawing rooms. Empty. Quiet. A single oil lamp burned low in the corner, casting long shadows that stretched like reaching fingers across the carpeted floor.
Shadow Milk closed the door behind him.
And exhaled.
Finally alone.
The mask fell away completely.
He slumped into a chair near the hearth, not bothering to light the fire. The room was cool, the stone beneath him colder. And for once, he didn’t fill the silence with humming or muttering or some clever quip to a nonexistent audience.
He just… sat.
And thought.
The story.
Gods, the story.
At the time, it had felt like nothing — just another tale spun from sugar and thread, a distraction to soothe a restless child. But now… now that the words were echoing in his head, looping back line by line, they tasted different.
Too familiar.
A wolf. A garden. A golden lamb. A silver stranger.
He buried his face in his gloved hands, elbows braced against his knees.
“What was I thinking?” he whispered into the dark.
But of course, he knew.
That wasn’t a story. Not really.
It was a confession.
Disguised in fangs and wool.
He’d bared his soul to a toddler in the form of a fairytale, and it hadn’t even occurred to him until now. His heart had poured out through metaphors and magic gardens — and the child had simply clapped her hands and begged for a kiss at the end.
A bitter laugh slipped from him.
He leaned back in the chair, staring up at the dark ceiling. The carved beams above twisted like the spines of ancient creatures, illuminated only by the flicker of the lone lamp in the corner.
How obvious had he been? Had Matcha Cookie seen through it? Surely not. She was a child.
But someone else might have. Would have — if they’d been in the room.
The story had said too much.
More than he’d ever dared say out loud.
That the lamb had been more than a friend. That the wolf hadn’t just shed his disguise out of guilt, but out of love. And that love, once lost to someone else, left him aching.
Shadow Milk closed his eyes.
He could still see Pure Vanilla’s smile. That maddening, sunlit thing that had once warmed every cold corner of his life. He remembered the touch of those hands — warm, unwavering — as they reached for him, not in fear, but in trust. In forgiveness. In something that felt so much like love, it had fooled him for years.
And White Lily.
Silver-haired, moon-eyed White Lily.
She had stolen none of that trust. No, she had earned it. Bit by bit, moment by moment, and he had watched it happen. Helpless.
He wanted to hate her.
But now… he didn’t.
Not after the chess games. Not after the quiet laughter. Not after that first moment beneath the garden tree when she’d let her pain bleed into his hands and whispered her ghosts into the wind.
She hadn’t stolen anything.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because that meant the golden lamb had never truly been his to begin with.
His hand drifted to the small leather pouch at his side — the one where he kept Matcha’s favorite carved figurines. One of them, shaped like a tiny wolf, slipped into his fingers. Smooth. Familiar. He turned it over and over in his palm, feeling the edges.
“In the end,” he murmured to the empty room, “they all became friends.”
That was how he had ended the story.
Not lovers. Not soulmates.
Just… friends.
He closed his fist around the little wolf until it hurt.
That was his ending. Not a fall from grace. Not betrayal.
Just proximity to the thing he could never fully have.
---
The ballroom glowed like a world untouched by grief.
Silks and satins shimmered like still water under chandeliers of crystal and gold. Laughter chimed off marble columns. Goblets clinked in toasts to the new royal union. Flowers — thousands of them — blanketed the arches, spilling down in fragrant drifts of white and green. Pure Vanilla stood at the altar, bathed in golden candlelight, wearing a robe the color of pale morning. Beside him, White Lily, radiant in soft-stitched ivory, took his hand with steady grace.
Shadow Milk watched from the edge of it all.
He stood in the shadows near a tall pillar, away from the center, away from the light, his painted smile frozen in place.
He didn’t remember breathing.
When the vows were spoken — simple words, sincere — he felt something quiet crack beneath his ribs. And when the kiss came, that soft press of lips beneath a chorus of cheers and fluttering petals…
He thought he might shatter.
But he didn’t cry.
No, not here. Not now. Not with every noble eye watching.
Instead, he bowed his head in mock reverence, clapped when it was appropriate, laughed at the courtiers’ jokes, and even spun a few of his own. He was the Fool, after all. And Fools didn’t bleed where people could see.
When the dancing began, he slipped away — unnoticed.
The bar was quieter. Darker. Mercifully empty.
A single bartender dozed behind the counter, and a row of half-finished bottles lined the polished wood. Shadow Milk seated himself without a word and poured something amber and sharp into a glass. It burned on the way down — just like he needed it to.
Then another. And another.
He didn’t drink often. Not like this. He couldn’t afford to lose control. But tonight wasn’t a night for control. Tonight was a wound that needed numbing.
By the time the music had begun to fade in the distance — replaced by the slow trickle of guests making their way home — his head felt oddly light. The ground tilted in strange directions. The bells on his sleeves had grown quiet, their usual jingle dulled by weightless limbs and heavier thoughts.
He laughed once. Just a breath. Just enough to stop himself from crying.
Then he stood, swaying slightly, and made for his chambers.
---
The corridors of the palace were dim and golden, lit only by low sconces and the lingering hush of celebration.
His steps were uneven. His vision blurred at the edges. Somewhere between the south wing and his door, he stopped — blinked — and found himself face to face with her.
White Lily.
She stood there in the quiet hallway, her gown loosened at the shoulders, her hair unbound from its ceremonial braids and falling like liquid silver down her back. She looked… soft. Real. Not the Queen of a kingdom. Just a woman, caught between titles and twilight.
And she was looking at him.
Her gaze trailed from the wine stains on his cuffs to the slackness of his grin.
“You’re drunk,” she said, amusement curling into her voice.
Shadow Milk chuckled, staggering a step closer. “Nooo,” he drawled, his voice silky and theatrical. “I’m tipsy. There’s a difference. One is charming.”
She laughed. A real laugh, small and startled, and something about the sound made the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
“You’re very charming,” she admitted, arms folding across her waist. “For someone about to collapse.”
He grinned — or tried to. The movement was crooked.
“You always this lovely at midnight, your majesty?” he asked, eyes dancing with something more than mischief. “Or is it just me?”
She arched an eyebrow. “You’re flirting.”
“Am I?” he asked, stepping in just a little closer. “I must be more drunk than I thought.”
Her smile remained, but her gaze sharpened — curious now. Testing.
“You shouldn’t say such things,” she murmured.
And that should’ve been his cue to stop.
But he didn’t.
His next words fell out in a hush, raw and unguarded.
“I love him.”
She blinked.
“I love him,” he repeted, barely above a whisper. “I love Pure Vanilla. I think… I always have.”
It was too much. He knew it. His brain was screaming warnings, dragging chains across the floor of his thoughts. But the drink loosened his jaw, and the ache behind his ribs begged to be heard.
“So congratulations,” he muttered, a bitter laugh on his lips. “You married the only man I’ve ever wanted to die for. And you’re beautiful. Brilliant. Everything. I should hate you. But gods, I don’t.”
His voice wavered — not with sorrow, but a strange, breathless relief.
“And I think maybe… I love you too.”
He forced a smile, a clumsy tilt of his head. “But don’t worry. Just a drunk fool, right? You can laugh. That’s what I do. I make people laugh.”
But White Lily didn’t laugh.
She stepped forward instead.
Closer. Close enough that he could smell jasmine and parchment, ink and rosewater.
Her hand brushed his jaw — just once.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn’t playful. Or tentative. It was slow. Deliberate. Soft as the way moonlight settles on a still pond.
For one dizzy second, Shadow Milk thought he’d passed out in the corridor. That this was some liquor-born hallucination. A fantasy.
So he kissed her back.
They moved like shadows across the palace, her hand in his, stumbling quietly through hushed halls and into his chamber. Clothes loosened, fell. Words weren’t needed. Not tonight. The truth was in every gaze, every breath, every desperate touch.
The world outside vanished.
All that existed was the two of them — tangled, fleeting, wrong.
And in the hush of pre-dawn, when the sky outside his window had only just begun to fade from black to bruised blue, Shadow Milk finally felt his body betray him.
Exhaustion. Too much drink. Too much emotion. Too much truth.
He fell asleep — hair tangled in her fingers, breath soft against her shoulder.
And when the first rays of sunlight kissed the edge of his windowsill…
White Lily slipped from the bed, dressed in silence, and vanished into the halls without a trace.
Leaving only the ghost of her warmth.
---
Since that night, Shadow Milk hadn’t known peace.
Every time he closed his eyes, the memory returned burning, trembling, cruelly sweet. White Lily’s breath on his neck. The soft tremor in her voice. Her fingers tangled with his. The shadows they made on the bed, intertwined like vines, like secrets blooming in the dark.
He should have stopped it.
He should have remembered who she was — not just to him, but to Pure Vanilla. The king. His closest friend. His anchor in a world where everything else had unraveled. And White Lily? She had sworn loyalty to Pure Vanilla. In body and in soul.
Shadow Milk had betrayed them both. And now, the guilt clung to him like a second skin invisible, but ever-present.
What made it all so much worse was that nothing seemed to have changed.
Despite the royal vows, the coronation, the official sealing of their union in front of the entire kingdom, they didn’t abandon him.
They still invited him to breakfast. Just the three of them, sitting in the sunlit conservatory, sipping tea and nibbling pastries like nothing had happened. They still took evening walks along the palace gardens, quiet and unhurried, where fireflies blinked between rose bushes. They still played chess in the candlelight and shared soft, idle chatter, as if their world hadn't cracked that night.
It was maddening. A performance so graceful that Shadow Milk sometimes doubted it had even happened, until the guilt rose again and reminded him, sharp as a blade. He laughed bitterly when he thought of his past self so certain the marriage would mark the end. He had imagined distance, cold formality, or worse. Now, he almost wished for it.
Because something unspoken hung in the air now. He knew White Lily had told Pure Vanilla. She must have. He could feel it in the pauses. The little glances. The unspoken words. He just didn’t know how much had been revealed or what Pure Vanilla felt about it.
And perhaps most tormenting of all was this quiet question that bloomed in his chest whenever he was with them:Why are they still here?
Then, on one gentle evening, everything changed.
They had been walking, the three of them, through the quiet palace gardens. The moon was high, casting silver shadows on the marble paths. Cicadas hummed in the trees, and the scent of lavender hung thick in the air.
White Lily had grown quiet. She pressed a hand to her side and sighed. “I’m tired,” she murmured. “I’ll go lie down.” She gave them both a soft smile, kissed Pure Vanilla’s cheek, then vanished into the palace.
Silence settled between the two men.
Shadow Milk turned to go, but Pure Vanilla stopped him with a single word.
“Wait.”
He did. Slowly, hesitantly, he looked back. “What is it?”
The king’s voice was calm. Too calm. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Shadow Milk stiffened.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes searched the stars for a long moment before he spoke.“White Lily is pregnant.”
The words hit like a thunderclap.
For a heartbeat, Shadow Milk forgot how to breathe. His mouth went dry, and yet somehow he managed a smile thin and brittle.“Well…” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “congratulations… my dear friend.”
Pure Vanilla looked at him then and said, gently:“The child isn’t mine.”
The night fell completely silent. Even the cicadas seemed to pause.
Shadow Milk’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. “What?”
“I can’t father children,” Pure Vanilla said, voice low and steady. “It’s not something I often speak of. But I think you deserve the truth now.”
The silence stretched between them like a chasm.
Pure Vanilla turned to face him fully. “I may dress like a king. Rule like one. But my body… it was not made for it.”
Shadow Milk blinked, trying to understand.“I don’t follow,” he murmured.
Pure Vanilla exhaled. The night breeze tugged gently at the white silk of his sleeves. He stepped closer, his voice soft and unwavering.
“I was born a girl,” he said. “As the princess of the Vanilla Kingdom. My name, back then, was Vanilla Orchid.”
Shadow Milk stared. His thoughts tried to race, but they kept tripping over each other, collapsing into stunned silence.
“But… White Lily thought you were dead,” he managed.
“She did,” Pure Vanilla said. “In a way, she wasn’t wrong. The version of me she once loved… the girl bound by duty,is long gone.”
He took another step forward. “But in her place stands Pure Vanilla. A king. Her king. And more importantly her friend and equal.”
Shadow Milk’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you deserve to know,” Pure Vanilla said. “Because you’re part of us, whether you admit it or not.”
And then, he did something completely unexpected. He reached out, took Shadow Milk’s hand — firm, warm, steady — and pulled him into an embrace.
Shadow Milk stiffened.
“And,” Pure Vanilla said softly into his shoulder, “because I’m glad. Glad that the two people I love most in this world… love each other, too.”
Shadow Milk pulled back, searching his face.
“You’re not angry?” he asked, voice cracked with disbelief. “We betrayed you.”
Pure Vanilla smiled, bittersweet and gentle. “How could I be angry at something so honest?”
He held Shadow Milk’s gaze. “You confessed to her… and in some way, you confessed to me, too.”
Shadow Milk’s chest rose and fell with shaky breath. “So all those cozy little breakfasts and walks were just your way of cornering me into an admission? Testing the guilty wolf?”
A flash of pink rose to the king’s cheeks. “Well… yes,” he admitted, a little sheepishly. “But not to shame you.”
“Then why?” Shadow Milk snapped suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended. “Why pretend? Why keep dancing around it? Why not just say it?!”
“Because,” Pure Vanilla said, raising his voice now, “we both love you too, Shadow Milk!”
Silence thundered around them.
Even the moon seemed to still.
They stared at each other. Eyes wide. Hearts exposed.
Then, wordlessly, as if pulled by gravity itself, they closed the distance.
Their lips met in a kiss — not hesitant, not guilty, but hungry. Honest. Real. A kiss that forgave, that confessed, that claimed.
And in that moment, Shadow Milk understood:
He hadn’t been standing outside the kingdom of their hearts.
He’d been home all along.
And the golden lamb, the silver lamb and the wolf lived happily ever after.