Chapter Text

A shadow blooms in the garden,

petals devoured by its teeth.

I bend to see myself,

but darker,

hungrier, 

seeking.

COVER ART

CHAPTER ONE: Petals Drenched in Tomorrow’s Blood 🥀

Azure knelt among the rows of flowers, the soil cool beneath his fingers, petals brushing against his palms as he inspected them for imperfections. The evening sun slanted low, casting long golden shadows across the garden. 

Lavender, chamomile, and calendula swayed gently in the breeze, carrying the faint scent of sweetness and earthiness. Each plant was tended with care, petals crushed just enough to release their aroma before being carefully placed into small glass jars.

“It truly does smell delightful in here.” Azure, murmured, basking in the nature of the garden.

“Hi, Azure!” A small voice chirped from the path.

Azure looked up to see Xylo running toward him, hair slightly tangled, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Good evening, Lo,” Azure replied softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Have you been practicing your herb identification?”

Xylo nodded eagerly, clutching a small notebook. “I can tell the difference between chamomile and… um… the one with the tiny orange flowers!” He pointed to a patch of calendula swaying in the evening breeze. “Isn’t that great, Mr. Azure?”

“Excellent,” Azure said, brushing a stray leaf from his robe. “Remember, observation is as important as memory. Feel the petals, notice the stems, and let your senses guide you.”

Xylo crouched down beside him, mimicking his careful movements, then promptly sneezed into his sleeve. “Ah-choo!”

“Bless you,” Azure murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Be careful not to disturb the others. The marigolds are sensitive; they dislike abrupt movements.”

From the training yard in the distance came the familiar clash of wood and shouted instructions. Azure’s lips twitched as he glanced toward the noise. “They’re probably praying again,” he said quietly to himself. 

A rustling sound from the hedge drew his attention. 

Rustle.

“Hello?” Azure looked behind.

Maris and Fynn, the twins, peeked out with wide, mischievous eyes, identical robes blending into the shadows.

“Hello,” Azure greeted, keeping his hands full of petals. “Practicing your… stealth?”

Fynn tried not to giggle. “Maybe,” they said, tugging Maris back behind the hedge. “We were just… checking the garden!”

“Of course,” Azure said, calmly returning to his work, ignoring the mischievous pair.

The garden was serene again, the gentle hum of insects the only sound apart from the distant clatter of the inside. 

Azure’s fingers moved methodically over each bloom, murmuring their names almost like a chant: lavender, chamomile, calendula… It was a rhythm that brought him quiet comfort, the small, repeated motions a meditation in themselves.

“Azure,” Xylo whispered from his spot at the edge of the row, “do you think the marigolds will last until tomorrow?”

“They should,” Azure replied softly, brushing a jar of crushed petals into place. “But treat them carefully, Lo. Even a small misstep can bruise the petals. They are delicate.”

Xylo’s gaze wandered along the neat rows, following the curves of petals and stems. “I like how you crush the petals,” he said. “It smells… nice.”

Azure nodded. “The scent carries healing. Some plants respond to gentle touch, to care. It’s why I take my time.”

The evening air was cooling, carrying the faint scent of soil and crushed flowers. Insects hovered near the blooms, their wings catching the last rays of sunlight.

“You’re stacking them too high,” Maris said with a small frown. “They’ll topple over.”

“They won’t topple over if handled carefully,” Azure replied softly, continuing to crush petals. “The weight is balanced.”

Fynn tilted their head. “Do you always talk to the flowers?”

Azure paused, fingers still on a bloom. “Not always,” he said quietly. “But when I do, they… respond better. Flowers are sensitive. To voice, to touch, to care. Just as much as people.”

Maris blinked, as if seeing him for the first time. “You talk to flowers more than we talk to each other.”

Azure gave a faint smile and returned to his jars. 

“Flowers don’t interrupt.”

The twins giggled and disappeared behind the hedge, leaving the garden to its quiet hum. Azure inhaled the soft, earthy aroma of the crushed petals, savoring the stillness. The distant shouts of Two Time and the occasional laughter from other cult members felt like a background melody, fading against the calm of the rows.

Xylo crouched beside him once more, glancing at the jars with wide eyes. “Azure?”

“Yes, dear?” Azure answered, voice gentle.

“Do you ever get tired?”

“…Sometimes,” Azure admitted softly, “but the garden… it keeps me grounded. The plants need me. And I… need this quiet, even if just for a little while.”

A shadow passed over the rows as the sun dipped lower, painting the petals in soft, golden light. Azure’s hands moved carefully, stacking jars, inspecting each bloom, whispering the names once more. Here, in this small garden, the world felt simple, rhythmic, and, for a moment, perfectly still.

“Almost done,” Azure murmured, smoothing the crushed petals into neat jars. He glanced toward the distant yard, toward the chaos that was Two Time, and then back to the flowers.

Xylo trailed off toward the path leading back to the main courtyard. Azure watched him go, his small form swallowed by the last of the evening light. For a moment, the garden was silent. Only the gentle rustle of leaves, the occasional hum of a late bee, and the soft sway of petals in the breeze remained.

Azure leaned forward, brushing his fingers across a row of chamomile. He inhaled deeply, the subtle, honeyed scent grounding him. The world beyond the garden felt distant, as though the walls of flowers themselves had formed a protective barrier. It was quiet enough for thought, quiet enough for reflection.

He worked slowly, carefully pinching off petals, crushing them slightly, and placing them in their jars. With each measured movement, a sense of calm settled deeper into his chest. 

The rhythm was steady, familiar, and safe. The garden had always been his sanctuary, a space where the clamor of the cult and the sharp eyes of the elders could not reach him.

Yet even here, his thoughts found their way to the small, uneasy stirrings within the courtyard. 

Two Time.

They had been spending less time around him lately. Azure had noticed it gradually, subtle at first: a pause before they spoke, a slight hesitation in their usual talk. 

Where they once lingered, offering encouragement or teasing him softly, now they gave only brief, clipped words before moving on to some other task. 

Azure wasn’t sure if it was resentment, distraction, or… Amarah.

The thought of Amarah made him frown slightly. 

They always hovered around Two Time like a shadow, sharp-eyed and impatient. Azure could almost hear their voice in his mind: Focus. Discipline. Don’t waste your time with soft-hearted fools. Perhaps they had made their visits feel less like choice and more like obligation.

Azure let out a soft sigh and returned to the flowers. He pressed his fingers over a delicate lavender blossom, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. 

They’re different now, he thought. Not because they’ve changed, but because someone has reminded them… that the world isn’t always gentle.

He shook the thought away and reached for a small patch of marigolds. Their golden petals shimmered in the fading light, catching the last warmth of the sun. The action of picking, crushing, and sorting them kept him grounded, but it also gave him time, too much time, perhaps, to notice the changes in those he cared for.

Azure paused mid-motion and stared at a single bloom, his mind wandering. Two Time had always been so devoted, so unshakable. 

And now… their shoulders seemed just a little tighter when they passed him. Their eyes flickered with something that Azure didn’t understand, something like worry—or guilt.

He pushed the thought aside again, setting the marigold petals carefully in their jar. “I shouldn’t dwell on it,” he told himself, whispering. “The flowers need my attention. The garden cannot suffer because I let my thoughts wander.”

And yet, as he moved to the next row, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness. Even in the quiet of the garden, he was aware of the absence. He had grown accustomed to them being near, as if their constant activity balanced his stillness. 

Now the stillness was complete.

Azure’s fingers lingered over the petals of a particularly delicate lavender. He rolled it gently, inhaling its calming scent, and closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of the setting sun on his skin, the coolness of the soil beneath his palms, the faint brush of breeze against his face. 

The garden was alive, and it was patient, and it required nothing of him but care. And yet, within that patience, he felt a subtle ache.

He thought of Two Time again. How strange it was to notice how someone’s presence—or absence—could affect the rhythm of his own day. How the slight tension in their movements, the clipped way they spoke, could ripple through him even here in his sanctuary.

Azure shook his head slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “They are still the same. Still themselves. This will pass.”

But the words offered little comfort. He had always been attuned to subtle shifts, and he could not ignore the unease that lingered around them like a shadow.

He returned to the marigolds, carefully crushing each petal with the tips of his fingers. The soft, powdery smell filled his senses, and he let it anchor him, letting his thoughts drift like clouds in the sky. Here, in the fading light, there was only him and the garden. Only him and the simple, steady work of healing and tending.

A small bee landed on a blossom nearby, its tiny wings shimmering in the golden light. Azure watched it for a moment, its delicate movements precise, purposeful. Even they seem to understand the rhythm of life better than some people, he mused quietly. A faint smile tugged at his lips.

He reached for the next row of petals, working slowly, deliberately, letting the garden absorb his attention and his worry alike. The ache for Two Time’s presence was still there, faint but persistent, but for now it was softened by the rhythm of his own hands and the quiet companionship of the flowers.

The sun slipped lower, the sky streaked with pinks and oranges, and Azure straightened, brushing his hands against his robe. The jars of petals glimmered softly in the evening light, each labeled and stacked with care. He took a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scents of lavender, chamomile, and marigold, and let the calm of the garden settle into his chest.

For a while, there was no one else. No whispers, no clatter, no chatter. Only the garden. Only him. Only the slow, deliberate pulse of life he nurtured with his own careful hands.

And in that moment, even as he thought again of Two Time and the subtle changes in them, Azure allowed himself to simply be. The flowers did not demand explanations, they did not pass judgment, and they did not change with the presence of Amarah or the distant echoes of the courtyard.

Here, among the petals and the soft hum of insects, Azure could breathe. Here, he could think, quietly, gently, without interruption. Here, he could tend to the world he had chosen—and perhaps, in the quiet, forgive it too.

The breeze picked up slightly, carrying the last warmth of the day and rustling the flowers in gentle waves. Azure leaned down, crushing another petal, inhaling its scent, and whispered softly to himself: “They are still themselves… even if they forget sometimes.”

And for now, that was enough.

The gentle sway of the marigolds and lavender was suddenly broken by a sharp rustling from the shadows at the edge of the garden. Azure froze mid-motion, petals in hand, and strained his eyes.

Probably a stray animal, he thought, brow furrowing. Or maybe a small cult pet wandering too far.

A low hiss echoed through the garden. The shadows shifted unnaturally, brushing over the rows of flowers with a fluid, almost deliberate motion. Azure’s heart thudded against his ribs, the calm rhythm of the garden suddenly broken.

He stepped forward cautiously, hand trembling as he brushed stray hair from his face. The scent in the air had changed—something metallic, sharp, almost wild, mingled with the earthy perfume of crushed petals. He squinted, trying to make sense of the shapes moving in the dimming light.

In the trees, a dark silhouette traversing quickly. 

Then he saw it.

Crouched low among the flowers, a creature—no, a person—glimmered in the fading sunlight. Its skin was black, glossy, and slick, almost like wet stone, and from its back sprouted four long, twitching tentacles, each one moving independently, brushing the petals and leaves. Its eyes glowed faintly purple, luminous in the dusk, and it gnawed at a cluster of blossoms with sharp teeth, scattering petals and stems across the ground.

Azure froze, eyes wide, chest tightening. Every rational thought fled. He had never seen anything like this. 

The other sniffed the air, hunched and coiled like a predator, its tentacles curling and uncurling as if tasting the world around it.

Then, a voice broke the silence.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up! What a pathetic little—”

Azure jerked his head toward the source. A hat, perched improbably on the creature’s head, had a face stitched into the brim. Eyes narrowed, mouth twisting in a cruel grin.

“Me…?” Azure asked.

“Yes, you,” it hissed, voice sharp as wire. “Standing there like a soft little gardener. Do you really think this is acceptable behavior? You pathetic fool! Not even close to my standards!”

Azure’s eyes darted back to the creature itself. “What?”

Tentacles twitched toward the soil and petals, gnawing sounds punctuating the hat’s relentless insults.

The hat’s voice continued, relentless and bitter:

“How utterly—how utterly hopeless! Don’t tell me you—”

Suddenly, one of the tentacles shot out with a speed that made Azure’s stomach clench, coiling around the hat. The hat’s eyes widened in alarm, a muffled protest escaping its stitched mouth.

“Mmph! Hey! I—let me—”

The muffled words ended abruptly as the tentacle tightened, holding the hat’s mouth closed as Azurewrath growled slightly. Silence fell, except for the faint crackle of the tentacles brushing against the leaves and petals.

Azure’s eyes stayed locked on Azurewrath. For the first time, the growling gnawing had stopped. The glowing eyes met his, wide and alert, curious but not overtly hostile. Tentacle fingers flexed, caressing petals and soil almost absently, while the other limbs twitched and curled around its own body.

The two stood in silence, Azurewrath towering over Azure.

And yet… there was something in the creature’s gaze that made his chest ache. Not fear exactly—though fear was there—but something else, something unfamiliar. 

Sympathy? Pity? Recognition? He didn’t understand.

The garden smelled different now, wild and untamed, metallic and earthy, and the scattered petals were trampled beneath the creature’s movements. 

Azure’s eyes darted over the gnawed flowers, the long claws, the slick black skin, and the restless, twitching tentacles.

The hat, still silenced, twitched occasionally as if trying to wriggle free, but the tentacle held firm. The creature glanced down at the hat, a subtle flick of movement in its shoulders, then looked back at Azure.

And for the first time, they simply looked at each other.

Azure’s fingers curled lightly around a stray petal, pressing it into the soil. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, but he felt the weight of something pressing on him—an odd mixture of fear, wonder, and… a strange, unexplainable sorrow.

Tentacles twitched again, brushing lightly over crushed petals as if testing whether the earth still belonged to it. 

Azure noticed the way the creature’s posture shifted subtly, not entirely relaxed, but not aggressive either. 

A predator? 

Perhaps. 

But one that was… alone, maybe even vulnerable in its own strange way.

The garden, which had seemed so calm before, felt alive in a different sense now. 

Every rustle, every subtle motion of the tentacles, the faint clink of teeth against petals, seemed amplified. 

The creature shifted slightly, a tentacle brushing over a row of lavender and causing it to sway. Its head tilted, glowing eyes fixing on him with an intensity that made his chest ache.

The hat twitched under the tentacle’s grip, muffled protests failing to pierce the heavy silence. The creature seemed to sense something in Azure’s reaction and froze, crouched low, its glowing eyes flicking from the jars of crushed petals to the gardener standing frozen in place.

Time stretched, elongated by the stillness. Azure’s mind raced yet nothing solid formed. 

He felt simultaneously terrified and compelled, an impossible mixture of instinctual caution and instinctual care.

The creature sniffed the air again, tentacles curling closer to the body, then uncurling lazily to prod a flower cluster. Azure’s gaze followed every twitch, every subtle movement. The metallic tang of its skin lingered faintly in the evening air, intermingled with crushed petals.

And then, just as suddenly as the tension had built, the creature straightened slightly, still crouched but more alert, still unmoving. 

The tentacle over the hat tightened imperceptibly, silencing the words that might have torn the quiet apart. 

Azure’s chest loosened just slightly, though he remained rooted in place.

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. And yet, he felt the smallest, strangest twinge of…? 

He could not explain it. He could not even name it.

The garden felt impossibly still, every petal, every leaf, every subtle sway of lavender suspended in the quiet. Azure’s chest heaved, fingers clutching a stray stem as his eyes remained locked on the crouched creature before him. 

Black skin glimmered faintly in the last rays of sunlight. Tentacles curled and twitched, brushing against petals and soil with delicate precision, despite the wildness of its presence.

And then came the word.

“YOU.”

It tore through the silence like a whip. Azure flinched, almost dropping the jar in his hand. The voice was impossibly deep, guttural, yet somehow singular, the kind of sound that made your chest ache and your brain scramble all at once.

Azure’s eyes widened. His heart hammered in his ribs. He took an instinctive step back, bumping into a patch of crushed marigolds. The petals scattered underfoot, soft orange powder dusting his shoes, his hands, even the air around him.

The creature crouched a little lower, tentacles flexing and twitching, and repeated nothing else. Its glowing purple eyes bore into him, unblinking, and there it stayed, the very picture of primal intensity.

Azure’s mind reeled. 

‘It recognizes me…?’ he thought, frozen, unable to articulate the question aloud. 

Every rational part of him screamed to run, to scream, to hide, but some absurd, stubborn curiosity rooted him to the spot. 

The silenced hat twitched atop Azurewrath’s head, muffled protests failing to break free. Its eyes darted between the two of them, but even without speech, its expression radiated frustration.

Azure swallowed hard, gripping a jar of crushed petals as if it could protect him from the impossible. 

His hands shook slightly, tentacles brushing too close, scattering a handful of lavender onto the soil. 

Azurewrath’s gaze followed each small movement like a predator studying prey, yet there was no immediate aggression—just a tense, unyielding observation.

And then… the absurdity of the situation struck him.

Here he was, a gentle gardener, surrounded by petals, confronted by a monster with glowing purple eyes, black slick skin, four twitching tentacles, and an insulting, silenced hat.

Azure’s mind went blank for a second, then tried to organize the chaos of thought.

‘It recognizes me. I don’t recognize it. It’s gnawing on flowers. It’s terrifying. And… why does it feel like it’s judging me?’

Tentacles twitched again, brushing over the jars. One flicked against a stack, rattling a lid. Azure’s eyes widened further. 

No, no, don’t knock that over! 

He instinctively leaned forward to steady the jar, then froze. The creature’s glowing eyes locked onto him in a silent challenge, like a mirror reflecting all his panic and guilt.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. His muscles had forgotten how to move. Every instinct screamed ‘run.’

But the creature stayed still, except for the slow, deliberate curling of tentacles around flowers, stems, and soil. 

It was chaos wrapped in observation. 

Azure tried to assess: It couldn’t speak. 

No, wait, it just spoke.

One word.

He swallowed hard, stepping slightly sideways to avoid one of the twitching tentacles. The movement made Azurewrath tilt their head in perfect synchrony, glowing eyes tracking him. 

Tentacles flexed and stretched like coiled ropes, then lazily flicked at a nearby flower, scattering petals again.

Azure froze, glancing around the garden. Every other sound—the soft hum of insects, the distant yard, the rustle of leaves—had been swallowed by the sheer absurdity of the moment.

A small breeze carried the faint scent of lavender and crushed marigold, mingling with the metallic tang of Azurewrath’s skin. Azure bent down slightly, touching a fallen petal, and the creature’s gaze followed, unblinking. 

Do I… feel sorry for it? he thought, baffled. 

Something about the crouched, twitching figure, the wild yet careful movements, made his chest ache with a strange, protective impulse.

Azurewrath’s tentacles twitched again. One stretched upward, almost lazily, and curled around the base of the hat once more, muffling any residual protests. The hat’s tiny eyes widened in alarm and frustration. 

Azure’s lips twitched in a faint, helpless smile despite himself. Even the hat is silenced… this is too much.

The creature shifted slightly, tentacles brushing lightly over the crushed petals as if testing the ground. His glowing eyes never left Azure.

Azure’s breath hitched. He stepped back, tripping slightly over a stray stem. Petals fluttered around him like confetti. Azurewrath’s glowing eyes followed every movement, unblinking, every tentacle flexing with an almost deliberate curiosity.

Azure wanted to scream. 

To laugh. To cry. To do something. 

Instead, he froze, overwhelmed by the ridiculous, terrifying spectacle. And yet, the oddest thing happened.

He felt… bad.

He couldn’t explain it. Not fear, not pity, not even empathy fully—something tangled in the pit of his chest, a strange, inarticulate pull toward the crouched, gnawing, glowing-eyed creature. He didn’t understand why, but he felt… compelled to protect it. 

Or comfort it. Or… something he couldn’t name.

Tentacles flexed lazily again, brushing a marigold, brushing the soil. The muffled hat twitched. Azure’s eyes flicked back and forth between the creature and the silenced hat. 

And in that frozen, absurd tableau, he realized something almost unbearable:

He could not leave. He could not look away.

Azurewrath crouched low, eyes glowing, tentacles curling around petals, soil, and his own body. 

And the hat, still silenced, twitched and flailed in tiny, futile gestures.

Azure’s fingers flexed nervously around a fallen petal, pressing it lightly into the soil. He could not move, could not speak, could not understand. 

And yet, he could feel.

The garden, the petals, the evening air, the flushed, flickering sunlight—all of it existed around them, but none of it mattered. 

There was only the crouched, black-skinned, glowing-eyed creature before him. Only the tentacles. Only the silent hat. Only the single word echoing in his mind.

Azure could not speak. Azurewrath could not speak. The hat could not speak.

And yet, somehow, this was the start of something utterly ridiculous, completely terrifying.

The garden had settled into a tense, almost unnatural quiet after Azure’s frozen stare at Azurewrath. The black-skinned figure crouched low among the marigolds, tentacles curling delicately over crushed petals and soil, glowing purple eyes tracking every subtle movement of Azure’s hands. 

The muffled, silenced hat twitched occasionally, like a tiny, frustrated spectator trapped in an invisible soapbox.

Azure’s chest still heaved from the shock. He didn’t know how long he had stood there, paralyzed, but the sun had dipped lower, streaking the garden in deeper orange and violet. 

His fingers flexed nervously around a stray petal, pressing it into the soil as if it could anchor him against the absurdity before him.

A distant call broke the tension—a voice he had known for years.

“Azure! Are you there?”

He froze. The soft, slightly sharp tone carried over the garden wall. Two Time. They were here.

Azure’s heart skipped. Panic surged through him. They can’t see… whatever this is! He swallowed hard, glancing at Azurewrath. The crouched figure had paused mid-twitch, eyes glowing, tentacles still. There was no time.

Without thinking, Azure lunged forward, grabbed Azurewrath by the shoulders, and shoved.

The black-skinned form tumbled into the dense rose bush beside the marigolds, branches and thorns snapping audibly. Azurewrath hissed—a high-pitched, guttural, animalistic sound—and tentacles twisted around branches in protest. The muffled hat wobbled, twitching frantically.

Azure shoved the two until they weren’t visible from the outside, thorns prickling shallowly at his skin.

Azure froze, chest tight, holding his breath.

Two Time appeared at the edge of the garden path, hands on their hips. Their eyes scanned the rows of flowers, then shifted toward him. “Dear? You look like you’ve just seen Builderman in your flowerbed.”

Azure turned, forcing calm into his posture, nodding slowly. “Nightshade, if Builderman were here, I’d be a lot less nervous.” His voice was soft, almost too soft, betraying the chaos within.

Behind him, a faint movement in the rose bush betrayed the crouched figure. Tentacles flicked through branches, brushing petals against thorns. 

A low hiss escaped once more, muffled but audible enough to make Azure flinch.

Two Time’s eyebrows furrowed. “…What was that? It hissed.” They stepped closer, cautiously, tilting their head as if trying to parse the sound.

Azure’s pulse raced. “Cats hiss. Snakes hiss. Gardens… occasionally hiss.”

“…Gardens don’t hiss.”

“Mine does.”

The hiss came again, sharper this time, a warning. Azure swallowed, glancing at the tentacles curling through the branches. 

“Please don’t get caught… please don’t move too fast…” Azure whispered, more like a silent prayer.

Two Time crouched slightly, scanning the area. “Well, it’s quiet now. I didn’t want to scare it.” They gave a small, unsure smile, voice softening. “I just wanted to see you before it gets too dark.”

Azure’s chest tightened. The creature in the bush twitched, glowing eyes partially obscured by thorny branches, and the muffled hat seemed to fidget atop its head. Every instinct told him to run, to cover, to do anything to keep this from being discovered.

“I… I’m glad you came,” Azure said carefully, his voice measured. “The garden—uhm, is calm this evening. Perfect for… reflection!”

Two Time tilted their head, stepping closer to a row of marigolds. “…Reflection? Dear, you’re acting strange. Are you sure everything’s alright?”

Azure’s mind raced. His hands clenched slightly, then he gestured subtly toward the rose bush, hoping the figure inside would stay still. 

The hiss came again, low and warning, like a miniature growl directed at him for being clumsy.

He froze, heart hammering. Don’t move. Don’t move. Please.

“It’s… a cat. Stray.”

“Oh, can I see it?” Two Time asked innocently.

“NO—No, uhm. It’s,” Azure stuttered. “Very… shy?”

“…”

“…”

Silence.

Two Time crouched again, voice soft but insistent. “…Azure, you’re hiding something.”

Azure replied immediately. “No I’m not.”

Two Time leaned closer. “You are! I can hear… whatever that is.”

Azure gestured weakly at the roses. “It’s foliage. Very vocal foliage.”

“Since when do bushes growl?”

“Since today, apparently.”

Azure’s eyes flicked to the bush. Tentacles twitched. One brushed across a thistle, leaving a small scratch on a branch.

Azure took a slow step forward, bending slightly to smooth the leaves over the bush in a vain attempt to hide what lay inside. 

The hiss came again—soft, guttural, almost accusatory—but it was enough to make Azure freeze in panic.

Two Time’s gaze sharpened. “Azure, that bush is vibrating.”

“It’s the wind.”

“There is no wind.”

“Then it’s… nervous.”

Two Time blinked. “Why would a bush be nervous?”

Azure nodded solemnly. “Trauma.”

Azure’s stomach flipped. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. The hiss from the bush responded almost immediately, longer this time, curling into a low, sibilant warning.

Two Time’s lips twitched. They stepped closer, crouching beside the marigolds. “A stray in a rose bush? Azure, it sounds—bigger than that.“

Azure swallowed hard, glancing at the glowing eyes barely visible through the thorns. Tentacles twitched in irritation, brushing lightly against petals as if testing the air. The hiss came again, sharper and louder. Azure flinched.

“It’s—it’s just… startled,” he muttered, trying to sound calm. “It’s a garden creature. Harmless. I just didn’t want it to hurt itself.”

Two Time leaned closer, narrowing their eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Indeed.”

Azure pushed his hand into the bush further, tentacle brushing his wrist, and hissed softly in panic. 

The creature shifted slightly, coiling one limb protectively around the hat, glaring at him with glowing purple eyes.

“Azure, you’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“It’s warm out.”

“I’m… sensitive.”

Tentacles twitched again, brushing against petals and thorns. Azure’s fingers flexed in reflex, smoothing branches over the bush. Another hiss escaped, louder, more urgent, and Azure’s eyes widened. Oh no… it’s angry.

Two Time stepped back slightly, tilting their head, scanning the bush. “That doesn’t sound like a cat.”

“It’s a… very opinionated cat.”

“It sounds like it wants to kill you.”

“Yes. Exactly like a cat.”

Azure froze, unable to answer. Tentacles twitched, brushing over roses, scattering petals like confetti. The muffled hat atop the creature’s head wobbled, struggling silently, yet remained restrained by the tentacle. The glowing purple eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made his chest ache.

A final hiss erupted, long and drawn-out, vibrating through the bush and petals alike. Azure jumped, heart hammering, and quickly smoothed the leaves over the creature again. Tentacles twitched one last time, curling protectively around its crouched body.

Two Time stepped back, hands hovering near their chest. “I just came to say hello,” they murmured, backing toward the path. “But apparently you’re babysitting… Satan’s pet.”

Azure forced a nod. “All strays deserve kindness.”

Two Time gave him a look. “That one deserves an exorcism.”

Azure exhaled slowly, chest tight, glancing back at the bush. Tentacles curled, brushing lightly over crushed petals, hat still silent, glowing eyes retreating slightly into shadow. A low, soft hiss echoed from within, a subtle warning or protest.

He swallowed hard, brushing petals from his hands, heart still racing. Azurewrath remained crouched in the bush, tense and silent, eyes glowing faintly through the thorns, tentacles flexing and twitching like a coiled spring. 

The muffled hat twitched atop the black-skinned figure’s head.

Azure exhaled again, sinking to his knees slightly, pressing a hand to a crushed petal. 

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move beyond tending the disturbed garden, but he felt a strange mix of relief and guilt. He had hidden Azurewrath. He had protected them.

For a long moment, he simply stared. Tentacles flexed, petals scattered, the garden smelled faintly of crushed lavender, marigold, and rose thorns. The sun had almost disappeared entirely, leaving the soft violet shadows of dusk.

And in the bush, Azurewrath remained, silent except for the occasional hiss, the hat still helplessly silenced, and the glowing eyes locked, always observing, always aware.

Azure pressed a hand to the soil, brushing petals into neat stacks, his chest still tight. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t explain. But he could wait.

For a long moment, the garden seemed to hold its breath. Azure knelt beside the rose bush, brushing petals into neat piles, trying to steady his racing heart. The hiss from inside the thorns had faded into quiet, tense silence. The evening air smelled faintly of crushed marigold and rose thorns, mixed with something sharper—metallic, wild, primal.

Azure exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from his brow. He allowed himself a tiny measure of relief. 

Two Time had stepped back, muttering something about “checking on the path,” and was now out of sight. 

The immediate danger of discovery seemed… momentarily over.

Then, without warning, a shadow shifted inside the bush. Tentacles twitched with deliberate, lazy precision, brushing aside leaves and branches as if testing the space around them. 

And then—just the upper part of a face emerged.

Glowing purple eyes peeked over the edge of the rose bush, slick black skin and long, messy hair glinting faintly in the dusk light. Only the eyes and the top of the forehead were visible, but it was enough. Enough to make Azure’s chest tighten, his hands freeze mid-petal.

A hiss escaped, low and guttural, almost annoyed, almost playful. 

The hat atop the crouched figure’s head wobbled slightly, still silenced, as if struggling to express its frustration at being trapped.

Azure blinked, taking a cautious step back. Tentacles twitched just enough to scatter a few petals onto the soil, brushing lightly against the thorns without harm. The creature’s gaze never wavered, glowing eyes fixed directly on him with an intensity that made him flinch.

He swallowed, forcing a small, exasperated sigh. “You… aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”

That earned a grin.

Azure’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. Get out of there before Two comes back and steps on you.”

The bush hissed.

Slowly, painfully, Azurewrath pulled himself out, scattering rose petals everywhere. 

Azure swore under his breath as he grabbed a handful of cloth and yanked him along the path.

“Don’t. Say. A word,” Azure hissed, dragging the thing across the yard like an unruly stray dog. “Not that you can, but just—don’t.”

They slipped into the house, then up the creaking stairs. Azure shoved him into his room and slammed the door shut behind them, pressing his back against it. He let out a long sigh.

“Great. Wonderful. Brilliant plan. Just… hide the abomination in your bedroom, Azure.”

He turned.

Azurewrath was already sitting on his bed. Tentacles curled across the blanket, and the roses still stuck in his shoulders dropped onto the sheets. 

He looked oddly comfortable, like he owned the place.

Huh.

The creature tilted his head, glowing eyes unblinking.

Azure jabbed a finger. “Don’t you dare—”

Azurewrath lifted one clawed hand and unlatched the hat.

The moment the hat was freed, it practically screamed.

“OH FINALLY. Do you have any idea how suffocating it is in there?! You muzzled me with rose thorns! Rose thorns, Azure! I am a sophisticated mouthpiece of cosmic horror, not a gardening accident!”

Azure jumped back. “Oh, no. Stop talking.”

“Correction: I don’t talk, I complain. Constantly. It’s my best trait. Second best is being right all the time.” The hat’s stitched-on mouth curled into a sharp smile. “And right now, I’m here to explain why your evil twin from Hot Topic is glaring at you from your own duvet.”

Azure rubbed his temples. “Nope. Not listening. I’ve had a long day, I just pulled weeds, Amarah nearly bit my head off again, and now you want to give me exposition?”

“Not want. Need. You’re looking at your future.”

Azure froze. “…My what.”

“Future. Y’know. Down the line. Older, darker, tentacled, and very bad at social skills.” The hat’s eyes flicked toward Azurewrath, who sat motionless, only his eyes gleaming. “This grumpy slimeball? He’s you. Give it, oh… a few betrayals, some cult drama, and maybe a stabbing.”

Azure’s jaw worked soundlessly. “That’s not—he doesn’t even look like me!”

“Sure he does. Broody, bad posture, whole ‘nobody understands me’ vibe? Dead ringer.”

“I don’t brood.”

The hat barked a laugh. “You’re brooding right now.”

Azure threw his hands up. “I’m not keeping him! Or you!"

“Oh, yes you are. Unless you want Two Time—or worse, Amarah—finding him. You really think you can explain why a corrupted, half-feral version of yourself is loitering in the garden?”

Azurewrath let out a low growl, more annoyed than threatening. His tentacles tapped the bedframe impatiently, like fingers drumming.

Azure glared at him. “Stop making yourself at home!”

The hat sighed theatrically. “You’ve got two options, flower boy. One: shove him back in the rose bush and hope the cultists don’t ask questions when they find him eating snails. Two: hide him here and deal with it.”

Azure huffed. “I don’t approve both of those.”

“Congratulations. You’re living a tragedy.”

“…Shut up. Please. I need a nap.”

Chapter Text

A room exhales in quiet

tentacles curl where sunlight bleeds.

Whispers of hunger drift,

soft as petals,

sharp as yesterday’s regrets.

CHAPTER TWO: The Unappetizing Art of Pleasing a Monster (Or Your Future Self) 🍖

Azure woke to a sound that didn’t belong in any sane morning.

It was low, wet, and rhythmic — a dragging, scraping rumble that made the wooden floorboards under his bed tremble. For a fleeting, sleepy second, he thought it was thunder. The Herbalist’s walls were old, their beams creaked at every change of wind. Maybe a storm had rolled in overnight. Maybe, if he was lucky, it was just the wind slapping a loose shutter.

Then something slimy and warm traced across his cheek.

Azure froze.

He opened his eyes to the sight of—oh no. Oh no no no—

Azurewrath.

Sprawled directly on top of him.

The future-him. The nightmare-him. The tentacle disaster-him.

The creature’s upper half was hunched over, arms braced on either side of Azure’s shoulders like some bizarre parody of affection. His face hovered inches away, those faintly glowing eyes narrowed with some primal intensity. A slick, dark tendril slid from his shoulder and twitched idly, curling around a stray lock of Azure’s hair.

Azure blinked twice, hoping the shape above him would dissolve like a bad dream.

It didn’t.

Instead, Azurewrath’s stomach let out a guttural GRRrrrRrRRRRrrRRRRrr that reverberated through the bedframe and into Azure’s spine.

Azure flinched. “Oh fantastic, it’s a hungry one this time,” he muttered, voice tight. He tried to shove at the chest looming over him, but his hands met something unpleasantly slick. “Personal space exists for a reason—! Do they not teach that in… wherever you came from—ugh, why are you so cold?”

Azurewrath only blinked down at him, eyes wide and faintly luminous. Another rumble shuddered through his torso like an angry cauldron. He tilted his head — slow, birdlike — as if trying to make sense of the panicking mess beneath him.

The Botanists room was still dark. Morning hadn’t yet breached the shutters, leaving the place cloaked in shadow and soft green glow from the jars of bioluminescent herbs lining the shelf. The scent of crushed mint and dried sage filled the air. The faint hiss of the simmering pot downstairs told him the night-brew hadn’t gone out yet.

In all this calm, the sight of his monstrous doppelgänger pinning him to bed felt absurdly out of place — like a rotworm in a teacup.

From the shelf, a weary voice piped up.

“Good morning, sunshine,” drawled the hat. Its brim lifted slightly, the runes pulsing faintly in dim light. “Your twin’s starving to death. What’s for breakfast, flowers again?”

Azure twisted his neck toward it. “You’re awake already?”

“I never sleep,” it replied, smug. “I observe. I narrate. I judge. Currently, I’m judging your life choices.”

“Good,” Azure gritted, wrestling with a tendril hooked around his arm. “You can add ‘being sat on by my own future corpse’ to the list of bad ones.”

Azurewrath made a soft, gurgling sound — not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. It made Azure freeze again. He knew that sound. It was the same one a wounded animal made when cornered.

“…You’re not going to—uh—eat me, are you?” Azure whispered.

Another long pause.

Then the creature tilted its head, blinked, and made a quiet grrruuuh? like it didn’t even understand the question.

“Right. Of course not,” Azure said quickly. “Because that would be insane. And I’m awake. Which means this is all real, which is also insane. Great.”

Azurewrath shifted, the mattress creaking under his weight. Tentacles slithered and coiled around the sheets, trailing faint damp streaks. Azure winced at every movement, praying to whatever cosmic forces still tolerated him that Two Time wouldn’t walk in.

The room wasn’t large — barely big enough for his bed, a desk cluttered with glass jars, and a single window facing the east garden. Dried bundles of lavender and yarrow hung from the rafters, swaying gently in unseen drafts. Everything smelled faintly of smoke, herbs, and regret.

And now, slime.

Azurewrath made another noise — shorter, urgent — and tapped a clawed fingertip against Azure’s chest.

“Okay, yes, I get it,” Azure said, slowly sitting up as best he could without getting impaled by a stray appendage. “You’re hungry. That’s what the growling means, right? Because otherwise, you have a terrible way of saying good morning.”

From the shelf, the hat snorted. “He’s been like that since dawn. You were snoring through the first two stomach symphonies.”

“I do not snore.”

“You do, actually. Like a winded badger.”

“Thank you, disembodied fashion accessory, that’s very helpful.”

Azure swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Alright. Alright, let’s think. You—” he pointed at Azurewrath, “—sit. Stay. No devouring the local flora. Or me.”

Azurewrath blinked once, then plopped down obediently, bed groaning under his weight. He hunched slightly, gaze following Azure’s every move with unnerving intensity.

Azure exhaled shakily. “Good. That’s progress. I think.”

The Herbalist creaked around them — beams sighing, floorboards shifting as the morning wind stirred through the hall. Azure padded to the small desk and rummaged through his tea tins. The soft clink of dried petals filled the silence.

Behind him came another deep rumble.

“…What do you even eat?” Azure muttered, half to himself.

The hat hummed thoughtfully. “Well, definitely not flowers.”

Azure turned to look back.

Azurewrath sat on the bed like a caricature of guilt, shoulders slumped, glowing eyes fixed on the floor. His claws fidgeted with a loose thread on the blanket. One of his tentacles poked curiously at a fallen leaf by his foot.

For a moment, he looked small. Almost harmless.

Azure swallowed. “…You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly. “You’re supposed to be... somewhere else. Or somewhen else. Not... Whatever this is.”

The creature looked up at him — eyes flickering faintly. Then it tilted its head, making a low croon that could almost be mistaken for apology.

Azure blinked, thrown off by the sudden tenderness. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t look sad, I’m supposed to be horrified.”

The hat chuckled. “Give it time. You’ll be both.”

Azure glared at it. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, immensely. It’s not every day I get to watch a man argue with his own future mutation.”

Azure ignored it, turning back to Azurewrath. “Listen. You can stay here. For now. Just… don’t make noise, don’t move around too much, and absolutely no—whatever it was you were doing to my cheek earlier.”

Azurewrath blinked once.

The hat whispered dryly, “He’s not a dog, you know.”

Azure hissed back, “He also doesn’t understand speech, apparently!”

Azurewrath made another soft noise — almost like laughter, if laughter were drowned in syrup.

Azure rubbed his temples. “This is going to be a long morning.”

Azure slumped into his chair, head in his hands. “Okay. Feeding time. Easy enough. I’m an herbalist. Feeding strange creatures is practically my job.”

He looked around the room — jars of dried blossoms, bundles of herbs, bottles of tinctures, all neatly labeled in his tidy scrawl. Everything but anything resembling food.

Azurewrath, still perched on the bed like a very guilty gargoyle, made another stomach-rattling noise. The walls seemed to hum with it.

Azure winced. “Alright, alright—! Just—hold that noise.” He snatched the nearest thing resembling sustenance: a slim glass vase on his bedside table, filled with pale chamomile and drooping marigolds. “These are… technically edible,” he said, half to himself. “Soothing, aromatic, great for nerves—mine especially.”

He plucked the bouquet out and held it toward Azurewrath like a peace offering. “Here. Chamomile and marigold. Breakfast of—uh—gardeners.”

Azurewrath leaned forward, the glow of his eyes reflecting off the glass. Slowly, suspiciously, he sniffed the bouquet. The petals quivered as his breath ghosted over them.

Then, with exaggerated disgust, he spat them directly back into Azure’s face.

Wet petals clung to his hair. A stray marigold slid down his cheek.

There was a beat of perfect silence.

“…So that’s a no,” Azure said flatly.

The hat nearly fell off the shelf from laughing. “I told you he wasn’t a vegan.”

Azure peeled a petal off his forehead. “You could have warned me.”

“I did,” it said, still snickering. 

Azurewrath gave a low rumble — frustrated, restless — and his claws dug small gouges into the wooden bedframe. One of the tentacles flicked out and slapped the air, as though the very idea of chamomile had personally insulted him.

Azure exhaled through his nose. “You’re not hungry for plants.”

The hat, smugly, “Brilliant deduction, Detective Botany.”

“Don’t start.”

Azure paced, barefoot, over the creaking floorboards, chewing the inside of his cheek. “If you’re me — which I hate admitting — then it makes sense. The transformation warped you. The energy you burned through to exist probably means…”

He trailed off as the truth crawled up his throat like ice water.

“…you need protein.”

The air seemed to grow heavier, the Herbalist’s comforting herbal scent souring under the weight of the thought.

Azurewrath tilted his head, blinking those glowing eyes.

Azure looked back at him — at the faint sheen of saliva on his claws, the twitching of his throat, the subtle interest in the sound of Azure’s pulse.

He went pale. “Oh, no. No no no. Absolutely not. You can’t— I can’t— we are not starting the day with cannibalism.”

The hat was still lounging smugly. “Then perhaps something else’s meat, genius. The forest’s full of little woodland critters. Boundless buffet.”

Azure turned on it. “If Amarah walks in and smells blood, I’ll be explaining for hours. If Two Time notices that all the rabbits have vanished, they'll assume I’ve taken up black-market taxidermy!”

“Technically, you’d just be keeping your future self alive,” said the hat. “A touching bit of self-care.”

Azure pointed sharply at it. “Not helping.”

Azurewrath rose from the bed — slow, creaking, his movements oddly deliberate. He approached Azure, steps silent except for the faint squelch of slime. He loomed for a moment, eyes catching the green light from the shelves, studying the smaller, panicking version of himself.

Azure backed up until his calves hit the desk. “No. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t have meat. I don’t keep meat. I’m a herbalist, not a butcher.”

Azurewrath’s head tilted slightly, the glow in his eyes dimming for a heartbeat. He made a small sound, low and guttural — like a growl wrapped in a sigh. Then, as if sensing Azure’s fear, he retreated back toward the bed, curling in on himself.

The moment broke.

Azure’s heartbeat slowed — barely. “Great,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “Now I’ve hurt my own feelings.”

The hat yawned audibly. “That’s what happens when you have breakfast conversations with yourself.”

Azure ignored it, staring at the damp petals scattered on the floor. The room smelled like crushed marigold and cold sweat. Outside, dawn finally crept through the shutters, painting stripes of pale gold over the wall of jars.

He sighed. “Alright. I’ll… think of something. But you’re not touching a single animal. Or me. Deal?”

Azurewrath only blinked, uncomprehending, then slumped sideways onto the bed.

Azure took that as a yes — or exhaustion. Either would do.

The hat’s voice softened, just barely. “You can’t keep him here forever, you know.”

“I know,” Azure murmured, glancing toward the half-open door. “But I can keep him quiet.”

A faint rustle echoed from the hall — the sound of footsteps. Two Time, most likely, up earlier than expected.

Azure’s blood ran cold.

He turned sharply toward Azurewrath. “Don’t. Move.”

The monster blinked once. Then froze completely, a statue of coiled limbs and faintly glowing eyes.

Azure exhaled, straightened his robe, and tried to brush flower petals out of his hair.

“Act natural,” he whispered.

The hat snorted. “Oh, yes. Nothing screams ‘natural’ like eau de chamomile and panic.”

The footsteps paused just outside the door. A soft knock-knock.

Azure’s spine straightened so fast it nearly snapped.

Two Time’s voice came muffled through the wood. “Azure? You awake?”

Azure swallowed. “Y-yeah! Entirely! Awake, breathing, not hiding anything!— I mean, uh— come in?”

He winced. Out loud.

The door creaked open.

Two Time leaned in. They looked like they hadn’t slept either, but they always looked like that. “You’re jumpy,” they said flatly.

Azure pressed himself in front of the bed like a shield, smile frozen. “Me? Jumpy? Nooo. I’m—well-rested! Normal! Definitely not harbouring something slimy under my covers!”

Two Time raised an eyebrow. “That’s a specific thing to deny.”

Behind Azure, something slurped.

He froze.

Two Time's gaze flicked past him, toward the bed. “…Did something just make a noise?”

Azure laughed. Too loudly. “No! Just—air pressure. Old pipes. Herbalist acoustics. You know how humidity messes with—sound waves!”

Two Time blinked slowly. “…Right. Anyway.” They stepped further into the room, arms folded. “Amarah says breakfast’s ready. If you skip again, she’ll start bringing it up here, and you know what happens when she does that.”

Azure’s blood went cold at the memory of Amarah’s “nutritional broths.” “Understood! I’ll come down immediately. Right away! No delays whatsoever.”

Two Time didn’t move. “You’re sweating.”

Azure dabbed at his forehead with his sleeve. “Oh, that’s just—uh—humidity! From the—sound waves. Same ones that made the air noise earlier.”

Two Time squinted at him. “…You sure you’re okay?”

“Never better!” Azure chirped, shifting slightly to block their view as one of Azurewrath’s tentacles peeked out from behind the bedpost. With desperate subtlety, he flung a pillow backward. It hit the tendril with a wet thwap. The tentacle vanished.

Two Time's gaze followed the motion. “…Why is your pillow damp?”

“Because—I washed it! Self-care!”

“Since when do you—”

A low, rumbling grrrr echoed from behind Azure’s knees.

Two Time tilted their head. “Was that your stomach?”

Azure barked a nervous laugh. “Yes! Hunger! Me! The living one! Famished, even!”

“Then come downstairs.”

“I will!”

They didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The silence stretched, tense and ridiculous.

Finally, Two Time sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. “You’re acting weird. Weird even for you.”

Azure forced a grin. “I’m just—uh—trying a new meditation routine. Morning mindfulness! You know—breathe in, look suspiciously guilty, breathe out.”

Two Time's expression didn’t change. “Uh-huh.”

They took another step forward. Azure instinctively matched it, still blocking the view.

Two frowned. “Azure.”

“Yes?”

“Why does your blanket have… claw marks?”

Azure’s brain performed a perfect somersault into panic. “Moths!”

Two blinked. “Moths?”

“Big moths.”

“…With claws?”

“Evolution’s wild, isn’t it?”

From the bed came a tiny, strangled hrrrnk! — a noise like a dying kettle.

Azure nearly jumped out of his skin. “That was me! My throat does that sometimes!”

Two stared at him for a long, suspicious beat. Then — miraculously — they sighed. “Whatever. Just come eat before Amarah drags you by the hood again.”

Azure nodded so fast his ponytail bounced. “Will do! Immediately!”

Two lingered a moment longer, glancing once more at the bed. “…You know, the Herbalist doesn’t usually smell like raw meat.”

Azure went sheet-white. “That’s—uh—experimental incense! Earthy base notes!”

Two’s eyes narrowed, but they didn’t press. “Right. Well. Try not to burn the place down.”

They turned and left, pulling the door mostly shut behind them.

The instant their footsteps faded, Azure collapsed against the door, breathing hard. “Oh sweet Spawn, that was close.”

From the bed, Azurewrath peeked out, blinking innocently.

Azure glared at him. “You owe me an explanation and possibly a new pillow.”

The hat — which had gone completely silent during the exchange — finally spoke up, voice low with laughter. “I think I’m in love with them. They have the patience of a saint.”

Azure groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “If they find out I’m hiding my radioactive future self in my bedroom, that patience will end in homicide.”

“Then you’d better make sure breakfast goes perfectly,” the hat purred. “No suspicion. No mistakes. No slime.”

Azure looked back at the creature curled on his bed, glowing faintly like a guilty lantern.

“…And no more chamomile.”

Azurewrath tilted his head, as if faintly offended.

“Don’t give me that look,” Azure muttered, heading for the door. “You started it.”

The hallway was quiet at this hour, lit only by the pale glow of lanterns. The air smelled of sage smoke and dew. Somewhere deeper in the compound, someone was already boiling water; the faint clink of utensils carried down the corridor like a promise of normalcy.

Azure exhaled, forcing his heartbeat to slow, and followed the smell of tea and bread.

The Spawn’s communal hall was long and dim, its ceiling held up by carved wooden pillars wrapped in pale vines. Dawn light spilled through latticed windows, painting the floor in broken gold. A circular table dominated the space — mismatched chairs, chipped plates, herbs hanging in bundles from the rafters.

Most of the cult was already there.

Amarah sat nearest the hearth, her veil drawn low, pouring something steaming and too red to be tea into a clay cup. Her presence was quiet but heavy, like a storm held at bay.

Two Time sat across from her, stirring their porridge in a slow, distracted rhythm.

To their right was Saph, the a young member — pale-eyed and soft-spoken, a faint shimmer of scales at their throat. They were trimming mint leaves with a small silver knife, arranging them neatly on a platter.

Across from them sat Verrin, an older acolyte wrapped in a cloak stitched with gold thread. Her mask — a simple bronze faceplate — was set beside her bowl, revealing sharp, sunken features and a polite, tired smile.

And at the far end, Iria, the cook, hunched over a plate of eggs and something unidentifiable, muttering to herself about seasoning ratios. Her arms were tattooed in lines of runes that flickered faintly as she moved.

Azure hesitated at the doorway. The warmth of the hearth hit him like a wave — comforting, grounding — but the faint metallic smell clinging to his sleeves made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

Amarah looked up first. “You’re late.”

Azure smiled sheepishly. “Morning preparations took longer than expected.”

Two Time glanced over, half a smirk. “Sounded like it.”

“Just… humidity,” Azure said quickly, taking the empty seat between Saph and Verrin.

Saph slid the mint plate toward him. “You can smell the rain on you,” they murmured. “Or something like rain.”

Azure froze for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Herbal mix. New recipe.”

Verrin chuckled softly. “As long as it’s not another of your sleeping drafts. The last one had me seeing colors that shouldn’t exist.”

Azure managed a weak laugh. “That’s the sign it’s working.”

Iria snorted. “Working my nerves, maybe. Pass the salt, herb-boy.”

Saph handed it over delicately. “You could use less of it, Iria. Your blood sings too loud lately.”

“Then maybe you cook next time, fish-eyes.”

“Maybe I will.”

The argument was routine — easy, tired, familiar. The kind of everyday noise that made the Herbalist feel almost human.

Azure let himself breathe. The warmth of the fire crept into his fingers. The bread was dense but sweet; the tea bitter and grounding. He focused on those small details, pretending the morning was ordinary.

Amarah broke the quiet after a few minutes. “You were in the gardens again,” she said, not looking up from her cup.

Azure swallowed his bread too quickly. “Y—yes. It’s peaceful there.”

“It’s distraction,” Amarah murmured. “You spend more time among your plants than your peers.”

Saph glanced up, quietly defending. “His plants listen better than most people here.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Two Time. “He’s not wrong.”

Amarah’s veil shifted slightly — maybe a smile beneath. “Perhaps. Still. The soil listens too closely, sometimes. Be wary of what you bury.”

Azure stared into his tea. “Of course.”

A brief silence followed — filled only by the sound of spoons scraping bowls, the fire crackling, someone humming under their breath.

Outside, the wind carried the scent of the garden — crushed petals and something faintly metallic beneath.

When breakfast ended, Verrin stood first, brushing crumbs from their cloak. “Amarah,” they said politely, “the western runes need cleansing. Shall I take a novice?”

She nodded once. “Take Saph. Azure can tend to the Herbalist’s stores. Two Time will assist.”

Azure’s stomach sank, though he smiled politely. “Understood.”

Two Time smirked. “You and me again. Think the... humidity will follow us?”

“Unlikely,” Azure muttered. “I think it’s localized.”

They raised a brow but didn’t pry. “Good. I hate damp.”

The others drifted out one by one, leaving the hall quiet but for the hiss of the fire and the faint rattle of teacups cooling.

Azure lingered a moment, staring into the empty bowl in front of him, listening to the faint echo of the wind in the hall — or maybe the memory of a low growl upstairs.

Then he rose, forced his shoulders straight, and followed Two Time.

The hall was quieter now, emptied of the cult’s early risers. The scent of mint and smoke lingered in the air, wrapping the room in a kind of soft melancholy. Azure stayed seated, his half-finished cup of tea gone cold beside his hand. Across the table, Two Time hadn’t moved either.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The wind outside brushed against the latticed windows, carrying a faint rattle of rain beginning to form in the distance.

Two Time’s gaze was on their spoon, absently tracing circles in the leftover porridge. Their tired reflection stared back at them from the dull metal — faint, flickering.

Azure cleared his throat. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

Two blinked, as if waking from a daydream. “Hm?”

“Since last week,” Azure continued gently. “You’ve been… off.” He tried to find the right word, one that didn’t sound like worried. “You skip evening talks. You don’t come by the gardens anymore. And you look like you haven’t slept since the solstice.”

Two chuckled softly — not humorously, just to fill the space. “I could say the same about you.”

Azure tried to smile back. “Touché. But you’re usually the one reminding me to ‘touch grass’ before I collapse.”

That earned a faint smirk. “You make it sound like I’m your caretaker.”

“Well,” Azure said, leaning forward slightly, “sometimes you are.”

Two’s smirk faltered. They looked down again, fiddling with the spoon. The sound of it against the clay bowl was small, rhythmic — a heartbeat out of sync.

Azure tilted his head, voice softer now. “Did something happen?”

Two’s shoulders stiffened. “What makes you think that?”

“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” Azure said. “Even Amarah noticed.”

Two gave a short, dry laugh. “Amarah notices everything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Two sighed, rubbing their temples with a gloved hand. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”

Azure offered a faint smile. “Not when I care.”

The words hung between them for a moment — awkwardly sincere.

Two blinked, then glanced away. “It’s nothing serious. I just… needed time.”

“Time for what?”

Two didn’t answer. They stared into their tea as if the steam might reveal something.

Azure hesitated, weighing whether to push. The last time he’d cornered someone emotionally, it hadn’t gone well. He didn’t want to repeat that mistake — not with Two.

So instead, he changed the tone. “You know, the others are starting to wonder if you’ve taken a vow of silence.”

Two snorted. “If I had, Amarah would’ve broken it by now.”

“There it is,” Azure said, grinning a little. “The humor’s still alive. Good sign.”

Two smiled back, tired but real this time. “Barely.”

They both went quiet again. Outside, the rain finally began — soft, steady, tapping against the wooden frames. It filled the hall with a hush that felt almost sacred.

Azure watched it for a moment before speaking again. “It’s strange. Rain always makes me feel like something’s ending.”

“Or starting,” Two offered.

“Depends on what you’ve buried, I guess.”

That got him a look — sharp, fleeting. Two didn’t say anything, but Azure saw the way their jaw tightened. He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

“…Sorry,” he said quietly. “That was a bad joke.”

Two’s expression softened. “No. You’re right. Things do end, one way or another.”

They both stared into their cups again.

The silence stretched long enough that Azure could hear the slow drip of water leaking somewhere above the rafters. A puddle was forming just behind the hearth — glimmering, fragile.

He thought, suddenly, of the thing upstairs. Of its glowing eyes in the dark, the weight of it breathing beside him. The soft growl that didn’t sound like hunger so much as ache.

And then he looked back at Two Time, and wondered if maybe they were both keeping something alive that should’ve been gone long ago.

“You can tell me,” he said, almost too quietly.

Two met his eyes. “Can I?”

“Of course.”

For a moment, Azure thought they might actually say something. Their hand stilled. Their lips parted slightly — a breath in, a word almost forming.

Then the moment passed. Two shook their head and leaned back. “It’s complicated.”

Azure smiled faintly, though his chest hurt. “It usually is.”

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out myself,” they said, standing up and gathering their dishes.

Azure rose as well, collecting his cup and plate to follow. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Two’s smirk returned, weak but familiar. “You would.”

They brought their dishes to the basin by the hearth. The water there was lukewarm, murky from herbs and ash. Azure dipped his hands in to scrub the plate clean, watching the surface ripple with distorted reflections — his face, Two’s beside it, and the faint glow of runes flickering beneath.

Two rinsed a cup beside him. “You ever notice,” they murmured, “how everything here smells like the same three herbs?”

Azure chuckled. “Sage, thyme, and despair?”

“That’s the one.”

He smiled, letting the rhythm of washing quiet his thoughts. “It’s better than how the outer halls used to smell. Remember that time the salves fermented wrong?”

Two winced. “Don’t remind me. Verrin didn’t stop gagging for a week.”

“And Amarah tried to convince us it was an alchemical experiment.”

“She’s good at that,” Two said with a small grin. “Turning disasters into lessons.”

Azure’s tone softened. “She has to be.”

They rinsed the last of the dishes and stacked them neatly on the counter. The rain outside deepened, pattering against the walls like soft applause.

Two leaned on the counter, arms folded. “You ever think about leaving?”

Azure blinked. “The... hall?”

“The cult.”

The question landed heavy.

He hesitated, fingers tightening on the edge of the sink. “…Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I always come back to the same thought: where else would I go?”

Two hummed quietly. “Alright.”

Azure glanced sideways at them. “What about you?”

Two shrugged, but it was too deliberate. “No.”

That wasn’t the answer of someone content.

Azure bit the inside of his cheek. “If you were planning anything... You’d tell me, right?”

Two met his gaze — steady, unreadable. Then they smiled just enough to sting. “Of course.”

Azure nodded, pretending to accept it. He didn’t.

They spent the next few minutes tidying the table in silence.

Azure gathered the empty cups, stacking them carefully. The repetitive work steadied him — a task simple enough that his mind could wander.

He thought about the night before, about the garden’s silence, about the way Two Time’s room light had been out long before midnight. He thought about their hesitations, their tiredness, their way of speaking like every word was a coin they didn’t want to spend.

He thought about how familiar that looked.

When they finally finished, Two reached for their coat. The movement drew Azure’s eyes — and for a fleeting second, he noticed something peeking from beneath their sleeve. A small bandage, half-hidden under fabric.

It looked old, but the edge was damp, faintly red.

Azure froze.

Two caught his glance and tugged the sleeve down immediately. Their tone was too casual when they said, “Ready to go?”

Azure’s throat felt dry. “…Yeah. Sure.”

They both turned toward the door, the floor creaking softly beneath their steps.

The hall behind them was empty now — quiet except for the rain and the faint hiss of the dying fire. The smell of herbs had gone stale, and the light from the windows had dimmed to a muted grey.

As they stepped out, Azure glanced back once. The puddle by the hearth had grown larger, rippling faintly with each drop from above.

He looked away before the reflection in it could shift again.

The corridor beyond the hall was narrow and cool, lined with hanging charms that chimed softly when brushed by passing air. Azure and Two walked side by side, their footsteps muted against the stone floor.

Neither spoke for a long while.

Finally, Azure broke the silence. “You’re bleeding.”

Two didn’t look at him. “It’s nothing.”

“You say that a lot.”

“And most of the time, it’s true.”

“Not this time.”

Two exhaled, long and weary. “You worry too much.”

“I learned it from you,” Azure said quietly.

That earned a laugh — genuine this time. “Touché again.”

They reached the stairwell leading down to the lower quarters. The air here was cooler, tinged with the smell of damp earth. Two paused at the top of the steps, hand resting on the railing.

“Azure,” they said, tone lower now. “Whatever you’re hiding — keep it that way.”

Azure’s stomach turned. “What?”

Two finally looked at him, and their eyes — pale grey, ringed with fatigue — held something almost fearful. “Some things in this place don’t need the truth. Trust me on that.”

And before Azure could ask, they descended the stairs, disappearing into the dim corridor below.

Azure stood there a long while, rain tapping faintly on the roof above, heartbeat echoing in his ears.

He wanted to call after them. To ask what they meant. To admit his own secret in return.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned back toward his room — where something waited, hungry and patient, hidden under layers of quiet.

The rain outside thickened into a steady downpour.

Azure shut the door behind him with a soft click, exhaling as if he’d just escaped a tribunal. The rain outside hadn’t let up — its steady tapping against the windows filled the quiet of his room. The air smelled faintly of damp parchment, crushed herbs, and something else underneath: ozone, and faintly… slime.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Normal morning. Nobody suspicious. Nobody eaten. We’re fine.”

A voice — smug and sing-song — echoed from his desk.

“Awwwww, young love.”

Azure froze. His gaze shot toward the corner, where the hat lay slouched over a stack of notes like a lazy cat. 

“I swear,” Azure muttered, walking over and snatching it up by the rim. “You say one more thing like that, and you’re taking a flying lesson.”

“Oh please,” it drawled. “You two were practically sparkling at each other. ‘Oh Two, why are you distant? Let me heal your emotional wounds with soup and staring.’”

Azure nearly launched the hat at the window then and there. “You weren’t even there!”

“Didn’t need to be. You’re radiating it through the walls. It’s embarrassing, honestly. My brim curled.”

Azure glared down at it, the muscle under his eye twitching. “You’re lucky you’re made of fabric.”

“Strong words from someone blushing at the mere mention of—”

Azure hurled it.

It hit the window with a satisfying fwump and slid down the glass, muttering something muffled and unprintable.

“Stay there,” Azure said, dusting off his hands and pretending that solved all his problems.

Of course, it didn’t.

Because the bed creaked behind him.

He turned just in time to see the blankets shift — then rise, as if something beneath them was stretching after a long, decadent nap. The air thickened with that faint, electric pressure that always made the room feel too small.

Azurewrath stirred, eyelids fluttering open. For a moment, he looked half-asleep — all long limbs and tangled sheets, hair draped across his face like ink spilled on silk. Then his nostrils flared.

The transformation was instant.

The softness vanished; every muscle went taut. His glowing eyes flared brighter — the purple deepening into something nearly violet-black. His tentacles twitched, tasting the air.

Azure knew that look.

“Oh no,” he whispered, already backing up. “No, no, no— don’t you start—”

Azurewrath’s lips peeled back into a faint snarl. A guttural, vibrating sound rolled out of him — half growl, half hiss. He turned his head toward the door, every movement smooth and deliberate, predatory.

Azure winced. What's wrong?”

The only reply was another low growl, more intense this time.

“Yeah, thought so.”

Azure ran a hand through his soft brown hair, trying to sound reasonable. “Look if you—”

Azurewrath growled louder.

“Oh for—” Azure rubbed his temples. “This is ridiculous.”

The creature uncurled further, sitting up in the bed now. His movements had that same unsettling grace — deliberate, elegant, too human in shape and not enough in motion. His dark purple skin glimmered faintly where light caught it, and the absence of his hat made him look even more otherworldly.

His eyes narrowed, still fixed toward the door like he could see through it — or maybe through time.

Azure sighed, stepping closer cautiously. “Look at me.”

The creature did, reluctantly.

The glow dimmed a little.

“That’s better,” Azure said softly. “Now tell me why you're so mad.”

"Is it because you're hungry??"

Silence.

"Is it Two—"

A low rumble of discontent.

"Oh," Azure crouched slightly, tone softening. “You can’t just growl at the mention of their name forever. It’s… unnerving.”

Azurewrath’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Okay, yes, fine,” Azure said, raising both hands in mock surrender. “They’re annoying sometimes. But you can’t hate them this much without telling me why.”

A flick of movement — a tentacle twitched, curling around one of the bedposts. Another brushed against the floorboards, tapping once, twice.

Azure’s lips tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

The creature’s jaw tensed. His throat made a noise that sounded almost like a word but broke halfway through — a rasp, a guttural choke. He shook his head sharply, as if rejecting the question itself.

Azure exhaled through his nose. “You’re impossible.”

That seemed to amuse him. Azurewrath’s mouth curved faintly — not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one. He turned away with exaggerated dignity and curled back up in the blankets, his tentacles tucking around him like the petals of a strange flower.

“Yeah, yeah. Go sulk,” Azure muttered, though a smile tugged at his lips despite himself.

Azurewrath huffed, curling tighter.

“Dramatic,” Azure said under his breath.

He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his chin on one hand. For a few moments, the only sounds were the steady rain and the faint hum of Azurewrath’s breathing — slow, rhythmic, like distant thunder.

Azure reached out absently, brushing a strand of black hair from the creature’s face. The faint shimmer of purple reflected off his pale fingers.

“Why do you hate them?” he murmured, not expecting an answer. “They’re… the only one who really gets me here.”

A flicker of movement — one glowing eye opened halfway.

Azure smiled faintly. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. His brown cloak slipped slightly off one shoulder, the fabric whispering against his skin. “I can’t believe this is my life,” he said softly. “Talking to a future version of myself like a cranky pet.”

The hat — still half-smashed against the window — decided to chime in again.

“You wish you could pull off that hair.”

Azure threw a book at it.

“Rude,” the hat said.

Azure ignored it, muttering, “Should’ve thrown the window next time…”

Azurewrath stirred at the sound, his tentacles flexing slightly. One of them brushed Azure’s arm, just a feather-light touch, as if checking that he was still there.

Azure went still, then smiled again — small, private. “Alright. Alright. I’m here.”

He stood and walked to the window, pulling the curtain back slightly. The rain outside had thickened into mist. The courtyard below was barely visible — a blur of grey stone and pale green. The runes carved along the walls glowed faintly, keeping the storm from seeping in.

His reflection looked strange in the glass: white skin almost luminescent in the dim light, brown hair falling loosely around his face, the cloak making him look older than he felt.

He looked back at the bed — at the thing that was, somehow, him and not him at all.

Azurewrath’s chest rose and fell steadily now, the tension fading, though the faint furrow between his brows never quite vanished. Even asleep, he looked haunted.

Azure whispered, “You really hate them, huh?”

The rain answered for him.

He turned back toward the window, resting his forehead briefly against the cold glass. The quiet pressed in — thick, heavy, not unfriendly but full of things unsaid.

The hat mumbled something unintelligible from the floor. Azure pretended not to hear it.

Later, when the rain dulled to a drizzle, Azure sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a pile of dried herbs. His fingers moved automatically, arranging stems and petals by color and texture. The rhythmic work helped. It always did.

Behind him, Azurewrath shifted again — restless, perhaps dreaming. One tentacle dangled over the edge of the bed, curling idly around the air.

Azure glanced back. “If you knock those jars over again, I’m making you clean it.”

A muffled huff from the blankets.

“I mean it.”

Silence. Then — deliberately — the tentacle nudged a small jar of chamomile just enough to clink against the floor.

Azure turned slowly. “You did not just—”

The creature’s shoulders rose and fell in an unmistakable imitation of a shrug.

“Oh, you’re insufferable.” Azure gathered the herbs back into their jars, muttering, “I’m talking to myself. I’m literally arguing with myself.”

He stood, dusting his cloak. “Fine. You win. I’ll get you meat. Eventually. Just… no more tantrums, alright?”

Azurewrath peeked one eye open again — glowing softly, amused.

Azure sighed. “And no eating Two Time.”

Another low, distinctly unrepentant growl.

“I’m serious.”

A pause. Then — the faintest flick of a tentacle, like a wave.

“I don’t know if that was a promise or a threat.”

Azure grabbed his hat from the floor, dusting it off and plopping it back onto his head. “You two are going to kill me,” he muttered, tugging the brim down. “One emotionally, the other literally.”

He sank back onto the bed, cloak pooling around him, and let himself breathe. The rain was tapering off now, replaced by the sound of dripping water from the eaves. The smell of herbs filled the room — familiar, grounding.

Azurewrath’s glow dimmed again, curling back into quiet.

Azure leaned against the bedpost, eyes half-closed. For a moment, the whole world felt suspended — no cult, no secrets, no hunger waiting beneath the skin. Just the hum of rain and the steady rhythm of two mismatched heartbeats sharing a single room.

He didn’t notice when he smiled.

The room smelled faintly of chamomile and dried lavender, mixed with the earthy tang of crushed roots. Azure crouched over the wooden table by the window, carefully grinding a handful of petals in a mortar. The rain had finally tapered off, leaving streaks of sunlight bouncing off the glass.

His brown cloak pooled around his knees, and his soft hair fell into his eyes as he hummed a quiet tune, letting the rhythm of his work ease the tightness in his shoulders. The mortar squeaked under his fingers, small clouds of pollen dusting the table.

A voice — dripping with sarcasm as always — came from the brim of his hat, slouched on the desk.

“If you hum anymore, you might wake up Sleeping Beauty over there,” it said, voice sharp as a whip.

Azure snorted. “I highly doubt he’s sleeping beauty right now. More like, ‘Sleeping Disaster.’”

“Yeah, you say that now. Wait until he actually pounces. You’ll see who’s the disaster then.”

Azure rolled his eyes, returning to grinding petals. “I’ll take my chances. At least I don’t have glowing eyes staring at me from the corner, waiting for the exact moment I make a wrong move.”

The hat huffed. “And yet here you are, voluntarily grinding herbs for him. ‘Care for my monster twin, dear self?’ Bravo, Shakespeare. Really poetic.”

Azure didn’t respond. He knew talking back to the hat was pointless — it had no moral compass and an endless supply of snark.

He didn’t notice the slight shift in the blankets until a soft creak came from the bed.

“Ah. You’re awake,” Azure said, smiling over his shoulder. “Did you have a good—“

Before he could finish, a mass of black and purple streaked across the room like liquid shadow. Azure barely had time to register before tentacles wrapped around him, and a wet, slimy tongue traced his cheek.

“—wait what—!”

Azure lurched backward, hands flailing. Azurewrath huffed, letting out a low, vibrating growl that rolled from deep in his chest. His glowing eyes fixed on Azure with sharp focus, the air around him thickening with raw energy.

The hat’s voice cut through the chaos, high-pitched and gleeful. “Well! Someone’s grumpy after their nap! I told you, you’d pay for humming!”

“Not again!” Azure waved it off with one arm while holding himself still with the other. “Well, he’s not attacking me! He’s just… extremely aggressive about affection!”

Azurewrath’s tentacles flexed again, pressing lightly but firmly against Azure’s arms and shoulders. Another lick followed, rapid and wet, followed by a sniff that made Azure gag.

“Oh! Eugh—Stop doing that! Why??” Azure gagged again, swatting at the tentacle brushing his chest. “...You're still hungry. Spawn, I forgot about that.”

Azurewrath growled low, vibrating through the mattress as though the growl itself could rattle the floor. The smell of his hunger — iron and something sharp — rolled toward Azure. Flowers had never stood a chance.

The hat cheered from the desk, voice full of mock excitement. “Ha! Told you! You’re so going to fail at breakfast duty!”

Azure spun toward it, waving one hand. “I don’t need commentary! I need survival tips!”

“Survival tips?” the hat said, amused. “Step one: don’t get eaten. Step two: see step one.”

Azure flopped onto his side on the floor, trying to get a grip on the tentacle that had looped around his shoulders. “Why is he like this? He ate nothing all morning and now he’s… he’s this.”

The creature tilted its head, letting out another low growl, tentacles brushing over the table. One flicked at the jar of dried chamomile, sending it clattering to the floor.

Azure’s heart sank. “No, that’s it. He’s just hungry.”

The hat added, with no small amount of glee, “You realize what this means, right? You’re officially the walking appetizer now.”

Azure groaned. “I’m not food. I’m the person who might feed him food eventually. Big difference.”

Azurewrath’s eyes glowed brighter. Tentacles twitched, the tips brushing over Azure’s arms with a teasing sort of precision. One curled into his hair, tugging slightly, and he yelped.

“Okay! Okay! Stop it!” Azure said, attempting to push him back gently. “You’re—ugh—heavier than you look!”

Another tentacle slithered across his lap, nudging a stack of books to the floor. “I give up,” Azure muttered. “You’re literally impossible.”

The creature let out a low, vibrating growl, clearly approving the sentiment but not conceding. His glowing eyes bore into Azure, unblinking, and the sheer elegance of his form made the room feel simultaneously cramped and regal.

“Alright,” Azure said finally, taking a deep breath. “Let’s negotiate. Flowers are… apparently useless. We need… something else.”

Another lick across the cheek reminded him that negotiation might not be possible in this scenario.

The hat chimed in again, full of venomous delight: “You’re negotiating with yourself. And losing.”

Azure wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I hate you. I hate both of you.”

“Ah, finally! Progress!” the hat said. “I’m proud of you.”

Azure gave it a pointed look. “I said I hate you, not—”

The creature twitched, an almost imperceptible shake of the head, as if it understood every word but refused to reply. Its glowing eyes bored into him again, the soft purple of its gaze now sharp with want.

Azure exhaled slowly. “I can’t. I just can’t feed you flowers again.”

Tentacles curled, brushing him again with a soft pressure that was part claim, part irritation. Azure backed toward the table, knocking over another jar of herbs in the process.

Azurewrath growled, low and resonant — and then did something unexpected. He lifted himself slightly on the bed, looming over Azure like a shadow, then pounced.

Azure let out a startled squeak, landing face-first into the cushions. Tentacles tangled around him, holding him in place as a wet, exploratory lick found his neck this time.

“Alright, I get it!” he yelped, pushing with his hands against the thick, coiling limbs. 

The hat, now perched on a jar on the table, sang in glee: “It’s official. You’re the hors d’oeuvre now.”

Azure groaned, flopping sideways onto the floor again, tangled in cloak and hair. “I need… meat. Real food. Not whatever this is."

Another lick. Tentacle press. Growl. Glare. Elegance. Terror. Love. All rolled into one.

Azure finally sat up, brushing himself off, trying to regain some semblance of authority. “Fine. Fine. Let’s figure this out together. You don’t get to destroy the herbs first. I need my sanity intact!”

The creature huffed, turning away and curling slightly back into the blankets, tentacles still twitching as if sulking.

Azure let out a long breath, brushing his hair from his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. But we’re still eating today, even if I have to cook the entire forest.”

Tentacles twitched, a low growl vibrating from deep in Azurewrath’s chest. It wasn’t defiance this time. Just… acknowledgement.

Azure smiled despite himself. “I can’t believe I’m living like this.”

The hat clapped, voice dripping sarcasm: “Oh, you’re thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. Now go get the food before Sleeping Beauty over there decides to audition for a monster musical.”

Azure groaned, tugging his cloak tighter. “I swear, one day I’m going to rip that hat apart.”

Tentacles twitched again, brushing against his arm. Azure froze, realizing in the quiet aftermath that maybe… maybe the creature wasn’t as impossible as he thought.

He just hoped that didn’t extend to actual eating.

“…You’ve gotta stop doing that,” Azure murmured at his other self, brushing dust off his clothes.

Azure slung his brown cloak over his shoulders and adjusted the soft folds of his hair in the mirror beside the door. Noon sunlight spilled across his room, slicing through the lingering shadows of morning, catching the soft shine of his white skin. Tentatively, he glanced at the bed behind him.

Azurewrath was nowhere to be seen, thankfully, curled up in a huff somewhere under the sheets. The creature’s groans from earlier still lingered in the back of Azure’s mind. One wrong move, and he’d be all but consumed—or at least thoroughly slobbered on.

He set his hat on the desk, leaning against a jar of chamomile. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone,” he muttered. The hat tilted slightly, brim cocked, as if mocking him silently.

“I will survive, thank you very much,” Azure whispered, although he wasn’t entirely sure if he was talking to himself or the hat.

The hall awaited, quiet except for the faint hum of sunlight glinting off its polished wooden floors. Herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles, their scent a heady mix of sage, lavender, and rosemary. Tapestries, faded and frayed, told stories of past cult deeds, of sacrificial rites and forest guardianship, though most of the colors had dulled to muted ochres and greens. The hall felt alive, yet calm, as if it existed in its own bubble of time.

Azure tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to bump into the furniture that had seen far too many hurried mornings. He clutched the small wicker basket he’d brought along, intending to smuggle some flowers—and maybe something slightly more… substantial—for Azurewrath.

At the bottom of the stairs, the hall opened up fully, sunlight flooding the room in warm slats. Members of the Spawncult were scattered across the room, bustling in quiet familiarity. Their chatter was easy, comfortable, the kind of domestic chaos that could only exist in a family that had long forgotten the sharpness of formalities.

Veyra sat at a long oak table near the window, robes draped around her, quill scratching across a scroll. Her hair was neatly tucked under a hood, and her expression was unreadable as she meticulously documented some ritual, or perhaps the consumption of yesterday’s breakfast.

Kaelen stood near a large counter, his broad frame adorned in a blood-stained apron, humming a cheerful tune. He moved with the confidence of someone who had known the weight of cleavers and knives since birth. Today, he was chopping vegetables—or maybe something else—though Azure wasn’t quite brave enough to ask.

Azure took a cautious step forward, trying to appear casual. “Good noon,” he said, voice wavering slightly. The words came out stiff, awkward, and far too formal for the informal tone of the hall.

“Azure!” Veyra’s head snapped up, quill poised. “A most fortuitous appearance. Are you here for the midday scroll distribution?”

Azure blinked, flustered. “Uh… scrolls? Yes. Of course. I… mean… I wanted to check… uh… ritual schedules. Very… important.”

Veyra’s lips twitched. “Ah. Naturally. Balance between creation and decay must be observed, even in midday affairs.” She pushed a neatly rolled scroll toward him across the table. “Here. Perhaps a note on nourishment rituals will aid your… endeavors.”

Azure hesitated, clutching the scroll awkwardly. He had no idea what half the words meant, but he nodded vigorously, pretending to study it. “Yes… very… nourishing.”

Kaelen, noticing him, leaned on the counter and grinned. “Azure! Just the soft little sprout I wanted to see. Come help me chop these herbs—or whatever they are.” He gestured broadly with a cleaver, smearing the air with what looked suspiciously like beet juice. “Your hands are too soft for cult life if you’re just staring at scrolls.”

Azure’s eyes widened. “I… I… I am… sturdy! Very sturdy.”

Kaelen’s laugh boomed, echoing against the wooden walls. “We’ll see, sprout. We’ll see.”

Azure’s mind raced. Meat. He’s got meat. I can ask… maybe… but I can’t outright ask!

He approached Kaelen cautiously, basket clutched tight against his chest. “Um… I was… wondering if perhaps… some ingredients… maybe something… suitable for… a… potion? Yes. A potion.”

Kaelen’s eyebrows lifted. “A potion, you say? Hmm… what sort of potion, sprout? Surely something more than chamomile tea, right?” He chuckled, brushing flour off his apron. “You’re very… particular, I see. Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.”

Azure’s stomach lurched. “No! No, nothing… particular! Just… potion ingredients. For… flowers. Yes.”

Kaelen stared at him for a beat, then shrugged. “Sure, sure. If that’s what you say.”

Azure exhaled quietly, feeling both relief and mounting anxiety. They believe me. Why do they believe me?

Veyra leaned over, inspecting the basket. “Oh! Do you carry flowers as well? How quaint.” She held a scroll in her free hand. “Perhaps a note on herbal nutritive properties could be helpful. Some petals are quite… sustaining.”

Azure’s teeth clenched. “Sustaining… yes… very… sustaining. Just like… nourishment rituals. Totally.”

Veyra’s quill scratched against the scroll again, completely ignoring the basket’s actual contents. Azure gave her a grateful, desperate look. Please don’t notice him, he thought, his heart hammering.

Kaelen, meanwhile, had begun chopping something larger on his counter, the rhythm hypnotic and slightly terrifying. Azure inched closer, trying to gauge if any of it might be appropriate for Azurewrath. No, don’t stare. Don’t panic. Just… negotiate silently.

“You look troubled, sprout,” Kaelen said suddenly, leaning over. “Something on your mind?”

Azure’s mind raced. Oh no. Too casual! They’re going to notice I’m hiding… everything! He forced a smile. “Oh, nothing! Just… thinking about… herbal… rotations. Very… complicated stuff.”

Kaelen nodded slowly, chopping with exaggerated flourish. “Hmm. I see. Complex. I approve of complexity. But remember, sometimes the simplest things work best. You don’t need to overthink.”

Azure’s brain fired in panic. Simple… yes, simple… maybe that’s code for meat… maybe I can… no, stay calm…

Veyra, oblivious to Kaelen’s more ominous presence, leaned closer. “Azure, if you truly want to understand nourishment, you must understand the cycle. Petals, leaves, roots… and occasionally—” she paused, quill in midair, “—ritual meat offerings. But only in the proper order, of course.”

Azure felt his face heat. “Ritual… meat… yes… I… understand…”

Kaelen’s grin widened. “See? Even Veyra agrees! You’re learning fast.”

Azure groaned internally. Learning fast is code for ‘they think I know what I’m doing’ but I have no idea…’

From the far side of the hall, other cult members passed through: Alara, the Weaving Seer, trailing threads of silken yarn across the floor; Bront, the Hammerhand, laughing at some private joke with a corner of the room; all familiar, all oblivious to the little secret in Azure’s basket.

Azure tried to maneuver around Kaelen without drawing attention to the meat he’d planned for Azurewrath. Every movement was awkward, every smile forced.

Kaelen, noticing Azure’s stiff posture, leaned in. “You’re hiding something, sprout. What is it?”

Azure froze. “Uh… nothing! Absolutely… nothing. Just… ingredients. Very… ordinary ingredients. Yes.”

Kaelen’s brow furrowed, then he shrugged, turning back to his chopping. “Fine. But remember: the hall has ears, and the heart sees more than you think.”

Azure winced but kept moving, inching past Veyra, past the table, toward the pantry. He muttered under his breath, “Okay… okay… just get the… get the supplies… keep it casual… don’t die… or spill…”

Veyra called after him, oblivious to his anxiety. “Do remember, Azure, to document everything! Even the smallest preparation could be significant in maintaining balance between creation and decay.”

Azure nodded, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. “Of course… balance… decay… I’ll… totally… remember…”

Kaelen waved a hand. “Off you go, Azure. Don’t keep the ingredients waiting!”

Azure picked up the speed and walked out the pantry, heart pounding.

Azure’s feet shuffled along the worn wooden floor of the hall, basket clutched tightly against his chest. Sunlight had shifted, now slanting lazily through the high windows, casting long gold-and-brown stripes across the polished boards. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air, mingling with something faintly metallic—Kaelen’s handiwork from earlier, no doubt.

For a moment, Azure paused, listening to the distant hum of the Spawncult members busy with their midday tasks. He could hear Veyra muttering to herself over a scroll, Kaelen chopping something with rhythmic precision, and the soft clatter of Alara’s silken threads against the floor. Everything seemed ordinary, mundane even.

Yet, he couldn’t shake the weight pressing in his chest—the nagging sense that something was off. And he knew exactly where to go to see if anyone else might know.

Two Time’s quarters were a few doors down, tucked behind a narrow alcove lined with shelves of dusty tomes and ritual implements. Azure knocked softly, almost apologetically.

“Two Time?” he called.

A shadow stirred behind the door, and then Two Time’s voice, quiet and measured, came from within. “It’s open.”

Azure pushed the door ajar. Two Time sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with a half-finished scroll in their hands. Their usual suit was slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up, and their expression, though calm, seemed distant.

“Hey,” Azure said, trying to keep his tone light. “I… uh… thought I’d check in. See how you’re… you know… surviving the day?”

Two Time’s eyes flicked up, and for a brief second, there was something unreadable there—hesitation, maybe even worry—before their usual neutral mask returned. “I’m fine. Busy with… tasks. You know how it is.”

Azure nodded, though the unease didn’t leave him. “Yeah… tasks.” He shuffled closer, trying to appear casual but failing miserably. “I just… wondered if something’s wrong.”

Two Time’s gaze flicked to the basket in Azure’s hands. “Food?” they asked, voice neutral, almost dismissive. “Don’t eat too much. You’ll need your wits about you.”

Azure sighed. “It’s not… that. I mean, I just… it feels like you’re hiding something. Something big.” He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “And I’m… bad at lying, but I can tell when someone else is too.”

Two Time blinked, then glanced away, fiddling with the corner of the scroll. “I’m… just… Amarah’s instructions. You know… the usual. Things to prepare. Precautions.”

Azure frowned. “Come on. You’re always so cryptic. I know you’re not telling me everything. Please. I just—”

“Azure.” Two Time’s voice softened slightly, though their posture remained stiff. “I can’t. Not everything. You… wouldn’t understand, not yet.”

Azure’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a quiet, frustrated groan. “Yeah… probably right. But it feels… lonely, I guess. Seeing you act all… dismissive. I don’t know, I just—”

Two Time’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, though it quickly faded. “I don’t want you worrying. That’s all.”

Azure blinked at them, tilting his head. “Worrying? You make it impossible not to.”

Two Time gave a small, humorless chuckle. “Then you’re very bad at listening to your own instincts.”

Azure flushed slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just really good at… acting mysterious.” He tried to lighten the mood, attempting a joke, though it came out awkward: “Seriously, you make hiding things look like an Olympic sport.”

Two Time’s eyebrow quirked. “Perhaps. But some things aren’t meant to be Olympic sports.”

Azure groaned quietly, dropping onto the floor opposite them. “Figures. Figures. You’re impossible, you know that?”

Two Time tilted their head, regarding him with a faint, almost amused expression. “And yet, here you are.”

Azure managed a weak grin. “Yeah, I guess I’m… persistent?”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The light slanting through the window dusted the room in a calm, golden glow. Outside, the faint clatter of the hall continued, a soft reminder of normalcy in the chaos of cult life.

Finally, Two Time leaned back against the wall fully, letting out a quiet sigh. “Amarah wants things done a certain way. I can’t tell you more. It’s… complicated. And dangerous.”

Azure nodded, accepting the answer even if it left him unsatisfied. “Okay… I get it. Dangerous. But… thanks for telling me at least… that part.”

Two Time’s gaze softened, just slightly, and they nodded. “You’re… curious, yes. I appreciate it. But don’t press too hard. Some truths… reveal themselves in time.”

Azure sighed, leaning back on his hands. “I suppose patience is part of this whole… cult life thing, huh?”

Two Time’s lips twitched again, almost imperceptibly. “You’re learning. Slowly.”

Azure laughed quietly, a sound that was half exasperation, half amusement. “I guess I am. Slowly… very, very slowly.”

Another pause. Sunlight fell across their crossed legs, highlighting the dust motes floating lazily in the warm noon air. Azure’s gaze drifted toward the scrolls and shelves around the room, cluttered but somehow orderly, each item holding meaning only Two Time fully understood.

“I… I’m glad you’re okay,” Azure said quietly, breaking the silence. “Even if you’re acting… like this. Distant.”

Two Time gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I am. Just… cautious. For both our sakes.”

Azure smiled faintly, even as the weight of the conversation pressed on him. “Yeah… cautious. Got it. I… I won’t pry… not too much.”

Two Time finally allowed a hint of a relaxed posture, exhaling through their nose. “Good. That’s… appreciated.”

Azure nodded, leaning back with a small grin. “You know… you’re still impossible. But… thanks for being… not completely impossible.”

Two Time gave a quiet laugh, a sound softer than usual. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Azure chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll just… leave you to your… cryptic, mysterious ways then.”

“Best for both of us,” Two Time replied.

Azure rose slowly, basket in hand, feeling the familiar mix of exasperation and affection. “See you later… or sooner than later, depending on how long I survive Kaelen’s chopping.”

Two Time gave a faint, dry laugh. “Farewell, Az.”

Azure stepped back into the hall, the sunlight hitting his cloak, the basket swinging slightly. He let out a quiet, relieved sigh. “At least I tried… sort of.”

Azure returned to his room, the afternoon sun spilling through the tall windows, dust motes floating lazily in the warm light. The brown cloak around his shoulders rustled as he set the basket down and carefully placed the last bits of herbs and petals out of sight.

The hat, perched jauntily on the edge of the desk, chimed immediately. “Back so soon? Did someone miss me, or just desperate for compliments?”

“Neither. And don’t start," Azure rolled his eyes, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I survived. Barely. And yes, I actually asked what was going on, but… you know. Cryptic as ever. No new information gained, only existential frustration.”

The hat huffed dramatically. “Exquisite. Nothing says ‘healthy breakfast’ like existential frustration. ”

Azure waved vaguely toward the basket. “This is for…” He trailed off as his eyes landed on the figure sprawled across the bed.

Azurewrath stirred, shifting slightly under the covers. Four long, elegant tentacles curled and uncurling lazily, their messy black hair falling across their glowing purple eyes. They sniffed the air, and their growl was low and rumbling—not menacing, just… expectant.

Azure froze, trying not to laugh at the combination of intensity and subtle excitement. He held up a plate from the basket. “Okay… okay… here.”

Azurewrath’s eyes widened slightly, and without a second thought, he lunged—not aggressively, but in a chaotic, happy burst of energy—and snatched the meat from Azure’s hand. The tentacles wrapped around the plate for balance as he devoured it in a way that was both terrifying and oddly elegant.

The hat squealed. “OH! Finally! Meat! He’s happy! Somebody call the parade committee!”

Azure exhaled, leaning against the doorframe, smiling despite himself. “Yeah… yeah… looks like he’s finally… content.”

Azurewrath finished the last bite and let out a low, satisfied hum, stretching his tentacles over the edge of the bed. For the first time all day, his purple eyes were relaxed, glimmering almost playfully. No sulking. No growling at shadows. Just… calm.

Azure shook his head in relief, stepping closer. “Glad to see you’re… not being impossible right now.”

The hat tilted, as if leaning closer to Azure for effect. “Well, would you look at that. Someone’s finally full and behaving like a civilized creature. I’m shocked. Truly.”

Azure let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah… yeah, I guess even he can be satisfied.”

Azurewrath’s only response was a low, almost approving rumble, his tentacles curling neatly around him as he leaned back, resting his head on the pillow.

The hat chimed in, clearly delighted. “Ohhh, I love this! Peace at last! Maybe now we can actually get some normal chaos in this room instead of melodramatic sulking.”

Azure muttered, trying not to laugh. “I’m just… glad it worked."

Azurewrath tilted his head slightly, eyes following Azure’s every movement, clearly satisfied and… dare he admit it, happy. It was a rare thing to see the usually moody, elegant mess so completely at ease.

Azure smiled, setting down the rest of the basket. “Yeah… I think we’re good. No more sulking. At least for now.”

The hat snickered again. “I’ll believe it when the next growl doesn’t turn into a dramatic storm. But okay… content is cute. Very cute. You’re a good little meat-giver, Azure. Or maybe just a hero. Eh, same thing.”

Azure rolled his eyes but laughed, moving to tidy up the plates. Azurewrath hummed softly, a sound of satisfaction rather than annoyance, curling his tentacles lazily around himself. The room was calm, warm sunlight spilling over the bed, the faint aroma of herbs lingering, and for the first time in hours, peace had settled—chaotic creatures included.

Azure muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “Yeah… this is good. Really good.”

The hat hummed melodically, clearly pleased. “Next time… try chocolate. Just saying.”

Azure groaned. “No. Never chocolate.”

Azurewrath simply hummed again, curling up fully on the bed, eyes closed in satisfaction.

And for the first time that day, Azure could leave the room without fearing a sulky growl or a dramatic tentacle lunge. The monster was happy. Content. Peaceful.

At least for now.