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The corridor shook as something slammed against the wall hard enough to scatter dust like pale rain.
Hornet flicked her needle through the air, landing neatly beside Shakra just as the source of the noise revealed itself: her sibling.
The Hollow Knight — no, the Pure Vessel itself — stood in the middle of the chamber, silent, blade dripping with ichor. The surrounding bugs were twitching heaps on the floor, still trying (and failing) to rise. It was the kind of sight that made most adventurers run.
Not Shakra.
Instead, she leaned against the stone wall, lips curling into a grin that could’ve been trouble or promise. “So… that’s your brother?”
Hornet adjusted her veil, sharp gaze flicking toward her sibling’s featureless helm. “Sibling,” she corrected, voice clipped. “Kin, born of the same mold.”
Shakra tilted her head, eyes glinting, then—oh no—she let the words slip out in a blush-tinted breath:
“…Is he single?”
Hornet froze mid-stance, staring at her with an expression usually reserved for watching someone lick raw fungus. Eyes on her mask gets thin while she uttered “You cannot be serious.”
“Pashunka...Dead serious.” Shakra fanned herself with her hand, entirely too dramatic. “Tall, silent, powerful, probably brooding under all that armor—exactly my type.”
The Pure Vessel, entirely uninterested in the conversation, methodically stabbed another twitching bug like the chad they are and let it slump.
Hornet pinched the bridge of her nose like she was deciding whether to stab Shakra or just let her humiliate herself. “He is literally a void-stuffed vessel forged to contain an ancient infection.”
Shakra’s blush deepened. “That’s not a no.” then smirked while saying “Yeah, and now he’s my type.”
Pure Vessel, of course, said nothing. He finished impaling another bug and turned his head, blank helm staring directly at them. The silence stretched, heavy and unreadable.
Hornet groaned. “Do not encourage her.”
But Shakra, undeterred, strode forward, boots crunching on broken shells until she was nearly chest to chest with the Vessel. She tilted her head back to meet the eyeless helm, heart racing at the sheer gravity of that quiet presence.
“You fight like someone who doesn’t need words,” she murmured. “Lucky for you, I don’t need them either.”
And before Hornet could scream, Shakra slid a hand up the Vessel’s chest plate and kissed him.
The world tilted. For one surreal heartbeat, the Pure Vessel stood still—then his hands moved. Not gentle, not hesitant, but decisive. Gauntleted fingers caught her waist, pulling her closer, answering with a kiss that was strangely careful for a creature built for killing.
The alcove wall caught her back. She gasped into the void-kiss, heat sparking where cold armor pressed against her. His silence was thunder, his stillness a cage—and she let herself sink into it, pulse hammering like a drum.
When they finally broke apart, Shakra’s lips were swollen, her breath uneven. She grinned anyway. “Guess that’s a yes.”
Hornet slapped her palm over her own face and muttered into her glove, “I despise this timeline.”
Pure Vessel said nothing, but his hand lingered on Shakra’s hip as if making his own silent claim.
From deeper in the ruins, another screech rose. Hornet yanked her needle free, striding past them with a dramatic swish of veil. “Enough indulgence. We fight.”
Shakra winked up at the Vessel, still flushed. “Later, then?”
No answer. Only silence, and the weight of his hand letting go with reluctant precision.
But somehow, in the hush of battle, it felt like a promise.