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Flame still feels the lingering jealousy at the mere sight of Jaden standing too close to Wemmbu.
The climb to this mountainous area did not take that long. What were they doing again? The invisible guy with blue trims had taken Eggchan, and Flame—Flame was supposed to be looking for Eggchan too. He needs answers from Eggchan.
How did they lose Eggchan again?
Flame stares at the spider-hybrid at his side, his thoughts darkening and clouding in haze.
“What’s stopping me from killing Arachnid right now?” Flame’s mouth moved without thinking, “he’s right here beside me, I can just kill him.”
Wemmbu, who was a few steps ahead of everyone else, snapped to him. He looks angry.
Wait what?! What did Flame do?
Flame feels something in him break at the way Wemmbu looked at him.
“Try that shit, Flame, I dare you,” Wemmbu says through gritted teeth. “‘Coz if you do, I’ll just tell them where Lomedy is and you’re going to be in the same situation as I am right now.”
Huh? But Wemmbu cares a lot about Lomedy.
Flame scoffs, “fine, whatever.”
He doesn’t mean that.
They reached the circular platform above the mountain. Eggchan was standing behind the blue trims invis guy. Their group had unconsciously split in three. Arachnid and Yungyx with their two other chungy guards, Wemmbu and Jaden standing together in the middle, and Flame alone at the side.
Why is Wemmbu way over there? He should be standing beside Flame.
Flame feels the haze in his mind thickening. He tries shaking his head.
He can’t.
The invis guy said something about auctioning Eggchan, giving him to the highest bidder.
Yungy had offered three diamonds.
Flame snorted before offering more as the representative of Cindercrest.
Since when? He wasn’t a team player. He didn’t give a damn about factions or banners or some civilization. He was a solo player—he always had been.
Wemmbu is the only exception, of course.
But as the words spilled out, he felt a sickening sense of duty that wasn’t his. As if he was being forced to read a script.
Wemmbu’s anger from before hadn’t faded.
“Cindercrest?” Wemmbu’s eyes searched Flame’s face for a joke that wasn’t there. “Why do you even care about Cindercrest, Flame? You’re a solo player! You’ve always been a solo player!”
The realization hit Flame like a physical blow to the stomach.
This isn’t right.
Wemmbu was seven months pregnant.
Flame could still feel the warmth of their home, the way he’d subconsciously reach out to steady Wemmbu, or the way they’d spend hours arguing over nursery colors and names.
His world revolved around making sure his husband was safe, fed, and comfortable. He was a complete goner for that man—a total simp, and he knew it.
But here, on this cold mountain, the person he’d do anything for was looking at him like a stranger.
Or worse, like a traitor.
Flame wanted to scream.
He wanted to reach out, grab Wemmbu by the shoulders, and tell him that none of this made sense.
He wanted to tell him that they were married, for god’s sake, that they had a home, that they were supposed to be preparing for a baby, not making negotiations and participating in some human—angel?—trafficking shit.
But his jaw moved with a mind of its own.
“Because Lomedy likes Cindercrest,” Flame heard himself say, tone flat and dismissive. “And Lomedy cares about it. That’s enough for me.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Wemmbu didn’t yell. He didn’t snap back with a witty remark or a threat.
He just stood there, and Flame watched in horror as the light in Wemmbu’s eyes—the fire that usually met Flame’s own—simply went out.
It was a look of total, absolute betrayal.
Wemmbu looked shattered.
In this moment, Flame could feel the weight of a history he didn’t recognize but felt anyway—the years of fighting side-by-side, the wars where they were the only two who mattered, the quiet moments between the chaos where the rivalry blurred into something much deeper.
All of it was being erased by a single sentence.
Flame had drawn a line.
On one side stood Lomedy and a faction Flame didn’t even personally like. On the other side stood Wemmbu.
And Flame hadn’t even hesitated to choose.
Wemmbu’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t cry—he wasn’t the type to break down in front of an enemy. He just looked down at the stone floor of the circular platform, his posture radiating a sudden heavy defeat.
It was the look of someone realizing that the person they would have burned the world for wouldn’t even lift a finger to help them.
Flame’s heart felt like it was being physically crushed in his chest—a slow, agonizing squeeze.
Stop it, he pleaded with himself, the image of his pregnant husband back home flashing vividly against the nightmare.
Look at him. Can’t you see he’s hurting? Just go to him!
But Flame stayed rooted to his spot, cold and distant—a stranger in his own skin—watching the man he loves crumble because of words he couldn’t stop saying.
Flame had never heard silence quite this loud.
Jaden, Arachnid and Yungy didn’t move an inch. They just watched the back-and-forth with wide eyes, looking between Flame and Wemmbu like they were witnessing a messy divorce.
Even the invis guy had stopped talking about the auction.
The tension was thick enough to choke on—everyone could feel the shift.
Flame was supposed to be the one person Wemmbu could count on, but the way Flame only stood there was making even the enemies feel awkward.
Wemmbu’s head stayed down for a second longer, the defeat rolling off him in waves.
But then, it curdled.
The heartbreak snapped into a sharp fury the moment he glanced at Flame and realized there was no backup coming.
There was no “just kidding.”
There was no Flame coming to stand by his side.
Wemmbu looked at Jaden, then back at Flame. The realization hit him.
He was alone in this.
Fine.
If Flame wanted to be the representative of Cindercrest, he could die being their dog.
“So that’s how it is, okay then,” Wemmbu whispered, voice trembling with a rage that made the air feel even colder.
Without another word, Wemmbu’s hand blurred.
He didn’t go for his mace. He pulled out his fishing rod, the hook glinting as he flicked it with precision, and in the same breath, he dropped an orbital strike right in the center of the platform.
“Jaden, move!” Wemmbu yelled, his voice cracking with a strain of it all.
The platform turned into a blur of white light and screaming. Every man for himself.
As the world started to explode around them, Flame’s body finally moved, but only to draw his weapon against the person he’d die for in the real world.
He was losing him.
He was actually losing him.
The world turned into a smudge of grey and static.
Flame swung his sword, but the weight of it felt wrong. There was a sound like a heartbeat thumping in his ears until it drowned out the explosions.
It’s the sound of a mace hitting flesh and bones, but Flame hears the sound of a nursery door creaking open.
He sees Wemmbu—this version of Wemmbu, the one with fury in his eyes and blood on his hands—and the image flickers.
For a split second, he’s not holding a weapon; he’s leaning against the kitchen counter laughing at something Flame said.
Then the static snaps back. The hatred in Wemmbu’s gaze is a physical weight, a poison that makes Flame’s skin crawl.
Kill him, the nightmare commands. He’s the enemy. Follow your honor. Your code.
No, Flame’s mind shrieks, a muffled voice behind a wall of glass. He’s seven months along. He’s my husband. Don’t touch him!
The haze is everywhere now.
The smell of iron and death keeps shifting into the scent of Wemmbu’s hair after a shower.
Flame’s hand raises his weapon, steady and clinical. He’s the perfect soldier here—the perfect weapon—a man who values his reputation over everything else.
He’s only a shell. He doesn’t care.
Except he’s dying.
Every time he looks at Wemmbu’s furious face, Flame feels his soul being ripped out through his ribs.
Wemmbu lunges, his spear whistling through the air.
Flame parries, but his vision is a mess of contradiction.
One moment he’s on a battlefield, the next he’s feeling the ghost of a kick against his palm—a small life moving under Wemmbu’s skin.
WAKE UP.
He tries to drop the sword.
His fingers won’t uncurl.
He’s trapped in a body that’s trying to murder his entire world for the sake of ‘honor.’
Wemmbu’s face is inches from him, twisted in a mask of pure, unfiltered loathing.
“You chose them,” Wemmbu spat, the words dripping with venom.
I didn’t! I wouldn’t!
Flame’s mind is a hurricane of panic, screaming against this fucked up nightmare’s script.
The overlap is deafening now.
The sound of mace hitting the floor, the steady thrum of Wemmbu’s heartbeat during a quiet night, the sound of Wemmbu’s voice saying I love you and I hate you at the exact same time.
It’s too much.
The colors are bleeding together—purple roofs, grey mountains, cream stone, red blood.
WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP—
Flame’s eyes snapped open, his body jerking so hard he nearly fell off the bed.
He was gasping, his chest heaving as he stared into the dark.
The room was quiet. The air was cool. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, frantic and terrified.
He could feel his body warming up.
He didn’t care about honor. He didn’t care about some code. Not anymore. He just needed to know it wasn’t real.
Shaking, Flame turned his head, his eyes straining in the dim light to find the silhouette beside him—to find the person who was supposed to be there, safe and whole and his.
There he is. Wemmbu. His Wemmbu.
He’s sleeping on his side, his breath slow and even, one hand resting protectively over the heavy curve of his seven-month belly.
In the dim moonlight, he looks so soft—nothing like the shattered, blood-stained nightmare from the mountain.
Flame stares at him in a daze, the awe hitting him so hard it’s almost painful.
This is his. All of this.
The man, the life they built, the actual baby currently growing inside his husband.
They made that.
Wemmbu is literally carrying a piece of them both, and in the dream, Flame had none of that and was ready to throw whatever relationship he had built with that Wemmbu for some fucking civilization—
The memory of Wemmbu’s hateful glare flashes in his mind and Flame’s composure is just… gone.
A choked, pathetic sob hitches in his throat.
He tries to swallow it, but then comes the sniffles.
He’s full-on flowing out tears now, his shoulders shaking as he looks at the man he almost “lost” in his head.
Wemmbu, who has been a light sleeper ever since his center of gravity shifted and his back started aching, stirs immediately.
He groans softly, blinking his golden eyes open, squinting through the dark at the blurry shape of his husband.
“Flam…?” Wemmbu’s voice is thick with sleep, confused as hell. “What’s wrong? Did you set the house on fire again or somethin’...?” Wemmbu sounded like he was going to fall back to sleep.
“I’m so sorry,” Flame blubbers, practically throwing himself at Wemmbu, though he’s careful to keep his weight off the bump.
He clings to Wemmbu like a lifeline, burying his face into the crook of his neck.
“I’m so sorry, Wemm. I would never choose them. I’d never leave you. Please don’t be mad at me. Please tell me you’re not mad.”
Wemmbu is officially confused as fuck.
He’s lying there, half-awake, wondering if he missed an entire war in his sleep.
“Mad? Flame, what the hell are you yapping about?” Wemmbu asks, his brain still trying to catch up. “I was literally dreaming about food. Why would I be mad?”
“I chose the faction… I said I didn’t care… you looked so broken…”
Flame is hysterical at this point, apologizing profusely to Wemmbu’s shoulder, his voice cracked and raw. He’s hugging him so tight, apologizing for crimes he only committed in a different universe.
Wemmbu realizes it was a nightmare, but the sheer dramatics of it all has him internally reeling.
He’s the one with the hormones, he’s the one who cries when they run out of milk from Lomedy’s farm, so why is Flame acting like the world is ending at 3:00 AM?
“Oh my god, you’re actually a mess,” Wemmbu mutters, but his voice is soft—fond despite the confusion.
He sighs, shifting a bit to get comfortable, and reaches up to run his hands through Flame’s dreads. He pets his head, his fingers steady and cool, trying to soothe the absolute wreck of a man shaking in his arms.
“Chill, Flame. Seriously, bro. I’m right here,” Wemmbu murmurs, pulling Flame closer so he can feel the steady thrum of his heart—the real one, not the nightmare one. “Nobody’s mad at you. You’re being so random, on god. Just breathe.”
Flame just sniffles louder, clinging to his lover while Wemmbu just lies there, petting his hair and wondering why he’s the one having to be the emotionally stable one right now.
Wemmbu’s fingers continued their slow path through Flame’s hair, the touch grounding Flame back to reality. Each stroke felt like it was wiping away the haze and the blur of that nightmare.
“I’m not mad, Flame. I love you,” Wemmbu whispered, his voice gaining a bit more clarity as he leaned his forehead against Flame’s. “Shh. I’m right here. Stop crying now, you’re gonna wake the baby up with all this noise.”
Flame let out one last, shuddering breath, his face still pressed into Wemmbu’s skin.
He inhaled deeply—no gunpowder, no copper. Just the scent of home.
He felt the soft, solid reality of Wemmbu’s presence, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the occasional, tiny movement from the life tucked between them.
He felt a wave of pure, unadulterated gratitude wash over him.
In that nightmare, he had been a stranger—a man obsessed with his own hollow code and hypocrisy.
He hated that version of himself.
He hated the Flame who could look at Wemmbu’s shattered expression and feel nothing but indifference.
Because in this room, in this life, Wemmbu was everything.
He was the best thing that had ever happened to Flame.
The rivalry, the wars, the slow realization that they were meant for each other—it had all led to this.
Wemmbu was the best that had ever been his, and Flame would burn every civilization in the world before he let that version of the nightmare become real.
“I’ve got you,” Wemmbu murmured, his thumb brushing over Flame’s cheek to wipe away a stray tear. “Go back to sleep, you big idiot.”
Flame nodded weakly, finally relaxing his grip, though he stayed curled as close as he could get without squishing the bump.
He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the room settle into his bones, and felt his heart rate finally drop to match Wemmbu’s.
He was lucky.
He was so incredibly lucky,
But as he drifted off, a stray thought flickered through his mind—a final spark of his usual protective intensity.
If that nightmare reality actually existed somewhere out there in the multiverse, Flame was going to find a way to travel there just to beat the absolute shit out of that other version of himself.
No one breaks Wemmbu’s heart like that and gets away with it.
Not even him.