Chapter Text
Saparata was, in every sense of the word, doomed.
Mandatory reading was already a cruel enough invention. Some sadist in the education system had decided that forcing adolescents to read three-hundred-plus pages about people they neither knew nor cared for was somehow beneficial to their development. Saparata had long since accepted this particular injustice.
What he had not accepted was choice.
Choice implied responsibility. Responsibility implied effort. Effort implied spending an afternoon thinking about books, which was a prospect so dreadful that he would have sooner volunteered to be part of the first manned mission to the Moon since 1972.
His literature teacher, who appeared to regard independent learning as one of civilisation's greatest achievements, had announced the assignment that morning with such an irritating enthusiasm. Select a novel of your choosing, she had said, smiling as though she were bestowing a priceless gift.
It may be observed that few things inspire greater unease in a student than being invited to make a choice for himself. So long as a book was assigned, Saparata could direct his complaints towards the school. Once the decision became his own, however, any resulting misery would be far more difficult to blame on others.
The assignment sheet lay upon his desk where it had occupied his attention for the better part of ten minutes. During this period, he had examined it from several angles and reread its contents no fewer than four times. Unfortunately, none of these efforts had produced any alteration in the requirements. He was still expected to select a novel, read it, and afterwards discuss it as though he had enjoyed the experience and had profound thoughts on its symbolisms.
The thought alone made him want to lie down on the floor and remain there indefinitely. Unfortunately, this was not a recognised method of completing coursework. It had been tried before—usually in moments of mathematical despair—but had never once resulted in improved grades or a merciful change of circumstance.
But there must be a simpler solution.
Perhaps the assignment would be forgotten entirely.
Perhaps the school would suffer an unfortunate but highly convenient administrative error, ideally one involving fire or water damage.
Perhaps, if the universe was feeling merciful, his literature teacher would wake up tomorrow with a sudden conviction that independent learning was in fact overrated, mildly illegal, and best get cancelled.
Alternatively, a more realistic miracle: The assignment sheet might develop the self-awareness to understand how deeply unwelcomed it was and quietly remove itself from existence out of respect.
Saparata was not picky. He was open to all interpretations of divine intervention.
Suddenly, the door to his room opened, and without looking up, Saparata let out a groan.
"Unless you've come to tell me the school burned down," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, "go away."
His twin brother ignored him completely.
Micro wandered into the room, dropping onto the edge of Saparata's bed with all the confidence in the world. His gaze landed almost immediately on the packet of chips beside Saparata's pillow, and before Saparata could so much as protest, Micro reached over and helped himself to one. He popped it into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated slowness as he stared directly into Saparata's eyes. The crunch seemed unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet room. Saparata watched him in disbelief. Micro, meanwhile, continued chewing, maintaining eye contact as though this was completely normal.
Saparata pointed at him weakly. “You can’t just—”
Micro held up a finger, signalling him to wait. It was apparently impossible to discuss Saparata's troubles while simultaneously eating a chip. Only when the final crunch had disappeared did Micro swallow, lean back against the wall, and say, "Continue."
Saparata exhaled through his nose, long and strained. “I was going to say you can’t just eat my food while staring into my soul like that.”
“I wasn't staring into your soul.”
“You absolutely were.”
Micro reflected upon this accusation with what appeared to be genuine consideration.
“I was eating a chip," he said at last.
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”
Micro said nothing. He simply reached back into the packet and selected another chip. Since he did not appear to regard the preceding conversation as a reason to stop, Saparata concluded that no useful purpose would be served by objecting further.
“Those are mine, by the way.”
“I know.”
Micro's answer was so mild, and so entirely free of malice, that it was difficult to know how one ought to respond to it.
“Then why are you eating them?” Saparata asked.
Micro glanced down at the packet, as though he had not previously considered the question. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I was hungry.”
Saparata sighed as he stared at the latter. There are some explanations which, by their very simplicity, make further argument impossible. This was one of them. Saparata rubbed a hand across his face. For his own peace of mind, he decided not to pursue the matter further. Micro, meanwhile, appeared perfectly content. Having settled the question of the chips to his own satisfaction, he tucked one leg beneath him and looked around the room with curiosity. His attention wandered from the bookshelves to the window, then finally to the sheet of paper abandoned on the desk.
"What's that?" he asked.
Saparata followed his gaze and immediately felt his mood worsen.
"That," he said darkly, pointing towards the desk, "is the reason my life is over."
Micro leaned forward and picked up the sheet, carefully examining it. Silence fell upon the two of them as he read. Saparata watched him anxiously, it had always been quite difficult to gauge what Micro was thinking; his expressions tended to arrive several moments after the thoughts themselves. At length, Micro lowered the paper.
"You have to choose a book," Micro narrated. "Sounds simple enough, no?"
"No!" Saparata exclaimed in exasperation.
Micro glanced down at the assignment again, "There are lots of books to choose from, Saps."
"That is literally the problem."
He pushed himself back from the desk and dropped onto the bed beside his brother. With a groan, he said, "Man, I fucking hate reading."
That confession escaped his lips with such a weariness that one might assume he was carrying such a great burden. Though in this instance the burden was entirely hypothetical and consisted of several hundred pages not yet read.
"What am I even supposed to do in this situation?" Saparata asked desperately.
Micro did not answer at once. He sat with the assignment sheet balanced loosely across one knee, his gaze moving over it as he attempted to solve a problem that had not, until recently, concerned him in the slightest. Presently, he tilted his head.
"Weed."
The word emerged with such randomness that Saparata wondered if he had misheard it. "What?" he blinked.
"I said weed," Micro repeated. "I have some if you want."
Saparata looked at him for a long moment. The unfortunate thing about Micro was that he had the conscious ability to very rarely appear to be joking. Ridiculous statements, perfectly sensible statements, and observations of no discernible value can all be delivered in precisely the same tone.
"Thank you," said Saparata at last. "That was extremely unhelpful."
A faint crease appeared between Micro's brows, "I thought it was quite practical."
"I have this book presentation due in three weeks."
"Then smoke efficiently."
Saparata threw one of the pillows on his bed, but Micro caught it effortlessly without spilling a single crisp.
The traitor.
"I'm joking Saps!" Micro said, putting another chip in his mouth. "I don't know, you can just... pick one."
"Based on what?"
Micro's laughter subsided into occasional grins as he considered the matter. He leaned back against the wall and tossed the now nearly-empty packet of chips onto the bed beside him. For a few moments, his attention drifted aimlessly around the room. It paused briefly on a pile of clothes Saparata had abandoned on his chair, wandered towards the window, and eventually settled upon the shelf standing against the far wall.
"The cover," he said at last.
Saparata stared at him, "The cover?"
"Yes."
"The cover," Saparata repeated, this time more like a deadpan.
Micro frowned slightly, "I heard you the first time. Why are you repeating yourself?"
"Because I'm trying to understand whether you're serious."
"I am serious."
Saparata closed his eyes. This, unfortunately, was also serious. When he opened them again, Micro was still sitting there patiently as though he could not understand why such a straightforward solution was being met with resistance.
"You think," Saparata began carefully, "that I should choose a novel I'll be discussing for the next three weeks based entirely on the cover."
Micro tilted his head and spoke, "Not entirely."
A spark of hope appeared.
"The title as well."
The hope vanished immediately.
For a moment neither spoke. Micro appeared perfectly satisfied with his contribution to the discussion. Saparata, meanwhile, was beginning to suspect that asking for advice had been a mistake.
"Aren't there thousands of books in the library?" Micro asked. "Why don't you start there?"
God, how Saparata hated how Micro was right.
"Just walk in," Micro continued. "Grab something that doesn't look painfully boring. If it sucks, pick another one. You're overthinking this, Saps."
This advice was both absurdly simplistic and unexpectedly difficult to refute. Saparata disliked it at once. He disliked it even more when he realised that he could think of no immediate objection beyond the fact that it had come from Micro. He opened his mouth to argue but paused. Unfortunately, Micro had a point. A stupid point, but a point nonetheless.
Before Saparata could formulate a response, Micro headed for the door and disappeared into the hallway.
Of course he left the door open, Saparata muttered under his breath.
Silence settled over the room once more. Saparata looked down at the assignment sheet, then toward the window, then back at the assignment.
A library. A random book.
It was a terrible plan.
Unfortunately, it was also the only plan he had.
And so, the next afternoon, Saparata found himself standing before the tall brick building that occupied the centre of the city square, its broad windows gleaming beneath the pale sunlight. He looked at it with such disdain that a passing observer might reasonably have concluded the library had wronged him personally. However, contrary to popular belief, the building itself had committed no offence. It was, in fact, perfectly respectable. Tall windows admitted generous amounts of sunlight, rows of bookshelves stood in neat formation, and several people drifted in and out through the front doors with such an ease that told him that they had chosen to be there.
Saparata looked at the scene with suspicion. He's always been one to feel that libraries were designed for a very specific type of person. They were for individuals who described books as companions, who possessed favourite authors, and who somehow found pleasure in reading for longer than fifteen minutes at a time.
Saparata had never understood such people.
One read because examinations demanded it, because teachers assigned it, or because society had collectively decided that literacy was preferable to the alternative. Reading for pleasure had always struck him as vaguely suspicious, like voluntarily sitting an exam you don't even have to do.
Yet here he was: Not only standing outside a library, but preparing to enter one of his own free will.
Or at least with the appearance of free will.
(That distiction felt important.)
Resigned and having no choice but to accept his fate, Saparata stepped inside.
The scent of paper and ink wrapped around him almost instantly, and dust motes floated lazily in beams of sunlight that streamed between the towering shelves. Saparata could hear the distant hum of a printer, and from his peripheral vision, he saw a librarian returning a stack of books from her trolley unto different parts of the same shelf as though every piece had its own designated spot.
For several moments, Saparata simply stood there. Students passed him occasionally, each appearing to possess a clear purpose of being there. Some headed towards study tables, others towards specific shelves. One girl marched confidently through the fiction section carrying a list. Saparata could only watch her disappear; the existence of a list struck him as deeply unfair.
Eventually, he remembered Micro's advice.
Not because it was good advice.
Merely because it was the only advice available.
Just pick one.
The simplicity of the instruction had irritated him enormously the previous evening. Faced with several thousand books, however, it began to acquire a certain appeal. After all, any method was preferable to standing motionless in the entrance until graduation.
Saparata wandered towards the fiction section. Rows of novels stretched before him. Some possessed dark, dramatic covers. Others featured elaborate illustrations, mysterious landscapes, or titles written in fonts apparently chosen for their ability to be difficult to read. He examined several without enthusiasm. There were a plethora of different stories, one about war, another a dark tragic romance, and the last a disgustingly gory horror novel about six-hundred pages long. Hell no.
His progress through the shelves was slow and largely directionless. Every few steps he would remove a book, read the back, lose interest, and replace it. After nearly twenty minutes, he began to suspect that Micro's system might not be as effective as advertised.
It was until he came across one resting between two far less interesting novels, its spine a deep midnight blue, silver lettering glinting faintly beneath the overhead lights. Saparata stepped closer, hovering his fingers softly over the deep, midnight blue spine of the book. He slid it carefully from the shelf, the cover showing a boy standing alone on a palace balcony, the moonlight spilling over him like liquid silver. Behind him rose a series of castle towers and distant mountains that was also washed in the moon's pale glow.
This is so dramatic, he thought as he read the title: "When the Moonlight Forgets Your Name." He turned the book over and began reading the summary on the inside flap.
It told the story of the kingdom Aculon, ruled by a grieving king and his youngest son, Prince Fluixon de Aculon. He was handsome, poised, and dignified. However, each morning after every full moon, he loses his memories. Every familiar face became strangers, and even his own reflection meant nothing to him. Desperate, the king declared that any man or woman alike who could break the curse and keep the prince from losing his memory would be granted his hand in marriage, and, by extension, immeasurable wealth and status.
Saparata's eyes moved steadily across the remaining lines. Scholars, knights, princesses and princes from neighboring kingdoms had all tried and failed—yada yada yada. The curse returned month after month without mercy—yada yada yada.
He skimmed through the pages. It was well-written. Poetic, even.
But still. "A cursed prince, a desperate king, a marriage reward," he murmured under his breath. "Classic."
And that, as far as Saparata was concerned, was precisely the appeal.
Classic meant predictable.
Predictable meant understandable.
Understandable meant he would not spend three weeks attempting to decipher whether a blue curtain symbolized grief, political unrest, or one of the author's (many) unresolved childhood traumas.
He turned another page. The prose was admittedly pleasant. The sentences flowed easily enough to allow him to forget he was reading them, which, in Saparata's opinion, was perhaps the highest compliment a book could receive. So, he closed the book carefully and tucked it under his arm before heading to the checkout counter.
——
Saparata started reading at 9:47 p.m.
He noted the time absently before flipping to the first page, seated at his desk with a single lamp casting warm light across the paper. Outside his window, the night stretched quiet and still. The sky was clear, the moon almost full, and from somewhere beyond the neighbouring houses came the faint chirping of birds stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the hour.
The circumstances were deeply unfortunate.
Ordinarily, a Friday night would not have found Saparata trapped at a desk. He was not one of those rare individuals who derived satisfaction from solitude. Left to his own devices, Saparata preferred conversation, noise, and the company of other people. And while an evening spent indoors was tolerable, an evening spent indoors reading was considerably less so.
Especially when there were alternatives.
Micro had informed him earlier that afternoon of a party taking place across town. The details had been vague, largely because Micro's invitations tended to focus less on location and more on whatever questionable business had drawn him there in the first place. Nevertheless, Saparata had gathered enough information to understand that there would be music, people, and a complete absence of assigned reading.
Under normal circumstances, he would already have been there.
The thought lingered unpleasantly as he stared down at the opening chapter. At that very moment, dozens of people were undoubtedly enjoying themselves. Somewhere, music was playing too loudly. Someone was making regrettable decisions. Someone else was probably attempting to flirt and failing spectacularly. Entire conversations were unfolding without him.
Meanwhile, he was sitting beneath a desk lamp reading about a cursed prince. With a sigh, he shifted in his chair and forced his attention back towards the page.
Prince Fluixon woke before dawn. He always did on nights like this. Pale light seeped through the gauzy curtains of his chambers, washing the marble floors in silver.
Saparata adjusted slightly in his chair, his eyes skimming a few more sentences.
He stood in front of a large floor-to-ceiling mirror, studying his own reflection like it belonged to someone else. He traced the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw, and the dark of his hair, but he couldn't recognize himself. Where exactly was he? Who was he?
There was a journal waiting for him on the desk.
"If you are reading this," the first line began, "the moon was full last night."
Saparata leaned back slightly, frowning—not in dislike (surprisingly), but in concentration. He read how the king, as promised, had announced his decree. Suitors flooded the palace, each promising to end the curse. Saparata turned another page. Then another.
At some point, the clock on his desk clicked past midnight.
He didn't notice.
By 1:32 a.m., the room felt eerily colder.
Saparata rubbed at his arms absently, eyes still scanning the page. The current chapter described another full moon rising over Aculon. Fluixon stood alone on his balcony, silver light pooling at his feet.
The prose sharpened here. It became more vivid as the author described the moonlight as "heavy" and "breathing." Saparata wanted to stop for a bit to analyze the meaning of the personification behind those words. But curiosity got the better of him, so he disregarded those odd phrasings, assuming they are of no importance to the main storyline. Besides, he was really starting to get invested, as much as he hates to admit it.
The clock ticked by: seconds, minutes, then hours passed. Saparata blinked slowly. He hadn't realized how quiet his house had become. Heck, he can't even hear Micro anymore, if the latter was even home from that godforsaken party. The silence pressed against his ears. Has he been reading for that long?
He swallowed and shifted in his seat, watching his desk lamp slowly flicker; once, then twice, then thrice, then four times. He gave it a tired glance before heaving out a long sigh.
"...Great."
Probably just the bulb, he thought.
Saparata's gaze shifted back to the pages in front of him, ink bleeding into ink until the sentences lost their edges. He exhaled softly. He'd been reading for hours, of course his eyes were tired. Rubbing at them with the heel of his palm, he reached for the glasses case perched atop the stack of textbooks in the far-right corner of his desk. He slid them on, then wiped the lenses absently against the hem of his shirt before settling back into his chair.
"Get it together," he muttered under his breath before lowering his eyes to the page again.
The moonlight stretched unnaturally across the palace hallway's floor, inching toward his bare feet.
Saparata frowned. That wasn't right. He was almost certain it wasn't right. A minute ago, Fluixon had been walking through the palace gardens. Hadn't he? His eyes narrowed. Without quite understanding why, he flipped back a page. Then another. The earlier paragraphs were gone! The scene he remembered simply did not exist. Instead, the narrative flowed naturally into the current scene. Every sentence connected perfectly to the next, and there was no break nor inconsistency that suggests the book had ever contained anything different.
For several moments, Saparata merely stared. A faint unease settled somewhere beneath his ribs. Slowly, he turned back to the current page.
Fluixon stepped lightly across the cold marble corridor. The moonlight pooled at the edges of the walls, twisting and stretching unnaturally as he walked. Fluixon froze, his breath catching in his throat. There was a strange silhouette. It was distant, yes, but it was unmistakably human: A boy, standing still.
Fluixon gulped, the halls of the palace were supposed to be empty at this hour. Guards were stationed in their towers, servants were long asleep, and the king himself was even confined to his chambers.
He let out a hesitant voice, "... Who are you? Show yourself!"
The words seemed strangely loud. Then, the page blurred.
At first, Saparata assumed it was exhaustion. He had been reading for hours, after all, and the words had already begun to swim together on several occasions throughout the evening. He blinked hard and adjusted his glasses, expecting the letters to sharpen back into focus. Instead, they seemed to dissolve further. The neat black lines of ink bled into one another until they became little more than dark streaks across the paper. Then, a strange dizziness washed over him and he reached instinctively for the edge of the desk.
Saparata found himself opening his eyes. He saw the floor first; it was marble, cold against his palms. He pushed himself upright slowly, pulse hammering in his ears. This wasn't his room. Silk curtains swayed nearby, brushing against tall glass doors that opened to a balcony. Beyond them were unfamiliar buildings of extremely outdated architecture, with the distant gleaming of torchlights perched on the walls of each one.
It was a kingdom, one extremely similar to the one described in the book. It sprawled into the distant hill, illuminated fully by the silver glow of an enormous, blinding full moon. Saparata's breath went shallow. He looked down at his hands. It was still his, and it was still real. He let out a small wince as he found that pinching himself hurt. This was no dream. No, this was definitely real.
Not long after, the soft echo of footsteps from behind broke him out of his thoughts. And a voice, a calm, soothing, yet oddly familiar voice, broke the night's silence.
"...Who are you? Show yourself!"
Startled, Saparata turned around abruptly. To his horror, standing only a few feet away, was Prince Fluixon.
Saparata didn't know how he knew. He just did. The man standing in front of him was definitely Prince Fluixon from When The Moon Forgets Your Name.
The resemblance was absurdly exact. He had dark hair that was fell carelessly across his brow in a manner that ought to have appeared untidy but somehow only served to make him seem more distinguished. Beneath it were a pair of piercing violet eyes, and he had the same ridiculous fondness for black, purple, and gold. In the novel, the author had spent nearly half a page describing him. Saparata had thought it excessive.
Looking at him now, he supposed he owed the author an apology.
Saparata found himself staring. It was unfortunate, but difficult to avoid. As words in a book, Fluixon had always seemed the product of an author's self-indulgence. The fact that such a person was now standing several feet away from him felt, in every conceivable respect, deeply unreasonable.
Saparata's throat went dry as he saw Fluixon lift his chin ever so slightly, "You're staring," he said.
Saparata blinked. Right. Speaking. Humans did that.
"I—" His voice cracked. Embarrassing. "You're... you're Prince Fluixon."
"That is what they call me."
They.
Not my people, not my kingdom, simply they.
Before Saparata could dwell on it, Fluixon took a step forward. Saparata could smell the faint lingering scent of hyacinths as he does so.
"How," Fluixon asked quietly, "do you know my name?"
Saparata's stomach dropped, his mind immediately supplied several possible answers.
Because I read about you, he wanted to say.
Because you're fictional, he wanted to say.
Because in chapter fourteen you poisoned the royal advisor and felt no remorse, he wanted to say.
None of them seemed appropriate.
Or survivable.
So instead, after a pause that was rapidly becoming suspicious, he swallowed.
"I've... heard stories." Was the best sentence he could think of at that moment.
Fluixon's sighed, seeming to come to a reasonable conclusion. A sense of understanding dawned across his face. "Ah," he breathed, sounding more tired than surprised. "You're another one."
Another one?
Saparata blinked. "Another what?"
Fluixon looked almost annoyed at his response. "Another person who thinks they can break it." His lips curved into something faintly bitter. "The curse."
"I don't even know what's happening," Saparata said, pulse quickening. He wanted to defend himself, to tell him that he wasn't even from his world, but he decided against it. For all he knew, he would've never believed him.
"So you're an intruder, then?" Fluixon asked accusingly.
"NO! No, no, no! You've got this all wrong! I really have no idea how and why—"
Fluixon interrupted him mid-sentence. "Ah, so you are a suitor, then."
"No! I—"
Fluixon stopped in front of him. "It won't work," he said quietly. "You're just wasting your time."
His eyes lifted to meet Saparata's fully. And this time, there was no mockery. "Go home how," he said, his tone stern as if he was warning him of something. "Go home before you die, too."
Saparata froze, trying to process if he was telling the truth. After all, those words were delivered with the same composure one might use to comment on the weather.
Saparata's breath faltered. "Why would I—"
For a split second, Fluixon looked like he might actually tell him why he was supposedly doomed just by standing here. But as his lips slowly parted open, the sharp sound of metal striking stone reverberated through the hallway from down one of the corridors. The two turned toward it at the same time. The palace, which had felt impossibly still just seconds ago, suddenly seemed extremely alive. Saparata could hear the rustle of boots against marble and the clang of shifting armor.
He watched Fluixon's fingers twitch at his sides, his eyes fixated at the emerging shadows. Torches flared at the end of the corridor, orange light colliding violently with the silver wash of the moon. Fluixon grabbed Saparata's wrist swiftly, and he could feel the cool of the latter's skin. It wasn't the natural type of cold. Saparata couldn't help but wonder whether the moonlight itself had seeped itself into his veins.
"You should not be seen with me," Fluixon murmured.
The guards' voices echoed closer. "Search the east wing!"
His grip tightened, pulling Saparata into the shadow between two towering pillars carved with crescent moons.
Saparata's heart pounded. "You said I'm going to die."
Fluixon looked at him. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes, though it was brief enough for Saparata to not notice.
"It is the full moon tonight," he said. "I won't remember you tomorrow."
Saparata frowned. "That doesn't explain why I would die."
Fluixon's jaw tightened. "It doesn't matter," he replied a little too quickly.
The moonlight streaming through the high windows brightened, washing over the marble floor and climbing the pillars like rising water. It caught in his hair, turning the dark strands almost blue at the edges. Up close, Saparata could see it clearly now; there was something off about the way the moonlight clung to the latter. It looked like it was... eating him? Saparata didn't exactly know how to explain it, but the longer he stared, the more wrong it felt. Moonlight was supposed to illuminate—this didn't look like illumination. It looked like it was thinning him out.
"Why does it look like that?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Fluixon didn't follow his gaze. "Like what?"
"The light."
Fluixon scoffed, "You ask too many questions for an intruder—or suitor—whichever one you are."
"I told you," Saparata breathed. "I'm not an intruder nor a suitor!"
"Check behind the columns!" A plethora of voices silenced Fluixon's reply.
Fluixon pulled Saparata deeper into the narrow space between the carved stone columns until scarcely any distance remained between them. Saparata found himself staring at the back of the prince's head, close enough to catch the faint scent of hyacinths lingering in his dark hair. The cold radiating from Fluixon seeped through the thin fabric of Saparata's sleeve, startling against the warmth of his own skin.
"You need to leave before midnight," Fluixon said under his breath.
"Midnight is in like—what?" He glanced toward the windows as if he could somehow read the sky. "Ten minutes?"
"Then you have less than that."
Saparata lowered his voice. "What happens at midnight?"
Fluixon didn't answer. He pushed Saparata behind a line of ceremonial armor standing rigid against the wall. The metal was cold against his shoulder as he stumbled into place, barely catching himself before knocking into one of the displays. He briefly examined the crescent-crested helmets in front of him: this kingdom is really obsessed with moons.
In front of him, Saparata saw one of the guards rounding the nearest pillar and pausing when he saw Fluixon standing there alone.
"Your Highness," he bowed quickly. "We heard—"
"You heard the wind," Fluixon replied coldly. "Or perhaps your own footsteps."
The guard hesitated. "We believed there was an intruder."
"An intruder?" the prince repeated, the word sounding almost amusing in his mouth.
The guard straightened a little, though he still kept his gaze lowered. "Yes, Your Highness. We detected movement in the east wing. The sentries swore they saw—"
"Saw what?" he interrupted.
As the guard's confidence began to waver, the moonlight shifted once more, spilling across the marble floor and falling fully upon Fluixon from the side. It sharpened the line of his cheekbone, and the guard shivered at the prince's cold expression. From where Saparata stood hidden behind the pillar, he could see the faint shimmer along Fluixon's skin again—the thing that looked like it was eating him.
The guard swallowed. "A shadow."
"A shadow," Fluixon echoed, his tone a little deadpan. There was the faintest pause, then he stepped forward, closing the distance between them ever so slightly. The guard stiffened immediately.
"This is a palace built of stone and lit by flame," Fluixon said flatly. "Shadows exist everywhere. If you plan to chase each one with such panic, you will exhaust yourself before winter."
The guard dipped his head lower. "Of course, Your Highness. Forgive us."
"If there is nothing else," Fluixon continued, "return to your posts. Double the watch on the outer gates if it calms your nerves."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The guards withdrew, their boots echoing down the corridor, torches flickering until the orange glow faded and the hall was swallowed once more by the silver light of the moon. Only when the last footstep disappeared did Fluixon exhale.
"Come out," he said softly.
Saparata stepped out slowly from behind the pillar. The moon had climbed higher now. Its light poured through the windows without obstruction, flooding the hall so completely that the carved crescent moons in the pillars almost seemed to glow.
"You're not answering me," Saparata pressed. "What happens at midnight?"
Fluixon didn't look at him this time. Instead, he turned toward the nearest window, allowing the light to wrap around him again. It traced the outline of his shoulders and climbed the curve of his neck.
"It finishes what it starts," Fluixon replied quietly.
"That's not an explanation."
"Well, it is the only one you are getting."
Saparata stared at him. "You can't just say something like that and expect me to just accept it and walk away."
Fluixon's expression didn't change. "You overestimate how much choice you have," he said.
Before Saparata could properly process what was happening, Fluixon stepped towards him. The movement was so ordinary that, for a moment, Saparata thought nothing of it. The prince closed the distance between them slightly and placed both his palms against Saparata's chest. Saparata stumbled back, caught completely off guard as his heel hit the low stone lip of the balcony. For one suspended second, neither of them moved and the night air rushed cold against them both.
"Flux—"
"I told you to go home," Fluixon said.
Then he shoved him—harder this time. The world tilted violently as Saparata began his forced descent down the balcony. The sky spun above him, the moon glaring down as the balcony disappeared from view. Wind tore past his ears, ripping the breath from his lungs. He barely had time to register the drop.
This is how I die, he thought.
But just as panic seized him, Saparata felt impact. Branches snapped as leaves exploded around him. Something stabbed into his side, then gave way. He landed hard into a dense cluster of bushes below the balcony, the force knocking every ounce of air from his chest. Twigs tangled in his hair, thorns scraped his hands, and the scent of crushed greenery filled his nose. For a moment, he couldn't breathe nor think. He just laid there staring up at the sky where the moon hung directly above him now. After a few seconds, air finally dragged back into his lungs in a ragged gasp.
"...Ow."
He blinked, trying to piece together what had just happened. Prince Fluixon de Aculon had shoved him off a balcony without hesitation. He groaned and pushed himself upright, leaves sliding off his shoulders. A twig was stuck in his sleeve and there were dirt patches on his face. Something sharp had definitely scratched his neck. He squinted up at the balcony. It was undoubtedly empty.
"Bro really just.." He stopped, exhaling sharply through his nose. "Unbelievable."
The bells began to toll then. It was midnight! He stayed crouched in the bushes as the tolling continued, each note echoing across the palace grounds. After the final bell faded, a king of suffocating silence followed. Saparata swallowed; he waited. If the balcony wasn't his death, could it be that this is? He squinted his eyes in fear as if bracing for impact. But a minute passed, then two, then three, then ten. Yet still, nothing exploded, nobody screamed, the palace didn't crumble, nor did the moon turn red or shatter in half like some dramatic fantasy finale.
After a while, exhaustion dragged at him harder than fear did. The adrenaline from the fall ebbed, leaving behind a dull ache in his ribs and a pounding headache. He didn't remember lying down, only that the gravel was colder than he expected. Saparata thinks about any slight possibility of going home, and how or why he was suddenly stuck inside the novel he was reading. Perhaps he will wake in his own room and realize that this had all been a dream. As his eyes grew heavier and heavier, Saparata took one deep breath.
And then... Morning.
Birdsong. Actual birdsong. Saparata's eyes snapped open. Sunlight filtered gently through tree branches, warm and gold instead of silver and sharp like the moonlight before. Horror washed over his face: he was still there, stuck inside the novel. He was not in the comfort of his own room, but at least now the garden no longer felt ominous. It looked almost peaceful; manicured hedges, blooming flowers in soft pastels, and a stone fountain at the center catching early light.
He pushed himself up slowly, brushing dried leaves from his clothes. In daylight, the palace looked less threatening. The walls were made of cream-colored stone instead of ghostly white, and tall windows stood gleaming under the sun. Saparata could see that servants were already moving along the garden paths, carrying baskets of flowers and linens.
One of them noticed him.
"Hey! You!"