Unpart

by Mash_room

Summary:

Black Sapphire Cookie is given another mission by Shadow Milk Cookie: to spread rumors and deceit as usual—but this time, with a secret task. He must investigate what the Faerie Kingdom and the current holder of Shadow Milk’s Soul Jam are planning. Before he leaves, his master tells him:

"Trust no one but yourself."

Disguised as Moondrop Faerie Cookie, Black Sapphire enters the Faerie Kingdom, where he meets Silverbell, a loyal faerie knight who never misses a shot with his bow. Though Silverbell is suspicious of this unfamiliar faerie, he allows him into the kingdom and tries to earn his trust.

One day, when Moondrop Faerie Cookie's wings get stuck, Silverbell helps him. Slowly, despite trying to keep his distance, Black Sapphire begins to bond with the knight. What was supposed to be a three-week mission turns into months. As Silverbell shows him kindness and care, Black Sapphire begins to feel something he doesn't understand—love. Torn between loyalty to his master and these unfamiliar emotions, he faces a choice that could change everything. Will he follow the mission, or listen to his heart?

Previously titled: I Love You, I'm Sorry
Two Endings (24 and 25) || (editing current chaps)

Chapter 1: Prologue

 

 

Black Sapphire Cookie remembered that night vividly—cold, cruel, and empty.

 

He had been wandering through the wreckage of a ruined village, the ground scorched, the sky stained an unnatural red. The Beasts had risen then, and Earthbread had been thrown into a storm of fear and destruction. He was small then, fragile, a forgotten piece of something no one remembered building. A lost name.  A destroyed home and the frostbite gnawing at his limbs and silence pressing in like a second skin. He had accepted the idea of disappearing. Of becoming just another lost crumb under the shadow of chaos.

 

But then… he saw him. The Beast of Deceit. Shadow Milk Cookie. A figure of dread—etched into every warning, every whispered tale. The night bent around him, and even the wind seemed afraid to brush against his cloak.

 

Black Sapphire had frozen in place, expecting obliteration. But the Beast didn’t strike. Instead, he looked left, then right, then down at the trembling figure before him. And then—he extended his hand to him. It made no sense. It defied everything Black Sapphire had been told. The Beast who ruined empires… offering his hand?

 

But he chose not to ask questions and took it.

 

And the next thing he knew, he was in the Beast’s arms—weightless, carried like something that mattered. Traveled through the shattered lands, and somewhere along the path, the Beast reached out and plucked a small bunch of grapes from a crumbling vine growing wild over a broken house. That was his first meal in days. Just a handful of stolen grapes. Bitter, firm, real.

 

It was nothing. But to Black Sapphire Cookie… it was everything.

 

By the time they reached the Spire, the name “Master” had already settled on his tongue. He was not tricked. Not controlled. Not forced.

 

He chose loyalty. The hand that reached out to him in the dark deserved nothing less. Since that night, he had followed Shadow Milk Cookie without question—not because he was a beast, but because he had been the only one who looked at him and saw worth.

 

They had stopped briefly beneath the twisted remnants of an old archway, half-buried in ash and ivy near the Spire. The night was quiet—eerily so. The wind is cold—the occasional crackle of embers in the distance. Black Sapphire Cookie, small and still too thin from hunger, sat huddled beside his unlikely savior. In his lap rested the remaining grapes—half a bunch, slightly bruised but still glistening under the faint moonlight. He stared at them for a moment, then plucked the largest one from the stem.

 

Slowly, he turned and held it out to the towering figure beside him. “…You should have one, too,” he said quietly.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t even look at it. “Cookies like me don’t need to eat.” His voice was deep, ancient, and strangely steady. He turned his head slightly, just enough for the edge of his cloak to shift in the pale light. “But little ones like you should.”

 

There was no softness in his voice. There was no sign gentleness. But the intent behind his words… it was unmistakable.

 

Care. Not the kind wrapped in warmth and sweetness, but something colder, older—like a flame kept in a lantern during a storm.

 

Black Sapphire withdrew the grape slowly and nodded once, without another word. He took a bite, the juice staining his fingers. He never offered again, not because he was ashamed—but because he understood.

 

The Beast didn’t eat.

 

But the Beast watched over him as he did and in that quiet act, a bond was forged. Not between master and servant. But between savior and chosen.

 

He understood, even back then, how cruel the world could be. Maybe not in words, not in grand explanations—but in the silence. In the way no one came looking for him. In the way the stars seemed so far away that night, like they’d turned their backs on Earthbread altogether.

 

The world did not care if a lone Cookie starved in the ruins. It did not pause for grief. It did not mourn the lost or the abandoned. It simply moved on.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie had learned that early. And yet… The Beast—this supposed nightmare whispered about in fearful tones— had stopped . Had looked. Had reached out. That act, small and almost thoughtless, held more weight than all the empty comforts the world had ever denied him.

 

He never said it aloud—not to Candy Apple Cookie, not even to his master—but that moment had carved itself into him like stone.

 

The world was cruel.

 

But the hand that saved him? That hand was crueler, yes… but it chose not to be. And that choice meant everything. That was why he followed. Why did he obey? Why he fought.

 

Not because Shadow Milk Cookie demanded it. But because the world had taught him how merciless it could be—And Shadow Milk Cookie was the only one who had ever done the opposite.

 

---

 

A few months in staying at the Spire. He saw something that caught his eyes. The eye-shaped microphone gleamed in the dim light of the Spire—a strange artifact, cold to the touch and unblinking, as if it saw right through him.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie had offered it without ceremony, without flourish. He simply held it out, as if passing on something inevitable. “Take it.”

 

His voice echoed through the stone halls, as it always did—heavy with age, soaked in silence. “You’ve lived quietly in the cracks long enough. Now you speak. And when you do… they will listen.”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie hesitated, but only for a breath. Then he took it.

 

The moment his fingers curled around the polished handle, something settled in him. A purpose, sharp and sudden. For so long, he had simply existed—observing, surviving, watching the world from the edges like a forgotten punctuation mark.

 

But now… he was chosen.

 

A voice for whispers. A tongue for twisting truth. A Cookie who had made the art of rumor his weapon—spreading seeds of nonsense and fear alike, from petty gossip to empire-breaking lies.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie had not only saved his life. He had defined it. And the mission was clear. Deceit is a kind of truth. And truth… is just a louder lie.

 

That microphone was more than a tool. It was proof that even in a world of monsters, someone like him could matter. He didn’t need applause. He had something better. He had a role to play.

 

---

 

A few days later, a little Cookie with stubby legs, her frosting still soft around the edges, barely old enough to walk without stumbling. Her cape was too big for her frame, dragging behind her like it belonged to someone far more dangerous.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie had expected… someone different.

 

He stood near the top of the staircase that coiled around the Spire’s central chamber, watching as Shadow Milk Cookie stepped through the arched doorway. The Beast’s cloak billowed with his usual grandeur—and in his arms, squirming with excitement, was her .

 

Candy Apple Cookie. The girl was beaming.  She wriggled free before they even reached the second step and landed on her feet with a loud thump . Her balance wobbled. She immediately struck a triumphant pose anyway.

 

“I’m here!” she shouted up the hall, her voice echoing off the cold stone walls. “I’m ready for evil stuff! ”

 

Black Sapphire blinked slowly.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie said nothing, but continued walking, silent as ever. The girl trotted beside him like a duckling following a stormcloud.

 

Black Sapphire descended the stairs. He expected confusion. Timidity. Maybe even fear. Most Cookies who wandered into the Spire of Deceit didn’t smile . But Candy Apple Cookie was grinning .

 

She looked at the ominous walls, the broken sigils, the jagged windows—and her eyes sparkled like she had just found a castle made of licorice.

 

“Is that a magic pit? Do you live in that library? Is this cursed wood? I love it here!” she chirped, circling around Black Sapphire with rapid-fire questions and very little breathing in between.

 

He stared at her, unsure whether to scold her or salute her. “She’s… different,” he muttered at last.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie gave a low hum. “She has potential.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t know what kind of potential the Beast saw. But if Shadow Milk had brought her here, then it meant something. And that was enough. Still, as he watched her run toward the eastern wing—tripping over a rug, laughing, jumping up again—he felt something unfamiliar. Not jealousy. Not irritation. Something gentler. Protective. She reminded him of what it felt like to enter this place for the first time… and not be afraid.

 

And in that moment, he made a quiet decision of his own. He would watch over her. As the master had once done for him.

 

---

 

Then the day of their first mission came.

 

Books scattered across the cold floor. Magic sparks flying in crooked lines. Candy Apple Cookie had just blasted a perfectly good chair into ash—again—and Black Sapphire Cookie was in the middle of conjuring his fifth illusion when a sudden shift in the air made them both freeze. The shadows in the chamber stretched unnaturally long, like they were waking up. A soft swirl of dark mist spiraled through the open arch, silent and deliberate. And from that void stepped Shadow Milk Cookie, his presence dragging the silence behind him like a funeral curtain. His cloak rippled, though there was no wind. His expression was unreadable as always, hidden beneath layers of mystery and cosmic exhaustion.

 

He did not walk. He arrived. “My delightful agents of mischief,” Shadow Milk intoned, voice echoing far too loudly for how softly it was spoken. “You’ve charred enough furniture. It is time…” He raised one hand dramatically, long fingers curling into a claw. “…for something far more theatrical.”

 

Black Sapphire straightened. Candy Apple gasped with both hands over her mouth.

 

A mission.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie continued, gliding across the chamber like ink spilling over stone. “The Faerie Kingdom slumbers beneath a shimmering veil of fragile peace. Sooo delicate. Sooo boring. ” He twirled once, like a tired actor lost in his own play. “But even the gentlest lies deserve… a little flavor.”

 

He stopped suddenly and turned, eyes glowing faintly under the hood. “You two will provide it.”

 

Candy Apple Cookie bounced in place. “A real mission?! Like, outside the Spire?!”

 

“Not just outside , little pestilence,” Shadow Milk purred. “You’ll be prancing about in the realm of wings and petals, armed with honeyed lies. You shall become…” he waved a hand lazily in the air, “… Faerie Apple Cookie. A darling sprout of sweetness with a tongue sharp enough to split kingdoms.”

 

Candy Apple gasped like she’d just won a crown. “THAT’S SO COOL—wait, what does a faerie wear?!”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes narrowed. “And me?”

 

Shadow Milk turned to him, slower this time. More deliberate.

 

“You, dear Sapphire, are a stage in yourself.” His voice dropped to a reverent hush. “You shall walk the lands of Crispia, becoming anything, anyone. A baker whispering of cursed wheat in the Frosted Villages… a knight warning of hollow kings in the Hollyberry Kingdom… a scholar who ‘read it in the archives.’ You can become any kind of Cookie!”

 

He leaned closer, grin curling at the corners. “Wherever your feet touch, the tale begins. Let every land hear a different lie.”

 

Black Sapphire bowed his head once. “Understood.”

 

Shadow Milk waved his hand again, and two small, flickering portals tore through the space beside them—pale and jagged, like broken glass barely holding its form.

 

“Go now, sweet little falsifiers.” His tone lifted, almost sing-song. “Let your truths be twisted and your lies beautiful. Ohhh… and do try not to start a war. Yet.”

 

And just like that, the shadows coiled tighter around him, and the Beast of Deceit vanished.

 

Candy Apple stood frozen for a moment, then looked up at Black Sapphire with wide eyes and a crooked grin. “…I’m gonna have wings!!”

 

Black Sapphire gave her a tired look. “Just don’t fall out of the sky.”

 

She giggled. “Not unless it’s dramatic! ”

 

With that, they stepped into their portals—one to the realm of glittering lies, the other into the shifting masks of a continent begging to be fooled.

 

 

---

 

And lastly, he couldn’t forget. No matter how many faces he wore, no matter how many rumors he wove into the wind— that moment stayed etched into him like a burn.

 

The worst moment of their lives.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie, in all his unholy grandeur, doing what he always did: twisting truths into poison, dancing through chaos with ink-stained fingers, murmuring into the ears of kings and fools alike. Beast-Yeast shook beneath the weight of his deceit. He was untouchable. Eternal.

 

Until he wasn’t.

 

Until the Faeries cornered him, with their new “hero”. 

 

Until the Silver Tree opened its cursed branches and swallowed him whole.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie remembered how it felt— sudden , like the sky had split. One moment, the world was full of their master’s laughter and riddles. The next, only silence.

 

They never even saw him fall.

 

Just whispers.
A surge of magic.
A crack in the world.

 

And then he was gone.

 

Sealed. Contained. Stripped of everything he was . Bound in silver and silence, far away in the Faerie Kingdom—the very kingdom they had once danced through in lies and false wings.

 

Black Sapphire had not gone back.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Every time he looked toward those glittering hills, something inside him twisted. He told himself it was tactical. Logical. Their forces were scattered. Their magic weakened. He had to rebuild, to wait for the right moment.

 

But deep down… he just couldn’t face it.

 

Not the silver.
Not the Faeries.
Not that stupid tree.

 

Not yet.

 

Candy Apple Cookie, on the other hand, never shed her disguise.

 

She kept the name. The wings. The voice.

 

“I’ll visit master,” she once said with a lopsided grin, balancing a stolen pastry on her head. “And maybe spread a rumor or two.”

 

Black Sapphire never stopped her. Because behind that grin was the same pain. That same empty space where their master used to be. And if pretending to be a Faerie helped her bear it—then so be it.

 

He still heard Shadow Milk’s voice sometimes, in his dreams. Silly and cryptic and terrible.

 

“ A lie told enough times becomes the truth… until someone remembers how it started.”

 

And Black Sapphire Cookie remembered.

He always would.

Even if the world forgot, he would not.

Their master would return.

And he did return.

 

 

---

 

 

 

The beasts had awoken once more—the second time now. It had been cramped inside that cursed tree, far too long since they last walked freely across the world. But things had changed. There was a new guardian of the Faerie Kingdom. After the fall of the previous one—crumbled beneath the weight of the Beast of Deceit—his power had been passed on, not to a true protector, but to a self-proclaimed hero. White Lily Cookie, they called her. The very same who had sealed away the Silver Tree during the Great Calamity. A legend to the foolish, a nuisance to those who knew better.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie had taken a direct hit from this new guardian. His body, once a vessel of unshakable strength, was now fragile—limited. He knew it, and hated it. Gone were the days when he could roam unchecked, feared and untouchable. Now, every step was a reminder of what had been lost. Still, he would tend to his wounds once he returned to the Spire of Deceit—a place once known as the Spire of Knowledge, before truth was twisted into lies and power into fear. He was damaged, yes, but not defeated. The guardian and her band of foolish cookies had rushed to the tree, thinking they could seal it again, thinking they could stop what had already begun. But they were too late. The rest of the beasts had risen, and none of them could possibly understand what awaited them.

 

This wasn’t just the return of the old world—it was the beginning of the end for theirs. And Shadow Milk Cookie, broken though he may be, would ensure that in the end, it was his laughter that echoed last.

 

 

His bruises throbbed with every step, a sharp ache that pulsed beneath his brittle form. Dark jam—thick and sluggish—seeped from the cracks in his body, painting a trail behind him. The pain was relentless, biting into him like frost, but he pressed on. He had to reach the Spire of Deceit. There was no time to rest, no time to falter. He needed to mend himself, patch the damage, and regain what little strength he could. And yet, even through the haze of pain, another thought gnawed at him—he had left his minions behind. Again. Twice now. What kind of master does that?

 

Shadow Milk Cookie grimaced, not from the wounds, but from guilt. As twisted and cruel as others may call him, he cared for those two more than he’d ever admit—perhaps as much as he cared for himself, if not more. He had raised them alone, taught them everything they needed to know in case he vanished again, sealed away like before.

 

Basic magic came first—just enough to get by, enough to defend themselves. But they were clever, eager, hungry. Eventually, they grasped the deeper arts: dark magic, destructive and raw. He watched them grow into it, step by step, mistake by mistake. And though he never said it aloud, he was proud. Proud of their strength, their cunning, their survival.

 

They were his legacy, those two. And he owed them more than abandonment. He owed them the future he was fighting for.

 

The pain could wait. The Spire awaited. And so did they.

 

 

 

---

The journey to the Spire had stolen the breath from his very core. Shadow Milk Cookie was far too weak to summon a portal; the ancient magic in his limbs had dulled, sputtered, flickered like the final embers of a dying flame. So he soared—not with wings, for he had none—but through sheer force of will, gliding across the currents of shadow and spite, dragging himself through sky and storm, tearing the air itself open with each leap toward his sanctuary.

 

Now, at last, he has returned.

 

The Spire of Deceit loomed before him, a crooked silhouette against the dying sky. Its once-scholarly halls had long since twisted into sharp angles and swirling, malicious energy—his kind of place.

 

He stumbled through its threshold, jam staining the cold stone beneath his feet. His voice, cracked and hoarse from pain, still carried the weight of command as it echoed through the tower:

 

“Candy Apple Cookie… Black Sapphire Cookie…” His words stretched like smoke, curling and creeping down every hallway. “Come now, your master has returned… and I’m dripping with good news.”

 

He let out a dry, wheezing chuckle that trailed off into a growl.

 

“Did you miss me? Oh, don’t answer that—I already know you did.” His grin was twisted, his eyes dim but still alight with malice. “Come on, children of chaos. Time to clean up your mess of a world.”

 

And despite the pain crackling in his bones and the jam soaking into his robes, there was something triumphant in his stance.

 

The Beast had returned.

 

 

 

From the upper levels of the Spire, the echo of Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice stirred the silence like a storm wind. Moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps tapped against the cracked marble floors. Candy Apple Cookie appeared first, leaping down from a broken staircase with theatrical flair. Her red eyes sparkled with a dangerous sort of excitement, and the curved staff she carried pulsed faintly with chaotic energy. Her candy-striped hair was tied into high, jagged pigtails that defied gravity like the sugar-fueled chaos in her veins.

 

“Master!” she cried, grinning wide enough to show the sharp tips of her teeth. “You look like jam soup! I was this close to eating your share of nightmares!”

 

She twirled her staff and poked at his robes with it. “Can I fix you up? Or at least stitch you together all ugly and crooked ? You’d look so cool!”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie followed behind more calmly, his footsteps precise, his expression unreadable. He wore a tattered, dark robe that glimmered faintly with blue arcane runes. A long chain of obsidian beads clinked softly with each step he took. He moved with quiet purpose, as if he carried centuries on his shoulders.

 

He knelt before Shadow Milk Cookie in a rare gesture of respect.

 

“...You're injured,” Black Sapphire Cookie said, voice smooth and low. “Severely. You shouldn’t have come alone.” He looked up, sapphire eyes piercing. “But I knew you'd survive. You always do.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head, a twisted smirk curling across his face despite the pain.

 

“What a lovely reunion,” he rasped, voice like curdled milk and silk tearing. “One’s ready to carve me open for fun, the other’s ready to bury me with honor. And you wonder why I raised you myself.”

 

He leaned against the wall, a slow breath rattling in his chest.

 

“Come, my delightful disasters. The beasts have risen, the world panics, and the new precious guardian of the faerie kingdom dared to bruise me . This will not stand.”

 

His voice dropped into something darker, heavier.

 

“It’s time they remembered who I am.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie’s fingers twitched as he extended his hand toward them, his voice still thick with venom and triumph.

 

“Now… help me destroy hope itself.”

 

But before Candy Apple Cookie could leap in excitement or unleash her usual flurry of chaotic giggles, Black Sapphire Cookie stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his master’s outstretched arm—not out of defiance, but out of discipline.

 

“Master… no.” His voice was low, unwavering. “You need to heal first.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie’s eyes narrowed, his smile flickering.

 

“Hah? You dare stall the Beast’s wrath? What next—shall I take a nap and sip warm cocoa while the world burns?”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie didn’t flinch. “If you fall now, we fall with you. You're no use to the Spire or the beasts in this state. Don’t let pride hollow out your power.”

 

Candy Apple Cookie made a little "tsk" sound from behind him. “ Ugh , he's right, isn’t he? Even your monologues are slower when you're bleeding.”

 

The faint glow of dark magic faded from Black Sapphire Cookie’s hands, the temporary patchwork of spells doing little more than slowing the bleeding and steadying Shadow Milk’s body.

 

He stood back, arms crossed. “That’s enough. You need to rest, Master.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie scoffed immediately, eyes narrowing. “Rest? What do I look like to you, some crumbling old scroll left to gather dust on a shelf?”

 

Candy Apple Cookie cackled. “I mean… kinda! You are dripping like an old wax candle. Want me to tuck you in? I’ll even read you a bedtime curse!”

 

“Not helping,” Black Sapphire muttered. He turned back to Shadow Milk, his expression unchanged. “You're immortal, sure—not like you used to be. Your power is regenerating slower. The jam loss is too much, and none of us are trained healers.”

 

He stepped closer, tone calm but firm. “Rest now, and by sunrise, you’ll return to full strength. That’s how your body works now, remember? You don’t need to sleep or eat, but this time… you have to.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stared at him for a long moment, as if the very concept of “going to bed” was an insult to his entire legacy.

 

“Tch… I led an entire era of fear and ruin. I devoured kingdoms whole. And now you want me to lie down like some worn-out granny cookie ?”

 

Candy Apple dropped dramatically to the floor and mimed fainting. “Oh nooo~! The Beast needs his blankie ! Someone get the cursed pillow fluffed!”

 

“Candy,” Black Sapphire snapped.

 

“What! It’s adorable.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie sighed—no, growled—and finally slumped back into the a bed at a guest room near the center of the Spire. His jam-stained robe dragged behind him like a shadow that didn’t want to be there either.

 

“Fine. But only because if I collapse mid-monologue tomorrow, it’d ruin the whole aesthetic. ” He laid back, arms crossed, sulking like an ancient evil forced into time-out.

 

Black Sapphire offered one final nod. “We’ll keep watch. No one will disturb you.”

 

Candy Apple threw a blanket over his legs—stolen from who knows where. “Sweet dreams, Master Shadow Milk Cookie~”

 

Shadow Milk muttered something that sounded vaguely like “I hate this.”

 

But the moment his eyes shut, the Spire fell into a heavy, anticipatory silence. He was resting. Recovering. And soon… he’d be back.

 

The world should start worrying. 

 

But first he must get his Soul Jam back. It was fair to get what was rightfully his, despite the Soul Jam was cleansed by the Witches and gave it to another "rightous" Cookie. 

 

Tomorrow, he needs to think of a plan, a grand entrance for that thief and his foolish lackeys. Maybe assigning his half of his duties to his minions wouldn't be as bad as he thought. 

 

 

Chapter 2: I

Notes:

I finished this chapter early and I couldn't wait for saturday so I posted

 

The next day finally arrived. Shadow Milk Cookie, the Beast of Deceit, stirred from his bed, his body no longer aching with the pain that had nearly torn it apart. He groaned as he sat up, grumbling under his breath with the usual dramatic flair.

 

"Ugh… That bed tried to swallow me whole," he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge. “Sleeping is for Cookies with too much time on their hands...” Still, he rose. He felt different. Lighter. Stable. Annoyingly refreshed.

 

As he descended the steps of the Spire, the faint scent of caramelized jam and toasted berries greeted him. It was warm—almost too warm—and for a moment, it made him wrinkle his nose. But when he entered the kitchen chamber, his two loyal followers were already seated, their plates half-finished. On the table sat a carefully set third plate, untouched and still warm.

 

Black Sapphire glanced up first, quiet as ever, but a glimmer of satisfaction crossed his face. “I told you,” he said plainly. “You needed rest. Even Beasts burn out.”

 

Candy Apple Cookie beamed at him. “We saved your portion! Eat up before it gets cold! You’re still grouchy when you’re hungry.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow, crossing his arms with exaggerated offense. “Grouchy? I am the embodiment of refined bitterness—there’s a difference , you little apple core.”

 

Still, he walked over, sat down, and with an exaggerated sigh, picked up the fork."...Hmph. I suppose I’ll eat. But only to stop you two from nagging me into an early crumble."

 

They said nothing—but the faint smile on Black Sapphire’s face didn’t go unnoticed. Later that morning, the three of them went their separate ways, the quiet hum of the Spire returning as each Cookie resumed their usual tasks.

 

In his dimly lit room, Black Sapphire Cookie was already live—perched before a crystal orb shimmering with magic. His voice, smooth and laced with intrigue, echoed through secret channels all across Earthbread.

 

"—and you didn’t hear it from me, but the Chancellor’s assistant hasn’t been seen in three days. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Stay sharp, sweet listeners." Each word spun like silk, feeding the web of whispers he had mastered. Cloaked in shadows and secrecy, he thrived where truth struggled to breathe.

 

Down the hall, in a brighter, more chaotic room, Candy Apple Cookie twirled before her mirror, surrounded by floating ribbons and shimmering fabrics, all animated by her magic. She waved her wand with flair, adjusting the color of a gown, then swapped it entirely for faerie-styled petals and soft wings.

 

“Hmm… too sparkly. Too dull. Ugh, this one makes me look like a grape…”

 

She huffed and changed again. Her visit to the Faerie Kingdom today wasn’t just routine—it was part of her mission. Rumors didn’t collect themselves, after all. Shadow Milk once told her, “If you’re doing your job right, little apple, the continent will open its gates for you.”

 

And today, she intended to prove just that.

 

As Candy Apple Cookie fluttered her fingers through a rack of conjured faerie gowns, still muttering about shades of lilac, the door to her room creaked open with a familiar, ominous flair. A creeping, syrupy chill drifted in, curling like smoke at her heels.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stood in the doorway, arms loosely crossed, his eyes glowing dimly beneath his messy bangs. "Having fun with your fashion show, little apple?" he drawled, his voice like velvet steeped in spite.

 

Candy Apple turned around with a grin. “Master! Of course! You can’t gossip properly if you’re underdressed—it’s all about presentation, y’know?”

 

He huffed a half-laugh, stepping in further. "Mm, speaking of gossip, I have something... delightfully urgent for you and Sapphire."

 

She blinked, eyes sparkling. “Ooooh! A new mission? Is it juicy? Tell me it’s juicy.”

 

Shadow Milk paced slowly across her room, trailing dark mist behind him. “You’ll be collecting rumors, yes. But this time, it’s not just whispers in noble halls or bakery backstreets.”

 

He leaned in closer, voice lowering. “You’re going to the Faerie Kingdom, as usual. I want everything—everything—on the new Queen. And more importantly... the current holder of my Soul Jam.”

 

Candy Apple gasped, nearly knocking over her magic stand. “You mean... Pure Vanilla Cookie?! And his goody-goody friends?! Ohhh this is juicy!”

 

Shadow Milk’s lips curled into a crooked grin. “We’re planning them a welcome show,” he said smoothly, “though I doubt they’ll enjoy the finale.”

 

He turned, heading for the door, but paused just before exiting. “For the first week, you’ll be with Sapphire. Disguised, of course. You’ll work together— closely. Once you've earned their trust, you'll switch roles. You stay in Crispia... he’ll move on.”

 

Candy Apple tilted her head. “Huh? That’s usually his turf. Why the switch?”

 

Shadow Milk didn't answer directly. “Think of it as... variety. Keeps the rumors fresh.”

 

She beamed. “Oooh, I love surprises! This is gonna be sooo fun!”

 

Shadow Milk gave a low chuckle, disappearing into the hallway with a final note left behind in the air: “Keep your ears open, little apple. The sweetest lies always come with a sting.”

 

The orb flickered out with a soft pop, leaving Black Sapphire Cookie’s room draped in silence once more—except for the lingering echoes of whispered rumors and the scent of burnt lavender incense. He leaned back in his seat, letting the quiet settle around him like a second cloak. The moment didn’t last. His door creaked open, slow and deliberate, followed by the familiar curling of mist along the floor. Shadow Milk Cookie entered with all the elegance of a villain savoring his entrance. He didn’t knock. He never knocked.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t turn to look. “I assume you’re not here to congratulate me on another flawless broadcast.”

 

Shadow Milk chuckled low in his throat. “Mmm. Congratulations, then. Another day, another nation trembling from a whisper.”

 

Black Sapphire offered a faint smirk. “Trembling is an exaggeration. They’re just... uneasy.”

 

“Good,” Shadow Milk purred, pacing behind him. “Let’s make them terrified next.” He finally stopped, letting his voice dip into something more serious—still silky, still theatrical, but heavy with purpose. “I have a mission for you. One that requires more than your usual masks and murmurs.”

 

Black Sapphire turned slightly, eyes sharp. “Go on.”

 

“You’ll be heading to the Faerie Kingdom.”

 

There was a pause. A blink. Then— “…That’s Candy Apple’s usual territory?”

 

Shadow Milk smirked. “Not anymore. This time, you’ll both go. She’ll help you settle in, but once you’ve built trust, she’ll stay in Crispia. You’ll remain embedded within the Kingdom.”

 

“And my cover?”

 

“Moondrop Faerie Cookie. A curious traveler, ‘returning home’ after years of wandering. You’re not that talkative but somehow you are cheerful, fascinated by the Kingdom’s beauty— ugh, you might even compliment someone’s wings.”

Black Sapphire blinked again. “That’s… bold.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Shadow Milk said, circling him like a shadowed predator with flair. “Your ‘dear friend’ will be none other than Apple Faerie Cookie. You’re a pair of fluttering little sweethearts spreading stories. How adorable. Right? Tell me I’m right.”

Black Sapphire leaned back, and sighs as he was folding his arms. “Let me guess. The real mission isn’t gossip.”

Shadow Milk’s smile sharpened like a fang. “You’ll be gathering information. I want eyes on the new Queen, and the one who holds my Soul Jam… Pure Vanilla Cookie. His little friends, too. I want to know what they eat, what they dream, what makes them wince. Although I got some information when I fled from that kingdom, I wanted more. Ya’ know for the dramaaa ”

He turned for the door, the shadows curling tighter as he walked. “This isn’t just rumors, Sapphire. It’s the opening act. Make them trust you. Make them adore you. Then pull the threads loose.”

Black Sapphire stood, nodding once. “Understood.”

Shadow Milk paused in the doorway, then added with a wry tilt of his head, “And remember… trust no one but yourself .” 

 

Black Sapphire stared at the darkened orb before him, already shifting through personas in his mind. Moondrop Faerie Cookie, huh?  He was going to hate smiling that much.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie remained still for a moment, letting the weight of the mission settle in. His violet eyes glowed faintly in the dim light of the room, thoughtful… calculating. Then he turned toward the doorway where Shadow Milk had just vanished, his voice calm but edged with precision. “…When do we leave?” The question carried no hint of fear or hesitation—just readiness.

There was a pause, and then Shadow Milk’s voice echoed back from down the hallway, curling like smoke: “Midnight.”

 

A flick of magic danced through the air as he reappeared briefly, leaning just enough into view with that signature grin painted across his face. “The stars will be watching. Let’s give them a show.”

 

Just as the last tendrils of Shadow Milk Cookie’s presence faded from the room, the door creaked open again —this time with a far less dramatic flair and a whole lot more energy.

 

Candy Apple Cookie practically bounced in, arms spread wide and eyes sparkling. “Guess who’s ready to sparkle and spy~?”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie didn’t even flinch. “You could knock.”

 

“I could, ” she chirped, spinning in place, “but where’s the drama in that?”

 

She struck a pose in front of him, clearly proud of her new disguise. Her outfit shimmered in soft tones of green and gold, the frills shaped like delicate faerie leaves. But what stood out most was the collar she wore—shaped like a jester’s cap, with tiny bells that didn’t chime. A quiet, pointed joke, resting right over her throat.

 

Black Sapphire narrowed his eyes, his gaze briefly flicking to the collar. “Subtle.”

 

She grinned wider. “It’s a hint, y’know? In case they get too comfortable. Gotta keep ‘em wondering if I’m sweet or sour.”

 

“You’re green apples. We both know the answer to that.”

 

“Aww, thank you! That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

 

He sighed. “Are you actually ready for this?”

 

Candy Apple gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. “Apple Faerie Cookie is locked and loaded. Gonna charm them out of their wings!”

 

Candy Apple Cookie flopped dramatically onto Black Sapphire’s bed, arms spread wide, her jester collar bouncing with the motion. “You know….., I am totally going to win this mission.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t even turn from the window. “It’s not a competition.”

 

“Oh, please. Everything is a competition,” she replied, propping her head up with both hands and kicking her legs lazily. “I’m going to be the favorite this time. Just watch. Shadow Milk’s gonna be all, ‘Oh, Candy Apple, your rumors were so deliciously wicked, I’ve never been prouder.’”

 

He slowly turned, expression flat. “He won’t say that.”

 

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” she sang.

 

“I’m not jealous. I’m experienced,” he said coolly, crossing his arms. “I’ve been pulling lies out of thin air since you were still mixing potions upside-down.”

 

“And yet I was the one trusted with the Faerie Kingdom first.” She stuck out her tongue. “Maybe he just likes me more.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes narrowed. “He gave me the Soul Jam mission. He trusts me to get information about Pure Vanilla Cookie.”

 

“And I get to go to Crispia afterward!” she shot back. “That means I’ll get double the scandal, double the rumors, and double the fan mail!”

 

“Fan mail?” he echoed in disbelief. “You’re not a popstar.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I do, actually.”

 

They glared at each other for a long moment before Candy Apple burst into laughter and rolled onto her back. “This is gonna be fun.”

 

Black Sapphire allowed the smallest smirk. “Try to keep up.”

 

“I’ll do more than that.” She tossed him a playful wink. “I’ll make Shadow Milk Cookie laugh. That’s the real win.”

 

Black Sapphire’s smirk faded. “…That’s cheating.”

 

“Only if I lose.”

 

From somewhere down the hall, Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice echoed faintly through the Spire: “If you two don’t stop bickering, I’ll assign you both to the Cookie Farm next.”

 

“NOT THE COOKIE FARM!” they both shouted at once—before sharing a look, and bursting into laughter.

 

As they both made their way to the doorway, Black Sapphire Cookie moved with his usual calm grace, adjusting the deep purple cloak of his new disguise. Candy Apple Cookie, meanwhile, was skipping just a little ahead of him, humming to herself, clearly proud of the way her bells didn’t actually jingle—a feature she’d bragged about at least five times in the past hour.

 

“I’m walking on air~ I’m gonna be the faerie they stare ~” she sang under her breath, spinning as she reached the top of the stairway that spiraled down from Black Sapphire’s room.

 

“Careful,” Black Sapphire said dryly, stepping behind her, “would be a shame if you… lost your balance. ”

 

Candy Apple paused, catching the tone just a second too late. “What—”

 

He casually tapped the back of her ankle with his foot—barely a nudge, really—but it was just enough to throw her off. Her arms flailed as she stumbled forward, catching herself on the wall with a loud thud.

 

“HEY!” she shrieked, spinning around. “Did you just TRIP me?!”

 

Black Sapphire gave her the most innocent look he could muster. “Hm? Oh no. You must’ve slipped.”

 

“You snake!” She shoved him back with a puffed-up pout. “I knew it! You’re trying to sabotage me before the mission even starts!”

 

He adjusted his cloak smugly. “Can’t sabotage what was already unstable.”

 

“Ohhh, you are so not winning this favorite child war.”

 

“I already did,” he replied, descending the steps like nothing had happened. “He gave me the dangerous job, remember?”

 

“I’m telling Shadow Milk!” she called after him, chasing him down the stairs.

 

“And I’ll just deny everything,” he shot back with a smirk.

 

Their voices echoed through the halls of the Spire of Deceit like bickering thunder and lightning—equal parts mischief and magic, as the two agents of rumor prepared for the show of their lives. At the base of the Spire, near the grand, jagged archway twisted with blackened vines and fading runes, Shadow Milk Cookie stood waiting—arms crossed, foot tapping against the stone floor with exaggerated impatience. The shadows swirled faintly at his feet, restless, almost as if they shared in his irritation.

 

Above, the unmistakable sound of bickering echoed down the spiral staircase. “…I barely tripped you!”

 

“You kicked me like a rogue muffin cart!”

 

“You tripped over your own ego!”

 

Shadow Milk sighed long and slow, rolling his eyes with the exhaustion of a parent dealing with two very dramatic children. As the two finally came tumbling into view—Candy Apple still adjusting her collar and Black Sapphire calmly pretending he wasn’t at all responsible—Shadow Milk didn’t even wait for them to reach the bottom.

 

“You two are taking too long,” he deadpanned, tone rich with sarcasm and menace. “At this rate, Pure Vanilla will die of old age before you deliver a single whisper.” With a flick of his fingers, dark tendrils of magic coiled through the air, circling once before violently cracking open into a swirling portal. The edges shimmered with distorted light, threads of silver and violet pulling at the fabric of space.

 

It pulsed once—hungry and humming. “A direct gateway to the Faerie Kingdom,” Shadow Milk said, voice now colder. “No detours. No distractions.” He glanced between the two. “Do your jobs. Smile when needed. Lie often. And remember—this world doesn’t deserve your mercy.”

 

Candy Apple gave a twirl and beamed. “We’ll be legends! Kyahahaha!”

 

Black Sapphire simply nodded, cloak shifting around him like liquid shadow.

 

Shadow Milk narrowed his eyes. “Go.”

 

And the two stepped into the swirling magic portal which sends them straight to the entrance of the Faerie Kingdom.

 

 

---

 

 

As the swirling shadows of the portal faded behind them, Black Sapphire Cookie—now cloaked in flowing green silks, his hair tied back with grapevine threads and soft wings shimmered with illusionary glow—stepped onto unfamiliar soil for the first time. The scent of dew, blossoms, and magic hung thick in the air. Sunlight poured from above like golden syrup, far too warm for his taste.

 

He squinted. “Where… is the gate?”

 

But Candy Apple Cookie—now Apple Faerie Cookie once more—just giggled, walking confidently along the cobbled path framed by blooming vines and glimmering mushrooms. “It doesn’t show up unless you’re a Faerie,” she said in a sing-song tone, tapping her temple. “Magic rules, silly~”

 

“Convenient,” Black Sapphire muttered, arms crossed.

 

Just as the silence began to settle, Candy Apple cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted toward the trees, “Hellooo? Silverbell Cookie! It’s Apple Faerie Cookie! I’m back!”

 

There was a rustle among the petals above. Moments later, a blur of white and silver dropped down from the treetops with grace only a true guardian of the Faerie Kingdom could possess. His cloak of fine silver leaves fluttered behind him, and his trusty bow—ornate yet worn—was slung over his back. Silverbell Cookie, his expression calm but observant, landed before them with nary a sound.

 

“Apple Faerie Cookie,” he greeted with a small nod. “We weren’t expecting you today.”

 

She grinned. “Surprise! I’ve brought someone with me.” She stepped aside and gestured dramatically toward Black Sapphire, who gave the slightest bow and no smile. “This is Moondrop Faerie Cookie. He’s a traveler from one of the outer groves, just passing through on his journey. I insisted he see the kingdom—it would be rude not to.”

 

Silverbell Cookie’s pale eyes studied the stranger closely. “We don’t get many from the outer groves these days.”

 

“Oh, he’s shy,” she added with a wink. “But you’ll love him. He’s harmless.”

 

Black Sapphire said nothing—just met the knight’s gaze, calm and unreadable.

There was a pause. Then, Silverbell’s hand lifted, and as if in response, the air shimmered behind him. The great floral gate bloomed open from thin air, vines twisting aside to reveal the path into the heart of the kingdom. “…Welcome home, then,” Silverbell said quietly, stepping aside to let them pass.

 

Black Sapphire’s expression didn’t change—but deep within, his heart stirred. This was enemy territory. And he had a role to play. As they stepped through the blooming gate, the enchantments dissolved around them like morning mist, revealing a world that could only belong to Faeries.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie—no, Moondrop Faerie Cookie—couldn’t help the way his eyes widened, just slightly. The Faerie Kingdom was… radiant. Petals floated midair like suspended wishes, soft beams of light filtered through trees with silver trunks and golden leaves. The architecture curled organically into the environment—homes nestled in the hollows of flowers, bridges made of vines, glowing crystals embedded in the stone paths beneath his feet. Magic was stitched into every breath of this place.

 

It was beautiful. Breathtaking, even.

 

And entirely too bright. The scent of lilies thickened with every step. It wrapped around him like a perfume-laced fog, cloying and deliberate. He knew what that meant. Somewhere not far from here… was the Queen. White Lily Cookie. The one who sealed his master.

 

He kept his expression neutral, even as a chill slid down his spine. That sweet, flowery scent—he would remember it.

 

Beside him, Candy Apple—still as radiant and peppy as ever—was chatting with Silverbell as though they were old friends catching up at a spring festival. “I’m telling you, the petals in the outer groves are twice as big now! You’d love it! We should go one day,” she chirped, hands animated, voice bright.

 

Silverbell gave a soft chuckle, relaxed and gentle. “I doubt Her Majesty would approve a spontaneous leave just to look at petals.”

 

She laughed. “Oh come on, she doesn’t have to know.”

 

Meanwhile, Moondrop Faerie Cookie followed quietly beside them. He said nothing, observed everything. From the way the faeries fluttered above, to the way Silverbell occasionally glanced back at him—curious, but not hostile. Yet. He let his fingers brush the bark of a tree as they passed. Even the trees hummed with life here. So this was the Kingdom that sealed away the five Beasts. How lovely. He couldn’t wait to destroy it.

 

Candy Apple Cookie tilted her head slightly as they walked, her jester-shaped collar bouncing with each step. She giggled again at something Silverbell had said—something about how the cherry blossoms near the Queen’s greenhouse bloomed twice this season—but her gaze kept drifting to the Cookie beside her.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie, cloaked in the gentle illusion of Moondrop Faerie Cookie, wasn’t acting like himself. Normally, even in disguise, he carried himself with that usual air of smug composure, like he knew something no one else did. He was subtle, smooth, rarely rattled. But now? His shoulders were a little too stiff. His arms folded across his chest, fingers drumming against his elbow. His eyes flicked around the Kingdom like a hawk watching for prey—calculating, guarded. And that was strange.

She blinked. Was he… nervous ?

 

Silverbell noticed it too. His easy pace slowed just slightly, his calm gaze flickering over to Moondrop Faerie Cookie as he walked. “Are you alright?” he asked gently, polite but direct.

 

Black Sapphire’s voice came out cool and even, but his tone had a practiced edge. “I’m fine. Just not used to so much light.”

 

Candy Apple grinned. “He gets like this when he skips breakfast,” she said, nudging him playfully with her elbow. “You should’ve seen his face this one time I brought him to a Summer Soda Rock Festival—he looked like he was going to evaporate!”

 

“That’s not true,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

 

“Oh please, you wore a cloak under your cloak!” she teased.

 

Silverbell let out a short laugh, but still kept his eye on the newcomer. “Well… if you need time to adjust, let me know. The Kingdom can be overwhelming at first.”

 

“I’ll manage,” Black Sapphire said, eyes narrowing just a touch. But inside, his thoughts were racing. This mission was far more dangerous than anything before. One wrong move, and this entire Kingdom could snap its focus on him. He wasn’t afraid. But he knew better than to feel safe.

 

Silverbell and Apple Faerie continued guiding Moondrop Faerie Cookie deeper into the kingdom, weaving through arched walkways of entwined silver vines and crystal-laced bridges that shimmered in the sunlight. The air sparkled with pollen-like magic, faeries fluttered above in gentle flocks, and the entire Kingdom pulsed like a living, breathing dream. Yet despite the marvels, the music gardens, the hovering lakes, and the enchanted markets—none of it held Black Sapphire’s gaze for long. Until they passed a tall, ivy-covered tower near the Queen’s Court.

 

Its doors were carved from white birchwood, framed by engraved panels of ancient text. It was quieter here. Serene. Powerful.

“The library,” Silverbell explained when he caught Grapevine’s lingering stare. “Faeries have kept knowledge there for generations. From ancient records to personal journals. Anything you can imagine.”

 

For the first time, Black Sapphire spoke with genuine interest. “Can visitors enter?”

 

Silverbell gave a small smile. “Only with permission. But friends of the Kingdom often receive it.”

 

Candy Apple noticed his change in tone and lightly poked his side. “Huh, you’re interested in books now?”

 

He shot her a sharp glance. “Well what can you say? I’m a sucker for knowledge.” Her grin faltered just a bit. He wasn’t joking. But she was the only one who knew what was really going through his head.

 

He remembered the first time she had tried to sneak into the Spire’s forbidden library. How she tiptoed past the halls when she thought Shadow Milk Cookie was asleep, just to peek at one of the sealed doors. Curious. Innocent. And how—out of nowhere—Shadow Milk had appeared right in front of her, 

 

“This room is OFF limits.” his voice like a crashing wave of fury, echoing through the halls. His magic warped the space around them with raw pressure. He hadn’t been there when it happened. He only heard about it after, when Candy Apple came back to their room with trembling hands and lips pressed into a thin line. She never tried again. Shadow Milk never explained why. And that only made him want to know more. Why couldn't they enter the library? To keep them away from knowledge? Was knowledge all that powerful?

 

Now, standing in front of the Faerie Kingdom’s library, seeing knowledge displayed like art instead of buried in shadow—it stirred something in him. He wouldn’t admit it aloud. But he wanted in.

 

As they walked further into the heart of the Faerie Kingdom, the path widened into a grand plaza lined with opalescent flowers and glowing lanterns that floated just above the ground like sleepy fireflies. The scent of sugarblossom and golden dew hung thick in the air, and the chime of laughter echoed from every corner of the bustling celebration. And then Black Sapphire froze.

 

His gaze was locked onto a group of Cookies standing near the palace stairs, framed by ribbons of fluttering silk and surrounded by nobles and knights. One of them—his presence was unmistakable—stood tall with long flowing robes, calm composure, and a gentle glow surrounding the jewel embedded in his chest.

 

A Soul Jam. Shining like the moon on still water. Blue. He narrowed his eyes. It was Pure Vanilla Cookie. And by his side… the little group he’d seen in records and reports: a bright-eyed gingerbread, a quiet Cookie with a strawberry hoodie, and a wise Cookie clearly too confident for his own good. A celebration. For her. Of course the heroes would be here.

 

Black Sapphire quickly straightened his back and softened his expression, slipping seamlessly into character. He leaned a little closer to Silverbell, feigning curiosity with a tilt of his head. “Silverbell,” he said smoothly, his voice gentle and melodic, “who are those Cookies across the plaza? The ones by the Queen’s Court… they look important.”

 

Silverbell glanced over and smiled with a sense of pride. “Ah, That’s Pure Vanilla Cookie himself, the holder of the light of truth —and his companions. Heroes of many tales, honored guests and friends of Her Majesty White Lily Cookie.”

 

Black Sapphire let out a quiet hum, nodding slowly. “How lovely,” he murmured, but his eyes didn’t leave the Soul Jam. So… that’s who’s holding it now. He made sure his expression didn’t twitch. Let the feast go on, he thought, his mind already racing. But the next show belongs to us.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie kept his gaze locked on Pure Vanilla Cookie, sharp eyes subtly watching every gesture, every word exchanged in the distance. His mind was already formulating five different routes of escape, four strategies for observation, and three cover stories in case things went south. This was no ordinary mission anymore—this was a game of precision.

 

But his train of thought was interrupted by Silverbell’s excited rambling. “Can you believe it?” the knight beamed, voice filled with admiration. “They’re really here in the Faerie Kingdom! The Pure Vanilla Cookie and his brave companions! I never thought I’d actually get to see them in person. He’s even more radiant than the portraits in the archives!”

 

“I know, right?” Candy Apple chimed in with cheerful energy, her voice taking on the usual sing-song tone of Apple Faerie Cookie. “It’s like a storybook walking around! I mean, Wizard Cookie looks smaller than I imagined, but maybe that’s just the hat.”

 

Silverbell laughed at that, elbow gently nudging Moondrop Faerie Cookie’s side. “What about you? You’ve been quiet! Come now, don’t you want to join the festivities? It’s not every day we get to welcome such esteemed guests—and White Lily Cookie herself is about to speak!”

 

Candy Apple leaned in beside Silverbell, tilting her head with an exaggerated pout. “Yeah, Moonyy! You’re making that weird thinking face again. C’mon! Even mysterious travelers need to eat sweet petals and throw glitter sometimes!”

 

Black Sapphire blinked, realizing both of them were now staring at him expectantly, eyes sparkling, practically dragging him back into the role. He gave a soft smile—one he practiced many times in the mirror—and offered a calm, composed nod. “Ah… yes. Forgive me. I suppose I’m still overwhelmed by the Kingdom’s beauty. It’s truly… enchanting.”

 

Silverbell clapped him on the back, perhaps too hard. “That’s the spirit! Let’s get you some cakes. You have to try them. They’re Queen Lily’s favorite.”

 

As they walked toward the feast, Black Sapphire took one last glance toward Pure Vanilla. Let them eat. Let them dance. He’ll be watching.

Chapter 3: II

The meal before them was unlike anything they’d had in weeks—no more bitter herb stew or burnt mushroom toast from the Spire’s poorly-kept kitchen. Instead, delicate lily petal wraps, soft moonberry tarts, and nectar-drizzled bread filled their plates. It was almost heavenly… though Black Sapphire still chewed cautiously, his senses tuned to every sound and word around him.

 

Silverbell Cookie sat beside him, laughing between bites and casually pointing out different figures around the courtyard. “Oh! And that over there is Dewlight Baker Cookie—makes the best pollen scones in all of Earthbread. No contest.”

 

Black Sapphire only hummed in acknowledgment, keeping his expressions polite and minimal, still in the skin of “Moondrop Faerie Cookie.”

 

Suddenly, a strong voice called from a distance. “Silverbell.”

 

The knight stiffened slightly before turning, his expression shifting into one of firm respect. A tall, silver-toned Cookie approached them, bearing the emblem of the Silver Tree on his cape. His presence demanded attention—controlled, poised, and sharp like a polished blade.

 

Apple Faerie Cookie waved a hand with a bright grin. “That’s Mercurial Knight Cookie! He’s the big boss of the Silver Tree Knights. The Faeries says he gave up his flavor and scent to serve the Tree directly! Creepy-cool, right?”

 

“Ah, Mercurial Knight Cookie!” Silverbell confirmed, standing to greet him. “I’ll be back shortly. Probably another inspection request.” With a graceful bow to the two, Silverbell followed the silver knight away.

 

Black Sapphire’s gaze narrowed slightly as he watched the exchange. Mercurial Knight Cookie... so that’s the commander. The air around him was clean, cold, and laced with power—the kind that knew things, guarded things. He leaned back into his seat, nibbling at a tart. Another piece in the game had just entered the board.

 

Candy Apple Cookie leaned back in her seat, casually swirling the flower nectar in her glass as she glanced at Black Sapphire Cookie. With Silverbell gone for the moment, she leaned a little closer, whispering just enough for him to hear—but not enough to seem suspicious.

 

"You really have to loosen up, you know," she said with a teasing grin, green eyes twinkling. "You’re supposed to be a curious little traveler, not someone who looks like they’re planning to vaporize the whole Kingdom with a stare."

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look at her, eyes still scanning the crowd with quiet intensity.

 

"You're going to give yourself wrinkles," she added playfully, flicking a crumb at him. "Seriously, if your shoulders get any stiffer, someone’s going to think you’re hiding a weapon under your wings."

 

"...I’m watching," he muttered, tone low but focused. "We’re surrounded. That’s reason enough to be tense."

 

Candy Apple Cookie laughed softly. “We are surrounded... by snacks and polite faeries. It’s a party, not a battlefield. Relax a little, Sapphy.”

 

He shot her a look for the nickname, but didn’t protest further. He wanted to relax. He just wasn’t built for it. "Fine. But if someone breathes wrong near me, I’m vanishing," he warned under his breath.

 

"Do that, and I’ll tell Shadow Milk you cried at the flower parade," she replied sweetly, sipping from her cup.

 

His eye twitched. Touché.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie sat in silence for a moment, Candy Apple’s words echoing in his head louder than the music playing across the courtyard. She was right. As much as he hated to admit it, she was right .

 

“Moondrop Faerie Cookie” was supposed to be an upbeat traveler, someone curious and fascinated by the world, not a shadowy figure with suspicion in his gaze and a jaw locked tight enough to snap sugar glass. If Shadow Milk Cookie were watching—no, when he finds out—he'd give him that look. The one that wasn't angry, but disappointed. Somehow, that always hurt more.

 

He exhaled slowly, easing the tension in his shoulders. His wings fluttered faintly, a subtle reminder to stay in character. With effort, he let his expression shift, softening the edges of his sharp stare into something that resembled curiosity. Not genuine, but convincing enough.

 

He reached for a bright petal pastry on the table, holding it up with a small, well-practiced smile. “What’s this one called again?” he asked, turning to Candy Apple with a voice a touch lighter than usual—still cool, but less cutting.

 

Candy Apple lit up, proud and smug. “That’s more like it,” she whispered. “Shadow Milk’s boy doesn’t fumble a role.”

 

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He was back in the part now. He had to be. There was too much at stake not to.

 

Silverbell Cookie returned, brushing a few shimmering petals off his shoulders as he approached the table once more. His eyes lit up as he noticed Moondrop Faerie Cookie sitting with a far more relaxed posture than earlier. Pulling his chair in with a soft scrape against the stone floor, he leaned forward with that familiar, curious warmth in his voice.

 

"So, Moondrop," he began, offering a friendly smile. "You’ve been traveling for a long while, haven’t you? Where’s the most fascinating place you’ve been?"

 

Moondrop tilted his head thoughtfully, slipping smoothly into character with the confidence of a cookie who'd practiced this story a hundred times. “Oh, I’ve wandered from the cold Snowfall Village to the volcanic ridges of Dragon’s Valley," he said, his voice lilting with false cheer, just dramatic enough to sound like a real storyteller. “I haven’t gone to other places all across Earthbread, only Crispia, and a place that never fails to fascinate me is the Hollyberry Kingdom.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes widened in genuine wonder. “That sounds incredible… I’ve always wanted to see Crispia,” he said dreamily. “I heard the Hollyberry Palace always host a Royal Ball every night, that must be so cool”

 

Moondrop gave a soft chuckle and leaned in slightly, his voice lilting with amusement. “You’d fit right in, you know,” he said, eyes gleaming. “All that charm, that shine in your eyes when you talk about it... If you showed up in Crispia, they’d probably mistake you for royalty.”

 

Silverbell’s cheeks flushed a warm pink, and he quickly looked away, fumbling with the strap of his scabbard. “W–What? No, I—” he cleared his throat, clearly flustered. “I-I mean, I’m just a knight. I’m not… charming or anything. You’re just saying that…” His voice trailed off as he dared a glance back at Moomdrop, eyes wide and uncertain.

 

Apple Faerie grinned from beside them, watching as Black Sapphire played the part well, perfectly even. She could admit it—he had flair when he wanted to.

 

Silverbell cleared his throat and nodded, clearly enchanted. “You’ve really seen so much. It must feel strange to be back home.”

 

Black Sapphire hesitated only a breath before answering, “Maybe. But some places… they stay with you no matter where you go. Faerie Kingdom’s like that.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes lit up again, resting his chin in one hand as he leaned forward eagerly. “Have you ever been to Parfaedia? I’ve only read about it in scrolls—heard the city almost glows from all the magic.”

 

At that, Moondrop Faerie Cookie gave a wistful sigh and a nod, resting an elbow lightly on the table. “Ah, Parfaedia… Yes. It’s a place that hums with power. You don’t walk through it—you drift, like magic’s lifting you by the heels.” He smiled faintly, recalling the pages of fabricated memories he’d practiced. “I spent a few days near the edge of the institute itself. Even the walls breathed enchantments. You could smell incantations in the air. Spells carved into the stones, students weaving starlight like thread…”

 

Candy Apple Cookie gave him a subtle side glance. It was scary how smooth he was now, but it made her grin. There’s the Black Sapphire I know.

 

Silverbell’s voice dropped in amazement. “I heard some cookies there can bend time with just a flick of a wand. Is that true?”

 

“Well,” Moondrop said, his voice lowering conspiratorially, “I didn’t see time bending. But I did get stuck in a corridor that looped in on itself for three hours. I walked through the same doorway five times before a kind student realized I was trapped in a disorientation ward.” He chuckled, a perfectly rehearsed, tired laugh. “Parfaedia’s hospitality is... unique.”

 

Silverbell laughed brightly, the sound light and sincere. “You’re full of stories, aren’t you? I’d love to hear more sometime.”

 

That remark sent a flicker through Moondrop’s chest, foreign and unfamiliar. He brushed it off quickly.

 

“I’m sure I’ll have plenty to share,” he replied, then rose gracefully, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. “But for now, I think I need some air. Traveling or not, a Cookie needs a moment to breathe.”

 

Silverbell stood with him, polite. “Of course! Do you want me to—?”

 

“No need,” Moondrop cut in smoothly, his smile intact. “You’ve been more than generous already.”

 

And with that, he turned, his expression shifting the moment his back was to them—less sparkle, more stone. Every step he took away from the table reminded him that this was still a mission. That no matter how warm the sun felt or how kind the knight was, he had a role to play. Shadow Milk Cookie was watching—even if not with eyes.

 

Moondrop Faerie Cookie made his way past the rose-stained courtyards, away from the laughter and clinking silverware of the feast. The further he walked, the more the air changed—less perfumed, more natural, tinged with earth and something colder. He didn't lie entirely to Silverbell earlier. He had traveled to Crispia. But it wasn't as a cheerful explorer sipping tea and trading stories—it was as a shadow, a whisper slipping between borders with rumors stitched beneath his cloak.

 

That memory weighed on him, stitched into the tired tension in his shoulders. He just wanted to breathe now. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling. The scent shifted again. Jam. It wasn't fresh. It was old, familiar, dark. His eyes snapped open, scanning the forest line just beyond the kingdom’s edge. There. A flicker of movement. A blur of black and blue, melting between the trees like mist. A shape that seemed to fold light around it unnaturally. Eyes that glowed with something older than magic itself.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie.

 

Without thinking, Moondrop broke into a sprint, wings flaring behind him, fluttering like dark velvet caught in wind. He didn’t care about keeping up the act now. The forest swallowed him whole as he followed the shadow.

 

“Master—!” he called, breath catching in his throat. Was this planned? Was this a test? Or was it truly him?

 

He darted past glowing mushrooms, twisting vines, the echo of celebration fading behind him. If it was Shadow Milk Cookie, then why here? Why now? And more importantly… Why was he watching ?

 

Black Sapphire came to a halt, chest rising and falling as the shadows curled tighter around him. And there—emerging from the deeper dark of the forest—was the Beast himself.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t glide or drift like other Cookies with wings or magic. He moved—with purpose, with pressure. The air itself bent a little around him. His cracked horn gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight seeping through the canopy.

 

"It’s really you..." Black Sapphire whispered, barely daring to believe it.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head, unreadable as always. “Hmph. Watching? Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, folding his arms. “I wasn’t watching. I was waiting. There’s a difference. One sounds pitiful. The other... ominous.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked, unsure how to respond. It’s like he read his mind. But Shadow Milk wasn't done.

 

“You're in enemy territory, Sapph.” His voice took on that sharp, warbled tone that made his words feel like they slithered rather than spoke. “If anyone finds out who you are... if even a hint of suspicion falls on your identity…” He stepped closer, one clawed hand gesturing lazily through the air like a conductor leading a twisted symphony. “You do not hesitate. No hesitations, no guilt, no mercy. You tear them to pieces. Understand?”

 

The silence that followed was heavy, pulsing with the weight of the order. Black Sapphire met his master’s eyes, and though he was used to the coldness there, something about this moment chilled him deeper. Still, he nodded. “I understand.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie narrowed his eyes slightly. “Good. Because if you don’t rip them apart, someone else will. And it won’t be pretty.”

 

Then, as if the moment had passed, the Beast leaned back, cracking his neck. “Now... enjoy your little role, Moondrop. Make sure you smile more. The grumpy traveler look only works if you're ancient and terrifying—like me.”

Just as Shadow Milk Cookie began to turn, his form already half-faded into the shifting veil of shadows, he paused—just enough for his voice to slither back into Black Sapphire’s ears.

 

“Oh... and one more thing,” he drawled, voice curling like smoke. “The welcome show for my other half…” He scoffed, bitter amusement lacing every word. “It’s coming along delightfully. The stage is nearly set. But…” He turned his head slightly, a single glowing eye locking with Black Sapphire’s. “I still need the final act. The grand finale. His whereabouts. What those sweet little heroes are whispering behind those sparkly curtains.”

 

The smile that stretched across his face was all teeth, jagged and gleaming. “You have one job, Moondrop. Get me that information. And when the curtain rises…” He let out a low chuckle. “I want their applause to be screams.” With a final rustle of windless motion, the Beast was gone—vanished between the trees, leaving only the echo of his laughter and the scent of scorched sugar behind.

Black Sapphire Cookie stood still for a long moment after Shadow Milk’s departure. The forest around him had grown colder, quieter, as if holding its breath. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight. That familiar weight settled in his chest again—the pressure of responsibility, of expectation. The show had to go on. And he had to perform.

The role of Moondrop Faerie Cookie wasn’t an easy one. Unlike his usual disguises, this one required charm, warmth, approachability. Things he didn’t… do. Not naturally. That’s why Candy Apple was always better at the whole “smile and deceive” part. But this mission? It was his. Shadow Milk entrusted it to him.  He exhaled slowly, adjusting the delicate leaf-patterned collar around his neck, making sure his wings weren’t too crooked. He wiped the last trace of emotion off his face and replaced it with a faint, distant smile—the kind a well-traveled, free-spirited faerie might wear. The kind that invited curiosity, but not questions.

 

As he stepped back into the garden path leading toward the feasting grounds, he saw them again—Silverbell Cookie and Apple Faerie, both chatting casually, the light from the lanterns casting soft glows on their sugar-coated features. Silverbell glanced over, offering a small wave. “There you are!” he called. “Thought we lost you to the flower fields!”

 

Black Sapphire smiled on cue, lifting a hand in greeting. “Just needed a moment to breathe,” he replied with that same airy lilt he’d practiced in the mirror. “The trees here sing, don’t they? It’s hard not to get swept away.”

 

Silverbell laughed lightly and gestured him over. “We saved you a spot. And you have to tell me more about Parfaedia. That city has always fascinated me.”

 

Black Sapphire sat down, folding his legs beneath him as he resumed his act. “Parfaedia, hm?” he echoed, pretending to recall it fondly. “It’s… vibrant. You can feel the magic even in the stones. Every Cookie there is constantly creating, learning. I visited during one of their floating lantern festivals. It felt like I was walking through the stars.”

 

“Sounds magical,” Silverbell said, still enchanted by his stories.

 

Oh how he wished someone would actually listen to him and his stories. “It was,” Black Sapphire lied smoothly, though there had been a lantern festival during his mission—he just hadn’t paid attention. Too busy spreading a false rumor about a magical rift under the Institute. Black Sapphire hadn’t expected the conversation to last this long—or to be this easy. Silverbell Cookie was far too warm, far too trusting for someone who was meant to be a knight. It was unsettling. But also… convenient. Just as he was about to excuse himself with the usual polite lines, Silverbell perked up, his gaze drawn toward the sky.

 

“Oh! I almost forgot,” he said, turning to them with a smile. “There’s going to be fireworks later tonight. A gift from the Queen to the visiting heroes, and… well, I suppose to everyone.” He laughed softly. “You two should come watch them with me.”

 

Candy Apple lit up immediately, clasping her hands together. “Fireworks?! Really?! I love fireworks!” She grinned, nudging Moondrop Faerie Cookie. “We’re going, right?”

 

Black Sapphire blinked, caught off-guard by the invitation. His instinct screamed to decline, to stay focused on the mission, to avoid anything that could break his composure. But then he remembered what Shadow Milk told him—that if he failed to blend in, there would be consequences. He had to keep playing the part. “…Of course,” he said after a beat, voice light with false enthusiasm. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a proper display. I’d be honored.”

 

Silverbell looked genuinely pleased. “Great! There’s a perfect spot just outside the garden. Not too crowded.”

 

Candy Apple looped her arm through Moondrop’s, grinning. “You’re lucky you’re with me, or else you’d sulk in some dark corner again.”

 

He rolled his eyes but said nothing. Let her tease him. He’d let her win a round or two—if it meant finishing the mission undetected. Still, as he glanced up toward the sky—imagining it lit up in silver and gold—he couldn’t help but feel that strange flutter again. However he shoved that thought out of his mind, thinking it was nothing.

 

Silverbell led them through winding paths of shimmering petals and softly glowing lanterns until they reached a wide plaza near the edge of the gardens. The view of the sky was open, the perfect vantage point for the upcoming fireworks. Dozens of Cookies were already gathered, chatting, laughing, holding delicate sparkling drinks and flower-topped sweets. Joy and celebration hung in the air like misted sugar.

 

Moondrop Faerie Cookie stood just behind the crowd, where the flickering lanterns cast soft shadows. He gave a subtle nod to Apple Faerie Cookie, who smiled sweetly back. It was time. She stepped forward into the clusters of Faeries, weaving between them with the air of a bubbly socialite. Her voice was light, like giggles wrapped in candy floss.

 

"Did you hear?" she began innocently to a cluster of young Faerie nobles. "I heard that the Silver Tree… isn’t as strong as it used to be."

 

One of the Cookies blinked. “What do you mean?”

 

Apple Faerie leaned closer, as if whispering a juicy secret. “They say that even with all the Silver Knights, it’s begun to wilt from the inside. Like something’s wrong with the roots. But hush, it’s probably nothing, right?”

 

A few worried glances were exchanged. One of the Faeries looked toward the great silver spire that rose at the Kingdom’s center. Another furrowed their brow. “It’s just something I overheard from the northern gardeners,” Apple Faerie added, putting a finger to her lips. “But it would explain why the Queen’s been bringing more outsiders more lately…”

 

Moondrop watched the ripple take hold, like a single drop disturbing a clear pond. Whispers began to spread—quiet, cautious, but persistent. A single rumor. One that cast doubt not just on the tree, but on the very heart of the Kingdom’s power.

 

And all it took was a cheerful voice, a playful smile, and the cover of celebration. No one noticed the brief glance Moondrop exchanged with Apple Faerie Cookie.

 

As the first firework burst into the sky—bright silver and petal pink—Moondrop Faerie Cookie’s gaze briefly flicked up, though his mind remained sharp, alert beneath the mask of wonder. It wasn’t until the crowd leaned in to admire the next glittering bloom overhead that he felt the weight. Subtle. Featherlight. Something tucked neatly into the inner fold of his cloak. His fingers brushed the item: a thin silver pen and a small, near-weightless notebook. His brows furrowed ever so slightly.

 

He hadn’t brought these. Of course. It had to be Shadow Milk.

 

He slipped a glance at the edge of the plaza, half-expecting to find the dark figure watching—but there was nothing. Still, it was exactly his style. Moondrop could almost hear his voice in the back of his head, smug and velvet-smooth: “You’ll need somewhere to write their secrets. Don’t disappoint me.”

 

Moondrop then slid the items deeper into his pocket. A cold shiver of purpose ran down his spine.

The crowd oohed as another firework bloomed in the night sky—an arc of glittering teal that rained down like a comet's tail. Moondrop Faerie Cookie stood still amid the cheer, the new weight of the pen and notebook anchoring him deeper into his role. Beside him, Apple Faerie Cookie whispered something into a nearby cookie’s ear with an innocent giggle. Moondrop could see it in her eyes—this was no harmless gossip. She’d planted the first seed, and it was already spreading.

A moment later, a whisper trailed through the crowd like a slow-moving ripple: "Did you hear? The Queen... she’s planning to replace the Silver Tree Knights."

 

A gasp. “It is probably because they failed to protect His Majesty from that filthy Beast” Then another. Shocked eyes turned subtly toward Mercurial Knight Cookie in the distance, who stood watching the sky, unaware of the storm beginning to brew around him.

 

It wasn’t true—not yet—but the beauty of a well-placed lie was its shape. It could be molded, twisted. By the time the truth arrived, it would be too late. Distrust would already have rooted itself. Moondrop didn’t smile, not fully. But a corner of his lip twitched.

 

He cast a glance at Silverbell Cookie, who stood beside him, gaze tilted skyward, eyes shining from the reflection of fireworks. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the knight murmured.

 

“It is,” Moondrop replied, voice smooth and practiced. “It is very enchanting, especially celebrating ”

 

Silverbell turned to him, puzzled but warm. “Then I’m glad you’re here to see it.”

---

 

Nearly a week had passed since Moondrop Faerie Cookie set foot in the Faerie Kingdom. The days were rich with laughter, sunlight, and the sweet scent of blossoms on the breeze—but none of it ever truly reached him.

 

Silverbell Cookie was… relentless.

 

Each morning, the knight greeted him with that same unshakeable smile, asking him about his nonexistent travels, inquiring about his favorite sweets, even offering to show him "hidden spots" in the Kingdom. During breakfast, during patrols, even during idle walks near the silver-blessed trees—he was there. A friendly shadow that seemed incapable of silence.

 

To any outside observer, it would seem endearing: a devoted knight taking a liking to a visiting faerie. But to Black Sapphire Cookie, still cloaked beneath the Moondrop persona, it gnawed at his nerves.

 

He kept his expressions carefully arranged, but inside he boiled. Every forced smile felt like a crack in his mask. Every time Silverbell’s cheerful voice chirped his name, he wanted to vanish. Why was he trying so hard? What was he hoping to find?

 

Sometimes he worried he was starting to slip. That Silverbell’s persistent kindness was starting to chip away at something. Something he couldn’t name. So when the faeries retired for the night, retreating into their silken homes with giggles and goodnights, Moondrop Cookie did not stay. No, Black Sapphire returned home. Not to any bedroom in the kingdom—but to the Spire.

 

Through a concealed portal nestled in the roots of a tree deep in the forest, he stepped into the familiar chill of home. The Spire was all quiet and deep shadows. Cold stone walls hummed with restrained magic, tall stained windows casting prismatic reflections across the marble floors. He never said anything upon arrival. He didn’t have to anyway.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie was never asleep—not truly. His presence lingered in the corners of the Spire like a cold breath against the skin, always watching, always waiting.

 

Black Sapphire would head straight for the records room, where he now spent hours carefully writing into the small silver notebook slipped into his pocket days ago. Rumors collected. Movements noted. Conversations memorized. Every encounter with Pure Vanilla Cookie and his friends. Every conversation Silverbell tried to strike. Every odd phrase Apple Faerie slipped into the crowd. He documented it all.

 

Sometimes, Shadow Milk would appear at his back in silence, reading over his shoulder with those ever-unreadable eyes. Sometimes he’d speak, in that wry, theatrical voice, humming his approval or offering vague commentary. Most nights, though, he didn’t say a word. Just lingered. When the entries were complete, Black Sapphire would rest for a brief moment—never long. His true home awaited him, the one where he played a role with stakes too high for mistakes.

 

Then he’d return to the Kingdom just before sunrise. Reapply the smile. The wings. The tone of voice. The disguise. And Silverbell Cookie would be waiting there, as always, eyes bright, greeting him like nothing was out of place. Like he belonged . And somehow, that made it worse .

 

As he stepped back into the sunlight-drenched paths of the Faerie Kingdom, the chirping of small winged creatures and the laughter of passing faeries echoed around him like a dream he didn’t belong to. Moondrop Faerie Cookie walked with practiced ease, a soft smile painted onto his face, nodding politely at those who passed. They liked him here—welcomed him, even. Silverbell greeted him with enthusiasm every morning, and faeries who didn’t even know his name smiled in his direction.

 

But beneath that smile, Black Sapphire Cookie reminded himself of the truth. They liked this version of him. The cheerful traveler, the faerie with honeyed words and kind eyes. Not him. Not the one who had once stood alone, unwanted, unremarkable. He remembered what it felt like to be overlooked. To be dismissed. Forgotten. Abandoned.

 

The memory twisted in his chest, bitter and cold. Before the Spire, before Shadow Milk Cookie found him, there had been no warm greetings. No curious knights offering companionship. He had learned the truth the hard way—kindness fades, trust crumbles, and everyone leaves. Everyone but his master. Shadow Milk Cookie gave him a place. A mission. A name that meant something. And Candy Apple, wild and stubborn as she was, had stood beside him longer than anyone else. They were the only constants in a world full of smiling liars and soft-spoken traitors. These faeries didn’t know him. Couldn’t know him.

 

So he would keep playing his part. Let them like Moondrop Faerie Cookie. Let them fawn over him, trust him. It made the job easier. But he would never trust them. Not the knights. Not their Queen. Not even the ones who called him friend.

 

Not a single Cookie in Earthbread—except Candy Apple and his master.

 

Of course, if they ever came close to the truth—if the veil of comfort and fantasy ever slipped—they would recoil. They would lie to themselves. That’s what every Cookie in Earthbread does when the truth gets too sharp to swallow.

 

They don’t want truth. They want stories. Pretty, sweet, harmless little stories that make their world feel safe. That let them pretend everything is fine. So they turn away from reality and wrap themselves in illusions. That’s their truth.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie—understood that better than anyone. That’s why he thrived in lies. That’s why he became the Cookie to spread them. Because deep down, every single one of them wanted to be deceived. They didn’t want to know what lurked under the surface of Earthbread’s smiles and songs. They didn’t want to see the cracks beneath their kingdoms, their faith. They would never accept the truth.

So he’d give them what they really wanted: beautifully tailored deceit, whispered just loud enough to spark doubt. Because sometimes, a well-placed lie is more powerful than a hundred truths.

Notes:

Hello

I have finally decided and fixed my schedule to post for this fanfic at mondays, wednesdays or sometimes saturdays

 

I also have written chapters 3 to 5 aswell I'll just post them at the following days. (How do I write like I'm running out of time??? Write day and night like I'm running out of time???)

 

Anyways thank you a lot for the support and the motivation I really helped me write so much!!

Chapter 4: III

 

 

Candy Apple Cookie bounded down the halls of the Spire, practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. Her ribbons fluttered behind her like streamers in a parade, and her laughter echoed like chimes. “I’m really going to Crispia!!” she squealed, spinning once in place. “Ooooh, I already have three ideas—no, five! —for rumors to start! The juiciest little lies they’ve ever heard!”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie, seated at the long, dark table in the dining hall, blinked slowly over his cup of bitter tea. He hadn't even realized it had been a full week. Time slipped fast here, between disguises and whispers. A sharp pang pressed behind his ribs—not from emotion, of course. Just… fatigue. That’s all.

 

Then came the scent.

 

He turned his head slightly toward the kitchen. It wasn't Candy Apple’s usual overly sweetened concoctions. No, this was rich, warm, and almost grounding. Shadow Milk Cookie, in one of his rare, unpredictable moods, had made a proper breakfast.

 

And there he stood—tall, pale, cloak swirling like ink. He set down a platter of toasted rye drizzled with blackcurrant syrup and a sharp cheese that smelled faintly metallic. His gaze flicked between the two of them, unimpressed.

 

 “I figured you two would starve to death waiting for some grand divine intervention,” he said flatly, not looking at them. “So eat. Before I change my mind.”

 

Candy Apple gasped, “You cooked!? Our master cooked?! Black Sapphire, quick, write this down! This is historic!”

 

Black Sapphire simply stared, then sat down silently, unsure if he was more unsettled by the warmth of the breakfast or the strange comfort it brought. “You’ve been busy,” he said at last.

 

Shadow Milk raised an eyebrow. “Even the GREATEST liars need to eat,” he replied coolly, settling into the seat across from them. “And this time, I thought I’d see if either of you could complete a mission without fumbling it halfway through.”

 

Candy Apple was already halfway into her seat, practically inhaling the honey bread like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. “Mmmph—mmf! I don’t know if you put love in this or some sort of dark spell, but this is delicious! ”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie simply raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed and cloak trailing behind him like a shadow stitched to the walls. “I used a little bit of salt. And silence. Maybe that’s what you’re tasting.”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie took a slower bite, eyes narrowing in suspicion—but the food really was good. Better than their usual half-burnt stew or leftover crumbs from missions. His expression didn’t soften, but the fact that he kept eating was enough.

 

Candy Apple was already babbling again. “So, when do I get my official disguise for Crispia? Will I get a new name? A cool hat? Wait—what if I disguise myself as a fancy noble? I could lie about being a duchess—no—a royal messenger with a secret lover—!”

 

“Enough.” Shadow Milk’s voice cut through her fantasies like a knife. He turned, finally looking at them both. “Candy Apple. Black Sapphire. The week is over. Today begins the real mission.”

Candy Apple blinked, a bit of honey bread stuck to the corner of her mouth. Her excitement faltered for a moment, replaced by something sharper—focus, maybe, or the realization that playtime was over. She wiped her hands on her skirt, swallowed, and gave a half-salute with sticky fingers.

 

“Yes, Master Shadow Milk!” she chirped, though her tone held more steel than usual. “We’ve already started weaving a few threads through the market squares near the eastern edge.

 

Shadow Milk gave a slow nod, eyes narrowing slightly. “Harmless for now. It will escalate when we say it will.”

 

His gaze drifted toward Black Sapphire Cookie, who hadn’t said a word since his plate was cleared. The black-cloaked cookie sat with perfect posture, expression unreadable.

 

“And you?” Shadow Milk prompted, voice smooth but cold. “I assume I don’t need to force words out of your throat.”

 

Black Sapphire slid a small, folded parchment from beneath his cloak. “The notebook you slipped into my pocket,” he said simply, placing the report onto the table. “Entries include overheard conversations, movement of certain faerie guards, and the Queen’s behavior—she does not dine in public often, but I noted which Cookies were allowed near her.”

 

Shadow Milk opened the parchment with a wave of his hand, letting the pages turn themselves. His smirk was subtle, but it was there. “Useful. Thorough. Like I taught you.”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw tensed slightly at the compliment. He didn’t speak.

 

“Very well,” Shadow Milk continued. “Crispia will be your playground for now, Candy Apple. Your tongue—your greatest weapon. Let them believe you are merely a jester with a juicy secret or two. Spread the lies slowly. Make them sweet. You’ll return to the Faerie Kingdom once the preparations are done. I have a draft of the script for our greatest show EVER!”

 

Candy Apple giggled, spinning on her heel. “Lies are best when they taste like truth!”

 

“And you,” Shadow Milk said, his voice dipping low as he turned to Black Sapphire Cookie, “remain where the roots run deepest. The Faerie Kingdom is old, proud, and far too trusting. That knight—Silverbell. Use him.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes narrowed slightly, his fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. “He’s too talkative. Curious.”

 

“Then feed his curiosity,” Shadow Milk replied coldly. “Give him stories. Misdirections. Let him think he’s found a friend. A confidant. A… blossoming bond . And when his trust blooms—” He raised a gloved hand and snapped his fingers. “We cut the stem.”

 

Black Sapphire gave a slow nod. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t speak against it. Orders were orders. And trust was a weakness.

 

Shadow Milk’s voice softened, almost a whisper now, as his gaze bore into his pupil. “But remember what I told you the moment you left my side: Trust no one but yourself. Not him. Not the faeries. Not even her.”

 

He tilted his head toward Candy Apple, who was now humming a tune and doodling hearts on the corner of her report with a quill. “Mhm.. Noted,” Black Sapphire muttered.

 

Shadow Milk turned, shadows slithering behind him once more. “Good. Now go make them believe in you, little liar. Curtain rises soon.”

After the last bite of honey bread vanished into her mouth, Candy Apple hopped off her chair, brushing crumbs from her skirt with an excited twirl. Her magic flared, glittering green like dew on apple skin, as her form shimmered and changed. Gone was the familiar jester-striped outfit—replaced now with a crisp, elegant gown embroidered with delicate vines and gilded apples. Her collar curled upward like a noble crest, her eyes mischievous yet refined.

 

"Time to sow some little stories~" she sang, giving a dramatic bow to Shadow Milk Cookie. "May the rumors bloom faster than roses in spring!"

 

Shadow Milk didn’t even blink. “If you trip up, I’ll know. If you say too much, I’ll feel it. So behave.”

 

She gave him a wink and turned to Black Sapphire, whose arms were crossed as usual. “Don’t miss me too much, okay?” she teased, already stepping into the glowing portal.

 

He rolled his eyes. “Leave before I reconsider letting you go.”

 

With a grin and a flash of green, she was gone—on her way to Crispia.

 

Now alone with the quiet of the room, Black Sapphire stood and let out a soft exhale. His fingers moved to his microphone, clipped to his cloak. With two practiced taps— click, click —the static buzzed briefly before stabilizing, the magic within responding to him.

 

Shadow Milk, standing a few feet away, watched without a word.

 

Moondrop Faerie Cookie’s disguise rippled over him like ink spreading through water. Dark robes gave way to soft green tones and lilac hues. His usual sharp expression softened into something more dreamy, inquisitive, like a traveler with stories to tell. The final detail—a faint shimmer over his wings to match the Faerie aesthetic.

 

He didn’t look back. With a step forward, he walked into the portal, fading into the glow as the stage called him once again. And there he goes—same act. Same routine.

 

The hum of the portal faded behind him as Moondrop Faerie Cookie emerged once more into the glowing expanse of the Faerie Kingdom. The air was thick with the scent of blossoms and honeyed wind, light and laughter spilling from every corner of the realm. He stepped onto the cobbled path with a practiced smile, the same one he wore yesterday, and the day before that.

 

His wings fluttered lightly, catching the golden light just right. To anyone watching, he was just another faerie returning from a journey—quiet, kind, perhaps a little reserved from his travels. But underneath that soft facade lay Black Sapphire, ever watchful, ever wary.

 

He adjusted his cloak and moved forward, the smile still painted on his face. Another day, another lie to uphold. Another performance in a kingdom built on beauty, where truth rotted quietly beneath the roots of the silver tree.

 

The midday sun poured like syrup through the high canopy, dappling the Faerie Kingdom in soft golds and greens. Moondrop Faerie Cookie strolled leisurely through the eastern orchard, notebook tucked safely beneath his sleeve. He paused now and then—not too often, not too rarely—to pluck a leaf, examine a blossom, or scribble a few notes.

 

But the pages weren’t filled with plant observations. Hidden between sketches of petals and vines were quick-coded lines:

 

Queen’s guard rotation inconsistent—Tuesday and Friday overlaps.
Merchant at stall 4E sells rare charms—likely smuggled.

 

Every detail mattered. Every stray word, every odd glance. Crispia would be the stage, but here—this was the roots. Where the truth was buried deep and forgotten.

 

He crouched by a patch of clover, pressing a hand lightly to the soil. Warm. Recently disturbed. Someone had passed through here in the last hour. A minor thing, maybe. But nothing in the Faerie Kingdom was truly minor. He marked it down.

 

From a distance, half-concealed by the thick bloom of a honeyfruit tree, Silverbell Cookie watched.

 

The knight said nothing. Haven't moved a muscle. Instead he just leaned lightly against the bark, arms crossed, one leg resting over the other. He’d spotted Moondrop earlier that day—too early for coincidence. And now he simply observed. There was no suspicion or tension in his posture. Only curiosity.

 

He watched the way Moondrop moved. Calm, methodical. Not like a spy. But not quite like a faerie either. Too precise. And too... aware.

 

Still, Silverbell didn’t approach.

 

Black Sapphire knew he was being watched. Of course he did. He'd felt the soft weight of eyes on him the moment he entered the glade. But he didn’t stiffen. Didn’t run. He just stayed kneeling by the clover, flipping to a fresh page.

 

His mind ticked calmly: He’s here. Observing. Good. Let him watch. Let him think this is all there is.

 

He tucked the notebook back into his sleeve, rising slowly, brushing his hands clean with a faint, satisfied sigh. The performance continued— him being the quiet faerie collecting stories and dust on his boots.

 

Behind the leaves, Silverbell finally exhaled, quiet and slow. His gaze softened slightly, then he turned and disappeared into the orchard’s deeper paths, leaving no footprint behind.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t watch him go.

 

 

---

 

 

Silverbell Cookie moved through the trees like a breeze—no sound, no trail. His polished armor was muted under a traveler's cloak, his sword left behind today. This wasn't a day for blades. It was a day for questions.

 

He paused near a stream, where wild violets grew thick along the banks. The water mirrored the sunlight in ripples, but Silverbell wasn’t looking at the view. His thoughts were elsewhere.

 

That smile again, he thought. Too neat. Too clean.

 

He crouched, trailing his fingers through the water absentmindedly. Moondrop Faerie Cookie had been nothing but kind since arriving in the Kingdom—a little distant, yes, but respectful. Soft-spoken. Observant. Always observant.

 

And yet… Silverbell’s brow furrowed slightly. There’s something rehearsed about him. The way he moves. Speaks. Smiles.

 

Polite. Quiet. Always with a soft smile and a half-tilted head, like he was listening to music only he could hear. Silverbell had tried everything—jokes, stories, friendly questions with no real stakes—but the faerie always gave just enough to seem present, never enough to truly connect.

 

Like talking to fog, he thought.

 

He stopped beneath a weeping nectar tree, leaning against the bark, arms loosely crossed. From here, he could still see where Moondrop had been kneeling by the clover, scribbling something in that ever-present notebook. Silverbell hadn’t meant to spy—he hated that word—but something about the way Moondrop moved always made him curious.

 

He haven't acted suspicious, atleast not yet. He was just... curious.

 

He watched him rise, brush his hands clean, and move on, ever calm. Unbothered. And somehow, that bothered him.

 

I’ve given him every opening, Silverbell thought, letting his head rest back against the tree. Stories from my patrols, dumb orchard riddles, even that ridiculous joke about the snoring beehive. Nothing. No laugh. No real reaction. Like he’s pretending to be present instead of just... being.

 

It wasn’t rejection—not exactly. Moondrop was never cold. Just distant, like someone on the other side of a dream.

 

Silverbell closed his eyes for a moment. So what’s your story, really? Where do you go when you get quiet? What are you not saying?

 

He didn’t move. Didn’t follow. He knew Moondrop would feel it if he did—he always seemed to know exactly who was watching. And Silverbell wasn’t trying to trap him.

 

He was trying to reach him. Maybe tomorrow he’d try something different. Something less direct. A shared tea in the shade, maybe. Or a question that wasn’t really a question.

 

Maybe he’d talk back. Maybe not. But Silverbell wasn’t giving up just yet. He was also testing. Moondrop never made a mistake. Never stumbled. And no one was that careful without a reason. Still, Silverbell didn’t want to believe he was right.

 

He plucked a violet and turned it in his fingers. Something about Moondrop tugged at him—like a song he couldn’t name, but couldn’t stop humming. That gentle voice, the quiet way he listened to every story, every rumor.

 

If he is a liar… he’s the kind that tells you what you want to hear and makes you believe it’s your idea.

 

He stood and pocketed the flower. Not as evidence but as a habit. Moondrop had once mentioned the color reminded him of dusk. Something about that had stuck.

 

Silverbell sighed. “Why does it always come back to trust,” he muttered under his breath. He didn’t report anything. Not yet. Not until he was sure. Because if he was wrong…

 

If I’m wrong, I’ll have fired his bow on someone who never raised a hand.

 

But if he was right….? He set his jaw and walked on, cloak fluttering gently behind him as he vanished deeper into the silver woods. One way or another, he’d find the truth. Even if it hurts.

 

The silver woods parted softly as Silverbell Cookie approached the inner gardens of the palace. The hush of wind through lavender branches faded as he crossed into the sacred heart of the Faerie Kingdom—where only the most trusted were allowed.

 

White Lily Cookie did not keep a court. She had no throne, no line of advisors whispering behind silk curtains. She preferred quiet places. Growing places.

 

And that’s where he found her.

 

Kneeling in the greenhouse, her delicate fingers coated in soft earth as she tended to a blossom of moon-white lilies. Light filtered through the crystalline canopy above, casting shifting patterns across her pale cloak.

 

“Your Majesty,” Silverbell said gently, not wanting to disturb the hush that always followed her presence.

 

White Lily Cookie didn’t look up at first. She continued working, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “The lilies are late this season,” she murmured, her voice a soft breeze. “I believe they’re waiting for something. Or someone.”

 

Silverbell stepped closer but stopped short of the garden bed. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

 

“You didn’t,” she replied, glancing up with a serene smile. “But you rarely visit me unless your heart is troubled.”

 

He hesitated. How do you say: I think one of our guests is lying. I think I’m being manipulated. I think I want to believe in him anyway.

  

“I…” He looked away for a moment. “I wanted to ask you about trust.”

 

White Lily Cookie stood, wiping her hands on a cloth embroidered with faded symbols of the old world. “That’s a dangerous word in a kingdom like ours. Beautiful—but dangerous.”

 

Silverbell’s voice was quieter now. “Do you believe everyone who comes here deserves to be trusted?”

 

Her gaze lingered on him. Her eyes were deep and still—not judging, but not naïve either. “No,” she said simply. “But I believe in giving them the chance to be.”

 

He didn’t answer right away. Just let that settle between them.

 

“There’s someone,” he said finally. “Moondrop Faerie Cookie. He’s kind. Thoughtful. But… everything about him feels like a story already told. He was too careful.”

 

White Lily Cookie folded her hands, considering.“You don’t want to think badly of him,” she said softly.

 

“No,” Silverbell admitted. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being… guided. Steered.

 

Then she asked, “Do you think he means harm?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

White Lily turned, walking slowly toward a patch of nightglow blossoms, brushing a hand over their petals. “Then don’t chase truth like it’s a sword,” she said gently. “Let it come like a bloom. It will reveal itself in time.”

 

Silverbell frowned. “What if it comes too late?”

 

White Lily Cookie turned to face him again, her expression unreadable but warm. “Then you must decide what you value more—the truth, or the trust it threatens to break.”

 

For a moment, he felt like a child again, standing in front of someone who saw every shadow on his heart and chose to speak softly anyway. He bowed low, hand over chest. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

 

“Silverbell,” she called before he left. He turned. “Keep your arrows in their quiver a little longer. Words may still win what steel would ruin.”

 

He nodded once, silently, then turned and walked back into the golden morning light. His questions hadn’t vanished. But somehow, they didn’t feel as heavy.

 

The palace fell behind him, replaced again by rustling leaves and shafts of dappled light. Silverbell walked slowly, not on patrol, not on duty—just moving. Letting White Lily’s words settle.

Keep your arrows in their quiver a little longer.

 

He touched the fletching of one without thinking. Not out of aggression, just familiarity. The same way he always checked his bowstring for tension when his thoughts frayed.

 

If Moondrop is hiding something, he’s buried it deep. But why come here, of all places, if his lies run that deep?

 

Unless he wants something only the Faerie Kingdom can offer.

 

He passed a group of younger faerie Cookies trading stories near a fountain. One of them—Primrose Candy Cookie, probably—was mimicking Moondrop’s soft-spoken cadence. They all laughed. It made Silverbell’s chest tighten, just a little.

 

He was liked. Liked was harder to question than facts.

 

A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh grapes. He stopped walking.

 

He knew that smell.

 

Turning his head, he spotted a small bench tucked beneath a silverleaf tree near the outer gardens. Moondrop Faerie Cookie sat there, notebook in hand, expression distant but calm.

 

He wasn’t hiding. Just... there. Silverbell didn’t approach just yet. Instead, he leaned against another tree a few paces away, arms folded, pretending to scan the horizon.

 

Let’s see what kind of truth shows itself when no one’s asking questions.

---

 

 

He felt it again—that weight of a gaze pretending not to be there. Silverbell was close. Watching. Always watching.

 

Black Sapphire turned a page in his notebook with the same relaxed rhythm, letting the silence stretch just enough.

Then, without lifting his eyes, he spoke—softly, but clear enough to cut through the air between them. “You’re going to sprain something if you keep pretending you’re not staring.”

 

A pause. Silverbell didn’t answer right away, but Black Sapphire didn’t need him to. He finally looked up, calm and patient, pen still in hand.

The guard stepped into view with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just making sure you’re not sketching anything classified .”

 

Black Sapphire gave a small shrug. “Just harmless little stories from my travels. Nothing worth raising an alarm over.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head. “Are you always this chatty when you’re alone?”

 

Black Sapphire closed his notebook, finally meeting the other Cookie’s gaze. He wasn't defensive. In fact, he was calm. “Only when I’m being stalked by someone too polite to admit it.”

 

Silverbell smiled a little wider now, but his stance remained casual. “Stalked? That’s a strong word for being curious.”

 

“Curiosity usually comes with questions,” Black Sapphire replied. “Not footsteps that disappear whenever I turn around.”

 

For a second, silence hung again—then Silverbell folded his arms, eyes narrowing, but not with malice. “I was going to ask if you’d join me for tea in the west gardens,” he said. “Seems like you have a sharp tongue to match your softer reputation.”

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Is that an invitation or an interrogation?”

 

Silverbell smirked. “That’s up to you.”

 

Another beat. Then, slowly, Black Sapphire stood, brushing off his cloak, notebook still tucked neatly at his side. “Then lead the way, archer. Let’s see how much truth can steep in a teacup.”

 

And together, they walked, cloaked in pleasantries—both knowing this was no casual stroll. This is just another stage. Another act. Another thread being pulled.

 

The west gardens were quieter than most parts of the palace grounds—deliberately so. Tall hedges and slow-dripping fountains muffled the sound of the world outside. A table had been set with fresh linen, delicate porcelain cups, and a small platter of fig scones and crystallized violets.

Silverbell gestured toward a chair. “I asked them to bring your favorite—well, what I think your favorite is. Lavender honey?”

 

Black Sapphire sat smoothly, cloak folding neatly behind him. “Close enough,” he said with a faint smile. “Though I won’t ask how you knew.”

 

Silverbell didn’t miss a beat. “You mentioned it. Once. Last week. Or maybe I just guessed.”

 

The two of them sat, the teapot between them steaming gently. For a while, it was ordinary. Pleasant. Silverbell poured the tea and passed a cup without commentary. Black Sapphire accepted it with the grace expected of any faerie court guest. He sipped first, not flinching—too smart to fear poison, too careful to suspect it.

 

“You always write so much,” Silverbell said at last, breaking the stillness. “Even when no one’s talking.”

 

Black Sapphire set his cup down lightly. “Stories don’t always wait for conversation,” he replied. “Sometimes they drift through the air. You just have to be still enough to catch them.”

 

Silverbell leaned back. “Is that why you’re always near the market squares?”

 

Black Sapphire smiled, but didn’t answer right away. He picked up one of the candied violets and turned it between his fingers. “Is this where I’m supposed to feel cornered?”

 

Silverbell’s brow raised slightly. “Do you?”

 

“No.” His voice was calm. “Just… aware.”

 

Silverbell sipped his tea. “I don’t like interrogations either. This isn’t that. I just think it’s strange, that’s all. How someone like you—thoughtful, clever, always listening—hasn’t slipped even once. Not a wrong name. Not a detail out of place. Almost like you’ve rehearsed it.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Would you trust someone who had slipped?”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer. The question sat between them like a third cup.

 

“I didn’t come here to lie,” Black Sapphire said, finally. “But I did come here with reasons I’m not ready to share. And if you’re going to report that, I won’t stop you.”

 

Silverbell stared at him, unreadable. Then said quietly, “No. Not yet.”

 

“Because you trust me?”

 

“No,” he said. “Because I want to.”

 

The words hit harder than either of them expected. Silence returned—uncertain. It is the kind of quiet that always comes before something breaks.

 

Black Sapphire reached for his tea again. “Then I won’t give you a reason not to.” For now.

 

“I’ve seen you draw,” Silverbell said, breaking the gentle hush of the garden.

 

Black Sapphire looked up, mild surprise flickering behind his calm expression. “Have you?”

 

“In the corners of your notes,” Silverbell went on, idly plucking a loose petal from his sleeve. “Tiny sketches. Not for show. Just... like someone trying to remember a place right, down to the curve of a leaf.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer immediately. He set down his teacup, letting the silence settle like mist between them. “I like to keep records,” he said at last. “Not everything worth remembering can be written down.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head, considering that. “You’re not like the others who come and go from the border towns. You actually watch . You listen . You know more than most.”

 

“I’ve just had time to wander.”

 

“And the Queen?” Silverbell asked, his tone careful. “What do you think of her?”

 

“A symbol,” Black Sapphire replied gently. “Steady, kind. Almost too kind. The sort of Cookie everyone believes in.”

 

Silverbell studied him for a beat. “You didn’t answer the question.”

 

Black Sapphire gave a small smile. “Maybe I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself.”

 

That made Silverbell laugh—quietly, but real. “You’re evasive, Moondrop. You always have the right words, but never too many.”

 

“It’s safer that way.”

 

“From what?”

 

Black Sapphire shrugged. “Disappointment. Or worse—understanding.”

 

The faerie knight leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing in that half-teasing, half-searching way of his. “You know, I used to think you were just shy. Or maybe one of those lone-poet types. But now I think you're something else entirely.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“I think you're hiding something,” Silverbell said, without heat. “And I think you're very good at it.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t flinch. “That’s a bold thing to say to someone you’ve invited to tea.”

 

“It’s not an accusation,” Silverbell said, sitting back. “Just a hunch. A feeling. And I’ve learned not to ignore those.”

 

A soft wind passed through the silverleaf canopy above them. The tea had cooled, and the last crumbs of cake sat untouched between them.

 

“I won’t press,” Silverbell added. “But if you’re carrying something heavy, you don’t have to carry it alone.”

 

That stopped Black Sapphire for a moment. No one had ever said that to him. Not like that. Not with that strange warmth. Not with no strings.

 

He looked at Silverbell, expression unreadable, then finally offered: “I appreciate that.”

Nothing more. Nothing less. However it was enough—for now.

 

They sat in the quiet that followed, not as strangers, but not quite as friends. Two Cookies at the edge of something unspoken, sipping cold tea under a sky that never stopped blooming.

 

And somewhere far from that moment, a lie waited patiently to unravel.

 

Silverbell rose first, brushing crumbs from his gloves with a deliberate calm. “I should return to the guards’ post,” he said. “They’ll think I’ve wandered off again chasing birdsong.”

 

Black Sapphire gave a small nod, eyes lifting to meet his. “You could say you were gathering intelligence.”

 

A faint smirk touched Silverbell’s lips. “They’d believe that. You do seem to draw secrets to you like bees to sugar.”

 

He adjusted his bow, slinging it neatly across his back. Then, for a heartbeat, he hesitated—just long enough for the pause to mean something.

 

“You know,” Silverbell added, voice quieter now, “I don’t think you’re a threat, Moondrop. Not yet.”

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be reassuring?”

 

“No,” Silverbell said, with a wry grin. “It’s supposed to be honest.”

 

He turned before there could be a reply, walking calmly down the garden path where light filtered through the trees. His cloak whispered along the mossy stones, his steps never rushed.

 

Black Sapphire remained seated, watching the steam rise faintly from his teacup. He didn’t move to stop Silverbell. Didn’t call after him. Just sat there, still as stone, the mask of Moondrop Faerie Cookie perfectly in place.

 

But beneath it, something shifted. The kind of shift that comes when someone sees more than they should—and walks away anyway.

 

And alone once more, Black Sapphire quietly reached into his cloak, pulled out the notebook, and began to write again. Not the lies that he planted, but the details that felt important. Always watching. Always recording.

Chapter 5: IV

Notes:

I accidentally slept too long that I forgot to drop this

*drops

 

*leaves

 

 

The Queen's court shimmered behind him—polished marble and rose-silver laughter—but Black Sapphire Cookie didn’t look back.

 

He slipped through the garden gate alone, the air crisper beyond the walls, scented faintly with silver moss and wild violets. It was quieter here, where the whisper of leaves wasn’t rehearsed or rehearsed-over. 

 

He adjusted the brooch on his cloak—a gesture more for habit than vanity—and kept walking.

 

“Don’t get attached,” Shadow Milk had said after he came back from his last report. “Observe, report, extract what’s useful. That’s all.” And yet, every day among these faeries made it harder to remember what “useful” looked like. Their laughter didn’t sound like a strategy. Their small kindnesses didn’t feel like calculated currency.

 

Especially not his. Silverbell. That name was starting to settle in places it shouldn’t. Which irritates him.

 

Black Sapphire shook the thought loose and stretched his wings—delicate now, translucent. Part of the disguise. A role perfected. He hadn’t flown since arriving in the kingdom. Better to keep to the ground, to listen and blend. But today, the wind had been calling.

 

He wanted to see the forest from above. Maybe even remember what freedom felt like. He crouched, wings catching the light—and pushed off.

 

Upward.

Unsteady.

Weightless.

 

For a moment, it almost worked. He rose above the canopy, wings shimmering like threads of spun light. It was beautiful.

 

The wind was gentle that afternoon, rustling through the canopy as Black Sapphire Cookie glided—well, tried to glide—above the edge of the faerie forest. He clenched his jaw, struggling to maintain balance with wings that didn’t feel like his own. Moondrop Faerie Cookie’s wings were lighter, more delicate than the solid midnight structure of his true form. They shimmered in the light, sure, but they were also infuriatingly flimsy.

 

 

And then it happened.

 

A gust caught him mid-turn, and he tumbled—not gracefully—into a tree. Sharp branches snagged his wings, pulling him to an abrupt, undignified stop. He groaned, trying to wriggle free.

 

“If Candy Apple were here, she'd be laughing her head off,” he thought bitterly. "And she'd tell everyone about it too." He kicked at the branch, which only got him more tangled.

 

Rustling leaves. Footsteps. Then—“Moondrop?”

 

Oh no. No. No, no, no.

 

Silverbell’s voice rang through the clearing, crisp and concerned. A moment later, his silver-blue hair emerged from the underbrush, bow slung over one shoulder.

 

“Are you stuck in a tree?” he asked, half bewildered, half amused.

 

Black Sapphire sighed, avoiding eye contact. “What does it look like?”

 

Silverbell chuckled softly as he stepped forward. “You know, most faeries fly around trees. But I guess you're special.”

 

“If you’re here to gloat, I’m not in the mood.”

 

“No gloating. Just helping.” Silverbell’s hands were steady, gentle as he reached up. He worked carefully, fingers brushing against the thin threads of the wing membrane. Each touch sent a strange warmth crawling over Black Sapphire’s skin, and it was… disarming. He was used to cold—cold silence, cold missions, cold commands. But Silverbell was warm. Gentle. Patient.

 

“There,” Silverbell said softly, easing the final tangle free. “You should be good now.”

 

Black Sapphire dropped to the ground, brushing bark from his arms, annoyed at how flustered he felt. “Thanks,” he muttered.

 

Silverbell stood still, eyes thoughtful. “You should be more careful. These woods have thorns with minds of their own.”

 

“Noted,” Sapphire said dryly, already turning away.

 

But then—Silverbell smiled. Not the bright, talkative grin he usually wore. Something softer. Quieter. “You know… you don’t have to do everything alone.”

 

Black Sapphire froze. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Something tightened in his chest. Something dangerous.

 

“You're too quiet,” Black Sapphire muttered, breaking the silence. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

 

Silverbell glanced down at him with a blink, then returned to untangling a vine. “Practicing. I like this part of the forest. It's quieter—less eyes, more room to breathe.”

 

“Hm,” Black Sapphire grunted. “Sounds like you’re the one avoiding people.”

 

“Not avoiding,” Silverbell said with a shrug, “just… taking time to focus. I like hitting a target no one else can see. Makes me feel like I’m doing something right.” There was something in his voice that made Black Sapphire pause. It wasn’t just pride. It was something lonelier.

 

“You should be more careful,” Silverbell added, freeing the final tangle. “These woods have thorns with minds of their own.”

 

Black Sapphire jumped down, wings twitching slightly as he adjusted his balance. He hesitated, brushing bark from his sleeve, then said—almost too casually— “…You're training, right? Archery?”

 

Silverbell raised a brow. “I am.” Another pause.

 

“Can I watch?” Black Sapphire asked, not meeting his eyes. “Since I’m already here.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “You want to watch me shoot arrows?”

 

“You talk less when you're shooting,” he replied, arms crossed. “It’s peaceful.”

 

Silverbell grinned, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You really are special.”

 

Black Sapphire rolled his eyes, but didn’t leave.

 

Silverbell stepped back, adjusted his stance, and aimed at a distant knot in a tree trunk. He drew back the bowstring with effortless grace, then let it fly.

 

Thunk. Perfect shot.

 

Black Sapphire stood there silently, watching the precision. The focus. The way Silverbell breathed, calm and measured. Something in him stirred again—something unsettling, but not unpleasant.

 

And for the first time in a while… he didn’t feel like he was just playing a part.

 

Silverbell let another arrow fly—clean shot, just off-center of the first. He lowered his bow, satisfied.

 

Black Sapphire watched quietly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny red apple. He turned it over in his palm, then glanced up at Silverbell, a spark of something mischievous flickering in his eyes.

 

“…Think you can hit a moving target?”

 

Silverbell tilted his head. “Depends. How fast is it moving?”

 

In response, Black Sapphire took a few steps back, wings flaring. “Try me.” And with that, he took off—still unsteady in the air, but just stable enough. He darted between branches with the apple in one hand, holding it out and weaving unpredictably.

 

“Hey, knight!” he called. “Think you can knock this out of my hand?”

 

Silverbell blinked once, then laughed under his breath. “You’re insane.”

 

“You scared?” Black Sapphire taunted, circling above.

 

Silverbell narrowed his eyes, already drawing another arrow. “Hold still for just a second.”

 

“Aw. Where’s the fun in that?” He dodged low, just above the forest floor, wings catching light in flashes of green and gold. Silverbell focused, timing his breath. Then—

 

Thunk.

 

The apple flew from Black Sapphire’s hand with a neat hole through its center. It hit the ground, split, rolling to a stop in the grass.

 

Black Sapphire landed nearby, blinking at his empty hand. “Huh.”

 

Silverbell was already walking over, twirling his bow with a smug little grin. “Told you I don’t miss.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t smile. Not really. But something tugged at the corners of his mouth. “…Lucky shot,” he muttered, turning away before Silverbell could see the faint blush dusting his cheeks.

 

But Silverbell didn’t leave. He walked a little closer, voice softer now. “You know,” he said, “I really thought you were the quiet type.”

 

Black Sapphire glanced at him, guarded. “And?”

 

“I figured if I talked enough, maybe you'd open up a little. Eventually.”

 

A beat passed.

 

“Guess it worked,” Silverbell added with a small smile.

 

Black Sapphire looked away, wings twitching slightly behind him. “Don’t get used to it.”

 

“I won’t,” Silverbell replied, but his voice said otherwise—light, knowing, maybe even a little hopeful.

 

They stood there for a moment longer, neither quite ready to leave first.

 

Then Silverbell added, more casually, “You know… if you're that curious about the queen’s friends, I could talk to her. Maybe let you sit in next time she meets with them.”

 

Black Sapphire’s gaze sharpened. “Her friends?”

 

“Yeah,” Silverbell nodded. “You’ve been asking a lot about the castle’s guests lately. I figured you might be interested. Especially in Pure Vanilla Cookie.”

 

He said the name like it was nothing. But Black Sapphire’s breath caught for just a second. Ah… The information he needed for Shadow Milk. 

 

“I just thought,” Silverbell continued, “since you’re new and all, I could help. If you want.

 

Black Sapphire forced a smile—one he hoped looked curious, not calculating. “…That would be nice,” he said carefully. But inside, the warmth from earlier chilled. The mission was still here, still waiting. And for a moment, he hated that it was.

 

Black Sapphire glanced sideways as Silverbell retrieved his arrow. “Didn’t you say earlier you were posted at the castle gates today?”

 

Silverbell paused, looking faintly surprised. “Oh. Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward. “Other faerie knights were rotated this morning. I must’ve mixed up the schedule.”

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow. “You? Forget a schedule?”

 

Silverbell offered a sheepish smile. “Even faeries have off days.” There was a beat of silence before he added, more honestly, “Besides… I needed the air. I don’t like standing still for too long. Doesn’t feel useful.”

 

Black Sapphire looked at him for a moment, then turned his gaze to the trees again. “Hmph. Makes two of us.”

 

Silverbell turned back toward the trees, brushing a silverleaf branch out of his path. “It’s quiet here. Peaceful. It’s easier to think when I’m not watching gates and counting patrols.”

 

Black Sapphire let the silence stretch, watching how the sunlight flickered through the trees and onto Silverbell’s hair. He hated how familiar that view had become. Hated how the rhythm of Silverbell’s voice stayed with him long after they parted.

 

“You think too much,” he muttered.

 

Silverbell smiled faintly. “Only when you’re around.”

 

That made Black Sapphire flinch—just barely, but it was there. He turned away like he hadn’t heard.

 

Silverbell watched him for a moment, eyes soft. “You’re always ready to run,” he said quietly.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer.

 

“I don’t know who you were before you got here,” Silverbell continued, “and I don’t need to. But if you keep acting like kindness is a trap, you’re going to miss what’s right in front of you.”

 

That struck deeper than it should have. Black Sapphire’s voice came low, a little sharper than he meant.

 

“You don’t know me.”

 

“I’m trying to,” Silverbell said, stepping closer. “And maybe that’s foolish. But I am.”

 

Black Sapphire looked up. Their eyes met—briefly, fiercely.

 

“I didn’t ask you to,” he said.

 

“I know.”

 

Still, Silverbell didn’t move away. Neither did Black Sapphire.

 

Silverbell finally stepped back, gaze softening but saying no more. Without another word, he turned toward the clearing again, bow in hand. His posture shifted—calm, focused, distant in that way he always was when training. It was a kind of armor, Black Sapphire realized. Not unlike his own.

 

The first arrow flew, fast and clean. Then another.

 

Black Sapphire moved to sit beneath a low branch, quiet, eyes shadowed. He reached into his sleeve and drew out the slim, worn notebook. Its edges were curled from months of quiet entries. Lies, truths, rumors. Observations wrapped in neutral ink. None of them personal.

 

Until now.

 

He flipped past old notes and stopped on a blank page. The pen trembled in his fingers before he forced it steady.

 

Silverbell is not what I expected. Too sincere. Too persistent. He keeps trying to understand me, as if there's something to find. As if I'm worth knowing.

 

He paused. Then slowly, he added:

 

He looks different when he's focused. Like the whole forest listens. That shouldn't matter. It shouldn’t. Right?

 

 

Another arrow flew. A clean hit.

 

Black Sapphire closed the notebook. In that exact moment, he didn’t feel like a spy. Or a saboteur. Just a Cookie watching someone else's peace, and wondering why it felt like his heart was starting to ache for it.

 

 

---

 

 

Silverbell loosed another arrow. The rhythm was familiar—inhale, draw, release. The bow hummed in his hands like a living thing. It should’ve been enough to settle his thoughts.

 

But his aim was just slightly off. Thunk. The arrow struck bark, not the center.

 

He let out a breath. His eyes flicked sideways—just briefly—to where “Moondrop” sat beneath the tree, scribbling in that little notebook he always carried. Black Sapphire Cookie, though Silverbell had yet to prove it.

 

He’d tried, at first, to keep it professional. Quiet. Watchful. Let the lie unravel itself. But nothing ever did. “Moondrop” listened more than he spoke. He asked questions like he cared. He remembered small things—like how Silverbell liked violets or which side he favored when he aimed. No spy needed to know that.

 

But maybe a liar would. Still, Silverbell couldn’t stop hoping.

 

Another arrow. A little closer to center.

 

He wasn’t blind. He saw the way Moondrop stiffened when touched, the way he paused before answering questions that should’ve come easily. The way he watched everyone. Especially Silverbell.

 

And still… He turned slightly, not firing, just watching him for a moment longer.

 

You’re scared of something... And it’s not me, is it?

 

He lowered the bow.

 

If I’m wrong… I’ll look like a fool. But if I’m right—and I don’t try—then I let something precious slip through my fingers.

 

Silverbell glanced down at the next arrow, fingers resting lightly on the fletching. Then he drew the string again.

 

If Moondrop Faerie Cookie wasn’t going to open up, Silverbell would keep standing where he could see him. Watch his edges. Catch the pieces as they cracked. He wasn’t ready to give up.

 

Not yet.

 

---

 

 

The morning light broke soft through the leaves, casting lace patterns over the orchard paths. Silverbell hadn’t planned to linger—his shift was supposed to start near the western ridge—but the sound of voices caught him.

 

Familiar, low, even. Polite. He slowed.

 

“…and when the caravan got stuck in the licorice bog, we had to pull the wagons out with licorice vines. You should’ve seen the Sugar Scouts after. Coated in syrup and still trying to salute.”

 

Soft laughter rippled from the gathered faeries. Moondrop stood at the center, wings catching the light like tinted glass. He wasn’t trying to stand out. He never did. But the way he spoke—gentle, measured, warm—it drew them in. Even the more reserved ones leaned closer.

 

Silverbell stood just off the path, half-shadowed by a vine-covered arch.

 

This wasn’t the spy he expected. Spies lied with sharp smiles and dangerous charisma. Moondrop offered stories and soft chuckles. He only offered small, safe tales from faraway places.

 

And still… he was lying.

 

Silverbell knew it. Felt it. The tension never left Moondrop’s shoulders. His eyes scanned too often. His answers were too neat.

 

 

But then he smiled. A real one. Tired at the edges, a little crooked—but real. And Silverbell’s heart betrayed him all over again.

 

What if it wasn’t a lie? What if this—whoever he was right now—was the truth he couldn’t show anyone else?

 

He didn’t realize he’d stepped closer until the grass rustled beneath his boots. Moondrop glanced his way, just for a second. Their eyes met.

 

Silverbell looked away first. He told himself it was duty. That he was watching. Listening. That it was important.

 

But the truth? He liked the sound of his voice when he wasn’t pretending to be silent. And that scared him more than anything else.

 

 

---

 

 

Black Sapphire noticed the shift in the air before he saw him.

 

His gaze flicked to the edge of the clearing, where silver-blue glinted through the leaves. Silverbell stood just barely in sight, watching—half-turned, as if debating whether to leave.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t hesitate.

 

“Silverbell,” he called out, voice calm but clear.

 

The faerie knight froze, then stepped forward, slowly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

 

“You weren’t,” Black Sapphire replied. “Unless standing still counts as interference now.”

 

A few of the younger faeries nearby giggled. Silverbell gave a small huff, brushing past a fern as he approached.

 

“I just happened to be passing by.”

 

“Three days in a row?” Black Sapphire tilted his head, smiling faintly. “That’s a lot of coincidence.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer immediately. Then: “You tell stories well. That’s all.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes softened. “They’re just old travels. Nothing important.”

 

“They are to them,” Silverbell said, gesturing toward the young faeries now dispersing through the orchard. “You make them feel like the world is bigger. Like they matter.”

 

He meant it as a compliment. But Black Sapphire flinched—barely—but enough.

 

Silverbell caught it. “…Sorry,” he added quickly, stepping back. “Didn’t mean to—”

 

“No,” Black Sapphire said, quieter now. “It’s fine.”

 

A moment passed between them. Moondrop’s wings shimmered in the dappled sunlight, their delicate structure casting faint shadows on the moss.

 

“Are you headed to the training grounds again?” he asked, changing the subject.

 

Silverbell nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got a new moving target to practice for.”

 

Black Sapphire raised a brow. “Let me guess. Red apples?”

 

Silverbell smirked. “Only if the target’s bold enough to fly again.”

 

There was something almost playful in the air. But beneath it, a quiet current tugged between them—one neither of them could name yet.

 

“Maybe I’ll stop by,” Black Sapphire said.

 

“Maybe,” Silverbell replied, and turned to go, not looking back. But his heart was already full of things he couldn’t say.

 

 

The training grounds were quiet again. Just the wind, the trees, and the rhythmic thump of arrows hitting wood.

 

 

Silverbell loosed another shot. Bullseye.

 

 

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as he notched another. His form was clean, every movement practiced. But his mind—his mind wouldn’t cooperate.

 

Why do I keep watching him?

 

Thunk. Another perfect hit.

 

Why does his voice stay with me after he leaves?

 

Thunk.

 

Silverbell lowered his bow, frowning at the tree, at the knot that had taken his arrows again and again. He wasn’t missing. But something felt… off. Unsettled. He stepped back, brushing hair from his eyes.

 

He’s gentle. He listens. He doesn’t push.

 

Then he stopped himself, shaking his head. “No. Don’t do that,” he muttered aloud. “You don’t know him.”

 

Moondrop Faerie Cookie—if that was even his real name—had arrived quietly and slipped into the kingdom with practiced ease. Too smooth. Too polite. No history anyone could confirm. Just stories and travel and clever smiles.

 

And yet… He hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing real, anyway.

 

Silverbell clenched his jaw. He didn’t trust easily. He couldn’t afford to. Especially not now. The others trusted him. Even Her Majesty had taken a liking to him. But Silverbell knew better. Kindness could be a mask. Stories could be weapons.

 

He retrieved his arrows one by one, refusing to look back at the orchard behind him. Refusing to wonder if Moondrop was still there.

 

You’re not here to fall for anyone, he reminded himself. You’re here to protect the kingdom. Find the truth. That’s all. But as he set another arrow to the string, the thought lingered like the scent of violets on a warm breeze:

 

Then why does it feel like he's the one aiming at me?

 

Silverbell leaned against the old tree by the edge of the training field, bow slung loosely at his side. His hands were steady. His heart wasn’t.

 

He watched the orchard path where Moondrop had vanished not long ago—again. That same gentle smile. That same soft voice. Talking to the younger faeries like they mattered. Like their stories mattered.

 

He’s too perfect. That’s the problem. Silverbell clenched a fist. No one listens like that unless they want something.

 

And yet… he hadn’t found a single lie around the kingdom. Not one. Or that’s just what he thought. Just half-sentences and thoughtful silences. So why couldn’t he let it go?

 

He ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to pace the edge of the field. Movement helped. Routine helped. Emotions had no place in his armor. He was a faerie knight, sworn to the Queen. Trained for vigilance, not softness.

 

But when he closed his eyes—

 

That voice again. That look Moondrop gave when he thought no one was watching. Like he wanted to be trusted. And it tore at Silverbell like thorned vines. He didn’t know if he was falling for a friend, or walking straight into a trap.

 

He stopped, breathing hard.

 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t even know who he is.”

 

Just a name, just a face. No history. No roots in the kingdom. He should’ve been a ghost passing through—but instead he’d stayed. And I let him.

 

He pressed his back to the tree, head tilted toward the sky, trying to clear the fog in his chest.

 

I don’t need warmth. I need answers.

 

But the wind rustled through the leaves again, soft as a sigh, and he felt it—that same ache, that same question pulsing under the surface:

 

What if I’m wrong about him? What if—just this once—someone wasn’t lying? What if this wasn’t a trap? What if it was just… him? 

 

Silverbell clenched his fists. 

 

Stop it. You’re not here to fall for someone’s voice. He grabbed another arrow, raised his bow—but the moment shattered when a familiar voice drifted through the trees. 

 

“Still missing left?" Moondrop’s voice was gentle, almost teasing. Silverbell froze. Then turned, slow and guarded. Moondrop stood a few paces away, hands behind his back, looking as relaxed as ever.

 

 “Didn’t know you were back already,” Silverbell said.

 

“Didn’t know you were this distracted,” Moondrop replied, glancing at the last arrow in the target. 

 

Silverbell said nothing. He couldn’t. Not without risking what might slip out. Moondrop took a step closer. 

 

“Want to talk about it?”

 

Silverbell looked at him—really looked. Those wings weren’t like theirs. His posture was always a little too poised. His smile, too even.

 

And yet… “No,” he said finally. 

 

Moondrop didn’t press. He only gave that same unreadable smile—quiet, almost kind. And for some reason, that made it worse.

 

Silverbell turned back to the target, knocking another arrow. His fingers trembled just slightly on the string. Moondrop didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just… waited.

 

Why does he always do that? Silverbell thought. Stand there like he’s not hiding anything? Like I’m the one who’s wrong for not trusting him?

 

The silence stretched between them like a pulled bowstring, tight and dangerous.

 

He loosed the arrow. It hit the target dead-center.

 

Moondrop whistled softly. “Better.”

 

Silverbell lowered the bow. “I just needed focus.”

 

Moondrop tilted his head. “Then why do you keep looking at me like I stole it from you?”

 

Silverbell said nothing. He couldn’t answer that without telling the truth. And he wasn’t sure what the truth was anymore. Instead, he said, “Some of the guards are suspicious of you.”

 

“Are you?”

 

Silverbell met his eyes. “I don’t know yet.”

 

Moondrop’s smile didn’t waver, but something behind it dimmed. “Then I’ll keep earning my place. One arrow at a time.” He turned to leave—but paused.

 

“You’re not wrong to be careful,” he said. “But sometimes, even knights need someone to trust.” Then he walked away, quiet as ever.

 

Silverbell watched him go, heart pounding, the question burning at the back of his throat: And what if I want that someone to be you?

 

 

 

---

 

 

Moondrop walked deeper into the orchard paths, the air sweet with blossoms, the sun dappled through the leaves above. His steps were quiet—too quiet for a faerie used to rustling wings and careless chatter. But he was never careless. Not even now.

 

His eyes scanned the trees, though he wasn’t really looking for anything.

 

Candy Apple’s whispers were spreading just as planned—little seeds of doubt wrapped in charming stories, tossed into conversations like petals on the wind. Most Cookies wouldn’t notice it at first. But the Queen would. And when she did, she’d want answers. That’s when the second half of his mission would begin.

 

One meeting with her. One carefully planted word. One final nudge. Then he could leave. Or... maybe not.

 

He stopped under a silverleaf tree, tilting his head back as a breeze stirred his borrowed wings. They shimmered gently, catching light that didn’t belong to him.

 

He frowned.

 

Why do I keep coming back to the training grounds? Why do I keep seeing him?

 

Silverbell was sharp. Far too sharp. He hadn’t cracked the truth yet, but he would. And when he did… things would end. But something in Moondrop’s chest ached at that idea. Something quiet and unfamiliar.

 

It’s not weakness, he told himself. It’s observation. Connection keeps you alive. Makes the lies more believable.

 

So why didn’t it feel like a lie when Silverbell smiled? Why did his voice keep echoing in Moondrop’s mind long after he’d left?

 

He closed his notebook and tucked it away. Shadow Milk’s plan was almost complete. The Soul Jam’s true bearer would be revealed. The kingdom would stir with unrest—and his part would be done.

 

And yet, he wasn’t sure if he’d leave. Not just yet.

 

Not when Silverbell still looked at him like there was something worth believing in.

 

 

---

 

 

Another day passed. Another morning wrapped in fog and questions.

 

Silverbell's footsteps echoed softly through the quiet palace corridor, the scent of dew and lily blossoms clinging to his cloak. The guards nodded as he passed, but he barely acknowledged them. His mind was elsewhere—caught in a loop he couldn't escape.

 

He was back here again.

 

Back at the Queen’s garden chamber.

 

A soft breeze stirred the pale curtains as he approached. The door was slightly open. She always left it like that, a quiet invitation rather than a command. He knocked anyway. Twice, polite.

 

"Come in, Silverbell," came her voice—gentle, warm, and unreadable.

 

He stepped inside.

 

White Lily Cookie stood near a window, tending to a cluster of blooming moonlilies, her fingers delicate as she adjusted the petals. She didn’t look up at first—she never rushed.

 

"You’ve been troubled lately," she said softly, still facing the flowers. "Is this about Moondrop Faerie Cookie again?"

 

Silverbell tensed, then relaxed with a breath. "You always know."

 

"I notice the weight you carry. And how often you come with it." She turned now, hands folded. “Speak freely.”

 

He hesitated, stepping closer, eyes fixed on the stone floor. “I… I’ve tried watching him. Listening. Testing, even. But it’s like chasing fog. I can’t decide if he’s hiding something or if I’m imagining it because I want to find something.”

 

“Want?” she repeated gently.

 

“I don’t know what he is,” Silverbell admitted, voice quiet. “He tells stories, listens well, never steps too far. But it feels… controlled. Like he’s only showing what he wants us to see. But every time I think I’m close to something, he does something kind. Something real. And I—”

 

He cut himself off.

 

White Lily Cookie studied him, her expression unreadable, then stepped forward. “And you’re afraid that if he is lying, your heart might believe him anyway.”

 

Silverbell looked up. Her words struck like arrows he hadn’t braced for.

 

“…Yes,” he said finally.

 

She moved past him, toward a long bench shaded by hanging vines, gesturing for him to sit. He followed.

 

“When I was younger,” she said softly, “I met a Cookie who wore masks better than any performer. She was gentle. Brilliant. But always holding back. I trusted her anyway… and I paid dearly for that trust. But I also learned something.”

 

Silverbell’s gaze flicked to her.

 

She smiled faintly, almost sad. “Sometimes, the risk is part of the truth. Sometimes, the only way forward is to offer trust… and see who dares return it.”

 

Silverbell sat still, hands clasped, jaw tight.

 

“Do you believe he means harm?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Do you believe he’s alone?”

 

He blinked. That question surprised him. “…Yes.”

 

“Then perhaps,” she said, standing again, “you are not here to decide who he is… but to remind him he doesn’t have to be what he was sent to be.”

 

Silverbell was silent. Then he rose, bow slung back over his shoulder. His voice came quietly. “I still need to know the truth.”

 

White Lily Cookie nodded once. “Of course. But don’t be afraid of kindness along the way. Even thorns bloom, given light.”

 

Silverbell paused at the door. His hand lingered on the frame. “…Thank you,” he said.

 

She smiled without reply, already turning back to her garden.

 

Outside, the sky had brightened, and the breeze carried a faint trace of violets. 

 

 

Notes:

OMG. HOW COME I DIDN'T GET ETERNAL SUGAR OR BURNING SPICE COOKIE

SHADOW MILK ARRIVED TWICE..... TWICE.

 

These beasts are hiding from meee ughhh

 

But srsly thank you guys for reading!! I very motivated writing this fic that I kept seeing blackbell/sapphirebell in my dreams (Ilovethemsomuch)

Chapter 6: V

Notes:

For my current readers, I changed Black Sapphire's name for a few reasons:

1. It is from an artist whom I really look up to and I really don't want to take the name without permission, and it would be rude if I asked (Atleast that is what I think, I haven't tried yet) and for the sake of originality

2. Confusion with the au's pls I dont want that, their au is so much different than mine

 

(I literally just searched up names that can be related to grapes and "Moon Drops" were one of the results)

 

I hope you guys understand the sudden change and I hope it doesn't cause confusion while reading this new chapter,

 

Anyways, Enjoy readers!!

 

 

Silverbell wandered the outer edge of the Faeriewood, boots silent against the moss. His bow was slung over one shoulder, forgotten. No training...huh. Only silence and the sound of wind threading through the trees.

 

This was complicated. Everything was.

 

Moondrop. The way he spoke with quiet charm. The way he listened. The little glances. The soft voice that lingered too long in Silverbell’s thoughts.

 

It made no sense. Moondrop wasn’t like the others. He didn’t move like a faerie. His wings were strange. His words are always a little too polished, like they were being chosen with care.

 

But…

 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Silverbell felt. Truly felt. Not duty. Not suspicion. He sat beneath a silverleaf tree, arms around his knees, heart heavier than his armor ever was.

 

Was it love?

 

He didn’t know. Not exactly. But he knew it was real. And he wasn’t going to waste it. Even if it hurts. Even if it ended. Even if it was a lie—he had to know. He had to try. He stood again, straighter now. He wasn’t just a knight. Not right now. He was someone willing to fight—not with a bow, but with honesty. Because he didn’t want to lose this. Not without knowing what it really was.

 

He walked slowly now, pacing the edge of the glade, lost in thought. Every memory of Moondrop lingered like scent on the wind—half-familiar, half-unsettling. His voice. His stories. His smile. They shouldn't matter, not this much. And yet they did.

 

Silverbell had always followed instincts sharper than any blade, but this—this wasn't instinct. It was confusion. Longing. A kind of ache that lodged in his chest every time Moondrop looked at him like he saw something worth holding onto.

 

What if he's lying? What if he’s not?

 

He tightened his jaw, eyes narrowing as he stared at nothing. He couldn't afford to be naive. He was a faerie knight, sworn to the crown. But what if—just this once—he was allowed to feel something for himself?

 

I want it to be real, he admitted silently. Even if it’s not… I want it to be.

 

Footsteps broke the quiet. Silverbell turned, instantly alert. From the woods emerged a tall figure clad in darker silver armor. The glow of his eyes was cold but familiar. Mercurial Knight Cookie.

 

“Walking alone again?” Mercurial’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “That’s becoming a habit.”

 

“I needed air,” Silverbell replied coolly. “Is that a problem?”

 

Mercurial stepped closer, gaze steady. “Depends. If the air you’re chasing is laced with poison, then yes.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes narrowed.

 

Mercurial didn’t blink. “I’ve heard things. About Moondrop. About his sudden appearance. His questions.”

 

“He’s a guest.”

 

“He’s a mystery,” Mercurial snapped, then softened. “You think I’m here to scold you? I’m here to warn you. You don’t know who he is. You want to believe you do, but you don’t.”

 

Silverbell’s throat tightened. “You’re wrong.”

 

“Maybe,” Mercurial said, folding his arms. “But I’ve seen good Cookies fall harder for less. Don’t be one of them.”

 

Silverbell looked away.

 

“I’m just asking you to be careful,” Mercurial added, quieter now. “Before this becomes something you can’t walk back from.”

 

Then he turned, leaving the wind to whisper between the trees. Silverbell stayed behind, still as stone, heart thudding against his ribs.

 

Too late, he thought.

 

I’ve already fallen. Fallen for him. 

 

 

---

 

 

The morning was soft, the light through the Faerie Kingdom’s canopy pale gold and dusted with drifting petals. Birds called from high branches, but down below, on the quiet path near the eastern fountain, it was calm.

 

Silverbell stood waiting, hands folded behind his back, bow slung as always across his shoulder—but today, the usual stiffness in his posture was gone. He looked... lighter. Not relaxed, but not armored either.

 

He turned when he heard footsteps approaching—light, measured, and far too smooth to belong to a knight.

 

Moondrop Faerie Cookie appeared from between the trees, his wings catching the sun just so. No cloak today, no satchel of stories—just his usual shimmer, eyes alert, hands casually tucked at his sides.

 

“You're early,” Silverbell said, voice quieter than usual.

 

“I wanted to walk,” Moondrop replied, stepping up beside him. “And maybe make sure you didn’t change your mind.”

 

Silverbell raised a brow. “About inviting you to meet the Queen?”

 

“About trusting me near her,” Moondrop corrected, tone light—but something behind his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

Silverbell tilted his head, watching him. “I trust you near me,” he said. “The rest will follow.”

 

That made Moondrop pause. Just slightly. Then he laughed under his breath and looked away. “Dangerous thing to say to a liar.”

 

“Is it a lie if I know?” Silverbell asked calmly.

 

Another pause. This one longer. Moondrop didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it, either.

 

They started walking then—side by side, along the path that curved gently toward the inner palace where White Lily Cookie often took her morning counsel. The light grew brighter with every step, reflecting off white stone and soft marble arches ahead.

 

Silverbell spoke again, more casual this time, but his eyes flicked sideways. “She won’t mind. The Queen. She knows I trust you.”

 

Moondrop gave a faint hum of acknowledgement. But inside, his thoughts turned sharp.

 

Pure Vanilla Cookie.

Today.

This is it.

 

The last time he’d heard that name, it had been from Shadow Milk himself—spoken like a ghost, like a flame half-snuffed. One half of a Soul Jam. One half of a story unfinished. Shadow Milk wanted details, reactions, positioning—anything to help build the perfect performance for what came next.

 

And now, Silverbell was offering him the door.

 

No suspicion. Just kindness.

 

Moondrop didn’t deserve it. But he would use it. He had to.

 

And yet—

 

As Silverbell led them toward the throne chamber, still talking softly about how to greet Her Majesty, Moondrop couldn’t stop thinking about the warmth in the knight’s voice. The way he always spoke like he wanted him there.

 

Even if he knew one day, that might not be true anymore.

 

So Moondrop smiled. He played the part. But deep inside, something twisted. Because he wasn’t ready to be the villain in Silverbell’s story.

 

The Queen’s chamber was quiet, lit by the soft glow of enchanted lilies that lined the walls. White Lily Cookie stood at the center, her presence serene yet commanding. Moondrop Faerie Cookie, with Silverbell by his side, approached her with a respectful nod.

 

“Your Majesty,” Moondrop began, his voice steady, “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

 

White Lily Cookie offered a gentle smile. “Any friend of Silverbell is welcome here. What brings you to the heart of the Faerie Kingdom?”

 

“I’ve heard whispers about Pure Vanilla Cookie’s recent activities,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “Given your close history, I hoped you might share some insights.”

 

She paused, her gaze distant for a moment. “Pure Vanilla and I have shared a long journey. We were once students together, dreaming of a better world for all Cookies. Our paths diverged, but the bond remains.” Moondrop listened intently as she recounted their shared past—their studies at Blueberry Yogurt Academy, their secret experiments, and the eventual rift that formed between them. She spoke of his unwavering kindness and the guilt he carried for not preventing her descent into darkness.

 

“He still believes in me,” she said softly. “Even after everything, he holds onto the hope that I can be redeemed.”

 

Moondrop nodded, absorbing the weight of her words. “Thank you for sharing this with me. It means more than you know.”

 

As they departed, Silverbell glanced at Moondrop, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “You seemed particularly interested in Pure Vanilla’s story. Any reason why?”

 

Moondrop offered a small smile, masking the turmoil within. “Just a fascination with history, I suppose.”

 

But deep down, he knew the truth. This information was crucial for Shadow Milk Cookie’s plans. Yet, as he walked beside Silverbell, he couldn’t shake the growing conflict within him—the line between duty and desire blurring with each passing day.

 

 

---

 

 

Silverbell stood a step behind and to the side, his usual position when in the Queen’s presence—but his eyes weren’t on her.

 

They were on him. Moondrop.

 

Silverbell watched the way he moved. The way he spoke. Too precise. Too smooth. Even in the presence of White Lily Cookie, there was something tightly measured about the way Moondrop smiled, nodded, asked his questions.

 

He was polite. Respectful.

 

But controlled.

 

Every word wrapped in silk. Every glance choreographed. And that made Silverbell watch more closely.

 

Not out of distrust—not yet. But because something inside him, something honed from years of quiet guarding and quieter instincts, whispered: He’s hiding something. Again.

 

Moondrop didn’t falter, but Silverbell saw the flicker in his expression when White Lily mentioned Pure Vanilla Cookie’s unwavering kindness. The small twitch of his fingers. The slight tension in his jaw.

 

He was listening too closely.

 

“Fascination with history,” Moondrop had said on the way out, brushing the question off with that charming grin.

 

But Silverbell didn’t answer right away.

 

Because he saw it. Not just the interest in the Queen’s words. But the calculation behind it. And yet— And yet, even now, Silverbell didn’t want to doubt him. He wanted to believe this was just curiosity. A wandering faerie with an unusual past. A kind heart shaped by strange experiences.

 

But he had also seen Moondrop at his most unguarded. Under moonlight. In gardens. Saying things that cracked the mask. Holding his hand like it meant something.

 

So the question echoed louder than before: Which one of those was real?

 

Silverbell didn’t ask.

 

Not yet.

 

But he was watching.

 

He always watched.

 

 

---

 

 

Black Sapphire Cookie has fulfilled the mission: the false persona, the rumors, the careful report delivered to Shadow Milk. Now, the facade begins to drop. He’s no longer “Moondrop”—he’s Black Sapphire again. And the setting shift to the Spire confirms it: he’s back among shadows, schemes, and the cold purpose of his master’s will.

 

The show being prepared for Pure Vanilla Cookie and his allies isn’t just a welcome—it’s the trap. The performance masking the knife. This is the end of his visit to the Faerie Kingdom… at least, officially.

 

But internally? Emotionally?

 

It’s far from over.

 

High above the Lands of Deceit, where light was strangled by stone and smoke, the Spire stood—jagged, sharp, and hollow in the heart like its master.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie stood at its center. The glamour of Moondrop Faerie had long faded. His wings, now sleek obsidian, shimmered faintly in the dim violet light of the ritual crystal overhead. He held no mask. Just a folder—thin, precise, and final.

 

He handed it to Shadow Milk Cookie without a word. Shadow Milk didn’t thank him. He simply opened it, reading the lines in silence. His fingers moved like blades across the pages.

 

Candy Apple Cookie leaned over his shoulder, chewing a sugar stick idly. “You even included the knight’s habits? How romantic.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t rise to the bait. “Every pattern. Every name. Every weakness. As instructed.”

 

“And the queen?” Shadow Milk asked, not looking up.

 

“She suspects nothing. She thinks I’m a well-mannered faerie bard with an obsession for violets. I’ve played the part perfectly.”

 

Shadow Milk gave a short nod. “Good. Then we move on to the next phase.”

 

Behind him, the illusion sigils sparked to life, dancing light across the dark chamber. Curtains were being spun, instruments tuned with magic. It looked like a stage. But they all knew it was a blade waiting in silk.

 

“The Pure Vanilla entourage will arrive in two weeks” Shadow Milk said coldly. “Make sure their welcome is unforgettable.”

 

Candy Apple twirled. “Oh, it will be. I’ve already picked out my costume.”

 

Black Sapphire stood still, arms behind his back. But something in his chest—something he didn’t recognize—tugged at him. A thread pulled toward somewhere softer, quieter. Silver-blue eyes. A voice that told him he didn’t have to be alone.

 

He shut the thought down. Emotion was not part of the plan. He had done his job. So why did it feel like something had gone wrong?

 

He left the kingdom. But something stayed behind: a piece of him. The part Silverbell unknowingly reached. And whether Black Sapphire admits it or not, that crack in the armor will cost him. Or change him.

 

The door closed behind him with a soft click. The air here was always colder—silent, sterile. A sharp contrast to the violet winds and sun-dappled paths of the Faerie Kingdom. There was no breeze. No birdsong. No Silverbell.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie sat on the edge of his bed, removing the last trace of glamour from his arms. The shimmer faded from his skin like dew drying off metal. The wings were gone. What remained was the original him—flawless, sharp, unbending.

 

Just like his master wanted.

 

But the room felt smaller than it used to. Quieter, somehow. His fingers hovered over the edge of the table where a folded page sat: his mission notes, complete down to the smallest detail.

 

He should feel satisfied. Instead, he felt… wrong.

 

He thought of Silverbell's voice—frustrated, focused, always careful. He thought of the way he looked when he smiled without meaning to. He remembered the bow, resting like a creature beside him, and the weight of those words:

 

“You don’t have to do everything alone.”

 

His chest tightened. He stood up too fast. Stop thinking like this.

 

He walked to the mirror, stared into the eyes he knew too well. Cold. Empty. But lately… something stirred beneath. Would Silverbell still smile if he knew the truth? If he saw the monster behind the glamour? Would he still have offered help? Black Sapphire clenched the edge of the table. He was supposed to leave. That was the plan.

 

So why did he want to stay? And worse—why did the thought of Silverbell’s voice going silent feel more terrifying than any punishment Shadow Milk could give?

 

He sat back down. And for the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do next. The silence pressed down like a second skin. Black Sapphire sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely on his lap, but his fingers wouldn't stay still. They twitched, restless—like something inside him was trying to crawl free.

 

He’d done everything right. The mission was complete. The false name, the rumors, the surveillance—every lie delivered with a smile, every step a dance around suspicion. He should be reporting to Shadow Milk with pride. Instead, there was a sour taste in his mouth.

 

He thought of the garden paths. Of Silverbell’s careful hands unhooking twisted wings from branches. Of that damn arrow that split the apple clean in midair.

 

He exhaled through his nose. "You’re not supposed to think about him." The problem wasn’t that Silverbell had been kind. Or loyal. Or warm.

 

The problem was that he’d made Black Sapphire forget what he was. Forget what he was sent to do.

 

That couldn’t happen again. This wasn’t some storybook encounter. He was not the hero. And Silverbell… Silverbell was never supposed to matter. But he did. And now, in the silence of the Spire, that fact clung to him like dust he couldn’t shake.

 

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

 

“You don’t have to do everything alone.”  Why had that line stayed with him? Why did it still echo now, louder than any order his master ever gave? His fists clenched. He hated this. Not because it was weakness—but because it made him hesitate. And hesitation was dangerous.

 

He couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not when Shadow Milk was so close to achieving what they all had been working toward. But still… he hadn’t told them everything. Not about Silverbell.

 

Not about the way his voice dropped when he was serious, or the way his smile cracked when he was confused, or the way it felt to be looked at like he was someone worth listening to.

 

Black Sapphire closed his eyes. In two weeks, Pure Vanilla Cookie will arrive. Candy Apple will lure him and his friends here in the Spire. And the curtain would rise. Tonight, all he could think about was whether Silverbell would ever forgive him for what was coming. And why that mattered at all.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie's voice was low and calculated, his silhouette drawn in sharp ink under the glow of the Spire’s eerie light. Candy Apple Cookie lounged nearby, flipping through a folder of rumors and scribbled names, occasionally throwing in a gleeful, biting comment.

 

Black Sapphire stood near the window, hands folded behind his back, appearing attentive—but his mind was somewhere else entirely. He’s probably at the training grounds. Or maybe the glade again. That thought crept in before he could stop it. He shifted his weight. Another plan, another speech. He should be memorizing the final details. He should be focused. But instead, his chest ached with something sharp and restless, something that felt too much like—Need.

 

He scowled at the floor. No. Not need. That’s not what this is. But the feeling didn’t fade. It only burned hotter the longer he ignored it. He hadn’t seen Silverbell since that last exchange in the woods. No parting, no closure—just the silence between them thick with everything that hadn’t been said. The memory of Silverbell’s voice, that cautious glance, refused to leave him alone. And now here he was, standing like a soldier waiting for a war, while his thoughts pulled him toward one Cookie’s quiet presence like it meant something.

 

He turned, careful not to make a sound. Shadow Milk and Candy Apple were too deep in discussion to notice.

 

One hour, he told himself. That’s all. Just one.

 

He raised a hand, quietly tracing the sigil in the air. The portal shimmered open—soft, green-blue light swirling in an oval, humming like the distant call of a bird returning to a familiar branch.

 

His disguise wrapped around him like a second skin: Moondrop Faerie Cookie, perfect in posture and illusion. The wings shimmered back into place. The calm expression. The careful mask. He stepped through. The Faerie Kingdom greeted him like a half-remembered dream. Quiet. Cool. Alive.

 

He inhaled deeply. The urge hadn’t faded. If anything, it was worse. He doesn't know what this is. But if seeing him—just seeing him—will shut this feeling up… then fine. Just for a moment.

 

And with that, Black Sapphire vanished into the trees. Disguised. Torn. Searching for something he refused to name. He wandered. The forest paths. The archery range. The quiet glade where the river made that soft curl around moss-covered rocks. Empty. All of it. Silverbell wasn’t anywhere he was supposed to be. Black Sapphire told himself he wasn’t disappointed. It wasn’t disappointment. It was just… frustration. Yes. A delay in the plan. That was all.

 

Eventually, he found himself in a garden tucked just beyond the castle gates—a place no one visited often, quiet and open. At its heart stood a slender tree, its branches hung with delicate, pale-blue flowers that swayed gently in the breeze. Silverbells. Of course.

 

He stared up at them for a moment. They shimmered faintly in the light, bell-shaped and soft-edged, the petals drooping like they were listening. Something about them—gentle, unnoticed, beautiful without demanding to be—reminded him too much of the Cookie he’d come here to forget. Or no. Not forget. Just see.

 

He sat down beneath the tree, the grass cool beneath his legs, and pulled out another pocket notebook from inside his cloak. Not the mission book. Not the report. A different one. Older. For… distractions. Scribbles. Thoughts he didn’t understand.

 

His hand moved almost on its own, pen gliding quietly over the page. The bell-shaped flowers took form in ink. Dozens of them. Precise, neat, all hanging from a single branch.

 

He doesn’t consider himself as an artist. But this was much easier than thinking. Easier than asking himself why he came here when the mission was done.

 

Why did he care where Silverbell had gone. Why this ache hadn’t left his chest since the last time they spoke.

 

I don’t even know what I’m doing, he thought, staring at the drawing. This is pointless. He probably wouldn’t even care if I was gone. The pen hovered for a second. Then he drew a single leaf falling from the branch. And sat back, notebook still open, waiting—pretending he wasn’t.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie sat beneath the silverbell tree, sketching the delicate flowers in his notebook. The garden was quiet, the air filled with the gentle rustle of leaves. He was lost in thought, the lines on the page reflecting the turmoil within him.

 

Suddenly, a familiar voice called out, breaking the silence. "Can you hear the silver bells ringing...?"

 

Black Sapphire's hand froze, the pen hovering above the paper. He looked up, his eyes meeting those of Silverbell Cookie, who stood a few paces away, a gentle smile on his face. The words echoed in his mind, stirring emotions he couldn't quite name. He closed the notebook slowly, his gaze never leaving Silverbell. For a moment, neither spoke. The world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the soft chime of the silverbell flowers swaying in the breeze.

 

Black Sapphire stood, the notebook clutched in his hand. He took a step forward, the distance between them closing. "I... didn't expect to see you here," he said, his voice quieter than usual.

 

Silverbell's smile widened slightly. "I often come here when I need to think."

 

Black Sapphire nodded, his gaze dropping to the notebook in his hand. "I find it... peaceful."

 

They stood in silence once more, the unspoken words hanging between them.

 

Finally, Silverbell spoke. "Would you like to me sit with you?"

 

Black Sapphire hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

 

They sat beneath the silverbell tree, the flowers above them swaying gently in the breeze. For a while, they said nothing, simply enjoying the quiet company of one another. In that moment, Black Sapphire felt a sense of calm he hadn't known he was missing. The turmoil within him eased, replaced by a quiet contentment. He didn't understand these feelings, but for now, he didn't need to. He was here, with Silverbell, and that was enough.

 

Silverbell’s voice drifted softly, warm and steady as he spoke about the flowers above them.

 

“These only bloom in the late spring,” he said, fingertips brushing a silver petal. “They’re named after the sound the blossoms make in the wind. Gentle, but never silent. Faeries say they grow best when someone is honest with their heart.”

 

Black Sapphire barely heard a word.

 

His eyes weren’t on the flowers. They were on him.

 

The light touched Silverbell’s face in pieces—soft shadows beneath his eyes, the way his lashes caught the sun. His lips moved, saying things Black Sapphire couldn’t focus on. Didn’t want to.

 

He shifted slightly, lowering his notebook into his lap, flipping to a blank page. He didn’t even think about it. His fingers moved on their own. Quick, precise lines. A quiet sketch. He tried to focus on the shape of the jaw, the turn of the mouth, the curve of the ear beneath the pale strands of hair. Something delicate. Familiar.

 

Silverbell kept talking, unaware.

 

Black Sapphire glanced up again. Then back down.

 

He didn’t understand why he was doing this. Why did he need to capture it? Why the silence between each heartbeat felt heavier the longer they sat. He was annoyed. Frustrated. Something was swelling in his chest and he didn’t have a name for it. But the pen didn’t stop. He kept sketching. Quiet. Careful. Just enough to remember. Just enough to keep something of this. Of him. Even if he never came back.

 

Silverbell paused mid-sentence. He turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly—not with anger, but with that familiar mix of curiosity and quiet concern. “…Were you even listening to me?”

 

Black Sapphire stiffened. His fingers hesitated over the sketch, pencil hovering just above the curve of Silverbell’s drawn brow. Slowly, he closed the notebook. Not too fast. Not guilty. Just enough to keep it hidden. “I heard you,” he said, not meeting his eyes.

 

Silverbell raised a brow. “Oh really? Then what did I just say?”

 

Black Sapphire opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Then, “You said something about wind,” he mumbled, vaguely, which was technically true—but not nearly enough.

 

Silverbell exhaled, somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You weren’t listening.”

 

Black Sapphire finally looked at him. His tone was flat, but his voice dipped lower, quieter. “No. I wasn’t.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “Why?”

 

A long pause.

 

Black Sapphire glanced away again. His grip on the notebook tightened, just slightly. “…Didn’t want to forget what you looked like.” The words left before he could stop them. Simple. Blunt. No poetry—just raw honesty, awkward and sharp.

 

Silverbell was quiet. For once.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

 

He just sat there, fists clenched around the notebook, waiting for the moment to pass… or maybe, for it to mean something. Silverbell still hadn’t said anything. The silence was starting to feel heavier than anything else—the air thick with something Black Sapphire didn’t want to name.

 

He stood up abruptly, brushing invisible dirt from his coat. “I should go,” he muttered, not quite looking at Silverbell. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your day.”

 

Silverbell opened his mouth like he might say something—anything—but Black Sapphire was already turning away. “Wait—”

 

“I’ll see you around,” he said, too quickly, too practiced. And then he disappeared between the garden paths without giving Silverbell the chance to follow.

 

 

---

 

 

When he returned to his room, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing hard. His wings faded back into his true form. He dropped the notebook on the bed and stared at it.

 

This was getting out of control.

 

He told himself it was just a distraction. Just a passing pull toward warmth he didn’t understand.

 

But the feeling in his chest wasn’t leaving. It twisted tighter now. Unwelcome. Persistent. He sat down on the edge of the bed, buried his face in his hands, and whispered—more to the silence than anything else—

 

“…What is wrong with me?”

 

Because even now, even after he left—

 

He still wanted to go back.

 

Black Sapphire let his hands fall away from his face, exhaling slowly.

 

Then he reached for the notebook he’d tossed aside.

 

It flipped open naturally, like it wanted to betray him. The page he'd been working on—half-finished lines of flowers, curling stems—was now dominated by a single sketch.

 

Silverbell.

 

Not perfect. Not even clean. The strokes were loose, uncertain in places. But there was something unshakably real about it. The way Silverbell’s eyes curved,not with amusement but thought. The tension in his shoulders. The faint tilt of his head like he was still speaking, expecting someone to listen.

 

Black Sapphire stared at it. He didn’t remember drawing most of it.

 

His fingers hovered over the page, then pressed lightly at the edge. The paper didn’t flinch.

 

He hated this.

 

Hated how his hand had memorized the contours of a Cookie he shouldn’t care about. Hated how he could feel something every time he looked at this page, even if he didn’t know what that something was.

 

He closed the notebook gently, but not before glancing at the drawing one last time.

 

“…Stupid,” he muttered, but softer than usual. There was no bite in it.

 

Just confusion. And something dangerously close to longing.

 

It had only been three weeks.

 

Three weeks since he'd arrived in the Faerie Kingdom. Three weeks since he'd put on the name Moondrop. Since he started watching, lying, reporting—doing what he was always good at.

 

And yet.

 

Black Sapphire sat there, notebook closed on his lap, hands still resting over it. The room was quiet, but his thoughts weren’t. They spun, faster than he liked, slipping through his grasp like water. He had done his mission. Flawlessly. Rumors planted, trust earned, the Queen deceived. Additional information reported. Shadow Milk would be pleased.

 

So why did he feel…so wrong?

 

He rubbed his chest like he could wipe the feeling away, but it stayed. Lingering. Gnawing. Quiet, but constant.

 

What is this?

 

It wasn’t guilt. He didn’t believe in guilt. And it wasn’t weakness—he’d been trained too well for that.

 

But something was off. His mind kept circling back to a voice. A glance. A smile that wasn’t meant to manipulate, but to invite. A Cookie who looked at him like he was real.

 

Silverbell. He muttered the name under his breath like it might lose its power that way. It didn’t.

 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

He was supposed to finish the job and leave. That was the plan. So why did the idea of leaving make him feel like something was pulling apart inside him?

 

He closed his eyes.

 

“What is this?” he asked aloud, voice low and uncertain.

 

There was no answer.

 

Only that same feeling. The one that shouldn’t be there. And wasn’t going away.

 

The door swung open without warning—of course.

 

“You could’ve knocked,” Black Sapphire snapped, eyes narrowing as his notebook flew from his hands, landing facedown on the floor with a dull thud.

 

Candy Apple Cookie leaned against the doorframe, unbothered as usual, one hand casually twirling a lock of her golden-pink hair. “Knocking is for people who might care what you’re doing. And you? You sulk too often to earn privacy.”

 

He stood up sharply, brushing off his sleeves. “I don’t sulk.”

 

“Oh, my mistake,” she said with mock sweetness. “You brood. Such a charming distinction.”

 

He glared, taking a step toward her. “What do you want?”

 

“Shadow Milk wants your final notes by morning. And I want to know why you’re dragging your feet. You finished the mission, didn’t you? So why are you still… loitering?”

 

He clenched his jaw. “I have my reasons.”

 

“Uh-huh. Let me guess.” She walked past him, casually glancing around the room. “Is your reason soft-spoken, silver-haired, and tragically sincere?”

 

He said nothing. That silence was damning.

 

Candy Apple grinned, sharp and amused. “Oh, you like him.”

 

“Shut up, Candy. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

 

She laughed. “You do! Black Sapphire Cookie, master manipulator, actually caught feelings. This is delicious.”

 

“It’s irrelevant.”

 

“Is it?” She turned back to him, voice dropping just enough to sound like she was genuinely curious. “Because you look more lost than usual. That’s not like you.”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

“You’re going soft,” she said softly, eyes narrowing. “And I think you know it.”

 

His fists clenched at his sides. “Get out.”

 

Candy Apple didn’t move for a second. She just looked at him—really looked—like she was trying to see something deeper than the glare.

 

“Just don’t forget why you’re here,” she said, stepping out. “And don’t let someone else’s eyes make you forget your own reflection.” Then she leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Shadow Milk wants you back in two hours. He says it's time we finalize the welcome performance. You know how he gets when things aren’t perfect.”

 

 Black Sapphire said nothing. His jaw was tight, his hands still curled too tightly.

 

Candy Apple tilted her head, watching him with something close to exasperation—but not quite. It was sharper than that. Less concern, more calculation.

 

“You’re really going to stand there, chewing on your own silence?” she said. “Because if you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not working. I’ve seen you kill with less mood.”

 

Still, he said nothing. The silence stretched. Too long.

 

She sighed, pushing off the wall with a small scoff. “You’re not even pretending anymore. That look on your face—it’s not cold, it’s conflicted. And that’s not a good look for you.”

 

Black Sapphire turned slowly, finally meeting her eyes. His voice came out low, almost flat. “It won’t affect the performance.”

 

She gave him a dry smile. “That’s not the part I’m worried about.”

 

He didn’t respond.

 

Candy Apple tapped her foot, arms still crossed. “Two hours. Don’t make him wait.” Then she added, just before walking off, “And fix your face. You're starting to look like you care.” With that, she turned and left, the echo of her boots tapping down the corridor behind her. Black Sapphire remained still. Then slowly, he reached down… and picked up the notebook.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t wait. He closed the notebook, slipped it into the folds of his cloak, and left the room. The halls of the Spire echoed with distant, muffled voices—Candy Apple’s boots fading into silence, the low hum of preparation for the coming “welcome.” None of it mattered right now. He needed to move. To do something that felt like control.

 

By the time he reached the chamber where Shadow Milk waited, the room was dim as always—washed in deep violet and silver tones, Soul Jam light pulsing faintly from the walls. Shadow Milk stood by the far table, reviewing a map carved from crystal and thread. His cloak floated like mist, his form steady, unreadable.

 

“You’re early,” he said without turning.

 

Black Sapphire knelt without hesitation. “The preparations are set. I came to confirm the final arrangements.”

 

Shadow Milk finally turned, gaze calm and sharp. “Good. Then you’ll assist Candy Apple in setting the sequence. I want flawless timing. The moment Pure Vanilla crosses the threshold, everything begins. Not a second off.”

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

There was no suspicion in Shadow Milk’s voice. No flicker of doubt. To him, Black Sapphire was exactly what he always had been: loyal, cold, reliable. And maybe… that was the problem. Because even as he stood there, posture perfect, expression unreadable—part of him still ached with that same, infuriating pull.

 

Shadow Milk was still talking—something about route alignments, the timing of the arcane pulses—but Black Sapphire wasn’t hearing a word of it.

 

His thoughts were still elsewhere. Caught in the shimmer of a memory he hadn’t asked for. Silverbell. What was that knight doing right now? And—why did it matter so much?

 

The image of him, blood-slicked and defiant in the moonlight, refused to let go. That reckless smirk. The way he’d looked back at him after the job was done—as if he knew something he didn’t. He blinked.

 

“Black Sapphire.” Shadow Milk’s voice cut through the haze.

 

Again, sharper: “Black Sapphire.”

 

He straightened at once. “Apologies, Master.”

 

Shadow Milk studied him. That unreadable calm again. “Are you even listening?”

 

“I am now,” he said, too quickly.

 

A pause. Not long, but heavy enough to notice.

 

“On the name of the Witches ever since that mission to the Faerie Kingdom,” Shadow Milk said slowly, “you’ve been... off. Distracted. Is there something I should know?”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw clenched. “No, Master. I’m just... off balance today. It won’t affect the mission.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t nod. Didn’t challenge him either. He just turned back to the crystal-thread map. “Make sure it doesn’t.”

 

 

Chapter 7: VI

Notes:

HELP Moon Drops are the same as Sweet Sapphires- I didn't know before I made the name change lmao, I just looked up for different ups of grapes and that was the first one that appeared TT more facts ig

 

(also rn I am studying shadow milk's charac for a future chapter bc this cookie doesn't even respond to black sapphire and a bit of candy apple(?) during convos in my kingdoms and all he did was "..." like what was that. Then with the other beasts "Do your thing hot stuff!" "I like it when you get angry!" same things with truthless recluse. Like I really want to understand more of his character)

 

and enjoy the food hehe

 

 

Candy Apple Cookie leaned against the cool stone wall of the Spire, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the dim corridor ahead. The script Shadow Milk had penned was etched into her memory—every line, every pause, every calculated word. It was a performance, after all, and she was nothing if not a performer.

 

Her recent journey to Crispia had been more than just a diversion. The icy landscapes and stoic inhabitants provided the perfect backdrop for her subtle manipulations. Rumors had a way of spreading like wildfire, especially when whispered by a charming stranger with a penchant for secrets. She had sown the seeds of doubt and discord, and now, she waited to see what would bloom.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie was occupied with his live broadcast, a brief detour to Crispia ensuring the rumors took root. He was efficient, as always, but she sensed something different in him lately—a hesitation, perhaps, or a distraction. Not that it mattered. Their roles were clear, and the show must go on.

 

Soon, she would don her disguise as Apple Faerie Cookie, a visage of innocence and allure. Her task was simple: lure Pure Vanilla Cookie to the Spire. It was a familiar dance, one she had performed countless times. But this time, the stakes were higher, the audience more discerning.

 

As she pushed off the wall and made her way down the corridor, she couldn't help but smile. The stage was set, the players in position. All that remained was the final act.

 

"Let the curtain rise," she whispered to herself, the words a promise and a challenge.

 

Candy Apple Cookie wasn’t foolish.

 

As much as she played the part of the carefree schemer, always smirking, always a step ahead, she noticed things. Small things. Like how Black Sapphire had been off-script lately. Subtle, yes—but she knew him. She’d watched him weave lies like silk. And now he was hesitating.

 

That wasn’t in the script.

 

She tilted her head, watching from a distance as he moved through the corridors earlier, distant. Absent. His words sharp, but hollow. His eyes are somewhere else.

 

Love, she thought dryly, leaning against the doorframe of her room. Such a ridiculous word. She never understood why Cookies chased it. Especially ones like them—made for darker things. Sharper things.

 

But still…

 

She remembered the way he tossed that notebook across the room the second she walked in. The way he clenched his jaw. How he always made sure she didn’t catch him lingering too long near the portals.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie was unraveling in a quiet, dangerous way. And all over someone who didn’t even know his name.

 

She scoffed softly and turned her gaze to the starless window. “Love,” she muttered under her breath, almost laughing. “What a stupid, beautiful mistake to make.”

 

But a part of her—not the loyal agent, not the performer, but something quieter—almost felt sorry for him. Because they both knew how this would end.

 

 

---

 

 

Shadow Milk Cookie moved like a conductor behind a curtain, his fingers laced behind his back, eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction.

 

In the grand chamber of the Spire, the stage was nearly set. Dark-tinted crystal mirrors shimmered along the walls, reflecting thousands of fragmented lights. Every illusion, every trap, every thread of the performance had been carefully woven—each one tuned to the precise weaknesses of Pure Vanilla Cookie and his entourage.

 

He traced a clawed finger across the surface of one of the mirrors and whispered, “Hope. Trust. Light. All so predictable.”

 

Everything was in motion. Thanks to Black Sapphire’s thorough report, he knew who would be arriving with the ancient—where they stood in politics, their powers, their emotional levers. Every smile they wore was already accounted for. Every strategy already countered.

 

"Such loyal work," Shadow Milk muttered approvingly, a twisted sort of fondness in his voice. "Always dependable."

 

He hadn’t noticed anything out of place with Black Sapphire. Why would he? The agent always returned with perfect data, spoke with precision, followed every order. There were no cracks in that mask. No reason to doubt his loyalty.

 

Shadow Milk turned to the center of the room, where the stage awaited Pure Vanilla’s arrival.

 

“This time,” he said softly, “there will be no escape. No forgiveness. Only performance.”

 

And the curtain would rise.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie adjusted his cloak, black velvet shifting like a pool of ink. His reflection shimmered faintly in the crystal wall, no longer streaked with the dark jam that had once dripped freely from his wounds. The bruises from White Lily Cookie’s last surprise were gone—faded like a bad memory, tucked away where pain couldn’t reach him.

 

He looked pristine now. Recovered. Composed. Dangerous. All thanks to his delightful little minions.

 

“Candy Apple, always eager. Black Sapphire, ever precise,” he mused aloud, voice a silken whisper. “I couldn’t have asked for sweeter instruments.”

 

He flexed his fingers, watching as purple sparks licked the air between them. The days spent regaining his strength had not gone to waste. With every passing hour, his power flowed sharper, cleaner. No more sluggish casting. No more hiding behind illusions out of necessity. He was ready now. More than ready.

 

And the stage—ah, the stage was nearly perfect. One final check, and Pure Vanilla Cookie would step into the greatest performance of his life.

 

“Come see what your faith has brought you,” Shadow Milk said to the empty room, lips curling into a slow grin. “I promise, it'll be unforgettable.”

 

He turned, cloak sweeping behind him, walking toward the centerpiece of the Spire with a spring in his step.

In the shadow-draped halls of the Spire, the air was cool and humming with quiet energy. Crystalline lamps pulsed with a faint violet glow, casting angular shadows across the walls. Somewhere deep within the obsidian heart of the fortress, a voice—sharp and laced with syrupy charm—echoed through the chambers.

 

“Black Sapphire. Candy Apple. To the main chamber. Now.” It wasn’t a shout. Shadow Milk never raised his voice. He didn’t need to.

 

Within moments, the great doors of the central chamber creaked open. Black Sapphire entered first, calm and unreadable as always. Candy Apple followed, twirling a peppermint-striped dagger between her fingers, her expression bright but sharp-edged.

 

Shadow Milk stood beneath the high arched ceiling, arms extended as if he were already center stage. Behind him, suspended like a theater curtain, the veils of dark magic billowed gently—reacting to his presence alone.

 

“Well?” he asked, not looking at them. “Two weeks. That’s what we have.”

 

“Pure Vanilla’s expected to cross the western border at the start of the spring bloom,” Candy Apple said with a practiced smile.

 

Black Sapphire said nothing. His arms remained folded behind his back, eyes on the stage floor.

 

Shadow Milk turned toward them at last. “The rumors you two have sown… delicious . Tension in the court. Doubt among the wings. And our dear guest? Still believes he's walking into a friendly battle.”

 

He walked forward slowly, gaze flicking from one to the other. “But we don’t just want confusion. We want drama . We want impact .”

 

Candy Apple’s smile widened. “Then let’s give him a stage he won’t forget.”

 

“And you,” Shadow Milk said, turning to Black Sapphire, “how’s our illusion system? Ready to bend light and truth like silk?”

 

Black Sapphire nodded once. “The enchantments are stable. The mirrors are in place. I’ll reinforce them the night before.”

 

“Perfect,” Shadow Milk breathed. “The traps will be theatrical. The games… cruel in the subtlest ways. We’ll remind him that even kindness can be a performance.”

 

He spun in place, arms lifting like a conductor. “In two weeks, this chamber will hold the most important Cookies in the world. And not one of them will see what’s coming.”

 

Candy Apple gave a dramatic little bow. “Shall we prepare our masks, then?”

 

“Do,” Shadow Milk replied, his eyes gleaming. “And polish them well. Our audience deserves nothing less than perfection.”

 

Then, quietly, he added: “Dismissed.”

They turned to leave, the thick doors slowly groaning shut behind them. Two weeks left. And the curtain was about to rise.

 

 

---

 

 

As Black Sapphire was heading back to his room, he heard it.

 

The quiet tap of her shoes echoed just a bit too close behind him. Black Sapphire didn’t turn around, but he knew she was there.

 

Step by step, through the winding hallways of the Spire, her presence lingered like a stubborn perfume—syrupy-sweet and impossible to ignore. He stopped walking when he reached the door to his room. She stopped too, a beat later.

 

“…Why are you following me?” he asked flatly, not turning the handle.

 

Candy Apple Cookie leaned lazily against the stone wall, arms folded. “Can’t a Cookie enjoy a walk?”

 

“You never just enjoy anything,” he replied.

 

She grinned. “You’re sharp tonight.”

 

He opened the door and stepped inside without inviting her, but that didn’t stop her from slipping in behind him before it clicked shut.

 

Black Sapphire sighed. “You’re not subtle.”

 

“Nope,” she said, plopping herself onto the edge of a velvet chair in the corner. “But neither are you.”

 

He ignored her, crossing the room and setting down a few scrolls on his desk. His notebook lay tucked inside a drawer—one she now knew to never open unless she wanted a dagger through her hand.

 

She tilted her head, watching him. “You’ve been weird lately.”

 

“I’m always like this.”

 

“Weirder than usual, then.”

 

He gave her a sharp glance. “What do you want?”

 

Candy Apple smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just wondering what’s so special in that Kingdom that you keep slipping off to see it. Or… someone.”

 

Black Sapphire’s gaze didn’t flicker, but his silence was loud enough.

 

“I don’t care,” she continued, voice lighter now, sing-song. “Really. But Shadow Milk wouldn’t like distractions.”

 

“I’m not distracted.”

 

“Right,” she said, standing and walking toward the door. “Well, you better not be.”

 

She reached for the handle, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Feelings are funny things. Especially when you don’t know what to do with them.”

 

The door clicked shut behind her.

 

Black Sapphire stood still, jaw tight. The room was quiet again, save for the low hum of magic in the walls.

 

He hated that she noticed. He’ll hate it even more if he notices.

 

And most of all, he hated how badly he wanted to see Silverbell again. Just a quick trip. A quick trip wouldn’t harm him right?

 

That’s what he told himself as he stood in front of the shimmering portal, its edges pulsing with quiet energy. It wouldn’t harm anyone. Not him. Not the mission. Not the plan that had already been set into motion. He tapped his eye-shaped microphone to the ground—once, twice.

 

The air in front of him twisted, colors bleeding into one another until a familiar rip in space unfurled before him. The scent of blooming petals drifted through first, warm and sweet.

 

Black Sapphire stared into the portal for a long second. He shouldn’t go. He had no reason to. He had finished everything.

 

And yet—

 

His hand moved on its own, reaching into his coat and pulling out the familiar disguise. Moondrop Faerie Cookie’s wings, the false aura, the delicate adjustments that turned him into someone else. Someone easier to like. Someone Silverbell could look at. He stepped through.

 

Moondrop Faerie Cookie stood quietly in front of the Faerie Kingdom’s gates, the familiar golden arches and soft-glowing vines more vivid now than ever. He could see them clearly this time—the way the blossoms curled in rhythm with the wind, the faint sparkle in the petals, the gentle hum of magic woven through the walls.

 

The first time he came here, he couldn’t see any of it. But now, it was as if the kingdom had opened its eyes to him… or maybe he was the one who had finally begun to look.

 

The market was bustling, wings fluttering and voices rising in light chatter. He blended in easily, slipping between stalls with a practiced grace. A vendor handed him a pouch of apples with a wink. He paid without speaking, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

 

Apples. Right. He already knew what he was going to do with them.

 

He headed for the familiar patch of woods—quiet, calm, laced with the tension of focused training.

 

And there he was.

 

Silverbell, bow drawn, gaze locked on a carved mark in the bark of a tree. The sound of the shot was sharp and clean, the arrow striking just shy of center.

 

Moondrop watched from the treeline, silent, holding the apples. His smile widened—barely, but there. Silverbell hadn’t noticed him yet, too caught up in the rhythm of practice.

 

He could totally offer to be the flying target again.

 

Let Silverbell try shooting apples out of his hands. Maybe this time he wouldn’t flinch. Maybe this time, he’d get to hear him laugh again.

 

He stayed hidden in the treeline for a moment longer, watching Silverbell pull another arrow from his quiver. His movements were fluid, precise—like he was made for this. Moondrop’s gaze followed the draw of the bowstring, the steady line of his arm, the calm in his eyes.

 

How can someone look so focused all the time?

 

Another arrow flew—perfect form, barely off the mark. Not that it mattered. Even when he missed, he made it look elegant. Moondrop let his eyes wander, studying the curve of Silverbell’s wings, the set of his jaw, the quiet strength he carried like it was stitched into his skin.

 

He’s always serious… but not cold... he is guarded.

 

Moondrop found himself thinking of the way Silverbell had helped him the day his wings got stuck—gentle, but annoyed, like he didn’t want to care but did anyway. Or the way his voice softened sometimes, like it betrayed more than he wanted it to.

 

He glanced down at the apples in his arms and smiled quietly.

You’re too good for this place. Too good for me.

 

He looked back up, and there it was again—that strange pull in his chest. That unbearable warmth.

 

What is this?

 

Whatever it was, it wouldn’t stop.Not around him. Moondrop nearly dropped an apple from the bag when Silverbell turned sharply and looked straight at him.

“Are you just going to lurk there forever?” Silverbell called, his tone flat but unmistakably amused.

 

Moondrop stiffened, caught like a child with stolen sweets. He stepped out from the shadows with an awkward cough, clutching the bag of apples a little too tightly.

 

“I wasn’t lurking,” he lied badly. “I was… observing.”

 

Silverbell raised a brow, lowering his bow. “Observing?”

 

“Yes,” Moondrop said, trying to regain some of his usual composure. “Very important tactical observation. I brought apples.”

 

There was a beat of silence. Then Silverbell let out the smallest huff—half a sigh, half a laugh. “You want me to shoot them off your head now?”

 

“I was thinking hands like last time,” Moondrop said, stepping closer with a slight grin. 

 

Silverbell looked at him for a long moment. Then shook his head slowly. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“And yet,” Moondrop said, handing him an apple, “you keep letting me come back.”

 

Silverbell caught the apple, tossed it lightly in his hand, and gave Moondrop a sideways glance.

 

“Funny,” he said, knocking an arrow with easy grace, “I remember being the one under observation last time. Seems like you’re the one watching me now.”

 

Moondrop blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “I wasn’t—”

 

Silverbell smirked, just slightly. “Don’t lie. You were watching me shoot for a good five minutes.”

 

Moondrop’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I wasn’t counting minutes.”

 

“Sure you weren’t.”

 

A beat. Then Silverbell turned toward the target and raised his bow again, speaking casually “If you’re going to stare, you could at least offer critique. Or a better challenge.”

 

Moondrop stared at him, heart stumbling in a way that annoyed him more than he’d admit. “You’re infuriating.”

 

“And you’re obvious,” Silverbell said without looking back, releasing the arrow. It hit dead center.

 

“So? Apples or not?”

 

Silverbell lowered his bow with a chuckle, turning to face him fully now. “Apples.”

 

Moondrop held up the small cloth bag like a peace offering. “Thought I’d bring something useful. Or at least entertaining.”

 

Silverbell stepped closer, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. “You volunteering to hold them again?”

 

Moondrop raised an eyebrow. “As long as you don’t miss.”

 

Silverbell took the bag, brushing Moondrop’s fingers in the process. The touch lingered longer than it should’ve. “I won’t.”

 

A pause passed between them—quiet but charged.

 

“Good,” Moondrop said, a bit too quickly. “Then let’s see how steady your aim really is.”

 

“You sure about that?” Silverbell asked, already pulling out an arrow.

 

“No,” Moondrop muttered under his breath. “But I’m here anyway.”

 

Moondrop’s wings flared open in a burst of tawny gold, the apples cradled loosely in his arms. “Think fast, sharpshooter,” he called, already lifting off the ground. “Let’s see if you can actually hit something that moves.”

 

Silverbell raised an eyebrow, lowering his bow just slightly. “You’re going to drop those,” he said flatly.

 

Moondrop grinned, already ten feet up and climbing. “If you don't miss.”

 

He soared higher, the wind tugging at his clothes and ruffling his wings. Below, Silverbell exhaled through his nose like a man who was deeply considering whether this was worth the trouble. Then, smoothly, he notched another arrow.

 

“Last chance to surrender,” Silverbell called.

 

“Oh no,” Moondrop said, twisting midair, one apple raised above his head like a prize. “I insist. Come on—shoot them out of my hands.”

 

An arrow whistled past before he even finished the sentence. The apple in his left hand burst apart, juice and pulp misting through the air like glitter.

 

“HEY!” Moondrop laughed, swerving as another shot clipped an apple cleanly from his right arm. “That was terrifyingly fast.”

 

“Still holding two,” Silverbell said, already drawing again.

 

Moondrop rose higher, weaving in a lazy spiral. “Maybe I want to keep a couple! Ever think of that?”

 

“You challenged me.”

 

“That was before I realized you had no chill whatsoever. ”

 

The next arrow hit the third apple dead center, knocking it from Moondrop’s hand so hard he had to adjust his flight path. He blinked down at Silverbell, hovering.

 

“Okay. I’m down to one. You proud of yourself?”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer. He just looked up at him, bow lowered now, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

 

Moondrop hovered a moment longer, chest still warm, wings still catching the sun. Then he descended slowly, holding the last apple out as he landed a few steps away.

 

“You missed one,” he said softly.

 

Silverbell stared at the apple. Then at him.

 

“I let that one live,” he said, voice low.

 

Moondrop smiled. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

 

There was a pause. Long enough to feel heavy. Then Silverbell stepped forward, took the apple from his hand, and—without looking away—took a bite.

 

The warmth in Moondrop’s chest bloomed again, steady and fierce. Yeah. Whatever this is… it’s not stopping anytime soon.

 

Silverbell chewed slowly, eyes still on Moondrop. Then, like it was nothing at all, he said, “Do you want to eat with me? There’s a few shops nearby. We could get something sweet.”

 

Moondrop blinked. “Wait— a break? I barely flapped my wings.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head slightly, almost like a shrug. “You made a mess of four apples and disrupted training. I think that earns you a pastry.”

 

Moondrop narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to spot the trap. “Are you rewarding me for annoying you?”

 

“No,” Silverbell said. “I’m rewarding myself. You just happen to be invited.”

 

Moondrop huffed, dramatic. “Fine. If it means I get to watch you try to choose between strawberry tarts and moonberry rolls again like it's a moral dilemma, I guess I’ll come along.”

 

Silverbell didn’t smile—but his eyes softened just a little. “Good,” he said. “Let’s go before you start flying again and attract more arrows.”

 

They walked in silence at first, the kind that wasn't awkward, just… full. Moondrop had his hands shoved into his coat pockets, wings folded tight against his back, resisting the urge to glance over every two seconds. Silverbell walked with his usual measured pace, quiet but not cold. Just— Silverbell .

 

The market was winding down for the day, but a few shops still had lanterns glowing, golden light catching on glass jars and pastry cases. The smell of baked sugar and spice wrapped around them like a net.

 

Moondrop leaned toward one stall, nose twitching. “Okay, that smells like sin. What is it?”

 

“Hazelnut syrup buns,” Silverbell said. “Too rich. They’ll make your wings sticky.”

 

Moondrop tilted his head. “Are you saying that from personal experience?”

 

“I’m saying it like someone who’s not flying next to a walking sugar trap.”

 

That earned him a grin. Moondrop drifted toward the counter, peering through the glass. “Still not seeing the downside.”

 

Silverbell pointed silently to another case, where the real war was brewing: strawberry tarts stacked in neat rows, right next to the moonberry rolls.

 

Moondrop snorted. “Here we go.”

 

Silverbell eyed the tarts, then the rolls. Then back again. No change in expression. Just the subtle tension of a man locked in silent internal combat.

 

“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” Moondrop said, arms folded.

 

“They’re both good,” Silverbell murmured, clearly suffering.

 

“So get both.”

 

“I don’t want both.”

 

“Then pick one.”

 

“That’s the problem.”

 

Moondrop leaned in close, voice low. “You realize you just asked me to come here and I’m the one being patient while you short-circuit over dessert, right?”

 

Silverbell finally made a noise—something between a sigh and a breath of laughter. He pointed to the moonberry roll.

 

“Coward,” Moondrop said fondly.

 

They ended up sitting on the low edge of a fountain just beyond the stalls, quietly eating their sweets under the last stretch of sky before dusk. Moondrop licked powdered sugar from his thumb. Silverbell watched him, then looked away fast enough to make it suspicious.

 

Still, neither of them said much. They didn’t need to. The silence didn’t demand anything from them—it just was.

 

Later, as they got up to head back, Silverbell spoke, almost offhand: “We could… do this again. If you want.”

 

Moondrop blinked. “The pastry thing?”

 

A slow nod. “Or… something.”

 

“Right,” Moondrop said. “Just, uh. Pastries.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Yeah..” He is definitely “not” thinking about the way Silverbell had looked at him just before turning back to the moonberry rolls.

 

They already finished eating and decided to take a walk around the kingdom. The sky above the Faerie Kingdom had dimmed into a warm twilight, dusted with faint lavender clouds and flickers of gold. The kind of sky that made the glowing blossoms overhead seem brighter, their soft light swaying gently with the breeze. The streets shimmered underfoot—pale cobblestones shot through with streaks of quartz and magic, catching the light with every step.

 

Moondrop kicked a pebble forward as they walked, then nudged it again with the tip of his boot. “You know,” he said casually, “I thought you hated crowds.”

 

Silverbell’s wings rustled behind him. “I do.”

 

“And yet…” Moondrop gestured around them—passing vendors, clusters of fae laughing near a lantern-lit bridge, the distant echo of harp music. “Here we are.”

 

Silverbell didn’t look at him. “It’s fine. It’s not… crowded. Just busy.”

 

Moondrop raised a brow. “Right. That sounds totally different.”

 

They kept walking, past a bakery window fogged with steam, past a shop where miniature winged scarves flitted about like birds on strings. Silverbell paused only once, at a flower stall where the blossoms whispered softly to anyone who got too close.

 

“Want one?” Moondrop asked, half-teasing. “You’d look good with something dramatic. Maybe a mourning violet or a—oh, what about that loud gold thing?”

 

Silverbell gave him a look. Not irritated. Not quite amused either. It is… unreadable, in that way he always was.  “Nothing flashy,” Silverbell said, then turned and kept walking.

 

Moondrop followed with a smirk. “You’re no fun.”

 

“You say that, and yet you keep showing up.”

 

“Because you keep inviting me.”

 

There was a beat of silence. Then Silverbell said, quietly, “You keep saying yes.”

 

That shut Moondrop up for a few steps.

 

They made their way to the garden paths near the edge of the palace, where the air grew cooler and the sounds of the city softened into something calmer. The flowers here glowed from within, not too bright, just enough to light their way. There were no other footsteps but theirs.

 

“I like this part,” Moondrop said eventually, quieter now. “It’s peaceful.”

 

Silverbell nodded. “You talk less here.”

 

“Wow. Heartwarming.”

 

Silverbell then asked, he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded... comfortable. His tone dropped a little, thoughtful. “Do you think cookies usually just... hang out like this? After training?”

 

Moondrop blinked at him. “I mean, sure? I think so? Probably? Why?”

 

Silverbell looked ahead at the path, lined with glowing flower-lanterns strung between trees like lazy stars. “No reason. Just wondering.”

 

They kept walking, boots soft on the mossy stones. Somewhere nearby, faint music drifted from a balcony above, sweet and distant.

 

Moondrop glanced at him sideways. “I guess we could do it again sometime. If you want.”

 

Silverbell shrugged, a little too casual. “I wouldn’t mind.”

 

Moondrop smiled to himself, kicking a pebble down the path. “Cool. Yeah. Me neither. It’s... nice.”

 

Silverbell nodded. “It is.”

 

Another beat of silence passed—not heavy, just full of something neither of them could quite name.

 

“So,” Moondrop said, rubbing the back of his neck, “maybe same time tomorrow?”

 

Silverbell didn’t look at him, but his wings twitched slightly. “Okay.”

 

No one said the word for it.

 

They parted at the edge of the square, the lights of the Faerie Kingdom flickering softly behind them. Silverbell gave a small nod—his version of goodnight —and turned down the path that led toward the upper barracks. Moondrop watched him go for a moment longer than necessary, then turned the other way.

 

His smile faded once he was out of view.

 

He walked until the lanterns thinned out and the air turned cooler, the laughter and music of the kingdom dimming behind him. The trees grew taller here, their leaves a dark shimmer under moonlight, and the moss beneath his boots dulled his steps.

 

When he was sure no one could see, he stopped.

 

With a flick of his fingers, a slender microphone appeared in his hand—smooth, dark metal, humming faintly with magic. He crouched, tapped the end of it to the ground twice. The moss rippled, light blooming outward in a circle.

A portal opened—quiet, clean, lined with soft lavender flame. Straight to his room in the Spire. He stepped through without a word.

 

On the other side, the door sealed shut behind him with a soundless click. The room was dark, save for the low glow of crystals embedded in the walls, and the faint swirl of magic tracing the ceiling like constellations.

 

Black Sapphire let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He set the mic down on his desk, wings drooping slightly. Then he just stood there, eyes unfocused.

 

He wasn’t sure what tonight was . Just that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. And tomorrow, somehow, felt too far away

 

Black Sapphire Cookie straightened his coat as the portal closed behind him. The soft whoosh of it sealing shut felt heavier tonight. He stood still for a moment, staring at nothing, then crossed the room with practiced grace and locked the mic away in its hidden drawer.

 

He should’ve filed a report. Or reviewed the mission notes from earlier. Or gone over his next assignment. Something productive .

 

Tomorrow.  The word echoed quietly in his head.

 

It wasn’t strange to make plans. He made them all the time. He lived by plans. But those were different. Those never made his chest feel like it was too small for everything inside it.

 

He didn’t understand why today had felt… important . Or why Silverbell’s voice kept playing in his head in perfect clarity. Or why he remembered the exact look in his eyes when he’d said “okay.”

 

He wasn't supposed to get attached. Not like this .

 

Black Sapphire Cookie closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. He didn’t know what this was. But somehow, Silverbell had said yes to tomorrow. And that part of him was already counting the hours.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie moved to sit—only to freeze mid-motion when he caught the shimmer of red and gold fabric already draped across the bed.

 

Candy Apple Cookie was lounging like she owned the place, one leg crossed over the other, a lollipop twirling slowly between her fingers. Her expression was pure smug satisfaction.

 

“Took you long enough,” she said, not even glancing at him. “Didn’t think flirting counted as field work.”

 

He straightened up instantly, all softness gone in a flash. “ What are you doing in my room? ”

 

She popped the lollipop into her mouth with a loud click and smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself. You left a portal trail even a gumdrop could follow. I got bored. And curious. Mostly bored.”

 

“This room is off-limits.”

 

“There’s no security.”

 

“There was a lock spell.”

 

She shrugged. “Wasn’t a good one.”

 

He crossed his arms, jaw tight. “Get out.”

 

Candy Apple smiled wider, finally sitting up straight. “You’re so tense. What happened? Did he not offer you a bite of his little moonberry roll?”

“Out,” he said again, a warning now.

But she was already laughing—quiet and sharp. “Relax, “Moondrop”. I’m not here to ruin your little secret garden strolls. I just find it fascinating that the Spire’s radio host has time for dessert now.”

 

He didn’t answer. She studied him, head tilted.

 

“…You don’t even realize what you’re doing, do you?”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

 

She stood, slow and dramatic, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. “You’re not playing at something. That’s the funny part. You’re just in it. Completely unaware. That’s the most dangerous kind of messy.”

 

He stepped forward. “If you’re trying to threaten me—”

 

“Oh please,” she cut in. “If I wanted to ruin you, you wouldn’t even know I started.”

 

They stared at each other for a long beat—familiar, razor-thin tension crackling in the silence.

 

Then Candy Apple winked, pivoted toward the portal still faintly echoing with leftover magic. “Don’t worry, Sapphy. I won’t tell the others you’re soft now. Your reputation is safe with me. Well.. for now”

 

She stepped halfway through, then paused and glanced back over her shoulder. “…Same time tomorrow , huh?”

 

“I SAID OUT.” 

 

She exited from his room while giggling to herself. 

 

Black Sapphire Cookie exhaled slowly, then finally sat. Messy , she’d said. He wasn’t messy. He was in control

 

…Wasn’t he?

Notes:

I feel like I am going to add more chapters because I am not satisfied with the ending yet so there's that

Chapter 8: VII

Notes:

I will edit this chapter wait pls (im taking an entrance exam)

 

 

It began with paperwork.

 

The two of them sat opposite each other at a long table in one of the Spire’s briefing halls. Magical documents hovered in the air around them, shimmering with encoded text from various kingdoms. Black Sapphire was focused, flipping through reports from the Faerie Kingdom and cross-referencing troop movements. Candy Apple was less focused, twirling her pen like a baton between fingers as she pretended to read.

 

“You forgot to fill out the emotional tone field,” she said, breaking the silence.

 

“There is no emotional tone in a scouting report,” Black Sapphire replied without looking up.

 

Candy Apple leaned forward. “Well, yours sure had one. Very wistful. Very 'he touched a flower and now my soul aches' kind of vibe.”

 

He paused, pen still in hand. “Don’t start,” he warned.

 

Candy Apple grinned. “Too late. You’re writing field notes like you’re composing letters.”

 

“I’m reporting movements .”

 

“You included the color of the faerie’s eyes, Sapphy. That’s not a recon detail. That’s poetry.”

 

His eyes narrowed. “It was for identification.”

 

“ His eyes were a soft gull-gray, veined with pale-gray undertones, framed by bulb-shaped lashes ,” she quoted, smirking. “Real cold and objective.”

 

“I swear to—”

Candy Apple’s smirk widened as she rose from her seat, gathering a few scrolls. “I think it’s time Shadow Milk hears about your increasingly delicate attention span.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

 

“Oh, I would . And I’m bringing these.” She waved the scrolls. “They’re practically confessions.” She took off toward the main hall in a flash of red and gold.

 

Black Sapphire’s chair scraped back hard as he stood. “CANDY APPLE—!” He bolted after her, fast and furious, cloak snapping behind him.

 

The Spire’s hallways echoed with the sound of their footfalls—hers light and laughing, his sharp with panic. She wasn’t actually going to tell him. Was she?

 

She turned a corner, he turned sharper.

 

“Don’t you dare—!”

 

“Better pick up the pace, Romeo!”

And just like that, she flung open the doors to Shadow Milk Cookie’s chamber with flair and drama, striding in like a messenger of doom.

 

Black Sapphire was only seconds behind. And that’s when the real scene began.

 

---

 

 

Papers float midair, ink jars refill themselves, and soft whispers of rumors drift across the walls like background noise. Shadow Milk Cookie sits behind his impossibly tall desk, signing off lines of deception with one hand and stirring a cup of shadowy brew with the other.

 

The chamber of the Spire was cold with the hush of secrets. Shadows pulsed softly against the stone walls, whispering the latest rumors like idle gossip at a masquerade ball. Scrolls hovered midair, organized only by magic and malice. In the center, behind an ink-stained desk carved from obsidian and midnight, sat Shadow Milk Cookie —stoic, unreadable, and very, very busy.

 

He didn’t look up as the chamber doors burst open in a flash of crimson and gold.

 

Candy Apple Cookie swept in like a stage performer hitting her cue, scrolls tucked neatly beneath one arm, her free hand twirling a pen as if it were a dagger. “ Master Shadow Milk Cookie~ ” she sang, half-mocking, half-melodic. “We need to talk about someone’s little… distractions.”

 

Behind her, Black Sapphire Cookie stormed in, cloak whipping behind him like the tail of an angry comet. “You manipulative worm—!”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t blink. “Hm. You’re both two hours early.”

 

“We were in the middle of a perfectly productive meeting,” Candy Apple said sweetly, dropping the scrolls on his desk, “but unfortunately, someone’s head wasn’t in it.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You said we were revising the second act of the welcome ceremony.”

 

“We were ,” she said, smiling without warmth. “Until you started doodling during my lines.”

 

“I was annotating.”

 

“You were drawing flowers .”

 

“That’s part of the stage decor.”

 

“On the margins , Sapphire. The margins!”

 

Shadow Milk tapped a document into alignment, unbothered. “Are these rumors about the vanilla kingdom’s tea import or not?”

 

“Oh, no, no—” Candy Apple said, grinning. “These are about our dear Black Sapphire’s… emotional compromise .”

 

Black Sapphire nearly lunged. “There is no compromise. I am not compromised! ”

 

Candy Apple turned to him, hands on her hips. “You’ve been slipping. You stuttered on-air last week.”

 

“I coughed . There was powder in the mic system!”

 

“You missed a whole line of the third verse.”

 

“Because you were off-key and I was trying not to cringe .”

 

Shadow Milk, without looking up, waved a hand. The scrolls unrolled midair. He skimmed them briefly, nodded, and added his seal without reading too closely. “These need to go to the Illusionists’ Guild by sundown.”

 

“I think he’s gone soft,” Candy Apple said offhandedly, watching Black Sapphire with faux concern. “Might be a touch of faerie pollen in the bloodstream. Makes some Cookies feel all fluttery inside.”

 

Black Sapphire’s voice sharpened. “Say that again.”

 

She leaned in. “ Fluttery .”

 

“I am not —!”

 

“You spent nineteen minutes yesterday staring at one spot in the garden.”

 

“I was planning camera angles!”

 

“Oh, sure. That’s what they call it now.”

 

Shadow Milk finally looked up, blinking slowly. “Wait. Are you two fighting over... flowers?”

 

“No!” Black Sapphire snapped.

 

“Yes,” Candy Apple beamed.

 

“I am not emotionally attached,” he insisted.

 

“You went back twice in one day,” she said.

 

“That was recon !”

 

“You drew his face in your notebook.”

 

“That—was—irrelevant—!”

 

Shadow Milk raised a brow. “Whose face?”

 

Black Sapphire froze. Candy Apple only smiled wider.

 

“No one’s,” Black Sapphire said tightly. “It’s... artistic practice.”

 

There was a long silence.

 

Then, Shadow Milk nodded once. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the performance for Pure Vanilla Cookie, I do not care what flowers you court or sketch. We need those illusions finalized by tomorrow.”

 

Candy Apple blinked. “You’re not even a little curious?”

 

He sipped from his shadowy teacup. “No.”

 

“You’re not going to ask questions?”

 

“Too busy for that. I am doing paperwork.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

Shadow Milk waved his hand again. More scrolls floated toward him like moths to candlelight. “If you two are finished having an emotional crisis disguised as a rehearsal dispute, please leave. The shadows are louder than you today, and they’re more useful.”

 

Black Sapphire opened his mouth, then shut it. Candy Apple Cookie stifled a laugh and gave a mock bow. “Of course, our dearest master. We’ll leave you to your... brooding.”

 

She turned on her heel and sauntered out. Black Sapphire lingered, still burning with something between frustration and shame, before sighing sharply and following.

 

The doors shut behind them. Shadow Milk Cookie stared at his paperwork for another beat. Then shrugged and signed the next scroll. “...Flowers,” he muttered under his breath. “Faeries are weird.”

---

“I cannot believe you—” Black Sapphire hissed, voice sharp but low. “What exactly was the point of that circus?”

 

Candy Apple folded her arms and leaned in as they walked. “You were spiraling and someone had to make it entertaining.”

 

“You just accused me of being compromised. In front of him .”

 

“Oh please, he didn’t even blink. You could confess to planting moonflowers in the throne room and he’d still ask if the lighting was right.”

 

“I had it under control.”

 

“No, you were sitting there like someone cursed your jam,” she shot back. “Sketching flowers, spacing out, sighing—do you even hear yourself anymore?”

 

“I don’t sigh,” he snapped, turning to face her in the middle of the hall.

 

“You do, actually,” she replied, poking a finger into his chest. “You sigh. You blush. You stare. And worst of all, you hesitate. You never used to hesitate.”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie stood stone-still in the middle of the corridor, the glow from the enchanted sconces above casting sharp shadows across his face. His jaw clenched. His glare was ice.

 

Candy Apple didn’t flinch.

 

“You hesitate,” she repeated, quieter now. “That’s not like you.”

 

He didn’t answer. His fists curled at his sides, barely shaking. Then he turned abruptly, cloak whipping behind him, and stormed down the spiral ramp toward the lower wing of the Spire.

 

“Where are you going?” Candy Apple called after him, still following.

 

He didn’t respond.

 

“Come on, don’t be dramatic—”

 

The sound of a door slamming shut cut her off. Loud. Final.

She reached it and knocked once, twice, then louder. “Sapphire?”

Nothing.

 

She sighed and knocked again, the sharp rhythm of her nails tapping impatience into the wood. “Look, maybe I hit a nerve—”

 

Still nothing.

 

Candy Apple exhaled and rested her forehead against the door. “You’re acting like a cookie with feelings, that’s all. It’s not the end of the world." Silence. No footsteps. No reaction. She tapped once more. “You know I’m right.”

 

Nothing.

 

Finally, she straightened, backed away, and crossed her arms with a frown. “Fine. Sulk. See if I care.” She turned on her heel and vanished down the hall, red and gold fabric flaring behind her like a flame retreating into shadow.

Behind the locked door, Black Sapphire Cookie stood perfectly still. His hands shook—not from rage, but something worse. She was right. He was hesitating. And for the first time, he didn’t know what to do about it.

 

The glow of the enchanted sconces outside his room dimmed and brightened again as the Spire cycled through its arcane “night.” Still, the door remained shut. Minutes turned into hours. No footsteps passed. No more knocks came. Inside, Black Sapphire Cookie sat motionless on the edge of his bed, the room cloaked in shadows. The notebook he’d tossed earlier now lay open again, the sketch of Silverbell barely touched since the last line was drawn. He stared at it. His fingers hovered near the page, but didn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to finish it. His thoughts were too loud. Too messy. She had seen through him. Worse—she wasn’t wrong.

 

He hesitated. Back at the garden. At the gates. During the mission debrief. And even now. The hesitation wasn’t just a flicker anymore. It had rooted itself in him—quiet, inconvenient, soft. He hated it. He needed control. Precision. Detachment.

 

And yet…

 

That stupid voice. That look in Silverbell’s eyes. The way he said okay like it mattered. Black Sapphire exhaled harshly, raking a hand through his hair. What was this? He wasn’t supposed to get attached. He wasn’t supposed to want to go back. He definitely wasn’t supposed to draw that stupid smile over and over again like a fool. The notebook snapped shut in his hands. And still, he didn’t open the door. Still, he didn’t speak.

 

He just sat in the silence of his room—unmoving, unreadable, undone.

 

 

---

The lower section of the Spire was usually quiet at this hour, the swirling magic lights dimmed to a soft hue, and the walls humming low with distant whispers of rumors yet to be released.

 

Candy Apple Cookie sat on the cold railing of the spiral staircase, one leg dangling, arms crossed, a lollipop sticking out the corner of her mouth. She’d been there a while now, not that she’d admit it. Just long enough for the candy to lose its flavor and her patience to wear thin. She perked up when she heard footsteps echoing through the hall. Sharp, steady ones. Familiar. She stood quickly, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeves, her smugness halfway returning. “Took you long enough, I was about to—”

 

But it wasn’t Black Sapphire Cookie.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie turned the corner, eyes dark and unreadable as always, a small, neatly stitched satchel swinging from one hand. His shadowy robes trailed behind him like ink spilled across the floor.

 

He stopped when he saw her. Eyed her up and down. “…You’re still here?” he said, voice flat.

 

Candy Apple’s mouth twitched. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t think you ever left your desk.”

 

"Mhm, yeah sure. Shouldn't you be practicing your lines?"

 

Candy Apple blinked, her posture turning casual too fast. “I was. I came to check on Sapphy. He hasn’t… responded.”

Shadow Milk sipped his tea, still visibly confused. “Responded to what? He’s not scheduled for anything until tomorrow. And the radio’s already pre-recorded.” He paused. “Is he in his room?”

 

He sighed “I was supposed to take a break,” Shadow Milk said, glancing around with visible confusion. “Then I was going to check on you two. You’ve both been… strangely quiet.”

 

She popped the lollipop from her mouth. “You came to check on us?” she repeated, half-mocking. “You care?”

 

“I care when my operatives start acting off-script,” Shadow Milk muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. “Where’s Black Sapphire?”

 

Candy Apple shrugged. “Locked himself in. Hasn’t said a word since our ‘discussion.’”

 

Shadow Milk’s brow furrowed slightly, clearly trying to connect dots that didn’t exist. “What discussion? Did you report something?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Then what was said?”

 

“Just… things.” She leaned back against the railing again, smirking. “Emotional things. You wouldn’t get it.”

 

“I absolutely don’t,” Shadow Milk said bluntly. “You’re both being weird. Is it some kind of… side effect from your last trip? Did someone curse your sugar?”

 

Candy Apple burst out laughing. “Yeah, sure. Let’s blame it on magic. Definitely not feelings.”

 

Shadow Milk blinked slowly. “You’re both compromised.”

 

Candy Apple smiled wider. “And yet we still get the job done.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, clearly unamused. “I’m checking on him. This is ridiculous.” He turned sharply, his robes whispering across the floor as he made his way toward the dormitory wing.

 

Candy Apple stayed leaning against the railing, her smirk fading just a bit as he disappeared around the corner.

 

The door was closed, locked by an enchantment woven from Black Sapphire Cookie’s own magic. But it flickers briefly at Shadow Milk Cookie’s approach—recognizing the Spire’s master. Shadow Milk raised his hand, fingers barely brushing the arcane seal.

 

Knock knock.

 

“Black Sapphire Cookie,” he said evenly, voice cool and steady, “You’ve been inactive for twelve hours. That’s abnormal.” No reply. He knocked again, more firmly. “I’m coming in.” With a murmur of code and a shimmer of darkness, the seal parted. The door opened slowly.

 

The room inside was dim—curtains drawn, lights low. But the mess was clear. Piles of crumpled parchment littered the floor, many bearing the elegant curl of Black Sapphire’s handwriting, lines crossed out violently, rewritten, and crossed again. Script drafts. Radio notes. And other things—half-doodles, some even resembling flower shapes.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie stood near the far corner, his back to the door, arms crossed. He turned slowly at the sound of Shadow Milk entering. His eyes were tired. His jaw tight. But his voice came out smooth, practiced. “You could’ve knocked.”

 

“I did,” Shadow Milk replied calmly. “Twice.”

 

A beat of silence. Then, “Candy Apple said you’ve been ‘off.’ She was being… vague.” Shadow Milk’s eyes scanned the crumpled papers, then returned to Black Sapphire’s face. “You haven’t submitted your performance draft. I’m assuming it’s one of these.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes narrowed. “Do you need it now?”

 

“No.” Shadow Milk crossed the room slowly, picking up one of the discarded pages and examining it. “But I do need to know if you’re compromised.”

 

Black Sapphire bristled. “I’m not .”

 

“You don’t usually keep your door sealed. You don’t skip status meetings. And you don’t ignore schedule pings.”

 

“I needed time.”

 

Shadow Milk arched a brow. “Time. For what?”

 

Another pause. Then, Black Sapphire exhaled and turned away, reaching down to gather a few of the scattered scrolls. His voice, when it came, was lower.

 

“I’ll tell you one day, when I’m ready.”

 

Shadow Milk looked at him for a long moment. Whatever emotions had stirred here, he couldn’t read them. He never could. Not from either of them.

 

“Fine,” he said at last, flicking a spell to levitate a few crumpled drafts off the floor. “I’ll take these. Try not to tear up the next batch. We still have a guest to impress.”

 

He turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. “And Black Sapphire—?”

 

“What.”

 

“Make sure whatever this is doesn’t mess up your mic levels. You’re our voice. Don't forget that.” The door shut behind him with a quiet click . And Black Sapphire was alone again, the weight in his chest somehow heavier than before

---

 

 

Shadow Milk Cookie’s footsteps echoed lightly as he descended the winding staircase of the Spire’s lower section, robes trailing behind him in inky waves. The air down here always felt heavier—quiet, cool, and steeped in secrecy. The soft glow of floating rumor wisps brushed the stone walls like whispers, but none dared to interrupt him.

Candy Apple Cookie was still exactly where he’d left her—perched on the railing like a bird too smug for her own good. She didn’t look up at first, but the twist of her lollipop in her mouth slowed just a little as he approached. “Well?” she asked, keeping her voice casual but her gaze sharp.

 

“He’s not broken,” Shadow Milk said simply, stopping beside her.

 

Candy Apple raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say he was.”

 

“Didn’t say you didn’t,” he countered, then folded his arms. “His room is a mess. Scrolls everywhere. Notes torn up. He’s obviously agitated.”

 

She tilted her head. “And?”

Shadow Milk stared ahead for a moment. “He said he’ll talk when he’s ready.”

 

Candy Apple gave a soft, amused exhale. “You actually asked ?”

 

“I have to know if he’s a liability,” Shadow Milk said. “I still don’t know if he is. But his work hasn’t faltered—just delayed.”

 

Candy Apple hopped down from the railing and stretched lazily. “Delayed is fine. We all get moody.”

 

Shadow Milk looked at her, unblinking. “Do we?”

 

She grinned. “Okay, maybe not you . But the rest of us? It happens.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t smile back. “This wouldn’t have happened if you two weren’t bickering like sunbaked sugar cubes.”

 

“He’s the one who slammed the door,” she replied, folding her arms. “I was just... honest.”

 

Shadow Milk gave her a long look. “He’s not used to honest,” he said quietly.

 

Candy Apple looked surprised for a fraction of a second, then huffed and glanced away.

 

“Still,” Shadow Milk continued, “He’s holding it together. For now. If he wasn’t, I’d know.”

 

Candy Apple leaned against the wall again. “So? What now?”

 

Shadow Milk tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something distant—probably one of the rumor wisps brushing past his thoughts.

 

“Now we prep for tomorrow,” he said. “We have a message to send. And Black Sapphire has a broadcast to finalize.” He turned to go, pausing only briefly. “If he doesn’t come out by sunrise,” he added, “you’ll go drag him out. And I’ll lock both of you in the sound booth if I have to.”

 

Candy Apple snorted. “That a threat?”

 

“That’s a deadline.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie paused at the foot of the staircase, one hand on the stone railing, head turning slightly over his shoulder. “…Also,” he said, voice still that unreadable monotone, “you might consider apologizing.”

 

Candy Apple blinked, caught off guard. “ Excuse me? ”

 

He didn’t face her fully, just kept looking ahead with that tired, calculating calm of his. “You pushed him too hard. You knew exactly where to poke.”

 

She frowned, arms folding tighter. “That’s how we’ve always been. He pokes, I poke harder. He sulks, I gloat or maybe vice versa. That’s our thing.”

 

Shadow Milk gave a slow blink. “He’s not in the mood for ‘your thing.’ Not right now.”

 

Candy Apple’s smirk twitched, faltering at the edges. “…I didn’t think he’d take it that seriously.”

 

“I know,” Shadow Milk said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

 

He started back up the stairs again, robes whispering against the floor. “Say something. Or don’t. But if he cracks before the broadcast, I’ll blame both of you.”

 

Candy Apple watched him go, the lollipop shifting slowly between her teeth. Apologize. The word echoed in her head like a dare. She clicked the candy against her teeth, gaze flicking toward the corridor that led to Black Sapphire’s room.

“…Tch. Dumb.” But she didn’t move. Not yet. Candy Apple Cookie stood alone for a while longer. Apologize. She scoffed under her breath, turning the lollipop over in her mouth again. The word kept circling. Poking. Like a splinter. She hated that it sounded so reasonable coming from him.

 

Finally, with an annoyed huff, she pulled the candy from her mouth and flicked it into the nearest waste-bin spell portal. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if he throws another scroll at me, I’m setting his curtains on fire.” She turned, heading for Black Sapphire’s door again—slower this time. Not kicking it open like usual.

 

Twice. Then a pause. “…It’s me,” she said, voice lower than usual. “If you’re still brooding in there, I came to say something.”

 

No answer.

 

She clicked her tongue. “I’m not good at this part, okay? But. You’re not as fun to argue with when you’re spiraling. So…” A pause. “…Sorry.” It came out a little gritted, but real. Still no sound from inside. But she didn’t walk away this time. She just leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms, waiting. If he didn’t open up soon, she might try again. Or pick the lock. Or both.

Because like hell was she letting him fall apart before a broadcast—before that guy got in his head any deeper. Eventually, she gave up on waiting by the door.

 

“Fine,” she muttered, pushing off the wall. “You want to sulk in the dark, go ahead. See if I care.”

 

But she did care. Enough to be restless. Enough to pace. Enough to stomp down to the garden in her fancy shoes and yank a bunch of grapes off the vine with more force than necessary. She didn’t even like baking. But he liked grape tarts. So she baked.

 

In the Spire’s kitchen—empty, as always—she moved with quiet purpose. Flour. Butter. A few muttered spells to handle the parts she didn’t feel like doing by hand. A little spark of red magic to caramelize the filling just right. They came out uneven, slightly lopsided, and definitely not up to the Spire’s perfectionist standard. She stacked them onto a little plate anyway.

 

Then she returned to his door.

 

Once. Twice. Thrice. Still nothing.

 

With a sigh, she flicked her fingers and whispered the spell again—small, careful this time, in case he was just being dramatic under a pile of pillows. The door creaked open. But the room was empty. Totally empty.

 

The curtains still drawn. The desk scattered with half-organized papers. A cooling trace of teleport magic in the air—but no sign of him.  Candy Apple froze in the doorway, frown deepening.

 

“…What?” She stepped inside slowly, looking around like he might’ve just hidden behind the bookshelf to be petty.

 

But no. He was gone. Not a note. Not a message spell. Not even a mic ping. She could only feel the faint, fading hum of magic where he’d been. She looked at the tart plate in her hands. Then the room again.

 

“Idiot,” she muttered, but softer this time. Less annoyed. More… unsettled.

 

She set the plate down on his desk, beside the pile of crumpled notes. And stood there a moment longer.

 

“…Where the hell did you go?”

 

 

---

 

 

He was late. He hated being late. Especially today.

 

With a sharp breath, he reached for the eye-shaped microphone hanging from his belt. A quick flick of his wrist and two firm taps to the ground sent a quiet pulse of magic through the room—rippling outward in rings of violet and black. A portal shimmered open, its edges sleek and sharp, humming low with secrecy.

 

Before stepping through, he paused just long enough to draw the faint sigil of a sealing glyph in the air behind him—complex and personal. No one would follow this one. Not her. A quick flare of his magic cloaked him again in the image of Moondrop: robes reshaped, aura subdued, expression hidden behind his familiar, unassuming smile. He stepped through the portal, the cold air of the Spire replaced by the soft golden light and floral scent of the Faerie Kingdom.

 

It was quieter this time. Peaceful. Even the wind through the trees felt slower, like the whole world had made space for this moment. His boots touched down lightly at the kingdom's edge. The portal snapped closed behind him with a near-silent click , locked tight. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, ran a hand through his now-softened hair, and set off toward the clearing where they'd agreed to meet.

 

A "hangout," Silverbell had said. Just another casual meeting. Nothing important. And yet, Black Sapphire’s heart was beating far too fast for something not important .

 

Black Sapphire burst through the tree line, boots skidding slightly against the mossy forest floor as he scanned the clearing. Nothing. The space where Silverbell usually trained was empty—no arrows embedded in bark, no quiver resting on a stump, no light footsteps weaving between the trees. Only the soft sound of birdsong and the wind threading through the canopy above.

 

He took a breath, eyes narrowing. Was he late enough to be stood up?

 

Then— rustling.  His head snapped upward just as the leaves above shivered violently. Before he could summon a shield or vanish into shadow, a blur dropped down from the branches—and yanked him into the air.

“What the—!” he snapped, eyes wide as his feet left the ground. But there was no danger. No attack. The wind rushing past and an all-too-familiar voice laughing in his ear.

 

“Late and unaware,” Silverbell teased, his grip firm under Black Sapphire’s arms as his wings beat steadily behind him. “You’re getting slow, Moondrop.”

 

Black Sapphire’s hood fell back, dark hair tousled by the wind as his wide-eyed shock turned instantly into a scowl. “You pranked me?”

 

Silverbell only grinned, completely unfazed. “You should’ve seen your face.”

 

“I thought I was under attack.”

 

“Well, technically you were,” he mused, spinning them in a slow arc through the treetops. “An aerial one. Surprise.”

 

Black Sapphire groaned under his breath, trying—and failing—not to glance down. He hated how high they were. He hated how light Silverbell’s laugh sounded. He hated how fast his heart was beating for absolutely no reason . “…You’re enjoying this,” he muttered.

 

“Very much,” Silverbell admitted, wings still strong and steady. “But don’t worry. I’ll land us soon. I just wanted to say hi in a way you’d remember.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. But he didn’t ask to be put down either.

 

As the air rushed around them, Black Sapphire’s grip subconsciously tightened on Silverbell’s arms—not out of fear, exactly, but instinct. The treetops blurred beneath them, a streak of green and gold in the sunlight, and for a brief moment, he stopped thinking and just felt .Silverbell’s flight was effortless. Controlled. Each beat of his wings kept them aloft without a single stutter. His hold didn’t falter, even with Black Sapphire’s weight. It was—

 

“…You’re strong.”

 

Silverbell glanced down at him, a little surprised. “Hm?”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. Then froze. The words had slipped out without permission. “I didn’t say that,” he snapped quickly.

 

“You literally just did,” Silverbell replied, brow quirked, clearly amused.

 

“No, I— It wasn’t— Forget it. ”

 

But Silverbell only smiled, eyes warm as the wind curled past them again. “Thanks,” he said simply, as if it weren’t a big deal at all.

 

Black Sapphire looked away, jaw tight, heart doing that annoying thing again in his chest. He really needed to stop talking without thinking.

 

They touched down with a soft thud, just outside the grand arching doors of the Faerie Kingdom’s library. Its crystal-tiled windows glimmered in the dappled sunlight, vines curling elegantly around the ivy-carved columns. The moment their feet hit the ground, Black Sapphire took a sharp step back, straightening his cloak, brushing off nonexistent dust—as if the air hadn’t just been knocked out of him in more ways than one.

 

He looked up at the entrance, then back at Silverbell. “Why here?”

Silverbell adjusted the strap of his quiver casually. “You said you were curious about it. When the first time you were here.”

 

“I said that in passing.”

 

“Well,” Silverbell said with a shrug, “I remembered.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. “You… remembered.”

 

“Of course I did.” Silverbell smiled as he pushed open the door. “You looked like you wanted to ask a hundred questions, but didn’t.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t follow right away. He stared at the doorway, then at Silverbell’s back disappearing into the golden-lit interior. “…You really remembered,” he muttered again under his breath, before finally stepping inside.

Something strange settled in his chest. It was that same warm and deeply annoying feeling.

 

The library was quiet—sunlight spilling across polished marble floors, glinting off the spines of thousands of carefully maintained tomes. It smelled like aged parchment and flower dust. Peaceful. Too peaceful, maybe. Black Sapphire drifted between the aisles with the same guarded grace he always wore. But when his fingers brushed a deep blue cover with delicate silver embossing, he stopped. The title was embossed in elegant fae script. He raised a brow. A romance novel. He glanced around once, like he was checking for witnesses. Then promptly took it and sat at the nearest table.

 

The chair creaked slightly as he sank into it. He flipped the book open with a well-trained flick of the wrist, skimming the first lines—dramatic declarations, star-crossed glances, some silly line about a chance meeting under moonlight. He scoffed quietly. But didn’t stop reading.

 

Across the room, Silverbell returned from the strategy section, a book tucked neatly under one arm: "Wing Positions and Wind: Aerial Defense Tactics.” Predictably useful. Efficient. Just like him. But his gaze strayed—again. Moondrop was completely absorbed. Head tilted, eyes narrowed slightly as he read. Every so often, his mouth would twitch. A smirk. A frown. Confusion. He had no idea how expressive his face got when he was actually interested in something.

 

Silverbell sat across the table without a word, setting his book down with barely a sound. He opened it. Didn’t read a word. His eyes flicked up every few seconds. Moondrop didn’t look up. But he turned a page a little slower than before. Like maybe—just maybe—he’d noticed the glances.

 

Or maybe he was just distracted by the ridiculous main character in the story who kept getting flustered every time the knight smiled at him. Either way, neither of them said anything. But neither of them wanted to leave, either.

 

Chapter 9: VIII

Black Sapphire stared at the words on the page like they might rearrange themselves if he blinked hard enough.

 

“I love you,” the knight said, voice quiet but certain.

The main character didn’t respond right away in the book. Neither did Moondrop in real life.

 

He read the line again.

“I love you,” the knight said…

 

Quiet but certain. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

 

Moondrop’s eyes dragged down the page.

 

The princess’ hands trembled, but she didn’t pull away when he reached for her. “You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “But I do,” he said. “I already do.”

 

His lips pressed into a thin line. The story pressed on—burning glances, lingering touches, that soft ache people called longing—but something about it didn’t click. He wasn’t sure where the wanting started. Or if he’d ever felt it like that. The words blurred again. Not from tears. Just… noise. Too many feelings in too few lines. He wasn’t sure if the knight was brave or stupid. If the princess was scared or lucky. He didn’t know if he was supposed to be rooting for them or trying to understand them.

 

He flipped back a page. Tried again. Read slower.

 

“I already do.”

 

What did that even mean? Was love something you decided , or something that happened ? And how were you supposed to tell the difference? Moondrop closed the book halfway, thumb holding the place. He stared at nothing. If someone said that to him—quiet but certain—would he even know what to say back? He leaned back just slightly, brows drawn. Then, before he realized he’d said it aloud:

“…What is love? ”  It wasn’t loud. Barely above a whisper, really. But in the stillness of the library, it felt like it echoed.

 

Across the table, Silverbell glanced up again, head tilting just slightly at the sound. Moondrop closed the book slowly and stood. Without saying anything else, he slipped it back onto the shelf and moved down a different aisle, eyes scanning the spines now with purpose. He didn’t know what section he was even looking for. Maybe “Emotions.” Maybe “Psychology.” Maybe “Mysteries of the Heart” if this kingdom was dramatic enough to categorize it that way.

 

But somewhere, in this vast place, there had to be a book titled something like: “What Love Is and How To Tell If You’re Being Weird About It.”

 

He snorted under his breath. But he kept looking anyway. Because now the question wouldn’t leave him. Silverbell didn’t call after him. He didn’t ask where he was going. But his eyes followed Moondrop’s back as he disappeared deeper into the stacks, his fingers trailing along the shelves with a kind of restless energy. Something had shifted. Silverbell couldn’t tell what, but he knew better than to brush it off. He tapped the edge of his book once. Twice. Then closed it and stood.

 

Far down the row, Moondrop squinted at a title that read: “Interpersonal Bonds in Faerie Courtship Rituals.”

 

Too political.

 

Next shelf.

 

“A Comprehensive Guide to Affectional Behaviors and Platonic Variance.”

 

Whatever that meant.

 

Then he saw it.

 

A small, rose-colored spine, wedged between two much thicker volumes. Gold lettering that shimmered when he tilted his head:

 

“Love: A Field Guide (for the Utterly Clueless).”

 

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

He pulled it out. It was lighter than it looked, and when he opened the cover, the first page read:

 

For those who have no idea what they’re doing—but feel weird anyway.

 

He stared at it for a moment.

 

Then, without looking, he muttered, “Found something.”

 

Silverbell’s voice came from the end of the row, low and amused. “Sounds like it.”

 

Black Sapphire turned, the book held tightly in both hands. “I was just… curious. For future reference.”

 

Silverbell didn’t say anything, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

 

“I mean it,” Moondrop added quickly. “Research. That’s all.”

 

“Of course,” Silverbell said, stepping a little closer. “Very serious. Tactical love.”

 

Moondrop narrowed his eyes. “You’re mocking me.”

 

“Not at all,” Silverbell replied, utterly calm. “I just hope your future reference material is informative.”

 

Moondrop clutched the book closer to his chest like it might physically shield him. “…It better be.”

 

He turned on his heel and marched back toward the reading table. Silverbell followed, just a few steps behind—still smiling, still saying nothing. And maybe watching just a little too closely. Back at the table, Black Sapphire flipped open the rose-colored book and let it fall to a random page.

 

The heading read:
Chapter 3: Signs You Might Be In Love (Even If You're In Denial About It)

 

He sighed.

 

Love is not always loud. It doesn’t arrive with fireworks or declarations. Often, it slips in quietly—through small things. The way someone remembers a passing comment. The silence that feels comfortable. The moments you replay in your head hours later, wondering why they mattered so much.

 

It shows in hesitation. In softened words. In the space you suddenly give someone when you never gave space before. And yes—sometimes in the way you sigh, without realizing.

His shoulders tensed. Candy Apple’s voice echoed in his memory, cutting through the library hush.

 

“You sigh. You blush. You stare. And worst of all, you hesitate. You never used to hesitate.”

 

Black Sapphire shut the book. Then reopened it a second later. Just a crack.

 

Denial is a defense. It convinces you that what you feel is exaggerated, silly, or one-sided. That you’re imagining things. But love doesn’t need permission to exist. It doesn’t wait until it’s convenient or reciprocated. It simply is.

The question, then, is not: “Do I love them?”

But: “Why am I afraid to?”

 

He sat very still.

 

Across from him, Silverbell had reopened his own book. At least, it looked like he was reading. But every so often, he glanced up. Always when he thought Moondrop wasn’t looking. Moondrop stared down at the field guide again, running a thumb over the page's edge.

 

"...I'm not afraid," he muttered. "I'm just... careful." He wasn’t sure if he believed himself.

 

And that, more than anything, annoyed him. He took a deep breath, adjusted the book like it was just another assignment, and flipped to the next chapter.

 

Chapter 4: When You Start Noticing Everything About Them

Their voice. Their posture. The little twitch at the corner of their mouth when they’re holding back a smile. The way they always adjust their gloves before a flight, or how their eyes scan the sky even when it’s quiet.

You’ll tell yourself it’s observation. Curiosity. Professionalism.

But it’s not.

It’s care, disguised as distance.

Black Sapphire’s fingers froze on the page. The book might as well have been yelling at him. He thought of Silverbell’s wings—how even when folded, they held tension like a drawn bow. He thought of the way Silverbell never said much, but always listened. How he remembered things Moondrop didn’t even remember saying. Like the library. Like that throwaway comment about the stained-glass patterns reminding him of old festival stories.

 

He blinked hard and rubbed his temple. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

 

Across the table, Silverbell glanced up. “Hmm?”

 

“Nothing,” Moondrop said a little too quickly, snapping the book closed like it had personally betrayed him. “Stupid book.”

 

Silverbell raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “You picked it.”

 

“I was misled by the title. It sounded… idiot-friendly.”

 

“You’re not an idiot.”

 

Moondrop looked up. Silverbell hadn’t even looked away from his page when he said it. Just flipped calmly to the next one like it was obvious. And yet something about it made Moondrop’s chest feel like it was lined with sparks. He opened the book again—slower this time—and kept reading.

Love is rarely convenient. It shows up in the middle of routine, dressed like a distraction. You’ll try to out-think it. To plan around it. But at some point, you’ll stop trying to understand why.

You’ll just want to be near them. Even when it makes no sense.

 

He didn’t sigh this time. But he did close the book gently and rest his chin on his hand, eyes drifting sideways across the table. Silverbell wasn’t looking back. But his ears twitched once—just barely. And Moondrop wondered if maybe he was being noticed too. The pages blurred a little as he stared down, the words folding into the edges of his thoughts. His eyes weren’t reading anymore. Not really. His hand had gone still. His mind hadn’t.

 

He thought of Candy Apple again—of her voice, smug and sharp like hard candy snapping in half.

 

“You sigh. You blush. You stare. And worst of all, you hesitate. You never used to hesitate.”

Back then, he’d brushed her off. She was always poking, always needling. That was just her. That’s what they did. But now, sitting here, across from a cookie who quietly remembered things he never should’ve remembered—who made space without asking, who said things like you’re not an idiot without even looking up—

 

Moondrop blinked.

 

Then quietly, internally, disastrously: "…Oh my holy Witches.” He stared straight ahead. “Fuck.” He didn’t say it loud—but it was enough to make Silverbell’s ears twitch again.

 

“What?” Silverbell asked, glancing up.

 

“Nothing,” Moondrop said, quickly. Too quickly. He shoved his face back in the book, heart pounding like he'd just misfired a spell in a packed chamber. “Book’s just—uh. Wildly inaccurate. Or maybe too accurate. Hard to say.”

 

Silverbell didn’t press. But Moondrop wasn’t reading anymore. Because now it was loud in his head. "So…This is what Candy meant." The sighing. The staring. The way he hesitated last week when Silverbell reached out to steady him mid-flight and his whole soul went sideways.

 

This was it. This was the thing. He was in love. And that was—Terrifying. And annoying. And—He snuck another glance across the table. Silverbell had tucked a piece of hair behind his ear and was still flipping through his book, brow furrowed in calm concentration. — kind of unfair.

 

Moondrop dragged his hands down his face and let out a slow, muffled groan.

 

Silverbell looked up again. “Are you okay?”

 

“No,” Moondrop muttered through his palms. “I’m having a literary crisis. Leave me here to perish.”

 

Silverbell blinked once. “…You’re so dramatic.”

 

“And you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

 

Silverbell blinked again. “What?”

 

“Nothing!” Moondrop sat up, snatched the romance novel, and hugged it to his chest like it could protect him. “Nothing at all.”

 

Right now he desperately needed to go back to his room and scream into a pillow. The words in the novel hit different now. The way the main character had looked at the knight—sharp and distant at first, then slowly, helplessly, like gravity was pulling them in. The awkward pauses. The dumb banter. The fluttery feeling that kept sneaking in when he wasn’t paying attention.

 

It all made sense. Too much sense.

 

Moondrop stared down at the open book in front of him, lips parted slightly, heart thudding in his chest like it had been waiting for him to catch up. And now that he had—it was screaming.

 

 " I love you, " the knight had said.

 

And the other cookie had frozen, just like he did that day Silverbell offered him that dumb tart. The page blurred again. He shoved the book up to his face and buried himself in it with a soft, strangled sound.

 

Silverbell looked up. “…You’re making noises again,” he said, mildly.

 

Moondrop didn’t move.

 

“You’re either embarrassed or dying,” Silverbell continued, his voice calm but laced with subtle concern. “Which one is it.”

 

“Neither,” Moondrop’s voice came muffled from behind the book. “Go back to reading.”

 

Silverbell stared for another moment. “You’re hiding behind a paperback.”

 

“It’s a hardcover.”

 

“Still counts.”

 

“I’m having a moment,” Moondrop muttered. “Let me suffer in literary peace.” There was a soft shuffle of fabric, and a pause—long enough that Moondrop thought maybe Silverbell actually had gone back to reading.

 

Then: “…You like the book?”

 

Moondrop lowered it just enough to peek over the edge, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I understand the book,” he corrected, voice flat. “Which is worse.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head. “Worse?”

 

“It’s like someone wrote down my life without asking,” Moondrop said, sitting up straighter, still hugging the book to his chest. “Except they’re braver and more articulate and got to kiss the knight already, which is rude, because I haven’t even figured out what I’m doing.”

 

Silverbell blinked. Then blinked again.

 

And Moondrop froze. “Wait. I said that out loud, didn’t I.”

 

“You did.”

 

“Right...” Moondrop buried his face in the book again.

 

Silverbell didn’t say anything for a while. Then, quietly—“…So you like knights?”

 

“I will climb over this table.”

 

Silverbell turned a page in his own book. “I’ll move my arrows first.”

 

Moondrop groaned into the pages. His life was a romance novel now. And worst of all—He liked it .

 

Moondrop lowered the book just enough to peek over its edge again, still flushed, still flustered—and now visibly restless. His fingers tapped the cover. Then the table. Then his knee. He shifted in his seat, like the chair had suddenly become unbearable.

 

“I want to leave,” he muttered.

 

Silverbell, still reading, barely looked up. “Library’s open until dusk.”

 

“No, I mean—” Moondrop dragged a hand down his face. “I mean I want to leave this place . Now. Immediately. Like, vanish-into-the-ground levels of leaving.”

 

Silverbell finally closed his book, marking the page with the feathered ribbon tucked inside. “Why?”

 

“Because this was supposed to be a normal day,” Moondrop said, already pushing back his chair, “not realizing you’re in love with the knight who took you here in the first place.”

 

He blinked. Then looked up at Silverbell in horror. “I said that out loud again, didn’t I?”

 

“You really did.”

 

Moondrop groaned, face hitting the table with a dramatic thud. “I’m going to crawl into the archive stacks and live there forever. They won’t even find my crumbs.”

 

Silverbell stared, expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he stood up too.

 

Silverbell stood frozen for a heartbeat, still holding the book, still blinking at the space where Moondrop had just been. And then—he moved. Wings flared, bow clutched loosely in one hand, he took off after the streak of purple and flustered panic rocketing through the Faerie Kingdom's sky. But Moondrop was faster this time. Desperate-fast.

 

“Wait—!” Silverbell called, rising higher. 

 

But the purple blur curved sharply, dipped behind one of the palace towers, and then—gone. A flicker of magic. A ripple of distortion. A portal snapped shut with a soft crack of air. 

 

Silverbell was too late to see where he was and where he went. He lost him. Silverbell hovered there, wind tugging at his hair, brows drawn low—not angry. Just confused.  And maybe, just maybe… A little disappointed.

 

 

---

 

 

Back in the Spire, Moondrop collapsed face-first into his bed, gripping a pillow like it could somehow absorb the emotions trying to tear him apart from the inside out.

 

Then he screamed into it. Loudly.

 

"I AM SO STUPID!!"

 

The muffled echo bounced off the walls, immediately followed by the thump of him flipping over and throwing an arm across his face.

 

“What the hell was that,” he muttered, breathless and wrecked and red in the ears. “Why did I say that. Why did I feel that. Why did I run.”

 

He kicked at the air helplessly, like the betrayal was physical.

 

“I liked it when I didn’t know what love felt like,” he grumbled. “Everything was easier when I just assumed everyone else was dramatic and Silverbell was... pretty.”

 

He paused. Then groaned again. “ Ugh, I said it again.”

 

His eyes burned. Not from tears, exactly—but from the weight of it. The realization. The irreversible knowing.

 

The door stayed closed. No one came up the stairs. And for now, that was good. Because if anyone looked him in the eye right now—he might actually combust. Then the door flung open without a knock. Looks like he jinxed himself.

 

Candy Apple stormed in, still wearing her apron, one oven mitt hanging off her wrist, her eyes scanning the room like she was ready to throw something if he wasn’t there.

 

“You absolute idiot— you’re back? ”

 

Black Sapphire groaned from under the pillow. “Not now...”

 

“No, yes now! ” she snapped, marching over and swatting at his leg with the soft side of the mitt. “You vanish into a portal, scare the life out of everyone, and I find out you were just out frolicking in the Faerie Kingdom ?”

 

“I wasn’t frolicking,” he said flatly, face still buried. “There was no frolicking.”

 

“I baked for you, you jerk,” she said, throwing a still-warm paper-wrapped tart onto the bed like it was evidence in a trial. “GRAPE tarts. Your dumb favorite.”

 

There was a beat.

 

“…You baked?” he mumbled, lifting the pillow just enough to peek at her with one eye.

 

“Yes,” she huffed. “Because I thought maybe, just maybe , if I apologized with food, you’d stop being a melodramatic cryptid about your feelings.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked at her.

 

Candy Apple folded her arms. “Don’t look at me like that. I heard you scream ‘I’m so stupid’ from halfway across the Spire. I know exactly what kind of dumb spiral you’re in.”

 

He slowly sat up, eyes flicking to the tart, then back to her.

 

“I think I confessed by accident,” he said quietly.

 

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “You did what?”

 

“I didn’t mean to!” he said, grabbing the tart like a life raft. “It just came out. Like—like novel dialogue. Out loud. With words. ”

 

Candy Apple sank into the chair beside his bed like she had been emotionally punched. “This is worse than I thought.”

 

“I’m never going outside again.”

 

“You’re going outside tomorrow. ” She pointed the mitt at him. “Broadcast prep. No exceptions. If you ghost Silverbell again, I swear to Moonlight, I’ll lock you in a room together and throw away the key.”

 

“…He chased me,” Black Sapphire added, quieter now. “Tried to follow. He… looked kind of upset.”

 

Candy Apple blinked, then leaned back in the chair and gave him a look so smug he nearly chucked the tart at her.

 

“Sounds like someone likes you back,” she said sing-song.

 

“Shut up,” he muttered.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Candy—”

 

She grinned and held up a second tart. “Eat. Sulk less. Maybe try talking to him next time.”

 

He stared at her. Then, slowly, he took a bite. It was really good. And annoyingly comforting.

 

 

---

 

Silverbell sat under the dream-lace tree until the sun dipped low enough to turn the garden pink. The wind had picked up. Not much, just enough to stir the petals clinging to his hair and rustle the pages of the book he wasn’t reading.

 

He hadn’t moved since Moondrop left. No. Fled.

 

“Because this was supposed to be a normal day,” Silverbell repeated to the breeze, voice flat.  “not realizing you’re in love with the knight who took you here in the first place.”

 

He pressed a hand to his face. What even was that?

 

One second they were arguing about pastries, and the next he was chasing a cookie through library halls like something out of a bad romance scroll.

 

He didn’t expect Moondrop to say it—especially not like that. He thought maybe... someday. 

 

Not now.

 

And definitely not out loud.

 

“I knew he was dramatic,” Silverbell muttered. “But this is new.”

 

Still, his chest felt weird. Not in a bad way. Not in a good way either. Just... tight.

 

It was easier when Moondrop was just some annoying wanderer who tells stories about his travels, who kept showing up during training and acting like he didn’t care. Easier when Silverbell could pretend that his smile didn’t matter. That he didn’t look forward to the arguing. That he didn’t notice every time Moondrop made an excuse to stay a little longer.

 

He picked up the feather ribbon that had fallen from his book’s pages and ran it between his fingers.

“I liked the way things were.” Simple. Predictable. Unspoken.

 

But maybe that wasn’t real. Maybe Moondrop had already known for a while. Maybe Silverbell had too.

 

He tilted his head back against the trunk and watched the clouds move.

 

He didn’t know where Moondrop went. He didn’t know if he’d come back.

 

But he knew what his face looked like, just before he ran—red, embarrassed, and almost glowing.

 

He looked happy. Scared, sure. But happy. And that... that did something to Silverbell’s chest.

 

“I really hope you don’t vanish for good,” he said quietly.

 

Then, even quieter: “Because I wasn’t done figuring things about you yet.”

 

Silverbell stayed under the tree even after the light turned gold. Even after the breeze grew colder and the petals stopped drifting. Even after it got quiet enough that he could hear his own heartbeat again.

 

It wasn’t a surprise, not really—not the way Moondrop ran, or the way he looked before it. What surprised him was how not surprised he was by any of it. Like part of him had known all along. Like he’d been waiting for something to confirm what he wouldn’t let himself say.

 

And now that it had, the ache in his chest was louder than ever.

 

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, bow set aside for once. He didn’t even realize he’d unstrung it.

 

That had been happening a lot lately. Missed shots. Slipped focus. He’d draw his bow, see the target—then think about a purple cookie with a stupid dramatic voice and a way of laughing that made everything feel less heavy.

 

He’d accepted it a while ago, quietly. Not with fanfare. Not with words. Just in the space between one missed arrow and the next.

 

It was sickening, honestly. Distracting. Messy. He hated how much he liked it.

 

He could still hear Moondrop’s voice in his head sometimes, echoing things that shouldn’t matter but somehow did.

 

And now he was gone.

 

Again. Maybe for good this time. Who knows, not Silverbell that's for sure.

 

Silverbell’s jaw clenched. He rested his chin on his hand and watched the horizon.

 

“I wish you’d come back,” he murmured. “Even if you pretend it never happened.”

 

His voice dropped to almost nothing. “I just… miss you.”

 

He didn’t say it often. Not out loud. Not even in his head.

 

But he missed him.

---

Black Sapphire Cookie descended the stairs slowly, still chewing the last bite of grape tart. The lingering sweetness did little to ease the knot in his stomach, one that had formed somewhere between “I’m in love” and “I’m so stupid.”

 

At the bottom, Candy Apple and Shadow Milk were waiting. Both looked up at once—Candy Apple’s gaze sharp and unreadable, Shadow Milk’s calm as ever, but laced with purpose.

 

“We’re moving prep,” Shadow Milk said before he could even greet them. “The broadcast will be finalized in my quarters. No need for further field visits.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. “What? Why?”

 

Shadow Milk tilted his head slightly. “Security risk. The Faerie Kingdom is neutral, but we’ve drawn attention lately. It’s unnecessary to send you back there.”

 

Black Sapphire’s mouth opened, then closed again. A thousand thoughts crashed in his head—none of which he said aloud.

 

Candy Apple leaned on the railing with a lollipop in her mouth, eyes flicking to him. “Guess that means you’ll get to stay in one place for once. Shocking.”

 

He didn’t bite back. Not this time. Instead, he nodded. “Understood.”

 

Shadow Milk gave a brief nod in return. “We start in an hour.”

 

And then he was gone, robes sweeping down the hall with the same eerie silence they always carried.

 

Candy Apple stayed, though. She watched Black Sapphire for a beat longer.

 

“You good?” she asked, voice unusually neutral.

 

He adjusted his coat. “Better than I was.”

 

A pause.

 

“…You were really gonna see him again, weren’t you,” she said.

 

“I wasn’t ready,” he muttered, turning away. “And now I don’t have to be.”

 

Candy Apple didn’t tease him for it. She just nodded once and followed after Shadow Milk.

 

And Black Sapphire stood alone at the foot of the stairs, the taste of grape tart still clinging to his tongue, the memory of a soft smile under flowering trees already starting to ache again.

 

The Spire’s broadcast chamber was unusually quiet for a prep day. No need for last-minute scrolls fluttering through the air and frantic enchantments being checked and double-checked. Only the low thrum of arcane equipment and the quiet crackle of rumor wisps coiled in waiting.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie sat in the center chair, spine straight, hands resting lightly on the console before him. His microphone—polished to a mirror shine—hovered, waiting for his word.

 

Candy Apple stood off to the side, arms folded. Watching. Shadow Milk lingered near the door, saying nothing.

 

The signal rune lit gold. It was time. Black Sapphire exhaled once—quiet, measured.

Then he spoke. "Dear listeners,” his voice rang out, smooth as velvet and sharp as a needle, “it’s been a quiet week. But not for long.”

 

What followed was half-truth, half-intrigue—delivered like gospel. Hints of troop movements. Whispers from the royal court. An intercepted message sealed in lavender wax. Black Sapphire spun it all into threads of tension and mystery, the way he always did.

 

He didn’t miss a beat.

 

No stutter. No hesitation. No trace of the boy who had run from a library, flushed with realization. Just  the voice of the Spire of Deceit—calm, precise, untouchable.

 

When the broadcast rune dimmed and the room fell into silence again, Candy Apple looked at him sideways.

 

“No mistakes,” she said.

 

“Of course not,” Black Sapphire replied, standing up. “There’s no room for that.”

 

Shadow Milk simply nodded once and left the chamber.

 

As the door shut, Candy Apple tilted her head. “You didn’t even improvise. That’s new.”

 

“I had nothing extra to say.” And he meant it.

 

Because if he let even a sliver of emotion through—if his voice cracked, even for a moment—every listener in the kingdom would hear the name he couldn’t say. And rumors like that don’t stay rumors for long.

 

Candy Apple didn’t leave the chamber right away.

 

She watched him finish his final spell-lock on the broadcast log, fingers steady, expression unreadable.

 

Then, without her usual smug grin or teasing tone, she said: “…So. How do you feel right now?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look at her. He paused, let the silence stretch, then answered flatly, “Like I did my job.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”

 

He finally turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough to look at her from the corner of his eye. “Does it matter? It doesn't concern you.”

 

Candy Apple clicked her tongue softly. “It does to me.”

 

A beat passed. Then another. And then she said—quietly, but clearly: “I’m sorry. For what I said. Before.”

 

Black Sapphire’s fingers froze over the console.

 

Candy Apple continued, shifting her weight, arms now loosely crossed—not defensive. But… unsure.

 

“I didn’t think you’d take it seriously. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I was trying to get under your skin, like always. I didn’t expect you to break.”

 

He didn’t say anything at first. Then, without facing her, he said, “I didn’t break.”

 

“I know,” she said, gently now. “But you bent. A lot. And that was on me.”

 

Silence again.

 

Then Black Sapphire let out a slow breath. “You’re not used to apologizing.”

 

“I’m not,” she admitted. “So don’t make me do it again.”

 

A quiet, humorless chuckle left him before he could stop it.

 

She smiled faintly. “There’s the dramatic diva I know.”

 

“…Thanks,” he said finally.

 

“For what?”

 

“For noticing.”

 

They didn’t say anything else after that.

 

After Candy Apple left the room, Black Sapphire stayed where he was, staring at the still-glowing broadcast console. The room felt oddly still now. Like it had been holding its breath.

 

She apologized. Actually apologized.

 

It should’ve felt like a victory. Some smug, petty part of him wanted to savor it. But the truth was—it didn’t feel like winning. It felt like balance. Like someone had finally met him halfway without turning it into a sparring match.

 

He leaned back in the chair, letting the magic coils cool and fade. His shoulders eased, just a little.

 

Then he heard the telltale squeak of Candy Apple’s boots just outside the door.

 

He called out before she could disappear completely. “Hey.”

 

She paused. “What?”

 

He smirked faintly to himself. “Next time you try to wreck my emotional stability, at least bring better snacks.”

 

A scoff. “I baked you a tart, you ungrateful melon.”

 

“A single tart,” he called back. “After emotionally gutting me in the hallway. Seems like a weak bribe.”

 

“You inhaled it in five seconds!”

 

“Ehhhh. Quality was mid.”

 

“ You are mid!”

 

He smiled—genuinely, this time. They were back to normal. Or… maybe a better version of it. And for now, that was enough .

 

Later that night, long after the broadcast hum had faded from the walls and the Spire had gone quiet, Black Sapphire Cookie stood by the window of his room, arms folded as he stared out into the starless dark.

 

The tart was long gone. Candy Apple’s apology still echoed in his mind. The broadcast had gone flawlessly—no stutters, no skips, not even a spike in his mic levels.

 

And yet, beneath all of that, a single question kept circling in his head like a moth too stubborn to burn out:

 

Am I going back?

 

He didn’t know.

 

The idea of seeing Silverbell again—after what he said, after how he ran—made his stomach twist. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or sink through the floor.

 

He missed him. Of course he missed him.

 

But the thought of facing him with all this new clarity in his chest—this awareness —was almost unbearable. Before, he could lie to himself. Play dumb. Pretend the fluttering in his chest was coincidence, or curiosity, or sheer irritation.

 

Now?

 

Now, he knew exactly what it was.

 

And so, for now… he’d stay.

 

Not forever. Just until the storm in his head quieted. Until he could look Silverbell in the eye and not feel like a walking disaster.

 

Until he was ready.

 

Chapter 10: IX

 

 

The Faerie Kingdom had begun to shift into its late-spring bloom. The gardens were louder now—buzzing with warm air and floating petals, voices drifting lazily through the courtyards, music from nearby balconies weaving in and out of the breeze.

 

But Silverbell noticed the absence more than any of it.

 

It had been days or weeks since the library.

 

He hadn’t seen Moondrop since the purple streak of wings vanished. No notes. No messages. No explanation.

 

And still, Silverbell came to the same spot every morning—beneath the dream-lace tree, near the old training field, close to the edge of the garden paths where visitors usually arrived.

 

Just in case.

 

He sat with a book open in his lap, one he hadn’t turned a page in for the past hour. His quiver leaned against the bench. He hadn’t practiced yet today. His mind was too full.

 

He didn’t know what had happened exactly. He didn’t know what had triggered the panic, the running, the sudden vanishing.

 

But he had heard what Moondrop said.

 

“Realizing you’re in love with the knight who took you here in the first place.”

 

Silverbell traced the edge of the page with one gloved finger. He wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… tired. And confused. And, above all, missing someone he hadn’t even realized had taken root this deeply.

 

He glanced at the sky again—like maybe he’d catch a glimpse of purple in the clouds.

 

But nothing. Still. He didn’t leave.

 

Because if Moondrop ever did come back, Silverbell wanted to be here.

 

Even if he didn’t know why he left. Even if he never explained. Even if all he said was, “Hey.”

 

Silverbell would be ready. And maybe—when that moment came—he’d finally say something back.

Silverbell closed the book gently, the pages sighing shut like they were tired for him.

 

He leaned back against the bench, eyes half-lidded, staring at the soft sway of petals falling from the dream-lace tree. The branches above him were too quiet. The garden too still. Everything was blooming, and yet all he could feel was the space someone used to fill.

 

He had accepted it— wicthes , he had. That strange, dizzying ache in his chest that twisted whenever Moondrop smiled at him like he didn’t deserve it. That spark of something fragile and terrifying when he realized that voice, that laugh, had worked its way into his routine .

 

He’d fallen. He didn’t regret it. But he hadn’t expected this. 

 

Not the silence. Not the vanishing. Not the way it emptied something out of him so completely that even his arrows felt heavy in his hands now.

 

A shift in the wind pulled him back. He heard it—armor. Light, but precise. Familiar footfalls on the garden path.

 

He didn’t turn his head. “Mercurial Knight,” he muttered.

 

The knight stopped beside the bench with a quiet rustle of his cloak. “So you are here. Figures.”

 

Silverbell didn’t respond.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie sighed, tone low. “You missed your rotation again this morning. That’s twice now.”

 

Silverbell said nothing.

 

“You didn’t report for watch duty. Didn’t check the southern border post like you were assigned.”

 

“I know,” Silverbell said, still not moving.

 

Mercurial tilted his head, the gentle clink of his armor breaking the silence. “This isn’t like you.”

 

Silverbell finally looked at him… tired. “I haven’t had the energy.”

 

Mercurial studied him for a long moment, then slowly sat beside him. “That missing Cookie,” he said. “The one with the name no one can place. Moondrop. ”

 

Silverbell didn’t flinch.

 

“…You care about him.” It wasn’t a question.

 

Silverbell’s voice was quieter now. “More than I meant to.”

 

Mercurial didn’t respond immediately. Then, “I’ve known you since before your bow was longer than your arm. You don’t fall easily.”

 

“I didn’t mean to fall at all,” Silverbell said. “And I don’t know if I’ve been lied to this whole time or if he just—”

 

He stopped himself. Clenched his fist in his lap. “He said it,” Silverbell whispered. “Said he loved me. And then he ran.”

 

Silence.

 

Mercurial was quiet for a while. Then placed a hand gently on Silverbell’s shoulder. “You’re not slacking,” he said. “You’re grieving something that never finished.”

 

Silverbell didn’t respond. His eyes were back on the sky again. And maybe—just maybe—would open again.

 

Silverbell stayed beneath the dream-lace tree after Mercurial left, his bow resting on his back, his thoughts heavier than his armor.

 

He hated waiting.

 

It wasn’t in his nature. He was a knight—a tracker, a scout, someone who moved, acted, struck first. Patience was for scholars and archivists.

 

But still… here he was. Waiting. For someone who hadn’t promised anything. Who hadn’t left a note. Who hadn’t even looked back. And yet… Silverbell knew he’d wait anyway. As long as it took.

 

He leaned back against the tree trunk and let his gaze drift upward toward the clear stretch of sky, scanning for even a flicker of purple.

 

None.

 

He exhaled sharply and muttered to himself, “If— when —he comes back… I’m dragging him to the garden again.”

 

Then he paused. “…No. Somewhere quieter. Maybe the upper terrace.”

 

Another pause. “…That’s definitely a date.” The realization hit him like a slow, embarrassing wave.

 

All those walks. The impromptu library visit. The little missions to taste-test sweets or pick apples for target practice. The time where he talked about flowers for hours to him.

 

He’d been asking him out this whole time. And Moondrop hadn’t even noticed.

 

Silverbell scoffed under his breath and rubbed a hand down his face. “You oblivious little idiot.”

 

But there was no bite in his voice. Just warmth. A helpless, frustrated kind of fondness. Maybe Moondrop hadn’t realized before. Maybe he did now.

 

And maybe—when he came back—Silverbell would actually say it aloud this time.

 

And maybe, just maybe, Moondrop would finally understand what he’d meant.

 

The gentle hum of the garden faded into the background as Silverbell Cookie stepped onto the old training field once again.

 

It wasn’t the same without him.

 

The quiet wasn't hostile—just hollow. The spot where Moondrop used to sit and watch, notebook in hand, was empty. Still, Silverbell didn’t let himself get pulled into the ache of it. Not today.

 

He took a breath. Drew an arrow. Nocked it.

Thunk.

 

It missed just left of center. Again. He exhaled, not angry. He is focused.

 

Again. Another arrow. A little closer.

 

He narrowed his eyes, shifted his stance just a bit, steadied his breathing.

 

Thunk.

 

Center.

 

A small breath escaped him. Not a sigh, not quite satisfaction—just something in between that. It wasn’t perfect yet like his usual shots. But it was better than last time.

 

He wasn’t where he used to be—not at his sharpest, not the knight they all expected him to be every hour of every day.

 

But he was getting there.

 

He kept going, one arrow at a time. Some missed, some struck, some clipped too high—but none of them hit the ground anymore.

 

He was steadying himself. Because when Moondrop came back—and he would come back—Silverbell wanted to be ready. Not just to talk. But to stand beside him again, this time on even footing.

 

And maybe—maybe next time, he’d be the one watching Moondrop’s face when he missed a shot. And laughing first.

 

 

---

 

 

It had been weeks since he last saw Silverbell.

 

Weeks, and yet his face still lingered like a burn behind his eyes—unshakable, persistent, loud in the quiet moments. It haunted him in reflections, in stray thoughts, in the way a certain breeze would cut through the Spire’s cold air and remind him of the forest’s warmth. He hated it. He hated how vividly he remembered.

 

Still, he did his job. He always did his job. Like an obedient minion of deceit would.

 

His voice never wavered on air. The broadcast lines were perfect—sharp, sly, and laced with half-truths that hooked the Earthbread masses like sugar traps. The ratings climbed. The rumors spread like wildfire. And no one suspected the voice behind the veil was dragging his heart behind him like an anchor. Cookies all around Earthbread listened to his voice.

 

The welcome show had gone well , too. Too well, in fact.

 

Candy Apple had done the impossible—she brought Pure Vanilla Cookie into the Spire. Not just invited. Lured. And now their Master’s focus had fully shifted, coiling around Earthbread’s Light of Truth like a serpent around a branch.

 

Black Sapphire had watched it unfold from a distance—watched Pure Vanilla’s eyes lose their shine, his faith chip away, his words slow and stumble until they didn’t make sense anymore.

 

He watched him falter .

 

And then he watched the transformation complete. Truthless Recluse, they called him now. He was no longer a threat. He was a pawn. A successful operation. A victory for their side.

 

So why did it feel like he couldn’t breathe?

 

The studio was cold today. Quiet. The only light came from a single floating rune, flickering like a tired star. He stood alone by the archway, gaze fixed on the swirling clouds outside.

 

He could leave now. There was finally time.

 

Black Sapphire turned on his heel and exited the recording chamber, cloak trailing behind him like the tail of a comet. He found Candy Apple seated in one of the observation alcoves, tossing a handful of spell-cards lazily in the air and catching them without looking.

 

“You’re leaving,” she said without glancing up.

 

“I am.”

 

She caught a card between two fingers. “How long?”

 

“Don’t know.”

 

She finally looked at him. “Does Master know?”

 

He stared at her. “Not unless you feel like tattling.”

 

Her smirk flickered. “You really are soft now.”

 

“I’m efficient,” he snapped. “Which is why you’re taking over for me until I return. Cover the broadcasts. Plant what we’ve queued. Keep the city spinning.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “And if something blows up?”

 

“Handle it. You’re not incompetent.”

 

She watched him for a beat, then sighed dramatically. “Fine. But don’t expect your desk to be as clean when you get back.”

 

“I never do.”

 

He turned away before she could get the last word in.

 

And with a quick flick of his wrist and a whisper into the eye-shaped microphone clipped to his collar, the portal magic shimmered into existence.

 

This time—he didn’t hesitate. Because this time, he knew what he was feeling.

He missed him. That was the truth. A cookie raised from the shadows and deceit is learning to accept the truth, his truth. And for once, Black Sapphire Cookie wasn’t going to run from it.

 

He flew the familiar path above the treetops, cloaked in fading clouds and streaks of violet wind. The forest below was exactly as he remembered—quiet, green, alive. And there, beneath the dream-lace trees, was him.

 

Silverbell stood at the center of the training field, bow in hand, legs tense, posture worn. He looked tired. Focused. Off.

 

Black Sapphire hovered for a second longer, just watching. The way his brow furrowed. The way he exhaled through his nose every time a shot landed wide. He was still beautiful, even in frustration. Especially in frustration.

 

Then—

 

Thunk.

 

The arrow missed again, sinking into the outer ring of the target.

 

Silverbell groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Come on…”

 

He reached for another arrow, but before he could nock it—

 

His voice drifted from behind the trees, smooth and just sharp enough to cut. “Missing shots, knight?”

 

Silverbell’s breath hitched. He turned slowly, eyes wide—half in disbelief, half in something much softer.

 

There he was.

 

Moondrop Faerie Cookie. Standing beneath the arch of flowering branches like he’d never left at all. Cloak fluttering faintly in the breeze. Wings shimmering, that quiet smile on his face—the one Silverbell hadn’t realized he’d memorized until it disappeared.

 

Silverbell’s heart stumbled once in his chest. His fingers loosened from the arrow. “…You’re late,” he said, trying to sound composed.

 

Moondrop stepped into the clearing, hands behind his back. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

Silverbell blinked slowly. Then, finally— “…Yeah. You are.”

 

The moment settled for only a second.

 

Then Silverbell moved, he ran. His bow slipped from his fingers, landing quietly in the grass as he crossed the clearing in long, determined strides. Moondrop barely had time to react—just enough to blink, to take one half-step forward—

 

—and then Silverbell was there, arms wrapping around him in a firm, breath-stealing hug.

 

“You idiot,” Silverbell muttered into his shoulder, voice rough. “I missed you.”

 

Moondrop went still. Not frozen from shock—but from the sudden weight of everything he’d been trying to suppress. And then, slowly, almost cautiously, he raised his arms and returned the hug—tighter than expected.

 

“…I’m sorry,” Moondrop said, barely above a whisper. "For leaving you at that day"

 

Silverbell didn’t let go. “Don’t be,” he said. "I understand."

 

And neither of them moved. Not for a while.

 

It was quiet in the clearing now—no more missed arrows, no training drills, no rush of words that usually filled the air when they were together. Just the thud of two hearts and the faint rustle of leaves above.

 

Finally, Silverbell shifted slightly, but only enough to rest his forehead against Moondrop’s shoulder.

 

“I waited,” he said, barely audible. “Every day. Same spot. Just in case.”

 

“I know.” Moondrop’s voice cracked, and he hated how much it did. “I wanted to come back sooner. I just… didn’t know how.”

 

Silverbell let out a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. “You always overthink everything.”

 

“You always made it look easy,” Moondrop said. “I thought maybe… maybe I ruined it.”

 

“You didn’t.” Silverbell leaned back enough to look him in the eye. “You scared me. But you didn’t ruin anything.”

 

They stood like that for a beat. It felt like there, two cookies who had accidentally fallen into something they couldn’t name—and maybe didn’t need to.

 

“You’re still calling this a hangout?” Silverbell asked suddenly, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth.

 

“…Isn’t it?” Moondrop blinked.

 

Silverbell arched a brow. “You confessed to being in love with me and then fled the kingdom like a storybook ghost.”

 

“…I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

 

“You did.”

 

Moondrop groaned softly, covering his face. "Witches above.”

 

“Too late to take it back,” Silverbell said. “I accepted it.”

 

Moondrop peeked at him through his fingers. “Really?”

 

“Why else do you think I waited?” Silverbell said, softer now.

 

They stood in the middle of the training field, lost in each other’s presence, while the world kept on turning beyond the trees.

 

Eventually, Moondrop lowered his hands. “So… if I asked you to walk with me? Just walk, no magic, no missions… Just us.”

 

Silverbell offered his hand. “I’d say yes.”

 

Moondrop took it. And for once, they didn’t need to run from anything. Not the truth. Not each other. Not this.

 

The forest path was quiet, save for the soft crunch of leaves beneath their boots and the occasional chirp of a distant bird. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the ground.

 

Silverbell walked beside Moondrop, his presence a comforting constant. Yet, there was a subtle shift in Moondrop's demeanor. His posture was more upright, his gaze sharper, and his movements carried a certain elegance.

 

"You know," Moondrop began, his voice smooth and confident, "the Faerie Kingdom has its charms, but the stories I've heard lately are far more intriguing."

 

Silverbell chuckled, "Always with the stories. Can't you just enjoy the scenery?"

 

Moondrop smirked, "Oh, I do. But a little intrigue adds flavor to the day."

 

As they continued, Moondrop's eyes scanned their surroundings with a discerning eye, noting details that most would overlook. He seemed to be analyzing, calculating, always a step ahead.

 

"You're different today," Silverbell observed, glancing at him. "More... composed."

 

Moondrop tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Am I? Perhaps it's the company."

 

They reached a clearing where the sunlight poured in, illuminating a small pond. Moondrop paused, gazing at the water's surface.

 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Silverbell said, stepping beside him.

 

"Indeed," Moondrop replied, his tone contemplative. "Reflections can reveal much."

 

Silverbell looked at him, sensing layers beneath his words. But before he could inquire further, Moondrop turned to him with a playful grin.

 

"Shall we continue our walk? I believe there's a grove ahead that's perfect for sharing more... tales."

 

Silverbell nodded, though a part of him remained curious about the subtle changes in his companion. Still, he chose to enjoy the moment, cherishing the time they had together.

 

As they walked on, the forest seemed to embrace them, the world narrowing down to just the two of them and the path ahead.

 

They wandered through the forest for hours, the shifting light of the afternoon bleeding into the cooler hues of evening. Birds quieted. Crickets stirred. And still, they talked.

 

Every topic came and went like wind through the trees. Favorite flowers. Ridiculous sayings. Old training stories. Books they both forgot the titles of but somehow remembered the endings. Moondrop always had something clever to say, something sharp—his words laced with precision, like a performer never quite offstage. And Silverbell... Silverbell just listened. And laughed. And added when he could.

 

But slowly, Moondrop began to notice the way Silverbell’s responses softened. How his posture slumped, just a little. How his eyes blinked longer between words. How he smiled, but slower than before.

 

They stopped under a canopy of whispering leaves, where fireflies had begun to flicker low near the grass.

 

"You’re tired,” Moondrop said plainly, watching him.

 

Silverbell rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

 

"Or the night before," Moondrop added, more a statement than a question.

 

Silverbell didn’t answer. He just looked off toward the trees.

 

A pause.

 

Then Moondrop shifted his stance and offered something unusually gentle “You could’ve told me.”

 

Silverbell looked back at him, brow raised slightly. “I didn’t think you’d still care.”

 

Moondrop didn’t respond to that right away. He just exhaled quietly through his nose and glanced up at the darkening sky. “…I do.”

 

“You should rest,” Moondrop added, more softly this time.

 

Silverbell looked at him like he wanted to argue—but couldn’t. Not really. “…Maybe just a little,” he finally said.

 

“Good,” Moondrop replied, already turning to walk beside him again. “You’re no use to anyone if you’re walking around like a half-dipped cookie.”

 

Silverbell huffed a tired laugh. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything.

 

Moondrop glanced sideways at Silverbell, who was barely keeping his eyes open now, boots dragging just slightly with every step.

 

The silence between them had turned comfortable—soft around the edges, like the air before a summer storm—but Moondrop could see the exhaustion pulling at him clearer than ever. The steady slouch of his shoulders. The lag in his steps. The way his eyelids fluttered with every blink, longer each time.

 

“You look like you’re about to pass out mid-sentence,” Moondrop said.

 

Silverbell blinked slowly and mumbled something that didn’t even resemble words. That was answer enough.

 

With a low sigh and a half-smirk, Moondrop stepped in front of him and crouched slightly. “Alright then. You’re getting carried.”

 

Silverbell didn’t protest. Didn’t question it. Didn’t even blink. So... Moondrop took that as a yes.

 

With one smooth movement, he shifted forward and scooped the knight up, lifting him bridal-style with a surprising amount of ease for someone who seemed made of sharp edges and dry wit. Silverbell instinctively leaned into him, already half-asleep, head resting against Moondrop’s shoulder.

 

“Unbelievable,” Moondrop muttered under his breath, wings beginning to unfurl behind him. “One look at me and you crash like a rookie guard on first watch.”

 

The violet shimmer of his disguise caught the fading sunlight as he kicked off from the ground, wings catching the breeze, lifting them both high above the treetops. The wind ran through their hair. Below, the forest shifted into a blur of green and gold.

 

As he flew, he glanced down at Silverbell. Peaceful. Completely out cold.

 

“…Sleep well, knight,” Moondrop murmured, voice quieter now. “I’ll get you home.”

 

And with that, they disappeared into the clouds, the last rays of light catching on the curve of his wings as they carried the knight back to the place he’d waited, day after day—never knowing that the one he waited for had missed him just as deeply.

 

The moment Moondrop touched down just outside the small stone cottage, his boots brushing softly against the moss-lined path, he adjusted his hold on Silverbell—still sound asleep, his breath steady against his shoulder. The house was quiet, tucked into the greenery at the edge of the Faerie Kingdom, half-wrapped in vines and dreamlace. Cozy. Unassuming. Like him.

 

He fished into Silverbell’s jacket pocket—careful not to wake him—and pulled out the old, slightly bent brass key.

 

The door opened with a soft click.

 

Moondrop stepped inside for the first time, taking in the place with a careful, calculating glance. It was... simple. Lived-in. Spare books stacked beside furniture, a bow resting lazily against the wall, the scent of lavender and worn parchment hanging in the air. A few half-finished notes cluttered the desk in the corner—most written in an elegant, focused script.

 

He crossed to the bed and gently laid Silverbell down, shifting the blankets over him with more care than he expected from himself. One hand hovered briefly, brushing a loose lock of hair away from the knight’s face.

 

“You’ll probably deny all of this when you wake up,” he muttered softly, “but you sleep like a rock.”

 

The house had grown quiet.

 

After laying Silverbell down—still out cold, exhausted from too many sleepless nights and too many thoughts—

 

He stood, straightened, and looked around.

 

After everything, it was only logical that Silverbell would be hungry when he woke. Moondrop made his way toward the kitchen, expecting… something decent. Moondrop had wandered, half-curious, half-restless. He didn’t mean to pry, not really. But the fridge had been calling to him, and the second he opened it, he regretted it.

 

He opened the fridge. Stopped. Stared.

 

He just stared for a long moment, then slowly closed the fridge again like it might explode if provoked.

 

“…What the hell have you been eating,” he muttered to himself.

 

There were three containers. All of them held some form of burned, blackened, unsalvageable meals—harder than stone and vaguely tragic. One had a label that just read Do Not Touch. Failed Again. He closed it slowly.

 

Charred edges. Dough bricks. Soup that had once been soup and now looked like punishment. Something that may have started as pasta and clearly lost a fight with time.

 

But tucked beneath the culinary disasters were fresh ingredients. Strawberries. Moonberries. Cream. Pastry dough wrapped in parchment.

 

A challenge. Moondrop took off his cloak, placed it on a nearby chair. Then rolled up his sleeves.

 

Thirty minutes later, the cottage was filled with the soft scent of warm sugar, butter, and berries. Two trays sat cooling by the window: golden moonberry rolls, their filling just shy of bubbling, and delicately layered strawberry tarts dusted with powdered sugar.

 

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, wings twitching faintly as he stared toward the bedroom door.

 

He wasn’t the type to cook for just anyone. But Silverbell wasn’t just anyone anymore, was he? So he baked. Quietly. Without magic, for once. Just… effort. Intention.

 

 

---

 

 

Silverbell stirred under the warmth of his blankets, brow furrowing slightly as the haze of sleep gave way to quiet awareness.

 

He blinked.

 

The room was dim, bathed in the soft orange hues of the late afternoon sun pouring through the curtains. His bow was still leaning where he left it. His boots were off. And—he glanced down—the blanket was neatly tucked around him. Not his usual chaotic mess of half-covered limbs and twisted sheets.

 

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes.

 

That’s when he noticed it. The smell. Sweet, rich, warm. Berries. Sugar. Something golden and soft and— He froze. There was someone in his kitchen.

 

He swung his legs off the bed and stood, still a little groggy, but quiet as he made his way through the hall—his knight instincts just barely dragging themselves out of hibernation.

 

He peeked around the corner.

 

Moondrop stood at the counter, back to him, arms loosely crossed as he waited for something—maybe the tarts to cool, or Silverbell himself to finally wake up. He looked oddly at ease in the tiny kitchen, too tall for the low beams, wings folded in tight, the sun casting faint patterns on his shoulders.

 

“…You… baked?” Silverbell said, voice hoarse from sleep.

 

Moondrop didn’t flinch..He glanced back, calm and unbothered, as if he’d been expecting him. “You were out cold,” he said. “I had time.”

 

Silverbell blinked slowly, still trying to process everything. “In my house. Using my oven.”

 

“Your fridge was a war crime,” Moondrop replied dryly. “Consider this reparations.”

 

Silverbell stepped into the kitchen, the scent pulling him in like a magnet. “Are those… strawberry tarts?”

 

“And moonberry rolls,” Moondrop added, tapping one of the trays lightly. “Assuming your taste buds haven’t suffered the same fate as your cooking.”

 

Silverbell ignored the jab—barely. His eyes were fixed on the tarts. “You didn’t have to do this.”

 

Moondrop shrugged one shoulder. “I wanted to.”

 

And just like that, silence settled again. Comfortable. Tenuous.

Silverbell looked at the pastries. Then at Moondrop. Then back again. “…You stayed.”

 

“I said I missed you,” Moondrop said softly, meeting his eyes now. “I meant it.”

 

Silverbell’s hand tightened slightly around the edge of the counter. “…Good,” he said after a pause. “Because I don’t think I can handle you vanishing again.”

 

Moondrop didn’t answer. He just handed him a tart. It was still warm.

 

They sat at the tiny kitchen table, knees nearly touching, the space far too small for grand moments—yet somehow perfect for this one.

 

Silverbell took a slow bite of the moonberry roll. His wings twitched faintly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he chewed, swallowed, and set the roll down with exaggerated care.

 

“…Okay,” he said, tone flat but eyes wide. “That’s illegal. That shouldn’t be that good.”

 

Moondrop smirked. “High praise from someone whose fridge nearly gave me a concussion.”

 

Silverbell groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I was trying , okay? Cooking’s not exactly covered in archery training.”

 

“And yet,” Moondrop said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “you still managed to weaponize pasta. Impressive.”

 

Silverbell shot him a glare, but it was useless—Moondrop was already grinning.

 

“These are really good,” Silverbell admitted, gesturing toward the spread. “Like… stupid good.”

 

“I know,” Moondrop replied, smug.

 

“You really didn’t have to.”

 

“I said I wanted to.” His voice softened slightly. “Plus you’ve looked like you’ve been surviving on regrets and toast. Barely.”

 

Silverbell winced. “Uncalled for.”

 

“Accurate, though.”

 

A beat of silence passed, but it wasn’t heavy. If anything, it felt like something easing between them. Something long wound tight, finally letting go.

 

Silverbell picked up another tart, inspecting it. “So what happens now?”

 

Moondrop tilted his head. “Breakfast.”

 

Silverbell chuckled, shaking his head, and took another bite. “Smartass.”

 

“You missed me,” Moondrop replied easily, sipping tea with an unbothered smile.

 

“...Yeah,” Silverbell said, quietly this time. “I did.”

 

Silverbell leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out just enough to brush against Moondrop’s. The empty plates sat between them, tart crumbs scattered like snowflakes. Moondrop picked at one, idly swiping a finger across the porcelain.

 

Neither of them spoke right away. There was no need. The kind of quiet between them wasn’t awkward anymore. It was full. Soft. Laced with a hundred unsaid things that didn’t need to be rushed.

 

Silverbell rested his cheek against his knuckles. He was still clearly exhausted, lashes lower than usual, but there was a calmness in his posture that hadn’t been there for weeks. Months, maybe.

 

“You look better,” Moondrop said suddenly, voice low.

 

Silverbell raised a brow, half-lidded. “Flour in my hair and sleep-deprived?”

 

“No,” Moondrop said, smiling faintly. “Like you're finally breathing right.”

 

That shut Silverbell up. He stared for a long second, unreadable, before finally exhaling through his nose.

 

“Must be the food.”

 

Moondrop chuckled. “Sure. Let’s give the strawberry tarts all the credit.”

 

There was a pause. Then Silverbell stood, moving around the table. He stopped beside Moondrop’s chair and looked down at him.

 

“I meant it,” he said. “About not wanting you to disappear again.”

 

Moondrop looked up at him, something soft flickering behind his eyes.

 

“I’m here,” he said simply.

 

Silverbell nodded once, then leaned down. Not a kiss—not yet. Just a brush of his forehead against Moondrop’s. Quiet. Trusting.

 

They stayed like that for a moment. Long enough for the silence to hum. When Silverbell pulled back, his hand lingered on Moondrop’s shoulder.

 

The window fogged slightly from the warmth inside. Despite the cold weather, The room is warm, and they are sharing it. Together.

“…You can stay, you know. For the night.” Silverbell’s words were casual, almost too casual—like they weren’t pressing against the edge of his chest, hopeful and unsure at once.

 

Moondrop didn’t answer right away.

 

He watched Silverbell as the knight lingered beside him, hand still resting lightly on his shoulder, the heat of his touch grounding in a way that shook loose the last of his defenses. His eyes flicked to the window—the misted glass, the quiet night outside, the trees just barely swaying in the breeze.

 

Then he looked back up.

 

“…You sure?” he asked, voice quieter now. Almost careful. “You’ve already got one stray crashing your life.”

 

Silverbell gave a tired, crooked smile. “You’re not a stray. And you’re not crashing anything.”

 

Moondrop leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under his shift. He knew Candy Apple would have words for this. Sharp ones. She’d pace. She’d curse. She’d probably throw a spoon at him when he got back.

And Shadow Milk—he didn’t even want to think about Shadow Milk’s reaction if word got out.

 

But none of that felt real at this moment. None of it held the same weight as Silverbell’s hand, the look in his eyes, the quiet warmth of this tiny house.

 

“…Then I’ll stay,” Moondrop said finally, tilting his head until it rested lightly against Silverbell’s side. “Just for tonight.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer, only shifted his fingers gently through Moondrop’s hair—like a silent promise, steady and sure.

 

The clock ticked. The sky darkened. Outside, the kingdom carried on without them. Inside, the warmth held.

 

Notes:

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I love them so so much (I always had a hard time writing the fluffy parts of this fic omlll (angst is my specialty TT)

 

(also you might be wondering: where is the angst? we'll get there...soon.. soon)

Chapter 11: X

 

 

Morning light spilled in through the edges of the curtains, brushing softly across the wooden floor and casting golden shapes along the walls. The little cottage was quiet—too quiet.

 

Warmth is the only thing they could feel.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie sat at the small kitchen table, arms folded on the surface, his hair slightly tousled from sleep. He glanced toward the hallway where Silverbell still slept, peaceful and oblivious.

 

With a tired sigh, with his magic he summoned and pulled out the eye-shaped microphone.

 

Two taps. Click.

 

Immediately—too immediately—Candy Apple’s voice crackled through with the intensity of a firework shoved in a teacup.

 

“WHERE ARE YOU, BLACK SAPPHIRE?!”

 

“Quiet!” he hissed, holding the mic close and glancing quickly toward the bedroom. “I’m at Silverbell’s.”

 

A beat of stunned silence.

 

Then: "…You’re what?!”

 

He winced, already regretting this. “He’s sleeping,” he muttered, voice sharp but low. “You’re going to wake him up—”

 

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” she snapped, “let me just AHEM turn down the volume of my betrayal! You’re sleeping at the Faerie Kingdom now?! What are you, a live-in spy or a houseguest in denial?!”

 

“I didn’t say I was staying forever,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Just one night.”

 

“One night turns into a week and then suddenly you’re decorating your own shelf next to his bow rack.”

 

Black Sapphire scowled. “That’s not even a thing.”

 

Candy Apple’s voice dropped to a bitter, dramatic murmur. “You’re lucky Shadow Milk’s attention is still glued to the walking lantern— I mean his other half, otherwise we’d both be jam on the floor.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “You sound jealous.”

 

“I’m jealous of the peace and quiet I used to have before you caught feelings for your target.”

 

He leaned back in his chair, glancing again toward the bedroom door, quieter now. “…He’s not a target anymore.”

 

The silence on the other end was long. Then, softer—“So what is he?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Because he already knew.

 

“…I’ll check in later,” he said, tapping the mic twice and cutting the line before she could say anything else. The silence that followed didn’t feel like something to run from.

 

It just felt like morning.

 

Black Sapphire exhaled through his nose, the last traces of Candy Apple’s voice still echoing somewhere in the back of his skull. He stood slowly, stretching just enough to pop the stiffness from his shoulders.

 

Without a word, he held out his hand—and the eye-shaped microphone shimmered once before vanishing into his cloak with a soft flicker of magic. Hidden. Silent. Gone.

 

He glanced back toward the bedroom. Still quiet. Still sleeping.

 

Good.

 

With a deep breath, he made his way to the kitchen again and opened the cupboards, scanning through what Silverbell had in stock. It was surprisingly well-organized for someone who burned half of what he cooked. The ingredients were simple—vegetables, herbs, a few jars of spiced jelly base—and tucked behind a row of tea tins was a recipe scroll, creased and smudged from use.

 

Black Sapphire blinked. Jelly Stew. Comfort food. Messy, warm, oddly perfect.

 

He summoned a small flick of flame in his palm to heat the pot and began prepping.

 

The rhythm of cooking grounded him. Chop. Stir. Taste. Adjust. Just him and a recipe. The jelly stew slowly filled the cottage with the scent of sweet spice and simmering fruit. He tasted it once, raised a brow in approval, and stirred it slowly with practiced ease.

 

Halfway through, he caught himself humming. He stopped immediately, scowling into the pot like it had betrayed him. But… he didn’t stop cooking.

 

Black Sapphire ladled the jelly stew into two bowls, the warm, fragrant steam curling upward and filling the quiet space with the scent of sweet spice and softened root sugar. The stew had thickened just right—rich and syrupy, the kind that clung to a spoon and settled warm in the chest. Comfort food. The kind of thing you didn’t need to explain.

 

He set both bowls down on the table—one at his usual seat, the other across from it, placed just slightly off-center like he knew exactly where Silverbell liked to sit.

 

The table was small, but the moment felt… big. Bigger than he was ready for.

 

He leaned on the edge of the counter, watching the bowls for a moment longer than necessary. The spoon in one shifted slightly in the steam, tilting just so.

 

He wasn’t sure if Silverbell would even like jelly stew. But he was here. And this—whatever this was—felt more real than anything he'd held in weeks.

 

Quietly, he whispered to himself: “…You better like this.”

 

Then he turned toward the hall, walked to the edge of the doorway, and called softly— “Hey. Wake up. Breakfast’s ready.”

 

“Hmm? Breakfast?” Silverbell’s voice came groggy from the bedroom, thick with sleep and confusion. A few moments later, his footsteps padded softly down the hall, hair a little messier than usual, tunic slightly wrinkled.

 

He paused at the doorway, blinking toward the table. “You cooked. Again. In my kitchen.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t even look up from where he was adjusting the spoons. “Someone had to. Y'know? And that someone can't be you.”

 

Silverbell raised an eyebrow. “You know, most guests don’t break into a knight’s fridge and take over the stove.”

 

Black Sapphire finally looked at him, deadpan. “You burn soup.”

 

“I burned soup once—”

 

“You tried to boil sugar and started a small fire. In your tea kettle.”

 

“…Okay, fair.”

 

Black Sapphire pulled out a chair and gestured wordlessly. Silverbell sat, still blinking blearily at the food in front of him.

 

“You didn’t cook because you were hungry,” he said after a beat, eyes narrowing slightly in that too-observant way of his.

 

“No,” Black Sapphire admitted, settling across from him. “I cooked because I don’t trust your cooking.”

 

Silverbell snorted, shaking his head as he picked up the spoon. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

“And you’re welcome,” Black Sapphire replied, already starting on his own bowl.

 

The stew was warm. The silence was warm. They ate together—quietly at first.

 

The kind of quiet that wasn’t heavy, just… easy. A shared silence that didn’t demand anything more than presence.

 

Silverbell took a bite and blinked, surprised. Then another. “Okay… this is actually good.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look up. “Of course it is.”

 

“I was expecting something bitter. Sharp. A little moody.”

 

“You just described me, not the food.”

 

Silverbell laughed—tired and genuine. “Fair enough.”

 

They kept eating. Slow, steady spoons scraping gently against the bowls. The stew had a gentle sweetness to it, balanced with subtle heat—comforting, but not boring. Like something you'd only make for someone if you meant it.

 

The last few spoonfuls disappeared in comfortable silence, the kind that wrapped around the room like a blanket. Neither of them rushed. There was no need.  Only warmth is what they felt—of the stew, the kitchen, the moment.

 

Silverbell leaned back in his chair again, arms loosely folded across his chest, the tiniest curve still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always this domestic when you vanish for weeks and then reappear at someone’s doorstep?”

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow. “Only for knights with terrible kitchens and worse sleeping habits.”

 

Silverbell scoffed. “You really have a gift for compliments.”

 

“I could stop.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

That single word hung in the air—simple, but heavier than it sounded. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It was honest.

 

Black Sapphire glanced at him for a second longer than he meant to. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes softened, just a bit.

 

He stood up, gathering their empty bowls without a word, taking them to the sink and running cool water over them with practiced ease. Behind him, Silverbell stayed seated, watching him—not suspicious, Just present.

 

The last drops of stew swirled down the drain as Black Sapphire rinsed the bowls, sleeves pushed up just enough to avoid the splash of water. His movements were quiet, methodical, like he’d done this before in another life—maybe one less tangled, one with fewer lies.

 

Behind him, Silverbell hadn’t moved. His arms still folded, his gaze still steady. He hadn’t looked away once since that single word left his mouth.

 

Don’t.

 

Black Sapphire felt it settle in the room like dust in a sunbeam. He knew he couldn’t stay. Not yet.

 

The moment was soft, but the world wasn’t. There were still scripts waiting at the Spire. Still broadcasts. Still secrets. And eventually—Shadow Milk would notice.

 

He dried the bowls slowly, buying time he didn’t have. Then, finally, he turned around.

 

Silverbell was still watching him. Expecting something. Or maybe... just hoping.

 

“I have to go,” Moondrop said quietly. He didn’t dress it up. Didn’t offer excuses. Just the truth—or the closest version of it he could afford.

 

Silverbell’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t look surprised. “When?” he asked.

 

Moondrop glanced toward the window. The sky had gone pale blue, clouds streaked with silver. “Now.”

 

Silverbell nodded once. Slow. Measured. “You’ll come back?”

 

Black Sapphire’s gaze lingered on him—on the faint creases of concern near his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw, the quiet hope buried in the question.

 

“I will,” he said. It wasn’t a promise. But it was as close as he’d ever given anyone.

 

Silverbell leaned forward just slightly, resting his arms on the table. “Next time, you’re cooking dinner too.”

 

Moondrop gave a faint huff of a smile. “Fine. But I’m not eating your attempts at dessert.”

 

Silverbell grinned, just a little. “Deal.”

 

They didn’t hug this time. They didn’t need to. Moondrop then grabbed his cloak and head to the exit of Silverbell's house.

 

Just as Moondrop’s hand brushed the door handle, magic already gathering at his fingertips, Silverbell’s voice cut through the quiet.

 

“When you come back…”

 

Moondrop froze, shoulders tense, breath. He turned his head, just enough to see Silverbell stepping forward from the table—slow, measured, careful not to make it feel like a goodbye. 

 

Silverbell’s wings shifted behind him, a subtle flick of movement betraying everything he wasn’t saying.

 

“There’s a place I want to show you,” he said softly.

 

Moondrop tilted his head. “Another garden?”

 

Silverbell gave a small nod. “Sort of. It’s part of the Kingdom, but… it’s mine. It’s quiet. Old. No one really goes there.” He hesitated, eyes locked on Moondrop.

 

“I think you’d like it.”

 

Moondrop didn’t answer right away. The magic flickered faintly in his hand, pulsing like a heartbeat.

 

“…Then I’ll come back,” he said, voice lower now. “If only to see it.”

 

Silverbell gave the smallest smile. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he didn’t want to show too much. Like he didn’t want to make this harder.

 

But it was already hard.

 

Moondrop opened the door. The wind outside had cooled; faint leaves stirred on the step. He looked back one last time.

 

And then, without looking, he added: “Don’t burn anything while I’m gone.”

 

Silverbell’s answer came easily. “I’m saving that for dessert.”

 

And then Moondrop was gone.

 

Silverbell stood in the doorway a while longer, watching the space where he’d been. The house still smelled faintly of stew and spices. The warmth hadn’t left yet.And neither had the feeling.

 

He looked out at the sky beyond the trees, just past the edge of the clearing.

 

A garden waited. And now, so did he.

 

And only once the house was out of sight, down the path, and around the bend—only when he was alone under the arching trees, shielded by moonlight and shadows—did he reach into his coat, draw the mic from his side, and tap it twice to the earth.

 

A shimmer of dark magic flickered against the forest floor.

 

And then he was gone.

 

Back to the Spire. Back to his work. Back to the waiting.

 

The shimmer of lingering portal magic hadn’t even faded from the floor when the door to his room slammed open.

 

“YOU ARE FINALLY BACK!” Candy Apple’s voice hit the air like a lightning bolt in a jam jar, and Black Sapphire nearly jumped out of his coat.

 

“Shh—!” He snapped, turning sharply and waving both hands. “Remember—Shadow Milk doesn’t know.”

 

She stopped mid-stride, one hand still raised like she was about to dramatically throw something. “Oh. Right.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Right...”

 

Then, without missing a beat, she leaned in close, eyes wide and sparkling with unfiltered chaos.

 

“…Sooooo. How was your sleepover?” she asked, grinning like a cat with both the cream and the incriminating evidence.

 

Black Sapphire sighed like a thousand years had been added to his lifespan in one go.

 

“You called me,” he muttered, yanking off his gloves and tossing them onto the desk. “You know how it went.”

 

“Sure, but I want the in-person energy breakdown,” she said, plopping onto his chair backwards. “Did you hold hands under the moonlight? Make him breakfast? Whisper your sins into his perfectly sculpted wings?”

 

He stared at her. “I made stew,” he said flatly.

 

“Ooh. Domestic.” She waggled her eyebrows.

 

“I washed dishes.”

 

“That’s not a denial.”

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are insufferable.”

 

“And you are glowing,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at his face. “Like a lovesick firefly. Which is insane considering three weeks ago you were screaming into a pillow about being a fool.”

 

“I am still a fool,” he muttered. “I just… feel less like I’m drowning in it.”

 

She tilted her head, watching him. The teasing dulled just a little, replaced by something quieter, more knowing.

 

“So you’re really doing this, huh?”

 

He didn’t answer right away and looked over at the folded coat by his bed, still faintly carrying the scent of Silverbell’s house—cinnamon, fresh air, and something sharp and soft all at once.

 

“…Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I am.”

 

Candy Apple leaned her chin on the back of the chair and let out a long sigh. “Well. At least you’re not lying to yourself anymore.”

 

“Or to him.”

 

A beat passed.

 

“Shadow Milk’s gonna kill us when he finds out,” she added cheerfully.

 

“Then don’t let him find out,” Black Sapphire said dryly.

 

“Bold of you to assume I won’t hold this over your head forever.”

 

“I already assumed.”

 

Candy Apple smirked. “Good. Then we’re clear.”

 

And somehow, despite the looming consequences, the secrets still between them, and the strange new gravity forming in his chest—

 

Black Sapphire felt something unfamiliar settle inside him. Something like peace.

 

The knock came—sharp, precise, too quiet for most Cookies to hear.

 

Black Sapphire froze mid-sentence. Candy Apple, perched sideways on his bed with a half-eaten strawberry tart she’d somehow smuggled into the Spire, immediately tossed it behind a pillow.

 

The door opened before either of them could react.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stepped inside.

 

Tall. Cold. Cloaked in the scent of magic, ink, and ancient exhaustion. His eyes scanned the room once—one, two, three beats—and narrowed ever so slightly.

 

“…Both of you,” he said, monotone as ever. “Together. In here?”

 

“Good morning, Master~” Candy Apple sang, a little too fast, brushing invisible crumbs from her skirt with exaggerated grace. “We were just talking about… tarts!”

 

Black Sapphire, seated stiffly by his desk, gave her a side-glare so sharp it could cut stone.

 

Shadow Milk walked further in, his dark cloak trailing like liquid night across the floor. “Neither of you reported in this morning.”

 

“We weren’t assigned anything,” Black Sapphire replied smoothly, crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbow on the desk. Calm. Controlled. Not flustered.

 

Shadow Milk’s gaze flicked toward him. “Your shift started four hours ago.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“…There was interference on the portal network,” Black Sapphire lied instantly. “Residual magic. Took longer to stabilize.”

 

Shadow Milk blinked once. “And you didn’t report that?”

 

“I’m reporting it now,” he replied flatly.

 

Candy Apple popped a lollipop into her mouth with an audible click. “Could’ve been worse. He could’ve overslept.”

 

“Don’t be absurd,” Shadow Milk muttered, eyes scanning the room again—briefly resting on the coat draped neatly by the door, then the still-warm tea on the desk. His fingers twitched once.

 

For a moment, it looked like he might say something.

 

Then he blinked, slow and deliberate, and simply said, “…Keep the portal logs clean. I don’t want unexplained jumps triggering alarms.”

 

“Of course,” Black Sapphire replied.

 

“And your next broadcast needs to refocus on Crispia. Keep them wondering. Delay their clarity.”

 

“Already scripted,” he said, tapping a small stack of scrolls by his elbow.

 

Shadow Milk turned to leave, but paused at the door. “You seem… lighter,” he said slowly, as if testing the word. “Something change?”

 

Black Sapphire’s stomach twisted—but his face didn’t move. “…No,” he said. “Just focused.”

 

Shadow Milk studied him for a beat longer, then gave a disinterested wave of his hand and vanished into the hall, shadows slipping behind him like mist.

 

The moment the door clicked shut, Candy Apple exhaled hard and collapsed back onto the bed.

 

“He almost smelled the feelings on you,” she whispered.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t reply. He was staring straight ahead, expression unreadable. “…But he didn’t,” he said after a pause. “He never will.”

 

Candy Apple grinned. “Guess we’re still alive, then.”

 

“For now.”

 

And still—despite the risk, the close call, the secret he’d nearly carried into Shadow Milk’s shadow—

 

Black Sapphire let himself exhale. Because it was worth it.

 

 

---

 

 

The Faerie Kingdom’s upper gardens were quiet in the morning. The light filtered through layers of silverleaf trees and painted the marble paths in soft gold. The scent of dew still clung to the air, and above it all stood the luminous white spires of the Queen’s chambers—tall, elegant, and still.

 

Silverbell walked with steadier steps than he had in weeks.

 

He hadn’t realized how heavy everything had become until Moondrop showed up again—suddenly, without warning, like he always did. And just as suddenly, the weight had shifted. He felt lighter now. Not completely healed, but no longer stuck in the ache of silence and wondering.

 

He was still tired—but not worn.

 

And today, he wasn’t here on assignment. He wasn’t guarding anyone. He wasn’t tracking threats. He was here because she cared.

 

Because White Lily Cookie noticed.

 

The massive doors to her garden chamber stood open when he arrived. He paused, as always, just outside the white arch, waiting to be acknowledged.

 

“Come in, Silverbell,” her voice called gently from within, as if she’d known he was approaching before he did.

 

He stepped in.

 

White Lily Cookie was tending to a row of lightbloom flowers—petals that shimmered faintly with soft energy. Her presence, always serene, always warm, turned toward him with an expectant smile.

 

“You look better,” she said softly.

 

“So I’ve been told,” Silverbell replied, offering a respectful nod.

 

She rose to her full height, brushing glowing pollen from her gloves. “Mecurial Knight mentioned you’d seemed distant. Burdened.”

 

“I was.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m not anymore. Or—less so.”

 

She tilted her head, studying him the way only someone with centuries of compassion behind her eyes could.

 

“I take it your friend returned.”

 

He looked down, then smiled faintly. “He did.”

 

“And is he still a mystery?”

 

“Absolutely.” His smile deepened, quiet and fond. “But I think… I’m learning to let that be okay. For now.”

 

White Lily Cookie walked to the small stone bench near the garden’s edge, gesturing for him to join her. He sat beside her, the sunlight warming his armor.

 

“You know,” she said, “when Cookies try to hide from truth, it weighs heavier than most lies.”

 

“I know.”

 

“But when they carry it with intention, when they hold it gently, sometimes… it becomes something else. Something like grace.”

 

Silverbell turned toward her, brow furrowed. “Do you think I’m being foolish?”

 

She smiled without judgment. “I think you’re being brave. And perhaps… patient. That’s rarer.”

 

He nodded slowly. “I don’t know where this is going. I don’t even know if he does.”

 

“But you want to find out.”

 

“…I do.”

 

She reached out, placing a hand gently over his gauntlet. “Then let your heart guide you—but keep your eyes open.”

 

He didn’t answer right away.

 

White Lily Cookie was silent for a time, simply tending to the glowing blooms beside her with a kind of patience that made time feel irrelevant.

 

Then, softly—without turning to look at him—she asked: “Do you love him?”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer at first. Not because he was startled—but because he had answered that question before. To himself. Quietly. In the forest. In the silence he’d sat with for weeks after Moondrop vanished.

 

“Yes,” he said finally. “I do.” The word felt calm coming out. True.

 

White Lily’s hand paused over the blossom she was watering, and she turned her gaze toward him—warm, focused. "But?”

 

Silverbell looked down at his hands, folded over one knee. “I accepted it. I didn’t fight it. I waited for him, even when I didn’t know if he was coming back.”

 

A pause.

 

“I just don’t know what to do with it.”

 

White Lily Cookie gave the faintest smile, one full of understanding rather than pity.

 

“You’ve spent your whole life learning how to guard, how to serve, how to fight. But no one ever taught you how to feel safely, did they?”

 

He exhaled a slow, controlled breath. “No.”

 

“There’s no right answer to that, Silverbell. No duty-bound path to follow.”

 

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

 

She turned to him fully now, voice gentle but clear. “You let it grow. You let yourself be seen. You speak, not because you need to defend your heart, but because it wants to be heard.”

 

Silverbell looked at her, the ache in his chest suddenly very quiet. Not gone—just… acknowledged.

 

“What if I’m not ready?” he asked.

 

White Lily Cookie smiled softly. “Then you wait. And if he’s the right one, he’ll wait with you.”

 

White Lily Cookie’s gaze lingered on Silverbell, thoughtful and unpressing. The garden air shimmered faintly around her, touched by the soft aura she carried—something ancient, kind, and quiet. She didn’t speak right away, allowing the moment to breathe.

 

Then, her voice came low and warm:

 

“You know… when I loved, I did so believing I understood what it meant. Trust, kindness, even sacrifice. But love, real love… it doesn’t come with clarity. It comes with questions.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes flicked toward her, quiet and still.

 

She continued, kneeling again by the flowerbed, gently trimming the edges of a bloom glowing faintly with light.

 

“It makes you uncertain. It humbles you. And sometimes, it asks you to wait without knowing what comes next. That doesn’t make it weak.”

 

Silverbell shifted slightly in his seat, fingers tightening loosely around his wrist.

 

“It’s strange,” he said, “how something so quiet can shake everything.”

 

White Lily looked up at him then, meeting his eyes.

 

“That means your heart is still alive,” she said. “That it hasn’t been buried under duty or fear. It means you’re still capable of choosing something—someone—not because you have to… but because you want to.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer right away. The wind tugged softly at the edges of his cape. For a moment, he simply watched the petals sway in the garden light.

 

“…He still hasn’t told me the full truth,” he admitted. “I don’t know who he really is.”

 

“And yet you waited,” she said gently. “That is love, too.”

 

“I don’t know how long I can keep doing it.”

 

White Lily stood slowly, her white robes catching the light. She looked down at him not as a queen, but as someone who knew the ache of waiting all too well.

 

“You don’t have to wait in silence,” she said. “You’re allowed to ask him to meet you halfway.”

 

Silverbell looked up at her. The thought sat heavy on his chest—but it didn’t feel wrong.

 

“And if he can’t?”

 

White Lily’s expression softened into something almost mournful. “Then let him go with kindness. But not before giving him the chance.”

 

Silverbell nodded, slowly. As if deciding something within himself, but quietly.

 

“…Thank you,” he said at last.

 

She reached out and rested a hand over his shoulder. “When the time comes, Silverbell… speak honestly. And listen just as deeply. That is all love ever really asks of us.”

 

White Lily Cookie paused at the edge of her flowerbed.

 

She didn’t turn immediately. Instead, she lowered the watering vessel in her hands, fingers curling loosely around its handle as though weighing his question against the silence.

 

Then, softly: “If he chooses loyalty… then it means he’s afraid.”

 

Silverbell’s breath caught, just a little. She turned to face him again, her expression unreadable—but never cold.

 

“Loyalty, in its purest form, is beautiful,” she said. “But it can also be a chain. One forged from debt, fear, or obligation. Sometimes, Cookies mistake it for love—because it’s easier to be bound than to be vulnerable.”

 

She took a few steps toward him, her presence radiant but never overwhelming.

 

“If he chooses that path… you must let him. Even if it hurts. Because love cannot survive where choice does not.”

 

Silverbell swallowed hard. His eyes dropped to the stone beneath his boots.

 

“I don’t want to be his weakness,” he murmured.

 

“You’re not,” White Lily replied. “You are his mirror. The part of him that makes him look at himself. And that is far more frightening than any master he’s loyal to.”

 

Silence fell again, but this time it felt heavier. Then her voice, softer now, almost like a memory: “If he walks away… let him go with love in your heart, not bitterness. That is how you protect what was real between you. Even if it was brief.”

 

Silverbell nodded slowly, jaw tight.

 

As the last of White Lily Cookie’s words settled into the garden like drifting petals, the soft clink of armor echoed gently from beyond the marble arch.

 

Silverbell didn’t need to look up.

 

“I figured you’d show up,” he said quietly.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie stepped into the light, his silver-lined cloak catching the breeze, helmet tucked under one arm. He moved with practiced grace—always composed, always alert—but his gaze softened the moment he saw Silverbell.

 

“You’ve been harder to find lately,” he said, voice even but not accusing. “Almost like you’re dodging patrol reports.”

 

Silverbell managed a half-smile. “I’ve had a lot to think about.”

 

Mercurial’s eyes flicked briefly to White Lily Cookie, who offered him a kind nod before retreating a few steps to tend to the far blossoms—still present, but allowing space.

 

Mercurial turned back to Silverbell, crossing his arms. “You look... better.”

 

“I’ve been told,” Silverbell replied. “Several times.”

 

“You mean he came back.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer immediately. He just nodded.

 

Mercurial stepped closer, his tone shifting low. “So what now?”

 

Silverbell took a breath. “I don’t know. He hasn’t told me the truth. Not all of it.”

 

“But you still let him in,” Mercurial said, not harshly. “You still feel it.”

 

Silverbell didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

 

“I’d wait for him again if I had to,” he admitted. “But I’m starting to think… maybe I don’t have to keep waiting in silence.”

 

Mercurial studied him a moment, then gave a small nod of approval.

 

“I hope he’s worth all this,” he said.

 

Silverbell looked up at the bright sky beyond the treetops. The wind stirred the leaves above. Somewhere far off, bells chimed.

 

“…So do I,” he murmured.

 

Mercurial didn’t press him further. He didn’t need to. Instead, he stepped back, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

 

“If you ever need backup—emotional or otherwise—you know where to find me.”

 

Silverbell allowed himself a real smile. “You’ll be the first I call.”

 

And just like that, Mercurial Knight nodded once, gave a small bow to White Lily Cookie, and turned to leave, his armor catching the morning light like starlight on steel.

 

Silverbell stayed behind, gaze steady, heart a little quieter now. Still unsure. Still afraid. But ready. For answers. Or the pain he might bring.

 

White Lily Cookie returned to her place among the glowing blossoms, the sunlight catching the edges of her robes as she gently adjusted a bloom too heavy to hold itself up.

 

Then, without looking up, she spoke again—soft, like the thought had just brushed her mind.

 

“They say the skies will be clear tonight. Perfect for seeing the shooting stars.”

 

Silverbell turned his head slightly. “Shooting stars?”

 

She nodded faintly. “A rare drift—only once every few years. They pass near the Faerie Kingdom when the spring skies shift. It’s said if you catch one in silence… what you carry in your heart will find its path.”

 

Silverbell’s breath hitched, barely. “…I’ve never seen them.”

 

White Lily finally looked at him, her expression gentle. “Then maybe it’s time.”

 

He blinked, mind already pulling the pieces together—memories, possibilities, hopes he hadn’t allowed himself to speak aloud. His pulse picked up, not with fear this time… but with clarity.

 

He stood slowly, brushing his hands along the crease of his tunic. “I think I know who I want to watch them with,” he said.

 

White Lily didn’t ask. She simply smiled. “Then go.”

 

And with that, Silverbell turned toward the arch of the garden gates, the air behind him already shimmering with purpose.

 

 

---

 

 

Black Sapphire Cookie slipped out of the broadcasting chamber with the practiced calm of someone who’d worn too many masks for too long. His shift was over. The lines were read, the rumors woven, the tone just right—never too sharp, never too soft. The studio lights dimmed behind him with a faint hum as the magic sealed off the space.

 

Another lie delivered. Another mission thread pulled tight. But he barely felt it anymore.

 

He walked the halls of the Spire alone, the silence more welcome than usual. He didn’t head straight to his room. Just wandered, cloak whispering against the cold stone floor, steps unhurried.

 

Candy Apple found him like she always did—without warning.

 

She popped into his path from a side corridor with that familiar little smirk like she’d been waiting for hours just to say one thing.

 

“Shift sounded good,” she said, casually walking beside him. “Shadow Milk still laughing over that latest Truthless Recluse line. You’re a menace.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer.

 

She waited a beat, then leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper with the kind of mischief only she could carry without completely giving herself away.

 

“Shooting stars tonight,” she murmured, just loud enough for him to catch. “They pass over the Faerie Kingdom this time of year. Trust me. I’ve seen them.”

 

Black Sapphire’s stride didn’t falter. But his eyes flicked toward her.

 

She grinned wider. “You gonna fly out again, stargazer?”

 

He didn’t reply. Didn’t give her the satisfaction. But she could see the slight shift in his posture—the hesitation. The weight. The decision is beginning to form.

 

“I wasn’t planning anything,” he said, finally.

 

She tapped the side of her head. “You never do. That’s the problem.”

 

And then she walked off, twirling her lollipop like a compass that only pointed toward trouble. Black Sapphire stood still at the edge of the hallway, her words curling around him like smoke.

 

Shooting stars. Over the Faerie Kingdom.

 

He glanced toward the sky beyond the tower’s windows. Maybe one more visit wouldn’t hurt.

 

 

 

Notes:

OMGOMGOMG AFTER THIS IS MY FAVORITE CHAPTER AAAAAA IM SO EXCITED TO POST IT. MONDAY. I WILL POST IT ON MONDAY AAAA JSKSDJSJSKSKDJXK

 

so why did I post this chapter early?

(I need help especially with shadow milk, if sm1 (pls) is willing to help feel free to chat me on my art acc. I will spoil some of the chapters for context. I need it for the ending... I had a hard time writing the other beasts and maybe some of the ancients.. thankyou if sm1 ever chats wahahshs)

Chapter 12: XI

Notes:

hehehe here it is!!

 

enjoy the fluffy chapter :)) (its so hard to write fluff but I loved the outcome, I hope you guys feel the same)

 

 

The portal shimmered softly behind him as Moondrop Faerie Cookie stepped onto the quiet stone path outside Silverbell’s home, the last light of the sun casting deep amber streaks across the sky. Twilight was painting the Faerie Kingdom in its gentlest colors, and he fit right into it—like he belonged to the dusk itself.

 

The world felt quieter here. Not empty, but patient. The kind of stillness that settled in just after a melody finished, or just before one began. The air was warm with the last breath of the sun, edged with the cool promise of evening. Fireflies drifted lazily between the high blooms and hedge arches, blinking slow golden rhythms in the hush.

 

Moondrop didn’t move for a moment. He just stood there, the portal sighing shut behind him, letting his eyes drink in the quiet curve of the path, the ivy-laced trellis above Silverbell’s door, the faint shimmer of protective magic woven through the flowerbeds. Everything about this place was carefully tended, yet nothing about it felt guarded. It wasn’t a fortress. It was a home. A place someone returned to. A place someone could be missed from.

 

That realization landed heavier than he expected.

 

Moondrop let out a soft exhale. Not the usual dramatic one. Just slow, like he was making room for something else to settle in his chest. He took a step forward—then another—boots barely whispering against the stones. Each movement was deliberate. Measured. He wasn’t rushing anyway. 

 

The wind was soft at his back, brushing against him with the barest suggestion of welcome, tugging at the edge of the fabric that shimmered faintly along his shoulder. Petal-lanterns, already starting to flicker to life above the windows, cast arcs of pale silver and green across the path, catching faint glints in the strands of his hair, which fell loose tonight in soft waves down his back. 

 

He hadn’t dressed for function. He hadn’t dressed for disguise. He was here for a reason—and this time, he wasn't pretending it was business. This visit didn’t come with messages tucked in scroll tubes or coded phrases folded into casual chatter. This wasn’t an assignment. It wasn’t reconnaissance. It was a risk. He looked up at the door ahead—the one he’d stepped through a dozen times before, but always under some mask or another. Always as someone useful. A courier. A guide. A companion for the next mission.

 

Tonight he came with nothing to carry but his own presence—hope that it might be enough.

 

A breeze stirred, curling around him as if to test the edge of his resolve, brushing gently at the shape of him standing in the open like a word just waiting to be said. And that was the point. This time, he wasn’t dressed like a field informant or a traveling merchant. No cloak, no stray leaves caught on his sleeves.

 

Tonight, he meant to be seen.

 

His outfit was striking: a deep violet blouse with a soft sheen under the light, high-necked with subtle ruffles at the collar and cuffs that flared like blooming petals. Over it, a black fitted waistcoat cinched his form cleanly, marked by two polished buttons that gleamed silver. Draped across one shoulder was a half-cape, sheer and adorned with trailing strands of beaded black fringe—delicate, but dramatic, catching the breeze with every movement.

 

It wasn’t loud. But it was deliberate. Elegant. Refined. A whisper of shadow and starlight. He wasn’t dressed like Moondrop, he was dressed more like him. Like he was taking someone somewhere important —but only if that someone noticed. He exhaled quietly, once. Then raised his hand and knocked.

 

Once. Twice. And waited.

 

The sky above deepened to a rich violet. The first star appeared. He didn’t say anything through the door. He didn’t need to. Tonight would speak for itself. The door creaked open just as the first stars peeked through the twilight sky—and Moondrop found himself pausing, almost stunned.

 

Silverbell stood there, dressed not in armor or training gear, but in something far more refined—something that shimmered faintly in the fading light, like moonlight caught in silk.

 

His outfit was a vision of ivory and silver: a tailored, satin-textured suit adorned with intricate embroidery along the cuffs and lapels—floral and regal, as if plucked straight from royal tailoring. The cravat at his collar was a soft cascade of cream silk, knotted neatly beneath a brooch shaped like a blooming lily. Silver thread traced subtle patterns along the edges of his jacket, and a delicate pin—perhaps a gift or family crest—rested near the lapel.

 

Around his waist, a wide sash tied the look together—embroidered in bold black and silver filigree, cinching his form with quiet elegance. The entire ensemble was formal, polished, and impossibly pristine. Yet he wore it without stiffness—like it was made for him. They stared at each other for a long second. Neither had said a word.

 

And then Moondrop gave the faintest smile. “Huh…we didn’t plan this together.”

 

Silverbell blinked once, then smiled back—slightly more crooked, amused and warm. “Well, I suppose maybe great minds do think alike.” Silverbell stepped out and gently closed the door behind him, the quiet click almost lost beneath the soft chirr of evening insects. He looked at Moondrop, eyes catching the violet gleam of his outfit in the starlight, and tilted his head slightly with that same quiet conviction he carried in battle.

 

“There’s a garden I mentioned once,” he said, voice low. “The one that only blooms under starlight. I thought… we could go.” He didn’t say that this was a date. But it was clear in the way he said we.

 

Moondrop—no, Black Sapphire behind the disguise—arched a brow slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t the polished, measured smile he wore for the Spire. It was something looser. Unfiltered. Closer to the truth. “Well,” he said, stepping forward so that their shoulders brushed. “If you’re trying to impress me, you’re doing a terrible job.”

 

Silverbell gave him a look.

 

Moondrop’s grin widened, teasing and soft all at once. “Terrible, because I’m already very impressed.”

 

A faint breath of laughter escaped Silverbell—short, genuine, a little surprised. He looked down for just a moment, trying to hide it. Moondrop saw anyway. They began walking, the path winding gently through moonlit grass and between glowing flowers that swayed with the breeze. A few steps in, Moondrop’s hand shifted, brushing lightly against Silverbell’s. He waited. Silverbell glanced sideways.

 

Then Moondrop asked, voice quiet, real this time: “Can I?” There was no hesitation in his voice.

 

Silverbell nodded.

 

Their hands met—fingers curling together, tentative at first, then firm. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. It was just… simple. Right. The night air moved softly around them. Stars streaked the sky in delicate arcs. Flowers whispered in their sleep. The path to the starlit garden curved gently through low, blooming hedges and moon-glowing flowers, the night wrapping around them like a velvet cloak. Crickets sang quietly in the background, but Moondrop wasn’t paying them any attention.

 

No—he was looking at him.

 

At Silverbell, walking beside him in that silver-embroidered suit that looked like it was commissioned by a constellation itself, their hands still loosely intertwined. The light hit him just right, setting the silk aglow and turning every motion into poetry. The cravat framed his face like a portrait. And those eyes—focused, but soft tonight—caught starlight like glass.

 

Moondrop’s gaze dropped, then lifted again. Slow. Appreciative. “...You know,” he said, with a voice that could melt steel, “it is deeply unfair that you look like this and didn’t warn me.”

 

Silverbell raised a brow, curious. “Like what?”

 

“Like a noble fae stepped out of a dream and decided to ruin my composure on purpose.”

 

Silverbell blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh.

 

Moondrop’s grin widened. “Oh, don’t laugh at me,” he said, stepping a little closer, his voice lowering like a secret passed between shadows. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you put that on tonight.”

 

Silverbell arched an eyebrow. “Did I?”

 

“You did,” Moondrop replied, all velvet confidence now, circling just enough to get a better view. “That cut? That fabric? The way your sleeves catch the light when you move— oh please. That’s not an outfit. That’s a trap. ”

 

Silverbell gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you saying I’m luring you into something?”

 

“I’m saying you’re succeeding.” Moondrop’s tone was smooth, dangerous in that soft, intentional way that felt more like a caress than a compliment. “I’ve survived snowy mountains, creepy forests, and cake monsters—and you’re the one bringing me to my knees in formalwear.”

 

“You’re being dramatic .”

 

“I’m being honest, ” Moondrop said, placing a hand theatrically over his chest. “Do you know how hard it is to think in coherent sentences when you look like that? ”

 

Silverbell gave a quiet snort, clearly trying to bite back a real laugh.

 

Moondrop leaned in just slightly, squeezing his hand. “And this suit? The embroidery, the sash, the cravat—Stars, Silverbell , you’re going to give the moon a complex.”

 

“Flattery suits you,” Silverbell said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice and failing spectacularly.

 

“And suits you , evidently,” Moondrop said, voice dropping an octave as he gave him a slow once-over. “I might actually lose my mind if you smile at me like that again.”

 

Silverbell immediately smiled like that again.

 

Moondrop faltered. Hard. “You—!” he sputtered.

 

Silverbell stopped walking, turning to face him fully. His smile was slow and thoroughly smug. “You’re blushing .”

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“You definitely are.”

 

“I don’t blush,” Moondrop muttered, refusing to meet his gaze. “I—overheated. Fabric’s heavy. Tailoring’s too—efficient.”

 

Silverbell leaned in slightly, voice low and warm. “You’re cute when you forget how to flirt back.”

 

Moondrop groaned and covered his face with his free hand. “I’m going to jump into the nearest pond.”

 

“You’re still holding my hand.”

 

“I will drag you with me. ”

 

Silverbell raised an eyebrow, their fingers still laced together. “So dramatic,” he said. “You wear starlight like a second skin, but one compliment and you’re ready to drown yourself?”

 

Moondrop peeked out from behind his hand, sulking. “It was not one compliment. It was an ambush. A targeted strike.”

 

“Was it?” Silverbell tilted his head, stepping closer. “Because I haven’t even started.”

 

Moondrop blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”

 

“You think I didn’t notice?” Silverbell asked, gaze sliding down deliberately. “That violet blouse, the silver buttons, that absurdly pretty half-cape. Honestly, you look like someone painted in moonlight. Did you really expect me not to stare?”

 

Moondrop made a strangled sound. “You’re using my own tactics against me.”

 

“Is it working?”

 

“Unfortunately,” he muttered.

 

Silverbell smirked. “I figured. You started stammering two compliments ago.”

 

“That’s it,” Moondrop said with mock severity, turning like he meant to storm off. “This is slander. I am composed. I am effortless. I am—”

 

“Blushing again?”

 

“Oh my stars,” Moondrop hissed, pressing his palms to his cheeks like that would somehow erase the heat there. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

 

“Oh, I can.” Silverbell stepped in again, close enough for his voice to drop low. “I’ve been waiting for a chance.”

 

Moondrop narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been plotting this?”

 

“Let’s just say I’ve been… pretty observant.”

 

Moondrop looked halfway scandalized and halfway completely in love with the whole thing. “I should’ve known you were dangerous.”

 

“You did know.” Silverbell’s smile was all calm satisfaction now. “You just thought you could handle it.”

 

They stared at each other for a beat—one flustered, one amused, and both entirely too aware of how close they were standing.

 

They both laughed then—one breathless, one entirely too pleased—and just like that, the nerves melted into something softer. Something steady. Something that didn’t need pretending. The stars began to streak across the sky above them, one by one. But for a while, neither of them looked up. They were too busy looking at each other. The path opened into a quiet clearing—a hidden bloom of the Faerie Kingdom that seemed untouched by time or sound. The grass beneath their feet turned velvet-soft, speckled with glowing moss and tiny blossoms that shimmered gently under the moonlight.

 

At the center of the garden was a small lake, so still it looked like a perfect pane of glass. It reflected everything—the sky, the stars, and now them—two silhouettes standing at its edge. The garden wrapped around them, lush with faerie flora in full nocturnal bloom. Pale moonlotus drifted on the water’s edge. Petal-lanterns glowed from twisted branches overhead. And growing right near the lake were clusters of familiar bell-shaped blossoms— silverbells , swaying gently in the night air.

 

Moondrop let out a quiet breath.

 

“This place…” he whispered, eyes wide with genuine awe. “It’s like something out of a dream.”

 

Silverbell gave a small nod, letting go of his hand only to kneel by the water, brushing his fingers just barely along the surface. The ripples caught the starlight and scattered it like silver dust.

 

“I told you it only wakes under starlight,” he said, glancing up with a soft smile. “Most nights, no one’s here. It stays quiet. Still. I used to come here alone.”

 

A soft flutter stirred the air.

 

Silverbell looked up as they began to appear—first one, then a dozen, then countless more, drifting into the clearing like the night itself was exhaling light.

 

Butterflies. Not ordinary ones.

 

These were the fae-born kind—creatures of shimmer and starlight, seen only within the heart of the Faerie Kingdom, and only when the veil between wonder and reality wore thin. Their wings glowed with a pale luminescence, each motion trailing silver threads through the dark. They moved without sound, without hurry, circling gently around the lake, the flowers, and the two figures standing at its edge.

 

One landed lightly on a petal-lantern above them. Another hovered near Silverbell’s shoulder before gliding away like a blessing unspoken.

 

Moondrop watched in reverent silence. They were surrounded. Not trapped—but held. As if the night had chosen to cradle them in beauty, and the garden was breathing with them, alive in quiet celebration.

 

Silverbell remained kneeling at the grass, without taking his eyes from the butterflies now dancing across the lake’s surface. The glow from their wings reflected in his eyes, softening every edge in his face, turning him into something almost mythical.

 

He didn’t speak.

 

Moondrop was still watching him, and somehow, that said more than words.

Moondrop knelt beside him, cloak folding like ink into the grass. His eyes wandered from the lake to Silverbell, then lingered.

 

“…It suits you,” he said, tone quieter now. “This garden. This whole night. I don’t know if you brought me here to confess something or to knock me speechless—but you’re succeeding at both.”

 

Silverbell turned his head, eyes catching Moondrop’s reflection in the water. “Maybe both,” he said softly. “But I just wanted to be here with you .”

 

The clearing was quiet but alive in that way only magic places are—where silence wasn’t emptiness, but fullness, like the land itself was holding its breath.

 

Moondrop stood slowly, offering his hand with a slight, crooked grin. “You said once you wondered what a royal ball would be like,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Well… I’ve been to a few. And I may have stolen a few steps along the way.”

 

Silverbell looked up, brow raised, but his lips twitched like he already knew what was coming.

 

“This might not be the Hollyberry Castle,” Moondrop added, “but trust me—this is the better view.”

 

Silverbell hesitated only for a heartbeat, then placed his hand in Moondrop’s. It fits. Perfectly.

 

He brought Silverbell’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. Silverbell turned his head slightly, cheeks blooming red.

 

Then, Moondrop pulled him gently to his feet, one arm at his waist, the other still holding his hand. The first steps were slow, uncertain—but not clumsy. The way moonlight pooled at their feet made it feel like they were stepping through stardust.

 

The glowing moss shifted under them with each move, reacting gently to their rhythm, and the soft petal-lanterns above began to sway in time.

Silverbell let out the barest laugh—small, real.

 

Moondrop caught the sound like a gift. His grip didn’t tighten, didn’t falter, just shifted slightly—more secure, more assured—as he guided them forward through the luminous clearing.

 

“You’ve done this before,” he murmured, surprised.

 

“I told you,” Moondrop said, eyes warm, “I pay attention. Especially when I want to impress someone.”

 

He twirled him gently, and Silverbell didn’t resist. They moved around the lake, weightless on the grass, surrounded by glowing flowers and mirrored stars.

 

Their steps wove across the velvet-soft moss in an easy rhythm, unhurried. The grass whispered beneath their feet, touched with light. With every movement, the glowing moss shifted in delicate pulses—like breath, like heartbeats—responding to their presence. A waltz written in luminescence and intention.

 

The petal-lanterns above began to sway gently in time with them, trailing soft strands of light through the dark, like the stars themselves were nodding along.

 

Moondrop spun Silverbell again, just once, slow and wide. Silverbell followed without hesitation, the motion drawing a half-circle of light around them both.

 

Neither spoke at the moment.

 

The air around them shimmered—with something softer. The kind of magic that lingered in old ballads and half-remembered dreams. It wrapped around their legs and shoulders like a cloak. It turned every shift of weight, every glance, into something meaningful.

 

Silverbell’s expression softened, the edges of his form glowing faintly in the moonlight. He moved with quiet confidence, completely unguarded. His free hand drifted up, resting briefly over Moondrop’s heart, like he was anchoring them both.

 

And Moondrop… Moondrop let him.

 

They circled the lake’s edge once more, feet nearly skimming the ground now, breath rising in tandem with their steps.

 

And then—

 

Moondrop’s wings flared, slow and steady. He didn’t say anything. Just met Silverbell’s eyes with a spark of wordless intent.

 

Silverbell’s own wings lifted in response, shimmering in the moonlight. They rose together, caught in a windless ascent, the world growing smaller beneath them as the sky grew closer. The lake reflected their figures perfectly as they lifted higher—two silhouettes turning midair, drawn to each other like gravity had been rewritten.

 

And then they danced. It was a true, quiet waltz in the sky.

 

They danced—slow at first, careful, the way one does when moving through something sacred. The air held them like water might hold light, every motion softened, every turn drawn out by wings and breath and gravity rewritten.

 

There was no audience but the stars. No music but the hush of wind through feathers and the faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of magic brushing along their skin.

 

Moondrop’s hand remained steady at Silverbell’s back, guiding without pressing. Silverbell followed without question, their movements synchronizing like they'd done this for years.

 

They hadn't. But it felt like they had.

 

Each step, each shift in the air between them, was quiet and certain—like a memory rediscovered rather than a moment newly lived.

 

They passed through a trail of drifting blossoms that had lifted on the air with them, petals caught in the unseen currents stirred by their wings. A few brushed against Silverbell’s hair. One landed briefly on Moondrop’s shoulder before being carried away.

 

There were no clever words left between them now—only the rhythm of the dance, the silent promise in their hands, and the breath they kept close between them.

 

Silverbell leaned in just slightly, not enough to close the distance, but enough to say he could. Moondrop didn’t push. Didn’t rush.

 

He simply turned them again, higher still, until the trees were shadows and the lake below no longer looked like water, but a second sky.

 

Above, the stars wheeled around them in slow arcs.nAround them, the sky held its breath. And below— The lake reflected everything.

 

The moon watched, glowing larger and lower than it had all season, casting silver light across their faces as they spun. Below, the lake held their reflection. Above, the stars scattered like notes in a song only they could hear.

 

Silverbell’s hand tightened around Moondrop’s just slightly.

 

“I’ve never danced like this before,” he said softly.

 

Moondrop smiled. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

The air around them shimmered, soft with moonlight and magic. Their wings moved in tandem, slow and sure, catching the faintest of currents. There was no music but the hush of the wind, the rustle of petals far below, and the steady rhythm of their breath—quiet, close, shared.

 

Moondrop’s hand guided Silverbell through another turn, their fingers never breaking apart. His smile was relaxed now,  the kind of expression that only surfaced when he wasn’t thinking too hard.

 

Silverbell moved without hesitation. Moondrop’s hand in his, steady and real. For once, he didn’t have to lead. He didn’t have to aim. He just had to be.

 

The moon above curved higher, a glowing witness to the flight-dance unfolding beneath it. They rose a little more.

 

Moondrop caught Silverbell’s eye and whispered, “Ready?”

 

“For what?”

 

But Moondrop didn’t answer. He spun them both, wings flaring wide—pulling Silverbell into a slow spiral, graceful and fluid. They twirled higher through the cool night air, the stars shifting behind them in long arcs, until the clearing was nothing but a patch of glowing green far, far below.

 

Silverbell laughed. Actually laughed—loud, surprised, full. It startled even him.

 

Moondrop felt the sound ripple through him like warm thunder. It lodged in his chest, blooming. There was nothing guarded in it—no calculation, no poise. Just joy.

 

He couldn't help it.

 

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from Silverbell’s face, the motion gentle and thoughtless. His fingers lingered for just a breath longer than they needed to.

 

“That laugh,” he murmured. “I think I’d do a great many ridiculous things just to hear it again.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head slightly, eyes soft. “You already do.”

 

Moondrop chuckled, low and a little breathless. “Well. Good to know it’s working.”

 

They hovered for a moment longer, caught in a weightless pause, the air cool and still around them. Moondrop shifted closer, just enough that their foreheads touched.

 

“I wish I could stay here forever,” he said.

 

Silverbell closed his eyes briefly, leaning into the touch. “Then stay a little longer.”

 

The wind carried them gently downward, a slow drift like a falling feather, until their boots touched grass again. But the magic hadn’t faded. It clung to the air around them—thick, luminous, fragile.

 

They didn’t break apart.

 

Instead, Moondrop stepped behind him, wrapping his arms around Silverbell’s waist from behind. His chin came to rest lightly on Silverbell’s shoulder.

 

“You know what’s dangerous?” he whispered.

 

Silverbell let out a quiet hum. “What?”

 

“This. You. Me. Like this.” Moondrop's voice was quieter now, like he was confessing to the air. “I’ve worn a hundred names. But I only ever feel real when I’m with you.”

 

Silverbell didn’t speak for a moment. Then, softly: “Then let this be the name you wear tonight.”

 

Moondrop's arms tightened around him.

 

They stood like that for a while—silent, still, pressed together beneath the swaying petal-lanterns. The lake shimmered beside them, untouched. Their shadows mingled across its surface.

 

Finally, Silverbell turned in his arms. Face to face.

 

They floated there, midair again—barely above the trees, just below the stars. The moon hung behind them like a breath held in the heavens, casting their shadows long and silver across the sky.

 

The world was impossibly quiet. As if even the night was holding still for them.

 

Silverbell didn’t speak again, not right away. He simply leaned back into the circle of Moondrop’s arms, eyes half-closed, listening to the steady rhythm of wings and breath. His fingers found Moondrop’s where they rested at his waist, lacing them together gently. For a while, they didn’t move.

 

Then Moondrop spoke again, voice so soft it barely disturbed the air between them. “There are things I wish I could tell you.”

 

Silverbell’s brow knit, but he didn’t pull away. “Then why don’t you?”

 

Moondrop hesitated. His gaze drifted upward—to the stars wheeling above them, ancient and endless. Down below, the lake mirrored the same sky. Two reflections. One truth. And yet—“Because the moment I say them,” he said, quieter now, “they stop being mine.”

 

Silverbell turned slightly in his arms, just enough to look back at him. “I’m not asking for all of you,” he said. “Just what you’re willing to give.”

 

Moondrop exhaled, long and low, like it cost him something to hold the silence a second longer. “I’m giving you more than I ever have,” he admitted. “That’s what scares me.”

 

Silverbell looked at him for a long moment. And then, with slow certainty, he reached up and touched Moondrop’s cheek—feather-light. “I’m not asking you to stop being afraid,” he said. “Only to stay.”

 

Moondrop's throat worked around the words he didn’t say. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not just Moondrop.

 

But instead he just nodded—once, almost imperceptibly. And in that motion, something unspoken settled between them. Not a lie. Not the full truth. But something close to trust. A promise suspended in air. Their hands remained clasped. Moondrop’s heart jumped in his chest, almost stumbling with the beat of his wings. But he didn’t stop.

 

Silverbell shifted, just slightly, then released his hand—but only to reach into the inner pocket of his coat. His fingers brushed against something there, something carefully tucked away. He pulled it free with quiet reverence.

 

A lily .

 

Not just any flower—elegant and pale, with soft white petals that glowed faintly in the moonlight, as though the bloom itself had been kissed by starlight. Its scent drifted gently into the air: sweet, rich, and unmistakably Silverbell’s favorite.

 

Moondrop recognized it instantly. “You kept one?” he asked, voice hushed.

 

Silverbell gave the faintest nod, the blush already starting to rise to his cheeks. “It’s… always been my favorite. The scent reminds me of quiet mornings. Of peace. I didn’t know I was bringing it tonight until I realized I didn’t want to give it to anyone but you.”

 

Moondrop blinked. He didn’t move, barely breathed, afraid anything louder than a whisper might startle the moment away.

 

Silverbell stepped closer, the lily held delicately between his fingers. He hesitated—not from doubt, but from the sheer intimacy of it—then gently, with the kind of careful intention only he could carry, tucked the bloom behind Moondrop’s ear.

 

His fingertips lingered just a second too long against Moondrop’s cheek.

 

Moondrop didn’t tease him anymore. He just looked at him, eyes dark and wide with something raw.

 

“You’re blushing,” he said softly.

 

“So are you,” Silverbell murmured.

 

Moondrop gave a breath of a laugh. “Apparently that’s my curse tonight.” 

 

Silverbell let out a small laugh, the sound soft and genuine—like it had slipped past his usual composure before he could stop it.

 

Moondrop tilted his head, a smile still tugging at his lips. “There it is again,” he said quietly. “That laugh. I think I’m becoming a little obsessed.”

 

Silverbell raised an eyebrow, playful. “You’re really doubling down on the charm tonight, huh?”

 

“It’s not charm,” Moondrop said, voice low and warm. “It’s admiration, thinly disguised as wit.”

 

Silverbell’s blush deepened, but he didn’t look away. “You’re dangerous when you’re sincere.”

 

“I’m always sincere,” Moondrop replied, mock offended.

 

“You’re rarely simple, ” Silverbell countered, lips twitching at the corners.

 

“Touché.” Moondrop leaned a little closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But for the record… if being flustered is my curse tonight, I don’t really mind it. Not if it’s because of you.”

 

Silverbell didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him—really looked—eyes searching his face like he was trying to memorize it all. And for once, Moondrop didn’t hide. He let him.

 

“You’re different like this,” Silverbell said after a pause. “Quieter. Softer.”

 

“Only because you’re safe,” Moondrop replied.

 

They drifted upward into a slow fall—weightless, gliding, turning lazily in the open sky. Silverbell let himself lean in, forehead brushing against Moondrop’s for a moment. Not quite a kiss. Not yet. It is closeness. Earned, not rushed. They hovered there, midair, with the whole night around them.

 

“…You’re ridiculous,” Silverbell said, breathless.

 

Moondrop grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

 

Silverbell didn’t let go. Neither did he. The wind curled gently around them, high above the earth, threading through their hair, their wings, their silence. The world had faded—the Faerie Kingdom below, the Spire far behind, the past and future both irrelevant now. All that remained was this: the hush of breath, the flicker of wings, and the look in Silverbell’s eyes.

 

Silverbell studied his face—open now, unguarded in a way Silverbell had never quite seen before. And then, barely louder than the wind, he murmured, “Your eyes… they look like sapphires.”

 

Moondrop blinked. For a split second, the charm in his expression dropped. His pupils dilated, blown wide in shock. A faint blush bloomed across his cheeks—visible even in the silver-blue light.

 

“Do they now?” he said, voice low, careful.

 

“Yeah,” Silverbell replied, his tone steady, unwavering. “Like deep water. Lit from beneath.”

 

Moondrop studied him. Really studied him. The starlight danced in Silverbell’s eyes, sincere and unflinching. He almost said something then—something that reached further than it should.

 

Instead, he gave a breath of a laugh. “Is this another attempt at your flirting?”

 

Silverbell shrugged, just a little. “Maybe. Depends how it’s going.”

 

“The jury’s still out,” Moondrop said, but he couldn’t quite keep the smile from curling at the edge of his mouth.

 

But Moondrop’s cheeks colored faintly, betraying more than he meant to. Not from the compliment alone. From the fear he pushed down—had Silverbell guessed? Had he seen too much?

 

He didn’t notice him yet. Because part of him hoped he had.

 

He lifted his hand slowly and cupped Moondrop’s cheek, his touch feather-light—like he wasn’t sure this moment was real. Like he was afraid it might vanish if he moved too quickly.

 

But Moondrop didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide behind charm or teasing. He leaned into the touch without hesitation. His own hand rose, resting against Silverbell’s back, grounding them both as the wind tugged playfully at their outfits. Then Silverbell closed the distance. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t some dizzy, firework crash. It was steady. Certain. Earnest. The kind of kiss you give someone not just because you want to—but because you’ve chosen to.

 

Moondrop melted into it—soft, warm, like the tension he carried had finally given up. His free hand found Silverbell’s again and didn’t let go. The sky spun lazily around them, stars glittering like scattered petals. Below, the clearing remained untouched—silent and glowing, their secret kept safe by moss and moonlight. When they finally pulled apart, it was only by inches. Just enough to rest their foreheads together, breath mingling in the cool air.

 

Moondrop smiled first. That same quiet, genuine smile—unguarded, real. Silverbell exhaled, thumb still brushing along his cheek. Silverbell’s thumb brushed across Moondrop’s cheek, slow, lingering—like he was memorizing the shape of him, the feel of something he thought he might never have. And then Moondrop leaned in again—closer, steady, no warning this time.

 

He kissed him.

 

The second kiss was deeper, slower—not tentative, but certain. It spoke without words, answered without asking. Silverbell leaned into it easily, completely, his hands finding their way back to Moondrop’s waist as though they belonged there. The world fell away again. Their wings shifted, curling gently to keep them in place, keeping the air beneath them soft and still. The moonlight bent around them, pale and glowing, casting their silhouettes in a delicate halo.

 

When they broke apart, neither of them let go. Their wings beat slowly in the still air, just enough to hold them there—hovering, wrapped in moonlight and each other’s gravity. Moondrop took a breath. Then, with steady hands, he reached out and took both of Silverbell’s in his. He turned them palm-up, fingers curling gently around the knuckles, holding them between them like something sacred. His thumbs brushed over them once—nervous, maybe. But sure.

 

Silverbell tilted his head slightly, watching him. And Moondrop looked at him— really looked. Eyes bright, wide open, nothing hidden for once. He could feel the words rising in his chest, heavy and trembling like they’d been waiting too long.

 

“I love you,” Moondrop said, voice low but crystal-clear. “Silverbell.”

 

No more jokes, masks, running. Only the truth. It hung there, soft and absolute.

 

Silverbell’s eyes widened—just for a second. Then his hands tightened around Moondrop’s.

 

And he smiled. That soft, rare one, the one he only gave when he didn’t have to guard himself.

 

“I love you too,” he said, just as certain. Just as steady.

 

And Moondrop’s heart caught. But— It didn’t land quite where he hoped. Because Silverbell still looked at him like he was Moondrop. And only Moondrop. Not Black Sapphire. Not the Spire’s voice. Not the one wrapped in secrets, with too many names and too many masks. Just… Moondrop. He smiled through it—honest and aching.

 

Because he wanted to be that version. The one Silverbell loved without knowing the rest. The one who danced midair under starlight. The one who showed up, finally, and stayed. He didn’t correct him.nHe didn’t ruin the moment with a name that didn’t belong here. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to Silverbell’s once more, their breath shared in the space between them, the night wrapping close.

 

The wind stirred gently. The clearing below shimmered. The sky above answered for them, then—A shooting star streaked across the black canvas, slow and brilliant. Then another. And another. They both looked up, their hands still linked, bathed in soft moonlight as the stars fell like whispered promises.

 

Silverbell’s gaze lingered on the trail of light before he turned slightly, his voice quiet, reverent, filled with that rare sort of wonder. “Look, Moondrop—a shooting star. Did you wish?”

 

There was a pause. A hesitation. Then Moondrop’s voice, softer, heavier, as if the truth had snuck in behind the words. “Ah… I didn’t have time.”

 

Silverbell smiled faintly, his thumb brushing along Moondrop’s hand again. Not unkind. Not pressing. Just... knowing. “Then there’s something you wish for?”

 

“Yes...” The silence after was brief—but full.

 

Then came the question. Gentle, trusting. “What did you wish for?”

 

Moondrop let out a quiet, dry chuckle. No humor in it—just the tired edge of someone who had carried too much for too long. “I was wishing that we were two other Cookies.”  He didn’t look away from the stars. “Two Cookies who need not say goodbye.”

 

The stars kept watching, streaking the sky with light neither of them could hold. But they stayed there, suspended in a moment they both knew couldn’t last forever. And yet, neither of them let go. The stars stopped falling above them—silent, fleeting, and bright. Their hands were still linked. Warm. Solid. Real. Silverbell didn’t look away from the stars either. Not yet.

 

But he spoke again—soft, certain. “It can be that way.” A pause. The kind of pause that sinks deep into the chest.

 

“…No,” Moondrop whispered, the word catching just a little. “Sadly, it can’t.”

 

His voice wasn’t bitter. Just tired. Like someone who had read the end of the story and kept turning the pages anyway. Silverbell turned to him, expression unreadable—but his thumb never stopped brushing gently over Moondrop’s knuckles.

 

Moondrop let out a quiet breath, shaky and low. Then, without fully meaning to, he started speaking. “I have a… family. Of sorts.” His lips twitched faintly, somewhere between a smile and something more resigned. “We’re not blood-bound. Not born under the same banner. But... we belong to the same cause.”

 

Silverbell stayed silent. Listening. Always listening.

 

“There’s my Father ,” Moondrop said, tone soft with something almost respectful. “Strict. Cold, to anyone else. But he’s the reason I survived long enough to be here. He taught me how to exist in silence. How to see without being seen. How to lie without flinching. He’s… protective. In his own way.”

 

Silverbell’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

 

“And there’s my bratty sister,” Moondrop went on, a hint of amusement threading into his words. “Louder than necessary. Smart. Too smart, probably. Can’t keep her nose out of my business. Pretends not to care, but… she does. She always has.”

 

He paused, eyes still fixed on the stars, like they might forgive him for saying even that much. “I’m not trying to be vague for the sake of drama,” he added after a moment. “I’m trying to protect them. And maybe… maybe protect you , too.”

 

Silverbell’s voice, finally, came—gentle, but unwavering. “From what?”

 

Moondrop’s jaw tensed. His grip on Silverbell’s hand tightened slightly. “From who I really am,” he said. “From what I’ve done. From the reasons I came here in the first place.”

 

The truth hung there between them. Half-formed, half-shielded. Heavy.

 

“I didn’t come here to fall for you,” Moondrop added, his voice a near whisper. “I didn’t even know I could. ”

 

Silverbell’s gaze didn’t waver.

 

But Moondrop’s voice cracked, barely, around the edges. “And now… I look at you, and I know you’re in love with someone who doesn’t exist.”

 

His words fell into the stillness. Raw. Frayed. The lake beside them reflected nothing but stars. And still, Silverbell stayed. Still holding his hand. They drifted down from the sky on quiet wings, like falling leaves caught in moonlight. Neither spoke as their boots met the grass, the soft crunch beneath them breaking the silence only slightly. The air was cooler now..Still filled with starlight, still humming with the weight of what had been said—but different.

 

Moondrop landed first, his wings folding neatly behind him. He didn’t look at Silverbell right away. Instead, he exhaled slowly, once. Twice. Then—just as easily as closing a book—he shifted .

 

His posture straightened. His expression smoothed. His tone, when he spoke, was light—too light.

 

“Well,” he said, glancing at the path ahead, hands clasped behind his back with practiced elegance. “That was enough melodrama for one evening, don’t you think? We should go—before you mistake me for a walking tragedy.”

 

Silverbell blinked, still stunned by the weight of what had been said above the stars. His mouth parted slightly, but he couldn’t find the right words yet.

 

Moondrop chuckled—a little too perfectly timed. “I’m fine,” he added, waving a hand dismissively. “Really. It’s a beautiful night, and I’d rather not spend the rest of it getting all sentimental. Not my style.”

 

He smiled. Polished. Charming. False.

 

They walked for a while like that. Moondrop filled the silence with small talk, commenting on flower types, the breeze, the glow of the lake. His words came easy—too easy.

 

But Silverbell wasn’t listening to the words. He was watching the cracks.

 

The way Moondrop didn’t look at him now. The way he kept adjusting his cuffs even though they sat perfectly. The slight delay in his laughter. The way his wings were too still.

 

It wasn’t an act born of malice. It was defense. It was fear. And after a few more minutes of silence, Silverbell finally stopped walking.

 

“...Why are you pretending again?” he asked, voice quiet. Steady.

 

Moondrop froze. Just for a second.

 

Then, slowly, he turned—mask still in place, but faltering at the corners.

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You are,” Silverbell interrupted gently. "You’re doing it again. Putting distance where there doesn’t need to be any.”

 

Moondrop swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to ruin tonight,” he said. “I thought—if I said too much, you’d look at me differently.”

 

Silverbell stepped closer. His expression is soft, but firm. “I am looking at you differently,” he said.

 

That made Moondrop hesitate.

 

“Not because I pity you. Not because I’m scared. But because I finally see more of you.”

 

Moondrop’s voice was barely audible now. “And you’re not turning away?”

 

Silverbell shook his head. “Not yet ,” he said. “So stop pretending you’re alone.”

 

The mask cracked.

 

They stood there for a moment—surrounded by the glow of the garden, the lake quietly rippling behind them, and the last of the stars painting silver across the sky.

 

No more pretending. No more masks. It is only just the two of them.

 

For now. 

 

Just now.

 

Moondrop finally looked at Silverbell—really looked. His voice had none of its usual shine, none of its rehearsed rhythm.

 

“I don’t know how to be both things,” he admitted. “The person I’ve been... and the one I am with you.”

 

Silverbell’s response was soft, but firm. “Then let me stay with you while you figure it out.”

 

A silence passed between them. Not uncomfortable. Not uncertain. It is... heavy. Full of everything unsaid and everything that didn’t need to be said.

 

Moondrop took a slow breath, then nodded. "Alright.”

 

Their wings stretched out behind them in near-perfect sync—Moondrop’s elegant and fluid, Silverbell’s steady and strong. They took off gently, rising through the air above the treetops, above the kingdom, gliding quietly beneath the last shimmer of falling stars.

 

The flight was peaceful. Unhurried.

 

No words exchanged as they coasted on the breeze, weaving between silverleaf trees and past glowing lantern towers. The world was quiet, and for once, Moondrop let it be.

 

They touched down gently outside Silverbell’s cottage, boots landing with soft thuds against moss-covered stone. The windows were dark. The path was still.

 

Moondrop turned to say goodnight, pulling back slightly to create space for parting words.

 

But Silverbell didn’t move. His eyes were on him.

 

“...You’re crying,” he said quietly.

 

Moondrop blinked, confused—until he felt it. A single tear slipping down his cheek, unannounced. He reached up, brushing it away like it had betrayed him.

 

“I didn’t even notice,” he muttered.

 

Silverbell stepped closer, gentle but sure. “You don’t always have to.”

 

They stood there, the hush of the Faerie Kingdom around them, and for once, neither of them tried to fill the quiet.

 

It simply existed. And so did they.

 

Moondrop looked down, then back up—eyes tired, but open. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

Silverbell nodded.

 

“I’ll be here. Waiting for you here… and I’ll always welcome you with open arms”

 

And with that, Moondrop lifted into the air again—silent, gliding back to a silent forest, and summoned his eye-shaped microphone and tapped it twice on the ground, for the portal to appear.

He’s back. In the Spire. In his room. He’s back to reality.

 

The door creaked open with a telltale click —no knock, no hesitation, just chaos wrapped in confidence.

 

“ Saaaapphhy~! ” Candy Apple Cookie’s voice rang out like a fanfare. “You better be alive because I brought—”

 

She stopped.

 

Black Sapphire stood near the center of his room, back turned, coat still settling on his shoulders. The faint shimmer of fading magic still clung to his boots. The window was open, moonlight trailing across the floor in a long silver line.

 

He hadn’t even looked at her yet.

 

And when he did, it wasn’t sharp or annoyed like usual. It was… distant. Guarded.

 

“…You’re back,” she said, more gently now. “From your dramatic little sky date.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. He just moved to the desk and began unbuckling his gloves with slow, precise motions.

 

Candy Apple tilted her head, arms folded. “Okay. Mood shift. What happened?”

 

“Nothing,” he replied, too quickly.

 

“Liar,” she said without missing a beat, stepping further into the room. “You always say ‘nothing’ when it’s absolutely something.”

Black Sapphire didn’t even turn around. “You didn’t knock.”

 

“I never do, duh,” Candy Apple replied sweetly, already halfway inside and twirling a lollipop between her fingers like it was a dagger.

 

She stopped short when she saw him standing in the middle of the room—still, composed, dressed in full Spire uniform, the air around him cold and silent.

 

“…Wow,” she said, voice lighter than her expression. “You really snapped back to reality fast. Impressive.”

 

He adjusted his gloves without looking at her. “What do you want.”

 

“Oh, nothing urgent,” she said, circling him slowly. “Just thought I’d check in. Make sure you didn’t drown in your feelings or anything dramatic like that.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“No, you cried, ” she said, tapping his chest lightly. “Big difference.”

 

His jaw tensed. “That was none of your business.”

 

“Everything you do is my business,” she said with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Especially when you sneak out for a star-studded romance and return looking like someone ripped your soul in half.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

She stopped pacing. Her smile faded. “No, you’re back, ” she said, quieter now. “There’s a difference.”

 

Black Sapphire finally turned to look at her. His eyes were calm. Guarded. Sharp as always. But not cold. Not anymore.

 

“You said it once,” he murmured, “that I was glowing.”

 

Candy Apple blinked, confused. “Yeah?”

 

“I think I hate how right you were.”

 

She stared at him, then sighed dramatically and dropped into the chair near his desk. “Ugh. You’re so in love it’s offensive.”

 

He didn’t deny it.

 

She leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling. “So? What now?”

 

Black Sapphire stood there a moment longer, then answered, flatly: “I go back to work. We still have a job to do.”

 

Candy Apple frowned. “And the knight?”

 

He glanced at his gloves. At the wall. Anywhere but her.

 

“…I didn’t lie to him. Not tonight.”

 

She tilted her head, watching him closely. “But you didn’t tell him the truth either.”

 

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

 

Candy Apple popped the lollipop back into her mouth, voice muffled around the stick. “Well, when this whole mess explodes, I hope I’m allowed to say ‘I told you so.’”

 

Black Sapphire turned back to the window.

 

“If it explodes,” he said, soft but steady, “I’ll let you say it twice.”

 

She looked at him more closely now. The stiff posture. The silence. The way his jaw was set was just a little too tight.

 

“You didn’t ruin it, did you?” she asked, this time without teasing.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer immediately. He finally set his gloves down and turned to face her, expression unreadable. “I told him enough,” he said. “But not everything.”

 

Candy Apple leaned against the side of the desk, frowning slightly. “And he still looked at you the same?”

Black Sapphire’s fingers curled loosely at his sides. “…Yeah.”

 

She studied him. “Then what’s the problem?”

 

A pause.

 

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Then finally, low: “I wanted to give him something real ,” he said. “But everything about me is built on lies. Even now.”

 

Candy Apple’s expression softened—just a little. She didn’t tease this time. Didn’t smirk. She just walked over, reached up, and flicked a loose thread from his coat collar.

 

“You came back wearing this,” she said, voice quieter. “But it doesn’t mean you left him behind.”

 

Black Sapphire looked at her—really looked at her—and for once, he didn’t argue.

 

She patted his shoulder once, then stepped back, arms crossed. “…Also, if you're going to keep sulking every time you feel something inconvenient, we need to schedule you for emotional combat training,” she added.

 

There it was.

 

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”

 

“And you are hopeless,” she grinned. “But hey—he’s still waiting, isn’t he?”

 

That made him pause. “…Yeah,” he said quietly. “He is.”

 

---

Silverbell lay sprawled across his bed, legs dangling slightly off the side, one arm flung lazily over his eyes as he tried to suppress the giddy grin threatening to take over his entire face.

 

It didn’t work.

 

He was beaming.

 

The room around him was dim, lit only by the faint glow of starlight pouring through the high windows. His ceremonial coat from the night before hung neatly on the door—still faintly dusted with silver pollen from the garden. Every time he glanced at it, his chest fluttered.

 

He danced. With him.

 

They’d flown under falling stars. Laughed. Teased. Talked for hours. And at the edge of that garden lake, beneath a sky that seemed to hold its breath just for them—

 

He had kissed Moondrop Faerie Cookie. Not just once. But twice.

 

But it had meant everything.

 

Silverbell buried his face into a nearby pillow, trying—and failing—not to laugh like an overwhelmed romantic. “Oh sweet ovens, he was beautiful,” he muttered into the fabric. “ So smug. So soft. That outfit— that voice— ”

 

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling now, his hand drifting to where Moondrop had held his. And yet… beneath the joy, the warmth, the memory of whispered compliments and a touch that lingered too long—

 

There it was again. That flicker. That ache.

 

Because somewhere in the middle of the night—when Moondrop had looked up at the stars and let his voice crack, when he’d spoken of his “father,” and his “sister,” and truths he was too afraid to name—Silverbell had seen it.

 

The mask was slipping. Piece by piece. And Silverbell had never forgotten what it looked like when someone was scared of being known.

 

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, the grin fading to something softer. Something heavier.

 

“I know there’s more to you,” he murmured to no one. “I know you’re hiding it to protect something. Or someone.”

 

He didn’t hate him for it. Not even close. But the curiosity—the need to understand—was still there. Still burning low in his chest.

 

The search hadn’t ended. Not yet. But for once, he wasn’t chasing the truth to uncover a lie. He was chasing it to meet him—the real him. Fully. Without fear.

 

And when that moment came, Silverbell hoped he’d be ready.

 

Because no matter how many names he wore—Silverbell had already chosen him. Atleast that's what his heart said

His mind is telling him that something is wrong with him and he is making a decision that will harm everyone

 

So he still choosed to stay alert. Afterall, he made an oath to the Faerie Kingdom.

 

 

---

Black Sapphire sat in the low glow of his chamber, the shimmer of magic-scripted parchment floating in front of him. Lines drifted across the surface—well-rehearsed phrases soaked in double meanings, playful mockery, and carefully controlled rumors. Another episode of Truthless Recluse. Another performance to feed Shadow Milk Cookie’s twisted sense of theater.

 

He knew the words. Knew the rhythm, the tone. The pauses where silence said more than truth ever could.

 

And still, he was tired.

 

He rubbed his temples, setting the scroll aside. His gloves rested half-folded on the desk, and his cloak hung from the chair like a second shadow. The script would wait.

 

His ears twitched slightly—faint, distant voices echoed from the enchanted air around him. Whispers. Hushed gossip. Fragments of carefully sewn deceit.

 

"Did you hear? The Queen... she’s planning to replace the Silver Tree Knights."

“I swear I saw a faerie meet with a cloaked stranger last dusk—”

“They say the Silver Tree… isn’t as strong as it used to be.”

 

The rumors were spreading. Even there. The Faerie Kingdom.

 

Black Sapphire leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he stared at nothing. His eyes glinted in the half-light.

 

The Kingdom that once imprisoned his master. That locked away Shadow Milk Cookie for crimes no one dared to remember aloud. A place he’d vowed not to forget. Not to forgive.

 

And yet—

 

It was also the Kingdom where the wind smelled like honey, where the trees whispered low secrets, where he could breathe. Where he was.

 

Silverbell.

 

The knight with steady hands and that annoyingly soft way of speaking. Who stood so tall and proud in armor, but laughed like someone who'd never hurt a thing. Who kissed him beneath falling stars and called him by a name he didn’t own.

 

Moondrop. He loved Moondrop. Not Black Sapphire. Not the spy. Not the liar. Not him.

 

And wasn’t that the cruelest part? Every time Silverbell looked at him, he saw a story. A version. A lie wearing his face.

 

Maybe Silverbell was lying too. Maybe the patience in his voice wasn’t real. Maybe he wouldn’t wait, not if he knew the full truth.

 

But that didn’t matter. Because it wasn’t going to stop him. He’d still visit. He’d still go.

 

He’d still carry the name Moondrop Faerie Cookie through that portal, even if it burned every time he put it on. Because in the middle of all the lies—he still wanted to be near him.

 

Even if the stars were watching. Even if it couldn’t last. He didn’t flinch.

 

He and Candy Apple had planted those seeds themselves.

 

Rumors weren’t facts—they were performances. Quiet little scripts that spread like vines until truth choked in their roots. He could already hear the way faeries flinched when they passed each other, the way knights double-checked patrol orders.

 

Even Silverbell. Especially Silverbell.

 

Black Sapphire leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and let a slow smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

 

"If he knew..." he muttered.

 

If Silverbell ever uncovered everything —the forged stories, the false sightings, the subtle sabotage woven into their kingdom’s own gossip—if he learned what Black Sapphire truly was, not the gentle traveler he kissed beneath falling stars...

 

He might actually try to kill him. The thought made him chuckle. Quiet. Dry. “Would you put up a good fight, I wonder?” he murmured.

 

He imagined it—Silverbell’s face, cold and unreadable. That steady voice sharpening like a blade. Bow drawn. Arrows aimed with deadly calm.

 

His heart didn’t skip out of fear. It skipped because part of him wanted to see it.

 

Not because he wanted to die—but because he wanted to see if love could survive hatred. If trust could bend and not break.

 

Would Silverbell still look at him the same if he saw the Soul Jam tucked away in his master’s vault? The scripts, the lies, the maps? The secret broadcasts from the shadows?

 

Probably not.

 

But Black Sapphire wasn’t done yet. But Silverbell… he wasn’t just a knight anymore—that's for sure. He was a variable. A risk. A reason. And those were always the most dangerous things to love.

 

 

 

Notes:

AAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE THEM SO MUCH I CANT EVEN-

 

btw I suddenly had a fever, my nose hurts, and my foot.

 

but that aint stopping me from writing ts.

 

ngl I would call this chapter probably the calm before the storm also the most of the next chapters are going to be longer than last time so i apologize wahaha (I'm planning 10k words each bc of this chapter.)

you can also find me on twt: https://x.com/Mashiii_room ( I wanna post sneak peeks of next chapters or smth and I also want to draw them so badly but I am too busy with my studies and other things at the moment)

 

Now thanks for reading this aaa I love blackbell

Chapter 13: XII

 

 

Silverbell woke before the sun, as always.

 

But this morning, his routine moved slower. He sat on the edge of his bed for a while, unmoving, his hand curled loosely near where Moondrop had once held it. The memory wasn’t distant. It clung to him like morning dew—soft and persistent. He had dreamed of stars. Of wings brushing his. Of laughter caught in a kiss. Of a voice that cracked when it tried to tell the truth. That night— that night —had lodged itself somewhere deeper than memory. It wasn’t just something he remembered.

 

It was something he felt.

 

He rose eventually, moving through his home with practiced grace. He didn’t forget his armor or his bow, but he left them on the wall for now. He brewed tea instead, quietly, hands moving on their own while his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Moondrop had opened up. Not fully, not clearly—but enough. Enough to make him pause. Enough to make him want more.  And yet… he hadn’t offered a real name. No history. No kingdom. Just riddles. Codenames. Half-lies that tasted like truths if you tilted your head the right way.

 

Silverbell wasn’t foolish. There were things Moondrop wasn’t saying. Not because he didn’t care—but because he did. That was the part that stung most. The honesty hidden in the silence.

 

He stepped out into the garden with his tea, letting the cool air bite at his cheeks. Faerie messengers were already gliding through the skies above, and somewhere in the distance, the silver bells on the eastern towers chimed once. Twice. Routine.

 

But nothing about him felt routine anymore. Not since that night. He sat down on the stone bench beneath the blooming vine arch—the place where he’d waited for weeks—and stared at the sky as it turned pale gold. He didn’t know who Moondrop really was. But he knew he loved him. And he knew something else now, too: Whoever he was… he was trying to protect someone. That wasn’t evil. That wasn’t betrayal. That was fear.  So Silverbell waited. Not because he was weak. But because waiting—for him—wasn’t wasted time. It was loyalty. It was love. And if the truth ever came crashing down from the sky, if the masks shattered and the lies unspooled—Silverbell would still be here. Whether to catch him… or stop him. He hadn’t decided which yet. But he would. When it mattered.

 

The morning sun crept through the window, casting soft golden light across the small wooden kitchen. Silverbell moved through it quietly, not with the clatter of pans or the clumsy scrape of his usual cooking attempts—but with a purpose already decided. He opened the icebox and reached for the small, covered pot tucked in the back. Moondrop’s stew. Still half-full. Still perfectly preserved. He didn’t hesitate.

 

There was something steadying about the way he reheated it. This time there was no bitter smoke curling from a failed attempt at nourishment. Just warmth—rising in the air and settling into the space like a memory that refused to fade. He poured a bowl for himself and sat at the table. Quiet. Still in his undershirt and soft linen pants, armor left untouched on the rack behind him.

 

He took a bite. The flavor hadn’t dulled.

 

The spices were still precise—gentle, with just enough heat to wake the tongue. The sweetness still lingered at the back of the throat. Comforting. Familiar. Him. Silverbell didn’t smile. But he did eat slowly, like it mattered. Because it did matter.

 

He didn’t do this out of laziness, or convenience. He wasn’t avoiding his own cooking because it failed to meet some royal standard. He was eating the stew because Moondrop had made it. For him. Because he’d stood in that kitchen, slicing and stirring and seasoning with care. Because he’d done it without needing thanks. Without needing recognition.

 

Silverbell stared at the steam curling from the bowl and thought, He did this because he cares.  At least… that’s what Silverbell believed.

 

And if caring could last—even through the lies, even through silence—then maybe this warmth meant more than just food. Maybe it was a promise. Unspoken. But still there. Just like him.

 

Knock—knock—knock! The last spoonful of stew hovered halfway to Silverbell’s mouth when the knock came. Urgent. Rapid. No rhythm, no hesitation. Not the knock of a neighbor or a messenger. This was someone who didn’t bother with pleasantries. He set the spoon down slowly and stood, already halfway to the door when another series of knocks hit—louder this time.

 

When he opened it, Mercurial Knight Cookie stood on the other side, eyes sharp, cloak fluttering behind him like it had carried him straight through the wind. His armor was half-fastened, as if he hadn’t taken time to fully suit up before coming here.

 

“Silverbell,” he said, skipping any form of greeting. “You need to hear this.”

 

Silverbell stepped back without question, gesturing him in. “What is it?”

 

Mercurial didn’t sit. He didn’t need tea or a place to lean. He went straight to the center of the room, voice lowered now but still laced with urgency. “There are rumors.”

 

Silverbell’s brow furrowed. “There are always rumors.”

 

“No. These are different,” Mercurial said. “They’re spreading fast. Through the market, the training halls, the palace corridors.”

 

Silverbell crossed his arms, jaw tight. “What are they saying?”

 

Mercurial’s eyes met his. “That the Queen’s thinking of replacing the Silver Tree Knights.”

 

Silverbell’s body went still.

 

Mercurial didn’t stop. “That the Silver Tree isn’t as strong as it used to be. That some of us are… compromised.”

 

Silverbell’s voice was low. “Compromised how?”

 

“That a cloaked stranger was seen speaking with faeries near the eastern glade. That some of us are too distracted to guard what we swore to protect.”

 

Silverbell’s hands curled into fists. “ When did this start?”

 

“Not long after the Queen’s last meeting. But the rumors are spreading like they’re being carried on the wind.”

 

Silverbell looked away, something behind his eyes shifting. He knew. The words weren’t just floating in the air—they were planted. Woven with intent. Subtle, strategic. Moondrop’s kind of subtle.

 

And yet… He’d said he cared. He’d acted like he cared. So why did it feel like something sharp was slowly pressing into his chest?

 

Mercurial watched him. “You’ve heard some of this already, haven’t you?”

 

Silverbell gave a slow nod. “Only fragments. Whispers.”

 

“Then you know it’s not stopping.”

 

Silverbell was quiet. But inside, the silence broke like a crack in glass.

 

And somewhere behind his steady voice and composed face, something deeper stirred: Did I let him in too far?

 

Or worse— Did he ever mean to stay?

 

Silverbell stood there, rooted in the middle of his quiet home—bowl of half-finished stew on the table, the scent of warmth still clinging to the air.

 

But it felt cold now.

 

Rumors could be harmless. Harmless until they weren't. They could float like dust through the air—easy to ignore, easy to brush off. But left unchecked, they layered thick. They settled into cracks. They whispered in corners and curled around hearts, until even the most loyal began to doubt .

 

Replace the Silver Tree Knights. The Kingdom isn’t safe. The Queen is losing control. And worst of all—One of the knights has been compromised.

 

He could feel it—how carefully the words had been chosen. How well-timed. These weren’t idle tavern tales. They were strategic. Planted. By someone who knew how to make people listen.

 

Mercurial Knight was still speaking, but his voice faded into the background as Silverbell stared past him, toward the open window. The wind carried the faint chime of bells. Of life going on as usual.

 

But things were not usual.

 

And now that he'd let his heart open—let someone close enough to breathe in the same quiet he guarded so carefully—he couldn't help but wonder:

Had that trust been real? Had he been real? Was Moondrop a gift in a time of uncertainty… or the very root of it?

 

Silverbell exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Rumors were dangerous not just because they could destroy someone.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie paced slowly in Silverbell’s living room, the faint clink of his armor matching the measured rhythm of his thoughts.

 

“The Queen doesn’t know yet,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Or if she does, she hasn’t acknowledged it. That’s a problem.”

 

Silverbell stayed quiet, his arms crossed, back leaned against the edge of the table where Moondrop’s stew still sat—untouched now. Cooling fast.

 

Mercurial continued, his voice lower now. “If these rumors gain traction, we’ll be forced into a position. Replaced. Investigated. The Silver Tree can’t take another scandal— not now. Not after last year’s unrest.”

 

“We don’t have facts,” Silverbell said evenly.

 

“We don’t need facts,” Mercurial shot back. “We need perception. If enough faeries believe something’s wrong, it becomes truth—whether it started that way or not.”

 

Silverbell stared ahead, jaw tense. He knew that better than anyone.

 

Mercurial stopped pacing. “We need to get ahead of it. Discredit the rumors. Give them something else to talk about. A noble announcement, a public training demonstration—something to redirect their attention.”

 

“And if that doesn’t work?” Silverbell asked quietly.

 

Mercurial’s gaze sharpened. “Then we find out who planted them.”

 

Silverbell didn’t move. His eyes didn’t even flinch. But deep in his chest, something twisted. He already had a name in mind. But he said nothing. Not yet. Because part of him still wanted to believe there was another answer. A better one.

 

But rumors had power. And someone had lit the match. Now the fire was coming.

 

Mercurial’s tone dropped lower, nearly a whisper now—like the walls might be listening. “That’s what bothers me the most,” he said. “These rumors... they’re not just meant to cause panic. They’re targeted. ”

 

Silverbell looked up, eyes narrowing. “Targeted how?”

 

“They strike too clean. Undermine the Silver Tree Knights. Undermine the Queen’s presence. Undermine faith. This isn’t rebellion. This is surgical. ”

 

Silverbell frowned. “So it’s not just politics.”

 

Mercurial shook his head. “No. It’s something deeper. Someone’s not trying to take power—they’re trying to corrode it. Make the Kingdom doubt itself. Turn its own roots against it.”

 

Silverbell’s jaw clenched. The Faerie Kingdom had always stood tall not just because of its strength, but because of its belief in beauty, in tradition, in unity. Undermine those—and you didn’t need an army. You could bring it down from the inside.

 

“You think it’s foreign?” Silverbell asked.

 

Mercurial paused. “Maybe. Or someone here who wants it to fall.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer. Because he knew someone who worked in whispers. Someone who knew exactly how to plant fear that sounded like truth. Someone who walked into his Kingdom with a soft smile. Someone who kissed him like they didn’t want to lie—And whispered just enough to make him hope .

 

“…If they’re trying to break the Kingdom,” Mercurial said, “then they’ll start by breaking its protectors.”

 

Silverbell’s hands tightened around the edge of the table. He wasn’t broken yet. But he was starting to see how someone might try. And worse… he was starting to understand why.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie turned, his expression unreadable beneath the glow of the windowlight, metal accents catching the edge of the sunrise. He looked older in that moment—worn not by years, but by awareness.

 

Silverbell’s voice broke through the thick silence, low and certain: “What should we do?”

 

Mercurial didn’t answer immediately.

 

He stared at the floor, then at the still-steaming bowl of leftover stew on the table. Then at Silverbell—just long enough for the silence to feel like a weight between them.

 

Then, quietly— “ We stay still. ”

 

Silverbell blinked. “What?”

 

“We don’t panic,” Mercurial said, straightening. “If this is an attack through rumor—then acting out of emotion will only prove the story true.”

 

Silverbell’s shoulders eased slightly, but his brows remained drawn. “And when that stops working?”

 

Mercurial’s jaw tightened. “Then we follow the threads.”

 

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Track the source. Identify who’s benefiting from the Kingdom’s slow unraveling. If we strike too early, we lose ground. But if we stay quiet—watchful— we learn. ”

 

Silverbell didn’t like it. He wanted to act. To challenge the lie with truth. But he knew Mercurial was right. This wasn’t a swordfight. This was a chessboard. And right now, someone had the first move. So they had to be smarter.

 

“Fine,” Silverbell said at last. “I’ll be patient.”

 

Mercurial gave him a short nod. “And I’ll start watching the council chambers. You listen to the streets.”

 

Silverbell hesitated. Then added, quieter: “…And if I find out it’s someone I know?”

 

Mercurial’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you decide,” he said, “what matters more— who they are… or what they’re doing. ”

 

And with that, he left.

 

Leaving Silverbell alone again, in a house that had never felt so quiet. A bowl of someone else's warmth is still sitting on the table. And a storm quietly gathered in his chest.

 

Silverbell’s boots struck the cobblestone with measured, even steps.

 

The Faerie Kingdom was awake now—sunlight streaming through vine-draped arches, faerie vendors setting up stalls with soft chatter, colorful silks fluttering in the breeze. Petal-lanterns dimmed beneath the daylight as faerie children chased each other past shimmering flowerbeds.

 

And Silverbell walked through it all. Quiet. Watchful. Listening.

 

He wasn’t in armor today—just his knight’s cloak, his silver crest pinned over his chest like a quiet warning: present, alert, loyal.

 

He passed two florists by the eastern square, their voices low.

 

“Did you hear what the Queen said at the last bloom council? She didn’t even acknowledge the patrol shortage—”

 

“It’s not just that. There’s talk of replacing the Silver Tree Knights. I heard from someone in the palace kitchens—”

 

He didn’t stop. Didn’t look. Just kept walking.

 

A pair of young faerie guards paused when they saw him. They straightened quickly, whispering something about a new scouting route being issued— without notice.

 

He passed the mural of the Silver Tree near the northern walkway. Vines had grown too thick over part of it. No one had trimmed them yet.

 

He kept going.

 

Every whisper felt like a crack beneath the polished stone. And Silverbell—loyal to the core—felt each one in his bones. They’re trying to rot us from the inside.

 

He adjusted his bow over his shoulder and turned into the next street, watching faces, movements, glances. He wasn’t here to interrogate. He was here to wait. To listen. To feel where the tremors ran deepest. The rumors were planted. Growing. Poisoning belief. And if he didn’t stop them soon, the roots of the Faerie Kingdom wouldn’t just weaken.

 

They would split.

 

And if he discovered who was behind it— He’d face them himself. No matter how soft their voice had once been. No matter how much he wanted to believe in it.

---

Black Sapphire Cookie sat hunched over his desk, the soft violet glow of the Spire’s rune lights casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones. A dozen scrolls lay unrolled before him—scripts, maps, coded schedules—each lined with ink as precise as a dagger's edge. The latest Truthless Recluse episode had aired hours ago, and Shadow Milk hadn’t stopped cackling since.

 

But his mind wasn’t in the Spire. It was somewhere quieter. Warmer. With softer hands and steady aim.

 

Silverbell.

 

He hadn’t visited the Faerie Kingdom today. Not since the last portal had closed behind him like a door he wasn't brave enough to knock on again.

 

And even now, in the calm glow of his workspace, with everything in its place—he felt it. The shift. The distance.

 

Silverbell was seeing him differently now. He could feel it. Like a string tugging at his chest, pulling tighter each day. Moondrop Faerie Cookie had always walked a line between truth and invention—but Silverbell had believed in him. Had held his hand like it meant something.

 

Now, every whisper planted three months ago had finally bloomed. The rumors were working—brilliantly, destructively. The Faerie Kingdom’s trust in its guardians, its Queen, its order —all slowly unraveling.

 

And with that unraveling came eyes. Suspicion. Silverbell was watching everyone now. Especially strangers with no past. Especially him.

 

Black Sapphire’s gloved fingers curled around a quill as he let out a slow breath. He wanted to see him. To portal back through the woods and land near that familiar training field. To hear Silverbell scoff at his dramatic entrances. To cook something bad just to have a reason to complain.

 

But he couldn’t. Not now. Because if Silverbell caught him—even hesitated —he wouldn’t have a choice. A knight’s duty came first. Always. And he was now part of the rot at the root of the Silver Tree.

 

Black Sapphire leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “You’d arrest me,” he whispered to the air. “And I wouldn’t even fight it.”

 

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Because if I saw your face again, I might not run this time. And he couldn’t afford that.

 

The door slammed so hard the runes on the walls flickered.

 

Black Sapphire shot up from his desk, the quill snapping in his grip as Candy Apple burst in, eyes wide, breath shallow—panic radiating from her in waves.

 

“ YOU BETTER HIDE. MASTER SHADOW MILK KNOWS. ”

 

Everything stopped. The silence after her words wasn’t calm. It was cold.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at her, the gears in his mind turning at blistering speed.

 

“…Knows what, Candy,” he said, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.

 

“ You know what! ” she snapped, pacing wildly across the room like a spark about to hit dry parchment. “The sneaking out, the missing scrolls, the timing. You! The whole ‘soft-eyed-spy-who-fell-in-love-with-a-knight’ disaster you’re trying to cover under a dozen fake smiles and a thousand whispered rumors!”

 

He moved quickly, grabbing her by the arm, pulling her toward the farthest corner of the room—under the whispering wards. Shadow Milk’s network was always listening.

 

“ What exactly did he say? ” Black Sapphire demanded.

 

Candy Apple’s voice dropped to a whisper now, shaken. “He asked if you’ve been… distracted. If maybe one of us started caring too much. And then—he laughed. That laugh. Like he already knew. Like he’s just waiting for you to trip.”

 

Black Sapphire’s heart pounded, but his face stayed stone. He turned from her and paced, cloak trailing behind him like ink. “How long?”

 

“Maybe a day. Maybe three. I don’t know! He doesn’t announce things—he plots them.”

 

“Then I have to leave,” he said immediately.

 

“To the Faerie Kingdom? Are you— insane?! ” she hissed, gripping his wrist. “If he really knows, you stepping into enemy territory is exactly what he wants.”

 

“I’m not going for the mission,” he said. His voice had no edges now. Just exhaustion. Just the truth. “I have to warn him.”

 

Candy Apple stared. “You still think he won’t turn you in?”

 

“I don’t know,” Black Sapphire said softly. “But I’d rather he hear it from me. ”

 

A silence stretched between them. Then she pulled her hand away, jaw tight. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

 

He looked at her, and—for once—his walls dropped completely. “I’d die for a lot of things, Candy,” he said. “But I won’t let him die not knowing why.”

 

Candy Apple didn’t answer right away. Then, with a bitter laugh, she stepped back toward the door. “You are so far gone it’s disgusting.”

 

She opened it. Paused. Looked back. “…You have an hour, Sapphy. Maybe two.” Then she was gone.

 

And Black Sapphire was already reaching for his microphone. The room was quiet again. But not in peace. It was the kind of quiet that follows a storm—when the walls still hum with pressure and the floor feels too still, like it’s waiting for something to break.

 

Black Sapphire stood in the center of his room, his hand hovering just above the eye-shaped microphone, breath caught between decision and collapse.

 

He didn't move yet. Because somewhere deep in his chest, buried beneath layers of ice and order, there was grief. Old. Familiar. He’d felt it before.

 

When the Witches—those distant, ancient, watching beings—first turned their gaze away from him. When fate first taught him that love was not something his kind got to keep.

 

They didn’t give him joy. They didn’t give him peace. They gave him missions. They gave him lies. And masks. And a master who taught him that affection was a weakness you sharpen into a weapon.

 

Every time he got close to something warm, the Witches let it rot. Every time he reached for something more— someone more— the world reminded him that he wasn’t built for it. Not really. Not truly.

 

So here he was again.

 

Staring into the reflection of who he’d become—Black Sapphire Cookie, deception’s perfect blade. Shadow Milk’s most trusted creation. The voice of rumors that could topple kingdoms.

 

And still— Still, he longed for a quiet house at the edge of the woods. For a knight with a steady hand and silver eyes. For a place where no one would ask for his name because he’d already been accepted without one.

 

But the Witches? The Witches had never given him blessings. Only tests.  So maybe this was one more. Maybe this was the last one.

 

His hand dropped onto the microphone. Two taps. The portal shimmered open before him—cool, glowing, uncertain.

 

He looked back just once. In the room. At the life. At everything he was about to risk. Then stepped through anyway. Because if he was meant to fall—He’d at least fall facing the one thing he ever truly wanted.

 

The portal closed behind him with a sound like whispered glass—soft, sharp, final.

 

Black Sapphire stood at the edge of the Faerie Kingdom, the breeze curling past his cloak, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked blossoms and woodsmoke. But this time, he wasn’t wearing Moondrop’s wings. Not the gentle hues. Not the charming smile.

 

No... This was someone else. He had taken on a new name. A new face.

 

A scholar—modest, inconspicuous, unthreatening. Cloaked in soft indigo fabric, tunic marked with subtle embroidery that mirrored the Faerie Kingdom’s sigil for knowledge. A satchel hung at his side, filled with books he’d never read and papers he’d never write.

 

He wore glasses now—half-moon shaped, purely aesthetic—and kept his posture slightly stooped, just enough to blend in with the crowd of visiting researchers and visiting archivists that passed through the kingdom’s gates unnoticed.

 

This disguise wasn’t about charm or misdirection. It was about safety. For both of them. He wasn’t here to seduce or linger. He wasn’t here to pretend. He was here to deliver one thing—

 

A warning.

 

And then he’d disappear again, like a footnote in someone else's story. He had to do this.

 

Because the rumors were no longer harmless. The pressure was building. Shadow Milk was watching. And if Silverbell didn’t know soon, didn’t prepare, he might be swallowed by the collapse Black Sapphire helped set in motion.

 

He began walking. Not toward the garden nor toward the training fields. But toward the library—where knights sometimes passed through in the morning. Where Silverbell sometimes lingered when the world grew too loud.

 

The scholar would wait there. And when the time was right— He’d speak. He didn’t know if Silverbell would recognize his voice. He hoped he wouldn’t. Because tonight, he didn’t want to be seen. He only wanted Silverbell to live.

 

He walked.

 

Not rushing. Just steady—boots quiet against the cobblestone as he moved through the winding streets of the Faerie Kingdom. The scent of dew and wild petals clung to the air, but it did nothing to cleanse the chill that crawled beneath his borrowed robes.

 

Every step felt heavier than the last. Because with each one, he heard them. The rumors. His rumors.

 

"The Queen’s lost her grip on the council, you know."

 

"My brother’s squad got reassigned again—Silver Tree's structure is cracking."

 

"I heard one of the knights met with someone outside the gates. They didn’t wear a crest."

 

Each voice was soft. Casual. Unknowing. But to him, they were knives. He had shaped them months ago. Planted them with care. Sent them into bloom like poison disguised as perfume. They were doing exactly what he designed them to do.

 

And now? He hated the sound of them.

 

He walked past the fountain where he and Silverbell once sat—his footsteps slowed but never stopped. He passed the street with the fruit stalls, where Silverbell once bought too many strawberries and pretended not to smile.

 

The Kingdom was blooming with life. But he could see the cracks now, spiderwebbing beneath the surface, under petals and polished marble.

 

He did this. No portal to escape now. No wings to flee. He didn’t run. He wouldn’t. Not this time. Because the longer he walked, the more the truth echoed behind every whisper: He wasn’t here to finish the story. He was here to try and fix what he'd started. Even if it meant letting go of the one person who saw him as more than a shadow.

 

He saw him. From across the square, just beyond the morning fog curling around the library steps—

 

Silverbell Cookie.

 

He wasn’t in full armor today. No ceremonial cloak. No polished crest shining beneath the sun. Instead, he wore a simpler uniform—soft greys and pale blue leathers, still fitted, still sharp, but worn. Real. His hair was tied back today, loose strands dancing in the breeze, and his bow was slung casually across his back.

 

He looked different. Not just in dress. In bearing. Like the weight he carried had shifted from his shoulders into his chest.

 

There was a stillness in him that hadn’t been there before. Not calm—but contained. Like someone who had stopped hoping the storm would pass and started learning how to stand in the rain.

 

Black Sapphire— the scholar now —stood beneath the arch of the square, half-shrouded by ivy, hidden among other wandering visitors.

 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t wave. He just… looked. And in that instant, he felt something he couldn’t name.

 

Because Silverbell was still beautiful. Still sharp-eyed and too good for a place built on secrets. But now he looked ready. Ready for betrayal. Ready for answers. Ready to face whoever had cracked the roots of the Silver Tree.

 

Even if it was someone he loved. The scholar swallowed hard, the name Moondrop a ghost on his tongue.

 

He had to speak to him. But now, seeing him like this—stronger, clearer, more resolved—he realized: This wouldn’t be easy.

 

Because Silverbell didn’t look like someone waiting anymore. He looked like someone searching.

 

And the moment they locked eyes—He would know.

 

He waited until the moment was quiet—when the crowd thinned, when the sunlight hit just right between the trees, and when Silverbell was alone again.

 

The scholar approached. Not as Black Sapphire. Not as Moondrop. As a stranger with tired eyes and steady hands.

 

Silverbell looked up as he neared. His gaze sharp, always evaluating, but not yet hostile. “Can I help you?” the knight asked.

 

The scholar gave a short, respectful nod. “I bring information. About the unrest spreading through the Kingdom.”

 

Silverbell’s stance shifted. Subtle, but defensive. “Go on.”

 

The scholar lowered his voice, eyes never wavering. “The rumors—they weren’t born here. They were planted. Months ago. By someone sent to destabilize the Queen’s trust in her knights.”

 

Silverbell’s expression didn’t change. But something behind his eyes tightened. He was listening. Good.

 

“They spread quietly. Harmless at first. Doubts. Rearrangements. Small incidents that looked like coincidence. Until they weren’t.”

 

The words came like clockwork—clean, practiced, and real.

 

“This isn’t gossip,” the scholar added. “It’s orchestration. And it’s escalating. Someone wanted this Kingdom to question its roots before it noticed they were rotting.”

 

Silverbell stood still. Silent. Then: “Who sent them?”

 

The scholar hesitated for half a breath too long. “…They won’t stop unless the Kingdom is hollowed out or fully fractured,” he said instead. “There’s still time to stop it. But not much. And the Cookie who planted them.. would like to apologize for the damage they done.”

 

Silverbell didn’t respond. Not right away. He just looked at him. Longer. Harder. And in that moment—standing in the middle of the Faerie Kingdom square, with wind brushing between them—Black Sapphire knew.

 

He recognized him. Not his face. Not his voice. But something else. Something deeper.

 

The way his breath caught. The way his posture loosened, just slightly. The faint tremble in his fingers that he quickly folded behind his back.

 

Silverbell didn’t speak again. He didn’t ask more questions. He simply nodded—once—and turned.

 

Black Sapphire stood there, unmoving, as the knight walked away with the weight of the truth now pressing into his spine.

 

He didn’t run after him. He had done what he came to do. And somehow… it hurt more than any goodbye.

 

He had barely taken a step back into the crowd, the scholar mask still firm on his face, when it happened. A hand seized his arm. Firm. Gloved. Unmistakable.

 

Black Sapphire jolted, instinct flaring, heart leaping up into his throat. He nearly reached for the hidden spell etched into his coat—

 

But then he saw who it was.

 

Silverbell.

 

Up close now. Too close. His grip wasn’t cruel—but it wasn’t soft either. It held intent.  And his eyes… They weren’t confused. They weren’t curious. They were sure.

 

“Wait,” Silverbell said, his voice low and even. No demand. Just something beneath it—tension coiled around something personal. “You said too much for someone who claims to be just a messenger.”

 

Black Sapphire froze. Oh no. No. He couldn’t lie. Not to him . Not now. Not when Silverbell looked at him like that—like he already knew what the answer was but needed to hear it anyway. So he didn’t lie. He didn’t speak, either. That silence was enough.

 

Silverbell’s hand eased, but didn’t let go. His voice lowered, quieter now, like it was only meant for the space between them. “I knew it was you.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t breathe.

 

Silverbell looked at him—not in anger. Not even betrayal. Just… the weight of knowing. “The way you talk. The way you look when you think no one sees you. I knew.”

 

A long pause. The breeze shifted between them.

 

Silverbell’s hand slipped away from his arm. “I won’t stop you from leaving,” he said softly. “But I won’t let you disappear again without answering one question.”

 

His eyes didn’t waver. “Why now?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. He just reached into his coat pocket—slow, deliberate. His fingers curled around the thin edges of a single spellcard, its surface etched with an arcane sigil that pulsed faintly beneath the glamour of his disguise.

 

Silverbell saw the movement. But he didn’t stop it. Didn’t beg. Didn’t plead. Because he already knew. He was leaving again.

 

A soft gust passed between them, catching the ends of Black Sapphire’s coat as he raised the card to his lips. No farewell. No explanation— the card dissolved in a shimmer of runes and wind.

 

The spell activated in a flash—silent and precise. In an instant, he was gone. Not a ripple left behind.

 

Silverbell stood there, arm still slightly outstretched, staring at the empty space where he’d been. He said nothing. He just lowered his hand… and closed his eyes. Not from surprise. But from heartbreak rehearsed.

---

Shadow Milk technically had eyes everywhere. Floors, walls, shadows, reflections—he saw it all. But that day, half his soul was tied up keeping Truthless Recluse from unraveling again, which meant he wasn’t at full watch. That’s how it slipped past him.

 

One of his lovely assistants—soft. Sentimental. Ugh.

 

He paused. Thought back. There had been signs: the long pauses during briefings, the hesitant glances, the silent protests when orders went a shade too cruel. He ignored them. Why would he care? He didn’t babysit hearts.

 

But now, seeing it fully? The moment it clicked?

 

"AHAHAHAHA…" The sound rolled out of him like thunder in a coffin.

 

 "Oh, you sweet little traitor. I knew it. I just didn’t care ." He wiped a tear—mocking himself more than anything.

 

 "What did you think this was? A rescue mission? A redemption arc?" He grinned, sharp and wide.

 

"No, no, darling. Cuz this is a soul-burner. You work for the monster. You don’t feel sorry for the meat." Still, he couldn’t stop smiling.

 

 "Soft." He said it like a curse. Or maybe a prayer. Either way, it amused him.

 

“Oh my Black Sapphire…”

 

He whispered it like a cracked lullaby. That was what he used to call him. Not out loud, of course. Never in front of the others. But in those rare, raw moments—when walls didn’t need eyes, when Truthless Recluse lay curled in a dreamless sleep—that’s what he called him. His minion. Cold, precise, shining even in rot.

 

And now? Now, that same Sapphire was losing his edge.

 

Shadow Milk unfurled the scroll slowly, letting the golden parchment catch the flickering blacklight of the Spire’s throne chamber. The ink he used writhed, alive—each word drawn in soulblood. His handwriting was perfect. Final.

 

A mission. No—a choice.

 

He sealed the scroll with a sigh, then laughed again, lower this time. Bitter. "Let’s see if your heart can swing a blade, Sapphy."

 

He would send him after the Faerie Knight. The one he couldn’t bear to harm. The one whose smile he thought no one noticed. But Shadow Milk always noticed, even when he pretended not to.

 

"Kill him," he whispered to the ink, as if it could feel shame. "And prove to me you’re still mine. Or hesitate..."

 

His eyes narrowed, glinting like shattered mirrors. "And I’ll handle it myself."

 

If he refused—if that foolish love cracked open and tried to shield the knight—Shadow Milk would burn the whole damn kingdom. With the Queen gone, the land was soft underfoot, trembling like prey.

 

"I’ll make it look like an accident. Or a lesson. Or maybe just a joke."

 

Then, quieter, almost fondly— "If he dies for love… I’ll make sure there’s nothing left to love."

 

The Spire pulsed once, as if it heard.

 

The Spire’s halls were quiet—too quiet. Not in that peaceful kind of way, but like a breath being held before a scream. Shadow Milk moved like smoke, scroll in hand, darkness clinging to him like a second skin. He was focused —eyes narrowed, soul humming, plan unfolding.

 

But then—

“Master?” A sing-song voice, sweet as spun sugar, cut into the silence. Candy Apple.

She stood in the hallway, ribbons bouncing with every step, her caramel-red glaze catching the low torchlight. But there was a crease in her frosting, a worry in her candy-cored eyes.

 

“You look like you're about to break something… or someone.” She tilted her head. “ Please don’t say it’s Black Sapphire. He’s been quiet lately. Too quiet.” She fidgeted with her twizzled staff. “I don’t like it."

 

Shadow Milk stopped. Still.

 

A beat passed—and then—“AHAHAHAHA… that's funny.” He threw his head back. A cracked, echoing laugh that made the torches flicker.

 

“Oh Candy, sweet Candy…” he said, voice coated in cold amusement. “You think I want to hurt him?”

 

His smile twitched, fractured at the edges. “I want the best for him. For all of you. That’s why I lead. That’s why I lie, we lie.” He waved the scroll slightly. “But love?”

 

 He spat the word like it burned his mouth. “Love can ruin everything. It’s a weakness wrapped in a pretty bow. And he’s falling right into it.”

Candy Apple stepped closer, softly, carefully. “But maybe that’s not bad,” she whispered. “Maybe he needs it. Maybe you do too, Master.”

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed—deep, endless voids. “He would throw away everything, Candy. He’d join their side, spread truth like a disease. Undo everything we’ve worked for.”

 

 He gestured to the scroll. “This? This is mercy. A choice. He ends it, or I do. And if I have to clean it up myself—”

 He leaned in, voice dropping to a cruel whisper.

 “—then I’ll burn that Faerie kingdom until their rivers run sugar glass and no one remembers their Queen’s name.”

 

Candy Apple’s sugar skin paled. She clutched her staff. Still, her voice was steady. “You’re scared,” she said. “Not of losing the war. But of losing him... ”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t reply. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Then, quietly—like it was dragged out of him—“I can’t afford to lose me, Candy.”

 

And with that, he turned. The scroll pulsed in his hand, hot with decision.

 

Tonight, Black Sapphire would choose. And Shadow Milk would finally know where his heart really lived.

Shadow Milk stepped through the door—and stopped. It reeked of love. "Egh.."

Not perfume. Not incense. Not any scent you could name. No, this was thicker. Warmer. It clung to the air like velvet smoke, like a fever dream. His lip curled.

 

Disgusting.

 

Everywhere he looked, there were signs. A pressed silverbell and a lily on the desk—wilted but cherished. A folded note, written in that impossibly delicate fae script. A silk ribbon tucked under a pillow like a secret. The room wasn’t just quarters. It was a shrine. Not to the Spire.

 

To him. The Faerie Knight.

 

Shadow Milk’s fingers tightened around the scroll, the parchment crackling under his grip like dry bone. His eye twitched. He took one step deeper. The floor creaked under his heel like it knew—he didn’t belong here.

 

“Of course,” he muttered, voice sharp and low, cutting through the velvet air. “Of course it’s this.”

 

Not just affection. Devotion. Worship. It was dragging Black Sapphire out from under his grip, breath by breath.

 

He ran his hand across the table’s edge—cold metal meeting starlight dust. Faerie magic. The residue of another life. A life that didn’t bleed shadows or serve the cause. A life that threatened everything.

 

His jaw locked. “You think you can have both, don’t you?” he hissed into the stillness. “My cause and his heart.”

 

He dropped the scroll onto the desk—thud—like a blade thrown down. “Choose.”

 

He didn’t need to spell it out. The scroll did that. Inked in truth and sealed in silence. Kill the Faerie Knight. Or watch the world you left behind die screaming.

 

But this time… he didn’t turn to leave. He pulled the chair from the desk—grating wood on stone—and sat. Leg crossed. Hands folded. Eyeing on a portal that might appear.

 

Waiting. Like a shadow waiting for the sun to come home so it can devour it.

 

His gaze wandered the room again, landing on a sketch—charcoal, delicate—of the Faerie Knight’s smile. It had no place in the Spire. No right to exist here.

 

Shadow Milk’s voice was low, barely a breath. “You were my brightest gem, Black Sapphire…”

 

 The words shook—not with doubt, but the fury of betrayal already forming. “…don’t make me break you.”

 

And then, silence. Heavy. Dreadful. Shadow Milk sat there, calm on the outside, storm within. Waiting for love to walk through that door.

 

Waiting to see if loyalty would survive.

 

Notes:

this is going to be an emotional roller coaster soooo claim your ticket now! (hahaha chapter 14)

if my art block is gone i'll try to draw these sillies. and their outfits from the last chapter

 

(I rarely sleep bc im busy writing this fic but i finally know how to end this and I just need to process all of that)

Chapter 14: XIII

Notes:

i really REALLY WANTED to post this soo here ig (impatient ahh)

my notes are staring at me thats why I posted lmaoaoaoaoa

 

 

Silverbell stood motionless in the courtyard long after the shimmer of the spell had vanished—long after the wind stopped carrying the last trace of his presence.

 

The space where Moondrop had stood now felt unbearably empty. Like something had been pulled from the world and left a hollow too sharp to ignore. He lowered his arm slowly, fingers still tingling from where they had touched him. Where he had grabbed him. Where he had tried—desperately —to make him stay.

 

But he was gone. Again. Just like before. But this time... it felt worse. Because Silverbell had seen it. The crack behind the eyes. The hesitation in his breath. The way his voice frayed at the edge when he said nothing at all.

 

He lied. Or at least—he didn’t tell the truth. And yet, it was all truth, wasn’t it? The warning. The urgency. The heartbreak in his silence. Silverbell stared up at the empty space the spell left behind, his heart hammering.

 

“Why now?” he had asked. He didn’t get an answer. But he didn’t need one. Not anymore. Because whatever Moondrop had come to say… it was like a goodbye. He saw it in his eyes, even behind the glasses, the disguise, the scholar’s mask. It wasn’t just a warning. It was a farewell cloaked in duty. And Silverbell—despite every instinct in his bones, every ache in his heart—didn’t chase him this time. Because he understood. The one he loved wasn’t a faerie at all. And this kingdom? It wasn’t his home. But the pain remained, sharp and unshakable.

 

Silverbell clenched his jaw, the wind rustling the flowers on his bow. You don’t get to vanish forever, he thought. Not this time. He turned away from the courtyard, slowly but with purpose, steps heavier than usual. If this was a game—Then someone had just made their next move. And Silverbell was done waiting. The doors to the Silver Hall burst open with a sharp slam.

 

Silverbell didn’t wait for permission—he never did when it mattered. His chest heaved with breathless urgency, hair windswept, bow still slung loosely across his back. Every knight in the chamber turned to face him.

 

Mercurial Knight rose first, eyes narrowing. “Silverbell?”

 

“I saw him,” Silverbell said, voice tight. “He’s back.”

 

“ Moondrop. ” The name dropped like a stone in the middle of the polished marble chamber.

 

Gasps. Murmurs. Steel shifting.

 

“He’s not a faerie,” Silverbell continued. “Not really. He’s in disguise. And he knows something— a lot. Enough to walk straight into the Kingdom and vanish again before I could stop him.”

 

Mercurial Knight’s expression hardened. “How long has this been going on?”

Silverbell didn’t answer. Because the answer was too long. “He came to deliver a warning,” he said instead. “About the rumors. The sabotage. He said they were planted months ago.”

 

“And you let him go,” one of the elder knights said sharply.

 

“I didn’t let him,” Silverbell snapped, then pulled himself back. “He used a spellcard. I didn’t get the chance.”

 

Mercurial’s jaw worked. “He’s dangerous.” There it was. The cold, final declaration.

 

And the rest of the knights—one by one—nodded.

 

“He’s been moving under our noses for weeks.”

 

“He knows our patterns, our gates, our ranks.”

 

“Information like that can’t be ignored.”

 

“We need to act. Capture him. Detain. Interrogate.”

 

Silverbell didn’t speak. He stood perfectly still while they planned the pursuit—routes, checkpoints, watch orders, secret magic markers to detect cloaked illusions. He heard every word. But the ringing in his ears drowned out most of it.

 

They’re going to hunt him.

 

And if they find him before he does— They’ll break him. Or worse. Silverbell’s hands clenched behind his back, hidden from view. He couldn’t stop the Silver Tree Knights. Not all of them. Not officially. But he could move faster.

 

The map of the Faerie Kingdom lay sprawled across the center table, pinned by daggers and glowing markers. Routes. Patrols. Strategic chokepoints. A hunt laid bare.

 

“Northwestern outpost first,” one knight said, tracing a line. “He’s used that path before. Easy to isolate him there.”

 

“Set a false lead,” another added, smirking. “Tell the market guards we spotted a disguised mage. Watch how fast he takes the bait.”

 

“We corner him near the Mirror Springs,” a third chimed in. “Can’t use portals near the sacred water. He’ll be stuck. Like a rabbit in a snare.”

 

A younger knight snorted. “You think he’ll run? I say we put a blade to his throat and ask him about the pretty lies he’s been feeding our fellow knight.”

 

That got laughter. Sharp. Cold. Not cruel for the sake of it—but cruel with purpose.

 

“Let him beg,” one muttered. “Let’s see how good he is at vanishing when we clip his wings.”

 

“He wants to play spy?” another grinned. “Let’s show him how Faerie Knights handle traitors.”

 

They were excited. Energized. Like this was sport. Like this wasn’t the careful unmaking of someone Silverbell—No. Of someone he let in. Silverbell stood perfectly still. Not a word. Not a muscle out of place. But his stomach twisted. The smile frozen on his lips was carved in ice.

 

Because he knew Moondrop wasn’t ready. He was clever. He was sharp. But he wasn’t brutal. And they were.

 

Mercurial Knight placed one hand on the map and nodded with calm finality. “Good. We move at dusk.”

 

Cheers.

 

The sound was thunderous. The cheers hadn’t even faded when the atmosphere shifted—sharp, sudden, quiet.

 

Mercurial Knight’s hand lifted once, and the room obeyed. The grins slipped. The knives returned to their sheaths. Silence fell like frost. And then every eye turned to Silverbell.

 

“Hey Silverbell,” one knight began, tone suddenly too casual, “how close were you to the spy exactly?”

 

Another chimed in. “Close enough to know what he was, or just close enough to get used ?”

 

“Did he use a spell on you?” someone asked, voice lower. Sharper. “A glamour? Charm magic? You’d know if your memories were altered, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Did you ever see him cast anything? Or did you just think he was pretty when he lied to your face?”

 

The questions came like arrows now—rapid, pointed, endless.

 

“Why didn’t you arrest him?”

 

“Why didn’t you report him sooner?”

 

“Was he feeding you lies the whole time?”

 

“Did you believe any of it?”

 

Silverbell’s answers were short. Vague. Emotionless.

 

“I didn’t have proof.”

 

“I wasn’t sure.”

 

“He slipped away.”

 

“I did what I thought was right.”

 

But none of them sounded like truths. And every knight in the room knew it.

 

Mercurial Knight stood unmoved at the table, arms crossed, eyes locked on Silverbell. He didn’t interrupt the others—not yet. He let the storm burn itself out.

 

Then, when the room finally quieted again, he spoke. “You’ll be the bait.”

 

The words landed like a crack of thunder. Silverbell froze. "What?”

 

Mercurial stepped forward, voice cool and calm, like he was discussing the weather.

 

“He’ll come back for you. That’s obvious. You’re the variable he didn’t predict, the one thing in this Kingdom he won’t cut loose.”

 

“You want to use me?” Silverbell said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

“We want to catch him ,” Mercurial replied. “And you’re our cleanest thread. A knight in love—" A pause. A faint, almost disappointed breath. “—is a powerful tool. ”

 

The others didn’t object. They didn’t protest. Some even nodded. Because this wasn’t about loyalty anymore. It was about results. And Silverbell? He was useful. He wanted to scream. Wanted to grab the map, rip it in half, run. Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

 

He should’ve faced Moondrop alone. Should’ve handled it quietly. Should’ve never told them a thing. And now they would twist his love into a trap. It was cruel. But worse—It was smart.

 

He stood there, teeth clenched, knuckles white behind his back. And said nothing. Because they didn’t see the damage. They didn’t care. They only saw a knight in love. And they were ready to weaponize that love—to kill with it.

 

The voices blurred into a low, methodical hum around him. “…we'll stage it in the outer gardens—near the mirror lake, that’s where he used to show up, right?”

 

“Silverbell always walked that path during patrol, it won’t raise suspicion.”

 

“We’ll keep two squads nearby, cloaked. If he appears, we trap the space with silence wards. No spells. No portals.”

 

“And if he runs again?”

 

“We shoot to wound.”

 

More nods. More confident tones. More plans. But Silverbell barely heard them.

 

Bait. That word looped through his skull like a curse that wouldn’t fade. He wasn’t a knight anymore. Not to them. Not in this moment. He was a tool. A glowing signpost with a pulse. A trap wrapped in silver armor and a familiar smile. A pawn they could move into position without care for what he wanted. Because his feelings? His trust? His mistakes? They belonged to the Kingdom now.

 

He stared at the map while they outlined how to lay him out like fresh bait. How to time the magic, how to draw Moondrop close. How to make him believe. They were counting on it. On the love. On the hesitation. On the weakness. They thought it would work. And worst of all? Silverbell knew it would.

 

Because Moondrop would come back. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he would. Because he cared.

 

And Silverbell…? He was going to be the knife they buried in his back. Unless he found him first.

---

 

The portal flared behind him—cool, violet, silent. It closed before the magic could settle. Black Sapphire stood still. Breath sharp. Hands clenched.

 

Back in the Spire. Back in his room. But something was wrong.

 

He felt it first—not the cold air, not the shimmer of familiar magic—but the presence. A shadow stretched out from behind his desk. And sitting there, quiet and calm as if he’d been waiting for hours, was Shadow Milk Cookie.

 

His cloak draped like a pool of ink over the chair. His gloved fingers traced the edge of a parchment he clearly hadn’t read. A half-empty teacup sat beside him, untouched.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t speak.

 

Shadow Milk didn’t look at him. Not right away. He only said, “I see you’re back.”

 

The words were soft. Measured. Deadly quiet. Still, Black Sapphire didn’t move. He didn’t step further into the room. But he didn’t flee, either.

 

Shadow Milk finally looked up. His eyes, sharp and impossible to read, drifted over Black Sapphire like ink staining parchment. “I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t blink. “I needed air.”

 

Shadow Milk hummed. Not quite pleased. Not quite angry. “A "long" walk for such stale air,” he murmured.

 

A silence stretched between them—cold, thick, suffocating. And yet, Shadow Milk said nothing more. He didn’t press. He hasn't accused him yet. He only looked at him with the stillness of someone who might know. Or worse—Someone who didn’t care.

 

He stood slowly, letting the cloak slide across the stone floor like a whisper. “Your next script is due tomorrow,” he said, casual now, as if this had been nothing more than a conversation over tea.

 

He passed by him without pause, without glance. Just before leaving, he paused in the doorway. “You’re very quiet lately, Black Sapphire.” A flick of a smile. “I almost mistook you for someone else.”

 

Then he vanished down the hall. Leaving behind the cold—and the weight of everything unsaid. But the air in the room didn’t settle.

 

It curdled.

 

Black Sapphire stood still, jaw clenched, heart thundering beneath his ribs as he tried to hold his breath steady— tried . It didn’t work.

 

Shadow Milk returned, slow and deliberate, a new scroll in his hand—bound in dark ribbon, sealed with a smear of wax shaped like a broken crown. He didn’t toss it. He placed it carefully on the desk.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t need to open it. He knew.

 

“I’ve been patient,” Shadow Milk said, voice like silk dragged over broken glass. “More than usual.” Precision. Controlled disappointment.

 

“But now I see it clearly.” He stepped forward, one hand behind his back, the other gesturing lightly. “That knight... Silverbell. He's not just a thorn, he's a weed. Disruptive. Distracting. A performer hiding behind loyalty. A liar, like the rest of them.”

 

Black Sapphire’s fingers twitched. “He’s not—”

 

Shadow Milk looked at him sharply. “Not what?”

 

Silence.

 

Shadow Milk continued, circling the room like ink bleeding into silk. “He got too close. He made you hesitate. He made you emotional. ” He said it like a slur. “You, my finest blade, dulled by one trembling glance and a pretty smile.”

 

He stopped in front of the scroll. “So now you’ll do what you were trained to do.” He tapped the scroll with one finger. “You’ll tear him apart.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t move. Couldn't speak.

 

Shadow Milk’s voice dropped, low and smooth like poison wine. “You wanted to see if it was real?” he whispered. “Then look at him for what he truly is. Like the rest of them. Soft on the outside. Rotten underneath.”

 

The room was too quiet.

 

Finally, Black Sapphire found his voice. “…No.”

 

Shadow Milk raised a brow. “What was that?”

“I said no. ” It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was defiant.

 

The smallest, rawest seed of something that didn’t come from the script. Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed. But he didn’t strike. Not yet. He just smiled. A cold, knowing smile. “Well,” he said softly. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

 

And he left the scroll behind. Black Sapphire didn’t touch it. Not for a long time.

 

The footsteps had barely faded before the door creaked open again—slower this time. Measured. Heavy with something unsaid.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stood in the doorway once more, his expression unreadable now. The kind of stillness that came not from calm, but from calculation.

 

He didn’t step inside right away. He just spoke. “If I’m right…” his voice echoed softly in the room, “and you’ve already been compromised— captured , or worse—”

 

A pause. A longer breath. “Then I’ll do what I have to.”

 

He stepped forward, this time not with anger, but with something colder. Something twisted around worry and control. “This mission isn’t about punishment, Black Sapphire.”

 

He stopped across from him, just far enough that the shadows between them danced, but didn’t touch. “This is protection. For the Spire. For our work. For you. ”

 

His eyes, dark and shimmering like ink, locked onto his.

 

“I won’t let your weakness rot what we built. I won’t let him crack you open and turn you into something soft and breakable. If you can’t do what needs to be done—” He tapped the scroll again, this time with a little more force. “— I will. ”

 

The threat wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It wasn’t rage that made Shadow Milk terrifying. It was love, warped into something sharp and cruel and unforgiving .

The kind of love that says:
  If I must destroy what hurts you, I’ll burn it all. Even if it means burning you too. Black Sapphire stood frozen.

 

And deep in his chest, where his jam pulsed faintly beneath layers of armor and silence—

He felt the weight of two impossible choices closing in. Protect Silverbell… or protect the Spire. He didn’t speak.

 

But Shadow Milk didn’t expect him to. He turned to leave again, slow and steady, the sound of his cloak brushing the floor like the toll of a quiet bell. “Decide quickly,” he murmured. “Before I decide for you. ”

 

As the door shut behind Shadow Milk for the final time, the silence hit harder than any order.

 

Black Sapphire stumbled back. One step. Two. His back hit the edge of his desk. The scroll lay there like a loaded weapon, mocking him in its stillness.

 

He couldn’t breathe. His hands trembled, curling around the edges of the table as his knees threatened to give. The air in the room felt thin, cold, poisoned by words he couldn’t take back and choices he couldn’t undo. A choice. Silverbell… or the Spire. He gasped—sharp, quiet, shallow.

His cloak suddenly felt too heavy, like it was pressing him into the floor. The walls felt closer. The shadows darker. Every whisper of wind outside became a scream inside his chest.

 

He tried to steady his breath, but it wouldn’t come. His lungs wouldn’t listen. His body was betraying him— Or maybe his heart was. You’ll tear him apart, Shadow Milk had said. And if he didn’t? Then I will.

Black Sapphire clenched his jaw.

He wanted to scream. To rip the scroll in half. To run through a portal and warn Silverbell and hold him tight and say, “Run. Please, run.”

 

But instead—

 

He gasped again, bent forward, hands trembling against the desk, the sharp sting of tears pricking at his eyes and refusing to fall. This wasn’t just a mission. It was a crossroad. And every path ahead of him meant bleeding something he couldn’t get back.

 

His breath caught—shallow, ragged. “I can’t,” he choked. But he would have to. Because indecision would kill them both.

 

Black Sapphire slowly sank to the floor, back against the wall, the sharp edge of his desk digging into his shoulder as he curled in on himself, breath still ragged, the scroll untouched beside him.

 

He wished— witches, he wished —that he had never fallen in love.

 

That he had never lingered in that forest. Never watched him smile. Never listened to that soft, exasperated voice say his name like it meant something.

 

Moondrop. A name that was never his. But Silverbell had made it real. And now—now that lie had teeth.

 

He buried his face in his hands, nails scraping against his temple. “I shouldn’t have let it happen,” he whispered into the dark. 

 

Because this wasn’t fair. Not to Silverbell. Not to the mission. Not to himself.

 

He wished Silverbell would live in peace. That he could return to a Kingdom that trusted him, believed in him. That he would never have to hear the word traitor whispered with his name, never see doubt etched in his Queen’s face, never have to draw his bow against someone who once held his hand under the stars.

 

But the Witches weren’t going to listen. They never had. Not to him. Not to Shadow Milk. Not to anyone born in shadow.

 

This love—it was selfish. And fragile. A flower trying to bloom beneath frost.

 

He understood Shadow Milk now.

 

He understood why his master built walls from lies. Why he trained him to sharpen his heart into something cold. Why he hated the truth.

 

Because the truth hurts. It always did.

 

It tore kingdoms. It cracked Soul Jams. It made you want things you were never meant to have. No wonder Cookies lie. No wonder they choose shadows. Because love— real love—asks too much.

 

And Black Sapphire? He was never supposed to want it. But he did. And now that truth would cost everything. The tears came quietly.

 

Silent, steady rivers down his cheeks—hot and bitter, cutting through the mask he always wore like rain slicing through paper.

 

He sat there, crumpled in the corner of his room, a weapon dulled by something he couldn’t control. Not duty. Not magic.

 

Love. And it felt like weakness. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

 

That’s what Shadow Milk always said. Affection? Distraction. Hope? Delusion. Love? A slow, quiet poison that hollows you from the inside out.

 

He was right. He was always right.

 

Black Sapphire’s hands gripped his cloak, pressing against his face, trying to hide the shame of it. The tremble in his breath. The salt staining his gloves.

 

He had failed.

 

Failed to stay detached. Failed to keep the mask on. Failed to be what he was meant to be. A liar. A whisper. A shadow.

 

Instead, he let light in. Let a knight in his heart. And now what? Now he cried for something that was never his. And would never be.

 

Because in the end—Shadow Milk didn’t need to destroy him. He had already done it himself. He stayed there for a long time.

 

Long enough for the tears to dry on his cheeks and leave his skin cold. Long enough for the ache in his chest to dull—not disappear, just… fold in. Bury itself behind duty again.

 

Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he wished things were different—He had to do it. There was no other way now.

 

He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Not gently. Not thoughtfully. Just enough to make the redness fade, to make the weakness vanish, to wear the face he was trained to wear. The blade again. No more trembling hands. No more quiet longing. No more Moondrop.  Black Sapphire stood.

 

Straightened his cloak. Fixed his collar. Tucked away every trace of the truth behind practiced silence and polished steps.

 

Then he opened the door.

 

The halls of the Spire greeted him like they always did—cold, echoing, indifferent.

 

And he walked them as if nothing had changed. Except everything had. He reached Shadow Milk’s chamber and paused, just once. A final breath.

 

Not to steady himself—but to bury what was left of his heart somewhere it couldn’t reach him. Then he stepped inside. Ready to lie. Ready to obey. Ready to break the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

 

The chamber was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of rune-lights coiling along the carved walls. The air carried the scent of parchment, ink, and shadow—familiar, suffocating.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stood at his desk, unmoved, head bowed slightly as he inked another line across a page that would twist the fate of someone else. His cloak pooled at his feet like spilled darkness. He didn’t look up when the door opened.

 

But he spoke.

 

“Back already?” His voice was smooth, dry—like he expected something else. An argument. A retreat.

 

Instead—

 

A scroll landed on the desk with a dull thud. “I’m doing it,” Black Sapphire said, his voice hollow. Controlled. Empty.

 

Shadow Milk looked up at last. His expression didn’t change. But something in his gaze sharpened—focused.

 

“Ah.” He reached forward slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the scroll.

 

“No questions this time?” he asked, tilting his head.

 

“No,” Black Sapphire replied.

 

“Doubt?”

 

“…None.”

 

“Regret?” A beat.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer.

 

And that, somehow, seemed to satisfy him more. Shadow Milk smiled faintly. “Wellll let the SHOW begin!”

 

Black Sapphire simply stood there, still and cold, with the quiet of someone who had already started mourning the choice he just made. Because it was done. The stage was set. And the curtain was rising.

 

 

---

The meeting adjourned with satisfied nods and the quiet scraping of chairs. Orders had been given. Patrols assigned. The trap was set. And Silverbell? He was already gone.

 

The moment the chamber doors creaked open, he walked fast—then faster—until he was clear of their eyes, their echoing laughter, their cruel certainty.

 

Then he ran.

 

Boots pounding against the marble, then stone, then mossed-over paths as he darted through the winding garden halls of the castle—through the gates, past the courtyards, past the guards who barely registered his blur of motion.

 

His lungs burned, his chest tight, not from exhaustion—From fear. From guilt. From love.

 

He didn’t stop running until the trees swallowed the sky. The forest. His training ground but it was now their place.

 

Where Moondrop had missed his mark and Silverbell had laughed for the first time in what felt like years. Where they shared apples and practiced shots and words they never quite finished.

 

Where it all started.

 

Silverbell reached the clearing, breath hitching, hands on his knees. The air was still. Quiet. Birds high in the branches chirped like nothing was broken. Like the world was still safe.

 

He sat down under the dream-lace tree, the one with the lowest branch— his branch—and pulled his knees to his chest. This was the only place that still felt real. The only place he hoped Moondrop would still go.

 

So he waited.

 

He watched the wind stir the grass and hoped— prayed —that Moondrop would come before the knights did. Because this time… if he saw him? He wasn’t letting him run. Not again.

 

The forest was still, save for the occasional rustle of wind in the trees.

 

Silverbell sat beneath the dream-lace tree, gaze locked on the fading path ahead, heart hammering against his ribs. He didn’t know how long he’d been there—minutes, hours. The sun filtered down through the leaves in lazy beams, painting dappled patterns across the mossy ground.

 

And then—A voice. Soft. Low. Familiar. “You’re early.”

 

Silverbell shot to his feet. There, emerging from the trees like a whisper, was him.

 

The same scholar’s robe. The same false calm. The same carefully curated softness that used to hide a thousand secrets.

 

But Silverbell’s eyes burned through all of it. “No more of that,” he said, voice flat, heavy. “No more masks.”

Moondrop—whoever he was—didn’t speak.

 

So Silverbell stepped forward. “I want answers.”

 

Silence.

 

“Who are you?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Silverbell’s voice cracked, the edges rough with something raw and breaking. “What’s your real name?”

 

The figure in front of him stood tall, composed—but his hands twitched at his sides. Just slightly. Just enough.

 

“I trusted you,” Silverbell said, quieter now. “You don’t get to vanish, lie, and come back unless you’re going to tell me the truth.”

 

The wind picked up. Leaves rustled. And still, the silence held.

 

Silverbell stared at him— through him. The disguise was still there. But it didn’t matter anymore.

 

He saw him. Even if he didn’t know the name. Even if he never did. “Please,” he said finally. “Tell me who you are.”

 

The forest was waiting. And so was he.

 

The wind curled around the clearing as Silverbell stood motionless, eyes locked on the figure before him. Tension stretched tight between them—raw, breathless, suspended.

 

And then, without a word, the figure reached into his coat.

 

A flick of his wrist. An eye-shaped microphone shimmered into existence, hovering in his palm like a tether to something deeper—something hidden. The disguise shimmered. Cracked. And shattered.

 

Magic pulsed outward in a ripple of dark violet, swallowing the soft greens of the forest light in a single, radiant surge. The scholar’s modest robes unraveled like paper. The false posture broke. The soft colors bled away.

 

And there he stood—His real identity. No illusions now.

 

Cool, violet-gray skin catching the fractured light. One eye veiled in the shadow of thick obsidian hair, the other sharp, sly, gleaming like a shard of cut amethyst—slit-pupiled, predatory, knowing.

 

His sharp teeth weren’t hidden anymore. His wings curled behind him like folded theater curtains—ornate, deliberate, darkly beautiful. His tailored suit gleamed in gold and jet black, every detail intentional. Controlled. A mask in its own right.

 

But his expression—that was what Silverbell noticed. It wasn’t confident. It wasn’t sly. It was tired. Honest. Regretful.

 

Black Sapphire looked at him—really looked—and spoke, voice softer than it had ever been: “…My name is Black Sapphire Cookie.”

 

Silverbell didn’t move. He waited.

 

“I spread the rumors,” Black Sapphire said. “I reported on everything. You. The Queen. The knights. I watched you all— lied to you all. For months.”

 

Every word felt like a blade turned inward, but he didn’t stop. He owed every word.

 

“And the name ‘Moondrop’—that wasn’t just a lie. It was my cage. And I stayed in it because I didn’t want to hurt you. But that doesn’t excuse what I did.”

 

He paused. His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t expect you. I didn’t plan for you.”

 

Silverbell swallowed hard, but said nothing. His eyes shimmered. Not from tears—but from the weight of what he already knew.

 

“I tried to stop it,” Black Sapphire whispered. “I tried to walk away. To protect you. But it was too late by then.”

 

A long silence stretched. Silverbell stepped forward, slowly. And Black Sapphire didn’t move. He stood still, open, defenseless.

 

“I needed the truth,” Silverbell said at last, voice low. “Not just a name.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes lifted to his. “Then take it,” he said. “All of it. I’m yours to hate.”

 

But Silverbell didn’t speak again. Because he didn’t know if this was heartbreak… Or the start of something more devastating.

Black Sapphire took a slow breath. The wind no longer moved. The forest felt like it was holding its breath with them.

 

“I wasn’t made to feel,” he began quietly. “I was trained to observe, to lie, to weave stories so believable even I started to believe them.”

 

His eyes didn’t leave Silverbell’s face. Not once. “But then you happened. Your ridiculous jokes. Your arrows. Your patience. You— you , standing there under that dream-lace tree like you belonged to something unbroken.”

 

He laughed under his breath. Bitter. Quiet.

 

“And I hated it, at first. Because you saw him. The mask. The name. Moondrop.”

 

He paused, jaw tight. “But you never asked for anything more. You trusted that . And I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you everything. ”

 

Silverbell hadn’t moved. His brow was furrowed, shoulders tense, fingers twitching slightly by his side—his body caught in the middle of instinct and emotion, trained steel and shattering heart.

 

Black Sapphire took one cautious step forward, wings folded, voice barely above a whisper now. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

 

“And that’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever admitted.”

 

The silence pressed between them like a weight. He didn’t speak of his new mission. Didn’t speak of the Spire. Of Candy Apple’s smirks. Of Shadow Milk’s threats. Not now.

 

Because this moment wasn’t about what they told him to be. It was about who he was —and what he had chosen to feel. The truth, raw and stripped down, stood between them now. Not as a weapon. But as a question. Silverbell? He still hadn’t answered.

 

Black Sapphire let out a dry, hollow chuckle. His smile was thin, almost self-mocking. “Speechless, right?” he muttered, eyes lowered. “I was a fool. I know .”

 

The bitterness in his voice wasn’t directed at Silverbell. It was aimed squarely at himself. He turned slightly, as if to walk away—already bracing for the anger, the rejection, the unraveling of whatever fragile thing they had left.

 

But Silverbell stepped forward, sharply this time. “No,” he said, voice sharper than Black Sapphire had heard before. “You don’t get to do that.”

Black Sapphire froze, back still turned.

 

“You don’t get to stand there and pretend like you’re the only one hurting.” His voice cracked at the edge. “You think I didn’t feel any of this? That I wasn’t tearing myself apart trying to understand why you left? Why you lied?”

“I couldn’t—” Black Sapphire began, but Silverbell cut him off.

 

“You could have. You chose not to.” The words hit hard. Truthful. Angry. Deserved.

 

“I waited for you,” Silverbell went on, stepping closer. “Even after I knew. Even when everyone else was planning how to trap you. I chose to believe there was a reason. That there was still a part of you that—”

 

He swallowed. “—that meant it. Every laugh. Every walk. Every time you stayed just a little longer than you were supposed to.”

 

Black Sapphire turned then, slowly. His eyes held more than exhaustion now. They held ache. “I did mean it,” he said, quietly. “Every second.”

 

Silverbell stared at him—eyes shining, lips pressed in a tight, wavering line. “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked, voice breaking on the edge of a whisper.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. Because the truth was cruel. And too much of him was still afraid of what would happen if he said it out loud.

 

The words came out like splinters. “I’m sorry.”

 

Barely above a whisper—raw, quiet, and small in the space between them. But it carried the weight of everything he couldn’t fix. Everything he should’ve done differently. Silverbell’s breath hitched.

 

The forest had gone still again, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze above them. A bird called distantly in the trees—oblivious to the heartbreak unraveling in the clearing.

 

Silverbell didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Because what was he supposed to say to that ?

 

To an apology not just for the lies—but for the nights alone, for the silence, for the mask he kissed under moonlight that wasn’t even real.

 

He looked away for a moment. Eyes stinging. Jaw clenched. And Black Sapphire— for once —didn’t try to fill the silence. He just stood there. Head bowed. Hands open at his sides. Exposed. Waiting. Not for forgiveness. But for whatever came next. Even if it meant letting go.

 

Silverbell’s voice came slowly—measured, but shaking at the edges. “They’re planning to use me.” Black Sapphire looked up at that. His eyes narrowed—cautiously, uncertainly.

 

Silverbell didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze on the trees beyond, as if saying it to the wind made it easier. “They want to set a trap. Use me as bait. Because they know you’ll come back.”

 

A bitter breath escaped his lips. “They were right.”

 

Black Sapphire’s chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate effort. The tension in his shoulders returned—tight, like the words were stitching him back into armor he didn’t want to wear.

 

“I told them you came back once,” Silverbell said. “That you warned me. That something was wrong. I thought I was doing the right thing—”

 

He paused, voice cracking. “But now they’re watching me. Every step. Every word. Waiting to see if you’ll show again.”

Silence. Then, finally—

 

“…What did you expect me to do?” Silverbell asked, voice soft now. “Stand by while they hunt you like a shadow? Pretend none of this mattered?”

 

Black Sapphire lowered his head. The leaves above shifted, casting broken beams of light across his coat. His mouth opened. But only three words came out:

 

“I deserve it.”

 

Silverbell turned sharply, eyes wide. “What?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t flinch. “I lied. I tricked everyone. I planted the seeds. I started the collapse.”

 

His fists clenched at his sides. “I deserve whatever they’ve planned. Every trap. Every blade. Every arrow.” But he didn’t sound angry. He sounded empty. Like he believed it with his whole heart.

 

Silverbell stared at him, frozen—because that was the most heartbreaking thing of all.

 

That somewhere beneath the arrogance, the charm, the sharp teeth and sly smiles… There lived a Cookie who thought love was something he wasn’t allowed to survive.

 

“No—no, you don’t get to say that,” Silverbell snapped, stepping forward, voice rising like it had been waiting to break free.

 

“You don’t just drop all of this, stand there like a ghost wearing your own skin, and then decide you deserve to be hunted like a criminal!” Black Sapphire blinked, startled by the force behind his words.

 

Silverbell wasn’t just upset—he was furious.

 

“You think you’re the only one who’s done something wrong? You think guilt gives you the right to decide what happens next?”

 

His fists clenched at his sides.

 

“You lied, yes—but you cared . You warned me. You stayed. You cooked for me ,” he added, jabbing a finger at him like it was the final piece of evidence in a trial. “You made me laugh. You looked at me like I mattered. You don’t get to erase all of that because you’re scared of being forgiven!”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes widened slightly. But he didn’t speak.

 

Silverbell took one shaky breath, then another. His voice dropped to a raw whisper. “You’re going to leave again, aren’t you?”

 

That’s when he saw it. The look. The way Black Sapphire’s expression shifted—just barely. But enough.

 

His jaw tensed. His shoulders drew in. His wings, which had relaxed for the briefest moment, curled behind him again like a shield. That was all the answer Silverbell is about to get. He didn’t say goodbye. He was already planning his exit.

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. “…Don’t,” he said quietly. “Not again. Please. ”

Black Sapphire looked at him then—really looked.

 

And for a moment, Silverbell saw it. All of it. The grief. The regret. The longing. And beneath it, a flicker of something else—Fear. Because leaving was the only thing he’d ever known how to do.

Silverbell didn’t let him go this time. He stepped forward, fast, grabbing Black Sapphire by the wrist—firm, unrelenting.

 

“Then why are you here? ” he demanded, eyes searching, voice trembling beneath the weight of it. “If you were going to leave again, then why show your face at all? Why reveal yourself? There has to be a reason—say it!”

 

Black Sapphire stared at him. No escape hatch tucked behind his silence. Just him. Caught. And finally—finally—he answered.

 

“I couldn’t stay away.”

 

His voice was hoarse, like he’d dragged the words up from somewhere buried and bruised.

 

“I tried,” he went on. “Every night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face. Every step I took, it led me back here. Back to you. ”

 

Silverbell’s grip tightened. Black Sapphire didn’t pull away.

 

“I thought leaving would protect you. That if I stayed gone, the worst parts of me wouldn’t touch you again. But that was a lie too. Because I was still hurting you. Just… from farther away. But if I stayed there would be no difference.”

 

He swallowed hard. “I came back because I couldn’t take it anymore. The silence. The guilt. The part of me missing you. I came back because I love you.”

 

Silverbell froze.

 

The words hit like a bell toll across a battlefield—loud, impossible to ignore, and echoing long after they were spoken.

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. He stared at him, reeling, trying to process the weight of it. “Then why all the lies?”

 

Black Sapphire looked down. “Because the truth would’ve made you hate me.”

 

“But I didn’t,” Silverbell snapped, voice trembling. “Even when I should’ve. Even when everyone else did.”

 

Another silence.

 

“What about the rumors?” Silverbell asked next, quieter now. “About the protectors of the Faerie Kingdom.”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw flexed. “Some of them are half-true,” he said, voice like glass. “But not all of them. Not the ones that matter.”

Silverbell hesitated—then pushed one last question forward, almost afraid to ask it: “Then tell me why you left the first time. Tell me what really happened.”

 

For a second—just a second—Black Sapphire looked like he might answer. He didn’t.

 

Instead, his free hand moved, fingers flicking toward the spell card tucked beneath his sleeve. The familiar crackle of teleportation magic burst to life between them, violet light spiraling up his legs, swallowing his figure like ink bleeding into water.

 

“No—wait—!” Silverbell’s grip tightened, but he was already gone. Just like before. Just like always.

 

The forest snapped back to stillness. But not everything vanished. Silverbell blinked, heart pounding—and looked down.

 

There, on the moss where Black Sapphire had been standing moments before, lay two things:

 

A small potion vial—its glass catching the sunlight, glowing faintly with soft purple shimmer. Simple. Unassuming. Useful.

 

And beside it… a letter. Folded, tucked carefully, like something left behind on purpose. Silverbell dropped to one knee, fingers trembling as he reached for it.

 

Whatever it was—Whatever he wrote—It would be read. And Silverbell was not letting him run from the truth a second time.

 

---

 

The teleport dropped him hard.

 

Stone under his knees. Cold air against his skin. He didn’t know where he’d aimed. Just that it was far enough. Quiet enough. Dark enough.

 

His breath shook. Hands still burning from where Silverbell had grabbed him—like the touch had branded something into him he couldn’t scrub off.

 

He sat there for a moment. Just breathing. His hands twitched at his sides, reaching for something that wasn’t there. The letter. It was gone.

 

He’d left it. Dropped it on purpose. Like a coward. Like a warning. Like a confession he couldn’t say to Silverbell’s face.

 

That letter had everything.

 

The truth. The half-truths. The parts he couldn’t say out loud because saying them might shatter what little they still had.

 

He told Silverbell what he was. What he’d done. He hoped—foolishly—that Silverbell would still love him after reading it. Because he didn’t want to hurt him. Not him.

 

Not the Cookie who taught him how to laugh without biting his own tongue. Who looked at him like he was more than the wreckage he came from. Who held his wrist like he meant to keep him tethered to the world.

 

Black Sapphire closed his eyes. He wished the best for him. Truly. Even if it meant letting go.

 

Even if it meant being the villain in someone else’s story, just to keep them safe in theirs. But deep down—where the shadows curled around his ribs—he knew it wasn’t that simple.

 

He hated choosing. He hated it.

 

Because love made you choose. And if he didn’t Shadow Milk would choose for him. And that choice wouldn’t be merciful. He knew what his master expected. Obedience. Results. Blood, if necessary.

 

Sapphire couldn’t afford hesitation. Not now. Not when his mask was gone, not when Silverbell had seen him.

 

Really seen him.

 

He crushed the letter in his hand, pressed it to his chest like it could stop the guilt from leaking out. Then he stood.

 

He still had a role to play. A master to please. A kingdom to deceive.But as he turned to vanish into shadow once more, one thought clung to him—loud, aching, and unwanted:

 

“He asked me to stay.”

 

“And I ran anyway.”

 

As much as he wanted to run with him—gods, how he wanted to—It wouldn’t save them. Because no matter where they went, no matter how far they ran, his life would still be at risk. And Silverbell?

Silverbell would be the death of him.

 

Because love made him soft in a world that punished softness with ruin. Made him hesitate in front of knives he should’ve thrown. Made him crave a future he was never allowed to have.

 

He’d seen it, clear as anything, in that clearing: The moment he stayed too long, they would come. The moment Silverbell chose him back, they’d use it. Use him. And Black Sapphire would tear apart everything just by being near.

 

That’s the curse of being a weapon shaped like a person. You don’t get to keep what makes you feel like a Cookie. You don’t get to hold on to what makes you feel.

 

He walked deeper into the shadows, the crushed letter still warm in his palm, like a second heartbeat trying to convince him to turn back.

 

But he couldn’t. Because if he stayed—If he let himself have that warmth again—He wouldn’t leave. And if he didn’t leave… Silverbell would die for him. Or worse—Because of him. So he ran.

 

Because it was the only thing he was ever good at. And because loving Silverbell meant keeping him alive—Even if it meant losing him forever. He moved through the dark like smoke—fast, silent, nowhere.

 

The teleport residue still clung to him, clashing with the cold sweat on his back. His heartbeat hadn’t slowed since the clearing. Since him.

 

Silverbell. The name burned. The voice haunted. The touch —still on his wrist—seared through his defenses like it had any right to be there. Black Sapphire clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

 

He hated this.

 

The ache in his chest. The crack in his control. The part of him that looked back. He hated weakness. And this —this was the worst kind. Not pain. Not fear. He’d bled enough, fought enough, survived enough to endure those. But wanting? Longing? Love?

 

That was weakness dressed in silk and knives. And Silverbell had carved through his armor like it was nothing.

 

He slammed his fist into the stone wall of the cave he’d appeared in—cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, dust falling in silent judgment. He didn’t cry. He wouldn’t.

 

He wouldn’t let himself become one of those tragic, broken fools sobbing over a love they were never meant to keep.

 

That wasn’t who he was. He was forged for war. Trained in lies. Built to obey.

 

And weakness—Feelings—Silverbell—Would get him killed. Or worse: Would make him hesitate when Shadow Milk gave the order. Would make him choose wrong. Would make him fail.

 

And failure wasn’t allowed. Fingers shaking. “Stupid,” he muttered. “Stupid. Weak.”

 

Because as much as he hated the part of him that still loved—He hated the idea of forgetting it even more. The cold wrapped around him like an old friend.

 

Familiar. Merciless. Honest. This was what he understood. This was what made sense. No questions. No touch. No eyes looking at him like he was good.  He curled in slightly, jaw tight, arms crossed over his chest like armor he couldn’t shed.

 

This was the price of staying alive. Of not choosing love. Of obeying fear. The silence was total.No breath but his own. No voice whispering his name. Just the hollow echo of everything he didn't say.

 

He closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. Didn’t deserve sleep.

 

Not with the warmth still clinging to his skin like a memory trying to survive. And in the dark, in the cold, in the space where his heart still beat—He hated himself most for this: That he missed Silverbell already.

 

 

That night, the cold took him. But somewhere in his sleep, it softened.

 

The bed beneath him turned to grass—sun-warmed, soft. The scent of apples and rain hung in the air. Laughter echoed from a market not far off. There was no war. Just sky. The grass. Laughter. Cookie kind lived in peace. No banners. No borders. No blood spilled beneath someone else’s cause.

 

He stood beneath a tree blooming with silver blossoms, the petals falling like snow. Light danced through the branches, soft and golden.

 

And beside him—Silverbell. Smiling. Unafraid. Their hands were tangled like roots. No tension. No more secrets. Just quiet. Just them.

 

They were together. Free. Happy. It was the opposite that he once wished for with the shooting stars. And then—like a ripple across the surface of a lake—he remembered the moment he said it aloud:

“I was wishing that we were two other Cookies.”

“Two Cookies who need not say goodbye.”

He’d whispered it once, days ago, when the stars were too bright and hope felt like a luxury he had no right to hold.

 

And Silverbell had answered him, without hesitation:

“It could be that way.”

 

Could it? Was it ever really possible? It gave him hope

 

The dream made it feel real. Gave it shape. Gave it color. But like him, dreams lie. And this one began to rot at the edges.

 

The sky dimmed. The blossoms blackened. Silverbell’s smile faltered—just barely.

 

The grass curled and withered beneath their feet. He reached for him, but their hands didn’t meet this time. Something pulled Silverbell back—shadows coiling around his ankles, dragging him toward something unseen.

 

Black Sapphire tried to move, to fight, to scream—But the weight in his chest said otherwise.

 

This wasn’t a dream anymore. This was a memory bleeding into a nightmare. This was the truth. Because he knew what Shadow Milk wanted. He knew what the final order would be. Not just disappearance. Not just silence. Elimination. Silverbell. He was going to be forced to kill him. And in the dream—just before he woke—Silverbell looked at him with eyes not full of fear. But understanding. And that made it so much worse.

 

Because even in the end, Silverbell would forgive him. And Black Sapphire didn’t know if he could survive that.

 

 

---

 

He woke up with a gasp. The cold rushed back in. The shadows didn’t comfort him. The stone didn’t move. And the silence no longer felt clean. Only cruel.

 

 

Hm... The air is cold tonight.

Notes:

Also that one chapter will be posted on monday (aaaa)

any predictions on how it'll go?? [ hehe >:)) ]
(Im gonna add tags for next chapter lmao)

 

Anyways I got a little better (I was writing this fanfic for a whole month, barely had sleep(an hour a day), and now I want to draw them bc I love them but rn I have a little bit of writers block but I want to finish this so yerrr.. but my bff (my beta reader who doesnt play crk) gave me useful advices for the next chapters so tune in!! (The next chapter needs a few adjustments before I post on monday)

Chapter 15: XIV

Notes:

Oh uhm I really don't know what tags to add but like what Black Sapphire said in Beast-Yeast episode 8:

 

"Well then, viewer discretion is advised! The following scenes will be... *horrifying*!" (So this is a Trigger Warning with blood (haha jam))

 

So atleast that's a spoiler on what is about to happen to this chapter as you read it.

 

And for those who are aiming for me goodluck! Because I have more bullets(chapters) to shoot (I made sure that I kissed each one before I pulled the trigger) <33

 

Uhm yeah! Kay! Love you guys! Don't Forget to smile!

 

 

The Silver Hall glowed with that same cold brilliance—ornate windows casting sharp, angled light across polished stone and glinting armor. The Silver Knights stood tall around the circular table, their expressions grave, focused, unwavering.

 

And Silverbell stood among them, quiet. Listening, not speaking.

 

Mercurial Knight led the briefing again, his voice crisp, unshaken. “All outer posts are in place. The decoy patrols have been briefed. We move to phase two by the next dusk cycle. Once the bait is set… we wait.”

 

A ripple of nods followed.

 

“He’s slipped through our fingers too many times,” one of the older knights muttered. “Next time we see him, we don’t wait for a conversation.”

 

“No more mercy,” another added.

 

Silverbell’s fingers twitched slightly at that. Just once. He said nothing. He couldn’t say anything to his fellow knights.

 

He hadn’t told them that he’d seen him again. That he’d held his voice in his hands, trembling and raw. That he had looked into his eyes and seen the truth behind the lies.

 

That he’d seen a Cookie who was ready to be destroyed—because he believed he deserved to be and maybe… maybe he did but not all of it. Not the part that warned Silverbell. Not the one who stayed too long just to hear his laugh. Not the one who dropped potions and letters like apologies too painful to speak.

 

That version—the real one— didn’t deserve to be torn apart by blades and silence wards. But Silverbell… he had a duty.

 

He was a Silver Tree Knight. He had sworn oaths to protect the kingdom. The Queen. The Faeries. And no matter what he felt in his chest, how deeply he cared— He couldn’t run away from his duty to serve the Faerie Kingdom.

 

Even if the cost was someone he loved.

 

He lowered his eyes to the map again as the meeting moved on without pause. His voice stayed silent. But inside? The war had already begun.

 

They moved fast once the decision was made. The trap had already been laid over the last few days—threaded silently through Silverbell’s routines. His patrol route was altered slightly, just enough to look natural. The outer gardens near the Mirror Lake were cleared of most guards but watched through cloaked vision wards. Silence spells lined the forest edge, designed to suppress teleportation or escape spells.

 

They made it seem like it was just another day, another patrol. But everyone knew what it really was.

 

A bait. A set-up to lure Black Sapphire at the battlefield.

 

Silverbell had become the signal fire. The soft echo of memory. The open door. Because they knew Black Sapphire would come back—if not out of weakness, then out of guilt. Or love. Or both.

 

The other knights remained hidden. Eyes sharp behind enchanted foliage, breaths held behind cloaks woven with shielding thread. They watched him closely, waiting for any sign, any shimmer of movement in the treetops.

 

Silverbell stood near the tree he always trained under. The same one where he used to sit to watch Silverbell train, where he volunteers to hold apples were shot from his moving hands as he soared above the trees. Where things felt real. He touched the bark, fingers grazing over the familiar grooves. And this time it all felt wrong now. This isn’t what he would’ve wanted, Silverbell thought. And yet—He was here, to follow what he was sworn to do. To protect.

 

Because he hadn’t said a word. Not to Mercurial Knight. Not to the others. Not about the letter or the potion. Not about their last conversation.

Because if he told them—Black Sapphire wouldn’t get another chance. And despite everything… Silverbell still wanted to believe in him. Even now. Even with blades drawn behind every leaf. He tilted his head toward the wind and exhaled slowly. If Black Sapphire was coming… it would be tonight. And if he wasn’t—Then maybe this was how it ended.

 

Silverbell’s boots pressed softly against the moss-lined path as he moved through the outer gardens—each step slower than the last. The Mirror Lake reflected everything tonight: the moon above, the gentle dance of butterflies, and the guarded expression of a knight walking a line he never wanted to cross. He could feel them. Their eyes hidden behind illusion, shielded by warded cloaks. His comrades. His brothers Watching his every move like he was the bait he had agreed to be. Because in this moment he was.  This wasn’t patrol. Not really. This was a stage and he was the lure at center frame.

 

Every breath he took felt like it wasn’t his. If I run, he thought bitterly, they’ll chase me too.

 

His grip tightened slightly on his bow—not out of fear. Out of the unbearable weight of knowing. He wanted to scream. To tear down every illusion, every rune, every whisper of "necessary sacrifice" they had painted around him. But he didn’t. Because he agreed to this. Because he wanted to see him again. Even if it ended in heartbreak. Even if it ended in blood. This was a cruel love story. Not the kind carved in petals and poetry like the romantic novel in the library. But in silence and in hesitation. In the way they kept meeting like accidents and leaving like storms.

 

He glanced toward the trees—toward the place he always used to arrive from, like magic poured from shadows. “…Come back... please,” Silverbell whispered desperately although it wasn't loud enough for the others to hear. But loud enough for the wind.

 

Silverbell walked along the lake’s edge, the reflection of the stars rippling beside his boots, fractured each time he took a step. The silence around him was thick. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that presses in on your ribs, that turns every breath into a countdown. Every step is a confession. He glanced toward the forest again, heart aching in the worst way—not from fear of being attacked, but from the deeper, more helpless fear of never getting to say it.

 

Never getting to show him.

 

Because long before this trap was set, before the rumors, the lies, the masks—Silverbell had wanted to teach him what love was. Not like the theatrical kind. Not the kind you study in fairytales or stage plays. The quiet kind. The kind where you look at someone and see them, fully. The kind that stays, even when everything else breaks. He had seen it in Moondrop— Black Sapphire —that night under the stars. In the way he hesitated. In the way he tried not to tremble when he said, “I’m sorry.” But that Cookie didn’t know how to accept love. Not yet. He still thought pain was payment. That affection was something to repay or run from. He hadn’t learned how to be soft with himself. Hadn’t learned that survival didn’t have to mean isolation.

 

Silverbell let out a shaky breath. “Oh, you idiot…” he whispered to the trees. “You think you’re the only one who's been hurt.”

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight sit in his chest. He wanted to forgive him. Truly, deeply, fully. But first, Black Sapphire needed to forgive himself. To stop running. To stop pretending he didn’t want to be loved back. Time, however… time was moving too fast. Every second they didn’t speak felt like a thread snapping loose. Every moment wasted, a page torn out of a story they hadn’t finished writing.

 

Silverbell turned toward the woods again. Please, he thought. Come back before the story ends. The lake shimmered with a soft glow—faintly enchanted, deceptively serene. Beneath its surface, faerie magic coiled like vines. Ancient, elegant, and merciless when awakened. Wards had been laced into the roots of the garden, quiet as whispers. They weren’t meant to stop him. They were meant to hurt him. If Black Sapphire stepped here, and the trap closed— There would be no escape. One of us will not walk away from this, Silverbell thought grimly.

 

And still, he waited. Because he had to believe it didn’t have to end that way. That this wasn’t the final act. That maybe—just maybe —the story could change. But what if it couldn’t? What if all that time, all those glances, all those long walks and borrowed laughter were just the prelude to tragedy? A cruel ending for two cookies who barely had the time to learn how to love at all.

 

Silverbell stood still, his fingers grazing the tips of his bow, not to draw it—just to feel it. To remind himself that he was a knight. That duty came first. Even if his heart bled in the shadows. He had lived through centuries of court secrets, faerie folklore, betrayals and power plays hidden beneath silken veils. He had seen their king rise and vanish, seen kingdoms shift like tides. But this? This was the first time he had fallen in love. And it might be the first time he was asked to destroy it.

 

He looked at the moonlit trees. At the sky that knew nothing of what it watched. And beneath his breath, barely a whisper— “…Don’t let this be our ending.”

 

Silverbell stayed near the edge of the lake, where the moonlight kissed the water just enough to reflect the shimmer in his eyes. He tilted his head back slightly, blinking hard against the sting that built behind them. He refused to let it fall. Not here. Not while so many were watching from the shadows—expecting a flawless performance, a clean trap, a victory for the Kingdom.

 

He swallowed thickly, jaw tight. He deserves to live. Even after everything. Especially after everything. The ache in his chest wasn’t rage. It wasn’t betrayal. It was grief for something still living, still breathing, still possible. But the world was pressing its hand down on them both, forcing the story to break at the seams.

 

He could still hear his voice. “I’m sorry.” And that look—like Black Sapphire believed he was beyond saving.

 

“No one is,” Silverbell whispered. He wrapped his arms loosely across his chest, like maybe holding himself tightly enough would keep the sorrow from spilling out. He wasn’t crying. Not yet. Not now. But his throat ached. And his heart was pulling so tightly against his ribs it hurt to stand still. Still, he waited for his arrival. Still, he hoped. Because no matter what the Kingdom believed, no matter what the plan demanded—Silverbell still believed in him.  And maybe that was foolish. But it was love.

 

The night air was thick with tension as Silverbell stood by the lake, the moonlight casting a silvery glow on the water's surface. The gentle rustling of leaves was the only sound accompanying his racing thoughts. He turned sharply at the sound of footsteps, his heart skipping a beat.

 

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting, knight," came a familiar voice.

 

Silverbell's eyes met those of Moondrop Faerie Cookie, the mask of confidence firmly in place. The sight was both comforting and painful, a reminder of the duality of their relationship. They walked side by side along the lake's edge, the silence between them filled with unspoken words. Silverbell's mind was a whirlwind of emotions, torn between duty and desire. He longed to reach out, to take Moondrop's hand and run away from it all. But the weight of responsibility anchored him in place.

 

"I didn't think you'd actually come back," Silverbell said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

"And miss the most anticipated patrol of the season?" Moondrop replied with a smirk, the mask slipping for just a moment to reveal a hint of vulnerability.

 

Silverbell's heart ached at the sight. He wanted to believe in the possibility of a different ending, one where they could be free from the constraints of their roles. But the reality was far more complex.

 

As they continued their walk, the tension between them grew palpable. Silverbell's thoughts were interrupted by Moondrop's voice, softer this time. "Do you ever think about we what could have been?"

 

Silverbell nodded, his gaze fixed on the water. "Every day."

 

The silence that followed was heavy with shared regret and longing. In that moment, they both understood the depth of their connection and the impossibility of their situation. As the night wore on, the two stood by the lake, the distance between them both physical and emotional. They were bound by duty, by the roles they played, but their hearts yearned for something more. And in the quiet of the night, they allowed themselves to dream of a different ending, if only for a moment.

 

Silverbell walked slowly beside him, every step deliberate. Controlled. His heart beat steadily in his chest, not from calm—but from effort. From the sheer restraint it took to keep breathing evenly while every fiber of him screamed. He could feel the spell-threads beneath the moss and stone. The faerie magic woven through the clearing like silk traps. The hidden weight of warded silence spells humming beneath the lake’s edge. The others were close. Still watching. He was the bait. That was the plan. Engage him in small talk. Keep his attention. Get him to step into the warded space fully. Wait for the signal. If he ran or resisted, the knights would emerge—cloaked, swift, brutal. No more hesitation.

 

Silverbell’s hand brushed the edge of his own belt, where his spellstone pulsed once with gentle warning— the perimeter was now active.  He glanced sideways at Moondrop—Black Sapphire. The smile was still there. Soft, charming. Polished to perfection. He was talking about the lake, asking if the flowers always bloomed this early in the season. Asking if Silverbell had finally learned how to cook something edible. Silverbell laughed. He had to. It sounded real. Maybe too real. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want the next minute to be the last time he saw that expression on his face. But he was a knight. This was the mission.

 

This was the trap.

 

He glanced at the shadows near the tree line. The others would be waiting for the moment. For the order. And still, he hesitated.  The night air was thick with anticipation as Silverbell stood by the shimmering waters of Mirror Lake, the moon casting a silvery glow over the scene. He could feel the weight of his comrades' gazes, their suspicion pressing down on him like a suffocating shroud. He was the bait, the linchpin in a plan that could either bring salvation or doom.

 

“You know… Silverbell, it’s been a while,” Black Sapphire said at last, his voice smooth but quieter than usual—like a melody played a note too flat.

 

“Too long, perhaps,” Silverbell answered, the words catching in his throat. His heart beat heavy in his chest as he stood still in the moonlit clearing. Everything about this moment felt fragile, like if he breathed too hard it would collapse.

 

Their conversation began like a waltz, measured and cautious, but the undercurrent was tense—each word heavy with memory and grief.

 

“I offer you the three things most dear to me,” Silverbell said, voice firm despite the tremor beneath. “My heart, my kingdom, and my dream.”

 

Black Sapphire exhaled a slow breath through his nose. “You’re too generous.” His eyes—half-lidded and shadowed beneath the shimmer of his disguise—didn’t meet Silverbell’s.

 

“Listen to me,” Silverbell said, stepping closer. “Since that first moment we met, I’ve been yours. There’s no one else. There never was.”

 

Black Sapphire flinched—not visibly, but inwardly, like something inside him cracked just a little more. “Please,” he said suddenly, cutting him off. “Don’t say any more.”

 

“Why not?” Silverbell asked. “Because you don’t want to hear the truth? Or because you know I’m right?”

 

“There are worlds between us,” Black Sapphire muttered, looking away. “Ones you can’t cross with words. Not this time.”

 

The tension thickened, the clearing growing colder. Silverbell didn’t let up. “You can stop this. Right now. Betray him—whoever sent you. Tell us his plans. Help the Faerie Kingdom stop whatever’s coming. You don’t have to go down with him.”

 

Black Sapphire was silent for a moment. Then… he laughed. It was bitter. Hollow. “I should’ve known,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “You still think this is a love story with a clean ending.”

 

“It can be,” Silverbell said, hope surging through his words. “If you just—”

 

“ No. ” Black Sapphire’s voice turned sharp. “You want me to turn on him? You want me to hand over everything I’ve built, everything I’ve survived, for what—your kingdom? A dream of freedom?”

 

He stepped back, scoffing. “I won’t throw away my master just for you.”

 

Silverbell froze. “You said you loved me,” he whispered.

 

“I did,” Black Sapphire replied. “And maybe you’re tricking me too. Maybe this whole thing was just another way to use me and toss me aside once I gave you what you wanted.”

 

“That’s not—”

 

But he was already turning, his voice rising now—not to shout, but to keep from breaking. “I won’t tell you anything. Not his plans. Nothing.”

 

And then, as if summoned by tension itself, the Silver Knights emerged from the woods—shimmering, cloaked in magic, weapons drawn. “Moondrop Faerie Cookie,” one of them called out coldly. “You are under arrest for treason against the Faerie Kingdom.”

 

"Stand down!" Silverbell shouted, positioning himself between Black Sapphire and the advancing knights.

 

"Oh my! Looks like we're going live tonight," Black Sapphire declared, shedding his disguise. His voice took on the charismatic tone of a seasoned radio host, addressing both the knights and the unseen audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the show. It’s your favorite host, Black Sapphire Cookie speaking and tonight's feature: one cookie against the world. Let's see how this plays out, shall we?"

 

He flashed a wicked grin. “Oh, and fair warning—what comes next isn’t for the faint of heart. Things are about to get gruesome.” With a flourish, he summoned his magic, the dark energy swirling around him. The knights hesitated, momentarily taken aback by his audacity.

 

The battle commenced, a whirlwind of clashing steel and bursts of magic. Black Sapphire moved with agility, his attacks precise and calculated. However, the proximity to Mirror Lake began to take its toll. His magic faltered, the dark energy dissipating as the lake's aura weakened his powers.

 

A knight's blade found its mark, slicing through his suit and drawing jam. Black Sapphire staggered, the pain evident in his eyes. Yet, he stood firm, his resolve unshaken. "Is that all you've got?" he taunted, blood dripping from his wounds. "I've faced worse than this."

 

Silverbell watched in horror as the battle unfolded, torn between his duty and his heart. He couldn't let Black Sapphire fall, not like this.

 

The blast of sapphire flame flickered out at the edge of the lake’s enchantments, the edges of Black Sapphire’s cloak torn, burned, streaked with jam. He staggered back, his body aching under the pull of weakening magic. His breath came sharp, jagged. His eye darted across the shadows where the Silver Knights repositioned. Still circling. Still closing in.

 

He turned toward Silverbell, the only one who hadn’t struck yet. Hope flickered there, a dying ember in a collapsing fire. “I never wanted this,” he said hoarsely. “I only wanted to be with you.”

 

But Silverbell didn’t lower his weapon. He didn’t run to him. He stepped forward instead, the tip of his arrow drawn back and aimed—not with hate, but with unshakable conviction.

 

“The enemy of this kingdom,” Silverbell said, voice even and pained, “also becomes my enemy.”

 

Black Sapphire’s breath hitched.

 

“I gave you a chance,” Silverbell continued. “A hundred chances. I begged you. I loved you. And I asked you to help us destroy the Cookie who sent you.”

 

His eyes burned—not with fury, but sorrow deeper than the lake beneath them. “And you still chose him. ”

 

Silence settled like frost on the trees.

 

“Like I said. I won’t throw away my master,” Black Sapphire said quietly. “Not even for you.”

And that was it. That was the moment. The invisible thread between them, the one that had been fraying for weeks, finally snapped. Silverbell loosed the arrow.

 

Black Sapphire moved on instinct. The shot tore through his sleeve, grazing his side—too close, too sharp, too real. He clenched his jaw and launched backward, blasting a ripple of force between them with a shout of rage and anguish. “You said you loved me,” he snarled.

 

“I still do! ” Silverbell shouted back, already nocking another arrow. “But I won’t betray what I swore to protect!”

 

The Silver Knights descended again.

 

Black Sapphire's boots skidded across the damp grass as another spell collided with his shoulder, sparks flying, his balance thrown. The enchantments of Mirror Lake gnawed at his magic like hungry roots, dulling every blast, every reflex. His suit was torn at the sleeve, jam soaking through the gold-threaded lining. He was bleeding, but still standing.

 

Silverbell stood across from him, arrow drawn again—this one aimed at his heart. His own chest heaved, not from exertion, but from something far worse: the shaking of a soul that knew it was being torn in two. And still, his hands didn’t falter.

 

“Tell me what is your master planning,” Silverbell demanded, voice ringing like steel. “Right here. Right now. Help us stop this.”

Back Sapphire didn’t hesitate. His eye gleamed, and he bared his teeth in a sharp grin that didn’t reach his heart. “I won’t tell you anything .”

 

Silverbell’s fingers twitched on the bowstring. “You really chose him,” he whispered, almost disbelieving. “Even now.”

 

“I always have,” Black Sapphire spat. “You think this ”—he gestured between them, at the lake, at the chaos—“was a mistake I stumbled into?” He straightened his posture, even through the pain. “I walked into this Kingdom. I spread every rumor. I planted every doubt. You didn’t find me. I let you.”

 

The Silver Knights moved to strike again, but Silverbell raised one arm—halting them with a gesture. His hand was shaking.

 

“I wanted to believe there was something real in you,” Silverbell said quietly. “But maybe it really was just a performance.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer yet. Because behind his mask, behind the jam and the silence—He was already breaking. Sparks tore through the clearing—blades clashing, spells crackling, wings slicing through the misty air. Black Sapphire Cookie—cloak torn, jam staining his sleeves, fury burning in his voice—stood firm beneath the glowing eye of the moon.

 

“I did love you!” he shouted, parrying a knight’s strike with a burst of dark energy, sending them sprawling backward. “I loved you!”

 

Another knight lunged from behind—he ducked, rolled, and cast a shockwave that cracked the earth around him.

 

“And maybe I was wrong,” he snapped, eyes flashing toward Silverbell. “Maybe you’re the one tricking me! ”

 

Silverbell’s mouth tightened. He drew another arrow. “Don’t twist this.”

 

“Ohoho, don’t I? ” Black Sapphire growled, dodging another swing, retaliating with a spiral of black fire that only sputtered halfway through—Mirror Lake’s dampening magic draining him faster now. “You think I don’t see it?” he roared. “You bring me in, you get close, and then what— use me for what I know? For him ?”

 

Another arrow grazed his shoulder—Silverbell’s. Black Sapphire winced, his glare snapping to him. “Isn’t that your plan?!” he shouted. “Make me feel , then throw me away once you get what you want?! Just like everyone else! ”

 

Silverbell’s voice cracked with restrained pain. “You think that’s what this was?!” A blast of golden energy ripped past them both—one of the knights missed. The echo burned in the sky. “You think I used you?” Silverbell shouted, stepping forward, bow still raised.

 

“I think you never really loved me! ” Black Sapphire screamed back, deflecting another attack with a gasp of exertion. “You loved a version of me! A name! A mask!”

 

“Because that’s all you ever showed me!” Silverbell cried. “What else was I supposed to love?!”

 

Their voices cracked the clearing more than magic did. Around them, the knights hesitated—but only slightly—still striking, still encircling. This was war. But between the two of them? This was heartbreak turned inside out.

 

“You were the only one who saw me,” Black Sapphire breathed. “And I still wasn’t enough.”

 

Then another strike came. And this time, it hit. Hard. Black Sapphire crumpled to one knee, jam running down his side—but his eyes never left Silverbell’s. And Silverbell—he didn’t loose the arrow. He just stood there, bow trembling. And for the first time in the fight… he looked like he didn’t know what to do. Black Sapphire gritted his teeth as his legs gave way, crashing down to one knee.

The earth beneath him thrummed with hostile magic—Faerie enchantments coiling tighter, hungrier, like a curse written in light and history. The air itself turned against him. Mirror Lake’s reflection danced behind him, pulling at his magic, his strength, his breath.

 

The knights weren’t stopping. Their spells were growing stronger now. Their blades shone brighter. Every hit came faster. Sharper. Precision honed not just by skill—but righteous fury. He barely dodged a blinding arc of enchanted steel, but the cost was another blast searing across his back. He screamed—not loud, but guttural. Raw. Jam splattered the grass. His vision blurred.

 

But still… he looked up. Straight at Silverbell. “You're letting them—” his voice was hoarse, breaking, “— kill me. ”

 

Silverbell hesitated. Just for a moment. His arrow still drawn. “You chose this!” he yelled. “You sided with him. You spread the lies. You walked into our kingdom to break it from the inside! ”

 

“I walked in because he told me to! ” Black Sapphire shouted back, staggering to his feet, hunched, bleeding, wings trembling behind him. “But I stayed… because of you! ”

 

Another spell collided with him. His body hit the dirt. More jam. More burning. And still—Still, he stood again. Swiping blood from his mouth, he snarled at the knights now circling for the final strike. “You want a monster?” he rasped. “Fine.” His eye narrowed. His voice dropped—coldly. “Then I’ll show you the part of me that stopped hoping you’d forgive me. ”

 

Magic surged from his palm. Dark. Vicious. Desperate. And it screamed with everything he could no longer say. The air snapped. Not with thunder. Not with fire. But with a silence so deep it cracked the sound around it. Black Sapphire rose slowly, his back hunched, breath shallow, jam dripping steadily from his side and his lips. One eye burned with something worse than rage— resolve sharpened by heartbreak.

 

The knights readied their stances again, blades humming with magic.

 

But he didn’t look at them. He reached for his microphone—eye-shaped, faintly glowing—and tapped it once against his palm. Then raised it to his lips. “To my dear listeners,” he said, voice low but unmistakably clear, echoing now not through magic, but through intent. “I’m afraid tonight’s episode has taken… a darker turn.” He smiled, bloodied. The smile of a dying star. “Welcome to the act where the villain learns he was never meant to be forgiven.”

 

He raised his free hand—and cast something new.  Not the usual polished, illusionary magic meant to dazzle and distract. This was deeper. Raw. Something forbidden that reeked of Shadow Milk’s oldest teachings. Violet lightning cracked from his fingertips, but instead of arcing toward the others—it folded inward . The magic bent space around him, then surged out in a jagged spiral. Runes stitched in reverse spiraled under his feet, glowing ink-black against the silver grass. The lake behind him recoiled, its surface distorting.

Then he turned to Silverbell. “I warned you,” Black Sapphire said, voice now low, resonant. “Don’t push me to become what I left behind.” And he attacked.  It wasn’t elegant. It was brutal. The spell lashed forward in a streak of darkness too fast to dodge.

 

Silverbell raised his bow, trying to block—but it hit. It hit hard. He was thrown back—across the field, through a line of trees, crashing down with a cry of pain and a ripple of shattered magic. The impact left a crater in the earth, smoking, splintered.

 

“ Silverbell! ” one of the knights screamed. And they charged. All of them.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t flinch. He turned toward them—his silhouette framed by moonlight and ruin. “Try me,” he said.

 

The knights clashed into him like a wall of silver. And the sky erupted in a storm of light and shadows.

 

Silverbell lay on the ground, half-conscious, vision blurred by pain. The blow had torn through his barrier, through his armor—his shoulder was scorched, ribs bruised or cracked, breath coming in ragged gasps. The scent of scorched leaves filled his lungs. The last thing he remembered before darkness began to edge his sight was his name —someone calling it. A voice full of panic.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie stood frozen for a moment, just a heartbeat. His eyes locked onto Silverbell’s broken form—bloodied, unmoving, crumpled near the roots of the mirrored trees. Then rage settled into his stance. The same rage that could drive wind into knives and steel into vengeance.

 

He turned, gripping his sword tighter, and shouted with the force of a storm “TAKE HIM DOWN!”

 

The Silver Knights responded as one. Spells flared. Wings cut through the sky. The trees shook under the fury of their charge. But Black Sapphire was ready. His cloak, torn and trailing, fluttered like smoke as he pivoted, letting the first knight pass him, then elbowed them into the ground with a solid thud. Another came at his side, blade drawn—but Black Sapphire spun, catching the edge with a conjured shard of darkness, letting the sparks rain down.

 

“Strike two,” he muttered into his microphone.

 

A third came from above—he ducked, countered with a violent pulse of raw magic, but it didn’t have the same force anymore. Mirror Lake was weakening him more and more. Every spell cost him more jam. More breath. More life. And the knights were adapting. Mercurial was the first to break through again—his blade glowing, a spell riding its edge. He didn’t hesitate. He slashed.

 

Black Sapphire barely blocked it. The force drove him to the ground.

 

“You hurt him, ” Mercurial snarled, his voice venom. “You’re not getting out of this lake alive.”

 

Black Sapphire coughed, jam staining his teeth, but his grin stayed. “You say that like I’ve got anything to live for.”

 

Mercurial raised his blade to finish it— But a blast from Black Sapphire’s palm sent them both flying, his last-reserve magic peeling the grass beneath them back in waves. The fight didn’t slow. The knights converged again. And above them, the sky trembled with stars—witness to a battle between love and betrayal, heart and duty, and the last, brutal act of a story never meant to end like this.

 

Silverbell did not rise. But he was still breathing. Silverbell’s vision pulsed—light and blur and sound blending into a dizzy storm. His body ached. His lungs burned. But still… he watched. Every time he blinked, he saw him .

 

Black Sapphire—no longer cloaked in pleasantries or gentle lies. Wings torn, suit stained, the mask cracked beyond repair. And yet, still fighting . Still rising with every breath, like a star refusing to die out. Even as more knights crashed into him. Even as his spells began to flicker. Each time the magic hit him harder, Silverbell flinched. Each time the knights surrounded him again, Silverbell’s breath caught. And the guilt tightened. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t what he wanted.

 

Black Sapphire collapsed to one knee. Steam hissed from his shoulders. One gauntlet sparked. The enchantments woven into his coat flickered—breaking under pressure, fragmenting like stained glass under a hammer.

 

Another knight lunged. He caught their blade in both hands, metal screaming against magic, and with a roar, twisted it free—turning their momentum against them, slamming them to the ground hard enough to crack the mirrored roots beneath. But then three more were on him. They didn’t give him time to breathe. Not this time. A spear caught his side—he grunted, staggered. A blast to the back. Another to the chest.

 

He dropped. For a heartbeat, the world was still. Then he rose again. He screamed —raw, furious magic erupting from his body like a shockwave, hurling the closest knights backward. Leaves tore from the trees. Crystals cracked. Even the stars above seemed to shudder.

 

“Damn it, stop!” Silverbell tried to scream—but his voice barely carried. Blood filled his mouth. His arm refused to move. Only his eyes watched. Only his heart broke.

 

Mercurial didn’t stop. His blade was coated in silverfire now. His wings dragged comets behind them. He surged at Black Sapphire like a thunderbolt incarnate. They clashed. Steel met dark magic in a blinding explosion.

 

And this time— this time —Black Sapphire broke . He was flung back, crashing through a tree, then another. He skidded across the lake’s mirrored surface, blood streaking behind him like ink on glass. He didn’t rise.

 

The Silver Knights hesitated. Mercurial hovered, breathing hard. Sword still glowing.

 

“Is it over?” one of them whispered.

 

But Silverbell knew. It wasn’t.

 

The surface beneath Black Sapphire cracked. Darkness pooled around him—shimmering like oil, like sorrow made real. A final spell, ancient and desperate, lit in his palm. “I told you,” he rasped, voice barely audible, “I don’t die easy.” He hurled the spell. A black sun bloomed in the sky. It roared like grief.

 

The knights scattered, shields flaring, spells igniting in response. Mercurial raised his hand—countering it mid-air with a spear of light—but the force still shook the entire grove. Trees splintered. Water turned to steam. The world screamed.

Silverbell wept. Quiet, bitter tears down a dust-caked face. For what they were. For what they could’ve been. “Stop…” he whispered. “Please…” But no one heard his desperate pleas.

 

Another knight dove in low, blade dragging silverfire behind it. Black Sapphire pivoted just in time—blocking with the flat of his arm—but it left his side open. A second knight struck true, driving a kinetic rune into his ribs. The impact detonated with a hollow crack , sending him sprawling again. He landed hard—on his wings.

 

The fractured plate on his left wing buckled beneath him. Screws popped loose. One stabilizer rod snapped with a metallic scream, twisting the whole structure sideways. Not torn off—but warped beyond balance. His breath hitched, jaw clenched so tight it drew blood. He rolled to his feet—barely. Every step sparked. His back bled heat and shattered magic. His wing mounts hissed, venting bursts of steam like a dying engine.

Then came the worst. Two knights, faster than the others—flanked him, grappling one of his wings mid-turn. One locked an arm around the spar. The other went for the base, grabbing where the alloy met spine. They pulled hard.

He screamed. The sound wasn't human. It was raw, scraping, full of things he'd buried—fear, fury, failure. His knees buckled, his whole body convulsing as metal tore and twisted. But the wings did not come off. They groaned. Bent. Sent currents of broken power arcing into the ground. Still attached. Still fighting.

 

He surged with what was left of his strength—spikes of magic bursting from his armor. The air shattered. One knight was blasted away, armor smoking. The other tried to hold on—until Black Sapphire slammed his head back into their faceplate, shattering it on impact. They dropped. He stumbled forward, wings dragging behind him like broken swords. Still there. Still his.

 

“Try again,” he rasped, voice cracked and seething. “ Try me again. ”

 

Above, Mercurial circled back, eyes burning. Below, the others regrouped—hesitant now. For all their numbers, they hadn't broken him. Not fully. And that was the problem. Because something that refuses to break… you start to wonder why. And what’s still inside it .

 

Black Sapphire staggered, one knee dipping, hand pressed to the wound in his side. Sparks danced from his wings—one bent, the other twitching like a dying signal. And yet. He looked up. Right at nothing. Or maybe—at us. “Well… you’re still here.” He smiled, slow and sharp.

 

“Didn’t think you’d stick around this long. Not with all this blood and drama. But then again, I do put on a good show.”

 

A spear shot toward him—he sidestepped, barely. The tip grazed his arm, slicing through his sleeve. He didn’t flinch. Just turned slightly, wings dragging behind him like broken blades.  “Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Black Sapphire, why not just stay down ? You’re outnumbered. Outmatched. Bleeding out. The usual.’”

 

Another knight lunged in—he ducked under the blade, grabbed the attacker by the wrist, and snapped their arm back with brutal precision. They hit the dirt, screaming. “But see… the thing is… I never really liked predictable endings.”

 

An arrow whistled past his cheek. Another nicked his hip. He hissed, turning to blast the archer back with a concussive wave of sound magic. The trees shuddered. “And if this is my final broadcast… well. You know I’m not signing off quietly.”

 

He spun, ducking a strike, then ramming his elbow into the gut of another knight. His wing spasmed—but stayed on. Still attached. He pivoted, magic flaring from his palm—one knight went flying, armor sparking as they hit a tree trunk hard. “Let them try to tear the wings off. Let them throw every spell, every blade, every ounce of righteous fury they’ve got.”

A sword sliced across his shoulder. Blood sprayed. He grimaced, teeth bared. “Because no matter how many times they knock me down—” He surged forward, grabbing the sword mid-strike, yanking the knight forward into his knee. Bone crunched. “I get back up .” Now only five knights remained close. The others hesitated, shaken. The forest rang with silence for just a breath.  “So sit back. Watch closely. Because I’m going to make this last act unforgettable.”

 

He raised his head. Wings cracked and steaming. Eyes burning. And then he charged them .

 

Silverbell couldn’t move. Every muscle screamed when he tried. His lungs burned with each breath, ribs grinding like splintered glass. The grass beneath him was slick with blood—his and others’. The shattered trees above twisted in and out of focus. But he could see him .

 

Black Sapphire. Still fighting. Still standing. Still alone . A scream caught in Silverbell’s throat as he watched another knight slash across Sapphire’s back. The impact sent him reeling—but he stayed up, barely, wings dragging behind him like shredded banners. They were breaking him piece by piece and he just kept smiling. Kept talking —like it was all just another show. But it wasn’t. This was real. Too real. He was bleeding for them. For him.

 

Silverbell’s hand clawed weakly at the dirt. His magic was gone—burnt out in the first wave. His sword was shattered ten feet away. He couldn’t even shout loud enough to warn him, to stop him, to say his name the way it needed to be said. And still—he watched. Every blow that landed—he felt it. Every crack of bone, every gasp of breath—he flinched. Every time Sapphire stumbled, Silverbell’s heart clenched like it was being dragged across broken glass. And worst of all? They didn’t know.

 

The knights. His comrades. His friends. They didn’t know what this really was. That the one they were trying to kill—the one they thought was the enemy—was the only one who’d ever held Silverbell like he wasn’t made of glass. Who called him bell when no one else dared. Who laughed like the world hadn’t betrayed them both. Who stayed up late in transmission range, whispering songs into the static just so Silverbell could sleep.

 

This wasn’t war. This was punishment . And Silverbell—he was too late to stop it. Too cowardly to say the truth when it mattered. Too proud to admit he still loved him. Tears slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe them away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry…” Black Sapphire didn’t hear him. But he kept fighting anyway.

 

Black Sapphire was still on the ground, breath rattling, one wing twitching spasmodically behind him. The black sun faded slowly above, its gravity collapsing into embers. Smoke coiled around his body, obscuring the blood, the broken plates, the shaking fingers still curled with power.

 

Mercurial stood just beyond the haze, his sword lowered—but not gone. The rage in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. It had focused . His voice rang out, steady and burning: “You think you can hurt him and walk away?”

 

The tip of his blade ignited again, silverfire leaping up like a vengeful flame. “You think you can betray this Kingdom—betray us and there’ll be no consequence?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. He pushed himself to one elbow, coughing hard enough to spray blood across his gauntlet.

 

“Say something!” Mercurial shouted. “Justify it! Say why —why you spread those rumors, why you shattered the seal, why he’s lying there half-dead!”

 

He pointed his blade across the field—toward Silverbell’s motionless form. “You think you matter more than him? Than any of us?!”

 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know . And Black Sapphire, for a second, looked up—eyes catching on Silverbell in the distance, still barely moving, still bleeding, still watching. His jaw clenched. But he said nothing.

 

Mercurial’s face hardened. No hesitation left. “You don’t get to be silent now.” And he charged.

 

Black Sapphire surged upward just in time—barely catching the swing on his armguard. The force of it cracked the plating. He staggered back two steps, teeth gritted. Mercurial came again—swinging low, high, then feinting a blast of wind from the left while slashing right. It caught Black Sapphire across the ribs. He screamed—raw and hoarse—but didn’t fall. He countered with a surge of shadow that nearly caught Mercurial in the chest, but the knight’s wings flared wide, lifting him out of reach.

 

“What are you even fighting for? ” Mercurial roared. “You think this proves something? You think you’re saving anyone?”

 

He didn’t know. He couldn’t. Not when Black Sapphire’s whole body screamed with pain—but still turned to shield the one he thought had rejected him. Still fighting. Even if it killed him.

 

“Answer me!” Mercurial cried, diving again. Their blades met mid-air—one of light, one of dark. Mercurial’s blade came down again—Black Sapphire blocked it, barely. The impact sent another crack through the armor on his forearm. Sparks burst from the joint. His wing twitched violently behind him, systems glitching.

 

Mercurial didn’t stop. He struck again, spinning mid-air, silverfire spiraling around him like a cyclone.

“You don’t get to play the victim.” His voice was steel. “You don’t get to bleed all over this place and pretend you ever cared about him.”

 

Black Sapphire snarled through his teeth, deflecting another slash, then another. His arms shook. His breath came in short, rasping pulls.

 

“You used him.” Mercurial’s next blow came faster—aimed at his wing base. “You got into his head. Played him with that pretty voice and tragic past.”

 

The blade hit the baseplate with a sickening crack. Black Sapphire collapsed to one knee again, wing shrieking in protest. “He trusted you!” Mercurial’s foot slammed into Black Sapphire’s chest, sending him sprawling back across the cracked roots. “You took advantage of his kindness, his loyalty—his stupid, stubborn heart! ”

 

He landed in front of him, sword raised high. “He defended you.” His voice dropped. A tremble in it now—fury laced with betrayal. “Even after everything, he still believed in you. And this is how you repay him?”

 

Black Sapphire blinked up at him, blood in his eyes. He didn’t answer. Didn’t explain. Didn’t defend himself. Because Silverbell was still watching. Still down. And if this was his punishment, then so be it. Mercurial’s blade hovered inches from his throat.

 

“You don’t deserve him,” he said. Voice final.

Then, a flicker of movement. Behind him. From the dirt. Silverbell’s fingers twitched. The blade hovered, silverfire gleaming, tip trembling with the weight of judgment. Black Sapphire didn’t move. His wings hung half-broken behind him, sparking. His mouth dripped blood. His arms ached from blocking blow after blow. He was quiet—but not passive.

 

His hand, slow and shaking, gripped the base of his staff where it had fallen nearby—half-buried in shattered roots. Mercurial didn’t see it at first. His fury blinded him. “Say something,” he hissed. “Tell me it was all a lie. That he didn’t mean anything to you.”

 

And that—That broke the silence. Black Sapphire’s fingers tightened. His eyes flicked to the side. And he spoke—soft, but sharp as glass. “You really don’t know anything.” Then the staff pulsed. The gem embedded in its core flared with raw, unstable magic— not to strike, but to push. A defensive surge of dark energy erupted outward like a pressure wave, flinging Mercurial backward before his blade could fall. The blast didn’t cut—it shoved. Hard.

 

Mercurial was launched several feet across the mirrored clearing, slamming into a tree trunk with a grunt. Leaves exploded from the impact. He rolled, stunned, coughing, sword skittering from his grip. Black Sapphire pulled himself upright with the staff, panting hard, barely able to stay standing. His body trembled with exhaustion, the effort nearly too much—but he held on. Staff in hand. Wings sparking. Eyes burning. He wasn’t fighting to win anymore. He was fighting to breathe. To exist. To hold the line—just a moment longer.

 

He turned his head. Past the knights. Past the broken blades and cracked trees. To the one still lying in the grass. To Silverbell.  Still down. Still watching.

 

 

---

Silverbell thought he had loved Moondrop for his warmth, his presence, his curiosity. But maybe—maybe he had fallen for the pieces he never saw . The ones Black Sapphire hid under every smirk. The ones that trembled now, exposed in a battlefield of judgment and misunderstanding.

 

He misunderstood him. He assumed Black Sapphire had betrayed them all—For chaos. For lies. But maybe, just maybe… He was trying to protect someone.

 

Silverbell winced as another pulse of dark magic knocked back two knights, but Black Sapphire took the hit as well—slamming into a tree, staggering back to his feet like a puppet yanked by strings. And Silverbell realized—he was fighting alone. Because of what he’d said. Because of what he hadn’t. “I gave you a chance…”

 

He’d said that. “I won't throw away my master just for you.” Black Sapphire… he heard it as proof that his love had never been real. That Silverbell was like the rest of them. Using him. Discarding him. He misunderstood. And now Black Sapphire was bleeding for it.

 

Black Sapphire stumbled through the smoke, one arm dragging, left wing half-limp behind him, sparking with each twitch. The battlefield around him roared with violence—silver blades flashing, spells crashing against earth and air, and the constant scream of metal on magic. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

 

A knight came at him from behind—he pivoted on instinct, elbowed the attacker in the throat, and drove a shadow spike through their leg. Another surged from the right, slicing low—he jumped, barely, landing on his knees and using the momentum to sweep their legs with a wave of force. Then two more. They stabbed at his wings— trying to tear them off again —but he twisted, wings flaring outward in a desperate arc that knocked both back. One of the plates snapped clean in half mid-swing, the other dragged low, grinding sparks against the dirt. The joint screeched with every breath he took. He bled from too many places to count. His breathing was shallow. His mouth filled with the taste of jam and steel.

 

Silverbell watched—unable to move, body broken on the ground. And yet, he watched. And it hurt. Because he knew why this was happening. Because of what he’d said. Because of what he hadn’t.

 

Black Sapphire caught another spell with his bare hand and redirected it back into the caster’s chest. It exploded like a thundercrack, knocking three knights off their feet. One didn’t rise. The other two crawled, gasping. The sky was starting to dim. Magic had burned the clouds away. But still Black Sapphire fought.

 

He was limping now. One eye swollen nearly shut. His wingframe visibly warped. When he raised his hand for another spell, it faltered halfway. But he forced it forward anyway, blasting another knight into the mirrored roots with a guttural scream. He didn’t look like a villain. He didn’t look like a hero. He looked like a man with nothing left to lose.

 

“Why won’t you stay down?!” one knight screamed, charging again.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. He just moved —sidestepped the swing, let the blade scrape his shoulder, then grabbed the knight’s collar and headbutted them into the dirt.

 

Silverbell flinched. He felt that pain, deep in his ribs, as if the blow had landed on him.

 

Another knight tried to take the chance—rushing him while his back was turned. Silverbell wanted to scream.

 

But Black Sapphire spun too fast, already expecting it. The knight’s sword clanged uselessly against a conjured shard of darkness, and Black Sapphire drove it through their chestplate.  The knight fell. Not dead. But not getting up.

 

And that’s when it happened. Silverbell broke. Not physically— emotionally. That was the moment. Because he saw Black Sapphire stagger afterward. Saw him cough and fall to one knee, wings drooping like broken scaffolding behind him. And no one moved to help him. Not even one knight dared to help. Just more blades raised. More magic gathering.

 

Silverbell’s fingers twitched where they rested on the dirt, curled weakly. He wanted to scream. He wanted to stand.  His knees buckled once. Twice. But he forced himself to stand. Pain ricocheted through his ribs, and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, but Silverbell didn’t stop. Every step was a choice. A battle of its own. His vision swam with white sparks, and yet—he walked forward. Into the storm. Into the fire. Into the center of the battlefield still aflame with clashing spells and swinging blades.

 

“ Silverbell? ” someone shouted—a knight’s voice, panicked. “ Get back! ”

But he didn’t listen. He couldn’t watch this anymore. The wind of another blast whipped past him, stirring his cloak like smoke. One spell exploded nearby, sending debris flying. The heat scorched his skin. But still—he walked.

 

The knights hesitated.

 

And that hesitation was all Black Sapphire needed to break through another barrage, landing a stunning blow on one of the advancing guards. His breath came in rattled bursts, dark magic still crackling at his fingertips—but when he turned, he froze. There. In the chaos.

 

Silverbell was standing. Broken. Shaking. But walking. Toward him.  Their eyes met through the warzone. Neither one looked away.

 

Then Silverbell’s voice cut through the storm—weak, raw, but clear “STOP.”

 

The knights did not. But Black Sapphire did.

 

nd that pause—so full of disbelief and longing and regret —was louder than any scream. The battlefield slowed. Not in reality—but in the space between them. In the heavy, aching air where spells hung like mist, where blades had stopped inches from flesh, and where the world—just for a moment—forgot to move.

 

Black Sapphire, still bloodied, still panting through clenched teeth, didn’t flinch. He didn’t soften. “…You’re going to take advantage of me… aren’t you?”

 

Silverbell’s voice trembled, low and laced with something rawer than pain. He just looked at him—deeply. Truly. With a fire behind his eyes that no mask could hide and then he answered, quiet as a loaded fuse: “Guess.” And stepped forward.

 

The knights shouted, some moving to intervene—but he was faster. Before anyone could reach him, before another spell could fire, before another order could be screamed—He was in front of Black Sapphire.

 

And he kissed him. Not gently. Not like the first time. It was a kiss full of ruin. Full of fury. Full of every wound, every night, every broken moment they never said out loud.

 

Black Sapphire gasped against him, and his knees nearly gave out again—but he didn’t pull away. He kissed him back. Tired. Desperate. Like he’d been waiting for this to destroy him.

 

And in that moment, neither was a knight. Neither was a spy. Neither was a threat to both sides. They were just two Cookies, kissing in the middle of a battlefield they had both helped build. Tasting ash. Tasting blood. And still— Clinging. Even if the next breath would mean letting go.

 

Black Sapphire’s lips lingered against Silverbell’s just a moment longer than he meant. The taste of magic still clung to the air between them—burnt, bitter, and fleeting. His breath hitched as he slowly pulled back, one hand still curled in the front of Silverbell’s cloak like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

 

His voice came next, barely audible. Not for dramatic effect—just because it was hard to speak at all. “I couldn’t…” he whispered. “I shouldn’t .”

 

The battlefield didn’t matter now. The knights had stopped. Watching. Waiting. But they were blurs in the background—shadows behind a glass wall.

 

Because Silverbell was looking at him. Eyes steady, tired, but still full of that strange, stubborn light. And then, softer than all the noise that surrounded them “I still trust you."

 

Black Sapphire blinked. No magic in the world could’ve protected him from that.

 

Silverbell stepped back just slightly, just enough to give him space—but not so much it felt like retreat.

 

Then, almost too gently to believe, he asked “Are you sure?” The words were weightless—but they held everything.  Black Sapphire looked down at the ground—at the blood. The cracked earth. The hands he’d used to cast every lie, every betrayal. The lake that tried to destroy him. Then at Silverbell. And for once, no script came to save him. This time, the choice was truly his.

 

Black Sapphire’s expression twisted—into something unreadable. Something caught between guilt and duty, affection and survival. The light from the lake shimmered across his bloodstained suit, across the edge of his broken calm. “Will you forgive me,” he murmured, “if I do this?” His voice cracked—not from weakness, but from the weight of knowing what would follow.

 

Silverbell didn’t answer right away. His body was still battered, his breathing shaky, but his gaze remained steady. “It’ll take time,” he said, voice quiet. “I understand.” He exhaled slowly. “Just… don’t let anyone else here die because of it.”

 

That pause lasted a heartbeat. And then—Black Sapphire lifted his hand. The eye-shaped microphone floated to his side, slowly unfolding. Its steel jaw twisted into a mock grin. Its gemlike eye rolled once… then locked onto Silverbell. The gemstone pulsed—once, twice—and the eerie springs stretched outward, forming the shape of a gaping maw. From that mouth, arcane light began to build, spiraling into a sharp vortex of sound and magic. The staff wasn’t just alive—it was watching

 

“Sorry,” Black Sapphire said, softly. “You made me feel something I never knew how to survive.”

“Just remember, I’ll love you. No matter what you do. I’m here for you.” Silverbell smiled weakly and gently while already accepting the attack from his staff. "I love you, Black Sapphire.."

 

Then he let go. And the microphone screamed. The spell fired like a thunderclap—compressed soundwaves layered with dark energy, erupting in a sweeping spiral aimed directly for Silverbell’s chest. The very ground beneath the magic fractured, purple veins of cursed sigils chasing the spell as it tore through the battlefield.

 

Silverbell had barely a second to raise his arms. And then it hit.  The blast exploded against him, launching him backward with force enough to shatter bark and stone. Trees splintered. The lake rippled violently, as if recoiling from the impact. His body collided with the ground in a tumble, dirt scattering around him.

The world shook. The knights cried out. And Black Sapphire… stood still. The light from the microphone faded slowly, its eye dimming, the jaw curling back into its eerie, crooked smirk. “Looks like the show is over folks. Your favorite host is out!”  But Black Sapphire didn't smile. He lowered the weapon like it burned in his hand. He didn’t look away from where Silverbell had fallen. Because somewhere in the shattered silence, he was hoping to hear— movement.

Black Sapphire stood barely upright, braced against his staff like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. Blood dripped from his chin. His wing servos sparked and hissed, glitching with every movement. The pushback spell had bought him seconds—no more.

Mercurial Knight was already getting up, fury undimmed, sword glowing once more.

The other knights began to close in again, tighter this time. No more speeches. No more warnings.

Just swords.

Black Sapphire’s grip on the staff tightened.

He was out of tricks.

Out of time.

His hand flicked toward his belt. A vial shimmered into existence—small, violet, sealed with a dark silver wax. The escape draft. He’d made it days ago. Just in case.

And this was that case.

He didn’t hesitate.

Smoke swallowed the clearing.

Thick, black, churning like ink spilled from a wound in the sky. The moment the potion hit the earth, it erupted in a pulse of dark vapor—denser than mist, colder than magic. It surged outward in a wave, engulfing Black Sapphire in shadow, blinding the knights for only a second. But a second was all he needed. When the smoke thinned—he was gone. No portal glow like usual. He didn't use teleport sigils this time, but the crackle of the grass still smoldering in his wake. Just absence. Silence.

 

And a faint, lingering shimmer where he once stood. “ Get him—GO! ” a knight barked, but by the time they dove into the woods, blades drawn and wings flared— There was no trace. Only the aftermath of Black Sapphire's disappearance.

 

Back near the cratered battlefield, Mercurial Knight tore through the smoke, armor scraping as he dropped to his knees beside Silverbell’s battered form. “Silverbell!” His voice cracked—urgent, shaken. “Talk to me. Please—are you—?”

 

Silverbell blinked slowly. His cloak was torn. His skin bruised. His limbs unsteady. But he smiled. Soft. Small. “I’m alright,” he whispered, barely louder than the rustle of broken leaves. “He’s gone.”

 

Mercurial’s brow furrowed. “We’ll track him. We’ll find him again. He’ll return—”

 

“No,” Silverbell interrupted, voice calm despite the pain. He turned his head toward the sky—watching the clouds swallow the last traces of that black smoke. “He won’t come back. I’m certain. He won’t bother the kingdom anymore.”

 

And somehow… the way he said it? Felt like a goodbye .

 

The halls of the Faerie Kingdom’s infirmary were hushed—lit only by soft, glowing lantern light, the kind meant to soothe but not blind. Silver-stitched curtains swayed faintly with the breeze, and the scent of crushed herbs and healing poultices lingered in the air.

 

Silverbell lay still as the medics worked—pressing poultices to his shoulder, wrapping bandages tight around cracked ribs, muttering healing incantations over scorched skin. His body ached in a way that felt deeper than bruises. Like his very soul had been jarred loose and hadn’t yet found a place to settle again.

He didn't resist. Didn’t protest. Only murmured once, “I’ll be fine.”

 

They nodded, gently but firmly easing him into one of the high-backed healing beds nestled in the corner of the chamber. The sheets were warm. Too clean. He didn’t feel like he belonged here. As soon as they stepped away to tend to another patient, Silverbell slowly reached into the inside pocket of his tattered tunic.

 

The letter was still there. Pressed flat from his fall. Edges singed faintly from the battle. His fingers closed around it. And he chuckled.  Low. Rough. Wounded. He turned it over once, not yet opening it—just holding it against his chest, palm flat over where his heart still beat beneath bandages and regret.

 

“Idiot,” he whispered, lips curved with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You left this like I’d ever need a reminder.” His hand clenched the letter tighter.

 

 

---

The Spire loomed in eerie stillness. Its hallways—usually alive with whispers and footsteps too soft to track—felt sharper now. Like the walls themselves were listening.

 

Black Sapphire stepped through the portal corridor, magic fizzling from his boots, his wings half-dragged behind him. The battle still clung to his coat—jam dried along the sleeves, scorch marks along the seams. His face was blank. Empty. Eyes dark with exhaustion and something worse: resolve.

 

The moment he reached his floor—He stopped. Shadow Milk Cookie stood directly in front of his room. Hands folded. Unmoving. His cloak curled around his feet like smoke made solid, and his glowing, half-lidded eyes bore into Black Sapphire as if he had been waiting for hours… or days. The silence between them was immediate. Unforgiving.

 

He hadn’t said a word yet.

 

The question was already there, pulsing in the air between them like the ghost of a spell. “Well? How did it go?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t flinch. He stepped forward until they were a few feet apart, shoulders squared. The tension tightened like a drawn bow. “…It’s done,” he said at last. No emotion. Only those two words, laid out like a closed curtain.

 

Shadow Milk tilted his head ever so slightly. His eyes flicked over the ruined suit. The stain of guilt that no disguise could hide.  And though his tone was casual, it was razor-thin “ Is it? ”

 

Black Sapphire stood still—tense, jaw clenched, arms heavy at his sides. "Yes," he said again, quieter now. Firmer. "It’s done, I'm certain."

 

For a long moment, Shadow Milk didn’t move. He just stared—his expression unreadable, as always, as if weighing truth on a scale only he understood. Then, with a faint sigh, he leaned back slightly, his arms unfolding.

 

“…I watched,” he said, voice low, velvet-smooth. “Not all of it. Couldn’t.” His eyes narrowed—not from suspicion, but something more complicated. Something more like a normal Cookie  than a master should ever admit to. “You were bleeding out there,” he added, voice dipping. “I haven’t seen you that close to crumbling in years.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t respond. He looked past him, toward the door to his quarters. Waiting for the judgement. For the next order. For the next correction. But it didn’t come.

 

Instead, Shadow Milk gave a slow, uncharacteristic smile—small, sharp, but genuine.  “Looks like giving you access to the library paid off,” he murmured. “You improvised. You survived. ”

Then, in a tone far too soft for the walls of the Spire “I’m proud of you.”

Black Sapphire blinked. Just once.

 

Shadow Milk stepped forward, reaching out—not with command, but with the lightest brush of his fingers to Black Sapphire’s shoulder. Careful. Calculated. But real.  “You did what you had to,” he said. “And you came back alive. That’s what matters.”

And for just a moment, it felt like the shadows pulled away. Not all of them. But just enough for Black Sapphire to breathe. “…Thank you,” he murmured.

 

Shadow Milk gave a slow nod, then turned toward the hallway. “Rest,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll handle the rumors tonight.” A pause. “And when you're ready,” he added, “I want to hear what you learned.”

 

Then he walked off—robes trailing behind him like dusk given form—leaving Black Sapphire alone in front of his door. For once, his mask is falling. He could feel his tired bones and a heart that still hadn’t decided if it was broken or beating.

 

Black Sapphire laid back onto his bed like it was made of glass—fragile, cold, and full of reflections he didn’t want to see. His coat lay tossed across the floor, his gloves crumpled, his microphone silent and tucked beneath his desk for once. No monologue dedicated for his dear audience and no velvet tones for the invisible audience. Just him and the heavy guilt that he carried until he got here.

It sank into his bones, heavier than the bruises, heavier than the jam-stained fabric of his shirt, heavier than the lies he’d rehearsed for months. He stared at the ceiling like it might collapse in on him and spare him from thinking about it anymore.

 

That kiss. That damned kiss.

 

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a move. It wasn’t a spell. It had come from somewhere deeper. Somewhere real. Which was Silverbell's intentions, to show his trust, his love for the other one. And the reason why it hurts. 

His hands trembled as he covered his face. He had promised himself— promised —that he wouldn’t go soft. That he wouldn’t let the mission get tangled in heartstrings. That Silverbell was just a point of contact. A means to an end. But the way Silverbell looked at him at that moment. Trusted him. Still trusted him, even after the truth began to slip out in fragments like broken mirror shards. Sill trusted him when he left that letter. Oh, how he couldn't resist looking to the eyes of the one who understood him the most. The one Cookie who loved him first. It is truly impossible for the two of them to run from this cruel fate. 

 

Black Sapphire cursed under his breath, curling into himself. The tears came slowly. Hot. Quiet. Unforgiving. He hated that he could still feel Silverbell’s lips on his. He hated that part of him— a loud, stubborn part —wanted to go back and kiss him again. He hated that his heart had been stolen mid-mission, and he didn’t even notice until it was too late. He let the guilt wash over him. He deserved it. Because he was never meant to fall in love.  And he definitely wasn’t meant to break the heart of the only Cookie who ever made him wish he were someone else. A Cookie who grew up with deceit will never get to fall for their enemy. 

 

The knock was soft. Uncharacteristically so. Black Sapphire didn’t answer right away. He was still curled slightly on his side, jam crusted beneath one eye, the ache behind his ribs deeper than the bruises. For a moment, he thought he imagined it. Then—Another knock. Still soft.

 

Then a voice. “It’s me.” Candy Apple. The only time she knocked on his door without swinging it open.

 

He sighed. Rolled onto his back. Swiped his sleeve across his eyes to clear the evidence of whatever that was, then sat up and muttered, “Come in.”

The door creaked open. She peeked in—no dramatic entrance like how she usually enters, no mischief in her smirk like she is planning another deceitful prank. She only brought a paper box in her hands, tied with a green ribbon.

 

“I baked,” she said.

 

Black Sapphire raised a brow. “Are you apologizing?”

 

She scoffed. “Please. You’d know if I was apologizing. This is sympathy disguised as carbohydrates.”

 

He gave her a dry look, but she stepped in anyway and sat at the edge of the bed, offering the box. He took it and opened it. A grape tart—neat, glossy, actually… not terrible looking.

 

“I’ve been practicing,” she said, waving a hand. “You weren’t the only one visiting someone lately.”

 

He gave a short exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh.

 

She leaned back on her palms, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “I saw the fight,” she said after a pause. “We both did. They didn’t hold back.”

 

Black Sapphire said nothing.

 

Candy Apple’s voice softened. “You didn’t either.” Another pause. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

 

He looked down at the tart, tracing the edge of the crust with a thumb. “I still do,” he said quietly.

 

Candy Apple didn’t tease him about his pathetic love life. She just nodded. “Then next time,” she said, “don’t leave your heart where a kingdom can aim at it.” She stood and stretched, heading for the door. “Oh—and eat that. I swear I didn’t curse it this time.”

 

Just before leaving, she glanced back. “He’s not the only one who saw you break.” A beat. “But I’m still here.” The door clicked shut behind her.

 

Black Sapphire looked down at the tart again. He didn’t eat it. But he didn’t throw it away either. But he doesn't plan to eat the tart either, especially after what he did to Silverbell. It seems like hurting the one you love hurts more than hurting yourself.

 

The room settled into silence once again. Not the usual kind—the one laced with scribbling pens, faint murmurs of rumors echoing through Spire halls, or the distant shuffle of Candy Apple’s boots against polished stone. This silence was thicker. Hollow. It clung to the walls like frost.

Black Sapphire sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tightly together—tighter than necessary. The grape tart sat untouched beside him. The softest flicker of magic pulsed from his fingers, just enough to make the microphone on his desk twitch once in response. He closed his eyes. Breathed in slow. And whispered into the air—not for Shadow Milk, not for Candy Apple, not for any listening ears he could see.

 

But them. The Witches.

 

“Are you watching?” His voice didn’t waver—but it was small. Tired. Raw. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked the dark corners of the room. “Is this your idea of a story? Of balance?” There was no response. Of course there wasn’t.

 

“Was I made for this?” he continued, quieter. “To break hearts and tear down kingdoms and never get to want something for myself?”

 

Still nothing. The Witches never responded to prayers, that's just how it is. There aren't here to guide them. For all of the challenges he faced for centuries, nothing good ever happened to him. It was hopeless. Really hopeless. This is cruel. How do the other desserts get to have that happy life that he worked hard for? Does he not deserve happiness? Maybe warmth isn't his thing, but he wished he had that same warmth like whenever he gets to spend time with Silverbell. But then again his wishes were only met by empty silence. 

 

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You know, I never asked for much. I followed. I obeyed. I survived. ” A pause. His voice cracked. “I loved someone. Just once. And you made sure it ruined us both.”

He waited. For a sign. For anything. But the silence stayed. Even the shadows didn't move. “…Cowards,” he muttered, burying his face in his hands.

 

There were no answers. There never were anyway. Only silence. And the faint, distant sound of a heart still breaking in the quiet. His voice trembled now—quiet, raw, frayed at the edges. “Why are you Witches so… so cruel? ”

 

It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t defiant. It was a whisper pressed between clenched teeth and tired breath. Not a demand for justice—just a question shaped by heartbreak. He stared at the floor like it could answer for them. “Was I always meant to end like this?” he asked, barely audible. “Was he ?”

 

His hands balled into fists over his knees. “You give us pieces of something warm… soft… real —and then you rip it away. Like you’re testing how far we’ll bend before we shatter.” He paused. “I didn’t shatter. I won’t. ”

 

A beat of silence. Then he looked up—eyes shining, jaw clenched.

---

The halls of the Faerie Kingdom’s infirmary were heavy with tension—quiet, yes, but not calm. The kind of silence that sat too still. The kind that followed after something went wrong.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw locked in a grim line. The gold trim of his armor glinted softly under the faerie lanternlight, dulled by ash, streaked faintly with dried jam from the battlefield.

He hated hospitals. Not because of the scent of poultices or the stillness of the air—but because of the waiting. The helplessness. It was always a hellish experience to wait for someone. This wasn't his first time waiting here, that's why he knew the feeling. Waiting for comrades if they'd wake or not. 

 

And this time the bed in front of him held Silverbell Cookie. Pale. Bruised. Unmoving. His body had been burned, cut, slammed into trees and stone and magic. They’d done their best to protect him with shielding spells and reinforcement charms but— that wasn’t enough.  Black Sapphire had gotten to him. Silverbell hadn’t stood a chance.

 

“He was trying to walk,” one of the other knights murmured from beside the doorway, voice low. “He kept pushing forward even after the second hit.”

 

“He was trying to reach him, ” muttered another.

 

Mercurial’s eyes narrowed. They all knew who he meant.

 

The room around him was filled with quiet murmuring knights—tense, pacing, some with their helmets off, others holding bandages and half-brewed potions they didn’t know how to use. Each of them carried guilt in their shoulders. Some tried to hide it behind irritation or pride. Others didn’t bother.

 

“He shouldn’t have gone in first.”

 

“He shouldn’t have let him that close.”

 

“He should’ve known.”

 

But Mercurial said nothing. Not yet. Instead, he looked at Silverbell again—his friend, his comrade, the strongest archer in the eastern courts—and saw the way his fingers twitched faintly against the sheets. Alive. Barely.

 

“He’ll wake up,” he said finally, voice level. The others fell quiet. “But when he does,” Mercurial continued, “we need to be ready.”

 

Another knight hesitated. “You mean… for Black Sapphire?”

 

“For all of it,” Mercurial said sharply. “The betrayal. The spells. The shadows know what else he’s planning. You saw what he did at the lake. We all did.”

 

No one replied. Because they all remembered that final strike. And that kiss. That stupid, damning kiss.

 

Mercurial’s expression didn’t soften. “We gave Silverbell a job to do,” he said. “He wasn’t wrong to try. But now… it’s our move.”

 

He turned to face them. “I want increased watch on the borders. I want mirror wards set around the infirmary. And I want every magic reader we have looking into that potion he escaped with. No one— no one —does this to one of ours and walks away.”

 

The knights saluted, some more hesitantly than others. Mercurial gave one final glance toward Silverbell’s bed before turning to leave the room. He didn’t say it out loud. But he knew— If Silverbell didn’t wake up soon… They wouldn’t just go after Black Sapphire to end a threat. They’d go after him to avenge one of their own.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie paused at the threshold of the infirmary, Silverbell’s words replaying in his mind like a spell that refused to wear off.

 

“He won’t come back. I’m certain. He won’t bother the kingdom anymore.”

 

So certain. So calm. Even as his body was torn and half-conscious, Silverbell had spoken with conviction. The kind that only came from trust—or something dangerously close to it.

 

The other knights still talked behind him. Quiet, clipped phrases.

 

“He let him go.”

 

“He didn’t fire when he had the chance.”

 

“There’s more to this than he’s telling us.”

 

Mercurial’s hand clenched into a fist at his side.

He remembered the way Silverbell had stood between spells and ruin. Not to kill. Not to fight. To reach him. That wasn’t a soldier’s instinct. It wasn’t strategy. It was something… messier. Something harder to justify. But it had meant something.

 

Mercurial turned back and looked at the others. “We’re not making any move,” he said, his voice firm—measured. “Not until Silverbell wakes up. Not until we hear his full report.”

 

“But—he let him go,” one of the knights said sharply. “And if he was wrong? If that traitor comes back?”

 

Mercurial’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then we deal with it when it happens,” he said. “But I’m not disrespecting Silverbell’s judgment while he’s unconscious in a bed he nearly died in.”

 

The room went quiet. He looked back to the pale figure resting beneath healing wards, fingers still curled loosely around a letter he’d never let go. “They understood each other,” Mercurial said more quietly now. “Maybe more than any of us did.”

 

He exhaled. “If Silverbell trusted him enough to say he won’t return…” He let the silence finish the sentence. But in the quiet of the infirmary, filled with faerie light and whispered fears, the question still hung in the air: Was that trust a strength? Or a fatal mistake?

 

The hall outside Silverbell’s room buzzed with low, tense voices—like bees trapped in a jar. The Silver Knights didn’t raise their voices, but the weight behind every word was unmistakable.

 

“He let him go,” one murmured again, pacing. “Not once. Twice. ”

 

“That’s not just a tactical error,” another added. “That’s personal.”

 

“Maybe he was compromised,” a younger knight whispered. “What if he gave him intel? What if he told him about our patrol patterns—our wards?”

 

“He didn’t,” Mercurial said flatly from the wall where he now leaned, arms crossed. “Silverbell’s loyal.”

 

“He’s in love ,” a third shot back, voice harder. “And that makes him dangerous. You all saw it. He hesitated. He dropped his bow the second that monster touched him.”

 

Mercurial’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond right away.

 

“…We still don’t know if Black Sapphire’s truly gone,” one of the senior knights said, more cautiously. “And I don’t like waiting with our guard lowered. He’s a liar. A shapeshifter. A voice that twists truth. He could already be among us again.”

 

That made the room fall still.

 

One knight muttered, “Mirror wards around the palace perimeter were weakened this morning.”

 

Another: “That wasn’t reported. Are you sure?”

 

“Positive. Something’s slipping.”

 

Mercurial sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He hated when paranoia started blending into reason. But the truth was: Silverbell had asked them to trust Black Sapphire wouldn’t return. And yet… the kingdom’s wards were faltering. The rumors hadn’t stopped. The Queen hadn’t been seen in days.

 

“Silverbell trusted him,” Mercurial said again, voice quieter this time. “Maybe enough to risk the kingdom.”

 

“Then maybe Silverbell shouldn’t be calling the shots,” someone muttered. A beat later, “Not until he proves whose side he’s really on.”

 

Mercurial stood up straighter, stepping forward. “No one’s questioning Silverbell’s loyalty while he’s still healing. No one. ” But despite his words, the unease lingered like fog through the halls. Because if Black Sapphire did return— They’d have to choose between the kingdom’s orders… and one of their own.

 

Mercurial Knight’s gaze drifted away from the rising voices. Through the half-drawn curtain, across the sterile light of the infirmary, his eyes landed on the still form of Silverbell Cookie. The archer lay quiet, bandaged and motionless, the white sheets tucked neatly around his body like snowfall. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow rhythm—alive, but fragile. Like a bowstring stretched just before it snaps.

 

And still, clutched in his fingers, was the letter. Black Sapphire’s letter. 

 

Mercurial’s eyes narrowed. He could feel Black Sapphire's magic at the letter which is why he recognized who sent that to Silverbell.

 

He hadn’t let go of it. Not even in sleep. Not after everything that was said and done. That single gesture said more than any defense Silverbell could offer. He was protecting something. Maybe still protecting him. What could that letter be? Was Silverbell hiding something from all of them?

 

Mercurial stood there in silence, ignoring the continued murmurs behind him.

 

“He trusted him.”

 

“He let him go.”

 

“What if he betrayed us?”

 

Mercurial blocked them out. He looked at Silverbell the way you only could after years of fighting side-by-side. With unspoken understanding. With concern wrapped in discipline. “He’s still one of us,” Mercurial whispered to himself. But doubt tugged at the edges of his conviction. Because if Silverbell was wrong … If Black Sapphire wasn’t done yet… Then this time, it wouldn’t just be a broken heart Silverbell woke up to. It would be a kingdom in ruin. And that? That would be a betrayal none of them could survive.

 

He tugged the letter gently from Silverbell’s loosened grip, careful not to disturb the unconscious knight. At first, Mercurial’s expression was impassive—just another report to scan, just another potential piece of evidence in a long string of betrayal.

 

But as his eyes scanned the letter—His face changed. Brows furrowed. Shoulders stiffened. His grip on the parchment tightened just slightly—creases forming across the lines of neatly written script. And then, suddenly, he stopped. He stared at the last line, unmoving.

 

“Captain?” one of the knights asked cautiously. “What does it say?”

 

Another: “Is it a threat? Is he coming back?”

 

Mercurial didn’t answer. Not right away.

 

Instead, after a long moment, he folded the letter carefully— carefully, like it held more than words—and placed it back into Silverbell’s hand. He stood. Tall. Straight-backed. But his eyes were distant.

 

“Captain?” they pressed again. “What was written?” Still, no answer. He looked at the knights. Each one waiting. Expecting strategy. Orders. Certainty.

 

But all Mercurial could say was— “…He chose both .”

 

And walked out. Leaving them in silence. Mercurial Knight Cookie stood in the outer hall, his armor humming faintly with residual magic. The letter still felt like it was burning through his gloves, even though he’d returned it to Silverbell’s unconscious hand.

 

He had walked out without explaining himself.  He couldn't explain it. Not to them. Not yet.

 

He leaned against the cold marble wall, his gaze flickering to the soft torchlight bouncing off the stained-glass windows of the infirmary corridor. His mind ran the words over again. Every line. Every pause.

 

Mercurial let out a slow, rattling breath. “He… really loved him.”

 

Not just an act. Not just seduction. Not manipulation. Real. Painfully real. All this time, Mercurial had told himself that Silverbell was compromised. Emotionally weakened. Too soft to carry the weight of the truth.

 

But now?

 

Now he realized it wasn't a weakness at all. Silverbell hadn’t lost his edge. He’d trusted Black Sapphire— and Black Sapphire trusted him back. And that was what stung. Not because it was romantic. But because that kind of love was dangerous. Unstoppable when it aligned. And devastating when it split.

 

A voice stirred behind him. One of the knights. “Captain? Should we prepare a search team?”

 

Mercurial didn’t turn. His hand rested loosely on the hilt of his blade, eyes locked on nothing. “…No,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“They’re not done,” Mercurial murmured. “This wasn’t a betrayal. It was the beginning of something else.”

 

He closed his eyes. Saw the flicker of Black Sapphire’s magic, the tension in Silverbell’s voice, the kiss —the one they all saw but couldn’t explain.

 

“They really did love each other,” he whispered. Then opened his eyes again. And that, he thought bitterly, is the part that’s most likely going to get them both killed. However, He still doesn’t trust Black Sapphire.

 

 

---

 

Mecurial Knight left the infirmary to take a walk. A break. Majority of the Knights are being treated by the healers. 

 

However there are some knights who seek revenge. Four Knights.

 

They had one goal: make the monster suffer. Black Sapphire had taken one of their own—left them broken, vulnerable. Silverbell let him walk away. The others wouldn’t. He wanted to tear their kingdom apart, unravel its guardians? Not a chance.

 

They didn’t know what the letter said, but whatever it was, it rattled their commander to the core. “They’re not done,” Mercurial had murmured. “This wasn’t a betrayal. It was the beginning of something else.”

 

Was Silverbell turning into a traitor for that trickster? No. They won't let that happen. They would stop it.

 

When they captured Black Sapphire, the Knights would see him executed—publicly, in front of every Cookie in the Faerie Kingdom. They gathered in silence, the weight of their purpose pressing down like armor.

 

Silverbell lay in the healing wing, surrounded by the kingdom’s best. Motionless, pale. But not broken. Thank the witches that he hasn't crumbled into pieces. However, “He’s going to meet with him,” one of them said.

 

The others didn’t need to ask who him was. Black Sapphire. The trickster. The threat.

 

“He’ll wait until he’s strong enough. Then he’ll slip away for some quiet conversation,” another added, voice low.

 

“Not quiet enough.”

 

The plan was set. They would follow—shadow-silent, eyes sharp. Silverbell wouldn’t see them. Black Sapphire wouldn’t feel them. Not until it was too late. This wasn’t about trust anymore. It was about survival.

 

Mercurial Knight was gone, off chasing ghosts or answers. But the remaining three didn’t need her to know what had to be done.

 

Silverbell might think he was making his own choices.

 

But the Knights were already moving behind the scenes. If he met with Black Sapphire, they'd be there. And if Silverbell chose the wrong side— They’d deal with that too. They met behind closed doors, away from the light of the Faerie Kingdom. Three knights, one mission.

 

“He’s using him,” said the tallest, fists clenched. “This isn’t love. It’s control.”

 

“Silverbell doesn’t see it. Not yet,” the second murmured. “But we do.”

 

They had watched the way Black Sapphire looked at Silverbell—calculated, charming, dangerous. Every word he spoke wrapped in silk and venom. He wasn’t trying to win hearts. He was trying to bend them.

 

“Once he’s caught,” the third said, “we’ll bring Silverbell in. Sit him down. Make him see.”

 

They imagined it: Silverbell walking into the cell, expecting something—affection, explanation, maybe even answers. Instead, he'd find a monster in chains. The truth in flesh. “He won’t be able to deny it. Not when he’s staring at what Black Sapphire really is.”

 

And if Silverbell resisted? If he tried to protect him? They didn’t say it aloud, but the thought was there. Shared in a glance.

 

They were still planning—routes, timing, escape contingencies. But the heart of the plan had already hardened. Expose the lie. Break the bond. Protect their kingdom—Even if it meant breaking one of their own.

 

They weren’t doing this out of anger. They felt betrayed by Silverbell's choice. A silver knight who chose to love a minion of deceit? That isn't possible. Silverbell, their brother-in-arms, their comrade—he was falling. And worse, he didn’t even see it. “He believes it,” one of them said, voice bitter. “He actually believes Black Sapphire loves him.”

 

The others fell silent. That word—love—soured in the air like spoiled fruit.

 

“It’s not love,” the eldest said. “It’s a trap. And he’s walking straight into it.”

 

They’d seen it before. The way monsters wrapped their claws in kindness, used affection like a leash. And Silverbell—wounded, guilt-ridden, desperate for meaning—was easy prey.

 

“We’re going to show him what that ‘love’ looks like in chains,” another said. “When that snake is caged, bleeding, and still trying to whisper sweet lies—he’ll see it.”

 

They didn’t want to hurt Silverbell. They wanted to wake him up. They’d show him how love wouldn’t ask him to betray his kingdom. Wouldn’t ask for secrets behind closed doors. Wouldn’t smile like that when no one else was looking.

 

Silverbell thought he’d found something real. But all the Knights saw was a poisoned hook. And they were going to tear it out—before it dragged him under for good. Out of everyone in Earthbread… he chose him? The thought wouldn't leave them.

 

Silverbell could’ve had someone kind. Someone steady. Someone who didn’t wear danger like perfume and smile like a knife. He could’ve loved anyone else. But he chose Black Sapphire. The one who broke their ranks. The one who twisted shadows against them. The one who left scars they still hadn’t healed from. “He knows what that bastard’s done,” one muttered. “And still…”

 

Still, Silverbell looked at him like he saw light. “It’s not love,” another snapped. “It’s a trick!”

 

They wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Show him that what he thought was love was nothing but a performance—a perfect lie tailored to someone cracked open by pain.

 

“He chose him. Over all the others.” That was the part that stung. Not just the danger, not just the betrayal—but the choice.

 

Silverbell had options. Real ones. People who would’ve stood by him, healed with him, loved him without blood on their hands. But he picked a monster instead. And now, they had no choice but to drag him back—kicking, screaming, and blinded by delusion if they had to. Because if Silverbell wouldn’t save himself… Then they would do it for him. They didn’t want a clean death. They wanted an ending that would burn itself into the kingdom’s memory—and into Silverbell’s heart. No tenderness left to salvage. No part of Black Sapphire that could still whisper love.

 

“He’ll beg,” one of them said flatly. “Not for mercy. For Silverbell.”

 

“Good,” another answered. “Let him choke on that name. Let Silverbell see what his love looks like when it’s stripped of all its charm.” They would drag the trickster to the public square. Shackled. Bloodied. Face exposed to the kingdom he tried to corrupt. And they would break him. Slowly. Methodically.

 

“Start with the tongue,” one suggested. “He won’t need it anymore.”

 

“Or the hands,” said another. “Let the kingdom see what he used to touch Silverbell with. Let them see those hands crushed.”

 

There were no protests against the plan. “He’ll die screaming,” the eldest Knight said. “And when he does, Silverbell will know the truth.”

 

They didn’t need Silverbell’s permission. They didn’t need his understanding. They needed results. They needed him freed from this lie. And if that meant killing what he loved— Then so be it.

 

Later, one whispered plan, spoken like a vow:

 

“We won’t stop until he’s a smear on the stone. Until there’s nothing left for Silverbell to mourn. Nothing to love. Just crumbs. We will save you from his illusion, Silverbell. We will.”

 

 

Notes:

probably you guys: WHAT IS IN THAT LETTER?!?!?!

me: hehe guess.

 

(Anyways the inspiration for this chapter is from the songs "Hold them down" from EPIC just remove the penelope verse... and "Cure" from Alien Stage bc these two like any other dark haired and white haired pairings are doomed.. haha tears from my ivantill and satosugu eyes so like that one scene in cure Ivan sacrificed himself to let Till live, I was playing Cure on repeat for this.)

 

Long ahh chapters are coming so... yeahh uhm CATCH!!! (holy 93k words btw)

 

For those who binge read my fic for the past few days while I was fixing this chapter THANK YOU SO MUCHHH yall gave me more motivation

Chapter 16: XV

Notes:

TW: Self-harm

I already updated the tags

 

Now with that out of the way, you may continue to read :DD

 

 

Black Sapphire hadn’t truly slept since it happened. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw him—Silverbell, bleeding out, body limp, eyes wide. Accepting it. Accepting him.

 

That spell had split the air like a thunderclap—compressed soundwaves wrapped in dark energy, spiraling like a curse. It struck him dead center. Silverbell’s chest had bloomed red. The ground cracked open beneath them, glowing purple sigils spreading through the battlefield like dying roots.

 

It must have hurt. Witches, it must have. But did the plan work? Is he alive?

 

Black Sapphire didn’t know. All he had now was silence—silence and the rage gnawing inside him. But not at Silverbell. Never at him. Only at himself. For loving him. For choosing him. For believing that love could ever be allowed. Shadow Milk Cookie, the master he had served without question, gave him two options: kill Silverbell and live—or defy him and watch Silverbell’s kingdom burn. So he chose. If someone had to hurt Silverbell, it would be him. Not Shadow Milk. Not the others. Him.

 

He hadn’t left his chambers since.

 

The Spire was too still now. It used to hum—footsteps, chanting, voices echoing like forgotten rumors—but now, the silence was suffocating. He pressed his forehead to the cold stone wall and cried. And cried. And cried. But it didn’t help.

 

The grape tart still sat untouched on his desk, purple-glazed and set in a crisp gold crust, too delicate for monsters like him. Candy Apple Cookie had left it yesterday said a few words with that look, the one that asked “you okay? ” without saying it. It was probably soft now. Like everything else. Like him.

 

He sat on the floor, legs drawn in, back against the wall. The room felt smaller than yesterday—blinds shut, candles dead, the air heavy with the stink of extinguished magic. Power flickered faintly at the edges of his skin, lost without a target, without blood.

 

He whispered to no one. “Did you hate me for it? I didn’t mean for it to hit your heart.”

 

His fingers clutched the sleeve of his robe. He trembled, or maybe it was everything else that did. He thought about Silverbell’s hands—how they never shook, even when reaching for him. Even when the spell began to glow.

 

“You didn’t even flinch,” he muttered. A bitter laugh rose and died in his throat. There was a sound, distant—like wind scraping metal. Maybe from a memory. Maybe the spell, still echoing in his head. “I thought if I did it myself... it’d be cleaner.” But the room gave no answer. It only listened, the way it always had.

 

There were no clocks in the Spire. Time bled instead—through the corners of the ceiling, between the folds of his robes where dried jam still clung. He told himself if he’d just followed orders—stayed cold, stayed quiet—none of this would have happened. Silverbell would still be free. The battlefield would still be whole. And his hands wouldn’t feel like ash.

 

He wasn’t supposed to love him. That was the first command—unspoken but ironbound. You don’t love what you’re meant to destroy. But he had. Witches curse him, he had. In the quiet moments, in the stolen glances, in the way Silverbell had touched his wrist like it was something sacred. Like he was something worth saving. And that was the worst part. Which was knowing he’d loved him more than anything—and still raised his staff. Still let the magic fly. Still watched him fall.

 

There are things you can’t take back. Not with the Forbidden Archive’s spells. Not with all of Shadow Milk Cookie’s power. He thought about that constantly. How love made him weak. And how weakness got Silverbell killed. The guilt had no edges, just the constant and quiet kind of pressure. A reminder: you chose this.

 

He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t slept. Had barely moved, except to cry and stop crying. Even that felt mechanical now.

 

Outside, the Spire stood tall beneath a colorless sky, stillness sharp as a blade. Inside, Black Sapphire broke in silence. His cloak slipped from his shoulders, as if the fabric itself had grown ashamed. Among the scattered spell scrolls and shattered rune stones, he saw it—a shard of glass from the scrying mirror he’d broken two days ago. He didn’t remember why. Only that he screamed, and it shattered. And part of him had hoped it might cut deep on the way down. It hadn’t. It landed clean. Now it waited. Just like the tart. Just like everything. Just like Silverbell.

 

He picked it up. It was smooth. Beautiful, in that way pain often is. He ran a thumb along the edge. It bit the skin, just enough to be real. His breath hitched—not from pain, but from permission. He slid off his coat. His skin, etched with years of spells and service, felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with clothing. No one had ever touched him the way Silverbell had. No one ever would again.

 

The first cut was shallow. Thin. Almost invisible.

His lips moved, but there was no one left to hear the words. They were only for him. “I deserve this.” A whisper. A sentence. A sentence.

Another cut, deeper. Then another. And another.

 

Something inside him broke open. The glass carved through flesh like a silent scream, chasing pain to match what clawed at him from the inside. His breathing turned ragged. Tears blurred everything. He didn’t stop—not until his hands were slick, not until his arms trembled, not until his sobs split the silence like thunder. He curled forward.

 

Red droplets dotted the floor like petals. Like proof. He was still here. Still breathing. Still hadn’t earned the end. This wasn’t a cry for help. There was no one left to help. No one left to help him. This was punishment. His punishment. This was the cost of loving what you were meant to kill. This was what happened when you hesitated. He pressed his forehead to the stone. Breathing hard. Crying softly.

 

Whispering, over and over, to no one but the silence: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

The shard slipped from his hand. Clinked once. Twice. Then lay still. Just like him during that night. He stays like that for a long time. The blood on the floor cools. Thickens. His arms throb, but he doesn’t move. He didn't even stand up to patch up the cuts. The pain has dulled into a manageable hum—like a whisper behind his ribs that reminds him: you’re still here, and you shouldn’t be.

 

The Spire dims. Not because it’s night. The Spire doesn’t have nights. Light here dies when it chooses, snuffed out by grief, or guilt, or silence. Shadows stretch across the floor like fingers, crawling over torn scrolls, cracked stones, and the edges of that little untouched tart. Everything in this room is broken or rotting. Including him. His lips are dry. Cracked. He tastes iron—some of it his, some of it old. Some of it still Silverbell’s. He remembers that final kiss, how it burned. How Silverbell’s magic still clung to his mouth like soot.

 

Footsteps.

 

His breath caught. Slow, steady, deliberate. Not the kind that wandered. The kind that knew exactly where they were going. A chill slid down his spine—cold, metallic panic blooming beneath his skin. He scrambled up, wiping his blood-slick hands against the inside of his robe. It didn’t help. The blood was still there. Too much. Too red. Still wet along his wrists and knuckles.

 

His eyes darted around the room and landed on the shard of glass. Glinting. Accusing. He kicked it. Hard. It clattered across the stone floor, spun once, twice, then vanished beneath the bed. Gone. For now.

 

The footsteps grew louder.

 

He grabbed his coat from the ground and threw it over his shoulders. The fabric stuck to open wounds. His arms screamed as he forced them into the sleeves. It burned, but he welcomed it—used it to sharpen himself. He pulled the sleeves low, over the cuts, past the trembling. Tight. Too tight. His breath came shallow. His shoulders rolled back. Chin up. Spine straight. Just like he was trained. Just like before. His heart pounded behind his ribs like it was trying to escape. But his face stayed still. His eyes, cold. His body, obedient. The soldier-mask slid back on with practiced ease.

 

The handle turned.

 

Whoever it was—Candy Apple, or someone worse—they were seconds away. Seconds from seeing too much. From undoing everything he’d hidden. Everything he was trying to stuff back into silence. He didn’t know what was coming. Pity? Punishment? Exposure? He didn't know anymore. However, he held his ground. Because that’s what he was good at hiding and running away from everyone. Bleeding quietly. And pretending nothing was wrong.

 

The door creaked open.

 

“Hey Sapphy,” Candy Apple called, light as ever, like the air wasn’t thick enough to drown in. She stepped inside holding a small box, something wrapped in parchment, still warm. “I baked again.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice. He barely trusted his hands—still curled tight into fists inside his sleeves, raw skin pressed against wet fabric. It stings but he couldn't show it. He couldn't show weakness. 

 

Then she saw it. The grape tart. Still sitting on the desk. Untouched. Unmoved. Exactly where she’d left it yesterday. “Really?” Her voice sharpened, cutting through the air like she meant it to. “You didn’t eat it?”

She stomped forward and dropped the box on the desk, harder than she needed to. “Ugh. I worked hard for it, you know.”

 

He looked at her—barely. Just enough to acknowledge. A thousand apologies pressed against his throat, crawling up like claws, begging to get out. But he said none of them.

 

The coat sleeves stuck to his arms. The fabric tugged against scabbing skin. It stung. Burned. But he sat perfectly straight, exactly like Shadow Milk had taught him—back straight, shoulders high, soul tucked deep where no one could see it.

 

Candy Apple flopped into the chair across from him with an over-exaggerated sigh, as if this were just another routine afternoon. “Whatever. Maybe you like bitter things better, huh? I can make something sour next time.”

 

He almost told her not to. Almost told her not to come back.

 

But something small inside him—battered and still stupidly hopeful—held her there. Let her stay. Because the silence was starting to feel like a noose, and her voice was the only sound that didn’t tighten it.

 

She picked up the tart and turned it in her hands like she was appraising an artifact. “It’s not even bad,” she said. “I put actual grape essence in this one. You always say I sugar stuff too much.”

 

He stared at his knees..Still breathing. Still bleeding. The heartbeat in his wrists pulsed steady under the cuts—a rhythm he didn’t want but couldn’t ignore.

 

Then she asked it.

 

“You okay?” Soft now. Careful. Like she didn’t want to scare the truth out of him.

He flinched. A twitch. Barely there. But Candy Apple saw it. She always did.

 

He forced a smile. It felt wrong. Tight. Like his skin might split from the effort. “I’m fine,” he said. And it was the biggest lie in the room.

 

Candy Apple stood, brushing off her skirt even though there was nothing to brush. “Okay... if you said so,” she replied, drawing the words out with her usual sugary lilt. A mask, same as his, designed to keep things tolerable. Manageable.

 

Then she dropped it like it was nothing. “Oh! Also, Master Shadow Milk is calling us. So come downstairs, okayyy!”

 

She was halfway out the door before the name finished echoing in the room.

 

Master Shadow Milk Cookie.

 

Like it didn’t gut him to hear it. Like it hadn’t been him. The door clicked shut behind her. And the silence that followed was worse than before.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t move. He just stood there. The words rang out again.

 

“And when you're ready,” Shadow Milk had said, syrupy-smooth, voice like a knife in velvet, “I want to hear what you learned.”

 

Not a question. Never a question. A test. A demand.

 

He swallowed. And behind his eyes, Silverbell’s voice stirred—gentle, broken, real. That last look. That impossible grace. The forgiveness he hadn’t asked for but was given anyway.

 

What had he learned?

 

That you could bleed for love and still lose it? That loyalty doesn’t matter when the cost is your heart? That sometimes you kill the person you love because someone else made you choose—and you chose wrong?

 

He didn’t know what to say to Shadow Milk. He wasn’t sure he’d survive being asked.

 

His sleeve shifted again, dragging across the wounds. Pain flared—sharp and clean—and he let it settle him. He exhaled. One breath. Then another. Slow. Measured.

 

He buttoned his coat to the throat, each movement methodical, like armor. Brushed the dried blood from his cuffs. Straightened his collar. Checked the mirror—cracked, crooked, and cruel—and studied his own eyes to make sure they wouldn’t betray him. They almost did. But not quite.

 

Then, without another word, he turned toward the door. And walked toward whatever was waiting. He walked.

 

Out of the room. Into the Spire’s corridor. Down flights of stairs that felt more like punishments than architecture—endless, spiraling, bone-white. The kind that turned your knees to glass and your thoughts to ghosts.

 

His boots made no sound on the stone.

 

The walls were lined with runes he’d memorized long ago. Spells etched in languages no one spoke anymore. They flickered as he passed, reacting to his presence, recognizing the magic in his blood. Not welcoming, it never was. Just acknowledging. Like vultures circling something already dying.

 

The air grew colder the farther he descended. The Spire was built that way—every level deeper, the magic heavier. Older. Hungrier.

 

He passed doors that hadn’t opened in years. Rooms sealed shut with wax and willpower. Training chambers that still stank of ash and sweat. Empty halls where whispers used to roam, before they were silenced.

 

Candy Apple didn't walk with him. No other footsteps can be heard. Only him and just him, and the weight of the path he’d chosen.

 

His sleeve brushed a cut wrong, and he winced. Didn’t stop. Just kept going. Down another flight. Another landing. Each step a drumbeat in a funeral song no one else could hear.

 

Eventually, the corridor widened.

 

Torches lit themselves as he approached. Cold blue flame, casting warped shadows on the stone. He hated that color. It reminded him of Shadow Milk’s eyes.

 

The final staircase opened into a chamber he knew too well—vaulted ceilings, floors polished like mirrors, a throne of black sugar-glass raised on a dais of bones.

 

And standing at the base of it, back turned, hands clasped behind him like he had all the time in the world— Shadow Milk Cookie. Waiting.

 

Black Sapphire stopped at the threshold. His throat tightened. His fingers twitched at his sides.

 

And still, that voice came without turning. Smooth. Sweet. Inevitable.

 

“Ah. There you are.”

 

He didn’t reply. He couldn't bring himself to respond.

 

Because whatever happened next—whatever lesson, whatever punishment, whatever test —he needed one more second to steady the storm inside him.

 

Just one. Then he stepped forward. Into the chamber. And into whatever came next.

 

The chamber was colder than he remembered. The air is thick with the scent of burnt sugar and something darker—like rot beneath sweetness.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stood at the far end, his back still turned. The throne loomed behind him, a grotesque sculpture of power and indulgence.

 

"You're late," Shadow Milk's voice was calm, almost amused.

 

Black Sapphire said nothing. Words felt dangerous here, like stepping onto a trapdoor.

 

Shadow Milk turned slowly, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. He stepped down from the dais, each movement deliberate, controlled. "I trust you've had time to reflect," he said, circling Black Sapphire like a shark.

 

Black Sapphire kept his gaze forward, his posture rigid.

 

"Tell me," Shadow Milk stopped in front of him, "what did you learn?"

 

A pause. Then, quietly, "That love is a weakness."

 

Shadow Milk smiled, a slow, indulgent curl of his lips. "Good."

 

He reached out, fingers brushing against Black Sapphire's cheek—a mockery of affection. Black Sapphire flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Remember this pain," Shadow Milk whispered. "Let it shape you."

 

Black Sapphire nodded once, a small, sharp movement.

 

Shadow Milk stepped back, satisfied. "Now, we have work to do."

 

The chamber's torches flared, casting long shadows that danced like specters. Black Sapphire followed his master deeper into the darkness, the weight of his choices pressing down with every step.

 

He obeyed. Of course he did.

 

That’s what broken things do—keep moving the way they were trained, even after the cracks show. So when Shadow Milk gave the order, Black Sapphire didn’t  argue, it was his duty anyway. To serve him. So he just bowed and then he went upstairs and started the radio show.

The room they’d converted into the studio was quiet, sterile. Acoustic wards lined the walls, designed to trap every sound and memory inside. The microphone floated midair, wrapped in runes, humming gently—an enchanted relic older than most kingdoms. He sat before it, still bandaged beneath his robes, wounds raw and fresh beneath the fabric.

But his voice? Smooth. Steady. Flawless. “Good evening, listeners,” he said, the familiar cadence slipping over him like armor. “This is Black Sapphire, your humble host.”

 

He paused. Let the silence sit, just long enough to feel intimate. Controlled. “I hope you’re safe tonight. I hope your lights are steady, and your doors are locked. I hope the dark outside your window stays where it belongs.” The script flowed like blood from an old wound.

 

He took messages from listeners. Read them aloud in that calm, velvet tone. Advice, predictions, cryptic omens. The usual. Sometimes he slipped warnings between the lines. Sometimes he broadcast spells layered into syllables—harmless to most, devastating to those who understood.

 

Shadow Milk loved it. Said it “kept the masses docile.”  Said it “let them feel seen without ever seeing us.”

 

So Black Sapphire played the role. Played it perfectly. Even as the studio lights buzzed like flies. Even as his sleeves stuck to scabs. Even as Silverbell’s voice haunted the silence between every broadcast.

 

He smiled for the airwaves. He lied for survival. And every night, when he signed off— “Until next time, my dears. Dream carefully.” —he cut the mic.

 

Then sat in the dark. Alone with nothing but static and guilt. He was proud of him.

 

Shadow Milk had said it with that smooth, honeyed voice—like it was a reward. Like it was something to cherish. “You’ve done well,” he’d murmured after the last broadcast. “Your tone, your timing, the way you bend the air around their hearts. You’re finally becoming what I always knew you could be.”

 

And Black Sapphire had nodded, bowed, accepted it like a gift. Pride. From him . It meant something. Of course it did. After all these years, all that training, all those nights clawing his way toward perfection, just to hear those words... it meant something . But not enough. Because the pain was still there.

 

Still sharp in his chest. A hollow, aching thing that pulsed behind his ribs whenever he closed his eyes. It was getting worse each day. He should have been numb by now.

 

But Silverbell’s name still sat beneath his tongue like a secret. Like a curse. The pride Shadow Milk offered couldn’t reach where the hurt lived. Couldn’t touch the place where memory and guilt tangled, coiled tight around his heart.

 

So yes, he was proud of him. And yes, it mattered. But the pain? The pain didn’t care. It stayed. It always stayed. Like how it always does. He left the studio in silence. The click of the door behind him and the quiet hum of the wards sealing it shut. The halls of the Spire stretched around him—cold, endless, echoless. Familiar, but not comforting. Like walking through the ribs of something long dead. He didn’t rush. He never did. He walked the same way he always did now: straight-backed, silent, obedient. A shadow with a purpose.

 

When he reached his room, he didn’t light the candles. Didn’t open the blinds to watch the view of the Faerie Kingdom from afar. He closed the door shut behind him and let the darkness hold him like it always did. He crossed the room in a few steps and laid down on the bed. On top of the blankets. Still clothed. Still sealed up tight in a coat that stank of dried magic and too many secrets. The mattress didn’t give much under his weight. Too stiff. Just how he liked it. Just how he needed it.

 

He stared at the ceiling—though he couldn’t really see it. Just shapes in shadow. Cracks he’d memorized. Maybe stars, maybe fractures. He didn’t care anymore. His fingers twitched once, curled into the edge of the coat. And then stillness.

 

The pride still echoed faintly in his ears. “You’ve done well.”  Like a hand on his shoulder. Like a leash around his throat. He closed his eyes.

 

The pain was still there. That constant ache in his chest that refused to fade, no matter how many times he obeyed, no matter how perfect the performance. Silverbell’s name burned silently behind his teeth. He lay there. Motionless. And for a moment, he let himself pretend that the darkness was a body. That the cold was arms. That the voice that would whisper next wouldn’t be Shadow Milk’s. But Silverbell’s. Just once. Just once .

 

He hated feeling like this. Weak. Hollow. Cracked open from the inside, with nothing strong left to hold him together. But… he deserved it, didn’t he? Wasn’t that the point? The blood. The silence. The shame he wrapped around himself like armor. Wasn’t this what came after love turned to ash in your hands? After you raised your staff and chose obedience over mercy? Maybe this was always going to be his fate. Maybe cruelty was built into the shape of him. The Witches. It had to start with them, didn’t it? The ones who forged him in secrecy. Who whispered commandments into his soul before he could even think for himself. Who crafted him with purpose, not personhood. Who told him what he was meant to be—and never once asked what he wanted to be.

 

They made him. And they made him this . What does it even mean to be a Cookie? To serve? To follow orders without question? To perform the role assigned to you, never daring to step outside the mold? If that was all it meant, then Black Sapphire wasn’t a Cookie. He never had been. He was a shadow. A weapon. A voice behind the veil. A thing designed to blend in, gather intel, and vanish. Not to feel. Not to choose. Not to love . A follower. A spy. A monster.

 

That’s how he saw himself. That’s how he knew himself. Even when Silverbell looked at him like he was more. Like he was worth saving. Worth holding. Even then, he couldn’t believe it. Because monsters don’t get saved. They get locked away. Or worse—they get used . And that’s exactly what he’d let happen. Again and again.

 

So he laid there. Wrapped in the weight of everything he was and everything he wasn’t. Heart aching. Questions circling like carrion birds. And no answers coming. He reached his hand toward the ceiling. Still lying on the bed, still in the dark. The motion was slow—hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to touch something or let something go.

 

His fingers trembled. They looked pale in the low light. Thin. Fragile. Not the hands of a killer. Not the hands of someone who brought kingdoms to ruin. But he knew better. He stared up at the outline of his hand against the black ceiling, like he was trying to trace something invisible. A memory. A hope. A ghost.

 

He used to reach like this when he was a child-thing, before the missions started, before the words "you belong to us now" were burned into the soft parts of his mind. Back when reaching meant maybe someone would take your hand. Now? Now it just looked pathetic. But still, he reached.

 

Because some part of him—small, buried, desperate—still wanted to believe that there was something up there. Someone. Even if it wasn’t Silverbell. Even if it was just… anyone.

 

He flexed his fingers slightly. Like maybe he could hold the ceiling down and keep the weight of the world from caving in.

 

Like maybe if he reached far enough, he’d stop feeling like he was drowning beneath the skin he wore.

 

But the ceiling didn’t reach back. It never did. His arm grew tired. But he didn’t lower it. Because lowering it would mean giving in.

 

And right now, this—this single gesture of reaching into nothing—was the closest thing to hope he could manage.

 

His hand stayed in the air—still trembling, still searching.

 

And then, slowly, his eyes shifted. Not to the ceiling. Not to the cracked mirror across the room. Not to the door he never locked anymore because what would be the point? But forward. Past the room. Past the Spire. Past everything. Like he could see someone there. Watching. Listening.

 

He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t pretend this was part of the show.

 

His voice came low. Barely more than a whisper. But it was clear. Controlled. Like every word mattered. “…You’re still here aren’t you?”

 

A beat. Silence thick around it. “I didn’t think anyone would be. Not this far in.”

 

Another pause.nHis arm dropped to his chest, slow. Heavy. He turned his head slightly, just enough that it felt intimate. Like he was talking to someone across from him. Sitting in the dark.

 

“I know what I sound like. Pathetic. Melodramatic. Another ruined thing rambling in circles, trying to find meaning where maybe there isn't any.”

 

He closed his eyes for a second. When they opened again, they were darker. Tired. “I don't want your pity.”

 

A breath. “I don't deserve your forgiveness.”

Longer silence.

“But if you're listening—really listening—then maybe you’ve been where I am. Or close. Maybe you’ve looked in a mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back.”

 

His fingers twitched. He looked down at them like they weren’t his. “I wish I had something wise to say. Something to make this all… worth it.”

A small, bitter chuckle escaped him—quiet, sharp at the edges. “I talk for a living. Hours on the air. Words woven like spells. And now, when it’s just me and you?”

 

His gaze met the air again. Steady. Honest. “I’ve got nothing.”

 

And then softer, almost a confession: “Maybe that’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.”

He stared forward a moment longer. Not as a performer. Not as a spy. Not as a monster. Just a Cookie. Broken, bleeding, and still breathing.

 

Then he rolled onto his side. Back to the door. Back to the world. And whispered, just loud enough to be heard: “…Thanks for staying with me.”

 

The door slammed open with all the grace of a thunderclap.

 

“You’re being a weirdo again,” Candy Apple announced, voice echoing off the stone. “Talking to the ceiling this time?! What, did it start talking back?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t move. Didn’t sit up. Didn’t even look at her.

 

He just stayed on his side, eyes half-lidded, arm curled loosely over his ribs like he was trying to hold something in.

 

Candy Apple stood there in the doorway, hands on her hips, waiting. Expecting the usual: a dry comeback, a sarcastic sigh, that sharp edge he used to wield like a second weapon.

 

But he gave her nothing. Not even a twitch.

 

“…Seriously?” she said, stepping into the room, boots scuffing against old wards etched into the floor. “That’s all I get? No ‘you forgot to knock, Candy,’ no brooding monologue about how silence is sacred or whatever?”

 

She waited again. Still nothing. Her smirk faltered. “Okay. What gives?”

 

He blinked. Once. Slow. Then finally, a whisper: “I’m tired.”

 

Candy Apple’s expression shifted. Just slightly. Enough to let the mask slip. “Yeah,” she said, softer now. “I figured.”

 

She moved to the chair near the bed—the one she always pretended she just happened to sit in—and dropped into it with far less dramatics than usual. No exaggerated groan. No flailing limbs. Just a quiet exhale.

 

They sat like that for a while. Him facing the wall. She watched him like she was trying to decode a spell no one wrote down.

 

Then she muttered, “Y’know, for someone who talks to thousands of people a night, you’re really bad at talking to me. ”

 

He almost said sorry. But the word caught on his teeth and died there. “I don’t want to be funny today,” he said instead. His voice was hoarse. Empty.

 

Candy Apple looked down at her hands, picking at a loose thread on her glove. “That’s okay,” she said. “I brought snacks. I’ll be funny enough for both of us.”

 

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t ask her to leave, either. And for her, that was fine, it was enough.

 

His scars hadn’t faded. Not just the ones from yesterday. Not the ones buried under years of obedience.

 

Black Sapphire had tried to sleep them off—like wounds were things that simply unraveled in the dark if you lay still long enough. But when he woke, they were still there.

 

Of course they were.

 

The ones on his wrists throbbed, raw and red beneath his sleeves. Thin lines, deliberate, too clean to be accidents. They pulsed with every heartbeat, like his body was reminding him: you did this.

 

But those weren’t the only marks.

 

His wings—bent, cracked, barely able to fold back without pain—dragged a low, aching pull across his shoulders. The joints were swollen, bruised from where Silver Tree Knights had dragged him down like prey. They hadn’t hesitated. Of course they hadn’t. That’s what they were trained for. The Order didn't forget traitors, and it certainly didn’t spare monsters.

 

And Mercurial Knight…

 

His strikes hadn’t just landed. They’d cut deep. Burned into muscle and bone with that holy edge, the kind meant to carve evil out of the world. And to them, that was all Black Sapphire was. Evil. Corrupt. The thing behind the voice on the radio. The sorcerer who loved wrong, chose wrong, fought wrong.

 

He wasn’t a healer. He knew sigils for destruction, not restoration. Blood magic, shadow spells, whispers and lies—those were his talents. Mending flesh? That was for others. Kinder ones. Ones with gentler hands and softer voices.

 

Silverbell used to patch him up, once. Quietly. No questions. Just a warm towel, a slow spell, and that look—half tenderness, half reprimand.

 

But now… Now, even his magic recoiled from him.

 

It sparked along his fingertips when he tried to channel it, then died, fizzling out before the incantation even formed. Like it didn’t want to stay. Like it no longer recognized the hands that shaped it.

 

So he lay in bed, chest tight, arms aching, wings limp against the sheets like shattered glass.

 

The scars on his wrists itched beneath his coat—tight and clumsy. Just enough to hide them from Candy Apple. Just enough to avoid her eyes. But they hurt. All of it hurt. And still, he told no one. Because pain, at least, was simple. Predictable. Earned. And Black Sapphire knew how to live with that.

 

Candy Apple had been talking for a while.

 

Something about Shadow Milk Cookie. How brilliant he was. How charismatic. How his latest spell had made half those gnats cry out of sheer horror. “I mean, did you see the way the darkness bent around him? He was smiling a lot around his beacon of light.. Which was annoying because he never got to smile like that with us.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even blink in her direction.

 

He was staring at the edge of the desk, jaw slack with quiet tension, eyes fixed somewhere she couldn’t follow. He is just… distant. Like he’d slipped into some hallway inside himself and forgotten how to get back.

 

“...and then he turned to Truthless Recluse like this —” she struck a dramatic pose, hands mid-air—“and I swear the room actually got colder. Like. Ugh . Master knows how to command a room. It’s kind of terrifying, but in the best way, y’know?”

 

Still no response.

 

Candy Apple’s eyes narrowed. “Black Sapphire Cookie!”

 

Nothing.

 

She tried again, louder, leaning forward. “ Are you even listening to meee?! ”

 

That finally snapped him out of it.

 

His eyes flicked to her—unfocused, slow, like it took effort just to pull her name back into context. He blinked once. Then again. His lips parted, but whatever he meant to say got lost on the way out.

 

“…Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t…”

 

Candy Apple tilted her head. The usual sparkle in her voice dimmed a little. “Didn’t what?” she asked, gently now. “Didn’t hear me? Or didn’t care?”

 

He looked away. Didn’t answer.

 

She sighed—not exasperated this time, but soft. Careful. “I know you’re hurting. I know you're not okay.” She leaned back in the chair, letting her voice drift to something soft. “But you don’t have to vanish while I’m sitting right in front of you.”

 

He nodded faintly, gazing still on the desk.

 

Candy Apple didn’t push. She just opened the snack box she'd brought and tore off a piece of sweetbread, dropping it on the napkin between them. “There,” she said. “Food tax for ignoring me.”  Then, after a beat: “…You wanna talk about it?”

 

Black Sapphire hesitated. Then, voice barely audible: “No.”

 

Candy Apple popped a bite of bread into her mouth. “Cool. I’ll keep talking until you do.”

 

Black Sapphire gave her a sideways glance. The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smirk, but not quite. “Huh,” he murmured, dryly. “Well that’s annoying.”

 

Candy Apple gasped, full offense, hand to chest like he’d slapped her. “ Excuse me?! ”

 

He didn’t respond. Just let the silence stretch, eyes flicking back toward the ceiling.

 

“HEY!” she snapped, pointing at him like it was a duel. “I’m not annoying! I’m cute! There’s a difference!”

 

He let out the faintest breath of a laugh—barely audible, but real. “Annoying and loud,” he muttered.

 

Candy Apple grinned. “Loudness is a charm if you do it right.”

 

“Says the one who talks louder than a summoning circle rupture.”

 

She stuck her tongue out at him. “You wish you had my presence. Everyone loves a little chaos.”

 

He finally looked at her. Really looked. Tired eyes, stitched with pain—but something warmer, softer, lingering just beneath. “…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Maybe.” He managed to say a few words. But it meant he was still here. Still listening. Still reachable.

 

Candy Apple didn’t push the banter further. She just leaned back in the chair, swinging one leg up to rest on the edge of his desk. “You’re lucky I’m cute,” she muttered.

 

He let his eyes drift shut, voice barely a whisper. “Debatable.”

 

She beamed anyway.

 

The piece of sweetbread sat between them, untouched. Candy Apple glanced at it, then at him. “You’re really not gonna eat that?”

 

No answer. Not even a glance.

 

She nudged the napkin with the toe of her boot. “It’s literally warm. I made it twenty minutes ago. I didn’t even cast a preservation spell this time, because I thought, hey, maybe he’ll actually eat it while it’s fresh! ”

 

Still nothing. His eyes were closed again, face unreadable, body folded into himself like silence was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

She exhaled through her nose. It was tiring to see him like this… someone who acts like they lost their flavor. “Fine. Be dramatic,” she muttered, grabbing the bread back and tearing off a chunk. “More for me.”

 

He didn’t even flinch at the sound of her chewing.

 

She chewed slower. Louder. On purpose. “Okay, rude, ” she said, mouth full. “I know it’s not poison. You watched me eat it. Where’s your trust?”

 

No response.

 

She swallowed the bite, eyes on him the whole time. “I’m not mad, y’know,” she added, voice dropping a little. “But I do notice. You can pretend to listen. You can banter. But you won’t eat. You won’t sleep. And you sure as sugar won’t let yourself want anything.”

 

Still, he didn’t move. He didn't even argued back at her like usual.

 

She sat back again, quieter now. “I don’t need you to be okay. But I do need you to stay alive.”

 

A long silence passed between them.

 

Black Sapphire finally opened his eyes. Looked at her. Just for a second. Then back at the ceiling. And said nothing. His eyes stayed on the ceiling, unreadable, dull.

Then, finally, he spoke. “I ate earlier.”

His voice was flat. Smooth. Deceptively calm—the kind of tone he used on the radio when he was delivering half-truths and veiled warnings.

 

Candy Apple stopped mid-chew. She raised an eyebrow, slowly, like she was giving him the chance to take it back. “You ate earlier?” she repeated.

 

He nodded once, like punctuation. Like that settled it. But it didn’t.

 

Because she could see the truth in the way his fingers were curled too tightly in the fabric of his robe. In the sunken shape of his cheeks. In the way he didn’t look like someone who’d eaten. He looked like someone surviving on nothing but stubbornness and shame.

 

She didn’t call him out directly.

 

Instead, she leaned forward, arms resting on her knees, voice a little gentler now. “Okay,” she said. “Cool.”

 

He didn’t respond. Just shut his eyes again, like that was the end of the conversation. But it wasn’t. Because the lie didn’t fix anything. It just proved what she already knew.

 

He was slipping—slow, quiet, invisible to most. But she saw it. She saw him.

 

And as she sat there, tearing off another piece of sweetbread she knew he wouldn’t touch, Candy Apple decided something: If he was going to keep lying to her… Then she’d just have to stay until he couldn’t anymore.

 

Candy Apple sat in the quiet for a while longer, watching him pretend to sleep, pretend to breathe easy, pretend that everything wasn’t falling apart just beneath his skin.

 

Then she stood, slow and careful, brushing the crumbs from her lap.

 

“Well,” she said, stretching her arms overhead with a forced yawn, “I guess I’ll head back to my room. Don’t want the others thinking I’ve gone soft hanging around your mopey self.”

 

He didn’t respond. Not even a twitch.

 

She lingered by the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe earlier. Maybe not.”  A pause. “I’ll bring food. Again. Probably something you won’t eat. Again.”

 

Still nothing.

 

She sighed. Tired in that way you get when someone you care about keeps building walls and pretending they’re not cold inside them. Hand on the doorknob now. “…Goodnight, weirdo.”

 

She opened the door. The hallway light spilled in—too bright, too sharp, making everything in the room look more hollow by contrast.

But just before she stepped out, her voice floated back one last time. Quiet. Honest. “I don’t believe you ate, by the way.”

 

Then the door shut behind her. And the silence returned, heavier than before. He chuckled. Just once. Soft. Raspy. Like it surprised even him.

 

“Am I such a bad liar?” he murmured into the dark. “Shadow Milk will be so disappointed with this.”

 

His voice held the weight of a joke, but not the warmth. Like a blade with a polished edge—meant to reflect, not to cut.

 

He lifted his arm again, letting it hover above his chest, then slowly turned it in the dim light.

 

There were no bandages. Not on his wrists. Not on the old bruises or the torn skin along his ribs. Nothing to hide the marks.

 

Because part of him didn’t see the point. And the other part thought he deserved to feel every sting.

 

The cuts glinted faintly in the low light—still red, still raw. The kind that should’ve been wrapped. Tended to. The kind someone would’ve healed, if he’d let them. If Silverbell had still been here.

 

But no one was. And he didn’t want to heal. Not yet.

 

He rested his arm back on the bed, palm open to the ceiling, like he was waiting for something to fall into it. Nothing did.

It the same deafening silence that would always greet him and the same pain for each day he gets to breathe for another day. And the faint aftertaste of a joke that wasn’t really a joke at all.

 

Black Sapphire lay motionless on his bed, the silence pressing heavily around him. The air was thick, almost suffocating, as if the very walls of the Spire were holding their breath.

 

Then, a tremor. Subtle at first—a faint vibration beneath the floorboards. But it grew, escalating into a deep, resonant rumble that echoed through the corridors. Dust drifted from the ceiling, and the ancient stones groaned under unseen pressure.

 

He sat up abruptly, senses sharpened. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

 

Shadow Milk's presence, once an overwhelming force that permeated every corner of the Spire, now felt unstable. Flickering. Like a candle in a storm.

 

Black Sapphire swung his legs over the side of the bed, his injuries protesting with sharp stabs of pain. But he ignored them, driven by a surge of urgency.

 

He reached for his coat, fingers trembling as he pulled it on. The fabric clung to his wounds, the raw skin beneath screaming in protest. But he welcomed the pain—it grounded him, reminded him that he was still here, still capable.

 

Stepping into the corridor, he was met with chaos. The once-stable walls of the Spire were cracking, fissures spreading like spiderwebs. The floor beneath his feet trembled, and the distant sound of collapsing stone echoed ominously.

 

He knew he had to find Shadow Milk. Whatever was happening, it was centered around him. And if Shadow Milk's power was waning, the entire Spire—and perhaps more—was at risk.

 

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, Black Sapphire moved forward, each step a testament to his resolve. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger. But he had faced worse. And he would face this.

 

The Spire groaned again—a low, thunderous warning that rippled through the air like the growl of something ancient waking up.

 

Black Sapphire gritted his teeth and pushed forward, ignoring the way the floor shifted under his boots. Every instinct screamed at him to run toward the storm. Toward Shadow Milk. Toward the heart of whatever was unraveling.

 

But before he reached the central hall, he turned a corner—And nearly collided with Candy Apple.

 

She was coughing, one arm braced against the cracked wall, the other clutching a satchel tight to her chest. Her usually pristine curls were dusted with debris, and her eyes—wide, darting—snapped to him the moment she saw his silhouette through the dust.

 

“ Finally! ” she barked, staggering toward him. “What, you were taking a nap while the whole tower is dying?! ”

 

He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to—but because the sight of her, alive, moving, herself —was like a fist unclenching in his chest. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath until now.

 

“I felt the shift,” he said, low and serious. “Shadow Milk’s power—”

 

“Yeah, no sugar, Sherlock,” she snapped. “I was right next to one of the anchor glyphs when it exploded . Whole room’s gone.”

 

He looked past her. The corridor behind was barely holding together—runes dimming, light flickering like a dying pulse.

 

Candy Apple’s voice dropped. “It’s collapsing, Sapphire. The Spire’s going down.”

 

He nodded once. “I know.”

 

She adjusted the satchel on her shoulder, brushing a cut on her cheek with the back of her glove like she didn’t feel it. “I’ve been trying to find you. We need to get out of here. Or find Master. Or—I don’t know— do something that isn’t dying under a thousand tons of enchanted marble. ”

 

He stared at her. Quiet. Focused. Then: “We’re not leaving without answers.”

 

She scowled. “You’re gonna start asking questions now? The ceiling’s literally falling.”

 

Black Sapphire turned, already moving. “If Shadow Milk’s power is failing, that means he’s either dying… or losing control.”

 

“And you’re okay with both those options?” she called after him.

 

“No,” he said, eyes narrowing, magic flickering faintly around his hands. “But I need to know which one we’re walking into.”

 

Candy Apple hesitated—just for a second. Then she ran after him. “Ugh, I hate it when you get cryptic. You always say stuff like that right before everything goes even more wrong!”

 

He didn’t smile. But something cold and clear locked into place inside him. He had seen the cracks forming for weeks. Now they were finally breaking.

 

And whatever waited in the heart of the Spire—He would face it. With Candy Apple.

---

 

 

They finally found him at the main halls of the Spire

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stumbled back, breath ragged, magic seething wildly around him like a storm barely held at bay. Cracks webbed through the marble beneath his feet as he swayed, barely standing.

“Kh... Haa... Haa...” he growled through gritted teeth, eyes glowing with spite. “Pathetic fools...”

 

Across the room, Pure Vanilla Cookie stepped forward—calm, steady, a quiet contrast to the chaos. His voice cut through the roaring magic like a balm. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Shadow Milk.”

 

But Shadow Milk only laughed—a sharp, unhinged sound that bounced off the Spire’s crumbling walls. “How kind of you,” he spat. “Mark my words: one day, your precious kindness will be your undoing.”

 

Behind them, footsteps echoed fast—tap tap tap!—as Candy Apple and Black Sapphire burst into the room, breathless, eyes wide.

 

“You!” GingerBrave shouted, already moving.

 

“Shadow Milk Cookie!” Candy Apple called, voice high with alarm.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t hesitate. His eyes locked on the destabilized magic thrumming in the air like a second heartbeat. “Quick!” he said sharply. “We must leave this place!”

 

A deep pulse exploded from the center of the room—WHOOOM!—rattling stone and bone. Shadow Milk opened up a portal.

 

“No!” Strawberry Cookie cried. “They’re escaping...!”

 

Wizard Cookie stepped forward, his staff glowing. “He still has strength left?!”

 

Shadow Milk grinned—mad, electric, teeth bared. “You bet! Cookies like you just won’t stop lying, am I right?! Don’t get too comfortable…” He leaned forward, voice sinking into something darker. “We’re not done… yet.”

 

His gaze snapped toward Pure Vanilla, and for a moment the air froze between them. “He he... He he he!” Shadow Milk cackled. “I’ll be seeing you soon, little gnats!”

 

Then, quieter. Sharper. “And you... You’ll live to regret your words.” The final words lanced through the air like a curse. “I’ll make sure of it.” They stepped in the portal

 

The portal sealed shut behind them, its magic vanishing in a ripple of sickly blue. 

 

---

 

The portal sealed behind them with a flicker of sickly blue, the final ripple snapping shut like a lid over a coffin. And then—silence.

 

They reappeared in the forest. The air here was thick, wet with fog and laced with enchantments. The Lands of Deceit . The middle of nowhere, wrapped in illusion, soaked in misdirection. Shadow Milk Cookie stumbled the moment his feet hit the moss-covered ground. His knees buckled—he would have gone down hard if the others hadn’t caught him just in time.

 

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he barked, jerking free with raw fury. His voice cracked like lightning, cutting through the haze. He staggered forward, planting one trembling hand against a gnarled tree. His breaths came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling as magic hissed from his limbs—still unstable, still bleeding from the inside out.

 

His face twisted with rage. With exhaustion. With humiliation. “ I don’t need his kindness, ” he growled. “I don’t need any of them.” The tree bark scorched slightly under his hand, reacting to the power still leaking from him. He wasn’t finished. Not even close. And behind them, somewhere far away, the ruined Spire—his Spire—finally gave in. A dull roar rolled over the horizon. The Spire was gone. It crumbled

 

But Shadow Milk Cookie stood in the middle of the forest, eyes wild, breath sharp, and power curling around him like smoke. “This isn’t over,” he muttered. No one dared to argue. Because they all knew—He meant it.

 

Candy Apple leaned close, her voice a sharp whisper. “Ugh. It’s those gnats’ fault! Now the Spire’s gone!”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look at her, but his jaw tensed. “They pushed him too far,” he muttered. “They always do. They think the truth wins just because it’s louder.”

 

She folded her arms, still keeping her voice low. “Now we have to clean up the mess. Again.”

 

He gave the faintest nod. “It’s what we were made for, isn’t it?”

 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she hissed.

 

“Doesn’t mean we get a choice,” he said back, quieter.

 

“So what... are we homeless now?” Candy Apple whispered, glancing over her shoulder at Shadow Milk, who was still panting against the tree, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.

 

Black Sapphire let out a slow breath. “The Spire’s gone,” he said. “We don’t have a base. We don’t have a stronghold.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “So... yes?”

 

He gave her a sidelong look. “We’re mobile.”

 

“Oh great,” she muttered. “Love that for us.” There was a pause. Then she added, softer, “Think he’s gonna be okay?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer right away. “Maybe..”

 

“Quiet!” Shadow Milk snapped, voice like a whipcrack through the trees. His body was shaking, his magic unstable—but the glare he shot over his shoulder silenced them instantly.

 

Then, with what strength he had left, he lifted one trembling hand.

 

Dark magic surged up from the earth, twisting through the roots, the branches, the sky itself. It pulsed once—then began to shape.

 

Stone and shadow fused into form. Walls unfolded. Towers rose. But it wasn’t the Spire—not exactly. No long, endless corridors. No winding staircases to nowhere. This was smaller. Simpler. Sharper. A fortress, not a monument. A house, not a kingdom.

 

Black Sapphire and Candy Apple stood in silence as it formed—watching their master build a new home from rage, pride, and defiance.

 

When the final arcane flare faded, Shadow Milk fell to one knee. Breathing hard. Sweat at his brow. But he looked at his creation—and smiled.

 

“There! Our home—for a temporary time!” Shadow Milk Cookie declared, standing tall before the freshly conjured structure, cloak snapping in the residual magic. His voice dripped with pride and exhaustion.

 

Then, without missing a beat, he added, “I’ll be stepping out. Picking berries . Visiting a friend in the Garden of Delights.”

 

Candy Apple blinked. “ Wearing that? ” she gestured to his usual tattered robes and scorched hems. “There’s a theme in the Garden, you know. It’s not ‘chaos warlord chic.’”

Shadow Milk sighed. Then, with a dramatic flourish of his fingers, he cloaked himself in glamour.

 

In his place stood a woman of precision and poise— a lady in azure . She carried herself with quiet elegance, a guardian of forgotten lore and dangerous secrets. Her hair, glacier-white with hints of sky blue, flowed past her shoulders in silken waves, tied back with a ribbon that glinted like a blade. Her gown was sleek, a deep midnight blue trimmed in pale silver—more ceremonial than combative, tailored for dignity, not intimidation. In her hands, she cradled a dainty woven basket, etched with a subtle sigil: an eye, Shadow Milk’s own mark.

 

Candy Apple stared. “…Okay, work, ” she muttered.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t say anything. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

 

And with that, the lady turned—graceful and terrible—and stepped into the portal.

 

As the portal shimmered closed behind Shadow Milk Cookie and his elegant disguise, Candy Apple and Black Sapphire stepped inside the newly conjured house.

 

It was quiet. Cool. Familiar.

 

The moment they crossed the threshold, Candy Apple let out a delighted gasp. “Kyaaa— look at this! ” she twirled through the main hall. “It’s just like the Spire, but cozier!”

 

Black Sapphire wandered further in, eyes scanning slowly. Every detail was perfectly replicated. His old room. His desk. Even the little grape-glazed tart Candy Apple had once brought him—sitting right where he’d left it, as if time had bent back around.

 

He didn’t say much. He never did.

 

But his silence wasn’t heavy this time. It was… soft. Impressed, even.

He picked up a familiar book from a shelf, dust-free and right where it belonged.

 

“How did he even…?” he murmured.

 

Candy Apple flopped onto her old armchair, arms spread. “I told you, Master’s dramatic—but thorough. ” She grinned. “I feel like we never left.”

 

Black Sapphire leaned against the doorframe, one brow raised. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t collapse again. ”

 

“Hey, don’t jinx it.”

 

He offered the faintest shrug. “Fair.”

 

And for a fleeting moment—just one—they were back where they belonged. Together. Alive. Black Sapphire quietly closed the door behind him.

 

The soft click of the latch echoed louder than it should have in the stillness of his room.

 

Everything was exactly as he remembered it. His desk. The muted candlelight. The silence pressing in from all sides. But it all felt… thinner. Like the world around him was stitched together with old thread.

 

He sat down slowly, easing into the chair, letting the weight settle in his shoulders. Then he pulled back his sleeves. The scars on his wrists stared up at him—angry, red, unhealed. He traced one with a finger, not gently.

 

“Maybe,” he whispered, almost like a joke. “Maybe I should patch them up.” But his hand didn’t move for the bandages. Instead, his gaze drifted—past the candlelight, past the walls of the conjured house, past even the ache in his body. Something tugged at him from farther back. Older. Softer. Before the Spire collapsed. Before the betrayal and the blood. Before the show.

 

However little did he know… Back in the Faerie Kingdom, far from the shattered Spire and the conjured house nestled in the woods, something was stirring. A memory. Not his own.

---

Before he opened the letter, Silverbell just… sat there . Still, like the ground might crack if he moved wrong. The dream-lace tree above whispered in brittle murmurs, its leaves the color of old ash, of memory worn thin. He didn’t look at the letter. Not yet.

 

He stared at his hands instead—how they curled around the edges of the paper like it might vanish if he let go. They weren’t steady. Not like they used to be, when magic came easy and trust came easier.

 

The potion sat beside him, glinting in the grass like a question he didn’t want to answer. Was it meant for healing? For forgetting? For surviving? He didn’t know. He only knew this: Black Sapphire never left anything behind by mistake.

 

The quiet stretched. Long enough for birds to forget he was there. Long enough for his heart to start making that awful, hopeful noise again. And still, the letter waited. He took a deep breath before opening it.

 

It caught in his chest, sharp and uneven, like his lungs didn’t trust the air anymore. His fingers hesitated at the fold—just for a second, but long enough to feel it. The weight of the moment. The risk. The ache of not knowing. Then, with a motion that felt too small for how much it would change—

 

He opened the letter, and the words stared back at him—beautiful, brutal things inked in careful strokes. Black Sapphire’s handwriting hadn’t changed. Still neat. Still precise. Still trying too hard not to feel. Each sentence hit like a slow burn, not a blade—nothing so clean. Silverbell read them once, then again, slower, as if reading softer would make the truth less brutal.

 

His grip tightened. The paper crinkled slightly under his thumb. He loosened it before it tore. He didn’t react yet. Just sat there, the weight of it all anchoring him to the roots. To the dirt. To the past they never got to finish writing. He didn’t speak the words aloud. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Some things—this thing—weren’t meant for the wind to carry. It was too raw. Too precise. Like a dagger left sheathed, but still drawn.

 

The letter said:

 

My Dearest, Silverbell

I’ve been granted access to the Spire’s private library—my master’s collection. It’s not like the Faerie Kingdom’s. Well there is some poetry. However, no romantic novels. But I did find something I thought could help us. At least… I hope it will. I haven’t said this out loud—couldn’t bring myself to—but my latest mission was clear: Destroy you.

He was right. I lost focus. I let my guard down. Because of you. I’ve spent weeks trying to choose between you and him. Between love and loyalty. Between the truth I want, and the lies I was raised to believe. 

But then… I realized I don’t have to choose. Not yet. I have a plan. One that lets me hold the stage just a little longer. I need you to play along.

I know your knights are plotting something. I know you’re being watched. So am I. If I fall, if I hesitate, the Faerie Kingdom falls with me. My master will seize the chaos. With White Lily gone to face the Beast of Silence… your Kingdom is vulnerable.

This performance has to be convincing.

The vial I left you is a protection potion. It won’t stop everything, but it will dull my worst attacks. It will keep you on your feet just long enough. From the library I found a book that helped me with creating this potion, drink it before battle begins. However there is still a chance that you won't live, I haven't really experimented with this potion because I'm running out of time and the battle was approaching. I wish the best for your condition.

So when the curtain rises— We give them a show. No matter what I say. No matter what I do. Trust the silence between the words. Let them think we’ve chosen our sides. Let them think we’ve burned this bridge. Attack me if you need to. Let them strike their weapons at me. Let them speak to me harshly. You can ask me questions because I’ll be speaking as well, I’ll give you the truth during the battle. It’s your choice if you want to believe my words or not. I’ll let you speak and act for it.

And when it’s over… if we both survive…

We’ll rewrite our story.

—Black Sapphire Cookie

The silence stretched, same as it had before. But now it was different. Now it hummed with the pulse of something fragile and fierce and unfinished.

 

He looked at the potion, still glinting in the grass. He didn’t touch it. Not yet.

 

Because this—this was the moment before the lie began. Before the truth dressed itself in masks and wounds and blood. Before the curtain rose.

 

Silverbell let the letter fall into his lap. He closed his eyes and chose not to cry.

 

What is loyalty? He had asked himself that a thousand times. As a knight, loyalty was supposed to be simple. Obey. Protect. Stand by the Kingdom, the Queen, the Code. It was supposed to be carved into his bones. But the letter— his letter—complicated all of that. Because now loyalty wasn’t a matter of orders, but of hearts.

 

If he fought Black Sapphire… would that be loyalty?

 

If he protected him… would that be betrayal? Could he be loyal to his Kingdom and still love the enemy who was trying to protect it in his own way?

 

He stared at the part where it said, “We give them a show.”

 

It wasn’t just a warning. It was a request. A trust. A gamble. One that asked him not for his sword, but for his belief. And wasn’t that loyalty, too? Trusting someone enough to risk everything—even when everyone else says you're wrong?

 

Silverbell let out a slow breath. He didn’t know anymore if loyalty meant standing your ground or standing beside someone you love.

 

All he knew now was this: If he was going to fall in battle…Let it be while fighting for someone who still believed he was worth saving.

 

Even if the world thought otherwise.

“Thank you for trusting me, Black Sapphire Cookie” Silverbell muttered under his breath

---

Silverbell awoke to quiet..

 

 

Notes:

This is a very rushed chapter, I'm sorry TT it might not be good enough but it's fine i suppose-

I thank the comments for giving me motivation for this fic, I never thought that people would actually like the plot of this fic tbh but I am so thankful and grateful for the readers. ily guys <33

 

Also I was keeping up with the new ep in beast-yeast

Chapter 17: XVI

Notes:

A fluffy chapter :DD

 

(plsplspls trust me)

 

 

The room is quiet. Silverbell thought to himself

 

The kind of quiet only found in deep halls of old stone and healing spells. Sunlight filtered through ivy-draped glass, casting green shadows over his blanket. He blinked slowly, breath catching as the ache in his chest made itself known—not just from wounds, but from memory. A slow rise. A fall. He was alive.

 

Next to his bed, slouched awkwardly in a wooden chair with a thin blanket draped over one shoulder, sat Mercurial Knight Cookie. His head tilted slightly back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest—fast asleep.

 

Silverbell managed a weak breath of laughter. He stayed. He reached out, his arm trembling with the effort, and lightly tapped Mercurial’s shoulder. It wasn’t much. Barely more than a nudge. But it was enough.

 

Mercurial jolted awake, posture snapping into attention in an instant. His eyes widened as they landed on Silverbell, awake and watching him through bleary eyes.

 

“You’re awake,” Mercurial said, voice low but charged with more emotion than he probably meant to show.

 

“Barely,” Silverbell rasped.

 

Mercurial stood immediately, turning toward the door. “I’ll get a healer—stay awake. Don’t close your eyes.”

 

Silverbell didn’t respond with words—just a quiet, exhausted nod.

 

As Mercurial disappeared down the corridor, a strange stillness settled over the room again. One filled not with fear or grief, but with pause. The kind before something begins again.

 

He was alive.

 

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing sharper, faster—until the door swung open and the healer entered with practiced urgency.

 

A tall Cookie in soft blue robes and glowing sigils etched along their sleeves stepped to Silverbell’s bedside, immediately scanning him with both eyes and light-infused magic. Their hands hovered above his chest, palms glowing with pale, mint-green light that flickered and hummed gently against the faint golden glow of the faerie wards surrounding the bed.

“You’re conscious,” the healer breathed, relief softening their tone. “We weren’t sure if you’d wake today.”

Silverbell nodded slowly. His voice still caught in his throat, but he managed a hoarse: “I’m fine.”

“No,” the healer said, gently but firmly, “you’re stable. Not fine.”

They worked quickly, checking his pulse, his core temperature, the slow re-knitting of magical fibers through his body where the damage had once run deep. One hand passed over the bruised side of his ribs, leaving behind a light shimmer of pain-relieving energy.

Mercurial re-entered moments later, lingering at the door. He didn’t interrupt.

The healer glanced at him, then back at Silverbell. “You’re lucky,” they said. “If that last spell had hit any deeper…”

“I know,” Silverbell muttered, his eyes flicking toward the blanket over his legs. “I remember.”

The healer didn’t push. Just offered a quiet hum of acknowledgment, pressing a fresh rune seal over the wound at his side.

“You’ll need rest. Weeks of it. No patrols, no training, no flying. And no lying about being well when you're not. Understood?”

Silverbell gave a breathy half-smile. “Lying’s someone else’s job— I mean… understood.”

The healer blinked, clearly unamused, and stood. “You’re stable, but still fragile. We’ll bring you broth and your tincture shortly.”

They gave Mercurial a glance—part warning, part instruction—and exited the room.

Silverbell turned his head just slightly toward Mercurial, who was still standing stiffly in the doorway.

“…You stayed?”

Mercurial shrugged like it was nothing. But his eyes gave him away. “I wasn’t going to let you wake up alone.”

Silverbell didn’t reply. Just closed his eyes for a moment.

The other healer had just finished adjusting the runes at Silverbell’s bedside when Mercurial stepped forward, arms folded, gaze tight with concern.

“How long is he going to stay here?” he asked, voice low but edged.

Silverbell kept his eyes closed, pretending not to listen. But of course he did.

The healer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they cast another light-sweep of their palm across Silverbell’s side, watching the soft glow pulse, dim, then stabilize.

“At least a week under observation,” they said at last. “He’s healing faster than expected, but that doesn’t mean we rush it. He pushed himself beyond safe limits—physically, magically, emotionally. If he gets up too early, he risks tearing the restored threads.”

Mercurial’s jaw tightened. “And after that?”

 

The healer straightened. “That depends. On him. On what you expect of him. On what he expects of himself.”

 

They turned, lowering their voice even more. “Knight or not, he’s not a weapon. He doesn’t have to pretend he’s unbreakable.”

 

Mercurial said nothing. But Silverbell, still motionless, exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Bitter.

 

The healer glanced back toward him, softer now. “He can recover. But if you throw him back into battle too soon, it won’t be the injuries that break him.”

 

Mercurial nodded once, curt and unreadable. “He’ll rest. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

The healer gave one final nod, then stepped toward the door. “I’ll return with the potion blend soon. Try not to let him sneak out.”

 

“I’m injured,” Silverbell muttered faintly from the bed. “Not unconscious...”

 

The healer didn’t even look back. “Noted. Doesn’t mean you won’t try.”

 

The door closed behind them, leaving Mercurial standing over him in silence. “…I meant what I said,” he muttered.

 

Silverbell opened one eye.

 

“You’re not getting back up. Not until you’re ready.”

 

Silverbell looked at him. Really looked. And said nothing. But he didn’t argue.

 

The door creaked open again with the soft sweep of robes and the faint clink of glass. The healer returned, a small vial in her hand, its contents glowing with a soft teal hue that shimmered like moonlight on water.

 

She approached quietly, her expression focused as she passed the potion to Silverbell with a firm nod. “Drink this. It’ll mend the deeper strain your body’s still hiding,” she said.

 

Silverbell sat up slightly with effort, accepting the vial and tilting it to his lips without hesitation. The taste was sharp, mint-laced with bitter root, but he didn't flinch.

 

The healer watched him carefully—more carefully than usual.

 

“You should be in worse condition,” she said suddenly, not accusing, but observant. “The level of magic you were struck with… it should’ve torn through your defenses. But it didn’t.”

 

Mercurial, still in the corner, turned his head slightly at that.

 

Silverbell lowered the empty vial, wiped his mouth, and set it aside. “I had a potion,” he said quietly.

 

The healer blinked. “A potion?”

 

“Before the battle,” he added. “It was given to me.”

 

Mercurial's gaze sharpened. “By who?”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer immediately. His fingers brushed the edge of his blanket, a ghost of hesitation in his posture.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “What matters is that it worked.”

 

The healer studied him a moment longer. “You’re lucky,” she said, her voice softer this time. “Whatever it was, it spared you far worse.” She moved to collect the empty vial and paused. “…If you still have the bottle it came in,” she added, “I’d like to study it. That kind of dulling effect on dark magic isn’t common.”

 

Silverbell gave a slight nod, eyes flicking away. “I’ll see if I still have it.”

 

But they both knew he wouldn’t turn it over. Not yet. That potion hadn’t just dulled damage—it had meant something. A signal. A promise. A choice made in secret. One he wasn’t ready to explain. Not while that same choice still lived in his chest like a wound and a wish all at once. The door closed behind the healer with a soft click, leaving only the quiet pulse of the magical wards and the hum of silken curtains brushing against the windowpane. The air hung still in the infirmary—too still.

 

Silverbell knew Mercurial wasn’t just standing there for silence. He could feel the weight of it, coiled tight like a drawn bowstring.

 

And then—softly, but not gently: “Who is Black Sapphire Cookie to you?”

 

The question didn’t echo. It landed. Silverbell didn’t move at first. His gaze was fixed forward, somewhere beyond the curve of the quilt draped over his knees. He exhaled once, steady and quiet—like bracing for a second blade after the first had already cut. He should have lied. Should have deflected. But he was tired of lying. Especially to himself.

 

“…He was the one thing I didn’t expect,” Silverbell said finally. “In all my training. In every patrol. In every oath. I thought I understood what enemies looked like. What love looked like.”

 

He looked down at his hands. “I was wrong.”

 

Mercurial didn’t interrupt. Just stood there—watching. Silverbell’s voice dropped lower. “He’s dangerous. A liar. Brilliant. He’s loyal to a master who would see this kingdom fall.” A pause. “But… he gave me a potion to survive his own attack. He chose not to kill me. He left me alive when he didn’t have to.”

 

Mercurial’s brow creased, but he didn’t speak.

 

Silverbell finally looked up, locking eyes with him. “Who is he to me?” A beat. “He’s the one I loved. And maybe still do.The silence stretched.

 

Then, calmly—like it had cost him everything to say it—Silverbell added “And that is exactly why I know he’s not done yet.”

 

Mercurial stepped back slightly, as if absorbing the weight of that truth. He didn’t nod. He didn’t argue just yet.

 

Silverbell leaned back into the pillows, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his limbs even as his mind stayed sharp— restless . His gaze flicked to the window, to the slant of golden light creeping across the stone wall. Then back to Mercurial.

 

“What do you mean by ‘he isn’t done’?” Mercurial asked, arms folded, though his tone was more wary than confrontational now. He had heard too much not to press.

 

Silverbell took a breath, slow and quiet, his eyes still trained on that light. “He won’t come back here,” he said.

 

Mercurial blinked. “What?”

 

“I mean it,” Silverbell said, voice calm—but there was a sadness in it. “He’s not coming back to the Faerie Kingdom. Not to me. Not as Moondrop. Not as anyone.”

 

A pause. “Not physically.”

 

Mercurial frowned, confused. “Then how can you say he’s not done?”

 

Silverbell looked at him. Really looked at him—tired, but clear. “Because he’s still fighting,” he said simply. “Just not here.”

 

He glanced down at the edge of his blanket, fingers curling faintly over the seam. “Whatever’s happening in his situation… whatever his master is planning… he’s still in it. But that fight—whatever it is—he’s going to do it on his terms. I could see it in his eyes when he left.”

 

Another pause. Then he added, quieter: “He looked at me like he was saying goodbye. But not like a coward. Like someone… choosing the battlefield that lets the other person live. ”

 

Mercurial didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

 

Silverbell finally whispered, “So no. He’s not coming back to the kingdom. But he’s not done.” A beat. “…And neither am I.”

 

 

---

 

 

The breeze drifting through the window was soft, laced with the scent of wildflowers and distant spring rain. The Faerie Kingdom had begun to stir in full bloom again—gardens humming, wings fluttering, bells chiming faintly with the wind. Life had resumed, quietly, carefully.

 

But for Silverbell Cookie, life hadn’t quite returned to normal.

 

It had been a week since the infirmary released him. A week of rest, of silence, of avoiding questions from other knights. He couldn’t fly yet—his wings still ached when they moved, more scary than now. He wasn’t allowed to patrol. Not even walk too far from his home.

 

And yet… in this stillness, something new had begun.

 

At his desk, bathed in the morning light, Silverbell sat with a quill in hand and a half-written letter before him. His armor was gone. His cloak folded neatly on the back of a chair. Just him now—sleeves rolled, hair looser than usual, heart pounding.

 

He stared at the page, trying to find the right words. He wanted to see him again.

 

To learn about the art of disguise— properly , this time. Not for a mission. Not for a lie. But maybe just to understand him. (And to escape here to see his face again.)

 

 Maybe to understand what it was like to be someone else for a little while. Someone who could cross kingdoms without consequence.

 

Someone who could be with him. He missed his voice. His sharp tongue. His laugh, hidden behind polished lines and silver chains. He missed his hands, how they always trembled slightly after he cooked. He missed his eyes—even the one he barely saw.

 

He missed him.

 

And maybe—just maybe—this letter would find its way to him. So Silverbell kept writing. Because if he couldn’t fly… Then his words would.

 

And he hoped—no, believed —that somewhere, far away under a sky full of smoke and shadows… Black Sapphire Cookie was waiting to read them.

My Dear Black Sapphire,

It’s been a week since the infirmary, and I’m told I should be grateful. That I lived. That I’m healing. That I’ll fly again.

But I haven’t flown. I haven’t left the house, actually. They won’t let me—not yet. So I’ve been stuck here with silence, soup, and too many thoughts.

And all I can think about is you. I miss you.

Not just the way I probably shouldn’t—I miss your voice. I miss your food. I miss the way your cloak never quite sat straight, and how you always pretended not to notice the crumbs on your cuffs. I miss the parts of you I saw when you weren’t acting as an enemy. When it wasn’t a disguise. I think I saw the real you more than you realize.

And I think I loved you. I still do. Which is why I’m writing this.

I want to learn. About your disguises. About how you do it—how you blend in, how you become someone else. If I can’t come to the Spire, and you can’t come here, then maybe there’s still a way for us to meet. Somewhere in the middle. Even if we’re not ourselves.

I’m not asking you to forgive me.
I’m not asking you to forget what happened.
But if there’s still a part of you—any part—that wants to see me again…

Tell me how. I’ll listen this time. Even if you speak in riddles. Even if you hide behind someone else’s name again.

I’ll find you.  Because I’m not done. And I know you’re not either.

Come find me, Sapphire.
Wherever, however—just… come back.

Yours Truly,
Silverbell

P.S. I added seeds here, I feel like you might recognize them. :))

 

 

---

 

 

Mercurial Knight made a habit of showing up. Not like a patrol around the kingdom's walls—just enough to remind Silverbell that someone was watching. That someone still worried.

 

Some days, it was with a basket of fresh fruit from the market. Other days, a report on Faerie patrol rotations, or updates from the Queen. But mostly, it was just his presence. His quiet knocking. His crossed arms as he stood in Silverbell’s doorway, always suspicious, always scanning.

 

This time, Silverbell was seated by the window, the letter still fresh on the table beside him, sealed and tied with a soft green ribbon. The wax stamp was simple—just a silver bell.

 

Mercurial didn’t say anything at first. Just glanced at the letter, then at Silverbell. “You’re not trying to run again, are you?” he asked, dry but pointed.

 

Silverbell gave a half-smile, not turning from the window. “I can barely walk, Mercurial.”

 

“That’s never stopped you before.”

 

A quiet beat passed. Then Mercurial stepped further into the room, arms folded behind his back, posture relaxed but never off guard.

 

“You’ve been writing to him,” he said flatly. It wasn’t a question.

 

Silverbell nodded once. “It won’t be delivered through official routes. I know better.”

 

Mercurial raised a brow. “Then how?”

 

“…A favor. From someone who knows him very well,” Silverbell said vaguely. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not escaping.”

 

“You sure?” Mercurial asked, eyeing the healing bandages still tucked under his shirt. “Because you look like someone planning something.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer right away. He just looked at the letter again. “Maybe I am,” he admitted. “But not the kind of plan you’re thinking.”

 

Mercurial sighed, stepping closer to the window, gaze flicking down to the gardens below. “If he hurts you again, I won’t stop the other knights next time.”

 

Silverbell nodded once, solemn. “I know.” But then, after a pause— “…He won’t.”

 

And for once, Mercurial didn’t argue. He just stood there, keeping watch like he always did. Just in case something happens.

 

Silverbell moved slowly, careful with each step as he reached for the letter and the small pouch of seeds resting beside it. The ribbon had been double-knotted. The wax seal clean and pressed. His handwriting, for once, wasn’t rushed.

 

He held both out toward Mercurial Knight, fingers lingering for just a second longer before letting go.

 

“Deliver this,” he said, voice firm but quiet. “To Apple Faerie Cookie.”

 

Mercurial blinked. “Apple Faerie?” He took the items, weighing them in his palm like they might explode. “Why her?”

 

Silverbell’s expression didn’t change. There was a shift—a subtle lowering of his gaze, a soft tension at the corner of his mouth. And then a practiced answer: “She knows how to pass things quietly. She’s… good with messengers. And rumor. If anyone can get something through the cracks of all this—she can.”

 

Mercurial squinted. “You sure she can be trusted?”

 

“I’m sure,” Silverbell replied, a bit too quickly. “This letter’s not for her. She’ll understand that.”

 

He turned away slightly, back to the window where faint sunlight spilled across the floor. “Just make sure she knows it’s for Moondrop Faerie Cookie. And no one else.”

 

Mercurial studied him for a long moment. Something about all of it felt off. Not a lie, exactly. But guarded. Still, he gave a slow nod, tucking the letter and seeds into his coat. “Alright. I’ll make sure it reaches her.”

 

Silverbell didn’t turn around. But his voice—barely audible—followed Mercurial to the door: “Thank you.”

 

Mercurial didn’t reply aloud. He just glanced over his shoulder one last time, then left the house in silence, the package tucked safely inside.

 

He didn’t know why Apple Faerie Cookie. He didn’t know what the seeds meant.  And he definitely didn’t know the weight that letter carried.

 

But something in Silverbell’s eyes said it mattered. So he would deliver it. No matter what.

 

Mercurial Knight had searched nearly every corner of the market square. He questioned the florists, the post carriers, the vendors near the crystal bridge—anyone who might’ve seen the elusive Apple Faerie Cookie.

 

It wasn’t until he doubled back toward the east garden stalls, where the air smelled thick with honey and berry glaze, that he spotted her.

 

She was seated gracefully beside a sweets vendor, legs crossed, a basket brimming with candied tarts and fruit-shaped lollipops resting in her lap. Her ribbons were tied with perfect symmetry, and her expression radiated a charm so polished it almost sparkled.

 

Apple Faerie Cookie looked up just as he approached, blinking with feigned surprise. “Oh! A Silver Knight,” she said sweetly, her voice lilting like a tune. “To what do I owe the honor? You’re not here to accuse me of sugar tax fraud, are you?”

 

Mercurial didn’t react. “I have something for you.”

 

She tilted her head slightly. “A gift? How thoughtful. I didn’t know we were exchanging secrets yet.”

 

“It’s not for you,” he said, deadpan. “It’s to be delivered. For Moondrop Faerie Cookie.”

 

At the name, a flicker passed behind her eyes—too fast for a civilian to catch. But Mercurial was trained to notice shifts in tone, cracks in posture. She recovered instantly, though, flashing a playful smile.

 

“Well, well. So dramatic,” she said, lifting a piece of candy to her lips. “Sounds like a love letter. Or a curse. I never can tell the difference these days.”

 

He offered the sealed package silently.

 

She took it carefully, examining the wax seal and the silver-stemmed pouch of seeds tied to it. Her smile softened—still bright, but with an edge of something sharper beneath.

 

“From Silverbell,” he added, finally. “Said you’d know what to do.”

 

She held the letter close, fingers tapping lightly against the envelope. “Oh, trust me, I do, ” she whispered, almost too quietly. Then, under her breath, just for herself: “Poor Silverbell. He really does miss our little Sapphy.”

 

Mercurial’s brow furrowed. “What was that?”

 

“Nothing,” she said, voice instantly sweet again. “I’ll make sure it gets to the right cookie. Scouts’ honor.”

 

She gave a mock salute with her candy stick and leaned back against the stall, as if the weight of the message hadn’t changed the air around them.

 

Mercurial didn’t trust her—couldn’t. But for now, it was done.

 

And as he turned to leave, Apple Faerie Cookie watched him go, twirling the ribbon of the letter between her fingers.

 

“Oh Sapphy,” she murmured to herself, slipping the message into her sleeve. “Looks like your knight is still chasing fairy tales.”

 

Night draped the Faerie Kingdom in a veil of gentle silver, moonlight threading between silken leaves and casting long, dreamlike shadows over the quiet walkways. Apple Faerie Cookie moved unseen, her soft steps barely brushing the cobblestones as she slipped past the gates—no questions that could bother her, no curious eyes watching her.

 

She hummed a quiet, idle tune as she walked, cradling her half-empty basket of sweets like it was nothing more than a late-night snack run.

 

But once she was far enough—deep into the forest, where only the hush of the trees and the flutter of distant moths remained—her smile faded. She glanced over her shoulder, then again, to be sure.

 

Then she stopped, beneath an arched tree shaped like a cradle of thorns, and let her fingers trail over the seal on the letter one last time.

 

“…Still so dramatic, Silverbell,” she murmured with a fond, almost exasperated sigh. “He better cry when he reads this.”

 

With a twirl of her wrist, she summoned the magic hidden beneath her disguise.

 

Red and gold shimmered away into rich ruby -dyed hues, and Candy Apple Cookie—her real self—tapped her heel against the mossy ground twice.

 

The ground rippled. And from it, a spiral of glowing symbols bloomed outward in a perfect ring—green and violet intertwined like coiled snakes, elegant and strange. Her eye-shaped brooch pulsed faintly.

 

The portal opened with a low hum, its edges crackling like whispered secrets.

 

She stepped through without hesitation, the letter still safe in her hand. The portal hissed softly as it closed behind her, sealing the magic away with a gentle flicker of green and violet light.

 

Candy Apple Cookie emerged into the middle of the darkened forest—quiet and far from any known Spire entrances. The air here was heavier, threaded with unseen wards, protective layers meant to shield what lay beyond from uninvited eyes.

 

The Spire didn’t fall by accident. It crumbled because its master, Shadow Milk Cookie, was defeated—brought down by none other than Pure Vanilla Cookie. After forcing his way into the Other-realm and mastering its power, Pure Vanilla shattered the control Shadow Milk once held. With their leader gone, the Spire began to collapse, it's dark foundations unraveling. The heroes had no choice but to flee.

 

And there it was: the house. A house that was created by the remaining magic that their master has at the time. But it was enough for them. A place between chaos and calm, with just enough rooms to keep from stepping on each other’s nerves. Their safehouse.

 

She moved quickly—too quickly to be casual. Her shoes kicked up soft leaves as she approached, cradling the hidden letter beneath her cloak.

 

She wasn’t smiling now.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie hadn’t returned from his nightly silence walks yet, which meant she had time.

 

The door creaked as she pushed it open, the shadows inside bending slightly at her arrival. “ Sapphy! Black Sapphire Cookie! BLACK SAPPHIRE COOKIE! ” she hissed in a sharp whisper, “Where are you—”

 

The door to his room cracked open from the hallway, and Black Sapphire Cookie stepped out, half-dressed, coat tossed over one shoulder, bandages visible on his arm. still drying his damp hair from the rain outside. His expression shifted the moment he saw her—sharp, alert, suspicious.

 

“You ran off for six hours and now you’re back whispering my name like you’ve committed a crime.”

 

“I did ,” she replied, voice low, eyes wide. “And you’re going to thank me for it. ”

 

She moved past him into his room, shutting the door behind them both in one clean motion. Then, from beneath her cloak, she pulled the carefully wrapped letter and pouch of silverbell seeds.

 

“For you,” she whispered. “From your beloved knight.”

 

Black Sapphire froze.

He did it.

He did it.

Silverbell was awake. The potion worked.

 

She watched him, eyes glinting. “He still thinks of you. Wrote that by hand. Sealed it himself. Told me to “ give it to Moondrop .” She smirked, just a little. “Funny how no one else knows who that really is.”

 

He stepped forward slowly, took the bundle from her hands like it might crumble. His fingers hovered over the wax seal. “…You read it?” he asked.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Please. I’m dramatic, not disrespectful. It’s yours.”

 

Black Sapphire stood still for a moment, the letter tight in his hand, the seeds warm against his palm like they were waiting to bloom. He didn’t say thank you. But she saw it in his face.

 

Candy Apple backed toward the door, giving him space. “Shadow Milk will be back soon. I told the guards that Shadow Milk made for us that you were sleeping.”

 

He didn’t respond.

 

She paused, then smirked faintly and added, “Don’t do anything stupid with your feelings. Again.”

 

And with that, she slipped out—vanishing down the hallway like a shadow with sugar on her breath.

 

The letter remained.

 

And Black Sapphire just stared at it, heart caught between the past, the war, and the one cookie who still called him by the name he didn’t deserve… but wanted to hear again.

 

The letter trembled in his grip— not because of nerves.

 

His arms ached. The bruises that hadn’t shown on stage now pulsed under his sleeves like buried fire. There was dried jam under the edge of his collar, his ribs still wrapped beneath the sharp layers of his coat. He hadn't removed the bandages properly in days.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie sat slowly on the edge of his bed, not out of grace—but necessity. His knees were buckling.

 

He wasn’t like Shadow Milk.

 

He couldn’t just “rest” and let the magic fix it. He wasn’t built that way. His recovery took time. Effort. Silence. He was good at silence, but he hated needing it.

 

His hands hovered over the seal again. His joints creaked.

 

He leaned back slightly, exhausted, the letter resting flat against his thigh now. He hadn’t even opened it, and yet his heart was already racing like it knew what was written inside.

 

His body felt like a used stage—curtains torn, lights dimmed, props shattered from the last performance. Every breath tugged at the ribs that still hadn’t mended from the Mirror Lake ambush. Every flicker of movement reminded him just how much he gave to keep the truth hidden from the one cookie who deserved it most. He couldn’t fight forever and still walk away clean, like his master.

 

But… he could still open this letter.

 

The candlelight in his room flickered, its soft glow casting long shadows over the desk where Black Sapphire now sat—letter opened, silverbell seeds set gently beside it like precious gems.

 

His hands trembled slightly as he read, not from weakness, but something heavier. Something that uncoiled slowly in his chest, pressed against his ribs, and made his breathing shallow.

 

He wrote this for me. He still wants to see me.

 

Each line drew him deeper, pulled him under like a tide—each word written not for “Moondrop, not for “the enemy,” but for him . For the foolish, fraying cookie pretending to be someone brighter. Someone gentler.

 

And somehow… Silverbell still believed in that version.

 

A laugh—not quite a laugh—escaped him. Sharp, soft, like a cracked whisper. His eyes burned again, but no tears fell this time.

 

He folded the letter carefully, smoothing the crease with reverent fingers. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself, voice choked with too many things he refused to name. “You really… miss me that much?”

 

He looked over at the seeds.

 

His wings twitched, stiff from the injuries left behind by Mirror Lake’s enchanted wards. They were still bandaged in parts, not strong enough to carry him far—not like before.

 

But the feeling… the flutter behind his ribs, the familiar pull— that was still there.

 

His wings flared lightly behind him, almost on instinct, responding to a joy he didn’t dare name. They hurt. The joints strained. But for a moment, they moved without hesitation.

 

Because Silverbell was safe. And Shadow Milk was convinced (as of now).

 

And he—Black Sapphire Cookie—was alive. Broken, maybe. Guilty, definitely. But alive.

 

He gripped the letter again, pressing it close to his chest, eyes shut tight. He didn’t deserve it. Not him. Not this kind of softness. Not that kind of faith. But he wanted it anyway.

 

“I missed you too,” he whispered into the dark. Then, his wings fell still. Not broken. His breath caught. For the first time in weeks— real weeks—Black Sapphire Cookie smiled.

 

Not a smirk. Not a rehearsed grin. Not the glinting performance of a host. A real smile.

 

His wings, sleek and midnight-purple, fluttered once—then again. A small rush of wind stirred the parchment in his hands. It was instinct, uncontained. Excitement he couldn’t mask, even if he tried.

 

Black Sapphire’s wings fluttered again as he moved—this time not from excitement, but sheer urgency.

 

He rushed across his room, the letter still clutched in one hand, eyes scanning the titles lining his tall bookshelf. Scrolls rustled. Loose notes scattered. Then—

 

“Basics of Magic: A Gentle Introduction” by Blueberry Milk Cookie. Found.

 

He pulled it free, brushing the dust from its cover. The binding was a little frayed—he’d studied this one often in his early training, long before Shadow Milk had sharpened his craft into a weapon. Back when magic still felt like possibility, not performance.

 

He sat down at his desk, flipped the book open, and began to copy the most essential chapters into a clean new notebook: Disguise Theory, Warding Veils, Mirror Clones, Aura Shifting. Notes flowed fast, his pen never stopping.

 

But before he sealed it, he added a letter—written with care, deliberate in its warmth.

My Dearest, Silverbell

So… you really want to learn?

I believe you can. You’re a quick study—stubborn, too, which helps. This book should give you the groundwork. I’ve marked the chapters I think will suit you best. Start with light mirage spells, then shift into aura cloaking. Skip page 94. It’s outdated and you’d end up growing leaves. 

If you mess it up, I expect you to write a report. Or bake me something awful. I’m still owed a tart that tastes like regret.

I missed you.  More than I meant to.  More than I should.

I missed the way your bow never misses, but you still act surprised when I say you’re good. I missed your laugh when you didn't want me to hear it. I missed the way you listened—even when I wasn’t saying anything.

So… I hope you do it. I hope you master it. Because then maybe I’ll get to see you again.
Even if it’s not yourself. But, I will recognize you, no matter who you are. I’ll find you.

I’ll know.  I’ll always know. 

Good luck, knight. I love you too.

—Black Sapphire

P.S. I added my old beginner cloak. It’s not stylish like my current one. But it works. (Somehow)

He folded the letter neatly, tucked it into the spellbook, and tied it shut with silver thread. With a careful flick of magic, he sealed it in a clean satchel and marked it with a small symbol: a half-hidden star. Something only Silverbell would notice.

 

Black Sapphire held the satchel in his hands a moment longer—fingers brushing over the threads, eyes lingering on the letter’s seal. There was something fragile in the silence, like the moment before a curtain rises and the world changes.

 

He walked to the center of his room, where the light from the Spire’s stained glass window spilled in like a spotlight. His eye-shaped microphone hovered nearby, twitching slightly—eager, as always, to obey.

 

“Let’s make this count,” he whispered, then tapped his foot twice and opened a small, precise portal. A flash of lavender light bloomed in the air—quiet, clean, and meant only for one destination.

 

The spell shimmered as he floated the satchel into the portal. The only feeling he has at the moment is hope. Hope that this could all work out—how they could be together again. No longer apart from each other.

 

The moment it disappeared, he whispered under his breath—“Please… let it reach him safely.” Then the portal snapped shut.

 

And in the stillness that followed, Black Sapphire stood alone again. Waiting. Wondering. And—for once—hoping.

The Spire was far behind them now. Abandoned—for now.

 

After the battle that shook the Faerie Kingdom and the transformation of Pure Vanilla Cookie into something no longer fully himself, Shadow Milk had chosen relocation. The forest they moved into was dense, ancient, and veiled with magic thick enough to distort time and sound. Safe, secret, and silent.

 

At its heart stood a crooked house, built from dark wood and shadow-glass, pulsing faintly with warding spells. It was their base of operations now. A hideaway.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t mind it.

 

It was quieter than the Spire. Easier to breathe. Easier to think—when he allowed himself to. Which wasn’t often.

 

That morning, when Shadow Milk was still meditating beneath the glowing branches and Candy Apple was somewhere gathering “inspiration,” Black Sapphire slipped away.

 

He walked—alone, for once—through the underbrush until he reached the cave a little ways from the house. Its entrance was small, framed by moss and old ivy. The cave itself dipped inward gently, the stone cool and damp, whispering with forgotten wind.

 

It was perfect.

 

He knelt there, pulling out the small pouch Silverbell had sent. His gloved fingers trembled slightly as he untied it. The seeds.

 

He stared at them for a moment longer than he meant to.

 

They were just seeds—small, silvery, veined with soft yellow—but he could feel the warmth on them. Like a memory wrapped in soil.

 

Silverbell had sent these. Silverbell had trusted him with them.

 

He dug shallow into the cave floor, the soft soil turning easily under his hands. He placed the seeds carefully. Covered them. Pressed the ground flat.

 

Then, with magic gentle enough not to disturb the natural air, he released a faint pulse of protective enchantment over them. No one would touch them. Not here.

 

Standing, he took a breath—and for the first time in days, the ache in his chest felt just slightly less crushing. “Grow,” he murmured, eyes still on the soil. “Please grow.”

 

He turned away and left the cave, the wind brushing past his shoulders like a soft whisper. It was a quiet hope. But it was still hope.

---

Crispia. Again.

 

The name alone brought the taste of cold winds and colder politics back to Black Sapphire’s tongue.

 

He stood at the edge of the forest clearing, adjusting the collar of his cloak as he stared into the rippling portal Shadow Milk had conjured. The orders had come that morning—quiet, direct, stamped with that same signature flourish of swirling ink and ominous expectation:

 

“Go. Observe. Do not speak unless spoken to. No distractions. Just watch. ”
—Shadow Milk Cookie.

 

He didn’t argue. He never really did. But that didn’t mean he didn’t think.  This wasn’t about Crispia’s noble houses or its ever-frozen feasts. No. This was personal.

 

Shadow Milk had been quiet lately—but focused. More focused than usual. That was always the sign. The calm before the chaos. Since Pure Vanilla’s awakening—since Truthless Recluse had taken the stage—something had shifted. His master was watching him. Watching everything.

 

And Black Sapphire knew that look in his master’s eye. The glint of revenge. Of reclamation.

 

He’s planning something, he thought, stepping into the portal. Something big. And Pure Vanilla is at the center of it.

 

The cold air of Crispia greeted him like a slap—clean, thin, and sharp. The sky here was always bright, as if to make up for the biting chill that never left the stones.

 

He walked through the gates without a word, a polished new disguise shimmering over him like snowfall. Polite. Harmless. Dull.

 

A perfect spy. But underneath, his mind stirred.

 

Shadow Milk’s silence was not peace—it was pressure. And whatever revenge he was weaving, Black Sapphire would be the thread drawn tight through it.

 

Still, as he moved through the crisp, glittering streets of the icebound kingdom, a familiar ache tugged at his thoughts.

 

I planted the seeds. I wonder if they’ve sprouted yet.

 

Just for a moment, he let that thought linger—then forced it back down, buried it beneath layers of frost and mission.

 

There was no time for warmth here. (He was wishing for that warmth. Yearning for that warmth) Only duty. And the storm that was coming.

 

Crispia’s market was quieter in the late hours—noble types locked away in their frosted halls, guards half-asleep under silver-burnished helms. It made moving through the stalls easier, and for once, Black Sapphire didn’t have to act.

 

He kept his hood up and his posture relaxed. Blended in like frost on glass.

 

The mission was observation. Surveillance. Just watch. But even his sharp mind needed something to hold onto—to keep from fraying at the edges.

 

At a tucked-away corner stall, he traded spare coins for a bag of dried fruit-glaze petals and frozen caramel sticks. The vendor barely looked up. That was fine. Better to be unremarkable.

 

Then, deeper into the rows, he found a book merchant—her wares lined up like gemstones, each volume polished and glinting with magic-sealed covers. He sifted through titles absently until one caught his eye:

 

“Fractured Light and the Shape of Spells”
An Arcane Study by Crystal Rose Cookie.

 

He flipped it open. Illusion theory. Mirror constructs. Layered disguise enchantments. Perfect.

 

He added two more tomes: one on long-range perception wards, and another—more obscure—about cloaking spells that allowed emotional muting. That one made him pause for a second longer than he meant to.

 

"How convenient," he murmured, and paid for them without another word.

 

By the time he left the market, his satchel was heavier, his steps quieter, and his mind—just a little more at ease.

 

This mission might’ve been about intel.  But he knew the truth. Every book. Every spell. Every moment of preparation… It was also about him.

 

Days blurred into weeks.

Wake. Observe. Report. Disappear. Repeat.

The streets of Crispia all looked the same now. Pale stone. Pale light. Pale faces. He slipped through them like fog—never seen, never remembered. Just another ghost in fine clothes and false smiles.

 

The books helped. For a time. Quiet nights spent tracing spellwork by lamplight, sticky-sweet fruit snacks half-finished beside his notes. But even the magic started to dull, like everything else. The spells were clean, perfect. But they didn’t mean anything. Not anymore.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie sat on the balcony of his temporary residence—a tall, cold tower gifted to outsiders the court deemed "useful but distant." His cloak fluttered faintly in the breeze, the same one he’d worn on too many false missions to count. He didn’t even bother to change disguises some days. What was the point? No one here was paying attention.

 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, microphone beside him like a silent sentinel. Routine. It used to feel like control. Now it felt like a cage.

He’d done everything right. The reports were complete. The mission was clean.

 

Shadow Milk was pleased—or at least, not disappointed.

 

So why did it all feel like frostbite on the inside? He stared at the snow piling up on the railing, breath fogging faintly.

 

Ah right... He missed him. And maybe a little to much.

 

The way Silverbell would blink twice before answering something he didn’t want to admit. The way his arrows never missed, but his words sometimes did. That stupid laugh he tried to stifle when Black Sapphire got flustered.

 

He missed the mess of it. The humanity of it. And here he was. Alone again. As ordered. As expected.

 

“I hate this.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. His own voice, quiet. Raw. The wind didn’t answer it only gave him same silence. Cold, familiar, and endlessly empty.

 

---

 

He wanted to get closer to him. Silverbell. He wants to see him again.

 

 His plan was to escape the house. However, 

 

He knows that he will get caught immediately because this time Shadow Milk is watching over the house and every step he makes. But if he is distracted or busy he won’t notice anything. In fact he could lie to his face.

 

So he did just that.

 

He told Shadow Milk and Candy Apple that he will be “taking a walk” around the Lands of Deceit. Candy Apple looked like she knew what he was planning while Shadow Milk just agreed, he was busy plotting over something. 

 

So he stepped outside and put on a new disguise. 

 

The Faerie Kingdom was no place for carelessness—especially not for a wanted Cookie. But Black Sapphire had grown skilled in the art of subtle defiance.

 

He moved with a different gait now. Shoulders relaxed. Head tilted with innocent curiosity. His disguise was flawless—soft brown curls beneath a petal-dotted hood, freckles dusted over warm dough, robes stitched with traveler’s thread and not a trace of darkness. He looked like a gentle little thing from a flower field, not a fugitive layered in stolen spells.

 

The new name was Black Currant. Harmless. Curious. Kind. Exactly what the knights wouldn’t look twice at.

 

He wandered the outer meadows beyond the southern edge of the Faerie Kingdom, a woven basket swinging lightly from his arm. And inside it—blooms of every kind. Wild faerie violets, threadmoss, trailing lilies… And silverbells.

 

He found them easily. They always grew strong, even when the soil was uncertain.

 

He crouched down slowly, fingers ghosting over the petals. These were the same kind that grew near the old training grounds. The ones he used to draw, to press in his notebooks when he couldn’t say how he felt out loud.

 

He picked one, slowly. Gently. And another. And another. They filled the basket, their delicate chimes sounding faintly with every step.

 

No one approached him. Not yet. He was just another traveler. Another quiet passerby picking flowers for some imagined loved one. But the truth hummed behind his ribs like a warning bell.

 

The knights were still hunting. And if he saw Silverbell again now… like this…

 

He wasn’t sure if it would break the spell. Or if he’d break altogether.

 

The stranger stood still, just out of reach—hood pulled low, cloak thick and dusted in traveling frost. But even beneath the soft white embroidery along the edges, Black Sapphire— Black Currant, for now—could feel something wrong.

 

Not wrong. Known.

 

The tone of voice. The way his posture wasn't quite relaxed, even in disguise. The gloved hand half-curled like it was meant to reach for a bow that wasn’t there.

 

“Excuse me, sir?” the stranger asked again, gentler this time. Polite. Controlled. But familiar.

 

Too familiar.

 

Black Sapphire straightened slowly, his fingers closing around the handle of his flower basket. His eyes—still dulled and friendly in this illusion—scanned the stranger from head to boot. Then settled on the slight shift in the way he held his weight. Like a knight. Like him.

 

“…Do I know you?” he asked, voice cautious, laced with practiced innocence.

 

The stranger hesitated, then reached up and pushed his hood back.

 

Soft white hair. Blue eyes sharp beneath thick lashes. A faint scar at the edge of his lip—one no other Cookie would know, but he did.

 

“Snowbell Cookie,” the knight said calmly, offering a hand. “I was told this meadow has the best bloom of silverbells during this season.”

 

Of course. Snowbell. Clever. A name made of winter and flowers. A name he could hide behind.

 

Black Sapphire’s breath caught—but he didn’t let it show. He forced a smile, polite and sweet.

 

“Then I guess we’re both here for the same reason,” he replied, holding out his own hand. “I’m Black Currant Cookie.”

 

Their hands touched. Just briefly.

And in that second, he felt everything: the ache, the anger, the longing, the recognition.

Of course, Silverbell couldn’t help but make an entrance—even in disguise.

He looked like someone else. Snowbell Cookie, he called himself. But Black Sapphire could see through it like a thin veil. It was in the stance. The cadence. The way he watched too closely, too carefully.

Black Sapphire tilted his head, basket of flowers still in hand.

“I know it’s you, Silverbell.”

The other Cookie— Snowbell , clicked his tongue in feigned irritation. “Oh shut up, Sapphire. Let me have my moment.”

Black Sapphire exhaled softly, the corners of his lips twitching. “Such a coincidence, seeing you here of all places.”

 

“You too,” Silverbell replied, his eyes scanning the open meadow around them, then lingering on the familiar basket of flowers. “I didn’t know where to start looking, honestly. So I just… picked a direction and ran.”

 

Black Sapphire froze. Then, as if the weight of relief crashed down all at once, he let the basket slip from his hands. Flowers spilled into the grass unnoticed as he stepped forward and pulled Silverbell into a tight hug.

 

“Honestly, I thought I lost you,” he said, voice quiet and rough.

 

Silverbell didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around him and held on, just as tightly. “You didn’t.”

 

They stood like that for a long moment before Black Sapphire finally pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes.

 

“Mind telling me how you managed that,” he said, turning to walk, “while I take you somewhere?”

 

Silverbell’s boots crunched lightly against the damp grass as he followed. “Sure. I cloned myself. Dropped the copy into my bed, opened a window, and walked right out wearing this.” He tugged lightly at the edge of his Snowbell cloak. “Figured I had until someone brought me soup.”

 

Black Sapphire snorted. “And here I thought I was reckless.”

 

“You rubbed off on me,” Silverbell said, half-smiling.

 

They didn’t get far.

 

Clouds thickened overhead. Thunder rolled in the distance. Then the first drop hit. Then another. And another.

 

The rain came quick, slicking the leaves and soaking their cloaks within seconds. They darted toward a nearby tree, crouching beneath the canopy as the downpour spilled around them like a curtain of silver.

 

Black Sapphire exhaled and sank down onto the roots, brushing water from his sleeves. His breath steamed slightly in the cooler air, and for a moment, he just stared out into the open field.

 

Then—footsteps. He blinked as Silverbell stepped back out into the open. “Hey!” he called. “You’re going to get sick!”

 

Silverbell turned, arms spread wide, rain dripping from his hair and cloak, a grin blooming on his lips. “Then come get sick with me.”

 

Black Sapphire’s brow furrowed. “Absolutely not. We are recovering from near-fatal injur—”

 

But Silverbell stepped closer. Rain danced between them.

 

“Dance with me,” he said softly. “We didn’t… we didn’t get to that night. Not really.”

 

Black Sapphire stared at him. The droplets in Silverbell’s lashes. The unspoken ache in his eyes. The longing.

 

His heart twisted. He stood slowly, reluctantly, still glaring.

 

“You’re insane.”

 

“Maybe. But I still remember how you looked in the moonlight. And I’m not going to miss the chance again.”

 

Silverbell extended his hand. Black Sapphire stared at it. Then he took it.

 

Their steps were awkward at first—mud squelching beneath boots, clothes soaked through, laughter bubbling up unexpectedly from them both. Black Sapphire hissed as Silverbell spun him too quickly, clutching his side.

 

“Careful—wings are still bruised, you know.”

 

Silverbell immediately steadied him, tone gentler. “Right. Sorry. I forgot…”

 

His hands hovered, unsure for a moment—until Black Sapphire tugged him closer again. “I didn’t say stop.”

 

So they danced.

 

In the rain, in disguise, in defiance of everything that told them they shouldn’t.

 

The storm wrapped around them like a veil, hiding them from the rest of the world. Just two Cookies with stolen names, battered bodies, and a love they hadn’t figured out how to carry yet.

 

The rain fell harder now, a steady rhythm pattering across leaves, cloaks, and tangled hair—beating like a second heartbeat around them as the sky dimmed to storm-silver. The ground beneath their boots turned soft and slick, but neither of them cared.

 

Silverbell's hand curled gently around Black Sapphire's, steady but not forceful. His other hand found its way to Sapphire’s waist, mindful of the bruises hidden beneath the layers of glamour and fine cloth. They swayed in place at first, two steps forward, one back, like figuring out the tempo of something new. Something tender.

 

Black Sapphire let out a breath—slow, unsure—his free hand resting lightly on Silverbell’s shoulder. The contact was warm, grounding. Dangerous.

 

They didn’t speak, not at first. Just listened to the rain and the crackle of distant thunder.

 

Then Silverbell leaned in slightly, voice low and barely audible over the downpour. “You know, this is probably the dumbest thing we’ve done together.”

 

Black Sapphire scoffed softly. “That is a very long list.”

 

Their boots slid in a clumsy half-circle, Silverbell guiding the motion. He was smiling again—open, joyful in a way that made Black Sapphire’s chest ache.

 

“I was never good at dancing,” Silverbell admitted, tilting his head. “I only know sword forms and footwork drills.”

 

Black Sapphire’s lips twitched upward despite himself. “You’re doing fine. You haven’t stabbed me yet.”

 

Silverbell laughed under his breath, that low, breathy sound that always made the world feel a little less cruel.

 

They spun once—slow, soaked, slightly off balance. The hem of Black Sapphire’s cloak swept out like a curtain before clinging to his legs. His wings—still damaged, still sore—twitched beneath the wet fabric, aching but free.

 

The rain clung to Silverbell’s lashes, glittering like frost. His face was flushed, eyes brighter than ever. And when Black Sapphire looked up at him, caught off guard by the intensity of it all, he forgot how to pretend. He looked like himself. A Cookie in love, trying not to fall apart.

 

“You’re doing that thing again,” Silverbell murmured, close enough that their foreheads nearly touched.

 

“What thing?”

 

“Looking at me like I’m going to disappear.”

 

Black Sapphire tried to roll his eyes, but the motion was halfhearted. “You did. Remember?”

 

“I came back,” Silverbell said, fingers tightening just slightly around his. “You came back. So maybe stop looking like the rain is going to wash me away.”

 

Black Sapphire’s throat tightened. He blinked away the sting behind his eyes.

 

“You’re dramatic,” he whispered.

 

Silverbell smiled. “So are you.”

 

Their steps slowed, though the rain hadn’t. Water dripped from their hoods, their lashes, their cloaks—neither of them caring that they looked like absolute disasters. The storm had carved out something warm between them, and for a few short moments, it felt like the world had quieted just for them.

 

Silverbell leaned back, breathless, his gloved hands still holding Black Sapphire’s. “You're soaked.”

 

“You dragged me out into the rain,” Sapphire replied flatly, but the edge of his mouth betrayed him—a smile threatening.

 

Silverbell tilted his head with mock innocence. “You looked like you needed a little romance.”

 

“I looked like I needed a nap.”

 

“You always look like that.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked at him. “You’re getting bold.”

 

“I nearly died. Let me have this.”

 

“You’re still bold,” Sapphire muttered, though he didn’t let go. In fact, he took one small step closer, shoulder brushing Silverbell’s. “And we’re going to get sick.”

 

“Oh no,” Silverbell said dramatically, “whatever shall I do if I’m bedridden with the dashing voice of the Spire whispering healing spells at my bedside?”

 

Black Sapphire’s face twitched. “That was a terrible line.”

 

Silverbell grinned. “So you’re saying it’s working.”

 

He rolled his eyes so hard it nearly counted as a spell. “You’re insufferable.”

 

“Mm. But you like me.”

 

That earned him a small huff of a laugh.

 

Then, quieter, Black Sapphire shifted, looking past the clearing where rain softened the distant woods into watercolor. “…We should go,” he said, more gently. “There’s something I want to show you.”

 

Silverbell blinked at him, tilting his head. “Is it far?”

 

“No. Not really. I planted something. You’ll want to see it.”

 

He didn’t explain further—he didn’t need to. He gently pulled Silverbell by the hand, and the knight followed without question, still in his disguise.

 

Together, they stepped out from beneath the sheltering branches, into the rain again, heading toward a cave just beyond the trees.

As they stepped beneath the stony arch of the cave, the rain a soft whisper behind them, the last threads of Black Sapphire’s magic flickered.

 

It started with his voice—lower, sharper around the edges. Then the shimmer along his cloak peeled away like fading ink. His frame shifted subtly, movements growing more deliberate. His wings, still bruised and aching, unfurled slightly from beneath the soaked fabric and trembled once.

 

By the time they reached the heart of the cave—where the earth was dry, the air warm, and a faint bioluminescence glowed from between rock and vine—the disguise had vanished entirely.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie stood in full view. Not Moondrop. Not Black Currant. Not a scholar, not a wanderer. But himself—Black Sapphire Cookie.

 

His usual tailored coat, now soaked and scuffed, clung to his frame. Jamstains marred one sleeve from old injuries not fully healed. The cravat at his neck was half-loose, and his single visible eye—sharp, violet—reflected the cave light like glass under pressure.

 

Silverbell froze. He just stared—at the Cookie who’d stolen his heart, broken it, and somehow still made it beat this fast. At the real version of the one he’d danced with in the rain just moments ago.

 

Black Sapphire’s shoulders dropped with a slow exhale. “...It seems I’m still not strong enough to keep it up.”

 

Silverbell blinked, then stepped closer—not afraid that he might attack him, but he was just looking over—over him. “You never needed to keep it up...”

 

Black Sapphire turned away, walking deeper into the cave without another word. Past the scattered stone. Past the crystals lining the walls. Until he reached the patch of earth—tended, protected.

 

There, sprouting gently from the ground, the silverbell flowers bloomed. Soft. Delicate. Unmistakable.

 

Silverbell stared as he approached, then looked at him again. “You planted them.”

 

Black Sapphire gave the smallest nod. “I didn’t want them to grow somewhere you’d forget.”

 

Silverbell was quiet for a long time. Then—softly—“You look like hell.”

 

Black Sapphire huffed a laugh. “You should see the other guy.”

 

“I did. In the mirror. He was crying.” Another silence. A gentler one.

 

Silverbell walked to stand beside him. Their shoulders didn’t touch. But they didn’t have to. Not right now.

 

The flowers swayed in the soft cave breeze—like they remembered the hands that had once sown them in secret. The cave was warm with stillness, the sound of the rain outside softened into a distant hush.

 

Silverbell stood beside him, watching the flowers sway faintly under the gentle breath of cave wind—then, without a word, reached up and unclasped the brooch at his neck. His cloak slipped from his shoulders, the illusion fading with it like mist in morning light.

 

The soft glow of the cave illuminated the return of Silverbell Cookie—no longer Snowbell, no longer a mask. His white-blue curls were damp, his armor slightly dulled, and his posture… not what it used to be. Not fully.

 

He exhaled deeply, stretching his sore arms, and glanced at Black Sapphire.

 

“You’re getting better,” he said quietly. “Looks like the potion I gave you was effective.” Black Sapphire raised a brow.

 

“I had to survive it to know that.” Silverbell hummed. Then his eyes trailed downward—toward the faint, discolored bruises around Sapphire’s wrists and the stiffness in how he moved.

 

“But your body…” he murmured, voice gentler now. “It’s getting worse.”

 

Black Sapphire flinched—not from the words, but from the truth inside them. “It’s temporary.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered—concerned, maybe angry, but more than anything, aching. “You keep saying that.”

 

“Because it is.”

 

“Then why does it still hurt to look at you?”

 

That made Black Sapphire freeze. He didn’t reply. Couldn’t manage to say anything.

Silverbell looked away, swallowing the frustration in his throat, and sank to the cave floor near the silverbells. His fingers brushed the petals, careful and deliberate. His hand trembled faintly.

 

Black Sapphire finally spoke—quieter now. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

 

“You failed,” Silverbell said plainly, but without venom. “I worry about you constantly.” There was no lie in that.

 

Silverbell tilted his head slightly to look at him again, the cave light casting a pale sheen on the side of his face.

 

“Sit with me,” he said.

 

Black Sapphire hesitated—then folded down beside him, slowly, wincing slightly as his bruised joints bent into place.

 

Black Sapphire sat stiffly beside him, trying not to show how much his body ached. Every movement reminded him of what he’d endured—what he’d chosen to endure. His wings twitched again, too sore to hide it.

 

Silverbell reached into the folds of his clothes and pulled out a small glass vial. Pale green. It shimmered faintly, like dew caught in moonlight.

 

“I… learned this from Elder Faerie Cookie,” he said quietly, rolling the vial between his fingers. “Back when he was still teaching us. I wasn’t good at healing. I never had the patience. But I remembered the pattern. The way it flows.”

 

Black Sapphire eyed it cautiously. “What is it?”

 

“A blend,” Silverbell answered. “Magic. Memory. And a bit of my own energy.” He looked up, steady. “It won’t fix everything, but it might dull the pain.”

 

Black Sapphire opened his mouth—likely to argue, to say he didn’t need help—but Silverbell didn’t let him.

 

Silverbell set the vial aside and placed his hands carefully on Sapphire’s shoulders. His touch was gentle. Familiar. It was the same warmth that Black Sapphire missed.

He whispered a word—an old one—and the spell took. A soft light pulsed from Silverbell’s palms, warm and subtle. It spread like a balm through Black Sapphire’s limbs, down his back, along his spine.

 

And then—His wings fluttered. It wasn't violent and it did not from pain. It was a light, involuntary flick—like they were reacting on their own.

 

Silverbell blinked.

 

Black Sapphire immediately tensed. “Don’t say anything.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“You were going to.”

 

“I was going to ask if it hurt,” Silverbell said, fighting a grin.

 

“It didn’t.”

 

Silverbell let the spell continue a moment longer before easing back, the magic fading softly from his fingertips. His hands lingered just a second too long.

 

“…Your wings,” he said, voice light but careful, “they react to emotion, don’t they?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look at him. “…That’s classified.”

 

Silverbell chuckled quietly. “So that’s a yes.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

He reached behind himself and tugged his cloak—Black Sapphire’s beginners cloak and pulled tighter over his shoulders. It was too big—clearly not made for him. 

 

Silverbell wore it anyway. “I didn’t want to lose the scent,” he murmured.

 

Black Sapphire blinked. “What?”

 

“You cloak that you gave me,” Silverbell said simply. “It smells like ink and magic and something I can’t place. I didn’t want to forget it.”

 

“…You’re unbelievably sentimental.”

 

“Only for one cookie.”

 

Black Sapphire turned to him then. Looked him in the eye. And didn’t argue.

 

The magic faded gently, like dusk pulling the light from a day too long lived. Silverbell’s hands finally fell to his lap, his breath a little shallow—he wasn’t used to casting spells like that, not anymore—but his eyes stayed on Black Sapphire.

 

“Some of the damage is still deep,” he murmured. “But the worst of it… should feel a little lighter.”

 

Black Sapphire shifted his shoulder slightly, then rolled his neck. The ache didn’t vanish—but it dulled. The sharp sting beneath the surface had softened into a faint throb. The cracked tension in his joints, the burning bruises along his ribs—muted. Even his breathing was easier.

 

He ran a gloved hand down his forearm, where a jagged scar once sat, clean and angry. Now it was faded. However, not gone and no longer screaming like last time.

 

He blinked slowly, staring at the faint mark, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

 

“…You’re getting better at this,” he said at last.

 

Silverbell smiled, just barely. “Told you. Elder Faerie’s lessons stuck.”

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head toward him, quiet. “Thank you.”

 

Silverbell didn’t reply with words. He only leaned slightly closer, shoulder brushing his again, and looked back at the silverbell flowers growing in the cave’s soft earth.

 

They sat in silence for a moment. It was close and peaceful. Outside, the rain slowed to a hush.

 

And for the first time in a long while—Black Sapphire’s pain was no longer the only thing he could feel.

 

The air is warm tonight, he thought to himself. He never felt more safe with him.

 

 

 

---

 

Five knights just beyond the tree line, pressed into the underbrush like shadows. A few feet ahead, the cave mouth yawned open—small, dim, and just wide enough for two Cookies to sit side by side.

 

Inside, Silverbell and Black Sapphire were doing exactly that.

 

The knights watched, motionless. Not speaking. Then: “He healed him.”

 

The tallest knight’s voice was barely a whisper, but it bristled with disbelief. Disgust.

 

“He put his hands on him,” the second muttered. “Spellcasting. Real magic.”

 

They could see the faint echo of it—pale green light still ebbing from Silverbell’s palms. Black Sapphire sat slouched against the wall, breathing easier than he had days ago. He still looked like hell—bruises, cuts, that haunted tension—but it was less than before. Silverbell had done that.

 

“He’s nursing him,” the third whispered bitterly. “Like he’s someone to save.”

 

The eldest didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the way Silverbell’s fingers lingered—just a moment too long—on Black Sapphire’s shoulder. The way he leaned in. Soft voice. Softer expression.

 

Then came the words:

 

“Only for one cookie.” Silverbell’s voice. Quiet. Steady.

 

They all heard it. A cold silence followed between the knights.

 

“…He’s gone,” the second said. “He’s not fighting it anymore.”

 

“No,” the tallest snapped. “He thinks this is love. Real. That’s worse.”

 

From the cave, a chuckle. Black Sapphire’s, dark and low.

 

And Silverbell—he was wearing his cloak. Draped awkwardly, oversized, like he wanted to be wrapped in whatever pieces of him he could find.

 

“He said it smells like him,” the third murmured. “That’s why he wears it.”

 

“Sentimental,” the second echoed. “Disgusting.”

 

They weren’t whispering with pity. Or worry. These weren’t the hushed fears of friends watching one of their own drift.

 

These were the whispers of soldiers watching rot set into a trusted blade.

 

“He chose him,” the tallest Knight said, not for the first time—but with a new edge.

 

“And now he’s healing the thing that broke him,” the third added. “Like it deserves kindness.”

 

 

“He doesn’t even see the manipulation,” said the eldest, quiet but ice-cold. “He’s grateful.”

 

They watched Black Sapphire flinch slightly as Silverbell adjusted the cloak around him—saw him grit his teeth, trying not to wince.

 

“He’s still weak,” the second Knight said, eyes narrowing. “Still cracked open.”

 

“But not broken enough,” the third answered. “Not yet.”

 

A pause. The wind shifted. Then, the tallest Knight leaned forward, staring at Silverbell’s face—calm, focused, devoted.

 

“Look at his eyes. That’s not hypnosis. That’s worship.”

 

The word hit hard. Worse than a spell. It meant choice.

 

“He’s healing a monster who won’t stop. Look at him,” the second Knight hissed. “Still bleeding. Still dangerous. And Silverbell treats it like something fragile.”

 

“Like something precious.”

 

“Like he was the one who got hurt.”

 

They let the silence hang there a beat longer. Then the eldest said, flat and final “We’re not pulling him out of a trap.”

 

They all turned toward him. He didn’t look away from the cave. “We’re dragging him away from the edge he walked to on his own.”

 

Inside, Silverbell leaned closer, said something too soft to hear. Black Sapphire looked at him—and didn’t flinch. Didn’t scoff. Just met his gaze, quietly.

 

The third Knight swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

 

“Still think this is about love?” he muttered. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like surrender.”

 

“No,” the second Knight said. “It’s devotion. And that’s worse.”

 

They didn’t speak again for a long time.

 

The rain had started as a whisper—barely there, brushing the leaves with light taps. Now it picked up, soft droplets turning heavier, more deliberate. The forest darkened under the storm’s slow build, mist curling at the edges of the trees like smoke.

 

The five knights lay low in the brush, cloaks damp, tension thick between them. The cave ahead was a dull ember of safety in the wet grey. Inside, two silhouettes sat close. Too close.

 

Silverbell leaned in. A pause. Then—he kissed him. Right on the cheek. Soft. Certain.

 

It wasn’t the desperate kiss from the battlefield, the one soaked in blood and panic and betrayal. This was something else. This was intimacy. The knights didn’t breathe.

 

“Did you see that?” hissed one—youngest of them. Barely more than a whisper under the rising rain. “He just—kissed him. Like it’s normal.”

 

No one responded right away. The wind pushed rain down harder now, pattering against leaves, making it harder to hear the cave’s interior conversation.

 

But they’d seen enough.

 

“I told you,” spat the second knight. “He’s completely gone. He loves that traitor.”

 

“Love?” the eldest growled. “That isn’t love. That’s brainrot. That’s infection.”

 

“He shot him,” the third knight said sharply, as if reminding the others—or himself. “Right after kissing him. Putting Silverbell in the infirmary for a week. That is who he’s kissing?”

 

The second knight sneered. “It’s manipulation. All of it. Sapphire’s playing the long game—wounding him, breaking him down, then offering the only comfort left.”

 

Silence, heavy and angry, clung to the group like the rain soaking their armor.

 

But then—“…What if it’s real?” said the fifth.

 

The others turned to him sharply. He was the one who rarely spoke. Steady. Quiet. Loyal.

 

He stared at the cave with unreadable eyes. “What if,” he said again, “it’s not a spell. Not a game. What if they do love each other?”

 

The youngest knight blinked. “You—you saw what happened. What he did. What he nearly cost us—”

 

“I know,” the fifth interrupted. “But Silverbell’s not stupid. And he’s not weak. He’s… he’s healed. You see it, don’t you? He’s whole again. Because of him.”

 

“That’s not healing,” the third snapped. “It’s corruption.”

 

The fifth didn’t look away from the cave. “No. He told the commander himself. Said Black Sapphire wasn’t coming back to the Faerie Kingdom. That means he’s not defecting. He’s still ours.”

 

“Then why is he out here kissing the traitor in the rain?” the second demanded.

 

“Because it was never about kingdoms,” the fifth answered softly. “It was personal. And we never saw it. Not really.”

 

The storm rolled overhead—distant thunder rumbling like a warning.

 

Inside the cave, Black Sapphire tilted his head, murmured something. Silverbell smiled, just faintly, then rested his head briefly against his shoulder. The cloak he wore—Sapphire’s—hung wet but stubborn on his frame.

 

“They could be playing each other,” the third said through clenched teeth. “Or he’s playing Silverbell. Again.”

 

The fifth shook his head. “You don’t heal someone like that just to break them again. Not with magic that costs you yourself. Not in the rain. Not after all that time in the infirmary.”

 

The second opened his mouth, but the eldest knight raised a hand. “No more arguing,” he said. But his voice was no longer as sure.

 

Rain pelted harder now—dampening everything, washing away their warmth, their certainty.

 

The fifth knight’s gaze stayed locked on Silverbell. “He’s not under a spell. He knows who he’s with. What he’s doing. And he chose him anyway.”

 

The youngest knight’s whisper came, barely audible over the rain “…So what do we do?”

 

The fifth knight didn’t answer.

 

Inside the cave, the two figures leaned closer again—warmer than the storm, quieter than the war that waited just outside.

 

The rain came harder now, washing the world in grey and silver, turning soil to sludge and cloaks to lead.

 

The five knights stood in silence, cloaked in dripping ferns and unspoken tension. From the cave, the quiet hum of whispered words still echoed, muffled by the storm.

 

None of them said it. But the thought was there. Heavy. Crushing.

 

If this is love… then it’s the kind that destroys kingdoms.

 

The fifth knight stood slowly, rising from the crouch he’d held for too long. His armor was soaked. His hair stuck to his brow. But his eyes were clear.

 

“I won’t be part of this.”

 

Four heads turned.

 

He stepped back from them—away from the bristling anger, from the forged certainty. “If you’re going to attack him… if this ends in chains or blood… I’m not with you.”

 

“You can’t be serious,” the second knight hissed.

 

The third stood. “You’re siding with him? After what he did? After what Silverbell suffered—because of him?”

 

“No,” the fifth said. “I’m siding with Silverbell.”

 

The youngest knight’s voice was small. “He’s clealy making a mistake.”

 

“Maybe,” the fifth allowed. “But it’s his. Not ours. And not ours to punish.”

 

“You saw him,” the eldest growled, low and grave. “He’s not thinking straight. He’s still compromised. We swore to protect the kingdom—even from one of our own.”

 

The fifth’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t budge. “Then protect it. But don’t pretend this is about duty. You want Black Sapphire gone. Not neutralized. Not captured. Gone. You want Silverbell to suffer for choosing wrong.”

 

He looked at each of them in turn. Even the eldest.

 

“And I won’t help you do that.” No one stopped him when he turned away.

 

No one called after him as he disappeared into the trees, boots sinking into wet earth, cloak streaming behind like a banner lowered in retreat. Just four knights remained, thunder grinding overhead. One less sword. One less certainty.

 

But still enough to end a love story the only way they knew how:

 

With ruin.

 

 

---

 

The rain whispered at first, then turned bold—drumming steadily against the stone above them. The cave wasn’t deep, but it was enough. Enough to escape the storm. Enough to breathe.

 

Silverbell sat close to him, knees nearly brushing Black Sapphire’s. The dampness in the air clung to them like a second skin, cool and persistent, but the warmth that passed between their bodies made it bearable.

 

He felt the footsteps outside. Soft, sure, deliberate.

 

Knights didn’t make mistakes with their approach. They didn’t trip over roots or snap branches. Especially not those four. He didn’t need to look. He knew. They were watching. Judging. Planning.

 

Silverbell could feel it—like a knife edge pressed just behind his spine.

 

He then shifted slightly, wings rising behind him. The gossamer light of them caught a shard of stormlight from the cave’s mouth, faintly shimmering. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped them around Black Sapphire. A quiet shelter. A private cocoon.

 

Black Sapphire blinked, confused for a moment. His breath hitched faintly—but he didn’t pull away. His posture eased just a little. The kind of release that didn’t show unless you’d been watching closely for days. Weeks.

 

Silverbell had.

 

“You’re quiet,” Black Sapphire murmured, voice rough from more than exhaustion.

 

Silverbell leaned a little closer, resting his palms on the cool earth between them. “I’m warm,” he said. “That’s enough.”

 

Black Sapphire gave a dry, half-laugh. “Since when did warmth ever come from me?”

 

“It does now.”

 

There was a flicker in his eyes. Guilt. Or disbelief. Probably both. Silverbell didn’t press it. He just breathed. Stayed close.

 

The storm outside was swelling—thunder rolling low and slow like something angry being held back. The Knights would still be there. He felt it like a weight against his back. But he didn’t care.

 

“You look better,” Black Sapphire said eventually. “Still pale. But you’re not shaking anymore.”

 

Silverbell let a smile ghost across his lips. “I’m healed. Or… close enough.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes dropped. “Good.”

 

“You?”

 

“…Not bleeding from the ribs anymore.”

 

“That’s not a real answer.”

 

He hesitated. “I’m… breathing easier.”

 

“Because of the spell?”

 

“Because of you.”

 

Silverbell turned his head slightly to look at him. Black Sapphire didn’t meet his gaze. Not right away. The rain deepened its rhythm, steady and loud, but the world inside the wings felt quiet. Contained.

 

“I meant what I said,” Silverbell whispered. “To Mercurial Knight. You’re not going back to the Faerie Kingdom.”

 

Black Sapphire gave a faint, bitter smile. “No. I’m not.” There was a pause. “You could hate me for what I did,” he said, barely above the rain. “Most would.”

 

“I did,” Silverbell admitted. “For a while. After the battle. After the infirmary.”

 

“And now?”

 

“Now I hate how much I still love you.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. That was how Silverbell knew it was real.

 

He studied him for a moment. The cut of his jaw. The exhaustion in the tight corners of his mouth. The way he still kept one hand close to his side, as if guarding pain that wouldn’t heal.

 

The coat clung to him, wet and stiff. Heavy with storm. Silverbell reached toward the collar, fingers brushing it—

 

Black Sapphire flinched.

 

Silverbell froze. “Sapphire…”

 

“Don’t,” Black Sapphire said quietly. Not harsh. Just… small.

 

And Silverbell knew. He knew.

 

There were probably more wounds beneath that coat. Wounds he hadn’t made. Wounds not from the battle Mirror Lake. Wounds no one had.

 

Self-inflicted. Pain carved from guilt.

 

Silverbell didn’t speak. He didn’t pull the coat off. He didn’t ask.

 

He just reached up again, slower this time, and pressed his forehead lightly to Black Sapphire’s temple.

 

“I’m still here,” he murmured. “That has to mean something.”

 

Black Sapphire’s breath stuttered—but he nodded. Once. The wings curled tighter around them as thunder growled overhead.

 

Outside, the Knights waited in silence, blades sheathed but hearts coiled tight with judgment.

 

Inside the cave, Silverbell let the storm rage. He didn’t care who was watching.

 

He loved him anyway. 

 

 

 

Notes:

So you'll notice why five knights when on chapter XIV (14) there were only four of them, they tagged along a knight on training, that knights was friends with the four of them. So basically he just went with them and observed Silverbell and Black Sapphire.

 

The fluff is fluffing ( I love these two so much, at the same time these two are stressing me out because about the upcoming chapters ughhhh, I thank my bff so much for the mental and emotional support that he gives me, although it makes me wonder if he is tired of my shi-)

 

I decided to drop this today so I could work on the other chapters of this fic

 

A lot of things are going to be happening to the next chapters and some makes me giggle already (mention shadow milk and I will be giggling a lot. I love shadow milk's character so much that he will make another apperance in this fic again!1!! )

 

btw my summer break is almost coming to an end, school is two weeks away. (I am NOT excited about that and I am NOT prepared for that)

Chapter 18: XVII

Notes:

I just want to say. I am giggling and stressing over writing this chapter. Then I realized.... I only write for fun...

And shoutout for "Mizisua_my_loves" (idk how to tag TT) I JUST REALLY GOT THE IDEA FROM THEM SO (i have rewritten this chapter 4 times.

(check the charac tags)

 

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head, eye narrowing slightly in a way that was almost—but not quite—suspicious.

 

“Are you going back to your house?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

 

Silverbell glanced toward the mouth of the cave where the last of the rain had become little more than mist. He could lie. Say yes. Say he had somewhere to be, a life to return to, duties stacking like stones waiting to crush him.

 

But instead, he smiled—soft, honest. “Well, I should ,” he said, resting his hands on his knees, “but I found you.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. He looked away quickly, as if that single line had cut deeper than any blade. His wings twitched behind him. “...That’s a reckless answer,” he muttered.

 

“Maybe,” Silverbell said. “But it’s the truth.”

 

Silverbell’s gaze remained on the flowers, but the quiet shifted—deepened.

 

Black Sapphire's voice cut through it, low and steady. “You do know,” he said, “that we both need to choose a side one day… right?” It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even regret. It was just the truth.

 

Silverbell didn’t flinch. But his expression sobered. The warmth in his posture remained, but it was tempered now—weighted by reality. “I know,” he answered softly.

 

The cave filled with the sound of their breathing, slow and measured, as if even the air was holding its breath between two heartbeats.

 

“I don’t want that day to come,” Silverbell admitted, fingers brushing the petals again. “But I know it will. The Kingdom won’t stop. Your master won’t stop. And we…”

 

His voice caught. “We’re caught between two stars, burning each other by just standing too close.”

 

Black Sapphire turned toward him fully then, his expression unreadable—but his eyes gave him away. They always did.

 

“That’s why we’re here now,” he said. “Because once we walk out of this cave—our next choices matter.”

 

Silverbell nodded slowly. “So let’s make this moment matter too.”

 

And the silence that followed wasn’t filled with fear or grief. It was filled with understanding. Because yes—they’d choose a side one day. But not tonight .

 

They sat there for a long time, side by side on the stone floor of the cave, surrounded by silverbell blooms that had no right surviving in such a place—and yet, like the two of them, they had.

 

Neither said anything for a while. There was no need. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was sacred.

 

They had waited for this. Longed for it.

 

For weeks, they had existed in the ache of distance—writing letters in secret, pretending not to feel what they felt, carrying burdens that were too heavy for one heart to hold. And now, they were here. Real. Close enough to touch.

 

Black Sapphire’s wings twitched again, but this time he didn’t try to hide it.

 

Silverbell noticed, of course, and smiled faintly—but said nothing.

 

What hung between them wasn’t just love. It was grief for what they could never fully have. It was the weight of loyalty on one shoulder and longing on the other. Two cookies—built by fate to stand on opposite ends—meeting here, in the quiet middle. They both knew the future would demand decisions. Someday, one day… maybe soon.

 

They would be forced to choose between what they loved and what they owed. Between peace and duty. Between each other, and everything else.

 

But what they yearned for—truly, deeply—wasn’t power. It wasn’t victory. It was peace. Freedom. To be seen. To be known. To be understood.  And in this one moment, beneath the cave ceiling and the soft light of enchanted stone, they had that.

 

“Let’s stay here for tonight,” Silverbell murmured, his voice soft and quiet, as he shifted to lie back against the moss-covered wall of the cave.

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes widened. “ Tonight?! ”

 

Silverbell blinked at him, confused at first—then grinned when he realized just how flustered Sapphire had gotten.

 

“The rainfall is getting heavier,” he said with a teasing lilt, gesturing toward the cave mouth where the world outside had faded into a silver blur of steady downpour. “It’s not letting up anytime soon, and I don’t think your wings—or your pride—can take another beating from the sky.”

 

Black Sapphire huffed and crossed his arms, looking anywhere but at him. “My wings are fine. I am fine.”

 

“You’re limping.”

 

“I’m dramatic.”

 

“You’re exhausted.”

 

“You’re distracting.”

 

Silverbell raised an eyebrow. “Is that a complaint?”

 

Black Sapphire paused. Then sighed, defeated, and let himself sink slowly to the ground beside him. “No.”

 

Silverbell shifted, offering half the cloak he was still wrapped in—Black Sapphire’s cloak, technically. He didn’t say a word, just held it out, waiting.

 

After a long pause, Black Sapphire took it, settling beside him, both of them leaning back against the wall, the sound of rain a soft curtain between them and the rest of the world.

 

 

---

The Spire was quiet.  Wait, the Spire is rebuilt? Too quiet.

 

No radio static coming from his room. There was no ink trailing from the walls like veins. It was that same empty... silence. Black Sapphire stood alone in the main chamber, bathed in dim lavender light. His own footsteps didn’t echo. Even his breath felt muffled. He looked down and realized—he wasn't wearing his disguise. No Moondrop wings, no soft colors. Just his true self: sharp suit, clawed fingers, and heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to claw its way out. Something was wrong.

 

Then came the voice. “Oh, you look pale, Sapphy.”

 

Black Sapphire spun around—too slow.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie stood behind him, tall and coiled in shadow, the ends of his cloak drifting across the floor like tendrils of smoke. His arms were folded, one eyebrow arched, a playful grin ghosting across his lips—but his eyes… those ink-slicked eyes burned with something cold. Too cold.

 

“Didn’t expect to see me so soon, did you?” Shadow Milk purred, tilting his head. “Poor thing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 

The lights dimmed further, and suddenly a second figure emerged behind him—dragged forward by shadowy tendrils. Shackled, bleeding, barely upright. Silverbell Cookie.

 

His armor was shattered, limbs trembling. His cape was torn to ribbons, and his eyes… they were still bright. Still alive. Alive?

 

Black Sapphire staggered forward a step. “No… you—he was supposed to be safe. I left him safe. ”

 

Shadow Milk’s grin widened. “You left him. That’s your first mistake. Leaving something behind means someone else gets to play with it.”

 

He crouched beside Silverbell, tilting his chin upward with mock gentleness. “But look—he’s breathing. That’s a problem , isn’t it?”

 

“ Let him go! ” Black Sapphire’s voice cracked, laced with fury and panic. “You said he wouldn’t—he wasn’t—”

 

“ Wasn’t supposed to survive? ” Shadow Milk cut in, his voice sweet, razor-edged. “Yes, well. Love makes you sloppy.”

 

He stood again, voice dipping lower. “You were compromised the moment you let him kiss you. The moment you cared. And now… now you’re going to learn why attachments make poor weapons.”

 

Before Black Sapphire could move, Shadow Milk raised a single hand—his shadows snapped tight around Silverbell’s chest. He choked, eyes widening as dark magic burned into his ribs, curling around his wounds like acid.

 

“STOP IT!” Black Sapphire surged forward, claws bared, microphone sparking to life—only to be flung backward by a wave of force. He hit the wall hard, vision swimming. He looked up, horror rising in his throat. “ He’s not part of this. You said— ”

 

Shadow Milk stepped forward. “I say many things, my dear. I also said you were one of my finest. But I was wrong. You’re sentimental. And that’s something I have to burn out of you.”

 

He summoned the microphone— Black Sapphire’s microphone. But warped. Its eye wept ink. Its teeth gnawed at empty air.

 

“I was going to give you another mission,” Shadow Milk whispered, dragging the blade across the floor. “But instead, let’s make this your final test.”

 

The chains dragging Silverbell clinked forward again. His legs collapsed beneath him. He was on his knees now—barely conscious.

 

“Kill him,” Shadow Milk said.

 

Black Sapphire froze. “No.”

 

“Kill him, or I will.”

 

“No, you can’t— ”

 

Shadow Milk raised the blade. “You’re disobeying orders. You know what that means.” He slashed downward.

 

Black Sapphire screamed. “ SILVERBELL! ”

 

The blow connected—but not to flesh. To magic. Black Sapphire had leapt between them, summoning a wall of protective force at the last second. It splintered under the pressure, blasting him backward again, but he didn’t stop. He crawled forward, coughing, reaching—

 

“I love him,” he gasped. “I love him.”

 

Shadow Milk stared at him with unreadable eyes. Then, softly, cruelly “And that’s why you’re going to fail. ”

 

Black Sapphire couldn’t move. His arms wouldn’t respond. His vision blurred—either from magic or tears, he didn’t know anymore.

 

The Spire was collapsing. The shadows laughed.

And Silverbell—Silverbell looked at him with the same expression he’d worn in the cave. That same trust. That same love. And then—everything shattered.

---

He jolted upright. Breathless. Sweating.

 

The cave was quiet again. Real. Grounded. Rain still fell. The cloak was still there. Silverbell was still sleeping beside him. Alive. Safe.

 

Black Sapphire buried his face into his hands, his shoulders trembling. He didn't wake Silverbell. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

 

He sat there, trying to slow his breath, whispering to the silenceb“I’m not going to lose him .” Not again.

 

Black Sapphire quickly looked around, gasping, heart hammering in his chest like it would burst. The cave. The rain. The warmth beside him.

 

He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to steady his breath. His other hand reached instinctively for his microphone—still warm.

 

And he whispered, “I won’t let him touch you. Not ever again.”

---

Black Sapphire sat upright beside him, knees drawn close, arms loosely wrapped around them—watching.

 

He hadn’t slept since the nightmare. Not really. But seeing Silverbell still breathing beside him, undisturbed, had anchored him more than anything else could.

 

When Silverbell mumbled something incoherent and shifted closer in his sleep, hair falling over his eyes, Black Sapphire couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

 

He leaned down just slightly and whispered, “Looks like someone’s a heavy sleeper.”

 

Then, gently, he pressed a kiss to Silverbell’s cheek—soft, brief, and far more tender than he meant it to be.

 

Silverbell blinked awake slowly, eyelashes fluttering as he adjusted to the morning light. “…Was that what I thought it was?” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

 

Black Sapphire froze. “You were supposed to stay asleep.”

 

Silverbell gave him a lazy smile. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

 

“Just—just go back to sleep… please?” Black Sapphire muttered, turning his face away, ears burning. His wings betrayed him with a sudden flutter, brushing the air in a flustered twitch that absolutely ruined his attempt at being casual.

 

Silverbell blinked at him, smile deepening. “Your wings just gave you away.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“They’re flustered.”

 

“They’re not —” he paused, burying his face in his hands. “Just— sleep. ”

 

But Silverbell didn’t lie back down. Instead, he pushed himself up on one elbow and tilted his head.

 

“…Why are you still awake?” he asked, softer now.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. Not immediately. He kept his face turned toward the mouth of the cave, where the rain had faded to a drizzle, leaving the trees damp and shimmering in the morning light. “…I couldn’t,” he said finally. Voice low. Honest.

 

Silverbell didn’t press. Instead, he scooted closer, until their shoulders touched. “Then you should rest now. I’m here.”

 

And strangely… that made it easier to breathe. Black Sapphire let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders finally giving way as the warmth beside him lingered—steady, real .

 

Silverbell didn’t move away. Didn’t speak again. He just stayed close, their arms brushing as the silence settled back into something gentle. Safe.

 

And for the first time in weeks—no shadows clinging to the edge of his dreams—Black Sapphire’s eyes drifted shut. His wings folded in loosely, relaxed. His brow smoothed. And sleep took him.

 

It was quiet in the cave again.

---

The morning light filtered through the cave’s entrance, soft and gold, stretching slowly across the stone floor. Dew clung to the grass just outside, glistening like a sea of stars scattered by the dawn.

 

Inside, it was quiet. Still. Black Sapphire was still asleep, his breathing even, his wings folded gently against his back. His expression, for once, held no trace of fear or tension—just quiet calm, like the storm that had passed through him had finally left the sky clear.

 

Silverbell was already awake. He hadn’t moved.

 

He sat with his knees drawn close, arms wrapped loosely around them, watching the light shift across the cave and catch against Sapphire’s cheek. His eyes trailed the soft rise and fall of his chest, then paused on the faintest curve of a smile still lingering on his lips.

 

He’d never seen him like this—so peaceful when he sleeps. The usual mask that Black Sapphire wears can't be found. Words not twisted along with that shadows. Its just… him.

 

Silverbell exhaled slowly, careful not to break the peace. “I guess I’ll stay a little longer,” he whispered to the quiet. Just until he wakes.

 

Silverbell’s eyes lingered on Black Sapphire’s sleeping form, and for a long while, he said nothing—just watched him breathe. So still. So unlike the chaos wrapped inside him. He looked… soft, even.

 

But that peace, Silverbell knew, wasn’t permanent. It never had been—not for someone like him. Not for a cookie who lied like it was a second language. Who wore other names, other faces. Who flinched like trust was something he could hold but not keep.

 

Silverbell had learned to put the pieces together in silence. The rumors. The threads of whispers that all tied back to the same shadow.

 

The subtle turns of Black Sapphire’s words—half-truths spoken like poetry. A “master.” A “father.”

 

The stories didn’t say much about the Beast of Deceit. Just that he had no true name atleast that's what he thought, only titles—Shadow Milk, the one who whispered lies and distorts truth into kingdoms, who orchestrated chaos and fed off distrust. The one who had stolen Elder Faerie Cookie’s light and ended his reign in silence.

 

Silverbell had been there. He had seen it. And now… now he was lying next to the disciple of that monster. But then—was that all Black Sapphire was? Just a follower? A product of some twisted loyalty? What did he have to give up to survive such a cruel place?

 

How does someone fall so deep into shadow they forget where the light used to touch them?

 

Silverbell remembered his words. “We’re not blood-bound. Not born under the same banner. But... we belong to the same cause.”

 

So was Shadow Milk the “father”? And what about that “bratty sister” who is she? He didn’t know the full picture.

 

But he knew one thing now, staring at the cookie sleeping beside him, Black Sapphire hadn’t chosen that life because he wanted to hurt others.

 

He chose it because he had nowhere else to go. And maybe—just maybe—he’d stayed because someone like Shadow Milk offered him something that looked like love.

 

Even if it came with chains. Silverbell reached over and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind Sapphire’s ear. “…You deserved better than him,” he whispered. “You still do.”

 

And if Black Sapphire ever wanted to find his way out—He would be here. Waiting.

 

Black Sapphire stirred slowly, lids fluttering open as the soft morning haze met his eyes. For once, he didn’t feel the tension in his back or the usual tightness behind his eyes. No clenching in his chest. No static in his thoughts. Only the warmth that they both shared inside this cave. Peace.

 

The first thing he saw was Silverbell, sitting nearby—watching him with that quiet, steady gaze. “…You stayed,” he murmured, voice still hoarse from sleep.

 

Silverbell gave a small nod. “Didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked a few times, then sat up carefully. The cave was still cool, the earth still damp from last night’s rain. He glanced toward the mouth of the cave where golden light poured through the greenery outside. “…That was a good rest,” he admitted, brushing sleep from his eyes.

 

“You needed it,” Silverbell replied softly.

 

They sat there for a long moment, surrounded by silence that didn’t feel empty. But the world was still turning outside. And duty—on both sides—was already clawing its way back in.

 

Black Sapphire stood first, brushing the dust from his coat and avoiding Silverbell’s eyes. “We both have to go.”

 

“I know.” Silverbell rose too, slower, his legs still sore from recovery. He winced slightly but didn’t mention it.

 

They stepped outside together, the fresh morning air brushing past them with the scent of wet earth and blooming silverbells.

 

Two opposing pieces in a game neither of them wanted to keep playing. But they had no choice.

 

“…Be careful,” Silverbell said suddenly, looking at him.

 

Black Sapphire paused. He didn’t smile, but the weight in his gaze said enough. “You too.”

 

It was a parting that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, both of them unsure who would jump first. Then—without another word—Black Sapphire tapped the microphone tucked at his side. The portal shimmered to life behind him. He looked back one last time, wings twitching faintly. And then he was gone.

---

Before leaving the cave behind, Silverbell lingered—just for a little longer.

 

The rain had passed, but the ground was still damp beneath his boots. The silverbell flowers that had grown from the seeds he gifted to Black Sapphire stood tall now, soft and luminous in the morning light, their petals glistening with dew.

 

He knelt quietly in front of them. Then, with careful hands, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small velvet pouch. Inside were a few sapphire gems—polished and deep, almost the exact shade of his eyes. Something to leave behind—to remember.

 

He placed the sapphires gently into the soil beside the blooming silverbells, their shimmer catching on the petals like starlight.

 

“A reminder,” he whispered to the flowers, “that you’re not alone here.” That someone came back. That someone cared.

 

He stood up slowly, brushing off his hands, gaze lingering on the mix of silver and sapphire nestled together. Then, finally, with the quietest sigh and one last look at the cave—Silverbell turned and walked back into the forest, toward the Faerie Kingdom.

 

 

---

His every move is being watched by a certain group of knights.

 

“They’ll come back,” he said. Certain. “This place meant something. He brought him here for a reason.”

 

“Sentiment makes them predictable,” the third knight added. “They’ll return.”

 

“And when they do,” the second muttered, “he’ll be alone.”

 

That was the plan. They didn’t need to ambush both. Only one was the infection.

 

Silverbell was twisted, yes—but he was twisted around someone. Someone who’d cracked him open and stitched himself inside. They would wait. And when Black Sapphire came back—alone, or scouting, or even just to remember—they’d strike.

 

The eldest knight stood, brushing water from his cloak. “Next time he’s here, we hit hard. Fast. We seal the cave’s mouth. Lock down magic. Strike before he has a chance to blink.”

 

“And Silverbell?”

 

The eldest turned to the second, eyes hard. “We make sure he’s not here to stop us.”

 

Because Black Sapphire could play sentimental all he wanted. Could kiss. Could whisper. Could pretend what he’d done hadn’t carved a wound through the Faerie Kingdom itself.

 

But in the end, he’d be back. He’d return to this place. This cave. Because monsters always come home to the places they think they’re loved. And when he did? He wouldn’t leave again.

 

The cave stood empty, a dark mouth waiting to swallow the next foolish soul who wandered in. And the four knights worked in practiced coordination, moving through the underbrush with precision. No words wasted. No movements spared.

 

They weren’t just waiting anymore. They were building the end. An end to this corruption.

 

The eldest knight placed the first seal—an old magic, deep and cold, laced into the stone of the cave’s threshold. It sank in without glow or sound, the kind of spell you wouldn’t notice until it was already eating your veins from the inside out.

 

The second knight traced glyphs into the roots around the cave’s base, careful to mask their presence beneath the damp earth. They shimmered for a heartbeat, then vanished—tuned to only one energy signature: Black Sapphire’s.

 

The third knight walked the perimeter, weaving silencing hexes through the trees. If he tried to summon a portal, whisper a spell, even think too loud with his magic— nothing would answer.

 

“He won’t be able to sense any of it,” the youngest murmured, crouching beside a rock just outside the cave’s mouth. “It’ll feel like a dead zone.”

 

“Until it’s too late,” the eldest confirmed.

 

They were meticulous. Calculated. This wasn’t revenge anymore. It was execution. Which is what they are planning to begin with. To eliminate a threat—someone who harms one of their own.

---

 

The sun had climbed just high enough to touch the tips of the silver trees when Silverbell slipped past the outer wards of the Faerie Kingdom. His cloak—simple, nondescript—billowed gently behind him as he moved swiftly between quiet alleyways and back gardens.

 

Every step closer to his house made his heartbeat quicken. If anyone saw him like this, it could ruin everything.

 

He ducked behind his own home, beneath the veil of early morning mist and dew-slick branches. With a whispered command and a snap of his fingers, the clone he’d left behind dissolved into a shimmer of soft light, disappearing like dust in the breeze. His disguise peeled away shortly after—runes breaking across his skin, the false image falling like a discarded curtain.

 

Exhausted, he slipped through the back entrance and collapsed onto his bed, the weight of the escape and the night settling all at once in his chest.

 

But before he could even exhale—Knock knock knock.

 

His shoulders tensed. He sat up slowly, glancing toward the door, every instinct alert again. “…Already?” he muttered to himself.

 

Of course. There’s no such thing as a quiet return. The knocking continued—sharper this time. Measured, like someone who’d been waiting.

 

Silverbell ran a hand through his hair, smoothed his cloak, and stood up slowly. Every muscle ached. His heart was still unsteady, the remnants of his escape settling in his limbs like heat after a sprint. He crossed the room in a few strides and opened the door.

 

Mercurial Knight Cookie stood there, arms crossed over his chest, still in partial armor. He looked tired, but not from lack of sleep—from chasing the truth.

 

“You’re up,” Mercurial said simply, scanning him from head to toe. “Good. I was starting to think you passed out again.”

 

Silverbell offered a faint smile—wry and calm. “I’m not that fragile.”

 

“Hm.” Mercurial’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yesterday you followed everything we told you to do. Obedient. Quiet. Cooperative. Not like you at all.”

 

Silverbell didn’t blink. “Should I apologize for making your job easier?”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Mercurial replied, stepping inside uninvited. He paced a little, gaze drifting around the room as if expecting something to reveal itself. “You’ve changed. Even the way you’re standing is different.”

 

“Magic helps,” Silverbell said casually, shutting the door behind them. “I’ve had a lot of time to study.”

 

Mercurial turned to him sharply. “You’ve been practicing?”

 

“Privately,” Silverbell admitted. “In case I needed to disappear again.”

 

Mercurial was quiet for a moment. Then “You’re planning something.”

 

Silverbell met his gaze, unreadable. “I’m preparing for something. There’s a difference.”

 

“…And does that something involve him ?”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, he walked to the window and looked out toward the distant treeline—toward the path he knew led to the cave where silver and sapphire bloomed together. “…You don’t need to worry,” he said softly. “I’m not stupid. I know what’s at stake.”

 

Mercurial stepped forward, voice lower now. “I just need to know if you’re going to follow the plan, Silverbell. Because if not…”

 

“I will,” Silverbell said, cutting him off gently. “When the time comes, I’ll do what I have to.”

 

"If this breaks you then stop going to him. He nearly killed you, remember? Good thing he made that potion for you for a show." 

 

Mercurial Knight’s hand was already on the door, but Silverbell’s voice stopped him cold. "You read the letter he gave to me before that day?!"

 

He didn’t turn right away. Just stood there, shoulders tense beneath his cloak. The silence stretched between them like the sharp edge of a drawn blade.

Then, finally “I had to.”

 

Silverbell took a step forward, voice rising with disbelief. “That wasn’t yours to read.”

 

Mercurial turned now, expression unreadable but steady. “You were unconscious. Bleeding out. Barely breathing. You were ready to die for him, and no one knew why. I needed answers.”

 

“That wasn’t an answer, it was trust— my trust,” Silverbell snapped, hands clenched at his sides. “And you used it like evidence.”

 

“I used it to make sure you didn’t die for nothing!” Mercurial barked, stepping closer. “Do you even understand what he is ? What he’s capable of? That whole battle could’ve gone wrong —”

 

“It didn’t,” Silverbell cut in sharply. “Because we planned it. Because he planned it.”

 

“Exactly!” Mercurial’s voice dropped, laced with frustration. “He turned you into a piece in his performance, and you’re still acting like it was a love story.”

 

“It wasn’t just a performance,” Silverbell said, softer now. But firmer. “He gave me that letter so I could live. So we could both survive.”

 

Mercurial shook his head, disbelief clouding his eyes. “He nearly killed you. You said that yourself.”

 

“And he made sure I wouldn’t die.”

 

“You don’t even hear how twisted that sounds.”

 

A long silence followed.

 

 

Then Mecurial Knight’s voice, barely above a whisper
“If this breaks you, then stop going to him.” Mercurial’s words echoed louder than they should’ve.

 

Silverbell looked down. His heart was a storm, barely contained. “…I don’t want to stop,” he said. “Even if it breaks me.”

 

Silverbell didn’t move. The words lingered like a crack of thunder through calm skies.

 

Mercurial Knight had turned back, pushing the door open once more, his voice firm—commanding. “As your commander, Silverbell— please listen to me!”

 

Silverbell’s jaw tensed as he slowly looked up, eyes sharper now, colder. “ Then speak like one. Not like someone who thinks I’m a child who lost their way.”

 

Mercurial stepped in fully this time, closing the door harder than needed behind him. “You’re not a child. You’re one of the best knights we have. And that’s why I can’t let you destroy yourself over this.”

 

“I’m not destroying anything,” Silverbell shot back. “Not yet.”

 

“Not yet? You’re standing on the edge and daring the wind to push you!”

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Silverbell snapped.

 

“No, you hope you do,” Mercurial growled. “You think this ends in anything but pain? You think that Cookie—Black Sapphire—is going to just drop everything? His loyalty? His master ?”

 

“He already has!” Silverbell shouted back, finally losing the calm he always wore. “He already chose both ! He fought everyone just to make sure it looked real. He could’ve escaped long ago, but he stayed—for me. ”

 

Mercurial’s expression faltered for a second. “And you’re willing to stake your life, our trust, this entire kingdom on that?!”

 

Silverbell breathed in through clenched teeth, voice trembling, “I’m willing to stake my heart. That’s already been his since the first day he smiled at me like he was scared to.”

 

Mercurial stared at him. Silence again. Not angry now. Just… tired. Then, quieter, bitter “He lied to you.”

 

Silverbell's voice dropped too—low, pained. “So did we. We lied about love. About loyalty. About truth. We lie every day to survive.”

 

Mercurial shook his head. “This is more than romance, Silverbell. This is war.”

 

“I know,” he said softly. “And I never asked to fall in love during it.”

 

They stared at each other—commander and knight, brother-in-arms and betrayer of silence. Then Mercurial stepped back, hands falling to his sides.

 

“…You’re too far in.”

 

“I’ve been far in since the day I let him make me laugh.”

 

And that was the truth neither of them could unhear. Mercurial didn’t say anything more. He just left again. This time, without slamming the door.

---

Black Sapphire stepped into the house.

 

Shadow Milk was already there, seated, waiting. “Where were you?”

 

“Around.”

 

“You’re lying,” Shadow Milk said, voice flat. “And you know I HATE being lied to.”

 

He could see through him. Black Sapphire hadn’t come home last night. The lie wasn’t just weak—it was insulting.

 

Shadow Milk stood. Still as stone. His head tilted slightly. Something in the air around Black Sapphire was wrong. Not just tension. Fury. Quiet, coiled, barely held back.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t flinch. But he didn’t meet his eyes either.

 

Candy Apple leaned against a tree just outside the window, arms crossed, watching like it was a soap opera. But then Shadow Milk glanced her way—just once.

 

“If you don’t want to end up as a card, I suggest you leave.” His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

 

She froze. Scoffed. Then walked off, tossing one last look at Black Sapphire—worry? Regret? It didn’t matter.

 

Now it was just them. “You reek of it again,” Shadow Milk said, stepping closer. “That word. Love.”

 

Black Sapphire said nothing. His jaw clenched.

 

“You think I can’t tell?” Shadow Milk said. “You’ve gone soft again. Ever since him .” He paced slowly, circling. “Silverbell. That faerie knight with the ridiculous bow. He’s alive, isn’t he?”

 

Black Sapphire looked up—finally met his gaze.

 

Shadow Milk smiled. Cold. “You knew what he was. What he meant to us. To you. And still, you let him live.” A pause. “You disappoint me.”

 

A flick of Shadow Milk’s hand—dark magic shimmered. And just like that, Black Sapphire’s body crumpled, warping, pulled inward by arcane force.

 

He didn’t scream. He just vanished into a glowing tarot card, the image burning with curling silver lines.

 

Shadow Milk held it between two fingers, like something filthy.

 

A pulse of magic snapped through the air. The image on the card distorted—Black Sapphire’s form collapsed inward, bent into twisted geometry.

 

When it settled, the card glowed faintly. THE LOVERS. But not whole.

 

Two figures reaching across a chasm—one wrapped in light, the other in thorns. A sword hung above them, suspended by a fraying thread.

 

Shadow Milk sneered. “You think I don’t know what this is?” he said. “The Lovers. Upright—union, harmony. But reversed?”

 

He flipped the card. “Imbalance. Distance. Betrayal. That’s you now.” He held the card close. “Say it.”

 

Inside, Black Sapphire’s voice came faint, fractured. “…He’s alive.”

 

“And you let him live?”

 

A stiff nod.

 

“Why?” Shadow Milk’s voice cracked. “Why couldn’t you follow one damn order?!”

 

Black Sapphire’s answer was quiet—but unwavering. “…Because I still love him.”

 

Silence hit like a slab of stone.

 

Shadow Milk’s hand tightened around the card. “You don’t get to love,” he said, low and trembling. “Not anymore.”

 

The edges of the card curled, power coiling around it like smoke. But before it could tear, Black Sapphire moved. His spirit, flickering, forced itself to the surface.

 

“You think this makes you strong?” he said, echoing from the card. “Caging me like some disobedient pet?”

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed. “You are a pet. My weapon. My creation. You forget what you were before me.”

 

“I was broken,” Black Sapphire said. “But not heartless.”

 

“And look what that heart’s done—made you useless.”

 

“I followed you,” Black Sapphire snapped. “I erased names, ended lives, turned my back on everything— for you . And now you’d erase me for remembering how to feel?”

 

Shadow Milk leaned in, eyes burning. “You weren’t meant to feel. You were meant to serve.”

 

“You didn’t save me. You repurposed me,” Black Sapphire growled. “Wrapped your chains in loyalty and called it grace.”

 

Shadow Milk’s jaw clenched. “I rebuilt you from nothing. You were dying when I found you. And this is how you repay me?”

 

“For what?” Black Sapphire said. “Turning me into a weapon? For killing anyone who made you feel weak—including him ?”

 

A flicker in Shadow Milk’s expression. A flinch—small, but real.

 

“You don’t hate Silverbell because I loved him,” Black Sapphire said, quieter. “You hate him because he made me hesitate . Because he’s a weakness you can’t control.”

 

Silence. Taut and bitter. “He poisoned you,” Shadow Milk growled. “He made you doubt. Made you soft.”

 

“No. He reminded me I was alive.” The image in the card pressed against the surface, straining. “That I was more than your shadow.”

 

“You are my shadow,” Shadow Milk said through gritted teeth. “And shadows don’t get to dream.”

 

Magic surged in his hand. The card shook. “I should end you.”

 

“Then do it,” Black Sapphire said. “Prove I was never more than a tool to you.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t move. The magic was there. Ready. But his hand stayed still.

 

“You can’t ,” Black Sapphire whispered. “Because if I’m gone, you’ll be alone again.” That cut deep.

 

Shadow Milk turned away, breathing hard. The card still trembled in his grip.

 

“You don’t want me dead,” Black Sapphire said. “You want me to be obedient.”

 

Shadow Milk’s hand trembled. “You think I’m afraid?” he spat.

 

“No,” said Black Sapphire. “I think you’re terrified that I’m the only one who really knows you.”

 

The words struck. Hard. No spell could deflect that. Shadow Milk stared at the card, caught in the weight of it all. He didn’t rip it. He couldn’t. So Shadow Milk didn’t destroy him. Not completely. Instead, he gave him a different punishment.

 

When next the doors opened, Black Sapphire was gone. In his place stood someone else.

 

A woman of precise stillness and unreadable grace.

 

She wore the form perfectly: tall, composed, gliding instead of walking. Her presence was not loud, but it filled the space. A figure built from restraint and exactness.

 

He hadn’t erased Black Sapphire. He had transformed him.

 

Wrapped his will in silk and silence, then sent him forward as something new. A messenger. A vessel. A mask. A punishment that walked, bowed, and smiled.

And she was going to the Garden of Delights.

 

---

 

The Garden of Delights unfurled before her like a dream stitched together by Witches with a sense of humor. Everything pulsed with sugar and sorcery.

 

The sky above bled soft lavender and honey-pink. Floating islands hovered like thoughts half-formed, tethered by winding caramel vines. A river of rose-colored syrup wound through the valley below, catching the morning sun like a mirror smeared in glitter.

 

At the garden’s center stood the Heart of Paradise.

 

It towered above all—its petal-wings spread in silent praise of the light behind it. A halo of golden rays crowned its strange, divine form. Its bloom resembled an eye—lashes made of velvet petals, iris shifting slowly like it knew it was being watched, or worse, doing the watching.

 

Around it, chaos dressed in charm.

 

Oversized strawberries with stitched-on faces lounged in candy-colored grass, some smiling with too many teeth. Gumdrop bushes giggled as she passed. Berry trees leaned just slightly too close. Even the rainbows felt rehearsed, as if they knew their angle and lighting.

 

And yet, the Lady in Azure walked unshaken.

 

She moved with elegance, her basket balanced lightly on her arm. The sigil of the eye gleamed faintly on the lid, resonating with something in the heart of the garden.

 

The cookie folk—those tiny sugar beings that scampered between blossoms and puddings—paused as she passed. Some blinked. Others bowed. A few simply stared.

 

They didn’t know who she was. But the garden did. Dark tendrils curled in the edges of vision—low-hanging vines shaped like hands, trees whose leaves watched instead of rustled. They didn’t approach. Not yet. But they knew. This was not her first time here.

 

The Lady in Azure stopped near a pink lake, where the surface shimmered with constellations that didn’t belong to this sky. A fruit with a grin floated lazily past her foot.

 

She knelt beside the water, the ribbon in her hair catching the light. Her reflection wasn’t her own. It flickered. Glitched.

 

For a moment, the mirror showed what the disguise buried—Black Sapphire’s eyes, hard and tired. A ghost in velvet robes.

 

Then the Lady was back. She smoothed her gown. Stood.

 

And walked toward the towering flower at the center of it all, beneath its unblinking gaze—knowing full well that this place was built to enchant and devour.

 

The Lady in Azure wandered deeper into the Garden, her steps soft against the marshmallow ground, until the air grew thicker—richer. Like the scent of something overripe.

 

That’s when Pavlova Cookie found her.

 

A swirl of whipped ice and blade-thin grace, he appeared from the shimmer of a rainbow mist, expression unreadable beneath a sugary smirk.

 

“I assume you are here to pick some berries,” he said, gazing sharp as a paring knife.

 

She dipped her head. “Oh yes! Also I’m here to speak to her.”

 

A pause. Then, the faintest twitch of his eye. “ Of course you are.”

 

Without another word, he turned and led her—past lakes of liquid fondant, past toothy fruits and giggling sweets that watched them go. They crossed a bridge spun from candied glass, where the sound of every step chimed like distant bells.

 

And then, they reached it. The Heart of Paradise.

 

She sat atop a seat grown from hardened sugar and flowering vines—Eternal Sugar Cookie. Pale pink and white, radiant and terrible, her eyes shimmered like spun light, but there was nothing soft in her gaze. She looked like the memory of joy carved into a god’s jawline.

 

And she was smiling.

 

“Darling,” Eternal Sugar purred, rising. “You sure love that outfit of yours.”

 

The Lady in Azure curtsied. “So have you.”

 

They both laughed—light, polite, empty.

 

“Oh, but this look suits you,” Eternal Sugar said, descending from her throne with a glide. “Controlled. Fragile. Almost harmless. ”

 

“I could say the same,” the Lady said. “You used to wear your heartbreak louder.”

 

Eternal Sugar’s eyes flashed. Just for a second. “Still wearing that eye?” she asked, gesturing at the basket. “How loyal. Or is it just a habit now? Like dressing a wound that never heals.”

 

“Some wounds remind us who we are,” the Lady said calmly.

 

“Oh, come now,” Eternal Sugar said. “Let’s not pretend you know who you are anymore.”

 

They stood close now—two beasts, cloaked in beauty and venom.

 

“You always did love your theater,” Eternal Sugar said. “Even when you were a shadow wrapped around another’s ankles.”

 

“And you,” the Lady said, “still believe obsession is the same as love.”

 

That cut. Eternal Sugar’s smile froze.

 

“I told you the truth,” the Lady went on. “She didn’t run because of me. She ran because of what she saw in you.”

 

“And you enjoyed telling me that truth,” Eternal Sugar hissed. “You wanted to see me shatter.”

 

“No,” the Lady said. “I wanted to see if you could survive it.”

 

Silence bloomed between them like rot beneath frosting.

 

“You’re still bitter,” the Lady said. “Still clinging to the fantasy that if you sparkle enough, she’ll come back.”

 

“She is mine, Hollyberry Cookie is mine” Eternal Sugar whispered, voice trembling with sugar-coated steel. “Until you poisoned her.”

 

“I didn’t poison her,” the Lady replied. “I in fact never did anything to her, it was all her own actions.”

 

They stared at each other—two creatures too alike, too proud, too hurt.

 

Suddenly a glimmer of joy. Twisted, hopeful “She’ll come back,” Eternal Sugar said. “she told me herself!”

 

Then, Eternal Sugar’s lips curved into something cruel. “So why are you here, Shadow Milk ?”

 

The name hit the air like a slap. Pavlova tensed behind them. The disguise cracked, just slightly. A shimmer passed through the Lady in Azure’s form—but she held it.

 

As the last of the words faded between them, the Lady in Azure reached into her sleeve.

 

From the folds of silk and shadow, she drew a card.

 

It pulsed faintly—arcane silver ink etched into deep, inky black. “THE LOVERS”, reversed.

 

Eternal Sugar’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”

 

The Lady turned it slowly in her fingers. The image on the card shifted—two figures reaching for each other across a fractured chasm, their hands just shy of touching.

 

“A token,” she said smoothly. “Of someone I once trusted.”

 

The card shimmered. With a whispered command, the magic unraveled. Light burst from the card—sharp, spectral, pulsing with resistance—and from it, Black Sapphire Cookie emerged. He stumbled forward, knees buckling, breath ragged, still flickering between form and memory. The chains of enchantment had been stripped, but their weight lingered.

 

He collapsed to the ground at Eternal Sugar’s feet. She blinked. “ Him? ”

 

“A complication,” the Lady said.

 

She stepped forward, voice low and persuasive. “He’s become… disobedient. Touched by something soft. Something dangerous. I can’t risk him unraveling things further.”

 

Eternal Sugar eyed her sharply. “And you’re giving him to me ?”

 

“Not giving,” she corrected. “Entrusting. You’re someone who understands… how to tend to the broken. Or at least, how to keep them still.”

 

Eternal Sugar’s gaze flicked down to Black Sapphire—his hands clenched, jaw tight, but his eyes dazed, distant.

 

“A cookie in love,” she murmured. “That’s what he is now.”

 

Nostalgia. Curiosity. Pity. It flickered across Eternal Sugar’s face, all at once.

 

She reached down, her fingers brushing through the air. A soft, pastel cloud drifted into existence—plush as memory foam, scented faintly of vanilla blossoms and something colder beneath.

 

She guided it beneath Black Sapphire’s head and let him sink into it. “There, there…” she said softly, stroking his hair with theatrical care. “Rest your tired eyes.”

 

The cloud cradled him like it had waited for him. Black Sapphire’s eyes flickered. He didn’t speak—but surely he didn’t resist.

 

The Lady stood. Smiled faintly. “I’ll return for him once his heart’s cleared,” she said, turning her back.

 

“You really think that’ll happen?” Eternal Sugar asked, voice unreadable.

 

The Lady didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. With slow, graceful steps, she melted back into the Garden’s mist—leaving behind her fallen knight, her whispered threat, and a former queen holding someone else’s broken heart in her hands.

 

With nothing more to say—and no trust left to fake—Shadow Milk left her Garden. The Lady in Azure took one last poised breath… Then unraveled.

 

Her shape melted like wax under a cruel sun. Gown, ribbon, flesh—gone. In her place, something far more honest slithered from the folds of illusion. A serpent, long and gleaming, its scales a shifting oil-slick of blues and blacks. Eyes like pinpricks of moonlight.

 

It coiled once around the basket, now empty. Then slid silently across the candy-coated ground, winding past gumdrop roots and berry-faced trees, through rainbows that rippled like silk sheets disturbed.

 

The Garden did not try to stop him.

 

The snake moved without hurry— calculated . Confidence. A creature made for tight spaces and soft throats. Every inch a reminder: he never needed to roar to be dangerous.

 

From the Heart of her Paradise, Eternal Sugar Cookie watched him go. One hand still rested on Black Sapphire’s shoulder. Eternal Sugar Cookie sat beside him, silent for a long time.

 

Black Sapphire’s breathing had slowed. The shimmer of enchantment still pulsed around him, like a wound that refused to close. He didn’t speak. But his fingers twitched now and then—reaching, even in sleep, for something already lost.

 

Her voice broke the quiet like a lullaby dipped in frost. “A heart once filled with love… is now hollowed out.”

 

She smoothed his hair with slow fingers, watching the way his brow furrowed at her touch. Ghosts of what had been.

 

“I saw you once, you know,” she said gently, to no one in particular. “In the Faerie Kingdom. You thought no one noticed you slip past the palace gates, night after night. But I was there.”

 

Her voice dropped, a little smile curling her lip. “You were always so careful. So quiet. Just a shadow melting into mist. But even shadows have patterns.”

 

Her gaze turned toward the sky, though her hand never left his shoulder. “And every time you vanished… you ended up in the same place. Deep in the gardens of Faeriewood, where the lanterns glowed soft and the wind smelled like rain.”

 

She looked down at him again. “And there he’d be. The knight.” Silverbell.

 

“That silly, radiant thing with a bow too large for his frame and a grin too wide for someone so frequently hunted.”

 

She chuckled once. Soft. Not mocking. “I watched you fall for him. Quietly. Carefully. Not all at once, but in small, almost painful pieces. The way only a killer can love—like it might be his last act.”

 

She leaned in. “And he loved you back.” A pause. Her tone shifted—gentle, but darker. “But then came the order. Shadow Milk sent you to kill him.”

 

She could still see it. The moment everything turned.

 

“But you didn’t, did you? You gave him a potion instead. Something that dulled his light just enough to keep him alive—but dim enough to satisfy suspicion. Clever little traitor.”

 

Her eyes shimmered, half pride, half sorrow. “And of course… he found out.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing toward the mist where Shadow Milk had vanished. “Shadow Milk, ever the romantic tyrant, couldn’t handle that disobedience. So he brought you here. Delivered you to me with pretty words and poison hidden in a bow.”

 

Her smile faded. “And then,” she said slowly, “he made a wish, just now.” Her voice cracked just slightly.  “He wished your heart would be empty. So you could be dutiful again. Obedient. Hollow.”

 

She looked down at him—this half-conscious, half-erased thing lying at her feet. The knight with no sword. The killer with no pulse.

 

Her fingers curled around his. “And I ask myself,” she whispered, “Was it your wish too?”

 

The silence pressed in.

 

“Did you want to forget him, Black Sapphire?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “Or are you still in there… mourning him in a language no one taught you?” She leaned down and kissed his forehead. 

 

“I wonder what’s worse,” she said, standing again. “Losing someone you love—or losing the part of yourself that could ever love at all.”

 

She paused, gazing down at him as the pastel cloud shifted beneath his body, pulsing softly with magic.

 

“Your love story is almost like a fairytale,” she said, voice distant now. “But different Cookies want to rip that story apart. Burn the pages. Rewrite the ending.”

 

She glanced toward the horizon, toward the path where the serpent had vanished. “Some of them already have.”

 

And she turned, leaving him lying in the cradle of confection and sorrow. Above, the towering flower pulsed with quiet rhythm.

 

She took a slow breath, sweet with the scent of spun sugar and something rotting underneath. Her eyes lingered on Black Sapphire’s still form. “Yes,” she said softly, to no one and everyone. “I’ll grant his wish.”

 

She brushed a finger down Black Sapphire’s cheek—barely a touch. “To empty your heart.”

 

A flick of her wrist. Magic swirled from her fingertips like syrup in cold water—beautiful, slow, laced with something unkind. “But I’ll do it my way.”

 

The mist coiled tighter around him. His chest rose once, sharply, like something had been torn loose beneath the skin.

 

“Shadow Milk asked for an empty heart,” she whispered. “He never said you couldn’t be happy.”

 

Her eyes glittered, strange and bright. “So I’ll give you peace. Bliss, even. A soft place in this garden. The kind of dream where you never have to remember what was taken.”

 

She straightened. “You’ll smile. You’ll laugh, maybe. The ache will be gone. And you’ll never know why.”

 

Her voice lost its sweetness, dipping into something hollow and cold. “Because happiness without memory… is the cruelest kindness there is.”

 

The pastel cloud curled up around him like a flower closing for the night. Above them, the divine flower slowly turned its gaze away—satisfied.

 

And Eternal Sugar Cookie walked on, her steps light, her eyes hard. The Garden would keep him content. But not whole. Never whole.

Hours passed in the Garden.

 

 

The syrupy light shifted across the sky, casting soft shadows across the pastel hills. The clouds moved like lullabies, slow and thick, humming with magic too old to name.

 

And then—The cloud beneath him pulsed. Black Sapphire Cookie stirred. But he wasn’t Black Sapphire anymore.

 

When his eyes opened, they weren’t the same cold silver. They glowed faintly—like glass kissed by sunrise. His obsidian hair, once heavy and sharp, now shimmered with faint streaks of rose quartz pink, catching the light like spun sugar.

 

His wings— No longer jagged, no longer dark. They’d softened, expanded. Feathers of luminous white stretched gently behind him, tinged at the tips with pale gold and cotton-candy pink. Angel-like, elegant, and almost holy in their symmetry.

 

He sat up slowly, one hand brushing his temple.

 

His body was wrapped in sleek ceremonial robes A sleeveless tunic of soft white, belted with a twist of braided silver and violet thread. Pinned to his shoulder: a brooch shaped like a stylized mouthpiece—a symbol of voice, message, broadcast.

 

Sandaled boots. Light gauntlets. Subtle winged accents on his sleeves. A look made not for war, but for delivery . For revelation.

 

He looked around. The garden blinked back. “…Where…?” His voice was soft. Dazed. “What is this place?”

 

Eternal Sugar appeared beside him as if she’d always been there. “The Garden of Delights,” she said gently, brushing a curl from his cheek. “And you, dear one, are Sweet Sapphire Cookie now.”

 

He blinked slowly. “That name… it sounds…”

 

“It’s yours,” she said. “You’ve been asleep a long time. But you’re safe now. The past is long gone.”

 

He furrowed his brow, searching the edges of memory. Something ached—just behind his ribs, like a bruise wrapped in velvet.  But there was no image. No name. Just a strange emptiness where something warm had once lived.

 

“…I don’t remember,” he admitted.

 

“That’s alright,” Eternal Sugar whispered. “You don’t need to. All you need to do is fill your heart with Happiness!”

 

She helped him to his feet. His wings fluttered—delicate, weightless.

 

“You have a voice,” she said. “A message to share. That’s what you were made for. Not heartbreak. Not shadows.”

 

He nodded slowly, as if repeating a truth just planted. “I’m Sweet Sapphire Cookie.”

 

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “You’re mine now.”

 

And the Garden, always listening, swayed with the hum of something new being born. Or maybe— rewritten .

 

The next morning, the Garden bloomed with artificial stillness. Too perfect. Too staged.

 

Sweet Sapphire Cookie stood at the highest point in the garden—on a floating sugar-glass platform that shimmered like a sun-kissed lake. His wings were tucked neatly behind him, his new robe catching the soft wind like a banner.

 

Eternal Sugar stood at his side, gaze fixed on the horizon.

 

Below, the cookie folk gathered. Rows of pastel faces looked up at him—cookie citizens, chibi wanderers, dreamers that had come to the Garden seeking peace or pleasure or answers. None of them were leaving. Ever.

 

“You remember your purpose?” Eternal Sugar asked, her tone light, motherly.

 

He nodded. “Speak the truth.”

 

She smiled. “Exactly. Our truth.”

 

She reached into her sleeve and handed him a small item: a lollipop microphone, sleek and crystalized, its head shaped like a blooming flower.

 

“Your voice is a gift,” she said. “So share it. Let the world know how generous the Garden truly is. How free it feels… once you stop trying to leave.”

 

Sweet Sapphire took it in both hands like a sacred relic. He stepped to the edge of the platform, his face radiant with something between joy and vacant peace. Then he spoke—and the Garden amplified him. “Friends. Seekers. Listeners,” he began, his voice smooth, lilting, perfect. “You came here hoping for paradise. You found something better.”

 

The lollipop mic glowed, projecting his words across the Garden like a gospel broadcast. “No fear. No pain. No past to haunt you. Here, in the Garden of Delights, you are not forgotten. You are not abandoned. You are remade. ”

 

Below, the cookies cheered—whether by belief, confusion, or enchantment was hard to say.

 

“But listen well,” Sweet Sapphire continued. “This Garden does not keep you… it chooses you. And leaving it would be like leaving the sky. There is nowhere better. There is no more you need.”

 

Eternal Sugar watched with eyes like polished candy. Proud. Possessive. “Spread the word,” she had told him earlier. “Travel far. Speak often. Let them know: this place is a promise. And promises aren’t meant to be broken.”

 

So that’s what he did. Sweet Sapphire Cookie, the Garden’s golden voice, began his journey from candy realm to candy realm—smiling, glowing, and telling every soul the same thing:

 

The Garden of Delights is perfect. A paradise filled with happiness. You don’t need to leave. You can’t.

 

Sweet Sapphire had no history in this garden nor burdens—atleast that's what he recalls. He is a smile shaped by delicate enchantments and a purpose that asked very little.

 

He was the Garden’s voice now. A greeter. A guide. A whisper of “Welcome” echoing through gumdrop groves and caramel winds.

 

“This is the Garden of Delights,” he’d say, with a calm, dreamy lilt. “Where all sorrows melt and all wants are soothed. Rest. There’s no need to rush.”

 

The Garden of Delights, after all, was also the Garden of Sloth . There were no hard errands. No urgent tasks. The only things that exists there are the soft laughter, sweet fog, and days that bled into each other like watercolor.

 

And when someone did have business to attend to, it was often Pavlova Cookie who handled it. He moved with quiet resolve through the candy-coated haze—cool where everything else was warm, precise where others meandered. And often, Sweet Sapphire walked with him.

 

Not because he had to. Just… because. They would speak in easy fragments. “Need help carrying that?”

 

“No. But walk with me.”

 

“Do you ever miss the cold?”

 

“I am the cold.”

And sometimes, “You ever wonder if you were someone else before this?”

 

“No,” Sweet Sapphire would say, smiling gently. “Should I?”

 

Pavlova wouldn’t answer. He’d just glance at him—brows furrowed, the way someone might look at a dream they couldn’t quite remember. A sense that something didn’t fit.

 

He’d shrug it off. Every time.nSweet Sapphire would laugh—quiet and content.

 

He liked helping Pavlova. He liked the Garden. The lollipops that hummed. The rivers of pink sugar. The low hum of joy all around him, soaked into every breath.

 

He was happy here. The voice of the Garden. Sweet. Serene. Empty. And Eternal Sugar was pleased. He hadn’t tried to leave. But sometimes, when Pavlova moved ahead and Sweet Sapphire lingered behind...

 

A look would pass over his face. There was this flicker—like the shadow of a forgotten name brushing against his smile. And it would vanish before he noticed. The Garden was merciful that way.

---

The sun above the Garden of Delights never truly set—it just dimmed into candy-colored twilight, stretched over clouds that smelled like rosewater and spun sugar.

 

Pavlova Cookie walked the edge of the syrup stream, his sandals making no sound against the mossy licorice path. At his side, Sweet Sapphire drifted like he had no weight at all.

 

They’d walked this loop a dozen times before. Maybe more. Neither of them ever said where it began, or where it ended.

 

“You’re quiet today,” Pavlova murmured, not looking at him.

 

“I’m always quiet,” Sweet Sapphire said, smiling faintly. “It’s part of my design.”

 

That earned a sideways glance. “Design?”

 

“Voice of the Garden. The less I say, the more they listen.”

 

Pavlova didn’t answer. His eyes returned to the rippling syrup. A berry with a face drifted by, humming a lullaby no one remembered teaching it.

 

After a few paces, he asked, “Do you… remember anything from before?”

 

Sweet Sapphire blinked. “Before?”

 

“Before you were… this.” He motioned vaguely at the wings, the robes, the softness molded into something too perfect.

 

Sweet Sapphire tilted his head, the smile never leaving. “Hmm… That sounds like a burden. Why would I want that?”

 

Pavlova didn’t respond. His grip on his bow tightened just slightly.

 

“I’m content now,” Sweet Sapphire added. “Happy, even.”

 

Pavlova nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can tell.” But he said it like a lie.

 

They walked on in silence for a bit longer. The wind smelled like cherry glaze. Far off, laughter echoed—too sweet, too soft, like a dream on repeat.

 

Then, “You had someone, didn’t you?” Pavlova asked, voice low. “Before all this.”

 

Sweet Sapphire paused. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “I think if I had… I would’ve remembered something or someone warm. Something bright.”

 

Pavlova stared at him a moment. “Not all warmth leaves a mark. Sometimes it just… fades.”

 

Sweet Sapphire stopped. Turned. “Did you lose someone?” The question was simple. Honest.

 

Pavlova didn’t answer at first. Then he shrugged. “I think maybe we both did.”

 

Sweet Sapphire smiled again. Sad, but serene. “I’m sorry,” he said.

 

And for a moment, the way he said it—gentle, instinctual, not rehearsed—made Pavlova’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t name. They stood like that for a moment. One with no past. One who couldn’t forget.

 

Then the garden sang again—soft and low, as if it had been listening.

 

Sweet Sapphire turned back to the path, his voice light. “We should finish the loop. The sugar moss closes at dusk.”

 

Pavlova followed. But in his heart, a question rooted itself deeper. If Sweet Sapphire truly had nothing left to remember... Why did he still sound so much like someone who mourned?

 

Their path ended beneath a towering berry tree, its branches drooping with swollen, syrupy fruit that pulsed faintly with color. Some of the berries had sleepy faces. Others giggled softly when the breeze brushed past.

 

Sweet Sapphire leaned back against the trunk, wings folding behind him like petals at dusk.

 

Pavlova sat nearby, his bow resting across his lap. For once, the garden felt still. No errands left. For now its only the two of them, and the gentle rustling of leaves steeped in sugar.

 

Pavlova Cookie sat back against the trunk with his arms loosely folded, bow unstrung and resting at his side. Beside him, Sweet Sapphire curled slightly, wings relaxed and glowing soft in the low light. He looked… peaceful.

 

“You did well today,” Pavlova said quietly.

 

Sweet Sapphire smiled. “So did you. Everyone seemed so pleased.”

 

“Mm.” Pavlova nodded.

There was a long, easy silence between them. Just wind, berry-sway, and the far-off hum of the Garden’s song.

 

Then, finally, Pavlova said, “I’m glad you’re happy.”

 

Sweet Sapphire didn’t even hesitate. “I am.”

 

Pavlova studied his face. Still. Serene. The kind of stillness you only got from being carefully, thoroughly hollowed out. He didn’t say what he was really thinking.

 

That if Sweet Sapphire ever did want to leave—if some shard of memory cracked through that glazed-over joy—he’d be sent straight back for re-education. And Pavlova had seen what that looked like.

 

Once. There had been another.

 

A cookie who once longed for flight—not just the flutter of joy, but real escape. Her “dull” wings had been coated in syrup, colored and weighted by the Garden’s sweetness. She couldn’t fly anymore. Not really.

 

But she tried and she left. Tattered, half-broken, wings ragged from the effort—but she made it. Flew past the glowing trees, past the candy thorns, and vanished into the sky like a smear of sunset.

 

Pavlova never saw her land. But he figured... she must’ve made it back. Back to the Faerie Kingdom. Back to the friends she used to sing with.

 

She’d left alongside someone else. Someone important. Eternal Sugar’s other half, Hollyberry Cookie.

 

He remembered Eternal Sugar’s smile the day they disappeared. It didn’t crack, but it shifted . Just enough to chill the whole Garden. He didn’t speak of it anymore. So he stopped mentioning the word “ escape” weeks ago.

 

He didn’t bring up the past. Didn’t talk about the Faerie Kingdom. Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the false peace hold him too.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

 

---

Far across the Heart of Paradise, past the sparkle-wrapped hedges and syrup rivers, Eternal Sugar Cookie stood beneath an arch of twisting candycane vines.

 

Her gown shimmered like spun glaze in the twilight—glossy, immaculate, just slightly too sharp at the edges. Around her, the garden danced: cookie creatures laughing, chasing dream-balloons, floating on sugarclouds. All sweetness. All ceremony.

 

But she wasn’t watching them. Her gaze was locked on the berry tree. On them. Pavlova and Sweet Sapphire. Resting. Quiet. Still. Her smile grew.

 

She had built this. A paradise forged from pain and curated silence. A place for broken things to forget they’d ever cracked. And now he—Sweet Sapphire—sat beneath her tree, content. Quiet. Empty. Safe.

 

It was working. It was finally working. She has granted Shadow Milk’s wish while making his little minion happy in her garden. And she would protect it. At any cost.

 

Because in this Garden contains love and happiness. Sweet, shallow, and everlasting.

---

Back at the Faerie Kingdom two brothers, two comrades ignoring each other for days. They had an argument about Forbidden love.

 

Mercurial Knight stood outside Silverbell’s home, the chill of the morning air clinging to his armor like guilt. The door was closed now—again. And so was Silverbell.

 

He gritted his teeth, turning away, fists clenched tight at his sides. Why? Why would someone like him —the most dedicated of them all—risk everything for love ?

 

He walked down the quiet path with no real destination, his cape dragging just slightly in the soft wind. The Faerie Kingdom had always been a place of color, light, truth. And yet lately, everything felt like smoke. The rumors, the lies… the deception threading into their roots like rot.

 

Silverbell had always been a shining example of what it meant to be a Knight of the Silver Tree. Steady. Precise. Loyal. An archer who rarely missed, who could sense tension in the air before an arrow even flew.

 

He wasn’t delicate—not really. Despite his soft smile, Silverbell was crafted with steel beneath the flowered cloak. The kingdom’s secrets were sewn into his very heart, and yet he carried that weight with grace. With gentleness. With hope.  And now?

 

Now he risked all of it. For a liar . For someone who planted the rot that now gnawed at the kingdom’s roots.

 

For Black Sapphire Cookie. Mercurial stopped in his tracks, breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t that Silverbell had simply fallen for the enemy. It was who he’d become because of it.

 

Because love, for someone like Silverbell, wasn’t a weakness. It was armor. It was resolve. A loving heart was the strongest shield. But it was also the easiest thing to break.

 

And that’s what terrified Mercurial the most. Not that Silverbell had made a mistake. But he hadn’t .

 

That maybe—just maybe—he had seen something in Black Sapphire worth believing in. Worth fighting for. And Mercurial Knight didn’t know whether that made Silverbell a fool… or the bravest Cookie he’d ever met.

 

Why would he throw this all away just for him? Because for Silverbell... it wasn’t throwing it away. Not really. Not when he was the one who taught him what it meant to feel beyond the weight of duty. What it meant to look at someone and not see a fellow soldier, or a mission, or a tool—but a choice . A future he hadn’t dared to imagine until Black Sapphire walked into his life with sharp words, guarded eyes, and a heart stitched together by secrets.

 

Why would he risk everything? Because Black Sapphire looked at him like he wasn’t a knight first—but a Cookie. A person. Someone worth knowing beneath the armor.

 

Because even behind lies and disguises, Silverbell saw truth —not in what Sapphire said, but in the pauses. In hesitation. In the way he held his hand like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

 

Because for once, Silverbell wanted to choose for himself. Not out of loyalty to the kingdom or duty to the tree—but for his own heart.

 

And it terrified him. But it also made him feel alive. So no, to him, it wasn’t about betrayal. It was about belonging. Even if it cost him everything.

 

 

---

What is love? And what is a lie?

 

Silverbell asked himself that in the quiet. Not out loud—never out loud. Just in that private, vulnerable space behind his calm smile, behind his shining armor, behind the eyes everyone expected to be strong.

 

He used to think love was simple. Pure. The reward for loyalty and good deeds. Something gentle, like a breeze through the silver trees. Something that stayed. Something that didn’t make your chest ache.

 

But now he wasn’t so sure. Because love had felt like stolen glances in gardens, secret letters carried on soft magic, a hand held too long during a dance in the rain.

 

Love had also felt like betrayal. Like a lie whispered sweetly. Like bleeding out while the one you trusted wore another name.

 

So then… what is a lie? A mask, perhaps. A shield. A performance for someone else's comfort. But also—sometimes—a survival tactic.

 

He wondered if Black Sapphire even knew the difference anymore. He wondered if he did. Maybe love and lies were two sides of the same blade. both sharp, both powerful, both capable of cutting deep.

 

And Silverbell? He was standing right on the edge of it. One side held duty. The other, the Cookie who made him feel like more than a title. So he asked again, to the silence of his room, the beat of his tired heart—

 

What is love? A risk.

 

What is a lie? A choice.

 

And right now? He was tangled in both.

---

Days passed quietly in the Faerie Kingdom. Too quietly.

 

Each morning, Silverbell sat at the window, half a cup of tea cooling in his hand, watching the silver leaves rustle and the glowing orchards hum in the breeze. The sun rose and fell on schedule. Knights rotated shifts. Healers made their rounds.

 

He played the part of the good patient. Steady. Grateful. Still. But inside, he was already halfway to the gate.

 

Each night, once the halls went silent, he practiced—silent spells under his breath, short-range teleports, cloaking illusions. Black Sapphire’s book stayed hidden under his pillow, stuffed with notes he'd read and re-read until they lived in his bones.

 

He wasn’t trying to escape. He just needed space. Air. A glimpse of something that wasn’t polished stone and careful smiles.

 

He needed to move without being watched. By the end of the week, the plan was ready. A new cloak. A soft glamour. A clone curled under the covers, face flushed with a fever charm.

 

When “Snowbell Cookie” slipped through the back gardens, the guards didn’t even blink. The forest welcomed him like an old friend.

 

Silverbell moved slowly at first, mindful of the stiffness in his leg and the pulse of old pain just under the skin. But the path was soft with moss, the air damp and cool, and each step came easier than the last.

 

No guards. No routine. No eyes tracking his every breath. The hush of leaves shifting above him, the distant sound of water, and the familiar scent of damp bark and wildflowers. He didn’t go far. Not at first.

 

Just far enough that the palace vanished behind trees. Far enough that he could hear birdsong again, real and unfiltered, not echoes through stone windows.

 

He let his glamour shimmer low, enough to blur him from view but not hide him from the world entirely. He wanted to feel it. The raw, unshielded quiet.

 

A branch snapped beneath his boot. He paused, half-smiling. The ache in his leg hadn’t disappeared. The weight in his chest hadn’t either. But here, at least, he could breathe without asking permission.

 

He leaned against a tree, let his fingers trail over the rough bark, let the silence settle. This wasn’t escape. It was a return. Silverbell didn’t feel like he was disappearing. He felt like himself.

---

 

 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back in the velvet lounge chair of the decrepit manor, one clawed hand stirring his fourth cup of voidroot tea, the other draped lazily over the armrest. The fireplace crackled with purple flame, casting flickering light on walls cluttered with relics, broken wards, and scattered scrolls he had already read twice .

 

He sighed. “Ugh. Boring.”

 

The word echoed through the empty hall, devoured quickly by the silence.

 

He’d already sent his minion slithering across Earthbread to dismantle whatever sad little defenses the Vanilla Kingdom was rebuilding. One more to track down that walking headache known as Pure Vanilla Cookie. While his other minion is going through “rehabilitation”, he is being “re-educated” at the Garden of Delights.

 

He didn’t. (well he technically does but he needs a plan for it with the other beasts) Not today.

 

Shadow Milk stood, swirling his tea once more before carelessly tossing the cup into the fireplace where it shattered with a tink . A shadow blinked across his shoulders, draping his back like a living cloak.

 

He needed out.

 

And so, without alert or fanfare, he changed—his figure cloaked in an illusion of an average wanderer: hooded, dusty, forgettable. Not quite like a normal cookie, but also not quite like the monster he had become. Just enough to pass around the forest to walk around. 

 

Then he wandered. And his feet, almost without intention, brought him to the forest.

 

The one where the Spire had once reached for the stars—where power had bloomed and crumbled, where glass had melted into magic and echoes still whispered from the trees.

 

The air still smelled of battle. Of scorched roots and disrupted ley lines. Even now. And then—He felt it. A flicker. An itch. A false note in the natural hum. Magic. But it is borrowed. Not owned. A clumsy cover spell trying too hard to blend in.

 

He stopped. Smiled. “Mm... someone’s been naughty.”

 

His gaze narrowed. The taste in the air was all wrong—familiar, but diluted. Not Black Sapphire, not quite, but something laced through him. Ah. There it was. A stolen tether. Disobedience always left a trail. So it was true. Black Sapphire did spare his Faerie Knight after all.

 

Did he really think Shadow Milk couldn’t feel it? Couldn’t trace the scar it left in the magic? “You forget what I am, gem,” he murmured to no one. “You forget who made you.”

 

He moved like smoke, weaving between broken trees, breath steady.

 

The forest bent around him—branches recoiling, roots curling back as if the land itself remembered him and chose not to interfere.

 

The deeper he walked, the more the air shifted. That illusion spell was holding, barely. Sloppy seams. Too much shimmer around the edges. And underneath it—fear. Real, stifled fear.

 

Shadow Milk licked his teeth. “Borrowed magic always tastes like desperation.

 

Another step. The ground pulsed underfoot, disturbed ley lines humming faintly with every breath he took. Whatever spell was being used here, it wasn’t native. It had been rushed, patched together—likely copied from someone who did know what they were doing.

 

Which meant—Not just disobedience. Complicity. He smiled again, colder this time. Slower.

 

The fog parted slightly. He could see the outline now—leaning, still trembling against the ruin. The figure tried to shrink further, cloaking themselves deeper in shadow, in illusion, in silence. But it didn’t matter.

 

Shadow Milk saw everything. He always had.

 

He tilted his head, watching the aura flicker, like a lie choking on its own weight. The disguise frayed at the edges now, the magic unraveling with each ragged breath the figure took. A faint scent reached him—one he remembered from courtrooms full of polished armor and desperate bargains.

 

He felt emotion. Something raw. Alive. Cracking at the seams.

 

He tilted his head, breath catching on something far more interesting than ruins or old spells. “Oh?”

 

There, not far off, through the low fog and between splintered trees—was a figure. Leaning against a ruined pillar. Shaking. Bleeding. But alive. And more importantly—radiating pain. Heartbreak, grief, shame. All tangled in one fragile shell.

 

Shadow Milk’s grin spread slow and wicked across his lips. “Now this feels promising.”

 

He stepped forward silently, shadows peeling off him like mist. His voice dropped into a smoother, darker tone—half amusement, half hunger. “Well, well… what have we here?”

 

And that was the moment—When he saw Silverbell Cookie in a disguise. Looks like someone is practising magic lately.

 

And everything changed. Silverbell didn’t hear the voice at first. Not clearly. It wa like a flicker in the air—like a wrong note in a familiar song.

Then, cutting through the forest stillness. “Oh, lookie lookie! Who do we have here.”

 

The words rang out like a stage cue. Smooth. Slow. Drenched in menace. Silverbell froze.

 

That voice—rich, velvety, and sharp as broken glass—carried through the trees like smoke. It echoed with false delight, with something too amused, too knowing.

 

“Tiptoeing through the woods like a little lost fawn.”

 

Silverbell’s pulse kicked. He scanned the trees, but saw only shadows. His glamour flickered instinctively, sharp and thin, ready to vanish him in a breath.

 

“Shadow Milk Cookie,” he said aloud, low and careful. Not a question.

 

“Awwww! You do remember me. How flattering! ”

 

A shape emerged between the trees—tall, draped in velvet-black magic, silver trim catching the dim light like a blade. Shadow Milk’s grin was all teeth, his eyes glowing faintly violet beneath the hood.

 

“I was hoping for a dramatic reunion. This is almost too easy.”

 

Silverbell took a step back, his heel brushing moss. His leg still ached. His magic wasn’t at full strength. He was alone. “What do you want?” he asked, voice steady despite the pressure tightening in his chest.

 

Shadow Milk tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Want? Darling, don’t insult us both. You walked out of your cage. I’m just here to welcome you back to the wild.”

 

Silverbell didn’t move.

 

Shadow Milk stepped closer, cloak trailing behind him like spilled ink, every motion deliberate, theatrical, as if he were performing to an invisible audience. “I have to say,” he drawled, “I’m a tiny bit disappointed. I sent my best.”

 

A pause. A smile like a knife. “And yet—here you are. Alive. Limping around like a little ghost in the woods.”

Silverbell’s breath caught, but he kept his face neutral. “Black Sapphire,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

 

Shadow Milk clapped his gloved hands together, a single, slow, sarcastic beat. “Oh, bravo. You figured it out. Yes—your charming little shadow. Quiet. Efficient. Loyal, until he wasn’t.”

 

He stepped around Silverbell now, circling. “I sent him to kill you. Clean. Painful, or maybe painless if he was feeling sentimental. Clearly, he wasn’t.”

 

Silverbell’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The memory of the rain, of Sapphire’s glance—quiet and real—tightened in his chest like a knot.

 

“He had his chance,” Silverbell said. “He didn’t take it.”

 

“No,” Shadow Milk hissed, suddenly close. “He failed.” The word cracked like a whip. “And now I have to clean up the mess myself. How tedious.”

 

Silverbell stepped back, pulse quickening. “Did he tell you why?” he asked. “Why he didn’t do it?”

 

Shadow Milk's smile faltered. Just for a flicker. “He’s weak. That’s all. He let you speak. He let you live. A rookie mistake, but he’ll answer for it.” Something cold slid behind those words. Something dangerous.

 

Silverbell stood taller, despite the pain, despite the fear. “He made a choice. You don’t own him anymore.”

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see how long that illusion lasts.”

 

The world around Silverbell rippled. The trees wavered like mirages in heat. The forest floor split into mirrored fragments, and a low hum vibrated through the air—wrong, discordant. Magic so dense it tasted metallic on his tongue. Then—“Let’s raise the curtain, shall we?”

 

Shadow Milk lifted a single, graceful hand—and the entire forest twisted into a stage.

 

The stars above blinked out, replaced by velvet curtains of night. The ground beneath Silverbell shimmered, hardening into polished obsidian tile, reflecting not his own image, but that of his kingdom.

 

The Faerie Kingdom. Cracked. Burning. He gasped. Illusions. No—not illusions. Visions. Too real. Too sharp. Too vivid to be lies.

 

The Silver Tree twisted, rotting in its core. The Queen collapsed. Knights have fallen. Their armor scorched with shadow. A scream rang out from somewhere—pure, familiar.

 

Mercurial Knight.

 

“No!” Silverbell stepped back. “Stop it!”

 

But the scene didn’t stop. It grew.

 

From the burning kingdom emerged himself —a warped mirror version of Silverbell. Face blank. Eyes dim. Arrow drawn—and aimed straight at a familiar figure standing across the flames.

 

Moondrop. No, not Moondrop. Black Sapphire .

 

His disguise was gone, his cloak torn, his expression unreadable as he looked at the false Silverbell—who loosed the arrow.

 

Thunk.

 

It landed square in Sapphire’s chest. He staggered, fell, and never rose again. Silverbell shouted, stumbled toward the vision, but his hands passed through it like mist.

 

Shadow Milk’s voice came like silk over broken glass. “Tell me, little knight... When that day comes—when your kingdom crumbles and you must choose…”

He appeared again, stepping into view like a ringmaster. “Will it be your honor —or your heart?”

 

Silverbell clenched his teeth, heart hammering. “None of this is real.”

 

Shadow Milk raised his hand again, and the stage shifted.

 

Now they stood in Silverbell’s own room. But it was ruined —sheets torn, arrows scattered on the floor. And Black Sapphire stood in the center of it.

 

But he was different. Eyes cold. Voice monotone. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

 

His voice echoed like a bell in a tomb. “Why didn’t you fight for me?”

 

Silverbell staggered, chest twisting. “Stop it!”

 

Sapphire stepped closer. “You wanted to understand me, didn’t you?”

 

Silverbell whispered, “I do.”

 

“Then why didn’t you save me?”

 

Crash. The window shattered, and shadowy tendrils slithered into the room—engulfing Black Sapphire. He didn’t even struggle. He disappeared without a sound.

 

Silverbell screamed. Ran forward. Too late. And then… it was himself in front of him again. But older. Alone.

 

A knight kneeling in the ruins of the Faerie Kingdom, crown in hand, crushed beneath his own armor, haunted by silence.

 

He turned to face Silverbell. “You gave everything. And still lost him.”

 

“Stop it—!”

 

“You should have chosen. Should have ended him when you had the chance.”

 

“I couldn’t! ”

 

“You were weak.”

 

“I loved him! ”

 

Silence. The illusions crumbled—shattered glass falling upward into the sky.

 

And all that remained was Shadow Milk. Laughing quietly behind his hand, dark amusement curled in his voice. “Well then.”

His eyes gleamed. “Now you know.”

 

Without another word, Shadow Milk’s hand lashed forward—magic searing across the space like a whip of starlight laced with poison. Silverbell raised his bow in reflex, blocking with a shimmering barrier, but it splintered on contact.

 

Shadow Milk lunged—not as a manipulator now, but as a predator.

 

Their magic clashed—Silver arrows burning with faerie light, shadow bolts whistling like cursed wind. Every strike was followed by words, jabs as sharp as the spells.

“HA! You think you can SAVE him?!”

 

“I already have! ”

 

“You don’t know what he is!”

 

“I know who he wants to be!”

 

“You’ll never reach him!”

 

“I already did! ”

 

The sky above the stage-forest was starless, suffocating. Shadow Milk advanced—cloak flaring behind him, one hand curled like a claw around spiraling magic. With each step, the shattered illusions of Silverbell’s kingdom echoed across the obsidian floor like a mocking heartbeat.

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. His hands shook—but he raised his bow. A ripple of silver energy pulsed along its limbs. He loosed the first arrow. Thunk!

 

Shadow Milk sidestepped, and the arrow curved—drawn off-course by a lash of shadow. The Beast of Deceit moved like flowing ink, turning defense into performance, each motion deliberate, theatrical.

 

“You say you’ve saved him,” Shadow Milk called, twisting the air with his voice, “But saving someone is not the same as knowing them.”

 

Another volley of arrows sang toward him—silver streaks slicing through the dark. He clapped once. The shadows bloomed outward like smoke, catching every arrow midair and dissolving them into ash.

 

“And you, little knight…” Shadow Milk’s eyes gleamed. “Do you truly know who you are without him?”

 

Silverbell’s magic flared in his chest, rage biting cold. He dashed forward, blade of moonlight crackling to life in his free hand. Steel met smoke.

 

The two collided in a burst of silver and violet magic, each strike rebounding with a deafening crash. The ground beneath them cracked and healed, cracked and healed—warped by illusion and defiance both.

 

“You don’t get to ask that!” Silverbell shouted, slashing through a veil of conjured flame. “You twist truth! You torture hearts just to prove you were right to give up on yours!”

 

Shadow Milk bared his teeth, now snarling more beast than bard. “Is it twisting —or is it revealing ?”

 

A dozen silhouettes erupted from the stage—false versions of Black Sapphire, of Moondrop, of Silverbell himself. Each wore different expressions: betrayal, fear, emptiness.

 

Each whispered, “You failed me.”

 

Silverbell spun, slicing them down, heart pounding like a war drum. His magic burned brighter—raw faerie essence scorching the illusions until they scattered like fireflies.

 

“I know what I saw in him!” Silverbell roared. “I know what I felt ! And no twisted dream of yours changes that!”

 

Shadow Milk circled, arms wide like a maestro conducting an orchestra of shadows. His voice dropped low, almost gentle. “He will break you. When his past claws back to the surface—he will become the weapon he was built to be. And you—”

 

He snapped his fingers. A chain of light snapped around Silverbell’s ankle, dragging him into a new illusion. A battlefield. Black Sapphire. Eyes dead. Expression gone. And Silverbell, kneeling—arrow in his hand—aimed at his heart.

 

“Choose,” Shadow Milk said behind him. “Again. Let’s see what honor costs this time.”

 

Silverbell’s scream split the illusion. His faerie magic erupted, blasting the vision into motes. He surged to his feet, wings of pure starlight unfurling behind him.

 

“I choose him !” he shouted, silver tears burning down his cheeks. “Every version! The broken one, the masked one, the one who lied, the one who fought— all of him! ”

 

And he fired—not one, but three arrows, each glowing with truth-bound magic. They struck Shadow Milk dead-on. His illusions fractured. The stage cracked. Even the sky seemed to ripple.

 

Shadow Milk staggered, coughing violet mist. His crown tilted. He looked up at Silverbell. And he laughed—quiet, bitter, almost awed. “Well then…” he rasped. “Maybe you’re not so weak after all.”

 

Then he raised his hand and shattered the world one last time. Silverbell’s breath steamed in the night air. His arrow blazed with silver fire.

 

Shadow Milk stood motionless across the obsidian floor, eyes narrowed, smile too calm. He wasn’t attacking. He was watching. Waiting. That was worse.

 

“I won’t play your games,” Silverbell growled, taking aim.

 

Shadow Milk chuckled, low and soft, as if sharing a secret.

 

“Oh, little knight… you’ve always been playing.”

 

Then the lights cut. Total darkness. Silverbell gasped—but when his vision returned, he wasn’t in the forest.

 

He was back in the Faerie Kingdom..But wrong. Frozen in time.

 

The Silver Tree stood tall again—untouched, perfect. They are laughing beside each other Black Sapphire leaned against the garden wall, arms crossed, a rare half-smile on his face.

 

A moment he remembered. Or thought he did. He blinked—and it was gone.

 

Now, multiple knights lay dying at his feet. Black Sapphire was standing over him with a blade. Blood stained his cloak.

 

“ This is you, ” Shadow Milk’s voice whispered in his ear, close, too close. “ This is what you let happen. ”

 

Silverbell screamed and slashed at the voice—only to find his blade cutting nothing.

 

He spun—Shadow Milk stood across the stage again, cloak billowing in silence.

 

“You like to think love makes you strong,” the Beast said, almost tender. “But look at you. Flailing. Uncertain. One scream, one illusion—and you’re unraveling.”

 

Silver arrows flashed from Silverbell’s bow.

 

Shadow Milk let them come. They passed through him—through a projection. A shadow.

 

Behind Silverbell, the real one appeared, whispering, “Let’s give the audience a real show.” He clapped. The entire field shimmered.

 

Multiple versions of Silverbell stepped out of the mist.

 

One held a flower, tears in his eyes. One held a bow and arrow, soaked in jam. One was kneeling in chains. One smiled like a villain. They circled him like wolves.

 

And they all spoke at once.

 

“ You never deserved him. ”

 

“ You could’ve stopped it. ”

 

“ You only love him because you want to fix yourself. ”

 

Silverbell dropped to one knee, shaking, covering his ears. “Lies—!”

 

Shadow Milk’s voice came smooth and quiet. “No, no. Not lies. Just… lines. From the role you won’t admit you’re playing.”

 

He raised his hand. Magic cracked like a whip. A bolt of starlit poison lashed forward, not aimed at the body—but the heart.

 

Silverbell parried just in time, the force blasting him back across the stage. He slid, staggered, but rose. Breathing hard. Eyes blazing. “You don’t get to tell me who I am,” he said.

 

Shadow Milk tilted his head. “Then show me.” The illusions lunged.

 

Silverbell fired. One down. Then two. Then three—burning them down not with hatred, but conviction.

 

“I love him,” he whispered with each arrow. “And I won’t let you take that from me.”

 

Shadow Milk finally dropped the mask of indifference. His grin sharpened into a snarl. “Then I’ll rip it out of you myself.”

 

He rushed forward—not a puppetmaster now, but a storm. Magic clashed in white-hot arcs. Words became weapons.

 

Every spell from Shadow Milk twisted memory into fear. Every strike from Silverbell was a declaration of belief. “You think love is enough?!” Shadow Milk roared.

 

“It’s everything! ” Silverbell shouted.

 

“You’re weak!”

 

“I’m still standing!”

 

They collided in a final burst—Silver fire and Shadow flame. The stage cracked. The illusions broke.

 

And the two fell apart, gasping, the silence ringing louder than the battle. The smoke hadn’t even cleared before Shadow Milk was standing again, untouched, dusting himself off with theatrical flair. Then—with a flourish—he pulled out a deck of long, dark cards.

 

“Ah,” he purred, fanning them with a flick of his fingers. “Now for your favorite game, little knight. The future.”

 

Silverbell didn’t lower his bow.

 

Shadow Milk smiled wider. “You look skeptical,” he cooed. “But I assure you… I’ve seen it. Yours. His. All of it.”

 

He drew the first card and let it spin in the air like a coin. A painted image shimmered into view:

 

“THE TRAITOR”

 

It bore the face of Black Sapphire, blood on his hands, a flower at his feet. Silverbell flinched—but held steady. Another card drawn, thrown high.

 

“THE FOOL”

 

His own face this time. Kneeling. Broken bow. Tears in his eyes.

 

“And the last,” Shadow Milk whispered, voice dipped in mock-gravity.

 

He drew the final card. It glowed ominously.

 

“DEATH.”

 

On it: the Silver Tree, burning from within, collapsing into ash. There were no signs of survivors.

 

Shadow Milk let the cards fall like feathers. “Your love story ends,” he said softly, “with fire. Betrayal. Silence.”

 

He tilted his head. “So tell me… when the moment comes, and he raises his hand against you—will you stop him? Or die hoping he won’t?”

 

Silverbell’s heart pounded. The images burned in his mind. But he didn’t lower his weapon. Instead, he laughed—short and sharp. “You’re lying.”

 

Shadow Milk blinked. Almost imperceptibly.

 

“I know what you are,” Silverbell said, stepping forward. “You’re the Beast of Deceit. You don’t predict the future. You poison it. You distort the truth.”

 

He aimed his bow again, steady as a vow. “None of that was real. Just another cheap trick.”

 

Shadow Milk’s smile returned—but it was thinner now. Tighter. “You’re clever,” he murmured. “That’s what makes it tragic.”

 

Another wave of magic lashed from his fingertips—this one infused with those same cards, spectral versions darting like blades.

 

Silverbell fired into the storm, eyes locked on his opponent. “You keep forgetting,” he shouted. “I don’t need to know the future.”

 

Their magics collided, ripping the stage apart again.

 

“I already made my choice.”

 

The clash of light and shadow split the stage down the center. Cards burned midair, exploding into embers as Silverbell’s arrows tore through them.

 

Shadow Milk backflipped, landing lightly, robes rippling. But this time, his smile was gone. Only the stillness of it remained. Then came the voice—low, cutting, stripped of charm.

 

“Aw...” he said, eyes narrowing.

 

“You really think that kind of mindset would work here?” The illusion around them began to stutter—flashing between the battlefield, the throne room, a graveyard. “Because it’s not.”

 

He flicked his wrist, and the ground beneath Silverbell sank —a pit of endless mirrors spiraling downward.

 

Each one showed a different future. Each one ended in ruin.

 

“You think love is some spell strong enough to rewrite fate?” Shadow Milk snapped, stepping closer. “I’ve seen what you refuse to look at. Not possibilities—certainties.”

 

He thrust a hand forward.

 

A mirror rose from the pit, showing Silverbell standing over Black Sapphire’s body, shaking, weapon dripping.

 

“Here’s your truth, knight. You don’t save him. You fail him. Again. And again. And again.”

 

Silverbell, shaking, knocked an arrow—but his breath faltered. The image pressed in—too real, too familiar. Then, slowly—He reached up and punched the mirror. Crack. Shatter. The illusion buckled.

 

And Silverbell whispered, “I’d rather fail trying than succeed by giving up.”

 

Shadow Milk recoiled—not from the attack, but from the certainty in his voice. Then he bared his teeth. “Then let’s finish the tragedy.”

 

The blast of magic knocked them both back—Silverbell sliding across cracked obsidian, breath ragged, aura flickering with strain. Shadow Milk hovered above the fractured stage, his smile gone feral, his fingers twitching with unreleased power.

 

Then he stilled. And began to laugh again—quiet, low, but wrong. “Ah… I see it now.”

 

His form shimmered—twisting like smoke caught in wind. His limbs shortened, posture shifted, armor bloomed from the darkness. Silverbell’s breath caught. No—No.

 

Black Sapphire stood before him. Not an illusion—a perfect mimic, down to the way his cloak fell, the scar on his jaw, the slight downturn of his eyes when he was tired.

 

Shadow Milk’s voice—his voice—came out of that mouth. Soft. Gentle. “Would you forgive me if I did this?”

 

A silver arrow shot toward him—fast, sudden, unthinking.

 

But Shadow Milk caught it mid-air, still in his form. Stepped forward. “Would you still look at me the same way,” he said, “if I tore the world apart in front of you?”

 

Silverbell’s heart twisted. For just a moment, the world tilted. He saw Black Sapphire, not that beast The one he knew. The one he saved. The one who never asked for any of this. But that moment passed. And something in him snapped. He is angry that the Beast got to wear Black Sapphire's form. 

 

Silverbell raised his bow, slower now. Eyes blazing, not with tears—but fire. “You don’t get to wear his face.” He fired again—two shots this time. One to disarm. The other to punish.

 

Shadow Milk—still wearing Sapphire’s form—grunted as one arrow grazed his shoulder, the second slicing his cheek. Silver blood hissed against the air. His grin cracked.

 

“Aw,” he said, voice flickering between personas. “I thought I was your soft spot .”

 

“You were,” Silverbell snarled. “But you just turned it into armor.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t flinch as the silver arrows sliced his borrowed skin. Instead, he smiled. And kept his face. Black Sapphire’s face.

 

A trickle of illusionary blood ran from his cheek, but the eyes— those eyes —stayed soft, familiar. Sapphire’s smirk, the way he tilted his head slightly when teasing, the whisper of low affection in his voice—it was all perfect. Too perfect.

 

Shadow Milk took a slow step forward, hand lowering as if to offer peace. “Still so quick to shoot,” he murmured, voice soaked in warmth. “I remember when you used to blush just looking at me.”

 

Silverbell froze. That voice—it wasn’t him . It was never him to begin with.

 

Shadow Milk circled him slowly, every move dripping with ease and unspoken memory. “Would it be easier if I was cruel?” he whispered. “If I was the villain you need me to be?” He leaned closer—so close his breath brushed Silverbell’s cheek.

 

“But I know what you dream of. What you miss. The way you hesitated, even when you had the chance to finish me…” His fingers trailed the air near Silverbell’s bowstring. “You didn’t let go because some part of you still wanted to hold me.”

 

Silverbell’s arms trembled—not with longing. With rage. “You’re not him,” he spat.

 

Shadow Milk—still in Sapphire’s skin—let his smile shift. Just slightly.

 

“Then why does your heart race like he’s right here?” He leaned in again. Voice velvet. “How about you give up ,” he breathed. “And accept your fate..”

 

And Silverbell did speak. But not with words. His magic exploded—a pulse of raw faerie wrath that blasted Shadow Milk back across the stage like a ragdoll. He hit the far wall with a crack and slumped, Sapphire’s form flickering.

 

Silverbell’s voice rang across the ruined stage. “I’ll never give up. Deal with it.”

 

Shadow Milk stood, face split with a grin. Blood on his lip. Smile unshaken. “You’re stronger than I thought,” he said, voice back to normal—but laced with bitterness. “Such a shame.”

His illusion burned away fully now, revealing the Beast beneath. “But love only makes you dangerous if it survives. ”

 

And with that—he lunged again, his magic jagged and brutal. The shadows twisted tighter around him. He didn’t shift forms again—he didn’t need to. His rage alone was a mask now. One made of fire and bitterness. Shadow Milk rose from the crater Silverbell’s blast had left, eyes gleaming like glass-cut stars.

 

He wiped the blood from his lip, and his voice came low and sharp “I pity you.” He stepped forward. “And this FOOLISH little romance you’ve conjured around my precious Sapphire.”

 

Silverbell braced again, magic rising. But Shadow Milk wasn’t casting yet. He was accusing.

 

“You think he’s yours?” His laugh came brittle, venomous. “You think you get to ‘save’ him just because you whispered sweet things into his ear and played the gentle knight?”

 

He spat. A bolt of shadow split the ground near Silverbell’s feet—pure warning.

 

“He was broken before you ever saw him. I was the only one who understood him. The only one who didn’t look away.”

 

Silverbell growled, “You used him.”

 

Shadow Milk’s voice dropped to a hiss. “No. I made him strong.”

 

He advanced again, faster now. Cloak coiling like a serpent.

 

“You? You’re feeding him sugar-coated lies. Delusions. Filthy promises of forgiveness and softness and ‘freedom.’ But you’re no different than the rest.”

 

He flung his hand out.

 

An illusion burst to life—Black Sapphire, chained, surrounded by sneering Cookies, with Silverbell standing among them, holding the key… and walking away.

 

“You’ll betray him when it’s inconvenient. You’ll hesitate when he needs you. And then—like every other fool—” Another illusion was created, it was Sapphire reaching for help, Silverbell turning his back. “—you’ll lie to yourself and call it mercy.”

 

Silverbell’s aura flared like a wildfire. “You don’t know me.”

 

“I know what you are,” Shadow Milk snarled. “Another bright-eyed fool feeding him hope like it won’t burn him alive.”

 

His voice cracked then—just a little. “He doesn’t need your love. He needs protection. From you. ”

 

And with that—Shadow Milk snapped. A tidal wave of shadow magic surged toward Silverbell—laced not with illusions, but pure hatred.

 

The shadows crashed like a tidal wave—but Silverbell didn’t fall. He stood firm, battered but unmoved, the light of his magic burning steady in his chest.

 

“You’re wrong,” he shouted over the noise. “I’m not feeding him lies—I’m giving him a choice. A future.”

 

The shadows recoiled, just for a breath.

 

But Shadow Milk’s eyes sharpened. And behind the fury was something colder. Recognition. He stepped forward slowly, each footfall ringing with gravity.

 

“You offered him peace, ” he said quietly. “You offered him love. ”

 

His voice cracked—mocking. Bitter. “Just like Pure Vanilla offered me. ”

 

The battlefield blurred behind him, images shifting in and out: a memory long buried, Pure Vanilla, hand outstretched, offering forgiveness to a cookie twisted by truth. Him.

 

“And do you know what I saw in that moment?” Shadow Milk asked, voice razor-thin. “A lie.”

 

He flung his arms wide. The stage bloomed into illusions—countless scenes of truths rejected. Cookies turning away from hard knowledge. Choosing comfort. Choosing stories over reality.

 

“You don’t want him to be free. You want him to be manageable. Soft. Pretty. Redeemed. You want to wrap him in pretty words and pretend he wasn’t built in blood.”

 

Silverbell snarled, “I want him to live.”

 

“No,” Shadow Milk snapped. “You want him to forget.” His magic surged.

 

“You want him to bury who he is in favor of who you want him to be.”

 

A spear of dark energy formed in his hand—sleek, curved like a question mark, sharpened with doubt. “Just like Pure Vanilla. Just like every bright-eyed fool who thinks love can fix what truth exposes. ” He hurled the spear.

 

Silverbell dodged—barely—but not unscathed. Jam trickled down his arm. Still, he raised his bow. “Maybe you're right,” he said. “Maybe love isn’t enough.”

 

Shadow Milk paused, startled by the shift. “But it’s not a lie. It’s a choice. And it’s one I’m offering—not forcing.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes locked on his. “I love who Black Sapphire is . Shadows and all.” He drew the arrow back. “ You just couldn't handle someone doing the same for you.”

 

And he fired. The arrow split the air like a truth spoken too loud.

 

Shadow Milk reeled from the impact of Silverbell’s arrow—his cloak burned, his magic flaring wild and erratic. For once, he didn’t speak.

 

But Silverbell barely felt the triumph.

 

Because as the echo of his voice faded—“You just couldn’t handle someone doing the same for you.”—something colder whispered back through his mind.

 

A voice he knew too well Black Sapphire’s.

 

“Maybe I was wrong.” his words hit harder than any spell. “Maybe you’re the one tricking me!”

 

The memory surged, uninvited. Mirror Lake. Silver Knights. The mist and moonlight, soaked in blood and regret.

 

“You said you loved me,” he’d snarled.

 

“I still do!” Silverbell had shouted. “But I won’t betray what I swore to protect!”

 

And then—Black Sapphire’s eyes, filled with fire and something far worse: hurt .

 

“I did love you! And maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was you lying.”

Now, back in the present, Silverbell’s hand trembled. Not from fatigue but from doubt.

 

And Shadow Milk saw it. He grinned. Slow. Vicious. “Ah,” he breathed. “There it is.”

 

He stepped forward, wounded, yes—but still commanding, still cruelly elegant.

 

“Even he saw it, didn’t he?” he said softly. “You say you offer him peace. But when it mattered, you pointed your arrow at his heart.”

 

Silverbell’s lips parted—words unformed, unsure.

 

“You say you love him,” Shadow Milk went on, voice wrapping around him like a noose, “but what did you do the moment he didn’t obey your fantasy?”

 

He lifted one hand. An illusion formed—Mirror Lake, flickering ghostlike around them.

 

Silver Knights striking. Black Sapphire bleeding. Silverbell—bow drawn, arrow aimed— at the one he claimed to love.

 

“You’re the same as Pure Vanilla. Like the others. ”

 

The voice was venom now.

 

“You say love, but you mean control. You say peace, but you mean obedience. And when the truth threatens that, you raise your weapon.”

 

Silverbell’s knees nearly buckled. “I—”

Shadow Milk pressed in.

 

“How dare you,” he hissed. “How dare you feed him filthy lies and call it love. How dare you wrap your guilt in flowers and offer it like a gift.”

 

“Stop—”

 

“ You tricked him! Like all the others. You promised him freedom, and then chained him to your ‘noble cause.’ You offered your heart and then used it as a leash.”

 

The world around them darkened.

 

The Mirror Lake illusion glowed brighter, and in its center: Black Sapphire, falling, again and again, Silverbell watching, never moving fast enough.

 

Shadow Milk’s voice dropped to a whisper, low and guttural: “You don’t deserve him.” That broke it.

 

Silverbell screamed.

 

A silver light erupted from him like a sun igniting, blasting the illusions apart. The lake. The knights. The guilt. Gone.

 

And standing there—bow burning, eyes shining through tears—Silverbell shouted “I never claimed to deserve him!” He raised his weapon, magic crackling with fury and grief.

 

“But I chose him! And I will keep choosing him—even when he doesn't choose me back!”

 

Shadow Milk faltered. Just for a moment. Because that—that wasn’t a lie. The last of the illusions shattered. The Mirror Lake faded into dust. Shadow Milk stilled.

 

He stood there, surrounded by curling magic and shattered glass-memories, staring at the knight whose heart he had tried to unmake.

 

But the arrow was still drawn. The fire in Silverbell’s chest still burned.

 

And Shadow Milk… said nothing. For one long, heavy moment, he just looked at him. His mouth opened—then closed. His magic flickered in his hand. Then—He lowered it. Slowly. As if the weight of that truth had physically struck him harder than any spell.

 

Silverbell blinked, thrown off-balance. “What...?”

 

Shadow Milk’s voice came low, almost detached. "You mean it?”

 

The words tasted strange in his mouth. He took one step back.

 

“Even knowing what he’s done. What he might do again.”

 

Silverbell didn’t waver.

 

“Yes.”

 

Shadow Milk’s gaze sharpened—looking for the lie, the mask, the weakness. He found none.

 

His expression darkened—not in rage now, but something colder. Confusion.

 

He exhaled through his nose, quietly. “Fool.”

 

He turned away slightly, cloak drifting in the silence. The battlefield held its breath. But then, quietly: “That’s what Pure Vanilla said.”

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. “What?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t look at him. He stared into the air, as if seeing a scene long buried.

 

“He looked at me. After everything. After I turned away. After I spat on the truth and chose shadows. He still…”

 

A pause. 

 

“He still offered me his hand.” His fingers curled at his side. “And I couldn’t take it.”

 

The words dropped like stones in a still lake. Silverbell said nothing. He didn’t dare.

 

Shadow Milk turned to face him again—eyes darker, but no longer aflame. Just… hollow. “You’re wrong about one thing,” he said.

 

Silverbell tensed.

 

Shadow Milk stepped forward, slowly—no magic raised, no malice in his tone. “This isn’t about truth. Or lies. Or him.”

 

He stopped just a few steps away. “It’s about the fact that you said that… and I believe you.”

 

His voice cracked. “And I wish– I wish  I didn’t.”

Notes:

Hi what a chapter right?

my imagination is wild, I know.

I hope that I have written Eternal Sugar and Pavolva Cookie atleast KINDA accurate (that is what i am overthinking yesterday. UNTIL TODAY ACUTALLY. (THEY ARE SO INTERESTING

I got the idea of Shadow Milk going to the Garden of Delights, he got the idea that Black Sapphire can be happy without Silverbell and he can get to focus more on his work. However in the lore you remember what is Eternal Sugar’s idea of happiness is. Like what happened to Sugarfly Cookie, she wished for colorful wings so her wings got coated with syrup and she can’t fly like how she first entered the garden (according to Pavlova Cookie) so Eternal Sugar grants Shadow Milk’s wish however when Shadow Milk wants him back, she can’t just do that because it benefits the Garden, more Cookies will enter her garden. She gave Sapphire happiness but his heart was empty so he could fulfill his duties. (LIKE YK. but Eternal Sugar has her own desc of love, so does Pavlova.)

 

Also also. Sweet Sapphire is inspired by hermes hahahaha (I KNOW SHERBERT COOKIE IS ALREADY HERMES(he is one of my favs). BUT I NEEDED SOMETHING CONNECTED TO BROADCASTING and DELIVERING MESSAGES. SOOOO. there

 

Pavolva sprite here is his "true self" where he already understood his feelings for sugarfly as she left. (they make me cry, what in the doomed lovers is that devisters????)

 

BTW I HAVENT FINISHED EP 10 YET (i only saw the spoilers lmao) so i am just writing this blindly. so gl to me.

 

Anyways what do you think of the Shadow Milk vs Silverbell HHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (A lot is happening here in this chapter.) I am still kinda bad af at writing smilk's character and just insert pv there which is my mistake. I was stressin alat here but i tried (somehow)

I have also been drawing silverbell and black sapphire, I might post it when I colored silverbell :))

Chapter 19: XVIII

Notes:

ok so this is 21k words bare with me here- btw i wrote this in advance i just did some fixing and editing(?)

I am supposed to cut this chapter in half but I dont want to so let me just aim yall

btw after posting the previous chapter, I almost got crushed by two cars while crossing the road btw there was also a motorcycle behind me and almost hit me. so there's that aha

 

if you have a hard time reading this, pls take some breaks if needed, then continue if you can :DD

 

anyways eat up!!

 

(im posting this early bc im going to buy things for school... my first day is on monday)

 

 

Shadow Milk’s silhouette faded into the mist.

 

But Silverbell’s voice cut through it, sharp and unwavering. “Wait.”

 

The Beast stopped and waited for the other to speak.

 

Silverbell took a step forward, the broken battlefield crackling faintly beneath his boots. “…Why?” he asked softly. “Why him? Why protect him like this?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t answer with words. Instead, he lifted one hand—and with a slow gesture, summoned a ripple in the air between them.

 

A vision. That contains truth, as he saw it. No sign of deception or tricks can be seen on Shadow Milk's face

 

---

 

He remembered that night. The world had ended in fire.

 

The skies were wrong—glowing red where they should’ve been dark. Villages reduced to charcoal skeletons. Earthbread’s very soil seemed to ache.

 

He had walked the ruins, cold and unbothered, his presence splitting shadows wherever he went. The other Beasts had risen. Kingdoms had fallen. Nothing surprised him anymore.

 

Until he saw a child.

 

No name along with the shaking limbs, blue-stained fingers, and eyes too tired for someone that small. The boy was ready to vanish. A crumb in the wind.

 

And for reasons he still couldn’t explain, Shadow Milk… stopped. He looked down at the frail figure hunched beneath the broken arch of a burned-out home. Didn’t speak and ask questions. Shadow Milk reached out a hand to the trembling figure.

 

---

Back in the present, Silverbell’s breath caught.

 

The vision continued.

 

 

---

He remembered the way that boy flinched at first. Then—hesitantly—reached back.

 

The moment those fingers curled into his palm, something shifted.

 

He didn’t think. He just lifted him. Held him close. The boy was featherlight. Barely there.

 

They traveled in silence. Ash underfoot. Storms overhead. Two shapes moving through a ruined world. Until they passed a crumbling wall where a stubborn vine still grew. Grapes, bruised but alive. He picked them offered them without ceremony.

 

The boy devoured them like treasure. That was when he knew.

 

“He didn’t need a god. He didn’t need a savior. He needed someone to see him.”  And Shadow Milk had.

 

So when the boy later called him Master —with awe, with loyalty, with faith—he didn’t correct him. Because for once, the lie felt better than the truth.

The vision dissolved.

 

---

 

And Shadow Milk turned, slow and solemn, his expression unreadable. His voice was barely above a whisper when he finally spoke: “Are you willing to face any consequences for him?”

 

He stepped closer, gaze locked to Silverbell’s. “Because I already have.” His voice cracked—not with grief. But with truth. “I gave him that name. I gave him purpose. I was there when no one else was. So when I say he’s mine , it’s not because I claimed him…”

 

He pressed one hand to his chest. “It’s because he chose me, too.”

 

A pause. Then, colder: “You can’t love him if you won’t carry his past. You can’t save him if you can’t see who he used to be.”

 

The battlefield went quiet. Shadow Milk’s magic flickered, but not with hostility this time. With memory. With a single, painful truth he had never shared—until now.

 

Shadow Milk’s vision still shimmered faintly in the air—grapes in a ruined hand, a name whispered in ash.

 

Silverbell stood unmoving, shoulders squared, face unreadable. But his voice, when it came, was steady. Clear. “Then I’ll carry it.”

 

Shadow Milk blinked.

 

Silverbell stepped forward, past the crumbling illusions, through the remnants of old memories that weren’t his. “I don’t care how much he’s suffered. I don’t care what he’s done. I don’t care what you’ve given him, or what he’s chosen before.”

 

He met Shadow Milk’s eyes—burning with unwavering resolve.

 

“I choose him now.” He placed a hand over his own heart. “And I will risk everything—my honor, my oath, my future—if that’s what it takes to walk beside him.”

 

Shadow Milk’s gaze sharpened. Searching for deception. A crack. A hidden agenda. There was none. Just truth. Hard, painful, truth.

 

“I know what I’m asking for,” Silverbell continued. “I know he’s dangerous. I know he’s been shaped by pain. I know the hand that caught him in the dark was yours.” A pause. “And I won’t try to take that away from him.”

Shadow Milk’s mouth opened slightly—but he didn’t speak.

 

Silverbell’s voice softened, but didn’t lose its edge. “But I’m not walking away. Not now. Not ever.” He stepped closer, his bow low and calm now, no longer a weapon but a vow. “You saw a boy with nothing and gave him something to live for. I saw the man he became, and I still saw more. ”

 

Shadow Milk turned his head slightly, shadows curling tighter around his shoulders—but not rising. Not lashing out. Because this wasn’t a battle anymore. It was a reckoning.

 

“I don’t need him to be perfect,” Silverbell finished, voice quiet but unshakable. “I just need him to stay.”

The wind shifted. Silverbell's voice dropped—not from weakness, but from something deeper. Something unshakable.

 

“If he still disappears…” He looked past Shadow Milk, as if seeing something farther than the battlefield—beyond time, beyond loss. “…I will wait for him.” A pause. Barely a breath. “I’ll do anything to make him stay with me.”

 

The wind stilled. Shadow Milk froze. Not from fear. But from a sudden, sharp silence inside himself. No illusions rose. No cards. No retorts. No riddles. Because there was nothing in his arsenal—no performance, no deceit—that could frame what he just heard.

 

For a moment, he stared at Silverbell like he was looking at something from another world. A world that didn’t lie. A world that didn’t leave. His mouth parted. But the words never came.

And that silence said more than any line he’d ever delivered. He looked away—jaw clenched, eyes shadowed. As if part of him wanted to laugh And part of him wanted to believe. But he couldn’t. Not fully. Not yet.

 

So he stood there, shattered in a way no spell had ever managed, and whispered the only truth he had left: “…You’re a fool.”

 

And still—he didn’t attack. Because this time, he didn’t know how. Shadow Milk stood silent for a long time. Then slowly, he turned back to face Silverbell. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between worn-out amusement and something close to surrender. His eyes gleamed—not with magic now, but with something sharper: warning.

 

And then he spoke, each word as measured as a blade drawn across stone. “I suppose…” he said, voice smooth and deliberate, “I could trust you.”

 

He stepped forward one last time, close enough for Silverbell to feel the cold ripple of his power again. “But if you ever do anything to him—if you ever hurt him, betray him, fail him in the way I never did…”

 

His voice dropped, low and edged in steel.

 

“I will crumble you myself.” A beat.

 

Then a slow, humorless smile curved at the corners of his mouth. “You are just lucky I didn’t do anything else to you now.”

 

He tilted his head. “Consider this mercy…” A pause.  “…or approval.”

 

And with that, the shadows peeled away from his form, lifting like a curtain falling at the end of a show. Shadow Milk stepped backward into the dark—cloak swirling, form dissolving into smoke and starlight. He vanished. Not in defeat. But in acceptance. However reluctant.

 

Silverbell stood alone now, the battlefield quiet, the night still. But this time, he wasn’t left with doubt. He was left with hope. And a warning that felt more like a promise.

---

Silverbell stood still, breath shallow, his bow finally lowering.

 

The cold night wind moved through the ruined clearing, brushing his face like a memory. The battlefield was empty now—no illusions, no magic, no enemy. He is only with himself.

 

And the truth he refused to run from. He closed his eyes. Let the silence settle.

 

Then, quietly—to no one, and to one Cookie in particular—he whispered: “Even if I have to wait a lifetime… I’ll be here when he’s ready.”

 

The wind carried his words into the dark and somewhere beyond it, the shadow listened.

 

---

The light dimmed slightly, as if the candy-coated clouds themselves bowed. A flutter of syrup-slick wings stirred the berry leaves above them, gentle as a sigh.

 

Pavlova glanced up first.

 

Eternal Sugar Cookie hovered for a moment before descending—her feet brushing the ground with a grace too precise to be casual. Her wings unfolded behind her like stained glass cut from frosted fruit, rimmed with delicate fireberry thorns and glinting sugar. Every movement was deliberate. Reverent.

 

She landed beside the berry tree, where Sweet Sapphire sat tucked in the roots, head resting against a knot of moss shaped like a cushion.

 

He blinked once. Then smiled—bright, serene.

 

“Eternal Sugar,” he greeted softly.

 

Pavlova gave a respectful nod but stayed quiet.

 

Eternal Sugar returned the smile, crouching beside Sweet Sapphire with hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes sparkled like syrup under moonlight.

 

“And how is the Garden today?” she asked.

 

Her voice was honeyed—soft, not demanding. There was no need for commands. No pressure. Just presence. And expectation.

 

Sweet Sapphire tilted his head. “Peaceful,” he said. “The cloud turtles drifted lower than usual. The gumdrop hedges finished blooming. I think the strawberries are humming again.” A pause.

 

“I like it when they hum.”

 

Eternal Sugar reached out and adjusted a strand of hair from his forehead, gentle. Intimate. Like a mother, or a high priestess. “I’m glad,” she said. “You’ve been such a comfort to the others. The Garden feels calmer when your voice is in the air.”

 

Sweet Sapphire beamed. “I only speak what the Garden gives me.”

 

Pavlova glanced away—toward the gumdrop fields and the pink sun melting on the horizon. He said nothing.

 

Eternal Sugar stood, her wings catching the light like halos mid-bloom. “You’ve both done well,” she said. “You deserve rest.”

 

She didn’t say “you’re mine” or “you belong here.”  She didn’t have to. They called her Eternal Sugar, the bringer of happiness. The one who took in the broken and gave them stillness. And in the shadow of the berry tree, beneath the branches dripping with slow sweetness, Sweet Sapphire smiled like he believed it.

 

The next day, the sky was its usual swirl of strawberry mist and lemony haze, and the Garden stirred with sleepy delight. Even the cookie creatures moved slower in the morning air, blinking sugar-glass eyes and stretching like dough under warm light.

 

Pavlova and Sweet Sapphire flew side-by-side through the upper canopy, weaving past blooming cloudvines and hanging lollifruit. The air smelled like cinnamon fizz and soft mint.

 

“Left wing’s dragging,” Sweet Sapphire said suddenly, glancing over at Pavlova mid-flight.

 

Pavlova adjusted, brow furrowed. “It’s not dragging.”

 

“It is,” Sweet Sapphire said, smug. “You’re listing like a sleepy gumdrop.”

 

“I am not.”

 

“You’re spiraling slightly.”

 

Pavlova huffed, corrected his angle. “Maybe if someone wasn’t narrating everything, I could concentrate.”

 

“Oh? Are you saying I’m a distraction?” Sweet Sapphire fluttered higher, twirling once like a ribbon in wind. His voice took on a mock-formal tone. “The voice of the Garden is interfering with your flight pattern?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well,” he said, mock-offended, “you could at least pretend I bring joy.”

 

“You bring sound, ” Pavlova muttered.

 

Sweet Sapphire laughed—light and melodic. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen you smile when you think I’m not looking.”

 

“That was probably a wing cramp.”

 

“Sure it was.”

 

They ducked beneath a caramel arch, Sweet Sapphire twisting mid-air to grab a swaying message scroll tucked between two marshmallow blooms. He passed it to Pavlova with a flourish.

 

“For you, sir. Official courier things, very important.”

 

“Do you have to announce everything like a stage actor?”

 

Sweet Sapphire touched a hand to his brooch—still the symbol of voice and message.

 

“It’s my aesthetic.”

 

Pavlova didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth tugged up—almost a smirk. They continued upward, wings brushing occasionally as they spiraled toward the Towering Tulip—a giant pastel flower that served as a delivery post and signal hub.

 

“You’re late,” came a dry voice as they landed on the outer petal platform.

 

“Blame the wing cramp,” Sweet Sapphire replied immediately, tossing a wink over his shoulder.

 

Pavlova rolled his eyes. “I hate you.”

 

“No you don’t.”

 

They dropped off their scrolls, took a new satchel, and kicked off again, this time gliding low across the syrup ponds, dipping their feet just to disturb the surface tension.

 

“Next delivery is for the cookie who thinks in rhymes,” Pavlova muttered, checking the tag.

 

“Oh joy,” Sweet Sapphire said flatly. “I’ll prepare my patience.”

 

“You don’t have patience.”

 

“I do , actually. I save it for you.”

 

Pavlova groaned, but the flight beneath the candy sky continued—lighter, easier than it had any right to be. Somewhere, the Garden hummed softly and for a moment, it almost felt real.

 

They landed gently on a floating waffle-lily, one of the Garden’s steadier platforms. It swayed slightly beneath their weight, tethered to the candyfloss trees by strands of licorice root. A small table sat in the center, stacked with scrolls tied in rainbow string and sealed with crystallized fruit stamps. Work, technically.

 

But Sweet Sapphire had already plopped down with dramatic flair, wings fanned lazily around him like cushions. Pavlova remained standing, scanning the scrolls like he was guarding state secrets.

 

“Three messages to route,” he said

 

“Mm,” Sweet Sapphire hummed, stretching out. “Regret roses. Fancy.”

 

Pavlova sat cross-legged, carefully untying the scroll with the floral scent. His expression shifted to that thoughtful, poetic look that always came with danger.

 

“This one,” he said, “is about love.”

 

“Oh, boy,” Sweet Sapphire muttered, already bracing himself.

 

Pavlova ignored him, eyes still scanning the message. “It’s from a Cookie who believes she’s in love, but it’s not reciprocated. Not in the way she wants. She says she feels sick. Bitter. Obsessed. Which, honestly... makes sense.”

 

Sweet Sapphire blinked. “...That doesn’t sound like love.”

 

Pavlova glanced up with the dry amusement of someone about to ruin your worldview.

 

“Jealousy is a form of love,” he said. “So is obsession. So is longing.”

 

Sweet Sapphire tilted his head. “I thought love was like... hugs. And softness. And sitting under a tree eating sparkle grapes together.”

 

Pavlova raised an eyebrow. “That’s sentiment . Not the full scope of the emotion.”

 

“Okay, Professor Brooding, go on.”

 

Pavlova set the scroll aside, gesturing as he spoke now, wings flicking lightly with emphasis.

 

“There’s romantic love. Familial love. Platonic love. Then there’s unrequited love, which is practically its own religion. Philia, storge, agape, ludus, mania, pragma— ”

 

“Stop,” Sweet Sapphire said, raising both hands. “You’re casting spells.”

 

Pavlova snorted. “I’m quoting emotional theory. Try to keep up.”

 

Sweet Sapphire blinked, lips parted like a page trying to turn itself. “…Ludus?”

 

“Playful love.”

 

“That sounds made up.”

 

“It’s Latin.”

 

“Now you’re just flexing.”

 

“I’m educating you.”

 

“You’re melting my brain like a forgotten marshmallow in the sun.”

 

Pavlova smirked. “You’re lucky I haven’t started on tragic love yet.”

 

“Oh witches,” Sweet Sapphire sighed, flopping back onto the mossy floor of the platform, wings splayed wide. “Let me guess—tragic love is the superior love because it never decays and lives forever in dramatic pain or something?”

 

Pavlova stared down at him, deadpan. “Yes.”

 

Sweet Sapphire made a weak wheeze into the grass. “I am but a feather,” he mumbled. “A soft, stupid feather. You are a scroll made of sighs and metaphors.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“But you still need me to fly you back, don't you?”

 

“Unfortunately.”

 

Sweet Sapphire grinned. “Tragic.”

Pavlova rolled his eyes, but his smile gave him away.

 

They fell into silence for a few moments, surrounded by sugar-glow flowers and the warm, lazy hum of the Garden. The scrolls rustled slightly in the wind.

 

And even as Sweet Sapphire drifted closer to full airhead mode, Pavlova looked at him like he wasn’t completely sure if there was more hiding underneath that polished, hollowed-out joy.

 

He didn’t ask. Not yet.

 

By the time they returned, the Garden had shifted into its twilight state—soft light glowing from the undersides of petals, the sky melting into syrupy gold and plum. The candy paths lit themselves with gentle sparkles, and the hum of contentment buzzed low across the trees like a lullaby.

 

Eternal Sugar Cookie awaited them beneath a tall bloom shaped like a bell made of stained glass and honey. She stood poised as always, her wings slightly arched, the ends dripping with slow, shimmering sweetness. Around her, the smaller cookie creatures giggled, danced, rested—all moving in slow loops like music boxes playing the same tune.

 

Sweet Sapphire approached her with a soft glow to his face, scroll satchel now empty.

 

“All deliveries complete,” he said, bowing slightly. “And everyone said hello.”

 

Eternal Sugar smiled, hands folded in front of her like she was already pleased before he spoke.

 

“You’ve done beautifully,” she said. “Your presence keeps the Garden warm, like the hush before a song begins.”

 

Sweet Sapphire beamed. “That means so much.”

 

She reached forward, touching his cheek with the back of her hand—delicate, reverent.

 

“I’m glad,” she said softly. “You’ll stay close to the berry grove for a while. I’ve prepared something special for you. A new space. A new rhythm.”

 

Sweet Sapphire nodded, radiant. “Of course. I’m happy to stay.”

 

He didn’t ask what she meant. He didn’t need to. The Garden was enough.

 

Behind him, Pavlova Cookie stood still—his hands clasped lightly behind his back, expression unreadable. He kept his face calm. Eyes forward. But inside, something tugged. Low and sharp.

 

More plans. No leaving. That was the unspoken rule.

 

And Sweet Sapphire, smiling like a dream, was so grateful for it .

 

Pavlova didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t let his expression flicker. Not here. Not in front of her.

 

“Thank you for your help today, Pavlova,” Eternal Sugar said, barely glancing at him.

 

He gave the smallest bow. “Always a pleasure.”

 

He felt Sweet Sapphire’s gaze brush over him—a look, soft and weightless.

 

And he matched it with a smile. Not because it was real. But because it had to be.

 

What Eternal Sugar Cookie prepared was not a room. It was a sanctuary.

 

A gift wrapped in pastel light and never-ending comfort. A place where nothing would ever hurt again—and nothing unexpected would ever happen.

 

Nestled near the berry grove, beneath the highest candyblossom trees, was a pavilion carved from sugar crystal and soft clouds. The floor was woven from floral silks, cool to the touch. Dreamy lights floated overhead like drifting jellyfish—slow, quiet, pulsing to the rhythm of a distant lullaby.

 

There were no doors and walls. It is an open, free space and gentle haze.

 

Sweet Sapphire was brought here with quiet ceremony, guided by cookie creatures in robes the color of rosewater and moonmilk.

 

Eternal Sugar herself walked beside him, hands clasped behind her back, her wings glowing faintly like a sunrise that never dared to rise all the way.

 

“This is where you’ll rest,” she said. “When you’re not guiding others.”

 

Sweet Sapphire stepped inside. His sandals made no sound. The air was perfumed with sugared jasmine and lullafruit. Cushions appeared the moment he sat. A soft canopy descended, not to close him in, but to hush the sky.

 

“This is…” he breathed, eyes wide. “It’s perfect.”

 

“Because it’s yours,” Eternal Sugar replied.

 

She waved her hand once, and from the center of the floor rose a slender fountain—its water pure honey, always warm. A book opened itself on a nearby stand, its pages blank, but eager.

 

“When you want to dream, the pillows will soften,” she said. “When you want to create, the parchment will write with your voice. When you want to rest…”

 

She gestured. A couch unfolded from the mist. Pillowy. Pulseless. Waiting.

 

“You’ll never be tired here,” she added, brushing his shoulder. “But you’ll always be allowed to rest.”

 

Sweet Sapphire smiled—radiant, dazzled. “Thank you. I don’t deserve this.”

 

“You do,” Eternal Sugar said softly. “You just forgot why.” And with that, she left him in the sanctuary of stillness—eternal happiness, relaxation, peace, and more.

 

He lay back on the cloud-soaked couch, watching the lights drift slowly overhead.

 

Somewhere deep within, a flicker pulsed. But it didn’t hurt. Not yet. Because the cushions were soft. The air was sweet.

 

And Sweet Sapphire was exactly what she wanted him to be: Quiet. Content. Beautiful.

 

The light inside the sanctuary never dimmed.

 

It pulsed gently, as if breathing—soft clouds curling around sugar-crystal arches, dream-lights humming like lullabies. Sweet Sapphire lay nestled on one of the velvet cushions, flipping through a blank book that wrote itself in flowery cursive as he spoke idle thoughts aloud.

 

He didn’t hear Pavlova arrive until his shadow stretched across the floor like a wing.

 

Sweet Sapphire sat up, smiling brightly. “Pavlova! You’re early.”

 

“I like quiet hours,” Pavlova replied simply, stepping further inside. “Before the Garden starts singing again.”

 

Sweet Sapphire chuckled softly. “It’s always singing.”

 

Pavlova knelt down beside him. “True.”

 

They sat like that for a moment—neither working, neither moving too much. Just existing in the quiet.

 

Then, Pavlova reached into his satchel and pulled out something small—tucked into a bit of velvet, tied with a silken cord. “I brought something,” he said, and handed it over.

 

Sweet Sapphire took it gently, unwrapping the velvet to reveal a delicate charm: a silver-threaded chain holding a tiny crystal arrowhead. It shimmered faintly, catching the light in soft pulses like it had a heartbeat of its own.

 

“Oh,” Sweet Sapphire breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

 

“It suits you,” Pavlova said, voice unreadable. “Consider it… a thank you. For staying here at the Garden of Delights.”

 

Sweet Sapphire blinked, cradling it in his palm. “You didn’t have to—”

 

“I know.” He paused. “I wanted to.”

 

Sweet Sapphire smiled again—gentle, pure. “I love it. Thank you.”

 

Pavlova nodded once. He didn’t say what it did. Didn’t explain its weight. But he watched as Sweet Sapphire slipped the chain around his neck, the charm resting right over his heart.

 

And in his mind, he whispered the words he couldn’t say aloud: “Remember what your heart yearns for.”

 

Because Pavlova knew what it was to forget too late. To lose someone and call it peace. To stand in a paradise that dulled your edges until you couldn’t remember what you'd ever bled for.

 

He wouldn’t let that happen to Sweet Sapphire. Not if there was still time. Not if there was still love.

 

Sweet Sapphire toyed with the charm absently, fingers tracing the edge of the crystal arrowhead as he leaned back against a cotton-cushion bloom.

 

“The sugar angels came by earlier,” he said with a soft smile, gaze tilted skyward. “They brought flower petals and sang something I think they made up on the spot. It was very sweet.”

 

Pavlova remained seated nearby, one knee drawn up, arms resting loosely. He watched without speaking.

 

Sweet Sapphire continued, voice light and dreamy. “Everyone’s always smiling here. The strawberry singers. The honey bees that hum in threes. Even the gumdrop guards—one of them gave me a candy star this morning. They said it looked like me.”

He laughed quietly. “Everyone’s just… so kind. So happy.”

 

Pavlova’s voice broke the air gently—quiet, but clear. “…How about you?”

 

Sweet Sapphire blinked. “Pardon?”

 

Pavlova didn’t repeat himself, but softened the question with his tone. “Are you happy?”

 

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was soft. Heavy. Like a plush weight pressed down on the room.

 

Sweet Sapphire opened his mouth, then hesitated—just for a second. “I…” he began, the smile still on his face, though it faltered at the edges. “I'd like to think that I am.”

 

Pavlova tilted his head. “You think?”

 

Sweet Sapphire let out a small, hollow laugh. “I don’t know why I said that." He looked down at the charm, fingers curling around it slowly.

“I should be happy,” he said. “I mean… I am. I have everything I need here." The charm pulsed, barely—just once. A soft flicker against his chest.

“Everyone’s kind,” he continued, quieter now. “Everything is safe. There’s no need to run or fight. The Garden takes care of us.”

 

Pavlova watched him closely, saying nothing.

 

“But…” Sweet Sapphire whispered, brows gently furrowing, “sometimes I wake up with a tightness in my chest. Like… I lost something.”

His hand tightened around the charm instinctively. “I don’t know what it is. It’s like I’m chasing a dream I’ve already forgotten.”

 

Pavlova’s voice came again—low, steady. “Maybe it’s chasing you back.”

 

Sweet Sapphire looked at him, eyes wide. Lost. Fragile in a way that wasn’t polished or programmed. “…Do you ever feel that way?” he asked.

 

Pavlova’s smile was faint. Tired. “I did,” he said. “Once.”

He didn’t add that he still did. That the wound never closed. That he carried it like a song with no ending. Instead, he reached out and adjusted the charm gently around Sweet Sapphire’s neck.

“Hold onto that,” he said. “It’s not just a thank you.”

 

“What is it?”

 

Pavlova hesitated. “Something old. Something that remembers you.”

 

And Sweet Sapphire didn’t understand.

 

But somewhere deep within the Garden, the syrup breeze slowed. And a memory that didn’t belong to the present began to stir.

 

Pavlova shouldn’t be here. He knew that. He wasn’t supposed to linger. Not in Sweet Sapphire’s sanctuary. Not in that space carved from stillness and sugar-scented silence. He was supposed to drop off scrolls, offer a few polite words, and leave.

 

That was the rule. But rules, Pavlova had learned, were easy to follow when your heart was empty.

 

And Sweet Sapphire’s heart—he could see it now—was just that. Empty. Hollowed out like a sugared shell. Smiling. Quiet. Safe. And wrong.

 

So Pavlova stayed.

 

He watched Sweet Sapphire talk about the sugar angels and how happy everyone was. He watched him hold the charm close without understanding what it meant. He listened as he hesitated, just slightly, when asked if he was happy.

 

And that was all it took. The guilt hit him in waves.

 

Because Pavlova remembered when his own voice used to shake. When he used to speak about someone he loved—someone bright and brave who tried to escape the Garden and actually made it.

 

Someone who left. Someone he let go. And now?

 

Now he wandered the Garden like a ghost dressed in silk and frost, wings bound by stillness, memories buried just deep enough to ache but never heal.

 

He couldn’t escape. But maybe Sweet Sapphire still could.

 

Pavlova leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he looked at him—not as the Garden’s Voice, not as Eternal Sugar’s prize—but as someone who used to be real.

Someone who loved.

 

“I wasn’t supposed to help you,” Pavlova said quietly, voice barely above the rustle of the syrup breeze.

 

Sweet Sapphire looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”

 

Pavlova shook his head. “Never mind.” He smiled—small, tired. “If I couldn’t find my way out, then maybe someone else should.”

 

He didn’t say: So you won’t end up like me.

 

Sweet Sapphire just blinked, unsure of what he meant. But his hand remained pressed to the charm around his neck.

 

And the look Pavlova gave him then—It wasn’t pity. It was hope, buried beneath grief.

 

The kind that clings to someone else's wings, even when yours no longer remember how to open.

---

The door of the house creaked open.

 

Shadow Milk stepped through, his cloak trailing ash and silence behind him. The air was still. The halls of Deceit welcomed him like an old wound—familiar, cold, unchanging.

 

He didn’t turn on the lights. Just kept walking. Room by room. Past the mirrors that never showed his reflection. Past the throne he never sat on. Into a quiet corner of the house, where the walls didn’t echo quite as much.

 

He stopped. Took off his gloves and exhaled a short breath.

 

It isn't the sigh of exhaustion, he never gets tired afterall. But it is the sigh of someone who had let something in. And hated that it stayed.

 

He sat down—elegantly, deliberately—at a cracked table scattered with old fortune cards. Faded prints. Worn edges. Truths bent into shapes no longer recognizable.

One flick of his fingers. A card appeared.

 

“THE FOOL.”

 

He stared at it. Then let out a small, humorless laugh. “Well,” he muttered to no one, “we’re all fools, aren’t we?”

 

He leaned back in the chair. Eyes half-lidded. He is done.  And then, quietly—he began to speak. To the silence. “He said he would wait for him.”

 

A pause.

 

“That he’d do anything to make him stay.”

 

He stared at the ceiling as if expecting it to collapse on him. “They all say that. Until the storm hits. Until the mask cracks. Until they see what’s underneath. ”

 

His voice was low. Almost conversational.

 

“I know what comes after. I’ve seen it. The same offer. The same promise. The same outstretched hand…”

 

He raised one hand in the air, mimicking it. Then dropped it with a soft slap on the table. “…and the same betrayal.”

 

He flicked another card from the deck.

 

“THE LOVERS.”

 

It landed beside the first. He looked at it with something like contempt.

 

“He doesn’t know what it means to carry someone like that. The weight. The hunger. The history you never asked for.”

 

A pause.

 

“But he wants it. That’s what terrifies me.”

He laughed again. This time quieter. Meaner. “Because what if he doesn’t break?” He ran a hand through his hair, the strands dark against his pale fingers.

“What if he really does wait? What if he keeps choosing him? What then?”

 

Another card.

 

“THE TOWER.”

 

A long silence followed after the card appeared. Shadow Milk stared at it. The symbol of collapse. Of change. Of things too honest to stand. He didn’t flip a new card after that. He just rested his elbows on the table, fingers tented beneath his chin.

 

“You don’t deserve him,” he whispered. It wasn’t clear who he meant. Maybe Silverbell. Maybe Black Sapphire. Maybe himself. And still he sat, watching the cards.

 

Waiting.

 

For Candy Apple’s return. For Black Sapphire’s footsteps(?) For the moment when the past came home.

---

Shadow Milk waited. For Candy Apple’s return. For the right sign. For the moment when the past stopped pretending it had no interest in coming home.

 

He sat alone, surrounded by low-burning candles and thick velvet shadows that clung to the room like breath held too long.

 

In front of him, three cards lay face-up: THE FOOL. THE LOVER. THE TOWER.

 

Each one a loop. Each one a trap. Each one a version of the same old tragedy, dressed in new faces. He didn’t touch them at first. Just stared. Then, without a word, he swept the cards off the table. They scattered like ash in the wind—silent, spent, meaningless.

 

All but one.

 

His fingers hovered, then closed slowly around the final card. He flipped it with practiced precision.

 

“THE MOON.”

 

A blank face. Reflecting whatever dared to stare into it. Shadow Milk stared at it. Saw himself staring back. And whispered:

 

“They’re all the same… aren’t they?” He let the card slip from his hand. It hit the table with a dull tap .

 

“They swear they’re different. They dress up their scars, swear their love will fix things. They call it destiny. Devotion. Redemption.”

 

He leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the armrests like a king with no kingdom left to rule. “And in the end,” he said quietly, “they always walk away.”

 

Silence gathered in the room like fog. He didn’t fill it. “Except him,” he said at last. Not with bitterness. Just a fact. “Silverbell fought like a mad thing. For him. ”

 

A flicker of something unspoken moved behind his eyes.

 

“He didn’t run. He didn’t hesitate. He stood his ground—for Black Sapphire. Against me. ”

 

Shadow Milk exhaled slowly. “And I saw it. For the first time… I saw how far someone would go to keep him.”

 

His hand hovered above the deck, stopped on the next card. But he didn’t draw.

 

“I’m going to the Garden,” he said aloud, voice barely above a breath. “And I’m bringing him back.”

 

The room stayed still. The cards stayed still. Until—FWOOSH.

 

A violet-glimmering portal tore through the air, jagged and loud, splashing color across the darkened floor. The silence shattered like a dropped mirror.

Shadow Milk didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

 

“—And then I said, ‘That’s not a relic, that’s my lunchbox!’ ” came Candy Apple’s voice, tumbling through the air like a sugared hurricane. She was sharing her daily monologues again.

 

She landed with a flourish, robes glittering, arms overloaded with shiny magical junk and what looked like half a danish. “ Master Shadow Milk Cookieeeeee, ” she chimed, spinning on one heel, “I am baaaaack!”

 

He didn’t look at her.

 

Candy Apple paused mid-spin, eyes narrowing. “Woah…Did something happen while I was gone?”

 

Shadow Milk stood slowly, cloak trailing, face unreadable. “Something’s happening now.”

 

She tilted her head. “Wait—where are you going?”

 

“To the Garden of Delights,” he said, voice colder now. Sharper.

 

Candy Apple’s grin faltered. “…Why?”

 

He didn’t answer. Because the only answer that mattered was this: Black Sapphire Cookie doesn’t belong to anyone else.

---

They sat beneath a sugar-bloom tree, where the petals drifted like snowflakes and melted on contact. The air was warm with honey and too quiet, as if the Garden was holding its breath.

 

Sweet Sapphire Cookie stared into the sky—bright pastel with streaks of mint and coral—watching a rainbow ripple across a cloud. He didn’t speak much, unless he was broadcasting.

 

Beside him, Pavlova Cookie lounged in his usual effortless slouch, one leg crossed, a candied feather flicking lazily from his fingertips.

 

“You’re very good at your job,” Pavlova said suddenly.

 

Sweet Sapphire didn’t look away. “It’s not a job. It's for a purpose.”

 

“Mm.” Pavlova rolled the feather between two fingers. “Spoken like someone freshly rewritten.”

 

Sweet Sapphire blinked. Turned slightly. “What does that mean?”

 

Pavlova shrugged. “You talk like you’ve never had a bad day in your life. But your eyes are tired. Like they’ve seen things your mouth isn’t allowed to say.”

 

A pause. Sweet Sapphire’s gaze softened, like he was searching for something in the clouds. “There’s nothing I need. I am… fulfilled.”

 

Pavlova tilted his head, studying him. “Do you know what love feels like?”

 

The question landed like a dropped thread. Sweet Sapphire stiffened—barely. “I don’t need that,” he said quietly. “It’s unnecessary. Messy.”

 

“And yet,” Pavlova said, flicking the feather into the breeze, “it used to be everything to you.”

 

Sweet Sapphire looked down. A strange pressure tightened behind his eyes. “I’m not who I was,” he said.

 

“True,” Pavlova said. “But aren’t you curious what they took from you?”

 

Sweet Sapphire shook his head. “Eternal Sugar Cookie gave me peace. Purpose. She is the Bringer of Happiness! That’s all I need to serve.”

 

Pavlova smiled—but there was no warmth in it. “Funny how people who bring happiness always seem to need the most loyal servants.”

 

Sweet Sapphire said nothing. The clouds above shifted. One of them shimmered in the shape of an eye.

 

“You don’t have to answer,” Pavlova added, standing. “Just… think about it. Not everything buried is better off forgotten.”

 

He flew off, his shadow long behind him. Sweet Sapphire remained beneath the tree, hands in his lap, gaze on the petal that landed on his sleeve.

 

It melted. Like something remembered for a second too long.

 

Pavlova Cookie didn’t go far. He climbed onto a floating berry blossom and let it carry him over the pink river, his legs dangling, eyes half-lidded. But even with his usual lazy grace, his thoughts were anything but idle.

 

He could feel it. Sweet Sapphire’s heart. Like a fractured pearl sealed in sugar. Beautiful on the outside. But wrong. Tight. Mismatched.

 

He exhaled through his nose, brushing a hand through his pale gold curls, where several feathers shimmered like glass in sunlight. One plucked itself loose without touch and drifted behind him.

 

A mark. A message. He’d seen this before.

 

Cookies stripped of love, renamed, repurposed. Sugar-forged happiness welded over old wounds like a smiling mask. Eternal Sugar was very good at that. Too good.

 

Back beneath the tree, Sweet Sapphire sat motionless. He hadn’t moved since Pavlova left. He hadn’t felt anything either. Not fully. Not yet. But it was there. A heartbeat under glass.

 

Pavlova leaned back and let the blossom carry him higher, a small smile curving his lips—wistful, not mocking.

 

“I can’t make you remember,” he said quietly, to no one. “But I can leave the door open.”

 

He watched Sweet Sapphire twirling the charm once between his fingers. It was then, caught by the wind, and landed gently in Sweet Sapphire’s lap and he picked it up carefully. It pulsed once against his palm. Warm. Familiar. His brows knit. A whisper—not a voice, just a thought—brushed the edge of his mind.

 

“Your heart remembers even when your name forgets.” He looked around, suddenly alert. Searching. But Pavlova was already gone.

 

The Garden of Delights shimmered beneath a soft sunrise, all sugared pastels and polished beauty, but the light didn’t reach the edges. Not really.

 

The Lady in Azure stepped through the barrier in silence.

 

Same ribbon. Same silk-trimmed gown. Same dainty woven basket in her hands, etched with the sigil of the watching eye.

 

But something was different.

 

She moved with precision, grace—but this time, there was no softness in it, as well as patience. Her every step fell like a clock’s tick, inevitable, echoing. The garden itself seemed to pull back slightly at her presence. Recognizing the mask. Not the soul beneath.

The flowers didn’t giggle this time. The strawberries with stitched-on smiles didn’t wink. The candy-coated wind stilled. She had returned.

 

The Lady in Azure passed beneath rainbow branches, past gumdrop trees, past the pink-lake fountains. Her face was unreadable. Still. Perfect. Almost bored . But in her gloved hand, the basket trembled. Just slightly. Inside it, sealed beneath a velvet cloth, rested a single card.

 

Not a weapon. A reminder. She was not here to perform. She was here to reclaim.

 

She walked deeper into the Garden, past whispering flowers and sweets that dared not speak her name. Her gown brushed against velvet grass dusted with powdered sugar. Her heels clicked lightly on a bridge made of spun sugar glass.

 

Every step was a message. Every step said: I’m not here to admire the scenery.

 

The basket in her hand remained steady. Inside it, the card pulsed with silent energy. Shadow Milk could feel the Garden watching her—its little eyes hidden in twisted vines and berry leaves, tracking her with anxious curiosity.

 

But none of them moved to stop her. Because they remembered her. And more importantly—They still believed she served Her. The Bringer of Happiness.  Eternal Sugar Cookie.

 

She was always easy to find. Not because she stayed in one place—but because the Garden always bent around her, like frosting melting under heat. Shadow Milk followed the pull. The flavor of false kindness. The scent of rot under roses.

 

Through a grove of heart-shaped leaves and caramel mist, a clearing opened. There she was.

 

Eternal Sugar Cookie , reclined on her throne of candied glass and flowering gold. Her robes shimmered with pale pink and royal red, lips curled in a smile that never quite touched her eyes.

 

Several cookie attendants bowed and withdrew as the Lady in Azure stepped forward. The smile didn’t fade.

 

“Ah! You’ve returned, ” Eternal Sugar said, voice like honey dripped over steel.

 

The Lady curtsied with slow, fluid grace. “I never left,” she said softly.

 

Eternal Sugar’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the Garden seemed to rise by a single, sticky degree. “Strange,” she said. “Because I recall releasing you. You left your burden with me, remember?”

Her gaze slid to the basket. “So why have you come back?”

 

The Lady stepped forward, gaze calm. “To reclaim what’s mine.”

 

Eternal Sugar tilted her head. “ Mine , you mean.”

 

Two godlike creatures—one cloaked in light, the other in a lie—stared at each other across the candy-coated void.

 

And the Garden held its breath.

 

Eternal Sugar Cookie rose from her throne slowly, the sugared vines curling around the base retreating like obedient pets. Her gown shimmered with crystalline light, her smile still in place—painted on, perfect.

 

“And what exactly do you think is yours, Lady ?” she asked, the title dipped in amusement and condescension.

 

The Lady in Azure didn’t blink. Her posture flawless, her tone calm. “You know what I’ve come for.”

 

“Oh, darling,” Eternal Sugar sighed. “He’s so much happier now. No more shadows, torment, tangled loyalties. Just peace—only peace.” Her voice dropped to a whisper-soft purr. “I gave him that.”

 

“You gave him nothing ,” the Lady replied. “You erased him.”

 

“I freed him,” Eternal Sugar snapped, the honey finally cracking. “From pain. From confusion. From you. ”

 

The Lady stepped forward, dress flowing like ink in water. “He had a name before you rewrote it.”

 

“He has a purpose now.”

“He had one before you decided to bury it.”

 

Eternal Sugar’s eyes glinted. “And what was that? Running toward a knight who would never be safe with him? Hiding behind the wreckage you left in his mind?”

 

“I never made him hide,” the Lady said. “You did.”

 

“You think this is love,” Eternal Sugar said. “Dragging him back to the edge of his grief, making him remember what made him break .”

 

“I think love,” the Lady said, stepping closer, “is giving someone the choice to remember.”

 

They were face to face now—two divine cookies cloaked in civility, the air between them pulsing with repressed power.

 

“You’ve always feared love,” the Lady continued, voice colder now. “Because it can’t be commanded. Or owned. And when you couldn’t keep Hollyberry, you broke anyone who reminded you you’re not the one being chosen.”

 

A crack splintered through Eternal Sugar’s expression—just for a second. Then it smoothed again. “You speak of love like you didn’t leash him for years,” she said. “He bled for you. Killed for you. Forgot himself for you . And now you want to play savior?”

 

“I never asked for his love,” the Lady said quietly. “But I never tried to steal it either.”

 

Silence. Thick. Charged. Unforgiving.

 

“I will not give him up,” Eternal Sugar said.

 

“You won’t have to,” the Lady replied.

 

“…You’re not taking him?”

 

“I said I came to reclaim what’s mine,” the Lady said, voice like a blade beneath silk. “Not to steal it from him again. He gets to choose.”

 

“He’s forgotten you,” Eternal Sugar hissed.

 

The Lady smiled faintly. “Then you have nothing to fear… do you?”

 

The Garden trembled slightly—petals quivering, candy vines curling.

 

And somewhere in the distance, Sweet Sapphire Cookie paused mid-sentence during a broadcast, a sudden chill brushing the back of his neck.

 

Eternal Sugar threw her head back and laughed. The sound rang through the clearing like a glass bell—sweet, musical, mocking.

 

“Oh, do tell me,” she said, stepping down from her candied throne, gown trailing like melted gold behind her, “has the Beast of Deceit gone soft?”

 

The nickname echoed between them. A title. A wound dressed in silk. The Lady in Azure didn’t move. “I’m not soft,” she said. “I’m clear. ”

 

Eternal Sugar’s eyes narrowed, the laughter fading to a sharp, poisonous smile. “Clear?” she echoed. “You? The master of masks, the shadow behind every crown, the serpent with a thousand names?”

She circled now, slow and smooth.

“You were born to ruin things. To take what doesn’t belong to you. To manipulate and fracture and slip away before the pieces even hit the floor. And now what—you're here playing mercy?”

 

The Lady turned to follow her path, keeping her gaze level. “I’m not here to manipulate him. I’m here to free him.”

 

“Please,” Eternal Sugar spat. “This is just a new script. A new lie you’ve written for yourself.”

 

“If it was a lie,” the Lady said, “he wouldn’t have followed me for so long.”

 

“That’s not loyalty,” Eternal Sugar said, her voice rising. “That’s conditioning. He was yours because you made sure he had nowhere else to go.”

 

The Lady’s grip on the basket tightened—but her voice remained even. “He has somewhere now. And he will choose it, or not. I’m not here to force his hand. That’s your game.”

 

The two of them stood, the air between them like stretched sugar seconds before it snaps.

 

Then Eternal Sugar stepped closer, voice low. “You really think he’ll come back to you? After what you did to him?”

 

“I am not sure,” the Lady said softly. “But I know this: you’re terrified he might. ”

 

That hit. Eternal Sugar’s eyes flared, just for a moment. The Garden responded—gumdrop vines tensed, trees bent inward, the sky above going a shade too dark for dawn.

And somewhere, faint but steady—The pulse of Sweet Sapphire’s charm began to glow warmer in his palm. A memory stirring.

 

Shadow Milk tilted her head slightly, voice cool, steady: “So. Tell me my dear friend. Where is he ?”

 

Eternal Sugar’s eyes glittered. “Spreading the good news about my Garden,” she purred. She said it with pride—syrupy and smug, like a mother showing off her favorite puppet.

 

Shadow Milk didn’t react. Not visibly. But the silence that followed was dense enough to choke on.

 

Eternal Sugar stepped past her throne, hands folded behind her back. “His voice is divine now,” she went on. “Smooth, persuasive, sweet enough to make anyone listen. You’d hardly recognize him—Just a purpose. Just peace. ”

She turned, that smile still painted across her face. “You should be proud. You raised a weapon. I refined him into a song.”

 

The Lady in Azure’s lips barely moved. “You caged him in velvet.”

 

Eternal Sugar’s smile twitched—just a little. “And he sings so beautifully from that cage,” she whispered.

 

The basket in the Lady’s hand pulsed once. A warning. Or maybe a heartbeat. “Where?” she asked again.

 

Eternal Sugar blinked—slow, indulgent. “Wandering far. Planting seeds. Rewriting hearts with every broadcast. He believes, you know. That he’s bringing joy to the world.”

 

“And when he remembers?” the Lady asked.

 

That made Eternal Sugar pause. Just long enough to betray the crack beneath her composure. Then she leaned in close, her voice like frosting hiding fire. “He won’t.”

 

The silence after Eternal Sugar’s last words stretched too long.

 

And lady stormed off. If Eternal sugar is not going to tell her, then she will search him by herself. Precision turned sharp. Grace weaponized. Her heels struck the sugar-glass path like war drums wrapped in velvet. The basket swung at her side. No longer dainty. Now a blade disguised as lace.

 

The Garden shifted nervously around her as she passed—flowers closing, rainbow bridges stiffening, candy wind pulling away like breath held in fear. She didn’t care. She didn’t look back.

“He won’t,” Eternal Sugar had said.

And maybe that was the truth. But the Lady didn’t believe in truth. She believed in leverage. In patterns . . In the sound someone made when a memory they thought was dead came clawing back to life.

 

She believed in Black Sapphire’s heart—even buried under another name. So she moved. Fast. Through rose-syrup fields. Past cookie-folk too entranced to notice the danger passing by.

 

She was going to find him. And if Eternal Sugar was right—If Black Sapphire truly had forgotten her? Then she’d just have to make him remember.

 

She found him in a grove of pastel fruit trees, their trunks spiraled like candy canes, leaves shimmering with a soft, unnatural gold.

 

He stood on a raised petal-platform, his wings outstretched—white and luminous, tipped in soft gold and blushing pink. His robes were immaculate, draped like those of a holy messenger from a world long gone. The wind carried his voice, echoing gently from crystal chimes embedded in the trees.

 

His words were light. His face was calm. And then—He saw her. The moment caught him mid-sentence. His breath hitched. His eyes widened. He stepped back from the petal’s edge, wings trembling as he stared. Then, a light bloomed across his face.

Recognition. “Master Shadow Milk Cookie!” The joy in his voice was real. Pure. Unfiltered. He descended quickly, light-footed, almost floating, until he stood just feet from her—beaming.

 

“I—I didn’t know you were coming,” he said, smiling softly, unsure, warm. “It’s really you.”

 

He reached out, hesitated, then pulled his hand back with an awkward little laugh. “Sorry, I forgot—uh—etiquette. It’s just so nice seeing you again!”

 

The Lady in Azure didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because this wasn’t Black Sapphire. Not entirely.

 

The angles of his face were softer now, eyes unburdened, posture looser. And yet... it was him . The voice. The instinct to smile. The way he tilted his head just slightly when he was trying to remember something.

 

Something he shouldn’t be able to remember. And still—He had. He remembered her. Not the dress. Not an illusion. But her (or should we say him?)

 

The Lady in Azure stepped forward, voice low, urgent, sharp enough to cut through sugar fog. “We have to go. Now.”

She grabbed his wrist. “We need to leave this place, Black Sapphire Cookie.”

 

The name struck the air like thunder behind stained glass. For a heartbeat, Sweet Sapphire just blinked. Then, gently, he pulled his hand away. Confused. Still smiling.

 

“Black Sapphire Cookie?” he repeated, tilting his head. “I believe you are mistaken.”

He laughed softly, like someone correcting a harmless error. “My name is Sweet Sapphire Cookie. I’m the Voice of the Garden.” He touched the brooch on his shoulder—still shaped like a stylized mic.

“There’s nothing to run from,” he said. “This place is the place of happiness. Everyone here is free.”

 

The Lady froze. Her hands clenched the handle of the basket so tightly the weave creaked. “Free,” she echoed, flatly.

 

“Yes!” he said, wings flaring slightly. “Eternal Sugar Cookie showed me the truth. She saved me from my confusion. My… darkness.” His eyes were still bright. Still sincere. But they didn’t recognize the truth in hers.

 

They didn’t see the pain in her clenched jaw, the raw edge of hope behind her poise. She stepped forward again, softer this time.

“Sapph… please,” she whispered. “This isn’t you. You’ve been rewritten. Hollowed out. You don’t even realize what she’s taken—”

 

“I do realize,” he interrupted, gently but firmly. “She gave me peace and happiness.”

 

“She away took your heart. ”

 

He smiled again. “And yet, I feel no pain.”

 

The Lady looked at him. Really looked.

 

He was standing in the sunlight. Surrounded by flowers that listened to lies. Birds that chirped songs designed to rewrite truth. A paradise designed to smother anyone who doubted it. And he looked happy. Because he didn’t know what he’d lost.

 

The Lady in Azure’s voice trembled—just once.

 

She stepped closer, one gloved hand hovering just inches from his chest, where the soft glow of his brooch pulsed with the Garden’s magic. “Listen to your heart… please.”

Her voice was no longer commanding like before. No longer rehearsed. It is more... raw. “I need you back.”

Then—quietly, almost breaking—“We need you.”

 

Sweet Sapphire blinked. The smile faltered. Not completely—but enough. His wings shifted. Something inside him—deep, deep beneath the sweetness and silence and spellwork— tightened .

 

Like an old wire tugging loose. He looked at her face—her eyes. And something in them… A flicker. A memory. A shadow that didn’t feel like fear.

 

“I…” he started, voice thinner now. “…why does that sound so…”

 

The charm Pavlova had given him pulsed warmer in his pocket. Forgotten until now. He reached down. Fingers brushed the shape of it.

 

The Lady stepped even closer, eyes locked on him. “No more rewrites,” she said. “Just… listen to yourself. To what’s left of you in there.”

 

Sweet Sapphire’s hand trembled slightly over his chest. He looked down. Then up at her. “…You sound like someone I used to know.”

 

“You do know me,” she whispered. “Somewhere in there, you do.”

And for the first time in this Garden—he didn’t answer. He just stood still. Caught. Between one truth and another. He was silent. Still. Not rejecting her. But not returning either.

 

So Shadow Milk— the Lady in Azure —stepped even closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper, raw now, stripped of poise. “You weren’t built for silence, Sapphire. You weren’t made to smile and vanish.”

 

She searched his eyes, desperate to find a flicker of the one who once walked beside her in shadows and fire. “You were sharp. Stubborn. You loved too hard, too fast. You broke rules and hearts and you never apologized for wanting something more.”

 

His breath hitched. Shadow Milk pressed on. “And then I broke you.”

 

That stopped everything. The pastel breeze. The glowing plants. Even the Garden seemed to pause.

 

“I told myself I was making you strong,” she said. “That if I carved away the softness, there’d be nothing left to hurt. But all I did was leave you hollow.”

He stared at her—eyes flickering, uncertain. “Don’t let her do the same,” she whispered. “Don’t let her rewrite you again just because it feels easier.”

 

A tremor passed through him.  His hand hovered over the charm Pavlova gave him.

Shadow Milk took one last step. Close enough to touch, but didn’t. “You don’t belong to her. You don’t belong to me. ” Her voice cracked. “You belong to yourself. And I want him back.”

 

She meant it. The trees whispered first. A slow shiver passed through the grass. The clouds stilled. And the sky, once cotton-candy pink, shifted ever so slightly—into a shade of rose that was too rich, too dark, like fruit just past ripeness.

 

Then: “Oh my! How touching.”

 

The voice rang like a bell dipped in syrup—beautiful, poisonous, absolutely furious . Eternal Sugar Cookie stepped out from the mist of glowing petals and lollipop fog, every inch of her glowing with elegance and power. Her candy-petal train swept behind her like a wave of silk and saccharine doom.

 

She was smiling. Of course she was smiling. But her eyes were cold .

 

Shadow Milk turned slowly, dropping all pretenses of pleasantry. Her expression didn’t falter—but her stance shifted. Ready.

 

Sweet Sapphire Cookie instinctively took a step back, caught between them—his wings twitching, fingers tightening around the charm Pavlova had given him.

 

“Honestly,” Eternal Sugar said, folding her hands in front of her, “you just can’t help yourself, can you?”

 

She tilted her head, voice light as spun sugar. “You lost your toy, and now you’ve come crawling back to dig through the broken parts, hoping they’ll still fit together the way they used to.”

 

“He’s not a toy,” Shadow Milk said quietly.

 

“No,” Eternal Sugar said, her smile sharpening. “He’s mine.”

 

Sweet Sapphire flinched. The air thickened. The trees seemed to lean closer.

 

“He chose this,” Eternal Sugar continued. “He wants this life. You wished for this. Or have you already forgotten how miserable he was under your care? How broken ?”

 

“I never claimed I fixed him,” Shadow Milk said. “I only gave him the choice to be something more.”

 

“And I gave him peace,” she snapped.

 

“By cutting away his heart.”

 

Eternal Sugar’s laugh was short, sharp. “Oh, please. As if that thing ever brought him anything but misery.”

 

She turned to Sweet Sapphire now, her voice softening again.

 

“Darling. Don’t listen to her. You remember, don’t you? Who gave you purpose? Who gave you clarity ?”

 

Sweet Sapphire looked between them.

Shadow Milk. Eternal Sugar. Two forces. Two futures. He opened his mouth—

 

And the charm in his hand flared.nA burst of warmth. Memory. Pain. One cloaked in cold purpose. The other in radiant control. One said remember. The other said forget .

 

His hand trembled. The charm in his palm flared—pulsing like a second heartbeat. And suddenly, he wasn’t standing in the Garden anymore.

 

Not really.

 

---

 

“Why do I know that name?”

 

“Why does it hurt?”

 

He didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t need to.

 

The questions screamed inside his chest, echoing louder than anything around him.

“Silverbell…” The word still burned on his tongue. Familiar. Sacred. He shouldn’t know it. But he did.

 

And with it came flashes—too quick to hold, too sharp to ignore. A bow. A voice. A hand reaching out into the dark. Someone who wasn’t supposed to matter. Someone who had .

 

He tried to shove it down. Tried to hold onto what he’d been taught.

 

“You are Sweet Sapphire. Voice of the Garden. Messenger of peace. Purpose over pain. Clarity over chaos.”

 

But it didn’t sit right anymore.nIt never had.

 

A part of him—a part he didn’t know how to name— screamed beneath the smile he wore. And now, looking at Shadow Milk—his eyes tired, his voice stripped bare—he felt something break.

 

Not a violent break. A quiet one. Like the sound of ice cracking under slow pressure.

 

---

“He called me Black Sapphire.”

 

“Why does that feel like home?”

 

His throat tightened. He looked at Eternal Sugar, radiant and sure, framed by sugarlight and devotion.nShe had saved him. She had healed him. She had given him purpose.

 

Hadn’t she?

 

“Why, then, does it feel like I’ve been caged in something soft?”

 

He remembered the voice. Shadow Milk’s voice. Colder than hers. Harsher. But it hadn’t lied to him. Not once. And yet—he’d suffered for it. Bled for it. Fell because of it.

 

“I chose him once.”

 

“But did I want to?”

 

His grip on the charm tightened. He could feel his body pulling in two directions.

 

“I don’t know who I am.”

 

Sweet Sapphire. Black Sapphire. Neither. Both.

---

He squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“I want to feel like I belong to myself again.”

Not to her. Not to him. Not to anyone.

 

The charm burned bright. Then dimmed. He opened his eyes. Torn. Unsteady. But something had shifted. The charm in his hand pulsed once more. And then—A voice. Not the Garden’s. Not the shadows’. Something gentler. Stronger. Real.

 

“I found you.”

 

The words landed not in his ears, but deep beneath his ribs. And his breath caught. He knew that voice. It wasn’t imagined. It wasn’t conjured by spells or triggered by enchantments.

 

It was memory. It was him. Silverbell. For a moment, the world shattered into a thousand reflections. A battlefield. A broken bow. Blood on white petals. Hands pulling him back from the edge.

 

Arms around him in the dark. A voice—desperate, shaking—saying, “I don’t care what he made you into. I’m staying.”

 

He wasn’t Sweet Sapphire in those memories. He wasn’t a messenger. He wasn’t obedient. He was angry. He was alive. He was Black Sapphire Cookie—and he was loved .

Not because he was useful. Not because he served. But because someone had looked at him and stayed anyway .

 

And suddenly he gasped—Eyes wide—As something fractured inside the shell he’d been wearing. “Silverbell…”

 

The name left his lips like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years. His knees buckled. He caught himself, one hand over his chest as if trying to hold something in that was finally breaking free.

 

His wings flickered. The glow dimmed. Then sparked again— wild , uncontrolled. A pulse of light and color not crafted by Eternal Sugar’s hand.

 

Memories hit like falling stars. Not full pictures. But flashes. Silver eyes blazing under moonlight—A bow drawn, not at him, but for him—A hand reaching out, shaking, refusing to let go—A voice: “If you’re going to fall, I’ll fall with you.”

 

And just beyond the clearing, pressed behind a peppermint-barked tree, Pavlova Cookie watched quietly.

 

He just held a hand over his chest, where a faint gold glyph on his collarbone pulsed in sync with the charm. The arrow had hit.

 

Behind Sweet Sapphire, Eternal Sugar Cookie’s smile shattered. “What did you say?” she asked, voice thin, trembling under the weight of rage she didn’t know how to hide.

Sweet Sapphire looked up at her—truly looked. And his expression changed. Recognition. “You lied to me,” he said, voice unsteady but his own.

 

“No,” Eternal Sugar hissed, stepping forward, “I rescued you. I gave you a new life.”

 

“You took his name,” Shadow Milk said quietly. “But not his heart.”

 

Sweet Sapphire’s wings extended again. This time, they didn’t shine for her. He turned to Shadow Milk. “…I remember you.” His voice cracked. “…And I remember what you did to me and I still came back.”

Shadow Milk flinched. Just barely. But didn’t look away.

 

Behind the tree, Pavlova exhaled and vanished into the mist, leaving them to it. The work was done. Now came the fallout.

 

Eternal Sugar Cookie’s composure finally cracked. The cracks didn’t show on her gown or face. They showed in the air around her—like sugar glass fracturing under pressure.

 

“You dare come here and judge me ,” she said, voice trembling with fury, “when you were the one who told me to ‘re-educate’ him?”

 

Her eyes blazed like candy fire. “You gave him to me. You said he was broken. That he needed discipline. Obedience. And I did exactly what you asked.”

Her voice dropped into something colder, uglier. “Now he smiles. He serves. And now you want him back?”

She took a step forward, her aura rippling. “What changed, Shadow Milk? Did it hurt, seeing him happy without you? Or did it hurt knowing he forgot you completely and still smiled?”

 

Shadow Milk stood still, her expression unreadable. But her hands were moving—slowly, precisely. “No,” she said. “What hurts is knowing I let you touch something I wasn’t ready to lose.”

Then her voice sharpened. “And I won’t make that mistake again.”

 

Before Eternal Sugar could react, Shadow Milk raised one hand, and a black sigil bloomed in the air—a perfect spiral of thorns and ink, pulsing with old, cruel magic.

 

Sweet Sapphire flinched. “Wha—” The spell struck before he could speak.

 

A wave of obsidian light spiraled through his chest. His eyes widened—once, then faded, soft and glassy. His body didn’t fall and resist. It… stilled. Like someone pulling the plug on a dream. His wings curled in. His light dimmed.

 

Shadow Milk had severed his consciousness. Not a killing blow. But a reset. A pause button pulled by force.

 

Behind her, Eternal Sugar screamed, “NO—!”

 

But it was too late. Shadow Milk turned, sweeping one hand outward, and a portal ripped open behind her, violet-black and jagged, swirling like a cut in the Garden’s fabric. She lifted Black Sapphire’s unconscious form effortlessly, one arm under his shoulders.

 

Eternal Sugar moved to stop her. But Shadow Milk didn’t even look back. She whispered: “You don’t get to keep what you never understood.”

 

Then stepped through the portal and vanished. The Garden’s light stuttered.

 

And Eternal Sugar was left alone in the clearing, staring at the space where her perfect creation had just been torn away.

 

---

 

An orb dimmed slightly as a figure stepped into view. She moved with the precision of a judge—and the silence of a predator.

 

An old cookie, skin a deep, bruised purple. Hair white and flowing, cascading past her shoulders like powdered ash. Eyes burning red. Unforgiving. Ancient.

 

A black and red dress framed her tall frame like a cloak of fire. Black shoulder guards towered around her, flaring like spiked wings. Her cape dragged behind her like shadow-silk.

 

One glove black. One glove red. And in her grip: a white scepter, topped with a grinning skull crowned in curling red horns.

 

She narrowed her eyes. "One of the Beasts going soft for their own minion?” she murmured. Her voice crackled like burning parchment. “The next thing I know, he’ll betray me... just like how his assistant did.”

 

She didn’t spit the word. She didn’t need to. Contempt made it taste like ash already. Her gaze lingered on the orb for a heartbeat longer. Then, she straightened.

 

“I need to do something.”

 

The orb flickered behind her as she turned. Her heavy cloak stirred dust from the stone floor. A storm was brewing in her wake.

---

 

Shadow Milk carried Black Sapphire in his arms, silent as he stepped into the Lands of Deceit. The air here was thick. The sky hung low and purple-black. The trees whispered lies that sounded like lullabies.

But Shadow Milk wasn’t listening. There was a strange feeling building in his chest. Not anger. Something worse. Something he couldn’t name.

 

And he hated that.

 

Emotions were supposed to be dead things. He’d buried them long ago—along with everything else that had made him vulnerable . But now they clawed at him again, like ghosts who didn’t know they were supposed to stay buried.

 

He turned sharply, walking deeper into the woods.

 

Shadows curled tighter around his frame with every step. A flick of his fingers, and the twisted trees parted like curtains, revealing a ruin swallowed by time and silence.

 

One of their places. Forgotten by the world. Not by him. He stepped inside. Dust rose like memory.

 

His hand brushed a crumbling stone wall. The texture of it—the cold, the grit—stabbed at something warm he didn’t want to feel.

 

He closed his eyes. And it all came back.

Laughter.  Firelight.

A hand pulling him up, not out of duty, but friendship.
A name—not a title—called with affection. Dinner. Laughter. Safety.

 

He opened his eyes fast, like slamming a door. But the memory stayed. “They all turned,” he muttered. “We all became monsters.”

 

He looked down into a pool of still, white water. It showed him as he chose to be: perfect, elegant, unreadable. But he could feel it now—under the mask. A pulse. A weight. A feeling. Not for Silverbell. Not even for Black Sapphire, really.

 

Just for what they used to be. Before control. Before obedience. Before survival meant silence. He let out a breath. It hurt.

 

“This feeling…” he whispered. “I’ve felt it before.” A pause. “I don’t want it again.”

 

But it stayed. Unwelcome. Unexplainable. Undeniably real. The shadows whispered—not in words, but in memory. He touched his chest lightly. Curious. Angry. That feeling. He thought he’d killed it. But it lived.

 

“I never needed this feeling again,” he said. “It broke me. It broke all of us.”

 

He paced slowly through the stone ruin. “I was the fount,” he murmured. “The voice in the dark. I gave them knowledge. Truth. Everything they said they wanted.”

 

He looked up. Eyes cold. But distant. “And they turned away.”

 

They hadn’t wanted truth. They wanted comfort. Pretty lies. Sweet safety. “So I gave them lies,” he said bitterly. “Gave them what they deserved.”

 

His laughter came sharp. Empty. “And they loved me for it. The liar they could worship. The mask they could forgive.”

 

He stopped. Looked at Black Sapphire. Unconscious now. Silent. Fragile in a way that made him feel too much.

 

“But you listened,” he muttered. “Even after everything. Even when it hurt.”

 

The anger surged again. Not at Black Sapphire. Not at them. At himself. Because part of him still wanted to be believed. Part of him still remembered when truth was enough. He clenched his fist. Shadows coiled up his arms, binding like vines.

 

“I don’t need this,” he whispered. Voice cracking. “I don’t need to feel anything. ”

 

But even he didn’t believe it anymore. He stared into the dark. The silence didn’t answer. Just that feeling. That ache. The one that never really died.

 

He closed his eyes. And said it out loud, the word that felt like a curse: “…Care.”

 

He laughed once, dry and bitter. “What a foolish feeling.”

 

The journey back to their house wasn’t quiet. Not because Shadow Milk spoke too much about his feelings. But because something was shifting. The skies over the Lands of Deceit were darker now, the clouds low and streaked with veins of violet. The air was heavier. Thicker. As if the world itself sensed a truth waking up.

 

Shadow Milk floated a few feet off the ground, trailing ribbons of shadow and cold wind behind him like a storm held barely in check. In his arms: the body of Sweet Sapphire Cookie—still, silent, angelic in design, but empty behind the eyes.

 

He floated above the cracked path leading to their shared stronghold—a once-sacred place now stained by time and silence.

 

That’s when he saw her. Candy Apple. She stood on the porch, juggling some floating fruit she’d clearly stolen from another realm and humming a half-forgotten tune.

 

She turned—and froze mid-spin. Her eyes went wide. “What the—?!”

 

She pointed. Then blinked. Hard. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Who is that ?” she barked, backing up. “That’s not Black Sapphire. That’s some garden-charmed cherub reject—did someone upgrade him or—?!”

 

She dropped the fruit.

Shadow Milk said nothing. Just hovered downward. Controlled. Silent. Then— He raised one hand. A single rune ignited across his palm—sharp, perfect, laced with cold blue energy. His disguise dissolved in a slow ripple of smoke and light. The Lady in Azure was gone.

 

And now stood Shadow Milk Cookie—undeniable, unveiled.

 

Candy Apple took another step back. “Oh. Oh this is serious-serious..”

 

Still, Shadow Milk didn’t look at her. He looked at Sweet Sapphire.

 

And without futher notice—He placed his fingers gently on the center of his chest. The rune pulsed. And he spoke one word: “Return.”

 

The magic snapped like a whip, surging through Sweet Sapphire’s body.

 

His back arched. His eyes flew open. And he breathed in like someone waking up from drowning.

 

He gasped, wings flickering chaotically, robe fluttering in invisible wind. For a split second, he looked up at the world with absolute terror —then recognition—

 

Then confusion. “…W-what—?”

 

Shadow Milk just watched. Cold. Waiting. Candy Apple? Still frozen.

 

“Okay,” she said, hand raised. “Somebody explain to me why he looks like a limited-edition collectible instead of my depressing murder-boyfriend.”

 

Black—Sweet—Sapphire looked at his hands. Then at the wings. Then at Shadow Milk. “…What did you do to me?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t answer. 

 

Before the scars, before the limp, before the ruin left in Mirror Lake’s wake… He was standing still. Wings soft. Voice smooth. Smiling like a song bottled in glass. Sweet Sapphire Cookie—the Garden’s messenger. Eternal Sugar’s “gift.” A perfected echo of what once had a name.

 

Shadow Milk stared at him. Float-light, radiant, hollow. Not angry. Not defiant. Not him. It made his chest twist. Not in rage. In recognition and in grief.

 

He had come this far—disguised, composed, measured. All for this. To retrieve what Eternal Sugar had stolen. And yet now, looking at what had become of him… He realized the horror wasn’t that she had remade him.

 

It was that he had once asked her to.

“I’ll handle him,” she had said.
 

And he had nodded.

 

“Obedience,” she had promised.

And he had agreed. And now? Here he stood. Smiling. Empty. That wasn’t peace in his eyes. It was absence. So Shadow Milk acted. No words spoken aloud. Only glyphs. Only movement.

 

A spell he had never shared. One he thought he’d never use. Not because it was dangerous. But because it was final. A flick of his fingers.  A spiral in the air.  A breath held like the world might break if he exhaled.

 

And then—It hit him. Black Sapphire. Not Sweet and soft—a version that was never remade the Cookie by the Bringer of Happiness. He is restored.

 

The wings shimmered—feathers crackling, melting back to torn leather. Light vanished. Shadow returned. The glow dimmed.

 

And then: A scar across his collarbone, the edges still raw. A faint limp in his right leg. One shoulder of his coat torn, haphazardly restitched. His bat-like wings damaged—one bent inward, membrane torn, veins still scorched from faerie light.

 

Evidence. Mirror Lake had left its mark. "You’re hurt."

 

"Eugh..." Black Sapphire didn’t flinch. "It’s healing."

 

Candy Apple was already twirling in a circle near the far wall. "Oooh, are we having a dark and moody moment? Should I leave? Should I bring snacks?"

 

Shadow Milk held up one hand—gently this time. Not to command. Just too quiet. "Go catalog the relic you found earlier."

 

She raised a hand in mock salute. "On it, my brooding liege of lies!" She vanished down the corridor, humming.

 

Silence returned like a slow tide.

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head slightly. "You’re unusually quiet."

 

Shadow Milk studied him. Took in the bruises. The silence. The eyes that once burned with rebellion—and now looked more like something trying not to fade. He wanted to speak. He didn’t.

 

Instead, he crossed the room, picked up the card that still lay face-down where he’d left it. He turned it over.

 

THE STAR.

 

A symbol of divine protection. Of guardianship. Of standing between something fragile and the world—with a sense of optimism and unwavering hope that light might yet break through the dark.

 

He stared at it. Then looked at Black Sapphire. Then back at the card.nAnd whispered, just loud enough for him to hear: "Some truths are heavier than others."

 

Black Sapphire’s voice cut through the silence. "Pardon me?"

 

It wasn’t snide. Just clipped. Controlled. The way he always spoke when he was in pain but refused to show it.

 

Shadow Milk didn’t answer right away. Because he had finally—truly—looked at him. His eyes traced the damage he hadn’t registered before. The unevenness in his stride. The way his coat sleeve stuck to dried jam. The faint twitch in his shoulder every time he inhaled.

 

And the wings. They were cracked at the edges—one bent awkwardly, where faerie magic had torn through. Wings that had once been pristine. Cold, elegant, perfect. Now barely holding their shape.

 

Shadow Milk’s expression didn’t change outwardly. But something shifted in his voice. It dropped low. No performance. No lilt. "You’re worse than you said."

 

Black Sapphire straightened—but not well. The posture was still there, but the body was betraying him now, just slightly. "I handled it."

 

Shadow Milk stepped closer, slow, silent. He raised a hand—paused midair. Not because he didn’t want to touch him. Because he wasn’t sure how. Not like this. "You didn’t tell me it was this bad."

 

Black Sapphire’s mouth twitched. His tone cooled. "It didn’t matter."

 

"It does." The words slipped out before he could filter them. They landed like stone.

 

Black Sapphire looked away. And that—that—hit harder than the bruises.

 

Shadow Milk lowered his hand. "Sit."

 

Black Sapphire didn’t move. "I said I’m fine."

 

"And I said sit." This time, the command wasn’t cold. It wasn’t stern. It was—almost—gentle.

 

Black Sapphire hesitated. Then slowly, carefully, lowered himself into the seat Shadow Milk had vacated earlier. He winced as he did. Didn’t hide it fast enough.

 

Shadow Milk said nothing for a long moment. Then finally, he knelt beside him. Gathered the cards. Set them aside.

 

He reached for a cloth and a small crystal vial from the table drawer. Healing solution—something Candy Apple had insisted they keep stocked, despite his cynicism. He uncorked it. Dabbed the cloth. And—carefully—reached for Sapphire’s wings.

 

"May I?"

 

Black Sapphire blinked, caught off guard by the softness. Then, with a nod that wasn’t quite a nod, he offered his wings.

 

Shadow Milk began to clean the wound. Slowly. Quietly. And for the first time in what felt like ages—They sat together in silence that wasn’t tense. That wasn’t layered with lies. That was just... real.

 

Shadow Milk’s cloth paused, just for a heartbeat, against the edge of a torn sleeve. The question hung in the air like smoke.

 

Shadow Milk worked in silence, the cloth soaked in soft glowing light as he cleaned the blood from Black Sapphire’s dough. Every touch was precise. Clinical. But not unkind.

 

Black Sapphire watched him for a while, lips pressed into a tight line. His shoulders never quite relaxed.

 

Then he spoke—carefully. "Master?"

 

Shadow Milk didn’t pause. "Hm?"

 

"…Did something happen today?"

 

Shadow Milk dabbed the last of the blood, then set the cloth aside.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he picked up fresh bandages, began wrapping them around Sapphire’s dough with fluid efficiency.

 

Then—casually, almost too casually—he said:"I spoke with Silverbell."

 

Black Sapphire froze. His breath caught. "…What?"

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes didn’t leave his work. "I found him wandering around near the forests. He was stubborn. Righteous. Infuriatingly sincere."

 

Black Sapphire’s voice dropped to a whisper. "You… didn’t kill him?"

 

Shadow Milk looked up at that. Their eyes met. "Would that have surprised you?"

 

Sapphire looked away, jaw tightening. "…No."

 

He shifted slightly in the chair, like preparing to defend something—someone. His voice cracked just slightly, then steadied. "I thought you’d crush him."

 

Shadow Milk stood slowly. He said nothing at first. Then walked to the far side of the room and faced away, arms loosely folded behind his back. "You thought I’d destroy the one Cookie who managed to make you hesitate."

 

Black Sapphire didn’t respond. The silence stretched. 

 

"I would’ve." Shadow Milk’s voice was quiet now. Honest. "A long time ago."

 

Black Sapphire’s breath hitched. He stared at Shadow Milk’s back. Waiting for the anger. The lecture. The punishment.nBut it never came.

 

Shadow Milk turned his head slightly—just enough for his voice to carry. "He said he’d wait for you."

 

Black Sapphire blinked. "…What?"

 

"Said he’d do anything to keep you with him. Even if you left. Even if you broke him. He’d still choose you."

 

Silence. Black Sapphire’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

 

Shadow Milk stepped back into the dim light of the room, his face calm—but unreadable.

 

He looked at the bruises again. The cuts. The trembling underneath Sapphire’s steady mask. And this time, he didn’t smile. He just said: "You were wrong about him."

 

A beat. "And so was I."

 

Shadow Milk continued tending to Black Sapphire’s visible wounds, shifting from just cleansing the surface injuries to gently brushing healing magic along the torn muscle, frayed veins, and cracked edges of his wings. His hands hovered over the battered membrane, glowing faintly with violet-blue light—the kind he rarely used. The kind he never offered lightly. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t flashy. But little by little, the worst of the damage began to ease.

Yet with every motion, Black Sapphire winced—pain still etched into the way he tensed, into the catch in his breath, into the sharp flashes in his eyes. The battle at Mirror Lake hadn’t just bruised him. It had broken him in places that light couldn’t reach quickly. The healing stung. The magic cut as it mended. And still, Shadow Milk said nothing. He simply worked—quiet, focused, present—because this was the one truth he could still act on.

 

Eventually, his hands paused. "You’ll need to take off your coat," Shadow Milk said quietly, not unkindly. "I need to check for other wounds."

 

Black Sapphire didn’t move. His jaw tensed again. His hands curled inwards. There was something colder than hesitation in his silence—something closer to dread.

 

“I can’t help it if I can’t see,” Shadow Milk added, softer now, sensing the shift.

 

Still, no motion. Just a flicker in Sapphire’s eyes. Then slowly—reluctantly—he began to undo the fastenings of his coat. He shrugged it off partway, hesitating again as the fabric fell from his shoulders. His sleeves rode up just enough to reveal the thin, cuts etched along his wrists—fresh and deliberate.

 

He flinched as if caught.

 

Shadow Milk saw them. His breath hitched, and his expression shifted—not with shock, but with something colder. He knew what they were. What they meant.

"When did you..." His voice was low. Controlled. "Why? I thought I already got rid of every sharp thing in the spire."

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes didn’t lift. “I broke my mirror,” he said, quiet. “Took a piece.” Another silence followed. He didn’t rush to fill it. “I wasn’t trying to die,” he added. “It wasn’t about that.”

His voice hollowed, like he was speaking from a pit far deeper than his body. “It was punishment.”

He flexed his fingers slightly, as if he could still feel the sting of glass. “For what I did. To him. To me. For thinking I could serve you, protect him, and not destroy both in the process.”

 

Shadow Milk’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

 

“I chose you,” Black Sapphire continued. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

 

He gave a bitter laugh, soft and sharp. “That didn’t feel right.” The wounds weren’t a message. They were in control—over a pain he could at least name.

 

Shadow Milk lowered his gaze. And for once, he didn’t look like a commander. Or a tactician. Or the one pulling the strings. He just looked… tired. Not of Black Sapphire. Of himself .

He reached out again, slower this time. The magic gathered in his palms was steady, unwavering, even if he wasn’t.

“I gave you the choice,” he said finally, the words like broken glass between his teeth. “But I stacked the board.” He didn't say I'm sorry. He couldn’t mouth those two words. It was in the way he said nothing else. In the silence that didn’t try to fix, or justify, or command. Only stay.

 

And as the light seeped into those raw, deliberate wounds, Black Sapphire let himself breathe. Just once.

 

After a moment, his voice broke the quiet. "How are you feeling?" A question—soft, almost normal.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked downward. But slowly, he exhaled. "Hurting." A beat. "But alive.."

 

Shadow Milk gave the faintest nod. He let the silence stretch a moment longer, before speaking again—calmly, but with an unmistakable edge of curiosity beneath the words.

 

"How long were you planning to hide your boyfriend from me," he asked, "if I hadn’t already figured out he’s alive as we speak?"

Black Sapphire stiffened. His head jerked slightly, and for the first time in hours, a flush crept into his face. "He’s not—I mean, we’re not—that isn’t… we never called it that."

Shadow Milk arched a brow, a smirk forming like storm clouds teasing the edge of a sky. "Oh? So you kiss him on the lips but can’t name it?"

 

Black Sapphire looked away quickly, jaw tight. "It wasn’t like that."

 

"Mmm," Shadow Milk hummed, utterly unbothered. "I see. Tactical oral proximity. Completely different." He leaned in just slightly. "You’re adorable when you malfunction."

 

Black Sapphire groaned softly and covered his face with one hand.

Shadow Milk chuckled—quiet and sharp—but now, he is not cruel. Especially tonight. Just amused. And maybe, for once, a little lighter. Then—gently, without the usual edge—Shadow Milk asked, "But you still love him, don't you?" The question didn’t come with judgment. 

 

Black Sapphire’s hand dropped from his face. His eyes flicked up, caught off guard. He didn’t hesitate this time. "Yes. I do love him. I still do."

 

Shadow Milk tilted his head slightly, a smirk creeping back across his face. "Well, he told me you've been running away from him."

 

Black Sapphire nearly choked. "WHAT?! I mean—what? That’s because you'd get suspicious of me... or well… him ."

 

Shadow Milk leaned on one elbow, clearly enjoying himself. "Wow, so you've been sneaking out too?"

 

Black Sapphire's fluster was instant and visible. "I wasn’t sneaking —I was being... cautious."

"Cautiously romantic," Shadow Milk offered, deadpan.

 

Before Black Sapphire could respond, another voice rang out.

 

"Told you he was sneaking out," Candy Apple called brightly from the corridor, strolling back in with a plate of glowing tarts and zero shame.

"Honestly, I thought you two were going to start dueling with love letters at this rate. Should I prepare a heart-shaped war table?"

 

Black Sapphire sank deeper into his seat, groaning again. "You told me you wouldn't tell him," he muttered, glaring over at Candy Apple. "No wonder he knew something ."

 

Candy Apple just grinned, utterly unfazed. "You didn’t say for how long. Besides, it was obvious. You think he didn’t notice all your weird late-night disappearances?"

 

Black Sapphire buried his face in his hands again. "Unbelievable."

 

"Oh come on," Candy Apple teased, plopping into a nearby seat and popping a glowing cookie into her mouth. "You practically skipped back from that mission like a love-struck schoolgirl."

 

"I did not!"

 

"You were humming."

 

"That was war preparation."

 

"It was a love song, Sapphire. Don’t lie to the moon."

 

Shadow Milk covered a snort behind one gloved hand. "You were humming?" he echoed, eyes glittering.

 

Black Sapphire scowled, cheeks still red. "It was a strategy chant. I swear it was!"

 

Candy Apple threw her hands up. "Sure. Strategy. That’s what we’re calling longing now."

 

"I hate both of you," Black Sapphire mumbled into his palms.

 

"You say that, yet you’re still here," Candy Apple said sweetly.

 

"And blushing," Shadow Milk added, unable to hide his amusement.

 

"I’m injured. That’s why I’m red."

 

"Uh huh. Bleeding from the heart now, are we?" Candy Apple smirked.

 

Shadow Milk chuckled again, watching them both, his smile lingering. The bickering, the nonsense—it was loud, chaotic, ridiculous. But it felt like home.

 

Shadow Milk smiled, leaning back with the ease of someone who hadn't had warmth like this in far too long. He missed this. The bickering. The chaos. The odd, crooked kind of closeness they carved out between missions and masks. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched, and let it happen.

 

Shadow Milk just laughed—longer this time. Softer. And maybe, if only for a moment, today didn’t feel so cold. He wished for more moments like this with his kids assistants

 

---

Silverbell shut the gate quietly behind him, the moonlight silvering the path as he stepped onto familiar cobblestone. Every creak of his boots sounded too loud. His shoulder ached beneath the cloak, still sore from the last clash at Mirror Lake. His hood was pulled low—he looked like Snowbell, at least by candlelight. Just another faerie returning late from a mission.

The manor loomed ahead, soft light seeping under the doors. He swallowed and twisted the key into the lock, praying for silence.

 

Click. He stepped in. The moment his foot crossed the threshold and his hand reached for the switch— Click.

 

The lights flared. And there he was. Mercurial Knight. Sitting in the armchair by the hearth. Armor unfastened at the collar, sword propped casually beside him.

But his eyes—his eyes were fire. “You’re still healing from your injuries,” Mercurial said flatly. “And still, you went out looking for him?”

 

Silverbell froze. So the disguise didn’t work. Or maybe it never did. “I had to,” he said, voice quiet.

 

Mercurial’s expression didn’t budge. “No, you didn’t.”

 

Silverbell said nothing.

 

Mercurial rose slowly. “Why? Of all the desserts here in Earthbread—why him?”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer.

 

“Why is he worth your time, your safety, your loyalty?” Mercurial continued, voice low and steady, as if reciting orders. “You’re throwing yourself into fire for a spy. A liar. The very reason the Court is falling apart.”

 

“He’s more than that,” Silverbell said quietly.

 

“To you , maybe.” Mercurial’s voice sharpened. “But to the rest of us? He’s the arrow aimed at your back. The one you won’t see coming.”

 

Silverbell’s fingers curled. “I see him just fine.”

 

Mercurial stepped forward. “Then tell me, Silverbell. Does he even love you back?” The question hit like a slap.

 

Silverbell's breath caught—but only for a second. Then, steady, he spoke. “Yes. He does. He has his own way of showing it.”

 

Mercurial raised a brow.

 

“He walked with me under the stars,” Silverbell said. “He danced with me. Kissed me. Twice.”

He stepped forward, voice low and certain. “He warned me. About the mission. Said his orders were to kill me—but he gave me a potion. It dulled his strongest attacks.”

 

He swallowed. “He cooks for me. Because I can’t. He said he missed me. He showed me the cave—where he planted the silverbell seeds I gave him in a letter. He told me I confused him. That I made him feel things he didn’t understand.”

“And one night,” Silverbell added, voice cracking slightly, “he said he loved me. When we danced. When the stars were watching.”

 

The room was quiet. Mercurial didn’t speak right away. His brows were drawn, mouth a line carved from stone.

 

“He doesn’t say it easily,” Silverbell whispered. “But he shows it.”

 

A long silence passed. Then Mercurial said, “You think that’s enough?”

 

Silverbell met his gaze. “I don’t need it to be perfect. I need it to be true. ”

 

Mercurial exhaled, stepping back slightly. “You always were stubborn,” he muttered.

 

Silverbell smiled faintly.

Mercurial didn’t return it. But he didn’t press further. Because for now, he understood. Silverbell wasn’t just protecting someone. He was choosing him. Again and again. Even if the whole kingdom said he shouldn’t.

Mercurial’s arms crossed again, jaw tight. “This love story of yours,” he said, “you think it’s noble. Poetic. Maybe even destiny.” His voice hardened. “But it’s a slow death, Silverbell.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes flicked up. “You think I don’t know the risk?”

 

“I think you don’t care anymore,” Mercurial said, voice rising—not with anger, but desperation. “You’re not sleeping. You’re dragging yourself into missions with injuries. And now you’re sneaking out of the Faerie Kingdom for him.”

He stepped forward. “I watched you bleed out in my arms once. I’m not doing it again.”

 

Silverbell’s jaw tightened. “I’m not dying for him.”

 

“No,” Mercurial snapped. “You’re living for him. And forgetting yourself.”

He exhaled sharply, voice raw now. “You were meant to lead. To protect this kingdom. You were the clearest light we had—and now you’re flickering like a candle in wind because of him. ”

 

Silverbell said nothing.

 

So Mercurial pressed harder. “I’m not asking you to hate him. I’m asking you to survive him.”

He looked away, just for a second. Then: “You keep chasing this thing between you like it’s worth everything. But it’s not. It’s not worth your heart. It’s not worth your throne. And it’s not worth your life.”

 

Silverbell closed his eyes. “I love him,” he said, quietly. “That doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who I am.”

 

Mercurial’s voice cracked. “But what if he makes you forget anyway?”

 

Silverbell opened his eyes again.bAnd this time, he didn’t falter. “He reminds me.”

 

That brought Mercurial up short.

 

Silverbell took a step forward. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve broken laws. I’ve disobeyed orders. And I still come back here— because I remember why I became a knight in the first place. To protect. To guide. To fight for those no one else will.”

He looked down. And then, softly: “And sometimes… to love.”

 

Mercurial looked at him, searching for a crack in the armor. There was none. Only bruises. And a burning kind of truth.

 

Mercurial’s voice turned colder. Sharper. “You know the Elder Faerie would be disappointed with this.”

 

The words cut deeper than any blade. Silverbell froze. His throat tightened. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. But then—his voice came, quiet, strained: “…You can’t be sure.”

 

Mercurial stepped closer, face unreadable. “He raised you to be more than this.”

 

Silverbell’s jaw clenched. “He’s not here.” A beat. “Because Shadow Milk killed him.”

 

Silence cracked open between them.

Mercurial didn’t look away. And Silverbell’s voice trembled—not from fear, but the weight of memory. “And still… I looked him in the eye today.”

 

Mercurial blinked. “You saw him?”

 

Silverbell nodded. “He offered illusions. Lies. Pain.” He swallowed hard. “And I still chose not to hate him.” His voice steadied again. “Because if I did—then everything Elder Faerie taught me dies with him.”

 

Mercurial said nothing.

 

Silverbell stepped forward, eyes burning now. “He taught me compassion. He taught me to listen before striking. He taught me to see truth in others—even when it’s buried in shadow.” A pause. “He wouldn’t be disappointed.” His hand tightened at his side. “He’d be proud I didn’t run.”

 

Mercurial’s jaw tensed. “You say Elder Faerie would be proud?” His voice sharpened—low, bitter. “He told us to show no mercy to our enemies.”

Silverbell’s mouth pressed into a line. His heart ached at the memory. “He did.”

 

Mercurial stepped forward again. “Then why didn’t you kill him?”

 

Silverbell looked him dead in the eye. “Because I believe Shadow Milk didn’t come to destroy me. He came to… test me.”

 

That made Mercurial pause. “…Test you?”

Silverbell’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “He showed me things. Horrible things.”
His voice dropped. "The Faerie kingdom is in flames. The Silver Tree rotting from the inside. You—dead. My hands stained. Sapphire…” His breath caught. “…He showed me myself. Alone. Crushed. Bow broken. Kneeling in ash.”

 

Mercurial didn’t speak.

 

Silverbell went on, quieter now. “He made me choose. Between my honor and my heart.” A pause. “Between saving Sapphire… or killing him.”

 

Mercurial frowned. “What did you do?”

 

Silverbell lifted his gaze, steady and calm. “I told him I loved him.” A beat. “I fought him anyway.”

 

That made Mercurial flinch.

 

Silverbell stepped past him now, toward the center of the room—no longer hiding, no longer shaken. “He laughed. Called me foolish. Weak. Said I’d never reach Sapphire.” His voice rose—not in anger, but strength. “But I already did.”

 

He turned to face Mercurial again.

 

“He broke me with illusions. And I still stood. That’s what Elder Faerie taught me. Not just how to strike…” He tapped his heart. “…but how to endure. ”

 

Mercurial’s eyes narrowed. He was trying to find a fault. But the truth stood unshaken. Mercurial Knight stared at him. Unmoving. Unwavering. Then, sharply: “And what happens when he betrays you again?”

 

Silverbell didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll survive it.”

 

Mercurial stepped closer, voice rising—not with rage, but rawness. “And if you don’t? If one of his lies slips past your guard and it’s a dagger instead of a dance? What then, Silverbell?”

A pause. He looked him straight in the eye. “What will your love buy us then? More graves?”

 

Silverbell held his ground. “If love was a mistake—then let it be mine. ” He took a step closer, eyes fierce with conviction. “I’ve prepared my whole life to bleed for this kingdom. You know that. But I won’t live a life defined only by war.”

 

Mercurial opened his mouth—but Silverbell pressed on: “He didn’t just hurt me. He changed me. He made me face the worst of myself. And I still chose to see the best in him.”

He stepped back. His voice dropped, soft but unyielding. “That’s not weakness, Mercurial. That’s who I am.”

Silence. Then: Mercurial exhaled. Long. Controlled. And said—quietly: “…You really do love him.”

 

Silverbell nodded.

 

Mercurial studied him for a long time. The bruises. The cracked magic. The tired, stubborn light still burning in his chest. And finally— “Then I’ll stop trying to pull you away from it.”

He straightened. “But I swear this to you, Silverbell…” His voice turned grave. “If he ever turns on you—If you fall— I will finish what you couldn’t.”

 

Silverbell gave a single nod “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

 

For the first time that night… there was peace between them. Tense. Fragile.

 

 Mercurial Knight turned, reaching for his sword and sliding it back into its sheath with practiced ease. The sharp ring of metal filled the room. Then he said, without looking back: “You’re going to go after him again, aren’t you?”

 

Silverbell hesitated. “…Eventually.”

 

Mercurial let out a breath—half sigh, half acceptance. “Then I’ll cover for you.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “…What?”

 

Mercurial turned to face him again, arms crossed. “You’re terrible at sneaking out. Half the knights know you’re gone after midnight.”

 

Silverbell flushed. “I—I wasn’t sneaking —”

 

Mercurial raised a brow. “You disguise yourself as Snowbell.”

 

“I was being… careful!”

 

“Mm. And obvious.”

 

Silverbell crossed his arms, flustered now. “You’re mocking me.”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

Mercurial smirked faintly. It was brief, but real. Then he added, more sincerely: “Just promise me you’ll come back.”

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. He looked down. Then up again. “Every time.”

 

Mercurial gave a slow nod. Then stepped toward the door, already in commander mode.b“I’ll reroute the patrol rotations. Let me know next time so I can make it believable.”

 

“…You’re serious?”

 

“You’re lucky I still like you.”

 

Silverbell grinned, despite himself.“You’re the best!”

 

Mercurial paused at the doorway. “Just… be careful, Silverbell.” A beat.“He may love you. But the world still doesn’t.”

And with that, he left—leaving Silverbell alone in the quiet… still smiling.

Silence returned once Mercurial was gone, but it wasn’t cold anymore. Silverbell stood in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on the door. His chest still ached. His magic still trembled. But his heart—his heart was steady.

 

He walked to the window, drew back the curtain, and looked out at the distant forest. Somewhere beyond those trees… he was out there.

 

Black Sapphire. And Silverbell would find him again. For him to stay. This time, he would reach him fully. Break through the shadows. The walls. The silence. And he would make him see—That he wasn’t going anywhere. Ever again.

 

He placed a hand over his heart, whispering to the dark: “You don’t have to run anymore.” A pause. “Because I’m not letting go.”

 

The stars blinked above the trees, soft and silent. And Silverbell stood there, watching. Waiting. Certain.

 

The sun peeked through silver-laced clouds, filtering into the Faerie Kingdom’s infirmary with soft golden light.

 

Silverbell stretched slowly in bed, the soreness in his limbs faded to a faint ache. A pair of healers stood at his side, murmuring softly as they checked his pulse and magic flow. The light from their wands flickered over his skin—calm, steady. Not perfect. But stable.

 

One of them smiled gently. “That potion worked better than we expected. Whoever gave it to you… they knew what they were doing.”

 

Silverbell said nothing for a moment. Then: “He always does.”

 

The healers exchanged a glance, but didn’t press. They nodded, offered one final check, and left the room in near silence.

 

When the door clicked shut, Silverbell exhaled. And let himself feel it. The stillness. The relief. The ache. Not from the wounds. From the absence.

 

It had been days since he’d seen him. Not long, not really—but every hour stretched when you didn’t know if the one you loved was somewhere safe or lost again in shadow.

 

His thoughts drifted—to that night in the rain. Their boots slipping in the mud, their laughter echoing beneath the thunder. Sapphire’s hand in his. That moment in the clearing when the world fell away, and they were just… two Cookies daring the storm to let them be happy.

 

Then the cave.

 

Silverbell could still feel the warmth of it, the quiet magic humming through the rock. He remembered Sapphire’s voice trembling just slightly when the illusion faded, when he said he wasn’t strong enough to keep it up.

 

And the flowers. The silverbells, planted gently into the soil—alive, glowing faintly with bioluminescence. A garden he hadn’t asked for. A promise he hadn’t expected.

 

“I didn’t want them to grow somewhere you’d forget.” That’s what Black Sapphire had said.

 

And Silverbell never would. Especially not after he left something of his own behind. Just before he’d gone, he’d reached into his cloak, pulled out a small velvet pouch, and tucked the sapphires—deep blue and glinting like the night sky—into the earth beside the flowers.

 

“A reminder,” he had whispered to the cave, “that you’re not alone here.”  His fingers curled in the blanket now.nThat memory, that moment… it wasn’t just affection. It was devotion. Mutual. Undeniable.

 

Even the way Sapphire held him during the night. Restless, flustered, but trying. The kiss on the cheek. The whispered “I’m glad I didn’t” when Silverbell caught him trying to be sweet in secret.

 

He hadn’t slept. Not at first. But once Silverbell stayed beside him, once their arms brushed and the silence turned gentle—he finally did. Slept. Truly. Safely.

 

Silverbell turned his gaze toward the window. His body was healing. Slowly. The potion had dulled the worst of the damage. That wasn’t what kept him here now. It was him. Sapphire. Wherever he was.nWhatever mission he was sent on.nSilverbell would find him again.

 

He’d danced with him under the stars. Kissed him in a rainstorm. Slept beside him beneath the breathing earth. He would reach him again. And this time— He wouldn’t let go.

 

The hours passed gently. Every now and then, soft knocks would tap at Silverbell’s door.

 

“On patrol, just checking in,” one knight would say, offering a nod and a flask of enchanted honeywater.

 

Another brought fresh bread—still warm, tucked in a linen wrap.

 

“It’s from my wife,” she said, cheeks flushed. “She said you looked too pale last time.”

 

One left a bouquet of faerie-fern tucked in a ceramic mug. Some stayed only long enough to ask how he was feeling. Others lingered by the window, giving casual updates about the village outskirts, recent weather anomalies.

 

None of them mentioned Black Sapphire. But some didn’t need to.

 

One knight—a junior scout with a nervous tilt to his voice—paused at the threshold and said, “Mercurial’s route changed again. I think he’s stalling inspections near the west wall for a reason.”

 

Silverbell blinked. Then he smiled faintly. “Noted.”

 

The scout grinned. “Stay safe, sir.” Then vanished down the hall.

 

It was strange. He had no command here. No authority. No orders to give. And yet… They came. Because they cared. Because they remembered the way he stood between them and ruin. Not just as a fellow knight—but as a light. Quiet, steady, and warm.

 

Silverbell watched the last of them leave, hands curled gently around a teacup someone had brought with sweet root and chamomile.

 

Mercurial Knight hadn’t said a word since their conversation last night. But his silence spoke plenty. The new patrol shifts. The meals. The freedom to rest without shame.

 

It was the only blessing Mercurial knew how to give: Cover and protection. Just enough space for Silverbell to heal—and to choose when he’d go again.

 

Because they all knew: He would.

 

He turned his gaze to the window once more, hand brushing the sill. “Where are you now…” he murmured.

 

The breeze stirred the curtains. Silverbell closed his eyes. And imagined Black Sapphire—cloak fluttering, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a line that barely hid how much he was thinking of him too.

---

The cave was still.

 

Soft water trickled down the moss-slicked stone, feeding the narrow garden bed that hugged the eastern wall. It wasn’t big. Just enough soil for a small cluster of silverbell flowers—pale, luminous, and glowing faintly like starlight.

 

Black Sapphire knelt beside them, cloak dusted with damp earth.

 

He reached for the watering vial he’d hidden behind a loose stone and poured gently, letting the moisture soak in slow arcs across the roots.

 

The flowers stirred—just slightly—as if recognizing him. He exhaled.

 

Then noticed it. Right there. Nestled beside the blooms—

 

Sapphires.

 

Three of them. Polished, black, cut smooth by careful hands.

He stared and something fluttered in his chest— something quiet. Warmth.

 

His fingers hovered over the gemstones, then pulled back like touching them might undo the moment.

 

“You added to it,” he muttered. His voice echoed softly in the cave.

 

It was so like Silverbell. To think of something so small. So symbolic.

Sapphires beside silverbells.

 

Side by side… belonging. He didn’t know how long he sat there. The silence didn’t press down like it used to. Not here. Not with this.

 

He leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting toward the faint illusion window carved in the stone—letting in filtered light, soft and silver.

“You really came here,” he said aloud. To no one. To the flowers. Maybe to the ghost of Silverbell’s laugh still lingering in the moss.

 

“You’re reckless. Stubborn. Too kind for your own good.” He shook his head.

 

But the smile tugged at his lips anyway. “You always ruin everything I’ve built to keep people out.”

 

His voice dropped—low, honest, raw. “And I’m glad he didn’t kill you.”

He glanced toward the cave mouth, shadows curled along the edge like curious cats. Shadow Milk hadn’t said much after that encounter. But Black Sapphire knew what it meant.

 

The fact Silverbell was still alive. The fact Shadow Milk let him walk away. Trust. As fragile as spun glass. But real.

 

He looked back at the silverbells. “He trusts you now.”

 

A pause. He leaned forward, touching one flower lightly. “So do I.”

 

He sat there, cross-legged beside the garden, knees brushing stone. Waiting. Because this time— He would be the one who stayed. And when Silverbell returned— He’d find the flowers blooming. And the sapphires still there.

 

And someone who had finally learned how to wait for love… instead of running from it.

 

The cave was quiet.

 

Black Sapphire sat cross-legged by the soil bed, his cloak draped behind him like spilled ink across the stone. The silverbells shimmered softly under the cave light—pale and delicate.

 

The sapphires still sat where they had been left, nestled beside the flowers like little promises made of stardust and memory.

 

He exhaled. "You're still here," he said softly, reaching out to brush a petal with gloved fingers.

 

The flowers didn’t reply.  He shifted, leaning back on one hand, glancing around the chamber like someone expecting to be caught.

 

And then—he spoke again. "I made it back from the Garden of Delights. A lot is happening to my life lately huh.."

 

He laughed under his breath—dry, humorless. “Master didn’t say much. But he kept teasing me about this.”

 

He looked down at the petals again. "And he accepted this, well us.."

 

His voice dipped quieter now, like he wasn’t sure who he was hiding from. "You're always in my head. Even when you’re not supposed to be."

 

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

 

"I was trying to read today. Something about mirror spells. Couldn’t focus. I kept hearing your stupid laugh. You know the one—after you told me I ‘always look like I need a nap.’” He shook his head, smirking slightly. “You’re not wrong, by the way. I do.”

 

His fingers hovered over the soil again.

 

"I remembered the rain. That night." A pause. "You were glowing. You were ridiculous. Dragging me out into a storm just to dance—saying I looked like I needed romance."

 

He swallowed.

 

"And I still went with you. Wings half-broken, body sore—and I still held your hand like I could keep up.”

 

He leaned forward, whispering now. “You twirled me. I told you to stop. But I didn’t want you to."

 

“You left the sapphires.” His voice cracked faintly. “You remembered.”

 

He closed his eyes.

 

“I brought you here first, you know. That day we ran through the woods. You had no idea where we were going. I didn’t either. I just wanted to show you something that mattered to me.”

 

He smiled bitterly. "Then you gave me the seeds."

 

A beat.

 

"I wasn’t supposed to care. That wasn’t part of the mission. I was just supposed to learn your defenses. Map your routes. Charm the Queen. Report back."

 

He looked at the silverbells again.

 

"And then you smiled at me like I was worth something.” He dragged a hand down his face, then laughed—quiet, rough.

 

"And now I’m talking to flowers. What would Shadow Milk say about this? ‘Pathetic romantic. Bleeding heart. You’re softening like butter in sunlight.’”

 

He looked toward the cave entrance, where light filtered through the ivy-covered arch. "But he didn’t kill you. He saw what I see in you. And he trusted you."

 

He glanced down again, brushing dirt from a leaf. "So I’ll continue to trust you— to love you. Like I always do."

 

“And…I miss you." The words fell out before he could stop them.

"I know I said I’d wait. That we’d both have to go. But this time—I’m here. I'm staying. So you better come back before I start composing poetry and planting more flowers."

He let the silence stretch a while longer. Then he reached into his coat, pulled out a small silver notebook—creased, a little weather-worn—and flipped to a half-filled page. On it, a sketch of Silverbell asleep by the fire. Peaceful. Unaware.

 

He added a note beneath it in his neat, tight script:

“Still waiting. Still yours.”

He tucked the book away.

Then lay back on the cool stone floor, eyes on the soft-shimmering petals. And whispered: “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

 

Black Sapphire lay still, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling of the cave. It was oddly peaceful. Too peaceful.

 

His mind didn’t know what to do with that. So naturally, it wandered—to Silverbell. Again.

 

The last time they were here, he hadn’t planned anything. It just… happened. The dance. The stars. The way their hands brushed. The kiss that lingered too long and not long enough.

 

Now the silence stretched, and he found himself thinking—

 

“If he came back… what would I even say?”

Hi? No. Too boring.

 

I missed you. Too desperate.

 

You’re early. What was he thinking? Silverbell wasn’t a guest—he was Silverbell. Which meant Sapphire needed a plan.

 

Something thoughtful. Maybe dramatic. Possibly ridiculous. He sat up abruptly.

 

“…I could cook.” He blinked. “…Again.” He’d already done that. Silverbell appreciated it, sure—but did it count as a surprise if you did it twice?

 

“…Maybe something sweet this time,” he muttered. “glazed faerie buns. Or—wait, he can’t cook. He’ll think I’m showing off.”

 

He rubbed at his eyes. “Okay. New idea.”

 

A spell? No. Magic in here made the soil fussy.

 

He looked around the cave. The flowers still glowed. The sapphires caught the low light. Maybe… more flowers? A garden?

 

A Silverbell shrine?  “No. Absolutely not. That’s so weird. Oh my witches, I shouldn't talk about that...”

 

He groaned, flopping back onto the stone again. “Ughhhh. Why is this so hard?”

 

Because he wanted it to matter. Because he wanted it to be perfect. Because this time—he wouldn’t run from the feeling.

 

So he lay there, hands behind his head, listing possibilities in his head. His cheeks warmed slightly at the thought.

 

A letter . Too soft. Too obvious…Maybe just one. Hidden under a rock. Where Silverbell would find it if he sat in his usual spot.

 

He sat up again, fishing the silver notebook from his coat pocket. He flipped to a new page. Stared at it. And began to write.

 

Black Sapphire sat with his back against the stone wall, notebook balanced on his knee, pen hovering over the blank page like it might bite him.

 

The cave was still. The only sound was the gentle trickle of water from the moss-veiled walls and the occasional rustle of wind filtering in from the ivy-covered entrance.

 

He stared at the paper for a long time. Then started writing.

 

Nothing elaborate, no flourishes or rhymes or sweetened words. Just the kind of plain honesty that felt sharp when you said it out loud. At first, it was stiff.

 

One sentence. Scratched out.

 

Another. Scratched again.

 

Then, slowly, something stuck.

 

His handwriting was neat—tight and exact—but the letters curved more softly than usual, betraying his focus. Or maybe his nerves. He didn’t write much.

 

Just a short page. Enough to say he was still here. That he remembered the rain. That the cave felt emptier without that voice echoing off the stone walls.

 

He didn’t say I miss you again.

 

Instead, he wrote about the silverbells—how they were blooming brighter lately. How the sapphires caught the morning light in ways that made the soil glint like frost.

 

He told him he’d been watering them. Every day. Even the ones near the back.

 

He mentioned Candy Apple’s latest absurd story. Something about explosive sugar cubes and an unfortunate goat. He didn’t say it was funny, but Silverbell would know he laughed.

 

And at the very bottom, in small, clean script:

 

“If you’re reading this, you found me again.
I’m still here.
—Sapphire”

He stared at it for a long moment. Then carefully tore the page out. Folded it.

 

Slipped it into a smooth, flat stone alcove beside the flowerbed—right where Silverbell always sat. He didn’t add anything else. A note filled with truth.

 

Then he sat back down, resting his arms on his knees, chin tilted slightly toward the entrance. And he waited. For footsteps. For a shimmer of light. For the only Cookie who ever made the cave feel like something more than shelter.

 

He didn’t know when Silverbell would come. But when he did— He’d be ready.

He leaned back against the wall, arms folded, watching the flowers sway faintly with the cave’s quiet breath.

 

The letter was hidden. The moment was calm. Too calm. That was the problem.

 

That just made his thoughts started spiraling again.

 

"Should I have been more romantic?" he muttered aloud. His voice echoed lightly across the stone.

 

He glanced at the silverbells—glowing peacefully, as if mocking him. "Should I have added... I don't know. A ribbon? A poem?"

 

His wings twitched behind him. No. They fluttered.

 

He groaned. "Not again..."

 

He rubbed at his temples, trying to will away the warmth creeping up his neck. "Why am I always the flustered one?"

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

Silverbell was the radiant one. The poetic one. The one who could say things like “I’d choose you in every lifetime” without combusting from sheer emotional exposure.

 

And yet most of the time Sapphire tried to say something normal, his heart stuttered like a jam-clogged wand.

 

His wings gave another little twitch. As if annoyed at him too. He stared at the ceiling.

 

“Great. I’m being out-romanced by flowers.” The silverbells sparkled gently.

 

Black Sapphire flopped back onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. He lay there for exactly thirty seconds before sitting bolt upright.

 

“I need to lock in.” His voice echoed with the seriousness of a war general preparing for battle.

 

He ran both hands down his face like it might erase the blush still simmering beneath his cheeks.

 

“Okay. Okay. Think. If he shows up—cool, detached. Cloak on. Voice low. No eye contact.” He paused. “…Except when I make eye contact to show power.”

 

His wings twitched again. “Ugh—no, that’s worse.”

 

He stood up suddenly, pacing. “How could I act normal around him? He’s literally a sunshine with a bowstring.”

 

A beat.

 

“And if I try to pretend, he’ll see right through me. He always does.”

 

He gestured dramatically at the flowers. “He has this look—like, he squints a little? And tilts his head? And suddenly I’m confessing secrets I didn’t know I had.”

 

He stopped mid-step, pointing accusingly at the empty air. “This is psychological warfare.”

 

The silverbells rustled softly, glowing innocently. Black Sapphire stared at them. Hard. “Ohoho. Don’t you start judging me, too.”

 

One petal drifted to the stone. Delicate. Elegant. He sighed. Hands on his hips, cloak fluttering faintly with every exhale.

 

Then, quieter: “…I just want him to know I tried .”

 

He turned back to the ledge where the note was hidden. Straightened the paper a little. Smoothed the rock.

 

Took one deep breath. And whispered: “Just act like you’ve got your life together. Just for five minutes.”

 

His wings fluttered again in betrayal. “…I’m doomed.”

 

He rubbed at the back of his neck, still pacing, still talking to no one in particular.

 

“Good thing during that time with the shooting stars…”

 

He stopped, blinking at the memory. That quiet night. The open sky. Silverbell's hands interlocked against his— bodies floating at the night sky, wings fluttering. They were both looking at each star that passed.

 

“I was all good.” He nodded to himself, almost proudly. “Calm and composed.” His wings flicked in agreement.

 

“He was so pretty that night too,” he muttered, voice softer now. “Eyes all lit up. Like he belonged up there with the stars.”

 

He paused. Stared up at the rocky ceiling like it could somehow replicate that view.

 

“We should go watch the stars again…” he said quietly. “Maybe next time I won’t feel like my soul’s on fire the entire time.”

 

Another pause. A realization. “…Huh. Maybe if I don’t overthink all of this, I’ll be good.”

 

That felt smart. Grounded. Rational. He walked past a puddle near the cave wall—left from recent rainfall—and caught a glimpse of his own reflection.

 

He pointed at it. “Just be yourself,” he said firmly. To the puddle. The puddle stared back. Silent. Judging.

 

Black Sapphire scowled. “…I hate when you’re right.”

 

He crouched beside it for a second longer, then stood up straight, brushed the dirt from his cloak, and turned toward the entrance.

 

“All right. I’ve got this.” He straightened his shoulders.

 

Tried to look dangerous and mysterious. His wings fluttered again.

 

“… Mostly got this.”

 

Black Sapphire took one last deep breath, trying to center himself after his rambling pep talk to a puddle. “Okay. I’ve got this. I’m good. I—”

 

CRACK.

A blast of faerie magic slammed into the stone wall behind him, sending shards of rock spraying past his shoulder.

 

He spun around just in time to see the shimmer of a cloak and the gleam of a silver-laced blade—not one of his own.

 

And definitely not Silverbell.

 

Another strike came, this one aimed straight for his center.

 

Black Sapphire ducked low, rolling behind the cluster of silverbells to shield them from the impact. He didn’t counter yet. He couldn’t—not without knowing who it was.

 

But the attacker didn’t wait.

 

They stepped fully into the cave light, face shadowed beneath a steel-plated helm, the unmistakable emblem of the Silver Tree Knights burned into their cloak.

 

A Faerie Knight. One of Silverbell’s own.

His jaw tightened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

The knight raised their sword again, magic pulsing at its core.

 

“Black Sapphire Cookie,” the voice rang out—sharp, cold, female. “You are an enemy of the Kingdom. Surender now.”

 

He didn’t move. His back was to the silverbells. The sapphires still rested in the soil. He could feel them behind him like a heartbeat.

 

“I’m not here to fight,” he said carefully. “This cave’s neutral. No one here but me and some plants.”

 

“And your delusions.” She lunged.

 

He parried this time—barely—the clash of magic and steel sending sparks against the cave wall. She was fast. Trained. Probably one of Mercurial’s. Possibly one who didn’t know the new patrol routes had been deliberately adjusted.

 

Or maybe she didn’t care.

 

He dropped low, twisted, and rolled out of range before replying. “Let me guess—Mercurial didn’t send you.”

 

She said nothing. Which told him everything. A rogue knight. Or one acting on old orders. Maybe revenge. Maybe fear.

 

Either way—She was here to end him. And he wasn’t about to let her destroy the one place that had ever felt like home. Black Sapphire’s eyes narrowed. The warmth, the humor, the awkward fluttering—gone in an instant.

 

He stepped in front of the flowers, wings raised, voice low and cold. “You want me gone? You’ll have to earn it.”

 

The clash of steel and magic rang out again, echoing off the cave walls.

 

Black Sapphire struck forward, dark magic rippling up his arm, his staff clashing against her blade with enough force to drive her backward.

 

For a moment, it seemed like the momentum had shifted. He stepped in, foot sliding across the stone, readying for the next blow—

 

And that’s when it happened.

 

Crack—A sudden burst of pain exploded across his back.

 

Something struck between his wings—hard, precise, magical. His body convulsed, vision flashing white as his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor with a grunt.

 

“Ghh—!” He twisted mid-fall, barely managing to catch himself on one arm. His breath came ragged.

 

Another figure stepped out from the shadows near the cave wall. Cloaked. Masked. Blade humming with faerie runes.

 

He hadn’t sensed them. He hadn't sensed any of them.

 

The first knight stepped closer again, her sword now gleaming with restrained triumph.

 

“I told you,” she said. “I’m not alone.”

 

Black Sapphire’s muscles tensed as he staggered to his feet. His wings ached. His magic flickered—still sluggish from healing, from the cave’s natural warding stone, from everything.

 

He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t expect this many cowards to take on one Cookie watering flowers,” he growled.

 

Another strike came—he parried it.

 

Then a second knight lunged in from the side—he barely dodged.

 

Three. At least three. No—four.

 

One moved toward the flowers. Toward the note.

 

“No,” he hissed. He darted between them, body low, blade singing, blocking her with a burst of shadow. “Don’t touch that.”

 

Another blast of light magic grazed his arm—he cried out, clutching his side. They were wearing him down.

 

But he stood firm—jam in his mouth, magic cracking at his fingertips.

 

Black Sapphire skidded backward across the stone, boots grinding against grit as he parried another vicious strike. The knight was relentless—swinging with the precision of someone trained under Mercurial himself.

 

Too fast to be a scout. Too cold to be one of the younger guards. She wasn’t here to scare him. She was here to end him. Legit. All of them wanted him gone.

 

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he snarled, dodging a downward slash. Sparks burst between them as their magic collided again—his dark energy curling like ink against her crystalline blade.

 

“I know enough,” she spat.

 

Another step forward. Blade raised. “He told us—‘No one’s questioning Silverbell’s loyalty while he’s still healing. No one.’”

 

Her voice cracked like a whip against the stone. “So now that he’s getting better—I’ll get you first. Then I’ll ask him.”

 

Black Sapphire’s breath hitched. “You’re going to interrogate him?”

“If I have to.” Her tone was lethal. “But make no mistake—I’m not here alone.”

 

His eyes widened. So this wasn’t a rogue operation. She was part of a faction. One of many, maybe. Watching. Waiting. Blaming.

 

He shifted his stance, planting his feet in front of the flowerbed again. The sapphires and silverbells glimmered behind him.

 

The idea that Silverbell could be questioned—accused—by the knights he protected burned like poison in his chest.

 

“You won’t lay a hand on him,” he said, voice low, steady.

 

The knight raised her sword again. “Try and stop me.”

 

Black Sapphire’s cloak flared as he rushed forward—not with rage, but precision. No more hiding. No more waiting. If they were going to come for him—he’d make damn sure they had to crawl through shadow and fire to do it.

 

And he would not let them reach Silverbell.

 

Black Sapphire launched forward like a shadow snapped from its source—no warning, no windup, just motion. His wings flared, sharp and jagged as obsidian glass, sweeping sparks into the air as his boots hit the ground in a burst of speed.

 

The first knight swung high—he ducked low, sliding under her blade and smashing his shoulder into her side. She staggered, just long enough for him to twist, pivot, and drive her backward with a hard arc of dark energy from his palm.

 

The second knight was already closing in.

 

He felt the magic hum—too late to block, too close to dodge. The spell hit his shoulder like a hammer, sending a ripple of force down his arm. He bit down a cry, let the pain fuel him, and spun into a counterstrike.

 

Poison met steel.

 

Sparks showered in the dim cave light, and for a moment it was just the two of them locked blade to blade, grit grinding beneath their boots. Then the third knight dove in from behind—fast, silent, lethal.

 

Black Sapphire dropped to one knee and let her blade sail overhead. Too close.

 

He whipped his leg around and swept hers out from under her—she hit the ground with a crash, but another sword was already swinging at his ribs.

 

He twisted up, wings snapping outward in a flare of energy that knocked his attacker off balance just enough to block.

 

Clang.

 

Another impact. His bones ached from the reverberation. The fourth knight came into view—still quiet, still masked—but now moving toward the flowers. Not fast. Deliberate. Controlled. A decoy.

 

They were trying to split his focus.

 

“Not happening,” he snarled, shadow magic pulsing from his palm.

 

A wall of black thorns erupted from the cave floor, slamming between the fourth knight and the flowerbed. It bought him seconds—nothing more.

 

He turned just in time to catch a blade sliding toward his ribs. He shoved it aside, barely, then elbowed the attacker in the helm. The knight staggered—he leapt back, breath sharp, chest heaving.

 

Too many angles. He couldn’t hold like this forever. But he could stall.

 

He reached out with one hand—fingers splayed—and the shadows around the cave responded. They bent, coiled, answered his call. A fog of darkness swept up from the stone floor, weaving between stalagmites, casting confusion and doubt.

 

The knights hesitated. He moved again.

 

A strike at the second knight—blocked.

 

A feint to the first—dodged.

 

A roll beneath the third, his blade sparking against hers in a flash of dark light.

 

He was dancing now—his body a blur, his mind narrowed to a single point: Keep them from the flowers. Keep them from the note. Keep them from Silverbell.

 

“Split and flank,” one of the knights barked—female again, commanding, angry.

 

They obeyed. Two came from the left, blades up. One from the right. The fourth circled wide, keeping low near the edge of the cave.

 

Black Sapphire exhaled sharply. His limbs trembled. Blood dripped down his side, staining his cloak. He pushed through it.

 

He dashed toward the left pair—let them think he was going in hard—then sprang up off the wall, wings propelling him in a wild arc over their heads. He twisted midair and kicked one in the back, sending them sprawling into the other.

 

Then he landed, dropped to one knee—and parried the strike from behind.

 

The third knight had followed. Smart. Too smart.

 

She drove him back with three fast blows, each one harder than the last. He blocked two—took the third to his thigh. He hissed through clenched teeth, staggering, but didn’t fall.

 

He caught her blade with both hands and forced it away, growling with the effort. She shouted a command—then twisted her grip and yanked back. His own blade went skittering across the stone floor.

 

Damn it.

 

The fourth knight was almost past the shadows now—almost to the flowers.

 

No time.

 

Black Sapphire threw out his hand and called the darkness again—this time not to attack, but to blind. The cave lights dimmed, shadows surged, and for a moment, everything was pitch black. Screams. Clashing steel. The crunch of gravel. A blade whooshed past his ear—too close again.

 

He dove toward the flowers, slid across the stone, and grabbed his fallen blade just as one knight came leaping through the darkness.

 

He blocked mid-slide, twisted his blade to hook theirs, and yanked it down—then rolled out of the way just before a second blast of magic hit where he’d been.

 

His breath came in short, ragged bursts. He was bleeding from at least three points. His magic was thinned. But he was still standing. Still between them and the flowers.

 

“I’m not moving,” he growled. “I don’t care who sent you. You’re not touching this place.”

 

The knights regrouped, blades raised, wary now. Tired, too. One limped. One bled from a cut above the eye.

 

The lead knight lowered her blade slightly, just enough to speak through her teeth. “You can’t win this.”

 

Black Sapphire wiped the blood from his mouth again, raised his blade, and met her gaze with fire in his eyes. “Wasn’t trying to.” Then he charged again.

 

The cave lit with the collision—steel against steel, magic searing through the air in arcs of violet and gold. His blade struck true once—twice—driving back the lead knight with a growl that came from somewhere deeper than pain. Somewhere deeper than rage.

 

But the rhythm was gone. His swings grew heavier. His footing, slower. They closed in like a noose.

 

The second knight lunged from the side. He blocked. A third rushed in—his wings snapped out, driving her back.

 

But the fourth— The fourth came from behind. Silent. Precise.

A flash of motion—barely registered. A gap in his guard—just wide enough.

 

The strike hit just beneath the base of his neck. A brutal, surgical blow meant not to kill but to drop. And it did.

His body jerked—once—then locked up. His staff clattered from his hand, the steel ringing out as it bounced across the stone. His legs gave way beneath him. His breath caught in his throat.

For a second, he remained upright—swaying. Then he collapsed forward, limp. His knees struck the cave floor with a dull, final thud.

One hand reached out in the fall, as if by instinct, brushing the dirt near the flowerbed. His fingers smeared the edge of a silverbell petal, leaving a faint streak of blood and earth across its glow.

 

And then—stillness. The echoes of the battle faded.

 

The knights surrounded the fallen figure in silence. One knelt beside him, fingers to his throat. Testing. Confirming. Another moved cautiously toward the far wall, eyes narrowing on the shimmer of silverbell blossoms. The fourth—still masked—stood between them and the stone ledge. Watching. Waiting.

 

None of them touched the note tucked in the shadows beneath the rocks. The air had shifted.

 

The cave, once a hidden sanctuary of peace and memory, now held only scorched stone, broken ground, and the silence that follows something undone.

 

The flowers swayed faintly in the residual breeze of the battle. And above them, a single petal—smudged with blood—began to fade.

 

---

 

 

His body hung limp between two armored knights, boots dragging against the forest floor. The journey back to the Faerie Kingdom was quiet. Not out of respect. But calculation.

 

Every few paces, one of them would check his breathing. Not out of concern—but to make sure their prisoner hadn’t slipped away.

 

By the time they crossed the outer veil, the sunlight had turned pale. Muffled by enchantment. The Kingdom’s wards shimmered like a golden net in the air, rippling slightly as they passed through with the unconscious form of a wanted enemy in tow.

 

They didn’t bring him through the front. They took him down—deep below the court halls. Beneath the archives. Beneath the training grounds. To the old holding cells. To the cage.

 

He stirred only once as they reached it—fingers twitching. A soft, broken exhale. No words. No fight left. They forced him to his knees. The cell door groaned open. Iron-laced with magic. Cold and humming.

 

Chains were waiting.

 

They clasped a collar around his neck first—tight, enchanted, sealing his ability to cast without permission. Then his wrists. Then his ankles.

 

Each chain was thick, looped through faerie-forged rings embedded in the floor. There was no room to stand fully. Barely enough to sit upright without strain. His head drooped forward, dark hair falling in a tangle over one eye.

 

Still unconscious but breathing. Barely

 

One of the knights stood at the door, arms crossed. “When he wakes,” she said flatly, “we’ll ask him what Silverbell’s hiding.”

 

The door sealed shut behind them. And the dungeon fell silent again.

 

Notes:

The restoration spell is to bring a cookie back to their original state, Eternal Sugar did heal Black Sapphire during his stay at the Garden of Delights. But to bring him back to normal, Shadow Milk used a restore spell which means it RESTORES him to the version before he entered the Garden. That’s why Black Sapphire’s scars and bruises are back. :)) (NOT A REAL SPELL FROM THE GAME, THIS IS COMPLETELY MADE UP)

Fount of Knowledge mentioned hehehe

 

BRO AT THIS POINT IM JUST HURTING BLACK SAPPHIRE LMAO????? Not to mention he is one my favorites aside from caramel arrow and sherbert (I wanna make another fic whatahel)

trust me on the next chapter i swear

 

Shadow Milk is caring for them but he doesn't want to feel it again :(((( my shayla then sm1 wants to do something to him (i WONDER what will "she" do to him... I WONDER WHAT IS IT... HMMMMMM) *yes im preparing another bullet to shoot for yall :3

Chapter 20: XIX

Notes:

I posted this chapter because I was editing this chapter for quite some time now, I was supposed to post this tomorrow but I wasn't done editing at the time.

But here yall go

The chains rattled faintly each time he shifted in his half-conscious haze. The cold of the cell seeped into his skin. His neck ached. His wrists burned. Metal dug into bone.

 

But the worst part wasn’t the restraints. It was the voices. It contained severe judgement. They stood just outside the bars—Faerie Knights, still armored from patrol, their expressions twisted in disdain and smug satisfaction.

 

“So this is the shadow rat Silverbell’s been protecting?” one muttered. “Looks pathetic.”

 

“He doesn’t look like much without his cloak and illusions.”

 

Laughter.

 

“What do you think he told Silverbell to earn his loyalty? Must be nice to be kissed instead of questioned.”

 

“He’s probably feeding him lies. Wouldn’t be the first time a knight got blinded by a pretty traitor.”

 

A younger one leaned in close, glaring through the bars. “You think he’ll talk when he wakes up?”

 

Another scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. His face says enough. You can see the rot in him.”

 

“He knew this would happen,” someone added, louder, so the others would hear. “Silverbell’s gotten too close. Too soft. Now look—our ‘brightest knight’ harboring the enemy. What would Elder Faerie say?”

 

That stung more than any blade.

 

Elder Faerie.

 

The weight of his name still hung in these halls like incense.

 

Black Sapphire stirred slightly at that. A low breath escaped his lips—his jaw tightened even in sleep.

 

One knight stepped closer, arms folded. “He’s lucky we’re not throwing him into the Briar Trench.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

They laughed again.

 

Footsteps faded as some of them moved off—content to let him rot for a few hours before the interrogation began.

 

But others lingered. Watching him like a crack in the wall that needed sealing. And just beyond them—rising above the whispers—his name passed between them again. Not as a Cookie. But as a threat. A liability. A monster. A mistake .

 

The torches on the dungeon wall burned low, casting warped shadows across the cell bars. The faint drip of condensation echoed somewhere deeper in the stone corridors. Still, the knights stayed.

 

Even with the prisoner unconscious. Especially because he was unconscious.

“So this is who he risked the Queen’s wrath for?” a knight murmured, one eyebrow raised as she leaned casually against the stone arch. “All that talk about Silverbell’s judgment—maybe we should’ve been asking questions sooner.”

 

“He was always too soft around him,” another added, voice clipped. “Spoke in his defense more times than a knight should.”

A third knight, older, arms crossed, scoffed. “And now look where it got him. Distrusting his own. Breaking patrols. Skipping debriefs. All for this.”

He nodded at the chained figure on the floor. “No wonder Mercurial Knight started adjusting his reports. You know he’s been covering for Silverbell, right?”

 

Someone else—a younger one—frowned. “But Sir Silverbell’s still loyal, isn’t he? I mean, he fought against Shadow Milk Cookie, with the Queen. He never stopped patrolling.”

 

“Bleh. Doesn’t matter,” the older knight snapped. “Loyalty doesn’t mean anything if your heart’s in enemy hands.”

 

Another muttered “He could be feeding information. Without even realizing it. That's how manipulators work.”

 

“Did you see the look on Silverbell’s face after the last mission?” someone whispered. “He was glowing like he’d come back from a honeymoon, not a battlefield.”

 

Laughter rippled around them. “Tch. Makes you wonder what this one offered him in return.”

One of the knights stepped forward, tapping the edge of the chains with the tip of her boot. Black Sapphire didn’t stir. But her voice lowered—cold and sharp. “I don’t care if he’s unconscious. He hears this, somehow.”

She crouched slightly. “You’ll break him, Silverbell. Maybe not today. But this? Choosing him?”

 

A pause. “It’s going to cost you.” She stood again.

 

No one disagreed.

 

The last of the laughter died slowly, thinning out like smoke. What remained was a dense quiet—the kind that settled deep in the stone, hard and unforgiving.

 

Outside the cell, the knights shifted. A few paced. One rested a hand on the hilt of her sword, like she was daring the unconscious body to twitch. The others watched. Waiting. Not for him to wake—but for the moment the lie unraveled. The moment Silverbell would finally be proven wrong.

 

And they'd all say they told him so.

 

“He’s not waking up anytime soon,” muttered one of the younger knights, glancing toward the locked gate. “They said the strike nearly severed his aura flow.”

 

“Good,” someone else replied. “Let him rot a while. Let him feel powerless for once.”

 

There was a low scrape as another knight dragged a stool closer to the bars and sat—slow, deliberate.

 

She was older. Sharper. Her armor was worn from years of patrols, but her voice cut clean as a blade. “You want to know what I think?” she said.

 

No one answered, but they all turned toward her. She kept her gaze fixed on the chained figure slumped against the far wall, breath faint, head bowed, wrists pulled taut in the iron. 

 

“I think Silverbell knew exactly what this thing was the moment he brought him in. And he let it in anyway.”

 

A few muttered, unsure. She didn’t stop just yet. “Maybe he thought he could fix it. Heal it. Redeem it. You know how soft Silverbell gets about broken things.”

 

Another knight leaned on the wall with a bitter laugh. “Like a faerie knight’s version of a stray animal.”

 

“Exactly,” the seated one said. “But this—” she tilted her chin toward the cell, “—this was never something you could fix.”

 

There was a long pause. The torches flickered. The shadows writhed.

 

Then a quiet voice spoke—tentative, but certain. “He looked at Silverbell like he believed in him.”

 

The others turned. It was the young knight again—barely more than a page in training, armor too clean, eyes too clear.

“I saw them. Once,” he added quickly, before anyone could cut him off. “At the south outpost. Silverbell was shielding him during a mana storm. Not just out of duty. Like—he cared. And this one...” He looked toward the cell. “He looked at him like that was enough to live for.”

Silence again.

“Romantic drivel,” the older knight snapped. “Loyalty like that? That’s how whole squads end up gutted. You think love matters when someone’s got orders to sell us out from the inside?”

 

A beat passed. The younger knight didn’t respond.

 

But from within the cell, the chains shifted. Barely. A whisper of movement—so slight it could’ve been imagined.

The older knight stood. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, brushing her gauntlets together. “He’ll talk. Or he won’t. But we’ve already seen the truth.”

 

She glanced back at the others. “And when Silverbell sees it too—when he realizes what his loyalty bought him—we’ll be there to pick up the pieces.” She stepped back, nodding once.

 

“Leave him. Let him sit in it.”

 

The knights filed out in pairs—boots echoing against the stone, armor clinking. They didn’t bother to lower their voices as they left. “…a shame, really.”

 

“…Silverbell was one of the good ones…until he wasn’t.” The last torch guttered low, shadows creeping long and distorted across the floor.

 

And in the silence that followed, the figure chained in the cell slumped slightly forward. Motionless. Mouth just parted. A faint breath in then out.

The dungeon held its breath. Waiting. Watching. And the rot they’d whispered about? It wasn’t in him. It was already spreading in them.

A pair of knights lingered near the archway even as the others left, voices lowered but laced with disdain.

 

“He spreads lies. Rumors,” one of them muttered, eyes fixed on the cell like it might still bite. “Threads of doubt in every court he steps into. I say he deserves this.”

 

The other scoffed, arms crossed over polished armor. “True. It’s disappointing, really. A pretty face like his? You’d think he’d use it for diplomacy. But no. He wraps poison in compliments and gets people to listen.”

 

A short pause. Then a smirk.

 

“Doesn’t matter what he says now. The stain’s already there. Silverbell’s name is being dragged through the same mud, whether he knows it or not.”

 

The first knight nodded, almost satisfied.

“He’ll wish it was just chains when the Queen hears how far this went.”

 

A low chuckle. “Or when Mercurial stops covering for him.”

 

They turned to go, boots clicking across the stone—casual now, unhurried. Behind them, the prisoner remained unmoving. But the air inside the cell had changed. Tighter. Colder. As if the silence itself had heard what they said—

And was holding onto it.

---

It was past midnight.

 

The moon hung low behind a veil of clouds, casting only the faintest sheen over the canopy as Silverbell moved through the trees like a phantom. His armor was gone—left behind hours ago. In its place, a long cloak, dusk-colored and hooded, laced with simple illusion charms that shimmered just enough to bend the light around him. He is Snowbell for tonight.

No patrols would spot him. No sentries would ask questions. Mercurial had made sure of that.

 

Silverbell had heard the warnings, the tightly controlled concern in his voice.

"This buys you one night. Don’t make me regret it." He wouldn’t.

The wind tugged at his cloak as he moved faster through the underbrush, heart pounding in time with his footsteps. The healers had said his body was stabilizing—that the blast had nearly severed his internal magic channels, but he was recovering.

 

Still healing, but slowly getting better. It was enough. Just enough to chase.

The path to the cave was overgrown now—part of the protective charm work, maybe. Or maybe the forest had simply started reclaiming it the moment Black Sapphire had been dragged out. Either way, Silverbell pushed through the thorns, eyes focused, jaw tight.

 

The silence here was different. It was not peaceful it used to be.

He stepped into the outer edge of the clearing, pausing only a moment before pulling back the hood.

 

The wind whispered. The silverbells were still there, so were the sapphires he placed last time. But some of the blossoms had dimmed and the sapphires were further away from the flowers.

 

He moved faster now, boots crunching softly over gravel as he reached the mouth of the cave. His fingers brushed the stone entrance—cool to the touch—and for just a second, he didn’t move.

 

It was quiet, but something was missing in the air. The energy. The pressure of presence.

 

He knelt by the flowers, hand hovering over a petal that looked recently bruised. Faint traces of dark and faerie magic clung to the soil, like fingerprints. His breath caught in his throat. Then he saw it.

 

Tucked beneath the stone ledge—barely covered. A note. He hesitated, then reached for it with both hands, careful, like it might vanish. It was creased. Faintly bloodstained. Unopened.

He stared at it for a long time. Then, slowly, Silverbell closed his fingers around the edge and slid it free. He didn’t open it yet. Not until he knew what else had been taken.

 

He stood, cloak shifting behind him, and glanced back toward the trees. If Black Sapphire had left anything behind, he would find it.

 

His pulse spiked. The bruised petal was smeared with something darker now—dried at the edges, but unmistakable.

 

Jam.

 

Fresh enough to be recent. Not enough for a wound that killed, but enough to hurt. Enough to mark.

 

His breath turned sharp, shallow. Rage rising like bile.

 

Who did this?

 

His voice was barely a whisper, but it cracked the silence like lightning. The shadows didn’t answer. They never did. He stood, hand clenching the note so tightly the paper crackled. His other hand hovered near his belt—nothing there but a small utility blade, ceremonial, not meant for combat.

 

Where is he?

 

The cave stayed silent. The wind, the trees, the fading silverbells—mute. But Silverbell could feel it now. A thread, tugging faintly at his senses.

 

He turned back toward the forest. Not walking. Stalking. The cloak flared behind him like smoke. Someone had touched this place. Their place. Recently. Someone had hurt him. Someone thought they could hide. Someone that was his kind. 

 

They were wrong.

 

He gripped his bow like it might break. Branches whipped past as he cut through the forest, his cloak snapping in the wind. The illusions still clung to him, but they flickered—his focus too raw to sustain them fully.

 

By the time he reached the Faerie Kingdom's gates, the guards didn’t even try to stop him. They saw the look in his eyes and stepped back.

 

He stormed through the halls, feet echoing like drumbeats of war.

 

Then—Mercurial Knight’s office.

 

The door slammed open with enough force to rattle the frame. Mercurial stood mid-turn, startled. Papers in hand, half an armor plate strapped on. Silverbell didn’t stop.

 

“You are back so soon did somethi—”

 

"Did you do this?"

 

Mercurial froze. "What?" His voice was quiet.

Silverbell stepped in, eyes burning. "Was. It. Your. Command?"

 

"Wait—what are you talking about—"

 

"Don’t lie to me."

 

"I’m not—"

 

Silverbell took one more step forward. The bow stayed at his side, but his hand was white-knuckled around it. His jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

 

Mercurial didn’t flinch. "I swear on my name, I issued no new orders aside from new patrols that I promised—just for your movement, just to keep you hidden."

 

Silence stretched between them.

 

Then—quieter, but not gentler "I'm sorry, I never made new commands. Only the routes. For you."

 

Silverbell’s breath came ragged. He stared hard at Mercurial. Searching. Daring him to lie.

 

But Mercurial held his gaze. Unmoving.

 

Finally, Silverbell turned away—barely. "Then someone disobeyed you."

 

Mercurial’s face darkened. "Why would someone act without me?"

 

Silverbell nodded once, his voice cold. "I’ll find out who."

 

Then came a soft knock. Too soft. The door creaked open a heartbeat later. A young knight stepped in, face flushed from the climb, armor streaked with fresh dust and lingering magic. He saluted stiffly.

 

“Commander. Sir Silverbell.”

 

Mercurial Knight didn’t look up from his scroll. “Speak.”

 

“We’ve captured someone,” the knight said, tone crisp but nervous. “At the outer perimeter.”

 

Mercurial raised an eyebrow. “Another trespasser?”

 

“No, sir. A confirmed combatant. Tied to the Mirror Lake conflict.”

 

That froze him. He lowered the scroll that he was holding. “You’re saying this one fought at Mirror Lake?”

 

“Yes, sir. Visual match with the enemy who took down three of our own during the siege. Black cloak, crystalline vambraces cracked with light burns. Torn bat wings. Scar tissue across the collarbone.”

 

Mercurial’s brow furrowed. “Bat wings?”

 

“Membrane type. Torn. Left side is barely usable. Wore a fractured mask during the fight.”

 

The knight hesitated. “I couldn't remember his name, but… he was restrained and caged. We couldn’t risk it.”

 

Mercurial’s hand tightened around the scroll. “And you cleared this?”

“Yes, Commander. You signed off—after they tagged the arrest under the Shadow Directive parameters.”

 

Silverbell had been standing to the side. Frozen. Still as stone, but his eyes were burning with fury.

 

But now—

 

“Describe him,” Silverbell said, voice low. Controlled.

 

The knight turned, not quite meeting his eyes. “Well… Dark skin. Violet undertones. Black eyes. Silver belt clasps. A faint shimmer in his aura, almost mirror-glass. Torn wing membranes. Jam loss, but stable. He was half-conscious when we brought him in.”

 

Silverbell’s voice was colder now. Razor-edged. “His name. You better remember it.”

 

The knight paused. “I think it was… Black Sapphire, sir.”

 

The silence cracked like a whip.

 

Silverbell moved first. One stride forward, fast. Deadly. “Where is he? ”

 

The knight stepped back, startled. “Deep cells. Third dungeon wing. They didn’t recognize him at first—just saw he fit the Shadow profile. Bound at the neck, wrists, and ankles.”

 

Mercurial stood sharply, his eyes hard.

 

“I didn’t order this,” he snapped. “The only command I issued was  the new patrol routes.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes burned. “Then someone acted on their own.” He didn’t wait for permission anymore. And already started moving. The bow was gripped tight in his fist. The door slammed open behind him as he stalked down the corridor.

 

Mercurial turned to the knight. “And the patrol who brought him in?” Mercurial’s jaw clenched.

 

“They better pray when Silverbell gets there.”

---

 

 

Silverbell ran as fast as he could, there was no time to waste. They caged him, they didn’t understand. Black Sapphire isn’t theirs to touch, isn’t theirs to destroy. He knew that someone was watching them when they met again outside the borders.

 

Silverbell told them the truth that he isn’t going back to destroy the Faerie Kingdom, and this one time Black Sapphire finally waited for him, he was taken away. He trusted his comrades with the truth and they didn’t listen. 

 

“Those gnats. They better back off from him.”  

 

He tore down the corridors like a storm breaking through glass, the cold marble blurring beneath his boots. His bow slammed against his back with every step, cloak billowing like a shadow chasing him.

 

He didn’t wait for the lift. He vaulted the railing, hit the landing two floors down, and kept going. Guards barely registered him as more than a blur. Someone shouted his name. He didn’t hear it.

 

The only thing in his head was blood on petals and Black Sapphire’s face bound in chains . 

 

Down the east hall. Left at the old war gate. Third dungeon wing. He hit the stairs at a sprint and didn’t slow down.

 

Far behind him, Mercurial Knight was yelling—but Silverbell didn’t care. He wasn’t going to wait. He wasn’t going to ask . They put him in a cage. Shackled him like a threat. Like a stranger.

 

And now they were going to explain or he was going to start breaking things.

 

There were four of them.

 

Four Silver Tree Knights standing in front of the cell like it was a joke. One was twirling the key. Another leaned against the wall, arms crossed. The other two hovered close to the bars, throwing insults like pebbles.

 

Inside, Black Sapphire—chained. didn’t respond, didn’t dare look up at them. Silverbell didn’t speak at first. He just stared then he moved quickly .

 

The knight with the key barely registered the shift before Silverbell slammed him into the wall, forearm to throat, bow clattering to the stone.

 

“Give me the damn key.”

 

The room dropped into silence—tense, brittle, charged. The knight gasped. “Sir—Silverbell—what are you—?”

 

“Now.”

 

Another stepped forward, bold or stupid. “He’s a threat. You know what he did—he fooled you. He played you like the lovesick idiot you—”

 

Silverbell turned, slow and lethal. “Say it again I dare you. ”

 

“Look at you!” the knight snapped, voice rising. “You were supposed to be one of us. Now you're defending him? A spy. A traitor. You were manipulated, Silverbell—once a knight, now just a fool in love with a lie.”

 

Silverbell didn’t blink.

 

He let go of the first knight and stepped toward the second.

 

“You think I don’t know what he did?” he hissed. “You think I don’t know who he is?” He stopped, inches away. “But you think that gives you the right to torture him ? To mock him while he's bleeding? Chained?”

 

The third knight spoke, nervous but firm. “Commander never said he was to be released. He’s under high threat designation—”

 

“I don’t care.” Silverbell’s voice cracked. “I said open the door.”

 

The fourth knight shook his head. “We follow the Commander’s orders, not yours.”

 

That was when Mercurial Knight finally arrived. His armor clinked as he moved into the space, breath still ragged from running. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

 

Four voices shouted at all once. Different kinds of accusations and justifications.

 

Only Silverbell didn’t speak. He stepped back. Pointed at the cell. Then looked Mercurial Knight dead in the eye.

 

“Tell them to open it.”

 

Mercurial looked past him—to the bruised Cookie inside. Then to the knights. Then back to Silverbell.

 

His jaw tightened. “Unlock it.” The command landed like a thunderclap.

 

No one moved.

 

“ Do it, ” Mercurial snapped.

 

The key rattled in trembling fingers as one of them approached the lock. Silverbell turned toward the bars. His hand hovered just above them. Black Sapphire weakly looked up.

 

The chains clicked one by one.

 

Silverbell’s hands moved fast, but careful—thumb brushing just briefly against the bruises on Black Sapphire’s wrists as he unlocked the last cuff. The metal hit the floor with a dull clatter.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t speak.

 

He was barely conscious. Half-lidded eyes flicked toward Silverbell, unfocused, breath shallow but steady. His wings trembled as if even gravity had turned against him.

 

Silverbell slipped an arm around his back, supporting his weight with practiced ease. "I’ve got you,” he muttered again, under his breath this time. A promise. A vow.

 

Behind him, the argument sparked to life. “Hah! You can’t be serious,” one of the knights snapped, voice sharp. “We’re just letting him out?”

 

“He’s dangerous!” another hissed. “That’s not just some prisoner , that’s a spy! A traitor—”

 

Mercurial Knight raised a hand, calm but commanding. “Enough.”

 

But one of them didn’t stop. “With all due respect, Commander—he fought against us. He deceived one of our own and used him for cover. And now we’re supposed to treat him like—what, a guest?”

 

Silverbell glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, voice dry, tight with sarcasm. “Would you rather he bleed on your boots first before you find your sense?”

 

The knight bristled. “You’re blinded.”

 

“No,” Silverbell shot back. “I totally can see perfectly. What I see are four fully armored knights wasting breath insulting someone who can’t even stand. Real honorable of you.”

 

Another knight muttered, “It’s a mistake.”

 

Mercurial’s voice cut through the tension. “There will be a meeting. All members of the Silver Tree Knights. Including Black Sapphire himself.”

 

The knights froze. Murmurs flared up like sparks.

 

“What?”

 

“He’s joining the meeting?”

 

“You want him in the same room as us?”

 

“Is this a joke?”

 

Mercurial didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “You’ll keep your tone in check. All of you. This decision stands.”

The room simmered in silence.

 

Silverbell stood fully now, Black Sapphire slumped against him, head resting faintly near his shoulder.

 

“I’m taking him home,” Silverbell said, not asking. “He needs healing. Real healing. Not the dungeon’s idea of it.”

 

Mercurial nodded once. “Go.”

Silverbell didn’t wait. He stepped past the knights without looking at them, boots echoing over stone, Black Sapphire held securely against his side.

And as he disappeared up the corridor, cloak trailing behind him, he didn’t slow. Didn’t stop. Because the next time they saw Black Sapphire— he wouldn’t be the one on the floor.

 

Silverbell moved quickly through the outer halls, past watchposts and side gates, keeping to the quiet paths. The castle loomed behind him, distant now. Black Sapphire leaned heavy against him, half-draped over his shoulder like a storm-wrecked cloak.

 

They’d cleared the guard line. No more witnesses. Just the forest path.

 

Silverbell stopped. He stared ahead, jaw clenched, wings twitching beneath his cloak.

 

Should I carry him?

 

Flying would be faster. Cleaner. Get him home in minutes. But it would mean lifting him. Cradling him. Letting that much of him close. He hesitated.

 

Then— A soft mumble. Faint. Slurred. “Mmmh... just fly or whatever…”

 

Silverbell blinked and looked down.

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes were still half-closed, lips barely moving. But the tone—deadpan, exhausted, unmistakably annoyed—was very familiar.

 

“…You're awake enough to be snarky, huh?”

 

“... unfortunately,” Black Sapphire muttered, eyes still shut.

 

Silverbell huffed—something between a sigh and a scoff—and shifted his grip. “Alright. Fine.”

 

He slipped one arm under Black Sapphire’s knees, the other behind his back, and lifted him clean off the ground in one smooth motion. His wings unfurled in a sharp, practiced motion, catching the night air with a soft snap.

 

“You complain once about how high we’re flying, I’ll drop you,” Silverbell warned, voice low.

 

“Heh… Worth it.”

 

Then they rose above the treetops towards Silverbell’s nice and cozy home. He said nothing more but his hold never wavered.

 

The wind rushed past as they flew.

 

Silverbell kept low, weaving between the taller trees, the moonlight slipping through the branches like silver thread. The weight in his arms never shifted—Black Sapphire didn’t struggle, didn’t tense.

 

He just… settled.

 

By the time they reached the treeline near Silverbell’s home, the forest was nearly silent. Just the soft rustle of leaves, the occasional nightbird, and the steady rhythm of Silverbell’s wings.

 

It was only then—mid-flight, suspended in the open dark—that Silverbell realized something.

 

He’s not bracing.

 

Black Sapphire, who used to flinch at sudden movement, who never let his weight lean fully on anyone, who held himself like a coiled trap even in sleep—wasn’t tense.

 

He wasn’t pretending to be unconscious either.

 

He was just quiet. Still. Like he trusted the arms carrying him.

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. Just for a second. He glanced down. Noticed the way Black Sapphire’s fingers had curled loosely into the front of his cloak. Not holding. Just resting. The smallest, softest gesture.

 

It shouldn’t have meant anything but for him it did.

You feel safe and peaceful.

 

Silverbell didn’t say it aloud. He just flew a little slower after that. A little gentler.

 

And when they reached the clearing behind his house and landed softly in the grass, he didn’t let go right away. Because for the first time in weeks—he didn’t have to chase him anymore.

 

The wind died as Silverbell touched down just behind his house, the grass whispering beneath his boots. His wings folded in, silent and smooth, as he adjusted his grip around Black Sapphire one last time.

 

The house stood still in the moonlight—modest, carved into the hillside, with ivy curled around the stonework and the faint glimmer of old protective wards humming beneath the window ledges. Safe. Quiet. Unassuming.

 

Silverbell nudged the door open with his boot and stepped inside. Warmth met them instantly.

 

The faint smell of tea leaves. The creak of old floorboards. The soft glow of charm-lights still flickering from earlier. He carried Black Sapphire to the couch—an old one, patchworked with throw blankets and quiet memories—and knelt to ease him down.

 

But Black Sapphire didn’t let go.

 

His fingers were still gently curled in Silverbell’s cloak, even half-asleep. Silverbell paused, breath caught in his chest.

 

Then, softly, he reached up and pried the hand loose—carefully, like breaking a spell. He set him down.

Black Sapphire sank into the cushions with a quiet sigh, head lolling to the side, breath steady.

 

Silverbell stood over him for a moment. Watched.

 

Noticed how the furrow between his brows had eased. How his jaw wasn’t clenched anymore. How, even in all the bruises and bloodstains, he looked less like a prisoner and more like… himself.

 

Warmth. That was the first thing Black Sapphire felt. Not the chains, those tight and cold chains that were wrapped around his dough overnight. Just… warmth.

 

It wrapped around him in slow waves—blanket-soft, hearth-gentle, like a memory from a dream he was too tired to hold onto. For a moment, he didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t move.

 

Because moving might break it.

 

He could feel the faint pull of healing charms in the air, subtle and old, woven into the house itself. There was the scent of crushed herbs. The distant pop of wood in a stove. The creak of someone moving nearby—quiet, careful, familiar.

 

Silverbell.

 

He knew it without looking. That’s what the warmth was. Not just the blanket or the firelight.

 

It was him. It was always him. 

 

That stupid, relentless knight who never stopped chasing him. Never stopped seeing him. Who now sat beside him with a salve jar open and a look on his face like the world might crack if he touched anything too hard.

 

Black Sapphire shifted slightly under the blanket, voice rough and low. “…You still stock salve?”

 

Silverbell startled. Just a flick of his fingers. “You’re awake.”

 

“Lucky you,” Black Sapphire muttered, trying for sarcasm—but it came out quieter than intended. Tired. Real.

 

Silverbell didn’t reply at first.

 

Then—without looking at him “You’re warm.”

 

“…Is that a complaint?”

 

“No. Not really.” Then softer “It’s just… different. Especially when you’re around.”

 

Black Sapphire closed his eyes again, head sinking further into the pillow.

 

And for once, he didn’t argue. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t need to pretend he wasn’t grateful.

 

Silverbell set the salve aside and finally let himself breathe. Then he sat down beside the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of the cushions.

 

“There’s a meeting later,” he said, voice low. “The whole Silver Tree order. Mercurial wants you there. In front of all of them.”

Black Sapphire didn’t react. Just blinked slowly, as if the idea didn’t quite register—or didn’t matter.

 

“They’re going to look at you like you’re a weapon,” Silverbell added. “They’re going to ask questions. Demand answers. Try to twist the story so they don’t have to admit they got it wrong.”

 

Black Sapphire let out a dry breath. “Eugh.. Sounds exhausting.”

 

Silverbell didn’t laugh.

 

 “I saw what they did,” he said, and now his voice cracked—not from emotion, but fury. “The way they talked to you. Threw things. Spun the damn key like it was funny. Like you weren’t even—” He stopped. Fists clenched.

“They treated you like—.”

 

“A monster?” Black Sapphire didn’t sound surprised, it’s like he was already used to this.

 

“Yeah..” 

 

But Silverbell wasn’t done.

 

“They were supposed to be knights. Not bullies with shiny swords. You were bleeding. Barely standing. And they laughed. If I hadn’t walked in—” His voice pitched louder, fast and sharp now. “—If I’d been ten seconds later, they probably would’ve kept going. I should’ve— I should’ve— ”

 

He caught himself. Ran a hand through his hair, pacing in a small, furious circle.

 

Black Sapphire watched from the couch, head tilted just slightly. “…Are you done?”

 

“No.”

 

Silverbell turned to face him, eyes still blazing. “You don’t even care, do you?”

 

Black Sapphire’s lips twitched. Just a little. “Eh. Not really.”

 

“They humiliated you—”

 

“I’ve had worse.”

 

“That’s not the point!”

 

Black Sapphire finally chuckled—quiet and hoarse, but real. “…It’s just funny, you know?”

 

Silverbell blinked. “What is?”

 

“You.” He shifted, eyes half-lidded but sharp with amusement. “Ranting like I was worth defending.”

 

Silverbell stared at him then replied “You are. ”

 

Black Sapphire’s smile faltered. Not gone—just softened.

And for a second, neither of them said anything. The fire crackled as the heavy silence slowly filling up the house.

 

The storm in Silverbell’s chest finally broke, replaced by something quieter. “I’ll be with you at the meeting,” he said after a moment, voice steadier now. “You won’t walk into that room alone.”

Black Sapphire didn’t argue back. He just looked at him and didn’t let go of that small smile.

 

Silverbell dropped back onto the couch beside him, exasperated. “Ugh. But still— they told me I was manipulated. ”

 

He threw a hand in the air. “ Manipulated. By you. Seriously? ” He turned toward Black Sapphire, eyes wide with disbelief.

 

“You?! You saved me, remember? That night at Mirror Lake. You gave me that potion before the fight even started. You dulled your strongest attacks. You held back so I wouldn’t die.”

 

Black Sapphire glanced sideways, quiet. The faintest twitch in his expression.

 

Silverbell didn’t stop. “You told me what your mission was. You said it. Clear as crystal. ‘I’m supposed to kill you.’ And then you went and saved me anyway. ” His voice cracked, just a little.

 

“You betrayed your mission. You got wounded because you hesitated. Because of me. And they still think you tricked me?”

 

He scoffed, bitter. “They think I’m some wide-eyed idiot who got seduced by a villain with decent cheekbones and an irresistible voice.”

 

“…Decent?” Black Sapphire mumbled, arching a brow.

 

Silverbell paused. Then squinted at him. “I’m ranting.”

 

“I noticed.”

 

“You’re smirking.”

 

“It’s subtle.”

 

Silverbell sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands buried in his hair.

 

“I just… can’t stand that they think you’re cold. That you don’t care.”

 

Black Sapphire was quiet again. Then, softer than before “I’m not cold.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I just don’t get the luxury of being warm.”

 

Silverbell looked over. Really looked. And for a second, all the fight went out of him. 

 

He sat back.

 

“I hate that you believe that.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. Slowly. Then tilted his head on the pillow, one eye narrowing just slightly.

 

“…Believe what?”

 

Silverbell stared at him. “That you’re not allowed to care. That you don’t deserve kindness. That warmth isn’t for Cookies like you.”

 

He stood again—couldn’t sit still anymore—and paced once across the room. “You think just because you were built in shadows, raised by someone who thinks ‘love’ is another word for control , that you’re not allowed to want something soft —something real? That you don’t get to have that?”

 

He stopped, turned, wings flicking once behind him. “You’re wrong.”

 

Black Sapphire watched him. The smallest crease formed between his brows. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

 

“I know enough.” Silverbell’s voice cracked like a bowstring pulled too tight. “I know you could’ve struck to kill, and you didn’t. I know you saved me. I know the look on your face when you thought I wouldn’t make it. That wasn’t mission guilt. That was you .”

 

He took a breath, then quieter “You cared. You care. You’re just too damn scared to admit it.”

 

Silence.

 

Then Black Sapphire closed his eyes. Not in retreat. Just…Tired. But he didn’t deny it. And that was answer enough.

Silverbell sat again, slower this time. They didn’t speak for a while. The crackle of the charm-lights flickered through the room like a heartbeat. Neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

 

Black Sapphire had managed to sit up. Not fully—he leaned back against the couch cushions, the blanket still draped over his lap, wings curled loosely behind him. His movements were slow, every joint and crack in his shell aching, but he didn’t complain.

 

Silverbell had gone quiet.

 

He sat beside him, still for once, gaze unfocused, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his cloak like he wasn’t sure what to do with all the heat still burning in his chest.

 

Then, without a word—

He leaned.

Just slightly.

And rested his head against Black Sapphire’s shoulder.

Black Sapphire froze for a second.

Not stiff—but caught off-guard.

Like someone had dropped something delicate into his hands and expected him to hold it right.

Silverbell didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him. Just sat there, letting his weight rest gently against the side of a Cookie who had once been his enemy. His target.

His something else.

“…Comfortable?” Black Sapphire asked quietly.

Silverbell shrugged against him.

“Don’t ruin it.”

Black Sapphire huffed. It wasn’t quite a laugh—but close enough. And he didn’t move away. Didn’t push him off. Didn’t pretend to be cold. He just sat there, letting the warmth press in. He was comfortable. 

 

For the first time in a long time—it didn’t feel like armor. It felt like home. Silverbell didn’t move. His head still rested on Black Sapphire’s shoulder, his voice muffled slightly into the other Cookie’s cloak.

“…And the worst part?” he muttered. “I trained with those idiots. Shared shifts. Patrol duty. One of them used to borrow my polish. And now they’re tossing pebbles like playground bullies and—”

 

Black Sapphire sighed. “Silverbell.”

 

“—and that smug one, with the cape that’s always crooked—he’s had it out for me since the sparring matches. I should’ve known he’d be the first to—”

 

“ Silverbell.”

 

“What?”

 

Black Sapphire leaned his head slightly, not enough to nudge, but just enough to imply it. “Rest with me and be quiet.”

 

There was a long pause. “…I am resting,” Silverbell muttered.

 

“You’re narrating your rage.”

 

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

 

“Your coping mechanism is loud .”

 

Silverbell scoffed, eyes closing but expression stubborn. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he grumbled.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t smile but his voice came softer this time. “You’re lucky I’m tired.”

 

Silverbell let out a slow breath, letting some of the tension go—until a sudden, firm knock echoed from the front door.

 

He tensed.

 

Black Sapphire’s hand reached instinctively toward his side, though his injuries made the movement slow.

 

Silverbell stood carefully, his brows furrowed.

 

“Who knocks at this hour?” he murmured. “Mercurial dismissed every knight at sundown…”

 

He approached the door, eyes wary, and pulled it open.

 

The fifth knight stood there—soaked from the night, his hood down, armor dulled with road dust and shame.

 

Silverbell blinked. “...What are you doing here?”

 

The knight didn’t wait for permission. “I need to speak with both of you. Now. It’s important.”

 

Silverbell stepped aside without a word.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t rise. He simply watched.

 

The knight stepped into the dim light, his voice low, his face pale. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes narrowed and sighed. “I saw what they did. I know they mocked him. They chained him. I was there. Now would you kindly leave?”

 

“I know,” the knight said. “But that wasn’t all of it.”

 

Silverbell stilled. Black Sapphire tilted his head, watching closely.

 

“They had a second phase planned,” the knight said, quiet but clear. “If you hadn’t shown up when you did—if you’d been ten minutes later—they were going to drag him to the public square.”

 

Silverbell’s stomach dropped. “What?”

 

Black Sapphire straightened, brows furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

 

“They had it set,” the knight went on. “A public display. Shackled. Bleeding. They were going to make an example out of you.”

 

Silverbell’s wings flared sharply behind him. Black Sapphire didn’t speak. But the quiet in his expression cracked just a little.

 

“They said they'd start with the tongue. ‘He won’t need it anymore,’ one of them said. Then the hands. Said they’d crush them. ‘Let the kingdom see what he used to touch Silverbell with.’”

 

Silverbell's breath hitched. His fists clenched.

 

“They waited until Commander Mercurial Knight was gone to act. They had binding spells ready. A blade. Silencing words.”

 

“And you didn’t tell me this earlier,” Silverbell growled.

 

“I didn’t know until I overheard them after, ” the knight said quickly. “By the time I got there, you were already pulling him out. I came straight here.”

 

Silverbell turned toward Black Sapphire, his expression breaking from shock to something far sharper. “Did you know?”

 

Black Sapphire looked up slowly, his jaw tight. “No.”

 

“You would’ve let them, ” Silverbell said. “You would’ve let them do it—”

 

“I thought I deserved something, ” Black Sapphire said, quiet but steady. “I’m not going to complain—”

 

Silverbell’s wings snapped, iridescent and sharp. “They were going to mutilate you.”

 

“I’m aware,” Black Sapphire replied.

 

Silverbell’s hands shook at his sides. “I’ll have them stripped of rank. Imprisoned. Let them explain that to Mercurial Knight.”

 

“They will be,” the knight said. “I’ve already written the full report. I’m taking it to him myself.”

 

“Good,” Silverbell muttered. Then glanced back. “You said you didn’t tell me earlier. Why?”

 

The knight looked down. “Because I planned to resign. After I testified. I didn’t want to wear the colors after what they did.”

 

“No,” Silverbell said sharply. “You’re not resigning.”

 

The knight blinked.

 

“You’re not throwing away your title because they soiled it. You stopped them. You told the truth. You still know what loyalty means. ”

 

Black Sapphire nodded faintly from the couch. “You know? If you run now, the narrative dies with you.”

“You’ll testify,” Silverbell said. “You’ll speak for him. For what almost happened. Then you’ll stand with me when I demand their ranks stripped and their sigils shattered.”

 

The knight slowly nodded. “Yes. I will.”

 

Silverbell’s voice lowered. “And if they try again… I won’t be late next time.”

 

Black Sapphire let out a breath. Then murmured gently, “Hey.”

 

Silverbell turned. 

 

“Don’t burn the whole kingdom over this,” he said.

 

Silverbell looked at him for a long moment. “No promises.”

 

The knight took his leave quietly. The door closed behind him. Silverbell stood there, wings still drawn wide. Black Sapphire, still aching, opened one arm.

 

And Silverbell crossed the room in three steps and folded into him—his wings curling around them both like a vow.

 

Silverbell stood in the silence that followed, shoulders taut, jaw still tight with barely contained fury.

 

Black Sapphire watched him from the couch, arms loose around the cloak draped across his chest, one wing still awkwardly folded. He didn’t say anything right away.

 

Silverbell turned. “I’m not letting them get away with it.”

 

“I didn’t think you would,” Black Sapphire replied.

 

He patted the space beside him.

 

Silverbell walked back over—wordless—and sat. Not quite leaning this time. Just close. Close enough.

 

They didn’t speak for a moment. The fire crackled.

 

Then Black Sapphire’s voice cut in—dry, casual in that way he used when something was not casual at all.

 

“So…” He shifted slightly. “Be honest. If I was already on the second phase, would you watch them crumble me in front of the whole kingdom?”

 

Silverbell turned his head, expression flat. “Are you asking if I would save you if they cut out your tongue and parade your broken hands through the square like some ruined trophy?”

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow. “It’s a yes or no question.”

 

“I wouldn’t let that happen, ” Silverbell said, sharp. Certain.

 

Black Sapphire glanced toward the fire. “Yeah. But what if you hadn’t gotten there?”

 

“You wouldn’t have been alone,” Silverbell said.

 

“But I was.”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer that. “I believe you,” he said instead. Voice clipped, but honest.

 

Black Sapphire gave a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

 

“Guess I should be flattered,” he murmured. “Takes effort to plan a public execution. Lots of coordination.”

 

Silverbell rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

 

“And yet, here I am. On your couch. Breathing.”

 

“Barely.”

 

“Enough.”

 

Silverbell let out a breath. Less of a sigh, more of a surrender. He didn’t say anything else after that because he had nothing left to say, he trusted that he didn’t have to.

 

The fire burned low. The room softened, its edges dimming under the charm-lights’ slow pulse. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, gentle now. Unthreatening.

 

Silverbell didn’t speak again. He stayed where he was—head resting against Black Sapphire’s shoulder, breaths evening out, jaw finally unclenched.

 

Black Sapphire glanced at him once. Eyes half-lidded. Still alert. Still guarded. But then he shifted just slightly to keep Silverbell steady. Didn’t shake him off.

 

He let his head rest back against the couch. Let the silence stay.

 

Let the warmth hold. And eventually, the two of them—once enemies, once blades drawn in a storm of magic and blood— slept.

---

The first light of morning filtered through the warded window, soft and gold, dancing across the floor like it had no idea what this house had witnessed the night before.

 

Black Sapphire stirred first.

 

His body ached—but not with panic. Just stiffness. The kind that came from stillness after too long in chains. His mind was clearer. His magic was quiet. For once, there was no weight clawing at his spine.

 

Except for—He tilted his head slightly. Silverbell, still asleep and still very much leaning against him, head nestled on his shoulder like a smug cat with armor training.

 

Black Sapphire blinked. Then he shifted, trying to ease out from under the weight without waking him.

 

Silverbell made a small, muffled sound. He didn’t move yet.

 

Black Sapphire frowned and gave a firmer nudge. “Silverbell.”

 

“Mmph.” A groggy grumble.

 

“Get off me.”

 

Silverbell stirred, head lifting blearily, curls a mess, eyes only half open.

 

“…You’re warm,” he mumbled.

 

“You said that last night.”

 

“It’s still true.”

 

Black Sapphire sighed. “You’re heavy.”

 

“ You’re dramatic. ”

 

That earned him a faint glare.

 

Silverbell finally blinked fully awake and sat up with a groan, rubbing his face. “Ugh. What time is it?”

 

Black Sapphire stretched slowly, testing his limbs. “Morning.”

 

“You could’ve let me sleep ten more minutes.”

 

“You were drooling.”

 

“I was resting. ”

 

“You were clinging. ”

 

Silverbell looked at him, deadpan. “You’re literally wrapped around my blanket.”

 

Black Sapphire paused and slowly looked down. He no longer argued after that

 

Silverbell smirked faintly and stood up with a soft grunt. “C’mon. We’ve got a meeting to cause chaos in.”

 

Black Sapphire muttered, “Can I nap through it?”

 

“No,” Silverbell said. “But if anyone talks down to you again—I’ll throw a chair.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t smile but his eyes glinted. “Welp…Fine. I’m up.”

 

Just as Silverbell finished fixing his hair—and Black Sapphire was attempting to discreetly fold the blanket like he hadn’t just spent the night wrapped in it—

 

Knock knock.

 

Then the door creaked open before either of them answered.

 

“Hope you’re decent,” came Mercurial Knight’s voice, dry as ever.

 

He stepped in holding a tray—two plates, two mugs, and something that smelled suspiciously like freshly toasted berry bread and spiced tea.

 

Silverbell blinked. “You… brought breakfast?”

 

Mercurial set the tray down on the nearest table with the efficiency of someone who had absolutely done this before and desperately didn’t want to talk about it.

 

“Yes. Because I knew neither of you would remember food exists until one of you passed out again.”

 

Black Sapphire raised a brow. “Again?”

 

Mercurial pointed a look at Silverbell. “He forgets meals when he’s angry.”

 

“I was fine, ” Silverbell muttered.

 

“You were feral.”

 

Black Sapphire, still seated, blinked once. “He was.”

 

Silverbell threw a hand in the air. “ You’re both ganging up on me before breakfast? ”

 

Mercurial ignored him and handed him a mug. “Drink this and pretend you're emotionally stable.”

 

He turned to Black Sapphire next, offering the second mug with a little more caution.

 

Black Sapphire took it. Hesitated. Then gave the tiniest nod.

 

Mercurial stepped back. “Meeting starts in one hour. Formal garb optional. Attitude… I expect.”

 

“Always,” Black Sapphire said, sipping.

 

Silverbell raised his mug. “You’re going to regret inviting us both.”

 

“I regretted it the moment I realized you weren’t going to let me throw anyone out myself,” Mercurial said, heading to the door.

 

Before he stepped out, he paused.

 

“…I’m glad you’re awake,” he said—directed at Black Sapphire, but soft.

 

Then he was gone.

 

The door clicked shut.

 

Silverbell stared at the mug in his hands for a second.

 

“…He made my tea stronger.”

 

Black Sapphire sipped his own. “Mine’s perfect.”

 

“Betrayal.”

 

They sat at the small table near the window, the morning light painting gold across the stone walls. The breakfast Mercurial brought was simple—berry bread still warm, honey butter, slices of spiced apple, and two steaming mugs of tea. The kind of meal that tried to pretend nothing awful had happened the day before.

 

Neither of them commented on that.

 

Silverbell buttered his bread aggressively. “He definitely made mine stronger on purpose.”

 

Black Sapphire took another calm sip of tea. “He knows you.”

 

Silverbell narrowed his eyes. “He thinks I’m dramatic.”

 

“You are dramatic.”

 

“You slept in my blanket.”

 

Black Sapphire popped a piece of apple in his mouth. “You leaned on me like I was your favorite pillow.”

 

Silverbell flushed slightly. “I was tired. You were available. ”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t smile—but he did hum quietly, amused. “Sure.”

 

Silverbell rolled his eyes and took a bite of bread.

 

They ate in silence for a minute.

 

Comfortable silence.

 

Eventually, Silverbell looked over at him, chewing slower. “You good?”

 

Black Sapphire glanced at his plate, then back at him. “I’m… better than before.”

 

That was the truth or at least the part of it he was willing to say.

 

Silverbell nodded once. “Good.”

 

They kept eating.

 

The tea cooled. The bread disappeared. The moment held.

 

And somewhere behind it all, the world kept waiting. But just for now— they didn’t let it in.

---

The Silver Halls were quiet. Too quiet.

 

Stone walls stretched wide and cold, polished with tradition and tension. Rows of knights stood in formation—Silver Tree insignias gleaming on their chests, but no pride in their eyes. Only judgment. Uncertainty. Discomfort.

 

At the front stood Mercurial Knight—tall, composed, and unreadable.

 

Silverbell entered without a word.

 

Black Sapphire followed beside him, walking with calm precision, deliberate. His cloak swept lightly behind him, the marks of his injuries faint beneath it.

 

The moment they stepped into the center, the whispers started.

 

And then— Black Sapphire raised a hand.

The murmurs died.

 

He stepped forward alone with his voice—quiet, edged, steady. “I know most of you would rather see me chained again. Or maybe something far worse than that.”

 

Silence.

 

“I know what I’ve done. Who I’ve followed. What I’ve been.”

 

His eyes scanned the knights. Some looked away. Others glared.

 

“I’m not here to convince you I’ve changed. I’m not here to plead. I’m here because he asked me to be.”

 

He nodded toward Silverbell but didn’t look away from the crowd.

 

“I gave up the mission to kill him. I gave up orders. Power. Position. I gave it up because for once in my life… I met someone who saw me as more than a weapon.”

 

A few knights scoffed.

 

One called out, bitter: “And we’re just supposed to believe you grew a conscience overnight?”

 

Another added, “You’re a liar. A killer. You spied on us.”

 

Black Sapphire’s gaze didn’t falter. “I was all those things. I didn’t ask for forgiveness.”

 

He took another step forward.

 

“I don’t need your trust. Just your understanding that I’m standing here because I chose not to burn this place down.”

 

The room stiffened.

 

Someone barked from the back, “You’re manipulating him—Silverbell. We see it.”

 

And that was when Silverbell stepped forward.

 

“Right. Because being chained up, mocked, and thrown in a dungeon is exactly how you manipulate someone back into your arms.”

 

He let the sarcasm hang there.

 

“I was there. You weren’t. You say he’s a liar? He told me the truth before battle Mirror Lake. That he was ordered to kill me. And you know what he did instead?”

 

Silverbell’s voice cracked—hot, furious.

 

“He saved me.” Murmurs again. A few knights shifted uncomfortably.

 

“He dulled his attacks with a potion. He chose not to kill me. You think that was for his mission? He disobeyed orders. He got hurt. He almost died—and he still wouldn’t raise a blade to finish it.”

 

Silverbell’s gaze swept the hall. “I won’t apologize for loving someone you’re too afraid to understand.”

 

That caused a stir—shouts rising, some angry, others shocked.

 

“He’s dangerous!”

 

“He’s using you!”

 

“Your judgment’s clouded—!”

 

“Enough.”

 

The voice that followed slammed the room into silence. Mercurial Knight stepped forward. His expression was unreadable, but his presence filled the hall like a drawn sword.

 

“You all moved without orders. You acted without clearance. You violated protocol. You chained a captured combatant without trial, and you mocked him while he bled.”

 

The knights bristled. “We thought—” one began.

 

“You thought nothing. ” Mercurial’s voice cut clean. “You reacted. You let your fear speak for you.”

 

Another knight tried, “We did it to protect Silverbell—”

 

Mercurial’s tone dropped into frost. “By treating his life like a weapon. And his trust is like a mistake.”

 

He paused, then addressed the entire room “You want to question Black Sapphire’s loyalty? That’s fair. But when he chose not to kill you—when he could have—you repaid him with cruelty.”

 

His voice rose—just slightly. “And that’s not a knight’s justice. That’s cowardice in silver.”

 

No one dared speak now.

 

He let the silence fester, then said “Those responsible for the unauthorized imprisonment and abuse of Black Sapphire Cookie… are hereby suspended from duty.”

 

Gasps rang out. Armor shifted.

 

“Effective immediately,” Mercurial added, cold and final. “You’ll return your blades and emblems by sundown. Until the Queen herself rules otherwise, your ranks are revoked.”

 

One knight stepped forward, lips pressed tight. “Commander, we were doing what we thought was right—”

 

“And now,” Mercurial said, “you’ll live with the consequences.”

 

That should have ended it. But then—footsteps. Steady and Deliberate.

 

The fifth knight stepped forward.

 

The room turned, a dozen stares locking onto him like blades. He didn’t flinch.

 

“I have something to add,” he said.

 

Mercurial Knight didn’t stop him. He simply gave the faintest nod—permission.

 

The fifth knight’s voice was calm. But low with something heavier than anger: shame.

 

“I was with them,” he said. “Not during the ambush. Not when they dragged him in. But I knew something was off. The way they whispered. The way they closed ranks. I noticed the altered patrol routes. The falsified logs. I should have said something then. ”

 

Silverbell, standing off to the side with arms crossed, said nothing.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t even look up.

 

The fifth knight went on.

 

“I didn’t speak because I was afraid of being wrong. Of overstepping. Of choosing the wrong side in a moment when everything felt fragile.”

 

His hands tightened at his sides. “But I was wrong. Because silence is a choice. And I chose poorly.”

 

No one interrupted.

 

“I came forward too late to stop it. But early enough to testify. And I will. Everything I heard. Everything I saw. Every name involved.”

 

His gaze swept over the suspended knights—no sign of hatred in it. Just the truth.

 

“You say you did it for Silverbell. But I saw him the moment he found out. And I promise you— you didn’t save him. You betrayed him.”

 

A long silence followed then the fifth knight turned to Mercurial.

 

“I accept your ruling. But I won’t resign. I won’t run.”

 

His eyes shifted to Silverbell now. “I’ll rebuild what I helped break. If you’ll let me.”

 

Mercurial studied him, then nodded once—sharp and exact. “Good,” the commander said. “Then start with this.”

 

He turned to the rest of the room. “This is what accountability looks like.”

 

Silverbell’s expression didn’t soften—but he gave a single, silent nod.

 

Black Sapphire, arms folded behind him, finally looked up. He didn’t say a word. Because for that day— he didn’t look alone.

 

But as the suspended knights began to file out, one muttered just loud enough:

 

“Can’t believe we’re throwing away our honor for a shadow-dweller.”

 

Another added under his breath, “He’ll stab us in the back the second Silverbell turns.”

 

Silverbell’s hand twitched toward his belt. “You want to say that again to me?” he snapped, whirling around.

 

The knights stopped, wide-eyed.

 

But before Silverbell could even take a step—

 

Black Sapphire turned to them. One look along with a few words. 

 

“Keep moving—because if you stand still too long, something else might decide where you end up.” 

 

That is all he needs to do, all he needs to say. His gaze towards the knights is intimidating.

 

The kind of glare that didn’t need magic. That didn’t need a threat.

 

It was the threat.

 

And the knights—suddenly remembering who had let them walk out of Mirror Lake alive—looked away.

 

Quickly.

 

The hall went still again. Silverbell exhaled, low and slow.

 

Mercurial Knight broke the tension with a nod. “Dismissed.”

 

The Silver Halls emptied with military precision—but left behind something heavier than silence.

 

Respect. Unearned, but not unacknowledged.

 

And in the center of the Silver Halls, still standing side by side— Silverbell and Black Sapphire didn’t move.

 

They had already said what mattered. And the Kingdom had heard it. The doors of the Silver Halls shut behind the last of the knights.

 

Silence returned—but it was different now. It was more at peace and quiet compared to earlier.

 

Mercurial Knight stood at the center of the hall, arms crossed, gaze lingering on the empty seats. Then he turned to Black Sapphire and Silverbell, who were still standing together, tension slowly draining from their shoulders.

 

“You held your ground,” Mercurial said.

 

Black Sapphire gave a slow blink. “It was that, or vanish again. And I’m told that’s ‘rude.’”

 

Mercurial didn’t smile, but there was a faint upward twitch in his brow. “The Queen will want to speak with you. Personally.”

 

Black Sapphire stared at him. “…Why.”

 

“She values context.”

 

“Context is overrated at this point.”

 

Silverbell huffed. “She’s giving you a chance to speak for yourself.”

 

“I just did.”

 

Mercurial gestured toward the now-empty chamber. “That was the knights. This will be a private audience.”

 

Black Sapphire visibly deflated. “Sounds exhausting…”

 

Mercurial raised a brow. “She spared your life, didn’t she?”

 

“She also sealed my master into a tree for eons. Not exactly tea party material.”

 

Silverbell elbowed him lightly. “Try not to be weird about it.”

 

“I’m always weird about it.”

 

Mercurial rubbed his temple like he was already regretting this. “The meeting is at dusk. Until then, rest.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes lit up in the most dramatic deadpan imaginable. “Thank. The. Dough.”

 

He turned around and started walking back toward the inner wing of the castle.

 

“Where are you going?” Mercurial asked.

 

“To find the softest couch in the Kingdom and pretend I’ve never spoken in public in my entire life.”

 

Silverbell snorted. “He means my couch.”

 

“I earned it,” Black Sapphire muttered, already halfway down the hall.

 

They turned down a quieter passage—stone walls fading into soft wood paneling, a place closer to the healing wing. The noise of the court was behind them now. For once, the world gave them a moment of peace.

 

Silverbell walked a little slower than usual, keeping pace with Black Sapphire. Not out of pity—just presence. Support.

 

“You should get angry more often,” Sapphire said casually, voice still a little raspy from exhaustion.

 

Silverbell gave him a look. “That so?”

 

“Not at me, obviously,” he added, smirking slightly. “At others. I like that pretty face yours when it gets angry.”

 

Silverbell flushed immediately, eyes widening—caught completely off-guard. “Wha—S-Sapphire.”

 

And there it was.

 

That strand of hair. The little curl on Silverbell’s head snapped straight up like a startled exclamation point.

 

Black Sapphire stopped walking. Stared at him and blinked. “…What is that?”

 

Silverbell blinked, then followed his gaze.

 

“Oh stars—” He slapped a hand over his hair, cheeks going even redder. “Nope. Forget it. Pretend you didn’t see that.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t pretend. He stared harder, stepping a little closer with genuine amusement.

 

“It reacts to your emotions?” he asked, utterly delighted.

“It’s not intentional,” Silverbell muttered, voice nearly a whimper now.

 

“So what does it do when I—”

 

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

 

Black Sapphire grinned. A real one. Worn and quiet and small—but real.

 

And Silverbell couldn’t stop smiling either, even if his hand never left his ridiculous, expressive hair.

 

They kept walking. But now—They were laughing.

 

They turned another corner, the quiet still holding around them like a soft bubble, far from court whispers and sharp armor.

 

Silverbell was still visibly flustered, muttering something about hairpins and fate being cruel, his hand still half-covering his head.

 

Black Sapphire watched him out of the corner of his eye. A smirk tugging at the edge of his lips. Then, with complete deadpan “So that strand of hair reacts like my wings, huh?”

 

Silverbell froze and paused mid-step. “No it doesn’t—wait.” He blinked at him. “...Does it?”

 

Sapphire tilted his head with mock thoughtfulness.

 

“Let’s see. You’re mad, it shoots up.”

 

He held up a hand, ticking invisible points. “Flustered, it does that twitchy little hop.”

 

He mimicked the movement poorly, causing Silverbell to scowl.

 

“And when you’re sad…” He glanced over again, more gently. “...It droops.”

 

Silverbell folded his arms, cheeks pink again. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

 

“I’m studying. This is academic.”

 

“You’re insufferable.”

 

Sapphire looked forward again, eyes calm now. “I like it. It suits someone like you.”

 

Silverbell glanced over, visibly caught off guard. “…The hair?”

 

“The honesty.”

 

The curl flopped up again. His wings buzzed but Black Sapphire is too busy looking at his hair to notice.

 

Sapphire chuckled under his breath. “See? Emotional radar.”

 

Silverbell groaned and kept walking, ears red now.

 

But he wasn’t hiding the smile this time.

 

They reached Silverbell’s home just as the late sun dipped behind the trees, casting long golden slants through the clearing. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the weight of the Silver Halls fell off their shoulders like a discarded cloak.

 

Inside was still, cozy. Familiar. A place that didn’t ask them to defend who they were. 

 

Black Sapphire moved toward the window seat instinctively, but Silverbell gently caught his arm.

 

“Come sit. Let me patch up the rest of those bruises.”

 

Black Sapphire smirked, but didn’t resist. “Mmh. You just want to touch me again.”

 

Silverbell gave him a tired but genuine smile. “Looks like I’m guilty.”

 

No lies between them now, not anymore. (As of now)

 

Black Sapphire let himself be guided to the cushioned bench by the window. He sat, wings folding neatly against his back. The light from outside painted his features in soft contrast—still sharp, still dangerous in the way old magic never quite fades—but softened now by safety.

 

Silverbell moved through the room like ritual—graceful, practiced, sleeves rolled up, hands already glowing faintly with the soft shimmer of healing magic.

 

Black Sapphire watched him for a moment, quietly. Then, with a sigh, he relaxed—mostly because Silverbell had told him to relax six times already and was about to make it seven.

Silverbell knelt in front of him, drawing his fingers gently along a fading bruise on Sapphire’s ribs. Light magic hummed low in the air—delicate, warm, steady. The light hit a gash just under his side.

 

“Aaack—!” Black Sapphire jerked slightly, back arching off the bench.

 

Silverbell paused, looking up with zero sympathy and way too much amusement.

 

“You're such a baby.”

 

Black Sapphire scowled. “Excuse me? Your magic stings like holy water.”

 

“It’s supposed to. It’s cleansing. ”

 

“It’s aggressive. ”

 

“It’s gentle.”

 

“It’s judgement with sparkle effects.”

 

Silverbell huffed a laugh, fingers glowing again as he leaned in to trace another cut with glowing light.

 

Black Sapphire tensed again, wings twitching. “Not when they come with commentary—aaagh! Okay, okay, that one wasn’t gentle—”

 

Silverbell gave a smug hum. “You survived Mirror Lake. You can survive sparkles.”

 

“I also survived you, ” Black Sapphire muttered. “Which is harder, honestly.”

 

“Yet here you are,” Silverbell replied, dabbing a bruise near his ribs with a soft cloth. “In my house. On my bench.”

 

“Being assaulted by a butterfly.”

 

“Say thank you.”

 

“Thank you,” he grumbled flatly, “for this radiant suffering.”

 

Silverbell smiled without looking up. “You’re welcome.”

 

The banter faded into a softer quiet as Silverbell worked—hands steady, expression focused, but softer around the edges than he ever showed in the field.

Black Sapphire remained still, eyes half-lidded now. Not from pain.

From trust.

 

He let the healing continue without complaint. He didn’t pull away.

 

Silverbell gently pressed the last of the light into a fading bruise just below Sapphire’s collarbone. The wound shimmered, then closed—leaving only smooth skin and a faint, exhausted sigh from both of them.

 

For a moment, there was silence. Only the soft hum of magic lingering in the air.

 

Then an interesting question is brought up.

 

“How did they even get you?” Silverbell asked, he needed to know. Black Sapphire is powerful, they both knew that. Which made him curious on how he was captured and chained up by those knights.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the window, where a shard of sunlight danced across the edge of the sill.

“…They were quiet. I didn’t sense any of them, at all. I couldn’t feel their magic nor their blades.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “Quiet?”

 

Sapphire’s tone was low. Not ashamed—but annoyed. At himself, more than anything. “I was… talking to the flowers. It’s not like I”

 

Silverbell tried not to smile, but he failed miserably.  “Of course you were.”

 

“Shut it! I was being thoughtful .”

 

“That’s what we’re calling it now?”

 

Black Sapphire shot him a look, but there was no heat in it. “They crept in. The first one challenged me. I held her off. I thought—maybe—I could scare her back.”

 

His jaw clenched slightly.

 

“Then another hit me from behind. Between the wings. Paralyzed my joints. It still hurts, but I could manage.”

 

Silverbell frowned, hand instinctively brushing near the area.

 

Black Sapphire kept going. “The cave was too small. Couldn’t fight properly. Couldn’t cast properly. I didn’t sense the third one until she struck near my neck.”

 

Then, dryly. “Apparently, my reward for being emotionally available is a concussion and public humiliation.”

 

Silverbell looked at him, gently brushing hair from his forehead. “…You went back to the cave just to be near me.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t deny it.

 

Didn’t meet his eyes either. “…I wanted to see the flowers. Yours. And…” He trailed off.

 

Then, with a sharp inhale. “Okay, and maybe I left a note. And maybe I talked to the silverbells like they were you. Which is not something I want to remember, thank you very much.”

 

Silverbell’s smile was slow and soft. “You’re adorable.”

 

Black Sapphire groaned.

 

“No I’m not. I’m deadly and dangerous and deeply damaged, thank you.”

 

“Adorably damaged.”

 

“This is emotional warfare.”

 

Silverbell just kissed the top of his head and didn’t argue.

 

Because he knew he was winning.

 

They stayed there for a while, the glow of healing magic slowly fading from Silverbell’s hands. The air felt warmer now, like it had finally remembered this was a home, not a battlefield.

 

Black Sapphire leaned back slightly against the cushion, wings twitching as they settled into place. He looked… calmer. Tired, yes, but lighter than he had been in days.

 

His gaze drifted to the shelf in the corner—the one where Silverbell kept a comically large tea set he’d once pretended was “only for guests,” though Black Sapphire had seen him use it alone more than once.

 

The silence between them had softened into something peaceful.

 

And then, casually, Black Sapphire said “Say…”

 

Silverbell turned his head. “Hm?”

 

Sapphire’s fingers fidgeted briefly with the edge of his sleeve.

 

“Would you… like me to cook for you again?” 

 

It wasn’t confident considering that this offer could get pretty repetitive, He just doesn’t want Silverbell to get tired from it. It was also the kind of offer that carried more weight than it let on.

 

Silverbell blinked once. Then smiled—soft and warm, like something blooming in spring. 

 

“I’d like that.”

 

Sapphire nodded quickly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the answer.

 

“Right. Good. Because last time you almost set the kettle on fire trying to make tea, and I really don’t want to have to explain to your neighbors why the windows smell like burned sugar petals.”

 

“That was one time—”

 

“You boiled honey, Bell.”

 

“It was part of a glaze!”

 

“You glazed the stove.”

 

Silverbell started to laugh—and this time, so did Black Sapphire. Just a little.

 

Because for a moment, the ache in their bones didn’t matter. Because they were home.

 

The kitchen glowed with soft afternoon light.

 

Black Sapphire stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a mixing spoon in one hand and powdered sugar dusting the air like fairy frost. The pan in front of him steamed gently with golden tarts—small, delicate, topped with candied fruit slices and thin curls of honeyed glaze.

 

The scent was incredible—warm, rich, almost spiced with something floral. 

 

Silverbell leaned against the doorframe, half-dazed from the aroma. “You’re humming.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t turn around but his wings twitched in surprise. “I am not. ”

 

“You are. It’s cute.”

 

“It’s tactical rhythm management,” he muttered, flicking a bit of powdered sugar with unnecessary precision.

 

Silverbell just smiled.

 

Black Sapphire moved around the stove with quiet ease, placing each tart onto a silver tray like he was crafting something sacred. The way his hair fell just slightly out of place. The way his wings flicked with every small movement.

 

It hit Silverbell all at once. How safe this felt. How beautiful. And how much he wanted to close the space between them.

 

So he did just that, slowly.

 

Silverbell stepped forward, light on his feet.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t notice at first—not until arms gently slid around his waist from behind, pulling him back into a soft, steady embrace. He froze for a breath.

 

Then— Flutter.

 

His wings reacted instantly, lifting and fluttering once in startled protest before settling, twitching like they couldn’t quite decide between alarm and delight.

 

“Uhm…What are you doing,” he said, very still.

 

“Hugging the person that I love dearly,” Silverbell said into his shoulder.

 

“Oooh charming. But seriously? While I’m working?”

 

“You’re done now.”

 

Black Sapphire’s breath hitched.

 

Then he sighed—dramatically. “If these tarts burn because of your emotions, I’m blaming you forever.”

 

“That works for me.”

 

There was a long pause. Then, quietly— “…You smell nice.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “Me?”

 

“You smell like moonflower tea and stupid feelings.”

 

Silverbell just tightened his arms and Black Sapphire let him. His wings, now flicking idly, had decided they liked this too.

 

Black Sapphire’s wings finally settled as Silverbell held him—quietly, stubbornly—and didn’t let go until the oven gave a soft ding.

 

“You’re lucky they didn’t burn,” Sapphire muttered, pulling away just enough to retrieve the tray. “Barely.”

 

Silverbell beamed. “I believed in you.”

 

“Mm. Emotionally reckless.”

 

He set the tray on the table, the scent curling warmly through the air. Golden crusts. Crisp edges. Slightly glossy fruit slices still shimmering from heat.

 

Silverbell sat eagerly, watching as Sapphire placed two tarts on a plate and slid one toward him.

 

“I didn’t poison it.”

 

“I wasn’t worried.”

 

Sapphire arched an eyebrow. “You should’ve been.”

 

“I don’t need to be.” Silverbell took a bite—and stopped. His eyes widened. “Sapphire.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This is… incredible.”

 

Black Sapphire tried to hide the way his wings twitched in satisfaction.

 

“I know. It’s my cooking.”

 

They sat across from each other, trading bites and insults, teasing and lighthearted jabs. Silverbell caught crumbs on Sapphire’s sleeve. Sapphire flicked powdered sugar at Silverbell’s nose. And neither of them wanted the moment to end.

 

Later, when the last tart had been finished and the dishes left half-washed in the sink, they migrated to the wide windowsill.

 

Silverbell curled up at one end, legs tucked under him, a cup of warm tea in his hands.

 

Sapphire joined him, not quite sitting—more like melting beside him, back to the wall, shoulder pressed close. His wings stretched lazily behind him, still twitching now and then when Silverbell brushed too near.

 

Silverbell rested his head gently against Black Sapphire’s shoulder. The air was still, filled with the distant shimmer of stars and the fading scent of baked fruit.

 

After a long, comfortable pause, Silverbell murmured softly— “I missed you. And your cooking…”

 

Black Sapphire glanced at him sideways, brow lifting. “Why do I feel like you’re only talking about the cooking?”

 

Silverbell scoffed, indignant. “I’m not!”

 

“Uh-huh.” Sapphire’s smirk returned. “Did you burn the water again?”

 

Silverbell gasped, pulling away slightly. “I did not!”

 

“Right.” Sapphire sipped his tea. “Sure doesn’t smell like a functioning kitchen in here.”

 

Silverbell pouted. “Ugh. You’re the absolute worst.”

 

“And yet,” Sapphire said, tapping his mug against Silverbell’s gently, “you missed me.”

 

Silverbell rolled his eyes—but he was smiling again.

 

They fell into silence, but this time it wasn’t awkward or empty. It was the kind of silence that felt full.

 

Silverbell shook his head, lips pressed into a dramatic pout as he leaned back into the curve of Sapphire’s shoulder again.

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t respond right away. Just stared out the window for a long moment, watching the stars blink into place.

 

Then, softly—without looking at him— “Don’t worry.”

 

A pause.

 

“I missed you too. And your stupid shenanigans.”

 

Silverbell smiled.

 

Warm.

 

He tilted his head up slightly, eyes catching Sapphire’s in the reflection of the window.

 

“You really did?”

 

Sapphire let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Yeah.”

 

A beat.

 

“The flowers, the cave, that little hair strand of yours that reacts to your feelings—”

 

Silverbell groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

They both laughed under their breath.

 

A soft knock at the door broke through the laughter.

 

It wasn’t urgent. It didn’t need to be.

 

Silverbell and Black Sapphire both went still.

 

The skies still shimmered outside. The tea was still warm. The silence was still full. But the moment had ended.

 

Mercurial’s voice came from the other side—low, level, and calm. “She’s ready for him.”

Notes:

Hi so as you can see this fic is on hold because I am currently fixing the posted chapters of this fic.

So if you are rereading some of my other chapters and the words changed its because I am fixing them (it was an advice for me, and im good with thatt) :)) which is the reason why I might not post tomorrow

Aside from that my classes start at monday a brand new day (routine) begins. But this fic is almost coming to an end (yes I will be posting two endings. Actually I am thinking about how to write it and all.)

 

(my previleges of using gadgets will be limited so I could focus on studies, but i'll try to update if I can but for now I'll be editing other chapters)

 

i also thank the comments, for giving me motivation which led me to be dedicated to this fic for a month straight!!

 

thats all thank you for reading/rereading my fic

Chapter 21: XX

Notes:

I'll still be editing but for now I think* I finished this chapter already.

 

(yes i posted this before going to school, like around 7:10 am)

Black Sapphire didn’t move at first. He set his mug down slowly, the sound gentle against the wood. His gaze lingered on the window for one last heartbeat. Then he stood.

 

Silverbell stood with him—automatically, instinctively. Black Sapphire reached for his cloak, fastened it with familiar ease, adjusted the collar. His wings folded close, posture straight. 

 

Silverbell touched his arm lightly. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

 

Black Sapphire looked at him—really looked —and gave the faintest nod. “I know.”

 

But still, he turned for the door.

 

They walked the quiet corridor together, the soft click of their steps the only sound until the hall opened into the antechamber of the Queen’s chambers.

 

Two guards stood at attention.

 

The door ahead—tall, silver-framed, carved with the emblem of the ancient court—stood open just enough to show the golden light within.

 

Mercurial met them just outside.

 

“She’s expecting him,” he said quietly. Then to Black Sapphire, “You’ll speak alone. I’ll remain just outside with Silverbell.”

 

Sapphire gave a slow nod. “Let’s get it over with..”

 

Silverbell reached out once more, fingers brushing his hand just barely. Their eyes met. It's like they both understand what the other is by a short glance. 

He didn’t say don’t go.

He said I’m here.

 

Sapphire turned toward the door and walked through it. The guards closed it gently behind him. Silverbell stepped back, jaw tight, arms crossed—not out of anger but of helplessness. Mercurial stood beside him. They waited in silence, together.

But inside that chamber—Black Sapphire Cookie now stood before the Queen, the Guardian of the Silver Tree, White Lily Cookie.

Alone.

 

The Queen didn’t move at first. Her gaze remained steady, pale eyes like moonlight through snow—serene, but not soft. She looked at him not with fear or judgment… but memory.

Recognition.

Then she spoke, her voice calm and level, with the cadence of someone who had seen too many lifetimes to rush a single word.

 

“Greetings, Moondrop Faerie Cookie or shall I say… Black Sapphire Cookie. ”

 

The sound of that name, spoken with such perfect clarity, filled the chamber like the echo of an old chord finally struck again.

 

“We meet again.”

 

Black Sapphire's jaw tightened. Just slightly.

The last time he’d heard that voice, she had stood over his master—calm as ever, delivering a judgment cloaked in mercy. He watched his master getting attacked by her and the others trying to seal him off to the Silver Tree again.

 

He did not bow like last time. Instead, he straightened. “I go by Black Sapphire, Your Majesty.”

 

White Lily Cookie inclined her head. “Names hold power. Yours has always carried more than most.”

 

He didn’t have any response to that.

 

But she saw the tension in his shoulders. The flicker of emotion behind his eyes. White Lily Cookie’s gaze didn’t waver. Her voice, when she spoke again, was still composed—but this time it carried a subtle edge, like frost on glass.

 

“I have heard the whispers,” she said. “Rumors carried on the wind like stray ash. They say the Faerie Kingdom is crumbling.”

 

She took a step forward—not threatening, but deliberate. “They say this… because someone wants it believed.” 

 

Her eyes locked onto his. Unblinking. “Tell me, Black Sapphire—was it your voice behind those rumors? Or merely your shadow?”

 

A long silence settled between them, thick and still. He didn’t flinch. But he still didn’t answer.

 

So she continued, softer now. “I remember that Moondrop Faerie. Curious. Sharp. Too clever for his own safety.”

Her expression tightened, but only slightly. “He vanished one day, after a dance with one of the best knights of the kingdom.”

 

“Now I wonder which of them I am speaking to.” White Lily Cookie’s eyes softened, but only a fraction.

 

“For all your shadows,” she said, “your heart has never been silent.”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw clenched again in restraint. “They told me to fracture the kingdom from within,” he said at last. “Undermine trust. Sow doubt. Remind the Faerie folk what it feels like to be afraid.”

 

His voice was low. Even. Stripped of excuses. “It was my mission. I carried it out.” He didn’t justify it. Didn’t explain who “they” were. He didn’t need to because deep down, she knows why and who ordered this mission upon him.

White Lily Cookie closed her eyes for a beat, as if listening to something deeper than sound.

Then she opened them. “And yet here you are.”

 

A silence passed between them, not empty—but full. Of things unsaid. Of truths too sharp for daylight.

 

The chamber waited.

 

“I understand your hesitation,” she said gently. “This Kingdom has not been kind to you. Or those who shaped you.”

 

He remained silent. Because what could he say? That he still heard the screams when his master was taken? That he still wondered if the Silver Tree’s “mercy” was just another word for containment?

 

“I did not call you here for a pardon,” she continued. “Nor to demand loyalty. That is not something I believe can be forced.”

 

Her words were slow. Careful. Not as a threat—but not naive, either. “You are here because one of my knights—one who has never once faltered in his devotion—believes in you.”

 

His breath hitched. Just slightly.

 

White Lily Cookie smiled, but it was a sad, distant sort of smile. “Silverbell Cookie is not so easily fooled. He would not stand for you if your intentions were hollow.”

 

Black Sapphire finally met her gaze. Steady. Controlled. And a little tired. “I didn’t come here for redemption.”

 

“No,” she said simply. “You came for him.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t respond. He didn’t need to say anything. Because she was right.

He hadn’t come to beg for forgiveness. He hadn’t come to mend broken history. He had come because Silverbell Cookie —of all the luminous, maddening, painfully earnest knights in the world—had asked him to try.

 

White Lily Cookie’s gaze lingered on him—not sharp, but piercing nonetheless.

 

“You remind me of a time long before the Silver Tree flourished. Before this Kingdom was stone and crown and law.” She paused. “During the Calamity, there were beasts born not of dough, but of suffering. Creatures made from fractured magic and the broken dreams of Cookies who lost their way.”

 

Her voice softened. “They, too, were feared. Hunted. Cast out.”

 

Black Sapphire narrowed his eyes slightly. “You’re comparing me to the beasts.”

 

She didn’t flinch. “I’m reminding you that even beasts are born from something.”

 

He turned his head away—part out of defiance, part to hide the flicker of memory rising unbidden behind his eyes. A flash— He was smaller then. Younger.

Shadow Milk’s cloak brushing the forest floor as he walked ahead—always just a little too fast to follow. Always looking toward some far-off purpose. He would chase him and Candy Apple Cookie would shout after both of them, arms full of spell scrolls and stolen orchard fruit.

They never stayed still longer, never rested. But every night, they waited. Waited for their master to return from whatever place he disappeared to.

 

Then one day…He didn’t.

“You waited,” White Lily said, voice suddenly close—pulling him back to the present.

 

His breath caught.

 

“You waited for someone you believed in,” she continued, quiet now. “And now someone else waits for you. ”

 

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.   

 

But her voice filled the stillness again—gentle, but undeniable. “Your past doesn’t vanish, Black Sapphire. But your future… that is still unwritten.”

 

There was a pause. A moment like a held breath.

Then she said, almost like a memory:

“Silverbell came to me once, maybe twice. Asked if love was enough to justify defiance. Although his questions were not straight to the point, I knew he was talking about you.”

 

Black Sapphire turned to her sharply.

 

She didn’t smile. “He wasn’t asking whether he should follow his heart. He was asking if he could live with the consequences of doing so.”

 

A longer pause. Then, “Can you do the same to him?”

 

The question echoed—not accusing, but waiting. Black Sapphire didn’t speak. But in the quiet, something in him stirred. The first breath of something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long, long time.

 

Hope.

 

White Lily Cookie stood from her throne—not in ceremony, but with purpose. The folds of her robe shifted like petals in the breeze as she moved past Black Sapphire, gesturing silently for him to follow.

 

He did not because he trusted her. But because Silverbell had asked him to try.

 

They passed through a narrow corridor that bloomed gradually from silver stone into light wood and ivy-draped archways. Magic pulsed faintly beneath their feet, old and patient. At the far end, a set of carved doors parted at her touch, and the soft fragrance of lilies filled the air.

 

A garden. Private and still, untouched by court or time. At its center: a circular platform of white marble with no throne—only a small, rune-etched stone embedded at its heart.

 

The grave of Elder Faerie Cookie.

 

White Lily’s voice was quiet when it came. “This garden was his sanctuary. A place of peace before peace was shattered.”

Black Sapphire glanced down at the stone. He hadn’t known Elder Faerie—but he had heard the name. A guardian before her. A being of ancient wisdom. Feared and revered. Someone even his master had spoken of with respect.

 

White Lily stood still among the lilies, pale hair catching the light.

“Pure Vanilla once told me,” she said, “after facing Shadow Milk Cookie, that even the worst of the beasts… still carried their beginnings. That redemption was not a myth, but a possibility —if we were willing to face the reason they became monsters in the first place.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t interrupt. But something in his jaw tightened.

 

“We encountered them differently,” she went on. “Their rage, their pain—it mirrored our own at times. We are two sides of the same coin, representing the complex interplay between virtue and vice, and the ongoing quest for balance and redemption in the world of Earthbread.”

 

She turned to him now, gaze level. “The beasts are stirring again. Unpredictable. Me and my comrades… the other Ancients… … my friends, we've awakened their Soul Jams. We are not what we once were. We are stronger than before”

 

“But we still don’t know what the beasts have become.”

 

Black Sapphire’s voice was steady, but edged with ice. “And you’re telling me this because you want me to help you lock them away again?”

 

Her expression didn’t shift. “No.”

 

He blinked.

 

“I’m telling you this,” she said, “because I want you to believe in them. In us. On the chance that this time… we do not answer destruction with chains. If someone like me is given a second chance, they too can be given a second chance. Although not all my friends forgave me for what I have done and I understand where they are coming from. ”

He turned his head slightly, watching the lilies sway with the garden breeze. “And what if they do want destruction?”

 

“Then we stop them,” she answered without hesitation. “But not because we fear them—because we protect what we love. ”

 

She stepped beside the stone in the garden, resting a hand over it gently. “Elder Faerie believed the Silver Tree should never be used to contain what we did not understand. He believed in redemption long before any of us did. But he was still given a role by the Witches to seal them off.”

 

Black Sapphire’s voice dropped lower. “I never knew him”

 

“You wouldn’t,” she said. “Your master feared him or probably hated him. Not because he was cruel—but because Elder Faerie saw through him. Saw the broken pieces, not just the shadows.”

 

That struck something. Deep. A memory, perhaps. Of his master going silent when that name came up. Of Candy Apple asking once, quietly, “ Do you think he’s the only one who saw us as Cookies first?”

Back then, none of them had answered.

 

Black Sapphire looked down at the lilies. At the grave. At the light.

 

White Lily Cookie led Black Sapphire through the tranquil garden, her voice soft yet resolute. She spoke of Elder Faerie Cookie, the revered Guardian of the Silver Tree's Seal, who had once ruled the Faerie Kingdom with unwavering dedication. Appointed by the Witches eons ago, Elder Faerie Cookie's sole purpose was to contain the ancient and malevolent forces threatening Earthbread.

 

"Elder Faerie Cookie was more than a guardian," White Lily began. "He was a mentor, a protector, and to some, a father figure."

 

Black Sapphire listened intently as she recounted how Elder Faerie had trained the Silver Tree Knights, instilling in them a sense of duty and honor. Mercurial Knight, known for his stoic demeanor and unyielding discipline, often spoke of Elder Faerie with deep respect. Silverbell, ever eager and earnest, had looked up to him as a guiding star.

 

"They were like family," she continued. "Elder Faerie, Mercurial Knight, and Silverbell shared a bond forged in the crucible of responsibility and shared purpose."

 

White Lily paused, her gaze distant. "When I first arrived in this kingdom, I found Silverbell wounded, both in body and spirit. It was during the events of the Beast-Yeast that I tended to his injuries, offering what solace I could."

 

Black Sapphire's expression softened, memories of his own master's teachings surfacing. Though he had never known Elder Faerie personally, the legacy left behind was evident in those who had been touched by his guidance.

 

"Elder Faerie's sacrifice was not in vain," White Lily said, her voice firm. "He believed in the potential for redemption, even for the beasts. Like I said earlier Pure Vanilla told me that after facing Shadow Milk, he realized that the beasts are capable of change. Their actions, while destructive, stem from pain and loss."

 

Black Sapphire looked at her, skepticism evident. "And you believe they can change?"

 

"I do," she replied. "But it requires trust. Trust in the ancients, in the bonds we share, and in the belief that even the darkest souls can find light."

 

They reached the center of the garden, where lilies bloomed in abundance, surrounding a simple stone marking Elder Faerie's resting place. White Lily knelt, placing a hand gently on the stone.

 

"He once said, 'Yes, my mission was bestowed upon me. And yet, it is the path I chose to walk.'"

 

"...I'll try," he murmured.

 

White Lily rose, a gentle smile on her face. "That's all I ask."

“Elder Faerie Cookie. The Guardian of the Seal. The only one who truly understood that duty was not about control—but about compassion. He saw into the hearts of those who stood before him. Even when others saw shadows… he saw potential.”

 

Her finger moved slightly.

 

“Mercurial Knight. Cold at a glance. Reserved. But under Elder Faerie’s teaching, he found strength in discipline, not detachment. He bears the weight of the Silver Tree with unwavering resolve—and yet, it was Elder Faerie who reminded him that strength must bend before it breaks.”

 

Then, gently, she traced the smallest figure.

“And Silverbell Cookie. He was the youngest of the Silver Tree Knights. Restless. Bright. He believed so fiercely in goodness that it frightened some. Elder Faerie saw that spark and protected it… nurtured it.”

She smiled faintly.

 

“They were his legacy. Not in blood. Not in name. But by choice. ”

 

Her expression softened further. “They loved Elder Faerie, each in their own way. And when he passed, they didn’t mourn him as a leader.”

She looked toward the grave. “They mourned him as family. ”

White Lily stood quietly beside the grave.

 

Rain tapped gently on the garden’s outer wards, like the world itself held its breath in deference to the moment.

 

“Elder Faerie Cookie was chosen by the witches themselves,” she said softly. “His role wasn’t taken—it was entrusted. To protect Earthbread. To seal away what all Cookies feared.”

 

Her fingers brushed a lily’s bloom.

 

“I believe… he may have seen the beasts before their corruption. Before they became what they are now. But he never spoke of it. If he did, it was a burden he chose to carry alone.”

 

She paused.

 

“He was not just a guardian. He was a teacher. Stern, but full of meaning. He taught Mercurial the weight of silence. He taught Silverbell the strength of gentleness. And even I—”

 

She smiled faintly. “I learned more from him in his quiet than I did from centuries of court.”

 

Black Sapphire stared at the stone for a long time, the air still around him. Then, almost reluctantly: “What would he think of me?”

 

White Lily turned to him. There was no hesitation in her eyes. No attempt to soften the truth.

 

“…He might take a while.”

 

Sapphire blinked.

 

She folded her hands in front of her, expression calm. “You were made in the shadow of the Beast of Deceit. You followed orders born of fear and ruin. If Elder Faerie Cookie were alive today—”

 

A stillness stretched between sentences, heavy with meaning

 

“—he would likely try his absolute best to get rid of you.”

 

The words didn’t sting as much as they should have. Because she didn’t speak them with cruelty. She was stating a fact.

 

But then—her voice softened, just slightly. “He wouldn’t do it out of hate. He would do it out of protection. That was who he was.”

 

She stepped a little closer, eyes locked to his. “But if he saw what Silverbell sees now… if he saw who you’re becoming—not what you were made to be—I believe, in time…”

 

A quiet breath passed.

 

“He might have tried to teach you instead.”

Black Sapphire looked down at the grave again. This time, he didn’t feel judged by it. Just… measured. And maybe—distantly—understood. Eventually. Maybe.

White Lily stood still, eyes thoughtful, watching Black Sapphire closely—watching not his posture, but the restraint behind it.

 

“Silverbell truly trusts you,” she said softly. “Accepts you. Loves you with a conviction that burns brighter than any vow.”

 

Black Sapphire said nothing. But his wings, folded behind him, shifted slightly—tense, uncertain.

 

White Lily continued.

 

“I see the way you look at him. I see the way you don’t speak, because you’re afraid to say something too real.” She stepped gently forward, voice as even as moonlight. “So let me ask you plainly.”

 

She looked him in the eye. “What is love to you? Based on what you feel for him?”

 

Black Sapphire’s throat moved, once. He looked away, eyes fixed on the lilies. Then, slowly, he spoke.

 

“…It’s a risk .”

His voice was low and honest. “An act of sacrifice. And acceptance.”

 

White Lily didn’t interrupt.

 

Black Sapphire let the silence fill in the spaces between his words.

 

“I’m not used to this. Not used to… feeling something that doesn’t come with a mission or an order. I’ve obeyed commands my entire existence. I’ve never been given anything without a condition. Until him.”

 

He paused again, his gaze softening with something almost unreadable. “He's... radiant. Annoyingly sincere. Reckless, but deliberate. And when he looks at me, he doesn’t see a follower of the Beast of Deceit.”

 

His voice dropped even lower. “He sees me as me , and I hate it.”

 

White Lily blinked.

 

Black Sapphire exhaled. “Because I don’t know how to live in a world where that’s real. But I’m trying. For him.”

 

White Lily stepped back, just slightly, arms folding in front of her. “You love him,” she said, simple and clear.

 

“I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like,” he murmured. “But when I see him, I want to stay. I want to protect. I want to be something worthy. And maybe that’s what it is.”

 

She nodded once, the lilies swaying gently behind her. “Then you’re closer to understanding than most.”

White Lily Cookie studied him for a long moment, her gaze unreadable but not unkind. The wind carried the scent of pollen and magic—clean, ancient, like the heartbeat of the earth. The lilies around them pulsed with a gentle glow, as if they too were listening.

 

“I think,” she said, “love was never meant to be something you understand. Only something you choose.”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie didn’t answer, but something in his shoulders eased. Just slightly.

 

“You don’t have to be perfect for him,” she continued. “You don’t have to erase your past or tame the edges of who you are. You only have to show up. Honestly. That’s enough.”

 

His eyes flicked back to her. “Is it?”

 

White Lily tilted her head, the petals in her hair catching a shimmer of light. “He chose you, didn’t he? Not the version you think you should be. You.”

 

Black Sapphire let out a quiet, breathy sound that might have been a scoff. Or a laugh. Or maybe both.

 

“…He kissed me,” he admitted. “Right after he threw himself in front of me during that ambush. Took a bolt to the shoulder and grinned through it like a fool. He looked like he’d do it again.”

 

White Lily smiled, soft and knowing. “That sounds like Silverbell Cookie to me.”

 

Black Sapphire’s gaze turned inward for a moment. “He told me I didn’t have to say anything back. Just… to let him be there.”

 

“And did you?”

 

He hesitated. Then nodded. “I did. I stayed.”

 

White Lily’s expression warmed with something gentle and deep, like roots beneath the soil.

 

“That’s love, too.”

 

The silence that followed was peaceful this time. Unhurried. Then Black Sapphire spoke again, his voice a little rough.

 

“Do you ever… worry? That maybe someone like you isn’t meant to have it? That you were created for something else?”

 

White Lily’s smile turned a shade sadder, but still serene. “Every day,” she said. “But I believe we’re more than what we were made for. We are what we choose to become and you’ve already chosen him.”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie looked down at his hands—stained with shadow magic, trembling with the effort of change. “…Then I’ll become someone who deserves him.”

 

White Lily Cookie stepped forward, and for the first time, she reached out—placing a gentle hand over his heart. “You already are. The rest is just growth.”

“What if I left him again? Would he hate me?” The question hung in the air like frost.

 

White Lily Cookie’s hand lingered against Black Sapphire’s chest a heartbeat longer, then slowly withdrew. Her expression didn’t waver, but her eyes dimmed—just slightly.

 

“No,” she said, quiet but steady. “But he would grieve you.”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there, wings curled in tightly behind him like petals bracing for winter. “Grieve,” he echoed. “Not hate...”

 

White Lily nodded. “Hate is easy. It burns fast and bright and leaves nothing behind. But grief—grief only comes from love. And Silverbell Cookie loves you.”

 

Black Sapphire looked away again, jaw clenched. “I don’t want to break him.”

 

“Then don’t,” she said gently. “But understand this: leaving won’t protect him. It will only leave him wondering why someone who claimed to care chose absence over honesty.”

 

He flinched at that. Just barely. White Lily took a breath, stepping back into the swaying field of lilies.

 

“You think you’re sparing him pain by disappearing. But what you’d really be doing is stealing his choice. You’d be deciding for him that he’s better off without you. And that’s not love.”

 

His wings shifted—torn between retreat and stay. Between fear and the fragile bloom of something real. “If I stayed,” he asked, “what if I ruin it? What if I can’t hold it together?”

 

She turned to face him fully, a calm resolve in her voice. “Then let him see that. Let him walk beside you when you fall apart. That’s the whole point. You don’t earn love by being unbreakable. You build it by letting someone stay when you break.”

 

He looked down, hands curling into fists. “Then I’m terrified,” he whispered.

 

White Lily Cookie smiled, a breath of light in the gloom. “Good. That means it matters.”

 

Far in the distance, the lilies whispered in the wind.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie didn’t turn as the wind shifted. He didn’t need to. Silverbell wasn’t there—not physically. But his absence pressed heavier than presence ever could. White Lily Cookie stayed still, patient as roots, letting the silence settle again. Letting it breathe.

 

Then Black Sapphire spoke, barely above a whisper. “Love is a complicated thing for someone like me.”

 

White Lily tilted her head. “Why?”

 

His jaw tightened, wings shifting restlessly. “Because I was made to follow. To carry out commands without hesitation. Love… it’s not something you obey. It’s something you surrender to.”

 

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. “And I don’t know how to do that without feeling like I’m breaking.”

 

White Lily’s voice was gentle, but clear. “Maybe you are breaking. But maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

 

He looked at her, skeptical.

 

She nodded toward the lilies. “Look at them. Every season, they wither. Collapse in on themselves. And still, they return. Stronger. Brighter. More alive.”

 

“I’m not a flower,” he muttered.

 

“No,” she agreed. “You’re a Cookie who’s learning what it means to feel freely. That’s far messier.”

 

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I keep thinking if I can just understand it, I’ll be safe. That if I can put it in a box, define it, I’ll know what to do.”

 

“But love doesn’t live in boxes,” she said. “It grows in the spaces we’re afraid of. It asks us to be seen. And seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes—really seeing—that can be terrifying.”

 

He went quiet. After a while, he said, “I want to love him right. But I’m so afraid I’ll ruin it by not knowing how.”

 

White Lily stepped forward again. Her voice softened. “Then tell him that.”

 

He looked up.

 

“Not every truth needs to come dressed in certainty. Tell him it’s complicated. Tell him you’re afraid. But let him choose to be in that mess with you.”

 

Black Sapphire Cookie said nothing for a long while. “Would that be fair to him?”

 

White Lily’s answer was simple. “Love isn’t about fair. It’s about real. ”

 

She stepped back into the lilies, their pale glow brushing her hem like moonlight on water. And Black Sapphire stood alone again, but not untouched. The silence felt different now.

 

White Lily stepped forward again. Her voice softened. “If you really needed to leave,” she said, “like a break from all of this—I think he’ll understand. You wouldn’t leave without a reason.”

 

Black Sapphire’s expression twisted—relief and guilt tangled together. “Would he really?”

 

She nodded, sure. “He trusts you. Enough to believe you wouldn’t vanish just to run away.” He looked down, jaw clenched. “Would that still hurt him?”

 

“Yes,” she said. “But he’d rather hurt from the truth than be protected by a lie.” He exhaled slowly.

 

“Then I’ll tell him. Not everything. Just… enough to let him choose.” 

 

White Lily Cookie’s gaze warmed. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

Eventually, Black Sapphire Cookie spoke again, his voice more measured. “…You said what Silverbell feels for me is love.”

 

She gave a small nod.

 

“And you said I love him.”

 

She said nothing—just waited. She spoke softly: “Do you doubt it?”

 

His eyes flicked toward her, then settled back on the grave. “No…Maybe,” he said. “I think… I’m scared of what it demands.”

 

White Lily’s head tilted gently. “What do you mean?”

 

He drew in a breath like he was bracing for something colder than wind. “Love means choosing him even when it’s not easy. Even when it hurts. ”

 

His hands tightened at his sides, fingers ghosting over the hilt of his blade. “And I’ve already lost someone I gave everything to—no hesitation, no boundaries. If I lose him too…” His voice thinned. “I don’t know what’ll be left of me.”

 

There it was.The truth.

 

White Lily’s voice didn’t falter. “That fear? It’s woven into love. Do you think I wasn’t afraid when Elder Faerie passed? When the other Ancients almost faded into myth? When the Silver Tree cracked at its roots?”

 

She turned her gaze to the grave. “We mourn. We survive. And still—we choose again. Even knowing we could lose it all.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t respond right away. Then, with a hint of resignation “…He drives me insane.”

 

White Lily’s mouth curved just slightly. “He'd say you return the favor.”

 

“He never shuts up. He puts his trust in the worst Cookies. He’s reckless, emotional, and that ridiculous hair curl—”

 

White Lily gave a light laugh. “You noticing it would make his entire week.”

 

Something in his shoulders loosened. Not quite a smile. But softer. “I don’t know how to be enough for someone like him,” he confessed.

 

White Lily’s voice was warm, but steady. “He never asked for ‘enough.’ He asked for you. ”

White Lily’s footsteps receded softly behind him as she gave him space. She knew he wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

 

Black Sapphire remained still in the garden, the scent of lilies thick in the damp morning air, the grave of Elder Faerie Cookie resting before him like a sealed truth.

 

“He’d try his absolute best to get rid of you.” The words hadn’t hurt. Not in the way he expected. He didn’t resent them. He didn’t blame her. If anything… he respected the honesty He stared down at the etched stone, weathered but strong. A symbol. A legacy. A line drawn between what was and what could’ve been.

 

Would he hate me?

Would he see Shadow Milk’s mark and decide I was too far gone?

 

Probably. At first. Maybe forever. But… maybe not.

 

He let out a slow breath.

 

I didn’t know him. But Mercurial did. Silverbell did.

 

And if they could change… If they could believe in someone like him —Then maybe…

 

Maybe I don’t need to be forgiven by the past to build something now.

 

His thoughts drifted again—uninvited—to Silverbell. That ridiculous curl of hair. That infuriating optimism. The way he stood in front of an entire hall of knights like nothing in the world could shake his belief.

 

He really loves me.

 

It still didn’t feel real. Not because it wasn’t—but because nothing in his life had ever been that simple.

 

Love was chaos. It was a risk. It was handing someone the map to your weaknesses and trusting they wouldn’t use it to destroy you. But Silverbell hadn’t destroyed him.

 

He’d stayed. Even when it hurts. Even when it cost him everything.

 

I don’t know if I deserve it.

 

But he wanted it. And that—he was starting to learn—meant something.

 

A breeze stirred the garden. The lilies swayed gently, as if nodding. He looked back at the grave one last time.

 

If you were still alive… you’d probably hate me. But maybe not forever.

 

He turned toward the path leading back to the main hall. Toward the one Cookie who saw him first—not as an enemy, or a mistake. He stepped away from the grave, the lilies brushing gently against his boots as he turned back toward the archway.

 

White Lily Cookie stood a few steps ahead, hands folded neatly in front of her, as if she had never left. Waiting and watching over him.

 

She didn’t speak as he approached. Didn’t press. Just waited.

 

Black Sapphire paused beside her—still half in shadow, half in light—and glanced at the garden one more time. Then, with a breath he didn’t quite realize he was holding, he spoke.

 

“Thank you.” His voice was quiet. 

 

White Lily looked at him, serene as ever, but her gaze held something warmer now. Approval, perhaps. Or understanding.

 

“I didn’t think I’d say that,” he admitted. “But you didn’t try to convince me. You let me see.”

 

“I only spoke the truth,” she replied gently. “You did the rest.”

 

He nodded once. Then, without flourish, he turned to go. Stopped after two steps. And over his shoulder—“…Goodbye, White Lily Cookie.”

 

She smiled softly. “And good luck, Black Sapphire Cookie.”

Because for the first time since he’d set foot in this kingdom—he didn’t feel like an intruder.

The chamber doors eased open with a soft hum of magic. Black Sapphire stepped through—composed, wings tucked neatly behind him, cloak settling around his shoulders like he hadn’t just stood in front of the Queen herself. 

 

Outside, in the long hall, Mercurial Knight leaned with perfect composure against the far wall.

 

Silverbell… was pacing. Back and forth. Fast. Agitated. His cloak flared behind him like a restless banner, and he hadn’t noticed the door open until—

 

“Sapphire—!”

 

He spun around so fast he nearly tripped on his own boots.

 

“You were gone for so long—what happened, did she say something weird? Did you offend her? Did she stare at you with those slow ancient queen eyes and say cryptic things—are you in trouble? You’re not in trouble, right?!”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. “Hello to you, too.”

 

“You’re deflecting. That’s your deflecting voice.”

 

“I always sound like this.”

 

“You do not! ”

 

Behind them, Mercurial Knight crossed his arms and tilted his head toward Silverbell. “Deep breaths,” he drawled. “You’ve paced a trench into the floor, and we both know I’m not covering for you if you break into the royal gardens again.”

 

Silverbell shot him a glare. “That was one time—”

 

“It was three .”

 

“That’s beside the point!”

 

Black Sapphire stepped forward, a little closer. “I’m fine.”

 

Silverbell stopped mid-step, scanning him from head to toe like he half-expected a curse mark or glowing seal. “…Did she threaten you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Judge you?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Throw you into a time loop or spirit trial or anything awful and metaphorical?”

 

Black Sapphire exhaled, tired and amused. “No—what? She talked. I listened. It wasn’t torture.”

 

Silverbell narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You sure ?”

 

Mercurial cut in, dry as ever. “If it were torture, he’d look slightly more expressive.”

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head, unimpressed. “This is my expressive face.”

 

“You look like you're about to judge the carpet pattern.”

 

“I am.”

 

Silverbell, still a little pink in the face from stress, stepped up properly now—eyes softening even as he grumbled, “You could’ve at least warned me you’d take forever…”

 

Black Sapphire looked at him. The pacing. The worry. The way Silverbell’s hair was frizzed at the edges like he’d been tugging at it while waiting.

 

And, quietly “…Sorry.”

 

Silverbell blinked, caught off guard. But then he smiled. Because it wasn’t just an apology for being late. It was an apology for everything.

 

“I missed you,” Silverbell said.

 

Black Sapphire nodded once. “I know.”

The corridor quieted again, the lingering tension finally fading into something more natural. Black Sapphire stood still for a moment longer, then asked—his voice low, but genuine:

 

“…What was he like?”

 

Mercurial raised a brow.

 

Silverbell blinked.

 

“Elder Faerie,” Sapphire clarified. “You both… you talked about him a lot. White Lily did too. But I want to know what he was like. To you. ”

 

Mercurial’s gaze turned distant.

 

Silverbell’s posture softened.

 

“He was everything,” Silverbell said quietly. “He could see through you with one glance. Not in a cold way—he just understood. ”

 

“He didn’t raise his voice,” Mercurial added. “Didn’t need to. If you disappointed him, you felt it in your soul.”

 

Silverbell nodded. “But he never made you feel less. Even when you messed up. He had this way of turning failure into a lesson before you even realized what the lesson was.”

 

Black Sapphire crossed his arms, listening intently.

 

Mercurial glanced sideways, expression unreadable. “He trained us both. Together, most days. He used to say I was ‘sharp, but impatient.’”

 

“And I was…” Silverbell started—then stopped.

 

Mercurial smirked. “Spirited.”

 

“Hey.”

 

Mercurial’s tone took a rare hint of fondness. “He always said you had more energy than sense. You cared too much. It was your greatest strength… and most exhausting flaw.”

 

Silverbell huffed. “It wasn’t that bad.”

 

“Oh no?” Mercurial turned fully now. “Want to tell him what you used to do to get out of cooking classes?”

 

Silverbell’s face went pale.

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Cooking classes?”

 

Mercurial crossed his arms. “Elder Faerie insisted every knight understand the basics of survival—sword, shield, first aid, cooking.”

 

Silverbell groaned. “They were so boring—”

 

Mercurial cut him off. “So he’d sneak out the kitchen window. Literally climb out like a burglar. Once he got stuck halfway and Elder Faerie stood outside waiting with a tray of cut vegetables.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. Then let out a rare, genuine laugh—quiet but undeniable.

 

Silverbell covered his face. “Please let me die.”

 

“You were halfway out the window and yelling ‘this is a form of creative protest!’” Mercurial added.

 

“I was young! ”

 

“You were fourteen. ”

 

Black Sapphire shook his head, smirking. “You climbed out a window to escape cooking?”

 

Silverbell peeked out from behind his hands. “You try dicing forty onions while being judged by an ancient fae spirit.”

 

Mercurial gave a low chuckle. “Elder Faerie let you go. Every time. Said it was more important that you kept your spark than diced the perfect root.”

 

“He got me,” Silverbell muttered, pretending to sulk but visibly touched.

Black Sapphire was still smirking when Silverbell straightened up suddenly, hands on his hips.

 

“Alright, alright,” he said, mock-serious. “You’ve both had your laugh at my expense, and I’ll admit the window incident might have been slightly undignified—”

 

Mercurial snorted. “Slightly?”

 

“— But! ” Silverbell cut in, eyes gleaming now, “It’s only fair we share all the old stories. So, Sapphire… did you know our fearless, ice-blooded, ultra-composed Commander has a soft spot?”

 

Mercurial’s smile faded. “Silverbell—”

 

“A very specific soft spot,” Silverbell continued, circling him like a knight preparing a roast rather than a duel.

 

Mercurial’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

 

“Oh, I will.”

 

Black Sapphire raised a brow, intrigued. “Please continue.”

 

Silverbell leaned in, whispering theatrically behind a hand. “Tulip crepes.”

 

Mercurial closed his eyes, pained.

 

Black Sapphire blinked. “What.”

 

“ Homemade tulip crepes,” Silverbell clarified, full of glee now. “Elder Faerie used to make it once a year with wildflower sugar and those really delicate frost tulip petals from the deep glades.”

 

Mercurial cleared his throat. “It was good crepes. ”

 

“It was his greatest weakness, ” Silverbell said proudly. “He could resist shadow beasts, sword duels, and politics—but put a whole serving of tulip crepes in front of him? Gone. Reduced to toast crumbs and silence.”

 

Black Sapphire looked at Mercurial. “...Seriously?”

 

Mercurial sighed. “I was fifteen.”

 

“You were twenty-four the last time I caught you sneaking a third plate.” Silverbell gasped dramatically. “You told me it was for a diplomatic gift!”

 

Mercurial turned slowly to him. “And diplomacy requires sincerity.”

 

Black Sapphire shook his head, amused. “So the mighty Mercurial Knight can be brought down by flower crepes.”

 

“Only the right flower crepe,” Mercurial said flatly. “Made by an ancient forest guardian with access to royal-grade sugar petals.”

 

Silverbell slung an arm around Black Sapphire’s shoulder. “See? We all have our emotional weaknesses.”

 

“You climbed out a window.”

 

“You ate four plates in one sitting.”

 

“I trained you.”

 

“And I turned out fabulous. ”

Silverbell grinned, riding high on the moment, until—

 

“Sure, you’re fabulous ,” Mercurial said dryly, folding his arms. “But look who can’t cook for their loved one.”

 

Silence. Black Sapphire blinked. Silverbell froze like someone had just dropped a bucket of cold water on him.

 

“I—excuse me?! I can cook!”

 

“You burned the water, ” Mercurial replied calmly.

 

“That happened one time! ”

 

“You served undercooked berry tarts with raw flour crust. ”

 

“I was experimenting!”

 

“Your ‘experimental’ tarts fused to the tray, Silverbell,” Black Sapphire added, eyes glinting with amusement now.

 

Silverbell turned on him, utterly betrayed. “ You swore you’d never bring that up!”

 

“Whoops! Seems like lying is still in my blood..”

 

Silverbell groaned dramatically, covering his face again. “Why do I fall for a Cookie who is most likely to roast me alive?!”

 

Mercurial shrugged. “You have a type.”

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head. “Apparently it’s ‘emotionally stunted and judgemental.’”

 

“You’re both the worst,” Silverbell muttered, trying—and failing—not to smile.

 

Mercurial clapped him on the back once, just hard enough to rattle him. “Maybe start with something simple next time. Toast, maybe.”

 

“I can’t believe I bled for this kingdom,” Silverbell grumbled.

 

Black Sapphire leaned closer, lips brushing just near his ear, voice low and smug—“Don’t worry. I’ll cook for us both.”

 

Silverbell’s hair curl shot straight up again.

 

Mercurial turned away to hide his grin. “I’ll take that as my cue to go.”

 

The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the mossy path. Behind them, the palace faded into quiet. Mercurial Knight had left with a nod—his version of a goodbye. Now it was just Silverbell and Black Sapphire, walking side by side toward the edge of the forest.

 

“…Thanks,” Silverbell said softly.

 

Black Sapphire glanced over. “For what?”

 

“For seeing her. For listening.”

 

“It wasn’t easy,” Black Sapphire admitted. “But you asked me to.”

 

Silverbell smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d say yes.”

 

“Neither did I.”

 

They walked in silence for a bit.

 

“She asked me what love is,” Black Sapphire said.

 

Silverbell tilted his head. “What’d you say?”

 

“A risk. Sacrifice. Acceptance.”

 

Silverbell’s smile deepened. “That’s beautiful.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

 

“You were. That’s why it worked.”

 

Black Sapphire sighed. “You’re annoyingly sentimental.”

 

“And yet, here you are.”

 

The quiet between them settled easily. They walked through the shifting trees, the air light with pollen and the whisper of wings above.

 

Black Sapphire slowed. His eyes narrowed slightly.

 

“Hey, Silverbell.”

 

“Mmh?”

 

“Who is she?” He gestured subtly with his chin. “I’ve never seen her around the Kingdom before.”

 

A few paces ahead, a golden-glowing figure stood near a flowering vine, back turned. Her wings shimmered with syrupy gloss—once dull, now vibrant, like color preserved under glass.

 

Silverbell's face lit up in gentle recognition. “Oh. That’s Sugarfly Cookie.” He lifted a hand and waved. The figure turned—and her smile, though warm, didn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

“Silverbell! It’s you again.” Her voice rang like music with a bitter aftertaste. Then her gaze fell on Black Sapphire. “Oh, and according to the other faeries you must be Silverbell’s lover?”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. “That’s… uhm—”

 

Silverbell didn’t deny it. He just smiled, slightly pink. “He’s working on it.”

 

Sugarfly Cookie laughed, light and brittle. “Everything worth anything is.” Her wings fluttered once, then dropped like silk. Black Sapphire’s sharp gaze lingered on them.

 

“They’re beautiful,” he said quietly.

 

“They are, I know.” Her smile faltered. “Now they’re coated in what I wished for from the Garden of Delights. Sweetness, they called it. A gift.” She looked down. “Feels more like molasses.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes flickered with understanding.

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head. “You went there?”

 

She nodded. “To the Garden. I made a wish. I wanted to feel radiant. Wanted everyone to see me.” She turned her back slightly, letting her wings catch the light. “They did. And I couldn’t fly.”

 

A silence. One that held more than pity—it held warning. Black Sapphire’s hand curled slightly at his side. “Eternal Sugar gave you what you wanted.”

 

“But not what I needed,” Sugarfly said, voice quiet. “There’s a difference.”

 

Silverbell reached out gently, touching her arm. “You got away. That means something.”

 

She looked up. “Did I? I still see the Garden in my dreams.”

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes darkened. He spoke low. “Did she take anything else?”

 

Sugarfly glanced at him—too knowing. “She gave me happiness. But only the kind that comes without feeling.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

 

He didn’t answer. Because he did. Because it still lingered. The hollow kind of joy Shadow Milk had asked for. No ache. No longing. Just the quiet numbness of purpose.

 

Sugarfly stepped closer, her gaze gentler now. “You’ve been to the edge of it, haven’t you? That empty kind of peace.”

 

Black Sapphire’s voice was steady. “I was supposed to forget him.” he turned to Silverbell. 

 

Silverbell flinched “What? Wait—you’ve been to the Garden too?!”

 

Sugarfly's expression flickered—sorrow, understanding, and something else. Sympathy, maybe. Or fear.

 

Black Sapphire nodded, slow and grim. “Not willingly.”

 

He turned fully to Silverbell now, his voice quieter, like the weight of it hurt to carry. “Shadow Milk took me there. Said my feelings made me weak. That I’d be better—more useful—without them.”

 

Silverbell stared, lips slightly parted, chest rising in uneven breaths. “And you… forgot me?”

 

“Yes.” Black Sapphire’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t even know something was missing. I just—moved. Obeyed. Everything was sharp and clean and quiet.”

 

He hesitated. “Too quiet.”

 

Sugarfly folded her arms, wings drooping slightly. “That’s how Eternal Sugar works. She doesn’t steal what you love. She grants it. Hollowed out.”

 

Silverbell swallowed, taking a shaky step closer. “How did you remember?”

 

Black Sapphire looked at him, steady and sure now. “I heard your voice. Just once. And it cracked something open.”

 

A breath passed.

Silverbell blinked rapidly, trying not to break under it. “You idiot.”

“I know.”

“You absolute— idiot .”

“I know .”

And then Silverbell grabbed his hand again, fiercer this time, as if anchoring him here, in this moment, in this version of himself that remembered .

Silverbell grabbed his hand again, tighter than before, grounding him. “Don’t forget again.”

 

“I won’t.”

Sugarfly smiled faintly at them, but her gaze turned away, distant. She took a step back, her wings catching a dying thread of golden light.

“I’m going to visit Elder Faerie’s grave,” she said softly. “White Lily Cookie’s waiting for me.”

Black Sapphire nodded. “I already paid my respects.”

Sugarfly gave a small nod back, like that mattered more than he knew. Then, without another word, she turned and walked off down the moss-lined path, syrup wings trailing behind her like quiet scars.

Silverbell and Black Sapphire stood a moment longer in the hush that followed.

Then Silverbell nudged him gently. “C’mon. Let’s go home .”

They walked together, hand in hand, the trees arching gently above them. For once, there was no need to speak.

Just the quiet sound of footsteps on soft earth.

And the weight of memory carried together.

Silverbell’s house came into view, lanterns glowing warm beneath the trees.

The door clicked shut behind them with a gentle thunk.

Silverbell dropped his cloak on the nearest hook, then flopped onto the couch like someone who had survived three sword fights, a political reckoning, and several acts of emotional whiplash.

Which, to be fair, he had.

Black Sapphire followed more quietly—wings folding neatly, boots soft on the wood floor. He looked around once, then made his way toward the fireplace and knelt to light it with a flick of practiced magic.

“I still don’t know how you make this place smell like cinnamon and firewood,” he said casually.

“Maybe I don’t burn water anymore,” Silverbell called from the couch.

Black Sapphire glanced over. “I doubt that.”

Silverbell threw a pillow in his general direction. “Rude.”

Black Sapphire caught it with one hand, eyes narrowing—but there was no real heat behind it. Just a flicker of playfulness in his expression.

He walked over, placed the pillow back on the couch with deliberate precision, and said flatly, “You’d weaponize sugar if given the chance.”

“You say that like I haven’t already tried.”

Black Sapphire smirked—just slightly. Then sat beside him, quiet again.

 

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long golden shadows across the floor. Silverbell’s hair curled in the light, that ridiculous little strand still flicking upward every now and then when he smiled.

 

They sat in easy silence for a while. Then, after a moment:

 

“I think…” Black Sapphire said slowly, “I trust her.”

 

Silverbell turned his head. “White Lily?”

 

A nod. “She didn’t lie. She didn’t try to pretend the past didn’t happen. She even said Elder Faerie would’ve tried to kill me if he were alive right now.”

 

Silverbell winced. “Yeah, that... sounds like him.”

 

Black Sapphire’s voice dropped, softer now.

 

“But she also said he might’ve changed his mind. That if he saw what you see in me, he might have tried to teach me instead of erase me.”

 

Silverbell’s expression shifted—somewhere between pride and something deeper, more protective.

 

“I’m glad you talked to her.”

 

Black Sapphire’s gaze flicked to the fire.

 

“She told me that they’re stronger now and could’ve captured the beasts. But she believes they’re still capable of change.”

 

“Do you?” Silverbell asked gently.

 

There was a pause. Then, honestly: “I want to.”

 

Silverbell nodded once. “That’s enough. For now.”

 

Black Sapphire looked at him.

 

The firelight flickered softly, painting gold across the floor and up the curve of Black Sapphire’s face. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Not uncertain—just careful.

 

“I want to believe,” he said, “that this will all end one day.”

 

Silverbell looked at him, silent.

 

“That there’ll be peace on Earthbread. That the desserts and kingdoms, the factions and outcasts… all of them will just be. No more survival. No more ancient curses. No more fighting.”

His gaze didn’t leave the fire. “I want to believe we’ll be free someday.” There was a long pause.

 

Then his voice lowered, sharper at the edges now. “But the war hasn’t ended yet.”

 

Silverbell said nothing—only listened, the way he always did when it mattered most.

 

“I’ve heard stories,” Black Sapphire continued. “From Shadow Milk. From others. About Dark Enchantress Cookie. About what she truly wants. And it’s not just conquest. It’s undoing. ”

 

His jaw tensed slightly. “This… this isn’t over. Not even close.”

 

The fire cracked. A log shifted. Black Sapphire didn’t look away. “But that’s why we have to hope. Even if we don’t know what comes next.”

 

He turned his head slightly, meeting Silverbell’s eyes. “All we can do is believe.”

 

A breath passed between them—held like glass. And Silverbell, voice barely a whisper, said: “Then we’ll believe together.”

The smell of toasted butter and rosemary filled the kitchen before Silverbell even realized Black Sapphire had started cooking. Again.

 

“You’re doing it again, ” Silverbell called from the living room, peeking around the corner.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look up from the pan. “You burned the tea water this morning.”

 

“I almost burned it.”

 

“You screamed like it was a dragon, dear.”

 

“It whistled! Aggressively!”

 

Black Sapphire raised a brow as he stirred something in a skillet—some kind of roasted root and wild mushroom medley, lightly charred and dusted with crushed herbs. “So dramatic,” he said with a smirk.

 

“You love it,” Silverbell muttered, flopping into the doorway.

 

“Yes. And I also love not dying from undercooked soup.”

 

He plated the food cleanly, placing a pair of bowls down at the table—simple, warm, rustic. It even looked like something Elder Faerie would’ve approved of: humble, nourishing, with just the right amount of aesthetic flair.

 

Silverbell sat down, eyeing the food. “Okay, but seriously. You’re too good at this. Are you hiding secret cooking scrolls in your cloak or something?”

 

Black Sapphire took his seat, looking smug. “I was taught by someone who believed food was the only magic worth practicing without hurting anyone.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “...Shadow Milk?”

 

Black Sapphire nodded. “He’s terrifying. But he made excellent citrus preserves, he has a lot of knowledge about things like these. Although he doesn’t eat.”

 

“I have so many questions.”

 

“You can ask them after you finish the bowl,” Black Sapphire replied, already halfway through his.

 

Silverbell muttered something about “evil shortcuts” and “gourmet villains” as he ate—but the food shut him up pretty quickly. It was warm. Comforting. Seasoned with something he couldn’t name.

 

He glanced up to say something sarcastic—only to catch Black Sapphire watching him with a smug look. “Don’t say it.”

 

“You’re chewing like someone seeing fire for the first time.”

 

“I will throw this bowl at you.”

 

“You’ll miss.”

 

“You’re lucky I like you.”

 

Black Sapphire leaned on one arm, teasing, “You just like my food.”

 

“I like carbs in general.”

 

They finished eating with quiet laughter filling the space, the flicker of candlelight warming the edges of the room. When Silverbell finally pushed his bowl away, he stood and walked around the table. Without warning, he picked Black Sapphire up.

 

“Wha—?!” Sapphire stiffened, arms half-raised.

 

“You cooked. I clean. And carry,” Silverbell said proudly, lifting him bridal-style with absurd ease.

 

Black Sapphire blinked, caught somewhere between indignation and disbelief. “You’re not supposed to be this strong.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head, smiling like the sun had chosen to shine only on him. “I am a Silver Tree Knight.”

 

“You’re a bow user,” Sapphire shot back, as if that fact should settle the matter.

 

Silverbell only grinned wider—and then he flexed.

 

Not obnoxiously. Just enough. One arm curled ever so slightly, slow and deliberate, the sleeve of his tunic drawing taut over lean muscle. It wasn’t a brawler’s bulk, but something far more dangerous: precision-forged strength, honed and hidden, like a dagger in velvet. The kind of strength that didn’t need to shout.

 

Black Sapphire stared. A beat passed. Then another. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He looked away, ears visibly pink beneath his hair, but it was too late.

 

“…Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Sweet ovens.”

 

Silverbell cackled all the way to the bedroom. After the laughter faded, and the warmth of dinner settled in their bones, Silverbell insisted on doing the dishes. Black Sapphire tried to protest—half-heartedly—but was overruled by a very serious Silverbell brandishing a soapy cloth like a divine artifact.

 

By the time he returned to the bedroom, the fire had dimmed to a gentle glow, and Black Sapphire was already curled up under the covers, propped against the pillows, wings relaxed and eyes half-lidded.

 

Silverbell padded quietly across the room, pulled back the sheets, and slid in beside him. He shifted to face him in the dark. The silence between them was familiar now. Warm. Laced with memory and everything unsaid.

Then Silverbell, voice quiet and not-quite-steady, asked: “You’ll stay, right?”

 

Black Sapphire blinked.

 

Silverbell wasn’t looking at him. Not fully. But his hand was close—close enough to reach. Black Sapphire shifted slightly, just enough for their shoulders to touch.

 

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softly—more honest than anything he'd ever said in battle or strategy or court:

 

“Why would I leave? I wasn’t even thinking of doing such a thing.”

 

Silverbell let out a small breath.

 

He didn’t believe him. Not fully. Not yet. Maybe it was the way Black Sapphire had paused too long, or how his voice had come soft, like a promise too carefully wrapped. Silverbell had heard too many words dressed in velvet and barbed underneath. He wanted to believe—Witches, he wanted to—but part of him still braced for the moment Sapphire would pull away, vanish like he always did when things got close. When he got close.

 

He curled in closer, pressing his forehead lightly to Black Sapphire’s shoulder. “…Okay.”

 

The fire had dimmed to soft embers. The blankets wrapped them in warmth, their breathing the only sound for a while. Silverbell had just begun to drift, his thoughts soft and slow, the steady presence of Black Sapphire beside him lulling him into something calm—something safe.

 

Then—

 

A quiet voice, just above a whisper: “If I ever left…”

 

Silverbell’s eyes blinked open slowly.

 

“…Would you look for me?”

 

There was no teasing in it. The words were quiet but weighted, like stones dropped into still water. Something trembled beneath—uncertainty, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of a truth he hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

 

Silverbell shifted, turning to face him. In the low flicker of the dying fire, he could see the shadow of hesitation in Sapphire’s eyes.

 

He answered without blinking. “No.”

 

Black Sapphire’s brows drew together, confusion flaring across his face. “What? Why?”

 

Silverbell reached for his hand, letting his fingers rest lightly over his. The contact was steady, grounding. “Because I wouldn’t need to,” he said softly. No matter where you are.”

 

His voice carried a kind of quiet certainty that didn’t waver. “Even if I couldn’t see you, even if I didn’t hear your voice—I’d still feel you. Somewhere. Choosing your path.”

 

He smiled faintly, eyes never leaving Sapphire’s. “And I’d trust you to come back. When you’re ready. When you can.”

 

He leaned in, resting their foreheads together in the dark, his breath warm against the space between them.

 

“You always come back.” His hand squeezed gently. “And I’ll always be here, waiting for your return.”

 

Silverbell then thought about the silence that used to live in his house after Black Sapphire came to his life.

 

The kind that settled over things slowly, day by day, until even his own footsteps felt too loud. How the rooms always looked too clean, too untouched, like they were waiting for someone who never came home. Some nights, he would sit at the edge of the bed and stare at the sheets that hadn’t moved in days. Other nights, he just stayed curled up under them, wings tucked in close against his back like he was trying to disappear into himself.

 

Even the flutter of his wings had felt out of place. Too delicate in a house full of stillness. He'd stopped flying indoors altogether. What was the point, when there was nowhere to go?

 

But then Sapphire returned.

 

And now... everything was different. There was breath beside his own. A familiar warmth behind him. The weight of another person in the bed, solid and real. His wings shifted slightly, brushing against the blankets as if trying to stretch in the comfort of someone else's presence.

 

He reached out and found Sapphire’s hand in the dark, fingers curling gently around it. Held it like a thread. “You’ll come back. I know that.”

 

His voice was steady, but low. He leaned in, their foreheads pressing together again, and in that closeness, he let something else slip through. Softer. Quieter. The truth he hadn’t said the first time.

 

“…but I’d rather you didn’t leave me again.”

 

The words lingered between them. Barely spoken. Almost fragile. His wings shifted again, slow and restless beneath the covers, as though they felt it too—how hard it was to let someone in, and how much harder it was to imagine them gone again.

 

He didn’t pull away.

 

He stayed there, forehead to forehead, hand in hand, wings folded close—but open enough to feel. And he waited for the silence to settle differently this time.

 

Black Sapphire exhaled, slow and unsteady. The breath left him like something unspooling, worn thin by the shape of a truth he hadn’t known how to hold. He didn’t speak. The silence pressed in—but not with cold. It was soft, waiting, filled with everything that hadn’t needed to be said.

 

His hand moved instead. Fingers curling around Silverbell’s, hesitant at first, then firmer. The kind of hold that didn’t ask anything—only promised not to let go.

 

Around them, the fire sank into coals, its light flickering across the folds of wings stretched across the bed. Silverbell’s—gossamer and glowing faintly, like dew catching the first breath of dawn. Black Sapphire’s—dark, quiet, half-unfurled behind him, the leathery edges draped loosely over them both.

 

They lay that way, caught between warmth and shadow, two shapes folded around each other in the dark. The hush between them deepened. Outside, the wind moved through the trees. The world beyond the room kept turning. But inside, time slowed. 

 

Silverbell’s wings shifted once, then stilled, brushing softly against Sapphire’s. A quiet closeness that asked for nothing and offered everything. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

---

After a few minutes, Silverbell slept soundly beside him, breath slow and steady, fingers still curled loosely in Black Sapphire’s hand.

 

Black Sapphire lay awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet—peaceful, even. But still... he heard something. Not from outside. From somewhere deeper, buried. A sound, distant at first, then clearer.

 

 Laughter. 

 

Not warm, not like what he was used to now—dinners, firelight, Silverbell’s teasing grin. This was different. Twisted. Off. Sharp and thin and strange, like something pretending to be joy. He stiffened, tried to shake it, like a dream slipping too close—but it clung to his thoughts, cold and steady, like frost on glass that just wouldn't fade.

“You think this is peace?”

 

A voice. Not Shadow Milk’s. Someone more familiar and it knew him very well.

 

“You think you’ve found a place to rest?” It didn’t hiss. It didn’t scream. It smiled . Inside his head.

 

“You were made for something more. You were shaped in shadow. Forged by will. Not love.” He shut his eyes. Focused on Silverbell’s breath. The weight of the blanket. The warmth.

 

But the voice persisted. “This softness will break you.”

 

“This love will betray you.”

 

“When the fire returns, what will you choose?”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw tightened. What am I doing here? He hated that the question came so easily.

 

He hated that he couldn’t answer it. Because everytime. He wasn’t sure what to answer. The sheets shifted softly as Black Sapphire sat up. He looked back once—Silverbell still asleep, his expression peaceful, one hand curled where it had rested on Sapphire’s arm.

 

He hesitated.

 

Then quietly, slowly, slipped out from under the covers. The floor was cool beneath his feet. The house was silent.

 

Except—“You really believe them?”

 

The voice slithered in from the corners of his mind.

 

“Their filthy lies?”

 

His breath caught in his chest. He stepped out into the hall. Quiet. Careful.

 

“Who’s there?” he whispered.

 

No answer.

 

Just another soft chuckle, close to his ear—but when he turned, there was no one. He moved through the hallway, eyes sharp. Every step took him further from warmth. From safety. The fireplace embers had gone cold. The windows breathed in the night.

 

 He opened the front door and stepped outside. The woods were dark. Still. Wrapped in a soft mist.

 

But the voice followed. “They’ll turn on you. Just like they did to your master.”

 

“Like they did to every shadow that dared to speak.”

 

He clenched his fists. “Shut up.”

 

“You think love will save you?”

 

“You think that Faerie brat can shield you forever?”

 

He turned sharply toward the trees, eyes scanning every inch of the dark. Nothing.. No figure. Only the whispering wind and the voice that slid under his skin like cold ink. He stepped deeper into the woods.

 

He had to see. Had to find it. But no matter where he went—No matter how fast he moved—He saw nothing. Just darkness.

 

And that voice. “You know this peace is a lie.”

 

“You were born of shadow. You’ll die in it.”

 

The trees parted ahead, and the world opened into silence.

A still lake stretched before him—its waters smooth as glass, undisturbed by breeze or sound. The moon hung high, veiled in thin mist, casting silver light across the water’s surface.

 

Mirror Lake.

 

Of course it would be here. This place where everything began.

 

Where lines had once been drawn between enemy and ally. Where he’d almost killed Silverbell. Where mercy had first taken root.

He stepped closer, boots crunching softly over the damp earth. And then—He saw it. His reflection on the lake, but it didn’t move the way it should.

 

It blinked before he did. It smiled when he didn’t.

 

And then, it spoke. “There you are.”

 

Black Sapphire stared. His voice. His face. But not him.

 

“Still pretending you can run from what you are?” the reflection asked, tone calm, qalmost pitying.

 

He stepped back—but the reflection didn’t.

 

It stood tall, proud, posture perfect. Not wounded. Not tired. Not softened by laughter or love.

 

“You’ve grown soft. Weak. Do you think that Cookie you share a bed with can protect you from what’s coming?”

 

“I don’t need protecting.”

 

The reflection laughed. “Of course you do. That’s why you follow him like a pet.”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You were feared. You were precise. You belonged to a purpose. Now look at you.”

 

The image flickered—briefly taking the shape of his younger self. Mask intact. Vambraces shining with cold magic. Wings unbroken.

 

“You traded your blade for longing.”

 

He clenched his fists. “You’re not real.”

 

The reflection tilted its head. “Neither is your peace.”

 

The lake stilled again.

 

And the reflection stared back with eyes identical to his own—only colder. “When the time comes… will you choose love? Or will you remember what you were made to be?”

 

The ripples began to fade, and the reflection sank slowly beneath the surface—vanishing—leaving only stillness behind.

 

Black Sapphire stood there, alone. He didn’t know which answer scared him more. He stood at the lake’s edge, the chill of the night finally biting through the heat that had been building under his skin.

 

The water had gone still again. But the reflection lingered in his head. Its voice. Its doubt. Its “truth”.

 

His arms hung loosely at his sides now, fingers twitching slightly as thought after thought clawed their way to the surface.

 

“I shouldn’t leave.” I have something. I have him. That should be enough, right?

 

His jaw tensed.

 

But…

 

Shadow Milk trusted him. That was what he had said.

 

That soft, strange little moment before they parted last. "He’s got your heart now. I trust him with it."

 

That was rare. Shadow Milk didn’t trust anyone. Didn’t believe in love. And yet—he trusted Silverbell with him. Wasn’t that supposed to mean something?

 

Then why—Why was he still standing out here? Why did the silence feel heavier than it should? He closed his eyes.

 

Silverbell loved him. He knew that.

 

Didn’t he?

 

Every look, every word, every time he stayed—through the fear, through the rumors, through the moments where even he didn’t like who he was.

 

Silverbell never flinched. Never looked away. So why was he doubting it now? Because he was tired? Because he’d heard too many lies? Or because…

 

Because when it came to choosing—he was bad at it. He always had been. He followed orders. He followed loyalty. He followed cookies his entire life . He didn’t know how to follow himself.

 

He looked back toward the path leading home. It was still dark and quiet, but he could still feel its warmth from here.

 

He didn’t move. Just stood there. Staring. Overthinking. Not because he wanted to run. But because he didn’t know how to stay.

 

He looked down again. The lake was smooth, silver-edged under moonlight. His reflection stared back. Still. Waiting, waiting for his answer.

 

And then—without warning—it moved again.

 

The reflection’s mouth curled into a sneer he didn’t recognize, one that stretched across his features like a mask carved from something crueler. The eyes staring back at him held no warmth, only a cutting, icy clarity—colder than he had felt in years, maybe colder than he had ever allowed himself to be.

 

“Flee,” the reflection said, voice low and heavy with meaning.  “Before it’s too late.”

 

Black Sapphire’s breath hitched. The image in the water leaned forward, its face distorting slightly as it neared the surface. The words that followed slipped across the water’s skin like oil—slick, dark, and impossible to wipe away.

 

“You could’ve killed that knight at Mirror Lake. You had the chance. You had the command.”

 

He flinched. The memory stirred at the edge of his mind—unwelcome, sharp as a blade unsheathed too fast.

 

“But you didn’t. Why?”

 

The voice shifted, curling tighter around him like smoke. “Was it mercy? ”  A pause . “Or weakness?”

 

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in silence. The muscles in his jaw tensed as the reflection studied him, its expression growing darker.

 

“You couldn’t kill him.”

 

“You couldn’t betray your master either.”

 

“You couldn’t choose.”

 

Each statement dropped like a stone into the stillness, sending fresh ripples across the surface. Then the water trembled—not from his breath, not from movement, but from something deeper, as if reacting to the weight of the words themselves.

 

“Coward.”

 

The accusation rang out like a slap.

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw locked. He stared at the twisted version of himself and felt his heartbeat hammering in his chest, fast and furious. A flush of heat spread through him, starting low in his chest and rising like fire—shame, fury, regret. Emotions he’d tried to bury now boiled up at once, raw and searing.

His throat ached with the urge to scream.

His hands trembled with the need to strike—anything, everything.

He wanted to drive his fist through the water, through the voice, through the thing that wore his face and spoke with truths he didn’t want to hear. He wanted it gone. All of it—the reflection, the memory, the part of himself that still hadn’t decided who he truly was.

 

He wanted the reflection to stop sounding so much like a truth he was too afraid to believe.

He took one step back from the lake.

 

Then two.

 

And still the reflection smirked. Still it whispered.

 

“Ru n. While he still thinks you're worth chasing.”

 

The wind stirred the trees. The lake remained still. But inside him, everything was shaking. Black Sapphire backed away another step, breathing shallow now, chest tight like he’d been running—but his feet hadn’t moved fast enough to escape anything.

 

His thoughts spun in tight, jagged circles.

 

They’re lying to you.

 

  No, they’re not.

 

  You’re a weapon.

 

  You’re loved.

 

  You were made for war.

 

  You found peace.

 

  You abandoned your master.

 

  You spared your enemy.

  You chose wrong.

  You never chose at all.

 

His nails dug into his palms. The reflection still stared. Not speaking now. Just watching. And that was worse. That silence. That knowing look. That perfect, unmoving mask of himself that seemed more real than the skin he stood in.

 

“I don’t know anymore,” he whispered.

 

His voice cracked.

 

“I don’t—”

 

He turned away sharply, squeezing his eyes shut like it might make the thoughts stop. It didn’t.

 

All of them—every version of the truth, every memory, every voice— felt real. And that’s what terrified him most. Because if everything was believable… Then what was true?

 

Was he the loyal shadow?

 

Was he the betrayer?

 

Was he the one who couldn’t pull the trigger?

 

Or the one who should have?

 

His chest ached. His head throbbed. He pressed his hands to his temples and whispered, “Stop. Please stop—”

 

But the whispers didn’t stop. The doubt didn’t stop. The reflection didn’t stop. Black Sapphire felt completely, utterly lost. He dropped to his knees at the water’s edge.

 

The cold bled through the stone and into his bones. And still—the reflection remained. Unblinking. Unmoving. Watching him like a patient ghost.

Black Sapphire stared down at it, breath sharp, heart pounding, every part of him pulling in different directions.

 

Then—he spoke. Voice low. Shaking. “What do you want from me?”

 

The reflection’s mouth moved with his.

 

But the voice—cold, too calm—did not match the desperation in his tone. “I want you to remember.”

 

“Remember what?”

 

“What you were made for.”

 

“I wasn’t made for anything, ” he snapped. “I was raised into something. Trained. Molded. Ordered.”

 

He dug his nails into the earth.

 

“And then I met him.”

 

The reflection’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

 

“He made me question everything,” Black Sapphire went on, voice stronger now. “Every order. Every mission. Every lie you try to shove back into my skull.”

 

“You think that makes you strong?”

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, eyes burning. “I don’t know what I am right now.”

 

A pause. Then quieter: "But I know I’m not you. Not anymore.”

 

The reflection tilted its head. Curious. Calm. “Aren’t you?”

 

He looked away, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. The reflection kept speaking.

 

“When war comes—and it will—your pretty little peace will shatter. And who will be left standing? You?”

 

Black Sapphire shook his head. "No.”

 

“I will,” the reflection said. “Because I never lied to myself.”

 

Black Sapphire looked back down. And said, quietly— “Maybe not.”

 

“I never loved anything either.” The reflection’s smile vanished. The lake rippled.

And then—It shattered. Like glass breaking under a scream. The water boiled outward in a circle, scattering his reflection into a hundred pieces. Black Sapphire fell back onto the ground, chest heaving.

Alone. Finally. Just for a moment. The lake was still now. Shattered glass smooth again. But inside Black Sapphire—the storm had already broken.

His hands were trembling. His mind a cage of echoing voices.

 

You could’ve killed him. You didn’t.

 

You couldn’t betray your master. But you never truly left him either.

 

You’re caught between mercy and mission.

 

And you will burn for both.

 

The reflection’s voice was gone. But its message had done its work. The silence that followed felt like agreement. And that was what broke him.

 

He stood, slowly. Dust clinging to his cloak. His heart a tight fist in his chest.

 

He looked once toward the path home.To warmth. To Silverbell. To safety.

 

And for a brief, impossible second—he almost stepped toward it. Then: “Before he realizes.”

 

Before I fail him. Before I break what we built. Before I choose wrong again.

 

He turned. And fled  a quiet, quick, deliberate exit. Boots vanishing into the mist, cloak drawn up, face already hidden. The lake behind him stilled once more and the only sound left was the wind.

He didn’t know where he was running. He just ran.

 

Branches clawed at his cloak. Mist clung to his boots. The forest blurred past him like old memories he didn’t want to hold onto.

 

There was no direction.

 

No plan.

 

Only one thought, hammering louder than the rest—

 

Go. Go. GO.  He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel like this. Didn’t want to wait around to be called a coward by someone else.

 

So he stopped only when his magic flared in his palms, heat pulsing through his fingers as he drew a portal.

 

A portal tore through the air in front of him—a ripple of warped space and magic. He didn’t check the destination. He didn’t even care anymore . He could barely see through the heat in his eyes. Just jagged lines and the ache in his ribs.

 

He stepped forward and vanished.

 

The portal closed behind him like a sigh through broken glass.

 

Gone.

No trace. No footprints. No destination.

 

A runaway heart and the sound of his own breath still ringing in his ears. He stumbled into an alley between shuttered buildings, boots dragging, every step heavier than the last.

 

Then—he stopped. And sat. Hard.

 

Right there, on a cracked step beneath a shuttered inn. The moon watched from above, high and distant, white as a wound. The world didn’t speak. Which meant it was his turn to say something.

 

So he did. To no one. To himself.

 

“…I am so pathetic .”

 

His voice cracked on the last word.

 

He dug his fingers into his hair and rested his elbows on his knees.

 

He wasn’t crying.

 

But his whole body shook with the kind of tremble that came after holding everything together for too long.

 

“Maybe I am a coward.” The words had a bitter feeling when they slipped out of his mouth, but it was honest.

 

He stared at the stone beneath his boots and at the shadow he cast.

The one that looked a little too much like the reflection at Mirror Lake.

He had run away from his problems again .

 

And this time… no one had even chased him yet. Which only made it worse. Because he’d broken his own promise. 

 

Without being pushed.

 

Without even being asked.

 

He buried his face in his hands and whispered, like a confession no one could hear “I just didn’t want to hurt him.” But now— 

 

That’s exactly what he’d done, because the only thing he knows is how to hurt the ones that he loves the most, like how he was made to do. 

 

Maybe this time, Silverbell will come to his senses and leave him behind for good, or maybe Shadow Milk will abandon him for not being a useful tool for him. Honestly he deserved it.

 

All he could ever do is hurt them, and hurting them makes him feel in pain.

A figure is walking towards him, he didn’t look at her.  He assumes that she saw how pathetic he is right now. 

Notes:

The next chapter will be posted next week by monday, the 23rd, bc its a special day for me despite my homeworks. Its my birthday that day ><

Next chapter will be a lot, im still fixing it and writing it so ahaha, im drawing moondrop faerie cookie at school and i might post his design on my art acc!

 

btw i was laughing when i realized:
silverbell meeting smilk = fought each other
sapphire meeting wlily = talking/chilling in front of elder faerie's grave

Chapter 22: XXI

Notes:

morning yallll!

ok ok here it is another chapter, btw i really had a hard time writing their characters bc idk how to write them except eternal sugar and shadow milk but here it isss

(itz my bday and imma post the next chap next week if i can)

 

 

Silverbell woke slowly—the kind of slow that came after too much warmth, after the kind of night that left the world quiet around the edges. His limbs were heavy, the covers tangled around him, breath still caught somewhere between sleep and memory. The fire had burned low, just embers now, pulsing faint orange in the grate. For a moment, he didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t need to.

 

 Everything still felt full—his chest, the room, the sheets. And then his hand drifted across the mattress, lazy, half-expecting familiar skin or the brush of wings—something warm. But there was nothing. Just rumpled linen, too cold. The kind of cold that came when someone had been gone long enough for it to mean something.

 

His fingers stilled. Eyes opened. Just a sliver at first—then fully, slowly, like waking into something he hadn’t wanted to notice yet. The room was too quiet. The weight beside him had vanished. And the warmth he’d carried in his chest... started to slip.

 

And the warmth inside his chest froze. “…Sapphire?” 

 

No response.

 

He sat up quickly, the blankets falling from his shoulders. His eyes scanned the room—empty. There was no sign of his cloak on the hook nor his boots by the door. The window wasn’t open.

 

But the air felt wrong. Not cold, exactly—but off, like something had shifted just enough to throw everything sideways. His heart started to pound, slow at first, then harder. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, barefoot and quiet, the wooden floor cool under his skin as he moved toward the door. Opened it. The hallway beyond stretched out, dim and still. 

 

Empty. 

 

He stepped into it, faster now—checking the kitchen, the corner by the hearth, the small alcove where Sapphire always left books scattered like breadcrumbs. Nothing. No movement. No trace. Just the kind of stillness that wraps around the room like it’s trying to pretend nothing’s wrong.

 

And then it hit him.

 

That silence. The kind that doesn’t mean someone stepped outside for air or slipped into the next room. The kind that settles in after a door’s been closed for good. The kind that means— they’re gone.

 

His breath caught in his throat. Tight. Sharp. He stood frozen in the middle of the living room, surrounded by half-washed dishes, the blankets they’d knocked off the couch still bunched on the floor, and laughter—faint and fading—still clinging to the corners like it hadn’t realized it was alone yet.

 

And the weight of a single truth slamming down like stone:

 

He left.

 

He left again.

 

The thought slipped in before he could stop it. Is a liar always a liar? It didn’t crash into him—it just arrived, soft and quiet, like it had been waiting there all along. Barely a whisper. Barely even a thought. But once it was there, it stuck.

 

Silverbell stood in the middle of the room, not really seeing anything. Arms limp. Shoulders heavy. Eyes locked on nothing in particular. The cup Black Sapphire had used was still on the table, the rim smudged from where he’d laughed into it last night. The curtains still smelled like firewood. His pillow was still indented, like his head might return at any moment.

 

But he was gone.

 

Silverbell didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. Something in his chest had curled in on itself and gone still. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink for a while. The quiet pressed in harder with each second—too loud, too thick, too final.

 

And this time… this time he didn’t know what to say.

 

That ache came back, sharp and familiar. That hollow, awful feeling in the center of his chest—the one that shows up when someone you love disappears without warning. When all the warmth they left behind starts to cool, and you’re standing there wondering if it was something you did. Or didn’t do. Wondering if it would’ve mattered either way.

 

His knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself on the table. Still no tears running down on his cheeks. Only… silence.

 

That heavy, unfair, familiar silence.  He whispered, barely audible, to the empty room “…Why?”

 

No one answered, Of course no one will because Black Sapphire was gone, again . It was cold. Not the kind the fire could fix, not the kind a cloak could warm away.

 

It was the cold that comes when someone’s warmth is missing —when they were just there, just laughing, just breathing beside you—and now they’re not. Silverbell stood in the center of the room, wrapped in the same blankets they’d shared the night before. But the warmth was gone.

 

His warmth was gone.

 

Black Sapphire had always run cold to the touch—cool hands, steady breath, ice-edged words but there had always been a strange warmth beneath it—and Silverbell always found comfort in it. His warmth wasn’t like flames, it was just… him . Which Silverbell liked.

 

And now the absence of it was louder than any door slam or argument could ever be. Silverbell clutched the edge of the blanket and finally sat on the edge of the bed.

 

But his eyes didn’t stop searching the room—like maybe, somehow, Black Sapphire would step back in and say it was all just—A mistake. A test. A joke.

 

But he didn’t and the cold stayed.

 

Suddenly a shimmer through the stillness—sudden, sharp, wrong. Magic, but not the kind that ever felt safe. The air near the fireplace bent in on itself, folding inward like something holding its breath. And then it opened.

 

This portal is dark, rimmed in a magic that pulsed slow and deep—like a second heartbeat, too close to the skin. Old magic. The kind that never came without cost.

 

Silverbell didn’t flinch. Didn’t move yet. Just watched, hollowed out and still.

 

Something stepped halfway through—or maybe not a person. A hand, perhaps. Gloved. Unseen. Whatever it was, it left something behind: a letter, folded neatly, sealed in dark wax stamped with a mark he hadn’t seen in months and had never truly forgotten.

 

Then the portal closed—quiet as it had come. Gone in an instant, like it had never been there at all.

 

Silverbell stared at the letter.

 

Then slowly, as if each step had weight to it, he crossed the room and picked it up. His thumb brushed over the seal once—dark wax, rough at the edges, marked by a symbol he knew too well. His stomach turned. His jaw clenched.

 

He knew this seal. He hated this seal. The mark of the Beast of Deceit. Shadow Milk Cookie .

 

He stood there for a beat too long. His wings shifted behind him, uneasy. Then—with fingers tight and breath tighter—he broke the wax.

 

And read.

 

“He hasn’t returned.”

“If you know where he is, tell me. He’s not answering me anymore.”

“And I don’t care if you hate me for the stuff that I did—he listens to you more than me now. That makes this your problem too.”

 

There was no signature.

 

Just the faintest smear of ink at the bottom. A stroke like a claw mark. And the lingering scent of something sharp and sweet—like spoiled sugar.

 

Silverbell lowered the letter slowly. His pulse quickened. His breath steadied. And finally—he knew what to say.

 

“…You idiot.”

 

He folded the letter and tucked it into his cloak. Then he grabbed his bow. Because if both he and Shadow Milk couldn’t find Black Sapphire—he was running from himself. Then wherever he’d gone…

 

A knock broke the silence—three sharp raps against the door. Measured. Familiar in a way that twisted something deep in his chest.

 

Silverbell didn’t move.

 

He stood exactly where he’d been, rooted by too many thoughts, too many questions. The letter from Shadow Milk was still crumpled in his fist, the wax seal broken, the words inside pressing hard against his palm like they could seep into his skin.

 

Behind him, the bed sat untouched. Still rumpled from sleep that hadn’t meant to end alone. Still holding the shape of someone who’d vanished before morning. And around him, the room felt different now. Like it knew. Like it was bracing.

 

Another knock. Then Mercurial Knight’s voice, muffled but unmistakably direct:

 

“Training. We leave at ten.”

 

Still no movement from Silverbell. He felt heavy. Like his limbs belonged to someone else.

 

“Silverbell.” The knock was harder this time.

 

He turned, slowly and opened the door. Mercurial stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. His usual cool stare was ready—until he saw Silverbell’s face.

 

His tone shifted immediately. “…What happened?”

 

Silverbell is silent. He just stepped aside and handed him the letter. Mercurial Knight took it, read it once. Then again. His jaw tightened. He folded it carefully.

 

A long silence followed. Then, quieter: “He didn’t say anything?”

 

Silverbell shook his head. “No...not a word.”

 

Mercurial looked past him at the undisturbed bed, the cold hearth, the hollow space. “…Damn it.”

 

Another silence.

 

Then Mercurial set his helmet down and said with only the faintest flicker of sarcasm “Well. That’s going to ruin our sparring rhythm.”

 

Silverbell gave a small, dry laugh—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I guess we’re both off balance now.”

 

Mercurial stepped closer, resting a hand on Silverbell’s shoulder—not just commander to knight. Brother to brother.

 

“You going after him?”

 

Silverbell nodded slowly. “Not yet. I need to look for clues first.”

 

Mercurial’s grip tightened for a second. Then he let go. “Then let’s get this done.”

The Silver Halls were already alive by the time Silverbell and Mercurial Knight entered the grounds.

 

Morning drills had begun—armor clinking, boots striking stone, commands echoing across the courtyard. The scent of dew and oil lingered in the air, mixed with the faint hum of early magic training.

 

Silverbell walked in with his head high, but his chest felt heavy.

 

Some knights nodded as he passed—those who knew him well, who’d fought beside him in silence and blood. Their greetings were quiet, respectful.

 

“Morning, Sir Silverbell.”

“Your form yesterday was flawless, as always.”

 

But others… Others didn’t speak. They just looked and kept looking. Judgment didn’t always come in words.

 

Sometimes it came in the length of a stare that lasted a beat too long. Or a slight glance exchanged behind a helmet. Or the way a training partner lowered their voice the moment he passed.

 

Whispers.

 

“Isn’t he the one who brought the traitor into the kingdom?”
 

“They say he’s still loyal to that Beast.”

“And now he’s gone again, just like before.”

 

Silverbell didn’t flinch but he felt it like thorns along his spine. He passed a pair of knights near the sparring ring—one nodded politely. The other sneered.

 

“Sir.” The word was spat like it didn’t belong to him. Silverbell stopped walking for half a second. Mercurial glanced sideways but said nothing.

 

Silverbell spoke, calm but clear. “If you have something to say, say it.”

 

The knight looked like he might but then turned and walked away.

 

Coward.

 

Silverbell’s jaw tightened.

 

Mercurial finally spoke, dry as ever: “You’d think people who swear an oath to the Silver Tree would learn to hold their tongues around its strongest branch.”

 

Silverbell didn’t laugh but the weight eased slightly. He looked at the training ring, already full of sparring knights.

 

He rolled his shoulder. Tightened his gloves. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

The sparring ring was already buzzing with motion—blades clashing, shields slamming, boots pivoting across polished stone.

 

But when Silverbell stepped in—The noise seemed to fade. He drew his bow with deliberate calm. His shoulders rolled back. His posture tightened like a drawn string. Focused. Silent. Not a word spoken.

 

Across from him, Mercurial Knight stood with his training blade in hand, watching with that unreadable calm of his. “Standard match?” he asked, voice low.

 

Silverbell nodded once. But there was nothing standard about his stance. From the first motion—he moved. Not like a knight sparring. Like someone bleeding without a wound. Silverbell loosed the first arrow faster than he should have—sharp, sudden. Mercurial deflected it with the flat of his blade, but only barely.

 

Then came the second.

 

Third,

 

Fourth.

 

Each strike was tighter. Sharper. Not wild, not reckless— precise . But there was something off in the way Silverbell moved. Something coiled. Wound too tight. Mercurial advanced, his sword sweeping in practiced arcs meant to push and measure, not injure—but Silverbell didn’t give ground. He leaned into it. The rhythm of combat and the storm brewing behind his eyes. He sidestepped, pivoted, rolled—fired again. And again. The arrows kept coming, each one landing closer, threading smaller gaps between armor plates. His dodges were sharp, calculated—but they weren’t just reactions. They were angry.

 

He wasn’t fighting Mercurial. Not really.

 

He was fighting the silence of the house. The cold sheets he’d reached across that morning. The cup, still on the table. The letter with the Beast’s mark, waiting like a curse. He was fighting the way Black Sapphire had left. The way he always left .

 

One arrow whistled close—too close. It nearly grazed Mercurial’s shoulder.

 

The commander’s brow creased. He stepped back, adjusting his stance with a frown. “Careful,” he warned.

 

But Silverbell didn’t stop.

 

He fired again—an upward shot, calculated to land between Mercurial’s boots with impossible precision.

 

“Silverbell,” Mercurial said, his voice dipping lower, quiet but commanding.

 

Still no answer.

 

Silverbell’s fingers were already reaching for the next arrow. He nocked it. Pulled the string back. But his hands were shaking now—subtle at first. Then worse.

 

The arrow didn’t fly. It snapped. Not from release. From pressure.

 

He didn’t scream. He just let go.

 

The broken shaft clattered against the stone floor. His bow dipped. His arms dropped with it.

 

And then—he finally breathed. A shallow, uneven sound that broke in his throat. It wasn’t just breath. It wasn’t a breath. It was a sob.

 

Mercurial didn’t move. He didn’t have to. The moment had already shifted, and he knew better than to step in too soon. His sword lowered fully, the tip tapping gently against the ground.

 

He looked at Silverbell—not like a soldier, but like someone watching a dam give out after holding too long.

 

His voice softened. Just enough to shift the air. “…Silverbell.” A beat passed. Then, gentler: “Take a break for a moment.”

 

But Silverbell didn’t look up.

 

He stayed where he was, one hand braced on the stone, the other still curled loosely near the broken arrow. His wings had folded low—tucked in, small, quiet. His breath stuttered again.

 

He wasn’t angry.

 

He was heartbroken .

 

His breath still came in uneven pulls. His hand stayed planted on the ground, bow limp at his side. Mercurial took a step forward—then another—until he stood beside him, close but not hovering.

 

“You’re not going to hit anything worth hitting like that,” he said simply. “You’re tense. You’re tired. And you’re not listening to your own breathing.”

 

Silverbell’s jaw tightened.

 

“I’m fine, ” he muttered.

 

“You’re cracked porcelain pretending to be plate armor.”

 

That got a faint snort from Silverbell, though he still didn’t rise.

 

Mercurial let the silence hold for a beat. Then:  "You don’t have to break yourself just to chase someone who’s already hurting."

 

Silverbell finally looked up at him. His eyes were rimmed red, but no tears had fallen. “…He left.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I let him sleep beside me. I told him I’d wait forever if I had to.”

 His voice dropped.  “And he still left. I didn’t know he would actually leave after I said that.”

 

Mercurial crouched slightly, setting the training sword down. “Then it’s your choice now. Stay broken over it… or get back up and go find your idiot.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “And what if I don’t know where to start?”

 

Mercurial stood again, brushing off his gloves. “Then you do what you always do.” He nodded toward the far gates. “You follow your heart and ignore your damn common sense.”

 

Silverbell stood slowly, dusting his hands off, but his shoulders still sagged beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

 

Mercurial was already turning to leave the ring when Silverbell’s voice cut through the silence—low, strained, and not meant for anyone else but him.

 

"I don't understand, Mercurial Knight..."

 

Mercurial paused mid-step. Silverbell didn’t look up.

 

"No matter how many times I told him that I..." His voice faltered. Tightened. Like the truth was caught behind his teeth.

 

"...That I chose him. That I would keep choosing him." The words lingered in the air like a thread pulled too far.

 

Mercurial turned, expression unreadable, but something in his posture softened—just slightly.

 

Silverbell shook his head, staring at the floor. "I wasn’t asking him to stay for me. I just wanted him to stay for himself."

 

"To see what I see when I look at him." His fists clenched. “But maybe he’ll never believe it. Maybe he doesn’t know how."

 

Mercurial walked back toward him—not fast, not slow. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "You gave him a reason to believe."

 

"But some Cookies have to break the mirror themselves before they can see what’s really there." He placed a hand on Silverbell’s shoulder. "And he will. Because you’ll be there—when he finally looks up."

Silverbell exhaled sharply—then the next breath broke and then came the tears. He covered his face with one hand, the other still clutching his bow as if letting go of that would undo whatever was holding him together.

 

Mercurial stayed close, saying nothing now. Because even he knew—Some things couldn’t be ordered into silence or patched with discipline.

 

A few knights nearby had stopped training. At first, there was hesitation. Then movement. Two stepped forward.

 

One was older, with a scar that split through his eyebrow and a voice rough from years on the field. The other was barely more than a recruit.

 

The older knight crouched down beside him, not unkind. “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”

 

Silverbell nodded, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

 

The younger one sat cross-legged nearby, offering a small handkerchief without saying anything.

Silverbell took it with a grateful, embarrassed laugh between the tears. “I don’t even know what we were. If it was even… real.”

 

The older knight shrugged. “If it got you to cry like this—it was real.”

 

The younger one finally spoke.  “Sometimes love doesn’t come with labels or clean lines.” She glanced down. “Sometimes it just is. ”

 

Another knight—someone Silverbell had barely spoken to before—stepped up quietly and added: “You don’t have to have the right words for it. You just have to want to fight for it.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes burned. His voice was barely above a whisper. “What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

 

Mercurial answered this time. “Then let him run. But make sure you’re there when he finally stops.”

 

Silverbell sat back on his heels, pulling in a shaky breath, surrounded now by knights who had once trained beside him, bled beside him, and now stood with him—not because they had to.

 

But because they chose to. He wiped his face again.. Silverbell’s tears had slowed, but his breathing still trembled.

 

The courtyard around him had quieted—not out of awkwardness, but respect. The kind only knights could give someone who’d just been broken on the inside.

 

He didn’t stand yet. He just sat, shoulders hunched, fingers tangled loosely around his bow.

 

Another knight approached—calm, steady. Someone older, quiet. He wasn’t one of Silverbell’s closest, but he was familiar. The kind of knight who never said much unless it meant something.

 

He sat down beside Silverbell, armor creaking softly as he settled.

 

And then, gently: “But if he doesn’t want to be found…”

 

A pause.

 

“…maybe give him time.”

 

Silverbell stared ahead. At the sparring ring. The targets. The place where everything used to feel simple.

 

His voice cracked again—not as hard as before, but just as fragile. “Why does it feel like I’m always chasing him?”

 

The words barely made it out of his mouth. “Like every time I get close, he runs again.”

 

He turned slightly, not looking at anyone in particular. “Does he even love me?”

 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of the weight behind the question. Mercurial didn’t speak. The older knight didn’t offer false comfort.

 

But the younger one, still sitting nearby, glanced up. “Love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s scary.”

 

Another added: “And sometimes, the ones who runs the hardest… are the ones who need it most.”

 

Silverbell closed his eyes, and the knot in his chest twisted tighter. Because he wanted to believe that. More than anything. But belief didn’t always fix the ache.

 

The morning drills continued somewhere in the distance, muted and far-off, as if the rest of the world had agreed to give them space. Silverbell sat on the edge of the sparring ring, legs pulled in, back hunched forward, voice raw but steadying. And the knights stayed. They didn’t crowd him.

 

They just listened.

 

So he kept talking.

 

He didn’t mean to—but once the words started, they wouldn’t stop. “I didn’t plan to fall for him.”

 

His fingers fidgeted with the cloth of his gloves. “He was supposed to kill me. At Mirror Lake. That was the mission. His mission. To destroy our kingdom by his voice.”

 

A knight nearby raised a brow. “But he didn’t.”

 

Silverbell nodded slowly.

 

“He gave me a potion before the fight. It dulled his attacks. He didn’t want to kill me even then. That’s when I realized... he wasn’t just fighting for a side. He was fighting himself.”

 

Another knight—one with a half-mended scar down his jaw—spoke up.

 

“That’s not loyalty. That’s mercy.”

 

“Exactly,” Silverbell whispered. “And it scared him.”

 

He looked up slightly, eyes red-rimmed but locked on the middle distance like he could still see Black Sapphire’s shadow there.

 

“I sent him letters—coded with seeds. I thought... I thought maybe if I gave him something real, something soft, he wouldn’t run anymore.”

 

The younger knight leaned in, gentle. “And did he?”

 

Silverbell gave a weak smile. “For a while.”

 

Another pause. Then he spoke again—softer now. “I loved him.” His voice cracked again. “I still love him.”

 

There was a long silence.

 

The older knight beside him, quiet for a while, finally broke it. “Then give him time to learn how to love himself.”

 

Silverbell turned his head, startled. The knight shrugged slightly. “That’s the only way he’ll believe he’s worthy of someone like you.”

 

Mercurial, standing off to the side, crossed his arms and said flatly: “Or you could stop waiting for him to believe anything and just drag him back by the cloak when you find him.”

 

A few of the others chuckled. Silverbell didn’t laugh. But he smiled again.

 

This time, it didn’t fade.

 

The laughter faded slowly, settling into something quieter, something easier. Silverbell wiped the last of the wetness from his cheeks, stood up fully, rolled his shoulders.

 

And that’s when Mercurial Knight stepped forward, arms crossed, one brow raised in his usual deadpan challenge.

 

“So. Ready to train properly now, Silverbell?”

 

Silverbell gave him a look—dry, unimpressed. “You just watched me have a breakdown.”

 

Mercurial didn’t blink. “And now I’m watching you stand back up.”

 

The younger knights nearby hummed in appreciation, one of them muttering, “Oh, that’s going in the quotes book.”

 

Silverbell snorted. But then he reached for his bow, flipped it once in his hand, and stepped back into the ring.

 

“You know what?” he said, squaring his stance. “Yeah. I am.”

 

Mercurial pulled his blade free again, leveling it toward him. “Good. Because next time you break a dummy, it better be on purpose.”

 

And with that— They began again. Silverbell was moving forward. The sparring ring was alive again.

 

Steel rang against steel, bows sang through the air, and commands were shouted not in anger, but rhythm. Familiar. Measured. Focused.

 

Silverbell’s breath is steady now. Movements clean. Each shot from his bow was precise, controlled—not the fury from earlier, not desperation masked as discipline. Just skill. Tempered and earned.

 

He trained beside the others this time. Not alone.

 

A younger knight threw a practice blade toward him mid-sprint—he caught it with ease and flipped it into his off-hand for the next sequence.

 

The archer across from him grinned.

 

“Sir Silverbell’s back.”

 

“Was he ever gone?” someone else muttered, drawing another arrow.

 

Mercurial called out from the edge of the ring. “Keep your focus.”

 

Silverbell let a faint smile curl across his lips. He knocked another arrow. Pivoted. Loosed. 

 

Perfect strike.

 

The arrow hit dead-center on the moving target—splitting it neatly into two halves that spun into the dirt.

 

A round of quiet cheers followed.

 

But Silverbell wasn’t smiling for the applause.

 

He was smiling because he finally felt like himself again. He felt alive.  Silverbell is still here waiting and still willing to fight. Even if it meant chasing someone through the dark again.

 

From the sidelines, Mercurial Knight had been watching with arms crossed, his face its usual unreadable mask.

 

Until—Silverbell ducked under a feint, spun, and released three rapid arrows in a tight fan—all three striking within inches of each other on a shifting dummy mid-charge.

 

The courtyard exploded with noise.

 

“ YES, SIR! ”

 

“ He’s showing off now— ”

 

“ That’s Silver-Precision! ”

 

Mercurial blinked, and—for once—his mouth actually curved into something suspiciously close to a grin.

 

Then he raised his voice, sharp but lit with something fiercer: “Alright then—no one leaves the ring until they hit a clean triple like that!”

 

A collective groan went up from the younger knights.

 

“Commander, please—”

 

“Mercy—”

 

“Triple? In motion?! ”

 

But Mercurial’s eyes were locked on Silverbell now, his voice firm, even proud. “You started this fire. Let’s see if anyone can match it.”

 

Silverbell turned toward him with a mock-glare. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

 

Mercurial shrugged, casually grabbing a longbow from the rack. “I trained you, didn’t I?”

 

He stepped into the ring beside him, tossing a fresh target into the air with a flick of his magic.

 

Then, quick as breath—

 

Thwip.

 

The arrow nailed it mid-flight.

 

“Show-off,” Silverbell muttered.

 

Mercurial smirked. “Runs in the squad.”

The courtyard pulsed with life now. Laughter mixed with the clash of blades and the snap of bowstrings. What had started as drills became something looser—more alive. Knights were smiling, teasing, trading weapons mid-exercise just to see who could pull off the silliest move and still hit a mark.

 

Someone set up a moving target rig that spun unpredictably.  A younger knight shouted, “Triple shot challenge! You miss, you drop and give twenty!”

 

“Twenty what?”

 

“Push-ups, obviously!”

 

“Stars above, we’re knights, not acrobats!”

 

But they lined up anyway

 

Even Mercurial Knight didn’t stop them.

 

He watched with crossed arms and a rare gleam of approval in his eye as two rookies wiped out spectacularly trying to shoot mid-roll. Someone snuck a snowberry bun into the bet pool.

 

Silverbell moved through the crowd, smiling faintly.

 

A few knights clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Good to see you back, sir.”

 

“Glad you’re here, even if your triple shots are humiliating the rest of us.”

 

“No more sad eyes today, yeah?”

 

“Trying,” Silverbell said, chuckling softly.

 

One of the knights shouted across the ring, “If you smile any more, we’re renaming the division to the Sunbell Squad. ”

 

Mercurial barked, “Say that again and I’ll assign you kitchen duty for a week.”

 

“Worth it!” There was more laughter. The atmosphere is getting lighter and calmer than how it used to be earlier. That is one thing that Silverbell loves while training. 

 

The warmth of the training ring was in full swing—sparring matches, laughter, clanking armor, and occasional yelps when someone failed a triple shot challenge.

 

Then the air shifted. It became gentle, still, and somehow more present than a storm.

 

Their heads turned.

 

White Lily Cookie stood at the edge of the courtyard, her cloak trailing like mist behind her, silver threads glinting beneath the early sun. The soft bell of her staff tapped lightly against the stones as she moved.

 

Every knight straightened.

 

Even Mercurial took a step back, nodding in quiet respect.

 

She offered a gentle smile, eyes sweeping over the group—not cold, not distant. Just watching, with that strange way she had of seeing everything.

 

“Please… don’t stop on my account,” she said softly. “This is the most radiant I’ve seen the courtyard in weeks.”

 

A few knights blinked.

 

One whispered to the other, “Did she just call us radiant?”

 

White Lily walked slowly toward Silverbell, who lowered his bow out of instinct but didn’t step away. She stopped beside him, not towering—not commanding—but rooted.

 

“It’s good to see you among your people again,” she said gently.

 

Silverbell nodded, his voice quieter than before. “It’s… easier when they’re around.”

 

She nodded once then turned to the ring, her eyes scanning the training field. “The tree breathes easier when its branches are not breaking alone.”

 

That hit harder than most war cries. Mercurial gave a subtle nod, arms crossed.

 

White Lily looked back to Silverbell.

 

“When you're ready, there’s something I want to show you. It won’t stop the ache. But it might guide your next step.”

 

Silverbell hesitated. Then nodded.

 

“I’ll come after drills.”

 

She smiled again—just faintly. “Good. I’ll be waiting.”

 

And with that, she turned and walked away—graceful as moonlight, leaving only calm in her wake.

---

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden light through the upper boughs of the Silver Tree as the courtyard finally quieted. Training had ended, the laughter and shouts giving way to the sounds of armor being removed and boots being traded for soft-soled sandals.

 

Silverbell, still faintly flushed from the drills, crossed through the inner path toward the old garden trail—one rarely used now, save for those seeking quiet.

 

And she was waiting there.

 

White Lily stood beneath an arch of soft-draping willow leaves, her staff resting lightly against her shoulder. A breeze carried the faint scent of jasmine and dusk-dried petals.

 

She didn’t turn when he arrived.

 

“Your form is still strong,” she said softly. “But you were holding back.”

 

Silverbell stepped beside her, not asking how she knew. “It’s hard to strike when your mind is somewhere else.”

 

“Or with someone else,” she said gently.

 

He was silent for a long moment. Then: “Did you bring me here to tell me where he went?”

 

White Lily looked at him, eyes kind but clear. “No. I don’t know where he went.”

 

Silverbell looked away. Jaw tight. She didn’t rush to fill the silence. She never did.

 

Then: “He left because he doesn’t yet know how to stay. That is not something I—or anyone—can answer for him.”

 

Silverbell’s voice was quiet. “Then what can you show me?”

 

White Lily gestured for him to follow, her staff lightly tapping the earth as they walked deeper into the garden.

 

“I want you to see what doubt does,” she said. “And what trust can become.”

 

They passed through an older part of the grounds—ivy-covered stones, fae-split trees, and finally, a shallow spring fed by the roots of the Silver Tree itself.

 

White Lily stopped there and placed a hand to the bark.

 

“This place is where Elder Faerie once brought wayward knights.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes softened at the name.

 

“It wasn’t to punish them,” she continued. “It was to remind them that who they were… wasn’t set in stone.”

 

She looked back at him.

 

“You chase him not because he is lost. You chase him because you believe he’s more than the shadows he carries.”

 

He didn’t answer right away. “He always thought I’d leave. That one day I’d stop choosing him.”

 

White Lily stepped closer. “Then don’t choose for him. Let him find the path—but leave the light on.”

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. She turned toward the tree, palm still on the bark.

 

“You don’t need to know where he is to love him. And you don’t need to save him to wait.”

 

As Silverbell stepped quietly out of the garden, White Lily remaining behind with the Silver Tree, the wind changed.

Cooler.

 

Sharper.

 

The kind of shift that didn’t stir leaves—it stirred instinct.

 

At the far end of the outer hall, Mercurial Knight was already waiting. Scroll in hand. His expression is dark. 

 

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”

 

Silverbell’s brows lifted slightly, still half-lost in the calm White Lily had offered.

 

“Is it about the knights?”

 

Mercurial shook his head once. “It’s about the Tree.”

 

He unrolled the scroll, revealing detailed notes, charcoal sketches, and coded annotations—Mercurial’s precise, practiced handwriting mapping sections of the Silver Tree’s root structure and glow resonance readings.

 

“Something’s changing.”

 

He pointed to the lower left quadrant—a pulsing line drawn in red.

 

“Two nights ago, the tree’s pulse shifted. It usually fluctuates with magic flow and seasonal shift. But this…”

 

He tapped again. “This is disruption. Interference. Not natural.”

 

Silverbell’s expression darkened. “What kind of interference?”

 

Mercurial’s voice lowered. “Beast-aligned magic.”

 

Silverbell stiffened. “Are you sure?”

 

“I don’t make reports unless I am.” He rolled the scroll back up, eyes sharp now. “White Lily knows. She’s already spoken with Pure Vanilla and the others.”

 

Silverbell glanced back toward the garden. “So it’s happening, isn’t it?”

 

“Not yet,” Mercurial said, “but something’s waking up. Something old. And it’s close enough now that even the Silver Tree can feel it.”

 

A long silence passed between them.

 

Then Silverbell said, almost to himself: “He’ll feel it too.”

 

Mercurial looked at him, then nodded once. 

 

Before going home, he decided to take a walk around the kingdom.

 

He passed by the forest—half-covered in ivy now—where he used to shoot arrows until his hands bled. Where Black Sapphire would sometimes show up just to tease him, lounging on the fence with a crooked smile and a thousand taunts, never offering a hand, always offering trouble.

 

The market was still buzzing, even this late. Stalls bursting with apples, candied nuts, sugared moons. He almost stopped at the vendor who used to sneak him an extra sweet when Sapphire was with him, all charm and sharp edges.

 

Then came the garden.

 

The one that shimmered at night like frost under moonlight. They used to dance there—awkward at first, armored boots scraping stone, but soon laughing, twirling, forgetting what they were. Just two boys pretending the war couldn’t touch them.

 

He passed it all in silence.

And his final destination, Mirror Lake.

The path to that lake was quieter than usual. The only thing Silverbell could hear is crunch of his own boots along the old trail, and the distant creak of trees leaning against each other like tired sentries.

 

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming. Not even Mercurial. He didn’t need orders to follow his own heart.

 

And something told him this was where it started.

 

The place where they fought. Where they bled. Where something softer bloomed in the ruins of war.

 

The lake shimmered ahead—still, glassy. The same way it had been that night.

 

But this time, Silverbell wasn’t looking at the water.  He was looking at the forest edge. There— a flicker.  Barely visible. Like a heatwave in the air. He stepped closer and kneeled.

 

The grass had been disturbed recently—flattened outward in a spiral. The scent of raw magic still lingered. It wasn’t elemental. It wasn’t Silver Tree-aligned either.

 

He recognized the spell signature instantly.

 

Portal magic. Rough. Quick. Not cleanly closed. Definitely not a trained Silver Knight's cast.

 

He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the shimmer—and a jolt of shadow-fused energy prickled up his arm.

 

His heart stopped. He knew that magic. He knew it.

 

“Black Sapphire…” It wasn’t just any portal. It was his.

 

Sloppy from panic. Unstable from emotion. But undeniably his. Silverbell rose to his feet slowly, scanning the area.

 

He looked at the lake again—at the reflection that once spoke back to the one he loved.

 

Then whispered, as if Black Sapphire could still hear it: “Where did you go?” And more painfully— “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

 

The magic lingered like smoke after a fire—barely visible, but choking if you breathed too deep.

 

Silverbell stood at the edge of where the portal had been, eyes fixed on the empty space in front of him, like if he stared long enough, it would reverse, open, and bring him back.

 

But nothing happened. Just wind brushing through the leaves, the silence, and the absence of him.

 

He went closer, fingertips grazing the grass that still hummed faintly with magic. The pulse was fractured, uneven—panicked. Like a heart trying to cast a spell.

 

Black Sapphire had been scared. Not of him. But of something else.

 

Silverbell stared into the soil like it could give him answers. Like the earth itself might whisper something back.

 

"What happened to you?" His voice cracked halfway through.

 

He didn’t mean to speak aloud—but it came out anyway. Quiet. Raw. "You were getting better. You were... learning how to breathe again."

 

He sat back, arms resting loosely on his knees.

 

"You laughed. You cooked. You let me stay. You let yourself stay."

 

He swallowed hard. "And now you’re gone."

The lake in front of him didn’t ripple.  Silverbell let his head drop into his hands.

 

"Are you running from me… or from yourself?"

 

There was no answer. But in the silence—the wind shifted again.

 

Silverbell knelt at the lake’s edge, still staring at the ground where the portal spell had cracked the earth like a heartbeat lost in panic. His fingers brushed the satchel at his side—instinctively, unconsciously.

 

And then he remembered.

 

The book.

 

The old spellbook Black Sapphire had given him once—not as a romantic gesture, but in that awkward, "I trust you enough to understand this" way.

 

He pulled it out, the worn leather binding crackling slightly in the misty air. His thumb found the spell he hadn’t dared try until now. A simple one. Meant to show echoes. Not of the future. But of what had already come and gone.

 

He summoned the spell card

 

The lake shimmered. The world tilted. And the vision opened.

---

The scene played before him like mist spun into memory.

 

Black Sapphire stood alone at the edge of Mirror Lake.

 

Night air wrapped around him. His posture was loose, but his eyes were sharp, frantic under the surface.

 

Silverbell couldn't move. The spell only let him watch. And he watched everything.

 

A reflection. A voice.

 

“When the time comes… will you choose love?”

 

A pause.

 

“Or will you remember what you were made to be?”

 

Silverbell felt his chest tighten.

 

The vision rippled.

 

The reflection in the lake changed— not Black Sapphire, but a crueler version. Sharper. Smiling like a knife.

 

“Flee.”

 

“Before it’s too late.”

 

Silverbell saw him flinch. Saw the hesitation.

 

“You could’ve killed that knight at Mirror Lake. You had the chance.”

 

“But you didn’t. Why?” 

 

“Was it mercy?”   “Or weakness?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

 

Silverbell watched his fists clench. Watched his wings twitch, wounded and tense.

 

“You couldn’t kill him.”

 

“You couldn’t betray your master either.”

 

“You couldn’t choose.”

 

Silverbell swallowed hard.

 

He wanted to reach out. To say yes, you could. You did choose..both. But he was just a ghost here.

 

The water in the vision trembled. The reflection's voice cut one last time:

 

“Coward.”

 

And the look on Black Sapphire’s face— Silverbell would never forget it. Grief over not knowing how to stay.

 

How to be. How to choose. The vision faded. The mist rolled back.

 

Silverbell was left kneeling at the lake, breath ragged, heart aching.

 

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He whispered into the wind: “You weren’t a coward. You were scared.”

 

A pause.

 

Then, firmer: “But I’m not.”

 

Silverbell remained at the lake's edge, knees pressed into damp earth, hands resting limp in his lap.

 

But his mind was spinning now—not from heartbreak, but from something else.

 

Something colder. The reflection.

 

It hadn’t just mimicked Black Sapphire. It had spoken like it knew him. Knew the guilt. The exact phrasing. The fears.

 

It didn’t tempt. It targeted.

 

And the more Silverbell thought about it, the more his stomach turned. “That wasn’t just a spell.”

 

He spoke aloud, but only the trees heard him. “That was magic with intent. ”

 

He looked down at the ground again, then at the faint shimmer still curling through the blades of grass—residue from the portal Black Sapphire cast. It should have been a normal spell.

 

Panicked. But his flight hadn’t started there. It had started here.

 

After the reflection.

 

And the reflection hadn’t come from himself. Not entirely.

 

Silverbell rose slowly, lips pressed in a thin line. “Someone made it.”

 

He paced along the edge of the water, eyes narrowing. “It was too specific. Too cruel. It knew too much.”

 

But who?

 

Not Shadow Milk. He may have trained Black Sapphire, manipulated him—but his tactics weren’t like this. His poison was direct.

 

Not the other beasts either. They were monsters of strength, hunger, and shadow. They have their own ways of convincing others to return to their original state. And their beliefs seem different to each other. 

 

Plus— the only beasts who knew Black Sapphire were—his master, Shadow Milk Cookie and Eternal Sugar Cookie. They had similar ways of hollowing someone out. But Shadow Milk sent him a letter about him earlier this morning, so it couldn’t be him. And Eternal Sugar… it could be her, but if she leaves her Garden unattended—even for a moment—it would mean the Garden couldn’t hold its shape without her presence.

 

But this? This was surgical.

 

A trap placed in the most personal way possible. Magic that waited in the lake. That mirrored just enough truth to be believable.

 

Silverbell's breath caught. “It wanted the version of him before.”

 

The one who obeyed orders. Who didn’t hesitate. Who didn’t know how to love.

 

He stepped closer to the water again, staring down.

 

“It needed him scared. Split. Alone.” And the timing… Right before the battle. It wasn’t a coincidence. Silverbell’s hands curled into fists.

 

Whoever did this—they wanted Black Sapphire unstable. Broken before the fighting even began. Not dead. But lost, missing. “Because someone’s afraid of what he could become if he fights for us instead of them.”

 

---

Beneath the old ruins of Beast-Yeast, twisted and blackened from centuries of forgotten magic, five figures gathered. The chamber, once a place of light and balance, had become a cradle of rot. The Beasts—once virtues of Earthbread’s elemental truths—stood together in silence.

 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned lazily against a bent root, his cloak curling like ink in water, shadows trailing from his fingertips. The air around him pulsed with soft magic, coiled and patient. He watched as the others arrived, one by one, as if summoned by some old, broken law of nature.

 

Burning Spice Cookie entered first, his heat arriving before his body. Every step scorched the stone beneath him, flames licking the edges of his axe. His eyes burned with restless fury.

 

 He crossed his arms and snarled, “Took you long enough. I’ve been waiting to tear something apart.”

 

Shadow Milk grinned, unfazed by the heat. “You always were the dramatic one, Spice. Go, Hot Stuff!”

 

From the misted path behind him, Mystic Flour Cookie stepped into view. He moved like a memory—robes whispering against the floor, presence so light it felt imagined. A half-mask veiled his face, but his voice cut through the still air with quiet certainty.

 

“That tree of ruin again,” she said. “And we will be the ones to crumble iit.”

 

Shadow Milk gave him a lazy nod. “Ahh—Still cryptic as ever, Misty. I missed that.”

 

Eternal Sugar Cookie floated in next, draped in silk and syrup-thick shadows. Her eyelids were half-lowered, her movements like smoke curling from a candle. She let out a soft yawn and twirled her finger idly, casting small, glittering charms in the air.

 

“Ugh… finally. You know how draining these things are,” she sighed. “Can’t we just skip to the collapse part?”

 

Her eyes flicked toward nothing—some distant, invisible corner of memory. “It’s just not the same without her,” she murmured, voice almost wistful. “The Garden’s quieter now… too quiet.”

 

“Sugar,” Shadow Milk purred, “You’re still the same: lazy, lovely, and lethal.”

 

“Mmm. Flattery suits you, Milk,” she replied with a smirk. “Almost makes up for your thievery .”

 

“Thievery?” Shadow Milk mused aloud, feigning offense. “If you mean Sweet Sapphire—he left on his own.”

 

“He wandered,” she snapped. “You swooped in and claimed what I nurtured. He was mine. Perfectly preserved.”

 

“Preserved,” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like venom. “You mean tranquilized.”

 

“I mean content,” she said, smile sharpening. “I made him soft. Gentle. Empty of pain. Just like you asked me to.”

 

“Pshhh– yeah, yeah, I know but—” Shadow Milk added, voice darkening. “You bled him dry and called it kindness.”

 

Eternal Sugar’s eyes flicked with irritation. “I gave him peace.”

 

“You gave him sedation.”

 

The air crackled for a moment.

 

Then with a lazy swirl of magic, Shadow Milk’s form shifted. The shadows melted into silk and shimmer. His frame narrowed, posture straightened. In his place stood the Lady in Azure—his disguise from the Garden—poised and mocking.

 

He raised a delicate hand and produced a fan from nowhere, flicking it open with a practiced snap. The movement was so exaggerated it was almost farcical.

 

He fanned himself gently and spoke in a high, breezy voice. “Oh, but darling ,” he said, mimicking Eternal Sugar’s tone with theatrical poise, “he was smiling in his sleep. That must mean I fixed him. Like the Bringer of Happiness would!”

 

Eternal Sugar’s eye twitched.

 

Shadow Milk fluttered the fan again. “I only hollowed him out a little,” he continued sweetly. “Just enough to make him quiet. What harm is there in silence, hmm?”

 

Eternal Sugar’s charm sparked, a faint crackle of magic at her fingertips. “Careful,” she said softly, all sweetness gone. “Mockery has a cost.”

 

Shadow Milk, still in the Lady’s form, leaned forward with a cruel smile. “And yours was a heart you couldn’t keep.”

 

Before either could escalate, the temperature dropped. Suddenly came the silence—not an absence of sound, but a presence that crushed the air. 

 

Silent Salt Cookie stepped out from the shadow between the roots, his expression blank, his aura cold enough to frost over the very ground he walked on. He said nothing. He never did. But the chill in the room deepened just from his presence.

 

No one greeted him. No one needed to.

 

Shadow Milk folded the fan with a sharp click and allowed the disguise to dissolve, his body warping back to his true form. He didn’t look at Eternal Sugar again—but the grin lingered, sharp and knowing.

 

She turned away, expression unreadable, but her hand remained clenched.

 

And then the roots overhead twisted open like a wound, and she stepped into the chamber.

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie.

 

Her cloak shimmered with dying starlight. Her eyes burned like obsidian flame. Where she walked, the corruption of the tree twisted to greet her like an old ally. The moment she entered, the chamber bowed—not in obedience, but in recognition.

 

She stopped at the heart of the chamber, where the corrupted roots tangled like veins. Her voice echoed, low and smooth, coated in certainty.

 

The roots above groaned as the corrupted chamber tightened around them. The silver veins that once brought life to Earthbread now pulsed with something darker.

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie stood at the heart of it, eyes glowing like a dying star. Her voice was low—but it carried like a curse. “The Silver Tree’s seal weakens. The balance breaks. Earthbread is ripe for ruin.”

 

The Beasts did not speak. Because they knew . 

 

She walked forward, slow and deliberate, cloak brushing the poisoned stone “Once, you were bound by names. Virtues. Kingdoms. Now you are what the world fears most.”

Her gaze swept across them—Burning Spice with his smoldering fists clenched, Mystic Flour wreathed in drifting silence, Eternal Sugar humming quietly, Salt frozen in stillness, and Shadow Milk, unreadable as ever.

 

“Let them fear correctly.” She raised her chin, the rot behind her writhing.“We fracture the Silver Tree from its core. Spread rot through its roots. And while they scramble to protect their dying symbol, we reclaim what was stolen.”

 

Her voice sharpened. “The Soul Jams. But whole. All five. And once we hold them—” The roots coiled tighter. The ground vibrated like it knew what came next. “—we will return Earthbread to where it belongs. Not in the hands of heroes. But in the hands of truth.”

 

Burning Spice let out a harsh, ragged laugh, embers falling from his lips. “Finally. A war worth fighting. I’ll burn the thrones they sit on. Watch the ‘noble’ crumble with their castles. I’ll finally get to have another round with that radiant queen .”

 

His voice was the promise of razed fields and scorched skies.

 

Mystic Flour’s cloak shifted, and she stepped forward without fanfare. Her voice was soft—almost gentle—but every word landed with apathy honed like a blade. “They called us monsters when all we offered was the end of suffering.”

 

She looked ahead, not at them—at something beyond.  “I will return them to what they were meant to be. Flour. Still. Quiet. At peace.”

 

Eternal Sugar smiled dreamily, twirling a petal between her fingers. “You’re all so noisy ,” she said. “War, fire, ruin…”

 

She sighed, and her magic shimmered like syrup over steel.  “Let them relax. Let them dream. I’ll wrap them in my Garden, and they’ll forget the pain ever existed.”

 

Her eyes glinted. “They’ll be happy. Even if it’s not real.”

 

Shadow Milk leaned into the darkness like it was an old friend. His voice coiled through the room like a lie no one could catch.  “Give them the truth, and they reject it. But a sweet lie?” His smile cut wider. “They’ll beg for more.”

 

He traced a symbol in the air, shadows spilling like ink. “I’ll fill their kingdoms with stories. Prophecies. Heroes who never existed. Until no one knows what’s real anymore.”

 

His grin sharpened.  “And then I’ll offer them clarity. Moi .”

 

The air cooled. Salt Cookie hadn’t moved. He stood near the back, barely breathing. But they all turned to him anyway. Silent Salt said nothing. He never did. But when his gaze met Dark Enchantress’s, there was no confusion. Only cold understanding.

 

She stepped into the center of their circle. “You know what you must do.”

 

Her voice wrapped around each of them like the roots twisting through the chamber.

 

“Burning Spice Cookie,” she began, her voice cutting through the dark like flint to steel. “You will strike the capitals first. Torch their towers. Scatter their armies. Make them cling to what’s already turning to ash.”

 

Burning Spice Cookie grinned, slow and feral, the glow of his gauntlets pulsing with heat. “Finally. I’ll give them something to scream about.”

 

“Eternal Sugar Cookie,” Dark Enchantress Cookie continued, her tone untouched by the sweetness in the name. “Begin the lull. Wrap their rulers and generals in dreams. Let them choke on the illusion of peace.”

 

Eternal Sugar Cookie hummed a syrupy tune, a blossom of pale charm blooming lazily at her fingertips. “Poor things. They won’t even know they’re fading.”

 

“Mystic Flour Cookie,” she said next, her gaze cold and unwavering. “You will descend upon the old shrines. Desecrate the altars. Unbind the spirits they pray to. Silence the songs that kept them standing.”

 

Mystic Flour Cookie didn’t blink. Her voice was calm.  “They will kneel in flour. Quietly. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

“Shadow Milk Cookie,” Dark Enchantress said, her voice curling like smoke. “Your stories run thicker than blood. It’s time they turn against each other. Shatter their alliances. Twist their truths. If they distrust themselves, they cannot fight us.”

 

Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head, eyes gleaming with dark delight.  “Earthbread runs on stories. I’m just rewriting the ending… and leaving out the heroes.”

 

She turned last to the one who hadn’t spoken. “Silent Salt Cookie.”

 

The name hung heavier than the rest.

 

She looked into his eyes—not demanding obedience, but waiting. Knowing. “When we have all five Soul Jams... when their light is fractured and made whole again... your time will come.”

 

Silent Salt Cookie didn’t move. But the frost gathering beneath his feet was answer enough.

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie raised her staff. “Strike at dawn. Let them cling to their hope. Let them run to their ancient heroes. And when their precious halves stand before you—”

 

Her voice darkened like a closing gate.  “—remind them what they gave up when they cast us aside.”

 

Her eyes gleamed with something fierce and final. “We are not chaos. We are correction.”

 

The chamber rumbled. The Beasts stood in silent accord.

 

As the last of the magic in the chamber stilled, Dark Enchantress Cookie turned with a sweep of her cloak, the corrupted air bending to her will.

 

"That concludes our meeting," she said smoothly. “You may return to your... chaos.”

 

The Beasts began to disperse, their forms melting into shadow and flame and mist. But as Shadow Milk began to follow—

 

“Not you.” Her voice stopped him like a blade.

 

He turned slowly, one brow lifting beneath the edge of his hood. “Huh. Me? Getting singled out? You’re going soft, Dark Enchantress Cookie.”  He gave a lazy grin. “What’s this about?”

 

She stepped closer, her expression unreadable. “A gift. A very special gift..”

 

His smirk froze just slightly. “A gift? Oooh. I do love a little present. What is it?”

 

“You’ll like this,” she said.

 

Then she raised her hand. A flick of dark magic. The air twisted. A mirror of corrupted water rippled into being, and within it—Black Sapphire.

 

But not as he had been. Not as Shadow Milk knew him.

 

He stood there, cold. Still. Every line in his body wound tight. The eyes were familiar—but void of softness. Void of warmth.

 

Void of Silverbell.

 

Shadow Milk’s playful veneer slipped. He took one step back.

 

His voice dropped, low and sharp. “What... why did you do this?”

 

Dark Enchantress tilted her head. “Oh, but isn’t it better this way?”

She gestured toward the vision. “You trained him. You molded him. And what did he become? Sentimental. Rebellious. Broken.”

 

Her eyes gleamed. “I gave him a push. Just enough... to snap him back to reality. ”

 

Shadow Milk’s hands clenched at his sides. “That wasn’t your call.”

 

Her smile deepened. “But it was necessary. You of all Cookies should understand—when a weapon forgets it's a weapon, someone has to remind it.”

 

Another flick of her fingers. A new vision took shape. A memory.

 

Black Sapphire, shaking in a dark alley, the moonlight sharp above him.

 

A figure approached. Cloaked. Kind at first. Gentle. Until it wasn’t. Until she stepped closer.

 

Until she spoke.

 

Her words weren’t cruel. They were worse. “You don’t belong in love stories.”

“You think he’ll still want you when the beasts return?”

“You're not his salvation. You're his mistake.”

 

Shadow Milk’s breath caught.

 

He watched Black Sapphire waver. Watch the pain flash across his eyes. Watch him break, silently.

 

It had been her. She was the voice in the reflection. She was the one who made him doubt.

 

“You manipulated him,” he said, voice flat, fury rising slow and deep. “You broke him.”

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie said nothing for a moment. Then—“No. I reminded him who he was… before your little knight softened his edges.”

 

She stepped away, the visions fading behind her. “Now he’s useful again. You should thank me.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But inside, the shadows shifted. Not with glee. With something else. Cracks.

 

Shadow Milk was just turning, shadows gathering close around his shoulders like a cloak drawn tight, when—

 

“I’m ready to serve again.” The words cut through the chamber like a blade wrapped in velvet.

 

He stopped cold. Turned.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie stood at the threshold of the roots. His posture was perfect—straight, rigid. His armor polished, no cloak in sight. His wings folded tight, still carrying faint scars.

 

But his eyes— Empty. Cold. No spark. No hesitation. And worst of all—no warmth. Not even at the sight of him.

 

Shadow Milk’s throat went dry. “…Sapphire?”

 

The other cookie stepped forward, slow, composed. “I’m focused now. No more distractions and filthy attachments like you wanted.” Each word was crisp. Mechanical. Wrong. “The reflection showed me what I lost. I remember what I’m supposed to be.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t speak at first. He just stared.

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie didn’t hide her satisfaction. “You see?” she purred softly, her voice laced with poison. “No more rebellion. Just loyalty. Just like how you wanted it.”

 

Black Sapphire turned toward her. “What are your orders?”

 

And that’s when Shadow Milk took a step back. Not in fear. In pain.

 

Something in his chest twisted—harder than any blade had ever struck him. This wasn’t a choice. This was conditioning. And it had worked. Too well.

 

Dark Enchantress glanced at Shadow Milk again, her voice like a dagger wrapped in silk. “I told you it was a gift.”

 

But Shadow Milk wasn’t smiling anymore. His gaze never left Black Sapphire, and when he spoke, it was soft.

 

“What happened to the one who sneaks out almost every night?”

 

No response.

 

“Who saved the Cookie he loved despite my orders?”

 

Still nothing.

 

“Who once told me— he told me—‘I don’t know what love is yet. But I think it starts with him.’”

 

A twitch. Barely. In Black Sapphire’s fingers. But he stood tall again. Unmoving. “That wasn’t me.”

 

Shadow Milk’s shadows recoiled like wounded animals. “Then what are you now?”

 

Black Sapphire stepped forward again, each movement precise, his voice void of doubt or hesitation. “Your loyal follower, Master Shadow Milk Cookie.”

 

He bowed his head slightly—formal, rehearsed. No trace of the quiet sarcasm, the subtle twitch of his wings when annoyed, or the breathless softness he used when speaking of Silverbell.

 

Just silence and obedience.

 

Shadow Milk’s lips parted. But nothing came out. He stared. Frozen.

 

Something in his expression—normally smug, half-lidded with dark amusement—flickered. Fractured.

 

The moment hung. Too long.

 

Black Sapphire remained perfectly still, waiting for acknowledgement.

 

But none came. Because Shadow Milk couldn’t speak. Couldn’t say good. Couldn’t say welcome back. Because this wasn’t him. Not truly. This was a puppet wearing his voice. A mask made from everything he’d fought to protect.

 

The pause was everything. And Dark Enchantress Cookie noticed.

 

She tilted her head slowly, the corner of her mouth curling upward, wicked and knowing. “What’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted? Or are you also going soft like your little minion?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t answer. He didn’t know. Not anymore. 

 

The chamber held its breath. Black Sapphire remained still—eyes forward, spine straight, waiting for his master to speak. Dark Enchantress Cookie’s smile widened, almost mocking. Shadow Milk finally inhaled. Slow. Measured. But when he exhaled— it shook.

 

He looked straight at her, the shadows curling at his feet no longer playful. They trembled.

 

His voice came out low. Tight. Barely restrained. “…Fix him.”

 

Dark Enchantress blinked—amused.

 

“Fix?” she echoed, sweetly. “I thought he was just the way you wanted him.”

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed. “Undo what you did. Now .”

 

Even Black Sapphire flinched. Just slightly. Something deep in his instincts, trained long ago, reacted to that voice. That tone.

 

Dark Enchantress turned away from them both, slowly pacing the edge of the corrupted roots.

 

“I didn’t break him,” she said softly. “I just showed him the parts of himself he kept hiding. I didn’t rewrite him, Shadow Milk…” She looked back over her shoulder, eyes glinting. “I just reminded him.”

 

He didn’t reply. Didn’t move. But in that silence, the shadows rose. No longer soft and quiet. Just like his heart—they were unraveling.

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie turned fully toward him now, arms folded, a cool smirk tugging at her lips. “Don’t you have a Spire to rebuild?”

 

Her voice was silk and venom.

 

Shadow Milk’s gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. “Ah.”  He gave a quiet breath, flat and humorless.  “I do.”

 

A pause.

 

Then she waved a hand, her tone dismissive. “Then leave.”

 

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

 

Then Shadow Milk turned—not toward the exit. But toward Black Sapphire. His eyes softened. Barely.

 

“Come with me.” The words were not a command. It is… truth . Held out like a hand in the dark.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t move at first. He just stared—blank, unreadable. The command structure burned into him warred with the echo of something deeper.

 

His hand twitched. A breath caught.

 

Shadow Milk took a single step closer. “You don’t belong in her chains—in anyone’s chains.”

 

He said it quietly. Like he was saying it to someone buried inside. “You never did.”

 

 

---

The portal cracked open with a whisper of dark light.

 

Shadow Milk stepped through first, his cloak dragging quiet ink trails across the tile floors of once the Spire's inner chamber. The air smelled faintly of scorched parchment and iron—a sign that repairs were still underway, slow and messy.

 

Candy Apple was already waiting for him.

 

Perched halfway up the winding stair, her boots half-laced and her hair tied back in a crooked braid, she looked up with a grin.

 

“Well, well—took you long enough Master! It is soooo boring–”

 

Then she saw who followed behind. Her smile froze. “Sapphy..?” She rushed down two steps, boots clacking.

 

“You—you're back?”

 

He stepped through the portal, quiet and upright, armor gleaming like it had never seen rain, his expression unreadable.

 

He looked at her. Paused. Then gave a faint nod. “Reporting in, as requested.”

 

Candy Apple stopped at the bottom of the stairs, hands halfway raised—like she was going to hug him but thought better of it.

 

Her eyes searched his face. His stance. His silence. And everything not there. “…Oh.” It hit her all at once.

 

Technically, he was back. But emotionally? He hadn’t returned at all.

 

Her voice softened. “Right. Of course you are.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t look at her. He just walked toward the far side of the hall, his footsteps heavy.

 

Candy Apple stayed behind, her eyes still on Black Sapphire. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something.

 

But all she managed was: “It’s not really you, is it?”

 

Black Sapphire only blinked. And that silence said everything.

 

Shadow Milk left them for a while, he continued rebuilding the Spire of Deceit by using his magic, he restored his old Spire. All the confusing staircases, to the long hallways, to the different rooms that help him spread his word. The chamber was quiet now. The Spire stood taller. Repaired. Restored.

 

But no magic could fix what Shadow Milk couldn’t say.

 

He stared out through the window he’d just reforged, the distant stars flickering faintly like dying candles.

 

Candy Apple hadn’t spoken again. She knew that silence. She knew what it meant.

 

And still—he didn’t move.

 

His voice came so quietly, it could’ve been mistaken for wind curling through the stone.

 

“There are only two things I fear.”

 

Candy Apple straightened slightly, her usual sarcasm gone.

 

“Losing my precious minions— you two,” Shadow Milk said. “Whether in battle, death, or leaving this place.’

 

A pause.

 

“Hah… Losing . ”

 

He exhaled, long and steady, as if pushing the thought down before it could root any deeper.

 

“The other?”

 

He turned slightly, eyes darker than they’d been in years. “Watching them turn into someone else.”

 

Candy Apple didn’t joke around this time. She nodded—once. She understood now. This wasn’t just pain. It was horror.

 

Shadow Milk could survive betrayal. He could come back from ruin.

 

But watching someone he loved lose their soul—piece by piece—and call it loyalty ?

 

That was worse than any battlefield.

 

And Black Sapphire… was already halfway gone.

 

The silence in the Spire stretched long enough to feel like punishment.

 

Outside, night pressed hard against the stained-glass windows, casting soft ribbons of violet and crimson across the stone floor.

 

Shadow Milk still stood unmoving.

 

Candy Apple shifted beside him, eyes flicking toward the other end of the chamber—toward the one sitting so perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, gaze fixed forward but seeing nothing.

 

Black Sapphire Cookie hadn’t moved since arriving. He hadn’t spoken again, either. Not unless spoken to.

 

It was… wrong. So wrong .

 

Candy Apple hugged her arms around herself, trying to shake off the cold feeling creeping through her bones.

 

Then finally, quietly— “Master...”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t look at her.

 

“What should we do with him?” It wasn’t a question she asked lightly. But it had to be said. Because this couldn’t keep going.

 

Black Sapphire wasn’t broken in the way machines broke. He was hollow. Rewritten. Twice. And still, he followed commands perfectly.

 

Shadow Milk slowly turned to face the center of the room, where Black Sapphire waited like a ghost of his own name.

 

He didn’t speak at first. Then finally, he whispered—

 

“…I don’t know. My restoration spell can’t work on him this time. Unlike Sugar’s magic, it was easier then. But hers, I can’t undo this myself. I don’t know anymore…”

 

And that—that hurt more than anything else. Because Shadow Milk always had an answer.

 

Except this time… he wasn’t sure which would be worse. Leaving him like this. Or trying to bring him back.

 

And failing miserably.

 

Shadow Milk’s voice came quieter this time, pulled tight at the edges: “The battle starts tomorrow.”

 

He stared toward the far wall, not at anything in particular—just letting the weight of that sentence settle into the stone around him.

 

“I’m not sure if I should let him join us.” He exhaled, jaw tightening slightly.

 

“I can already sense someone’s anger when they see him like this.”

 

Candy Apple didn’t miss a beat. Her arms crossed. Her voice tilted into something dry. “Oh, you mean his knight with the voice like sunbeams and rage issues? ”

 

Shadow Milk’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Silverbell,” he said softly. “Yeah him.”

 

Candy Apple looked over at Black Sapphire again—still sitting perfectly upright, still too quiet.

 

“He’s gonna lose it for sure.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t argue. He just nodded, slowly. “Good.”

 

Candy Apple raised a brow. “Uhhhh. Good?”

 

Shadow Milk finally turned to her—his expression heavier than usual. “Because if anyone can knock something loose in him…”

 

He looked back at Black Sapphire.

 

“…it’s the one person who is willing to risk his life for him.”

 

Candy Apple tilted her head, arms still crossed, watching Shadow Milk work through whatever storm brewed beneath his stillness.

 

She sighed. “Master, I love you and all…” she began, letting her voice trail with just enough drama to earn his attention.

 

He glanced sideways, not yet responding. “…but are you sure this plan is going to work?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t reply right away. He walked slowly toward the window again, where the stars blinked down like distant eyes. Below them, the land of Earthbread stretched out—peaceful, for now.

 

“It’s not about being sure,” he said at last, voice low. “It’s about forcing the moment to happen. ”

 

Candy Apple raised an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly confidence-inducing.”

 

He ignored the jab. “The ancients will fight..The Silver Tree will try to hold.”

“And Silverbell…” He paused. “Silverbell will find him.”

 

Candy Apple walked closer, resting a hand on her hip. “And what if he doesn’t?”

 

Shadow Milk turned his gaze toward the still figure across the room.

 

Black Sapphire hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t felt.

 

“…Then we’ve already lost him.” And for once—he sounded afraid.

 

Candy Apple leaned against the edge of a fractured pillar, her gaze locked on Black Sapphire, still unmoving across the room like some beautifully crafted statue that had forgotten how to breathe.

 

The silence dragged on too long. So she broke it. “You know Silverbell’s going to be on the battlefield.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t answer yet.

 

She kept going. “You know what happens if he sees this version of him.”

 Her voice dropped.  “He won’t see the Black Sapphire he waited for. He’ll see a puppet.”

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes shut for a moment, just a blink—just long enough to hold in the pain.

 

Candy Apple’s voice cracked a little, despite her usual snark. “And if he sees that? If this thing lifts a hand against him on the field?”

 

She stepped closer. “Silverbell will surely attack.”

 

Shadow Milk looked at her now. Really looked at her. And she hated that this time she was right.

 

“He won’t hold back,” she said. “Because he’s going to think you let this happen.”

 

His jaw tightened.

 

Candy Apple scoffed—softly, bitterly. “And maybe he’d be right.”

 

Shadow Milk turned away again, shadows bristling at his shoulders.

 

But she didn’t let up. “He loved him.” Her voice was low now.

“He fought for him. And you let her tear all that away. You think he’s gonna forgive that?”

 

Shadow Milk exhaled slowly, like he was bleeding through his breath. “I didn’t let it happen,” he said.

 

A pause.

 

“…I just didn’t stop it fast enough.”

 

They stood there in the quiet hum of Spire’s magic. And the inevitability of the battlefield felt closer than ever.

 

Shadow Milk stood alone in the darkened corner of the Spire, the repaired crystal veins glowing faintly behind him. Pale light traced along the stone floor, a cold imitation of moonlight. His hands pressed lightly against the wall—not casting spells now. Just... grounding himself.

 

The stone still held a trace of warmth. He hated that.

 

Hated how warmth clung to him after a moment like this. How it lingered like guilt. Like a memory.

 

That kind of softness—Pure Vanilla's kind—had always felt like a trap. Too gentle to be real. Too polished to be trusted. A kindness that didn’t ask questions? That offered forgiveness without price?

 

It made his skin crawl.

 

"Let me be your friend," Pure Vanilla had once said.

 

Shadow Milk had never forgotten it. Not because it meant anything. Because it infuriated him.

 

It felt like condescension disguised as compassion. Like some saintly invitation to kneel and be fixed. To be pitied.

 

He didn't need that. Didn't need pure hearts trying to scrape out the dark and replace it with light. He wasn’t a broken doll to be mended.

 

Curse him.

 

But now—His gaze drifted toward the far end of the room.

 

Black Sapphire sat there. Perfect posture. Wings tucked. Eyes forward. Silent. Not because he wanted to be there. Because he didn’t know where else to go.

 

Shadow Milk’s chest tightened. That knot of emotion he hated acknowledging—twisting again.

 

He didn’t recognize this version of him.

 

Sapphire had always been a bit secretive. Always had that quiet, nonchalant air like the world could fall and he’d raise one unimpressed eyebrow and keep sipping his tea. Calm. Subtle in the way he existed in a room. But he lived. There was an edge in him. Sarcasm sharp enough to rival Candy Apple’s. A silent strength that didn’t need to shout.  He didn’t chatter like Candy Apple or posture like Spice. But there had been... life in him. A sharp mind behind those tired eyes. A dry wit. A stubborn streak. 

 

He used to smirk sideways when someone said something stupid. Used to tease Candy Apple when she botched spells and play it off like nothing.

 

Used to look Shadow Milk in the eye and say, "You're not as clever as you think you are."

 

And now? Gone. Snuffed out. A shell.

 

Shadow Milk clenched his jaw. Not in guilt. In anger. Because he didn’t build this. He didn’t train a soldier for obedience.

 

He trained someone who made his own decisions. Who followed out of loyalty, not submission.

 

And Dark Enchantress Cookie had broken that.

 

Worse—he had let her. As much as he hated to admit it—

 

As much as he despised the idea of Pure Vanilla’s syrupy, smile-drenched righteousness—

 

He had to admit something ugly and small and sharp. Maybe for someone like Black Sapphire... Silverbell was alright. Not perfect. But honest.

 

And maybe that was what Sapphire had needed. Maybe that was what had saved him, for a while.

 

Maybe it still could.

 

Shadow Milk looked at the floor. At the silence. He wasn’t ready to say anything out loud.

But then he did. Just one thing. Quiet. “I miss him.”

 

Not the fighter. Not the sharp, quiet assassin. Not the ghost sitting across the room.

 

He missed the Cookie who rolled his eyes at Candy Apple’s jokes but remembered her tea order anyway. The one who spoke in monosyllables until the moment you let your guard down—and then said something so cutting you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

Shadow Milk closed his eyes. And let the silence hold. For once, he didn’t try to fill it with words.

 

He just let it stay. Because now?

 

All he could do was try not to lose what was left of the Cookie he never meant to care about—but couldn’t stop.

 

Shadow Milk finally turned away from the window. The silence had lingered long enough.

 

He looked across the chamber at Candy Apple, who’d stayed quiet longer than usual. Watching. Waiting. She didn’t push. She knew.

 

And when he finally moved toward her, his steps were slow—but steady. Focused.

 

His voice, when it came, was low. Iron in velvet. “Let’s do this, Candy Apple.”

 

Her brows lifted slightly, but the smirk returned. A little crooked. A little sad. “Finally.”

She uncrossed her arms, already shifting her stance. “Tired of moping in corners, huh Master?”

 

He didn’t dignify it with a reply.

 

He simply extended his hand, and a flick of his fingers summoned a map midair—three-dimensional, flickering between battlefield topography and strategic placement.

 

Candy Apple stepped up beside him, scanning it with sharp eyes.

 

“We’re sending him in?” she asked, glancing toward Black Sapphire, still sitting like a statue.

 

Shadow Milk nodded once. “With them. He’ll be close to Silverbell’s unit. I just need a little tiny spellwork for that to happen!”

 

Candy Apple raised a brow. “And when they cross paths?”

 

Shadow Milk’s voice was flat. “Then we see if love really can cut through her spell.”

 

She tilted her head, scanning the formation, frowning faintly. “You really think Silverbell can pull him out of it?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t answer at first. “…I think if anyone can make him choose again, it’s him.”

 

Candy Apple stepped away from the projection and toward Black Sapphire. He still didn’t move nor blink. Geez it is exhausting watching the guy not being himself for hours. Its weird and uncanny too.

 

But she looked at him hard. “Hope you’re still in there, idiot. Hang on tight.”

She tapped a finger lightly against his forehead. “Because we’re about to throw you into a warzone with your heart standing on the other side of the line.”

 

A pause. “Don’t mess this up.”

 

She stood again, turned to Shadow Milk. “Alright then. Let’s set the field.”

 

And from across the room, Black Sapphire blinked in response.

Notes:

im rushing to school as i post this, so close to missing flag ceremony too

Chapter 23: XXII

Notes:

Hi everyone... So I've been though a lot of stuff lately, not just related to school, but to my health as well. (Both physically and mentally) but oh well

stress is slowly overcoming me, so does the pressure with my academics.

I apologize in advance if I wrote the ancients ooc, especially golden cheese with white lily, bc she is kinda expressing her emotions to white lily, please give me advices how to write them, feel free...

I said i'll post at wendesday but I was busy bc I had classes at the time, and today is my free day hehehe

(I totally did not cram 4 artworks this week)

A plan. What kind of plan he should come up with in order to reach him? He is currently pacing back and forth at the center of the main rooms—muttering numerous of ideas that might work.

 

For now, that’s the only thing in Shadow MIlk’s mind right now. He is desperate to look for an answer to this problem, this mess that Dark Enchantress created. His breath was taken when he figured out the plan that is that closest to sucess. 

 

"I got it." He said beneath his breath—rushing to the Spire's underground rooms, where his quarters should be. Candy Apple immediately followed his steps as fast as she could.

 

Before dawn, while the sky still held its breath and the world waited for war, Shadow Milk made his boldest move yet.

 

Not with magic. But by using an ink, a quill, and a tiny little lie.

---

In his quarters beneath the Spire, lit only by a flickering charmstone, Shadow Milk dipped a quill into thick black ink and began to write.

 

Every letter curved just so. The pressure of each stroke matched perfectly. The handwriting? It was flawless and believable. It wasn’t his. It was hers. Dark Enchantress Cookie’s.

 

The style was unmistakable: elegant, precise, venom threaded into every flourish. He knew it well—had memorized it in silence, from scrolls and missives, battle orders and curses.

 

And now, he used it. Forged a letter in her name.

 

Its contents? A lie, beautifully wrapped. A call to the Beasts. A private directive. Delay confrontation with the Ancients—their other halves. “We will strike once they are fractured.”

 

He even added a blood seal—mocked from one of her old wax stamps. It was a perfect mimicry. And once the ink dried. He passed it to Candy Apple.

---

In the early dark, she grinned as she tucked the scroll into her cloak. “You sure about this?”

 

Shadow Milk met her eyes. “No.” A beat. “That’s how I know it might work.”

 

Candy Apple’s smirk twitched into something warmer—then vanished. “And if they figure it out?”

 

“They won’t,” he said simply. “Because they want to believe she still sees them as more than pawns.”

 

She nodded once. “I’ll run it straight to Mystic Flour first. She’ll believe it. The others will fall in line after.”

 

He didn’t stop her as she turned to go. Didn’t call her back. Didn’t thank her. But his shadows curled behind her for a brief second—shielding her from the wind as she vanished into it.

---

By the time the sun crested the distant horizon, the forged letter had been delivered.

 

The Beasts wouldn’t show. Dark Enchantress Cookie would have no idea. 

 

And Shadow Milk?

 

He returned to the edge of the battlefield, magic humming beneath his palms, illusions weaving across the front lines like a curtain made of secrets.

 

He didn't need the lie to last forever. Just long enough. Just until Silverbell saw Black Sapphire again. And make him feel like himself again .

 

---

Shadow Milk didn’t do things like this.

 

He didn’t forge letters to protect someone and write careful lies meant to buy someone time. He didn’t risk angering her . He didn’t do any of this before… let alone for anyone.

 

But for them? Candy Apple Cookie.  Black Sapphire Cookie. They weren’t just minions. They never had been. Not really.

 

Candy Apple had been with him from the beginning—too loud, too reckless, too loyal for her own good. She annoyed him endlessly. Talked back more than most dared. But she stayed , even when it made no sense. Even when she could’ve run.

 

And Black Sapphire…

 

He was never supposed to be anything more than a sharp-edged blade. A shadow to move at his command. A Cookie whose voice is a powerful tool. But somewhere between the silence and the sass, between the late-night tea and quiet looks across war rooms— Shadow Milk had gotten attached.

 

Not like the way the heroes did. But more of a way that is enough to want them safe. Just enough to fight for them in a way that made him feel uncomfortably good. So no—this wasn’t normal for him. This wasn’t who he intended to be.

 

But with the world on the edge, the ancients earning their awakening, and war coming faster than lies could cover—he’d risk it all. He’d bend the battlefield. He’d deceive Witches if he had to. Because in the middle of all this chaos and jam and prophecy—he wanted them to live and that’s what it mattered. Even if it meant the liar himself had to tell one final truth.

 

He stormed through the blackened archways, cloak trailing behind like smoke torn from a dying star. The doors slammed shut behind him with a whisper of shadow and old dust.

 

The Spire’s Library.

 

Shadow Milk’s old stronghold. His sanctum.

A massive, spiraling archive sealed deep beneath the Spire—known by few, entered by fewer, forbidden to all.

 

He never let anyone in before. (Except that one time where he lets Black Sapphire to find useful potion blends for a battle at Mirror Lake.)

 

Because this was where he'd once been something else.

 

The Fount of Knowledge.

 

Long before shadows had claimed his name. Long before war taught him silence was safer than wisdom.

 

This was where he had written truths into spellwork, laced his thoughts into grimoires, named stars and erased them. Where he had filled books with the magic no one else dared to read.

 

He forbade anyone from entering for a reason.

 

Not because the knowledge was dangerous. But it reminded him of his roots, what he used to be. This was where the truth of who he once was still lived—buried under layers of arrogance, sarcasm, and power.

 

And now he was back. Searching for a cure, a spell that would undo the curse implanted on Black Sapphire .

 

Racing through the dark, silent rows, he threw up a hand, and the books obeyed. Hundreds of them levitated around him, pages fluttering open with sharp magical snaps. A constellation of ink and memory.  Although he has all this knowledge memorized, he wrote this. He couldn’t help but to recheck if there was an answer to this mess. 

 

He muttered under his breath, flipping through volume after volume. Books floated in front of his face—scrolls unrolling midair, runes blinking and hissing, spells humming half-finished.

 

There is nothing . No unweaving spell to untangle her curse from Black Sapphire’s mind.

 

“Come on…” he growled, yanking another tome from the shelf, shadows curling at his fingertips. “You wrote some of this, didn’t you?”

 

His voice cracked through the room, sharp with desperation. “You wrote this magic before she twisted it—there has to be something.”

 

But the Book of Dark Moon Magic floated open in front of him, and even that—his most ancient volume—offered no answer. Only silence. Only the words he had written himself staring back at him like mockery. He flicked it aside with a snarl, pacing now, eyes burning, cloak dragging like ash.

 

Books spun faster around him, dozens of pages flapping, ink glowing, but it was all wrong. Nothing worked. No spell could undo what she’d done.

 

He clenched a shaking fist. He needed to save him. Because he believed it was right.

 

Because he couldn’t watch another piece of himself die again. And he didn’t know how much time he had left before Black Sapphire was gone for good.

 

The Book of Dark Moon Magic spun violently in the air above Shadow Milk, pages flipping faster than he could read—fluttering like wings caught in a storm. The glyphs along its spine shimmered with unfamiliar heat.

 

And then—More volumes lifted from the shelves. Black covers. Runes etched in old magic, barely readable anymore.

 

One by one, the books snapped open midair with resounding cracks. The symbols inside pulsed—burning violet and silver against parchment dark as night. Shadow Milk stepped back, eyes narrowing.

 

This wasn’t just his doing.

 

The library was responding. To his desperation for an answer that he needed. To the raw, furious will of someone who would break the world if it meant saving what little he still loved. Magic filled the air like static—prickling at his skin. The room pulsed with it. It was aware. He didn’t stop it.

 

He let the books speak. Dozens of them now— Volumes of forgotten lunar incantations. Curses once etched into stars. Rituals outlawed even by the old kingdoms. Some of them—he barely remembered writing. Others, he had buried on purpose.

 

And yet here they were.

 

Calling.

 

The pages flipped faster. Diagrams began to sketch themselves midair—spirals of moonlight magic laced with dark threads. Charts of soul fractures. Of identity collapse. Of emotional imprint manipulation.

 

His heart stuttered. One passage hovered closer.

 

“To shatter the mask woven by coercion, one must use the echo of the soul before it was changed.”

 

Another line pulsed beneath it—

 

“This magic cannot be cast by the cursed. It must be awakened by the catalyst: the source of trust.”

 

Shadow Milk’s mouth went dry. The spell existed.

However, he couldn’t cast it yet because it had to come from the one the victim trusted most.  And he had to hand that power to someone else. Someone softer. Someone stubborn enough to keep loving a Cookie whose remade by the shadows and whose voice that whispers destruction.

 

Silverbell Cookie. 

 

Ah. Of Course it would always came back to him. To that one Cookie who Black Sapphire’s heart hadn’t let go of—even after everything.

 

Shadow Milk clenched his fists and whispered through clenched teeth “…then he’d better reach him before all this disappears and they’d loose Black Sapphire forever..”

 

He now raised his hand.

 

The books hovered higher, assembling themselves into a single spellform. And for the first time since this all began—Shadow Milk didn’t feel in control.

 

He felt like he was running out of time.

 

He stood in the center of the library, shadows swirling around his boots, the air heavy with charged silence and unfinished spells. The spell he'd uncovered hovered before him, constructed from half a dozen ancient texts, floating and burning like moonlight soaked in ink. The solution was there.

 

Shadow Milk exhaled, slow and bitter. "Looks like I really do have to rely on you this time, Silverbell..." He said it like a confession. Like an old truth he’d avoided for far too long.

 

And just as he said it—The doors creaked open behind him.

 

Candy Apple stepped in, brushing dust from her coat, her hair mussed from wind and speed. “I already put the letters on each of their lands. No one saw me, Master Shadow Milk!” She tossed the last fake scroll onto a nearby table like it was a finished performance.

 

 And in a way, it was. Shadow Milk gave her a rare nod of approval. “Good.” He looked toward the spell still glowing midair.

“Now we prepare.” He turned back toward her, shadows curling tighter now—focused, ready. His voice slipped into something sharper.  Something more theatrical like his daily monologues. “Our Sapphire will be starring in quite the show.”

 

Candy Apple raised an eyebrow. “You giving him top billing?”

 

“He’s earned it.”

 

“Then we better hurry.” She cracked her knuckles. “Wouldn’t want the audience to miss the part where he wakes the hell up.”

 

Shadow Milk almost smiled. Almost.

 

He turned back toward the glowing pages. His shadows rippled outward, gathering tools, scrolls, old artifacts he'd sworn never to touch again.

 

It was time to stage the illusion.

 

But even the Beast of Deceit couldn’t fake this next part.

 

He was counting on something real.

 

He was counting on Silverbell.

 

The floating books snapped shut one by one. Their runes dimmed, their pages sealed, and without a whisper, they returned to their shelves in a smooth ripple of magic—like shadows slipping back into the cracks they came from.

 

Shadow Milk raised a hand, and the whole library obeyed.

 

Even now—eons later—every book still knew his touch. He didn’t need to reread them anymore. He had written them anyway. 

 

Every spell. Every lie. Every truth is dressed in clever ink. He had them all memorized.

 

And now?

 

He needed all of it because the battlefield ahead wasn’t just blood and steel. It was a stage and he had an act to deliver.

---

He stepped into the corridor above the library, cloak trailing smoke, boots echoing with urgency. His mind was already sprinting ahead of his body.

He needed two layers of illusion for the Ancients.  One to delay and convince and one to stall long enough for Silverbell to reach Sapphire.

 

He needed a different illusion for the battlefield. Something that wrapped the fight in fog and false figures—enough to keep Dark Enchantress from seeing she’d been abandoned until it was far too late.

 

He needed to hide as he repositioned herself to watch Sapphire’s every move—and intervene if necessary.

 

He needed to embed the memory-break spell into Silverbell’s presence. To his weapon. And if ever Black Sapphire got shot... if something reached out from within. It would trigger. And most of all— He needed to act to the point that it would convince the ancients.

 

The Beast with a wounded heart and a silver tongue. A liar whose words still tasted like truth.

 

He swept a hand through the air, summoning mirrors, scrolls, illusions—all of them clicking into place like puzzle pieces lined with thorns.

 

So much to do with so little time. But Shadow Milk had made entire worlds believe in illusions before.

 

He could do it again. And this time—he wasn’t doing it for himself. He was doing it for the ones who still didn’t know how much they meant to him.

 

And maybe never would.

 

The last scroll snapped into place midair, glowing softly before embedding itself in the weave of the larger illusion spell. The entire chamber shimmered for a moment—runic patterns burning dimly across the stone—then settled into stillness.

 

Shadow Milk stood at the center of it, breathing quietly, magic humming at his fingertips. He didn’t turn when the door creaked open behind him.

 

He felt the presence. Felt the steps—perfectly measured, polite, not too fast, not too slow. Too careful, but too wrong.

 

A porcelain voice, low and soft, broke the silence. “Master, please don’t overwork yourself.”

 

Shadow Milk finally turned.

 

Black Sapphire stood in the doorway, holding a small tray of tea. Just like he used to.

 

He kept the same posture and brought the same cup with the same tea blend—Shadow Milk could smell the burnt jasmine from across the room. And yet—None of it felt real.

 

His eyes, those sharp purple-grey eyes, were calm. Empty and hollow.

 

A mimicry of the Black Sapphire who used to banter with Candy Apple until they both annoyed everyone out of the war room. Who’d sit in this very library and mock his master’s spelling in rare moments of rebellion. Who used to walk in with tea because he wanted to , not because it was expected.

 

Shadow Milk didn’t move.

 

Sapphire stepped forward, tray steady in his hands. “I noticed your shadows were stretched thin.”  He offered the tray of tea to Shadow Milk “It’s my duty to assist you however I can.”

 

The words were perfect, rehearsed, flawless even. Just like his every broadcast.

 

Shadow Milk finally spoke—low, quiet, almost to himself. “…You never called it duty before.”

 

Sapphire blinked once. “I apologize for not calling it duty before, it must be a mistake. Because it has always been my place to serve.”

 

Shadow Milk’s expression hardened. That was the moment it struck again. The puppet wasn’t breaking. But the man who built him was.

 

He reached out—not for the tea—but for the faint spell hovering above his illusion. It wasn’t finished.

 

But it will be… soon .

 

He needed to get Sapphire to the battlefield. To Silverbell. To the only one who might pull the real him back from this.

 

Shadow Milk forced himself to meet those eyes. “Leave the tea,” he said quietly. “And get ready.”

 

Black Sapphire nodded. “As you command, Master Shadow Milk.” And turned to go—leaving behind the scent of burned jasmine and a silence that wasn’t peaceful. It was the silence of someone missing from their own body.

The moment the door clicked shut, Shadow Milk just stood there.

 

Alone again.

 

The tea still sat on the table, untouched. Still warm. Still perfect. It wasn’t the tea that hurt. It was the memory of it.

 

Because that wasn’t him. It wasn’t Black Sapphire. Not really. But witches—it felt like him.

 

The same voice. The same presence. The same movements. The scent of tea brewed just slightly too bitter, just the way Shadow Milk secretly liked it, even though he’d never admitted that out loud.

 

But none of it was his. None of it had life behind it. It was like watching a memory walk away. Like the past had stood up, stripped of soul, and asked him if he needed help.

 

His hands flexed at his sides, the magic still buzzing at his fingertips, tighter now. Sharper.

 

She had done this. Dark Enchantress Cookie. Twisted memory into obedience. Turned feeling into function. Reduced choice into ritual.

 

And for all his power, for all his manipulation and clever schemes, Shadow Milk couldn’t undo it. But maybe—just maybe—Silverbell could. The thought settled heavy in his chest. Sharp. It shouldn’t have come to this.

 

He should’ve been strong enough to stop it before this version of Black Sapphire ever opened his mouth and spoke those dead words.

 

"Please don’t overwork yourself." It was so polite, so precise, yet so… empty .

 

Shadow Milk turned away from the tea. Didn’t look at it again.

 

He had a battlefield to prepare. He had an illusion to finish. And he had a flicker of hope left—that someone else could reach him.

 

Before that version became the only one left. It took him hours. Hours.

 

Even for a being like him—whose spells laced time and memory, whose lies could convince the stars to blink twice—this was nearly too much.

 

The illusion wasn’t just large. It was living.

 

A breathing battlefield crafted from shadows and false reflections, woven over the very earth itself. Smoke that moved like soldiers. Light bent into armies that weren’t there. A storm waiting to be believed.

 

It pulled at his magic like a thread unraveling too fast. But he didn’t stop. Not until the final glyph burned into the air and faded with a hiss.

 

And then it was done.

 

Shadow Milk staggered back slightly—his knees aching, his palms still glowing, eyes rimmed with dark magic that hadn’t settled yet.

 

The illusion hovered over the landscape like a veil of reality pulled too tight.

 

It was perfect, too perfect. He didn’t feel triumphant yet. Instead he only felt hollow. Like he’d carved this field out of his own ribs.

By dusk, the sky had shifted to a smudge of violet and deep orange, clouds bleeding into the horizon like an open wound.

Shadow Milk stood at the far edge of the bluff, cloak pulled tight against the rising wind. He could see the movement across the plains. Silver Tree Knights. The Ancients.

Marching. Preparing. Forming lines. They didn’t see him yet, cloaked as he was. Just as planned.

The spell was already taking effect—twisting their view, obscuring numbers, shifting the terrain just slightly. Enough to buy confusion. Enough to give the lie room to breathe.

 

He knew Pure Vanilla was among them. Probably whispering peace again. He knew Mercurial Knight would be ready with his blade drawn. He knew Silverbell—Silverbell would be there. As always. Unaware that Black Sapphire was already moving into position on the opposite side of the field. A ghost walking toward him. Shadow Milk watched it unfold, shadows laced through the stone beneath his feet. He had one more spell left to cast to another Cookie’s weapon.

 

And one final hope: That when Silverbell saw him—He wouldn’t look away.

---

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet.

Just pale streaks of light creeping through the window, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The house was still, save for the quiet shuffle of boots, the soft clink of buckles, and the dull thud of armor being secured into place.

 

Silverbell stood alone. Shoulders squared. Jaw set.

 

His fingers ran along the polished curves of his bow, checking every groove, every string. His hands were still steady, maybe his heart would be too.

 

He pulled on his cloak—silver-trimmed, crisp—and secured it over his pauldrons. His reflection blinked back at him from a basin of water nearby, half-lit by dawn.

 

He looked strong. Composed. Ready. But even now… That ache still lingered behind his ribs. He hadn’t dreamed of him again.

 

And that somehow hurt worse than dreaming at all.

Then—A knock at the door—firm and rhythmic. Unmistakable. He didn’t even need to ask who it is.

 

“Come in.”

 

The door creaked open, and Mercurial Knight stepped in, already dressed for war. His cloak swept behind him like a storm cloud.

 

His expression was hard to read. But his voice was steady. “It’s time.”

 

Silverbell nodded. He grabbed his quiver, slung it across his back, adjusted the strap across his chest, and followed him to the doorway.

 

Mercurial paused before stepping out. “Nervous?”

 

Silverbell stared ahead his eyes were distant. “…Not about the fight.”

Mercurial gave him a sidelong glance. He didn’t need to press. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, they left the house behind—one walking toward a battlefield cloaked in illusion… the other unknowingly walking toward a ghost.

The path to the battlefield was quiet.

For a while, the only sound was the crunch of armored boots against dewy grass and the faint creak of leather straps as they moved. Mist still clung low to the ground, curling around stones and roots like fingers reluctant to let go.

Silverbell walked slightly ahead, gaze focused, posture taut.

Mercurial Knight matched his pace, cloak sweeping behind him.

Then, finally— “The Silver Tree’s roots have settled again.”

Silverbell glanced sideways. “What?”

Mercurial didn’t look at him. Just kept walking, tone matter-of-fact. “I passed the grove early this morning. The magic’s stabilized. No more cracks. No more surges.” A beat. “It’s quiet again.”

Silverbell’s brow furrowed.

He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or unsettling. “That’s good… right?”

Mercurial shrugged one shoulder. “It’s something.”

Silverbell looked down at the ground beneath them—where patches of old silver bark sometimes twisted through the soil like veins. The Silver Tree’s roots were connected to everything. Magic. Memory. Emotion.

 

If they were calm again… was it a sign? Or just the eye of a storm? He didn’t ask. Because deep down, part of him didn’t want the answer. The last time the Silver Tree had reacted this violently, Black Sapphire had disappeared. It was quiet. But so was he. Silverbell tightened his grip on his bow.

 

The battlefield wasn’t far now. And something told him the quiet was about to break.

Silverbell slowed slightly as Mercurial’s words circled in his head again. “The roots have settled.” The phrase echoed. Heavy. Out of place. He glanced at the earth beneath their feet—how smooth it looked now. Too smooth. The trembling in the ground that had once warned of magical imbalance was gone. The strange pulses? Gone. The whisper-like hum beneath the tree? Silent. Too silent.

 

He stopped walking.

 

Mercurial noticed immediately and turned to face him. “…Something wrong?”

 

Silverbell didn’t answer right away. He crouched slightly, pressing one gloved hand to the soil. The magic in the ground was cool, resting. Still. And that was the problem.

“That’s odd,” Silverbell murmured, more to himself than to Mercurial.

 

“Why would the roots settle again? This isn’t like before. Not natural.”

Mercurial’s expression sharpened.

Silverbell stood slowly, eyes scanning the trees, the distant field already cloaked in morning mist. “If this was the result of a real magical balance being restored, it would’ve taken weeks. The energy was too chaotic.”

He turned to his commander. Voice low and certain. “This is too fast. Too clean.”

 

Mercurial folded his arms. “…You think it’s a trap?”

 

Silverbell’s eyes narrowed. “Or a distraction.”

 

A breeze kicked through the branches above, carrying a strange weight. Faint whispers—like a voice far away trying to say something, but already too late. Silverbell didn’t trust it. The Silver Tree was quiet, yes. But the battlefield ahead? It was far too quiet too.

He straightened, voice colder now. “We need to keep our guard up. Something’s definitely wrong.”

 

The mists parted as the Silver Tree Knights crested the final ridge. Armor glinted pale gold in the rising light. Silverbell stepped forward, his cape stirring in the wind, his fingers wrapped tight around his bow. Mercurial Knight stood beside him, stoic as stone. And across the field—

 

They saw them. The Ancient Heroes. Like carved monuments standing against time itself.

 

Pure Vanilla Cookie stood at the center, robes gently trailing across the earth, staff gripped in one hand, eyes calm. The weight of centuries shimmered behind his quiet gaze. To his right, Hollyberry Cookie stood proud and immovable, one hand on her shield, the other clenched into a fist ready to strike. Her presence buzzed with strength and legacy. Beside her, Golden Cheese Cookie was already tapping her foot, arms folded, impatience radiating like the heat from the sun she commanded. To Pure Vanilla’s left, Dark Cacao Cookie stood silent. Massive. A wall of steel and shadow, one eye fixed on the horizon, sword planted into the earth in front of him like a warning. And standing slightly behind, elevated on a low rise of wildflowers and cracked roots—White Lily Cookie. Their Queen. The new guardian of the Silver Tree. She watched with unreadable eyes, her hands folded in front of her, her pale cloak fluttering gently.

 

The air between the two forces was tense. Too still. Like the battlefield itself was holding its breath. Silverbell stepped closer to the front, eyes flicking between them all—but mostly to the center.

 

To Pure Vanilla. He wasn’t saying anything. But his presence said enough. They weren’t just here to fight. They were here to decide something far heavier.

 

Silverbell exhaled slowly. The Ancients are here. The Silver Tree Knights were ready. But unity didn’t always mean agreement. The Silver Tree Knights were forming up on the other side of the battlefield. And the stillness between them was not peace—it was the hush before a storm. The kind of silence that listened.

 

Pure Vanilla Cookie stood at the center, gaze distant but focused, his staff gently pulsing with light magic. His voice, when he finally broke the silence, was soft—but carried. “The Silver Tree’s presence has changed again. The roots are no longer thrashing.”

 

Hollyberry Cookie let out a low grunt. “Or they’re hiding it better.” She gripped her shield tighter. “I don’t like it. Calm before the clash. I say we test their resolve now before the cake monsters hit us from behind.”

 

Golden Cheese Cookie clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “Agh! Always so punchy.” Her eyes drifted to the far left, where White Lily Cookie stood like a whisper in the wind.  “Besides… I understand why she’s here, but do I really have to..”

 

White Lily didn’t respond to the jab. She kept her eyes on the Silver Tree Knights.

 

Golden Cheese’s fingers tapped against her hip. “I mean it. We just woke up. She appears, says she’s the new guardian, everyone nods, and I’m supposed to just go with that?”

 

Dark Cacao Cookie shifted slightly—barely.  His voice was quiet, low as thunder beneath stone. “Your kingdom is not the only one that matters, Golden Cheese Cookie.”

 

She scowled. “I’m not saying I don’t trust her. I’m saying I don’t know her anymore. Big difference. My treasures... all that I once had, gone.” Still, her eyes flicked again to White Lily—curious. Unsettled.

 

White Lily Cookie finally spoke. Her voice was calm. Soft. Distant—but clear. “I do not need your trust today, Golden Cheese. Only your open eyes.” There was no heat in her tone. Just truth.

 

Golden Cheese crossed her arms, clearly not satisfied—but said nothing more.

 

Pure Vanilla gently raised his hand. “We are not here to make enemies of one another.”  His voice was like mist soothing cracked stone. “Not yet. Let us see how the Silver Tree responds. If they come with questions, we meet them with clarity. If they come with blades—”

 

“We meet them with steel,” Hollyberry finished for him, her voice rising like a war drum.

 

Pure Vanilla nodded, unfazed. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

 

Dark Cacao’s gaze never left the horizon. “Trust me, It will .”

 

And above them all, White Lily watched the Silver Tree Knights approach, her expression unreadable.

 

Somewhere behind the fog of illusion, she could feel the threads of the battlefield twisting unnaturally. Something was already out of place. And someone was lying.

 

Golden Cheese's fingers twitched again. "She talks like the wind has secrets," she muttered, not quite under her breath.

 

Hollyberry shifted her weight with an audible huff. "Better than talking like a sword, if you ask me. At least the wind listens."

 

"Mm. I’d rather trust a sword,” Golden Cheese said, her tone tightening. “At least you know what side it’s on.”

 

"Enough." Pure Vanilla’s voice cut through the murmurs—not harsh, but absolute. "We are not here to test loyalties."

 

Golden Cheese turned to him, arms folded. “Aren’t we? Seems like we’re always doing that lately.”

 

Dark Cacao hadn’t moved. He never did unless it mattered. “There’s something wrong with the air,” he said at last. “The ground’s too quiet. The roots are lying.”

 

“No,” Pure Vanilla said softly. “They’re hiding.”

The others stilled.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on his staff. “I feel it. Magic woven into the land—subtle. Like whispers wearing masks.”

 

Hollyberry frowned. “You think it’s from the Silver Tree?”

 

“No,” he answered. “It’s older than that. Or maybe not older… but practiced. Purposeful. ”

 

White Lily turned her head slightly, the wind playing at the edge of her cloak. “It is deceit,” she said. “But dressed well.”

 

Pure Vanilla opened his eyes again—this time, they shimmered faintly with light. “Familiar magic,” he murmured. “As though it’s been re-threaded from something I’ve seen before.”

 

Golden Cheese glanced at him. “You recognize it?”

 

“Yes,” he said. And that one word struck differently. 

“I saw it.” Pure Vanilla’s voice dipped, thoughtful, grim. “When I was Truthless Recluse. But I watched him bend illusions into scripture and lies into architecture. The magic is different now. Sharper. Colder. More desparate than before.”

 

“You think it’s him?” Hollyberry asked, arms crossed now.

 

Pure Vanilla didn’t answer at first. Then: “…I think if it’s not, it’s someone who studied him far too closely.”

 

Dark Cacao’s jaw tensed. “Then we are not merely facing enemies. We are walking into a deception crafted by a creature who sees truth as a toy.”

 

Golden Cheese let out a low growl. “I knew this felt staged. So what—do we charge in anyway? Or stand around talking about old ghosts and fog?”

 

White Lily’s gaze swept the horizon. “We walk carefully. That which hides itself often believes it cannot be seen. But we have already seen through the first layer.”

 

“Maybe you have,” Golden Cheese muttered

 

White Lily turned to her, and for the first time, there was something steel-bright behind her calm. “I do not need you to understand me. Only to stand when the moment demands it.”

 

Golden Cheese didn’t flinch. But she didn’t argue either. Not this time.

 

Pure Vanilla exhaled. “The battlefield is a stage,” he said. “And we are not the only ones watching.”

 

And in the distance, beyond the fog, something shifted. A flicker of movement. A figure just barely forming through the haze.

A shift in the clouds above the field. A ripple in the fog. And then— laughter. Light, cold, melodic in that eerie way that made the spine stiffen rather than relax.

 

Shadow Milk descended slowly from above. Cloak trailing behind him like liquid ink, drifting against the sky itself. He wasn’t rushing. He floated down with the grace of someone who already knew the outcome.

 

He hovered high enough to be seen—low enough to be heard. And his grin was already set.

 

“Oh!” he called out, voice echoing through illusion-warped air. “Someone noticed my stitching. Honestly, I’m flattered .”

 

The knights on the field tensed immediately. Hollyberry’s hand went straight to her blade. Dark Cacao’s eyes narrowed beneath his helm.

 

Golden Cheese visibly rolled her shoulders, muttering, “Of course he makes a scene. ”

 

But it was Pure Vanilla who stepped forward. Quietly. In recognition. His voice was steady, soft—like the start of a confession. “…You.”

Shadow Milk’s smirk widened. “Still the poetic type. I was hoping you’d be here.”

Pure Vanilla didn’t blink.

“This magic... ” Shadow Milk bowed—dramatic, sweeping, exaggerated. “Well. I have had time to refine it.”

 

Hollyberry stepped beside Pure Vanilla, eyes still locked on the figure above. “What do you want?”

 

Shadow Milk tilted his head. “Oh, Hollyberry. I don’t want. I stall. I stall beautifully. Elegantly.”

 

He swept one hand across the air, and the illusion rippled around them all—clouds of false movement, duplicated shadows, duplicated armies.

 

“You’re not here to fight yet. You’re here to doubt. And I’m simply giving you the stage.”

 

Golden Cheese scoffed. “You’re delaying something. What are you hiding?”

 

Shadow Milk’s smile didn’t change. But his eyes did. A flicker of something colder.

 

“Please radiant queen,” he said lightly. “If I told you what I was hiding, it wouldn’t be a lie anymore, would it?”

 

Then he turned to Pure Vanilla again—only him. Like the rest weren’t even there.

“I’m not who you knew.” He paused. “But you were right to remember.”

Pure Vanilla’s grip tightened on his staff—but he didn’t strike.

 

Because this wasn’t battle yet. It was still a play. He was still writing the next act.

 

Shadow Milk hovered above them, illusion swirling beneath his feet like a second sky. His voice was calm, deliberate, coated in just enough elegance to feel dangerous.

 

He looked directly at Pure Vanilla Cookie, bypassing the others entirely. “You knew what I used to be, don’t you?” he said softly.

“You called me dangerous. Too quick to twist truths instead of trusting them.” He tilted his head. “And yet you listened .”

 

Pure Vanilla didn’t speak. But the wind shifted slightly around him.

 

Shadow Milk descended a few paces lower—still hovering, still safe, but closer. Intimate.

 

“You’re the one who believes even monsters deserve mercy. That somewhere, in the cracks, something worth saving remains.”

 

His voice dipped.

 

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not even asking you to believe me.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m asking for time. ”

 

That caught the others. A ripple moved through the ancients.

 

Golden Cheese narrowed her eyes. “What for?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t look at her.

 

Still focused on Pure Vanilla. “Three days,” he said. “Let the Beasts think. Let the battle breathe. Don’t destroy what might still have a choice.”

 

Hollyberry scoffed. “And while we wait, you what? Gather more lies? Spread more fog?”

 

“Possibly.” He grinned at Hollyberry. But then—he looked directly into Pure Vanilla’s eyes.

 

And the smile dimmed. Just slightly. “Or maybe, for once... you give them a chance you weren’t willing to give me.”

 

A beat. A silence.

 

Dark Cacao’s grip on his sword remained steady, unmoving. White Lily’s eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. But Pure Vanilla… He didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the others. Then at the battlefield. Then back up at Shadow Milk.

 

His voice was quiet, nearly lost in the wind. “…And what happens after those three days?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t blink. Just whisper, “Then the truth decides.”

 

Pure Vanilla stood still, eyes on Shadow Milk, the staff in his hand gleaming faintly with golden light. 

 

The fog twisted around them. The knights behind him waited. The Ancients beside him held their breath—some with fists clenched, some with weapons ready.

 

But Pure Vanilla on the other hand, he only breathed. Then— “My dear friends…”  His voice was quiet and tired.  The kind of tired that comes from centuries of hope and heartbreak tangled together.

 

He turned slightly, just enough to glance at the other Ancients. “I feel your doubt. I share your fear.”

He paused for a moment and took a short breath. “But I also know what it means to choose war too quickly. And regret it for lifetimes.”

 

Golden Cheese scoffed under her breath, but didn’t speak. Hollyberry frowned, but didn’t interrupt. Dark Cacao said nothing—stone-still.

 

“We stand on the edge of a battlefield shaped by lies,” Pure Vanilla said, louder now. “And yes… the creature before us has worn many faces. Built illusions. Bent the truth until it bled.”

 

His eyes rose to Shadow Milk once more. “But not once has he asked for time.”

 

Silence fell again. Wind cutting through the stillness like a blade.

 

 Pure Vanilla nodded, slowly. “You will have your three days.”

 

Behind him, Dark Cacao muttered, “Mercy will get us killed.”

 

Pure Vanilla didn’t turn. “Maybe. Or maybe it will save someone not yet beyond saving.”

 

He looked at Shadow Milk. “I trust nothing you say. But I trust that time may show us what battle cannot.”

 

Shadow Milk gave the faintest, most amused bow. “You always did have the worst taste in risks.”

 

Golden Cheese sighed hard. “Three days,” she grumbled. “Then I’m swinging something.”

 

Pure Vanilla smiled faintly. “Three days.”

 

And the battlefield stilled. Only for a moment. 

 

And deep in the fog—Shadow Milk’s illusion shifted. A shape began to form.

Walking through the mist. Not yet clear. But Silverbell would see it soon. And when he did—everything would change.

 

Shadow Milk hovered just a little higher, his smirk sharpening into something more deliberate—more cruel. “Oh, and before I forget—”

 He flicked his wrist, casually, like brushing dust from a book cover. “You may have noticed the other Beasts aren’t here.”

 

The Ancients tensed—each in their own way.

 

“Yes, yes, very observant of you,” he continued. “They won’t be joining us today. They’re on… vacation.”

 

Golden Cheese groaned, “You’re joking.”

 

“Unfortunately for you,” he said, tone suddenly chilled, “she’s not.”

 

That made even Hollyberry’s brow tighten. Shadow Milk’s grin widened, darker now.

 

“Dark Enchantress Cookie is already en route. Her army is real. Her wrath? Even more so.” He twirled midair, shadows curling around him. “So while you waste your energy doubting me—she’ll be the one bringing this stage to fire.”

 

A beat passed. His eyes locked on Pure Vanilla’s one last time. “Good luck holding your lines, Nilly. Try not to die before the truth gets interesting.”

 

And with that—He vanished. A bloom of shadows exploded where he stood, spiraling upward into the clouds like a swallowed star.

 

Gone. Leaving behind silence—and a battlefield far more fragile than it had seemed moments ago.

 

The shadows had only just finished curling from where Shadow Milk vanished when the tension finally snapped.

 

Golden Cheese was the first to speak. “You just let him go ?”  Her voice rose, incredulous.  “After all that? The lies, the fog, the smug floating?”

 

Hollyberry Cookie crossed her arms, jaw tight. “You’ve always believed in second chances, Vanilla… but three days? With her out there?” She jerked a thumb toward the distant horizon.  “Dark Enchantress won’t wait. She won’t negotiate. She is after our Soul Jams!”

 

Dark Cacao remained still, but his silence was louder now. Heavy.

 

Pure Vanilla stood quiet for a moment, bracing against the weight of their words. He didn’t speak yet. Maybe because he knew there was no right answer.

 

But White Lily Cookie was no longer listening to them. She had turned away from the conversation entirely, eyes scanning the ridgeline, then the grass below. Her brows had drawn together—just slightly. But in someone as composed as her, it was telling.

 

Then her voice came, soft but clear. “…Where are they?”

 

The others paused.

 

“What?” Golden Cheese asked.

 

White Lily turned fully now, gaze focused—sharpened. “Some of the Silver Tree Knights are gone.”

 

Hollyberry’s head snapped around. “What do you mean gone ?”

 

White Lily didn’t answer immediately. She took a few steps forward, cloak whispering over the grass. “They were here a moment ago. I counted them myself.”

 A pause.

 “Now I don’t sense their presence at all.”

 

Golden Cheese squinted at the far lines of the Silver Tree formation. “Could they have been… pulled into the illusion?”

 

“No.”  White Lily’s voice dropped.  “I would still feel their magic.”

 

That silenced everyone.

 

Pure Vanilla turned toward her, the weight of it hitting fast. “How many?”

 

She hesitated—then answered with precision. “Around twenty. All from the southern line.”

 

Dark Cacao finally spoke. “Shadow Milk didn’t just stall us. He peeled us apart.”

 

The wind picked up again, distant thunder murmuring behind the horizon where Dark Enchantress Cookie would soon appear.

 

And White Lily’s voice was quiet as a falling petal when she said— “Then this is not just a trap.”

The battlefield was gone.

 

Silverbell blinked—and the world changed. No clamor. No mist. No Silver Tree behind him. Just silence. The kind that pressed too tight against the ears.

 

The sky above was pale and soft, but empty. The grass beneath his boots didn’t move, even when the wind passed through it. And around him, the knights who had stood beside him moments ago now shifted uneasily—confused. Weapons drawn but lowered. Voices rising in uncertain murmurs.

 

“Where are we?” one whispered.

“This isn’t the field—”

 

Mercurial Knight stepped beside Silverbell, bow already in his grip, his face hardening fast. “This isn’t a battlefield,” he said. “It’s a stage. You better prepare yourselves.”

 

Silverbell exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his bow. “An illusion.”

 

A sharp hum echoed low in the air, like the sound of a string being pulled taut. And then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Approaching through the false stillness like a ripple in a painted sea.

 

Silverbell turned—every muscle tense, every instinct flaring.

 

A figure emerged from the light-fog ahead. Clad in black. Eyes unreadable beneath a fractured mask. Boots silent against the ground that didn’t truly exist. Cloak stirring without wind. Familiar and not.

 

Black Sapphire. But not the way he remembered him. No warmth. He is like a reflection in a broken mirror, walking.

 

The knights around Silverbell raised their weapons.

 

“Stand down,” Mercurial said, low and sharp. “Let him come.”

 

But Silverbell didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His heart thudded hard in his chest, and something inside him cracked wide open. Because the eyes—those greyish-purple orbs—looked at him… But didn’t see him. And that was worse than any blade and arrow.

 

The figure stepped fully into view, and the illusion’s false sunlight caught on his armor—dull black, trimmed in silver thread that shimmered only when the light wanted it to. His wings were drawn close to his back, rigid and unreadable. He is walking with precision.

 

Then—He raised the microphone staff. The eye-shaped head blinked once—then glowed with a dull, eerie light.

 

And Black Sapphire spoke. “Welcome, Silver Tree Knights,” he said, voice devoid of anything but clarity. Just a cold delivery. “You are standing within a secured reality designed for observation and demonstration. Please remain still until the illusion completes its cycle.”

 

Silverbell’s stomach dropped.

 

That voice—It used to crack when he was annoyed. Used to drop to a whisper when he was afraid. Used to bite when he teased. Now? It didn’t sound like him. This is not him. Not his Black Sapphire.

 

“What the hell is this?” one of the knights hissed behind Silverbell.

 

Mercurial Knight was silent, but the shift in his stance said everything. Even he didn’t recognize this version of him.

 

Black Sapphire lowered the staff slowly, turning to face them—eyes focused, movements exact.

 

And that’s when it hit Silverbell—The last time he had seen those eyes—during their battle at Mirror Lake—there had been chaos in them. Fear. Anger. Mercy. Even regret and love. However in this very moment…there was nothing. The absence was so loud it made Silverbell’s breath catch in his throat.

 

This wasn’t silence. This was erasure.

 

Black Sapphire spoke again. “Your opponent will demonstrate predetermined spell rotations. Deflection is allowed. Disruption will result in reset.”

 

Mercurial muttered under his breath, “Reset?”

 

But Silverbell didn’t move. He stared at the one person he’d been trying to find. Trying to save. And found only an empty mask wearing his name.

 

Silverbell took one step forward—barely breathing—as Black Sapphire raised the staff again.

 

Then—everything paused. The world around him stuttered, glitched. The sound dulled. The light froze like a painting left in the rain. And from the space between seconds, Shadow Milk stepped out.

 

Right in front of him. Smiling like a god who just interrupted his own performance.

 

Silverbell gasped, reflexively drawing an arrow—But no one around him reacted. Mercurial. The knights. Black Sapphire.

 

They didn’t see him. Didn’t hear him. Only Silverbell could.

 

Shadow Milk waved lazily, unfazed by the tension in Silverbell’s jaw. “Well well well, look at you—stormy eyes, radiant posture, hero energy turned up to eleven— you must be pissed. ”

 

Silverbell didn’t lower the bow. His voice came sharp. Cracked. “Did you do this? Do you really hate me that much?”

 

Shadow Milk blinked. “Excuse me?”

 

“Was your ‘approval’ fake all along? Was this your plan? Break him and make me watch?”

 

For once, Shadow Milk looked genuinely offended. He threw a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Woah—WOAH! How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”

 

He cleared his throat with a dramatic cough. “Buddy. Pal. Darling archer of emotional collapse—do you really think I’d do that to Sapphire?”

 

Silverbell’s glare didn’t waver.

 

Shadow Milk dropped the act—for just a second. His smirk faded, eyes darkening. “That’s not me.” He looked away. “That’s her doing . ”

 

Silverbell’s breath hitched.

 

Shadow Milk stepped closer, voice lower now. “Listen kid. I didn’t break him. She did. Dark Enchantress Cookie got to him first. Found him in an alley, twisted his doubt, used a spell I didn’t teach back in my days of “pre-corruption” if that’s how to call it. So don’t point your little fingers at ME!”

He took a deep breath “But… I tried to undo it.”

 

Silverbell stared. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

 

Shadow Milk gave a bitter laugh. “OH! AHA! Probably because I’m the Beast of Deceit. When I do tell the truth, no one listens. No listens to me anymore. ”

 

A pause. The illusion around them pulsed, the frozen moment twitching. Shadow Milk looked him dead in the eyes. “But I trust you and you’re the only one who can bring him back.”

 

Silverbell’s jaw clenched. “…How?”

 

Shadow Milk raised one hand, and a faint light—barely visible—glowed between his fingers. A spell. “I will weave it into your presence during the battlefield. It’s tied to your memory of him. All you have to do…”

 He stepped back, fading slightly.  “…is reach him. And when you do, the spell will activate, but hurry.” He looked at Black Sapphire—paused. “Because the more he performs… the more of him disappears.”

 

And then— He was gone. The illusion snapped forward again. And Black Sapphire raised the staff once more— And pointed it directly at Silverbell. Bolts of shadow magic tore through the illusion-warped air, crashing into the false ground with blistering speed. Silverbell dodged left, rolled, scrambled up and leapt again—barely clearing the next arc of crystal-laced energy that slammed down where he’d just been.

 

He couldn’t breathe, because of him. Because Black Sapphire moved like a ghost weapon—elegant, exact, heartless. Every strike came with the precision of someone who wasn’t holding back. Not anymore.

 

Silverbell ducked behind a shimmering column of fake stone, breath ragged. “They’re too sharp,” he whispered under his breath, teeth clenched. “He’s never aimed like this—not even at Mirror Lake.”

 

Another blast hit the stone beside him and shattered it. He tumbled forward, drawing his bow, not to attack—but just to move, to dodge, to survive. “Looks like I can’t kiss him out of this one,” he muttered, voice brittle.

“He’d probably shove me into a tree and crumble me.”

 

Another strike came. He flinched—but didn’t feel it. Because Mercurial Knight was suddenly there, blade in motion. He deflected the blast with a fierce parry, the spell scattering against his shield in a burst of blue flame.

 

“Silverbell, focus!” he barked. “You can’t outrun this forever—what’s the plan?”

 

Silverbell barely heard him. He stared at Black Sapphire across the battlefield—calm, cold, preparing another volley. And all he could whisper was—“How do I reach someone who’s not looking?”

 

Because this wasn’t Sapphire dodging feelings with sarcasm. This wasn’t Sapphire biting back emotion with tired smirks and mumbling something under his breath. This was nothing. And that scared Silverbell more than anything else.

 

Another spell burned toward them.

 

Silverbell spun behind Mercurial and shouted—“Block again—I have to try something!”

 

Silverbell barely had time to duck before another volley of shards shattered across the false terrain, throwing sparks and light into the air.

 

The attacks were faster now. Meaner and cruel. Across the field, Black Sapphire raised his staff again, and the eye embedded in its head glowed with sharp, prying light.

 

But before the next strike—he spoke.

 

And this time, his voice wasn't cold. It was commanding. Laced with the kind of anger that sounded righteous.

 

“Silver Tree Knights—look at yourselves.” The words hit the air like a drumbeat, reverberating. “You follow a Queen who hides the truth behind flowers.”

 

Another blast erupted, aimed high—forcing Mercurial to shield Silverbell again.

 

“You chain what you fear. You exile what you don’t understand. And now you call it mercy?” His voice rose, smooth but coiled tight with venom. “You didn’t protect me. You humiliated me. You laughed while I bled—”

 

One of the knights behind Silverbell shouted, “That wasn’t us! That’s not who we—”

 

But Black Sapphire didn’t stop. “You think words fix what you broke? You think pity rewrites truth?”

 

Another bolt of magic crashed into the earth, searing a deep trench across the fake battlefield. The illusion shimmered from the force of it—glitching slightly. But it held.

 

And so did he.

 

“This is your lesson. You don’t get to choose what pain deserves forgiveness.” The words weren’t just weapons. They were spells—the magic laced in his voice now, not just in the staff.

 

A deceit spell. Spoken truth bent sideways. A performance so powerful that even the knights around Silverbell hesitated.

 

Because some part of it—Some small, awful part—Sounded true. Silverbell’s breath caught in his throat.

 

And every word Black Sapphire spoke gave him another chance to strike. And with the next sentence—He did. The air trembled as Black Sapphire lowered his staff—And pointed it directly at Mercurial Knight.

 

“You trained them to follow. Now watch them fall because of it.” The staff’s eye flared, pulsing with violent magic. A ring of violet light exploded outward like a shockwave.

 

Silverbell shouted—“Mercurial Knight!”

 

But it was too late.

 

Mercurial Knight moved to strike—A clean slash aimed to disrupt the illusion. His blade cut the air with righteous force, humming with light-enhanced edge.

 

But the moment it passed through the magic—it fractured his intent. The spell warped around him like smoke made of mirrors, dragging doubt to the surface like rust.

 

He staggered mid-swing—his entire weight buckling. His arms lowered involuntarily. “What—”

 

The voice of Black Sapphire hit again. Sharper this time. “You always said strength was clarity.”

 

The next blast struck Mercurial Knight square in the chest, magic bursting against his breastplate and knocking him clean off his feet. He crashed into the illusion’s warped stone, skidding across the fake earth as if thrown by an unseen giant.

 

“Mercurial!” Silverbell screamed, rushing toward him—but another bolt cut through the space between them, driving him back.

 

Black Sapphire walked forward now. Slow. Calm. But his voice—It cracked like a whip. “You taught them to fight. But never to question. Now they hesitate—and I strike.”

 

And he did. Another spell. Another crash of light. Another crack in the illusion.

 

Silverbell dropped to one knee, shielding his face from the force. His heart screamed—but his mouth was dry. This wasn’t just a battle, but this is so much worse. And if he didn’t stop it now—There would be nothing left of Black Sapphire when it was over.

 

The world cracked again—this time, not from a spell. But from clarity. A shimmer rippled across the illusion like water breaking under pressure.

 

One of the knights to Silverbell’s left staggered back, blinking rapidly. “This isn’t real…” she muttered. “I… I remember. This isn’t—”

 

Another followed. Then two more. They looked around at the terrain—the sky too perfect, the wind too silent. They started to step away, toward the edge of the false field.

 

And then—

 

Black Sapphire turned—-his eyes locking onto them. The glow in the staff pulsed dark again. “Oh? Leaving the lesson early?” he said—calm, flat, razor-sharp. His voice struck them like a whip. “You still think running makes you right?” The staff rose.

 

Silverbell yelled—“No— don’t! ”

 

But the spell was already cast. 

 

Chains of magic snapped out like smoke-twined serpents, slamming into the ground in front of the retreating knights, wrapping around their ankles like claws. The illusion thickened around them—pulling them back in.

 

“You don’t get to escape the truth,” Black Sapphire said, voice growing sharper.
“You don’t get to forget what you’ve done.”

 

One of the knights fell to their knees, gripping their head as the magic coiled through their mind—twisting guilt into hallucination.

 

This wasn’t just punishment. This was a spell of re-infection. The truth twisted into a blade, then turned inward. And all the while, Black Sapphire remained composed. Mechanical. Wrong.

 

Silverbell stared—heart pounding. He’s not choosing this. He’s not choosing this. He grabbed for an arrow—It pulsed in his grip. Faint light. Warm. Real.

 

Spells cracked through false stone, light flashing like lightning with no thunder. Silverbell ducked under another strike, this one so close it singed the edge of his cloak. He rolled across the fractured ground, came up on one knee, and loosed an arrow—not at Black Sapphire’s head, but at his feet.

 

A warning. It deflected off a wall of shadow magic, harmless.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t even blink. He was already stepping forward again, staff crackling in his hand, eyes locked. Expression still hollow.

 

Silverbell’s voice cracked as he raised his own again— “I want you back. I need you back” His feet shifted into stance, heart hammering, voice shaking. “Please.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t slow. Didn’t waver. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

 

The words hit harder than any spell. Silverbell flinched like he’d been cut.

 

Another bolt came—he deflected it barely, the force sending him stumbling back.

 

“You don’t believe that,” he growled, steadying himself.

 

“You don’t get to forget the silverbell seeds you planted—”

 

“I burned them.”

 

Silverbell froze.

 

Black Sapphire advanced. “I don’t want to remember anything.”

 

“Liar,” Silverbell whispered.

 

They clashed again—this time closer.

 

Sapphire moved with sharp, precise strikes. Not brutal in form—but in purpose. Every swing of the staff wasn’t meant to kill. It was meant to wear him down. To silence him.

 

Silverbell caught the staff on the curve of his bow, pushed it wide, and shoved Sapphire back.

 

“You danced with me.”

 

“You laughed with me.”

 

“You made me tea with too much lemon and lied about liking mine back—”

 

Sapphire struck again, eyes narrowing. Their weapons met in a hard clang of magical force, bow and staff locking tight.

 

They were inches apart now.

 

Silverbell stared into his eyes—searching. Begging. “You told me you missed me.”

 

“Don’t you dare tell me that wasn’t real. And don’t you ever dare tell me what we had wasn’t real.”

 

A pause.

 

Sapphire’s jaw twitched. But his voice was still cold. “That was a weakness. And I’m not weak anymore.”

 

Silverbell shoved him back with everything he had, screamed through his teeth—“Then why do your hands still shake when you aim at me?”

 

And for a split second—Black Sapphire faltered. Just one breath and one moment.

 

And Silverbell saw it: The tiniest flicker. Of something trying to push through with shaking hands, Silverbell raised it—and fired.

 

Silverbell froze in place, breath sharp, pulse roaring in his ears. The space between them buzzed with unspent magic, every hair on his skin standing from the static.

 

But that moment—That flicker in Black Sapphire’s hands—his posture—his eyes—It was there. It was real.

 

Silverbell stepped forward again, voice low, shaking but steadying. “You’re still in there. I know you are.”

 

He lowered his bow just slightly. “Because you hesitated. You never miss, but you’re holding back.”

 

Sapphire didn’t blink. For a second, it was like he was listening.nLike something underneath the silence was trying to speak.

 

But then—His voice came out colder than before.nA blade dipped in ice and pride. “Don’t use your small talk on me.”

 

Silverbell flinched like he’d been struck. He opened his mouth—but no words came.

 

Sapphire raised the staff again. “We’re not dancing under stars anymore. This is war. And you don’t belong in my memories.”

 

The air snapped with power as another spell built in his palm. And this time, it was meant to end it.

 

The air thickened again as the spell launched.

 

Silverbell dove, barely rolling to the side as the blast tore through the illusory stone where he'd just been. It didn’t just graze—it cut with intent. Calculated.

 

He’s reading me, Silverbell realized.

 

His heart hammered as he sprang to his feet, already shifting to a new stance, but the truth crept in fast and sharp: He knows my rhythm. My counters. My footwork.

 

Every dodge he made, Sapphire was already adjusting. Every draw of the bow, the staff was already moving.

 

And worst of all—He is winning.

 

Another blast shot forward, curved at an angle no normal caster would try. It clipped Silverbell’s side, sent him skidding hard across the field.

 

 He gritted his teeth, coughing. “Damn it—”

 

Then—the sound of armor. Boots pounding. Blades unsheathed. The knights had broken through.

 

The group of Silver Tree Knights charged, yelling as they descended on the illusion—some to flank, others to shield their commander.

 

“Protect Silverbell!” one shouted. “Take him down—FAST!”

 

But Silverbell’s heart dropped. “No— wait! Don’t—”

 

Too late.

 

Sapphire turned with mechanical precision, his stance shifting smoothly into counter-position. Like he'd already calculated the angles of their attack before they moved.

 

He wasn’t defending himself. He was leading the fight. He knew how they’d strike. The first two knights came in fast—blades raised.

 

But Sapphire spun low, swept one off their feet with the butt of his staff, twisted, and launched a binding spell that snared the other in mid-air, locking them in place.

 

Another three followed— “Don’t hurt him!” Silverbell shouted, stumbling forward.

 

But Sapphire struck again. Methodical. Controlled. Remorseless. Efficiency.

 

And that was the worst part.

 

The man Silverbell loved had always fought like a poet—flawed, expressive, tired but trying. This? This was an instrument.

 

One knight fell hard. Another backed off, terrified.

 

Silverbell’s voice broke. “STOP!”

 

Black Sapphire paused again. Staff still raised. But his grip trembled. Everything halted for a breath. A flicker in the air. A subtle glitch in the staff’s glow.

 

Black Sapphire stood in the center of the chaos, surrounded by disarmed knights, magic residue crackling at his fingertips.

 

Still as a statue. But something in his face—shifted. He blinked. And when he opened his eyes again—

 

One of them wasn’t his.

 

The left eye was still the dull, moonlit purple that Silverbell knew.

 

But the right? It gleamed with the color of his staff. Multifaceted. Unnatural.

 

Sickly beautiful in the way only corrupted things ever were. It pulsed faintly. A lens. A lens watching. Not seeing.

 

Silverbell froze. “Sapphire…”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw clenched, his breath catching sharp in his throat—-he seemed unsure. Like some part of him was trying to move against itself.

 

His hand—still clutching the staff—twitched, as though tempted to let go. And then—he closed his eyes. Tight. Like something inside him hurt.

 

Like two voices screamed over each other and he didn’t know which to obey.

 

The magic around him began to fracture. Little sparks arcing off the head of the staff like wild static. His cloak rippled without wind.

 

The illusion trembled under their feet.

 

“You’re fighting it,” Silverbell whispered. “I see you. Please, just let me—”

 

Black Sapphire opened his eyes again. The wrong one still glowed. But it looked… tired. He moved like a storm given shape. His staff spun in wide, cutting arcs, leaving trails of shimmering magic behind it—no longer elegant, but deadly. There was no hesitation now.

Both eyes glowed this time. Twin reflections of raw, chaotic magic. One the cold glint of his staff, the other pulsing brighter with every spell unleashed.

 

The Silver Tree Knights fought back—but it was like trying to fight fire with thread.

 

Mercurial Knight led the charge, stepping in again with his blade glowing from runic light, parrying two of Sapphire’s brutal strikes in quick succession. “Snap out of it, damn you!” he snarled, forcing a counterspin.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t reply. He just twisted the staff, slid under Mercurial’s next attack, and slammed a bolt of force directly into his gut, sending the commander flying.

 

Blood hit the stone.

 

Silverbell screamed—“Mercurial Knight!”

 

More knights rushed in—but the air exploded with magic as Black Sapphire unleashed a spiral barrage, glyphs appearing midair and detonating in staggered bursts. Two knights fell. Another screamed as a spell burned straight across their shoulder, armor searing red-hot.

 

Silverbell barely had time to get to cover.

 He ducked behind shattered terrain—and that’s when he saw them. Paper knights. At first, they looked like mirages—flat, flickering shapes on the edge of the illusion.

 

Then they solidified. Shadow Milk’s trickery. Dozens of them, unfolding like pages ripped from a spellbook, joining the Silver Tree Knights. They didn’t speak. But they fought. With eerie, perfect synchronicity.

 

They dove between Sapphire’s attacks, buying seconds, shielding wounded knights, striking in beautiful, uncanny bursts.

 

Silverbell knew immediately. “Shadow Milk,” he muttered. “This must be you, isn't it? This… is actually helpful.”

 

But even with the numbers tilted, Black Sapphire wouldn’t stop. He carved through the illusions like he was born to destroy them. Because he was passionate about magic. And twisted or not—that part hadn’t changed. He wielded power with fury and focus, a terrifying, singular intensity.

 

One of the real knights screamed behind Silverbell—dragged down by a binding spell and struck hard in the ribs. There was blood on the stones now. Too much.

 

Silverbell’s breath hitched, heart hammering. He had to act. And fast. The battlefield didn’t roar now—it breathed. Every sound faded under the weight of footsteps. Controlled. Deliberate. His.

 

Black Sapphire walked forward. Each step was slow. Grounded.

 

Unshaken by the wreckage around them—by the blood, by the blades, by the magic hanging scorched in the air.

 

Silverbell stood frozen in the center of the chaos, the scream still stuck in his throat, the world narrowing to the figure moving toward him. He didn’t run. He didn’t even reach for his bow. Because the glow in both of Sapphire’s eyes was still there. Bright. Controlled. Dead wrong. And yet— It was still him . A distorted echo of someone he loved with every fiber of his breaking heart.

 

The glow from the staff shimmered again, casting deep shadows across Sapphire’s face. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper—but it cut straight to the marrow. “Do not resist.”

 

Silverbell’s chest tightened. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Because this wasn’t rage. This wasn’t a trickster. It was silence. A cold silence. And it wore his lover’s shape like a perfectly tailored lie.

 

Black Sapphire stopped only a few steps away. So close Silverbell could see the pulse at his temple, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly where they gripped the staff. That hesitation again. Buried. But there.

 

The voice came again, quiet and final: “This will be your last warning.”

 

Silverbell’s hands trembled. For the first time in a battle. Silverbell’s boot scraped softly against the stone as he stepped back.

 

Black Sapphire’s eyes snapped sharper. The glow in them pulsed like heat lightning under his skin. And then—his voice, smooth and frigid, mocked.

 

“Oh?” His head tilted, just a fraction. “What’s wrong?” He took a step forward, mirroring Silverbell’s retreat. “Can’t talk, knight?” His voice dipped lower. Not cruel. But piercing. Like a needle in the ribs wrapped in silk. “Well. That’s what I thought.”

 

Silverbell’s breath caught. His fingers twitched—but didn’t lift his bow. He didn’t want to raise it. Not at him. He wasn’t even sure if he could. Not when every word was a dagger that didn’t come from hatred—but from something far more dangerous. Absence. He forced himself to speak. “You never talked like that.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked—just once. Barely perceptible. But it was there. A hesitation in the mask. A flicker in the facade. Silverbell pressed forward—not with his body, but with his voice. “Even when you hated yourself, you never talked like that.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. But his fingers curled tighter around the staff. A crack formed in the illusionary ground beneath them.

 

Silverbell’s eyes didn’t leave his. “You’re not gone. You’re buried .”

 

Another heartbeat passed. Black Sapphire didn’t strike. Not yet. And for Silverbell— That was hope. Even if it hurts like hell.

 

A sharp breath of silence—Then a bitter laugh. It escaped from Black Sapphire’s lips like smoke slipping through a crack in the wall. It was the kind of laugh that didn’t come from joy or mockery. It came from somewhere more hollow .

 

“You really think I’m still in there.” He raised the staff slowly—no rush. Like this was just the end of a conversation that had long since soured.

The glowing eye at the tip locked onto Silverbell. “You’re pathetic .” His voice didn’t shake.

 

But Silverbell noticed the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The way his fingers flexed twice instead of once on the grip. Like somewhere in him, something was shaking for him. 

 

Still—Black Sapphire pointed the staff directly at Silverbell’s heart. The magic gathered fast—condensing in a hot, blinding surge.

And Silverbell? Didn’t move. He stared back. Eyes bright. Terrified. Defiant. “Then strike me,” he whispered. “If I’m wrong—if you’re really not there anymore—then do it.”

 

The air buzzed with charge. Light swirled violently in the staff’s eye. And Black Sapphire—Still didn’t cast it. His hand trembled. His breath hitched. And in that instant— something cracked.

 

“ SCREW YOU .” 

 

Black Sapphire’s voice snapped like thunder across the field. And the spell hit. A blast of raw, focused magic—pitched with fury, not dispassion. It was emotional. It screamed everything his blank face refused to show. It should have hit.

But—It didn’t. The air shimmered— And a sudden veil of shifting shadows burst up in front of Silverbell, catching the blow with a concussive shockwave. He stumbled backward, shielded, smoke curling at his boots.

 

From the smoke, a voice sighed dramatically. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Faerie Boy.”

 

Silverbell gasped.

 

Shadow Milk stepped out of the haze like a stage actor late for his scene. Arms crossed, robes drifting, clearly unimpressed. “If you want to reach him, don’t risk yourself like some tragic novel hero.”

 

He waved a hand lazily. “Ugh. Love. It’s always so... explosive. Bleh.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes burned. “You said I had to reach him— you said—”

 

Shadow Milk raised a finger. “Yes, yes, reach him, not get obliterated in the process. Duh!” He sighed again, flicking ash from his sleeve. “I can’t snap him out of it, but I can buy you a sliver of time. That spell of mine was laced into your heartbeat, remember?”

He pointed toward Black Sapphire, who stood frozen—as if the force of his own strike had stunned him, even through the spell. “Now go. Speak. Do your thing. Say something sappy.” Then he smirked faintly. “I’ll keep the knife-wielding poetry machine from disintegrating the rest of the audience.”

 

Silverbell, breath shaking, stared at him. Then nodded once. And stepped forward—again. Toward the man he loved.

 

One last chance. The moment the shadowy shield fell, Black Sapphire’s eyes blazed brighter. The hesitation was gone. What replaced it was worse. Raw, explosive fury. Magic flooded the air, his staff sparking with arcs of unstable power. And he charged with fury burning through his eyes.

 

Silverbell barely had time to raise his arms when the first burst struck—but Mercurial Knight was faster. He surged in from the side, blade raised, intercepting the hit mid-air with a flash of burning light.

 

The spell collided. Exploded.

 

Mercurial screamed as the force ripped through his defenses, shattering the edge of his guard and hurling him backward.

 

He hit the ground hard, skidding through broken illusion.

 

“Mercurial!” Silverbell cried out, rushing forward, but another strike forced him to duck low, debris blasting past his face.

 

Black Sapphire was relentless now. One step after another. Eyes wild with magic. Every spell is faster, sharper than before.

 

Silverbell stumbled backward, arms up to block the sparks raining down. “Sapphire—please—stop—”

But he couldn’t hear him or maybe wouldn’t. A glyph formed at the tip of his staff, glowing crimson and purple. He hurled it forward.

 

Silverbell dodged, breath catching, diving behind a paper knight that shattered like glass under the force of the blast. “Damn it,” he panted. “He’s not even fighting like himself anymore—” Another crash of magic to his left.

 

The paper knights were holding the line, barely, but the real ones were wounded—scattered.

 

And Black Sapphire was coming straight for him again.

 

 Silverbell’s heart hammered but he didn’t run, he wanted to show him that he would stay with him. No matter what happens. He stepped forward—right into the heart of the storm.

 

Magic flared around him, pulsing off shattered illusions and twisted glyphs, but he didn’t stop. His voice—tight, hoarse—cut through the chaos like a blade. 

 

“Tell me!” he shouted.

 

Black Sapphire was still advancing, staff raised, eyes glowing like twin embers.

 

“Do you really want me?” Silverbell yelled. “Do you—do you love me?! ”

 

No answer.

Just another step forward. Another surge of spellfire crackling at Sapphire’s fingertips.

But Silverbell’s voice didn’t break. It rose. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it!”

 

He dropped his bow—not by accident. Deliberately. It clattered to the ground between them. “It never felt like it! You push me away, you lie, and then— then —you come back just long enough to make me hope! ”

Another bolt shot toward him—he ducked, spun, kept talking, refused to stop. “Why?! Why do I have to keep chasing you like some fool?!” He took a step forward now—matching the force of the moment with everything in him. “Every single time I get close, you run.”

His voice cracked, but he kept going. “It was always me that stayed. It was always me that waited.”

His fists clenched at his sides, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “And I would do it all again—gods help me, I would— but I need to know it’s not just me bleeding for this.”

 

He was standing right in front of Black Sapphire now.

 

No weapon in hand to attack him nor a shield to protect himself. Just pure truth. “I need to know it was real.”

And for that time—Black Sapphire didn’t strike. The world around them had gone dead quiet . The paper knights stood still, watching. The real ones, wounded and exhausted, held their breath from a distance. Even Shadow Milk, now crouched on a fragment of stone nearby, didn’t speak—just watched.

 

Black Sapphire’s hands were shaking. The glow in his eyes—once stable, once terrifying—flickered. Like candlelight caught in a storm. Like something old trying to fight its way to the surface.

 

“Stop this.” His voice was sharper than before, but it wasn’t as hollow. It cracked at the edge. It felt like his again. Just barely. But the words were still wrong.

 

“I know what you’re doing,” he said, and his staff twitched in his grip like it didn’t know whether to rise or fall. “This is another trick. Another weakness. You're trying to shake me from my loyalty.”

 

Silverbell’s breath hitched. Because even now—even through all this—he was clinging to loyalty. “You’re loyal to Shadow Milk.”

 

“I’m loyal to purpose,” Black Sapphire replied flatly. “Loyal to who saved me. Gave me structure. Gave me truth. ”

 

His voice was louder now, firmer— but his eyes kept flickering. One was the unnatural magic hue. The other? It is his. Gray. Familiar. Scared.

Silverbell stepped forward again, voice quiet but unshaking. “Shadow Milk didn’t make you plant flowers. He didn’t make you dance with me. He didn’t make you whisper my name in the dark like it meant something.”

 

Black Sapphire flinched again. The staff dipped. The magic around him began to ripple.

 

Silverbell’s voice lowered—gentler now. Raw. “You’re not a weapon. You’re not a servant. You’re Black Sapphire Cookie.”

A pause. “And you love me.”

 

The wind stilled.

 

Black Sapphire’s entire frame shuddered. He took a step back. Just one. But it was enough to shift the atmosphere entirely. “Stop pretending this is about me,” he snapped. “You want to save me because it makes you feel strong.”

 

Silverbell flinched. But his eyes stayed locked on him. “No. I want to save you because I know who you are.”

 

“Who I was. That version of me was soft. Stupid.” The staff flared in his grip, shadows spiraling at his boots like hungry ink. “Loyalty matters. Purpose matters.”

He pointed it at Silverbell again—but this time, there was emotion behind it. Real fury. Maybe fear. “You think love fixes that? You think all it takes is a few good memories and some soft words to undo everything I was trained for?”

 

Silverbell’s voice rose with him, heart pounding. “I think you’re scared. I think you’re tired of being someone else’s idea of loyal. I think you hate what they turned you into, and you’ve been waiting for someone to pull you back out!”

 

The storm of magic that surged around Sapphire was immediate. Violent. The staff ignited— glyphs spiraling around the head, a full incantation blooming with wild, unstable force.

It was the spell he wasn’t supposed to use. His final weapon. The one that would tear this entire illusion apart— and Silverbell with it. Black Sapphire’s voice shook as he shouted: “You never understood me and you never will.”

 

Silverbell stared up at him and whispered— “I did. That’s why I stayed.”

 

And then—a snap of air. A shimmer beside him. Shadow Milk appeared again just long enough to toss something low to the ground. An arrow, woven from Silverbell’s heart. 

 

“One arrow, Faerie Boy.” His voice was grim now. “Make it count.” Shadow Milk wishes—hoping for the spell to work, its been a long time since he used this knowledge of his. 

The enchanted arrow pulsed faintly with silvery-blue light—a memory spell. Ancient. Dangerous. Made just for this.

 

Silverbell caught it.

 

The glow from Black Sapphire’s staff exploded into full form—a vortex of violet magic rising behind him.

 

Silverbell didn’t hesitate. He nocked the arrow and took aim. And whispered— “Come back to me.” He released his shot. The arrow tore through the air—straight into the heart of Black Sapphire’s magic.

 

Just as the spell fired. The collision cracked like thunder. Both light and memory and fury all collided at once. The staff’s blast stuttered—glitched—then bent. Magic snapped outward in a wild burst, scattering in shards of illusion and broken sound.

 

And in the center of the battlefield—Black Sapphire screamed.

 

Silverbell fell. The blast struck before the arrow could fully finish its work.

 

He dropped mid-step—thrown backwards like a ragdoll, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. His bow clattered beside him, the enchanted arrow successfully shot Black Sapphire.

 

He didn’t move, he couldn’t.

 

Just lay there, breathing shallow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Silverbell’s dough is slowly going numb.

 

“SILVERBELL!” Mercurial Knight’s scream cut through the battlefield like a blade, raw and gutting. He ran—no grace, no form—just desperation.

 

 But before he could reach him—Black Sapphire dropped to his knees. Jam dripping from his chest due to the enchanted arrow. His staff hit the ground beside him, forgotten. 

 

His hands went to his head—pulling at his hair, clutching his skull like he could scrape out the magic by force. “No no no—” His voice cracked, choked on breath. “Why—why did you stand there?”

 

His eyes flickered madly now, one glowing, one not. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had struck him. He had hurt him. He had screamed that he was gone—And Silverbell stayed anyway.

 

“I– I’m sorry. I hurt you again...” Black Sapphire whispered under his breath. 

Notes:

Two endings are coming up,

I want you guys to prepare bc

one can be bad, one can be worse; one can be good, one can be bad; one can be good, one can be better

so? which is which? also i am planning to write another crk fanfic after this aaaa, just let me finish my exams for next next week TT

ily readers thank you for your time reading this, mashi out!

( i am fixing my posted chapters, bc i am re-reading them too and THE SPACING BOTHERS ME. WHY DID I DOUBLE SPACE????)

Chapter 24: The End. (1/2)

Notes:

hi ako'y nagpaparamdam muli- ok actually hi I'm back! Exams are over and I couldn't stop thinking about this chapter, it keeps me up at night (fr fr)

and well I'm so so tired and drained already, I took some breaks and well this is the outcome!

Black Sapphire is still shocked over Silverbell’s body dropping to the ground—weapon forgotten, his hands slowly reach for his own hair and grips it tight. His eyes are flickering as his tears are falling to his cheek. 

 

How could he do this to the person he loved? Silverbell made a lot of sacrifices for them, yet there he is lying on the ground. Unable to move properly.

 

It’s his fault. There’s no lie strong enough to bury this truth. His purpose? The Cookies he vowed to protect? The Cookie that he promised to stay with? What is all of it? It’s all slipping through his fingers—Tears drip freely now. His grip on his hair tightens, knuckles paling. He doesn’t feel like a Cookie anymore.

 

Suddenly a voice whispered to his ear— that same voice that he heard on that alleyway. “Oh no? Feeling pain I see? Seems like your master is struggling to bring you back. Worry not, I am here to help you to return to your original purpose.”

 

That voice, it's making him reach for his staff again. He shouldn’t do this, but he has no control over his own dough anymore. His sole purpose is to follow those who held power before him. His fingers twitch. Against his will, they crawl toward the staff lying nearby.

 

The voice spoke again. “I got to you first, now you will destroy your own master. You see, he is also going soft. You are one of the reasons why he is doing so. So, you will help me as I helped you.” 

 

The voices rise like a storm inside his skull—layered, relentless, familiar. Eternal Sugar’s scornful hiss, Shadow Milk’s sharp commands, the murmurs of countless Cookies who once whispered behind his back or gave him orders with false smiles. They weave into one another, a chorus of blame and betrayal. 

 

"You were never enough."  

 

"Just a tool."  

 

"You failed him."  

 

"You’ll always fail."  

 

Some scream. Some mock. Some sound almost kind, which somehow hurts worse. Each one tugs at a different wound—old fears, forgotten punishments, the shame he buried beneath layers of control. They pour into him, a thousand needles pressing into his dough until he can’t tell where his thoughts end and their poison begins. The louder they get, the less he can breathe. The less he can think. 

Until only one clear message remains: You are not yours anymore.

Black Sapphire saw himself. Not as the one Silverbell once looked at with warmth nor even as the spy who twisted truths into weapons.

 

No—what stared back at him now was a monster. A hollow thing molded by the hands of others. A servant. A blade passed from one master to the next, reshaped and repurposed until nothing was left but obedience. He was made for this—wasn’t he? To follow. To break. To be used. The voices were louder now, blistering inside his head.

 

"You're nothing without orders."

"You belong to us."

"You were never real."

 

Each voice spoke—and spoke. Louder. And louder. Until they blurred into an unbearable roar. Black Sapphire clutched his head, eyes wide with panic, as if trying to block them out with his bare hands. They were relentless, a thousand poisonous tongues coiling through his thoughts, scraping at every memory he held dear.

 

"STOP! STOP IT PLEASE." he screamed. It tore from his throat raw and trembling, filled with agony and desperation. But the voices didn’t stop. They kept drilling, kept haunting, kept layering like endless echoes in a cavern with no exit. Every second they grew louder, heavier, consuming more of him. It wasn’t just noise—it was invasion.

 

"Why scream, little puppet?" sneered one voice, cruel and dry, like cracking bones.

 

"You gave us the key," whispered another, soft as silk and twice as suffocating. "You let us in."

 

"You were made for obedience," a third barked, sharp and cold, echoing the tone of former masters. "Not choice. Never choice."

 

"He trusted you," a voice echoed mournfully, sounding achingly like Silverbell’s. "And you destroyed him."

 

"You’ll never be free," the chorus of voices intoned. "Never. Not even in death."

 

More voices joined in, some old, some new—some he didn't even recognize, yet they felt familiar in the worst way. They mocked his struggles. They ridiculed every ounce of affection, every moment he dared to believe in something more than duty. The words wrapped around his thoughts like vines, choking off air, choking off hope.

 

Black Sapphire shook his head violently, fists pounding into his temples. "No. I’m not yours. I’m not—"

 

"You are ours," they replied in unison. "You always have been."

 

He dropped to his knees, breathing ragged, as the voices swirled in triumph. The ground felt miles away, the weight of the voices pressing down like gravity itself had turned against him. Each inhale scraped like broken glass in his throat. The air vibrated with their mockery, thick and poisonous, drowning his thoughts. It felt like the world was narrowing to a pinhole. His vision swam, his body trembling, caught between collapse and oblivion.

 

Somewhere in the pit of his soul, something fragile flickered—a final spark of self. But it was dim, buried beneath layers of doubt and chains forged from years of manipulation. It tried to rise, to breathe, but the pressure was unbearable.

 

He could hear Silverbell’s voice again—not the twisted echo from the chorus, but the real one, tucked away in the deepest parts of his memory. It was a whisper of a time when he felt safe. When he felt real. When love meant something more than a weakness to exploit. “You’re more than what they made you,” Silverbell had once said.

 

The memory pierced the noise for a heartbeat. He gasped. The voices shrieked in protest, their unity breaking, splintering into discordant howls. They felt it too—that defiant breath. That refusal. The ember that refused to die.

 

He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. The spark was there. Small. But present.

 

“I was never yours,” he hissed, voice hoarse but faltering.

 

The voices surged, louder than ever, devouring that moment of resistance. His pulse stuttered, the rhythm failing beneath the weight of their fury. They crowded in, suffocating, irresistible.

 

"No one ever loved you, that whole thing was a lie." one snarled.

 

"You were always empty," whispered another.

 

"Let go," they demanded. "Give in. It hurts less."

 

And in the haze of agony and doubt, Black Sapphire did.

 

He stopped fighting. Let the spark flicker out. Let their words settle deep into his core. His body slumped. His eyes lost focus. His grip on himself slipped—and the voices wrapped around him like a shroud.

His knees buckled. A dozen different masters screamed his name, warped it, shredded it until it meant nothing. Their words wrapped around his soul like chains. He clutched his head, shaking, gasping—his own thoughts drowned out. His grip on the staff tightened. The glow in his eyes flared. And somewhere, beneath the noise, something fragile began to crack.

 

"Who I am doesn’t matter anymore," Black Sapphire said, his voice hollow—flat like crushed glass. His eyes still glowed, unnaturally bright, pulsing with something not his own. He didn’t lift his head. Just stared at the ground, motionless, like he couldn’t bear to exist in his own shape.

 

He was never made for himself. Never allowed to be more than what they carved into him. He was a tool, passed from hand to hand, a reflection of others’ power and cruelty. And now, all that remained was a silent echo of what might have been.

 

From across the field, Shadow Milk Cookie’s expression twisted—not with anger, but something far rarer. Fear. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The arrow Silverbell fired—it should’ve worked. It was designed to sever the control. A spell-breaker. A precision shot aimed at the corruption threading through Black Sapphire’s dough. But instead of freedom… there was only collapse. Stillness. Obedience.

 

“No, no, no—this isn’t right,” Shadow Milk muttered, magic twitching at his fingertips. “He should’ve broken free. He should’ve come back.” But he didn’t.

Shadow Milk stepped forward, urgency replacing his usual theatrics. “Sapphire. Look at me. Please…” His voice was low, commanding—but not cruel. There was a break in it, something that betrayed more than frustration. Something like fear.

 

He took another step.

 

As soon as his foot scraped against the cracked earth near Black Sapphire’s feet, a violent pulse of dark magic erupted from the ground—unseen until struck. A shockwave of cursed energy slammed into him, flinging him back. The air cracked red. Symbols flared in the space between them, jagged, ancient, and unmistakable.

 

Shadow Milk hit the ground hard, a grunt escaping him as he rolled to one knee, eyes burning into the glowing runes now suspended in the air. “What the—?” he hissed.

 

He didn’t even need to read the markings. The magic was bitter. Possessive. Familiar in the worst way. “Dark Enchantress Cookie,” he growled.

 

She had planned this to control who could reach him. This wasn’t a shield for a victim—it was a throne for a weapon.

 

“She knew,” he muttered. “She knew I’d try to break him free.”

 

His fingers sparked with corrupted energy, slashing at the sigils with sheer force. But each strike was absorbed, swallowed by the spell. Inside the ring, Black Sapphire remained motionless. His glow intensified. His expression was blank. Haunted.

 

A shift in the air.

 

Shadows coiled at the edges of the battlefield—thick, pulsing, red like blood in firelight. They slithered upward, forming the shape of a cloak, a figure, a grin that had ruined empires.

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie emerged like a secret spoken aloud. “So it is your doing. The Beasts’ arrival… delayed. How disappointing.”

 

She walked with effortless poise, her heels clicking softly against scorched stone, her smile venomous. “You’re going soft,” she continued, circling like a vulture around a broken knight. “Was it the Faerie Kingdom that dulled your claws? Or is it just him and your other minion?”

Her gaze dropped to Black Sapphire, still kneeling, staff clenched, light flaring uncontrollably around his chest.

 

“Poor thing doesn’t even know what he is anymore. You let him feel . That’s where you failed.”

 

She was taunting him. Poking at the thing Shadow Milk kept hidden even from himself: affection. Somthing deeper. “He was one of your weaknesses,” she said.

 

“You’re using him,” Shadow Milk said through clenched teeth.

 

“Of course I am.” Her voice dripped with delight. “While you waste time nursing attachment, I move closer to what you lost—your Soul Jam. He slowed you down. Made you hesitate. And that hesitation…” She leaned in just enough. “That’s what let me in.”

 

Black Sapphire flinched. Just slightly.

 

Shadow Milk saw it and his heart cracked. “You used him…”

 

Dark Enchantress let out a low, amused hum. “You taught him to obey. I just changed the tune.”

 

“You—!” His voice ripped from his throat, broken and raw. Magic surged around him, warping the air. The ground beneath his boots split open, shadows writhing at his feet like a living curse.

 

“Hm… desperate to bring him back?” she said sweetly. “That won’t do.”

 

With a flick of her wrist, the barrier thickened. The air buzzed with the sound of grinding teeth. “You were always so proud of him. Your perfect little blade. But look at him now. Trembling. Possessed. Power with no will.” She tilted her head. “He’s not yours. He’s not even his . He belongs to no one.”

 

Shadow Milk raised his hand. Magic curled upward, cold and ancient, barely contained. “You’ll regret this.”

 

“Oh, I hope not,” she said. “Because if you break the spell—he breaks with it.”

 

The words struck like a slap. Shadow Milk’s eyes widened, his expression unraveling. “… that can’t be.” He staggered back, disbelief thick in his throat. “I wrote that spell. I designed it myself. That—” He stopped for a moment. “That wasn’t in the book.”

 

Dark Enchantress laughed, the sound low and hungry. “You think you’re the only one who can rewrite fate, Beast of Deceit?” She stepped closer, voice softening into cruelty. “You left holes. You cared too much. You trusted him. So I rewrote your spell, right where you wouldn’t look.”

 

Shadow Milk gritted his teeth, desperate to reassert control. “Lying to the Beast of Deceit? Ha. You’re bluffing.”

 

She shrugged, amused. “Then call him back.” She leaned in close. “Break the spell. Let’s see what’s left of him after.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t speak. He didn’t snarl, didn’t scream, didn’t fall into her game. Instead, he raised his hand—and the magic surged.

 

Dark tendrils laced with fractured light twisted around his fingers, pulling from deep within his core. A spell of his own design, buried in the margins of his grimoires, encoded in ink only he understood. The air snapped cold. The world seemed to hold its breath.

And in the space between heartbeats—an arrow formed. Forged from memory. From guilt. From love. The same spell he used on Silverbell arrows… but purer. Sharper. Etched with intent no lie could touch.

The glowing arrow hovered, humming with unstable power. Shadow Milk’s gaze locked on Black Sapphire—still trembling inside the barrier, caught in the storm of voices and glow and guilt.

 

“I don’t care what you twisted,” Shadow Milk growled, voice low and iron-hard. “He still has a choice.”

 

He took the shot.

 

The arrow soared through the barrier, splitting the air like lightning through silk. It struck Black Sapphire dead center in the chest—and the world went quiet.

He jerked. The glow in his eyes faltered, his limbs shuddering as if every inch of his body fought against itself. The scream he let out wasn’t rage—it was anguish. Ancient. Endless. His voice cracked like porcelain, hands flying to his head.

 

“what am I… what was I?”

 

He saw every master, every command, every moment someone claimed his purpose and bent it into their own. He was a creation passed between hands. A weapon used, discarded, used again. Even the memories he thought were his—weren’t.

 

“I’m nothing,” he whispered. “I was made for them. I was never mine.”

 

The arrow's magic pushed deeper, burning through lies, through bindings, through everything until only a raw, desperate truth remained. It cracked open something inside Black Sapphire that had been locked away for far too long. Not just obedience, but identity—his sense of self, his reason for being. There were no more commands to cling to. No masters. No guiding hand. For the first time, he stood alone—shaken, hollow, and terrifyingly aware.

 

And then—he snapped.

 

With a scream ripped from his soul, Black Sapphire surged to his feet. His hand clutched his staff not like a weapon, but like the last anchor he had left. He raised it high and drove it into the ground with all the force left in his trembling frame.

 

The earth split beneath him with a sound like the world itself breaking open. Light and dark collided in a violent roar, swallowing the air in chaotic magic. A pulse of unstable energy burst outward in all directions, the ground tearing like paper beneath divine hands. This was no spell meant to destroy others—it was one that could destroy him . A final act of defiance. A last scream in a life defined by silence.

---

 

Weakness. The one word he could describe his current state. 

That is what Silverbell is currently feeling at the moment. Due to Black Sapphire’s previous attack—it sent him flying and his own dough met the ground—struggling to get up. He slowly lifts his head and he is met with the sight of his lover trembling as he holds his staff close to his chest—breathing heavily.  

So with all his remaining strength—he crawls towards Black Sapphire desperately—he must reach him. This battle is far from over if Black Sapphire loses himself… he will lose him forever. He wouldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let go, because this is the time that he needed someone the most—the Cookie he loved is still hanging—holding on a thread.

 

His fingers, scraped raw from dragging his body forward, reached out in the dust—but it was too late. There was no shielding himself. No time. The blast took him as it took everything.

 

Shadow Milk watched in horror as the blast consumed them both. “NO!” he shouted, lunging forward—but he never made it. A cold grip closed tightly around his wrist—Dark Enchantress’s hand, impossibly fast and unyielding, locking him in place. 

 

“LET ME GO!” he roared, voice breaking with desperation, thrashing against her hold. He poured his magic into the struggle, his body shaking with a fury that could not be contained. But even as he fought her, even as he reached out with every ounce of strength left in him, she raised her other hand. A wall of purple cursed flame exploded upward, roaring into existence and slamming him back with enough force to crack the stone beneath his boots.

 

He struck the ground, barely catching himself, and lifted his head in time to see smoke rising in thick, choking coils. The magic lingered in the air like the echo of a scream. The explosion had ended—but what remained inside the crater was unknown.

 

The dust finally began to slowly settle.

 

Two bodies lay in the center.

 

Black Sapphire had collapsed, his form limp, his staff discarded, his body curled as though even in the end, he had been trying to shield someone else. Beside him, barely alive, Silverbell crawled the last few inches through torn soil and ash. Blood smeared across his face, his breath ragged and sharp.

 

His hand found Black Sapphire’s. Fingers trembling, he laced them together.

 

“Why…” Black Sapphire rasped, voice dry and broken. “I thought you were gone. I thought… I killed you.”

 

Silverbell, despite the pain crushing his chest, smiled faintly. “You didn’t. You never could.”

 

“I felt it,” Black Sapphire whispered. His voice was cracking with guilt, heavy and hollow. “That blast… I thought it was the end. I thought I’d lost you, and if I did—what was left of me?”

 

“You’re still here,” Silverbell murmured, his forehead brushing weakly against Black Sapphire’s. “And so am I.”

 

Black Sapphire shook his head slowly, tears forming in his glowing eyes. “If I hurt you… if I was the reason—then I don’t deserve to live. I’d rather go without you.”

 

“Please don’t say that, dear. I won’t ever leave you,” Silverbell breathed, barely more than a whisper. “Not even death will try and separate us.”

 

Their hands locked. Grimy. Bloodied. But firm. That simple contact, in the center of all the ruin, was more powerful than any spell.

 

“To die by your side,” Silverbell murmured, his voice beginning to fade, “is such a heavenly way to die.”

 

Black Sapphire let out a laugh that was more sob than breath. “I could never escape you… not even the day I die.”

 

“Yeah… I’ll chase you,” Silverbell said, his tears falling without shame, “even if you run from me for eons. That’s how much I love you.”

 

“Is that so..? Then I’ll let you chase me when necessary because, I love you too,” Black Sapphire whispered, voice fluttering into silence.

 

Silverbell looked at Black Sapphire’s face one last time and smiled like an idiot in love which he certainly is. Black Sapphire looked back and chuckled in response, he smiled back thinking that he feels so loved by the Cookie who is supposed to grow tired of chasing and begging him to stay—and now he is doing what he once promised the faerie, to stay with him, that thought alone made him happy. 

 

They shared a world that some Cookies and Desserts in Earthbread couldn’t understand, because the only thing that matters is they will never be torn apart, even the day they die. Both of their eyes are slowly closing shut. The two Cookies took their final breath as their dough lay beside each other—faces smiling and hands still interlocked.

No.

 

No.

 

Shadow Milk stumbled forward, the wall of flame vanishing as Dark Enchantress withdrew her hand, satisfied. The spell barrier is gone—He rushed towards the two hoping that there is still something left to retrieve. He won’t allow it. They couldn’t be dead yet. Right? 

 

“Please. Stay with me. Both of you. Don’t leave.”

 

He finally dropped to his knees beside them. He looked down at what remained. He hovered both of his hands above their dough—chanting a spell, an attempt to save them. However, it wasn’t working. He tried another spell—and another. Nothing. Their pulse is gone, so is their breathing. This can’t be… he failed —just like before. And now, he is staring at two figures below him that he could no longer save.

 

Dark Enchantress’ footsteps can be heard behind him, her voice devoid of sympathy. “This is what devotion earns you,” she said. “This is the price of affection.”

 

But Shadow Milk didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer her anymore. His knees gave out fully as he folded over them—his loyal follower, his mistakes. His hands trembled as they reached to hold what little warmth remained in theirs.

 

And then—he wept.

 

The tears were silent at first. Then they came in waves. Pale and glowing white, streaking down his cheeks in luminous trails. The essence of who he was—milk like droplets flowed freely in grief too vast for words.

 

The tears hit the earth and something impossible bloomed.

 

Milk-white blossoms unfurled from the broken ground, one by one. Delicate, five-petaled flowers—milkcrowns. They only grew from the grief of Cookies born from milk. A sacred bloom, tender and pure. A flower of mourning.

 

They spread outward, blooming in clusters around the fallen bodies. Forming a crown. A border. A grave.

 

It is said that Milkcrown Flowers bloom where teardrops fall. How many have wept, deceived by cruel lies? How many more will still? These delicate blooms are drawn not only to sorrow, but to the truth that sorrow often hides: the betrayal that comes from loving too deeply, from trusting too fully.

 

Shadow Milk had cried before. As the Fount of Knowledge, he had witnessed the rise and fall of numerous empires, the silence of unanswered prayers, and the weight of choices no one else dared carry. But this—this grief—was different.

 

This was something more personal . 

 

This was love, twisted into guilt. This was mentorship turned into mourning. This was the unbearable clarity that he, too, had played a part in the chain of commands that bound Black Sapphire. And so, when his tears hit the earth, they didn’t simply mourn—they confessed. Not just sorrow, but remorse. Not just loss, but betrayal. The flowers did not judge. They bloomed. Softly. Quietly. Bearing witness.

 

From afar, Mercurial Knight finally arrived. Limping. His armor cracked, his weapon dragging behind him, carving lines through the earth. He had seen the blast. He had watched the smoke curl to the heavens like a funeral pyre.

 

And now, he saw them. He stopped just before the field of milkcrown flowers. The words didn’t come. Only the ache.  “…No…” His heart felt as if it had turned to lead.

 

Shadow Milk didn’t look up. He just held their hands. Eyes cast downward. Tears still falling. And all around them, the flowers continued to bloom. Soft. Bright. Unstoppable.

 

Four Cookies died that day.

 

Two stopped breathing—Black Sapphire and Silverbell, side by side, hand in hand. And two more were dying in different ways, still breathing, but broken in their own right. Shadow Milk, crumpled in the field of flowers he never meant to sow. And Mercurial Knight, silently mourning what he couldn't protect.

 

The battlefield did not roar with noise. It whispered with loss. The wind didn’t howl—it sighed. And in that silence, the milkcrown flowers grew brighter, blooming not just from grief, but from remembrance.

 

Mercurial Knight stood at the edge of the milkcrown field, his armor dulled by soot and cracked by battle, yet heavier now than ever—not with steel, but with failure. The ground beneath him bore the scars of magic too old and too powerful, rent open by a love that was never meant to exist and a war that should never have happened.

 

He dropped to one knee, but it felt like crumbling.

 

His hands hovered over the flowers, over the still forms of the two Cookies he could not save—Black Sapphire and Silverbell, lovers caught in the center of ruin. He had sworn himself to protect the Faerie Kingdom, to serve the Silver Tree, to ensure the safety of its guardian. But the first promise he ever made—to Elder Faerie Cookie, their king, the one who raised him with gentle wisdom and handed him his title—had shattered long ago beneath Shadow Milk’s hand. He had watched that noble figure crumble to dust, powerless to intervene, and the weight of that moment had never left him.

 

But this—this was worse.

 

Silverbell had been more than just a knight under his command. He had been a bright arrow in their quiet ranks, a steadfast soul who chose solitude not out of pride, but discipline. He trained in silence at the midst of Faeriewood, drew strength from stillness, and gave more to the Kingdom than anyone ever asked. And when Silverbell fell in love with a stranger in the woods, Mercurial should have stopped it. He should have asked questions. He should have been suspicious.

 

But all he saw then was happiness—rare and unspoken, but true.

 

He hadn’t known that the faerie with soft words and colder eyes was a mask worn by the very weapon Shadow Milk had carved from silence. Yet even when the truth cracked open, when Black Sapphire’s name returned in whispers and warnings, Silverbell did not waver. He stood by him and loved him. And Mercurial, for all his rigid strength, had let it be. He told himself it was trust, that Silverbell could see something deeper, something he himself could not.

 

But now, kneeling here in the aftermath, he wondered if he had simply turned his back.

 

The blast that killed them still echoed in his mind, not as sound, but as emotion—grief so potent it seared the soul. And now, as milk-white blossoms bloomed around their fingers, still laced together, Mercurial could feel the bond they had forged: one born in lies, tested in pain, and sealed in death.

 

He felt it not just as a commander, but as a brother-in-arms, as a witness, as someone who had loved both of them in his own quiet, faltering way.

 

The battlefield was still. The air hung with the perfume of sorrow. And as the wind moved gently across the ruined plain, it carried not the roar of victory, but the ache of devotion left behind.

 

Mercurial closed his eyes, head bowed—not in prayer, but in apology.

He had failed the king.

He had failed the knight.

And in doing so, he had failed the boy Silverbell loved— the one even he had begun to believe could change.

 

He felt so helpless. All he could do right now is weep along with the one who killed their king— the same Cookie who sent Black Sapphire—Silverbell’s lover—to destroy the Faerie Kingdom’s roots by the power of his voice.

---

Shadow Milk Cookie did not move from where he knelt, knees pressed into fractured stone, hands still cradling theirs—Silverbell’s and Black Sapphire’s, limp and cooling. He had known grief before. He had seen empires fall, had watched gods turn to ash, had rewritten the history of kingdoms with a single lie.

 

But this—this was not the grief of strategy, or setback. This was personal.

 

He had not just lost a loyal assistant, not just the finest whisper he’d ever trained to spin entire cities into chaos. He had lost a child. A Cookie he had once plucked from the mouth of despair, curled up alone in the ruins of a forgotten village, frostbitten and silent and ready to die.

 

He remembered that night with painful clarity—how the air smelled of soot and silence, how even the stars seemed to avert their gaze from the broken world below. He remembered the small hand that took his, trembling, cautious, but willing. And for all his cruelty, all his theatrics, all his wicked brilliance—he meant it when he offered that hand.

 

He didn’t save Black Sapphire Cookie for usefulness alone. He did it because, in that quiet, abandoned child, he saw a reflection of himself—unwanted, unloved, left to rot beneath the weight of a world that moved on too easily.

 

And so he taught him. Raised him. Molded him. Yes, into a tool—but also into something more. Into a legacy. Into someone who could survive when no one else had.

 

And now—now he was gone. Not because of disobedience. Not because of failure. But because he loved. Because he chose to feel something that Shadow Milk had spent centuries telling himself wasn’t necessary.

 

And in the end, that love burned him alive.

 

The grief tore at Shadow Milk’s ribs like broken glass. Because deep down, beneath the beast’s fangs and fury, there had always been affection. He had never said it—not once—but he had loved him. And now that love had nowhere left to go.

 

So he wept—not as the Beast of Deceit, not as a villain, not even as a master—but as a parent who had tried, and failed, to protect a child from the world, from others, from himself.

 

Shadow Milk’s trembling hands slowly released theirs. The milkcrown flowers continued to bloom, bright against the dark soil, but he no longer had the strength to grieve aloud. His breath came uneven, shaky, as his eyes finally lifted—not toward the bodies, but across the ruined battlefield. He searched the smoke, the fractured stone, the craters still pulsing with residual magic. He searched for her. For the one who had orchestrated this. For the voice that had poisoned everything he once thought he could control.

 

Dark Enchantress Cookie was gone.

 

There was no silhouette waiting in the haze nor that smug grin lingering in the distance. Only the aftermath, and the echo of her cruelty.

 

But she had left something behind.

 

A parchment, curled at the edges, pinned beneath a jagged shard of scorched obsidian. He approached it slowly, legs aching as though the weight of his own body was something unfamiliar. He picked it up without ceremony. Read it once. Then again.

 

Her words were written in graceful, elegant script—like poetry composed by a blade.

 

“Consider this a reminder. I know what you treasure. And if you hesitate again, if you choose weakness once more, something precious will burn again. You’ll find there are more strings than the ones you broke today.”

Shadow Milk stared at the note, silent. This is a threat, he disobeyed and now he has to face the consequences. 

 

A cruel affirmation that what he’d built, what he had believed he controlled, was no longer his. His kingdom of lies had grown teeth and turned on him. And worse—he had known it could. Somewhere deep in the folds of his foresight, he had always known.

 

His fist crumpled the parchment. He didn’t throw it. He didn’t burn it. He held it—like a wound he needed to keep open. A reminder that this was no longer about strategies, or schemes, or influence. This was personal. They made a deal, so he should’ve expected this.

 

And the next time something precious was taken from him, he wouldn’t be too late to stop it.

 

He couldn’t afford to be. Not again.

 

Shadow Milk gaze left the crumpled letter in his hand and took a glance at the Cookie weeping kneeling beside him with the field of milkcrown flowers swaying along the shift of the air. Mercurial Knight Cookie’s gaze still fixated on Silverbell's lifeless body.

 

Their eyes met across the battlefield—what remained of it. The hollow ache of guilt that had grown roots beneath their armor. Shadow Milk broke the silence first, voice dry and laced with brittle mockery. “So… has the ever-noble knight finally come to strike me down?”

 

Mercurial Knight didn’t smirk. His voice was flat. “What do you want, Beast of Deceit?”

 

“Oh, how cruel of you,” Shadow Milk said, one gloved hand pressing to his chest in mock offense. “Can’t an old enemy greet the one knight who still walks like he has a purpose?”

 

Mercurial didn’t rise to the bait. “Save your venom. I’m not in the mood.”

 

The silence between them creaked.

 

“Ah. I thought you’d say something like that,” Shadow Milk murmured. “But here we are.”

 

“I came because I was supposed to protect him,” Mercurial said, his voice sharp—sharper than his blade had been in years. “However, we both failed... didn't we? And you—” his tone dropped like steel— “you should’ve never been near him. You and your trickery—”

 

“And yet he trusted me,” Shadow Milk cuts him off, quiet but not soft. “I didn’t ask for that. But he gave it to me. Willingly.”

 

Mercurial’s jaw tightened. “You destroyed trust the moment you put your theatrics through Elder Faerie’s chest. Do you remember that? Or did you bury it under your sick theatre?”

 

“I remember every detail,” Shadow Milk said coolly. “and I don't regret killing that gnat.”

 

“Elder Faerie was everything,” Mercurial hissed. “He was our king—my family. You didn’t just kill him. You unmade a part of our kingdom.”

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes flicked to the blood-soaked petals at his feet. "He never saved me. Not when I fell, not when I bled through the corruption they all feared. He turned his back—like the rest of them. I wasn't seen. I was discarded. And I killed him for it... for trapping me on that rotten tree for eons." He exhaled, not quite a sigh. "And yes, I’d do it over and over again."

 

Mercurial stood rigid, fists trembling. “Then don’t pretend you felt anything at all.”

 

“I didn’t,” Shadow Milk said. “Not for Elder Faerie. Black Sapphire barely knew him—maybe heard whispers, fragments of a legacy he never got to touch. But he still felt something. Some inherited sorrow... like he was mourning a story that was never his.”

 

Mercurial’s expression shifted, the blow of that truth landing sharper than a blade.

 

“I tried to keep him away from that little archer faerie for his own good,” Shadow Milk continued, quieter now. “I wanted him focused. Unshaken. He was meant to be more than all of this... but love got in the way.” He gestured loosely toward the crater, where Black Sapphire and Silverbell lay—hands clasped in death. “And I let him follow it anyway.”

 

“Why?” Mercurial asked, voice low.

 

Shadow Milk’s lips curled faintly, bitter. “Because he loved him. And for once, I wanted to see what that might become.” A pause. “Even if I hated it.”

 

Mercurial’s gaze dropped. “He reminded me of my brother.”

 

Shadow Milk blinked, surprised.

 

“Brave. Stubborn. Always chasing light in a world built to crush it. I told myself he’d grow out of it. But he just kept running straight into the fire.” His voice faltered. “And I didn’t stop him.”

 

“I sent him on that mission,” Shadow Milk admitted. “To kill that distraction... but in the end, he chose mercy. He chose love. That fool.”

 

Mercurial shook his head, voice tight. “No... not really. He isn't foolish for that. Silverbell is never a fool, he is someone who still believed in something pure.”

 

Shadow Milk’s voice cracked for the first time. "Heh... and Sapphire was one of the things I always tried to keep.  And now—he’s gone.”

 

A silence fell between them again—thick, choking. One mourning a child he raised from ruin, the other mourning the only light that remained from a shattered family.

 

“I still can’t believe I am crying over losing a child I once saved,” Shadow Milk whispered. “He wasn’t mine. But he could’ve been. He should’ve been.”

 

Mercurial, after a long pause, said, “I lost everything a long time ago. Like I mentioned… Elder Faerie. My brothers. My people. And now... Silverbell.”

 

“I can see that… I mean— I’m not that blind. Geez. And I get your point.” Then Shadow Milk looked at him sideways—lowered his voice. “But with all of this happening… Do you still hate me?”

 

Mercurial didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know what I feel anymore. Hatred burns out, eventually. All that’s left is the ash.”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t respond.

 

They both looked down again at the two in the crater below—two souls who had chosen love despite every reason not to.

 

"They would’ve hated to see us like this,” Mercurial murmured.

 

Shadow Milk closed his eyes. “Mhm... I can see their faces already.”

 

“We always fought,” Mercurial said quietly.

 

“That’s why he— they would hate it.”

 

As the milkcrowns continued to bloom around them and the sun bled quietly toward the horizon, his thoughts were spiraling elsewhere. Beyond the battlefield. Beyond the grief. Toward the flame-eyed threat that had left him broken—and a promise curled in ink that still burned in his pocket.

 

Mercurial’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away from the crater. “You joke, but you’re bleeding under all that silk. Still deceitful as ever.”

 

Shadow Milk gave a breath of laughter. “Wooooow. Am I that transparent nowadays?”

 

“In my opinion, I’d disagree with you,” Mercurial said. “That feeling is just… familiar .”

 

Shadow Milk let that linger. “Maybe we’ve both been bleeding for longer than we care to admit.”

 

Mercurial’s voice dropped. “I stopped counting the wounds.”

 

“I didn’t,” Shadow Milk murmured. “I catalogued each one.”

 

“Why?”

 

“So I’d never forget what it cost me to survive.”

 

Mercurial exhaled. “Do you think they’d forgive us? For what we didn’t do?”

 

Shadow Milk didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, “I think… they already did. That’s why they stayed. I was never meant to mourn… remember?” Shadow Milk whispered. “And yet here I am.”

 

“Grief doesn’t care what we’re meant for,” Mercurial said. “It finds a way.”

 

They both stayed in the filled with bloodied petals of milkcrowns for a little longer. Then Shadow Milk finally rose, the blossoms gave no protest. The wind didn’t howl. The field remained quiet, as if mourning knew how to make space for the decisions it could not stop. He looked at the commander for one last time. They shared a nod, afterwards Shadow Milk summoned a portal with his remaining strength he has at the moment.

 

He vanished from the battlefield that he created—the paper knights dissolved into ash leaving the actual knights all covered in their own jam, wounded. As the illusioned domain slowly melts away— the ancients fought the remaining cake monsters that Dark Enchantress left behind for a little distraction to reach Black Sapphire.

 

Each and every cake monster got defeated by them—battered, bruised, but standing. Their magic still crackled faintly across the battlefield, painting streaks of fading power across the sky.

 

And then they saw it.

 

Across the milkcrown field, scattered with wounded knights and bloodied petals, they saw them—three still figures near the center. At first, it was hard to tell who they were. The fading magic still veiled the air with a shimmer, like reality hadn’t fully settled yet.

 

The ancients drew closer, cautious. Blades low, shields slackened.

 

Mercurial Knight knelt at the center of the field, his form bent over two bodies—Black Sapphire and Silverbell, lying side by side. Their fingers brushed, intertwined not in triumph, but in something quieter. Final.

 

Pure Vanilla was the first to truly step into the milkcrown blossoms. The white petals clung to his boots, some stained dark with jam. He bent slowly, one hand brushing the flowers with reverence, while the other clutched his staff with tension like a wound still open. As his palm skimmed the petals, he flinched—just slightly.

 

Magic.

 

Old, volatile magic.

 

White Lily stepped forward next. Her expression was unreadable at first, but the closer she got, the more her breath hitched. Her hands trembled when she reached out—first to the flowers, then to Silverbell’s lifeless form. She dropped to her knees in grief.

 

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she bowed her head. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I couldn’t help…” she whispered.

 

But the petals weren’t just soft beneath her—they shimmered with a dual thread of power. The dark, metallic bite of Deceit’s magic and the chaotic, churning remnants of Dark Enchantress. The mixture clung to the air like smoke and silk, wrapping around Mercurial Knight’s form as though drawn to him.

 

“They didn’t die here by accident,” White Lily said, voice tight. “This place was shaped for it. Crafted.”

 

Pure Vanilla bent beside her, brushing his palm across the soft milkcrown blossoms. His other hand gripped his staff. He inhaled sharply. “It’s his,” he said. “Shadow Milk. But… not just his.”

 

White Lily nodded. “Dark Enchantress’ magic is threaded through it. But hers is colder. Angrier. His is... softer now. Regretful.”

 

Golden Cheese took a step forward, her voice quiet. “And he’s gone?”

 

Mercurial Knight didn’t turn. He remained knelt between them, his hand still hovering near Silverbell’s. “He left. Vanished when the last of the illusion faded.”

 

Hollyberry stood, fists clenched at her sides. “Then we let him escape?”

 

“No,” Mercurial answered. “We let him grieve.”

 

They all looked to him. Mercurial kept his eyes on the crater. “This wasn’t his fault.”

 

Dark Cacao’s brow furrowed. “You defend him?”

 

“I won’t excuse him,” Mercurial said, voice hoarse. “Not for what he did with his hands in the past.”

 

“Then why speak for him now?” Golden Cheese asked.

 

“Because I saw the look on his face. This wasn’t deception. It wasn’t manipulation.” Mercurial’s hand curled over his knee. “He mourned. I don’t know if it makes him good. But it makes him… changed.”

 

Pure Vanilla puts his hand over his Soul Jam—which served as his connection to the Beast. Despite his experience with Shadow Milk a part of him still wanted him to understand him better, he knew he was lonely but how did such an all-powerful being get corrupted? He believes that all of the Beasts have the ability to change, but he himself knew that they would hate the idea of a “redemption arc” especially Shadow Milk and it would take time for him to convince his dear friends about his proposal. 

“Changed?” He repeated—voice softened.

 

White Lily’s eyes glistened. “He loved… him.”

 

“He never said it,” Mercurial whispered. “But yes. He did. In his own terrible way.”

 

Pure Vanilla moved even closer. Closer than any of the others dared. His steps, already cautious, grew more intimate, more deliberate. He stepped into the very heart of the crater, right up to the point where their hands touched. The heat of fading magic curled at his ankles, but he didn't flinch. He leaned in until his knees brushed the edge of Silverbell's arm, until his shadow fell fully over Black Sapphire's face. There was no distance left to close—just the overwhelming weight of being there , utterly present, utterly willing to give everything he had left. His boots sank into the softened earth, each footfall soundless under the carpet of glowing blooms. He reached the edge of the crater and dropped to his knees without a word, his breath trembling as his gaze landed on the two bodies lying before him—Silverbell Cookie and Black Sapphire Cookie, fingers still laced together in one final, defiant act of love.

 

His voice cracked under the strain of disbelief. “They’re still warm.”

 

Behind him, the rest of the Ancients stood in heavy silence. Hollyberry Cookie, always the first to raise her voice, now had nothing left to say. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her brows drawn low, but her rage had nowhere to land. White Lily’s face was still pale, her usual calm fractured at the edges. Dark Cacao stood unmoving, shadowed, his sword planted at his feet like a gravestone. Golden Cheese folded her arms and looked away.

 

Pure Vanilla exhaled shakily and lowered himself further, one hand resting gently over Black Sapphire’s still chest, the other finding Silverbell’s shoulder. His staff hovered behind him, humming faintly, anxious with residual power.

 

“I have to try,” he murmured, voice barely audible.

 

Golden Cheese shifted but said flatly, “You always do."

 

Pure Vanilla didn’t answer. His eyes glowed dimly as he closed them and began whispering a healing incantation—soft and ancient, not forged for battle, but for mending things that shouldn’t break. Magic flowed from his palms, wrapping the two in gentle strands of light, weaving between fingers and limbs like sunlight through lace.

 

His Soul Jam at his chest pulsed, answering his plea. The air around them shimmered, as if time itself paused to watch.

 

But nothing changed.

 

No breath filled their lungs. The golden threads of healing magic seemed to hang in the air, unable to root. It was like pouring warmth into stone.

 

White Lily stepped forward, concern in her voice. “Pure Vanilla…”

 

But he snapped his head slightly, eyes flaring with desperate fire. “No. No, this isn’t how their story ends.”

 

There was a raw tremor in his voice now—not just urgency, but something unfamiliar. A depth of emotion that wasn’t rooted in knowledge or history or prophecy. It was instinct. Something buried in the magic itself. He didn’t know the whole story, not really. He hadn’t seen their whispered conversations or the shared glances in quiet corners. He didn’t know how many nights they had leaned on each other, or how many words had been left unsaid between them. But he felt it— sensed it—through the bond of their hands, through the way their bodies had collapsed facing each other even in death.

 

He pressed both palms against their dough now, his voice rising with certainty he didn’t fully understand. “They chose each other. They loved . That kind of love doesn’t just vanish.”

 

The other Ancients behind him exchanged puzzled looks—Hollyberry frowning, Dark Cacao silent, Golden Cheese tilting her head as if trying to decipher a language she hadn’t spoken in centuries. Only White Lily didn’t flinch. Her eyes were already glassy with unshed tears, because she knew. She had seen it. Felt it. She had known all along what they meant to each other.

 

Still—no pulse. Still—no breath. Still—nothing.

 

Then, softer, like a plea whispered to the witches that had stopped answering long ago: “Please… let this work. “ The words weren’t just words. They were a trigger.

 

White Lily’s face paled. “Vanilla, don’t. Not that spell.”

 

But he was already moving. The Soul Jam on his chest flared to life, blazing hot with ancient light. Veins of magic glowed gold beneath his skin. The staff behind him lifted on its own, cracking with unstable energy. Symbols began to form in the soil around the crater—ancient glyphs, lines drawn in glowing script, jagged and divine.

 

This wasn’t healing. It was something deeper. Something older. Something forbidden. He is trying an old resurrection spell. The kind of spell whispered about in ruins, etched in the lost books of dying seers. The kind of power that always came at a cost.

 

Pure Vanilla poured himself into it.

 

A strand of his life. A tether of his soul. Memories, guilt, hope—all drawn out of him like thread from a spindle. His breath shortened. Blood beaded at the corner of his lips. His limbs trembled, not from fear, but from the price he was willingly paying.

 

Behind him, Hollyberry staggered forward. “Vanilla—stop this. You’ll—”

 

He didn’t hear her. Or maybe he chose not to. The glyphs around the crater surged.

 

They pulsed like a heartbeat caught in agony, glowing brighter and more erratic with each second. The lines of light carved into the broken earth twisted and expanded, spiderwebbing outward in all directions, forming complex patterns far beyond the simple logic of healing spells. They breathed—alive with the essence of something older than any one Cookie present, something sacred and terrifying in equal measure.

 

The air grew heavier, dense with power. The wind stalled, then reversed in strange gusts as if the world itself didn’t know whether to move forward or fall apart. Tiny bolts of energy leapt between the glyphs, sparking at the edges like lightning caged in ancient language. The dirt lifted slightly in trembling ripples. The milkcrown flowers bent as if in reverence—or dread.

 

Each rune flared with golden fire, then dipped to white, then deepened into an unnatural shade of silver, like molten moonlight. They weren’t just reacting to Pure Vanilla’s magic—they were responding to something deeper. A truth carved into the ground by sorrow, by sacrifice, by the weight of a love no spellbook had ever recorded.

 

And at the heart of it, Pure Vanilla knelt, eyes clenched shut, his breath sharp, arms locked as he held his hands to their chests. He wasn’t casting a spell anymore. He was begging the world to listen.

 

But just before it happened, they tried to stop him.

 

White Lily reached out again, her voice louder, firmer, but laced with heartbreak. “Pure Vanilla Cookie, please—your magic isn’t limitless. This spell… if you push too far, you won’t come back from it.”

 

Hollyberry moved closer, her voice shaking in a way it rarely did. “You’ve already gone too deep, friend. You think they’d want this if it meant losing you?”

 

Golden Cheese’s brow furrowed, her stance tense. “You’re bleeding energy, Pure Vanilla. You feel it, don’t you? That pull? That weakness crawling under your skin? That’s not just the cost. That’s the edge of no return.”

 

Dark Cacao, always the last to speak, finally stepped forward. His deep voice was heavy, like thunder trying to whisper. “This magic is not meant to be wielded by one alone. Stop before it consumes you entirely.”

 

But Pure Vanilla didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His hands pressed firmer against the bodies below him, and the glow pouring from his chest only grew brighter, harsher. Sweat beaded across his brow. His breath hitched. His arms trembled. His lips were pale. He was fading—and fast.

 

“I have to,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “I have to bring them back. They aren’t mine, but I feel like I have to do this. I can’t let love like this vanish.”

 

Then—a flicker. Black Sapphire’s fingers twitched. Just barely.

 

Pure Vanilla gasped. “Come on… come back to us.”

 

Silverbell’s chest lifted—once—sharply, like a drowning man remembering air. A heartbeat. A chance.

 

And then…Silence. The flickers faded. The spark vanished.

 

The glyphs around them dissolved like water. The light curled back into the earth. The warmth bled from the spell. Pure Vanilla’s staff fell with a dull clatter beside him. The Soul Jam dimmed suddenly, its usual glow fading to a low, pulsing light—a warning of exhaustion, not failure. There stillness, the kind that speaks of magic spent down to the marrow, but not broken. tiny fracture crawling through its radiant core.

 

Pure Vanilla collapsed forward, caught at the last second by Dark Cacao, who stepped in with rare urgency.

 

“They’re truly gone,” Pure Vanilla rasped. His voice was hoarse, hollow, broken. “I gave them everything I had. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Dark Cacao steadied him for a moment longer, then said gently but firmly, “You’ve done all you can, Pure Vanilla. You need to rest. You’ve drained yourself.”

 

But Pure Vanilla shook his head, struggling to stay upright. “No. Not yet. I can still—there could be a way—”

 

“Vanilla.” Dark Cacao’s voice sharpened, not out of anger but care disguised as command. “You’ll collapse if you keep pushing. There is still a Kingdom that waits for you, your people who need you—alive.”

 

White Lily stepped forward, her expression soft but resolute. “We’ll take them. The wounded. We’ll escort them back to the Faerie Kingdom’s infirmary. You’ve done enough.”

 

Golden Cheese added with a nod, “The rest can be handled. You’ve earned a moment to breathe.”

 

Reluctantly, Pure Vanilla let out a slow, pained breath. His eyes remained locked on Silverbell and Black Sapphire for a moment longer. Then he nodded faintly, his strength waning. “I’ll... I’ll heal myself. Just enough to stand. Then I’ll rest.”

 

Dark Cacao gave a rare, quiet nod. “Good. You are no use to the living if you join the fallen.”

 

White Lily motioned to the others, and together they began gathering the wounded knights, moving swiftly and silently through the milkcrown field, leaving Pure Vanilla kneeling in the heart of the field of flowers—alone with Dark Cacao—for his assistance with walking, along with his grief and the fading hum of his magic.

 

Pure Vanilla reached for his staff that was forgotten moments ago and gripped it tightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you two. I was too… late.”

 

Pure Vanilla slowly stood up but struggled, his knees trembling under the weight of what he had given—and what he had failed to save. His hands, streaked with faint light and dust, hung at his sides. He swayed slightly, his breath shallow.

 

Dark Cacao reached for him again, offering a steady arm. “Lean on me.”

 

“I can stand,” Pure Vanilla whispered, even as his legs threatened to betray him. “I need to.” 

 

Despite not knowing the full story, despite being a stranger to the quiet history shared between Silverbell and Black Sapphire, he had felt something powerful in that crater. Something sacred. Something broken. He didn’t know what words they last spoke, or how long they had loved each other—but he knew they had. Because it was his duty—not just as an Ancient, not just as a ruler, but as a healer —to protect love in all its forms, to preserve the bonds that stitched Earthbread together.

 

He gazed one last time at where they had lain, where the flowers had begun to bend again with the wind. “I may not have known your story,” he said softly, “but I will remember your ending. Maybe in another lifetime, I get to help you two… ” He placed a hand over his Soul Jam again, “And maybe with that I’ll get to understand you more…”

 

Dark Cacao remained beside him, steady and silent. After a moment, he said in a low voice only the two of them could hear, “You did more than anyone could have asked, Pure Vanilla. But now, you must let yourself live.”

 

Pure Vanilla’s grip tightened slightly on his staff—his face is a pale echo of determination and fatigue. He didn’t answer right away.

 

Instead, he looked again at the field, where the scent of scorched magic still lingered, where petals drifted through the air like weightless regrets. The others had moved ahead, carrying wounded knights toward the rising horizon and the promise of healing beyond. Some knights—solemn, careful—had returned to lift the still forms of Silverbell and Black Sapphire into their arms, cradling them with reverence and heartbreak. Their silhouettes moved slowly, solemnly, headed toward the path that led to the Faerie Kingdom's infirmary.

 

Pure Vanilla watched them go, his expression unreadable, until the last glint of silver and violet vanished into the distance. Then, he spoke again. “I’m not leaving yet. I just... I need one more moment.”

 

Dark Cacao didn’t argue. He simply nodded. “Then take it. But I’m walking with you when you do.”

 

And so, together, they began to walk—slowly at first, in silence, the ruined earth shifting gently beneath their feet. Each step was heavy, but shared. Each breath was tired, but steady. No more words passed between them as the path ahead began to soften with the familiar scent of Faerie flora and the growing quiet of safety.

 

They entered the Faerie Kingdom just as the skies began to lighten. The infirmary glowed like a sanctuary tucked between winding trees, its tall windows gleaming faintly with healing spells and soft light. Healers moved quickly inside, readying beds, gathering supplies, quietly preparing for what they knew was coming.

 

When they arrived, Pure Vanilla was greeted not as a leader, but as a patient. Which he isn’t used to, even now. He would always see himself as the healer —that every dessert must rely on whenever they need him. Despite his own status as the kingdom’s greatest healer, there was no hesitation—hands reached out to steady him, soft voices whispered reassurances. He tried to protest, barely lifting a hand, but the weight of magic loss pulled at his spine.

 

“You don’t have to carry this alone,” one of the Faerie healers said gently. “Let us help you now.”

 

Dark Cacao watched quietly as Pure Vanilla was guided to a spare bed tucked in a quiet corner of the chamber. He laid down slowly, the tension finally releasing from his limbs. Even as he closed his eyes, light still flickered faintly beneath his skin—proof of how much he’d given.

He wasn’t used to this—to being the one healed. But tonight, even Pure Vanilla had no choice but to get used to it.

 

Dark Cacao stayed beside the bed for a few minutes longer. The two Ancient Cookies sat in quiet understanding, the weight of the battle still hanging heavily in the air. After a long silence, Dark Cacao turned to him.

 

“You did everything you could,” he said quietly. “Now let those who care for you do the same.”

 

Pure Vanilla didn’t open his eyes, but his head moved faintly in a nod. “Thank you… for walking with me.”

 

Dark Cacao only responded with a nod. Without another word, he turned and left the room, his broad silhouette vanishing through the soft glow of the infirmary’s warded door.

 

Moments later, the door opened again—this time with lighter steps. White Lily entered, her face calm, but her eyes filled with emotion as she approached the bed. Pure Vanilla opened his eyes slowly, recognizing her by the rhythm of her steps before he even saw her clearly.

 

“I know that face, White Lily,” he said, voice worn but warm with old familiarity. “Since our academy days… You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

 

White Lily paused beside him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she gave a quiet nod. “It’s about them,” she said softly. “They achieved their happiness. They stayed together…”

 

Pure Vanilla’s gaze sharpened faintly. “What do you mean by that exactly…?”

 

White Lily hesitated, folding her hands gently in front of her. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Black Sapphire always ran, Pure Vanilla. Whenever things got hard—whenever Silverbell needed him most—he’d vanish. He broke every promise to stay, every time. Silverbell kept believing he’d change. And every time… he’d wait for him—hoping that he would return. Sometimes he did but only for a short period of time. Learnt to become more patient with Black Sapphire.”

 

She looked down. “But not this time. This time, he stayed. Even in the end.”

 

Pure Vanilla was quiet for a long time. He shifted slightly in the bed, his brow furrowed not from pain—but from thought. “I… I wasn’t supposed to mind others’ stories like this. I’ve always believed every Cookie carries burdens I cannot heal, truths I cannot touch. But this… this has me wondering.”

 

White Lily tilted her head slightly.

 

“A Cookie shaped by deceit, molded by spreading rumors and deceit all across Earthbread… yet he chose to love someone considered one of Faerie Kingdom’s own,” Pure Vanilla said, almost to himself. “And that same Kingdom,” he glanced toward the glowing window, “considers his master—Shadow Milk Cookie—its greatest threat. The irony alone is unbearable.”

 

White Lily’s gaze didn’t move. “Love has always defied sides. Black Sapphire may have been created to serve a master of destruction, but Silverbell gave him something no command spell could overwrite.”

 

Pure Vanilla let out a breath that sounded like a sigh . “And in the end… he kept his final promise.”

 

White Lily gave a soft, bitter chuckle. "Yeah... he did..."

 

She moved to sit beside him now, her eyes glassy with memory. “Silverbell used to come to me often. For advice. For comfort. For anything, really, when it came to Black Sapphire. He wouldn’t say it directly, but... it was always about him. You could hear it in his voice. In the way his shoulders tensed whenever he asked if someone who runs from everything can ever be convinced to stay.”

 

Pure Vanilla nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “And what did you tell him?”

 

“That maybe,” she said quietly, “you don’t convince someone like that. Maybe you just wait. And hope. And hurt.”

 

A long pause passed between them.

 

“And yet,” she added, “Silverbell kept trying. He didn’t ask Black Sapphire to change who he was. Just to stay. Just once. For him. ”

 

Pure Vanilla murmured, “He didn’t run. Not this time.”

 

His voice trailed off, his breath growing slower. The lines around his eyes softened, and for the first time since the battlefield, a fragile calm settled over him. White Lily glanced to the side and saw his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm—slow, peaceful.

He had fallen asleep.

 

She adjusted the blanket gently over him, her touch light, reverent. Then she stood, exhaled, and turned toward the window where the sky outside was beginning to tint with early gold. Now, her thoughts could wander freely—her memories, her grief, her understanding.

The silence around her deepened.

 

But not for long.

 

She turned and quietly slipped from the room, her steps barely audible against the polished floors of the Faerie infirmary. The soft hush of magic lingered in the halls, but she didn’t stop to feel it. Instead, she continued forward—through the corridor, past the crystal doors, and out into the morning air.

 

She didn’t head to the central square or the infirmary's outer circle. She walked until the scent of blooming azarella vines guided her to the quiet garden at the far end of the palace grounds. A place rarely visited except by those who knew its peace. A place Silverbell used to come after his patrols, when the world felt just a little too heavy.

 

The garden always had a clear view of the moon, no matter the season. Silverbell had once said the moonlight helped him think. Among the azarella and trailing sweetbriar, he'd planted a small new vine not long ago—Moon Drops, pale and blue-laced, curling up the marble trellises with delicate resolve. They were just beginning to bloom—small clusters of Moon Drops, not flowers, but deep purple grapes. A fruit he chose deliberately. A symbol not of himself, but of him . Of Black Sapphire. Of the one who always slipped away like smoke—until he didn’t.

 

This was his sanctuary. His quiet place. And now, it had become his resting place.

 

There, among the flowering arches and soft moss paths, stood a group of knights in muted armor, gathered around a low platform where the Faerie glass coffin had been laid.

 

White Lily slowed her pace, her eyes already burning at the edges.

 

It was the glass casket—translucent, woven with spells of preservation and peace, used only by the Faeries to honor the lost. Inside, lying side by side, were Silverbell and Black Sapphire. There was an option to use separate caskets for the two but they all believed that they would both prefer to be lying side by side rather than lying alone. 

 

White Lily approached slowly, her expression unreadable. The knights bowed their heads respectfully as she came near. She took a long moment just to look at them—two figures who had defied everything to stay together. 

 

"You carried them here yourselves?" she asked, her voice soft.

 

One of the knights, voice tight with emotion, replied, “We thought they deserved it. To rest here. Together.”

 

White Lily nodded. "You were right."

 

She rested a hand gently against the glass, watching the faint swirl of magic curl along its surface. The enchantments were subtle—Faerie in origin, ancient in nature. Meant not just to preserve, but to protect.

 

“They found peace,” she whispered. 

 

Their relationship might have been messy, the way most honest ones begin. It was never clean or simple. Love rarely is. It grew out of confusion, of missteps and second guesses. Silverbell had always had a soft heart—gentle, unwavering—for those he bonded with, be it family or friend. And for Black Sapphire… he learned patience. He learned how to wait. Even when doubt gnawed at him, even when trust felt like chasing shadows.

 

He believed in him.

 

He believed that someone like Black Sapphire—molded in secrets and soaked in conflict—could still be worthy of love. Could still return it. Even when everyone else saw a threat, a weapon, an enemy, Silverbell never once let himself see less than the Cookie he had chosen to love.

 

Even though Black Sapphire stood on the wrong side of the line, even though his master was the Faerie Kingdom’s greatest enemy, Silverbell never flinched.

 

He loved him anyway.

 

Because of that same love, it changed Black Sapphire too.

 

From what she’d heard from the Silver Knights, the shift began during the Mirror Lake incident—when Silverbell was nearly killed during a skirmish. It should have been just another mission for Black Sapphire. Get in. Take the intel. Leave. But something had changed in him by then. The Mercurial Knight had reported that Black Sapphire hesitated. That he had given him— an enemy —a potion, one that dulled his most destructive magic. Not for mercy. Not for strategy. For Silverbell.

 

He could have escaped the Kingdom that night. His master expected it. The mission was done. But he stayed.

 

He stayed because of Silverbell.

 

A choice that terrified him—because Black Sapphire never saw himself as someone who could be loved. He saw himself as a tool. A shadow. A weapon to be used and discarded. Not someone deserving of affection. Not someone capable of choosing love over survival.

 

But today, he chose to stay. And that choice changed everything—especially their ending.

 

“May the both of you, get the freedom that you desperately wished for.”  It wasn’t just a farewell. It was a blessing. A release. An acknowledgment that their love—complicated, improbable, defiant—deserved peace now.

 

The flowers swayed gently, catching the pale light of dawn, their stems trembling with stories unspoken. A rustle behind her made White Lily turn.

 

Golden Cheese stood at the garden’s edge, watching quietly. Her usual swagger was absent—replaced by something softer, something older. She held two glasses of berry juice, the Faerie Kingdom’s strongest ferment, deep violet and humming with enchantment. She offered one silently.

 

White Lily shook her head. “No thank you.”

 

Golden Cheese didn’t push. She set the second glass down on the stone bench beside them and took a small sip from her own. The silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything left unsaid.

 

“You must be here for a reason,” White Lily finally said.

 

Golden Cheese didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were on the glass coffin. “I once told you,” she began slowly, “that I needed time. Time to think about what happened to my Kingdom. Your cookies. Everything I once lost.”

 

White Lily’s gaze didn’t move. “I remember.”

 

“I didn’t know how to talk to you then,” Golden Cheese admitted. “Didn’t know how to approach someone who shared the soul of our enemy.” There was no accusation in her voice. Only understanding.

“But now?” she continued. “Now I see it. You’ve lost just as much as I did. The previous guardian of the Silver Tree… Who was he? Ah! Elder Faerie. And that knight earlier, Silverbell. And probably many more than I could name.”

 

White Lily didn’t speak.

 

Golden Cheese looked down. “I know what grieving looks like. I know how it eats you from the inside, how it asks questions with no answers. I know what it means to love someone… and watch the world refuse to make space for that love.”

 

White Lily finally spoke, calm as ever, though her voice held a softness that hadn’t been there before. “My friends… you guys…won’t forgive me easily. I know that. But they’re trying. We’re getting there. Because I was given something most Cookies don’t get—a second chance.”

 

Golden Cheese turned her head slightly, just enough to meet her gaze.

 

White Lily went on, “I don’t blame you for how you spoke to me before. Or how you looked at me during the battle with the Cake Monsters. I understand. I was part of her. Of the Dark Enchantress. Her shadow… still follows me.”

 

Golden Cheese’s brow furrowed. She reached for the berry juice again but didn’t drink this time. “I’m sorry. For all of it. I didn’t know how else to handle what you were. What you are . But now… seeing you like this, mourning, remembering—I realize I should’ve seen it sooner. You’ve lost more than most. And I see it now, Lily. I do.”

 

White Lily’s gaze returned to the glass coffin. “You understand grief. That’s why you’re here.”

 

Golden Cheese nodded slowly. “Yes. I couldn’t save my Kingdom either. I couldn’t stop the fall… I was too late. I even used my Soul Jam to create a world within my Kindom—where all of my people could live, even their bodies are reduced to ashes. They were happy, I was happy that I could fulfill their wishes. But I can sit with someone else who knows what that feels like. That’s something.”

 

White Lily’s expression didn’t shift, but something in her eyes softened.

 

“I heard about that,” she said quietly. “What you did with your Soul Jam. The sacrifice. It takes strength to carry that kind of memory... and more strength to let it go.”

 

Golden Cheese gave a breath of dry laughter—one that didn't reach her eyes. “Funny. I didn’t feel strong. I felt… desperate. Like I had to find something worth salvaging from the wreckage. Even if it wasn’t real.”

 

“But it was real,” White Lily said, glancing at her. “They were happy. You gave them peace. That matters.”

 

Golden Cheese looked away again, brushing a thumb over the rim of her glass. “Sometimes I wonder if I did it for them or for myself. To forget. To keep from facing the emptiness outside that illusion. You start pretending long enough, you forget what the world actually feels like.”

She paused, her voice quieter.“It’s hard coming back to a world that moved on without you.”

 

White Lily’s fingers twitched faintly at her side. “I know that feeling.”

 

“I figured you did.” Golden Cheese’s eyes lingered on the Moon Drop vines as they curled up the trellis behind the coffin. “That’s why I’m here.”

 

Another pause.

 

Then, she added, “I wanted to say something the moment we all woke up. Back in the Kingdom. But I didn’t know how to face you. I saw you and all I could think about was everything we lost because of her .”

 

White Lily nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

 

Golden Cheese blinked. “You’re not mad?”

 

“No,” White Lily said softly. “Because I’d probably have done the same if I were you. ”

 

Golden Cheese stared at her for a moment, as if searching for any trace of a lie. She found none.

 

The silence between them settled again, gentler now, more familiar. The kind of silence that didn't need to be filled—just shared.

 

“You know,” Golden Cheese said after a while, “I never thought I’d be sitting in a Faerie garden next to you. Talking like this.”

 

White Lily allowed a slight smile. “I didn’t either.”

 

A breeze stirred the vines again. One of the Moon Drops loosened from its stem and landed softly on the stone beside the coffin.

 

White Lily looked at it—deep purple, untouched—and reached down to pick it up.

 

“He planted these for Black Sapphire,” she murmured. “I think it was his way of hoping. Of believing that one day, maybe… he’d finally stay.”

 

Golden Cheese glanced at her. “And he did?”

 

White Lily nodded. “He did.”

 

Golden Cheese was quiet, her voice low. “Then maybe... maybe there’s hope for the rest of us too.”

 

White Lily tucked the fallen grape gently beneath the vines, as if returning it home. “Maybe.”

 

Golden Cheese took another sip of the berry juice, the fermented sharpness curling at the edges of her lips. She lowered the glass slowly, eyes steady on the glass coffin. “You know,” she said, voice a touch rough, “when we found them… when we all stood there in the milkcrown field—I didn’t say a word about them.”

 

White Lily turned slightly, watching her. “I noticed.”

 

“I didn’t know what to say,” Golden Cheese admitted. “I’ve seen a lot of bodies. A lot of loss. But that… That was different. It wasn’t just death. It was devotion. Even in the way they fell.” She exhaled, slow and quiet. “It humbled me. Shamed me, too. That kind of love—I don’t know if I ever really believed in it. Not until then.”

 

White Lily’s voice was soft. “You don’t have to say anything when love speaks for itself.”

 

Golden Cheese gave a slow nod. “I guess I just wasn’t ready for what I felt when I saw them. Something cracked open. Like I had to finally admit… that kind of love exists. That it’s real. Even if the world keeps trying to stomp it out.”

 

White Lily looked down at her own hands. “Love never needs permission. It just… finds a way.”

 

Golden Cheese smiled faintly, swirling the berry juice in her glass. "You know what I miss? Talking like this. Just... casually. No tension between us. Just us sitting in a garden, being honest with each other—with our feelings."

 

White Lily gave a quiet hum in agreement.

 

Golden Cheese’s eyes flicked toward her. "We should do this again. Actually hang out. Maybe even with the others. Travel across Earthbread a bit. See what’s left of the world with our own eyes. Take a break from being rulers for once."

 

White Lily arched a brow, a hint of amusement tugging at her lips. “You? Taking a break?”

 

Golden Cheese chuckled. “Hah, I know . Sounds impossible. But maybe it’s what we need. Maybe it’s what everyone needs. Not another battle. Just… time. Together.”

 

White Lily glanced back toward the Moon Drop vines. “I think they would’ve wanted that.”

 

Golden Cheese nodded slowly. “Yeah. For them. For us.”

 

A familiar voice rang out from behind the garden wall, clear and spirited. "They are over here, Hollyberry Cookie!"

 

The two turned as two figures stepped into the garden path—Sugarfly Cookie, waving energetically, and beside her, Hollyberry Cookie, regal as ever, her presence filling the space like sunlight breaking through clouds.

 

Golden Cheese smirked. “Well, I guess quiet time’s over.”

 

White Lily stood, brushing her hands together gently. “Let’s see what they want.”

 

Sugarfly Cookie came bounding closer, breathless from excitement. "I gave Hollyberry a tour of the Faerie Kingdom—showed her the quiet surroundings and the starlight groves—but we’ve actually been looking for you. She noticed you vanished with two glasses of berry juice."

 

Hollyberry Cookie strode in behind her, holding up a half-full bottle of berry juice like a prized trophy. "You never leave a drink behind, Golden Cheese! Especially not with glasses in hand. I knew something serious was going on."

 

Golden Cheese let out a dry laugh, not unkind. "You know me too well."

 

Hollyberry’s expression softened as she looked between the two of them. "I’m guessing this wasn’t just a quiet toast."

 

White Lily gave her a small nod. "It wasn’t."

 

Hollyberry turned toward Sugarfly, her tone softening as she clapped a hand gently on her back. "Still, I’m glad I got to see this place. And more than that… I’m glad you’re free, Sugarfly. Free from Eternal Sugar’s grasp. The last time we saw each other, we were running from the Garden of Delights, side by side. It feels like a lifetime ago. We didn't know if we’d make it out of there alive."

 

Sugarfly smiled, her wings fluttering slightly with the memory. "It was. But… I’m still me. Just with a little less fear this time. I’ve had time to breathe. To be my own Cookie again."

 

Hollyberry chuckled, the sound warm and grounding. “That’s the spirit.” She turned to the others, her expression a little more serious, a little more curious. “So, how is everyone doing? I mean it. I didn’t think I’d ever see you two having a proper, civil conversation. Let alone this peaceful.”

 

White Lily opened her mouth to answer, her tone already calm and diplomatic—

 

—but Golden Cheese cut in smoothly, raising a hand with a wry grin. “Now hold on , Lily. If we’re talking progress, I should get at least half the credit. I initiated the civil part. She just happened to play along better than expected. Which, by the way, I consider a huge accomplishment.”

 

White Lily rolled her eyes, but there was no sharpness in the motion—just quiet amusement. The faintest smile betrayed her otherwise composed demeanor. “I was going to say we’re still working through things. There’s history between us. Pain. Misunderstandings. But yes… maybe we’re getting somewhere.”

 

Golden Cheese raised her glass slightly. “See? Progress.”

 

White Lily chuckled softly “I suppose it is, and I’ll take it.”

 

Sugarfly chimed in, his tone light. "That’s more progress than most kingdoms make in eons. You should both be proud."

 

White Lily looked down at the vines swaying gently near the glass coffin. “We’re here because of them, too. Silverbell. Black Sapphire. They changed more than they knew.”

 

Golden Cheese glanced over at the two resting figures inside the glass, then back to White Lily and the others. Truthfully, she had only intended to visit the garden alone—pay her respects, maybe exchange a few words with White Lily if she was around. But now, with Hollyberry, Sugarfly, and even this moment of peace, she didn’t mind the extra company. 

 

"I came here to see you," Golden Cheese said aloud, looking directly at White Lily. "Didn’t think I’d find myself actually enjoying the company. "

 

White Lily’s cheeks carried the faintest touch of warmth, a blush rising quickly as Golden Cheese’s words landed. She didn’t bother hiding it—but she wasn’t ready to answer either.

 

Before the moment could grow heavier, Hollyberry slung one strong arm around both her and Golden Cheese, still holding onto the bottle with casual ease.

 

“Look at you two,” Hollyberry beamed. “Talking again like before. It’s been ages since I saw this kind of calm between you.”

 

Off to the side, Sugarfly stood quietly with Hollyberry’s shield balanced in her arms. Her eyes rested not on the group but on the two resting in the glass coffin. The vines around them shimmered gently in the breeze. Silverbell’s favorite garden was more alive than ever now—as if the space itself remembered him and was doing its best to bloom in his honor.

 

Hollyberry, still with her arm around the two Cookies, raised the bottle slightly toward White Lily. “Want a sip? One drink won’t hurt.”

 

White Lily shook her head politely. “No thank you.”

 

Golden Cheese let out a short laugh. “She refused earlier too. Even when it was just the two of us.”

 

Hollyberry looked between them, raising an eyebrow with amused curiosity. “Now that’s rare. Turning down drinks and making peace? What’s next—dancing together?”

 

Golden Cheese just smirked and clinked her glass lightly against the bottle. "Maybe next time, we will dance," she teased. "Faerie gardens make for a good ballroom, don’t they?"

 

White Lily shook her head slightly, still red. "You’re impossible."

 

“Better impossible than boring,” Golden Cheese quipped, giving her a sidelong glance. “Besides, I think I like this version of us better. Less arguing. More teasing.”

 

Hollyberry laughed heartily. “You two keep this up and I’ll start wondering if I need to chaperone.”

 

White Lily exhaled a soft laugh. “You’re already doing that. With the bottle.”

 

Hollyberry raised it with pride. “And doing a fine job, thank you.” Then she turned and offered the bottle toward Sugarfly. “How about you, Sugarfly? Want a taste?”

 

Sugarfly blinked, surprised, and glanced down at the bottle. “I… I’ve never really tried drinks like that before.”

 

“There is always a first time for everything,” Hollyberry grinned.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Sugarfly gently set Hollyberry’s shield down onto the garden path. She took the bottle, brought it to her lips, and took a small sip.

 

“It’s not bad,” she said, eyebrows raised.

 

Golden Cheese laughed from her spot. “Look at her! She took a sip! I think that’s our cue to call it a celebration now.” She grinned wider and turned to White Lily, eyes gleaming. “Meanwhile, someone is still refusing. Come on, Lily—don’t let the rookie outdrink you.”

 

White Lily crossed her arms, her blush returning. “I just prefer my clarity over fermented distractions.”

 

“Ohhh, fancy words for someone hiding behind a tea cup,” Golden Cheese teased.

 

Sugarfly giggled softly, the berry juice still tingling on her tongue. “She’s got a point, though. It’s definitely... strong. But it is sweet.”

 

Hollyberry chuckled, nudging Sugarfly playfully. “Told you it wouldn’t bite.”

 

The laughter died down for a moment then Sugarfly glanced again at the glass coffin, her smile softening. "This garden… it's peaceful," she said gently. "I feel calm here. Like everything I’ve been carrying isn’t as heavy anymore."

 

The others quieted as her words hung in the air.

 

"I only heard the news when they were brought here," Sugarfly continued, her voice more hushed. "Silverbell and Black Sapphire... I couldn’t believe it at first. I didn’t want to believe it. But it was true. I saw them with my own eyes."

 

White Lily placed a hand over her heart. “Their love was real. Complicated, yes, but it was theirs. They chose each other in the end.”

 

Hollyberry, her voice gentler than usual, glanced toward Sugarfly. "Who was he to you? Silverbell Cookie. He lives around here, doesn't he?"

 

Sugarfly held the bottle loosely, watching the flowers. "Well... Yes. He was a skilled archer from the Silver Knights. But more than that, he had a kind heart. Always the first to help someone who was struggling, always the last to leave the training grounds. I used to train with him and Mercurial Knight. The three of us… we go way back."

 

Her voice softened further, tinged with nostalgia. “Back when Elder Faerie still stood among us. When my wings were dull and silver. Silverbell always encouraged me to keep going—to be stronger. He believed in others more than he ever did himself.”

 

White Lily looked toward her, her voice quiet but clear. “He believed in hope. Even when it wasn’t easy. That was his greatest strength.”

 

Sugarfly nodded slowly. “I wanted to catch up with him. It’s been so long since I’ve been back here in the Faerie Kingdom. I thought I’d see him again... after everything that happened in the Garden of Delights. I couldn’t escape. I tried, but... Hollyberry was the one who came for me.”

 

Golden Cheese looked at her, her voice softer now but tinged with confusion. “You were gone a long time. We thought… well, we weren’t sure what happened to you. What’s this Garden of Delights? And Eternal Sugar? I’ve never heard of them.”

 

“A lot surely happened,” Sugarfly admitted. “Time felt strange there. I held onto the thought of seeing everyone again. Of walking back into my home.”

 

White Lily added, “And you made it. You came back. That means something.”

 

Hollyberry gave Sugarfly a small but proud grin. “She didn’t give up. That’s why I knew she was still in there. Somewhere.”

 

Golden Cheese tapped the rim of her glass thoughtfully. “You, Mercurial, Silverbell… sounds like the kind of team I would’ve liked to watch in action.”

 

Sugarfly gave a faint laugh. “We were a mess half the time. But we had each other. That made the difference.”

 

Golden Cheese swirled the drink in her glass, then shot White Lily a look. “Speaking of teams, I still can’t believe you're sitting here sober while we’re all getting sentimental.”

 

“Maybe she’s scared she’ll start saying things that she usually doesn’t if she drinks,” Hollyberry teased with a wink.

 

Sugarfly giggled, raising her bottle again. Sugarfly giggled, raising her bottle again. “Though, Your Majesty… if it’s alright to ask,” she said with a respectful tone, “would you consider a sip? Just one. For Silverbell.”

 

White Lily raised a brow. “I am smiling. Subtly.”

 

Golden Cheese grinned. “Subtle doesn’t count. Come on, just one sip. For Silverbell.”

 

There was a pause. White Lily glanced at the bottle Hollyberry was now offering again, this time with both eyebrows raised. “I’ll consider it,” White Lily said at last.

 

“No pressure,” Hollyberry said, clearly pressuring her.

 

“Just your pride,” Golden Cheese added with a smirk.

 

White Lily didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she shifted her gaze toward Golden Cheese’s cup—the one still held loosely in her hand. Golden Cheese blinked, startled as the Queen reached forward, graceful and deliberate, and took it right from her grasp. She almost said something—almost—but then simply let her.

 

The other three fell silent, watching with mixed surprise and curiosity.

 

White Lily brought the rim of the cup to her lips. One sip—measured and dignified. Then she handed it back with calm finality. “There,” she said softly. “For Silverbell.”

 

Golden Cheese stared at the cup for a second longer, as if it had suddenly become something sacred. Then she gave a short laugh, caught between stunned and flustered. “Didn’t expect that. That’s… definitely a toast I’ll remember.”

 

Sugarfly smiled gently. “He would’ve liked the moment. All of this.”

 

Hollyberry leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Now that’s what I call unity.”

 

White Lily glanced at Golden Cheese, her tone composed but mischievous. “Did I satisfy your greedy desires, my Radiance?”

 

Golden Cheese choked on her own breath, caught completely off guard. A rare flush crept to her cheeks as she tried to recover. Then, a low chuckle escaped her lips. “Careful now, Guardian of the Silver Tree. I wasn’t prepared for that kind of charm.”

 

Hollyberry leaned in with a wide grin. “Is this how you two talk after centuries of no contact with each other?”

 

Sugarfly let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I really should’ve brought a second bottle.”

 

The silverbells swayed in the breeze, their petals brushing against nearby blossoms in a gentle dance. The different flowers scattered throughout the garden joined in, nodding under the moonlight as if mourning and celebrating all at once. Just beyond them, the still lake mirrored the silver moon above—soft, glowing, endless. The light touched everything: the vines, the glass coffin, the Cookies standing together. Peace, rare and fragile, held in that moment. Not just for the ones who had passed—but for the ones left behind, too.

 

---

 

By the time Shadow Milk reached the Spire of Deceit, the sky had darkened to pale indigo, stretched thin by twilight. The spire loomed as it always had—twisting like a spiral of thorns clawing at the heavens. Inside, cold stone halls welcomed him with familiar shadows. He ignored Candy Apple and went straight to his room. He sat behind his door and remained silent. He still hadn’t told her. He couldn’t bring himself to say those three words. She didn’t deserve them.

 

He stayed there for hours, door locked, back pressed to the cold wood. Silence draped the room like heavy velvet, muffling even his breath. His cape bunched around him, wrinkled and stained with dried magic and dirt from the milkcrown field—his own creation, born of tears.

 

Footsteps passed. Candy Apple had knocked at first, shouting, teasing with her sharp humor, masking her fear. "Master Shadow Milk! Open this door! What happened? Where is he—where's Black Sapphire? Is he back to normal? What does that even mean anymore?!" Her voice broke, then silence. Only then did Shadow Milk rise.

 

But he said nothing.

 

Eventually, her voice cracked. The knocks slowed. “Hey… you’re scaring me. What happened out there?”

 

Still nothing. No answer. Even when the knocking stopped. That hurt more. He imagined her still out there, back to the door, waiting. Maybe hoping he’d open it. Maybe realizing she didn’t want to know. The walls, once decorated with maps and blades, now looked unfamiliar—ghostly in the dusk.

His hand twitched.

 

Black Sapphire’s voice echoed, smug and steady: "You always did run when you couldn’t lie your way through. Don't you, Master?"

 

And Silverbell’s glare—sharp as arrowfire: "If you can’t protect them, at least don't pretend you cared."

 

He shut his eyes. They were gone. And he had lived.

 

He dragged his knees closer, fingers tightening against his sleeves. He wasn’t ready to say it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But the truth clung to him like soot.

 

This guilt wasn’t distant. It was raw, curling in his chest like smoke. It festered in silence. In stillness. In the locked room where no one could see him unravel.

 

The voices returned. Not just Black Sapphire’s and Silverbell’s, but older ones—from centuries ago. His followers.

 

The ones who had knelt before him, wide-eyed and full of faith. Back when the Witches gave him purpose. When they called him the bearer of truth, the light in Earthbread’s darkness. He remembered their faces. Not their names—those were gone—but their eyes. Their awe. Their hope. And he had failed them. He twisted the truth into riddles. Riddles into control. Told himself it was guidance. That truth was safer in pieces. But now, in this silence, those fragments returned whole.

 

"You promised we’d never walk blind again." "You said the truth would protect us." "You left the moment power felt easier."

 

He pressed his hands to his ears. It didn’t help. He slid lower. The floor was cold against his side. Once, he wore his title like armor: Fount of Knowledge. Now it felt like a curse carved into his bones.

 

"I didn’t mean to become this ," he whispered. "I thought I was doing what was right. I thought I was... protecting something."

 

No one answered. Moonlight slipped in beneath the door. His fingers twitched.

 

He remembered the note, crumpled and half-burned, tucked into the folds of his cloak—written in a hand sharper than any blade: "Consider this a reminder. I know what you treasure. And if you hesitate again, if you choose weakness once more, something precious will burn again. You’ll find there are more strings than the ones you broke today."

 

He hadn’t flinched when she said it. Not on the battlefield. But now, in quiet, her voice curled through him like ink in water.

 

Candy Apple Cookie.

 

His last follower. His last believer. A Cookie born of deception. Molded by illusion. And yet she saw him more clearly than anyone. She never begged for truth. She mocked him for who he was—and stayed. Laughter in ruin. Sharp-tongued, unpredictable, loyal. Loyalty he never deserved.

 

He remembered her voice: "What happened?" "Is he back to normal?" "Where is he?"

 

Too many questions. And for once, no answers. He could lie again. Wrap the truth in silk. Pretend Sapphire lived. Pretend Silverbell hadn’t fallen. Pretend he was still in control. But Dark Enchantress was right. If he kept hiding, she would leave. He will lose her.

 

He shut his eyes. Grief bloomed, heavy and sharp. Love, when given freely, could cut deepest. He whispered, unsure who the words were for: "I don’t want to lie to you anymore." But he wasn’t sure he could stop.

 

He opened the door. Candy Apple stood there, fists clenched, eyes wide with worry.

 

"Master! You opened up the door!" she said too quickly. “Thank the Witches! So how are you?"

 

He didn’t answer.

 

Her smile faltered. "...What happened? Don’t tell me you lost your favorite dagger. Or did Silverbell finally knock some sense into him?" She tried to joke. A shield.

 

He didn’t lie anymore. He couldn’t lie to anyone anymore. "They’re both dead," he said.

 

Her face collapsed. First her mouth, then her eyes. "Oh." She blinked. "Black Sapphire is... gone?" She laughed. It broke. Her eyes searched the room for a lie to cling to. He gave her none.

 

Her voice dropped. "So it’s over?"

 

He didn’t nod. He just said: "I don’t know anymore."

 

They stood in silence for a beat longer.

 

"Why didn't you say anything sooner?" Candy Apple finally asked, her voice quiet but sharp at the edges.

 

"Because I thought silence would hurt less than truth," Shadow Milk replied.

 

She looked at him like she wanted to argue, but didn’t. "And did it?"

 

He shook his head.

 

"Sapphire was..." she started, then stopped herself. "He was impossible. But he didn't deserve that."

 

"None of them did, Candy." Shadow Milk said.

 

Candy Apple crossed her arms, gaze flicking away. "How about Silverbell?"

 

"He died beside him. Silverbell stayed with him until the end."

 

She let out a breath—somewhere between a sigh and a tremor. "I kept waiting for you to lie. I was bracing for it. I never expected the opposite from you."

 

"Well, I almost did."

 

"Why didn’t you?"

 

"Because you'd see through it. And this time... I needed someone to see the truth."

 

She didn’t speak for a moment. Then she muttered, "What a stupid decision to make for someone like you."

 

He almost smiled.

 

"You’re not off the hook," she added quickly. "I’m still furious."

 

"I know."

 

"But I’m still here."

 

He looked at her, something soft flickering behind his eyes. "I know."

 

She turned on her heel. "Go get some rest. Before I make you."

 

Then he left and this time, he didn’t lock the door. His quarters were dim, cold. Dust waited on the windowsill. The scent of parchment and ink still clung to the air. It was a mess—papers scattered, books toppled, sigils half-sketched and abandoned on the floor.

 

He stood in the doorway, staring at the wreckage. He remembered how desperate he had been, tearing through spell after spell. Looking for anything, anything at all, that might bring Black Sapphire back. He’d poured hours, magic, and pieces of himself into a final incantation. And in the end, that same spell had shattered him. Left him broken long before he ever reached that battlefield.

 

He ignored the clutter, going straight to the chest under the bed. From it, he pulled fabrics matching the color of their dough and outfits—dusky purple for Black Sapphire, silver-white for Silverbell, the softest cotton he found all around Earthbread, and his favorite sewing kit.

 

He sat cross-legged and began to sew. Each stitch slow. Careful. Penitent.

 

"Funny," he murmured, "I used to say I didn’t care for dolls. Maybe I just didn’t want anyone to know I cared about what I made. I loved the craft."

 

He shaped the first body from dusky purple fabric—tall and lean, though the shoulders came out too stiff. He adjusted, trimmed, reshaped. Slowly, Black Sapphire began to emerge beneath his hands.

 

He cut the jacket panels carefully, sewing them into a sharp silhouette. Swirling gold thread lined the lapels. A crisp white cravat was folded and tucked into place at the neck. Then came the sleeves—leg-of-mutton style, loose at the biceps and tight at the wrists. He stitched until they flowed like silk.

He crafted the bat-like wings last, sewing their purples into the back so they mimicked the folds of a swallowtail coat. He pinned a white rose to the lapel.

 

For the hair, he cut fabric in jagged swathes of black edged in violet, and stitched them to one side of the head. One side of the face vanished under the bangs. The visible eye—a glossy black button with a lavender slit—gleamed just right.

 

Finally, he used silver thread to embroider a sly, toothy smile. "Can’t quite get your arrogance right," he muttered.

He filled the plush with soft cotton—enough to give it shape, but not too much. He didn’t want it to feel rigid.

 

Next, he turned to the silver-white fabric. "Silverbell," he said, smoothing it out, "I think you’d like this kind of fabric. Too soft. Too forgiving. Like the part of you I never understood—until you stayed with him."

 

He shaped the form smaller, more graceful. He sewed the bishop sleeves, added silver gauntlet accents at the wrists. The dual rows of smoke-gray diamonds down the chest came next. A capelet was draped over the left shoulder and secured with a small, hand-stitched periwinkle diamond.

 

He folded silvery material into wings, more delicate than Sapphire’s, and stitched them gently into the back. The hair was shorter and paler. He sewed it in careful layers. The smile was faint, almost unreadable—stitched with gray thread. For the eyes, he used tiny mirrored buttons—mercurial and pale. He stuffed this one too, light and even. 

 

"I never trusted your kind," he said quietly. "But you stayed. You died beside him as you held his hand. And I couldn’t reach you... Both of you."

 

Thread by thread, he shaped his grief. Tiny silver flecks were embroidered onto Silverbell’s capelet—each one a memory. For Sapphire, he added a ribbon of soft violet at the collar. When both dolls were finished, arms just barely brushing, he looked at them.

 

Then, with trembling hands, he laid them in a carved wooden box lined with twilight-blue velvet. He adjusted the folds beneath their heads, carefully tucking their hands so they just touched. He didn’t say goodbye. He just closed the lid. And in the silence that followed, he let the weight settle. Not to crush him. But to remind him: He had once loved.

 

He stood, gathered the box, and walked down the hall—quiet this time. The Spire didn't echo the way it used to.

 

He opened Black Sapphire's door. It was unlocked. He hadn’t entered this room since that day.

 

He stepped in, taking in the quiet surroundings. The room had a bookshelf packed with half-read volumes and old tomes, a broken mirror leaning against the wall with cracks like spiderwebs, a bed with crumpled sheets, and a pile of handwritten scripts by its side—unfinished broadcasts, desperate incantations, notes of hope scribbled into chaos. slow. The light from the window spilled across the desk—Black Sapphire’s desk. It faced outward, toward the Faerie Kingdom.

 

Ah. Of course... No wonder Sapphire always sat here, spacing out mid-script, pretending to revise a broadcast while watching the wind stir distant gardens.

 

A vase where a silverbell and a lily once lay—wilted, but cherished. With a soft breath, Shadow Milk summoned new seeds into his palm—fresh silverbell and white lily, gleaming faintly with his magic. He planted them gently in the soil, pressing them into the vase. Then, like all plants, he gave them water. He placed the vase near the window where the sunlight spilled freely. A folded note in delicate fae script still rested nearby. A silk ribbon remained tucked beneath the pillow like a secret.

 

Now that he looked at it—the note, the ribbon, the pressed flowers, the view—it wasn’t just a desk. It was a shrine. It was a quiet altar dedicated to Silverbell. Black Sapphire had been head over heels for the faerie knight. Every object here, every gesture, whispered that truth.

 

Shadow Milk lowered his gaze. He placed the dolls carefully where they belonged—beside the flowers, beneath the sunlight. And he smiled softly.

 

"Shadow Milk!" Candy Apple burst into the room, panting, her eyes scanning wildly.

"You're not in your room brooding or monologuing or writing seven-step betrayal plans—what gives?" She spotted the desk. Her breath caught. "Awwww, look at those dolls! I want one too, Master!" she beamed, rushing over.

 

"No," Shadow Milk replied dryly, but his tone was lighter.

 

She pouted dramatically, then looked between the dolls and the rest of the desk. Her voice dropped. "...You made those for them, didn’t you?"

 

He nodded. “Yeah… I figured that they might like something like this. It’s been a while since I created soft plushes y'know. At least we can something to remember, even its just simple as this.”

 

She didn’t make a joke this time. Instead, she stepped back and gave him a rare, quiet look—one filled with something close to respect. Then she muttered, "They’d love them. Especially Silverbell. That fabric's stupidly soft."

 

Shadow Milk gave a small hum, almost a laugh. And for a while, they just stood there, letting the silence speak for them.

 

Then Candy Apple suddenly snapped her fingers. "So PLEASE make me one too!" she pleaded, clasping her hands together like a child at a candy stall.

 

Shadow Milk gave her a flat look. "Still no."

 

"Ugh. You're the worst," she huffed—but she was smiling now. "Welp, I'll just cook something instead," she said with exaggerated drama, already turning toward the door. "You’ll regret this. I’m gonna make the most annoyingly cute meal ever."

 

Shadow Milk hesitated. "...Grape tarts."

 

Candy Apple stopped mid-step and blinked. "Wait. What?"

 

"If you’re going to cook," he said, voice softer now, "make grape tarts."

 

She turned fully to face him, mouth slightly agape. "Master. You never request food. You don’t even eat."

 

"Today I will, " he said. "and they were his favorite."

 

The room fell quiet again. Candy Apple nodded slowly. "Grape tarts it is, Master. I’ll make them perfect. Just watch!" With that, she left Shadow Milk alone in Black Sapphire's room.

 

She didn’t waste time. She marched down to the kitchens, already listing the ingredients in her head. Flour, sugar, black grapes—she knew the list by heart. After all, she had made this exact treat before. Not just for herself and not even because she particularly liked the flavor. But because Black Sapphire had.

 

Especially when he was being dramatic—slouched over that desk, clutching his quill like it wronged him, crying into his half-finished scripts, or lying face-down on his papers refusing to move. Those days when he said his feelings were "too heavy to eat"—she'd never understood that. But she always made the tarts anyway. Sometimes he ate them. Sometimes he didn’t.

 

But today, she made them again because someone still remembered he loved them—not because someone needed them for comfort. And yet, as the tarts came out of the oven, warm and golden with soft, bubbling grape filling, she felt the sting of absence.

 

She plated two servings. She almost said it was for the both of them. Sadly, this time—Black Sapphire would never taste them again.

The second plate wasn’t for him. It was for Shadow Milk—who almost never ate since the transformation that made food irrelevant to his dough. But today, he asked. And today, she made them.

 

She carried both plates up the Spire, the warmth still clinging to the porcelain. When she reached the room again, the sunlight had shifted, casting the dolls in a golden halo.

 

She said nothing as she set one tart down near the dolls, a quiet tribute. The other, she placed in front of Shadow Milk.

 

He stared at it for a long time. Then—without a word—he picked up the fork.

 

Candy Apple sat beside him and dug into her own tart. For a while, they ate in silence. But halfway through, she sniffled. She wiped at her face quickly with the back of her hand, pretending it was nothing.

 

Shadow Milk noticed, but didn’t press.

 

"Oh… dang it. I wasn’t supposed to cry," she muttered suddenly, her voice cracking despite the forced smile. "I mean, come on. We always fought. He always acted like he was better than me." She let out a weak laugh. "And maybe he was. Just a little."

 

Her fork paused. She looked down at her plate, eyes glossed. "He wasn’t just some co-worker who helped spread pretty lies for you. He was... he was my brother. He made me furious, and smug, and proud, and—" She couldn’t finish her sentence.

 

Shadow Milk quietly set his fork down and looked at her. "I know," he said. Nothing more.

 

So they sat in silence again. This time they shared it together. The kind of silence that wrapped around them like a blanket, not to smother, but to shelter. Shadow Milk didn’t say anything more, but he shifted just slightly—enough for their shoulders to nearly brush.

 

Candy Apple sniffled again, more quietly this time. She didn't try to hide it. Outside the window, the breeze stirred the flowers in the vase—the new silverbell and lily nodding gently in the sunlight. "He would've liked this," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "Not that he'd ever admit it. He'd roll his eyes and act all annoyed. But he'd sit there eating every last crumb."

 

Shadow Milk gave the barest nod.

 

"He always said tarts were beneath him," she added, voice lighter now, "but he'd sneak them when he thought I wasn’t looking. Thought he was subtle. He wasn’t."

 

This time, Shadow Milk smiled.

 

Candy Apple took another bite, chewed slowly, then set her fork down with a little clink. "I hate to admit this," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "but I miss him. I want him back."

 

Shadow Milk looked at her. "I know. So do I."

 

She rubbed at her eyes again. "He was annoying. So annoying. Always correcting my phrasing. Calling my work 'theatrically reckless.' You know how many times I wanted to kick him off his own stage!?"

 

"Roughly thirty-seven," Shadow Milk said.

 

She blinked. Then smiled through her tears. "Exactly thirty-seven."

 

A long pause settled between them. "He never said it," she murmured, "but I think he cared more than he let on. About you. About Silverbell. About all of us. Even me."

 

"He did," Shadow Milk said quietly. "He just never thought he'd have time to say it out loud."

 

"Then I hope he heard it from us. Even if we never said it right."

 

Shadow Milk didn’t respond. But his hand, gloved and quiet, rested on the table beside hers.

 

They finished eating. Candy Apple leaned back slightly, pushing her empty plate aside. Shadow Milk did the same, his fork resting with an unusual softness atop the clean porcelain.

 

Neither of them said a word at first. The room didn’t demand one. The sun through the window bathed the desk in amber light. The scent of warm tarts still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint floral sweetness from the vase.

 

"I still don’t get why he liked grape so much," Candy Apple finally said, brushing a crumb off her coat. "I mean... it’s grapes."

 

Shadow Milk replied. "The first time he ever ate grapes... was when I found him. During the corruption of the beasts. He was just a child—alone, trembling, half-starved and ready to let the end take him. I remember he wasn’t crying. He had already accepted it. I carried him. He didn’t resist. And as we left the wreckage, I saw a patch of grapevines, still untouched. I picked a handful and gave them to him. He ate them one by one, like they were the first real thing he’d ever tasted. Then I brought him to the Spire. Since then... grapes were always his thing. They made him feel safe. Like something had survived."

 

She huffed. "What a long ahh explanation coming from the Beast of Deceit."

 

Shadow Milk arched an eyebrow. "What did you say? Do you want me to put you in a card again?!"

 

Candy Apple cackled, wiping away the last trace of her tears. "You wouldn’t dare."

 

"Would I not?"

 

"You wouldn’t risk losing me. A cute little liar who helps you with your words!"

 

He sighed dramatically. "Unfortunate logic." But the mood had lightened. And this time, her smile wasn’t just lingering. It stayed. Suddenly, Shadow Milk reached out and gently patted her head.

 

Candy Apple froze. "...What the hell was that?"

 

He said nothing, hand already returned to his lap.

 

She blinked at him, eyebrows raised. "Did you just— pat me? Are you feeling okay? Should I check for enchantment poisoning?"

 

"You said you were still here," he said simply. "That matters."

 

She stared for another beat, then scoffed. ""Wait—you like me? Master Shadow Milk loves me?! Ohmigosh!"

 

Shadow Milk rolled his eyes. "Oh shut up, Candy Apple."

 

She grinned like she’d just won a prize. "Nope, you said it. You patted me and everything. I'm telling everyone."

 

"Try it and you will go in a card. Permanently."

 

"Aww, ok Master!" she chirped, clearly still riding the high of being acknowledged.

 

Shadow Milk let out a quiet breath and moved the plates aside with a wave of his hand. Then, without a word, he reached over and pulled Candy Apple into a hug. She stiffened. Shadow Milk never did things like this. Not the kind of closeness you didn’t earn.  But here he was, arms around her, steady and warm and very real.

He held her like she was the only thing he had left. Because she was.

 

"...Okay," she whispered, stunned. "Weird day. But okay."

 

The room felt still, sacred almost. Dust particles drifted in the shafts of light like soft-glowing motes, catching in the golden warmth spilling through the window. The faint scent of grapes and sugar lingered between them, layered with the soft perfume of silverbell petals and parchment. Every object—the dolls, the vase, the ribbon—was wrapped in quiet reverence.

 

It was like time had slowed to a breath, as if even the Spire itself was holding still. The air was heavy, but not with grief. It was thick with memory, with presence, with a fragile peace neither of them dared break. In that moment, the war outside, the silence of lost comrades, the ache of everything they couldn’t fix—it all softened, just a little.

 

The two dolls sat quietly on the desk, hands interlocked just as they had been in their final moments. They seemed to watch over the room—not with judgment, but with a strange kind of peace. As if their presence alone was enough to witness the healing beginning to stitch itself back together.

 

Black Sapphire’s room had become more than a space—it was a haven. Despite its history, despite the weight of loss embedded in its corners, it wrapped around them with an unexpected warmth. The soft light, the quiet reminders of love, the silence filled with breath instead of sorrow—it gave them something neither had expected: comfort.

---

Mercurial Knight hadn't left Silverbell's house since the day it happened.

 

The shutters were drawn. The world outside moved on, but he remained still within the walls that clung to the scent of faerie-lavender soap and melted candle wax. Dust drifted slowly through rays of filtered light, catching on the silence like snow. Every corner was frozen in time—half-finished letters still sat on the desk, the ink barely dry. A training schedule, pinned precisely to the wall, fluttered whenever the door creaked. Silverbell's sword still hung beside the hearth, its polish unmarred by fingerprints. Untouched. Unclaimed.

 

The healers had come and gone. Knights too—some who had once sparred with him under the sun, others who barely knew his name but wore grief in their eyes. They brought clean wrappings for his wounds, bandages he accepted but never asked for. Food he left untouched on the tray. The words they gave him—"He fought bravely," "You did all you could," "Please rest"—were noise. Just breath shaped into guiltless offerings. None of it changed the stillness that had followed that day.

 

He saw it every time he closed his eyes.

 

The signal flare. The sudden screech of corrupted magic. The barrier—violet, pulsing, too strong to shatter. And through it, the image burned into him forever: Silverbell and Black Sapphire, side by side, backs to the storm. Their hands finding each other in that final second. Facing death not alone, but together.

 

Mercurial Knight had arrived seconds too late. He should have disobeyed. Should’ve leapt the command chain like he had so many times before. Should’ve trusted his instinct, not the delay. Every breath since then had been one breath too many.

 

Now, he sat in Silverbell’s chair. The one with the curved back and worn wood where his armor always caught. His gauntlet rested in the same spot Silverbell's hand had often found while reading reports or drinking tea. Once, the wood had been warm. Now it was cold.

 

He leaned forward slowly, elbows to knees, head bowed like the weight of memory alone could crush him. There were no words in his mouth, no prayers left to recite. Grief had hollowed out his voice. The kind that rings in your ears and fills your lungs with too much air. The kind that reminds you that no one is coming through that door ever again.

 

Beside him sat a small leather-bound notebook. Silverbell's. The corners were curved, gently worn. He hadn’t opened it. His hand hovered near it once or twice, then retreated like it was a weapon too dangerous to touch. He wasn't ready. But he promised himself—soon. One day, when the silence stopped screaming, when the memories stopped cutting quite so sharp—he’d open it. He'd read every word. He'd remember. For now, he breathed in the last of Silverbell's presence.

 

A knock came at the door—soft, hesitant. Mercurial Knight didn’t answer, but it opened anyway. One of the healers stepped inside, her hands clasped, eyes careful.

 

"I’m sorry to intrude, commander." she said gently. "I wanted you to know... they’ve been placed in a casket. Together. Silverbell and Black Sapphire."

 

Mercurial Knight didn’t look up.

 

She took a few steps closer. "You should come see him. Silverbell wouldn’t want to be sent off without you."

 

Mercurial Knight finally looked up, his voice hoarse from disuse. "He hated formalities," he said. "But he'd want someone there who remembered him beyond the armor. Beyond the titles."

 

The healer nodded gently. "He always spoke highly of you. Even when he was quiet about it. Said you understood him the most. Held him to the highest standard, not because you expected too much—but because you knew what he was capable of."

 

Mercurial Knight’s eyes lowered again, blinking slowly. "He never said that to me."

 

"That’s because he didn’t have to," she said softly. "He showed it. In the way he fought beside you. In the way he checked your gear without asking. In how he always left the tea brewed just the way you liked it."

 

He gave a small, choked breath—half laugh, half ache. "He used to tease me about that. Said I had the palate of a poet."

 

The healer smiled. "Then maybe it’s time you returned the favor. Visit him. Let him hear the words you always meant to say."

 

Mercurial Knight nodded faintly. "I couldn’t save him... but maybe I can still honor him." And he meant it.

 

The healer stepped forward again, her bag still slung at her side. "Let me tend your shoulder one last time before you go," she said.

 

He didn’t protest. He only shifted slightly in the chair as she knelt beside him. Her touch was practiced, gentle. She peeled back the bandages and examined the raw marks left behind—wounds from the day before, from the chaos that took Silverbell.

 

With steady hands, she cleaned and dressed them again. Her magic hummed softly beneath her fingers, sealing what pain still lingered.

 

"There," she whispered, tying the last wrap. "You don’t have to go carrying all of it in blood. Not today."

 

Mercurial Knight exhaled, slow and ragged. "Thank you," he said. Not just for the healing.

 

She gave him a nod and then turned toward the door. He rose from the chair, slower than he once might have, but with purpose now. She didn’t head toward the central square or the infirmary’s outer circle. Instead, they walked a quieter path—stone steps laced with moss, shaded halls trailing ivy.

 

She let the scent guide them. That soft, sweet scent of blooming azarella vines. It led them to a secluded garden on the far edge of the palace grounds—one rarely visited, a sanctuary known only to a few. A place Silverbell often retreated to after patrols, when the burdens of duty grew too loud.

 

The moonlight reached it always, no matter the season. It pooled across the marble like water. Silverbell had once said it helped him think—cut through the static. Here, among the azarella and sweetbriar, he had planted something new. A vine. Pale and curling up the white stone trellises with quiet ambition. Moon Drops. Not blossoms, but fruit. Deep violet grapes just beginning to swell in clusters, wrapped in blue-veined leaves. He hadn’t chosen them for himself. He had chosen them for Black Sapphire. The one who slipped through expectations like smoke, until he didn’t. Until he stayed.

 

At the heart of the garden, beneath the arching vines and the silver-streaked moonlight, stood a glass casket. Within it, two figures lay still. Silverbell and Black Sapphire.

 

They looked at peace—hands still resting together, just as they had fallen. The glass glowed faintly with condensation where the cool night air kissed its surface. Around the casket, flowers had been placed by careful hands—blooms of every kind, but especially azarella and sweetbriar. Lavender sprigs. Pale lilies. Soft petals curled at the base, framing the glass like the border of a portrait.

 

There were more Moon Drops planted here, too. They trailed up around the base of the casket, curling between the vines in quiet reverence. The scent of grapes and garden air lingered with a weight both sweet and unbearable.

 

Mercurial Knight stepped closer, the soft rustle of his armor drowned beneath the hush of night. His breath hitched, and without warning, tears began to fall—hot and silent. They streaked down his cheeks, cutting trails through the stoicism he'd worn like armor.

 

He stood before the glass, looking down at the two who meant more than duty, more than title. "I should’ve been there sooner," he whispered, voice trembling. "I should’ve run faster, anything—just to get to you in time."

 

His hand pressed lightly against the glass.

 

"Silverbell... I never told you how proud I was. How much I learned just by watching you lead, love, stay brave when I faltered. And you, Sapphire... you annoyed him to no end, and yet, he looked at you like you were starlight."

 

The healer sat quietly on the stone bench nearby, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered out of respect—but she listened. Every word he spoke, every crack in his voice, she bore witness to.

 

"The world feels dimmer now," Mercurial Knight continued. "And I don't know if it'll ever brighten the same again. But I'm here. I'm still here. And I will remember both of you. Always."

 

He wiped his eyes with the back of his gauntlet, but the tears kept coming.

 

His hand lingered on the glass, trembling faintly. He had fought wars, survived betrayals, seen kingdoms fall—but nothing in all his years had prepared him for this. The stillness of Silverbell’s face. The absence of his voice. The hollow space where once there had been quiet companionship.

 

“I should’ve known you’d go like this,” Mercurial Knight murmured. “Not with fear. Not with regret. But holding someone else’s hand, like you always did when no one was looking.”

 

He drew a slow, aching breath. “You and I… we had centuries. Training in the old courts, learning the Faerie ways before they were faded into tradition. You were there before the title, before the bow and arrow, before the expectation. I never had to explain myself with you. We just... existed beside each other.”

 

His fingers curled against the edge of the casket. “Black Sapphire... he annoyed us both at first. Clung to you like a jelly worm with too many opinions. But witches, you softened him. You made room for him in a way I didn’t know you could.”

 

He paused, the words heavy. “And he loved you for it. The real kind. The terrifying kind. You didn’t say it out loud, but I saw it. In the way your shoulders eased when he entered the room. In the way your voice changed when you spoke his name.”

 

His voice softened with memory. “And Sugarfly… she was always right behind us, wasn’t she? That wild sparkle in her eyes and those silver wings back then that caught every shard of moonlight. She made us laugh when training grew dull, pulled us out of silence when grief threatened to sink in. You two always brought balance—me, with my brooding; her, with her joy; and you… you were the tether that kept us from drifting too far.”

 

With a breath that felt too heavy to hold, Mercurial Knight finally sat beside the casket.

 

He reached for the notebook that had weighed on him for days—the one Silverbell left behind. The leather was worn, the edges curled as if it had been opened and closed a hundred times in a hurry. And when he opened it, the first page made him still.

 

The handwriting was unmistakable. Delicate, neat, and urgent. Each entry felt as if it had been carved out of fleeting time—filled with thoughts, fears, hopes, and regrets. As if Silverbell knew the clock was winding down.

 

Mercurial Knight’s eyes scanned the first words, and his breath caught. There were passages meant for him. Notes on their childhood—sparring under sun-dappled leaves, sneaking honeyed apples from the kitchens, Sugarfly’s laughter echoing through old halls. There were reflections on battles they’d fought side by side, of moments they never talked about but shared in silence.

 

And then, slowly, the words turned to Black Sapphire. Observations. Soft confessions. Wonderings. Love—spoken quietly but written boldly. 'He drives me insane,' one line read. 'And yet, when he leaves the room, I count the seconds until he returns.'

 

Mercurial Knight closed his eyes for a moment, letting the page rest against his chest.

 

"You wrote like you were running out of time," he whispered.

 

He turned another page. Then another. He read until the stars began to fade, and still he held the notebook like it was the last thread connecting them. And in a way—it was.

 

There were more memories. Ones he had forgotten until they stared back at him from the ink.

 

Silverbell had written about Sugarfly—her return to the kingdom after decades of silence. The way her wings, once bright silver, had been covered by a sugary syrup but never lost their shimmer. He captured the exact moment she stepped through the garden gate, the way her voice trembled with joy and disbelief as she called his name. How the three of them—Mercurial, Sugarfly, and himself—had shared a meal late into the night, laughing like time hadn’t passed.

 

One entry detailed a quiet moment by the lake. Mercurial and Silverbell had spent the whole afternoon there, skipping stones and pretending they were still boys without command or legacy. Another described Black Sapphire’s latest antics—stealing a whole tray of honeyed plum cakes, insisting it was for 'tactical charm fuel.' Silverbell had been furious at first, but softened when Sapphire fell asleep halfway through his apology.

 

There were days where Silverbell had doubted himself, his words pressed into the page like bruises. And always, always, he wrote of how Mercurial helped him find his center again. 'He doesn't speak much,' one line read, 'but when he does, I listen. Because I trust him more than anyone. Even when I wish I didn’t.'

 

Mercurial's hands trembled as he read. He saw himself in those pages—not as a knight, not as a commander, but as someone Silverbell loved.

 

And he saw the way Silverbell had come to love Black Sapphire too. Fierce and quietly. Entire paragraphs devoted to things he’d never said aloud. The way Black Sapphire always left an extra sugar cube in his tea. How he never failed to look back when leaving a room, to make sure Silverbell was still there. The way they argued like thunder but always found stillness afterward.

 

Mercurial clutched the notebook to his chest.

 

“I miss you both,” he whispered. “But you loved each other. And I was lucky to witness it. These two had wings—once silver, once shadow-dusted violet—but now they are flying somewhere else entirely. A place beyond patrol routes and battlegrounds. A place not here. And though the wind does not carry their voices anymore, its hush still echoes with the memory of them.”

 

The healer quietly rose from the bench and stepped closer, settling beside Mercurial Knight on the stone. For a while, she said nothing. Then, in a voice threaded with something deeper than sympathy—something personal—she said, "You know, I didn’t believe in bonds like theirs. Not until I was told how they looked at each other. How he looked at you. And now I’m beginning to understand… grief like this is proof something mattered."

 

Mercurial turned his gaze to her, surprised by the rawness of her words.

 

She continued, eyes still on the glass, "I never met a knight who cried before. Not like this. Not for someone. But today… I think I needed to see it. We always think strength is steel and silence. But this? This is strength, too."

 

He didn’t speak, not right away. But her words sank into the quiet, blooming between them like flowers in a frost-bitten garden.

 

"Thank you," he said at last.

 

And for a moment, the weight of loss didn’t feel so crushing. Not gone—but shared.

 

The moment settled around them like moonlight across the garden floor—soft, whole, and impossibly still. The vines didn’t move. The flowers didn’t rustle. Even the breeze, as if paying its respects, paused.

 

Today, Mercurial Knight didn’t feel like he was suffocating. The healer stayed by his side, her presence quiet but unwavering. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t offer condolences that rang hollow. Instead, she let the moment breathe, unbroken. Above them, the moonlight caught on the glass casket, turning it luminous—like the two inside were wrapped in starlight rather than death.

 

Mercurial Knight didn’t reach for his sword, or his armor, or his grief. He simply sat with it. After a long stretch of silence, he spoke again, voice low and rasping from the weight it carried.

"He used to sneak out of training to catch the early frost blooms. Said they reminded him of how short life is. We were just boys, barely taught how to hold a blade, but he already understood the fragility of things."

 

He turned slightly toward the healer, his gaze still fixed on the casket. “There was this one time we got caught climbing the high towers to leave moonstones on the temple’s roof. We thought it would bring luck before the trials. He slipped and nearly fell—and I remember thinking the world would break if he vanished. Even then, I couldn’t imagine going on without him.”

 

The healer listened, silent but attentive.

 

“He always said Sugarfly was our sun,” Mercurial continued, his tone softening. “She brightened every path. And when she left, he never really stopped waiting for her. When she returned... he smiled in a way I hadn’t seen in centuries.”

 

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “He never said he was scared. Not once. But I read it in his eyes sometimes. Especially near the end. Like he knew he wouldn’t make it through the next battle. That’s why he wrote all that down. Why the ink never dried on his letters.”

 

The healer’s hand rested lightly on the bench between them.

 

“I wasn’t ready to say goodbye,” Mercurial said. “But he was. And somehow, knowing that makes it worse.”

 

The healer remained beside him, her voice low and steady. “You gave him something that doesn’t fade, Mercurial. Time. Trust. The kind of presence that anchors someone when the world is collapsing.”

 

He shook his head slowly, eyes brimming again. “But I wanted more. One more patrol. One more night talking nonsense. Just... one more day with him.”

 

The healer placed a gentle hand over his. “And you gave him thousands.”

 

That broke him. Mercurial Knight lowered his head, the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders. The tears came freely now, spilling in silence. No rage, no denial—just grief laid bare in its most honest form. He sobbed for the boy he once knew, for the knight who became more than a comrade, for the love Silverbell gave so freely.

 

The healer stayed with him through it all. She did not speak again. She simply held space for his sorrow, letting it unfold under the moonlight, beside the casket, among the vines that bore witness.

 

When the wind stirred at last and the petals danced in its wake, Mercurial Knight drew a long, shaking breath.

 

And with that breath, something inside him loosened—not his grief, but the grip it had around his throat. It would not leave, not fully. But it softened, just enough to let the world feel real again. He looked at the casket one more time, his expression no longer straining to stay composed, but open, honest, raw. Love and sorrow lived side by side in his chest now. He whispered something only the two within could hear, then stood—not because he was ready to walk away, but because he knew they would want him to. Together, the healer and Mercurial Knight turned from the garden. Behind them, the Moon Drops swayed gently, as if nodding farewell. The silence did not follow them out. It remained, tucked between the roots and blossoms, watching over those who once guarded others, and now, at last, were guarded in return.

 

 

---

 

 

A day passed. The sun had long since set, leaving the Spire bathed in blue twilight. Candy Apple had insisted—no, demanded—that she stay in Black Sapphire’s room for the night. Her stubbornness masked something gentler, something wounded. She didn’t want to be alone. Shadow Milk didn’t stop her. He let her have the bed, the space, the quiet shrine she now curled up inside. Eventually, her breathing evened out, her presence softening into sleep.

Shadow Milk stood just outside the door. He didn’t linger. He closed it slowly, the latch clicking with finality. He stared at the wood grain a moment longer, then turned down the hallway—each step deliberate, quiet.

 

He had made his choice.

 

What the Dark Enchantress wanted—he would do it. Not for her. Never for her. But if this was the only way left to protect the fragments that remained, he would walk that path. If this was the price to guard the few things he had left—he would pay it. No one else was going to burn because of his hesitation.

 

The Spire’s halls were empty, humming with distant echoes. He knew what was coming. The Witches were not idle, nor patient. They would come for him. Demand loyalty. Demand results. Demand a version of him he no longer fully was.

He would give it to them—on his terms.

His footsteps echoed through the library corridor, the ancient sigils on the walls pulsing faintly in response. A place that once felt like a sanctuary of secrets now felt like a furnace of consequences. But he would enter the fire willingly this time.

 

Let them watch. Let them underestimate him. He had failed before. Failed Silverbell. Failed Sapphire. Failed a world built on half-truths and buried love. But not again.

 

He placed one hand on the door to the war room and whispered the spell to unlock it. The wards recognized his magic instantly—wary, reluctant, but yielding.

 

If this was the only way to protect her—to protect Candy Apple, his last believer—then Shadow Milk would become the monster they feared. Not because he wanted to. But because she was still here. And that made her worth everything.

 

Yet even as he moved through the corridors of purpose, guilt clung to him like smoke in his cloak. He had left too much on Black Sapphire’s shoulders. Candy Apple was never meant to be raised by him. That was his role—his responsibility. He had been the one who created her, molded her, whispered twisted lullabies of loyalty into her dough. But when she began to grow—when she asked for attention, for direction, for affection—he handed her off like a task. A burden to Sapphire, who never said no. Who never once complained.

 

They worked hard, both of them. Wove illusions and truths into ribbons and banners. They filled the Spire with messages that danced and deceived. All for him. Because they wanted him to see. To notice. And he didn’t. He was too busy crafting shadows and lies for the Witches, drowning in secrets and self-righteousness.

 

They were abandoned. And still—they stayed. They would have died for him.

 

He passed his own door and paused outside it. The handle, worn smooth from centuries of use, felt cold beneath his fingers. He didn’t turn it yet. He stood there, face lit only by the soft glow of the hall torches, and thought of the two Cookies he had pushed away the most—and how they had stayed closest.

 

He wanted to apologize. But how do you say sorry to ashes?

 

And still—Candy Apple stayed. Despite everything, she remained by his side. Even now, curled in the room of someone she once bickered with like a sibling, she chose to stay. She, who had laughed and fought and mocked Black Sapphire endlessly, who called him dramatic and vain—loved him. Not despite their rivalry, but because of it. Their bond had been real. Tense, sharp, unspoken—but real. And he had been just there. The one who set them both on their path, and then vanished behind orders and silence.

 

He had watched them grow up, shoulder burdens, and build something out of the fragments he left behind. They worked themselves raw trying to impress him, to earn something more than direction—a glance, a word, a sign that he saw them. But he hadn't. He had been consumed, devoted to something he no longer even believed in.

 

He had made them feel abandoned. And yet they stayed. Now, one is gone. The other still followed. And Shadow Milk still could not bring himself to say the words he should have spoken long ago. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I see you."

 

He crossed the threshold of his room, carrying all the things left unsaid. And still, the silence greeted him. The only penance now was what he chose to become.

 

He crossed the threshold of his room, carrying all the things left unsaid. And still, the silence greeted him—not to punish, but to witness. The only penance now was what he chose to become.

 

With a sharp breath, Shadow Milk summoned the spell—the one meant for long-range teleportation, reserved for only the most private of destinations. The glyphs glowed at his feet, whispering to the void. In a blink, he vanished, reappearing somewhere colder. Darker.

 

A place where the stars were choked by clouds. A place where the air was thick with the scent of brimstone and burnt jasmine. This was her domain—the hidden garden of rot where Dark Enchantress resided.

 

The black vines shifted as he arrived, curling and uncurling like they sensed prey. The marble beneath his boots was cracked and veined with obsidian, leading him through a courtyard wrapped in half-dead roses. And there she stood—Dark Enchantress, untouched by time or pity, cloaked in silence as if the world itself had bowed to her will.

 

"You've come," she said, without turning.

 

"You left me a note," Shadow Milk replied, his voice steady despite the churn of emotions beneath. "You knew I’d come."

 

"Of course I did." She turned slowly, crimson eyes gleaming in the gloom. "Did you read it thoroughly? Or only enough to feel guilt again?"

 

He flinched at that, but didn’t look away. "You threatened what I treasure. Again."

 

Dark Enchantress tilted her head. "And you needed the reminder. You’ve forgotten what you are. A Beast."

 

He stepped forward. "I remember. I will always remember what I’ve become."

 

"And yet, here you are. Back at my feet." Her smile was cruel. "Because no matter how far you drift, Milk, you always return when it matters. When the world reminds you that softness is weakness."

 

"No," he said quietly. "I return because if I don’t, someone else will suffer in my place. I came to talk. To make terms."

 

She raised an eyebrow. "You presume you have the right."

 

"I presume nothing," he said, standing tall now. "But I still carry what you gave me—and I can choose what to do with it. Even if it means burning for it."

 

For a long moment, the wind hushed, and even the vines paused. Then, she laughed—low and cold. "Fine. Talk, then. But choose your next words carefully, Shadow Milk. You’re still mine. Whether you want to be or not."

 

"We will get your Soul Jam back," she said smoothly, her gaze fixed and unyielding. "With that, you'll be whole again. And in return, you'll help me bring the witches to their knees with the other Beasts. What do you say, Shadow Milk Cookie? Do we have a deal?"

 

He stared at her, jaw tightening.

 

"You think that's what I want? My Soul Jam? To be 'whole' again? The truth broke me. I was designed to be broken. I am the ugly half. “He” would always get the better half, while I suffer here."

 

"No," Dark Enchantress said with a tilt of her head, her tone unreadable. "I made you sharp. I made you useful again. It was the world that dulled you. It was them ."

 

"You don’t get to say their names," he snapped. "Not after what you did."

 

"And yet, you’re here. Because you know what comes next. You’ve seen it. The witches will tear Earthbread apart if left unchecked. I gave you a body—I'm offering you the chance to use it."

 

Shadow Milk stepped closer, cold fury in his eyes. "I’ll do what needs to be done. Not for you. Not because of what you gave me. But because I have something to protect. And I will not lose her too."

 

She watched him, her expression unreadable. Then she gave the faintest nod. "Very well. We fight together—for now. But remember, Shadow Milk. Deals with me never come without a price."

 

He turned away, cloak stirring with his magic. "I already paid it. With every life you shattered. But this time—I choose where the blade falls."

 

Dark Enchantress smiled. Not kindly. But with recognition. "Then go, Beast of Deceit. Remind the world what fear truly is."

 

The wind shifted as Shadow Milk left the withered courtyard, but the chill didn’t touch him. His steps were no longer uncertain. His path was set—not by fate, nor duty, but by love and grief.

 

 

Grief is the intense emotional suffering that follows a significant loss—most commonly the death of someone close, but also other major losses like a breakup, job loss, serious illness, or a dramatic life change. It’s not just sadness. Grief can include shock, anger, guilt, numbness, confusion, or even relief, and it often shows up in waves rather than a straight line. People grieve in different ways, and there’s no fixed timeline for it.

At its core, grief is the mind and body reacting to something being torn away—and trying to make sense of life without it.

It not just mourning the dead, but living with the echo of what could have been. It carved into him, reshaped him—grief as an unrelenting sculptor, each loss a chisel. Silverbell's quiet grace, Black Sapphire’s defiant brilliance, Candy Apple’s fierce and flawed loyalty—they were not just memories. They were truths. And they stayed. 

 

Love is a deep, powerful connection to someone or something that matters so much it shapes how you think, feel, and act. It’s complicated because it takes many forms—romantic, familial, platonic, self-love, even love for ideas or places. Sometimes it uplifts; sometimes it hurts. It can feel like comfort or chaos. It can be steady or wild, unconditional or conditional, freeing or possessive. But at its root, love is the drive to care deeply, to protect, to stay close, to see and be seen. It’s both emotion and choice. Not just a feeling, but the actions that come with it.

In the end, wasn’t soft. It was survival. It was the war-cry screamed through silence, the reason he kept rising even after everything else had crumbled. It hurt. It broke. But it endured. And that made it real. That made it matter. Love is a complicated word. One can't define it so easy.

 

He had once stood as the Fount of Knowledge, a figure revered across Earthbread. Once, he had clarity and direction. The Witches carved that into him—his purpose, his pedestal. They gave him riddles shaped as commandments, cloaked deception as vision. Cookies gathered at his feet, starving for answers.

 

But when he peeled back the veil and spoke what he had truly seen—when he told them that the beautiful order they clung to was built on lies and rot—they turned from him. The truth, laid bare, was too cruel. Too raw. It wasn’t the story they wanted.

 

And so they left him. And the Witches broke him.

 

His words became poison. His wisdom is a blight. He became a Beast. The price of truth was exile, pain, isolation. Because the world did not want the truth. It wanted comfort. It wanted parables with clean endings. It wanted hope dressed in ribbons. But ribbons burn. And myths rot.

 

So he would become a different kind of story. Not the kind etched in gold or retold for comfort. But one etched in bone and silence. A story that lingered long after the last page.

 

So this is it… A reminder of what grief can become. Of how love refuses to die. Of the silence that truth leaves behind. He would carry it. He would wield it.  And this time, the ending would not be written by the Witches. This time, it would be his. It would be them . And one day "their" story will be told: the sacrifices they made, their unconditional love, and how it ended with them.

Notes:

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS omgomg

I made a few references from the previous chapters hehe, I love making references so much.

and finally one line here is mirroring the other ending,

how is everyone feeling with this WAHAHAHAHA

the "He" that smc is talking about is pure vanilla, the "their" in the last few paragraphs are black sapphire and silverbell

 

Goldenlily crumbs hehe

So in this ending, I tried to explore "grief" despite I haven't experienced it... I want to write it out, they all of them had different ways of grieving, like people all of them just dont cry some try smile with it or lock themselves in a room. Also notice pure vanilla, he hasnt witnessed their love but he can still feel it. He desperately wants to save them but it was too late.

I also wrote love kinda that way, I never really understood love because it is so complicated, I get to say the word "I love you" to my parents and friends yet I don't understand. It is really easy to hate rather than love. But while writing that I went back to old chapters of this fic. What is the meaning of *their* love and how did the others love them (as a parents... as a brother... as a part of their family)

 

I just want to say the hint for the other ending is in pure vanilla's words, pay attention to his dialogue :3

 

I am on the process of writing ending 2 but that 20k is still not on the "best" part of the chapter. Trust me its probably going to be longer... but by next month I might post it. I am really busy with school. I wrote both of these chapters since last month so I'll take a break first,

 

https://x.com/Mashiii_room/status/1943546427818295781?t=u5KBVz3Y9Fd6LDv-Kerxjw&s=19
(Dont mind my spelling of bittersweet pls)

now I can finally rest properly tyL

Chapter 25: The End? (2/2)

Notes:

wsp gng I'm still alive. I told y'all that I'd post this yesterday but I really tried because I was stuck on the ending, kept deleting words for it.

 

also check this out!!! https://x.com/fuusha11/status/1947419944926200226 (fanart about blackbell and unpart!!!) I am pretty sure they have another one which is: https://x.com/fuusha11/status/1955941500455420385

BEFORE READING: I just want to say, THIS IS CALLED UNPART FOR A REASON

Suddenly—a flick of shadow. Shadow Milk appeared beside Silverbell with sharp eyes and a voice low with urgency.

 

He looked at Silverbell—still motionless—and then down at Black Sapphire, shaking, splintered, a storm in collapse. “I’ll take it from here now.” He rested a gloved hand gently on Silverbell’s body—firm but not forceful. “Stay there.” There is no hint of theatrics nor sarcasm in his voice. 

 

And in this very moment he was going to finish what Dark Enchantress Cookie once started. The battlefield fell away in a breath. A new domain is made specifically for Black Sapphire Cookie and him.

 

Black Sapphire sat alone in the center of a pale, quiet space—a clearing of sorts, lit only by the flicker of magic dying at the edges. A domain filled with darkness. The sound of his own breath shaking in his chest can be heard evidently.

 

He knelt there, hunched over, arms loose at his sides, body trembling from everything he’d just done. He didn’t see the illusion warp. Didn’t feel the shift as the outer world pulled away. He didn’t notice Shadow Milk standing there.

 

Watching. Waiting.

 

Until—softly, Shadow Milk’s shape shimmered. And became him. Another Black Sapphire stepped into view. Fully formed. Whole. No more flickering eyes—his mask cracked. He didn’t walk with power nor to manipulate. He walked like a memory, to give the truth that Black Sapphire clearly needed at the moment. “You really screwed up this time.”

 

Black Sapphire jolted—his head snapping up, eyes wide. He stared at the figure carefully. It was identical, unlike him it was calm and unburdened. That voice. it was his. “W-What…?” he breathed. “Who—”

 

The illusion of him smiled faintly. It wasn’t smug nor fake, it was a tired smile  “You already know who I am.”

 

The real Black Sapphire’s breathing quickened. “This is a trick. You’re… you're not real.”

 

The other tilted his head. “Aren’t I?”

 

They looked at each other. One was broken. Shaking. Raw. The other—a version of him that hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to be held. To smile. To belong.

 

Shadow Milk, beneath the disguise, didn’t move. He let the illusion do the work. Let him see himself.

 

“You struck him,” the illusion said. “And it didn’t make you feel strong.”

 

Black Sapphire’s throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to—he was just—he wouldn’t stop—”

 

“Loving you?”

 

The silence was heavy.

 

The illusion stepped forward and knelt across from him. “Do you know what the scariest part of being loved is?”

 

Black Sapphire looked up, barely breathing. “…What is it?”

 

The illusion leaned in just slightly. “That means you don’t get to disappear anymore.”

 

Black Sapphire shook his head. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t—”

 

“You did,” the illusion said gently. “That’s why it hurts, right?”

 

His hands curled into fists–voice cracked again. “I don’t know who I am without the pain.”

 

The illusion reached forward—offered a hand. His palm was open, it was still and ready to accept. “Then let’s find out. Together.”

 

His hand hovered in the air—not quite reaching his own fingers twitching. Breathing shallow. The illusion of himself—still patient, still kneeling—didn’t press. Just waited.

 

And Black Sapphire, with eyes red and burning, finally whispered: “What would he think?”

 

The illusion didn’t answer because it didn’t need to, he just listened to him. What Black Sapphire needed right now is to be heard.

 

“Shadow Milk… my master” he continued, voice cracking. “He trusted me. Called me loyal. I was supposed to stay sharp. Stay useful.”

 

He choked on the next word. “And then the others?” His eyes brimmed with guilt now—hot and full. “I hurt him. Silverbell…” His voice broke on the name. “He kept chasing me—even when I didn’t want to be caught.” He pressed both hands to his face. “He waited. Again and again. And what did I do for him to love me?” He dropped his hands, fists clenched, shoulders shaking. “I don’t deserve him. I never deserved him.”

 

The illusion of him didn’t flinch. It simply said—“That’s not your choice to make.”

 

Black Sapphire looked up.

 

The illusion’s voice was quiet, but steady. “You don’t get to decide if you're worth loving. He already made that decision.”

 

“You just have to choose if you want to live with it.” And slowly—the illusion reached for his hand again. Still offering, like it was a glimmer of hope.

 

And this time—Black Sapphire didn’t pull away. Black Sapphire stared at the offered hand. The weight of it. The meaning behind it. And something in him—small, cracked, half-drowned in guilt—moved. A flicker of something more than regret. A memory of wanting.

 

His hand twitched.

 

“…How?” he asked, voice small. “How do I trust someone who’s already let everyone down?”

 

“You start with yourself.”

 

Black Sapphire’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “I don’t trust me either.”

 

“I know,” the illusion said. Still remained calm. “But maybe… that version of you isn’t the only one in here.”

 

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t suffocating. It stretched out, waiting, like an empty room with a light on inside.

 

“I don’t even know what I want,” Black Sapphire muttered. “I’ve been surviving for so long, I—” He broke off, pressing a hand to his chest. “I don’t even know what I’d be without the fight.”

 

“You’d be someone learning.” The words were simple. Too simple, almost. But they landed like the truth .

 

“You think trust means never failing,” the illusion said. “But trust means letting someone see you—even when you’re falling apart.”

 

“That’s the part I don’t get,” Black Sapphire said, frustrated. “Why him? Why does Silverbell keep coming back?”

 

The illusion gave a small smile. “Because he’s not trying to fix you. He’s trying to find you.”

 

Black Sapphire’s breath caught.

 

His mind spun. He wanted to argue. Wanted to retreat into the old armor of blame, detachment, sharp words and sharper instincts. But those tools had always left him alone in the end and he was just so tired of being alone.

 

The illusion shifted, kneeling closer. Still holding out that hand. “You don’t have to be better yet,” it said. “You just have to be here.”

 

Black Sapphire swallowed hard. His hand rose. He hesitated. Then landed—fingers trembling—into his own outstretched palm.

 

The illusion’s hand closed around his gently. The warmth felt nice. It’s been a while since he felt this feeling. Shadow Milk, behind the illusion, let it hold.

 

Let it be.

 

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Black Sapphire let himself sit in the quiet. He didn’t feel like a failure or a weapon used for war, he was a Cookie that was still alive and well. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.

 

“That’s why you won’t do it alone,” the illusion said. “Silverbell’s still out there. The others are, too. You’re not beyond them.”

 

He nodded—barely—but it was enough.

 

Then: “What if I mess up again?”

 

“You will,” the illusion replied, without judgment. “But next time, maybe you won’t run.”

 

The magic around them began to fade—the pale space peeling back, edges rippling like fabric in the wind.

 

The battlefield is slowly returning.

 

But Black Sapphire didn’t stand right away. He breathed, listened to the sound of his heart. And when the illusion began to fade, he didn’t panic. He held the echo of that hand in his own, and whispered “I’ll try.”

 

 “Then let’s try … together .”

 

The illusion shimmered gently like frost melting beneath morning light. The second version of Black Sapphire flickered—and in its place, Shadow Milk stood. His disguise has faded. It showed his tired eyes

 

He let the silence hang for a moment. Let Black Sapphire see him.

 

Really see him.

 

And then he said, voice softer than it had ever been: “…I don’t usually show this, but I feel like you need it.” He pulled Black Sapphire’s hand bringing them closer to each other and he dragged him into a hug. His arms wrapping the other, protective and solid. There was no stiff, awkward pat on the back like Shadow Milk’s usual hugs. He provided him the comfort he needed. 

 

Black Sapphire collapsed into it and he didn't hesitate anymore. He just hugged him back— tight, trembling, like if he let go he might vanish altogether. His fingers gripped the back of Shadow Milk’s cloak, and for the first time in so long—he cried in front of his master. Everything he’d been holding in since the moment he told himself he didn’t deserve love.

 

Shadow Milk didn’t say anything else. He just held him. Like maybe, just maybe, it was okay to be held. This—this was the thing neither of them knew how to ask for, let alone receive.

 

Not for eons and those times before the world began labeling them as cruel monsters .

 

Then—the illusions began to fall. One by one.

 

The false battlefield shimmered like a dream ending, edges fraying into strands of light and smoke. The fake terrain—the endless war zone—peeled away. What remained underneath was reality. Wounded knights scattered across a clearing. Paper illusions curling into ash and drifting skyward.

 

Silverbell, still unmoving, chest rising gently, dusted with soot and cracked stone.

 

And two figures, silhouetted by the dissolving light— Black Sapphire, collapsed in Shadow Milk’s arms. His staff lay discarded on the ground beside him. And the glow in his eyes had finally gone out.

 

He wasn’t a weapon now, he wasn’t a weapon anymore . He was just himself.

 

And for the first time in his life, Black Sapphire believed that maybe—he didn’t have to fix everything right now. He just had to stop running from himself.

 

Shadow Milk let out a long, unsteady breath against his shoulder. His voice was quiet. Barely a whisper. “You scare me, you know that?”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. Not in words. He just leaned into him harder.

 

And somewhere, deep beneath the smirks and illusions and shadows—Shadow Milk closed his eyes.

 

Black Sapphire let out a broken sound—a laugh and a sob all at once. “I thought you'd hate me.”

 

Shadow Milk gave him a small, sad smile. “Oh please. I hated watching you destroy yourself. That’s not the same thing, Sapphy..” The light around them shifted again. Brighter now. More sure.

 

He did care. He always had. He just didn’t know how to say it and how to show it.

 

Shadow Milk pulled back slowly. Then pressed a hand gently over Black Sapphire’s heart. “You’re still here,” he whispered. “So there’s still time. Go.”

 

A look—a silent nod. Permission. Release. 

 

Black Sapphire ran quickly. His chest was still burning from the enchanted arrow. But he chose to ignore that pain. There was someone more important than that.

 

And this time he isn’t running away anymore.

 

He was running to return to him , to the person who waited for him all this time, to Silverbell.

 

His body screamed with every step. The enchanted arrow was still lodged in his chest, pulsing faintly, oozing a thick, dark jam and magic.

 

Each movement tore through him.

 

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t care if his chest is currently burning and aching with pain. Because that same pain meant he was still alive.

 

And being alive meant he still had a choice. To find him. To speak. To try.

 

To return.

 

The clearing disappeared behind him—leaves scattering, light dissolving—
and the battlefield rose ahead, waiting.

 

He still ran anyway even though he is bleeding because he knew he is no longer alone.

 

He stumbled through the dissolving light of the battlefield, through the ash and smoke and crumbling illusions. The knights barely registered him—some still dazed, others silently watching.

 

And then—He dropped to his knees beside the broken figure on the ground.

 

Silverbell. 

 

He is barely breathing. Bloody jam streaked across his cheek, his side, soaking the edge of his armor. His hair clung to his forehead. His bow was gone. But his eyes—They fluttered open. Just enough to take a glimpse of Black Sapphire.

 

“Oh,” he whispered, voice a cracked reed. He blinked—and smiled weakly. “You’re back.” And then he laughed. A small, quiet sound that cracked at the end like a wine glass dropped too softly to shatter. “You’re really here…”

 

Black Sapphire sank to the ground and pulled him into his lap and carefully let his arms wrapped around Silverbell’s bloodied form, not like someone trying to hold on—But like someone afraid to let go.

 

Silverbell groaned softly at the movement, resting his head against Sapphire’s chest, letting himself sink into the arms that had once held weapons. “You’re really here,” he repeated, a little breathless.

 

 “Knew you couldn’t resist my charm forever.”

 

Black Sapphire gave a choked sound. A mix between a laugh and a sob. “Idiot.” His voice cracked. But he held him tighter. Because this time, he wasn’t letting go first.

 

The battlefield was quiet now. Ash drifted lazily from the air. The echo of magic still hummed in the broken stones, but no one spoke. All of their eyes were watching them.

 

Black Sapphire knelt. Arms wrapped around the one person who never stopped chasing him. And in his lap—Silverbell, bloody and bruised, blinked up at him with that same damn smile.

 

“You’re crying again,” he whispered, weakly.

 

And he was. Tears are rolling down Black Sapphire’s face. It was due to relief. From the kind of grief that only surfaces when it’s safe to feel it. He buried his face in Silverbell’s shoulder. 

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  His voice broke. Again and again. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve chosen you sooner. I—”

 

Footsteps are audible, slowly approaching the two Cookies.

 

It is Mercurial Knight. He limped, bloodied and battered, but still standing. His sword was sheathed. His arms hung loose at his sides.

 

No judgment in his face like the first time they fought. Only tiredness from the battle. And something else, too. Understanding. He stopped a few steps away. Looked down at the two of them. “Hm. You came back,” he said quietly.

 

Black Sapphire couldn’t even look up. He just tightened his hold. “...Too late.”

 

Mercurial shook his head. “Not too late.” There was a pause. He crouched down slowly, armor creaking. Placed a hand gently on Sapphire’s shoulder. “He waited. That’s the thing about Silverbell. He always waits. Especially when he knows that it is worth the risk.”

 

Black Sapphire’s sob caught in his throat.

 

Silverbell let out a soft, broken chuckle. “...Don’t make it sound so dramatic,” he mumbled.

 

“You are literally this close to death,” Mercurial muttered. “Still counts as waiting.”

 

And for a long moment— None of them moved. Except for the tears falling and the arms that refused to let go.

 

The wind settled, ash no longer fell from the sky. The battlefield no longer roared. Silverbell was still cradled in Black Sapphire’s arms, his breathing faint but steady. His head rested against Sapphire’s chest, and for a moment—it was just them. The slow, aching return to truth .

 

Black Sapphire brushed a thumb carefully against Silverbell’s cheek, wiping away dried jam and dust. His touch trembled. His jaw clenched tight.

 

“Don’t close your eyes yet,” he whispered. “Stay with me just a little longer.”

 

Silverbell blinked slowly, lips curved in that small, crooked smile. “Still here…” he breathed, voice barely audible.

 

Then—a voice curled around them. Smooth. Whisper-light. “Beautiful moment. Shame it won’t last long.”

 

Black Sapphire’s head snapped up and slowly stood from the ground. He didn’t need to look. He knew that voice. 

 

Shadow Milk.

 

But not physically. Just his voice, laced with distant power, echoing like a whisper from behind a veil of smoke.

 

“AHEM AHEM. I’m not interrupting out of rudeness,” he added. “But! I’m doing what no one else has the guts to do.”

 

A ripple of dark light began to shimmer behind them, forming slowly into a swirling portal—cold, quiet, but stable.

 

Black Sapphire held Silverbell closer.

 

Then, as Silverbell's eyes began to flutter shut, the voice came again—this time, softer. “Keep them safe.”

 

It took a moment to realize the words were directed not to Black Sapphire—but to Silverbell .

 

“This war isn’t over just yet,” Shadow Milk continued. “And I don’t want them involved in a fight they should never participate in.”

 

Silverbell forced a final breath, his hand weakly grasping Black Sapphire’s. “I will,” he murmured. “I’ll protect him. I swear.”

 

And with that— His eyes slowly shut and his body went still. He is now unconscious.

 

Black Sapphire looked down, silent.

 

Then—Mercurial Knight stepped forward with a small satchel of letters in hand.

 

He handed it over. “Use these,” he said. A quiet pause. Then added, more gently— “And… tell him to send updates.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked up at him.

 

For once, Mercurial smiled faintly. “I see it now. How much you love him… So go.” And then, softer— “Take care of him for me.”

 

His jaw clenched slightly, but his tone never wavered. “He’s stubborn and he’ll always try to carry everything alone.”

 

He looked away for just a second—his expression unreadable. Then back up again. Eyes sharper now. But full of something almost gentle. “So carry him when he won’t ask to be.”

 

Silence.

 

Wind moved through the ruined trees like a breath held too long.

 

Then, Mercurial added, voice quieter than ever “I can’t afford to lose another cookie that meant a lot to the Kingdom and I.”

 

Black Sapphire’s grip on Silverbell tightened. Their eyes met one last time. “I’ll try to save him.”

 

With a small nod—of promise, of gratitude, of everything that couldn’t be spoken— Black Sapphire stepped into the portal. And vanished.

 

The battlefield shimmered.

 

One second, the sky was open, ash drifting like snow, the ground littered with the wounded. And the next—It changed.

 

A ripple moved across the air, silent but deep. As if the world held its breath and exhaled at last.

 

The domain faded—one only visible to a few. A Silver Tree construct made of grief and silence, sealed off from those who would never understand.

 

And now, it was gone.

 

What remained underneath was jagged earth, broken stones, and scattered bodies—Silver Tree knights, sprawled and battered.

 

“What in the sugar-crusted—?!”

Hollyberry Cookie was already moving. Her voice rang like thunder, her red cloak torn but still proud. She stomped forward, shield flaring with protective light. “That wasn't ordinary magic. That was some kind of illusion dome! Who cast it?!”

 

White Lily Cookie, calm but focused, followed close behind. Her eyes glowed faintly with magic still active at her fingertips. “That magic… Could it be?”

 

Golden Cheese Cookie landed beside a collapsed knight, checking his pulse. “Knights down! A whole squad’s unconscious. What were they fighting in there?”

 

Dark Cacao Cookie scanned the field grimly. “There is no enemy in sight. But the magic… lingers. Faint. Personal.” He knelt, running his hand over the cracked ground. “Painful, but deliberate.”

 

Pure Vanilla Cookie, staff still glowing with gentle healing light, moved from knight to knight in silence, laying hands on shoulders and murmuring spells of restoration. Then, softly: “One is missing.”

 

White Lily nodded slowly. “Silverbell Cookie.”

 

Hollyberry’s brows furrowed. “That silver-bowed boy?” She huffed. “Where’d he go? Don’t tell me he wandered off mid-battle. I liked him—sharp eyes, even sharper tongue.”

 

“No,” said a voice behind them.

 

Mercurial Knight emerged from the smoke, armor scuffed, cloak torn at one edge. His expression was unreadable. His steps were heavy—not from wounds, but from everything he now carried.

 

All five Ancients turned.

 

Golden Cheese narrowed her eyes. “So. You’re alive.”

 

“I am,” Mercurial replied. “So is Silverbell.”

 

White Lily’s voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp. “Then where is he?”

 

Mercurial looked down at the shattered field. “Gone. Taken through a portal.”

 

Golden Cheese crossed her arms. “Taken by who ?”

 

“…Black Sapphire.”

 

There was a pause. The name meant nothing to most of them.

 

“Sounds edgy,” Golden Cheese muttered.

 

But Pure Vanilla's head tilted ever so slightly. His eyes sharpened—not with fear, but recognition. “He was one of Shadow Milk’s.”

 

Now Dark Cacao turned, posture stiffening. “A servant?”

 

“Yes,” Mercurial said firmly. 

 

Golden Cheese looked skeptical. “You’re saying one of Shadow Milk’s lapdogs stole your best knight and walked out through a portal—and you’re fine with that?”

 

“I let him go,” Mercurial said quietly. “They both needed to leave.”

 

White Lily stepped forward. “Explain.”

 

Mercurial looked her in the eye. “You saw the domain fade. That was his doing—Black Sapphire. But not the version some of us knew.”

 

Pure Vanilla Cookie’s gaze softened. “He was hollow when I met him. A soul wrapped in orders.”

 

Mercurial nodded. “He fought us. Soulless. Controlled. His feelings gone. He nearly killed Silverbell.”

 

The air went still.

 

Golden Cheese's eyes widened. “Then why let him leave?”

 

Mercurial’s voice didn’t waver. “Because he came back.”

 

Hollyberry frowned. “I’m not following.”

 

Mercurial looked up, and for a moment—just a second—the coldness in his eyes cracked. “He broke free. Silverbell reached him. Shadow Milk helped finish it.”

 

“Shadow Milk helped? That foul beast?” Dark Cacao repeated, frowning.

 

“I can’t explain it,” Mercurial admitted. “Not all of it. But whatever he did—it let Black Sapphire feel again.”

 

White Lily was quiet for a moment. Then: “And Silverbell?”

 

“…Well he was unconscious and injured. But he is alive. Black Sapphire held him like he’d shatter otherwise. Like he’d finally remembered what he was.”

 

Pure Vanilla finally spoke. “I suppose love is not in his nature. Not as he was created. But I saw it in his eyes once—a question he was too afraid to ask.”

 

White Lily turned toward the direction of the vanished portal and smiled. “Then he finally found his answer.”

 

Dark Cacao’s voice was slow. Firm. “If he returns…?”

 

Mercurial didn’t hesitate. “He will not raise a weapon against us.”

 

Pure Vanilla nodded. “Then we will not raise one against him.”

 

Golden Cheese crossed her arms. “Oh well! That’s a big leap of trust.”

 

“Silverbell would die for him,” Mercurial said plainly. “And I’ve watched him die for less.”

 

White Lily looked at Mercurial. “And you?”

 

His voice was quieter now. “I tried to protect Silverbell from that battle—multiple times. But I can make sure the world doesn’t punish him for what love pulled him into.”

 

Hollyberry let out a long breath. “Well, when they come back, I’ll be the first to welcome them. And then I’ll yell at them. Loudly.”

 

Pure Vanilla smiled softly. “As it should be.”

 

Golden Cheese rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Feelings.”

 

White Lily finally turned to Mercurial. “You did the right thing.”

 

Mercurial didn’t answer. He just looked out into the fading mist, where the portal had been. And whispered, just barely “I hope so.”

 

The Ancients moved without another word. Pure Vanilla returned to the field, staff glowing with fresh warmth, kneeling beside every knight who still breathed. With careful hands and murmured spells, he eased cracked ribs and pulled fever from flushed brows. Golden light followed him.

 

White Lily traced quiet paths between bodies, casting subtle healing charms and weaving threads of protection over those in deepest rest. Her magic hummed like wind through petals—gentle, unseen, but grounding.

 

Dark Cacao lifted the heavier fallen to shelter, silent but sure, laying them out on cleaner ground where Pure Vanilla could reach them. His strength was steady, motion precise, like a ritual practiced too many times.

 

Hollyberry barked for stretchers and supplies, shoving one knight upright with a “You’re not dying on me, soldier,” and personally shouldering a half-conscious Cookie across the clearing.

 

Golden Cheese handed out rations and barked jokes, ignoring the scrape on her cheek. “Get up, lazybones. You’ve got a recovery arc waiting.”

 

And Mercurial—he moved among them in silence. Eyes sharp. Watchful. Guarding not just their bodies, but their names. Their stories.

 

Because the fight was over—for now. But the healing had only begun.

 

One by one, the wounded were stabilized, spells weaving across bruised limbs and cracked armor. When the last of the magic faded and breath returned to every chest, 

 

Pure Vanilla stood and motioned to the approaching healers. "They’re ready now," he said gently.

 

Stretchers arrived, wheels whispering across the ash-streaked ground. The healers, cloaked in silver and green, moved with practiced grace, lifting knights onto cots, wrapping them in soft linen, and murmuring soft reassurances. The Ancients stepped back—not from disinterest, but respect.

 

Pure Vanilla accompanied them. Quiet. Steady. Staff in hand as he walked alongside the line of stretchers toward the Faerie Kingdom’s infirmary, casting light into the dim corners of the corridors as they passed.

 

The others watched him go and then, slowly, followed.

 

The scent of moss and riverlight clung to the air as the Ancients entered the Faerie Kingdom's outer halls, their capes trailing behind them. The battle with the cake monsters had ended just hours ago, but fatigue clung to the group like fog. Lanterns swayed on gossamer cords, casting golden light across the marble floors.

 

Mercurial Knight walked ahead of them, silent but steady, his armor streaked with soot. The Silver Tree Knights were already in the infirmary. Silverbell had been laid on a padded cot, breath faint but present. Black Sapphire was gone, vanished through the portal minutes earlier.

 

White Lily stood by the window, arms folded, her white cloak fluttering in the breeze from the open pane. She had been quiet since their return.

 

Then Hollyberry Cookie slammed a jug of berry juice onto the table so hard the goblets rattled.

 

"Alright!" she barked. "Someone start talkin'. I want names, timelines, and motivations—who's this Black Sapphire fella, and why was he holding a faerie like that was his last sunrise?"

 

Golden Cheese Cookie, already halfway through her first glass, snorted. "That wasn’t just battlefield camaraderie. That was something else."

 

Dark Cacao Cookie remained standing, arms folded. His brow furrowed. "Explain."

 

Mercurial leaned against the stone archway, eyes dark with memory.

 

"They've been seeing each other for months."

 

Hollyberry blinked. "Seeing each other as in—?"

 

"Yes," Mercurial said bluntly. "That kind of seeing."

 

Golden Cheese whistled. "Well, I'll be dipped in glaze."

 

White Lily turned from the window. Her voice was soft but sure. "He came to me once. Silverbell. He asked questions about loyalty... and love. He didn’t name him outright. But I knew."

 

Dark Cacao looked toward her. "You didn’t tell anyone."

 

"It wasn’t mine to tell," White Lily said simply.

 

Mercurial nodded. "I caught him sneaking out more than once. Never reckless. Used illusion charms, and learned disguise spells to keep it hidden. Said he didn’t want anyone dragging Black Sapphire back in chains."

 

Golden Cheese squinted. "Wait. This guy—Black Sapphire—let me just recap for a moment. He was one on the side of the Beasts, wasn’t he?"

 

"He was," White Lily said. "Shadow Milk trained him. Sent him here originally to infiltrate the Faerie Kingdom. To whisper fear. He was never supposed to return." Golden Cheese only listened and avoided White Lily’s gaze.

 

Hollyberry poured another shot of berry juice. "Let me guess. He didn’t disappear."

 

"No," White Lily said. "He stayed. For Silverbell."

 

Mercurial's voice dipped low. "When we hunted him, he never returned to the kingdom. However, they would meet in the borderlands. Between Faerie Kingdom and the Lands of Deceit. At a cave."

 

There was a pause.

 

Then Mercurial spoke again, quieter this time. "He wasn’t just sneaking out for meetings. During one of Silverbell’s recoveries, Black Sapphire gave him a book—one filled with spells. Disguises, wards, illusions. He learned them all. Just to keep seeing him."

 

White Lily nodded slowly. "I remember the questions. Silverbell asked how loyalty and love could coexist. Whether hiding love was a betrayal, or proof of it. He didn’t say why he asked. But the pain in his voice said enough."

 

Hollyberry set down her goblet. "So what, they passed magic books and love notes in secret like some tragic ballad?"

 

"Yes," Mercurial confirmed. "They wrote to each other. Sent letters with spellmarks only the other could read. It was quiet. Careful. Constant."

 

Golden Cheese let out a long breath. "Stars above... That’s real. So real ."

 

Dark Cacao was silent, but something in his posture softened.

 

Pure Vanilla had just arrived, robes faintly dusted with healing light. He stepped quietly into the chamber, his expression calm but deeply curious. "Spells, letters... and they still stayed hidden all this time. Not even we noticed."

 

Hollyberry’s head perked up. “Ah! There you are, Vanilla! Come, sit with us. You missed the scandal.” She gestured broadly toward the table, sliding a goblet of berry juice toward him.

 

He gave a polite shake of his head, lips curling into a gentle smile. “Thank you, Hollyberry, but I’ll pass. I’ve had enough sweetness for one day.”

 

Then, with a glance toward the far corner where Mercurial stood apart, Pure Vanilla quietly stepped over. He placed a gentle hand just above a tear in Mercurial’s armor. The healing light from his staff pulsed softly, mending bruises and sealing torn skin beneath the plating.

 

“You’ve carried more than your share today,” Pure Vanilla said, voice barely above a whisper.

 

Mercurial blinked, caught off guard by the kindness. “...Thank you.”

 

White Lily gave a faint smile. "Some things only bloom when kept in shadow."

 

Then Pure Vanilla finally spoke, his hands glowing faintly over a Mercurial Knight’s chest, mending a cracked rib. "Forgive me, but I must ask... how did this begin between them? Black Sapphire struck me as a Cookie who kept no heart in his chest—only orders. And yet now, he seems to carry Silverbell's with him. How did that change come to be?" 

 

Golden Cheese raised a brow, swirling the liquid in her goblet. "And now he’s a walking love poem? What happened to the silent, spooky assassin vibe?"

 

Pure Vanilla didn't look up. "I didn’t see him hold Silverbell myself... but from everything I’ve heard, it sounds like he held him like everything else in the world had vanished. Like Silverbell was the only thing left he knew how to protect."

 

Silence again.

 

Then Mercurial Knight answered Pure Vanilla’s question, voice low but certain. "It didn’t start with declarations or grand moments. It started in silence. In the cracks between orders. Silverbell saw something in him—something even Black Sapphire didn’t know how to name. And when Silverbell kept coming back, again and again, something in Black Sapphire softened."

 

He paused. "It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t perfect. But every letter, every meeting, every spell Silverbell practiced just to see him—they chipped away at the weapon he thought he had to be. Until what was left... was someone willing to stay."

 

Hollyberry sipped. "That’s real love, isn’t it?"

 

White Lily turned. "I believe so."

 

Dark Cacao grunted. "Love like that can be manipulated or taken advantage of. But this... wasn’t."

 

Golden Cheese muttered, "Pour me another. I need this whole arc in writing."

 

"Denied," said Dark Cacao flatly.

 

"Not for you, Mr. Brooding-Warrior," Golden Cheese fired back. "You still think love’s a liability."

 

"I think it is a responsibility," Dark Cacao replied. "But that doesn’t make it untrue."

 

Pure Vanilla looked up from his spellwork. "If Silverbell wakes soon, he’ll need peace. Not pressure. Let him breathe."

 

Hollyberry leaned back. "Maybe a drink would help."

 

"No," White Lily said, smiling faintly.

 

"Still no," Dark Cacao said.

 

"Eugh. Cowards," muttered Golden Cheese, finishing her glass.

 

The room was quiet again.

 

Outside, fireflies drifted between the tree branches. Somewhere in the distance, a lute played. And in the heart of the Faerie Kingdom, five of the oldest warriors in existence sat not as heroes—but as Cookies trying to understand a love story that defied every rule of war.

 

And for once—none of them tried to stop it.

---

Shadow Milk stumbled into the highest chamber of the Spire, breath ragged, boots tracking trails of scorched magic across the floor. The glow from his cloak had dimmed, magic spent in a flare that burned deeper than most would ever realize.

 

He leaned against the obsidian railing, eyes half-lidded, but smiling. Not the sharp-edged grin he wore in war councils or illusions—but something quieter. Weary. Real.

 

“The spell worked,” he whispered to no one. “He came back.”

 

Black Sapphire—free from the numbing curse. Free from the mask. Shadow Milk had seen the moment it happened. The hesitation. The collapse. The rawness of that final embrace. He had used the last of his enchanted magic to guide them out, away from the battlefield.

 

Not because they were weak.

 

Because they didn’t belong in the war to come.

 

This next battle—between Shadow Milk’s kind and the Ancients—was about Soul Jams, forgotten bonds, and fractured oaths. It wasn’t theirs to fight. Not Silverbell’s. Not Black Sapphire’s. And so, with all the power he had left, he had opened a portal.

 

“To heal,” he murmured. “To live.”

 

A flutter of wind rushed in behind him—Candy Apple, breathless, frantic.

 

“Master!” she gasped, rushing to him. “How is he? Black Sapphire—what happened? Did it work?”

 

Shadow Milk turned slowly, shadows curling gently around his fingers. “He’s safe,” he said. “For the first time in a long while.”

 

Candy Apple exhaled a long breath, hand clutched over her chest. “You really sent them away?”

 

“I had to,” Shadow Milk replied. “This war… it isn’t theirs. It is mine to face.”

 

He looked out over the jagged skyline. “My friends and I will face what we split from, our other halves, our soul jams.” His voice lowered. “So they deserve a future we never got.”

 

Shadow Milk sank into the worn chair at the heart of the Spire’s chamber, finally allowing exhaustion to settle over his bones. He rubbed his temple with one hand, the other trailing faint wisps of leftover magic.

 

“You’re going to join them,” he said to Candy Apple without looking up.

 

She blinked. “What?”

 

“You’ll go through the portal soon. I’ll open it at Crispia—but not tonight. Tonight, I rest. I won’t have them wandering alone when they need someone grounded, someone who knows how to listen. And fight, when it counts.”

 

Candy Apple’s voice cracked with protest. “But I must stay by your side. I serve you!”

 

Shadow Milk raised a hand, stopping her. “Not this time,” he said. “You serve what matters . And right now, that’s them.”

 

Candy Apple stepped forward slowly, eyes wide. “You’re sending me away too?”

 

“I’m giving you a place beside them,” Shadow Milk said. “Because they need someone who believes they still deserve one.”

 

Candy Apple shook her head, voice rising. “No. That’s not what I’m meant for. I’ve always served you. That’s what I was made to do. Please let me stay with you Master Shadow Milk Cookie!”

 

Shadow Milk’s gaze lifted to hers, tired but firm. “And you deserve more than that.”

 

She faltered. “But I don’t know how to be anything else.”

 

“You’ll learn,” he said gently. “Just like he did.”

 

His voice softened to almost a whisper. “You deserve a future, Candy Apple. A life like a normal Cookie would have. Not just duty.”

 

"But—" she started, taking a step forward. Her hands clenched at her sides. “I don’t want to be like a normal Cookie. I only know how to serve you . That’s what I’m for. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

 

Shadow Milk’s eyes flickered with a rare gentleness. “You were made for more than that. You just weren’t told.” He stood slowly, his frame still heavy with fatigue. “You’ve always been by my side. I know what that cost you. But I’m asking you—this time—to choose something different. For yourself.”

 

Candy Apple’s lips trembled. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes but didn’t fall. Her voice failed her.

 

Shadow Milk didn’t speak further. He stepped forward and gently pulled her into an embrace, arms wrapping around her like a truth he never said aloud. A truth she never thought she was allowed to want.

 

She clung to him, shaking. And in that moment, she wasn’t an assistant, a servant, a creation of war—She was just his little girl. And he was just someone who didn’t want to see her break. He held her a moment longer before pulling back slightly, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder.

 

"Do you understand me, Candy?" he asked, voice low but steady. "This will be your mission. Your final mission from me."

 

She looked up at him, eyes wide and shimmering. Her lip trembled, but she nodded—just once.

 

Shadow Milk gave a tired smile. "Then it’s settled."

 

Candy Apple hesitated, her voice barely audible. "Will you be back for us?"

 

Shadow Milk exhaled slowly. "I will try to."

 

"Promise...?"

 

He looked her in the eyes and nodded once. "I promise."

 

Candy Apple stood still, watching him, heart thudding in her ears. That embrace—brief, quiet, wordless—had unraveled something deep in her chest.

 

He had never held her like that before. Not when she followed him into the dark. Not when she carried out orders without question. Not when she returned broken, waiting for praise that never came.

 

Shadow Milk had always been distant. Efficient. Consumed by strategy, secrecy, control. His approval came in short nods, silence that meant 'good enough.'

 

But not tonight. Tonight, he held her like she was more than what she was built for. She wiped her eyes roughly, breathing shallow. She wasn’t used to being seen. Not like this.

 

And as she turned her gaze to the Spire’s shadowed archways—where a portal would soon bloom like a second chance—she whispered, just to herself “…I’ll try.”

 

A moment later, the air stirred—slow and solemn. Shadow Milk lifted one arm, shadows weaving around his fingers. A portal opened in the archway behind Candy Apple, quiet and cold, its magic humming low with stability. Crispia’s wind whispered through it.

 

He looked at her. “Are you ready?”

 

She turned to him, eyes damp but clear, and nodded.

 

Shadow Milk reached out and gently rustled her hair, just once—something achingly soft. “Then go. Step in.”

 

Candy Apple hesitated. She looked at him for a long second more.

 

He smiled at her gently, his eyes were tired. And nodded toward the portal.

 

She turned and stepped through.

 

Shadow Milk stood alone now The portal sealed behind her with a low hum, and silence returned to the Spire.

 

He exhaled slowly. Alone again.

 

But they were safe. Both of them. Black Sapphire and Candy Apple. That is what matters.

 

Because he cared .

 

Not the way others did—not in warmth or constant words. But in actions. In letting go. In stepping aside so they could heal.

 

He touched a hand to his chest. His soul jam pulsed beneath his fingers, quiet and glowing—aching in a way that surprised him.

 

“I did the right thing,” he whispered.

 

And for the first time in a long, long time…He let himself sit in the quiet. And feel it. He looked out at the empty chamber, eyes half-lidded. 

 

"Please take care of them," he whispered to his pulsing Soul Jam. His voice barely stirred the air—but it rang with quiet truth. 

 

He wasn’t asking the world. He was asking whatever part of it still listened.

---

The wind in Vanilla Kingdom was warmer than the Spire. Candy Apple stood before an abandoned house—Vanillian in style, Like the room Shadow Milk designed Pure Vanilla—with ivory window frames and ivy curling up pale stone walls. It was quiet, plain in a way that didn’t match anything Shadow Milk had ever chosen. She blinked up at the door, uncertain why this was her destination.

 

"This is where he sent me?" she muttered.

 

But she felt it—Black Sapphire’s magic. Faint but steady, like a memory clinging to the walls. So she knocked.

 

Once. Twice. No answer. She hesitated, then pressed the door open.

 

Inside, the air was warm. The scent of herbs, ink, and soft sugar hung in the quiet. A faint hum of old wards lingered on the walls. It wasn’t abandoned—it was waiting. She stepped in slowly, eyes scanning the small space. The furniture was simple, the fireplace dark. But it was safe. And she was certain—he had been here. Was still here, maybe sleeping, maybe hiding.

 

Candy Apple exhaled. “Looks like I’m staying here.”

 

She explored quietly, her steps featherlight. There were several rooms branching from the main hallway, but the first door on her left drew her attention.

 

She opened it gently—and froze. Silverbell lay on a bed, unmoving.

 

His dough was pale, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Bandages wrapped around parts of him, but some wounds were still visible—thin cracks of magic across his frame, like lightning scars.

 

Candy Apple stood silently for a moment, just watching. Then she closed the door again, soft as a whisper. Farther down the hall, she heard something: a voice. Faint, mumbling. She followed it. The second door was slightly ajar. When she pushed it open, the scent of stronger herbs hit her—lavender, clove, crushed leaf and magic ink.

 

Black Sapphire stood at a work table, his back to her, flipping through a thick library tome. Light magic sputtered weakly from his fingertips as he cast yet another trial healing spell. A notebook beside him was filled with scribbles, spells, and corrections.

 

At the corner of the desk, herbs were carefully arranged—dried, ground, some soaking in a glass vial. She recognized a few of them: woundbind, snow thistle, sleepmoss.

 

He didn’t look up. But she knew he sensed her there. “You’re here,” he murmured without turning.

 

Candy Apple stepped inside fully, arms crossed loosely. “You weren’t exactly easy to snap you out of that spell.”

 

Black Sapphire finally turned. He looked tired—shoulders tense, eyes ringed with sleeplessness—but clearer than she remembered. “He's resting,” he said, voice quieter now. “Though honestly... it's slow. Most of the time, I’m just trying not to mess it up.”

 

He gestured to a faint burn along his forearm, hastily wrapped. “I’ve tested half of these spells on myself first. Wrong incantation, wrong ingredient... it happens. I’m not a healer. I was built to support from behind the line, not patch up someone I—”

 

He cut himself off, glancing toward the wall that separated them from Silverbell.

 

“But I have to try. If I wait to master it, he won’t make it.”

 

“I saw him,” she said. “Still out cold.”

 

He nodded. “I know. I just… can’t stop. What if I missed something?”

 

Candy Apple moved closer, eyeing the herbs on the table. “You didn’t.”

 

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You don’t know that.”

 

“I know you,” she replied. There was a pause. Something unspoken passed between them. Then she added, “You’ve changed.”

 

He looked at her directly. “ He changed me.”

 

Candy Apple gave a half-smile. “Yeah. I can see that.” She looked at him more closely now.

 

His hair was unkempt, his hands marked with old spell burns. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes. His sleeves were still dusted with crushed herbs, and his posture screamed exhaustion.

 

“You haven’t slept,” she said. “Or eaten.”

 

He didn’t argue. Just glanced back down at the tome, flipping another page like the answer might fall out.

 

“You started the moment you got here, didn’t you?” she asked, softer now.

 

Black Sapphire exhaled. “I didn’t have time to stop.”

 

“You should sleep,” Candy Apple said, her voice firmer now.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the page. “I just can’t. I’m running out of time. I can’t afford to lose him.” 

 

He paused, then glanced up. “Candy,” he said softly, “how about you take a rest for a moment... hm?”

 

She raised a brow. “You’re the one who looks like they’re about to fall apart.”

 

He gave a half-smile, weak but sincere. “That may be true. But I’m used to it.”

 

She didn’t smile back. Just crossed her arms. “Then get unused to it.”

 

Black Sapphire laughed—short, bitter. “That's not how this works,” he said, voice low. “I don’t just... turn it off. I don’t know how to stop.”

 

Candy Apple stepped closer, her tone gentler. “Then you need to learn. Because if you break before he wakes up, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

 

He shook his head, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “You think I don’t know that?”

 

“I think you need to hear it anyway.”

 

For a moment, they just stood there—two quiet shadows in a room lit by faint, flickering magic.

 

Then, softly, she added, “He wouldn’t want you like this. You think he came back just to see you fall apart?”

 

His jaw clenched. “I’m not falling apart,” he muttered, the frustration bleeding into his voice. “I’m doing what I can. It’s not enough—but it’s all I have.”

 

Candy Apple didn’t press. She just gave him a long, knowing look, then stepped back toward the door.

 

“I’ll be in the spare room,” she said softly. “Call me if you need something.”

 

And then she left him there, in the low hum of candlelight and the quiet desperation of half-finished spells.

 

Black Sapphire stayed at the worktable until the first light of morning spilled across the floorboards. His eyes were dry, his body numb with exhaustion, but he kept working—testing spells, grinding herbs, muttering incantations through clenched teeth.

 

Eventually, he rose, limbs heavy, and moved into the small kitchen. He made breakfast—toast with honey, something warm to drink—and left a plate on the table with a folded note.

 

"Went to return a few books. Need more. Will be back soon. -B.S."

 

He donned a thick travel cloak and wrapped a scarf around his face, then paused.

 

With a flick of his fingers and a shimmer of shifting light, his features began to blur—eyes deepening, freckles fading, jawline changing. His height shifted subtly, his posture relaxed into something unfamiliar.

 

A shapeshifter’s trick. A habit from darker times, now used to walk among others unseen.

 

With a final glance toward the hall where Silverbell rested, Black Sapphire stepped out, disappearing into the snowy stillness.

 

Moments later, Candy Apple stirred. The smell of honey and herbs lingered in the air. She blinked against the soft morning light—alone in a house that now felt lived in.

 

As she sat up, her eyes landed on the small plate on the table, still warm with toast and honey. A folded note sat beside it. She padded over, picked it up, and read it in silence.

 

"Went to return a few books. Need more. Will be back soon. -B.S."

 

She exhaled through her nose and shook her head with the faintest smile. “Of course you did,” she mumbled, picking up the plate and biting into the toast.

 

Still warm.

 

She wandered down the hall, toast in hand, until she reached the door she had peeked into the night before. Silverbell's room.

 

The door creaked open, and she slipped inside quietly. He was still unconscious, his dough pale beneath the soft blankets. The glow of nearby healing wards shimmered faintly across the room.

 

Candy Apple pulled a stool closer— sat down beside him, stared at him and then she started ranting.

 

“Hey mister faerie knight do you know how ridiculous he is?” she muttered. “He burned half his sleeve off testing a spell I could’ve told him wouldn’t work. There’s a whole table covered in herbs, and he still doesn’t know which ones are poisonous raw.”

 

She took a bite of toast, talking with her mouth half-full. “And he hasn’t slept. At all. Probably hasn’t blinked in six hours. He made me breakfast before running off to borrow more books. Like that’s normal.”

 

Her voice softened as she looked at Silverbell. “But he’s trying. For you.”

 

She sighed, resting her elbow on the edge of the bed. “You know, I watched it all happen. Every stupid little moment where he didn’t know he was falling for you. Like to the point I needed to put that “specific book” back in the Faerie Kingdom's library—on the same day both of you just happened to be there. That wasn't an accident. I set it up. You two called it a hangout. I called it a date.”

 

She smirked softly. “He was clueless. Absolutely hopeless. Always sneaking out just to run into you like it was fate or something. It was never fate. It was him. He planned every move like a lovesick cake hound.”

 

She chuckled, brushing a hand through her bangs. “And don’t get me started on the letters. Or how he’d panic if one went unanswered for more than a day. Shadow Milk didn’t even have to lecture him—he was already punishing himself over feelings he didn’t understand.”

 

She looked down at Silverbell’s still face.

 

“But he gets it now. And he’s trying harder than he ever has. Because you matter. More than orders. More than survival.”

 

She leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was letting Silverbell in on a secret neither of them would say aloud.

 

“You’d always throw yourself in front of a blade for him. And he hates that. Hates that you’d bleed for him so easily. So what does he do?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “He blames himself, like the idiot he is. Starts muttering things like ‘I don’t deserve rest’ and ‘He almost died because of me’—as if guilt’s going to save you next time.”

 

Candy Apple let out a shaky sigh. “He’s scared. That’s the part he won’t say. Scared that the moment he lets himself stop—even for a breath—you’ll slip through his fingers again.”

 

She paused, then added with a softer tone, “But you’re still here. And so is he. And that has to mean something, right?”

 

She reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, careful not to disturb the delicate wards around him.

 

“Please wake up… for him,” she whispered, voice cracking slightly. “He doesn’t believe he deserves rest. He thinks everything that happened to you is his fault. And he’ll keep running himself into the ground trying to make it right—because that’s who he is.”

 

Her hand trembled slightly above his.

 

“He needs you to open your eyes. Just once. Just long enough to remind him that he’s not too late.”

 

An hour later, the front door clicked open with the soft creak of old hinges. A brisk gust of wind followed Black Sapphire inside, tugging at the edges of his cloak.

 

He stepped in, quiet as always, arms full—a stack of heavy books cradled against his chest, several bundled herbs balanced on top. His disguised features melted away the moment he crossed the threshold, magic dissolving into faint motes of light.

 

“I’m back,” he called, not too loudly.

 

He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he rushed directly to the workroom, setting the books down with a careful thump and beginning to sort through the herbs with mechanical focus.

Moments later, Candy Apple appeared in the doorway, still holding her now half-eaten toast on a plate.

 

“You didn’t have to run out that early,” she said.

 

“I needed these,” Black Sapphire replied, eyes still fixed on sorting the herbs. “The library didn’t have what I needed last time. These are more specific.”

 

She walked in, holding the plate out. “Well, since you made it, you’re eating it.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“Tough. You’re still eating it.”

 

He gave her a look. “I said I’m not—”

 

“—and I said you don’t get to pass out mid-spell and make me drag your dramatic self to a healer.”

 

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You exaggerate.”

 

“You collapse even once and I’m writing Shadow Milk a letter.”

 

Black Sapphire paused, eyed the toast, and finally—grudgingly—took the plate. “Happy now?”

 

“Not until you chew and swallow. Don’t think I won’t check.”

 

Black Sapphire stared at the toast like it had personally offended him. “Ugh... really?”

 

“Yes, really.” Candy Apple folded her arms. “Consider it penance for every spell you botched at three in the morning.”

 

He took a bite with exaggerated reluctance. “This is coercion.”

 

“This is breakfast,” she retorted. “Get used to it.”

 

Black Sapphire stared at the toast in his hand like it was an explosive artifact. He turned it over once, inspecting it like he might discover a trap glyph carved into the crust. "It’s… soggy."

 

Candy Apple raised a brow. “It’s toast. Toast gets soggy when it’s left waiting for an hour.”

 

“You could’ve warned me,” he muttered.

 

“I could’ve eaten it,” she shot back. “But no. I saved it. Because I foolishly thought you might remember how to function like a normal Cookie and eat breakfast.”

 

Black Sapphire took a slow, reluctant bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Frowned. “…You added cinnamon.”

 

“Wow, he can taste things,” she said, throwing her arms in the air. “Miracles do happen.”

 

He took another bite, slower this time, shoulders sagging slightly. “You didn’t have to make me eat what I cooked,” he said.

 

“You didn’t have to ignore basic self-preservation,” Candy Apple replied. “But here we are.”

 

He glanced up at her from behind a curtain of half-fallen hair. “I can manage.”

 

“That’s not the point,” she said, stepping into the room fully now. “It’s not about whether you can . It’s about whether you should .”

 

He was quiet for a moment, chewing. After he swallowed, he said. “I’m not used to being… looked after.”

 

“I know,” she said, softer now. “You think care is something you only give. Not something you’re allowed to receive.”

 

He stared down at the toast. “It’s easier that way.”

 

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s safer . Not easier.”

 

He looked up at her. Tired. Hollow around the edges, but no longer empty. “I nearly lost him.”

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

“Not yet,” he whispered.

 

He looked back at the toast, tearing off another piece with precision that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with nerves.

 

“He flinched from me once,” he said suddenly, voice low. “Before the final strike. Just a twitch. A breath. But I saw it. And I’ve replayed that moment a hundred times since. Wondering if he thought I was someone else. Something else. Wondering if he was afraid.”

 

Candy Apple crossed her arms again. “He wasn’t.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I do ,” she said. “Because if he was—he wouldn’t have chased you again and again. Wouldn’t have stood in front of that last strike. Wouldn’t have believed in the version of you you’re still too afraid to be.”

 

Another long silence.

 

Then Black Sapphire finished the last bite of toast. “…It’s good,” he said quietly.

 

Candy Apple blinked. “You—what?”

 

“The toast. It’s good.”

 

She blinked again. “You liked your own cooking? Are we dying?”

 

“No,” he said, wiping his fingers on a cloth. “But it’s warm. And I forgot what that felt like.”

 

Her mouth opened, but no words came.

 

Then, dryly, she muttered, “If you ever say something that sentimental again, I’m shoving a second piece down your throat.”

 

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile—but close.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

---

The abandoned house at the Vanilla Kingdom settled into a quiet rhythm.

 

It wasn’t peace. Not really. Peace didn’t have the weight of waiting behind every heartbeat. But it was steadiness. Silence filled the cracks between breath and movement, where war and chaos used to live. And in that stillness, Candy Apple and Black Sapphire found a pattern.

 

Every morning, Black Sapphire would be drinking his fourth or fifth cup of coffee. He is still at the worktable by the time light spills in through the windows. Spellbooks would be open, some folded at odd angles under bowls of steeping herbs. The room would already be warm with candlelight and soft with muttering—a string of incantations under his breath, repeated and corrected and discarded. 

 

Though this is THE Vanilla Kingdom, the land of healing. Their library is filled with different books about the types of healing spells. And Black Sapphire is seeking that one spell that could heal Silverbell and let him fully recover from damage that he created.

 

Candy Apple would appear not long after. Hair is still messy from sleep. Sometimes holding two cups of tea, sometimes just a plate of toast. She rarely spoke first—but always made sure he ate. Even if she had to threaten, bribe, or guilt him into it.

 

He would always refuse the first time. She would always make him take it anyway.

 

They didn’t fight—not really. But their words were sparring, circling each other like habits they hadn’t outgrown. Candy Apple poked. Black Sapphire deflected. But under every line was a thread of shared care neither knew how to name.

 

Silverbell remained still.

 

His breaths were steady. His pulse is constant. But his eyes stayed closed, and the wards around him hummed with a warning neither of them wanted to hear.

 

Each day, Black Sapphire tried new combinations. New spells. New tonics. He kept a thick journal now—full of corrections, notes, failed ingredients, wild theories. Sometimes he tested spells on his own arms again, less violently now, but always with that desperate edge of “I have to make sure it works before I try it on him.”

 

And Candy Apple?

 

She stayed.

 

Sometimes helping, sometimes watching, sometimes leaving the room entirely when he needed the quiet. But always coming back.

 

They danced in quiet worry. Days passed this way.

 

Until— That morning, the light outside had turned golden, bleeding through the gauzy curtains and catching the glint of spell jars on the shelves. Candy Apple stood by the coat rack, tying her cloak.

 

“I’m going,” she said, holding up a coin pouch. “We’re out of snow leaves. And garlic. And I’m getting something better than those sad biscuits you keep pretending are food.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t look up from the scroll in front of him. “I can go.”

 

“You’re not leaving that room,” she said. “You barely left to eat lunch.”

 

“I ate.”

 

“Licking honey off a spoon doesn’t count,” she said, already opening the door.

 

He didn’t argue again. He never won those, especially with Candy Apple as his opponent. The door shut behind her with a soft click. And Black Sapphire was alone again.

 

His back still faced the door—his shadow long in the candlelight as he leaned over the table, ink staining the tips of his fingers. On the far side of the hall, the faintest sound echoed from Silverbell’s room.

 

No sign of movement, Just the soft, hollow ring of a charm bell—one of the subtle sensory wards placed to monitor his breath and heartbeat. It had a sound like distant wind chimes.

 

He liked to call it Silverbell’s "heartbeat." Now, it was just a timer for his own failure.

 

Black Sapphire didn’t move from his place. Didn’t look back.

 

Instead, he muttered something under his breath and watched another healing sigil sputter and collapse. “Why can’t I get this right…”

 

His voice was rougher now. Less careful. Less composed. He pressed a hand to his chest, not for pain—but for pressure. The ache that had built in the center of him like a storm he hadn’t let out.

 

“I’ve tried everything. Everything I know. Everything I don’t. And it’s still not enough.”

 

Another page flipped. He dragged a finger down the list of combinations. “No one else would even try this. They’d say he’s stable. Say rest is enough. But rest won’t bring him back. Rest isn’t waking. I don’t want him to rest—I want him to smile again.”

 

His voice cracked on that word. He pressed his eyes shut. “And I’m running slowly out of time.”

 

He turned slightly, enough to glance toward the hall. Just a sliver. Just enough to see that warm sliver of light from under the bedroom door.

 

“You have to wake up,” he whispered. “You have to.”

 

The bell chimed again, it was hollow, he hated it. The same sound for the past few days. He bowed his head. And kept working.

Black Sapphire’s voice grew softer, but the weight behind it never eased.

 

He stood over the desk like a soldier at a war table, surrounded by open books and empty bottles, by burnt-out spells and useless herbs. His hand trembled as he traced over a half-finished incantation, one he didn’t dare cast again after the last misfire.

 

“I keep seeing it,” he said quietly. “That moment. The arrow. Your eyes—just before you fell. And I think... if only I was in control of myself, or I could’ve attacked myself instead, or done anything —”

 

His voice caught. Not from emotion. From fatigue. From guilt. From all the love he still didn’t know how to hold it without breaking it. “I’d trade anything to fix it. Even myself. Especially myself.”

 

He let his hand fall to the desk. “I’m not supposed to care like this. I wasn’t made for this. But I told my Master I would try. ”

 

There was no answer. Only the familiar empty silence of the house. And yet… The air shifted behind him. Soft.

 

The creak of a wooden floorboard. Barely more than a sigh. But he didn’t hear it. He was still speaking—to himself, to Silverbell, to some version of the past he couldn’t rewind. 

 

“I keep thinking if I get it right—if I fix everything—maybe I’ll deserve to sit beside you again. Maybe I’ll stop hearing you call my name like it was the last thing you’d ever say.” His eyes closed.

 

“I miss your voice,” he whispered.

 

And then— Two arms wrapped around his waist from behind. That warmth is back. 

 

Black Sapphire shuddered —his entire body going still in an instant. His wings—long dormant and trembling with strain—fluttered reflexively. Like they didn’t know how to register contact without fleeing.

His breath caught in his throat. “Wha—”

 

He turned his head slightly and froze. Because there—head leaning gently against his back, breath brushing the space between his shoulders— was Silverbell. He is awake, alive. Standing, barely steady, but standing. And holding him like none of the time apart had happened at all.

 

Black Sapphire couldn’t move. His mind was still catching up. Still convinced this was a hallucination conjured from too many sleepless nights and unfinished spells. But the warmth was real.

 

The heartbeat against his spine was real.

 

And the voice that followed—soft and wrecked and full of something holy—was unmistakably Silverbell’s. “You didn’t need to deserve me,” he whispered. “You just needed to be here when I woke up.”

 

Black Sapphire’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Silverbell’s arms tightened around his waist. And Black Sapphire—finally, finally—let himself lean back into the embrace.  

 

Let himself feel it.

 

Black Sapphire’s voice cracked through the quiet. “I—how are you... Are you real?” His hands hovered in the air, half-raised, as if scared that touching Silverbell might break the illusion. His wings trembled again, magic flickering across them like nervous static.

 

Silverbell didn’t let go. His voice was low and tired—but alive. “I think so. Unless this is some very elaborate afterlife where you mutter to yourself about herbs for days.”

 

Black Sapphire let out something between a breath and a broken laugh. It left him half-dizzy. “You were gone. I thought I can’t—” His throat closed. “You weren’t waking up. I kept trying, and nothing—”

 

“I heard you,” Silverbell whispered. “Every word. Even the ones you didn’t mean to say out loud.”

 

Black Sapphire finally turned in his arms, slowly, eyes wide and glassy with disbelief. “But the wounds—the damage—how are you standing?”

 

Silverbell shrugged weakly. “Poorly. But I’ve had worse.” He leaned into him, forehead resting against Black Sapphire’s collarbone. “And you didn’t let go. That counted for something.”

 

For a long, aching moment, neither of them moved.

 

Then Black Sapphire slowly raised his hands. Pressed one gently to the back of Silverbell’s head. The other to the curve of his spine. Holding him like he was made of glass, but couldn’t be replaced.

 

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re real.” And this time, he said it like a vow.

 

“I missed you so much,” Black Sapphire whispered, voice raw. “I’m sorry that I left you that night.”

 

Silverbell didn’t move away. He just breathed in slowly, shakily, and exhaled against his chest. “You’ve been through a lot lately,” he murmured. “I suppose… I should understand that.”

 

Black Sapphire flinched. “You had it worse and that doesn’t excuse the things I did.”

 

“No,” Silverbell agreed gently. “But it explains it.”

 

He looked up, eyes dark with exhaustion, but steady. “You need rest. Real rest. The kind that doesn’t end with you passing out over spellbooks or blaming yourself for things you didn’t ask for.”

 

Black Sapphire looked away, jaw tight.

 

Silverbell’s voice softened further. “Please. Just for today. Breathe. Stay still. Let me remember what it feels like to be near you without seeing you fall apart.”

 

That broke something loose in Black Sapphire’s chest.

 

He turned around to see Silverbell and pulls him into another embrace, his arms tightened around Silverbell’s waist. And this time, he didn’t argue. He just whispered, “Okay.”

 

And for once… he meant it.

Silverbell pulled back just enough to meet Black Sapphire’s eyes. Then, wordlessly, he took his hand.

 

Black Sapphire blinked, startled—but didn’t resist as Silverbell gently turned and guided him down the hall. Past the workroom, past the herbs and open books, past the low-burning candles still flickering with half-spent magic.

 

Toward the room where Silverbell had been resting all this time.

 

Where Black Sapphire had checked on him every hour, every day. The room still held the faint smell of herbs and lingering magic .

 

They paused at the doorway. Silverbell gave his hand a small, insistent tug. A silent gesture. Come with me. And Black Sapphire did.

 

They stepped into the dim room together, the hush wrapping around them like a spell all its own. The healing wards along the walls pulsed low, like heartbeat echoes. The bed was still unmade from Silverbell’s long recovery, pillows disheveled, the blankets still warm.

 

Silverbell climbed in first, slowly, wincing just slightly as he adjusted himself into the sheets. Then he looked at Black Sapphire quietly. He patted the space beside him. And with almost painful hesitance, Black Sapphire followed.

 

The bed dipped under his weight.

 

For a moment, he sat still, unsure of how to move—how to deserve this. But then Silverbell reached out and pulled him down gently, tucking them both beneath the covers.

 

And in the quiet— They fit.

 

Black Sapphire curled in cautiously at first, arms unsure where to rest. But Silverbell answered the question for him by wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing his forehead to his chest.

 

Black Sapphire exhaled. Shaky. Real. He let one wing unfurl slightly—just enough to drape protectively around them both.

 

Neither spoke. They didn’t have to. There was only breath. Warmth. The soft hum of safety long overdue. And in the stillness, for the first time in days or weeks— Black Sapphire slept.

 

Silverbell just watched him close his eyes, he couldn’t sleep because he just woke up. He lay there, arms curled gently around the one Cookie who’d once called himself a shadow—but who was now breathing evenly, finally at peace, against his chest.

 

Black Sapphire was asleep. Truly asleep.

 

Silverbell could feel the weight of it—the slow, unguarded rhythm of someone whose body had finally surrendered after days of resisting rest. The tension in his shoulders had eased. His hands were still, curled slightly against Silverbell’s tunic like he didn’t want to drift too far even in sleep.

 

Silverbell didn’t need to be told how long Black Sapphire had been pushing himself. He could feel it in his own body. A strange, subtle echo.

 

The way the healing had set into his dough—clumsy in some places, messy in others, but working. Wards that should’ve faded had been reinforced. Energy once lost now trickled back slowly. And he knew that didn’t happen by accident.

 

Black Sapphire had been holding him together through trial and error. Spell by spell. Mistake by mistake.

 

And now here he was. Sleeping like he finally believed it was allowed. Silverbell shifted slightly, just enough to reach up with one hand.

 

He ruffled Black Sapphire’s hair, fingers threading gently through the dark strands. “Idiot,” he whispered softly, not unkind. “You always said you weren’t warm.”

 

But when he’d been lying in this bed alone, before tonight—he remembered the cold. Remembered how heavy the silence had been. How even the blankets hadn’t helped. But now?

 

Now the bed was warm. Now he was warm. And whatever Black Sapphire used to believe about himself—it wasn’t true anymore. Because this? This was comfort. Better than any spell. Stronger than any charm.

 

Silverbell pressed a small kiss into Black Sapphire’s hair. Then closed his eyes.

 

He’d stay awake a little longer. Just to make sure he was still breathing. Just to hold him a little tighter.

 

Because finally, he wasn’t the one doing the chasing. Black Sapphire is beside him. And this time—he wasn’t running away.

Silverbell opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, He recalled how this all began. Their story wasn’t supposed to look like this. It hadn’t begun in softness, or clarity, or fate.

 

It had started in fragments—moments stolen between missions and secrets, between sharp glances and half-spoken truths. One a knight sworn to the Silver Tree, the other a spy built to serve deception. One rooted in duty, the other built from shadows. Two Cookies who were never supposed to look at each other, let alone see each other.

 

And yet, somehow, here they were.

 

Curled together beneath a blanket not just for warmth, but for permission. For proof. That they had survived. That they were still here. That they had chosen this.

 

Silverbell breathed in slowly, the faint scent of herbs still clinging to Black Sapphire’s hair—snowthistle, honeyroot, a trace of burnleaf from a spell that had likely gone wrong. The scent of someone who had worked himself to the edge for days, not because anyone asked, but because he couldn’t do anything less .

 

Their relationship hadn’t been easy. Or clean. Or romantic in the traditional sense. It had been sharp. Complicated. Messy.

 

Before all the late-night meetings in neutral zones. Letters marked with invisible ink. Quiet confessions disguised as strategic updates. Every step forward was followed by two steps sideways, detours of fear and guilt and denial. There were moments when Silverbell thought he’d imagined the whole thing—that Black Sapphire didn’t feel anything , couldn’t feel anything. That maybe the silence wasn’t mystery—it was absence.

 

Silverbell hadn’t planned to care about Moondrop Faerie Cookie, but something about the way he watched the world too closely stuck with him. Small moments—helping him untangle his wings, sharing quiet glances—grew into something unspoken. Moondrop lingered, laughed, opened up just a little, and Silverbell saw through the cracks. He didn’t press—he simply made room.

 

Then came the moonlit dance, where Moondrop dropped the act for a moment, and Silverbell felt something real pass between them. When the truth finally came out— no disguise, Black Sapphire Cookie—Silverbell didn’t turn away. He only asked why. And the answer was simple: “Because I didn’t want you to stop looking at me like I was real.”

 

But then came the sacrifice. The pain. The look in his eyes the moment he thought Silverbell might die because of him . And that’s when it changed. Because love doesn’t always announce itself with fireworks.

 

Sometimes it bleeds through in how someone holds you after a battle. In how they memorize the patterns of your heartbeat, just in case they have to bring you back. In how they fall apart alone in a workroom, testing healing spells on themselves just so they can get one more shot at saving you.

 

Silverbell had felt all of it—even while unconscious. Not in dreams, but in memory . In the weight of magic pressed into his body, uneven and frantic, stitched together with desperation and hope.

 

Black Sapphire had once told him—flatly, almost with disdain— “I’m not warm. I’m not made for comfort.”

 

But lying beside him now, Silverbell knew the truth. Warmth wasn’t something you were built with. It was something you gave.

 

And Black Sapphire gave it in the only way he knew how—by staying. By refusing to leave. By pouring every drop of himself into making sure Silverbell made it through.

 

Was this what love was? Not grand gestures, not dramatic vows—but this ? The slow realization that someone would rather break themselves in half than risk the chance of losing you.

 

Silverbell pressed his face closer to Black Sapphire’s hair, inhaling slow, grounding breaths. He remembered every argument, every time one of them had pushed the other away. He remembered Black Sapphire’s voice on the battlefield, choked and cracked as he begged a dying sky for a second chance.

 

He remembered what Black Sapphire had said in the wake of it all: “I deserve it..” But he didn’t. Not anymore.

 

Because redemption doesn’t always come as a clean slate. Sometimes it arrives as two trembling hands, holding on through grief and guilt and uncertainty, saying I choose you anyway .

 

A knight and a spy. One built to protect. One built to deceive.

 

And yet, somehow, they had found each other in the wreckage of their orders and roles and identities. They had risked everything. And even if the world never fully understood it— they did.

 

Silverbell’s grip around him tightened slightly, and he murmured into his hair: “You don’t have to earn this anymore. Just be here.”

 

Because that’s what love was now. It was staying and being held.

 

Black Sapphire shifted in his sleep, barely stirring, just enough to press closer. His head tucked beneath Silverbell’s chin, arms still loosely wrapped around him—wings relaxed. His breath brushed against Silverbell’s collarbone in warm, steady waves.

 

Then—like a sigh exhaled by his entire being—he nestled deeper into the embrace. Like he belonged there.

 

Like the curve of Silverbell’s chest had been carved out for him alone.

 

Silverbell felt it immediately—the way Black Sapphire relaxed completely. Not just physically, but in spirit. The tension that had laced his body for days, weeks, years , melted away all at once.

 

He was snuggling him. There was no other word for it.

 

He curled up like a tired stray who had finally found his spot on the sun-warmed windowsill, like Silverbell’s chest was the softest pillow in the world. And somehow, it was.

 

Silverbell smiled. A genuine, aching smile—because this version of Black Sapphire was rarely seen, and even more rarely allowed.

 

And yet here he was. Tucked in close, tangled in blankets and forgiveness, chasing the sound of Silverbell’s heartbeat like it was a lullaby written just for him.

 

“…You are safe now,” Silverbell whispered fondly, resting his cheek against that dark, unruly hair. And he held him closer.

 

Just as the quiet was beginning to settle, the front door creaked open.

 

The sound was light, careful. Whoever it was knew not to slam it. There were a few faint footsteps—boots stepping onto polished wood—and then silence. A pause. Listening.

 

She stepped inside carrying a satchel of fresh herbs and a small paper bag with lunch ingredients. She pushed the door closed with her foot and let out a soft sigh—until she noticed the stillness of the house felt different.

 

Warmer. Quieter in a real way. “...No way,” she mumbled.

 

She walked toward the hallway, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. And then she turned the corner into Silverbell’s room.

 

What she saw made her stop mid-step.

 

Her eyes widened.

 

“Well well well,” she said, voice loud enough to stir the air—but not the sleeping Cookie in question. “I step outside for one errand, and suddenly you’re awake and cuddling.”

 

Silverbell blinked, caught mid-pillow by the intrusion. He didn’t move, mostly because Black Sapphire was still fully asleep, practically draped over him—head tucked against Silverbell’s chest, arms snug around his waist, and one wing curled lazily across both of them like a soft-feathered blanket.

 

Silverbell’s own wings gave a reflexive twitch. Candy Apple stared at them both, then raised a brow.

 

“I’m honestly shocked Sapphire hasn’t tried to call you his boyfriend yet,” she added, arms crossed. “He usually short-circuits at the thought of saying the word.”

 

Silverbell’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “…Boyfriend?”

 

Candy Apple smirked. “Oh, he’s head over heels. Fully. Comically. And Please! He wouldn’t shut up when you were unconscious. But slap a label on it? The poor guy would combust.”

 

Silverbell flushed faintly, caught between amusement and something softer. Then—“Wait… who are you?”

 

Candy Apple blinked, then straightened a bit. “Oh. Right. Forgot I was mysterious. Name’s Candy Apple—Shadow MIlk FAVORITE assistant. Or, I was.” She gave a little shrug. “Now I guess I’m... retired to uhhh… well to live a normal life. Buuut I AM STILL THE FAVORITE!”

 

He stared at her— gears on his head are starting to analyze this cookie. “Candy Apple. As in—‘Apple Faerie Cookie’?”

 

She grinned, sharp and smug. “Heh! The one and only.”

 

“But you’re—” He looked her over, eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t look like the Apple Faerie.”

 

Candy Apple casually adjusted her hair. “That’s because I don’t look like anyone for long. Shapeshifter, remember? Honestly, I’m kind of offended that the Faerie Kingdom never caught on.”

 

“I hangout with you,” Silverbell muttered, slowly piecing it together. “You were the one with the basket full of sweets.”

 

“Oh wow,” she said brightly. “You do remember.”

 

He nodded, dazed. “You wore green back then.”

 

Candy Apple winked. “Good eye.”

 

Then she looked down at the still-sleeping Black Sapphire, who was now nuzzling more deeply into Silverbell’s chest with the quiet grace of a completely unconscious Cookie who thought no one was watching.

 

“You know,” she added, dropping her bag at the doorway, “if I had walked in thirty seconds later, you’d probably be kissing.”

 

Silverbell cleared his throat. “We were not— ”

 

“Relax, wing-boy,” she said with a smirk. “I ship it. I just didn’t know you were so touchy when you were awake.”

 

He glanced down. Black Sapphire had shifted again, sighing softly in his sleep. His face buried further into Silverbell’s chest.

 

“…He’s tired,” Silverbell muttered, voice quieter now. “He hasn’t rested in days. I think... this is the first time he let himself.”

 

Candy Apple’s smile lost its edge. She leaned on the doorframe and crossed her arms gently. “Yeah,” she said. “He needed it.”

 

Silverbell met her gaze, thoughtful now. “Shadow Milk said ‘take care of them ’ before I blacked out. I didn’t know what he meant.”

 

Candy Apple gave him a soft nod. “He meant me too.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “So he sent you with us?”

 

“Yeah! Gave me a mission,” she said. “His last one.”

 

Silverbell didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “He must really trust you.”

 

She glanced down again at Black Sapphire. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Guess we both had someone to protect.”

 

Then she backed away from the doorway, letting her voice drift lazily back into the room: “Anyway—when he wakes up, don’t let him freak out too hard. You are his boyfriend now, like it or not.”

 

Silverbell smiled faintly, gently threading his fingers through Black Sapphire’s hair. “…Yeah,” he whispered. “I think I am.”

The warm light of late afternoon poured through the windows, casting gold across the wooden floorboards. Black Sapphire remained sound asleep in the bed, still curled gently into Silverbell’s side, wings folded softly over his back like an unconscious promise.

 

Silverbell glanced toward the doorway where Candy Apple had taken up her spot again—sitting cross-legged on the floor, casually peeling a fruit with a dagger.

 

“Go on then,” he said with a sigh, “I can tell you’re dying to say more.”

 

Candy Apple gave him a look of innocent amusement. “About what?”

 

“You know what.”

 

She smirked. “About how Sapphy is absolutely, catastrophically useless when it comes to feelings?”

 

Silverbell stifled a laugh. “Yes. That.”

 

Candy Apple leaned back, her grin widening. “Ouuuu ehehehe, I witnessed it all. You have no idea how bad it got. Honestly, I should’ve started journaling it like a case study.”

 

He arched his brow. “Do tell.”

 

“Well,” she began, waving her fruit peel like a wand, “it started subtle. Right after he met you the first time during a reconnaissance mission. He said it was a fluke. Purely professional.”

 

Silverbell hummed. “I believe he told me, and I quote, ‘I’m here to broadcast paranoia, not make friends.’”

 

“Mmhm. Except guess what?” Candy Apple leaned forward. “Within two weeks, he was humming. Humming. Around the Spire. Hadn’t done that in decades. It was terrifying.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “He hums?”

 

“He hums when he’s happy and confused and doesn’t know why,” she said. “And he was so confused.”

 

She chuckled, shaking her head. “It got worse. He started lingering after missions. Doodling on his broadcasting notes. Guess who was showing up in every margin? You. Little bow and everything. Once I caught him sketching your wings like he was trying to memorize the way they folded.”

 

Silverbell flushed slightly. “He never told me that.”

 

“Oh, of course he didn’t,” she said. “Because he was also in total, utter denial.”

 

Candy Apple rested her chin on her hand, voice softening a little. “He kept saying things like ‘It’s interference’ or ‘He’s just a target’—but then he started sneaking out. Always around the same time. Always in your direction. Sometimes he didn’t even come back with intel. Just this look on his face like... like he didn’t know how to be cold anymore.”

 

Silverbell was quiet for a beat.

 

Then: “That explains why he always showed up smelling like night air and chamomile. I thought he was doing it on purpose to mess with me.”

 

 One day I found an actual shrine in the corner of his quarters—your old note, a cracked arrowhead from your training gear, a silverbell and a wilted lily... I don’t even know how he got it.”  she said with a shrug. “He was just messed up .

 

Silverbell laughed under his breath, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re joking.”

 

“I wish,” she said flatly. “It was on a vase. Shadow Milk also saw it! He told me it reeked of love .”

 

“You’re serious?!” Silverbell shook his head, eyes drifting down to the sleeping Cookie beside him. “And here I thought I was the one losing my mind.”

 

“Oh no, broski,” Candy Apple said, stretching her legs out. “That boy’s spiral was Olympic-level.”

 

He paused for a beat. “He told me his original mission was to infiltrate the Faerie Kingdom. Whisper fear, spread lies. Dig up information on Pure Vanilla. Blah blah blah..”

 

Candy Apple nodded, more serious now. “He was good at it too. Scary good. No one knew his face—just his voice. He could make a whole crowd panic with six syllables and a microphone spell.”

 

“And yet…” Silverbell glanced down at the mess of dark hair resting against his chest. “He couldn’t stop visiting.”

 

“Exactly,” she said. “There was this one day, Shadow Milk sent him out with strict orders. No detours. Just gather and return.”

 

“Did he listen?”

 

Candy Apple snorted. “Please. He made a full detour through Faerie territory just to see if you were training that day. He misses you REAL bad. Oh and that one time, when he accidentally confessed to you— he is staring at his window for HOURS. Like how is he not bored of staring at the direction of the Faerie Kingdom?! ”

 

Silverbell blinked slowly. “ Oh my…  he never told me this.”

 

“Yah, there’s more,” Candy Apple said. “Right around the time he started sighing at random and muttering your name in his sleep.”

 

Silverbell’s ears turned pink.

 

Candy Apple smiled gently now, voice dipping quieter. “And then the letters started. When you were recovering.”

 

His gaze lowered. “I remember. He never missed a day.”

 

“He was punishing himself,” she said. “You were out of commission. And he was blaming himself for falling in love—like that was the mistake. Not the mission. Not the lies. Just… feeling anything.”

 

Silverbell’s fingers threaded slowly through Black Sapphire’s hair.

 

“But when he saw you again,” she continued, “something reset in him. You smiled. Danced with him and spent a night at a cave. And he went right back to pretending he wasn’t in love—except this time, it hurt.”

 

Silverbell nodded. “That was the day I knew that he needed peace too.

 

“And that’s when Shadow Milk stepped in,” Candy Apple added, her voice tight.

 

Silverbell’s expression darkened. “The Garden of Delights.”

 

She nodded. “Stripped him down to instincts. Tried to kill the feelings. I wasn’t allowed interfere. I just... waited.”

 

They both sat in silence for a moment, the weight of that memory stretching between them.

 

Then Candy Apple glanced toward the bed. “I thought we lost him,” she said.

 

“But we didn’t,” Silverbell whispered, looking down. “You held on. So did I.”

 

He pulled Black Sapphire just a little closer. “And somehow,” he added softly, “he found his way back.”

 

Silverbell watched Black Sapphire sleep—his breath still slow, his grip gentle but persistent, like even in dreams he was afraid to let go.

 

He rested a hand on the back of Sapphire’s head, thumb brushing idly through dark strands. There was a calm here that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. And it wasn’t just the soft blankets or the quiet hum of healing wards still embedded in the walls.

 

It was this . Being allowed to stay. With him.

 

Candy Apple had gone quiet for once, her expression unreadable as she leaned her head back against the wall, letting them have the moment.

 

Silverbell finally spoke again—quiet, like the words might break if they were too loud. “…I didn’t think anyone would let me love him.”

 

Candy Apple blinked, eyes flicking toward him.

 

“Not after everything,” he added. “Not after the rumors. His mission. The way he fought me and my kingdom.”

 

He looked down at the sleeping Cookie against his chest. “But Mercurial… he saw it. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t scold me. Just... let me go.”

 

Candy Apple smiled faintly. “He’s got good instincts.”

 

“And Shadow Milk,” Silverbell went on, his voice growing softer. “I don’t know what I expected. I thought he’d pull Black Sapphire back. Erase what we had. Make him forget me again.”

He swallowed. “But he didn’t. He let him come back. And he let you come with us. So he wouldn’t be alone.”

 

Candy Apple turned her head slightly, watching him now with something gentler than sarcasm.

 

Silverbell met her gaze. “I don’t think I ever thanked you,” he said.

 

“You just did,” she replied simply.

 

He looked back down at the figure resting in his arms. “And even if he never says the word,” Silverbell whispered, “he loves me.”

 

A pause.

 

Then Candy Apple sighed, stood up, and headed for the door. “I’ll go prep lunch before I start feeling like a background character.”

 

Silverbell smiled to himself. And beneath the covers, Black Sapphire stirred faintly in his sleep—just enough to tuck his face closer against Silverbell’s chest. He stayed holding him. Because now he could. And now, finally, he was allowed.

 

Silverbell let out a quiet breath, the kind that only comes when the heart has finally stopped holding tension like a shield.

 

He leaned down, gently, carefully. And pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Black Sapphire’s head. It lingered—Full of everything he hadn’t needed to say out loud. Gratefulness. Relief. Love.

 

“I’ve got you now,” he whispered.

 

Black Sapphire shifted faintly at the warmth, a sleepy sound catching in his throat. But he didn’t wake. He only burrowed closer, as if the kiss had sealed him to safety.

 

Silverbell pulled the blanket around them both. Then, finally, He closed his eyes. And slept beside him.

---

When Silverbell awoke, the sun had shifted—its light now stretching long across the floorboards, painting soft amber patterns across the room.

 

He blinked slowly, adjusting to the glow. The space was quiet. Peaceful. And he wasn’t alone in the bed. The sheets aren’t empty

 

Black Sapphire was still there—sitting up now, leaned slightly against the headboard, a worn book in his lap. His cloak was gone, folded neatly on the nearby chair. His usually high-collared coat had slipped slightly off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, revealing more skin than Silverbell had ever seen him show.

 

That’s when he noticed. His breath caught.

 

Faint lines—some nearly faded, others recent but closed—traced their way up from Sapphire’s wrist to the bend of his arm. Not marks from battle. Not magic burns. Not training scars. Cuts. Intentional. Precise. Healed now, but unmistakable.

 

Silverbell’s heart stilled.

 

He had never seen them before. Black Sapphire never took off his coat. Never rolled up his sleeves. Never allowed anyone close enough to see past the fabric and the role he played so tightly.

 

And now, here he was. Sleeves up. Walls down. Reading in the quiet like it was nothing.

 

Sapphire hadn’t noticed him awake yet. His brows were furrowed, mouth moving softly as he muttered through the page—cross-referencing a warding spell with something he’d scribbled in the margin.

 

He looked… focused. At peace.

 

Silverbell didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.

 

Watched the way Black Sapphire’s hand trembled slightly when he turned a page. Watched the faint shadows under his eyes. Watched the visible proof of pain he had never spoken aloud.

 

And still —he was here. He had survived it. Fought through it.

 

Silverbell sat up slowly, careful not to startle him. “Sapphire…” The voice was soft, but enough.

 

Black Sapphire looked over, a blink of surprise flashing in his tired eyes—followed by a small, quiet smile. “Hm.. You’re awake,” he said simply.

 

Silverbell didn’t smile back right away. His gaze dropped to the scars. Black Sapphire followed it—and instantly, something in his posture stiffened.

 

He started to roll his sleeve back down. “Don’t.”

 

Silverbell reached out, gently stopping his hand. “I didn’t know,” he said, voice low, steady.

 

“I didn’t want you to,” Sapphire replied.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it’s not who I wanted to be when I was with you.”

 

Silverbell looked at him—really looked at him. At the Cookie who had fought tooth and nail to believe he deserved to live.

 

Silverbell leaned in. Took his hand. And said, “I see all of you now.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer. He just sat there, eyes unreadable. But he didn’t pull away.

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head slightly, watching him with that quiet sort of curiosity he only reserved for Silverbell.

 

“So…” he said gently, fingers still laced with Silverbell’s. “Now that you’re awake…”

 

He gave a small, hesitant smile. “What do you want to do?”

 

“Well as of now… I want to try something with you.” 

 

“Like…?” 

 

Silverbell opened his mouth, then hesitated—eyes flicking down, cheeks faintly pink. “I want to…” he murmured.

 

Black Sapphire leaned in a little. “What? I can’t hea—” The words didn’t come out this time.

 

Instead, Silverbell surged forward and kissed him.

 

“Mmh?!” 

 

Silverbell’s hands tangled in the front of Black Sapphire’s coat and lips crashing into his like he’d been holding back the urge for months —which, in fairness, he had.

 

Black Sapphire let out a startled sound, the book slipping from his lap as he was pulled in deeper. His hands instinctively found Silverbell’s waist, gripping tightly, grounding him—grounding both of them.

 

The kiss was messy. Desperate. Not a practiced gesture, but an honest one.

 

Like Silverbell had finally hit the point where words weren’t enough—where every letter and glance and sleepless nights needed a release.

 

Black Sapphire kissed him back. Hard. Fully.

 

Like he'd been waiting for permission to fall apart in someone else's arms. Their breathing quickened, chests rising and falling in sync, mouths parting only for a second before they found each other again—hungry, trembling, alive.

 

The bed shifted beneath them as Black Sapphire leaned in, one hand cupping the back of Silverbell’s head like he couldn’t believe this was real. Silverbell’s wings fluttered behind him, sharp and uncontrolled, the magic sparking faintly at the tips.

 

This kiss—desperate and wild and theirs —said everything neither of them had ever been able to say out loud. And neither of them wanted to stop.

 

Silverbell didn’t pull away. Not even when his lungs burned for air. Not even when his hands trembled where they clutched at Black Sapphire’s coat. 

 

Then—carefully, slowly—he moved his hands to the clasp. And he began to undo it. The heavy, high-collared coat that Black Sapphire wore at his every broadcast—like a second skin—came loose under Silverbell’s fingers. He felt the tension in Sapphire’s breath catch, but he didn’t stop him. He didn’t fight it. Because he didn’t care anymore.

 

The coat slid from his shoulders and fell to the floorboards, folding away between them with a whisper of fabric and memory. And beneath it—bare arms exposed under dim light. Silverbell’s breath caught.

 

Lines—some faint, some deep—marked his arms. Faded over time, closed now, but still there. Scars carved in silence, never shown, never spoken about. And yet Black Sapphire let him see. Let him see everything. Both of his arms were bare. Vulnerable.

 

Black Sapphire slipped his hands beneath Silverbell’s shirt, slow, uncertain, but full of purpose. His touch came cool at first—fingertips grazing skin like a question aching for an answer. The sharp curve of his nails dragged light across Silverbell’s back—present, deliberate—enough to make him shiver. Silverbell let out a quiet breath, clutching tighter at Sapphire’s shirt, fingers knotting in the fabric like he couldn’t risk letting go—like he’d break if he did.

 

It was more than a kiss—it was everything unspoken between them finally crashing through. The longing. The guilt. The hope. The months of holding back.

 

Black Sapphire gasped softly against his lips as Silverbell kissed him again—deeper this time, more sure. It wasn’t polished or perfect, but it was real , and that made it so much more.

 

And Black Sapphire, who had once claimed he didn’t know how to feel—who had once silenced his own heart just to survive—melted.

 

He let himself melt.

 

Both of Black Sapphire’s hands stayed at Silverbell’s back, holding him close, nails grazing skin like whispers of every feeling he didn’t know how to say. Then, slowly, he pulled one hand out from beneath Silverbell’s shirt and brought it up—sliding gently along his side until his fingers curled into the soft silver-blue of his hair. The other hand stayed firm at his back, anchoring them both—like if he loosened his grip, the world might tear them apart again..

Silverbell finally pulled back—just barely, just enough to rest his forehead against Sapphire’s. They were both breathing hard. Both flushed. Both wide-eyed in a way that had nothing to do with shock and everything to do with finally .

 

“…You didn’t have to say it,” Black Sapphire whispered, voice hoarse.

 

“I meant it,” Silverbell replied.

 

Black Sapphire let out a shaky laugh—half joy, half disbelief. “I know." Then he reached up and brushed his thumb gently over Silverbell's cheek. “I thought I lost you,” he said.

 

“You almost did,” Silverbell replied quietly, his voice low. “But you brought me back.”

 

Because right now, in this quiet house, with their breaths tangled and hands still searching for each other like it wasn’t quite real— This was a language they both understood. Especially right now.

 

They were kissing again. Slower now. Deeper. More deliberate.

 

Silverbell had climbed into Black Sapphire’s lap without thinking, his fingers tangled in Sapphire’s hair, both of them holding each other like the world outside didn’t exist. Like nothing could take this from them again.

 

Black Sapphire’s hands were at Silverbell’s waist, thumbs brushing soft circles into his sides. He wasn’t shaking anymore. He wasn’t doubting anymore. He was here —and so was Silverbell.

 

Their noses bumped. Their mouths met again. Warm. Wanting. Hungry for every piece of each other they’d denied too long.

 

Black Sapphire pulled Silverbell closer, hands tightening at his waist like he couldn’t get him close enough. His breath brushed Silverbell’s neck, and then he leaned in—lips parted, eyes half-lidded—and sank his teeth into the curve where shoulder met throat.

 

Silverbell shivered. The bite wasn’t harsh, but it lingered , pressed in just enough to make him feel it—really feel it. Sharp teeth, careful pressure, like he knew exactly where to sink them to make Silverbell melt. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away from him. He just gasped—quiet, involuntary—and tilted his head slightly, giving him more.

 

Black Sapphire’s hands slid up his back, pressing him in tight as his teeth scraped gently against the skin, then pressed down again—harder this time. The graze turned deliberate. Purposeful. A bite, not deep enough to break skin, but full of meaning all the same. His mouth lingered at the spot, hot breath flooding the skin afterward, lips soft now in contrast to the sharpness just before. 

 

Silverbell’s breath hitched, low in his throat, and his hands tightened in Sapphire’s hair. He could feel every pulse of his heartbeat at that spot—heat and contact and him. And he let him. Every second of it.

 

Silverbell exhaled—a little shaky, a little stunned. Then, voice rough but amused, he mumbled, “...You bite like you’ve been waiting for an excuse.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t answer out loud, just let his mouth hover there, still close, a little smug.

 

Silverbell laughed, soft and breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

Black Sapphire smirked against his neck, lips brushing skin as he murmured, “You didn’t seem to mind a second ago.”

 

Silverbell made a noise that was half gasp, half laugh.

 

Black Sapphire pulled back just enough to look at him, clearly trying not to smirk. “This is what you wanted, huh?” He tilted his head, the picture of smug satisfaction. “One taste and you’ve already lost your mind.”

 

Silverbell gave him a flat look, still breathless. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”

 

Black Sapphire grinned, unapologetic. “Too late. You signed up for this.”

 

There was already a bite mark on Silverbell’s neck—faint but undeniable. Black Sapphire paused to breathe, catching sight of it again. His expression flickered—surprise, awe, something deeper—and in that stillness, Silverbell lifted his head and kissed him. Quick. Certain. Like sealing something that had already been said without words.

 

They’d shifted without realizing. Slow at first—one kiss trailing into another, one breath spilling into the next. Then Silverbell pushed forward, and Black Sapphire fell back with a soft thud, the back of his head landing against the pillow, the bed creaking beneath the weight of them both. Now Silverbell was over him, knees on either side, His weight rested on one elbow sunk into the mattress. One hand cradled the back of Sapphire's head—fingers tangled in his hair, while the other cupped his cheek-thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

 

They stared at each other, chests rising and falling, caught between the heat and the hush of it all, the silence filled with breath and the electric closeness of skin.

 

Silverbell’s voice came low, roughened by restraint. “You okay down there?”

 

Sapphire swallowed hard, his throat tight. His hand slid up, fingers curling into the fabric on Silverbell’s back—gripping, holding, needing the anchor. “I’m… yeah. Are you?”

 

Silverbell nodded, a smile ghosting over his lips, soft but unwavering. “I like seeing you like this.” His thumb lingered at Sapphire’s mouth, daring to drift closer, tracing the edge like he wanted to taste the smile before it formed.

 

Sapphire let out a shaky breath, brows knitting as heat spread through him. “Under you?”

 

“Mm-hmm.” Silverbell’s grin deepened, though his eyes stayed tender, fixed on Sapphire as though he were a secret he’d been aching to uncover. “Such a fascinating view.”

 

Sapphire’s chest fluttered, a tangle of nerves and want. His voice caught, almost fragile. “You’re the first one to witness this.”

 

For a beat, Silverbell only looked at him—steady, reverent—before his hand shifted along Sapphire’s jaw, fingers splayed as though holding something precious. “Then I’ll make sure I don’t take it for granted.” His words carried heat, but underneath it, a vow.

 

Sapphire’s breath hitched, color flooding his face until it burned. He pressed his hand harder into Silverbell’s back, pulling him closer in spite of the storm inside. “That’s… illegal to say.” His voice cracked between protest and plea.

 

Silverbell laughed, warm and unguarded, “I don’t see any law enforcement around.”

 

Black Sapphire groaned and threw one hand to cover his face, the other curling into the fabric of Silverbell’s clothes—grounding himself in the closeness. “Holy witches. I’m going to die.”

 

“You’re not dying,” Silverbell said, shifting his hips just enough to press down, teasing, drawing out a breathless groan from the man beneath him. “You’re just extremely flustered and in love with me.”

 

“I—” Black Sapphire peeked from behind his fingers. “Okay yeah, but you don’t have to say it out loud.”

 

“You did say it first.”

 

“I did not—”

 

“You kissed me like you meant it.”

 

“That’s not saying it, that’s—expression.”

 

“Mmm. You’re very expressive.”

 

Black Sapphire opened his mouth to argue, then gave up halfway and let it fall shut. His hands moved instead—up, around the back of Silverbell’s neck—fingers brushing the short hairs there before locking gently in place. He pulled him down, not just to kiss, but to hold. Their lips met in a kiss that was slow and lingering, more breath than movement. The urgency was gone. What was left was closer. Quieter. Just the gravity between them.

 

Silverbell kissed his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth. Then the bruised space under his eye that hadn’t quite healed. His thumb moved along Black Sapphire’s jaw—feeling, remembering.

 

“I missed your face,” he said.

 

Black Sapphire made a helpless noise. His fingers were still curled behind Silverbell’s neck, but his gaze had drifted—slow, reverent—taking in every line of the face above him. The cut on Silverbell’s cheekbone. The faint crease between his brows. The raw, open way he looked back.

 

He missed him, he missed him.

 

“Hah...” he whispered, voice thinner than before. “You’re trying to kill me.”

 

Silverbell snorted softly. “You say that like you didn’t almost kill me physically first.”

 

Black Sapphire blinked. “That was different.”

 

“That was you lashing out and couldn’t control yourself because you are under a spell that you couldn’t break free from.”

 

“Okay chill. You’re alive, aren’t you?”

 

“Barely.” Silverbell looked down at him and said it again, quieter this time—barely more than a breath against his skin. “Tell me to stop.”

 

Then again, with more weight, like he meant it all the way through “No. Please don’t. Never stop.”

 

Their mouths found each other again, the laughter still warm on their lips.

 

Silverbell kissed him again. Mouth to mouth. Real. Certain. He was alive. Awake. And Black Sapphire was here—messy hair, half a coat, scars and all, wrapped in the aftermath of too many sleepless nights and magic that took more than it gave.

 

“I should’ve told you sooner,” Black Sapphire whispered. “How much it hurt. Thinking you wouldn’t wake up. That maybe you wouldn’t forgive me if you did.”

 

Silverbell just brushed his nose against his, tenderly. “You tried to heal me. You didn’t stop.”

 

“I couldn’t stop. I kept thinking—if I can just fix this, maybe it makes up for how I let them twist my head around. For how I looked at you like you were wrong for loving me.”

 

“You didn’t mean it.”

 

“I thought I did. I let it in. That voice. That lie. That love is weak, or that I was too much of a mess to want anything soft.” His breath hitched. “I hated that I believed it. I hated myself more for how long I did.”

 

Silverbell leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re not a mess.”

 

“I am.”

 

“Fine. You’re a beautiful mess and you’re mine.”

 

Black Sapphire cracked a weak smile. “Still illegal.”

 

“Then come arrest me."

 

Black Sapphire blinked slowly, lips parting with a breath. "That's my line, knight."

 

Another kiss. Softer than the rest. Then longer. One of those slow, lingering ones that carried apologies and promises at once.

 

But all of a sudden—

 

“Hey, I cooked—” The door creaked open. “—WHAT in the holy name of the witches?! ”

 

They froze.

 

“REALLY?! ” Candy Apple’s voice pitched up several decibels. “REALLY?! I WAS GONE FOR TWO HOURS— TWO. HOURS.”

 

Silverbell twisted around, face red, hair tousled, clearly trying to sit up without crushing Black Sapphire further—but too slow, way too slow. Black Sapphire, trapped beneath him, looked like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow them both, but unfortunately the sheets were very much still intact.

 

Candy Apple marched into the room, eyes wide with theatrical betrayal. “ Is this what we’re doing in daylight?! On the nice sheets?! ”

 

Silverbell cleared his throat. “We were—uh—talking.”

 

Candy Apple squinted. “With your mouths? Down each other’s throats?  With you pinning him on the soft mattress?!”

 

She turned on Black Sapphire next, who made the grave mistake of making eye contact. “And your coat’s off?! Have you no shame?!” Her eyes zeroed in on Silverbell’s neck next—and she gasped . “Is that a bite mark?! Are you serious right now?!”

 

Black Sapphire tried to respond but only managed a squeak. Then he slowly, painfully, turned his head and buried his face in the crumpled sheets beside him, as if sheer fabric could save him from mortal embarrassment.

 

Silverbell didn’t move. “You're not hiding. I can literally feel your entire soul trying to crawl into the sheets.”

 

From the pillow, Black Sapphire groaned, voice half-muffled. “You weren’t complaining two seconds ago.”

 

“Okay!” Candy Apple groaned, dramatically slammed on the desk and waving a hand in the air. “You know what? I hope you choke on your feelings. Both of you. Lunch is at the dining area. I'm leaving.”

 

She marched out and slammed the door shut behind her. Silence.

 

Black Sapphire peeled his face from the sheets, eyes still burning with embarrassment, but he looked up anyway—at Silverbell, at that stupid, perfect face that made everything worse and better at the same time. He just looked for a moment. Kinda stared. Like maybe he could memorize him all over again. Then he scooted closer, leaned in, and let out this long, shaky breath into the crook of Silverbell’s neck like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

 

“I’m never showing my face again.”

 

Silverbell grinned into his hair. “Good thing I like it right where it is.”

 

“You’re awful.”

 

“You love me.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Make me.”

 

And so he did.

 

They kissed one last time. Silverbell didn’t go far—just dropped his weight onto Black Sapphire’s chest with a soft, dramatic flop, limbs draped like a man who’d claimed victory and was never letting go.

 

Black Sapphire let out a tiny oof, stared at the ceiling, and said, "You’re still heavy."

 

“Correct.” Silverbell buried his face against his shoulder. “I am also staying here until further notice.”

 

“You’re going to suffocate me.”

 

“You’ll die flustered and loved.”

 

“You’re the worst.”

 

Silverbell hummed, tightening his hold. “You like it.”

 

Another beat. Then Black Sapphire sighed. “We need to go eat.”

 

“No we don’t.”

 

“Yes we do. Candy Apple saw us , Bell. I can’t pretend that didn’t happen. I need food and plausible deniability.”

 

Silverbell still didn’t move.

 

“But… we already ate,” he mumbled into Black Sapphire’s neck.

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head slowly, suspicious. “What? No, we haven’t…?”

 

Silverbell was grinning now, eyes dropping lazily to his mouth.

 

Black Sapphire caught the shift in his eyes, saw exactly where Silverbell was looking–his whole face lit up with betrayal. His mouth opened, horrified. "Silverbell—Did you—did you mean that?" His voice cracked halfway through, and the blush started creeping up from his neck, slow and traitorous.

 

"We need actual food," he blurted, flustered and panicking. "Especially you… Just—just let me get up."

 

"Ugh... fine."

 

Then suddenly with zero warning—he slid a hand to Black Sapphire’s waist, gripped firmly, and lifted him clean off the bed like he weighed nothing. Black Sapphire let out a startled squawk, arms flailing slightly before he caught balance, now upright and clearly offended.

 

“I can stand!” he barked.

 

“I know.” Silverbell was already grabbing his coat from the floor and brushing imaginary dust off it. “I just felt like it.”

 

Black Sapphire snatched the coat back, cheeks red, but shrugged into it anyway—his scars now hidden beneath fabric and pride. He fixed his collar. Glared. “If she brings this up at lunch, I swear I’ll hex the rice.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

“Try me.”

 

Silverbell just grinned. “You coming, beautiful mess?”

 

Black Sapphire rolled his eyes and stormed ahead, but not before Silverbell caught the edge of a smile sneaking out. He followed him down the hall, still feeling like the luckiest idiot in the world.

 

The hallway smelled like herbs and old wood. Their footsteps creaked over the floorboard. They didn’t talk much—just brushed fingers once or twice, didn’t pull away. Silverbell nudged Black Sapphire’s shoulder on purpose and got a glare that isn’t really a glare. Black Sapphire adjusted his coat like it was armor while Silverbell still had that dumb grin on his face.

 

The three of them sat at the small wooden dinner table, plates of warm food spread before them. Black Sapphire had his cloak draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up. Silverbell had at least tried to fix his hair. Candy Apple, meanwhile, sat with her arms crossed, chewing dramatically, eyes narrowed like she was barely tolerating their presence.

 

The tension was thick.

 

Black Sapphire cleared his throat softly, avoiding eye contact. “Listen, Candy, about earlier—”

 

“Quit your yapping, lover boy,” she said flatly, not even looking at him.

 

Black Sapphire blinked. Silverbell coughed awkwardly. “I was just going to—”

 

“I know what you were going to say. ‘Oh Candy, I’m sorry you saw me making out like a dramatic lead in a romance stageplay.’ ” She mimicked him in an exaggerated, nasally tone.

 

“I don’t sound like that,” he muttered.

 

“Yes, you do,” she said, jabbing a fork in his direction. “Exactly like that. Also, I basically live here too now. So if you two wanna have your wing-touching bonding rituals, put a sock on the door or a ward or something.”

 

Silverbell coughed harder, hiding behind his cup of tea.

 

Black Sapphire sighed. “Noted.”

 

Candy Apple finally looked at him, grinning just a bit. “That being said, if you don’t kiss him like that again soon, I will be offended on his behalf.”

 

Silverbell turned bright red. “Can we not—”

 

“ Anyway ,” Candy said, waving him off, “let’s eat. I’m starving and I slaved over a hot stove while you two were playing ‘secretly-in-love cookies discover emotions.’”

 

Silverbell picked up his fork and took a cautious bite and froze. “…Oh,” he murmured. “This is… really good.”

 

Black Sapphire, chewing thoughtfully beside him, raised a brow. “Of course it is. She knows what she’s doing.”

 

Silverbell took another bite, almost sheepishly. “It’s better than my cooking.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t even hesitate and pointed at Silverbell. “By the way, he can’t cook.”

 

Candy Apple dropped her fork and gasped so loud it echoed. “ WHAT?! ” she shouted. “Excuse me?! You’re a knight. And you can’t cook?! ”

 

Silverbell looked up, blinking like a deer caught in torchlight. “I mean, I was trained to fight, not sauté.”

 

“ SKILL ISSUE, you absolute bozo! ” Candy Apple barked. “That is basic survival 101! What do you do on long missions? Chew bark?! You’re out here deflecting arrows and you can’t flip a pancake?!”

 

Black Sapphire leaned back, biting into a piece of bread to hide his grin. “She’s not going to let this go, you know.”

 

Candy Apple kept going. “Honestly! This is a disgrace to knightly tradition! What kind of warrior doesn’t even know how to make rice without it turning into mush bricks?!”

 

Silverbell mumbled under his breath. “It was only that one time. ”

 

“ That one time was inedible!” Black Sapphire added, laughing now. “It nearly broke my spoon.”

 

Candy Apple laughed so hard she wheezed, slapping the table. “Not the spoon!”

 

“Okay, okay!” Silverbell huffed, but he was laughing too now. “Fine. I’ll learn. Just stop slandering me over the soup!”

 

Candy Apple raised her glass. “To slander, love, and better cookware.”

 

Black Sapphire clinked his cup against hers, smiling like he didn’t even realize it.

 

And Silverbell just leaned back with his plate, warmth in his eyes, food in his hands, and love seated on either side of him.

 

This — This felt like home.

 

The plates had been cleared. The last of the crumbs wiped from the table. A faint breeze from the open windows stirred the curtains, soft and cool.

 

Black Sapphire was drying the final bowl, towel in hand, sleeves still pushed up. His eyes moved between Candy Apple and Silverbell, suspiciously narrowed. They were talking —again—with that barely contained grin that usually meant they had shared some secret without him.

 

Candy Apple raised an eyebrow. “So, Sapphy.”

 

He didn’t look up. “What.”

 

“Silverbell and I were having a very enlightening talk while you were sleeping.”

 

His hand paused mid-wipe.

 

Silverbell stepped beside him, stacking the cups with unnecessary calm. “Mhm. Incredibly enlightening.”

 

Black Sapphire lowered the bowl. “What exactly did you talk about?”

 

Candy Apple leaned her elbows on the table, chin resting in one hand. “Oh, you know. The usual. Your strategic sabotage of your own emotions. Your inability to process affection like a functioning Cookie. That little shrine you had in the Spire—”

 

Black Sapphire froze. His wings violently fluttered behind him.

 

Silverbell tilted his head. “A shrine?” he pretended not to know what Candy Apple is talking about

 

Candy Apple smiled, all teeth. “Mhm. A note. An arrowhead. A very suspicious silverbell and a lily in a vase.”

 

“A lily,” Silverbell added innocently. “From the garden I brought you.”

 

Black Sapphire turned sharply. “You told Silverbell what?! ”

 

Candy Apple clapped once, triumphant. “ Everything! ”

 

Silverbell leaned his hip against the table, smirking. “Heard about the humming.”

 

“Even humming?! ” Black Sapphire hissed.

 

“At the Spire, no less,” Candy added, folding her arms. “You were practically skipping through the corridors.”

 

“I was not.”

 

“Then there were the doodles,” Silverbell continued, lifting a brow. “Little drawings in the margins of your broadcasting notes. My bow, my wings…”

 

“You drew me, ” he added, unable to hide the fondness behind it.

 

Black Sapphire turned bright red. “I was sleep-deprived. ”

 

Silverbell raised both brows. “You drew me blowing a kiss. ”

 

Black Sapphire dropped the towel. “Uh huh… That was a training diagram. ”

 

“It had hearts,” Candy Apple said, matter-of-fact. “You even shaded the wings.”

 

“And the lily at the vase,” Silverbell murmured, softer now. “The one I gave you. You kept it.”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw tightened. His voice dipped. “You remember that?”

 

Silverbell nodded.

 

“I remember the stars that night. I remember you asking me to dance, and when I didn’t say no, you smiled like the world had cracked open. Then I gave you the lily—my favorite—and you wore it.”

 

He looked at him now, no teasing in his gaze. “Of course I remember.” 

 

Black Sapphire swallowed.

 

Candy Apple looked between them and made a dramatic choking noise. “Okay, I can feel the romantic tension cooking. I’m stepping out before one of you starts reciting poetry.”

 

She grabbed her empty glass and went toward her room, but not without calling over her shoulder: “Oh, and by the way— we’re not done slandering you. I will be mentioning the bedtime sighing next.” The door clicked behind her

 

Silverbell turned back, crossing his arms slowly. His wings shimmered behind him like starlight caught in motion.

 

Black Sapphire rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I hate both of you.”

 

Silverbell smiled. “No, you don’t.”

 

Black Sapphire chuckled softly. “Yeah, I don’t.”

 

He set the towel down and straightened up. “I should head to the market. We’re running low on some things.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head. “I’ll come with you.”

 

Black Sapphire turned sharply. “No, you're still recovering.”

 

“And you haven’t slept more than four hours in the last three days,” Silverbell shot back. “You might faint in the middle of the town square.”

 

“I won’t faint,” Black Sapphire muttered.

 

“Really? That’s rich, coming from the Cookie who once passed out standing up.”

 

Black Sapphire crossed his arms. “I did not pass out. I simply—overestimated my mana threshold.”

 

Silverbell gave him a look. “You fell face-first into a cabbage cart at the Faerie Kingdom, back when you were Moondrop Faerie Cookie.”

 

Black Sapphire muttered, “Yeah… uhm about that.”

 

“You apologized to the cabbage,” Silverbell added.

 

“That merchant was very upset by the way,” Candy Apple called from the hallway.

 

Black Sapphire groaned, rubbing his temples. “Okay, fine. I briefly lost consciousness.”

 

“And you want to go alone?” Silverbell pressed. “You’ll collapse halfway to the bread stall.”

 

“And you’ll sneeze yourself into a coma if the air shifts wrong,” Black Sapphire snapped back.

 

“I’m not the one whose idea of breakfast is two spoonfuls of honey and pure willpower.”

 

“That’s a measured dose. ”

 

“Oh for the love of sugar,” Candy Apple muttered, stepping fully into view. “How about we all go?”

 

As they bickered, Candy Apple reappeared from the hall, glass in hand. She’d only intended to refill it, but stopped short when she caught their voices.

 

She leaned in the doorway and raised a brow. “How about we all go?” she said with exaggerated sarcasm. “That way, I can keep an eye on you two disaster romantics, keep you both from collapsing on cobblestones, and also make sure we don’t end up banned from the market again.”

 

Black Sapphire and Silverbell exchanged a look.

 

“…Fine,” Silverbell muttered.

 

Black Sapphire shrugged with a small smile. “Only if we use disguises. These cookies would suspect that we aren’t among them.”

 

“Obviously,” Candy Apple said, already rolling her eyes. “We aren’t idiotic like you.”

 

They all turned toward their respective rooms, murmuring spell sequences and pulling cloaks from hooks. Glamours shimmered in the air—a slow warp of magic, soft but thorough. Hair colors changed. Wings vanished. Faces changed  just enough to pass as strangers. 

 

The market was lively that afternoon. The sun cut through the clouds in golden slants, catching on banners and glass jars, lending everything a warm sheen. Bells chimed from the awnings. Children darted between stalls with sticky hands and sticky smiles. The air was thick with the smell of cinnamon, honeybread, roasted seeds, and the occasional burst of lavender steam from an alchemist vendor.

 

The trio moved at an easy pace, well-blended under their disguises. Candy Apple had traded her usual scowl for a smile as she made a beeline toward a boutique stall bursting with color. Frilled tunics, velvet cloaks, embroidered belts—every fabric shimmered faintly with glamour thread. She held up a deep maroon jacket to her shoulders and gave a dramatic twirl. “If I’m going to retire as a deceitling, I’m doing it in style.”

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow. “You’re already doing it with drama.”

 

“Style is drama,” she replied, unfazed.

 

Silverbell drifted to the spice vendor a few stalls down. He scanned the goods quietly until his eyes caught on a small crate labeled Moon-Touched Tulip Crepes. His breath caught. Tulip crepes. Mercurial Knight’s favorite. Without hesitation, he picked out a handful, paid in full, and tucked them carefully into his satchel as if handling something fragile.

 

Black Sapphire, meanwhile, moved with quiet purpose. He fingered bolts of fabric—choosing shades of navy, dusk-gray, and pale ash-blue—and collected cotton stuffing, leather strips, and fine thread. His hands hovered over a rack of spell books until he found a few older volumes. Their spines were cracked and pages slightly curled, but he smiled faintly. These were the kind that taught you more in the margins than in the main text.

 

They regrouped at a pastry stall decked in lavender glaze and powdered sugar. Rows of tarts, folded croissants, and candied nuts lined the counter.

 

Candy Apple already had one tart halfway to her mouth. “You will thank me for this,” she said, voice thick through her first bite. Crumbs clung to her lips.

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’re making a promise and a threat.”

 

She held up her second tart like a trophy. “Both.”

 

Silverbell took a bite of a honey-layered bun, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I forgot how much I missed this kind of quiet.”

 

“Then hold on to it,” Black Sapphire murmured, his eyes flicking up from his bag. “We don’t get many of these.”

 

They stood there for a few more minutes, quiet in the crowd but whole in each other’s presence, savoring the taste of normalcy—however fleeting it might be.

 

Eventually, they wandered on, weaving through the next row of stalls. They picked up more supplies—spices, cloth, a new set of quills, and a small box of pastel-colored sweets Candy Apple insisted they absolutely needed.

 

Then a light tap landed on Black Sapphire’s shoulder. He turned, already on alert.

 

And found himself looking into the calm, knowing eyes of Pure Vanilla Cookie.

 

The ancient’s gaze was gentle, but direct. “Disguises only work on those not paying attention,” he said kindly. “But I’ve always had a good memory.”

 

Black Sapphire froze. A dozen feelings surged in his chest—confusion, alarm, a flash of memory. The image of the Spire of Deceit collapsing under Shadow Milk’s rage played behind his eyes. That devastation had followed Pure Vanilla's awakening. This Cookie—so calm, so composed—had unknowingly set off a chain of consequences that left scars across more than just the land.

 

Silverbell and Candy Apple turned, sensing the shift in the air.

 

Pure Vanilla, as if reading the hesitation in Black Sapphire’s eyes, stepped back slightly—not threatening, simply present. “If you would, I’d prefer we continue this conversation at the castle. It’s quiet. And safe.”

 

Candy Apple narrowed her eyes. “You sure he’ll be safe there?” Her voice was flat, suspicious. “Because last time an Ancient ‘wanted to talk,’ with someone I know a tower got reduced to powder and half the continent went into magical shock. Forgive me if I’m not exactly eager to hand him over like a lost scroll.”

 

Pure Vanilla nodded once. “I only want to talk. And I think… it’s time.”

 

Then his eyes moved past Black Sapphire—and settled on Silverbell. His expression softened instantly, a quiet warmth blooming behind his calm eyes. “You’re alive,” he said, as if speaking the words out loud grounded reality. “I’d heard you were injured, but I hadn’t… I didn’t expect to see you here in the Vanilla Kingdom, and well.”

 

Silverbell gave a subtle nod, unsure of what to say at the moment.

 

Pure Vanilla glanced at the others briefly, then back at Black Sapphire. “If you all would join me at the castle, I think we have much to share. No expectation. Just a conversation. I believe that’s long overdue.”

 

Black Sapphire hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly on the strap of his satchel. “...Fine. We’ll go.”

 

Candy Apple folded her arms. “You can go. I’m staying right here in marketland where nothing explodes.”

 

“You’re coming with us,” Black Sapphire said.

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

Candy Apple made a noise like a scoff wrapped in a curse. “I swear to sugar, if that castle gets vaporized— I don’t want my syrup to melt.”

 

He hooked his arm around hers and started walking. “Then you can say ‘I told you so’ the whole way back.”

 

Candy Apple dug her heels in. “This is kidnapping. I’m being dragged. ”

 

Silverbell, walking behind them, gave Pure Vanilla a slightly apologetic smile. “Aha... please don’t mind them...”

 

“I don’t mind,” Pure Vanilla replied gently, folding his hands. “Let’s head there.”

 

Silverbell glanced back at the other two, still lightly bickering. Then he turned toward the ancient. “Also… if I may ask, what brought you to the market, Pure Vanilla Cookie?”

 

“Please,” the ancient said with a small smile, “just call me Pure Vanilla. And… I was picking up snacks for my cream sheeps.”

 

Candy Apple stared. “You left the castle for snacks? For sheep? ”

 

Pure Vanilla gave a serene nod. “They have discerning tastes. And this market has their favorite candied oats.”

 

Silverbell blinked. “Cream sheeps eat… candied oats?”

 

“They prefer them lightly glazed,” Pure Vanilla added as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

 

Black Sapphire muttered, “Of course they do.”

 

Candy Apple shook her head. “If I find out those sheep eat better than we do, I’m filing a complaint with the kingdom.”

 

Pure Vanilla simply smiled. “You’re welcome to visit them after we speak.”

 

The walk from the market to the castle wound them through sunlit cobblestone lanes, the kind that always smelled faintly of sugar and sea air. Vendors’ shouts faded into the distance, replaced by the steady clack of boots and the occasional, almost absurd, jingling of what could only be candy oat packets in Pure Vanilla’s satchel.

 

Black Sapphire kept pace just behind him, silent but watchful, every sense tuned to the faintest hint of trouble. He wasn’t sure if it was paranoia or experience—though in his world, those were often the same thing.

 

Candy Apple muttered under her breath, “If I trip over a sheep in that castle, I’m suing.”

 

Pure Vanilla glanced back, entirely unruffled. “They’re very polite. They would step aside for you.”

 

“That’s worse,” she shot back. “I don’t want livestock with manners. I want them to be stupid and eat grass like normal sheep.”

 

Silverbell stifled a laugh, but the glance he gave Black Sapphire said he felt the same underlying question: why here, why now?

 

When the castle gates came into view, they loomed not in the threatening, fortress-like way most strongholds did, but with the kind of serene grace that came from centuries of careful upkeep. The walls were pale as fresh cream, accented with gold that caught the late sunlight and seemed to hum faintly with magic.

 

The path from the market to the Vanilla Castle wound upward through streets lined with pale creamstone houses and flower-laden balconies. Vanilla orchids spilled from carved planters, their scent warm and heady in the afternoon light. Banners in soft gold and white swayed in the breeze, stitched with the kingdom’s sigil. The cobblestones underfoot were scrubbed clean, catching glints of sun like scattered sugar crystals.

 

Up ahead, Silverbell kept pace with Pure Vanilla, their conversation low and even. The ancient’s voice was unhurried, a calm counterpoint to the distant hum of the city. “I rarely leave the castle these days,” Pure Vanilla was saying. “But today… I thought it was time to see the market again. Time to see who walks its streets.”

 

Silverbell glanced sideways at him. “And to find us?”

 

A faint smile touched Pure Vanilla’s face. “Perhaps.”

 

Behind them, the mood was less serene. Candy Apple dug in her heels, muttering curses under her breath as Black Sapphire hauled her forward by the crook of her elbow. “This is unnecessary,” she said through clenched teeth.

 

“It’s already decided,” Black Sapphire replied without breaking stride.

 

“I’m not your cargo. I don’t want to be anywhere near a castle where things have a habit of—” She gestured wildly with her free hand. “—turning to rubble!”

 

“You can complain when we get there.”

 

“I’m complaining now.”

 

He tightened his grip just enough to keep her moving. “Then multitask.”

 

The main road began to widen, opening onto the outer gardens of the Vanilla Castle. Cream sheep grazed in the sun-dappled grass, their fleece so bright and pristine it seemed almost enchanted. A few raised their heads as the group passed, ears twitching, eyes placid.

 

Candy Apple stared. “Oh, wonderful. The sheep here have better grooming than I do.”

 

“They’re well cared for,” Pure Vanilla said from the front, though he didn’t turn around.

 

“Of course they are,” she muttered. “Probably get spa days and imported hay.”

 

The castle rose behind the gardens, its pale walls streaked with gold filigree that caught the light like a spill of honey. The tallest spire gleamed against the sky, its tip crowned with a single carved vanilla blossom. The gates were open, flanked by guards in ivory-trimmed armor who inclined their heads as Pure Vanilla passed.

 

Inside the courtyard, the air cooled. Fountains murmured between beds of vanilla orchids and lavender, the perfume almost dizzying after the city’s bustle. Stained-glass windows high in the castle’s façade threw fractured colors across the marble walkway.

 

Silverbell slowed as they approached the wide front steps. He looked back briefly at the others—at Candy Apple’s scowl, at Black Sapphire’s unshakable focus—and then to Pure Vanilla, whose calm expression never wavered.

 

The ancient pushed open the tall doors without ceremony, letting the warm light of the foyer spill over them.

 

The castle doors loomed above them, their carved panels twined with vines and blossoms picked out in gold. Pure Vanilla stepped forward first, the hinges giving a low, resonant creak as the great slabs swung inward.

 

Cool air spilled from the foyer—lily-scented, edged with the faintest trace of polished marble. Light from the tall stained-glass windows painted the floor in fractured blooms of blue, gold, and cream. Somewhere deeper inside, the echo of a fountain’s steady drip carried faintly.

 

They crossed the threshold, footsteps muffled on the thick carpet runner. Behind them, the guards eased the doors shut with a firm, final thud.

 

Only then did Black Sapphire release Candy Apple’s arm and the bag of groceries that they shopped earlier. She spun toward the doors instantly, testing the handle, but the heavy bolts had already slid into place from the outside.

 

Her eyes narrowed. “You planned this.”

 

Black Sapphire adjusted the strap of his satchel, his face unreadable. “Just making sure you didn’t change your mind halfway through the conversation.”

 

Candy Apple let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “You’re impossible.”

 

“Efficient,” he corrected, already turning to follow Pure Vanilla and Silverbell deeper into the castle.

 

She trailed after them and muttered, “Same thing in your head, isn’t it?”

Pure Vanilla guided them down a side corridor, the sound of their steps softened by thick cream-colored carpets. The walls were lined with portraits—Cookies in elegant garb, some smiling serenely, others watching with the faint, unreadable gravity of history. The air here was warmer than the outer halls, scented faintly with vanilla and old parchment.

 

He stopped before a tall door inlaid with golden scrollwork and pushed it open. The guest room beyond was bright and spacious—sunlight spilling through arched windows onto a bed that looked like it could swallow you whole. The linens were crisp and white, the furniture polished to a soft sheen. A small fire snapped in the hearth, and on the table sat a bowl of sugared fruit and a steaming pot of tea.

 

It was… leagues better than the abandoned house they’d been holed up in for the past few days—one with peeling wallpaper, a draft that gnawed at their bones, and a mouse that had developed an unhealthy interest in Candy Apple’s boots.

 

Before anyone could speak, Candy Apple stepped forward. “I. Want. A. Separate. Room,” she said flatly.

 

Pure Vanilla turned to her, one brow lifting. “Pardon?”

 

“Separate. Room,” she repeated, her voice sharp but not raised. “I’m not sharing with—” She cut herself off, as if realizing the absurdity of making such a mundane request to this particular Cookie that stole their master’s Soul Jam and casually walking on the streets with it. Oh, she could never forgive him for what he did to their master.

 

It was Pure Vanilla’s calm, unblinking gaze that did it. With a put-upon sigh, she reached over, hooked a finger in Silverbell’s collar, and tugged it down to reveal the faint curve of a bite mark against his neck.

 

Silverbell’s face flared crimson, his eyes darting anywhere but at Pure Vanilla. A faint blush touched Black Sapphire’s cheeks, though he quickly looked away, focusing far too intently on the tea set.

Pure Vanilla’s eyes flicked briefly to the mark, then back to Candy Apple, his expression unreadable. “Ah…”

 

Candy Apple let go of Silverbell’s collar with a snap and crossed her arms. “Now do you understand why I’m not staying in the same room?”

 

Silverbell cleared his throat, still pink. “It’s… not what it looks like.”

 

Black Sapphire gave him a side glance. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

 

“That’s not helping,” Silverbell muttered, burying his face in his collar.

 

Pure Vanilla’s voice, when it came, was as calm as ever. “Very well. I’ll arrange a separate room for you.”

 

Candy Apple exhaled as if she’d just negotiated a high-stakes treaty. “THANK YOU. See? Civilized.”

 

Black Sapphire muttered under his breath, “That’s one word for it.”

 

Candy Apple’s eyes swept over the room one last time, then flicked to Silverbell and Black Sapphire in turn. “Alright, you two love-freaks can have your cozy little sleepover. I’m not sticking around for whatever happens in bed next time.”

 

Silverbell groaned into his coat. Black Sapphire didn’t bother dignifying it with a response.

 

Pure Vanilla’s smile was polite, but his eyes were steady on Black Sapphire. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you alone.”

 

Black Sapphire adjusted his satchel strap. “Now?”

 

“Yes. It won’t take long.”

 

With a glance toward Silverbell and Candy Apple, Black Sapphire followed the ancient toward the door.

 

A steward appeared just then to murmur that Candy Apple’s separate room was prepared. She peeked out the door, saw the plain cream-colored walls and neatly made bed waiting for her, and immediately turned back into the guest room where Silverbell was standing.

 

“Nope. Boring. I’ll stay here for a while,” she announced, flopping onto the armchair beside Silverbell.

 

He gave her a wary look but didn’t protest. The door shut behind Pure Vanilla and Black Sapphire, their voices fading down the corridor.

 

Candy Apple sat still for exactly three seconds before springing to her feet. “Come on let’s do something."

 

Silverbell blinked. “What?”

 

“Kitchen run. You look like you should learn to cook for Sapphy. At least try to impress the guy. Y’know what I mean?”

 

Before he could answer, she had hooked her arm through his and started dragging him out into the hall. Her pace was brisk and entirely unapologetic.

 

The castle’s corridors were hushed, sunlight pooling in golden patches on the marble floor. When they reached the kitchen wing, the doors swung open on a vast, gleaming space—rows of counters, shelves lined with jars, and a bank of ovens still faintly warm.

 

Oddly, there wasn’t a single Cookie in sight. Candy Apple grinned. “Perfect. No witnesses.”

 

Silverbell glanced around, uncertain. “Why is no one here?”

 

“Don’t know. Don’t care. You,” she said, pointing to him with mock authority, “are going to learn to cook. Right now.”

 

“I… don’t usually—”

 

“Don’t care,” she repeated, already rifling through the cupboards. “We’ll start with something easy. Like not burning water.”

 

Silverbell sighed, but there was the faintest smile tugging at his mouth as she shoved a wooden spoon into his hands. 

 

“Well. Let’s do this!”

---

 

 

The castle gardens were still warm with the light of late afternoon. Cream sheep grazed lazily in the grass, their fleece catching gold in the sun. They lifted their heads as Pure Vanilla approached, ears twitching, and trotted over in unhurried arcs.

 

Black Sapphire followed, watching as the ancient reached into his satchel and pulled out the bundle of candied oats he’d bought at the market. “For them,” Pure Vanilla explained simply, sprinkling the glistening morsels into the grass.

 

The sheep crowded in, munching with slow, deliberate bites.

 

Pure Vanilla’s gaze lingered on them a moment before he spoke again. “They’ve waited all day for this. Simple, isn’t it? A small thing, but it changes their whole afternoon.”

 

Black Sapphire gave a faint hum, unsure where the statement was leading.

 

Pure Vanilla’s hand shifted, resting lightly over his chest—over the glow of his Soul Jam. The pulse beneath his fingers was steady, but different somehow—alive with an emotion that wasn’t wholly his own.

 

Black Sapphire noticed the change in his expression. “What is it?”

 

“It’s… him,” Pure Vanilla murmured. “Shadow Milk. When our Soul Jams call to each other, it isn’t just a pulse. Sometimes… it’s a wish.” His eyes softened. “He’s reaching out, even now. And I can feel what he wants.”

 

“You’d answer that?” Black Sapphire asked, careful to keep the skepticism from sounding like outright disbelief.

 

“Of course,” Pure Vanilla said, as if the answer were self-evident. “No matter what he’s done to me, I will always forgive him. We are bound—not just by the Soul Jams, but by what we once were. By what we could still be.”

 

Black Sapphire didn’t respond right away. The sincerity in Pure Vanilla’s tone didn’t match the image of an enemy most would keep in their minds.

 

Pure Vanilla looked back toward the sheep. “That’s why I brought you here,” he said finally. “Not for answers about the past, not for interrogation. I wanted you—both of you—to have a life better than the one you’ve been surviving. You’ve been living in the shadows, in danger, in rooms where every corner might hold another fight.” He gestured lightly to the garden, the castle beyond. “Here, you can heal without looking over your shoulder.”

 

Black Sapphire’s jaw tightened, not with rejection, but with the uneasy weight of accepting kindness he didn’t think he’d earned. “You think that’s possible?”

 

Pure Vanilla’s smile was faint but certain. “I know it is. Shadow Milk’s wish wasn’t for himself. It was for you to live in comfort, and for Silverbell to recover without fear.” He stepped back from the grazing sheep, his eyes catching the sunlight. “That’s a wish worth honoring.”

 

The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of water from the fountains deeper in the gardens. Black Sapphire glanced toward the castle, the path they’d walked earlier now feeling different—less like a corridor to confinement, more like an invitation he wasn’t sure he could accept. Pure Vanilla’s gaze stayed steady on him, patient, as if he understood that trust wasn’t given in an afternoon. The sheep kept eating, content in their small, unshakable peace.

 

“You’ve spoken to an Ancient before,” Pure Vanilla said quietly, almost reading his thoughts. “This isn’t your first conversation like this, is it?”

 

Black Sapphire hesitated. “No. Second time.”

 

“And how did the first feel?”

 

“Like I was being measured. Weighed for what I could offer—or what I could ruin.” His voice was low, guarded. “The first time… it was with White Lily Cookie. She’s your friend, isn’t she? It was peaceful. She spoke to me about love—what it could be, what it demands. I think that’s when I started to understand what loving Silverbell truly meant.”

 

His gaze flickered briefly, then returned to Pure Vanilla. “This… is different. You’re not asking me for anything.”

 

“I’m asking you to be honest—with yourself most of all.” Pure Vanilla’s tone was calm, but there was weight beneath it. “You carry more than duty and caution in your eyes. There’s love there. Fear, too. Anger, sometimes. And you think hiding them keeps you safe.”

 

Black Sapphire’s mouth tightened. “Feelings complicate things.”

 

“They also save us,” Pure Vanilla countered gently. “Love doesn’t weaken you. Neither does grief. You’ve been surviving on restraint alone, but that isn’t the same as living.”

 

Black Sapphire glanced away toward the sheep, as if their placid chewing might give him an excuse not to answer. “And if I’ve forgotten how?”

 

“Then you relearn. Slowly. With those you trust. Maybe even with those you never expected to trust.” Pure Vanilla’s gaze was warm, unwavering. “It’s not about forcing the door open—it’s about letting light in, one crack at a time.”

 

He let the silence linger for a moment, then asked, “And Silverbell? How are you two, truly?”

 

The question made Black Sapphire’s eyes soften despite himself. “We’re… finding our way. It’s not perfect. I don’t think it ever will be. But it’s ours.”

 

Pure Vanilla smiled faintly. “That’s what matters. Not perfection—presence. If you can keep choosing each other, even on the hard days, then you’re already doing more than most.”

 

Black Sapphire looked down at the grass, feeling the weight of those words settle in a place he didn’t often let anyone touch. “We do choose each other. Every time.”

 

“That,” Pure Vanilla said, glancing at the last of the sheep drifting toward the shade, “is love worth protecting.” He paused, his expression softening further. “If I hadn’t found you both when I did… I would regret it. There are countless fates you could have faced, countless paths where you might not have been together—or even alive. But in this one, you’re still here. Together. And that’s something I won’t take for granted.”

 

Pure Vanilla then stepped closer, his gaze intent but calm. “Put your hand here,” he said, resting his palm over his own Soul Jam.

 

Black Sapphire hesitated, then pressed his hand over Pure Vanilla’s. The glow was warm, the steady pulse suddenly quickening beneath his fingers—like a heartbeat not entirely belonging to the ancient before him.

 

“It’s the same as earlier,” Pure Vanilla said softly. “Shadow Milk is still out there. Still connected. Still feeling.”

 

Black Sapphire’s brow furrowed. “You can tell that much?”

 

“I can feel his emotions as if they were a faint echo of my own. The bond isn’t broken. Whatever path he’s on, it’s not over yet.”

 

Black Sapphire drew his hand back slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Hah… good luck with that. Our master can be quite stubborn.”

 

Pure Vanilla’s smile didn’t fade. “I know. But stubbornness can be a shield—and a chain. If I can reach past it, maybe I can remind him of who he was, and who he could still be.”

 

“That’s not easy,” Black Sapphire replied. “Even for someone like you.”

 

“Which is why it matters,” Pure Vanilla said. “Some battles aren’t won by strength or spells. They’re won by patience, by refusing to give up, even when the other side has. And until that bond between us fades completely… I won’t stop trying.”

 

Black Sapphire studied him for a long moment before giving a quiet hum of acknowledgment. “Then I guess we’ll see whose stubbornness wins in the end.”

 

The air between them settled into a thoughtful silence again, the fountains and the slow shuffle of hooves the only sounds in the garden—until Pure Vanilla’s head lifted slightly. “…Do you smell that?” he asked, turning his head toward the castle.

 

Black Sapphire frowned. “Smell what?”

 

“Something sweet,” Pure Vanilla murmured, his fingers adjusting around the staff in his hand. “It’s faint, but warm—like sugar caramelizing.”

 

Black Sapphire shook his head. “I don’t smell anything.”

 

Pure Vanilla gave a small, knowing smile. “Perhaps it’s just me, then.”

 

With that, he turned toward the castle, his staff tapping lightly against the stone as he walked. Black Sapphire followed at a measured pace, their footsteps echoing softly in the long corridors. The high windows spilled in golden light that stretched across the marble floors, and the scent grew more distinct with each turn. They passed ornate archways, quiet chambers, and tapestries that stirred faintly in the breeze from open doors. The hush of the hallways was broken only by the soft murmur of their steps until they reached the great double doors of the kitchen, where the warm, sugary air seemed to roll out to meet them.

 

Inside, they were met with an unexpected sight—Silverbell, holding a wooden spoon and leaning over a steaming pot, tasting its contents with an expression of careful focus. Beside him, Candy Apple was darting around the counters, trying (and mostly failing) to wipe away the evidence of a very messy cooking session.

 

Pure Vanilla tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I see you’ve… made yourselves at home.”

 

Silverbell swallowed his bite, his eyes brightening. “It’s… actually good. I think I finally made something edible.”

 

Black Sapphire raised an eyebrow. “First time for everything, I guess.”

 

Candy Apple shot him a look. “Hush, love-freak number one. Some of us were busy making sure the entire kitchen didn’t collapse under the weight of his ‘culinary process.’”

 

Pure Vanilla’s smile warmed. “Well, I’m glad to see you both comfortable here. What’s the dish?”

 

Silverbell hesitated, then grinned a little shyly. “Sweet cream stew. Thought it might be nice… it smells like home.”

 

Pure Vanilla nodded approvingly. “Then perhaps we should all try it together. It’s not every day you succeed on your first real attempt.”

 

Candy Apple smirked. “Yeah, because next time the whole castle might need a fire charm.”

 

Silverbell flushed faintly, but the corners of his mouth curled upward all the same. He then held out the wooden spoon toward Black Sapphire. “Want to try?”

 

Black Sapphire eyed it for a moment, then stepped forward and took the spoon. He tasted the stew, the warmth and sweetness blooming on his tongue, and his brows lifted slightly in surprise. “Huh… you’re right. This is good.”

 

Silverbell’s face lit up with quiet pride, and Candy Apple rolled her eyes, muttering something about "miracles in the kitchen." As Pure Vanilla quietly stepped back from the group, he slipped a small folded note into the pocket of Black Sapphire’s cloak. Black Sapphire’s hand brushed against it almost immediately, and when he looked up, the ancient met his gaze with a calm, deliberate nod—a silent signal that the words inside could wait until later.

 

Candy Apple and Silverbell quickly grabbed bowls and filled them with the sweet cream stew, sitting at the counter to eat. They chatted between bites, exchanging small smiles and teasing remarks. As they finished, a glance toward the high windows revealed the sky had deepened into evening’s blue. Candy Apple muttered something about “losing track of time” and hurried off toward her own room. Silverbell lingered behind to wash the bowls, stacking them neatly, before joining Black Sapphire in heading back to their shared room.

 

Once inside, Silverbell shrugged off his coat, revealing a surprisingly toned frame beneath—his biceps catching the soft lamplight, a quiet "deceptively strong build" that might have gone unnoticed by most. He draped the coat over the bedside table, then glanced toward Black Sapphire, who was sitting at the desk with Pure Vanilla’s folded note in hand, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

 

“What’s that?” Silverbell asked curiously.

 

Black Sapphire looked up fully, and for a heartbeat, his eyes lingered on the sight of Silverbell now seated casually on the bed. The blush deepened before he quickly hid the note in his hand. “Nothing,” he muttered, trying not to let his gaze wander back.

 

Silverbell tilted his head, narrowing his eyes just slightly. “Are you hiding something from me?”

 

“No,” Black Sapphire replied quickly, almost too quickly, keeping his tone as even as he could manage. But his averted gaze and the faint pink on his cheeks said more than he intended.

 

Black Sapphire stood, crossing the short space between them, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Without a word, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to Silverbell’s cheek. Silverbell blinked in surprise, then smiled faintly, the warmth of the gesture settling between them.

 

“…What was that for?” Silverbell asked softly.

 

“Just… because,” Black Sapphire said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Because I can.”

 

Silverbell chuckled under his breath, leaning back slightly. “You’re not usually this sweet unless you want something.”

 

“Maybe I just like seeing you happy,” Black Sapphire countered, his eyes holding Silverbell’s a moment longer before glancing away.

 

“Then you’ll have to do that more often,” Silverbell teased, brushing his shoulder lightly against Black Sapphire’s.

 

“Oh, I will do it more often. If that’s what you like,” Black Sapphire murmured with a small, sly smile, leaning just close enough for Silverbell to feel the warmth in his voice.

 

Silverbell’s lips curved upward, his tone playful. “Careful, if you keep that up, I might start expecting it.”

 

“Maybe I want you to expect it,” Black Sapphire replied, his eyes glinting. “That way, I’ll have an excuse to surprise you in other ways.”

 

“Other ways, hm?” Silverbell arched a brow, leaning in so their knees touched. “You’d better be ready to back that up.”

 

Black Sapphire’s smirk softened into something warmer. “Try me."

 

Silverbell didn’t answer with words—instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Black Sapphire’s. The kiss was sudden and soft, catching him completely off guard. Black Sapphire’s wings gave an involuntary flutter at the unexpected contact, the faint rustle breaking the stillness between them.

 

"Ugh. Let’s just sleep," Black Sapphire muttered after a beat, though the faint color in his cheeks betrayed the calm in his voice. Silverbell chuckled softly and agreed, settling down under the covers. Before long, his breathing evened out into the quiet rhythm of sleep.

 

At least, that’s what Silverbell thought. Black Sapphire lay still beside him, eyes wide open in the dim light. After a moment, he carefully shifted, easing himself off the bed without waking Silverbell. Moving silently, he crossed the room and opened the balcony door. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of the gardens. He paused, glancing back at Silverbell’s peaceful face, then stepped outside. With one last look, he spread his wings and lifted off, flying away from the castle into the night. 

 

Silverbell stirred some time later, reaching instinctively for the warmth beside him—only to find the space cold and empty. The realization crept in slowly, like frost spreading across glass, until it struck him fully: Black Sapphire was gone. Again.

 

“Why does he always leave?” Silverbell said bitterly, sitting up and gripping the sheets tight in his hands. “Every time he promises he’ll stay… every time he swears he’ll wait. And yet—when I wake, he’s already gone.” A hollow ache pooled in his chest. “Does he still not trust me? Or does he still not trust himself? Or maybe… maybe he thinks I’m too fragile to handle whatever he carries.”

 

He glanced toward the balcony, the curtains swaying with the cool draft of night air seeping in. The faint smell of the gardens clung to the room. It was proof enough of his absence. Silverbell swung his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his palms to his face. “You little bat,” he muttered under his breath, though the word carried no true malice—just hurt, and a desperate kind of longing.

 

His chest tightened, a mix of sorrow and determination sparking within. “Not this time,” he whispered into the stillness, as if making a vow. Slowly, he closed his eyes and reached out with his senses. He stilled his breathing, letting the quiet magic within him extend outward. And there it was—faint threads of energy glimmering in the air, almost invisible to the untrained, but achingly familiar. Black Sapphire’s essence. It wasn’t scattered carelessly; no, it was purposeful, each trace placed like breadcrumbs along the night.

 

"He left a trail… on purpose."  Silverbell’s eyes narrowed as his hand curled into a fist. "Did he want me to follow? Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Or… is this his way of asking me to come after him?" His thoughts tumbled over themselves, but his resolve only sharpened.

 

"Then he must have known I’d follow," Silverbell told himself, standing now, the determination hardening in his chest like tempered steel.  "And I will. No matter where it leads, no matter what he’s running from, I’ll find him. I won’t let him face it alone."

 

Without another thought, Silverbell pushed open the balcony doors and stepped into the night. The cool air whipped around him as his wings unfurled, catching the moonlight. He launched himself from the railing, following the faint shimmer of Black Sapphire’s magic across the skies. The trail wove through drifting clouds and over the quiet sprawl of the Vanilla Kingdom, like a thread of silver leading him onward.

 

He flew past the castle walls, over lantern-lit streets and slumbering courtyards, his focus fixed on the magical pulse that tugged at his senses. The farther he went, the stronger it became, until the path bent toward the outskirts—toward a place shrouded in pale moonlight.

 

At last, the trail brought him to a secluded garden, its beds overflowing with white lilies swaying gently in the night breeze. Their glow was soft, almost otherworldly, as if the blossoms themselves remembered every secret whispered in their presence. In the center of the garden, Silverbell’s breath caught.

 

Black Sapphire was there—seated calmly, legs crossed atop his staff as it hovered in the air. His silhouette was sharp against the wash of lilies, an untouchable figure framed by silver and shadow.

Silverbell’s breath hitched the moment Black Sapphire turned his head toward him. Their eyes met, and for an instant the whole world seemed to fall away. The soft glow of the lilies, the whisper of the night breeze, even the faint hum of magic in the air—all of it blurred into silence. All that remained was that gaze. It was steady, sharp yet gentle, and it struck Silverbell like lightning. He felt his chest clench as if he had just fallen in love with him all over again.

 

Black Sapphire looked impossibly handsome in that silver light, and at the same time beautiful—otherworldly, as if he belonged both to shadow and moonlight. The lilies seemed to understand, bowing subtly in the breeze, framing him as though the entire garden existed only to make him the center of attention.

 

Slowly, Black Sapphire descended from the air, the staff lowering him with a controlled grace until his boots touched the ground. A flick of his wrist, and the staff shimmered away into nothing. That was when Silverbell’s eyes caught the other hand he had kept hidden until now. Between Black Sapphire’s fingers was a single, perfect lily.

 

Without a word, he stepped closer, the flower catching pale moonlight on its edges. He reached up, brushing back a loose strand of Silverbell’s hair with surprising tenderness, and tucked the bloom neatly behind his ear. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried with a clarity that froze Silverbell where he stood.

 

“A flower,” Black Sapphire murmured, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, “for my favorite flower.”

 

Silverbell’s lips parted, but no words came at first. His heart thundered, hot and disbelieving. He had rushed out here with resolve, with questions, with determination to demand answers. And yet, standing here now, it all unraveled.

 

  I ran just for this? he thought, dazed. Why would he do this? Why go to such lengths—just for me?

 

Finally, he found his voice, though it was shaky. “You… left me behind for this?” His eyes flicked to the lily now resting against his ear, then back to Black Sapphire. “Do you know what you put me through when you disappear like that?”

 

Black Sapphire’s expression softened, though his eyes remained unreadable, carrying the weight of something deeper. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “And I’m sorry for making you worry. But… I wanted this moment to be different. Just us. No one will harm us. Tonight it's all about you and me.”

 

Silverbell shook his head slightly, though his face flushed with warmth at his words. “You’re ridiculous. You could have just—”

 

“Could you have what?” Black Sapphire interrupted gently, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Handed you a flower at the dinner table? Whispered something half-hearted before bed? No. You deserve more than that, Silverbell. You always have.”

 

The words struck him harder than expected, loosening something tight in his chest. Silverbell looked away for a moment, trying to hide the blush spreading across his cheeks. “…You’re not making this easy, you know.”

 

“Good,” Black Sapphire said simply, stepping closer still, until the distance between them was no more than a breath. “Because I don’t want it easy. Not with you.”

 

Silverbell’s breath caught again, but this time, instead of protest, a small laugh slipped out. “You’re impossible.”

 

“And yet,” Black Sapphire whispered, his eyes flicking toward the lily at Silverbell’s ear, “you’re still here with pretty old me.”

 

Silverbell exhaled, finally meeting his gaze again, and for once he didn’t try to fight the warmth in his chest. “Of course I am,” he said softly. “Where else would I be?”

 

They stood there in silence for a few moments, the night air weaving around them, carrying the fragrance of the lilies. Silverbell could feel his heart steadying, every beat aligning with the presence before him. His fingers twitched slightly, the urge to reach out almost overwhelming, but he hesitated, afraid that breaking the moment would shatter the fragile magic between them.

 

Black Sapphire noticed, of course. He always did. “You can touch me, you know,” he said quietly, almost teasing but with a gentleness underneath. “I won’t vanish, I assure you that.”

 

That pulled a startled laugh from Silverbell. “Wouldn’t be the first time you did,” he retorted, though his voice cracked under the weight of both truth and jest. Still, he lifted a hand and rested it against Black Sapphire’s arm, feeling the solid strength beneath the dark fabric. It grounded him, reminded him this wasn’t a dream spun by moonlight.

 

Black Sapphire’s hand came up to cover his, fingers warm against his skin. “I leave because I’m afraid,” he admitted softly. “Afraid that I’ll drag you down with me. Afraid that the past will catch up and ruin what little peace you’ve found. But every time I run… you still follow. And every time you do, I realize I don’t want to be anywhere you aren’t.”

 

Silverbell’s throat tightened, and for a long moment he couldn’t speak. The honesty in those words broke through him more than any grand gesture. He finally whispered, “Then stop running. Just… stay.”

 

The corners of Black Sapphire’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but something close. “I’ll try,” he said simply, and at that moment, Silverbell believed him.

 

Black Sapphire then tilted his head slightly, and smiled warmly. His tone lightened, almost playful, though the emotion behind it was heavy with sincerity. “Well then, my knight… care for a dance? Just for tonight.”

 

Silverbell blinked, caught off guard by the sudden invitation, but then his expression softened. A rare warmth touched his features. “If that’s what you want,” he said, his voice low, steady, “then I will. My Sapphire.”

 

The words seemed to linger between them like the music of an unseen orchestra. Silverbell extended his hand, and Black Sapphire took it with deliberate care. They began to move slowly, step by step, across the lily-strewn grass. There was no music save for the rhythm of their breathing and the rustle of petals beneath their feet, but somehow that was enough.

 

Silverbell rested his free hand lightly on Black Sapphire’s shoulder. “You’re surprisingly good at this,” he teased softly.

 

Black Sapphire smirked faintly. “You've might have forgotten but I had to blend in at court dances before. Pretending to be someone else teaches you a lot of strange skills.”

 

“Pretending,” Silverbell echoed, his gaze steady. “And is this… pretending?”

 

“No,” Black Sapphire replied without hesitation. His grip on Silverbell’s hand tightened just slightly. “This is real. This is the only thing that’s real. Us.”

 

The air between them thickened, charged with more than just magic. Their steps slowed, almost stilled, as Silverbell leaned closer. “Then why out here? Why now? You could have done this anywhere.”

 

Black Sapphire exhaled, a faint sigh carrying through the cool night. “Because… of him. Pure Vanilla Cookie.”

 

Silverbell tilted his head, brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

 

Black Sapphire paused, then glanced toward the lily fields surrounding them. “He left me a note earlier, slipped it into my cloak when no one was looking. At first I thought it was some lesson, or another reminder that I need. But when I touched it, I realized it was written in braille. His message was simple: ‘You two need a break from everything. I know a garden that eased my mind whenever I needed time.’ ”

 

Silverbell blinked, the words settling into him like puzzle pieces snapping into place. “So this… was all planned?”

 

A faint blush touched Black Sapphire’s face as he looked away. “Hmm…I wouldn’t say planned. More like… guided. He gave me the idea, but the rest was me. I thought… Maybe if I brought you here, if I gave you something beautiful, it would make up for the times I’ve disappeared. For the hurt I’ve caused.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes softened, his heart twisting at the vulnerability in those words. “You don’t have to make up for anything with flowers and gardens, Sapphire. I just want you. I just want you to stay.”

 

“I know,” Black Sapphire whispered, his voice thick. “But I needed to show you, even just once, how much you mean to me. That I can choose you, I can choose myself, not my fear.”

 

Their dance slowed until they were no longer moving, simply standing together among the lilies, holding on to each other as though the world outside didn’t exist. Silverbell brushed his forehead lightly against Black Sapphire’s, his voice low. “Then let this be the start. Let it be just us.”

 

Black Sapphire closed his eyes, his hands tightening around Silverbell’s as though anchoring himself to that promise. “Just us,” he echoed, and in the stillness of the lily garden, the vow felt unbreakable.

 

The stillness broke when Silverbell shifted, guiding Black Sapphire gently back into motion. Their feet found the rhythm again, slow and steady, swaying in a circle as if the lilies themselves were keeping time.

 

The night air wrapped around them, cool and fragrant, carrying the faint perfume of blossoms. Black Sapphire’s smile softened as he leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re leading now.”

 

Silverbell gave the faintest shrug, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile. “Someone has to. You keep getting distracted.”

 

A quiet laugh slipped from Black Sapphire, breathy but genuine. “Only because you refuse to be ignored.”

 

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their footsteps brushing against the grass. The stars above scattered their light across the garden, and the two of them seemed to move within it like a constellation given form—something timeless, fragile, and untouchable.

 

Silverbell’s gaze lingered on him, steady and unflinching. “You always run toward danger, Sapphire. Toward everyone else’s battles. But here… right now… you’re safe with me.” His hand pressed a little firmer against Sapphire’s shoulder, grounding him.

 

Black Sapphire’s throat tightened, but he didn’t look away. “And I’ll keep being yours. Every time. Even if I stumble.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes softened as he shifted slightly in Sapphire’s hold. His voice carried a touch of nostalgia. “This takes me back to the night where we first danced under the moonlight. The moon was watching our every step.”

 

Black Sapphire’s lips curved faintly, memories flickering in his gaze. He then lets out a soft chuckle. “I remember. We were supposed to watch the stars fall that night, but I couldn’t resist asking you to dance. And somehow… with each step, we lifted higher, until it was just us in the sky.”

 

Silverbell’s mouth quirked, his tone low but fond. “And that was the night you kissed me.”

 

Sapphire’s hand brushed gently against his. “My first, and the one that still steals my breath.”

 

They turned slowly, the lilies bowing around them with each brush of their steps. Their movements were practiced now, smoother than before—a rhythm they had built together through every stolen moment. What had once been tentative was now easy, familiar, the kind of grace that came not from court lessons but from knowing each other’s steps by heart.

 

Silverbell’s lips quirked faintly. “Clumsy,” he teased, though the word held more affection than reproach.

 

Sapphire smirked back. “Oh shut up. We've improved already.”

 

“Mhm. I’d say we have,” Silverbell said, simple and certain.

 

The words landed like a vow, heavier than the silence that followed. Their movements slowed again, but this time, neither of them stopped. They kept swaying, even when the steps no longer resembled a dance at all, their bodies close enough that the warmth between them outshone the cool night air.

 

Black Sapphire tilted his head, resting it against Silverbell’s. “Just us,” he breathed again, but softer now—less a declaration, more a prayer.

 

Silverbell tightened his hold, his voice low and resolute. “Just us. Always.”

 

And with the lilies at their feet and the stars above, their dance carried on—not for show, not for anyone else, but simply because neither wanted to let go.

 

Silverbell’s eyes glinted with something rare—mischief. He shifted his weight, the rhythm of their swaying slowing to a deliberate halt.

 

Black Sapphire looked up at him, puzzled. “What is it?”

 

Instead of answering, Silverbell slid his arm beneath Sapphire’s knees and, with practiced ease, lifted him off the ground in a clean sweep. Black Sapphire gasped, his hands instinctively clutching at Silverbell’s shoulders.

 

“Silverbell—!”

 

But before protest could form, the night split open with a rush of wind. Silverbell’s wings unfurled in a single beat, carrying them both skyward. The garden fell away below, a blur of lilies and shadow, replaced by endless sky scattered with stars.

 

Black Sapphire’s startled gasp broke into laughter, bright and unrestrained. “You’re out of your mind!”

 

Silverbell’s mouth curved into a grin—an expression so rare it nearly stole Sapphire’s breath again. “Maybe. But you’re not getting away now.”

 

They spun upward, a twirl that pulled the world into dizzying motion. The cool air whipped around them, sharp and exhilarating, carrying their laughter higher and higher. The stars no longer looked distant—they were whirling among them, their bodies turning in wide arcs, a dance far beyond the reach of earth.

 

Black Sapphire tipped his head back, the sky rushing past in streaks of silver and violet. “This—this is ridiculous!”

 

“Better than clumsy steps on the ground?” Silverbell shot back, his voice light for once, teasing.

 

Sapphire’s smile softened, the wind catching in his hair as he tightened his arms around Silverbell’s neck. “Much better.” Once again, his wings fluttered. Silverbell already got used to it, he still finds it cute that it also reacts on how is he feeling at the moment.

 

Their spinning slowed until they hovered, suspended in the cool night sky, the whole world sprawled beneath them in shadow and light. Sapphire’s laughter melted into quiet wonder, his gaze locked on Silverbell’s rare, unguarded expression.

 

“You always catch me off guard,” he whispered.

 

Silverbell steadied his hold, wings beating strong against the wind. “Only for you.”

 

The night air rushed past them, cool and wild, carrying their laughter into the stars. But as their spinning slowed, Black Sapphire’s joy shifted into something quieter, deeper. His hand lifted, fingers brushing against Silverbell’s cheek with a touch so careful it almost trembled.

 

Silverbell’s wings steadied, his gaze locking onto Sapphire’s. The rare smile he wore softened into something vulnerable, unguarded, as if the world itself had fallen away beneath them.

 

For a heartbeat, the sky seemed to hold its breath. Then Silverbell closed the space between them, pulling Sapphire closer. Their lips met in a kiss that carried the weight of everything left unsaid—steady, deliberate, and true.

 

Sapphire’s fingers lingered at his cheek, as though to make sure the moment wouldn’t slip away, while Silverbell’s arms held him firm, protective yet gentle, as if he were cradling something beyond measure.

 

The wind swept around them, wings keeping their orbit steady, but neither paid it any mind. The only thing that mattered was the warmth they had found in each other.

 

When they finally parted, breath mingling in the cool air, Black Sapphire let out a soft, incredulous laugh, his forehead resting against Silverbell’s. “You never fail to amaze me.”

 

Silverbell’s lips curved faintly, his voice low but certain. “I won’t let you go, Sapphire.”

 

And with the stars as their only witness, he kissed him again, the sky spinning slowly around them as though even the heavens had joined in their dance. Then Silverbell descended, his wings folding as he touched down gently. He set Sapphire on his feet with care, but Sapphire didn’t let go—he wrapped his arms tightly around Silverbell, a hold that carried both gratitude and apology all at once. Silverbell held him in return, his hand sliding gently through Sapphire’s hair in a quiet caress. After a moment, he murmured, “We should head back to the castle.”

 

Before Sapphire could answer, streaks of light cut across the heavens—shooting stars scattering the night. He lifted his head quickly, pointing upward. “Bell, look!” 

 

They both tilted their gazes skyward, the brilliance reflected in their eyes.

 

“Make a wish?” Silverbell asked softly.

 

Black Sapphire nodded. “Yeah. I wouldn’t want to miss another chance.”

 

They closed their eyes, side by side, whispering their wishes into the night. When they opened them again, the sky was still alive with falling stars, and the silence between them felt like an oath they had spoken in unison.

---

"Despite the shadow he once was. I wish nothing but his happiness, for his freedom."

 

"To never lose this. To never lose them. To never lose him, no matter what the world demands, no matter how many battles try to tear us apart."

---

 

 

Time passed, and the quiet of the night carried them back to the castle. In a guest room prepared just for them, they lay together on the wide bed, wings curled around each other in a cocoon of warmth. The comfort of it was grounding, steady, as though nothing could intrude on the peace they had built.

 

Morning light eventually spilled through the tall windows, painting the room in pale gold. The two stirred, still entwined beneath the blankets, wings draped lazily over one another. Sapphire blinked against the glow and murmured with a soft smile, “We made it to morning.”

 

Silverbell woke to the sight of Sapphire pulling him closer. He arched a brow, voice rough but warm. “That’s one way to greet me.”

 

“Mmmh. Just… stay,” Sapphire mumbled, tightening his hold.

 

Silverbell’s smile softened. “You know I will.”

 

“I just miss you,” Sapphire admitted, his voice muffled against Silverbell’s shoulder.

 

A quiet chuckle rumbled in Silverbell’s chest. “Black Sapphire Cookie. We literally just danced yesterday evening.”

 

“That wasn’t enough. I want to make it up to you…”

 

“You’re doing just fine, Sapph.” Silverbell’s hand slid up to caress his hair, slow and soothing.

 

“You always make things so believable.”

 

“That’s because I mean them.” His eyes softened as he spoke.

 

Sapphire buried his face deeper against him, quiet but certain. “Then don’t let go.”

 

“I won’t.” Silverbell’s wings folded tighter around him, sealing it like a vow

 

After a long stretch of quiet, filled only by the rhythm of their breathing, Black Sapphire stirred against Silverbell’s chest. He tightened his hold ever so slightly, his words muffled against warm skin. “I could cook for us.”

 

Silverbell opened one eye, amused. “Again? You’ve cooked for me so many times already.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I’ll stop,” Sapphire replied easily, though there was something gentle in the way he said it—like it was more than habit, more than duty. “Besides… it’s one of the few ways I know I can take care of you.”

 

That softened Silverbell’s gaze. He tilted his head, brushing his fingers along Sapphire’s hair. “I don’t need you to prove anything.”

 

“I know.” Sapphire’s smile was faint but real. “But I want to.”

 

A beat of silence stretched between them, comfortable and full. Then Silverbell spoke again, his tone shifting into challenge. “Fine. But this time, I’m helping.”

 

Sapphire blinked at him, then chuckled. “You? After your… less than stellar attempts?”

 

Silverbell narrowed his eyes, though his lips quirked. “Yesterday was a good attempt.”

 

Sapphire leaned up just enough to smirk at him. “One miracle doesn’t mean you’re a chef.”

 

“Watch me,” Silverbell said simply, already beginning to push the blankets aside.

 

Sapphire laughed softly, unable to resist following. “Alright then. Let’s cook.”

 

The kitchen was bathed in morning light, sunlight spilling across smooth counters and shelves lined with glass jars of herbs, flours, and sugars. The air was still, save for the faint hum of birdsong outside.

 

Sapphire moved easily in the space, setting out bowls, pans, and utensils with the fluidity of practice. Silverbell followed close behind, gaze lingering on every movement, as though committing each step to memory.

 

Sapphire glanced over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. “So, what do you want me to make?”

 

Silverbell paused, thoughtful. His voice softened as he spoke. “Tulip crepes. They were Mercurial Knight’s favorite. Elder Faerie used to make them once a year, sprinkled with wildflower sugar and filled with frost tulip petals from the glades. Thin, delicate, almost weightless… like eating sunlight wrapped in spring.”

 

Sapphire’s expression gentled, eyes glinting with understanding. “You want to share them with him.”

 

“Yes.” Silverbell’s tone carried quiet certainty. “He’s like a brother to me. If I can bring even a little of that memory back to him… then it’s worth it.”

 

Sapphire studied him for a moment, warmth threading through his gaze. “Then tulip crepes it is. We’ll make enough for all of us.”

 

Silverbell’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “We? You’re not leaving me out this time.”

 

“After last time?” Sapphire teased, already setting flour on the counter. “I wasn’t sure you’d dare again.”

 

Silverbell crossed his arms. “I learn fast.”

 

They began preparing Tulip Crepes.

 

Silverbell insisted on whisking the batter, his shoulders stiff with focus. He poured too much flour at once, sending a puff of white dust into the air. Sapphire tried—unsuccessfully—to stifle his laugh.

 

“You’re supposed to keep the flour in the bowl, Bell.”

 

Silverbell shot him a look that could cut steel. “Do you want help or not?”

 

Sapphire stepped closer, slipping behind him, his chest brushing Silverbell’s back as he gently wrapped his hand around the whisk. “Gentle,” he murmured near his ear. “Like coaxing petals open, not fighting them.”

 

Silverbell stilled. The warmth of Sapphire’s hand guiding his own was distracting, but he adjusted. Their wrists moved together, slow and steady, and the batter began to smooth beneath their motion.

 

“Better,” Sapphire said softly, his voice low enough to stir the hair at Silverbell’s nape.

 

Silverbell cleared his throat, determined to ignore the flutter it caused. “Of course it’s better. I was getting there.”

 

“Mm,” Sapphire hummed, clearly amused. “Sure you were.”

 

The next step came with folding in the tulip petals. Silverbell picked one up carefully, trying to lay it into the mixture, only for it to tear halfway. Sapphire’s laugh slipped out before he could stop it.

 

“They’re fragile,” he teased, plucking one himself and placing it neatly on top. “You’re treating them like enemies.”

 

Silverbell’s ears reddened. “You’re insufferable.”

 

“And you’re stubborn,” Sapphire countered, brushing a thumb along Silverbell’s cheek before either could think better of it.

 

The soft touch left a faint streak of flour across Silverbell’s skin. Sapphire grinned at the mark, smug.

 

Silverbell blinked, deadpan. “…Did you just—”

 

“Flour suits you,” Sapphire said with mock seriousness, leaning in as though to admire his handiwork. “Very distinguished.”

 

Without missing a beat, Silverbell reached for the bag of flour and tapped his lover on the nose, leaving him dusted white. “Now we match.”

 

Sapphire’s laugh rang bright and genuine. He leaned forward impulsively, brushing a quick kiss against Silverbell’s flour-dusted cheek. “Unfair. You make even this look good.”

 

Silverbell tried to mask the way his lips curved, turning back to the counter. “Focus. The batter’s ready.”

 

They carried on, side by side. Sapphire poured the first thin sheet of batter onto the pan, tilting it with practiced ease. Silverbell watched intently, trying to mimic his movements when his turn came. His attempt was slightly uneven, edges lopsided, but Sapphire only hummed thoughtfully and said, “Not bad. For a first crepe.”

 

Silverbell shot him a look, then carefully flipped it. The golden, delicate crepe slid onto the plate. Pride flickered in his chest.

 

Sapphire broke off a piece, tasted it, then offered the rest to him. “Here.”

 

Silverbell took it carefully, chewing in silence. His expression softened, voice quiet. “It’s good.”

 

“Because we made it together,” Sapphire murmured, brushing his fingers briefly over Silverbell’s hand.

 

They shared a long look before turning back to the pan, continuing in rhythm—pouring, folding, layering, dusting each crepe with sugar until the stack rose high.

 

Silverbell set aside a portion, covering it with a cloth. “For Mercurial Knight.”

 

Sapphire nodded, gaze warm. “He’ll taste the care you put into it.”

 

Silverbell’s lips quirked faintly. “And the patience you had teaching me.”

 

Sapphire smirked. “Patience you tested more than once.”

 

Silverbell only rolled his eyes, reaching for another crepe. But this time, when their fingers brushed, he didn’t pull away.

 

They sat together at the small wooden table, the morning light spilling across their plates like honey over polished wood. The air smelled of sugar and tulips, faintly floral and warm, wrapping around them with the quiet intimacy of a secret only the two shared. Sapphire slid the first crepe onto Silverbell’s plate, dusted perfectly with powdered sugar and a curl of petal tucked into the fold with deliberate care.

 

“Go on,” Sapphire prompted with a grin, watching him with expectant eyes.

 

Silverbell raised a brow, suspicious. “You’re not planning to poison me, are you?”

 

Sapphire snorted, feigning offense. “If I wanted to, I wouldn’t waste good tulip petals on it.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Silverbell picked up a fork. But before he could, Sapphire leaned across the table, slicing off a bite himself and holding it up with deliberate mischief. “Say ‘ah.’”

 

Silverbell stared flatly, his wings twitching once in faint irritation. “…You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Come on, be a good little fae and do it.” Sapphire’s eyes gleamed, daring him, his tone half-teasing, half-pleading.

 

For a long moment, Silverbell didn’t move, the silence stretching taut between them. Then, with the faintest huff, he leaned forward and took the bite. His lips brushed the fork, and his expression shifted—softened—as the delicate sweetness melted on his tongue, tulip petals brushing faintly against sugar. “Not bad,” he admitted, voice low, almost grudging.

 

Sapphire’s smirk gentled, his teasing faltering at the honesty in that tone. “Not bad? That’s all I get?”

 

Silverbell’s gaze lingered on him, unflinching, steady as always. “…It’s perfect.”

 

The words landed with the weight of a confession, heavier than they seemed, and Sapphire’s breath caught at the rare softness in his voice. He reached across the table, brushing a stray bit of sugar from Silverbell’s jaw with his thumb. The touch lingered, neither hurried nor hesitant.

 

For a few heartbeats, the world seemed narrowed down to just them—the warmth of shared food, laughter still hanging in the air like an aftertaste, their wings brushing together in subtle touches of closeness. The kitchen, bright and ordinary, became sacred in its simplicity.

And then—

 

“No wonder I felt like breakfast is extra sweet today…”

 

The voice chimed from the doorway.

 

Both of them turned, startled, as Candy Apple Cookie strolled into the kitchen with a sly smile, eyes glinting with mischief like polished glass catching the sun.

 

Sapphire froze mid-motion, the fork still in his hand. Silverbell blinked, caught with a dusting of sugar still clinging to the corner of his mouth. His ears warmed, though his expression stayed stoic.

 

Candy Apple Cookie leaned lazily against the doorframe, smirk widening by the second. “Now I see why.”

 

Sapphire coughed, ears reddening further as he quickly set the fork down. “You could at least knock.”

 

“I don’t need to knock. Plus when did I ever knock?” Candy Apple replied cheerfully, helping himself to a plate without asking. “Not when the sweetness in here is enough to drag me out of bed.”

 

Silverbell exhaled through his nose, half exasperated, half resigned, though his hand slid beneath the table to brush against Sapphire’s in quiet reassurance, their fingers curling together out of sight.

 

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice low but firm. “But if you’re eating with us, you’re helping with cleanup.”

 

Candy Apple grinned, already biting into a crepe with an audible hum of satisfaction. “Fine.”

 

Sapphire shook his head, fighting a laugh at the sight of him. “You never change.”

 

“And you two are obvious,” Candy Apple said with a wink, powdered sugar clinging to the corner of his smile.

 

“Obvious enough to make the crepes taste better?” Sapphire asked dryly, though his lips curved in amusement.

 

Candy Apple smirked, licking sugar from his fingers with exaggerated relish. “Please. Love’s the real ingredient in this recipe.”

 

Silverbell groaned softly, dragging a hand over his face, though the faint redness at his ears betrayed him. Sapphire stifled a laugh behind his hand, the sound slipping through anyway. Candy Apple only looked all the more pleased with himself, already reaching for a second helping, as though he had every intention of staying until the plate was bare.

 

The three of them lingered over the meal. Sapphire and Silverbell tried to ignore Candy Apple’s constant grin as he chattered between mouthfuls. He filled the air with tales of his late-night wanderings in the castle, each story more dramatic than the last, earning the occasional dry remark from Silverbell that only encouraged him to exaggerate further.

 

At one point, Candy Apple leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, I actually had the best sleep I’ve had in ages. Not a single sound from your room last night. It was blissfully quiet.”

 

Sapphire nearly choked on his bite, coughing as Silverbell raised a brow. “Quiet?” Silverbell asked flatly.

 

Candy Apple grinned wickedly. “Exactly. Usually there’s… something.  Floorboards creaking, footsteps, chatting, Sapphy flirting. But last night? Nothing.”

 

Sapphire’s ears flushed red. “That’s because we weren’t in our room.”

 

“Oh?” Candy Apple blinked, then smirked. “Do tell.”

 

Silverbell’s tone was even, though there was the faintest tug of a smile at his lips. “We were in the garden.”

 

“Dancing,” Sapphire admitted, softer this time, though his eyes held Silverbell’s with quiet certainty. “And watching the stars fall.”

 

Candy Apple blinked, momentarily disarmed, then let out a low whistle. “No wonder. That explains why breakfast tastes like starlight today.”

 

Silverbell rolled his eyes faintly, though his fingers tightened around Sapphire’s under the table. “Eat your damn crepe.”

 

“Gladly,” Candy Apple said cheerfully, biting into another. “But don’t think I’ll stop teasing you two for being disgustingly romantic.”

 

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Sapphire muttered with a chuckle.

 

By the time the last plate was scraped clean, only crumbs and powdered sugar remained. Candy Apple stretched with satisfaction, already angling toward the door as though he had no intention of keeping his promise to help with dishes.

 

“You’re staying,” Silverbell said firmly.

 

Candy Apple froze mid-step, then laughed nervously. “Right, right. Of course. Best not to test you before noon.”

 

Sapphire hid his smile behind his hand, eyes glinting with affection. The morning sunlight lingered in the kitchen, bright and gentle, as though sealing the memory into its walls.

 

They had saved one tulip crepe, carefully wrapped in paper and twine, a small bundle meant for Mercurial Knight. Silverbell tucked it aside with deliberate care. Sapphire leaned closer, his voice low. “If you want to write him a note, there’s parchment in my satchel. It might mean more with your words.” Silverbell nodded and slipped out to fetch it, leaving the kitchen briefly.

 

Candy Apple lingered behind, watching him go before turning to Sapphire, her tone shifting just slightly, curiosity edging past her usual mischief. “Do you think… our master will ever come back?” she asked quietly, almost cautious—the name unspoken but heavy in the air: Shadow Milk Cookie.

 

"He always does. Remember?" Sapphire replied firmly.

 

"But—" Candy Apple began.

 

"But right now I'll be the one taking care of you, like before." he said with warmth in his voice while ruffling her hair.

 

"Ugh. I still don't believe that!" she huffed.

 

"Oh but that's facts."

 

Her eyes narrowed. "Since when did you state facts?!"

 

"Since Silverbell." Sapphire shot back with a smirk.

 

"Simp." Candy Apple muttered.

 

"You are just lonely. Boo hoo," Sapphire teased, making her scoff but glance away, unwilling to let him see her small, reluctant smile.

 

Black Sapphire finished fixing the kitchen, after all it wasn't theirs to begin with so he took care of the things there. Candy Apple was also making her way back to her room, humming under her breath.

 

When Sapphire returned to their room, the quiet was soothing. Silverbell sat at the desk by the window, quill in hand, the faint scratching of ink against parchment filling the stillness. The morning sun streamed in, glinting off the edge of the paper. He was writing a letter—careful, deliberate words addressed to Mercurial Knight, to Sugarfly, and to White Lily. A small stack of folded souvenirs lay neatly wrapped beside him, bound in soft paper and twine. They were ready to be sent back to the Faerie Kingdom, each bundle holding not only tokens, but memory.

 

Silverbell paused, glancing at the neat pile with a trace of thoughtfulness before turning to Sapphire. “The package is nearly ready. Only one thing left.” His voice softened, the request clear in his tone. “Will you use your magic to send it home?”

 

Sapphire leaned against the doorframe, watching him. The sight of Silverbell so focused, so earnest, tugged something tender in his chest. He nodded slowly, a small smile curving his lips. “Of course. Just say when.”

 

Silverbell set his quill down, the letter nearly complete. He rested his hands briefly over the parchment as though sealing his thoughts into it, then looked back up at him. “Thank you.”

 

Sapphire crossed the room, brushing his hand lightly over Silverbell’s shoulder as he passed, then glanced down at the souvenirs. “They’ll reach them safely. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

Silverbell allowed himself the faintest smile, quiet but sincere. “I know.”

 

Silverbell finished the final lines of the letter and set the quill down. He placed each folded note atop its gift: a carefully wrapped tulip crepe for Mercurial Knight, pressed flowers bound in ribbon for Sugarfly, and a vial of dew from the glades for White Lily. His hands lingered over them briefly before he stepped back. “They’re ready.”

 

Sapphire came forward, raising his hand above the packages. His palm glimmered with pale blue light as he closed his eyes. The air shifted, a faint hum filling the room. Threads of magic wove themselves in the air, curling like silver ribbons around each bundle.

 

“One for Mercurial Knight,” Sapphire murmured, and the tulip crepe bundle lifted into the air, glowing gently before vanishing in a shimmer of starlight.

 

“One for Sugarfly.” The pressed flowers glowed softly, as though kissed by morning sun, before disappearing in a quiet pulse of light.

 

“And one for White Lily.” The vial rose gracefully, the glass catching a final flash of radiance before it too dissolved into nothingness, carried across the veil.

 

Silverbell watched silently, his chest tightening with a strange mix of relief and longing. Each package gone, each piece of memory sent home.

 

When the last spark faded, Sapphire lowered his hand and turned to him. “It’s done. They’ll reach them safely.”

 

Silverbell exhaled, the tension leaving him in a soft sigh. His voice was low, but steady. “Thank you.”

 

Sapphire reached out, brushing his fingers lightly along Silverbell’s arm. “You’ve given them a piece of yourself. That’s worth more than any gift.”

 

Silverbell glanced away, lips twitching faintly as though embarrassed by the weight of the words. “Maybe so. Still… I hope they’ll feel it.”

 

“They will,” Sapphire promised gently. “Because it’s you.”

 

The room fell quiet again, but it was the kind of silence that carried warmth rather than absence. The kind that meant something had been set right.

 

The glow of magic faded into nothing, leaving the room quiet and still. Silverbell sat at the desk a moment longer, his hand lingering over the empty space where the parcels had been. His expression was carefully neutral, but Sapphire could see the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled faintly as if resisting the urge to reach out again.

 

Sapphire leaned lazily against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching him with a faint smile. “You looked almost reluctant to let those go,” he said. “Should I be jealous?”

 

Silverbell shot him a sidelong glance. “Hardly. They were letters. For the ones I consider family.”

 

“Letters with your handwriting, your pressed flowers, your words,” Sapphire countered smoothly. “That’s practically treasure.”

 

"Please, we were sending each other letters back then." Silverbell scoffed, though his ears tinged faintly pink. “Plus, you exaggerate.”

 

“Do I?” Sapphire tilted his head. “What did you write?”

 

Silverbell’s gaze flicked to him, guarded. “Do you truly wish to know?”

 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” Sapphire said simply, his tone gentle but unwavering.

 

There was a pause, long enough that Sapphire thought Silverbell might deflect. But at last, Silverbell sighed, folding his hands on the desk. “For Mercurial Knight… I reminded him of the crepes. How they were his favorite, how Elder Faerie always made them once a year. I told him I hadn’t forgotten. That perhaps memories of sweetness can still reach him, wherever he is.”

 

Sapphire’s expression softened, his chest tightening at the unspoken care threaded through those words. “He’ll hold onto that. You gave him something to taste home again.”

 

Silverbell lowered his eyes briefly, then continued, more quietly, “For Sugarfly… I sent pressed flowers. Ones we gathered last night from the garden. I told her they reminded me of her wings. I wrote that I hope they reach her before they fade… so she’ll see there is still beauty here.”

 

Sapphire’s smile deepened, warm and sincere. “She’ll see it. And she’ll know it came from you.”

 

Silverbell hesitated, then exhaled. “And White Lily… I said little. Only that I wish her well, and that I hope she finds clarity where she wanders. The vial of dew… it’s a reminder of beginnings. She was always… fascinated by them.”

 

The words hung in the air, fragile and weighted all at once.

 

Sapphire let the silence breathe before reaching out, covering Silverbell’s folded hands with his own. His thumb brushed gently across his knuckles. “You don’t give lightly. That’s why it matters.”

 

Silverbell’s lips twitched, almost a smile but held back. “You make it sound more than it is.”

 

“It is more,” Sapphire said firmly. “You gave them pieces of yourself. That’s rarer than magic.”

 

A faint flush brushed Silverbell’s cheeks, and he turned his head slightly away. “…You ask too much of me.”

 

Sapphire smirked, leaning in just a little. “Only because I know you’ll answer.”

 

Silverbell’s eyes narrowed, though his voice was quieter now. “You’re insufferable.”

 

“And yet you keep me,” Sapphire replied smoothly, tilting his head with mock pride.

 

Silverbell finally let the smallest smile slip, shaking his head. “Fool.”

 

“Yours,” Sapphire said without missing a beat.

 

Silverbell blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden, unguarded honesty. His lips parted, then closed again as though he didn’t trust the words threatening to rise. After a beat, he looked away, voice low. “…You should wash up. There’s still flour on your cheek.”

 

Sapphire grinned, leaning closer instead of pulling away. “Will you wipe it off for me?”

 

Silverbell exhaled slowly, as though regretting every choice he had ever made that led him here. Still, his hand lifted, brushing lightly across Sapphire’s cheek to dust the flour away. His fingers lingered a moment too long.

 

“Better?” he murmured.

 

Sapphire’s eyes softened, catching his hand before he could withdraw. He pressed a brief kiss to Silverbell’s fingertips. “Much.”

 

Silverbell froze, ears reddening furiously, though his composure didn’t falter. “…Hopeless,” he muttered.

 

Sapphire only smiled wider, clearly satisfied—satisfied with the life he had, and with the cookies who remained by his side. Back then, he had been so tense, so guarded, as if letting anyone close would unravel him.

 

Love was a word he once thought unreachable, too heavy to grasp. With Shadow Milk, he had first tasted it in its most complicated form—a bond forged out of survival, loyalty, and fear, yet threaded through with an unspoken care. With Candy Apple, it was chaotic but bright, the kind of love that made him protective despite himself, reminding him that even in a place like the Spire, family could be chosen and kept.

 

And then there was Silverbell. With him, love was steady. Gentle. A patient hand that asked nothing but truth. It was warmth in the night, laughter in quiet corners, wings wrapped around him like a vow. Through Silverbell, he learned that love did not always demand or wound—it could also heal, and stay.

 

Love, he realized, was not one shape or one sound. It was fractured and difficult, fierce and tender, a thousand things at once. It was Shadow Milk’s hand reaching out when the world was cold. It was Candy Apple’s grin in the face of ruin. It was Silverbell’s promise never to let go.

 

And for the first time, Black Sapphire no longer feared the word. He carried it. He lived it. He returned it.

 

Silverbell tilted his head slightly, concern softening his voice. “…Are you alright, Sapphire? You’ve been staring at me for a while.”

 

Sapphire’s smile deepened. “I love you, Silverbell Cookie. I really do.”

 

For a moment, Silverbell just looked at him, eyes wide—then his expression melted, warm and certain. “I’ve known that for the last months, but I love you too, Black Sapphire Cookie. Always.”

 

And in that quiet exchange, Black Sapphire knew. The boy who once stood in the ruins with nothing had finally found everything worth keeping. What had begun in cold silence, in shadows and survival, had led him here—to warmth, to family, to love in all its complicated forms. He no longer needed to run, or to hide behind masks and lies. He was no longer alone. He wasn't surviving anymore, he is living. Living a life that he thought he would never have. He can finally smile without feeling the heavy guilt about his own duties. 

 

He finally felt freedom. Free from everything.

 

---

 

At the Spire of Deceit, the silence was broken only by the sound of ragged breathing.

 

Shadow Milk staggered through the chamber, his cloak torn, his body dripping with dark jam. His right hand clutched his staff for balance, while his left pressed tightly against his chest, over the faint glow of his Soul Jam. It pulsed beneath his palm—slow, uneven, but still there. The battle with the Ancients was over. They had struck hard, harder than before, and for a moment he had thought the silver roots would claim him again. But his Soul Jam remained. His body endured.

 

He bowed his head, his breath shuddering as his grip tightened. “…I promised them,” he muttered to the empty hall. “Candy Apple. Black Sapphire. I said I would return.”

 

The Spire loomed around him, watching in silence. The Soul Jam throbbed once more under his hand, its light weak but steady, as if echoing his resolve. No matter how broken he felt, no matter how heavy the battles became—he would not let that promise crumble. He would return to them.

 

He had to.

Notes:

Will it surprise yall that English is not my first language- it was Tagalog but I am bad at it, and English is just something.

So if you guys notice some mistakes please point it out TT

I gave y'all a lot of good scenes here and I really tried my best writing my ideas out for this last chapter. I was giggling and kicking air while writing them. Y'all don't know how my I missed blackbell, my shaylasssss

I am happy that people like my work, I am really working on my improvement with writing (for example using words that are completely out of my own vocab and the usage of em dashes(which I'm addicted using nowadays, a friend told me when and how to use them. so shoutout to my friend))

my exams are now at Tuesday until Thursday so I really tried my best with the ending.

 

Book 2 will start after the beasts fought face to face with the ancients or smth (in-game) so I can study more about the beasts and the ancients, and their relationship with their other halves.

 

By the way, this fic is my own way of coping and freedom, so I thank everyone for their support :)

 

This all began as a hear me out: fanfic then i yapped it alat to my bff cuz he also reads on ao3 and has a lot of tabs open abt it. but he doesnt play on crk so yeah, but he still beta read for me :3

 

Idea started when I quoted something about “Dangerously Yours” and I thought about blackbell, I just thought it fits them. So I listened to its first episode, and I decided to write it, when I first wrote this I never expected for people to read it bc: People says this ship is “eugh”, A rarepair, The storyline in the beginning can be so repetitive (capple and bsapphire going to the Faerie Kingdom to spread rumors and spread deceit and more about the Soul Jam or their master.), Some dont see deceit fam as a fam (smilk is a neglective and a dead beat dad if ever he became a parent)

 

People’s opinions scared me which that's why I didn’t want to post this in the first place. But this is just a hobby so I posted it. Thank you readers for boosting my confidence in writing. I will try to improve and to write more before I get to college.

Notes:

1) Helloo readers you can consider leaving a comment, these boost my motivation even just a little bit, you can also find me on instagram as @chrlee_artt you can check out my artworts, I might post there once in a while, who knows lmao BUT I'LL TRY, I PROMISE. (im really trying im just lazy or burnt out?)

 

For those who support me, thank you!! All kudos and comments are appreciated <3