Shadows of the Truth

by FizzKaz

Summary:

In the pursuit of Truth, any cookie could lose their way. Stripped of hope, Truthless Recluse finds his bleak existence disrupted by a force beyond reckoning—a presence that turned his world upside-down. Yet as reality bends, one question remains: Is this salvation, or merely Truth’s cruelest illusion?

Chapter 1

The setting sun gradually painted the sky in golden-pink hues. The small streets came alive with the hum of peaceful townsfolk. The shouts of merchants, boisterous groups of commoners, playing children—all spoke of the approaching evening. The city’s bustle differed little from the commotion within the walls of the enormous white castle. A few maids returned with baskets full of various goods. At the gates, they were greeted by guards, exchanging pleasantries and light flirtation before being let inside, their lingering gazes tracing the fluttering hems of the maids’ dresses and the ribbons in their hair.

The place seemed peaceful. Too peaceful for the new inhabitant of one of the tall towers with its dark, shimmering tiled roof. Despite the general idleness and festivity in the castle, his room seemed to hold only darkness and cold. The owner himself blended seamlessly with the surroundings, nearly turning into a shadow. His icy, narrowed eyes observed the scene below—not out of interest, but more from boredom. After all, he had no other entertainment.

"Recluse!" A loud, cheerful voice shattered the prolonged silence. It belonged to the castle’s owner, who had abruptly invaded the hermit’s sanctuary. "Brought you a treat! Hope you like mint tea?" The sound of a tray being set on the table followed, the porcelain clattering slightly, few droplets of dark liquid trickling down the side of one of the cups.

Recluse didn’t even turn to face the sudden guest.

"Mind if I sit here?" asked the owner of the cheerful voice. Receiving neither an answer nor an approving nod, he plopped into an armchair, taking one of the cups in hand. He took a loud slurping sip, followed by a drawn-out, satisfied hum. The cookie who had entered the hermit’s room momentarily closed his eyes in pleasure. Yet his curious gaze soon returned to the dark figure sitting on the windowsill. "Didja miss me?"

Silence answered, as usual. It was as if he expected a reply that Recluse stubbornly refused to give. Still, the hermit knew full well that if he didn’t speak up, he’d be subjected to hours of inane academy stories.

"Guess not," the cheerful voice continued, taking another sip. After a few smacks of his lips, he opened his mouth as if to say something.

"Why are you doing this?" The hermit’s voice was even, quiet, weary. Yet it managed to halt the impending tirade, silencing the guest for a few seconds.

"Do…what?" A pair of multicolored eyes stared at Recluse with interest. His tone carried unmistakable curiosity, as if eager to hear that long-awaited voice again.

"All of it," Recluse’s voice sounded labored, as if its owner had long been silent and grown unaccustomed to conversation. "The room, the food, your... attempts to talk to me."

The answer was simple:

"Well, because you’re my guest! And because I want to help."

Help?

"You can’t help me."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll at least try." The voice still carried that infuriating positivity. Too self-assured.

"You understand nothing."

"Perhaps," the interlocutor set his cup on the table and stood up. He floated cautiously toward Recluse, hovering beside him in the air. The hermit’s indifferent gaze remained fixed downward. From this height, the cookies below looked tiny—small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. "But I can listen," he added, settling onto the opposite edge of the windowsill. Recluse finally spared him a fleeting glance.

The moment was interrupted by noise in the hallway and a knock at the door. Before either of them could respond, the door swung open. On the threshold stood a young man, panting as if he had run all the way there. The blue mantle draped over his shoulders—slightly singed at the edges—marked him unmistakably as an academy student.

"Professor! The Headmaster is calling for you! It’s something urgent!"

In response, Recluse only heard his companion sigh:

"Tell him I’ll be there shortly."

The boy nodded and vanished, leaving the door ajar. The professor rose, gliding back through the air toward the tray with the teacups and saucer.

"Ah, probably more paperwork..." he lamented theatrically, as though summoned to hard labor. He picked up the cup he had been drinking from and drained it in a few gulps. "I’ll be back soon. Don’t miss me too much!" He winked at Recluse and floated out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him.

The room sank back into familiar and soothing silence. Compared to the restless cookie’s antics, the solitude felt like a blessing. Even Truthless Recluse’s icy gaze seemed to soften slightly, comforted by the return of quiet. His half-lidded eyes skimmed the castle courtyard one last time, where a blue figure could be seen hovering above the ground, following the blond toward the gates.

Recluse turned away, his gaze shifting to the tray left on the table. A faint wisp of steam still curled over the tea’s smooth surface. Beside the cup sat a saucer filled with delicious blue jellies. Finally, the hermit stepped down from the windowsill and approached the table. He picked up one of the jellies carefully; the setting sun’s rays glinted beautifully off its translucent blue surface. For a moment, Recluse just stared at it, as if lost in thought—but then he took a small bite.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, life slowly quieted. Twilight settled over the kingdom, the dark sky adorned with a scattering of shimmering stars watching over the empty city streets. Servants in the castle leisurely lit magical lanterns, casting a soft blue glow through the long, winding corridors. The flames flickered, their faint light trembling against the walls as if afraid to wake something that should never stir. The air smelled of wax and ancient stone, and the silence was so thick it seemed the darkness itself was holding its breath in the corners. No one dared disturb the fragile peace—even the usually giggly maids found themselves whispering as they returned to the staff lounge. Somehow, the enormous, once-noisy castle had fallen into a deathly hush.

Until one of the maids burst into the lounge, screaming.

The fireplace flames shuddered anxiously as she slammed the door behind her, pressing her back against it as if the thin wood could shield her from some unseen threat. The other servants stared at her in stunned silence while the poor girl struggled to catch her breath, her heart pounding wildly.

"He..." she began in a trembling whisper. "I saw Him... in the east corridor!"

Her last words sent a wave of silent shock through the room. A cold tension rolled over them, smothering the air—even the dust motes seemed to freeze in the dim light.

Finally, one of the maids—petite, with snow-white hair—approached the frightened girl and took her hands.

"Did He see you?" Her voice was eerily calm for the situation.

"I hope not..." The girl shook her head, her dark curls swaying around her pale face. Her hands trembled uncontrollably. "I ran so fast... didn’t even look back..."

"Let’s hope nothing terrible happens," the fair-haired maid said, embracing the frightened girl and gently guiding her away from the door to sit on the sofa. "We’ll stick together. Just in case."

"But the Sage of Truth said there’s nothing to fear," one of the servants muttered uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot near the door.

"Caution never hurts."

The maids exchanged glances, a shadow of unease flickering in their eyes. Yes, the dark guest unsettled them—but duty to the king outweighed personal fears. Their elongated shadows, cast by the fireplace flames, trembled against the walls. Most of the girls huddled closer to the sofa, comforting their frightened friend. A few lingered by the door, listening intently, hoping to catch the faintest rustle of fabric from the castle’s unwilling guest.

"I think I heard something..." one whispered.

"It’s just your imagination."

"Shush, listen. Footsteps."

"I don’t hear anything."

The wind carried their whispers up to the high tower windows, where among the shimmering tiles, a familiar shadow had already begun to flicker...

Chapter 2

Summary:

Sorry for the chapters mistakes, I had some internet issues and they somehow started multiplying the second chapter???

Truthless Recluse rarely ventured out – only when the corridors were free of pestering servants. His dark cloak dissolved into the dimness of the halls, making him resemble a living shadow gliding silently through the castle’s passages. The blue flames that once served as nightlights and reminders of safety twisted into something sinister and threatening in his presence. The icy light accentuated his elongated figure as he slipped from his modest refuge, moving soundlessly through the fortress. His tired eyes skimmed over the grand stained-glass windows – depictions of Sage of Truth’s countless feats: the legendary restoration of his castle, his coronation, his victory over Dark Enchantress in the Dark Flour War...

Servants unlucky enough to cross his path at night recoiled and fled, terrified of being caught. Whispers and rumors swirled around every one of his rare appearances:

"He’s out again..."

"They say he’s cursed..."

"He’s seen the Truth..."

Countless words were thrown at Truthless Recluse. But he never answered, simply continuing his path through the corridors, ignoring uneasy cookies. After nights of fleeting comments, Recluse gradually pieced together the legend circulating among the common folk:

"They say, in the distant wild lands where trees entwine their roots and beasts lurk in the shadows, there stands a tower carved from light and darkness. The Peak of Truth – creation of the Witches, a keeper of knowledge about Earthbread, its origins, and the secret paths of the universe. But not everyone is meant to grasp its secrets. Only the chosen ones can reach the tower’s final floor and behold the Witches’ last gift, sealed in its heart – the Truth."

These words were so familiar to Truthless Recluse, they might as well have been etched into his mind.

"Only one cookie ever reached the Peak. But the promised revelation – the Truth the Witches bestowed upon them ages ago – turned out to be a lie. Their heart filled with bitterness when, after all their trials, they found only emptiness and eternal solitude. Disillusioned, they rejected all knowledge, all truth, embracing falsehood as the only law. Pain and despair became their new Truth. Since then, they’ve been known as the Truthless Recluse."

"There you are!" A familiar cheerful voice snapped Recluse from his thoughts as he paused before a stained-glass window depicting Sage of Truth and four other ancient heroes of Earthbread sealing Dark Enchantress in the timeless slumber.

"Go away," Recluse muttered, feeling hands settle on his shoulders. Sage of Truth only laughed but released him. He circled Recluse, peering directly into his face:

"Nope! You know that’s not how it works."

His warm smile returned, though his eyes flickered with unmistakable mischief.

"What do you want?" Recluse asked, stepping away from the window.

"Just a small talk! You’re wandering around, thinking to yourself... maybe you would want to share some of those thoughts with yours truly?"

"No."

Recluse kept walking, trying to ignore the host of the castle stubbornly floating around him.

"At least tell me – do you like it here?" Sage flipped upside down midair, dangling in front of Recluse until their eyes met. Recluse stared at the inverted face. "Ya like your room?"

"Yes," the hermit answered flatly, enduring Sage’s piercing gaze.

"Food’s good?"

"Yes."

"Windows not too drafty?"

"Duck."

"Where – ?" Sage blinked, brows raising in exaggerated confusion – just before his head slammed into a doorframe. "Ow-ow-ow!" He flipped upright, rubbing the sore spot.

"Told you." Recluse said before disappearing around the next corner.

Sage paused, still massaging his head, then smirked and flew after him:

"I should really pay more attention..."

He never said it, but he could’ve sworn he saw a small smile on his guests face.

***

The next day, a crowd of servants swarmed Sage with frantic questions. For the first few minutes, he couldn’t make sense of their overlapping voices. Finally calming them, he cut straight to the point:

"Can someone just explain what all the fuss is about?"

A maid with snow-white hair stepped forward:

"Last night, Cream Mousse heard you cry out in pain... We were worried the Recluse might’ve..." She trailed off, unwilling to finish.

Sage laughed, deepening the servants’ confusion.

"Friends, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about!" He threw an arm around the nearest maids, easing the tension. "I just ran into a doorfame. Believe me, Truthless Recluse won’t hurt me. You don’t need to fear him." Slipping free, he floated upward. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a guest to check on!"

He soared toward the tower with its dark, shimmering roof tiles. Bursting into the perpetually dim room, he found Recluse seated by the window, absorbed in a book – clearly borrowed from the royal library. Sage’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as he hovered over Recluse’s shoulder:

"Found something interesting?"

Recluse snapped the book shut with a thud and closed his eyes before Sage could peer into them again.

"Aren’t you tired?"

"Of what?" Sage drifted back but stayed close.

"This... relentless attention."

"Nope." Sage grinned. "If I stop, you’ll just stay locked in that shell of yours."

Silence settled between them. Finally, Recluse spoke softly:

"Why does it matter so much to you?"

Sage’s expression softened.

"Because I believe that somewhere under all that roughness, you haven’t entirely forgotten what it’s like – to not be alone."

Recluse rolled his eyes and scoffed, reopening his book. He shifted in the chair, leaning back. His thin, pale fingers tightened slightly on the cover. Sage noticed the trembling but only drifted closer, resting against the chair’s back to skim the familiar text.

Botany... Sage remembered writing it centuries ago with one of his students. The worn spine and yellowed pages...

"Recluse?" Sage said, uncharacteristically quiet. To his surprise, the hermit glanced up from a diagram of an extinct plant. "Let’s take a walk."

Recluse immediately buried himself back in the pages:

"No."

"Come ooon," Sage leaned in, his long hair spilling over the book.

"No." Irritation tinged Recluse’s voice as he tried to brush the strands away. They stubbornly clung to the pages, as if deliberately sabotaging his quiet solitude

"How long has it been since you went outside? A month? Two?" Sage dropped to eye level. Recluse kept futilely swiping at the glossy hair. "You’re so pale..." He poked Recluse’s cheek, instantly drawing his attention. Their eyes met – Sage’s vibrant, Recluse’s glacial. A shiver ran down Sage’s back

"You clearly need sunlight."

"I don’t." Recluse shut the book sharply, trapping some of Sage’s hair between the pages.

"But I do!" Sage grabbed Recluse’s sleeve, trying to haul the stubborn cookie up. It proved harder than expected – despite his frail appearance, the hermit was rooted in place. "Wow, you’re heavy."

"Stop," Recluse growled.

"Pleeease?" Sage released him, clasping his hands in mock prayer. His heterochromic pupils widened pitifully. "Want me to portal you out?" The offer sounded light, but the underlying threat was clear.

Recluse stiffened at the word portal. The memory of Sage shoving him through one, sending him tumbling onto the throne room carpet, made him scowl. His trembling pupils betrayed either irritation or fury. He glared up at Sage from under his brow:

"You wouldn’t dare."

"If you don’t go willingly, I will," Sage said sweetly, taunting. Recluse’s eyes narrowed further.

"Fine," he finally muttered, looking away.

Sage beamed, tugging Recluse up and steering him toward the door.

"Where are you taking me?"

"You’ll see." Sage smirked, leading him down a winding staircase. Recluse, already exhausted by the steps, halted midway.

"I’m not moving until you tell me."

Sage turned, meeting his icy stare. Recluse crossed his arms, dead serious.

"The garden," Sage relented, floating closer.

Recluse arched a skeptical brow:

"The garden?"

"Yep. The royal garden," Sage clarified. "We – well, you – won’t even have to leave the castle grounds. And I think you’ll like it." He winked. Recluse closed his eyes, considering his choices.

"After this," he began, "you leave me alone for the rest of the day." He fixed Sage with a stare. Sage agreed, twirling a lock of hair. He extended a hand to seal the deal, but Recluse brushed him off.

Blinding sunlight forced Recluse to squint as Sage ushered him into the castle’s inner courtyard. The barrage of scents – spiced herbs, morning rain – flooded his senses. Flowers and leaves basked in the golden light, turning the garden into a living kaleidoscope of emerald and amber.

Sage inhaled deeply, savoring the sweetness:

"Well?" He spread his arms, face tilted toward the sun while Recluse lingered in the doorway’s shadow. Sage spun, fingertips grazing dew-laden leaves. "Feel that?" He turned to Recluse. "It’s a miracle! Air that burns your lungs! Sun that stings your skin!"

"I’m not blind," Recluse said dryly, still hesitating at the threshold.

"Seeing and feeling are different!" Sage grabbed his wrist, pulling him into the light. Sunbeams danced across Recluse’s dark clothes like scattered stars. Sage momentarily forgot himself, watching the shimmer.

"You wanted to show me something," Recluse said, wrenching free.

"Huh? Oh, right!" Sage fluttered upward, beckoning him forward. Recluse sighed but followed as Sage hovered above the garden paths, scanning. Servants tending the plants stiffened at Recluse’s approach, some whispering, others casting hopeful glances at Sage, who waved reassuringly before resuming his search.

"They should be here somewhere – Aha!" He dove toward a patch of delicate blue flowers with silver-veined leaves. "Know what these are?"

"Moonblooms," Recluse crouched by the bed.

"Correct!" Sage’s tone shifted to lecture-mode. "Did you know – "

"They only open at night and feed on moonlight instead of sun," Recluse interrupted. His fingers brushed a closed bud. "Dew from the bud can sustain you for a full day."

"Well..." Sage blinked, caught off guard. He perked up at a nearby plant with sprawling, raven-black leaves edged in crimson. "Look! Midnight Ivy. Its leaves are poisonous – "

"But their sap, in small doses, is a painkiller," Recluse cut in again, still focused on the Moonbloom. "They’re starved."

"What?" Sage stared.

"The Moonblooms. They’re too close to the Ivy. The silver veins channel moonlight to their cores. Without it, they’ll never fully bloom. The Ivy’s leaves block them. They should be transplanted – or the Ivy trimmed." Recluse met Sage’s gaze. "I’d recommend the latter."

"You..." Sage drifted closer. "You know about this?"

"Read it in your encyclopedia."

"Liar." Sage forced a playful tone. "That old book you were reading didn’t mention Moonblooms or Midnight Ivy! I wrote it with a student three hundred years ago!"

Recluse looked away.

"Basic knowledge, then."

"Nope!" Sage hovered insistently. "You even knew their properties!" He landed beside Recluse. "Tell me how you really know." He poked Recluse’s cheek. Silence. "Come on. Come on, come on, come on."

"Stop." Recluse seized Sage’s wrist. For a moment, the air crackled with tension. His grip tightened enough to make even Sage’s hardened dough ache – then released abruptly.

Sage didn’t press further:

"Did you have a garden?" he asked suddenly.

Truthless Recluse lifted his head. His gaze traced the trembling Ivy leaves, the dewdrops on Moonbloom buds, a servant hastily retreating into shade.

"Had," he said quietly.

Sage went still. His fingers, just toying with an Ivy leaf, froze. He wasn’t sure what silenced him – Recluse’s answer, or the faint nostalgia in his voice.

"Want me to set aside a plot for you here? Grow whatever you like. Moonblooms, Midnight Ivy, Emberflowers – just don’t poison us all." He grinned.

Recluse turned slowly. For a split second, something flickered in his hollow gaze – interest, wariness. Like light piercing ice.

"Why?"

"Because," Sage stood, brushing off his knees, his smile uncharacteristically earnest, "when you talked about the plants, your voice... it was different."

Silence stretched between them.

"...I’ll think about it," Recluse finally said.

Sage smiled, offering a hand to help him up:

"I’ll count it as a progress!"

Recluse ignored it, rising on his own. His elongated shadow slid across the flowerbeds.

"Now – "

"Yes, yes, I remember – leave you alone." Sage smirked. "Just thought you might want an escort back."

Recluse surveyed the garden:

"I’ll stay for a while."

Sage hovered, then smiled.

"Well then, have fun." He soared upward, blending into the sky.

Alone again, Recluse was surrounded not by silence, but by rustling leaves and hushed servant whispers.

Notes:

Wow, thank you so much for 100+ hits, I didn't expect you all to notice my little fanfic. I promise I'll get a nice schedule after a while, but for now I'll add new chapter next week. Don't forget to leave comments if any of you noticed some mistakes and thank you so much for your kudos!

Chapter 3

The Royal Garden was vast. Unbelievably vast for what should have been the cramped inner courtyard of a castle. But for a mage like Sage of Truth, spatial magic posed no challenge – the garden invisibly expanded for all who entered. This time, the powerful cookie worked the same trick, carving out extra space for a small plot. Nearby, he placed a milk fountain, its white chocolate walls carved with winding stems that branched into flowers and leaves. At its base, bell-shaped blooms caught falling droplets, while at the center, a bouquet of milkcrowns flowers sent pearlescent streams dancing into the air – not just flowing, but twirling, scattering into a thousand glittering beads.

Sage looked an artist lost in his craft: the earth stretched, sprouting fresh grass and rich soil; a stone path curved around the plot, ending abruptly at a newly summoned oak. Its branches arched overhead, casting a green-tinged twilight.

"There!" Sage spread his arms like a magician finishing a grand illusion the moment the plot was ready. He shot Recluse a triumphant look, hungry for a reaction. "You could plant an apothecary garden, a shade flowerbed, or–"

"The oak’s shadow is too large."

"One moment!" Sage flicked his wrist, and the oak’s branches twisted, redirecting their growth. Half the plot was freed from shade, the loosened soil gleaming in the sun. "Better?"

"It’ll do." Recluse stepped forward. His bare feet sank into the cool moss carpet. Kneeling, he dug his fingers into the earth. "Moonblooms here," he pointed to the sunlit section. "Midnight Ivy in the shade–it barely needs light. Three bushes should suffice. Emberflowers along the perimeter. They’ll warm the plants at night, and their glow is... pleasant." He cut himself off, rising sharply as if realizing he’d said too much. Sage just smirked, delighted to hear Recluse’s voice alive with something other than disdain.

"Seeds, then." The mage pulled a pouch from his vest, spilling a handful onto his palm: some like frozen blue tears glinting with sunlight, others like cracked black skulls, and a few like carved nuts exuding a chocolatey scent. "Look." He extended his hand, revealing tiny, spiked spores pulsing as if alive.

"Nightfern?" Recluse arched a brow, squinting.

"Thought it’d fit your garden." Sage tipped the spores into Recluse’s palm. The hermit studied the prickly spheres, their needles lightly pricking his dough, not enough to hurt.

"They’re planted under a full moon."

"So we wait for nightfall." Sage lounged midair, hands behind his head, legs crossed.

"Then I’ll start with the Moonblooms." Recluse tucked the seeds into his cloak’s inner pocket and knelt again.

"Wait– did I hear that right?" Sage straightened, floating closer. "You said 'I’ll start,' like you’re doing this alone."

"That is what I meant." Recluse was already digging, fingers carving neat holes for the blue bulbs.

"And what am I supposed to do?" Sage propped his chin on his hand, spinning lazily in the air.

"Vanish." Recluse nestled the first bulb into the soil.

"And miss you finally doing something besides reading and brooding?" Sage gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. "Cruel, Recluse. Very cruel!" Getting no reply, he drifted to the milk fountain and perched on its edge, chin in hands.

Watching Recluse work was meditative, soothing– and unbearably dull. The hermit barely moved; only his hands, hidden in his robe’s lavish sleeves, seemed alive. A strange calm settled over Sage, as if he’d stumbled into a tale of a solitary gardener. Recluse’s focus was contagious: the slow, deliberate motions, the finger pressing each gleaming "blue tear" into the earth like a ritual. For once, Sage felt no urge to flip through the air or fill the silence with chatter. Instead, he counted the planted seeds, just to occupy the sudden quiet in his mind.

By the thirty-sixth, boredom struck. Sage’s gaze drifted to the milk fountain’s faint reflections.

"Recluse."

A grunt was his only reply.

"Do you have a favorite plant?"

Silence stretched, broken only by the fountain’s whisper. Sage trailed his fingers through the milk, drawing ephemeral patterns.

"...Yes." The answer was so soft Sage barely caught it. He froze, afraid to scare off the rare honesty.

"Which one? If it’s not a secret?"

Recluse stilled.

"Not important."

"But–"

"I said it’s not important." Recluse stood, brushing soil from his knees. His elongated shadow fell over Sage. The mage sighed, leaning back against the cool chocolate rim, watching birds dart across the darkening sky.

"Can I guess?"

"Do as you like."

"Is it nocturnal?" The garden’s pinks deepened to twilight hues.

"No."

"Really?" Sage blinked. "I thought you only preferred those."

Recluse said nothing. Sage pursed his lips, tracking the last sunlight gliding over Recluse’s back.

"Then... does it bloom?"

Recluse straightened slowly.

"Perhaps."

"Aha!" Sage bounced. "So it’s something beautiful!"

Recluse shot him a withering look, but Sage was unstoppable, eyes alight with mischief. He floated cross-legged, chin propped on his hand.

"Should I start with common ones, or–"

"Do as you like." Recluse scooped up the skull-like seeds, moving toward the oak.

"Roses?"

"No."

"Thistle?"

"You consider that beautiful?" Sarcasm dripped from Recluse’s voice.

"In a way." Sage hovered closer. "But I associate you more with the prickles. Get it? Cuz you’re a pri – Wait, is it cacti?"

"A fine plant. But unrelated to me."

"Fiiiine." Sage huffed. "At least give a hint."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You’ll guess too quickly."

"So you do enjoy long games, hmm?" Sage grinned. "Should I bring chess next time?"

Recluse met his gaze.

"Keep guessing."

"Gladly." Sage spiraled upward, flipping like a wind-tossed leaf. A silver strand of hair coiled around his finger. "Is it bright?"

"Depends on the variety."

"How many petals?" Sage descended, level with Recluse’s face.

"No hints."

"That’s not a hint, it’s a clarification!" Sage’s smirk turned sly. "Besides..." His tone grew playfully haughty. "I doubt you want to hear me list flowers for hours."

Recluse froze. The skull-seeds in his grip cracked faintly under the pressure. Around them, the world stilled: the fountain’s streams slowed, the wind died, even the sun ducked behind clouds–as if nature itself feared drawing the attention of the cookie whose heart brimmed with darkness.

Sage, oblivious, kept his multicolored eyes locked on the dark figure bent over the soil. He waited. Patient. Stubborn. Fidgeting with his absurdly large collar.

"...Six." Recluse unclenched his hand, resuming his planting. Instantly, the garden revived. Beetles flitted to the oak’s bark, watching the enigmatic gardener.

"Six..." Sage mused, flipping upside down. "Six, six, six... What has six petals? Tulips?"

Silence. Sage waited. Response never came.

"Oh! You’ll only speak if I’m right?" He brightened, drifting over the plot. "A new game of silent treatment? I’m in! Daisies? Primroses? Lilacs?" No response. "Hmm." His gaze swept the garden – Recluse, the oak, the fountain. He studied the carvings he’d made and forgotten.

"…Lilies?"

Recluse paused, looking up. A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

"Yes." He rose. "How did you–"

"There!" Sage pointed to the fountain’s designs. Peering closer, Recluse saw lilies etched into the chocolate–six ghostly petals veined in gold, smiling under the sun. Silver swirls connected them like tangled stems.

"Why are they here?"

"Symbolism!" Sage beamed. "White lilies mean nobility, purity, compassion..." His glance at Recluse was fleeting. "And new beginnings."

Recluse went statue-still, his stare locked on the stone flowers. Outward calm clashed with the ice creeping into his chest. Hidden fingers clenched. Sage watched the silent reaction.

"Foolish symbolism. It doesn’t mean anything," Recluse finally muttered, turning back to the plot.

Sage just settled on the fountain’s edge, studying the lilies.

"Recluse." The silence between them thickened, palpable. "Why lilies?"

No answer.

"Does it... tie to the past you won’t speak of?" The quiet grew heavier, a silent shield around the hermit. Sage exhaled, pushing off the fountain. "Alright. I’ll leave you to it, gloomy gardener." He circled the oak and vanished into the leaves.

Recluse exhaled. His fists uncurled, fingers returning to the earth, tenderly tucking in each seed. The fountain’s murmur blended with buzzing beetle wings and rustling leaves. His motions regained their meditative rhythm, though his face stayed impassive.

His glassy eyes, shadowed under his hat’s brim, blankly tracked his own hands – as if observing a stranger.

Notes:

Alright, I know it doesn't change anything, but I wanted to say it anyway. I'm not technically the author of this amazing work, but I am kinda like a beta for the original version. Fizzy's my friend and I wanted to make her happy by translating Shadows of the Truth in english, so that anyone could enjoy her work. She worked really hard on it and I hope someday she'll appreciate her skill just like I do. I immediately show her your wonderful comments and every time the number of kudos increases I make sure she knows about it. So please, in the future, don't say anything about my notes, it'll be our little surprise to her, but thank you so much for everything, we appreciate it <3
You can find the original work on the platform called Фикбук (Ficbook), but sadly it's only for the russian-speaking audience.

Chapter 4

The cold night air was filled with the fragrance of moonblooms, their blue petals unfurled to catch the silvery light. Pale, scattered rays tickled the flowers' centers, sending pollen drifting into the air. Recluse sat nearby, carefully digging small holes for the nightfern spores. Once planted, the tiny spikes sprouted instantly, pushing through the soil as delicate emerald stems. His calm, methodical movements betrayed an uncharacteristic relaxation.

The night garden held a different atmosphere – it was quieter, more serene, peaceful. No irritating gardeners bustling about and whispering amongst themselves. No pesky daytime insects buzzing around, eager to crawl into the wide sleeves and collar of his cloak. No harsh sunlight relentlessly heating his dark robes. The night, like a guardian, shielded the solitary cookie from all disturbances. Unlike the castle’s ominous corridors, where Recluse easily melted into the shadows, the fragile glow of moonlight draped the garden in a soft, silver radiance.

A gentle breeze rustled the oak leaves. Occasionally, it would catch droplets from the milk fountain and carry them to Recluse, sprinkling them over the gilded hem of his cloak. Then, as if apologizing for the mischief, the wind would brush against his face, sweeping back the strands of hair that fell over his eyes. Perhaps Recluse even silently thanked the playful gusts for their small assistance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement. He tilted his head, turning his gaze toward a moonbloom. Its petals trembled lightly under the touch of a moth’s delicate legs. The small creature with snowy white wings and body dusted with soft fuzz busied itself among the flower’s pollen, mirroring Recluse’s own careful motions. The hermit watched as the moth lifted its head cautiously. Beady black eyes studied the giant before it as Recluse slowly extended a hand toward the flower. His index finger lightly grazed the edge of a petal before freezing in place. The moth’s antennae twitched, as if testing the air, sensing the warmth of the gardener’s hand. Slowly, it crawled from the moonbloom onto Recluse’s finger.

He raised his hand, bringing the winged wonder closer to his face. The shadow of his hat’s brim fell over the moth, and Recluse was surprised to find its wings emitted a faint, ethereal glow. His eyes widened slightly, brows lifting in quiet wonder. His gaze, warmer than usual, remained fixed on the moth as it settled comfortably, seemingly enjoying the gentle heat of his dough beneath its tiny feet.

"Found a new friend?"

The painfully familiar, annoyingly cheerful voice shattered the night’s tranquility. The moth fluttered away in an instant. Recluse followed its flight with his eyes before turning his attention to the cookie now hovering beside him.

"Oops, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare it off."

"What are you doing here?" Recluse asked, irritation lacing his tone as he stubbornly avoided looking at Sage.

"It’s a full moon!" Sage drifted closer. "Which means you’re planting nightfern. Did you really think I’d miss that?"

"I didn’t ask you to come back."

"Technically, you didn’t forbid it either," Sage countered.

Recluse exhaled and silently turned his attention back to the small holes he’d dug. His fist, still holding the remaining spiky spores, uncurled. His fingers, still bearing faint silver traces of the moth’s tiny legs and fuzz, carefully picked up one of the seeds and placed it into the soil. The moment the earth covered it, a vibrant green stem sprouted in its place.

"Mind if I stick around?" Sage asked. Recluse didn’t respond – not even a sound.
"I’ll take it as yes!" The blue cookie lounged in midair, propping his head up with a fist. His multicolored eyes watched the rapidly growing ferns with interest. "They grow so fast, huh?"

Recluse only grunted in response, his focus locked on his hands and the spores.

"Need help?"

"No," came the curt reply.

Sage said nothing. He simply floated higher, spinning slowly in the air, his fingers fiddling with the golden button of his bright blue vest.

"You know where I got these fern spores?" he asked abruptly.

Recluse took a deep breath, as if restraining his irritation:

"No," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"From a shop! A very sweet florist. I think his name’s Herb." Sage drifted directly in front of Recluse’s face without realizing it. "He has so many plants! If you want, I can take you to his little store. You could pick out whatever you’d like to grow."

Recluse lifted his gaze, glaring at Sage. Even in the shadow of his hat, Sage could see his furrowed brows, tense lips, and narrowed dark eyes.

"No," Recluse said firmly.

"Oh, come ooon!" Sage shot upward, his slender, angular frame silhouetted against the full moon. He crossed his arms, furrowed his brows, and squinted – mimicking Recluse’s expression. "You’ve been here for weeks and haven’t seen anything beyond the castle halls and this garden!" He threw his hands up, his face shifting from mock-seriousness to playful indignation. "You can’t keep doing this, Recluse! How much longer are you going to hide from everyone?"

"None of your business," Recluse replied, his voice straining to stay calm despite the anger simmering beneath.

"But it is!" Sage shot back. He floated closer, trying to force Recluse’s attention onto him. "I pulled you out of the Peak of Truth, and that means I’m responsible for you! I want to help you, Recluse, I really do." He emphasized the last words with a pause, waiting for a response. When none came, he continued. "But you won’t let me, and I don’t even understand why. You won’t tell me anything about yourself, not even a hint! But I’ll keep trying." Sage’s voice turned unexpectedly solemn.

Recluse watched as the mage gestured wildly. Words poured out of Sage like a river of milk, drowning out all other sounds. That lilting voice filled the air, coiled around his throat, tightened, choked, left wounds in his dough and injected them with sickly sweet poison.

"...I know it might be hard, but I still hope – just once – you’ll trust me." Suddenly, Sage grabbed Recluse’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Please. Come outside with me. Stop being afraid of the world!"

Huge mistake. Sage realized it the next instant when he was slammed back-first into the tree. His hands jerked away from the furious hermit’s face, pain flaring in his wrists. Recluse loomed over him, strands of pale hair falling across his face, casting a sinister shadow. Sage stared into those icy eyes, faintly reflecting the moonlight.

"Listen well, Sage – or whatever you are." Recluse’s voice was terrifyingly calm, each word deliberate and paced. "No amount of begging or coaxing will work on me. You won’t lure me outside these walls, no matter how badly you want to. I’m sick of your grating voice and your smug face. Do you think I don’t see the way your eyes light up every time you start another idiotic scheme? Stop with the pity act and disappear. Otherwise – " Sage felt the pressure on his wrists intensify. A faint crack echoed through the quiet. " – I won’t hold back."

Recluse released him, turning away as if nothing had happened. Sage sat stunned, staring at the hermit, who had already returned to planting as though the outburst never occurred. Swallowing hard, Sage’s fingers clenched around a tuft of grass. He replayed the moment in his head – he’d expected refusal, indifference, silence, but not this terrifying fury. His wrists still burned where Recluse had gripped them. Shaking his head, he realized he’d been staring and pushed himself up, brushing dirt from his spotless white pants.

Sage straightened up and glanced back at Recluse, rubbing his sore wrist.

"Sorry," he murmured before dissolving into a shimmering haze.

He reappeared in his room at the highest tower of the castle. Sensing its master’s presence, the chamber greeted him by shifting its floors and ceilings, returning the canopy bed with its dark blue drapes to its rightful place. Sage slumped onto the edge of the mattress, letting himself fall backward. His eyes lazily traced the chess pieces gliding across the ceiling, the ink spilling across the pages of empty books and transforming into elegant script upon contact, and – in one of the chessboard’s squares – a view of the white-stoned tower with its blue-tiled roof and the royal garden below, where a dark figure crouched over his plot.

A lump rose in Sage’s throat at the sight of Recluse framed in the window. A wave of guilt crashed over him, leaving behind an ugly stain of shame. His hands clenched the blanket involuntarily before he rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. A snap of his fingers closed the window and drew the curtains. Not thinking about Recluse right now was the best decision Sage had made all day. If he was told to disappear, he would. After all, he was the one who had intruded on that quiet, moonlit peace his reclusive guest had been savoring. And worse – he’d barged into that silent conversation between Recluse and the moth. No wonder the hermit had snapped.

Sage pushed himself up, floating to the center of the room. The hovering ink letters parted for him, sensing his approach. Suspended among drifting books, quills, and inkwells, he settled into a seated position, propping his chin on his fist. He needed to regain Recluse’s trust – enough that the hermit would at least tolerate his presence again. Sage didn’t want his guest to feel like a prisoner. Maybe altering Recluse’s room to suit him better would help?

With that thought, Sage drifted back to bed. Sprawling across the soft blanket (which he never actually used), he stretched into his favorite star shape and exhaled deeply. Tomorrow, he’d do something unexpected but pleasant, for Recluse. All his hopes rested on Herb.

Last time Sage visited, the florist had struck him as shy but kindhearted. The moment Sage mentioned ferns, the young man had eagerly presented him with every variety – from common greens to rare, dragon-scaled specimens. And when Sage clarified he needed spores, Herb had promptly produced tiny, neatly labeled pouches of prickly seeds in all shapes and sizes.

Yes, Sage was certain – Herb would find the perfect plant for Recluse.

 

"You said he prefers the dark?" Herb clarified, eyeing a row of potted plants.

"Yeah," Sage confirmed. "He barely comes out during the day. Only at night, to tend his garden plot."

"Got it." Herb rubbed his chin. "So daytime varieties are out. Let’s head to the nocturnal section." He gestured for Sage to follow.

They stopped at a door leading to a dim chamber bathed in the soft blue glow of mushrooms mimicking moonlight. Each plant bore a tag with faintly luminous lettering. Sage scanned the room – the atmosphere here was different. The air hummed with subtle, soothing scents that didn’t compete but coexisted. He recognized moonblooms immediately, their veined petals drinking in the fungal light. In the opposite corner grew midnight ivy, nearly invisible against the shadows. Familiar emerald coils of nightfern spiraled from the soil, their steel-sharp leaves forming mesmerizing patterns.

Sage mentally pictured this beauty in his garden.

"Can’t decide?" Herb asked.

"I don’t know what to pick," Sage admitted, floating toward the back pots. "They’re all a bit… plain."

"Looking for something unusual?"

"Yes, do you have anything like that?"

"Give me a second."

Herb disappeared around the corner. The broad leaves of midnight ivy swayed like a curtain behind him. Rustling, the clink of pots, and muttered words followed – though Sage couldn’t make any of them out. Soon, Herb returned, carefully holding a caramel pot with dark ivy stems. Its leaves were adorned with shimmering silver patterns resembling stars, constellations, even galaxies. Sage leaned in, fascinated.

"Moonlight ivy," Herb explained. "Low-maintenance. Feeds on both light and darkness – though I’d recommend some sun exposure. Turns the patterns gold." He lifted a few tendrils, showing how the fungal light danced across the silver tracery. "What do you think?"

"Perfect," Sage breathed, mesmerized.

"I’ll wrap it up, then." Herb smiled, heading for the counter. Sage followed, watching as the young man tenderly bundled the pot in cinnamon-scented brown paper.

Payment was swift. Clutching the parcel to his chest, Sage bid farewell and shot into the sky, his hair streaming behind him. His heart pounded – not from the flight, but from hope. Maybe this would soften Recluse’s frost.

Bypassing the main gates, he dove through a window into the corridor leading straight to the hermit’s tower. He wove through the castle’s labyrinth at breakneck speed, dodging columns and sharp turns, startling a cluster of maids along the way. Their indignant cries went blissfully ignored.

At last, he hovered before Recluse’s door, barely brushing the floor. He straightened, inhaled deeply, and tucked the parcel behind his back.

The door swung open, spilling diluted hallway light into the dark room. A pale stripe stretched across the floor, barely meeting the sunlight seeping through the cracked window. Recluse sat in his armchair, a book in hand, the pages gilded by the rays. The noise made him glance up, irritation flashing in his eyes.

"What now?" His voice was flint.

The icy tone made Sage flinch – but he rallied, flitting inside with a tentative smile.

"How’s my favorite anchorite?"

"Fine," Recluse said flatly. "Was. Until seconds ago."

Sage chuckled awkwardly, keeping a respectful distance.

"Recluse, listen – " He faltered, scrambling for words. "About yesterday… I went too far."

"Apology accepted. Now leave."

"I’m not done!"

"I am."

Sage exhaled. The absurd back-and-forth oddly steadied him.

"I brought you something." He produced the parcel, inching closer. Recluse eyed it with detached indifference. "A peace offering."

Recluse’s gaze snapped to Sage’s face, one brow arching. His dark eyes narrowed, searching for a trap.

"Why?"

"To make up for yesterday." Sage held his ground under that glacial stare. Tension prickled between them. He bit his lip – then thrust the package into Recluse’s hands. "Just look."

Recluse was momentarily stunned by Sage's sudden movement. His expression, more bewildered than irritated now, darted between the oddly wrapped gift and the mage's tense, expectant face. The hermit let out an exasperated sigh, a low growl escaping his lips. His freckled hands touched the rough brown paper, tearing it open:

"If this is another one of your – " He froze in amazement as a dark vine with patterned leaves peeked through. His hand stilled, eyes locking onto the golden tracery. Carefully, Recluse traced a leaf, watching as the design shifted from gold to silver where his fingers cast shadows. "Moonlight ivy?" he whispered, as if disbelieving his own eyes.

"It is," Sage replied, studying his reaction intently. The mage leaned in, multicolored eyes scanning Recluse's face for any trace of annoyance. A thousand scenarios raced through his mind – a thousand possible outcomes that made his heart stutter in anticipation. He never imagined the most nerve-wracking moment would be this sudden, stretching silence.

Finally, Recluse's hand twitched and reached further into the wrapping. The ivy gradually emerged from its paper prison, revealing the shimmering golden patterns against deep purple leaves. His gaze softened noticeably, though surprise still lingered.

"Where did you get this?"

"The same place as the nightfern. Herb's shop."

"But it's..." Recluse swallowed, running his fingers over the stellar patterns again. "Exceedingly rare. How did that – "

"Herb?"

" – how did he obtain it?"

Sage had never seen Recluse so animated. Those once icy, dark eyes now sparkled with wonder. His slightly parted lips remained frozen in silent astonishment, as if words had failed him. Even the sunlight seemed intrigued – a golden beam streamed through the window with renewed vigor, illuminating half of Recluse's face and revealing the scattering of dark freckles across his dough, the gleam of his tousled wheat-colored hair, and the pale yellow of his right eye. Sage's breath hitched. His hand instinctively rose to his own cheek, fingers brushing his own yellow eye.

He blinked when a blue fingernail accidentally grazed his cornea. "Ow," he muttered softly, immediately glancing at Recluse. The last thing he wanted was to shatter this fragile moment. Part of him wished to preserve this rare tranquility forever – yet curiosity overpowered caution.

"So... do you like it?" Sage ventured hesitantly, fingers fidgeting with his vest's golden button.

"I have no words," Recluse murmured.

"In a… good way?" Sage pressed, hope coloring his voice.

"Yes."

The response washed over Sage like a wave of relief. His heart raced with sudden joy, and before he could stop himself, he was floating in giddy circles around Recluse's chair.

"You really like it? Seriously? You're not just saying that?" The questions tumbled out in an excited rush.

"I like it," Recluse repeated quietly. Sage shot toward the ceiling, throwing his hands up:

"Oh, praise the Witches!" he exclaimed, flipping midair before swooping back down to perch on the armrest of Recluse's chair. "You have no idea how long I spent choosing this!"

"That long?" Recluse asked skeptically, though his tone had warmed.

"Long enough for me," Sage grinned.

Recluse stood, carrying the pot to the windowsill. He carefully arranged the ivy's tendrils along the stone surface. "It stays here."

"Are you sure? Herb said it thrives in both light and darkness."

"Did he mention that moonlight ivy shouldn't be moved around?"

"He did?" Sage blinked. "Why?"

"It will die if moved too often," Recluse replied quietly. His fingers lingered on the velvety leaves, the luminous patterns shimmering under his touch. Reflected flecks of light danced across Sage’s face like temporary freckles – though Recluse seemed not to notice.

"It looks perfect," Sage remarked, though it was unclear whether he meant the plant or the way Recluse stood silhouetted against the gilded sunset. The hermit gave a noncommittal hum of agreement. "I suppose you’d prefer to be left alone with it now." With a wry smile, Sage slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence reclaimed the room. Recluse watched his own hand with detached focus as it traced the leaf’s slightly textured surface. The starry ridges prickled faintly under his fingertips, the sensation radiating through him in oddly soothing waves. The tension in his features eased, revealing long-dormant softness. Half-lidded eyes drank in the rare plant with something akin to reverence.

Then – like a shadow passing over the sun – his gaze cooled again. His hand stilled on a leaf before withdrawing. The vine swayed gently as Recluse straightened, towering over it. He turned from the amber light, his stare fixing on the door where Sage had vanished. His pale brows furrowed, body tensed.

Despite the gift’s beauty, something about the mage unsettled him. The relentless attention, the apologies that felt more like bargaining chips, the erratic unpredictability – it all coiled tight in his chest. His hand, now braced against the windowsill, clenched into a fist. Without another glance at the ivy, Recluse stepped back, leaving the moonlight to greet the dusk alone.

Notes:

I think for now new chapters would come out every Wednesday <3

Chapter 5

Recluse sat in the armchair by the window, lazily observing the ivy perched on the windowsill. The golden patterns shimmered in the rising sun, as if beckoning the hermit to touch them. But the cookie remained seated, fixing the plant with an intense gaze. This sudden gift had unsettled Recluse. Memories of their last conversation replayed in his mind over and over. Sage had mentioned finding the moonlight ivy at a flower shop, and this casually dropped fact had gnawed his thoughts for days. How had such a rare specimen ended up with an ordinary merchant? Recluse wasn’t even sure what exactly raised his suspicions: the mention of this 'Herb' or the mere fact that Sage had spoken of a cookie who wasn’t a castle servant. There was something off about it, something unsettling. Recluse found it hard to believe that this... Sage could have acquired such a rare plant so quickly. And to use such a flimsy excuse as visiting a flower shop? The elusive moonlight ivy simply couldn’t have fallen into the hands of a commoner! But a great mage like Sage of Truth could easily obtain such a plant. Sage’s abilities must be boundless; of that, Recluse was absolutely certain. He had an idea of the mage’s magical prowess ever since...

A dull, unexpected knock pulled Recluse from his thoughts. The hermit’s dark gaze snapped to the door, from behind which a bright, lilting voice immediately rang out:

"Mind if I come in?" Sage asked. This cookie was always barging into the hermit’s quiet sanctuary, distracting him from his musings. "Recluse? Can you hear me? "

Recluse wearily averted his eyes, but the mage persisted. He knocked again, listening for sounds inside. At some point, a thought crossed his mind: "Maybe he’s asleep?" Sage quietly turned the handle, and the door creaked open slightly, revealing to his multicolored eyes a view of the large, empty bed with its silky blue canopy. The light from the window reluctantly danced along its folds, casting an unpleasant greenish glare. Sage pushed the door wider and stepped over the threshold. His gaze immediately landed on the dark figure in the armchair by the window. With a heavy sigh, the blue cookie floated toward the hermit:

"Why didn’t you answer?"

"Didn’t want to," Recluse replied sharply, catching Sage off guard. He followed the hermit’s gaze, which was still fixed on the moonlight ivy on the windowsill.

"So you didn’t like it," Sage said, a note of sadness in his voice. He glanced at the lonely plant, floated to the windowsill, and perched beside it. Blue fingers gently touched the dark ivy stems. "I thought you’d be happy. "

"Tell me, Sage," Recluse suddenly spoke. His dark eyes now locked directly onto the mage’s widened ones. The blue cookie’s name sounded strangely detached, as if the hermit were speaking to a stranger. "Where did you get this plant?"

Sage frowned, staring at the cookie in surprise.

"From Herb’s shop in the city," he answered. "I told you already, didn’t I?"

"I’ve heard that," Recluse said coldly. His words and monotone voice sliced through the air like honed steel. "Now tell me the truth. Where did you get the plant?"

"From Herb’s shop in the city," Sage repeated patiently, immediately feeling the weight of the dark-eyed stare.

"Stop lying," Recluse said firmly, rising from the armchair. In the next moment, he was at the window, looming ominously over Sage. "It couldn’t have ended up in some flower shop."

"It absolutely could!" Sage protested.

"It couldn’t, it’s an endangered species!" Recluse’s voice rose sharply, startling the mage into a jump. He stared in astonishment at the hermit’s irritated face, the tense jaw, and the narrowed, distrustful gaze hidden in the deep shadow of his blond hair. Despite the light of the rising sun, Recluse somehow, inexplicably to Sage, managed to remain in the shadows. As if the hermit were trying to hide from the harsh golden rays that artfully transformed the ivy’s patterns and highlighted the mage’s gleaming silver hair.

"Herb is a very skilled florist," Sage replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite the tension in it. The mage could practically feel Recluse's irritation radiating off him. "And he has connections – enough to find even moonlight ivy."

"And yet, your story still sounds implausible," Recluse muttered, frowning.

Sage took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself, and folded his hands in his lap. His gaze grew strained.

"Recluse, what’s going on?" His tone was admonishing, as if speaking to a stubborn student.

"You’re lying to me," Recluse insisted.

"Why would you think that?"

"You know why."

Sage’s eyes widened at that. What was he supposed to know?

"I don’t understand what you’re talking about."

"You understand perfectly," Recluse leaned in. "I want the truth."

"What truth?" Sage’s voice wavered, as if he were on the verge of shouting.

"You know exactly what truth!" Recluse raised his voice.

"I honestly don’t know!" Sage exclaimed. He slid off the windowsill and tried to step back, only to feel the familiar warmth of Recluse’s hand clamping around his wrist. Their eyes met – Recluse’s gleamed with fury as his other hand seized the collar of Sage’s robe, yanking him closer to his freckled face.

"Stop it!" Recluse commanded.

"Stop what?!" Sage cried, grabbing at the wrist restraining him. "I don’t even know what you’re talking about!"

"You know what I’m talking about!"

"No, I don’t! You can’t read my thoughts!" Sage dug his sharp nails into the soft dough of Recluse’s wrist. The hermit hissed and released his grip on Sage’s collar. The mage stumbled back, straightening the crooked brooch with his souljam. "I don’t know what nonsense you’ve convinced yourself of, but I have no idea what you’re talking about!" he repeated, not letting Recluse get a word in. "How could I possibly know anything about you when you refuse to tell me a single thing? I don’t even know your real name, ‘Truthless Recluse’. That’s not even a proper name! I’ve been trying to make your stay here comfortable, but you resist me at every turn, and I don’t even know why!" Sage clenched his fists, his voice trembling, this time with bitterness. "The only thing I do know is that you like plants. I thought if I gave you a garden and moonlight ivy, you might finally open up to me..." His gaze flickered to the poor ivy. The stem Sage had touched earlier now hung limply over the edge of the windowsill. The faint silver patterns glimmered weakly in the shadow of the wall, as if begging for attention. "Maybe I’m just trying too hard."

Sage floated toward the door and slipped into the hallway. Recluse watched him go, and as soon as the door clicked shut behind the mage, the hermit turned his attention back to the ivy. The dark stem swayed irritatingly, its leaves trembling faintly, as if waiting to be touched again. Recluse closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, the cool pastel surface soothing against his heated dough.

Meanwhile, Sage had already reached his own room, the white door slamming shut behind him from a sudden gust of wind. He blinked in surprise at the small hurricane of golden scrolls swirling in the center of his chamber.

"Not again," he groaned, floating toward the glowing whirlwind of parchment. With a few quick motions, he plucked one scroll from the chaos and the rest immediately scattered across the room, smacking against walls, floor, and ceiling. "Get yourselves together. I know you’re eager to return to your owners, but I’d rather not deal with a mini-tornado in my room again," Sage grumbled, rolling up the scroll and chastising the unruly papers. "Straighten yourselves out and hop into the portal."

He swept a hand through the air, slicing through the fabric of space like paper. Before him, a disc of swirling black, blue, and gold appeared–the portal hummed softly, muffled student voices whispering from within. The golden scrolls, hearing familiar tones, neatly rolled themselves up and fluttered into the portal like a flock of paper birds. Once the last scroll, the one that had been struggling in Sage’s grip, disappeared into the painted wormhole, Sage breathed out and stretched a wide grin, flying in after them.

He was met with a cacophony of young voices as students laughed and greeted the golden scrolls fluttering toward them like pets. Sage of Truth quickly scanned the classroom before hovering in the air and announcing:

"Morning, kids!"

"Morning, Professor Sage!" the students chorused back.

"I checked your reports and you all did great!" The mage descended slightly. "Though your scrolls decided to misbehave a bit this morning. Double-check that your notes aren’t scrambled, or things might get awkward."

One by one, the students unrolled their works. Some skimmed the lines quickly, while others got distracted by their own doodles in the margins. But they all shared one problem.

"Professor," a student in the front row raised her hand.

"Yes, Baklava?"

"All my words are jumbled," she said, laying the scroll on her desk. Sage floated closer and glanced at the parchment. The neatly written letters, once in strict, orderly lines, were now overlapping, slanted, or some even upside down.

"Hmm," Sage drawled. "That’s unfortunate." He lifted his gaze to the rest of the class. "Anyone else suffering from this nonsense?"

A wave of groans and complaints rolled through the room. Some students had to twist their scrolls just to read the spiraling text. Others grumbled about botched potion formulas, where ingredients had not only mixed incorrectly on paper but led to entirely wrong conclusions. And a couple of cookies who might’ve been considered lucky whined about ruined sketches.

"Well then," Sage forced a smile. "Looks like we’ll have to revisit the recipe for good old Order Elixir." He waved a hand, pushing several desks together into long worktables. In the next moment, glass candy flasks clinked as they flew out of an open cabinet, followed by licorice cauldrons landing on the tables with a thud. "You’ll work in pairs to speed things up. Everyone has the necessary ingredients from the last three times, right?"

A blond student with a slightly singed mantle slowly raised his hand.

"Got it. Baklava, pair up with Pastissio, please."

"Fine," Baklava replied, though her defeated tone made it clear she wasn’t thrilled about the arrangement.

Sage of Truth drifted back to his lectern and hovered in a lotus position. He clapped his hands – more out of habit than to actually get anyone’s attention.

"Let’s fix your scrolls quickly and get started with the lecture."

The students gradually pulled out ingredients from their bags: roots of some plant, a few vials of liquid, and pouches of shimmering sand. Divided into pairs, they began brewing the elixir under Sage’s watchful eye. For the cookie, who adored teaching at the academy, the start of a lecture where his beloved students had to repeatedly prepare the same potion was a painful ordeal. This process stole precious minutes from the lesson, minutes he could’ve spent imparting new knowledge gathered over millennia of life. And all because the professor "still hadn’t found the main culprit behind the morning scroll storms." That was Sage’s excuse to the students. All to protect his little secret with Pastissio.

The boy wasn’t exactly a star student, but he was hardworking and sincere. Early in the semester, Sage had taken notice of the blond cookie who’d singed his own mantle while practicing a spell. Pairing with him often led to small misadventures, Pastissio might accidentally spill an invisibility potion and spend the rest of the day missing his head and part of his left arm, or get so lost in thought he’d blurt out something hilariously nonsensical instead of answering the professor’s question. Yeah, the kid definitely knew how to lift the mood of the entire class and Sage himself.

Still, they had to solve the scroll problem somehow. It was as if the parchment had absorbed Pastissio’s knack for trouble. When Sage first discovered the rustling paper hurricane in his room, his golden monocle had quickly pinpointed the culprit.

The mage had spoken with Pastissio about this multiple times, and each time, the student promised his scroll would behave. Yet once again, that promise shattered against reality, leaving the students to brew the same tedious elixir they’d grown sick of.

Sage of Truth glanced at Pastissio, who was working with Baklava. The girl didn’t even let the boy near the workstation. Her two ginger braids, sticking out in opposite directions, occasionally smacked into him whenever he tried to help. Every time Pastissio attempted to contribute, Baklava would just roll her eyes before her braid thwacked his arm.

"Move, you’re in the way," Baklava snapped.

"But I want to help," Pastissio protested.

"I know your kind of help," the girl muttered irritably, rolling her eyes as she monitored the reaction of the sand in the viscous liquid.

Pastissio lowered his gaze and stepped back. Sage noticed the tension between them, rolled his eyes, and floated over to their table.

"How’s it going over here?" Sage smiled.

"Everything’s fine," Baklava answered immediately. "Just need to crush the roots and–"

"Let Pastissio handle that," the professor suggested, glancing at the boy. Baklava stared at the blond with wide, horrified eyes.

"But, Professor–"

"I didn’t pair you up for no reason," Sage smirked.

Pastissio stepped forward, standing beside Baklava. The girl shot him a distrustful look and tensed as the blond picked up the mortar, dropped in a few roots, and began crushing them with the pestle. The rhythmic thud and crack of the roots sent a faint ripple of anxiety through Baklava’s chest.

"Let’s discuss your recent work instead," Sage said smoothly. "I noticed some notes in the margins. Care to explain your thought process?"

"Oh, of course!" The girl perked up. "Last time, when you were explaining spatial magic…" As she spoke, she returned to the flask where the sand was slowly dissolving in the warm, fiery-hued liquid. Baklava set the flask down and moved to the cauldron, pouring the mixture in. "…and then I thought that ordinary cookies, those without magical abilities, might be able to use…" She reached for a bottle of pure morning dew water, uncorked it, and began carefully filling the cauldron. Everything would’ve been fine, if not for the increasingly loud thumping of the pestle. A quick glance at Pastissio’s hands revealed a faint spark.

The ginger-haired cookie leapt back from the table just in time to catch Sage’s brief, startled look.

It was the last thing she saw before the explosion.

 

The fingertips of a warm, freckled hand traced the longest stem of the moonlight ivy. Golden patterns shimmered invitingly, and the velvety leaves seemed to lean into the gentle touch. They didn’t even flinch under the icy, monotonous gaze watching how sunlight played across their textured surfaces. The atmosphere in the hermit’s room was surprisingly comfortable, silence broken only by the soft rustle of fingers brushing leaves. It almost seemed as though the plant emitted a faint, crisp scent, like night air during a frost.

The hermit didn’t so much as twitch when the door suddenly slammed open, hitting the wall with a loud bang.

"Turron said you called for me," came an unusually exhausted voice, followed by heavy footsteps. Recluse was surprised but kept his expression neutral, listening as the mage approached. "Make it quick. I had a rough day at the academy, and I’m very tired."

Recluse lifted his gaze from the plant to the speaker – and his dark eyes flew open, lips parting in silent shock.

Sage looked… awful, to put it mildly.

Half his face was badly burned and thoroughly battered. One cheek resembled a lunar crater, deep cracks splitting through his blue-tinged dough, running across his eye and lips. The left side of his hair, including part of his silver bangs, was singed to a crisp.

Recluse even thought that the stars in the mage’s cosmic hair had dimmed, as if on the verge of vanishing. His collar was badly torn, barely clinging to his slender blue neck, which was also marred by deep cracks. The golden monocle on its delicate chain, thankfully, remained unharmed, merely dangling limply and tapping against his blue vest – which, for better or worse, was only crumpled and smudged with soot. His left arm was practically gone, along with the wide sleeve of his pristine white shirt. All that remained was a barely attached hand, dangling uselessly with even the slightest movement.

"What happened to you?" Recluse asked. Sage might have smirked at the unexpected question if he weren’t so exhausted.

"A makeover," he muttered sarcastically, though no less wearily. "Call it 'Laboratory Explosion.'" The mage raised his intact hand, covering his eyes and massaging his temple. His legs trembled faintly, barely keeping him upright. "’m dizzy."

"Sit down," Recluse ordered curtly.

Sage cracked open his multicolored eyes, not a trace of surprise in them, and, limping to the armchair, collapsed into it. Despite his condition, he watched Recluse with tired curiosity. The hermit first scrutinized him from head to toe, then slowly rose from the windowsill. His tall, dark-clad figure blocked the clear sunlight streaming through the window. He stepped closer to Sage and leaned in, staring directly into his face.

Sage wasn’t sure how to interpret this unusual behavior from his brooding guest. The intensity of Recluse’s gaze was something new. Maybe, under different circumstances, the mage would’ve been delighted by the attention – if he weren’t so utterly drained. His last reserves of energy were spent just keeping his eyes open.

"Don’t worry, I already wrote to Genie. She’ll–" Sage didn’t get to finish before he felt the warmth of an unfamiliar hand. Despite his exhaustion, his multicolored eyes widened in shock, locking onto the hermit. His lips parted…

Then a sudden, blinding light forced him to squeeze his eyes shut. Something cool traced along his battered cheek, slipping between the cracks and seeping deep into his dough. Sage let out a sharp hiss and then, in the next moment, relief washed over him. The warm hand moved lower, brushing his neck. The throbbing pain from his wounds began to fade. He even managed to crack his eyes open, catching a glimpse of radiant light spilling over his shoulder.

Then Recluse touched his arm.

White light, laced with golden sparks, seeped into every crack. Clusters of magic enveloped the scorched patches of dough, bringing soothing coolness and ease.

When the glow faded, Sage looked down at his hand in disbelief. The cracks, craters, and blackened soot had vanished – as if they’d never been there. He gingerly touched his neck, then his cheek, smooth, whole. His hardened dough had returned to its original state.

"You’re a healer?" Sage stared at Recluse in awe.

Recluse didn’t answer, simply returning to the windowsill. The mage pushed himself up from the chair, floating through the air toward the hermit. "Why didn’t you say anything?"

"What’s the point? These abilities are useless."

"Useless?!" Sage exclaimed with exaggerated outrage. "Recluse, you’re a healer! One touch, and pain and injuries vanish! How is that useless?"

"Here, it is," Recluse replied quietly but firmly, settling back onto the windowsill beside the moonlight ivy.

"I refuse to believe that," Sage insisted stubbornly, hovering near the window. "Good healers are always needed! Just imagine how many cookies you could help – not just in the palace, but in the city too! Your power would be invaluable!"

"I don’t do that anymore," Recluse murmured. His hand reached for the ivy’s velvety leaves, which eagerly leaned into his warm, gentle touch.

"But you used to," Sage pointed out. Recluse only stared silently at the golden patterns.

"So… you like it?" the mage asked hopefully.

"Don’t know," Recluse shrugged.

"I just need to know if you're going to take care of it or not," Sage explained. "If you don't want to, I can move the ivy to the garden. Dandelion is a good gardener, he'll take care of–"

"I already told you," Recluse interrupted, "...it will die if moved too often. Especially so abruptly." His finger traced the shimmering pattern. "Let it stay here. Judging by the markings, it's still young – let it get used to one place."

"Alright," Sage agreed, his lips curling into a warm smile. "Your ivy, your call." He smirked, crossing his arms. When the exposed dough of his left hand brushed against his vest, the mage suddenly realized his outfit was still in tatters. "Apologies for the... uh less-than-presentable appearance."

With a wave of his hand, the torn white fabric began stitching itself back together. His first instinct was to restore the wide sleeve to its original state but a sudden idea flickered in his mind, freezing the blue streams of magic mid-air. Sage grinned, mischief sparking in his multicolored eyes.

In the next moment, the fabric stretched and wrapped tightly around his arm. When the blue magical particles dissipated, Sage tilted his head and flexed his left hand, now adorned with a fingerless glove. A single loop clung to his slender middle finger.

"What do you think?"

He held his hand out to Recluse, flexing it so the fabric stretched taut. The hermit gave the glove-sleeve a disinterested glance.

"Why?"

"For the memory," Sage chimed, admiring his little design project.

"You look like a clown."

The blunt remark didn’t faze Sage, he just laughed at the comparison.

"Clearly, you have no taste for good ideas," he snorted, but then softened when he noticed how carefully Recluse touched the moonlight ivy. "Do you need anything for it? Tools, fertilizer, anything?"

"Yes, that would help," Recluse murmured.

"I’m listening!" Sage exclaimed, spinning in the air and bowing like a performer.

"Moonlight ivy isn’t fussy. Just a jug of water. Maybe some shears to trim the stems."

"That’s all?"

"For now."

"One second!" Sage flicked his hand, slicing through the fabric of space with a sharp nail. A portal yawned open before him, emitting a faint blue glow. Recluse tensed at the familiar swirl of colors. Out of the corner of his eye, Sage noticed the hermit flinching at the mere sight of it. "Sorry," he said. Another wave dissolved the spinning disc. "Forgot you don’t like them. I’ll just fly and grab the tools, alright?"

Recluse nodded. The mage straightened, puffing out his chest as if to show off his readiness.

"I’ll be back in no time!"

In the next moment, he vanished through the door, a wild gust of wind tearing through the castle halls. The maids cursed as morning dust swirled in his wake. Finally, the blue cookie spotted an arched window – one not yet adorned with stained glass – and veered sharply, bursting out into the open air.

A blue whirlwind tore through the servants' quarters. The cookies barely had time to react before a sharp gust of wind rushed past them. Sage zipped down a narrow corridor and skidded to a stop in front of a door. The loud creak made the young man at the desk jump in his seat. The cookie with disheveled snow-white hair turned at the noise.

"Oh! It’s you, Sage of Truth."

"Dandelion!" Sage’s voice rang out. "Emergency! I need garden shears, Recluse asked for them."

"Truthless Recluse?" Dandelion stared at the mage in disbelief.

"Yep," Sage replied simply. "Got any extras lying around?"

"Uh…yeah, hold on, please." Dandelion rummaged through a desk drawer before pulling out a pair of shears and handing them over.

"Thank you so much!" Sage of Truth snatched the shears and darted back into the hallway with the same speed he'd arrived. "I owe you one!"

The blue cookie, desperate to please his guest, then zipped through the kitchen. It was bright, but far from cozy – a place of sterile cleanliness maintained by a team of maids led by Turron. This was likely the only spot in the entire castle where not a speck of dust could be found. And only the sudden appearance of the castle’s master could disrupt its polished perfection.

Sage burst in like a miniature hurricane. The gust of wind accompanying him flung open windows, sent towels and aprons sliding off hooks, and scattered them across the floor. But the mage didn’t even notice the chaos he’d caused. With the grace of a feather dancing on the breeze, he floated to the upper cabinets and began flinging them open one by one, searching for a suitable water pitcher. How does Turron even find anything in here? He wondered, until his eyes landed on a neat caramel jug with a tall neck and an elegant handle. His face lit up at the discovery.

As the pitcher slowly filled with water, Sage couldn’t help but imagine Recluse taking the tools in hand and tending to the moonlight ivy. Ever since buying the plant, the mage had dreamed of seeing his gift bring the hermit even the tiniest speck of joy. He’d settle for a single grain of happiness – just to hear that deep voice come alive, muttering something about gardening with rare enthusiasm. Every word, even a dismissive one, would be worth the effort.

When water began cascading over the edges of the jug, Sage snatched it up and fled the kitchen, leaving behind utter, horrifying disarray. If Turron had walked in at that moment, the wide-open windows would’ve been the least of her concerns. Cabinet contents strewn across worktables, freshly ironed towels and aprons crumpled on the floor, and a gleaming puddle of water spreading under the sunlight… she would’ve frozen in the doorway, taken one long look at the devastation, sighed deeply, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Then, a quiet "Sage of Truth…," before turning on her heel and summoning the nearest maid in a sharp, commanding tone.

It was terrifying to imagine what the grand white palace would look like if Sage of Truth were its sole resident. Thankfully, the mage didn’t have to worry about that. His bright mind was occupied by one thing only – Recluse, patiently waiting in his room.

"Here you go!" Sage flew into the hermit’s quarters and set the slightly splashed water jug on the table. With a theatrical flourish, he placed the shears beside it. Recluse responded with a curt nod and reached for them, carefully beginning to trim the stems.

"Why are you doing that?" Sage asked curiously.

"So it doesn’t overgrow," Recluse replied quietly, his tone surprisingly calm.

"Imagine if it did, though. Those leaves would add some aesthetic flair to my castle."

"What’s aesthetic about dangling ivy vines?"

"Ah, right, I forgot, you’re no connoisseur of beauty," Sage smirked, settling into the armchair. "So the ivy just stays here, then?"

"As I already said–"

"–it’ll die if moved too often," Sage finished for him. "I remember. But…" He paused, thoughtful. "How do you know how to care for moonlight ivy? Did you have one before?"

"You could say that," Recluse answered hesitantly. Despite the silence that followed, he could feel Sage’s gaze burning into him – full of curiosity and impatience. "In my garden…" he began slowly.

"So you did have moonlight ivy!"

"A variation of it," Recluse corrected. "Starlight ivy, to be precise."

"Starlight ivy?"

"Visually similar, but the leaves are firmer to the touch, with sharper edges," Recluse explained. "It’s more common than moonlight ivy. And the silver patterns on starlight ivy don’t change in sunlight."

"Interesting," Sage mused, narrowing his eyes. "And where did you get this ivy from?"

"I grew up near a forest where there were many ironwoods."

"Ironwoods?" Sage arched a brow in surprise.

"That's what they called them in the village," Recluse replied quietly, then suddenly froze. His fingers unconsciously tightened around the ivy stem, and the hand holding the shears slowly lowered to his lap.

"So you're from a village," Sage said, thrilled to have gleaned another tiny piece of information about his enigmatic guest. "Which one, exactly? Is it within Spireofknowledge's borders, or are you from a neighboring kingdom?"

Silence struck Sage like a slap to the face, screaming that Recluse wanted to be left alone. The mage retreated from the brooding gardener, sinking back into the armchair.

"You can keep going. I won't pry," he offered, just in case. But Recluse didn’t move. He only shifted his gaze from the moonlight ivy to the castle courtyard outside. His profile, half-hidden behind tousled blond hair, stood out starkly against the daylight – a dark, angular silhouette framed by the bright blue sky. The sunlight traced his edges like a gilded outline.

Sage watched, fascinated, as the light played across Recluse’s motionless form. His eyes traced the hermit’s sun-kissed face, dark clothing, the golden embroidery on his sleeves casting dazzling reflections, the hand gripping the shears, the fingers curled delicately around the slender stem like a thread. The shimmering pattern on the ivy’s velvety leaves caught Sage’s eye, and for some reason, a phrase echoed in his mind:

"It’ll die if moved too often."

It filled his thoughts, stuck like an annoying, repetitive tune. Recluse had said it too many times, that exact phrase.

Sage closed his eyes, lost in contemplation. He loved picking apart such statements, turning them over in his mind like puzzle pieces. These logical exercises often led him to revelations or simply entertained him when nothing else held his attention. Now, his focus zeroed in on one thing: the moonlight ivy. It was perhaps the most beautiful plant Sage had ever seen, which made it all the more startling that something so rare and exquisite could be killed by something as simple as a change of environment.

Though he’d never seen a wilted moonlight ivy, his imagination conjured the grim image: limp, twisted stems, leaves curled unnaturally, veins swollen and grotesque, tiny glimmers of light sliding off the weakened foliage like dying stars.

Then, a sudden realization struck him.

The dark, radiant plant, reflecting sunlight like a mirror, reminded Sage of the hermit. But it wasn’t just the shared palette of shadows and soft textures that linked Recluse to the ivy. The brooding cookie was similarly solitary, requiring little sustenance – just like Herb had said about the moonlight ivy.

The parallel hit Sage like a lightning bolt.

Too many similarities connected the cookie and the plant. And if that were true, then Recluse’s repeated warning might not have been about the ivy at all.

A flash of memory blinded Sage’s thoughts.

The top floor of the Peak of Truth – a circular belvedere ringed by columns. Violent winds mercilessly battering the open platform, as if trying to purge the cookie who had turned his back on Truth. Endless stretches of jagged cliffs and ravines, a gray sky choked with storm clouds, thunder rumbling eternally behind them. And at the center of it all, a lone cookie in dark robes, who hadn’t even noticed the mage’s arrival at first.

The memory was fleeting, like a stained-glass snapshot, but it was immediately replaced by another.

Sage's blue hand gripping the edge of Recluse's cloak, the hermit's face frozen in fear and confusion, and the swirling portal shimmering with black, blue, and gold hues. At that moment, Sage realized with horror: it was him who had torn Recluse from his familiar environment, exposing him to unseen danger.

Notes:

I am so so so sorry it took too long to add this chapter, there are a lot of problems with the internet and VPN servers in our country, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless <3
Also I'm thinking about writing some oneshots, not about this AU, but something different, not a translation, so stay tuned for that as well!