The Spire and the Sea

by Sunfechi

Summary:

Truthless Recluse knows two absolute truths: Shadow Milk Cookie is a monster, and he himself is beyond saving.

But the universe, in its irony, offers no salvation. It casts him back into the quiet orbit of the Fount of Knowledge—the serene and lonely virtue who is both the origin and the ghost of his suffering.

Now, a prisoner of memory in a castle that breathes on its own, he is condemned to watch the dawn of his own destruction. Every glimpse of kindness feels like a betrayal. Every shared silence, a beautiful, painful lie. He is caught in the exquisite torture of mourning a future that has not yet died, forever wondering if he is here to remember the fall, or to place his hand upon the knife and begin it.

Or
Witness Truthless Recluse and the Fount of Knowledge entwined in a dance of memory, mercy, and madness—a relentless waltz that risks the shattering of all they’ve become, even as it reveals the truth of who they are meant to be. It is nothing less than the death of ego, and in its wake, the terrifying rebirth of self.

[WEEKLY UPDATES, 1-5 chapters a week depending on my unhingedness]

Chapter 1: The Sea of Flowers

Notes:

Key tags to keep in mind: Psychological Horror (to some extent), Slow Burn and Slow Build, Slow Romance, Character Study and Heavy Angst.
No Sexual Intimacy just means no sex to me or like straight up nsfw, just in case.

BUT anyways, hi! I’m Sunfechi and I’m working on something slow burn, angsty and a little surreal—a character study involving ShadowVanilla (mostly TruthlessFount, initially).

I’m really happy to be sharing it! I’ve tried my best to keep the characters in character while still giving it my own twist. This fic does start a bit episodic but there is an overarching plot that’s slowly being built as you read. Keep an eye out for the many things being thrown around. There is no such thing as overanalyzing here, everything is intentional :^)

 

This is my first fanfic in YEARS—I recently orphaned my old works on this account, but they were from way back in 2018!!!

So yes… slow burnnn, angstttt.

I hope you all enjoy it! :’)

A madman.

A beast.

A monster.

The cookie that stood before him was no less than a ravaging beast—fangs bared, eyes burning with pure and utter hatred.

Yet all Pure Vanilla could feel was compassion.

Compassion for the lost man whose entire world had betrayed him—and who, in turn, would betray himself with lies so bitter, he’d be forced to sugarcoat them just to endure their taste. For a lie repeated enough times becomes indistinguishable from the truth.

 

However, this story is not of the time when the beast and the healer clashed, both tainted by the inevitability of lies. 

Because before Pure Vanilla would find himself in that scene, he would come to understand the absolute truth.

A truth that lies buried—as it always does—in the past.

~~~

The moment Truthless Recluse opened his eyes, he found himself in what appeared to be a sea of flowers. Milky white and fragile, they stretched out as far as his eyes could see. Above, the glimmer of the moon greeted him—the only thing familiar to him in this situation. 

A mere second before, he had found himself in the Spire of Deceit, in the room his other half had prepared for him. Yet now, there he was, lying on top of foreign flowers, in the midst of who knows where, all alone, and very much confused. 

Oh—and his Soul Jam to his side for some reason. 

It didn’t take long for Truthless Recluse to stand up. He brushed his bottom with his hands to clear his dark robes of the dirt, and took one good look at his surroundings.

Flowers, flowers, and more flowers.

Seriously, where was he? 

Fortunately, something unfamiliar soon broke the monotony in the distance.  A castle of opalescent stone, tinged with glimmers of Aegean blue, rose in the distance—imposing, out of place, as if declaring itself the most important thing in the area.

Truthfully, it probably was. 

Regardless, there was one blatant truth before him—if he was to figure out where he was, he needed to head there, or else walk aimlessly through a somewhat nauseating repetitive scenery and pray to the witches to find a cookie around. 

He may have given up most of his hope and pursuit for truth, welcoming the sweet embrace of deceit, but he wasn’t that hopeless yet. Asking some questions has never hurt… too much. 

Thus, with Soul Jam in hand, though hesitantly, he made his way to the self-aggrandizing tower.

~~~

Perhaps “self-aggrandizing” was too harsh—for at the gates, it was, in every sense, grandiose. Towering statues carved from lilac stone stood sentinel on either side, each shaped as a man holding a scale. Between them, a vast gate yawned open, and beyond it, a meticulously arranged patio stretched forth, adorned with flora unlike anything the cookie had ever seen. Slender towers rose from various corners of the castle, all clad in the same palette of bone and blue. A few bore delicate spiral-railed balconies that overlooked the courtyard below.

Whoever the owner of the castle was, they had no intention of blending in with the world beyond its walls. Everything about it—its careful symmetry, the unyielding height of its spires, the choice of colors that shimmered just slightly off from reality—seemed in a way theatrical. 

What truly unsettled Truthless Recluse was the silence. In the Vanilla Kingdom, even at the quietest hour of night, there was always something—a lone wanderer strolling under moonlight, the distant chatter of cheerful citizens, or the soft hum of a bard’s tune weaving through the streets. But here… nothing. Not a sound. Not a soul. Just him, his Soul Jam, and the echo of his thoughts, suspended in the middle of opulence.

It felt lonely.

Very, very lonely.

Truthless Recluse pushed the thought aside and kept moving.

The gates into the castle stood wide open, as if waiting for him—no locks, no barriers, not even a guard in sight.

No guards.

No signs of life.

No anything.

What was up with this place?

 

Inside, he expected opulence: grand halls, chandeliers, polished floors. But instead, he found… classrooms. Lavish classrooms, yes—but classrooms all the same. Dozens of them. Dozens too many. Lecture halls, laboratories, study rooms—all echoing with silence.

Was this not a castle, but a school?

He wandered further, footsteps tapping softly against cold stone. He searched for someone—anyone—or at least a clue about where he was and why. Hallway after hallway, door after door.

Until, finally, he found it.

A library.

At last.

He stepped inside.

The scent of parchment and dust greeted him instantly—warm, nostalgic, and deeply out of place in such a pristine setting. Towering shelves stretched far above his head, crammed with books whose titles were either faded beyond recognition or written in scripts he didn’t understand. The windows were tall and narrow, stained glass filtering in moonlight that danced like oil on water. A staircase curled upward into the darkness of the upper levels, and golden chandeliers hovered, not hanging, just… floating.

It was beautiful. 

And yet, like everything else, completely, utterly empty.

Truthless Recluse wandered in silence through the rows of shelves, running his fingers across spines. He didn’t know what he was looking for—perhaps a memory. Perhaps a mistake. The loneliness here felt denser somehow, like it knew things he didn’t.

Until—

“Ah, a cookie.”

Every crumb in Truthless Recluse’s body stopped moving.  

“I know I am always needed, and I’m more than welcome to help, though given today’s occasion, and the hour, I didn’t expect a visitor.” 

Truthless Recluse shot a look back to confirm his suspicions. 

Before him stood a cookie all too familiar.

Tall, with pale blue dough and sharp features—one eye framed by dark lashes and a cyan pupil, the other with white lashes and a soft blue pupil. His long, dark blue hair, once wild and unruly, now flowed gently like a calm river, adorned not with countless eyes but with shimmering stars. And yet, something was undeniably off.

He wore no jester’s garb. Instead, a flowing robe of black and gold dragged along the floor with each step he took. His usual chaos—those mad ridden, star-drenched eyes and that snarling hatred—was gone. In its place: stillness. Poise. A strange, unsettling curiosity.

It was a face Truthless Recluse knew all too well, now wearing an expression he had never seen before. So gentle. So kind. So warm.

It made his stomach turn.

There was no doubt.

“Shadow Milk Cookie…”

The cookie widened his eyes.

“Shadow Milk… what?”

The beast clothed in new robes let out a light laugh, unbothered.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said, correcting Truthless Recluse with the same casual confidence one might use to straighten a tilted painting.

“I am no ‘Shadow Milk Cookie.’ Have you perhaps hit your head? Or confused me with someone else…?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“I believe I’ve heard of a ‘Blueberry Milk Cookie’… maybe even ‘Chocolate Milk Cookie’… but ‘Shadow Milk Cookie’? Hm. That’s a first.”

He let the word linger, tasting it.

“Shadow… how curious.”

“Hit my—”

Truthless Recluse stared, bewildered, his brow furrowing as bitterness welled up.

“Is this another one of your ‘tests’?”

“My tests?” the other mused.

“As much as I love giving them, no—no, not this time,” he said with a little pout, before gasping softly as if a light had flickered on behind his eyes.

“Oh! Wait—are you testing me? Some sort of riddle? I have heard rumors of my students planning a new game for me. Is this it? Making me guess whether ‘Shadow Milk Cookie’ is real? If I’ve been called that before? Ha! Very clever, little one.”

“That’s not—I’m not—”

Truthless Recluse stumbled over his words.

“I’m not a student.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“What’s going on?”

The other cookie simply smiled. A soft, candid smile—so gentle it unsettled him more than any manic grin ever had.

“Perhaps you could tell me,” he said, almost cheerfully.

“I am the Fount of Knowledge, after all.” A slight tilt of his head. “But without a predicament, I can hardly provide a solution. Unless you’re here for a lesson… or simply to hear me talk?”

The Fount of Knowledge…

Wasn’t that his name before the fall? Before the deceit, before the madness?

Was he inside a memory?

Or worse… was this something real?

 

The Fount’s gaze shifted—just slightly.

Truthless Recluse followed it instinctively.

He noticed the way the Fount’s eyes fixed on the Soul Jam in his hands.

“That gem…”

Truthless Recluse instinctively clutched it tighter.

The Fount narrowed his eyes, curious.

“Are you perhaps… a fan?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with delight.

A what?

“It’s quite the replica of mine,” he continued, gesturing to his staff. Embedded at the top was a Soul Jam—identical in color and shape to the one Truthless Recluse held. The only difference from the one Truthless Recluse knew far too well: the one on the staff glowed with a calm, upward tilt, where Shadow Milk’s… was downturned.

“I must say, I’m flattered. I congratulate you.”

What?

Truthless Recluse stared at him.

At the gem.

At himself.

He didn’t get to explain himself before the Fount started talking again. 

“Though a word of advice,” he began, “there are many who would do anything to get their hand on this very special item. So please be careful when carrying that around. I would hate for you to get hurt because of me.” 

Truthless Recluse blinked.

Because of me.

He wasn’t sure what stung more—the words themselves or the way they were said. So genuine. So concerned. So… unlike him.

He stared at the Fount of Knowledge as if trying to look past the flesh, into the cracks beneath. There had to be something—a twitch, a laugh, a flicker of familiar malice—anything to confirm that this was all some elaborate lie.

But there wasn’t. There was only kindness.

“I’ll be fine,” Truthless Recluse muttered, finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

The Fount smiled, relieved. “Good. That’s good.”

He turned away then, walking slowly along the rows of ancient bookshelves with the grace of someone who had done this routine for centuries, akin to a monarch strolling through his gardens. Truthless Recluse followed without thinking, footsteps hesitant on the polished stone.

“Do you… live here?” he asked after a moment, more to break the silence than anything else.

The Fount chuckled softly. “Live? Oh, not quite. I teach. I study. I watch the stars shift overhead and the truth ‘dance’ beneath my feet like little mice. But live?” He looked over his shoulder. “That feels far too temporary.”

Truthless Recluse frowned at the response but didn’t press further.

The two continued in silence, weaving through shelves and forgotten knowledge until the Fount stopped before a tall, narrow window of pale stained glass. Moonlight spilled through it in trembling colors—lilac, seafoam, Aegean blue—painting his face in soft hues.

He turned to Truthless Recluse with a curious look. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“I haven’t,” Truthless Recluse replied.

The Fount raised an eyebrow, amused. “A mystery, then. Very well. I suppose that makes us even—I seem to be quite the mystery to you, too.”

Truthless Recluse looked at him, long and quietly. “You have no idea.”

The Fount only smiled again. Not a grin. Not smugness. Just something… sincere. Peaceful. Like the kind of smile one gives to a friend they haven’t met yet.

“I look forward to unraveling it,” he said. “In time.”

Truthless Recluse didn’t know how to answer.

He wasn’t sure he could.

So instead, he just stood there—Soul Jam clutched in one hand, heart gripped by something he didn’t want to name.

Whatever this place was, and whoever this version of Shadow Milk had once been, it was clear now:

He wasn’t the only one haunted by the future.

The Fount seemed to sense the heaviness in the silence. He turned away from the window and motioned for TR to follow. “Come,” he said gently. “You must be tired. I’ll prepare a room for you.”

Truthless Recluse blinked. “A room?”

The Fount nodded. “It’s late. And you’re clearly far from home, though you’re still keeping quite a few details to yourself.” He said it playfully, without accusation.

Truthless Recluse hesitated. His instinct screamed at him.

Don’t stay.

But his feet didn’t move. His body ached. His mind was foggy.

And for the first time in a while, he realized: he had nowhere else to go. It was just like the Spire of Deceit again.

“…Alright,” he said softly.

The Fount smiled again—that same warm, unguarded expression that made his stomach twist.

“This way.”

They moved through the upper halls, past narrow balconies and locked classrooms, until they reached a quiet corridor at the far end of the tower. The Fount opened a door—white wood carved with old runes—and gestured inward.

The room was… simple. Quiet. A window looked out over the moonlit sea of flowers below. There was a bed, a desk, and a single glass lantern hanging from the ceiling, softly glowing.

“Sleep well,” said the Fount from the doorway. “If you dream, I hope it’s of better days.”

Truthless Recluse didn’t respond.

He stood there for a long time after the door closed, staring out the window. The spire stood tall behind him. The sea of flowers shimmered in silence.

The Soul Jam in his hand pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere down the hall, footsteps faded. And then there was only stillness.

He was safe.

For now.

But he knew better than to trust peace like this.

Especially since he was still trapped within the lair of a beast.

Fangs or not. 

Notes:

You can find me as @Sunfechi on Tiktok x3

Chapter 2: The Fount’s World

Notes:

Ive decided to also publish this one as I think I’ll do 2 chapters per update since theyre pretty short and some are intertwined

Edit: Came back to fix some stuff
Jeez what was up with me and “then” in this chapter LOL

He ran.

Through smoke, through mirrors, through glass that cracked beneath his steps and turned to syrup. The halls twisted in impossible ways, collapsing in on themselves like lungs exhaling the last of their air. Doorways looped, staircases folded. No matter where he turned, it all led back.

To the stage.

A crumbling sea of stars and teeth, of laughter too wide. The floor reverberated like a living thing beneath him—blackened wood veined with molten gold, splitting and reforming with each step.

And waiting at the center—arms outstretched in mockery of a savior—stood Shadow Milk.

Almost invisible strings twisting from his fingers. The void behind him rippled like silk, creasing in on itself with the elegance of withering flowers. Eyes blinked in and out of existence across its surface, each one watching him.

A grin stretched across the cosmos.

“Still chasing truth, Nilly?” the beast hissed.

“Or are you here to sweeten your suffering a second time?”

Truthless Recluse stumbled back, breath ragged. He reached for his staff—

It melted between his fingers, turned to wax, then cinders, then nothing.

He fumbled for his Soul Jam. Called to it.

Nothing.

No answer.

The grin widened. Teeth split like cracks in eggshells.

“Didn’t you forget?” Shadow Milk snarled.

“It’s mine.”

He tried to speak—to deny it, to fight back. His lips parted. Nothing.

The air caught in his throat like thorns.

Above, the constellations convulsed. Strings coiled down from the heavens like nooses. The ground vanished beneath his feet.

He was falling.

Falling through stars, through silk, through time turned inside out.

Shadow Milk’s silhouette loomed in every corner of the dark, multiplied by mirrors that reflected nothing but his grin and Truthless Recluse’s failure. Strings snapped taut around his wrists, ankles and throat—pulling him into a puppet’s pose.

“Don’t worry,” came the whisper—low, cloying, echoing from everywhere.

“I’ll make sure you regret everything this time.”

Something surged forward—teeth, strings, stars, eyes—

They collapsed into him all at once.

He screamed.

And woke.

~~~

His breath came in gasps. Cold sweat clung to his forehead like honey.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

Suddenly, he remembered. The flowers. The castle. The silence.

Sleep had betrayed him once already. Now the day seemed intent on doing the same.

The Fount.

He sat up quickly, eyes darting to the corners of the dim room. The desk and window were still there.

And so was he.

A soft rustle nearby made him flinch.

The Fount of Knowledge stood not far off, halfway tucked behind a chair, arms gently clasped behind his back, expression caught somewhere between worry and… wonder.

Truthless Recluse blinked, trying to steady his pulse.

The Fount didn’t move. He looked like a child caught watching something forbidden.

“You were… twitching,” the Fount said softly, almost guiltily.

“I didn’t mean to stare. I just…”

“…You looked like someone who was falling.”

Truthless Recluse opened his mouth, but no words came.

There was silence. The dream had followed him here, clinging to the edges of his vision like smoke. He could still hear it—faint, distorted.

“Still chasing truth, Nilly?”

Shadow Milk’s voice.

The Fount stepped closer—just slightly, slowly, as if not to scare him.

But Truthless Recluse flinched.

“Don’t,” he snapped—quieter than he meant to, but sharp enough to stop the Fount in his tracks.

The air between them stilled.

The Fount didn’t move. His expression faltered, like a note struck off-key.

But still… he didn’t leave.

“I’m only trying to help,” he said gently. “You looked so frightened. I thought—”

“—Just stop.”

Truthless Recluse pulled the blanket tighter around himself. His stomach churned. The warmth in the Fount’s voice scraped across his skin like static. 

“Whatever you are, whatever you’re pretending to be… I don’t want it.”

The Fount blinked. His lips parted as if to speak again. Maybe to protest. Maybe to comfort.

But Truthless Recluse beat him to it.

“Leave me alone.”

The words tore out of him—louder this time. 

And the silence that followed was almost cruel.

The Fount looked… devastated.

Not angry. Not cold. Just—

Wounded.

His posture softened, barely. His eyes lowered for a moment, the glow in them flickering faintly.

He didn’t argue. Not a single plea. He only nodded—slowly, almost imperceptibly. 

“…As you wish.”

Then he turned and walked away, the soft rustle of his robe fading into the hush of the corridor. He closed the door.

Truthless Recluse sat there, the rays of the morning brushing against the sheets of his bed. 

 

The door was closed now, but little had changed. His breath was still unsteady, but the nightmare’s grip was loosening, peeling away like old paint.

The Soul Jam pulsed faintly in his palm, no brighter than a dying ember.

“It’s mine,” the dream whispered again.

No—it wasn’t a dream. It never really was.

He pressed the gem against his chest and curled forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The blanket slipped off his shoulders, but he didn’t care. Cold crept in through the floor. Or maybe it had always been there.

He had screamed. And the Fount had looked at him like he’d cracked something fragile.

And still…

The kindness in those eyes—he hated it.

No, worse: he didn’t believe it.

Shadow Milk was not meant to look at him that way.

Not him. Not after everything.

But he had.

 

Truthless Recluse exhaled—slow, shallow, resigned.

Now, all he could do was wait for Shadow Milk to reveal the next card in whatever twisted game this was. The next rule. The next trap. The next piece moved across a board that only one of them understood.

And, as always, Truthless Recluse would follow.

Not out of choice—never out of choice.

That was the dance Shadow Milk liked to lead. Or perhaps, the one he always forced into being.

Eventually, Truthless Recluse rose from bed. He wandered the room, aimless, listless—stalling. Hoping the Fount had drifted far enough from his door, far enough not to notice when he left. After a while, once it felt safe enough, he moved to the door and cracked it open.

 

The door opened with unnatural ease. Whatever it was made of, it was certainly the witches’ craft—impossibly quiet.

And what met him on the other side…

Truthless Recluse blinked, stunned.

What was he looking at?

Was this not the same silent, lifeless castle from last night?

Why were the hallways now crowded—no, flooded—with people?

Left. Right. Up—down—everywhere he looked, the corridors were crammed wall to wall. Movement surged in all directions, too loud, too fast, too much. He could barely breathe.

Children in school uniforms weaved between elders wrapped in scarves. Builders trudged past, skin smudged with soot and sweat. Wailing babies clung to their mothers. Toothless grannies barked orders from wheelchairs. Students. Teachers. Merchants. Scribes. It was a living, breathing city—within the bones of a castle he’d seen empty just hours before.

And above it all: the sun.

Risen high and golden, drenching the marble floors in warmth and blinding light.

He wanted to go back to his room.

Really wanted to.

He was this close to doing it.

Not that it would help, of course.

It wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t get him answers.

He still had to figure out what was happening—whether he liked it or not.

…Or did he?

He shook his head, slapped his cheeks lightly.

Not now.

So what did Truthless Recluse do?

He put his hat on and stepped into the current—into the sea of strangers that now flooded the once-empty halls.

~~~

The corridor swallowed him whole.

Elbows grazed his sides. A child bumped into him and mumbled an apology without making eye contact. Someone’s coat snagged on his sleeve. All around him, voices merged into a single overwhelming hum—language blurred into noise, words melted into motion. He was adrift in it. Unnoticed. Unseen.

He passed classrooms where lectures were already in full swing—teachers with chalk-streaked hands scribbled on floating boards, students scrawled notes or stared out of windows like they were dreaming of somewhere else.

He passed a dining hall, overflowing with life. Towering platters of food replenished themselves without pause. Candles drifted midair, flickering softly. The clatter of utensils and laughter rang like a chorus of bells.

He passed gardens hidden in open balconies, scattered with students lounging in the grass—reading, chatting, napping beneath the sun.

It was a functioning world. Complete. Self-contained. Flourishing.

Alive.

And it made no sense.

His steps slowed. The strangeness of it all began to sink into his bones, cold and clinging. He reached for his Soul Jam out of instinct. Desperation. He needed something that felt like his, even if it wasn’t anymore. Even if it never had been.

But the gem felt quiet in his palm.

Dull.

Uncertain.

He looked around. Nobody stared. Nobody stopped. Nobody noticed.

So he kept moving.

 

Eventually, the crowd thinned. The wide hallway narrowed, the buzz of voices dulled. Fewer candles lit the way. The air shifted—cooler now. All that remained was the sound of his footsteps echoing against stone and suspicion.

Then—

A voice.

Lyrical.

Familiar.

“…No, no, no—you’ve got the angle wrong again. There’s no symmetry in chaos. That’s the point.”

He froze. The sound struck like a pin to the spine—sharp, intimate.

It came from one of the classrooms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Light spilled through the opening, warm and golden. The voice spoke again—lower now, thoughtful.

“The stars don’t orbit you, you know.”

Truthless Recluse stepped closer, careful not to make a sound.

He looked in.

And there he was.

The Fount.

Standing before a floating chalkboard, robes trailing like liquid ink, sunlight catching in the fabric’s gold trim. His face—so still, so composed—wore the soft concentration of someone lost in their element.

He looked… happy.

The students around him watched with rapt attention. They laughed when he joked. They raised their hands, eager. One student leaned forward, balancing a notebook so worn and full it seemed ready to split at the seams.

They adored him.

They looked at him like he was holding the stars. Like he’d never let them fall.

And Truthless Recluse just watched.

He said nothing.

Because what could he say?

The Fount’s gaze lifted.

His gaze drifted casually toward the doorway, then stopped. His eyes met Truthless Recluse’s.

For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face. Recognition, maybe. Or confusion. Or something more difficult to name.

He didn’t smile right away.

He just… looked at him.

As if unsure which expression was safe to wear.

But then, after that flicker of hesitation, he offered the softest curve of a smile. Not smug. Not warm, exactly. Just… gentle. Careful.

Reaching out without stepping forward.

Seamlessly, he turned slightly and addressed a student in the front row.

“Please don’t eat the eraser, it won’t make you smarter.”

The class snorted with laughter. The guilty student froze mid-bite, cheeks red, eraser halfway to their mouth.

The Fount gave a helpless shrug, as if to say what can you do?, before turning back to the board.

But not before his eyes flicked toward the door one last time.

Toward him.

I see you.

Truthless Recluse stepped back. What was going on?

Quietly, almost instinctively, he stepped back.

The sounds of the classroom faded behind him, replaced by the distant hum of footsteps and voices. He didn’t look back.

No dramatic exit. No final glance.

Just the soft press of boots against stone, carrying him somewhere else.

So he walked.

Chapter 3: Tea and Observations

Notes:

August 11th: Fixing some errors.
SORRY GUYS I COULDN’T RESIST THE URGE AND POSTED IT EARLY HAHA. That may happen often, maybe some saturdays.

OKAY FEW NOTES AND CONTEXT

The castle in this series is a reimagined version of the Castle of Trickery. I’ve gone back and forth on whether to include the Academy directly, since I agree with the theory/implication that the Fount founded it. But for this piece, I don’t think I may bring up. Instead, I’m letting this version of the Castle of Trickery serve as his own kind of academy—maybe one of many places he’s had, maybe the first. Who knows.
I’m mostly working off this line as inspiration:
“In ages past, this grand castle once stood as a beacon of enlightenment, a testament to the power of wisdom.”

As for other notes:

Been fixing categories a bit.
I also just redid the outline for the story in more detail and pacing and man. To those who stick along the ride, man. Just. Man. I hope y’all like this as much as I do.

Morning came again.

Thankfully, this time—without the screaming.

Instead, the soft chirping of birds and the sound of distant laughter filtered in through the window, replacing the familiar mundanity of silence. In better times, back when he still bore the name ‘Pure Vanilla’, he might have spent hours lying still, listening to birdsong—fingers tangled in golden locks, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips, a quiet, fleeting warmth blooming in his chest.

But that warmth belonged to a time long past.

~~~

There was no rush to leave the bed. No demands. No voice calling through the wood of the door.

Only the breeze and the soft shifting of light on the floorboards remained, weaving a quiet that felt almost real. Almost as if it belonged to him—though he still didn’t trust it.

Still, he stayed, watching dust particles turn to copper coins in the sun, letting time bleed into itself until the hours held no shape.

And still, no one came looking.

The Fount hadn’t come. Not once the entire day before.

No soft knocks. No hesitant steps beyond the threshold. It had been only him. Only Truthless, alone with his mind.

He appreciated that, at the very least. After that fruitless venture into the corridors, he had returned to his room and sealed himself within. No answers had found him. No interruptions. Not even the hall's familiar, eerie groaning could tempt him into motion.

Eventually, something in him stirred—an old reflex, or perhaps boredom masquerading as will. He rose. The halls outside were quieter. Still occupied, but the frantic press of bodies had eased. He could walk without being crushed by the current of strangers.

Praise the witches.

 

He drifted without aim.

A grand portrait loomed in one corridor, rendered in excessive, luminous detail—hands outstretched to offer light to an unseen crowd. Farther on, a statue carved from pristine stone: one hand held a star, the other a scroll. Even here, under a gentler name, it seemed Shadow Milk could not relinquish his old habits. He still liked seeing himself reflected wherever he walked. The vanity bled through completely.

He kept moving, but it didn’t help.

Truly, there were too many likenesses of him—paintings that refused to fade, statues that refused to crumble. Wherever he turned, that face looked back at him: serene, benevolent, too kind to be true. It didn’t look like someone who could destroy a kingdom. Who would have ever guessed that he would become such a monster.

It was almost laughable. 

~~~

In time, Truthless Recluse made his way down a sun-drenched corridor and found a garden.

He saw it only because the staff’s eye turned first. A slight shift of his grip, and the world reoriented.

Teal and emerald plants sprawled across the space, vibrant in the light. Tucked shyly between the bushes—as if hoping to remain unseen—were the same white flowers he’d noticed upon his arrival, their petals cupped upward like small, closed hands.

The sunlight dappled the path in soft gold. Somewhere in the distance, water trickled faintly—a fountain, perhaps, or a stream hiding behind the foliage. The air smelled faintly of lavender and earth. Ivory-coated pillars stood in neat formation, vines and slender golden wires coiled around them, guiding the path toward a pavilion at the center. Its pointed blue roof gleamed faintly beneath the morning sun.

And there, unsurprisingly, sat the Fount.

A cup of tea cradled in one hand, his nose was buried in a book far too thick to be quick reading. His long hair—surely a nuisance to sit with for long—had been braided and tucked over one shoulder, the strands catching the sunlight until their tips shimmered a soft aquamarine.

He sat cross-legged before a low, circular table, spine straight, shoulders loose. An assortment of delicate snacks were arranged around a polished kettle—not extravagantly, but neatly all the same. The scrolls had been pushed aside to avoid crumbs. It didn’t look like he was eating. It looked like he was waiting.

The Fount hadn’t noticed him yet, entirely absorbed.

Truthless Recluse hesitated near the edge of the garden. He watched for a long moment. The Fount turned a page with the kind of ease that made it feel inevitable. His thumb lingered at the edge of the parchment, brushing it absently, as though the knowledge itself were delicate enough to bruise.

He couldn’t believe that the same cookie he had fought not so long ago could look so… peaceful.

Yet he stepped forward.

“Ah.” A soft sound, not startled but pleasantly surprised. The Fount looked up with a gentle expression, then turned his eyes toward the bushes, as if to offer space. “Did you sleep well?”

This time, he spoke.

“Did you sleep well?”

Truthless Recluse didn’t answer.

The Fount continued anyway. “I don’t believe you ate anything last night. Would you care to join me?” He paused, then bit the inside of his cheek—gently, a small, nervous tic. “Oh—my apologies. I’m sure you’d rather not. If you’d prefer, I can show you the way to the kitchens. There’s a lovely little spot near the east tower where the birds gather—you could sit there, enjoy your meal in peace. Or, if that’s not to your liking, there’s another parlor just off the library that tends to be quieter during—”

“—I’ll join you.”

The words left Truthless Recluse’s mouth before he could stop them. As for why, he wasn’t quite sure. Maybe he was just curious as to what trick Shadow Milk was going to play next. Or maybe he wanted a slice of whatever was on the table.

The Fount blinked, mouth slightly open. His eyes—if one could call them that—seemed to shimmer for just a moment.

Then, without hesitation, he stood, brushed down his robes, and glided to a chair left in the sun. He angled it carefully across from his own. "I hope you don't mind that it's a little damp," he said with a sheepish laugh. "I was so caught up I didn't notice I'd spilled."

He offered a self-deprecating smile.

“Truly, for a virtue, perhaps I’m a bit too careless.”

He blinked, adjusted his cuffs, and cleared his throat.

“Not that I’m careless,” he added quickly, sitting straighter. “That would be… irresponsible. Especially from me. I’m quite thorough. I’ve categorized the entire library—every wing, every floor. Even the undocumented scrolls. There’s a symbol-based indexing system I devised. It accounts for seasonal drift, memory bleed, decay. I keep it updated. Constantly. I take notes. I file corrections. I don’t—”

A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face.

“I only meant the tea,” he finished.

“Mm.”

Truthless Recluse gave him a blank expression, and sat stiffly. His gaze had drifted somewhere just past the Fount’s shoulder as if the conversation was happening in another room.

The chair was warm from the sun and slightly damp, just as the Fount had said. A faint ring of spilled tea had soaked into the velvet cushion, but he didn’t mind. 

Steam drifted between them. The pause stretched.

The Fount cleared his throat, almost too softly.

“About yesterday morning—”

Truthless Recluse didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

It was final.

The Fount flinched, just barely. Then gave a nervous, awkward little laugh—too high, too brittle.

“Right. Of course. Dreadful at timing too, apparently.”

He picked at the hem of his sleeve, eyes dropping to his tea.

“I’m afraid I’m still a student at small talk. You may have noticed.”

Truthless Recluse raised a brow—barely.

“It’s not small if you mean it.”

The Fount fell silent, looking at him for a moment too long.

~~~

 

The tea carried the sweet aroma of blueberries, a whisper of honey, and a delicate floral note that lingered in the air. Everything on the table carried that same blueberry sweetness—subtle but unmistakable. “I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer.” The Fount pushed the cup forward. “But this one’s comforting. My favorite, in fact.”

Truthless Recluse nodded slightly, but didn’t drink.

The Fount didn’t push. He merely returned to his seat, smoothing out a scroll beside his plate before lifting his own cup to his lips.

For a while, there was only the sound of birdsong and the rustling of wind through leaves. The white flowers in the bushes swayed with the breeze, heads tilted toward the sun. They looked almost like they were listening.

The Fount reached for a piece of dried fruit and popped it into his mouth thoughtfully.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he said after a moment. “Or rather… what you’d like to be called.”

He gave a teasing tilt of his head.

“Keeping knowledge from the Cookie of Knowledge is quite the bold game you’re playing.”

Truthless Recluse tensed. His thumb made gentle motions along the rim of the cup, like he might lift it—but didn’t.

The Fount went on, undeterred.

“I could call you Mystery,” he mused, the corner of his mouth lifting in a gentle smile. “Or Puzzle. Or Guest. But I’d rather not define you by absence.”

“Truthless Recluse.” He wasn’t going to let the Fount get any joy out of nicknaming him.

The Fount blinked.

“‘Truthless Recluse’… that’s quite…” He paused, catching himself.

“No, no. Forgive me; I shouldn’t be judging names.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“…Truthless,” the Fount repeated, almost to himself. He turned the name over in his mouth like it tasted strange.

“But still here.”

Truthless Recluse looked away.

 Ha.

The Fount didn’t press. He sipped his tea, gaze lingering on the slow sway of treetops beyond the pavilion. His hand brushed against Truthless’s sleeve as he set his cup down—perhaps by accident. Truthless recoiled as if scalded, his whole arm jerking back. The motion was swift, instinctive, a relic from a place where touch was never benign. A heavy, awkward silence followed.

The Fount didn’t acknowledge it.

“I imagine you have your reasons,” he said eventually, voice faint as steam rising from his cup. “Names—titles—hide more than they reveal. Or rather… they weigh more than they should.“

Truthless Recluse gave a slow, unreadable blink.

“Still,” the Fount added, “names don’t have to be forever. Not if one walks a different, better path.”

A breeze threaded through the garden. The white flowers shifted gently in the bushes, cupping skyward like they were listening too.

Truthless Recluse looked at him, said nothing. This time, though, he lifted the cup and took a sip.

It was warm. Delicate. Just slightly sweet.

It caught him off guard—that warmth. Not from the tea, but the realization that something here, however fragile, was letting him breathe again. The bitterness hadn’t left. It never would. But it had stopped clawing at his throat.

 

The Fount sat at ease, fingers tapping the rim of his cup, caught between thoughts. The Fount’s gaze never quite reached him—but his attention lingered all the same.

“Will you be staying long?” he asked at last gently, but carrying a note of curiosity beneath the surface. “I don’t mean to press. I only ask so I know whether to make up a room permanently for you, or simply keep your linens fresh.”

Truthless Recluse considered lying. He considered saying he didn’t know. That he was merely passing through. That he wasn’t sure where through even led anymore.

But instead, he said, “Not long.”

The Fount nodded as if he already knew.

“Then I’m glad we shared this morning.”

There was no sadness in his tone—no disappointment. Only a hushed, genuine gratitude that made Truthless Recluse’s stomach twist. He hated that. That lack of bitterness. That softness. The way this version of him—regal and kind, impossibly gentle—could still look at him without flinching.

“You’re free to stay as long as you like,” the Fount added. “There are no obligations here. No debts. Not for you.”

That made Truthless Recluse’s jaw tighten. His fingers tightened around the porcelain.

And yet—

The Fount smiled toward the garden, as if pleased by something in the breeze. “You’re not the first to arrive unexpectedly. This place is a haven, I suppose, for those… between things.”

“Between?” Truthless Recluse asked before he could stop himself.

“Lives. Names. Moments.” The Fount turned back toward him, eyes faintly glimmering. “We all get lost sometimes. But being lost isn’t the same as being alone. Many come here looking for answers. Maybe you’ll find yours—if that’s what you’re looking for here.”

Truthless Recluse looked down at his cup. He didn’t answer. Not with words.

But he didn’t leave either.

The Fount didn’t fill the silence. He returned to his tea, his book, his breath. There was grace in the way he held himself, like someone who’d danced long ago and never forgot the steps.

Outside the pavilion, the white flowers swayed again. Still listening. Still hiding.

Truthless Recluse sat across from him, the warm sun on his shoulder, the sweet hint of blueberry on his tongue, and a faint ache blooming in his chest where truth used to live.

He almost saw something else—someone else—reflected in the cup.

Not the pavilion. Not the Fount.

A hallway. Flickering torchlight. A hand reaching, too late, for someone who had never been there at all.

He blinked. It was gone.

The tea had cooled.

He didn’t understand how this could feel like peace.

And yet it did—for now.

He remembered lying still, listening to birdsong. That version of him had smiled.

The birds were still singing.

The memory of that smile was a phantom limb—he could remember the shape of it, the feeling, but could no longer conjure it himself. The muscles of his face seemed carved from stone, unfit for such a soft and forgotten language.

But listening—that,
that he could still do.

Notes:

I wanted the fount to be all philosophical and a bit sappy—what can I say. Like bro prob wants to sound deep (and I mean, the dude has a lot of knowledge on his side)… though there’s a little thing I've done intentionally for something else :p
Like… okay. The fount tries to appear perfect but he’s kinda a dork. Fountttttttt x3

 

Also, I edited this chapter 17 times at 2 am until TR’s breath sounded right.

Chapter 4: The Alcove

Notes:

Edit: Jeez I was rereading and so many errors, sorry guys xd

I was listening to Orchard from Omori nonstop when making this. Like it got unhealthy, y’all. I was out there for over 12 hours until like 9am (when I went to sleep) listening to the same song.
Orchard. From Omori.

Writing this fic feels like being trapped aboard a train built solely to explore the darkest, most unknowable depths of the ocean—where the boundary between reality and the fantasies of men writing science fiction in their small writing rooms alongside other sweaty, middle aged men with fantasies of creatures collides. Where creatures, twisted and alien, leer through black water so cold and deep your skin forgets how to hold itself together.

But somehow—without your consent—this train has also scheduled a detour into space. So now you’re plummeting upwards, lungs collapsing from an airless void, as the warmth of life is stripped molecule by molecule, leaving behind only the frigid taste of nothing.

And just when your consciousness freezes over, the train turns. A U-turn through oblivion. A hunk of twisted steel and betrayal, shooting back down through the atmosphere—screaming like a wounded star—to crash into the sea.

There, in the ocean’s graveyard, it will rest. And it will sing.

SOS

“There’s a little alcove in the main library,” the Fount had said as they finished their tea. “It’s quiet there. I think you might like it.”

The offer had been gentle.

Now they walked in silence.

He didn’t know why he’d agreed. Curiosity? Exhaustion, more likely. Or maybe it was that familiar persuasion, the kind Shadow Milk wore as a badge.

Regret came two steps later, but by then, the halls had already begun to swallow the sound. 

The halls stretched ahead, sunlight cutting through the glass windows and pooling on the floor. Doors opened into rooms lined with maps and instruments, shelves piled with scrolls, lanterns humming faintly in the stillness. The place didn’t feel abandoned. It carried the sense that the Fount had been here, shaping it with small touches, leaving pieces of himself behind.

As chatty as the Fount was, he didn’t walk like someone giving a tour. There was no narration, no eager explanation. Only pauses now and then, when something caught his eye—a blooming plant on a windowsill, a painting slightly tilted—and he’d correct it with much care, then continue.

Truthless followed, always a few steps behind. Watching.

They reached the  main library’s western wing—older, quieter, less curated than the rest. Four wings spread from the heart of the place: some spilling into smaller annexes, others into classrooms. Here the shelves loomed uneven, their wood darkened by years of touch and dust. Lamps guttered along the walls like something half-asleep, thinking. The air smelled of parchment, old dust, and a faint sweetness—berries, maybe.

At the far end, nearly hidden behind a sagging tapestry, stood a narrow doorway. The Fount pushed it open without ceremony.

“This way.”

He stepped aside to let Truthless Recluse in first.

 

The alcove wasn’t large.

A single arched window overlooked the garden’s edge, just enough to glimpse the white flowers nodding in the breeze. A wooden bench slouched beneath faded cushions. Shelves sagged with scrolls, sketches, chipped teacups, loose string—personal things, unfiled and unguarded.

The Fount stepped inside behind him and knelt to adjust the pillows. “I come here when I can’t think,” he admitted. “Or when I think too much.”

And Truthless was supposed to care because…?

He didn’t sit. He lingered in the doorway, eyes flicking over the cramped shelves, the half-melted candle clinging to its wick on the windowsill. He stole a quick glance at the Fount, who now watched him with an unrelenting grin.

Truthless immediately looked away. “Don’t you have responsibilities? Or are those optional?”

Something shifted—just enough to tell Truthless the Fount had looked away.

“This is my hour of rest.” A crooked smile. “I’ve been going nonstop since dawn.” The Fount fussed with a stray parchment, playful in the gesture. “Besides, if someone comes looking, I’ll give them the answer they deserve.”

Truthless Recluse raised an eyebrow, finally meeting his gaze again. “Is that how it works now?”

“As the Fount of Knowledge,” he intoned with mock solemnity, “I am allowed some discretion.” Then, more gently,“Sometimes the answer is silence. Sometimes it’s ‘wait.’ Most don’t like that. But some do.”

Truthless Recluse left the doorway and strode to the bench, settling stiffly. He didn’t lean back, only perched on the edge—just enough to rest his legs, ready to leave if necessary.

He studied the Fount for a moment, trying to tell where the jest ended and the truth began. “…Do you know everything?”

The Fount’s head angled slightly, almost amused, but not enough to smile.

“Everything?” he echoed. “No. Not everything. As lovely as it would be.”

He leaned back against the wall, folding his hands in his lap, his staff resting loosely across his shoulders.

“But I know many, many things,” he said. “And I learn a thousand more each day.”

Truthless Recluse lowered his gaze to his hands.

“That sounds exhausting.”

The Fount chuckled softly.

“It can be,” he admitted. “But the world never runs out of  things to show me. And perhaps that’s what keeps me from going mad.”

Truthless Recluse said nothing to that. His gaze flickered to the shelves—to the ink-stained cups and dried-out quills, to the little patch of ivy leaning in through the open window like it, too, wanted to learn something.

Avoiding madness… if only he knew.

The Fount leaned down, plucking a loose leaf from the floor and turning it over in his fingers. “I keep finding new things tucked away. Not just in the world, but here.” He nodded towards the shelves.

“There are a few volumes in here that don’t exist anywhere else,” he said absently. “Most of them never made it past draft. Errors. Abandoned theories. The kind of knowledge no one bothers writing down. Like why certain flowers only bloom near lies—or why a child’s drawing holds more truth than a star chart, if you squint at it sideways.”

He set the leaf down atop a stack of weathered pages. “I keep them anyway. Truth has a way of circling back.”

Truthless Recluse looked at him, then—really looked as if for the first time. He searched for belief in his words, and instead found sunlight, dust, and ink: half his face lit by the window, hair threaded with golden particles, a dark stain on his sleeve.

All superficial. 

The Fount then dusted off his hands and turned to scan the nearest shelf.

“Would you like something to read?”

Without waiting for an answer, the Fount began to search anyway. Why would he ever wait. His hand drifted along the shelf like it remembered where the good ones were. He lingered there a while before speaking again.

“There’s a journal in here written entirely in questions. Another where someone tried to map regret like a coastline. One of my favorites is just… observations of raindrops. The author never signed it. Only a little margin note on the last page: ‘If anyone ever reads this, tell him I meant it.”

Truthless Recluse breathed in, held it, wasted it.

“What’s the point of that?”

The Fount glanced back at him.

“Not all knowledge needs a point,” he said, not unkindly. “Some of it is just… noticing. Remembering that the world goes on, even when no one’s watching.”

Truthless Recluse lowered his gaze again.

The Fount’s voice softened. Then he turned back to the shelves, rising effortlessly to the top. His fingers curled in a small wave before plucking a book from the row. He sank down again, drifting toward Truthless Recluse with a blue-bound journal in hand.

“If not reading, would you like me to read something aloud?”

Truthless shifted on the bench, pressing his back against it at last.

“…No.”

 The Fount didn’t argue. He only nodded.

They sat in a hush that couldn’t quite be considered silence. The wind rustled through ivy at the window; distant footsteps echoed somewhere in the deeper halls but never drew near.

Truthless Recluse let his eyes drift shut for a moment. He hadn’t realized how tired he felt until now—until the hum of the world softened to something bearable.

~~~

Minutes slipped by. The bright sky dimmed behind a slow drift of clouds, the light thinning as if it meant to rain. Truthless might have dozed without meaning to. A faint line of drool cooled at the corner of his mouth.

Then the Fount’s voice came—so quiet it almost didn’t register:  

“Do you feel lost?”  

Truthless Recluse’s breath caught, his eyes snapping open. He froze for a moment, startled, then quickly wiped at the corner of his mouth, his cheeks tinged with heat, and thought: Why is he talking? What even…?

The question didn’t press—it had arrived from nowhere—but it pulled him fully awake.

He blinked, taking in the Fount sitting beside him. Not too close, but closer than before. He would not answer his question.

Truthless rubbed at his eyes, the light sun and dust making everything feel fuzzy. Of course the Fount didn’t miss a beat, just… talking, talking, like this had been rehearsed for hours.

“I used to think knowledge would save me,” he said, almost as if talking to himself. “That if I just understood enough, I could spare everyone pain. But… I’ve learned knowing is only the beginning. It’s what you do with it that hurts.”

Truthless stared at him, half-processing, half-distracted by the sliver of sunlight along the bench’s edge.

He let the words hang, and the Fount offered a faint, self-deprecating smile.

“…Forgive me,” he said, the apology soft, almost hesitant. “Sometimes knowledge makes me soft in the wrong places.”

Truthless blinked again, mind scrambling to catch up. What is he even saying? And… sappy?

Finally, he spoke, quieter than intended: “Why are you telling me all this?”

The Fount looked at him then—calm, steady, honest. Not pitying, not suspicious. 

“Good question,” the Fount pondered. “Because something about the way you stood looked… unsustainable.”

A pause.

His breath hitched—barely—but enough that it caught against the back of his throat. He looked away, sharply, almost like he’d been burned. Shoulders stiffened, fingers gathering the folds of his robe.

He looked instead to the ivy twitching in the breeze. The dust-motes in the narrow blade of sun. Anything but the Fount’s eyes—kind and far too perceptive, a trait he shared in common with Shadow Milk.

Of course he had no answer.

He wasn’t… that transparent anymore, was he?

He tilted his head farther away from the Fount.

The bench creaked faintly beneath them.

Neither moved for a while. Then, almost on a sigh, the Fount rose and drifted toward the cluttered shelves again, fingertips brushing the wood as if reacquainting himself.

“I’ll leave you here for a while,” he said, reaching for a scroll and tucking it under his arm. “You don’t need to talk, or read. Just… let the room breathe with you.”

Truthless Recluse didn’t lift his gaze—only the faintest nod betrayed that he had heard.

At the doorway, the Fount paused, back still to him.

“If you need me, I’ll be in the Great Hall. I have a lot of answers to give.”

“…Shadow—Fount, wait.”

He paused—but still didn’t look back. “Hm?”

“Why are you doing this now?”

A flicker of memory traced through Truthless’s mind. A memory turned null. Supposed truths revealed as lies. Laughter, sharp and sinister, echoing in the breaking of the self. He felt himself sinking—deeper, into the pulped gold of the apple of knowledge, every shard of understanding dissolving, no one there to catch him, no one at all.

And now… mockery. A room unfamiliar. A voice unfamiliar. A kindness that should not be.

It felt like cruel.

Irritation coiling in him, Truthless rose. He closed the space between himself and the Fount, pressing into the doorway where the taller cookie loomed, straining upward until their eyes met—his chin nearly level with the Fount’s. The Fount’s quiet, assessing gaze fell on him, and Truthless stiffened, refusing to shrink.

“You destroyed everything. I gave in. I let it all go.” His voice trembled. “And now you stand there like none of it happened.”

He hadn’t wanted sympathy. Just… acknowledgment. A name for the wound.

“I don’t understand.”

Surely playing coy again. The Fount seemed to notice the edge in Truthless’s voice.

“I’m not lying,” the Fount went on.  “If we have met, I don’t remember; but something in me says I should. If you’re willing to help me understand… I’ll listen. I want to.”

Something flickered across the Fount’s expression—too quick to name. Not fear. Guilt, maybe. Or something deeper, barely restrained.

“I—”

He stopped.

What was the point?

He could drag every memory to the surface, every wound, every broken shard of truth—and still, the Fount would look at him with those calm, unknowing eyes. No use convincing a lie

“—Forget it.”

Truthless stepped back into the alcove, and dropped himself on the bench again, not giving him another glance. He heard nothing but his own breathing, too loud in his ears.

The Fount broke the silence.

“Well,” said the Fount gently, “if you’re ever open to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

The Fount’s gaze lingered a little too long on the Soul Jam at his wrist. 

He lingered just a moment longer—then turned.

A door closed behind him with a quiet finality.

Truthless Recluse stayed seated, shoulders slack, staring at the spot the Fount had vacated. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching slightly. 

He blinked. Then rose, muscles stiff, and walked to the shelves. His steps were tentative at first, almost mechanical, but then intentional. Not idly, not halfheartedly—searching.

For something.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. He only knew that the empty quiet demanded it, that some part of him flinched at this stillness. Fingers brushed along the spines, tracing uneven wood, along the corners of pages—for no reason. No reason at all.

A thought pressed at the edges of his mind, tentative at first, then insistent: Shadow Milk had a way with memories… but could he create something like this?

Even if faint, the idea carried a strange logic.

He blinked, unsure if he had noticed it before, or if it had been planted.

Everything felt too crisp to be remembered.

How could he remember a scent he never noticed the first time?

What if this wasn’t memory?

He drew back slightly. But even as panic threatened, another part of him pushed against it, shoving down any fear with a stubborn, brittle logic.

But if it isn’t memory, then what? I can’t… no. I won’t.

He scanned the room with sharper eyes. Nearly missed it—a scroll tucked in the corner, bearing a date he recognized.

That date had been carved into history somewhere—a disaster, a spell collapse, something no one dared replicate again.

Not his own past—history itself, long before his fall.

And yet… here that scroll was. Fresh. Annotated.

A draft. Not a relic in dust-stained paper.

 It had always been easier to believe in metaphor. Safer. But what if it wasn’t just memory playing tricks—what if memory had teeth?

What if this was actually the past?

Real. Tangible. And somehow… he'd been sent here.

What if he was actually watching him before his fall?

The idea made his stomach twist.

Because if this was the past—if the past had endured—then maybe the truth hadn’t been silenced. Maybe it had simply been watching him lie.

Maybe he hadn’t been shielding them at all.

Maybe all he’d done was protect himself—

and called it mercy.

Maybe this was what mercy looked like when it came back to collect.

He hadn’t come here to change anything. He wasn’t even sure he could.

But now that the past looked back… he wasn’t sure if walking away would be allowed.

And worse still: maybe he’d wanted this—not to fix anything, just to see what would happen. Just to watch it fall apart again. That part didn’t even surprise him. Just made him sick.

His own story had ended a long time ago. This was just aftermath.

The Soul Jam hummed faintly in his sleeve. An echo. A warning.

He searched harder. Anything—anything on time travel, on temporal magic, on the manipulation of memory.

One book had strange diagrams of overlapping moons. Another referenced something called “fixed narrative anchors.” But nothing concrete. Nothing definitive.

No proof.

He pressed a hand to the bench to steady himself.

If this was the past…

Was there really a way to leave it?

His breath caught.

Surely there was. After all, Shadow Milk—cynical as he was—always left an answer to be caught. A way to win his games, so long as you played them the way he wanted you to.

He needed to think like Shadow Milk.

But what was the point of showing him… this?

This version of himself—fragile. Earnest. Still whole.

He pressed his right fingers to his lips, brow drawn tight.

What better way to punish a man like him…

than to make him watch his better self burn?

Eventually, he stood, pulled his robe tighter, and made his way out of the alcove.

He needed more information. The library had more than one room.

He stepped out into the deeper halls, that date still echoing.

There was a flickering of a lamp somewhere.

Truthless ignored it.

Notes:

Trying to keep Truthless Recluse canon-compliant (apathetic, self-loathing, repressed little thing) while still making him emotionally real and matching my story has been driving me INSANE.
I’ve edited this chapter and the last one so many times I can quote them word for word.
Who needs a beta reader when you have overthinking /j

Hopefully it wasn’t tooooo confusing 🫤
I’m like fighting demons rn

Chapter 5: An Invitation

Notes:

Edit: It seems like I have an obsession with the word then. This is frying me LOL

 

I’d like to think that there’s more than one library

Theres a reason I posted this early, but I won’t say why~
I’m still posting any moment now two chapters heheheheheh

 

Also, this is a little gift from me since 8 and 9 are going to be posted solo.

Like, its 2am and I was minding my own business until I got the urge + as I said, heheheheh

Truthless Recluse stepped beyond the alcove, and the library opened like the moment before waking—light blurred into memory, direction lost meaning. He paused mid-step, bracing for vertigo that never came.

No—this wasn’t a memory.

Architecture dissolved upward into endless blue sky, veiled in clouds and scattered light. Shelves spiraled on impossible staircases, bridges suspended without support. Books drifted lazily through the air, circling as if unsure where to land.

He stared upward for a long moment. Then down again.

Why had the library changed so much?

The floor beneath him was firm—wood, or something like it—but it shimmered with the same translucent quality as the windows in the tower. His own reflection blinked up at him through layers of glass and light. There were shadows too—but not his. They flickered now and then along the shelves. The kind of movement you only saw out of the corner of your eye.

He took a breath and stepped forward.

Silence pressed in, as though someone had just stopped speaking nearby. The air smelled of vanilla and blueberry, soft and sweet, cut with the tang of old ink and dust.

He walked for a while. Or what felt like a while. It was impossible to measure time in a place like this.

His pulse began to climb—not panic, not yet, but the crawling tension of being led in circles. He rubbed his temple. Swore the lantern light had changed color.

Every hallway twisted just slightly out of sense.

Shelves passed on his right reappeared on the left minutes later. Ladders led to platforms that circled back into corridors he had already crossed. A tall archway carved with familiar symbols beckoned—but when he stepped through, he was back in the alcove. His stomach sank.

Whoever built this place wasn’t thinking linearly… and wasn’t the Fount—the rational half?

He froze. A jolt ran through him.

Then, carefully, he turned around and tried again—this time taking a different route.

A floating tome drifted past his shoulder. Its pages fluttered open, revealing a diagram of something he didn’t recognize—spinning circles, sigils, a pulse of light at the center. Before he could reach out to touch it, the book shuddered closed and glided upward, out of reach.

He narrowed his eyes.

Something about this place felt… personal. Like it was curating. Or accusing.

Or maybe that was just him—reading too much into echoes again.

 

He found a staircase. Narrow. Spiral. It led to a platform lined with scrolls and faintly glowing globes. The first scroll he unrolled contained a list of coordinates he didn’t understand. The second bore an unfamiliar script. The third—

Time anchors.

His heart caught.

The words were in his own language. Jagged, sketched in a hurried hand. The scroll was a fragment—torn at the edges—but legible. It spoke of temporal currents, of “anchoring consciousness to fixed points in the weave of narrative” and the dangers of untethered displacement.

Truthless Recluse’s hands trembled as he scanned further. A diagram of two overlapping moons. A phrase:

“Once unmoored, memory becomes environment.”

Environment.

Was that what this was? Not memory. Not vision. A splinter of time made solid beneath his feet?

He kept reading. The next passage had been crossed out, rewritten, crossed again—until only the following remained:

The first few lines were illegible. Entire sentences had been blackened out, as if someone had tried to erase not just the words, but the ideas behind them. But just near the center, beneath layers of scribbled-over text, something still bled through:

 

“…anchors… sometimes not places, but… people…

…fixed points formed by… memory or—regret…

…must not be moved…”

 

The rest had been scorched. Fantastic.

More books hovered nearby now—less evasive. One slid gently toward him as he stepped off the platform. Its spine bore no title, but as he opened it, he found a journal of questions. Not answers—only questions.

“Why does the world bend for some names?”

“What is the shape of choice?”

“If you could undo one truth, would the lie that follows be a kindness?”

The handwriting was familiar.

He reached out—breath locking tight, heart tripping over itself.

But the book snapped shut before he touched it, fluttering as it rose into the air.

He lunged—too slow. His hand hovered in the air, fingers half-folded in the wake of its absence.

It drifted upward and vanished into the upper stacks, between shelves he couldn’t reach.

“…Coward,” he muttered under his breath. His hand dropped, fingers entwining together against his side. Whether he meant the book or himself, he couldn’t tell.

 

Then—a breath. A whisper.

Pure Vanilla Cookie…

The name echoed around him. Soft, distant—but intimate. Something prehistoric in his bones told him it mattered.

A memory flickered—out of reach. Just the shape of it. A voice not his, whispering that name like it meant home. Or ending. 

His chest tightened.

“Who’s there?” His voice cracked.

No answer. Then again:

Pure Vanilla Cookie…

Something in him snapped upright. He ran.

The surface trembled beneath his feet. Glass threatened to crack. Shelves flickered between integrity and ruin. Books peeled open, scattering pages of nonsense.

The voice guided him deeper.

He slipped on a stair that didn’t exist a moment ago. He grabbed a railing that melted in his grip. He fell partway, but kept going.

It whispered again:

Pure Vanilla…

The floor gave way. Glass cracked. He plunged.

His staff slipped from his grasp—ripped away by the air, spinning out of reach. He tried to catch it, fingers brushing the shaft—but missed. The central eye blinked once as it fell, wide and startled. Then gone.

Time fractured. No up. No down. Only air unraveling—and sheets of paper fluttering like ash.

A platform ended his fall. Jagged. Slanted. He hit it with breath gone.

He scrambled upright, breath ragged, eyes scanning the edges. No staff. Just the low hum of whatever magic held this platform aloft. His fingers twitched. He didn’t like the way the silence settled now—too complete, too blind.

Then he saw it.

Lodged at an angle several feet away, the staff leaned against a half-buried bookstand, its carved surface dim but intact. The smaller eyes were closed. The central one blinked, slowly—dazed, almost.

He crawled toward it on hands and knees.

The moment his palm wrapped around the shaft, the eye flared open.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and looked to his side.

There, on a pedestal in front of him, lay a notebook.

Thin. Pale. Asking to be grabbed.

He crawled closer. The binding hummed. He swallowed.

A name scratched out at the top. Beneath it, softer ink:

If found, return to me. Please. Even if I’ve forgotten why.

His hand trembled as he opened it.

Inside: half-spells, reckless equations, emotional geometry. Scattered fragments—like memory breaking apart mid-thought.

And a name, over and over:

 

Purevanilla.

Pure Vanilla.

P. V. C.

 

He barely registered the letters before the book shivered.

“Wait!” he gasped, lunging.

But it snapped shut, lifted, and drifted upward into the swirling stacks—vanished.

No floor. No warning.

He tumbled again.

The impact cracked the breath out of his lungs.

Hands steadied him—startling in their warmth and undeniable solidity. He flinched—then froze. Not a halluciation. Or a cookie.

Not at all.

The one who held him stood taller than most cookies, dressed in layered blues and silvers that shimmered like folded parchment. Their hair was slicked back in elegant waves, and a single silver monocle gleamed on one eye. Their head appeared to be made out of paper.

“You’re not a cookie,” Truthless rasped, the words escaping without thought.

“No,” came the unbothered reply. “Dough tends to degrade in these conditions.”

They studied him for a beat longer, then blinked as though remembering decorum.  “Witches above! You’re okay?” The cookie peered down. Concern knit their brow. “That was quite the impact.”

Truthless stared, breath rasping.

“Not many wander this far without help. You’re the Fount’s new guest?”
Truthless nodded reluctantly. Guest felt foreign.

The figure tilted their head, then offered a small, closed-lip smile. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No.”

“Well,” they said brightly, “welcome. You’re lucky. The Fount rarely opens his wings to visitors anymore, for more ‘permanent’ visits.” Their expression dimmed slightly. “Not since—well. It’s been years since any of the others came by. And with one of the Virtues fallen to corruption… he’s been different. Distant. On edge.”

Truthless Recluse fell quiet.

Corruption. Fallen.

“‘Others’?”

“The other Virtues,” they said, as though it were obvious. “He used to host them all the time. They’d come through every season. Linger for weeks, sometimes months. But after the last conflict…” They trailed off. “I suppose people change.”

Truthless’s thoughts turned, slow and sharp.

The Fount was isolated. Watching the world fray from a distance, too powerful to act blindly, too wise to act easily. No allies left. No one to temper his mind but time itself.

No one to see the cracks before they widened.

“…He was excited,” the staff member added, more softly now. “When you arrived. I’ve never seen him set out tea for someone before they even agreed to sit.”

That stung more than he wanted it to.

“He doesn’t—” Truthless caught himself. “He’s mistaken.”

The not-cookie shrugged “Maybe. But he wanted to be.”

A long silence stretched.

Then the staff member brightened again, gesturing to the side. “You’ve wandered into the third loop, by the way. It’s notorious for getting cookies turned around. I’ll guide you back—unless you’d rather keep getting lost?”

“…Guide me.”

They smiled and turned. He followed.

They passed a shelf where three books hovered midair, cycling slowly around a glowing candle. One bore the title Time as Memory, another The Anchored Hourglass, and the third had no title at all—just a blank spine and a faded feather on the cover.

None were taken.

They crossed a small bridge suspended over what looked like… stars.

Truthless didn’t look down for long.

Eventually, they reached a more stable hallway. Light streamed in from an unseen source. The flickering lanterns steadied. The shelves warped less. Somewhere far above, the whispering quieted—not silenced, but subdued, as if the library had finally exhaled.

The staff member led him down the corridor, speaking in muted, conversational tones. About the way certain books rearranged themselves on schedule. About how time tended to misbehave in the second and third spirals. About how no one had truly mapped the place—not even the Fount.

The staff drooped in his hand, its eyes dimmed. It had grown quiet—as if the library’s pressure was finally weighing even on its magic.

Truthless only half-listened.

He felt… thin. Stretched around the edges. His limbs were leaden, his steps muffled. Like a puppet yanked by too many strings. His mind still caught in the echo of that voice, the ghost of that name. The notebook’s weight had vanished from his memory, like the hush of a dream, but the ache of it lingered.

He kept walking.

“And here,” the staff member said, stopping just short of a tall, arched doorway, “you’ll find your way back to the western gallery. Straight line from here. No tricks.”

Truthless hesitated. “What should I call you?”

The figure paused—almost surprised—and then offered a faint bow. “Folio. Archivist and attendant to the Fount.”

Truthless stepped past them, gaze lowered.

“Thank you Folio,” he said.

Folio inclined their head, already turning away. “If you get lost again, you’ll find me somewhere in the fourth spiral. Just follow the scent of old ink and candle smoke.”

He nodded once, and then stepped through.

The hallway curved slightly but obeyed the shape of architecture again—hall, windows, alcoves. A faint breeze stirred his cape. He followed the light, trying not to look too closely at the shelves. Afraid they might look back.

And then—he heard him.

The Fount.

Was he done with his chores?

“…I had a feeling you’d gone wandering,” came the voice, calm and a bit amused.

Truthless froze. His throat tightened, breath catching like a thread pulled taut. The staff blinked once.

The Fount stood at the far end of the corridor, just beyond a pillar of dim lantern light. His robes  now more draped clean and ceremonial than before, but something about the way he held them—hands tucked behind his back, shoulders slouched just a little—made him look smaller.

Or maybe Truthless was just seeing too clearly.

“You found something, didn’t you?” the Fount asked quietly. “Or… something found you from what I can see in your expression.”

Truthless looked away.

The Fount studied him for a moment, then stepped forward. “You’re not harmed. That’s good. That’s enough. I caught word that you headed inside the library alone and worried, so I came to make sure everything was alright.”

Caught word? How?

Truthless looked away. “This place is a maze.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” the Fount replied softly. “But meaning shifts. Especially in libraries. Especially in ones made of memory, and well, it’s gotten a bit chaotic. I’m going to have to fix it sometime.”

Truthless clenched his jaw. “So it is memory, then?”

“Not precisely. It’s a construct—a fragment of my power made space.”

Truthless exhaled—shaky. He wasn’t sure whether to argue or collapse. He was too tired after whatever that was.

The Fount turned, his expression unreadable. “Would you walk with me?”

“…Is there anywhere else to go?”

That earned a thin smile. “There’s always somewhere else to go. But I’d prefer if you chose to stay.”

Truthless hesitated, his gaze drifting to his side, and nodded.

The Fount walked slowly—quiet footsteps, his presence always a little too still, like a thought suspended in time. They passed through the warm-lit gallery, out into a cloistered veranda filled with low, curling mist. The horizon was nowhere. Only pale air.

“You mentioned something yesterday,” the Fount began after a long pause. “About your… duration here.”

Truthless nod.

“Do you know how long it will be?”

“No.”

“I see.” A pause. “Would you tell me what brought you here?”

The question was gentle. Honest. And somehow, more terrifying than the madness from earlier.

“I don’t know that either,” he said, more bitterly than intended.

The Fount’s eyes softened. “Then we are equally lost.”

They came to a still fountain, tucked between ivy and stone. The water inside shimmered faintly—not with reflection, but with something behind it. As if light could echo.

“I rarely take visitors into the village,” the Fount said suddenly. “It isn’t far. But far enough.”

Truthless looked up.

“I’m expected tomorrow,” he went on, as if continuing a thought he hadn’t spoken aloud. “There’s a midsummer gathering. A small one. Not all truth needs to be heavy.”

Truthless blinked.

“I’d like you to come.”

The gentlest request he’d ever heard—not even a request. A hope, worn quietly like a threadbare coat.

“Why?” he murmured.

“You may enjoy it,” the Fount answered. “A change of scenery from these halls.”

Truthless stared at the shifting water, unsure what to say.

“I won’t make you,” the Fount said after a pause. “But I’ll wait for you by the eastern path. After the third bell.”

He didn’t look at him. But the word still came, rough and reluctant.

“Fine.”

Truthless didn’t speak again. But he stayed beside the fountain a little longer. Long enough for the mist to part slightly around them. Long enough to see something of the stars return to the sky above.

And somewhere, nearly gone, the library sighed again. The echo of a name not spoken aloud brushed against the back of his mind.

Pure Vanilla Cookie.

It wasn’t even a voice, just the embered shape of a name, heat pressing through the air.

The kind that lingers from a fire long dead.

Bitter at the back of his throat.

Stubborn as ash.

Toxic.

Notes:

Also—I’m usually not one to give the spotlight to random side characters (honestly, when I read fanfic, I prefer minimal side character detours), but Folio is a baddie.

Chapter 6: A Blooming Unease

Notes:

White Ball by Miracle Musical, When Memory Snows by Mitski and Orchard (again) carried me while writing this and chapter 7.
Also, I’m going to start abbreviating Truthless Recluse to Truthless for my sanity.
And finally, idk I just love the Fount so much aaa

This update contains three chapters to maintain narrative rhythm and emotional continuity. Enjoy the slow descent :^)

 

Honestly, I changed the posting schedule to friday—sunday cause uh I CANT RESIST THE URGE OF POSTING HELPPP

A new day. The sun barely risen.

Truthless Recluse made his way to the eastern path thanks to the nudging of the castle’s staff. The Fount hadn’t shown him the way himself. How very teacher of him—leave the student to figure it out.

He emerged from the misty corridor into a pale clearing.

The Fount stood ahead, fidgeting with his staff—caught between waiting and pacing.

He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.

It was already perfectly folded.

He fixed it anyway. Probably always did.

And atop his head—Truthless froze—was a pointed silver crown. A shimmer of silver too bright for the early hour.

As if he needed a crown to look any more regal.

The Fount lit up—his hair rising slightly in tandem, lifting and curling in soft arcs like it had caught the wind of his joy. His whole presence seemed to glow for a moment with unfiltered warmth.

Recognizable. Painfully so.

That sudden spark of feeling, the way his body responded before his mind reined it back.
Though it lasted for little as he remembered to dim it.

And dim it he did. He caught himself, tucking the enthusiasm away like a guilty child hiding a gift. He stepped back with a gentler smile, trying not to startle him.

Truthless flinched anyway—but kept walking.

“Oh—right!” the Fount said suddenly. “I have a little something for you.”

He reached into the wide sleeve of his robe and pulled out a small pouch, made of fabric the same deep shade as his robes. It shimmered faintly in the light.

“So you don’t have to carry your little copy”—a quick wink—“around in your hand all the time,” he said with a smile that bordered on teasing.

Truthless glanced at him sidelong. “Very generous of you.”

He didn’t ask how long the pouch had been waiting to be given. Or whether the Fount had expected him to say no.

“Don’t make it sound like a funeral gift,” the Fount replied lightly. 

 

Truthless Recluse hesitated. His fingers hovered in the air between them.

Then, without a word, he took the pouch. He slid the Soul Jam inside with slow care. It fit neatly. The pouch closed with a muted click.

He slung it over his left shoulder. It was… convenient.

“Is it far?” he asked, glancing at the swirling air beyond the clearing.

“An hour or so walking,” the Fount replied. “Twenty minutes flying.”

“…How exactly are we getting there?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“Through a portal, of course!” the Fount chortled, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Less than five minutes, and we’ll be in the heart of the village. It’s a wonderful little gathering—they’ll have music, and lights, and—” He cut himself short. “…Only if you’re still willing to come, of course.”

Of course. Portals.

The kind of travel only Shadow Milk excelled in. Portals that opened to too many places at once. Portals he did not like much.

Truthless’s heart sank.

He didn’t want to step into that kind of magic again, no matter how beautifully the Fount dressed it in wonder. A polished doorway was still a fracture. Portals were wounds in the world. The kind of magic that left echoes behind, no matter how cleanly they sealed. And walking into one—especially his—felt like reopening something that had only just begun to scab.

But he had said yes. And the Fount… the Fount was looking at him like the invitation still might be revoked.

So he nodded, quietly. Swallowed his dread.

He was a cookie of his word.

Or… he had been.

Whatever he was now, he could at least pretend for five more minutes.

The Fount’s staff shimmered with light. A clean light blue oval opened midair. The portal pulsed once, steady as a heartbeat.

Truthless clenched his jaw. Then stepped through.

The world shifted.

For one weightless moment, it felt like being unmade—his body stretched between seconds, soul tugged through blue thread. Then the light snapped shut behind him.

For a second, he saw something else—not village, not trees. Black hallway, dripping walls, flickering lights. Cold. Wrong.
Then it blinked away.

Just a flicker.

Fruit-sweet air returned.

The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet for a second longer than it should have. A faint, staticky hum clung to the edges of his hearing, the ghost of the portal's energy still dancing on his skin. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting them to phase through the solid air.

They stood on a winding stone path framed by low entryways of flowering branches. The air was warm and sweet, thick with summer: ripe fruit, grass, and burning wood. And just ahead, the village bloomed.

It was not large. No spires, no glittering towers—just rounded cottages in soft pastel hues, cobbled lanes that curved like song, and paper lanterns bobbing gently overhead. Music drifted from the town square—lilting, bright. Laughter echoed. Someone called out a name and was answered with joy.

Truthless Recluse didn’t move.

The Fount had already stepped forward, but turned back when he noticed. “We can wait, if you want,” he said, kindly.

Truthless inhaled. Exhaled. “No. It’s… fine.”

He stepped onto the path.

They walked together—though Truthless kept half a step behind. The Fount said little, letting the village speak for him. And it did.

Children spotted him first.

A delighted squeal, then blur of motion. Children launched themselves at the Fount—clinging to his legs, tugging his robes, chattering over each other.

“You came back!”

“Did you bring stories?”

“You promised to play the flute again—did you forget?”

“I drew you something!”

The Fount knelt amid the chaos, laughing softly. “I could never forget,” he said, brushing powdered sugar from a child’s cheek. “And yes—I brought the flute. But only if everyone’s kind to the guests, alright?” 

It was such a strange, yet painfully familiar sight. Like watching himself—only thinner, softer, distant. A memory in reverse. And here he stood, no longer part of it. Draped in darker robes. Uninvited. Out of step. A stranger in a village that somehow remembered joy.

A truthless recluse, watching joy from the other side of the glass.

Dozens of eyes turned on Truthless.

He stiffened.

The children gave cautious waves. One of them offered a daisy chain.

Truthless hesitated—then accepted it with a nod.

~~~

 

The Fount’s smile was so radiant—one of those smiles that made things bloom. Or maybe just seemed like it could.

He opened his arms and the children surged toward him like petals in the wind. A dozen little hands reached up, tugging at his sleeves, laughing, shouting over each other, spinning stories only half-true: that one had spotted a fae cookie near the woods, that another’s goat had spoken to them in their dreams. The Fount gasped and played along, eyes wide, mouth open in mock horror or wonder.

He let them pile gifts into his hands—wilting daisies, a crooked ring of herbs, a rock that could almost pass for quartz, if one squinted with enough faith. He declared each treasure sacred, slipping them into the folds of his robe with theatrical reverence.

Then he bolted. Not away, but into the meadow nearby.

The children shrieked and chased after him, and for a moment it was like watching sunbeams trying to catch the light that made them. His robe billowed like a banner behind him as he wove between trees and splashed through a shallow brook. He doubled back, scooped up one child, then two, spinning in a breathless circle as they laughed and clung to his shoulders.

He slowed only briefly, adjusting one of the little ones on his back. And in that moment, his gaze wandered—past the children, past the grass. Toward the edge of the clearing.

There, a woman stood. One of the elders, perhaps. Her apron dusted with flour, hands white with it still. She wasn’t smiling.

Truthless Recluse saw her too.

Still, her gaze unreadable, bitter perhaps.

As though she were listening to something the rest could not hear.

The Fount’s smile stayed on his lips, but his eyes—just for a moment—hollowed out.

And that’s when it flickered.

A farmer stalked forward from the crowd. Dirt under his nails, sorrow carved into his forehead.

“You show up for games. All ribbons and ceremony. But where were you when the sickness came? When the northern fields rotted?”
Music faltered. Warmth thinned.

The Fount stood—calm, composed; hands at his sides, fingers tightened once, betraying the restraint beneath the grace. His voice, when it came, was low—tempered, as if drawn through cloth.

“I sent aid as swiftly as I could. The land—”

“The land still rots,” the farmer snapped. “My brother’s dead. Half the village nearly followed. You blessed that field yourself.”

A hush swept through the gathering like a cold wind.

The Fount’s gaze didn’t flinch. “I know. And I haven’t forgotten. I’m investigating what went wrong—it’s not yet understood, but it will be fixed. I give you my word.”

He spoke with certainty, though quietly. The kind of quiet that asks to be believed.

The farmer’s mouth opened, but no reply came. Just a breath—bitter, uncertain. He turned away, the weight of grief still clinging to his back.

As the farmer retreated, the Fount’s eyes flickered, just for an instant, to Truthless. For a mere second.

Silence.

And the Fount remained at the center of it all, tall and sure, even as his grip on the staff cinched, just enough to drain the color from his knuckles.

The crowd didn’t scatter, but it stilled a bit. Reverence became unease. Some cookies avoided looking at the Fount. Others lowered their eyes and stepped back.

“They say you used to be different,” someone murmured nearby.

Truthless heard it. He wasn’t meant to.

The moment passed—but the crack stayed.

The Fount’s shoulders drooped just slightly. But when he turned to Truthless, the smile returned. A little more careful this time.

“Come,” he said, “I believe there’s a booth up ahead that sells sugared tea leaves. They’re always better warm.”

Truthless followed in silence.

His hand drifted to the pouch at his hip—the one the Fount had handed him earlier, small and soft, enchanted to hold the Soul Jam safely. The crystal inside was quiet. Then, for a heartbeat, it pulsed.

The Fount glanced back—just once. Truthless’s grip tightened.

He said nothing.

But the Soul Jam had reacted to the Fount’s smile.

And that terrified him more than any portal.

~~~

The tea leaves were indeed warm. Too warm. Truthless cradled the cup in both hands, letting the heat settle in his palms as if it might steady him.

A child tugged at his sleeve. “Are you one of the old ones too?”

Truthless blinked. “What?”

The child nodded solemnly, as if that explained everything, then ran off towards the music.

Children.

He didn’t drink.

Across the plaza, the Fount laughed gently at something a child said. He crouched to tie a shoelace, to adjust a paper crown, to listen. Always listening. 

Rambling too, like he couldn’t help it.

Once playtime with the children had quieted, the Fount made his way back to him.

On the way, a ribbon came loose from someone’s sleeve and fluttered to the ground. The Fount stooped to pick it up, only for the wind to catch it again—sending him into an undignified chase. He caught it on the third try and handed it back with a crooked little grin.

“Aren’t they lovely?” he asked, still catching his breath, cheeks a little flushed with joy.

“…Yes.”

They were.

The Fount dipped his head once, adjusting the folds of his robe. “I should tend to the rest of the village—‘Fount of Knowledge duties,’ if I may call it that. I imagine there’s quite a list waiting for me.”

The lilt in his tone didn’t fool him; something in it sagged, carefully hidden.

“Feel free to explore on your own,” he added gently, “or… you’re welcome to come with me, if you’d like.”

Just then, a small paper lantern floated down from above and landed awkwardly in the grass between them. The Fount blinked at it.

“Hm. Well-timed,” he murmured.

Truthless didn’t answer the offer. Just asked a different question instead. “What was the farmer talking about back there?”

He asked the question, not expecting honesty. Foolish, maybe.

The Fount’s expression shifted—just faintly. A crease in the smoothness. Like something long-shelved had been brought forward again.

He didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, softly:

“There was a blight. A spreading sickness in the soil. I tried to intervene, but…”

He shook his head. “There are some things that can’t be mended all at once. Not without consequence.”

Truthless watched him, unmoving. “You didn’t fix it?”

“I tried.” The words weren’t sharp—but they ached all the same. “But some truths come with a cost. If I forced the land to heal, it might’ve come at the price of another field, another season. Time resents shortcuts.”

Truthless looked away.

A breeze stirred the paper lanterns. They swung gently, creaking against their strings like sighs caught in passing.

“I didn’t expect them to understand,” the Fount said barely above a whisper. “But I hoped—”

He stopped mid-sentence. As if the next words had crept too close to something raw. His expression flickered.

“…It’s my duty. I just… haven’t solved it yet. But I will. In due time.”

Truthless’s grip on the teacup tightened.

Again, he didn’t trust the Fount. Not really. Not yet.

But he knew that posture. That unbearable silhouette he'd once worn like armor—adored, expected, and never enough. A savior fraying at the seams. And Truthless, against his will, understood him.

“That kind of hope is dangerous,” he said at last.

The Fount looked at him, calm. “Isn’t everything worth doing?”

Truthless paused. His voice, when it came, was low.

“…You sound like him.”

The Fount tilted his head. “Him—”

Pure Vanilla.

But Truthless didn’t say it.

The Soul Jam answered once more from within the pouch…as if releasing its breath. Like something inside him had recognized the shape of that smile, and recoiled.

He stood abruptly—as if motion alone could shield him from what the question threatened to open. “I’ll walk.”

“Will you come find me later?”

Truthless didn’t answer. Not yet.

He didn’t look back—didn’t need to. The Fount was still watching.

But he stayed close enough to hear the villagers whisper as he passed.

“I thought the Fount could fix anything.”

“Not anymore.”

“He used to be different.”

He used to be different.

The words festered like a wound on Truthless’s mind. They whispered the question he refused to ask aloud: was he walking with a kindred spirit, or another beautiful lie?

And somewhere, beneath it all, the Soul Jam ached—no pulse, no flicker. Waiting for something he hadn’t dared name.

Chapter 7: Moth

Notes:

Im going to try to extend my chapters a bit from after this chap.
There’s mention of the night but its just basically really really early in the morning

The village burst with celebration.

Garlands of petals hung from painted beams. Music spilled from every square, laughter tangling with sugared fruit and sickly-sweet smoke. Lanterns swayed, their glow soft as burnished gold. It was midsummer, and joy was expected. Demanded, even.

Truthless Recluse stood at the edge of it all, half-wrapped in shadow beneath a lantern tree, watching the celebration unfold like a painting he could not enter. The colors spun too fast. Someone laughed too hard. And he didn’t trust the way the music settled into his ribs like it belonged there.

Foxes, stags, birds of paradise—masks and paper crowns everywhere, hiding faces already too full of life. The children moved fastest: darting between stalls, yelping with laughter, dragging ribbons behind them like comet tails. Their flower crowns had begun to wilt, but none of them cared.

Truthless mourned it.

No one had offered him a mask. So he stood unmasked—easy to name, easier to forget.

Even Shadow Milk had offered him one once. Not literally.

The faint glint of the Soul Jam pouch slung over his shoulder, letting the celebration wash past him. No one stopped. A few glanced at him curiously—an outsider, clearly—but didn’t linger long enough to meet his gaze.

He didn’t mind.

It was better to watch.

The lanterns bobbed in the evening breeze. Their glow caught in the curls of dancers’ hair and in the reflections on sugar-glazed pastries. Somewhere, a trio of flutists played a tune that sounded both old and entirely made of joy.

A pair of cookies passed by, one carrying a tray of honey-glazed buns, the other scattering flower petals in their wake. They didn’t look at him. Or rather, they looked through him.

Truthless closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

This wasn’t a tradition celebrated in the Vanilla Kingdom. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever hearing of it—not like this. It felt too ancient to be new, too personal to be borrowed.

Had this been a local rite, passed down through centuries?

Or had the Fount made it himself?

The thought left a strange taste in his mouth.

Then—a tug.

He opened his eyes.

She couldn’t have been more than a child—her mask shaped like a moth, delicate paper wings fluttering with each breath. Her flower crown was slipping over one eye. Her hands were sticky with something sweet.

She didn’t speak right away. Just stared up at him—head tilted—through the eyeholes of her mask.

“Are you sad?”
The question struck too clean, too sudden. Before he could answer, she lifted her arms—expectant, as if asking strangers to lift her was the most natural thing.

Truthless hesitated. His instinct said no.

But then—slowly, carefully—he bent and picked her up. She was lighter than expected, all flower petals and flour dust and laughter. She perched easily on his hip, one arm around his shoulder, utterly unbothered by the dark robes or the guarded eyes beneath them.

“You don’t smile,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Before he could respond, she pulled off her mask—a simple thing, painted paper and pressed violet petals—and tried to place it over his face.

It didn’t fit.

His golden hair, wild from the summer wind, got in the way. The mask caught on the brim of his hat, slipped sideways, sagged forward like a wilting blossom.

“Your hair’s messy,” she frowned, as she tried to push it down with one sticky hand.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move, either.

Undeterred, she tried again—this time pressing it to his chest like she was handing over something sacred.

“You look sad,” she said again. “But you don’t have to be.”

He stared at her.

Her eyes were too clear. Not wise, not ancient. Just… painfully innocent.

Slowly, he took the mask from her hands and held it between his fingers like something too fragile to keep.

She wriggled to be put down, and he obliged. Her crown slid further. She pushed it up with a hum.

“I’m Cherrybud Cookie! Happy Midsummer,” she said, and skipped back into the crowd.

For a single, fleeting second, he felt the ghost of her weight on his hip, the impression of a trust he had done nothing to earn. Then it was gone.

The mask remained in his hand.

Soft paper. Faint traces of sugar.

He didn’t put it on.

But he didn’t drop it, either.

He watched her vanish into the swirl of music and color, and wondered how anyone could look at him and say those words.

You don’t have to be.

Of course he knew that. But knowing and believing were oceans apart.

He really was pathetic.

Wasn’t he the one who let go of everything he once stood for—just because of a single shove from Shadow Milk?

Well. ‘Shove’ was too kind a word. But Truthless Recluse chose to see it that way.

What Pure Vanilla endured in the Spire had been cruel. Harsh. Mentally fracturing in a way words couldn’t convey. Shadow Milk had been vile, yes, but also… something else. Something twisted beneath kindness.

And at least he had an excuse.

Truthless Recluse… did not.

 

And then the crowd parted.

And there stood the Fount.

He was radiant—almost as when they first met. But not quite. His dark robes were now edged in crimson and soft green, the hues of summer and harvest. His hair was swept back, looser than usual, catching the lantern light like it remembered how to burn. He himself had become the light.

He held a scroll in one hand.

The other… trembled.

It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Truthless saw it. In the space between gestures, when the applause faded and the Fount raised his hand to speak—the scroll fluttered more than it should have.

The Fount smiled anyway.

“Thank you,” he said, voice clear and warm. “It means more than I can say to see all of you here.”

A cheer rippled outward.

Truthless didn’t join it.

“Many things we cannot name, many truths that change with seasons. But midsummer is about what stays—what endures through time, struggle, doubt.”

Truthless pressed a hand to the Soul Jam pouch. Its warmth met his skin. It wasn't a pulse this time, but a low, constant hum—a note of dissonance held beneath the Fount’s perfect words.

“Today, we honor that endurance,” the Fount said, quieter now. “And those who carry it, even when they forget how.”

Silence followed. A beat too long.

Then—applause.

Magic bloomed from his fingertips—flowers, birds, starry silhouettes. A spectacle of color and shape and light. When it faded, the Fount bowed and stepped down from the stage, dissolving once more into the blur of masks and flower crowns.

Truthless didn’t move.

Even when a dancer nearly collided with him—even when a spray of glitter caught in the crook of his sleeve—he stayed frozen.

Because he’d heard it.

The tremble beneath the speech.

And something else.

A whisper—sharp and intimate—slithered into his ear like smoke:

“Pure Vanilla Cookie.”

Not shouted.

Not imagined.

Just… spoken.

Familiar. Close.

He spun around, heart hammering.

No one.

Just children laughing. Lanterns bobbing. Music swelling.

And the Soul Jam pulsing, rising against his chest like breath.

He left the square without knowing why.

~~~

The music faded behind him.

Not all at once—just note by note, as if each sound had to untangle itself from the fabric of his cloak before letting go. He wandered into the quiet side paths where lanterns hung lower and joy no longer echoed.

He passed beneath an arbor of pale ribbon and thyme. Past shuttered windows. Past the scent of old earth and honeysuckle. Somewhere, someone sang a lullaby in a language he didn’t remember learning.

The Soul Jam thrummed again.

Off rhythm.

Then he saw him.

The Fount. Alone. No stage, no garlands—just standing before a moss-slick well in a forgotten courtyard. Staff leaning nearby, crown gone, hands bare.

Truthless didn’t move.

The Fount leaned forward, resting his palms on the stone rim. His head was bowed. Just bowed. As if the stillness was holding him up more than he was holding himself.

Truthless took one step. A twig cracked beneath his boot.

The Fount didn’t turn. But he spoke.

“You’re not wearing the mask.”

Truthless froze.

“I saw the child give it to you,” the Fount said. “She does that every year. To someone who looks like they need it most.”

Truthless said nothing.

“She gave it to me once, too,” he added. “I still have it. Somewhere.”

Truthless stepped closer.

The silver threads in the Fount’s robes shimmered in the well’s reflection. His grip on the stone rim was tight. White-knuckled.

“I try,” the Fount said softly, “to be what they need. I try so hard.”

He turned slightly. Met Truthless’s gaze across the shallow dark.

“I didn’t think you’d follow.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

A silence stretched—thin as thread. The well’s surface rippled once. 

Somewhere nearby, a child shrieked in laughter. Someone had apparently tried to juggle berries and failed spectacularly. One rolled to the edge of the well. The Fount gently toed it away.

He toed the berry again, as if unsure whether to crush it or cradle it.

“Were you ever afraid of being loved for the wrong reasons?”

Truthless’s throat tightened.

“I am. All the time.”

He looked down. “My apologies. I’m not good at this. Being… open. I’m better at speeches. Much better, in fact.”

Truthless didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t look away, either.

“I thought the speech went well,” he said at last.

The Fount huffed a laugh. “I nearly dropped the scroll.”

“I noticed.”

That earned a real chuckle. Barely.

The Fount straightened—gingerly—but didn’t reach for his staff. He looked older in the starlight. Still beautiful. Still composed. But thinner. As if too much of him had been handed out and too little returned.

“Go back if you’d like,” he said. “The celebration’s not over.”

Truthless looked at the well.

It didn’t feel like a place for wishes.

It felt like something had been buried there.

“I’ll stay,” he said.

The Fount didn’t smile.

But his shoulders eased.

Just a little.

They didn’t speak again.

They stood together in the courtyard, two ghosts of different times, mirrored in the well’s dark water.

And above them, the stars bloomed one by one—

Dancing to the rhythms of the night, too far to reach, too bright to ever be plucked.

It could have ended there. Maybe it should have.

But the Fount turned.

And said, without expectation, “Would you like to walk?”

Truthless hesitated.

Then nodded, once.

The path back to the heart of the festival was winding and lined with lanterns low enough to brush the tops of their heads. The crowds had thinned—only the most spirited dancers and slow-talking vendors remained. Music played softer now, worn down by the weight of the night yet to become the bright morning, and the air was rich with crushed herbs and half-melted sugar.

They walked side by side.

Truthless kept his hands clasped behind his back, unsure of what to do with them. He still had the girl’s mask tucked in his sleeve. He hadn’t looked at it since.

“You know,” the Fount said lightly, “I’d like to see how it looks on you.”

Truthless glanced over.

There was no teasing in the Fount’s tone. No expectation. Just a quiet openness that unnerved him more than if he’d laughed.

He didn’t answer. But after a pause, he reached into his sleeve and held the mask loosely between his fingers—paper-thin, a little wrinkled now.

A small, honest smile touched the Fount’s lips.

“It suits you,” the Fount said. “Even when it’s not on your face.”

That earned a dry huff of breath from Truthless. Maybe the closest he came to a laugh.

They passed a stall hung with charms and paper pennants, where rings were tossed over standing bottles painted in jewel tones. A sign above read, Three rings for a wish. The vendor, a boy with ink-stained fingers, grinned and offered a set without charge.

The Fount accepted them with a light hum of amusement. “Ah, nostalgia,” he said, spinning one ring around his finger. “Would you care to try?”

Truthless raised a brow.

The Fount tossed the first. It bounced off the neck of the bottle and spun onto the ground.

Truthless huffed—barely a sound, but the Fount caught it.

“Mocking me already,” he said. “Cruel.”

The second ring missed by a wider margin. The third struck the bottle squarely before tumbling off.

The Fount sighed. “A tragic loss.”

He offered the remaining rings to Truthless. A slow moment passed. Then Truthless took one—more to end the staring than from interest.

He didn’t aim so much as let it fly.

It landed.

The vendor whooped. “You’ve been granted a wish!”

Truthless blinked at the bottle. Then looked away, face unreadable.

The Fount said nothing. Just smiled—soft, unbothered, as if this had always been the inevitable result.

Truthless let the ring fall from his hand and didn’t watch it land.

They walked on. The music in the distance faltered—then resumed, slower this time, threaded with the scratch of a worn bow. Lanternlight pooled at their feet. Somewhere, oil popped in a pan and someone laughed too loud.

Then the scent of crushed herbs cut through, clean and green, leading them toward the next stall.

They passed a stall with glowing bottles arranged like stars. The vendor smiled when she saw the Fount, and with a soft gesture offered him two small cups.

“Blueberry and basil,” she said. “With a hint of mint. Good for clarity.”

The Fount handed one to Truthless without asking.

He took it cautiously.

The drink was cool, deep purple, and strange on the tongue. Not bad. Not sweet, either. It tasted like walking through a forest just after rain. He swallowed it all in one go, mostly to keep from speaking.

Just beyond, a low wall encircled the village stream, where lanterns and paper boats floated slowly beneath the drifting petals of summer blossoms. Several villagers stood along the edge, lighting candles tucked into curled leaves, letting them go with whispered wishes.

The current carried them in silence, and the two approached.

A few greeted the Fount with a nod.

A basket of unlit leaves stood nearby.

The Fount stepped forward, taking one. He didn’t say what he wished for— only held it a moment too long between his palms before lighting it from a nearby lantern.

Truthless watched it drift away, the small flame flickering until it vanished beyond the lantern glow.

He took one too. Fumbled with the matchstick. Lit it. His hands weren’t trembling, but the flame still guttered in the wind. It flickered once, then went out.

He stared at the cold wick. Said nothing. And let the leaf go anyway.

The water carried it gently, just the same.

“I used to come here often,” the Fount said, watching the lights above the stall flicker. “Before they knew who I was. I liked blending in.”

Truthless kept his gaze forward. “And now?”

The Fount’s voice was quiet. “Now… I’m not sure who I’d be if I tried.”

They continued down the lantern-strung path.

A musician played a slow tune nearby, and a couple swayed together beneath an arbor of ivy and stars. A child ran past them, trailing a ribbon like a shooting star. Truthless stepped aside automatically, his robe brushing the Fount’s.

The Fount didn’t pull away. But the tension in his shoulders never eased.

Every moment was too bright. Too fragile. The joy in the air felt borrowed. He watched the couples dancing and felt like he was looking through a pane of glass: close enough to see, but never meant to join.

The Fount must’ve noticed.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said gently. “Truly.”

Truthless stared ahead.

“I know.”

But he didn’t leave.

They reached the edge of the square, where the music turned softer still, and the stars had grown bold enough to cast their own light. A cluster of villagers sat in a circle around a fire, murmuring old stories. One of them gestured to the Fount, as if inviting him to join.

He shook his head, just barely. And stayed beside Truthless.

“I never expected this,” the Fount said, almost to himself.

“Not any of it.” A pause. “Not you.”

Truthless pressed lightly against the rim of the now empty cup.

The Soul Jam, once more, throbbed against him. Soft. Regular. But not calm.

He looked at the Fount, silhouetted in gold and shadow, still wearing robes like starlight and still managing to look alone even here.

Truthless spoke, barely audible: “This doesn’t feel real.”

The Fount’s eyes met his. “But it is.”

The early morning air touched Truthless’ skin, and still he felt too warm.

His fingers found the moth mask in his sleeve, and for the first time all night, he did not feel the urge to let it go.

Just for now.

 

Notes:

“And above them, the stars bloomed one by one—
Dancing to the rhythms of the night, too far to reach, too bright to ever be plucked.“

This gives me a bittersweet feeling. I added it because it reminded me of a story my mother used to read me a lot about a princess called Margarita who plucked a star from the sky.

Chapter 8: Unquiet Pages

Notes:

EDIT: Came and edited some parts of the chapter. I just altered some words. Like, I have a tendency of using the same words a alot accidentally and I just wanted to change that a bit in this chap.

8 and 9 are solo updates because I’m evil >:3
Nah, there’s a reason—I pinkie promise with a big, fat, juicy, plump, round cherry on the top.
ALSO! I had so much fun writing the Fount in this chapter, I love him x333
AND forgive me if I got any math stuff wrong, I haven’t had a math class in like 3 years LOL

FINALLY, not to promote myself or anything BUTTTT I made some art INSPIRED by the fic and wanted to share it with y’all. Here’s the link X3
https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSSDegw9c/

Whatever had happened the day before, Truthless Recluse had come to seriously regret it.

Not because anything extraordinary had occurred. No—if anything, it had been a small, almost tender moment of vulnerability shared between two cookies who would eventually bear the same fate.

Yet, Truthless Recluse had underestimated just how much last night would change the Fount’s perception of him.

Or at least, that’s what he concluded after being woken at six in the morning by the Fount, wide-eyed and impossibly alert, expecting him to join for breakfast.

For all he knew, he could have been faking it.

Or not.

Probably not.

Definitely not.

 

“I do not strictly need to eat consistently, but I thought it would be pleasant to share a meal with you before I begin my work,” the Fount had explained.

Did one slip of honesty mean he was now obligated to perform intimacy?

 

He lingered on the thought, thumb brushing the edge of his sleeve.

Once more—because apparently once hadn’t been enough—he told himself he didn’t hate the Fount.

Irritation came easy, yes. Absolutely. But caring wasn’t worth it. Not now. Not with everything feeling so hopeless.

The Fount wasn’t even being cruel. Just… open. Careless with it.

And because Truthless had let himself speak gently—just once—the Fount now acted like the door had been opened.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingertips catching at his jaw, still bleary from sleep.

“Give me a moment.”

The Fount beamed, as if that were the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him. “Of course!”

The door closed softly behind him.

Truthless stood in the dim quiet of his room, unmoving. Somewhere down the corridor, the Fount’s footsteps faded into nothing. He turned toward the mirror.

The same tired eyes stared back. The same wild hair, wind-mussed from the day before. The faintest smudge of dried flower pollen clung to the collar of his robe.

No mask. No lanterns. No music.

He touched the hollow of his throat, where the moth mask had rested against him.

“You don’t have to be sad,” she’d said.

He splashed some cold water on his face. The words didn’t wash off.

~~~

As expected, the Fount was waiting halfway down the corridor, leaning against one of the tall lilac-stone pillars—though “lilac” didn’t quite capture the color. It was the pale blue of old porcelain left too long in the sun, touched faintly with lavender. That same color stretched down the hall, washed into the walls and ceiling like a faint dream. The hallway was quiet that day.

Thankfully.

He hadn’t noticed Truthless yet. One boot rested flat against the base of the column, arms crossed loosely. His hand moved in idle spirals, sketching equations in the air with no chalk, no paper. 

He murmured to himself, just above a whisper.

“…and if I invert the values, then—no, no, the boundary condition folds in on itself—unless—”

His voice barely carried. He spoke like someone pacing through the halls of his own mind, half-lost in thought.

A pause. He tilted his head, lips pursed in faint frustration, then broke into a quiet chuckle. “Stubborn little thing.”

The morning sun slanted in from a high window, full and unfiltered, striking him square in the face. It caught in his eyes—those strange, shifting eyes—and made them shimmer. Though perhaps they were already shimmering on their own.

Truthless stepped forward. His footfall was soft but not silent.

The Fount startled, blinking up. “Oh!”

His expression broke into warmth instantly—too instantly, maybe. “You’re ready? Good. I—” he glanced at his hands as if surprised to find them still gesturing, then tucked them behind his back. “I was just thinking. Immediately after yesterday, I was ’kidnapped’—gently—into a classroom by a scholar and given a problem to solve. Very elegant. Or infuriating. Possibly both,” he said. “Exciting! Though it’s hijacked my mind, so I figured I might as well put the hallway to use.”

He pushed off the pillar with a small stretch of his shoulders. “Oh, and good morning.”

Truthless gave the faintest nod.

The Fount didn’t wait. He turned with a flick of his robe and began walking, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Truthless followed a pace behind.

“I had the idea just before dawn, actually,” the Fount said, cheerfully. “It woke me rather completely. I did attempt to fall back asleep, but—you know how it is, when something begins to make sense. Or nearly does. One cannot help but think on it. Especially someone like me.”

Truthless gave a low hum—neither agreement nor disagreement.

The corridor curved gently, lined with pale glass windows and narrow alcoves filled with unfamiliar instruments. The Fount’s steps echoed. His voice didn’t.

“Technically, it’s a new field for me,” he continued—though the grin he wore suggested he hadn’t stopped studying it since the moment it crossed his path. “But I’ve become rather adept at persuading scholars to let me think aloud in their classrooms, and I’ve got plenty of books to analyze.” He turned slightly, eyes glinting. “A skill I’ve cultivated.”

Truthless’s gaze remained straight ahead.

The Fount went on anyway. “The scholar swears she checked the boundary conditions three times, but I’m convinced she was using the wrong coefficient for the interior curve. The proof almost resolves if you shift it slightly rightward and factor in the curvature constant—though I suppose that ruins the elegance, doesn’t it?”

Another noncommittal nod.

The Fount didn’t seem fazed. “Honestly, I’m tempted to redo the whole thing in water-soluble ink and send it back anonymously. Maybe with a riddle. I think she’d like that.”

The dining room doors loomed at the end of the corridor—tall, dark, slightly ajar.

The Fount chuckled softly to himself. “I am simply jesting, of course. I’ll give her the proper solution once it is ready.”

He paused, then added, “But I might still include a riddle. Out of principle.”

They neared the dining room, but the Fount didn’t reach for the door. He slowed, as if reluctant to part with the quiet between them. His footsteps softened to a near-stop beside one of the arching windows, where dust moved faintly in the morning light.

“Before we enter I should warn you,” he said, almost lightly, “the meal is… somewhat overdone.”

Truthless raised an eyebrow.

“Well—charmingly overdone,” the Fount amended. “Uncertain of your tastes, I requested a modest sampling of nearly everything. I may have gotten carried away with the details.”

Truthless held his tongue. He stared at the sliver of light between the two doors—soft and golden, warm in the way only breakfast light could be. The smell of syrup and cardamom drifted faintly from within.

A shift beside him.

The Fount clasped his hands again, then unclasped them, then pretended to adjust the cuff of his sleeve. “Of course, if it’s too much, or not what you’re in the mood for, we can take it somewhere quieter. There’s a small terrace on the north side. Empty, most mornings.”

Another silence.

“I’m… not trying to crowd you,” he added, softer now. “I just thought—after yesterday—it might be good to begin the day in your company. It meant more than it should have.”

The light from outside dining room shifted faintly, stirred by someone passing within.

Truthless commented nothing, but went inside.

 

~~~

 

The dining room wasn’t the grand hall of the castle, but something smaller—sunlit, quiet, intimate in its own way. Meant for two or three at most.

A low pearlwood table stood in the center, set modestly enough at first glance: fresh fruit, warm bread, and a pot of tea that smelled faintly of honeyed thyme… and blueberries.

Because why wouldn’t there be blueberries?

But that was only the opening act.

Glazed tarts, honeyed bread, and thick cream in cut crystal stood beside still-steaming pastries, pleated and glossed to a fine lacquer, their golden crusts catching the light like gilt parchment—between fruit spirals so intricate they looked coaxed from the branches themselves. Pear and fig had been fanned into rose-shapes, their flesh soft and fragrant, edges brushed with lemon to keep from fading. Pomegranate seeds glittered between folds—tiny jewels pressed into velvet. Even the citrus had been shaved into ribbons so fine they caught the light like glass.

A careful sliver of honeycomb rested beside a croissant nearly the size of Truthless’s hand—its outer shell burnished and crisp, the layers beneath pale, buttery, and impossibly soft.

Nearby, a trio of soft-boiled eggs sat nestled in painted porcelain cups, their tops gently cracked. One was crowned with crushed pink salt and dill; another with a dollop of bright herb cream; the last with a scattering of edible petals, blue and violet.

Thin slices of preserved citrus lined a shallow dish, their translucent rinds turned faintly at the edges. Each one gleamed with sugar, glowing like pressed sunset—sun-orange, blood-red, and palest yellow, every slice warm as stained glass.

And tea, of course. Not just the pot already set on the table—pale pottery, its lid delicately askew—but two more nestled in warmers along the sideboard, each swaddled in embroidered linen to keep from cooling.

One breathed out ribbons of steam laced with mint and something sharper—an herbal snap that prickled faintly at the back of the nose, like wintergreen or crushed pine. The other gave off a darker sweetness: berries, surely, but deeper than that. Blueberry, perhaps, thickened with something riper—almost like blackcurrant, or the soft syrup at the bottom of a summer compote.

Just the kind of perfectly ordinary meal one prepares after dawn.

 

Truthless stared at it all.

He hadn’t said he was hungry.

He wasn’t.

But clearly, someone had decided that wasn’t relevant.

The Fount stepped in after him, but didn’t rush to take a seat. He lingered just a step behind, as if unsure whether to direct or defer.

“I wasn’t sure if you preferred sweet or savory, so I chose both. And added a third category I’m calling ‘edible curiosity.’”

Truthless didn’t sit immediately. He studied the table like one might a shrine or a trap—unsure which.

The Fount, noticing, tilted his head. “Too much?”

What gave it away—the fruit spiral roses or the stained-glass citrus?

 

Truthless blinked once, then finally lowered himself onto the cushion at the short end of the table. The seat gave slightly beneath him, warm from the sun.

Across from him, the Fount settled in with far too much grace—one leg crossed neatly over the other, posture effortless, theatrical in its restraint. He looked… pleased. Entirely too pleased.

His fingers had found the rim of his teacup and were tracing it idly, like it might sing for him if he asked. A quiet tune slipped from him as he moved—half-hummed, half-breathed. Unrecognizable, but far too content.

It was like watching a play staged for two, and only one of them had read the script.

The Fount poured tea into Truthless’s cup. 

He began.

“There’s a reason I like mornings,” he said, eyes still on the stream of amber as it rose. “They always feel like the truest part of the day. No pretense yet. Just the quiet—and whatever you decide to bring into it.”

Truthless watched the steam curl upward. He didn’t speak. His expression didn’t shift. One hand came to rest on the saucer, steady and still.

“I suppose that’s why you came banging on my door at sunrise?”

“To share the quiet,” the Fount replied, perfectly sincere.

He didn’t look up as he tipped in a spoonful of sugar. Then another. Then a third. The spoon clinked cheerfully each time, utterly at odds with Truthless’s stare.

Truthless blinked once.

With a small shift—more surrender than assent—Truthless finally raised the cup to his lips.

It was too sweet.

Of course it was.

The Fount broke a piece of bread from the center tray, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “You know,” he said mildly, “I’ve been thinking about demanding a rematch.”

Truthless blinked again.

“Three more rings. Double or nothing. This time, I get a wish if I win.”

Truthless took a long sip. “That’s a very complicated way of saying you lost.”

“I was cursed,” the Fount said solemnly. “Clearly. No other explanation for missing all three.”

He smiled into his cup. Truthless arched a brow.

“Cursed, is it?”

“A powerful force,” the Fount went on, mock-serious. “Possibly ancient. Possibly ring-related.”

Truthless didn’t answer, but reached for a small dish of melon slices—lifted one, examined it, didn’t eat it.

“It was nice,” the Fount said, quieter now. “The village. The noise. The company.”

No comment.

Truthless’s thumb moved in slow circles on the edge of his saucer.

The Fount broke off another piece of bread, but this time didn’t eat it. He turned it slowly between his fingers, brushing away crumbs that weren’t there.

“You’ve hardly touched anything,” he said quietly, not quite looking at Truthless.

Truthless glanced at his plate. Then at the melon slice he’d set aside.

“Didn’t realize this was a test.”

“It’s not,” the Fount said. “But if it were, you’d be failing spectacularly.”

He gave a small smile to soften the jab, but Truthless didn’t rise to it. His fingers traced the edge of his saucer.

“I’m not hungry,” he said at last.

The Fount tilted his head, considering the untouched plate.

“Neither’s the pear,” he said dryly, and popped it into his mouth anyway.

He reached for a sliver of pear, bit into it, and chewed thoughtfully. “Too ripe.”

Truthless made no reply. Just shifted slightly—closer to the tea, not the food.

The Fount watched him another moment, then picked up his knife again, returning to the same roll he hadn’t finished buttering.

“Change of topic,” he said, keeping his voice light, “I’m supposed to be in the main meeting room—”

“And then the archives. Reviewing scrolls, answering a few questions. I thought you might want to come.”

Only the tap of his finger on the porcelain answered.

The Fount took a sip of his own drink, then leaned back, spoon in hand, spinning it lightly between his fingers.

“You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought—well. You might like it.”

“Your version of quiet involves too many glances,” Truthless murmured, eyes fixed on the teacup.

That earned a laugh. Not loud. But warm.

“Caught me.”

The Fount went on,

“Now that I think about it… haven’t we done this little routine before? I asked you to join me after eating, when we went to the—”

He stopped.

“The food is good,” he said instead, and took another sip.

Truthless’s eyes flicked sideways, one hand shielding his cheek like the sun was in his eyes—even though it wasn’t. Then he exhaled, a short breath through his nose.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

The Fount gave a small nod, not triumphant, not smug—just accepting. “That’s enough.”

Time didn’t press. Sunlight inched along the wall, drawing gold through the joints of the stone. Dust turned slowly in the air, shifting with each breath. From somewhere behind the shelves, the clock kept on—each tick like a tap against glass.

The Fount took a bite of fruit, then brushed a few crumbs from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Across the table, Truthless sat almost statuesque—only his gaze moved, following the motion. He caught himself and glanced away.

There was something uncomfortably quiet about it all. The domesticity of it. The faint breeze slipping in through the cracked window. The two of them, seated like this.

Once more, the Fount spoke.

“You know, the kitchen did help me with the preparations—though I used a little magic on the dishes. I chose the tea blend myself, as always,” he said, voice low, almost to the rim of his cup. “The blueberries might be… nostalgic.”

Truthless paused. His eyes flicked to the kettle, then back to the Fount—longer this time. But the other cookie just stared down at his drink, mouth drawn like he was waiting for a memory to arrive.

Nostalgic for who?

Truthless lifted the cup again. Slower now. Still too sweet. But he didn’t mention it.

The rest of the meal passed in a kind of shared hush. The bread was pillowy. The fruit clung too long to the tongue. The tea remained relentlessly sweet. Sunlight crawled across the floor like it had no real destination.

Truthless set down his empty cup.

He didn’t know why he was handling it so gently. Maybe it was the way silence had started to mean something. Or maybe it was the way the Fount was watching him again, his look giving nothing away.

“I know you said you’d think about it,” the Fount said as Truthless pushed back his chair. “But it’s alright if you don’t come. I just enjoy your company…”

Truthless gave him a look—dry, unimpressed. “I didn’t say I enjoy yours.”

“You didn’t have to,” the Fount replied, not missing a beat.

The chair scraped softly as he stood. He didn’t thank the Fount. Didn’t need to. The silence between them had already settled into something else—less a gap, more a language.

~~~

The hallway beyond waited, quiet in the way old places sometimes are. His steps made no argument with the stone, but the hush felt altered, like something unseen had turned to face him. When he reached his chamber, he didn’t enter.

At the stairwell, his fingers slipped along the banister’s worn curve—finish worn thin, the wood burnished smooth by countless passings.

 

He hadn’t planned to follow.

He hadn’t planned anything at all.

And yet, his feet moved, following. To the archive.

Not at once, but eventually—after the Fount’s meeting had ended.

Maybe because he had nowhere else to be.

Maybe because part of him wanted to.

Hard to say.

The light on the stairs caught something old in him—a particular pattern of brightness and shadow falling across stone that was so like another day, another place.

~~~

He remembered the way she used to press her thumb to her lip when thinking—an old, almost childish habit. A crease between her brows, the twitch of a smile that didn’t always reach her eyes. White Lily, holding a scroll sideways because she insisted it made the words “unfold themselves.” They had sat like this once, quiet in a sun-dappled corridor, the light falling between them like petals caught midair.

“You always skim,” she had said then, teasing but not unkind. “You look for answers before you’ve heard the question.”

“And you always get distracted by metaphors,” he’d retorted, not looking up from the tome. “We make a fine pair of scholars.”

She had laughed, and then—after a beat—touched his wrist lightly. Just two fingers, as if unsure whether she had permission. She always asked for permission, even in silence.

“One day,” she’d said softly, “you’re going to look back on this moment and forget what I meant by it.”

He hadn’t understood what she meant at the time.

~~~

He hadn’t thought about her in days. Not properly. But now, in the hush of the archives, something cracked open.

Why her? Why now?

The archives were cool and dim, laced with the dry scent of parchment and ink. The Fount was already there, seated at a desk scattered with scrolls, his staff leaning against the wall behind him.

His hair caught the light—glowing faintly, as if stilled for a portrait.

Truthless stopped just inside the threshold. His arms crossed—not tightly, but as a barrier—and he let his gaze sweep the shelves instead of answering. Scrolls lined every wall, some stacked haphazardly, some precisely cataloged. His fingers flexed against his upper arm, restless.

He didn’t move closer. Just loitered near the shelf like he meant to be there.

Something brushed past his shoulder.

He turned—quick. But nothing was there. Just scrolls.

One of the shelves seemed to lean a little closer. He blinked, and it hadn’t moved at all.

Maybe he hadn’t slept enough.

“Do you actually read all these?” he asked eventually, voice dry as dust.

“I try.” The Fount dipped the quill into a pot of ink, flicking a droplet away with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Some are worth reading twice. Others… less so.”

Truthless let his eyes fall to a row of crumbling bindings. The light shifted behind him, catching specks in the air. He angled his body slightly, still facing the shelves, not the Fount.

“I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” the Fount added, almost absently.

Truthless’s brow furrowed. His weight shifted from one foot to the other.

“And what are you looking for?”

This time, the Fount stopped writing. He placed the quill aside with quiet care and leaned back into his chair, fingers loosely steepled near his lips. His eyes searching for an answer.

“Answers. Patterns. Warnings.” A pause. “Sometimes, I just want to remember how things used to be.”

He didn’t reply. His mouth pressed into a line. After a moment, he turned and walked toward the desk—but not too close. He gestured vaguely toward the opposite chair, then hovered beside it instead of sitting.

The Fount tilted his head. “You don’t have to stand.”

Truthless didn’t answer right away. Then—with something like resignation—he sat. He perched, half-decided, weight on the edge.

The chair was warm.

“I can be quiet,” the Fount offered. His voice gentled, not quite fully sincere.

Truthless nodded once in acknowledgment. 

And the room fell still.

The scratching of the Fount’s quill returned, a rhythmic brushing against old parchment. In the distance, a clock chimed once, faint and low. Beyond the glass, daylight filtered in uncertain slants, like it hadn’t yet decided on the hour.

Truthless’s fingers tapped once against his leg. Then stilled.

He let his gaze wander again. The ceiling beams. The old binding threads fraying out of cracked spines. Every now and then, he looked toward the Fount—quick, sidelong glances—but never lingered.

Eventually, he leaned back slightly, elbows still on his knees.

He glanced over. “You ever get the feeling something’s off in here?”

He didn’t know what answer he expected. Maybe something reassuring. Maybe something stupid enough to argue with.

The Fount didn’t look up. “All the time.”

A dry blink. Of course the Fount wasn’t fazed.

Truthless leaned back. “You don’t seem bothered.”

“If I got upset every time the castle changed its mind,” the Fount said, dipping his quill again, “I wouldn’t get much work done.” He flicked a strand of hair behind his shoulder with the back of his wrist. “The archives have moods, like everything else here. Some days they offer clarity. Other days, well… I’ve been trying to fix it. No success for now. But I’ll fix it.”

Truthless’s jaw shifted. His eyes narrowed a touch, unreadable.

“That’s comforting,” he said flatly. “Living in a sentient maze.”

The Fount set the quill down. Folded his hands together loosely and looked up.

“No one said memory was linear,” he said. “Or kind.”

A longer silence now. And deeper.

Truthless met his gaze for a second too long. Then looked away.

A flicker beneath the skin.

His Soul Jam throbbed.

He stood up.

Moved down the aisle. Something tugged faintly at the edge of his perception—not sound, not movement. More like breath.

One of the books stopped him. A thick volume, black-bound and titleless. Its spine was unmarked, but his hand hovered toward it anyway. Then—

It pulsed.

A slow, steady beat against his palm. Not from within the pages, but beneath them. Like it had a heart.

Truthless drew back. The pulse faded. He pressed his lips together, spine tightening.

Farther down, the light shifted.

He thought he saw—no, remembered—no, saw:

A child, small and golden-haired, laying flat on a velvet chair. Reading with both hands, mouth faintly parted in concentration. Ink smudged one cheek. And across from him, a figure with long white hair, laughing quietly. The sound was soft, full of something warm. Too warm.

Truthless turned sharply.

Only the shelves. Only the quiet.

His chest ached.

Then:

“Vanilla.”

Soft. Intimate. Real.

His breath caught. He rose to his feet before he knew he’d decided to. The chair creaked behind him.

“Don’t,” he muttered aloud—to the air, to the shelves, to himself. “Don’t do that.”

The Fount watched him, but didn’t speak.

He turned toward the sound. His feet were already moving—faster than thought.

His gaze caught on a nearby shelf—nothing special. Except… a sliver of gold ink. A familiar looping letter.  
A “P.”

He leaned in.

No gold. No ink. Just a spine stamped with lunar cartography. Nothing personal.

 

Still, his Soul Jam gave a twitch—barely a flutter—but enough.

There—tucked between thick grimoires on spell theory and magical ethics—was a thin leather-bound book. Unmarked. Worn at the edges, as if it had been handled often and cherished long ago.

His breath caught.

He picked it up.

The scent of lilies and pressed parchment hit him immediately. Something old. Something his.

He opened it.

His own handwriting stared back at him.

‘White Lily,’ the first line read.

“It’s always hardest to write when I feel I’m lying. I’m not sure if these pages are truth, or just the shape of what I wish it had been.

Chill settled over his skin. More pages—soft thoughts, apologies, hopes. Details he had no memory of writing yet knew he had. He traced the ink.

The words shifted.

Not faded. Shifted.

The ink swirled once more. Then stilled. A word dissolved mid-sentence—‘forgive’—gone in a blink.

Becoming something else.

He blinked.

The page now read:

Sweetberry Muffins (Yields 12)

• 2 cups flour
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• A dash of sugar…

What?

He flipped back a page.

Another recipe.

 

Moonmint Jam

• Fresh mint leaves
• Silver syrup
• Pure Vanilla extract (optional)

 

A knot cinched behind his ribs.

Another page. Another recipe. He turned faster now—jam glazes, shortbread notes, annotated flavor pairings.

All in his own handwriting. But none of it true.

His hands trembled. The book slipped from his grip—hit the ground with a soft, terrible thud.

“Is everything alright?”

Words didn’t come. He stared at the fallen book, the Fount’s voice turning sour in his ears.

The Fount stepped closer and bent to retrieve it, brushing his fingers gently across the cover before opening it without hesitation.

“Ah,” he said lightly, flipping a page. “One of the cooking collections. A popular collection from decades ago. Not exactly fit for the archive, but charming. Though I should change its placement to the library sometime.”

Truthless didn’t move.

“I swear,” he said hoarsely. “It wasn’t that a moment ago.”

The Fount looked at him—not alarmed. Not mocking. Just still—so still it made Truthless’s throat tighten. Like the Fount was deciding whether to trust him or pat him gently and look away.

“And you’re certain,” the Fount said, looking up again, eyes narrowing just slightly. “That this isn’t some mix-up? A similar book? A lapse in memory?”

Truthless flinched.

“I’m not accusing you,” the Fount said at once, stepping closer. Too close. “I just want to understand.” His hand hovered near Truthless’s arm but didn’t quite touch.

Truthless met his gaze. “I know my own handwriting.”

A pause.

“Hm,” the Fount murmured, resting his index finger against his lips, though to Truthless it seemed more like performance than genuine consideration.  He turned another page. Slowly. Like he wanted to be seen taking it seriously. Like this was for Truthless’s benefit. Then he turned the book around and laid his palm gently against the paper, his eyes flicking back up.

“There’s no enchantment on it,” he said softly. “At least, none I can detect. And again, you’re certain… that it changed?”

Truthless nodded.

“Then perhaps it’s the archives playing tricks again,” the Fount said. His eyes, for a fraction of a second, flickered to a seemingly empty corner of the room before returning to Truthless. “It happened to me not too long ago—I was reading a book on the geography of Crispia when the pages turned into drawings of a child. Crude little things. Stick arms, wide smiles. Not malicious. Just… strange.”

Truthless hated that answer. Hated more that it didn’t surprise him.  
The Fount had the look of someone waiting for a bruise to form. He ran a finger down the edge of the book and closed it carefully.

“I’ve been trying to find the root of the issue. Naturally, I’ll fix it. Eventually.”

He returned the book to the shelf. Just one among thousands now.

“If you find anything else…” He looked back over his shoulder. That smile again. “Let me know.”

He gave the Fount nothing, instead watching him leave. The soft sound of retreating footsteps faded behind a shelf, leaving the space far too still.

He remained there, staring at the place where the book had been. It sat among the others now—spine nondescript, indistinguishable. No golden shimmer. No strange warmth. No sign it had ever belonged to him.

He crouched, letting his fingers brush the shelf. Nothing. Cold wood. Colder paper.

A flicker passed through his Soul Jam. Faint. Uncertain. Akin to a thought nearly spoken, then swallowed.

He rose. Walked a few steps. Paused.

The aisles stretched too long. Longer than before. Shelves leaning inward slightly, like witnesses. The air clung heavier now—ink and dust, stirred by nothing.

He turned one corner. Then another.

And there it was again.

The same leather-bound book. Nestled on a shelf that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Or one pretending.

He didn’t touch it. Didn’t step closer.

He stared—waiting.

Waiting for it to breathe.

It didn’t.

Behind him, something whispered.

He turned.

No one.

The ceiling lamps flickered once, then stilled.

He exhaled. Pressed his hand to the wall—solid. But his pulse didn’t trust it.

He stepped back. Then again.

The shelves didn’t follow. But something in the quiet did.

Or didn’t.

And when he emerged, the hallway had changed.

Angles too soft. Light too golden. A copy made from memory, one step removed from truth.

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t look back.

The taste of blueberries and ink lingered on his tongue, though he had consumed neither.

And somewhere within, something still pretended to be his.

~~~

 

Notes:

How has the pacing of the story been so far? I tried to extend the chapter a bit more than the others since it’s a solo release while not extending it just for the sake of extending it. I do plan on making somewhat longer chapters though, as I’ve mentioned before.
I just personally don’t like adding filler for the sake of adding filler.

 

As for the repetition in routine and possible monotony, consider this the last chapter switch like a similar “oh tea, oh book place!”
From here on out it’s a new setting essentially.

A chapter that’s actually 5000 words from me? Whaaaaaat! Impossible!

Also, I wish there was a way to show y’all my reaction while writing. Like, I was going cray cray, straight up unhinged…

Chapter 9: Mercy

Notes:

To the people who have stuck all the way here, thank you.

Changed my username!!

The walls wavered in his periphery; pillars slid into place, replacing the bare masonry he’d glimpsed only moments before, folding inward just enough to crowd the narrow corridor. Light fractured into thin shards of saffron, skating across the rough stone before vanishing into shadow.

The air bent faintly, each breath carrying a cloying sweetness. Lilies again—always before loss.

His palm pressed to his side, fabric scratching against damp fingertips—mist or sweat, he couldn’t tell. His ribs rose and fell faster than his boots could carry him forward. The pulse pushed back against his hand, bound by something brittle.

He had no idea where his feet meant to carry him. The tiles caught his step without echo.

Forward—step after unthinking step. Never back.

Away.

Always away.

From the book. From the Fount. From the slow theft of his own memories.

A turn—he didn’t remember the corner—and the corridor spilled him into an inner courtyard. The space loosened around him; the stone seemed to sigh. Above, the sky was pale as weathered alabaster, uncertain whether dawn or dusk.

The walls leaned inward, entwined to hold the courtyard. Ivy spilled from above, leaves shifting faintly in the stillness.

He slowed. At last.

His boot scuffed against the stone—the sound oddly loud in the open air, as if the courtyard had been waiting to catch it.

At the far edge, a terrace called to him. A low wall marked its boundary, carved with club motifs worn nearly smooth. Beyond, the world dropped off into thick white fog, gathering without release, basking in the sea of white.

He stepped forward, placing both hands on the rough wall and gripping it tight.

The mist writhed—shapes shifting in restless motion. He fixed his gaze on it, trapped in place, searching for any sign of escape.

He drew a breath and held it. Calm—he needed calm.

His hands slipped from the stone to his knees. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to the curve of his wrist.

In. Out. His hand pressed down. Step. Beat. Step. The rhythm kept going.

”I’m tired.”

For a moment, it worked. His shoulders eased. His grip loosened. The courtyard stilled with him.

He reminded himself of the meaninglessness of it all.

It wasn’t worth worrying.

It wasn’t.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

He had borne enough.

In.

Out.

Quiet.

Calm.

Then the Soul Jam answered—warm against him, stubborn, alive when it didn’t need to be. The fog shifted, twisting upward. Ivy rustled without wind. A faint scrape came from the wall below, gone as soon as it was heard.

His breathing faltered.

His stomach knotted. This place wouldn’t let him have calm.

A white lily clung to the wall’s edge—pristine, impossible in this gray world. Its petals glowed faintly against the stone—pure and untouched, a fragment of something long forgotten. He couldn’t say if it had been there before. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t dare. To reach out would be to admit a fracture too raw to mend.

A petal shifted in the breeze—just enough to brush his cheek. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it only wanted to. And maybe, for a heartbeat, it carried a promise he wasn’t ready to keep.

“I don’t want to remember this,” he whispered.

But who would answer?

The wind certainly wouldn’t.

 

He pressed his forehead harder against his wrist, trying to anchor himself—hold back the rising tide inside.

But the flower remained. Stubborn in its defiance, untouched by time or sorrow.

He tore his eyes away. To peel his gaze from that soft white resistance. To fold the memory back into the drawer it came from.

And when he blinked, the bloom was gone.

Not broken. Not taken. Simply… undone.

Another mystery of the cage he found himself in.

~~~

He didn’t turn when the door creaked open behind him.

The sound was soft—meant to be polite, meant to go unnoticed. But in a place like this, stillness magnified everything. Even hesitation had meaning.

Footsteps came—lighter, more careful than the steady pace he expected. Truthless didn’t need to look.

He already knew who it was.

Of course it was him.

Truthless adjusted his grip on the wall, stone’s grit biting his skin.

From him? Right.

The tension in his posture didn’t ease—too still. Truthless didn’t speak. Without a word, he let his gaze fall to the swirling haze, the quiet stretching tight between breaths, but his chin dipped just enough to hide the tension in his mouth. His grip tightened on the cold stone; he stared into the whiteness, willing it to swallow the conversation.

Without saying a word,

The Fount stopped a step short, like he sensed the warmth he usually carried might only scorch here.

“I won’t ask what you saw,” The Fount paused. “But you fled like something hunted you.”

A bitter curl twisted his mouth—barely a smile, but enough.

He swallowed. “Maybe there was.”

A drop of water fell from the eaves, ringing sharply in the still courtyard.

A pause settled. Then another.

The Fount’s fingers shifted slightly on his staff—a faint squeeze.

“Well, I’m not the one chasing you,” the Fount offered a quiet bridge across the distance.

That earned a short, mirthless laugh—more a release of air than a sound, dry enough to catch in his throat.

“No. You’re just always there behind.”

The Fount exhaled through his nose. Silence stretched, dreadful and waiting.

Truthless’s shoulder twitched—a tremor barely hidden beneath the surface. His mouth pressed into a thin line. He hesitated, a breath caught in his throat, the cold stone pressing into his skin—a grounding, harsh reminder of the walls he’d built.

Slowly, he turned. Not because he wanted to, never that, but because he needed the seconds to control himself. To mold his face into something unreadable, a shield forged from exhaustion and bitter resolve.

For the first time since the archive, he faced the Fount.

And for a moment, his expression softened—just faintly. Enough to reveal the depth of shadows under his eyes.

But the softness didn’t last.

“You followed me.” Truthless’s voice was blunt, stripped of patience.

“I was concerned.”

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“I know,” he replied hurriedly. “But you are here, and the moments we have shared… and that makes you—”

“Don’t say ‘friend.’” The word caught in Truthless’s mouth like a hook. “Not when you don’t know me. Don’t let yesterday get to your head, or breakfast.”

Trivial.

The Fount’s eyes narrowed, pain barely masked beneath his calm façade.

“Then guest. You are my guest.”

His hand folded before him, neat like always, but a slight tremor ran through his thumb, restless against his palm. He sighed.

“I am trying,” the Fount said. “To understand. Your anger, your thoughts. Whatever this is. You.”

Truthless let out a short, dry laugh. His eyes flicked to the mist curling over the stones.

The Fount stepped forward, gripping his staff firmly with both hands. His fingers curved tightly around it, his thumb tracing the worn metal nervously.

“You should spend your time doing something else.”

“No, Truthless. I won’t.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I decide what I consider a waste of time. And no, I disagree.”

“You don’t understand. Not yet.”

He cracked the last word like a dry twig. “Kindness is a lie.”

“That’s not—” the Fount hesitated, searching for words. “Kindness isn’t a lie to me. It’s a path worth taking, not a lie. Where did you get that idea?”

Truthless shook his head slowly, lips pressed tight. “No.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the slow drip somewhere deep below.

Truthless’s shoulders tensed. He looked away, jaw clenched tight. “A path… how naive.”

“I disagree.”

Truthless took a step forward. The space between them shrank—not much, but enough to change the temperature. “It is. Gentleness won’t change a thing. You’ve never had to choose—truth or life.”

“I have,” the Fount said again, steel laid softly under silk. “Why do you assume I have not?”

“Then you should know better. Truth burns. M—”

He cut himself off. Breath dragged in. Jaw tight.

His thumb pressed hard into the staff, blanching the knuckle.

Then—nothing. Silence.

“What you call ‘naivete’…” His voice softened. He looked away briefly, lips pressed tight, then snapped his gaze back at Truthless—sharp. “…might simply be mercy.”

For a heartbeat, Truthless wanted to argue—wanted to tear down the word with all his bitterness. But instead, the silence grew heavier. Mercy. Such a simple word. So easily spoken, so hard to bear.

The light flickered. Just once. A shadow drifted across the Fount’s face, folding truth and pretense into a single, fleeting guise.

For a moment, it almost seemed they might dissolve in the still air.

But Truthless heard them too clearly.

“Mercy,” Truthless echoed, venomless but weighed with cold disdain. “Right.”

He looked away, tension flickering across his face like a bitter aftertaste.

The wind tugged at the ivy, leaves whispering against the stone.

“I used to believe in mercy too, you know,” he said quietly.

The words landed like a strike.

Too blunt. Too honest.

The Fount blinked once. His shoulders didn’t fall, but the line of his mouth shifted—softening in some places, setting harder in others.

The wind around them shifted. The courtyard bowed inward, shadows tightening as if listening.

Truthless looked down at the stones beneath their feet. For a heartbeat, he seemed as if he might leave it there. But then his voice broke through the hush again—lower now, but tighter.

“In forgiveness. In the chase for the truths. In giving people time.”

His eyes flickered toward the ceiling.

“But all it does is delay the inevitable. You don’t save someone by sitting beside them while they bleed out.” The memory of cold stone beneath his hands, the hollow ache in his chest—he had learned that lesson in the silence after loss. “Sometimes saving’s cruelty—showing the wound. Or lies cloaked as ‘mercy.’ Soft lies to dull the truth. Fool yourself long enough, and maybe it sticks.”

The Fount’s gaze didn’t waver.

The Fount’s voice dipped to a whisper. “Mercy is not the gentle balm you imagine. It scorches, yes. It demands sacrifice, discipline—often more than the wounds themselves.”

His smile was thin now. “Sometimes the harshest mercy is the only path to survival. But you seem to think of mercy as if it were a weakness—perhaps that is why you carry your bitterness so tightly.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping a notch, cold and precise. “Tell me, Truthless, when have you ever seen cruelty admit it was mercy in disguise?” But his hands had lowered. Palms open now at his sides. Still. Quiet.

No comment. 

“Besides, I don’t think truth and cruelty are the same,” he continued.

“They’re not,” Truthless snapped. “But truth and kindness are often enemies.”

His voice faltered.

“And I’m tired of pretending that they’re not.”

A step forward. The space between them shrank enough to change the air between them.

“You think I’m bitter. Maybe I am. But at least I’m not lying about what this world demands.” A pause. “Or maybe I’m just lying to myself.”

At this point, Truthless didn’t know who he was really talking to.

“I do not think you are bitter.”

His eyes flicked to the wall again—half expecting the lily to be there, white and waiting.

It wasn’t.

“Look around you. This place is beautiful. Magical, sure. Peaceful—until you see what’s missing.”

The Fount’s eyes narrowed. “You speak as if truth wears only one bitter face.” He frowned. “As if you already hold mine. I don’t know what you saw, and if you won’t tell me, I won’t force it. But, Truthless—do not forget who stands before you. If you can’t trust the truth you carry, then let me be yours. I’m its keeper, having held it long before you set foot between these walls. I know it far too well. The Fount of Knowledge. Cookiekind’s Fount. Your Fount.”

The words fell away, unheard.

“I need you to be honest with me. Tell me what’s wrong. I can help. I mean it. I will.”

He turned again, half-facing the low stone wall—abrupt, ungraceful—a man shedding his skin in slow, painful pieces, raw beneath the surface, each movement a silent scream. Then he spoke, his words coming out sharper and louder than before. 

“Understanding me won’t fix anything,” he said. “Not while you’re still unspoiled. Not while you haven’t tasted the fruit of deceit as I was forced to. Not while you see truth and lies in black and white.

Not while you still aren’t him.”

And wasn’t that the worst part?

The Fount wasn’t him—not yet.

But Truthless was already starting to sound like the one who’d left him that way.

“Deceit?”

The Fount’s brow pinched, barely—a crease that smoothed almost as soon as it appeared. “What good could come of that? Tell me—because you’ve spoken of it before, and I think you wish I’d never ask.”

His mouth curved, a hollow expression that felt like a burden. “Good? You want me to tell you the good in something that rots you from the inside?”

The Fount didn’t speak.

“It teaches you,” Truthless said quietly, voice steady. “Shows you what truth tastes like—bitter water. You think it’ll quench, but it burns your insides. Still, you’re left thirsty all the same. Once you’ve tasted it, you can’t go back to ignorance.”

“That sounds like surrender.”

“No,” Truthless said, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s reality.”

“Well, what you call reality can be altered. In fact, there is one absolute truth and that’s knowledge.”

His laugh barely stirred the air. “And there’s the root of it—you still think you can fix it.”

A muscle twitched along Truthless’s jaw. “You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t already know.”

The Fount’s eyes flickered briefly—impatience, maybe frustration—before settling back into calm.

“Truth isn’t simple,” he said carefully, voice firm. “It’s not always clear-cut, not a ‘blade’ that cuts neatly. But knowledge itself must remain absolute. Without that, what else is there to hold on to?”

He tapped the stone beside him. “You cling to absolutes like shields, yet rail against lies. Do you think such certainty brings clarity? Or does it blind you further?”

The Fount’s voice held the faintest edge, slipping through the cracks of his quiet composure. “If I am the naive one for believing the course can be changed, then what does your certainty grant you—peace? Or a prison?”

He paused, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “You speak of poison, of inevitability—but is it the poison itself, or your refusal to seek the antidote that damns you?”

“That’s—” Truthless stopped. “You can’t change this course. Not when the river’s already poisoned.”

The fog curled tighter around the wall, tendrils snaking along the stone as if listening. Somewhere below, a low, steady drip echoed upward, slow enough to make each drop sound intentional.

The Fount’s gaze flickered past him briefly, toward the dripping sound. Then, his eyes locked on him again, he said quietly, “Then tell me… what the poison is.”

Truthless didn’t answer. The air seemed to press inward, edges warping as if the space had grown tired of holding itself up.

The Fount’s voice dropped. “…Is it… me you mean?”

Silence.

Truthless’s jaw clenched tighter; a flicker of something like pain crossed his face, but he didn’t look away.

“Is that what you mean when you speak of poison?” the Fount pressed. “You talk as though it is a thing—an accident of fate—but I think you mean a name. A face. One that stands before you now. This ‘him’ you talk about…”

Something in Truthless cracked. “You think you’re the center of it all? That the world folds itself around your shadow?”

The words hung between them like a blade—one neither seemed willing to lower.

Pointless.

“Truthless Recluse.”

A sharp intake of breath—quick, involuntary.

“Forget what I said. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t meant to be saved. Not comfort—truth. Even if it shattered me. But at least I am no longer blind.”

The Fount didn’t step forward.

“Truthless Recluse.”

“I always thought I could make it work, but all that awaits is despair, isn’t it?”

“Answer me. Please. Deceit? ‘Him’? What is it?”

Truthless’s chest rose and fell too fast, his breath ghosting white in the fog. The Fount’s gaze didn’t blink, didn’t soften.

tsk.

It was quiet enough to be mistaken for the settling of stone, yet it carried—sharp, precise, a surgeon’s tap against an open wound.

The faint click of the Fount’s tongue cut sharper than it should have.

“Was what you saw really that serious?” he asked, voice lighter than the question deserved.

Truthless’s hand curled tight against his sleeves. His breath caught, a tremor starting low in his chest. He looked at the Fount—

—and the world lurched. Gold shattered into cold bruised blue. Pale eyes bloomed, watching. The Fount’s warm light fractured, revealing the dark shadow beneath—unblinking, terrible.
Shadow Milk stood there instead.

He opened his mouth to say the name—the one he’d tried to bury—but closed it again. No. Not yet.

He blinked hard, his lids scraping dry over his eyes. The darkness snapped away. The Fount stood there again, bathed in warm light—but Truthless’s spine still curled with chill. 

A reminder.

The Fount drew a long breath, as if analyzing whether the words were worth the risk.

“The way you think…” the Fount said at last, “is misguided. Whatever has happened to you, whatever shaped your mind… it should not be your only path north. It’s wrong. If you would allow me, let me show you why.”

Truthless narrowed his eyes. His fingers dug into his sleeves. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The world hadn’t really come back. Not yet.

A pause.

The chill stayed.

The fog didn’t move.

“Why don’t we head back inside?” The Fount shifted his weight, thumb brushing the edge of his sleeve. “You can ask the servants for anything you need—” his gaze flicked toward the doorway, not quite meeting his eyes, “—and if you’d prefer, I’ll… go away for the day. Just the day.”

The wind caught at the Fount’s hair; he exhaled, slow enough to fog the frigidness between them. “But standing here, talking like this…” A faint, rueful smile that didn’t reach his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you. Especially not about something like this, as much as I love debating.”

The Fount’s smile faltered briefly, shadows flickering in his eyes. The wind slipped between them, carrying the smell of lilies again—faint, but enough to turn his stomach.

Truthless didn’t want to either, but a quiet pull kept him rooted.

“Forget it.”

The Fount’s hands clenched on his staff, knuckles whitening. “I will not ‘forget it.’ Not after this, not after what we’ve gone through in this short time together. I’m not blind, Truthless.” His voice tightened just a fraction before softening again. “I see something, ‘deceit’ if you may call it that, eating at you, and I refuse to watch you destroy yourself piece by piece.”

“Watch me then.” Truthless’s voice was low, edged with weary contempt. The bruised blue still pooled at the edge of his vision. “I’m beyond saving.”

The Fount’s voice rose, breaking the ‘calm’ with sharp urgency. “No.”

“You’re not. But you have to let me in. Stop hiding behind your resentment and silence. That bitterness won’t protect you—it’ll bury you.”

”Some wounds cannot be healed.”

“I can fix it.”

“You cannot.”

“I can.”

The Fount stepped closer.

“I will.”

Truthless’s weight shifted back without meaning to, the motion barely a step but enough for his heels to kiss the wall.

“Stop.”

”No.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Then let me.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“It’s my duty.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“It is.”

For a heartbeat, his hand twitched, as if to reach for the Fount’s shoulder. For that same heartbeat, Truthless saw the other hand—the one from the blue. The motion froze, retreating into a clenched fist at his side.

So pointless.

His gaze lifted slowly, sharp and distant, as if trying to cut through the fog inside his own skull. For a fragile moment, he might have leaned into the promise—might have believed in the possibility of repair.

But then, as if the weight of countless failures pressed down on his chest, he turned away. He turned his back to the Fount and walked away, the chill of the empty corridor pressing against his skin.

”Try all you want,” Truthless exhaled the words like smoke. “The outcome is still the same.”

He didn't look back.

Behind him, the Fount stood silent, watching. Regret flickered briefly across his face—almost too quick to see—before he masked it with calm.

Notes:

This chapter was a bit harder for me to write, ngl.
I actually finished it a while ago (I have drafts all the way to Chapter 18!), but I kept coming back to tweak bits—remaking it multiple times.
My internal dialogue was basically:
“Don’t make it edgy.”
“Don’t make it edgy.”
“Don’t make it edgy.”
(repeat about ten times)
And yet… it still came out edgy. I’m powerless.
/j (?)
Witches, take me to the ovennnnnnnn.

Chapter 10: Dance and Soar, O Dear Moth

Notes:

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of subtle (?) self-harm
Please thank “Marking time, waiting for death” from Evangelion for sponsoring this chapter
Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow
I “artificially” altered my heart rate in order to make this chapter and I think it worked (It helped me lock in)

Im finally AT THE PART OF THE STORY WHERE I WANNA BEEEE WEEEE
Like it should technically flow so much better for me from here on out >:3

Meaningless.

The lilies. The Fount. Himself.

 

A step forward, a step away.

Again.

He did not dare look back once.

There was an irony to the whole situation.

Truthless Recluse almost flung himself along the walls, skirting anything, anyone, and still colliding with both.

A vase shattered.

He continued forward.

 

He shouldn’t have let it get to his head.

He shouldn’t have let it in.

—shouldn’t have let it in.

 

A turn.

A corner nearly lost.

He ran.

 

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

 

Dizzy. Stupid. Reckless.

His fingers hooked under the collar of his robe, nails scraping dough.

He tried to tear it open as he walked—failed.

Left it be.

 

Another turn.

His thoughts flickered—blurred fragments of the Fount’s words, the weight of deceit, the ghost of a lily’s petal brushing his cheek. Everything was sharp enough to appear accusatory, gnawing at the edges of reason. Even leaning on his staff, his gaze was a kaleidoscope of color—orange, purple, blue, black. A blur.

Left. Right.

He headed towards his room, but passed it.

Blue, purple, black, orange.

Right. Left.

He pulled himself away from the hallway. His vacant gaze lingered on an unmarked door.

He stepped inside and did not bother to close it lightly.

Inside: darkness. A desk, perhaps. A chair, at most.

Darkness was enough.

Black, purple, blue.

Blue, purple.

Blue.

Shadow Milk.

 

He dropped hard to his knees, the floor rising to meet him.

Hard. Hurtful.

His hand dug into his face until nails bit dough; his staff clattered away, the fractured gleam of its eye catching his hunched frame—small, terrified, nothing like himself.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Truthless Recluse slammed his hand against the ground and let everything go. His balance tipped, his own weight pulling him to the floor until strands of gold spilled across his face. He rolled onto his back, staring through the darkness at the faint, shapeless blobs of his fingers. There was no particular expression marked on his eyes or lips, only a blankness so visceral it felt unreal. 

Shadow Milk Cookie.

A name. Just a name. Three words. Sixteen letters. 

He shut his eyes and counted again.

One. Two.

Two. Four.

Six. Eight.

Eight. Ten.

Ten. Twelve.

Twelve. Fourteen.

Fourteen. Sixteen.

Sixteen letters.

Sixteen.

A sigh.

It should have emptied him.

It didn’t.

He rolled to his left side, away from the staff, and leaned his head against his arm. His sleeves were cold. The faint throb of his heart lingered in his ear. It was the only sound in the room.

Sixteen.

Sixteen.

Lily petals.

Sixteen.

Such a sickly number. It clogged his throat like bitter jellies. Festered in his mind like spoiled cream.

It would not leave.

The dark swam with it—sixteen in the shape of petals, in the curve of the cracks in the stone, in the beat between his breaths.

He opened his eyes one by one, though there was no reason to. Pressed his hand to his forehead and let out a slow, hollow sigh.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Shadow Milk had appeared for a flicker of a second back then—or perhaps it was only a hallucination. In this place, the thought was hardly absurd. And yet, he had seen it with unbearable clarity.

The ruffled sleeves. That grin—sinister, toying, unbearable.

It was him. No doubt about it.

Why was he still letting himself be controlled?

Why?

Why?

WHY?

His nails dug until dough split.

Crumbs smeared, tacky and warm, followed by jam’s faint flow. He welcomed the sting—the only thing anchored in this place.

Sixteen. Sixteen.

The number wouldn’t bleed out with the splinters.

He pressed his forehead to the cold stone of the ground, breath coming in shallow bursts. It wasn’t enough to drown the image—the ruffles, the grin, the mocking tilt of the head.

He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek until the faint metallic tang bloomed across his tongue. His breath hitched.

A tremor shivered through his arm as he raised it again, slamming his fist against the stone with a hollow crack. Once. Twice. The sound was sharp enough to echo back at him, each repetition a warped mirror of the last.

If it broke, let it break.

Dough. Jam. Himself.

The thought flared, almost sweet in its viciousness. A neat little solution. An end that would at least be his.

But it didn’t happen.

The stone stayed whole. His hand did not shatter. Nothing gave way except the last shreds of heat in his chest.

The tremor stilled.

Then, nothing.

The fire of it burned itself out all at once, leaving only an emptiness so deep it felt weightless.The beat in his chest persisted out of stubborn habit; the warmth of his own jam became just another meaningless fact.

Still, it flowed.

Still, it moved.

He did not.

 

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

No thought. No name. No lilies.

Pointless.

 

The vacuum closed over him again, familiar and cold.

He let himself sink into it.

The sting in his palm whispered for a moment—then he pressed his hand over it, mending the break without care or feeling. It was just another reflex.

Now there was truly nothing.

Just as it should have always been.

Sixteen.

Meaningless.

He shut his eyes.

Blue, purple again.  His breathing slowed. Deepened. The cold stone beneath him seemed to soften, or perhaps he was simply sinking through it.

Down.
Down.
Down.

Until the floor became a stage.

~~~

A dream.

Or perhaps a nightmare.

Truthless Recluse found himself on the same wretched stage again—his hands tied this time.

Above, the moon dappled the black heavens in pale, monotonous light, gazing down as if it were the only thing that mattered. It watched without warmth, without end.

Below, he sat motionless, tethered by licorice strings beside a pile of the same white flowers as before—only now, each bloom wore a crown of silver, like guests at a funeral no one had agreed to attend.

A dog stepped onto the stage soon after, wearing a padded ruff and little blue leather shoes. It moved with exaggeration, snickering as it approached.

The dog circled him slowly, its paws thudding softly against the warped floorboards. Despite its small size, each footstep echoed like a drumbeat in the hollow theater. Its ruff bounced with every step. Blue leather shoes creaked as it danced mockingly in front of him, a slow spiral of derision.

It sat. Tilted its head.

Then, in a voice like a jolly clown,

“You came back. I thought you’d gotten clever.”

No response.

The strings held him still. One tugged gently at his wrist, then another at his shoulder, like the gesture of a puppeteer not yet ready for the act to begin.

A second moon blinked open above the first.

And then a third.

Each too calm, too prideful. Their light moved like fingers, adjusting a spotlight.

The dog leaned closer.

“Still playing the martyr, are we? Tsk. And here I thought you were finally free of that stupid mindset.”

It grinned—or gave the impression of it, tongue lolling just a little too far, eyes too round, too knowing.

“Though a shame, really. All that running, and you still end up here. You sure know that the stage loves you. Wants you. Keeps your mark warm.”

It paced again, tail wagging with theatrical delight.

“Mercy or price, this time, hm? Hard to tell with you—you tie both up in the same ribbon and call it virtue.”

Then it stopped. Looked up at him, head cocked, voice dipped low — soft and sing-song:

“Did he beg you to stay? Or did you just want to be begged?”

A sharp giggle. The shoes creaked again as it danced in place.

“You never really left, you know. Not you. Not the part that matters.”

The dog tapped one paw against the boards. A hollow sound.

“Shall I start the next act? Or would you prefer another round of regret? We can cue the lilies again. Or—ooh, maybe the library scene. That one’s always a hit.”

It leaned in again, nose nearly touching his.

“…You do so love a tragedy.”

Truthless opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Instead, a white flower bloomed on his tongue. Silver-crowned.

The dog laughed.

The sky peeled back like a curtain.

Behind it: an audience of shadows in neat little rows, clapping in silence—hands no thicker than paper. Their faces were blank, but somehow, he knew them. All of them. Some wore the Fount’s smile. Some, Shadow Milk’s eyes. One wore his own.

The flowers beside him began to tremble, their petals twitching as if waiting for a cue. One by one, they lifted into the air—weightless, breathless—until he was surrounded by a snowfall of soft white crowns.

It reached out—not a paw now, but a gloved hand. Fingers pale and jointed, like marionette limbs. It touched his chest, over the throb of where the Soul Jam would be.

“The moon’s watching. Why not show her what you are?”

The strings unraveled.

Truthless fell forward—but didn’t hit the floor.

His body lightened, limbs unhooked from weight and shame. His breath scattered into pieces.

His back split.

Wings unfurled—delicate, wrong, beautiful.

Soft gray with pale gold eyespots.

A moth. Born of dust and drawn to dying light.

He rose.

Weightless now.

The theater below shrank. The dog barked once in applause.

As he flew, the moon drew nearer.

Its surface shifted—liquid-smooth. Welcoming. Hypnotic.

He flew faster.

Toward it.

Toward her.

Toward whatever he thought he’d lost.

And just as he reached the light—

A gleam.

A whistle.

A crack.

He was shot through the wing.

The world tilted.

Light shattered.

 

He fell—

Spinning,

Burning,

Silent—

Petals trailing behind him like ash from a candle long snuffed.

No one caught him.

 

Truthless woke up.

An ache lingered in his back, followed once more by the feeling of hollowness.

And in his mind, a single phrase that had been in the dream echoed:

“You sure know that the stage loves you.”

He sat up in bed, staring half-blankly at the wall.

His bed?

When had he walked to his room?

He blinked.

Had someone moved him?

Pajamas on his body, his robes were neatly arranged on top of a chair, with his hat at the top, beside his staff that leaned against a corner of a wall. Even his shoes had been accommodated to a corner, each with a shine that indicated that someone had bothered to polish them while he was asleep.

Another blink. Followed by a yawn.

The soft sheets were twisted around his legs. The sky outside the window—if it could be called sky—was pale, the puffs of gray hung in all directions, blocking any pathway the light of the sun could take.

He didn’t reach for his robes; for a flicker, he wondered if he was still dreaming.

Truthless just sat there.

Let the minutes pass.

Closed his eyes. Yawned.

Opened them. Sighed and listened.

 

The castle was changing.

Not the friendly sort of shifting. Not a warm rearrangement to make space for discovery. This was something more subtle. More withdrawn. The hall outside his door was narrower than before. The sconces flickered more than they should. 

After a while, Truthless stood up.

He did not seek him.

Did not even consider it.

He slipped out in silence, robes half-draped, hair uncombed. His hat left behind. He didn’t care.

He didn’t take the main corridors.

Didn’t take any corridor, really—he just walked until the walls let him through. The castle, though dim, still obeyed him in its own way. But it no longer seemed to want to spoil him. No longer hinted at hidden alcoves or secret passageways.

Now, it only watched.

Some halls ended before they should. Others stretched too long. Once, he passed through the same archway twice—but it had moved. The walls breathed, faint and rhythmic, as if trying to lull him into forgetting.

A portrait blinked as he passed. He told himself it was the light.

Further down, a hallway twisted inward. The floor curved slightly wrong. He didn’t question it. Just stepped over the ripple, past the mural at the end of the corridor.

The Fount again.

Only now—his halo of lilies had browned. Not paint decay, not mold. The blossoms themselves seemed to have aged. One petal curled off and dropped to the frame.

Truthless kept walking.

He turned a corner and found a door he didn’t know.

Not necessarily a new room. Not even unfamiliar. Simply off.

Inside, a study. Ink-stained desk. Dust on the shelves. A single silver-crowned lily pressed between the pages of an open book.

And beside it, a mask.

Moth-shaped. The same one the child had given him at the festival. But here, its wings were cracked. One eyespot gouged out. The ribbon torn.

He didn’t touch it.

Didn’t touch anything.

But the room exhaled. Cold, quiet, grieving.

Then—

Clap.

Soft. Paper-thin.

He turned.

Nothing.

But he heard it again. Again. Again.

Clap. Clap.

Like applause from another room. Faint, but steady. A rhythm he knew but couldn’t name. He left the study, steps quicker now, turning toward the sound—

And stopped.

The corridor ahead had vanished.

In its place: curtains.

Red velvet, rippling softly. A stage behind them. Unlit.

He stood very still.

He hadn’t walked this far. Hadn’t meant to.

But something was drawing them open.

The curtains parted.

And there he was.

Standing center stage.

Not now. Not here. But then—the version of himself from before, bound in strings, a white flower blooming on his tongue.

Robes of a golden color, a bright blue Soul Jam and its pendant at the place of his heart.

And sitting in the first row of the audience: the dog.

Still wearing its blue leather shoes. Still smiling.

But when it clapped this time, it had Truthless’s hands.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

He couldn’t stop.

The sound echoed around the area, bouncing off walls that might not exist. His hands moved on their own, following the rhythm, faster, harder. The dog in the audience grinned wider, impossibly knowing.

At first, it was mechanical. A reflex. Then—something shifted.

A sick warmth pooled in his stomach. He glanced at the version of himself on stage—the bound, struggling puppet with the white flower blooming on his tongue. His own face, twisted with helplessness. And something inside him stirred, dark and small.

He felt a chuckle, faint and wet, rise in his throat.

The sound startled him, but he didn’t stop. He could almost taste it—bitter, metallic, like the jam on his mouth not too long ago. The wings of the moth-self trembled as it tried to rise. He clapped louder.

He was enjoying it.

Horrible, unthinkable, but true. Every flinch, every struggle, every gasp that came from that version of himself made the warmth twist tighter. His chest tightened. His lips parted. And the chuckle came again, louder this time, breaking into a staccato rhythm that matched his applause.

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

A pulse throbbed in his ears, syncing with the echo of his own hands. The theater tilted and spun, the shadows in the audience leaning forward, eager. The dog barked, barked again—mocking, cheering. The applause of a single, twisted soul multiplied infinitely in the dark.

Truthless shivered, the pleasure of it sour and sweet at once. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was cruel. Yet he couldn’t stop. He watched himself suffer, helpless, and felt… satisfaction. A spark of something alive that he hadn’t felt in ages.

He laughed.

A low, ragged sound. It started in his chest, spilled from his throat, and rose into the empty theater.

The dog barked again, as if congratulating him.

He couldn’t stop clapping.

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

His hands moved faster now, the rhythm jagged, compulsive. The moth-self writhed and flapped weakly, its wings brushing the air, shimmering gray with pale gold eyespots. The dog barked in time with him, a sharp, gleeful accompaniment.

The floor seemed to dissolve beneath him. Light bent and curved, folding the theater around his senses. The moth-self trembled, wings lifting. He could feel it—the pull, irresistible, dragging him forward. Truthless’s body began to move, rising, floating toward the stage.

Air—or something like it—brushed past his face as he hovered. He could see the golden robes, the Soul Jam glinting at the heart of that bound puppet. A strange, sharp thrill coursed through him, the same sick warmth from before twisting in his gut.

And then—he raised his arm. His hand, heavy and trembling, gripped the imaginary bow, the weapon of some cruel theater. The aim was automatic, almost instinct. His other self, helpless and flailing, stared up with wide, terrified eyes.

A pulse of light. A sharp whistle.

Truthless let it go.

The strike hit. The wings of the moth-self fluttered violently, a shimmer of gray and gold spiraling outward. The white flower on its tongue trembled, tilting, drooping. And yet, the bound puppet remained suspended in midair, fragile and human in its failure.

He laughed. Wet. Husky. Ragged. It spilled from his throat.  

The dog barked. Again. Again. Cheering, mocking.  

The moth-self flailed. Wings weak, trembling.  

He clapped. Faster. Harder.

“Oh-ho! Look at you, all shiny and golden! You think you’re so clever! Gnat!”
The words spat out before he could stop them.

He froze, suspended above the stage. The sound was his own, and yet… not. The syllables, the tone—Shadow Milk’s. He had just said something he would have said. A delight in cruelty, entrapped in his throat like live wire.

A shudder ran through him. He bent over, clutching his stomach as the room tilted. Nausea hit—hot, sour, metallic.

His wings—his own, delicate and real—shivered in the void, trembling under the weight of what he had just done.

He watched the moth-self flail, saw the agony mirrored in those wide, terrified eyes, and the sick satisfaction gnawed at him. And yet, buried beneath that horror, a deeper, more terrifying truth whispered: He had enjoyed it. He had taken part. He had become this.

“Gnat…” The word escaped again, almost a sigh, almost a curse. He pressed his face to his hands, biting into palms, trying to anchor himself to something real, anything real.

The theater spun. The dog barked. The applause rose and fell, jagged and infinite. Truthless hung in the air, caught between nausea and power, laughter and horror, the cruelest performance of all.

“I… I said that,” he whispered.

A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips. The nausea surged again, hot and bitter. Another low, hollow chuckle escaped him. It was his, but not. It made him feel both enormous and small, giddy and sick. The theater spun. The moth-self fell, flapping its broken wings, and the dog barked once more.

The theater vanished.

Truthless woke up.

~~~

Notes:

Man.

Chapter 11: Petals and Gold

Notes:

Thank you “Haggstrom” by C418 and “Cannibalism” from Beastars for sponsoring this chapter

(aka the song I was listening to on repeat).

I decided to no longer have a concrete number regarding how many chapters the fic will have because I’ve been changing and moving things around (for example part of chapter 10 was actually part of chapter 11 and the original premise of chapter 10 became chapter 11). Its still bare minimum 34 chapters.

Calm after the storm ahh chapter. Prepare for whats coming tho :^)

I hope y’all enjoy it! And thank you so so so so so so much for the comments. They really motivate me :D

Shuffling. Screaming. Singing.

A snatched basket, a scolded child, a man bellowing frustration.

The din seeped into his half-lingering dream, pulling him unwillingly into wakefulness. He groaned, body sluggish, mind tangled in tattered images. Light flickered beneath the door. The castle was fully awake; he remained adrift in drowse.

‘Gnat’ lingered on his tongue.

Bitter, yet thrilling—his own words.

The word left his lips again—a mere muffle, too faint to satisfy. His mind drifted through half-sleep, the thrill fading before he could fully grasp it. Though he wasn't conscious enough to realize it yet.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, dreams and memory shuffling in small sparks—conflating into a mixture of regret and quiet torment. At this point, he did not question the authenticity of what he saw. Memories of sheep intertwined with strings of licorice. In one fragment, a dog lingered throughout the halls of the Academy, watching him and White Lily Cookie as they headed to class. The Sugar-Free Road seemed to lead to the Spire of All Knowledge. A moth silently followed behind him.

A faint scent of butter seeped in from beyond, followed by blueberries and calendula; his sense of smell awoke.

He buried his hand in his hair and grumbled, leaning to his right side. The thought of him shooting himself sprang to mind. How he enjoyed it—“enjoyed” it? Enjoyed it?

A terrifying thought, really. But a thought all together, no? Just a thought. An illusion. A mere nightmare. Not the truth. 

Right?

 

He opened his eyes wider, anchoring himself. Even waking was a relief from the nightmare. An ache pressed against his back. A creeping absence followed, claiming the gelid void within him.

He pinched himself; it stung.

He was awake.

Now the fragrance of echinacea clung to his nostrils.

Hours must have passed since he shut himself away, perhaps the entire day; the shift in temperature and movement beyond the door suggested it. The light outside had grown cooler; what had been noon must now have stretched into afternoon. And most importantly, the Fount must have surely been too busy to try to find him.

He remained in the frigid confinement of the dark, small room. All was as he had last seen it: bleak, barely visible, tangible. Comforting, yet oppressive. Still perched against the tiled floor, with hair resting unruly. Meanwhile, his hat lay to the side, perhaps displaced by restless movement in sleep, and the staff rested as he had left it, sloppily dropped.

Truthless Recluse pulled himself upright, muscles stiff from the cold. He rubbed his left hand on the tendons of his shoulder, caressing it with enough pressure to make the ache sting. A faint whine escaped him, reverberating through the room as his eyes found his former wounds. Though there was no pain, neither the wound on his hand nor the one in his mouth had fully healed.

He let his hand fall to his side. Minutes slipped by, blurring together as he tried to muffle the echo of his dream and the lingering trace of his last conversation with the Fount. It seemed to be working.

The Soul Jam remained awfully quiet. He found some small relief in that; its silence was preferable to anything else—anything that might strike at him from within or without. If only it remained that way always.

“You’re only dim when it conveniences you.”

Truthless Recluse drew in a shuddering breath and extended his arm towards the staff, letting it rest lightly against his fingers. His vision cleared fully; he could see where he truly was and now saw his own fingers. Wherever he was… this space felt fundamentally different from the rest of the castle. It simply felt that way.

He rubbed his forehead gently, as if to ensure whatever trivial emotion had spiraled out of control moments before had fully calmed.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Nothing. Perfect.

He grasped his knees and shuffled toward the staff. Slowly, he rose, joints protesting, leaning against the staff. His hat remained forgotten on the floor. He left it there. 

The room felt smaller than before.

He needed to leave.

The thought struck him suddenly, urgent and inexplicable. Though by no means overwhelming.

The door handle was cold under his palm. He turned it slowly, wincing at the soft click. As he opened it, light spilled into the room, ray by ray. The scents from beyond now permeated every corner. And the chaos…

Voices collided with each other, overlapping in sharp crescendos and murmurs alike. Footsteps clattered against stone, echoing and mixing with the voices. A tray tipped somewhere, sending a clatter of glass across the floor. Laughter rose, murmurs judged. A few glances made their way to the door where he stood, before minding their own business. 

Watching. Laughter. Running. Yelling.

Each scent and sound struck his senses without his permission in an overbearing, overwhelmingly suffocating manner. It reminded him a lot of his second day there. Rampantly alive and tumultuous.

The only solution Truthless could ever think of was to retreat. To anywhere else.

And that’s precisely what he did.

He stepped forward. 

Kept moving. Step by step. 

He let the hallway press against him, wrap around him, try to push him back. Still, he moved forward.

A child squealed in delight as they tripped over a cloak, and a cookie behind them barked laughter. A man argued furiously with someone about some trivial task—cleaning, arranging, measuring—and the words barely registered beyond the rhythm of the day.

Truthless took a right turn.

The light shifted again, warmer this time, almost teasing, dancing along his robe. He noticed the slight curvature of the tiles where they had warped over time. The ceiling arched higher than it should have, or perhaps it felt higher in the loudness. 

Step. Step. Step.

He adjusted his pace, letting the textures beneath his boots guide him as much as the clamor around him.

He took another right, the hallway stretching eastward.

Truthless ducked instinctively as a curtain of dust fell from a beam above, catching in the weak light. The handle of a door brushed against his sleeve as he passed, metal cold and smooth. Somewhere ahead, a floorboard groaned, and his own echo answered it with a faint delay. 

Another step.

Through it all, the Soul Jam remained silent. Not a word. Not a flicker. Had Truthless not given it a few glances as he walked, he would have forgotten it was even there. 

And still, he walked. Until he was far enough for the crowd and the scent of medicinal herbs was but an afterthought.

~~~

The next few hours he spent aimlessly wandering the castle halls—a purposeless meander, meant only to waste time. For all the size the castle boasted from outside, the inside felt endless. He passed through places he thought he remembered, yet the number of unfamiliar corners seemed to have doubled overnight. All wore the same lilac, blue, and sometimes white, a palette nauseating to anyone lost for too long. He felt no such discomfort. If anything, the thought of being lost seemed ideal.

His boots found their own path, ignoring where one corridor bled into another. The air shifted without him noticing—warmer, then cool again—and his steps began to echo longer. By the time he looked up, he had crossed into a quieter wing.

Quieter was an understatement.

It was empty. Architecturally the same as the rest, perhaps even more polished for the lack of wear, but utterly uninhabited. Not a single soul moved through its hallways. Even the wind seemed unwilling to intrude. The silence was perfect, and Truthless found he appreciated it.

Though the silence allowed him to think. And that in itself would eventually come to torment him—later.

As of now, Truthless had another idea in mind. To play pretend at a lack of feeling, and walk. 

So he walked.

Click. Click.

Only his boots and staff dared disturb the silence.

He crossed through dozens of neatly arranged bookshelves that seemed to litter the main corridors. At one point, he dragged his fingers through the rim of the shelves. It was buried in coats of dust. Truthless narrowed his eyes, grabbed his sleeve and attempted to clean it. His sleeve was left a grayish tint.

Still no flicker from the Soul Jam.

A memory of the argument with the Fount tried to replay in his mind. He pushed it aside.

A subtle trail of blueberry lingered as he went deeper. He ignored it.

His thoughts drifted in and out. Sometimes he walked for minutes before clarity returned, only to find himself three passageways away with no memory of crossing them. Other times, awareness would fade again, and he would resurface by a lone tower window, the horizon blank and pale. He would turn back, follow the same path, and notice details he swore hadn’t been there before—an extra arch, a missing door.

A portrait of the Fount appeared on a wall to his left. He passed it without much thought, until it appeared again a few minutes later. The second time, the bow in the painted hair was a shade darker. The third time, the eyes seemed to stare at him directly.

A whisper of laughter seemed to follow, too faint to be real. The scent of blueberry grew stronger.

He pressed on, moving through a garden where the birds’ chirps drifted lazily around him. His feet dragged across the stone path, as if each step were a chore.

And still, there was not a single soul.

~~~

The emptiness ended without warning.

The further he went, the more the order unraveled. At first, it was subtle—a shelf slightly overstuffed, a chair with a dusty shawl draped over its back. But the mess multiplied with every step. Books, more books than he thought existed in the castle at all, spilled from open cabinets and teetered in stacks along the walls. Some floating in place. Scrolls lay curled across the floor, their ribbons half-tied or undone entirely. Here and there, the sharp glint of a magical trinket caught the light—a silver astrolabe perched precariously atop a pile of maps, a crystal sphere half-buried beneath parchment.

The Fount’s half of the castle, perhaps. It bore no formal declaration, but the evidence was in every small chaos.

A soft patter broke through the chaos. He glanced down.

A rabbit—pure white, ears lolling slightly forward—sat in the middle of the carpet. A blue bow tied neatly around its neck shifted as it twitched its nose at him. Without waiting for acknowledgement, it hopped a few steps away, then stopped and looked back.

He frowned.

The rabbit stamped a paw.

It became obvious this was not an idle wanderer. With a reluctant sigh, he followed.

The path narrowed, book-strewn and interrupted by half-finished stacks that forced him to step carefully. The air warmed, then thinned, until the faintest scent of greenery crept in. When the rabbit slipped through a low archway, he stooped to follow—emerging into a garden.

The blueberry was gone.

It wasn’t the grand, manicured kind he would have expected along the castle walls. This one was enclosed, hemmed in by white stone, its edges overgrown as if tended in bursts of devotion rather than disciplined routine. Beds of alabaster flowers pressed against one another, crowding for space. Their perfume—sweet, milky—hung thick in the air. The same flowers as always.

The rabbit vanished into the foliage. Truthless made no effort to follow.

He crouched beside the nearest patch, reaching toward a bloom—small, pale, trembling under his touch. His fingers lingered on the petals without plucking them, thumb brushing the cupped top as if memorizing its shape. He leaned in, breathed its scent, and let it go. It reminded him a bit of the Fount’s crown. His mind shook itself free of the thought.

”Milkcrowns.” 

The voice came from behind, startling him.

There was not a one.

“Lovely little things, aren’t they?” the voice continued, soft and almost teasing. “Master always said they don’t need sun or soil. They just… grow, do as they please.”

Master?

“Who’s there?” Truthless demanded. Another voice? Or had his mind finally cracked completely? 

“Someone who talks to blooms, if you must know.”

Truthless whipped around, but the garden held only swaying flowers and the hush of leaves. No one.

He narrowed his eyes. “Show yourself.”

”No can do. But hey, you’re the Fount’s guest, are you not?”

That word again. Truthless stiffened. “I am,” he said hesitantly. “Who are you?”

“Nob.”

“Nob?”

“No-body!”

“…”

A flicker of annoyance ran through his forehead, but he quickly dismissed it.

“Call me what you will, who cares!”

Truthless pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowing. He had no interest in entertaining riddles, whispers, or whatever this was. Yet the sound, soft and teasing as it danced through the blooms, lingered in his mind.

“Why speak?” Truthless asked.

A sigh, airy, like wind teasing a bell: “Because silence grows dull without a witness… and play is best when uninvited, no?”

Truthless’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Enough riddles,” he said. “If you have purpose, speak it. Otherwise, leave.”

 The voice shifted—now higher, then lower. “Purpose?” It trilled, like a key in an unasked-for lock. “Oh, I disagree… why seek understanding when you can have such delicious mystery? A pinch of mercy, perhaps, hmmm?”

Mercy.

“I see enough,” he said, his voice flat. “And I hear enough. You exist, then. That is your purpose. Now leave.”

A pause. Then: “Ah, boring. But as you wish… for now. But dear, stay away from the running white petals, or they may bite. Though… golden fruits are far more dangerous than white flowers, wouldn’t you say? They show such interesting things.”

Nob’s laughter danced across the stems, high and bright, and then… silence. The garden returned to stillness, though Truthless could feel it watching, just beyond sight. He exhaled, tension easing slightly, and turned back to the blooms, their pale heads nodding gently in the windless air.

~~~

Truthless sat there for what appeared to be an eternity. The rabbit was not too pleased. He couldn’t help but faintly smile at it.

It stormed back from the bushes. Ears stiff, its tiny bow askew as though the leaves themselves had tried to hold it back. It looked ready to unleash a torrent of rabbit profanities.

With an indignant stomp of its hind legs, it darted in front of him, circling once before planting itself just out of reach. Its nose twitched—rapid, impatient.

He made no effort to move.

The rabbit flicked its head toward the far end of the garden. Truthless sighed.

When he still didn’t respond, it took three deliberate hops and turned to stare at him again, the way a servant might wait for a master’s approval, or a guide for a lost traveler’s courage… violently. 

Beyond it, the archway’s shadow seemed deeper than before, the white stone around it dimmed to a sallow grey. Somewhere past that threshold, something shifted—soft, like pages turning in an empty room.

The rabbit stamped again. This time, he rose.

It darted ahead with a flash of white and pale ribbon, weaving between leaning stacks of books that had no reason to be in a garden. He followed—slowly, like the air itself pressed against him.

The archway swallowed him into a corridor lined with shelves that buckled under their burden. Scrolls spilled over one another in loose knots of ribbon, their ends curling like dried leaves. In places, the floor was so choked with paper he had to step high to avoid crushing it. The scent shifted again—blueberry and milk, faint and sweet, unmistakably the Fount’s. Lamps hung low here, still from the lack of wind.

The rabbit kept glancing back, the pale bow bobbing with each hop. It led him through turns that grew narrower and stranger, until the corridor broke into a small circular chamber.

This room was… different.

It didn’t hum with the quiet grandeur of the castle, nor the calculated clutter of a study. It was disorderly—mess left where it fell, cushions bearing the shape of someone who had just risen. Open books slouched against one another on the floor, their pages reaching toward the warmth of a faintly glowing hearth.

And there—sprawled carelessly over a small table—were things that should not belong near books: a plate dusted with sugar crumbs, a tea cup alongside splotches of tea stains on important looking documents. 

The rabbit sat at the threshold and did not enter, as if what lay beyond was not for it to disturb.

Truthless stepped inside, lifting his robe to avoid the books strewn in precarious stacks across the floor. A box shifted underfoot; he caught himself on a chair, pursed his lips.

Why was he doing this again?

He stared back at the rabbit that seemed adamant to having him look around. It seemed to snicker, or growl.

After, he picked his way deeper, past leaning towers of tomes and half-toppled piles, until he reached the desk.

Papers spilled from its surface, corners smudged with fingerprints. He spotted another teacup balanced precariously near the desk’s edge and pushed it to safety.

He brushed a sleeve over the nearest chair before sitting. A slip of parchment lay half-tucked beneath a quill—short, handwritten, and half illegible. A few lines about the archives. A date. Then one sentence so strange he read it twice before deciding it was meaningless out of context. The faint sweetness of blueberry milk ghosted sharper here, twirling under the scent of paper until it was almost saccharine.

He set it down.

Another shard of the fight drove itself into his mind—louder this time, rampant, uninvited. 

“I need you to—”

His shoulders stiffened. 

No.

The sound was pressed flat, crumpled into some dark corner where it could no longer breathe.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

His gaze, idle at first, swept the rest of the room—and caught on something at the far corner.

A muted gleam—gold, but not quite—hovered there, the way light might cling to the surface of still water. He looked away before it could settle into focus. Not important. Not now.

He leaned an elbow against the desk, flipping through a loose sheaf of papers as if reading could smother the urge to look again. His gaze caught instead on an old bookmark pressed between the pages—stained faintly with what might have been tea. Had Truthless assumed, the Fount was probably too caught up in his readings again. He pressed his lips tightly together.

For a moment, the scent of blueberry milk rose sharper, prickling the air. He covered his nose.

Truthless stood and reached for a book from the nearest shelf—nearly losing his balance again—its spine flaking beneath his touch. He thumbed it open, but the words blurred, his eyes drifting back toward that corner.

A glint.

Gold.

It rested on a square of dark cloth, no bigger than an apple, perfectly smooth. The way it reflected light was wrong—too slow, as if it absorbed more than it gave back.

He tried to ignore it, flipping through brittle pages, but the presence of it pressed against his vision until he had to glance again. The rabbit’s head tracked the same way, nose twitching once, twice, before it sank low to the ground as if nearness alone might be dangerous.

A sigh slipped from him, half exasperation, half surrender.

Before he quite realized it, he was standing over it.

Up close, the orb’s surface seemed impossibly clean, untouched by the dust that had claimed everything else. Its gold was deeper than mere metal—impossibly rich, magical in nature. The faintest warmth radiated from it, though the room was otherwise still.

His hand hovered, fingers curved as if drawn forward by something he could neither name nor resist. The thought of touching it struck him with equal parts pull and dread.

He hesitated.

A lamp flickered in the corner.

He should leave it.

He knew he should.

Yet his gaze returned, again and again.

At last, he reached out.

As his fingers approached the golden surface, he could swear he heard that teasing voice again: ‘Golden fruits are far more dangerous…’ But when he looked around, only the rabbit watched from the doorway, nose twitching as if it knew exactly what he was about to discover.

Something struck him.

The world shifted within his eyes, golden threads of words and memory spilling into his mind. He saw countless things, paths that folded back on themselves like origami, spells of magic woven through time itself—knowledge that only he at that moment had privy to.

And there, among the cascading revelations, something specific crystallized. A location. An answer.

His hand jerked back from the orb as if burned, but the knowledge remained, etched behind his eyes like afterimages of lightning. The room swam back into focus—the scattered papers, the rabbit watching from the doorway, the faint scent of cold tea.
But now he knew.

“So that’s the scroll…”

Truthless turned towards the rabbit again.

It was gone.

That teasing laughter echoed once more through his mind—satisfied now, complete—before fading entirely.

~~~

Somewhere, the Fount drowned.

Notes:

I was going to extend this chapter by like two whole different scenes but decided not to because it was getting a bit dense in my humble opinion. It’s coming in the next chapter tho which I’ll be posting tomorrow :>
I’m rl sorry if it feels too short

Chapter 12: Rift of Reason, Flicker of Truth

Notes:

Listened to Alucard’s Theme (From Hellsing) on loop for this one

There was a room the castle did not show.

No corridor led to it. No door ever had.

Yet that night, it held light.

The Fount of Knowledge sat by a narrow desk, a candle flickering as the only source of illumination. The room had no true walls; they were intangible, deep navy in color, akin to something conjured from magic. Unreal, as though stolen from a story that should not exist.

Not that anyone would have appreciated the comparison.

The Fount wrote, or nearly did. Quill in hand, it hovered more than moved, trailing half-formed strokes on recycled sugar paper. The quill’s tip caught briefly on the fibers of the page. A few words were scratched in, then crossed out. Some were circled, others were underlined. The paper crinkled under invisible pressure. Every stroke of ink seemed to resist its own form, curling and twisting as if reluctant to become language. 

Drip. 

He scratched the side of his head, pressing the quill’s tip to his lips. No words came. Another attempt followed, only to collapse into another scribble.

Nothing.

Another try. Only a single word emerged: dear. Half-willing, barely formed. He tapped his head, twisting a strand of hair.

For once, he—of all cookies—could not think.

His fingers ached from drumming on the desk, ink smeared across his skin, metallic on his tongue. Thoughts tangled in his mind—blurs of images, words jumbled up, vanishing before he could grasp them. A cold crawled into his bones. He blinked repeatedly, willing the darkness to offer clarity, as if the candlelight itself could summon ideas that had not yet been born.

A shiver.

Surely just a chill. A gust, or something like it, rustled the page. He stilled it with two fingers, though it did not try to flee again.

One sentence remained.

He did not finish it.

The quill dangled like a blade about to drop. The ink bled for him, in place of word.

Drip.

He set the quill aside. Not carefully.

The candle guttered.

The Fount rose, glanced half at the paper.

And then he was gone.

There was no door. No footstep.

The paper did not flutter. The wax continued to drip.

The ink gleamed, still wet.

And that was all.

~~~

Drip.

Mirrors are such detestable things.

Especially ones dripping with truths.

Truthless stood in the midst of half a dozen mirrors—perhaps even more. Naturally, the place was confusing; confusion was its very nature. An endless zoo of paper and stone.

After the little ‘situation’ with ‘Nob’—and the study—Truthless had decided to keep walking. Why? To find the scroll, of course.

The answer. The ‘magnum opus’ of solutions. The key. The “way” out. Whatever metaphor might have worked in the endless labyrinth of literary language and philosophy that was the castle. Or the Spire. Surely, in its most absolute form, it had to be the Spire of Deceit, even if this was some kind of construct, or past, or mind game.

After all, if he was to find a scroll, what better place to search than the lair of the beast?

 

Led by nothing but instinct through countless corridors, he found the mirrors.

And because things clearly could not have been simple, they were no mere mirrors. But that was for Truthless to find out.

For now, he simply stared. No grand act. No theatrical flair of despair, as there had been moments ago. In the vast sea of emotions, Truthless at that moment felt nothing, an emptiness in its absolute form. Meaningless, anticlimactic, calming yet secretly deteriorating. 

He watched.

Himself.

The half-dirtied sleeve.

The purple lines beneath his eyes. Each night they seemed to deepen. He looked frail, hollow, and the lack of eating—despite the feasts—did little to soften the image.

His feet carried him onward before he realized it. The slow tap of his shoes. The click of his staff. The dragging of cloak and robe. The sounds too sharp in the silence.

One mirror showed him smaller than he was, another wider—just enough to trick the eye into thinking him healthier, one tilted the world, tilting him along with it. The warped reflections teased his mind, each false angle suggesting a version of himself he did not recognize—and did not fully trust. However, there was a strange charm to the carnival of distortions, a sense of humor in the chaos, though circumstances made laughter impossible. But what need had the Fount for so many mirrors? Surely his vanity was not too extravagant…

Yet the mirrors were too clean. Not a speck, not a smear.

He walked on.

The echoes of his own steps began to fall half a beat behind, as though something followed in rhythm. 

 

The mirrors seemed endless. Then he stopped. Before him stood a mirror much larger than the rest.

After a moment, Truthless stopped for a long while to continue his loitering. Before him was shockingly yet another mirror. This time, it appeared to be bigger than the rest.

Much bigger in fact. 

It was strangely familiar.

Truthless felt a tug toward it, rather uneasy but unable to look away. His heart raced, hammering against the hush of the corridor, and a shiver ran along his spine. 

He shook his head.

Its frame was silver, undulled by time, gleaming as if smelted from distilled moonlight. Blueberries and lilies twined along its edges in neat arranges of pairs. Unlike the warped and imperfect panes, this one was flawless. Regal. A mirror fit not for a corridor, but a throne room.

It reflected him with such delicate exactness that for an instant he wondered if it was not glass at all, but another world, one where he stood just as still—half a breath behind.

A shadow crouched in a corner of a mirror, poised and patient. The shape was vaguely familiar. Candlelight glimmered on a desk that did not exist, and subtle ink lines seemed to crawl across the pane before dissolving into nothing. His pulse quickened; the mirrors were drawing him onward. 

Yet, he stared at it for longer than he should have.

For one reason only.

It did not reflect his face.

~~~

When the Fount opened a door, he was not expecting the other side to be empty.

Grand as it was to speculate endlessly the phenomena, he for once did not wish to know.

And yet, lilies bloomed there—petals pale as moons, unfurling from cracks in a place with no soil. 

Such fragile things, sprouting where nothing should grow. Like words on the Fount’s page. Like hope, where none belonged.

Drip.

~~~

The lilies swayed. The ink gleamed. The wax bled down the candle. And somewhere else, in another corridor, Truthless approached the mirror.

He wasn’t imagining. It truly did not show his face. 

For a heartbeat, there was blank—an empty oval of silver, polished too clean. He leaned closer. Still nothing. No eyes. No mouth. No truth. Truthless searched for a flicker of his own features, a familiar shadow in the silver, but there was nothing. Only the shape of his body, a hollow shell, and the faint echo of something he had once called self. The glass rejected him.

Surely another mind game.

His hand rose, almost of its own accord, and the glass shivered with the echo of the motion—but it did not touch the surface in time. The reflection was always late, a fraction behind. He pressed his hand against the mirror to see if it was smudged or dirty. Nothing.

Truthless staggered back. The mirror remained calm, imperious, untouchable—and then, absurdly, a bunny passed by. Impossibly quiet.

The bunny did not care about Truthless's dilemma. It hopped across the mirror’s reflection, not the floor. Its paws rippled across glass, leaving faint rings as though it moved upon water.

Truthless blinked. Slowly. He turned his head, but on the ground before him, there was nothing. No pawprints. No creature. Only dust.

He faced the mirror again. The bunny still lingered within, sniffing at the faint outline of his blurred face. Perhaps mockingly.

Then—it froze.

Drip.

A bead of moisture slid down the glass, though there was no source.

The rabbit’s eyes flicked up—to him. Through him. Past him.

The rabbit’s nose brushed the glass.

The mirror fogged.

The faint flicker of a yellow hat.

Ruffled sleeves.

A silver crown.

Truthless rubbed his eyes. 

For a second—only a second—his reflection wore strands of black and blue, threads glimmering in fractured glass. A sudden glint of gold followed. Nothing lingered. It returned to normal. Black robe contrasting against pale strands of hair. 

He sighed.

When was the last time he had spent so long staring at his reflection? It almost made him feel vain, absurdly out of character. It was time to go. He had a scroll to find. Places to most certainly be.

Until he saw her.

In a shimmer between panes, a pale figure darted across the mirrored hall—a white blur, moving faster than his eyes could follow. Petals seemed to trail her steps. Compulsion pulled at him, urging his feet forward, quicker, toward a place he could not yet see. Each mirror he passed reflected her in fragments, teasing, always just out of reach.

He quickened his pace. The hall stretched and twisted around him, mirrors multiplying, corners folding, reflections doubling.

Sometimes she vanished entirely, leaving only a trace of cold petals drifting in the silver, and he stumbled over corridors that were not there a moment ago.

Time bent around the chase; one step stretched into a heartbeat, a heartbeat collapsed into a second. He could not measure it, could not know how far, or how near, or if the chase had already begun before he arrived.

Each mirror dissolved her into fragments before his fingers could touch.
Then she reappeared, just beyond the next pane.

She stopped. In one mirror she stood fully, braided white hair catching the dim hall light, red eyes fixed, the purple uniform neat, the small coned hat straight. She smiled. Directly at him. The glass held her alone, and the hall seemed to shrink around it. 

Truthless froze. His own features did not appear. Yet there was the girl, so small yet so familiar, looking at him with the same recognition she always did. With a faint smile, hiding a peculiar sadness yet carrying a warmth only a friend could recognize, his hands itched to reach through.

The girl’s hand lifted and pressed against the glass. The surface shimmered, rippled crawling outward like liquid silver, undulating under her touch. He reached toward her without thinking. Then she grabbed his wrists. There was no strength to resist.

Her smile widened as she leaned forward, and tugged him closer.

He followed, every fiber of his body pulled forward, until the moment the surface swallowed him, and the hall behind him bent, twisted, and disappeared.

He fell, but not downward. The world pressed in from every side, his arms weightless, then heavy. Colors throbbed at the corners of his vision. The girl’s smile swirled in the silver of the glass, repeated, stretched, disappearing and returning in fragments that moved independently of her body. The sound of his own breathing echoed, slowed, and then vanished.

A tug at his mind pulled him forward, deeper into the hall that no longer resembled a hall. Time bent. Every step he imagined became both instant and endless. He struggled to reach the girl, to grab the braided hair, the small hat—but his hands passed through the mirror as though through thick water.

Then the pull eased. Solid ground—or something like it—met his feet. The mirror closed behind him with a subtle hum, leaving only a lingering shimmer on the surface, the faint trace of her smile.

She waited, patient, her eyes pulling him further, insistence soft but irresistible. The hall had changed. The corridors were gone. Only she and the space around her remained, and a quiet insistence: follow.

She ran. He followed. The hall twisted beneath them, folding, unspooling, and folding again, until neither knew where the chase began—or if it would ever end.

Truthless ran, lungs aching, yet the girl always remained just beyond reach, floating ahead in gravity-defying arcs. She gave him nothing less than a soft laugh, not quite enough to be considered sinister, but not quite warm.

Why am I chasing her?

Why does it matter so much?

The question dissolved before he could answer, swept aside by the rhythm of his own footfalls. Mirrors fractured into fragments, corridors bent, floors disappeared and reappeared under him. Time was a suggestion; space, an illusion.

Was he dreaming again?

A sudden red glow appeared ahead, flickering and shifting. Warmth, light, danger—the hall had become a blaze. Flames sprinkled across the walls, twisting on each other vigorously in a dance of death. His throat constricted. 

Still, he ran. Feet pounding against the warped floor, dodging whips of fire, lungs rasping with every breath. The heat smoldering against him, but he could not stop. Hoping to not be burned.

White Lily leapt across the fire, petals scattering about. She giggled, carefree, as if the inferno were nothing more than merely a game meant for her own amusement. Her small hand beckoned him forward.

Fire crawled upward, but the walls weren’t stone anymore—bark split beneath the blaze, roots tore through the floor. He stumbled into a forest already burning, branches clutching fire like torches raised against him. Yet, the trees did not fully burn. The blaze only spread around him, illuminating a path that insisted urgency.  

Branches clawed at his sleeves. The air burned his throat with every lunge. The laughter rang ahead, skipping between the trunks—too close, too far, echoing all about. His legs moved before thought could catch them.

Each giggle sharpened his frustration. Each time she turned her head to glance back, smiling, his chest tightened further. He gritted his teeth. He could feel anger knotting itself in his stomach, rising, hot as the blaze around him.

Why won’t she stop? 

Among the flames, a shimmer of silver caught his eye.

At first, he thought it a trick of heat, a wavering of air. But no—there, between the blackened trunks, the shape emerged. A tree, its boughs drawn in light. Silver, cold, endless. Its branches rose higher than sight, vanishing into smoke that did not dare touch it.

His fury faltered. His legs slowed.

A chill unlike the blaze pressed into his chest, a deep ache that hollowed his ribs. His vision swam, doubling. For a moment he forgot how to breathe. Each beat of his heart thudded too loud, then too slow, as though it were trying to climb out of rhythm. His stomach twisted with an unnameable sickness, and in the pit of it, fear—raw, endless.

A thought.

The thought cracked through him before he could stop it, a whisper that did not sound like his own. The silver branches shimmered again, and with them came a pang of recognition he could not explain, sharper than grief, deeper than dread. His knees buckled.

He stumbled, clutching at nothing.

The world tilted. Flames bent, trees warped, the ground heaved under his shoes. His breath came shallow, ragged. The silver tree blurred, splitting into fragments, its radiance clawing at his eyes until he thought they might tear.

“Stop,” he whispered, though at what—he could not tell. His hand lifted despite himself, fingers outstretched, reaching for silver he did not want to touch.

Then laughter shattered it. White Lily’s laughter.

She darted across the blaze, hand raised, and with the flick of her wrist the forest dissolved. Embers chased her, scattered in the air. Fire died out. The silver vanished last, a streak of light dragged away into nothing.

He gasped, clutching air, lungs aching as though he had drowned. The fire was gone. The forest—gone. The corridor, returned.

Only the sound of her feet, pattering across stone, petals scattering across another corridor.

He followed. He had no choice.

Drip.

The corridor convulsed. Walls stretched, melted, then shrank to nothing; the floor buckled like wet parchment. One blink, and he was back inside his room. Another, and the stone corridors had bled into an open hall of infinite flower meadows.

White Lily skipped ahead through it all. Her feet barely touched the ground. Her giggle rippled through the distortions.

Fragments bled into the walls. A desk he knew, but could not place. A cracked crown, glinting and gone. The glimmer of a dark pool, vast and still, vanishing the moment he turned. A shape sitting by it—was it the Fount?—always half-hidden, always slipping through the cracks of memory.

Memory or dream, he could not tell.

White Lily continued running. When he turned the corner after her, the air shifted—old ink, dry. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched upward into shadow.

The library.

It had no beginning, no end. It was the same as before.

Books pressed against one another as though straining to breathe; some whispered when he passed, pages fluttering with words he could not catch. A thousand bindings stared down at him like a wall of closed eyes.

His steps echoed louder than they should. Too loud. The sound of running boots rebounded off every shelf, multiplying until it was as though an army pursued him—yet it was only him and her.

White Lily danced between the aisles. She leapt weightless, skirt swirling. Sometimes she giggled again, sometimes she hummed a note that made the shelves tremble.

“Why are you doing this?” he shouted, voice cracking. The echo broke apart, stretching his words into a choir of accusations. He did not know if she heard. He did not know if he wanted her to.

She stopped. So suddenly, he almost collided with her. Her hand lifted, finger pointing toward a single scroll resting in the center of a desk. Unlike the others, it was not buried among stacks, nor wrapped in dust. It gleamed faintly. Wrapped in a purple chord.

His chest tightened. That scroll. He did not know why, but the sight of it made his breath stumble. His hands shook as he stepped closer.

This is it. This will tell me why.

He reached out. Fingers hovered over parchment. The girl’s eyes were on him now, wide and still, her giggles gone. For once, she looked solemn, almost pitying.

He touched the scroll.

The desk vanished. Shelves collapsed into softness, and when the weight settled he was smothered beneath a pile of warm, breathing bodies. Rabbits, countless, pressing down as if they had grown out of the words themselves. Their twitching noses brushed his skin.

He appeared to be back where he was. Countless mirrors, alongside the rabbits, greeting his return.

So this was his prize. A crowd of rabbits, soft and heavy. He almost laughed. Almost.

Truthless sat there, dazed, with the weight of fur still clinging all throughout. The pile of rabbits had yet to dissipate. He shifted, arms straining against the warmth. They scattered at last, vanishing one by one into the cracks of the floor, into the seams of the mirrors, until only their scent lingered—grass after rain, an afterthought.

He stood, swaying. His legs still remembered the chase. 

The library. He thought of the scroll. He needed to see it again. The thoughts lingered like hunger, propelling him forward. Perhaps if he retraced his steps, if he moved quickly enough, the shelves would open again, the words would return, and he would find the scroll.

He pressed onwards.

~~~

After the day’s work was done, the Fount of Knowledge decided to rest.

He traced a hand through the dark, and the walls parted. A ripple spread outward, a doorway born between spaces. Beyond it lay a pool of water, black and still, pressed against the far edge of the castle grounds. The stillness welcomed him.

A bench waited by the pool’s edge, dark mahogany wood against the shadowed water. The Fount sat, hands folded in his lap. He placed his staff beside his leg, just close enough for his Soul Jam to press against him. His fingers drifted across its surface, shaping meaningless patterns. A frown tugged at him.

Steps. Faint, uneven, from somewhere deeper in the grounds. Someone was wandering—circling close. He felt it keenly, as if the sound traveled straight into his chest. For a moment, part of him stirred. A thought, unbidden: he could rise, walk toward the presence, speak.

But no. His hand stilled.

He did not rise. The boy would wander, as he always had.

The ripple on the water closed with a sound like a sigh.

The water held its silence, mirroring neither moon nor flame—only the depth of itself. He kept his gaze fixed there, willing the reflection to speak, though it never had.

The steps grew nearer, echoing faintly along the stone. Slow, then hurried, then slow again, as though whoever walked could not decide whether to flee or approach.

His fingers pressed against the Soul Jam, absently tracing the edges until his skin tingled. If he let go, he wondered, would he rise? Would he allow himself to cross that small, impossible distance?

The footsteps shifted again—closer now, almost within reach of the garden’s edge. The Fount kept his eyes on the Soul Jam, though he no longer heard only footsteps.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that fragile awareness: Truthless standing just beyond. Neither approaching nor leaving.

The Fount exhaled. But his hand refused to move. He stayed seated, spine rigid against the bench, eyes upon the black pool.

He would not turn. He would not break the stillness.

If he stayed perfectly still, perhaps Truthless would believe he had not noticed. Perhaps he would leave.

And at last—he did.

The footsteps retreated, swallowed by the corridors once more. The boy’s presence passed the outer wall. For a heartbeat the sound faltered, as if he had stopped just beyond the threshold. The Fount’s throat tightened.

Still, he did not rise.

Let him pass.

Let him drift.

The Fount closed his eyes. His lips moved, though no sound followed. And so he remained, until the echoes of the footsteps blurred into silence again.

Notes:

I’m considering shortening this chapter but idk

Tldr: The Fount being sad and Truthless having yet another horror adventure because the dude cant catch a break
uni started so more load for me. Haha.

Chapter 13: Burst Away, Light of All

Notes:

Content warning: references to injury (non-graphic)
I think some parts of this chap contain language thats a bit stronger than usual.
This chapter was sponsored by Lacrimosa by Mozart.
Shorty short short chap cause its just one scene and i was not about to drag it out for the sake of dragging it out

Should I just post 14… hMMMmmmmMMMMMM

The moon was quieter that night.

She had reached her apex, casting pale rays over Truthless as he marched the hallways toward the library.  

Not in amusement, not quite in mockery. That night she seemed to wish only for silence—perhaps mourning, as the sky wept small spectacles of rain. No stars dared to accompany her.  

And beneath her gaze walked Truthless.  

His footsteps echoed against the floor, louder than they should have. The castle itself seemed to warn him back. The mirrors shivered at his passing. Warped shapes of faces dissolved when he turned his head. A faint flicker of his Soul Jam lit the path and his clothes, the object making no movement or sound.

He did not falter.  

The hunger in his chest had hollowed him, gnawing slow and ceaseless, like unseen parasites feasting upon forgotten flesh—tearing his limbs bite by bite, his organs a side dish, his breath a drink, until at last nothing remained but a single bone carved into the void of him: the scroll.

If he could read it—if he could hold it long enough to trace the letters—perhaps the way would open. Perhaps the walls between timelines would weaken, and he would find himself thrust back into the moment before. Before deceit. Before exile. Before this silence that bit at his marrow.

No, not even that. Even within the wretched cradle of deceit, he would be in a better place. So long as it was away—so long as it was his own.

And so the doors of the library yielded before him.

It was darker now, the torches long since extinguished. Yet, even in this darkness the same liveliness of before remained… to an extent.

The library did not greet him as it once had.

The shelves seemed taller, darker than before. Books that had once fallen toward his hands now slipped away, and the magical relics dimmed as he passed. The place remained a maze, just as confusing as before, but now he entered with hunger in his chest, a desire yet to be fed.

He twisted through staircases that led nowhere, the library determined to swallow him whole. For a moment, he tried to remember White Lily’s path—her certain steps, her hand almost grazing shelves that opened at her touch.

But when he tried to trace that memory, the path blurred. His mind reached for the gleam of her hair, the faint rustle of her laughter, yet all he caught was the sound of pages flapping overhead. The more he tried to recall her path, the more the corridors reshaped themselves.

Snapping back to the present, he stumbled over a floating book, barely catching it as it twisted in midair. The leather cover was warm. He glimpsed letters glowing on the pages: fragments of incantations he could not recall. He swallowed.

For a moment, he thought he saw her—a fleeting glimmer of white in the distance, brushing along the edges of shelves, light spilling from her hair like a beacon. He reached for it, and it vanished. The library laughed softly in the echo of collapsing stairs.

The glimpse left a hollow jab in his chest.

And then, finally, through the shadows, he glimpsed it: a pedestal bare of dust, hovering as though even the shelves had stepped back in reverence. Suspended above it, the scroll pulsed faintly, untouched. The letters writhed, restless, eager to be read.

Truthless did not hesitate.

His hand closed around the scroll. For the first time that night, the desire stilled—if only into a sharp, watchful silence. He pressed it close to his chest, veiling the glow with his sleeve, and turned from the pedestal. The library seemed to retreat with him, shadows loosening their grip as though eager to see him gone. He obliged.

The warmth of the scroll seeped into his palm. He wanted to unroll it, but even as the library seemed to lean closer, urging him onward, the hunger inside him whispered patience. He pressed the scroll closer, his grip only tightened, his gaze fixed ahead. Yet even in that resolve, he faltered when a figure came into view.

The Fount.

He was walking in the opposite direction, his steps unhurried, his expression unreadable—until his eyes caught on Truthless. Something in them lingered, a breath held, a half-formed hesitation. A quiet, startled “ah” of recognition, as though Truthless had passed through his thoughts unbidden.

The Fount’s gaze lingered longer than politeness required. There was a tilt of his head, followed by a sparkle in his eyes. His lips curved in a half-smile, almost mocking in its subtlety, as if he understood the game but chose not to intervene. It wasn’t malice—just the faintest brush of knowingness that made Truthless bristle.

Truthless lowered his head instinctively, hiding the scroll deep within his cloak, far from the curious eyes of the Fount. His brows furrowed, shadowing his eyes as if the expression alone could shield him.

Neither broke stride. The Fount’s eyes lingered, tracing the lines of Truthless’s back, the slight stiffness in his shoulders. And then it was gone, replaced by that composed mask, the same face that had once inspired trust, now impossibly distant.

Truthless did not look back.

At last, his door yielded to him, and he slipped inside. Only when the lock clicked did he let his shoulders fall, the hunger sparking again now that secrecy was assured. He set the scroll upon the desk.

And there, in the solitude of his room, Truthless prepared himself for the spell… though not before his mind lingered on the Fount once more.

Drip.

It felt odd.

Something about their current circumstances, their fallout felt… odd. He knew that distance was easier than care. He didn’t have to hear that voice that always spoke with just enough softness to make him second-guess himself. Didn’t have to look into eyes that still hadn’t learned how to hate him properly.

It was better like this.

It was.

And yet—

Some traitorous part of him still ached with the emptiness the Fount’s presence left behind. A hollowness nagged at his chest, echoing the nibbling in his limbs, as though absence itself could consume flesh and bone. He had been starved of this warmth for too long, and now it carved deeper with every step the Fount took away from him. He had become a presence. A voice that never cracked even when his did.

But what irked him the most was that dumb expression on his face when they passed through each other—so lacking in any remorse. His eyes held a careless light, unbothered, as though Truthless himself were the one out of place. Or rather, as if he truly belonged and nothing had occurred. And even then, the Fount did not act quite the same. It was that politeness… that fakeness that showed. The real hypocrisy of the Fount. 

It was absurd. Truly.

The feeling tore at him anyway.

He shook his head. There was no point in lingering on the thought any longer. His hand drifted to the pouch at his hip, fingers brushing the Soul Jam through fabric.

“Speak to me,” he muttered.

The Soul Jam shivered once. It was listening. Judging.

“Do you remember what he did?” 

No answer.

His hand trembled slightly, then he clenched his fists.

“This is why I can’t trust you anymore,” he whispered—not to the Soul Jam, not to the Fount, not even to himself. Just into the air. To the memory. To the ache.

And there—finally—he opened the scroll.

He stared at it.

There lay a spell.

A revealing, not a summoning. Truth. The shedding of illusion’s skin. 

A spell to pierce illusion. To rend lies. To burn through a dream.

A spell that seemed awfully specific for what he needed, and required just one thing—the Soul Jam. 

So he could use it.

If the Soul Jam remembered.

If it still wanted to help him.

If it knew the difference between what was true… and what he wanted to be.

He placed the scroll to his side, exhaled sharply through his nose, and turned on his heel.

Preparing for war.

The desk he swept clean, pages arranged where he could see them. The book lay open. A candle flared thanks to a whisper of light from his fingertips.

Then he reached for the Soul Jam again.

“Remember who you are,” he whispered to it. “You belonged to truth once. You were truth.”

His voice shook.

“So was I.”

The Soul Jam flickered. A pulse.

Neither warm nor cold.

Just… aware. He couldn’t tell if it was waiting for his strength or measuring how far he’d already fallen.

He closed his eyes and began the spell.

The words left his mouth in pieces. As though his tongue remembered what his heart had forgotten. The glyphs twisted in his mind. Light sparked along the floor, tracing a crude circle—misshapen, imperfect.

Still, the spell held.

Just barely.

He reached deep into the Soul Jam, called the old Light.

And this time—it answered.

Golden lines traced the glyphs perfectly. 

For a moment, he saw it. The castle cracked open like a mirror under strain. He glimpsed the edge of the illusion: a sinister laugh from beyond, the wailing cries of a tormented individual, the distant sound of sheep that had no source.

It was working.

The truth was burning through.

He pressed harder.

A warmth surged through him, climbing from his chest to his throat to his brain, filling every limb with a light that was almost too bright to bear. His heart slammed against his ribs, ears ringing with the resonance of a thousand voices.

Every fiber of him screamed, urging him onward, even as fear prickled along his skin.

The Soul Jam resisted—sharply, without warning.

The glow splitting into fragments that stabbed at his chest.

A sudden, twisting panic.

The light surged inside him, wild and unstable. A scream shoved into bone, no mouth left to release it.

Too bright. Too many. Too much. He couldn’t breathe. Not here. Not now.

“No—” he hissed through his teeth. “You don’t get to stop now. You owe me this. You owe me—!”

The glyphs around him shimmered violently. The lines of the circle—already uneven—began to unravel at the edges, leaking golden light that bled too fast, too uncontrolled.

He tried to stabilize it.

But it wasn’t light anymore.

It was a memory. It was the truth. It was too much.

Too bright.

The room glimmered inside out.

His surroundings bent—stone curving like breath, furniture distorting into shapes from another time. For one instant, he saw not his own reflection in the darkened glass—a child with bright eyes. Innocent. ‘Himself’, before it broke.

His vision split.

There were too many selves now—truths too long denied flooding in all at once. His knees buckled. One hand caught the desk to stay upright.

The Soul Jam pulsed once. Fractured.

A flicker passed through his expression—eyebrows twitching, throat bobbing around a swallowed word.

His breath caught.

The glyphs stilled. Just for a second.

A silence bloomed—heavy, trembling.

He thought it might work.

Snap.

The magic shattered.

Jagged, white-hot light screamed from the circle, striking him with all memory, all rage, and nowhere to go.

I can’t stop now.

His body snapped backward. Ribs met the desk—something broke. Pain lanced through him like knives, and his breath vanished with the sound. His arm flailed, catching the jagged corner; warm jam smeared across the floor, but still his grip tightened around the Soul Jam. The fire in his chest drowned the agony—only the goal mattered.

The impact knocked the wind from more than his lungs. For a second, his thoughts shattered like glass under a hammer.

His arms flew up instinctively, shielding his face as he curled inward, like a child expecting punishment. Desire, need, and loss were inseparable, leaving him vulnerable and starving even in the dark.

Trembling, jam-stained fingers traced the glyphs once more. Chest aflame, lungs ragged, he forced the words out, syllable by painful syllable. Pain clawed up his broken ribs, but each gasp of agony was drowned beneath the roar of his determination. This had to work. It had to.

The glyphs on the floor blazed one last time before collapsing inward. The room convulsed—furniture imploding into dreamlike shapes, walls rippling like waves. Books turned to ash midair.

The Soul Jam flared—sickly, bright. Cracks snaked across its surface, a warning unheeded. A shard flickered loose, slicing his palm. His jam—his life—spilled onto the scroll. Pain shot through him like lightning. If he faltered, his very grasp on reality—might shatter with it.

He clenched it tighter. Pain shot through his hands as the shards threatened to splinter. He couldn’t let it stop him—not now.

But it was too late.

His eyes rolled back, lids fluttering like windblown paper. Sunlight—a garden, someone humming, a white figure casting shadows. A memory that hurt for reasons he couldn’t name.

His vision peeled, split. The world rang.

Black.

And when the light finally died, he was already on the floor, bleeding, half-conscious, trembling.

A faint pulse ran through the Soul Jam in his hand—a quivering echo along its network of cracks.

Just beyond the darkness behind his eyelids, a glimpse of blue—the Fount’s eyes. The fractured memory pressed the ache of longing into him, and the truth he had seized threatened to shatter him completely.

~~~

Notes:

It will alll make senseee eventually yip yip yuuuu huuuuu

Romance romance romance romance wut wut wut wut wut

Ive been super duper insecure about my writing lately so to the people still around, thanks again. You shall all be rewarded soon.
Domestic fluff incoming

Chapter 14: The Light That Doesn’t Answer

Notes:

Content warning: references to injury (non-graphic)
A bit of a longer chapter for the soul.
Prepare yer reading booties cause I have super mega extra planned the chapters ahead and there’s perspective changes and lots of other stuff that should, in theory, elongate them!

I literally have a step by step detailed explanation of what happens per chapter, its the best thing I could have made.
No more 2000 word chapters from me, MWHAHHAHAHA >:^)

Yelling.

Everything flickered. Light and shadow, a blur of white and blue.

And then the crimson spattered across the floor, spreading in a final flight for freedom, beating in time with his tattered heart that too longed to flee.

And somewhere within that familiar blur that he wished—no, longed—would collapse into empty black was the Fount. His face—half there, half gone—dissolving into the scatter of black dots clouding Truthless’s sight, which lingered anywhere but in the actuality of the moment.

A brush of unfamiliar warmth pressed against his back, clutching at his robes with such strength, with such aching familiarity, one couldn’t help but wonder if, in that moment, he had become the corpse of some beloved being mourned.

But he was no beloved.

A warmth. A pressure. A tug that tilted the world sideways.

Words slurred from his mouth in babbles. The Fount opened his, most certainly tried to reach Truthless, yet Truthless could not grasp the words. Nor did he, in truth, try.

His mind drifted on and off. A faint smile tugged at his lips, amused by the idiocy of it all—or perhaps laughing at his own despair.

~~~

Laughter.

His torso heaving with the echoes of endless, minor imprudences, jokes as he would one day come to claim his own. Each twisting in ways even he could not understand, but in a way understood all the same.

Not of now. Not of here. Somewhere else, somewhere long ago.

The fresh scent of strawberries, milk and sugar. Voices, chiming in on pointless conversations.

All distant now and fading.

 

~~~

Thrashing.

A betrayal.

Limbs flailing, a body too heavy, too fragile.

Rage in its absolute, complete absurdity. Every motion met with unseen resistance, every attempt to rise tangled in invisible cords.

The sound of limbs hitting the floor. He wanted to thrash everything before him. 

To tear it apart into fragments until nothing remained.

Misery bearing its golden fruit.

Anger turned into spite.

Spite turned into hunger.

~~~

Silence.

In the midst of nothingness.

Anger nullified, followed by the drifting of an empty mind too tired to continue fighting. One slowly becoming splinters of its potential.

A hopeless stride that bore no real fruition. No real meaning. 

Pointless and excruciating anguish.

No more.

~~~

First came weight. Cloth beneath his spine, damp and cool.

Then the ache—sharp behind his eyes, dull in his chest.

He didn’t open his eyes right away. There was no reason to. Sight wouldn’t offer him much—just that same blur of color and shape, unfocused and soft around the edges. Still, light made itself known even through his closed lids. Gentle, silvery. Like the moon had stooped low to peer at him.

Eventually, he blinked. The brightness stung.

Truthless didn’t move at first. His arms felt sunk, like his body had forgotten how to begin.

Something was wrong. Everything was.

The Soul Jam.

One arm refused to straighten. The muscle pulled wrong, the wrist stiff beneath what appeared to be bandages—tender where it had torn against the desk. The ache had settled. The sharpness had dulled into something stubborn—pain that had settled in and made itself at home.

His hand drifted without thought to the hollow just below his collarbone. The place where the Soul Jam had once rested—bright and insistent. Now, even with the Soul Jam lying unused at his side, the skin there still flickered faintly. As if remembering it.

He winced.

The skin hadn’t blistered, but it radiated heat. Purple-blue bruises ghosted the edges. Something inside had buckled. The socket meant to cradle light had given under the pressure.

And the world was blurred. Though not for long.

Right. The staff.

He groped at the side of the bed, fingertips grazing smooth wood.

There.

His hand closed around it. When he opened his eyes again, the room sharpened.

Not perfectly. But enough.

The colors returned. The weight of things fell into place. And—

He saw him.

Sitting by a chair in the corner, he’d slumped into sleep at some point, head bowed, one arm pulled tight against his torso. Strands of hair clung to his cheek, the once adamant sparkles of its stars now dimmed into the quiet hush of uneven throbs, with only a few distant specks still reaching out even as the Fount slept. A fragile kind of beauty lingered there, the sort one glimpses only when something has been worn to its thinnest thread. 

Beneath his lashes, the skin lay dark and splotched. Crying, maybe—though only halfway. Abandoned. As if not even Truthless was worth the full despair of a creature born to be called “god.”

Because why would a “god” ever care enough for a resentful hermit who wished him no good? A hermit who in dreams, even behind that wall of apathy, at some point dreamt not of affection but of seeing the one before him broken down to crumbs.

But not in that moment.

This was the one he hated. Or thought he did.

And yet, feeling the warmth of that presence, hearing the slow, uneven breaths that somehow matched his own, he found himself hoping he wouldn’t wake. Not yet.

He feared those azure eyes might open with that same smile. The one that soothed, softened, lied all at once. A quick “How are you feeling?” or “Are you alright?” would follow, words that seemed to care, and care, and “care,” but ultimately circled back to nothing. He knew the fight from before would vanish, smoothed over, as if it had never happened. The mask of compassion would return.

So he prayed he would not stir, at least for this second.

Truthless tried to look away, but couldn’t. Something, some part of him prevented him from doing so.

Guilt. Resentfulness. Anger. Pity?

He couldn’t name it. How could he, when he could barely understand himself?

So he watched. Eyes fixed on that fragile, sleeping face, stripped of radiance and pretense. And after long enough, bile rose, thick and sour, until he wondered if he hated him at all.

He didn’t. Or maybe he did.

But seeing him like this made it worse. Harder to cling to the hate he wanted, harder to forget the tenderness he hadn’t asked for, harder to separate this exhausted figure from the monster who had twisted truth into cruelty.

He turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed.

His grip tightened on the staff.

His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the Soul Jam. Shattered in its core, it lay fractured, lightning frozen in its veins. Cracks deep enough to fit his fingernail spread through its surface, sharp reminders that what once held brilliance now clung to the edge of breaking.

In a way, it was like him again. Only the Soul Jam showed it more honestly, in the raw language of shattered glass.

Now, though, it made no sound, no throb, no pulse. There was no voice, not even a whisper. It simply lay there. Quiet.

“You’ve been so loud,” Truthless muttered. “And yet you don’t speak.”

No reaction.

You were supposed to be the part of me that never lied, he thought bitterly. And yet now, even you won’t answer.  

He turned his face to the ceiling.

I deserve this.

He tried to believe that. That this was earned. That this wasn’t loss, only consequence.

But some part of him still clawed at the edges of the logic, unsatisfied.

If he truly deserved it, why did it hurt so much to accept?

He glanced again at the fractured Soul Jam.

If this is what remains of me, then what am I left to become?

And the spell. What was the point of it?

Why did the orb show him the scroll, and why—most of all—had he been so quick to believe?

The questions crowded close, pressing too hard, too many. He forced them quiet.

And still… the ache remained.

Light. Truth. Mercy.

He pressed his hand flat against his chest until the rhythm dulled again.

A stir, followed by a groan.

The sound hooked into him, dragged his eyes away from the ceiling. The Fount shifted, lashes fluttering before his body gave a sharp jolt, like waking had caught him by the throat. His hand twitched, then his shoulders, then all at once he was fighting himself upright.

Truthless didn’t move. He only watched.

The Fount’s gaze landed on him. For one hollow beat, their eyes locked across the room. Then the Fount snapped. He jerked upright, stars in his hair sputtering with sudden life as if ripped out of sleep too violently, and thrashed his way toward him—hands braced against the chair, legs stumbling, movements graceless but driven, like fury had filled the gap where tenderness might have lived.

“What in the witches’ name were you thinking?!”

“How could you be so—so—reckless? No, worse—so incautious, so injudicious! Why that spell? Why that scroll?!” His words tumbled over each other, sharp and desperate.

“It was when you were in my side of the castle, wasn’t it? But where? My study? No, no—impossible, the scroll is in the library. Unless—” His eyes narrowed, fever-bright. “Did Folio give it to you?!”

Truthless flinched, gripping the bedframe, heart hammering at the implication. So he knew. He knew Truthless had been there.

The Fount’s fingers drummed nervously against his thigh. “A spell of that caliber should not be handled by just anyone, and look at you—look at your wound.” He paused, teeth biting his lower lip. “Had I not arrived in time—this little ‘adventure’ of yours could have ended catastrophically.”

His voice cracked on the next words. “Do you really hate me that much? That much? Enough to risk yourself so utterly? I don’t understand, I—please, for the love of the witches, enlighten me as to why you’d commit such an ineptitude alone. You are within my halls, and I am more than willing to assist with anything you need. So why alone? Why without me? Without me?”

Truthless’s breath caught. Wide-eyed, shocked, a flush rising unbidden, he could only stammer—

“I—”

“No.” The Fount cut him off with a slash of his hand. “No—wait. Allow me to finish.”

His hands flexed as if trying to wring the truth out of the air itself. 

“What is it with you cookies and always thinking you know everything.” The Fount’s voice cracked sharp as glass, a bitter laugh spilling after, though nothing in his eyes resembled humor. “Always so certain, so sure, as if a single glance at a page or a whisper of magic could make you masters of it all. Do you think knowledge bends to arrogance? Do you think the unknown yields to pride?”

His throat caught. He shoved a hand through his hair, stars sparking against his knuckles.  “Or is it that you think me useless? That my study, my knowledge, all of it is just dust to you? Tell me! Because I can’t— I cannot fathom why you would risk yourself so deliberately, knowing full well—” He broke off, teeth gritted, nails digging into his palms.

Truthless shrank back against the bedframe. The words were a storm, and he had no umbrella, no footing. His wide eyes followed the Fount’s every jagged motion.

“Do you have any idea how easily you could have died? How quickly you could have slipped away, and for what?” The Fount’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “A spell you cannot even begin to comprehend…”

Truthless’s eyes darted to the floor, tightening as each accusation landed.

“Was it pride? Was it spite?” The Fount’s voice rose, sharp as glass. “Or—” his throat caught, almost a plea— “do you simply care so little for whether you live or die?”

“Wait—”

“Wait.” Truthless surged forward, almost without thinking, and caught the Fount’s wrist. His hand was trembling but firm, fingers digging in just enough to anchor. The Fount froze mid-breath, stars in his hair flickering as though caught between collapse and combustion. His eyes widened at the act, their eyes mirroring each other’s for a brief second, before Truthless looked away.

“Calm down.”

“Explain yourself.” The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice them into two. The Fount’s chest rose and fell, but his voice when it came was softer, no longer a lash but an iron demand. He took a deep breath.

He turned his gaze aside, swallowing hard, dragging in a deep breath as though wrestling his own thoughts back into order. Truthless’s hand remained on his wrist. Truthless glanced to the side, unable to meet those searching eyes. He wavered—lie, conceal, deflect—but there was no point anymore. Keeping the truth hidden would only spiral further and he had no other true alternative.

“I was trying to return to my reality. Or my time. To leave.”

The Fount blinked, his brow tightening. “To your ‘time’? Reality? Please elaborate.”

Truthless clenched his jaw, before taking a deep breath and finally meeting the Fount’s eyes.

“Believe me if you want, or not. But it appears I have been transported into the past—or whatever this place is—and I have no way of returning. I am from a very distant future, an era much different from yours.”

The words hung between them for what appeared to be minutes, slicing through the Fount’s mind.

“Give me a moment.”

His expression shifted—shock at first, then confusion, before sinking into something quieter. Thoughtful. Mindful. Understanding. He tried to pull himself together.

Truthless, still avoiding his eyes, wondered if this had been a mistake. The truth was a dangerous thing; even if this man was not Shadow Milk yet, he would be one day. Would knowledge now shape that path—or had it already been written? Though at the same time, what if it did? It did not matter all that much truly.

The Fount took another deep breath.

“I…  believe I understand,” the Fount finally said, though his tone was careful. “However, the spell you attempted was no time spell. In fact, it has nothing to do with your dilemma. So I must admit”—his gaze narrowed slightly, searching Truthless’s face as if for hidden meaning—“I am rather confused as to why you would go so far as to use it.”

It wasn’t?

It… wasn’t?

Then why?

The thought spiraled, jagged, twisted around his mind. He thought of the orb, of the warning of ‘Nob,’ of the scroll gleaming before him like a beckoning door. Why had it shown itself to him? Why had it seemed right, inevitable, necessary? Was it the wretched castle playing tricks on him again? Or was it all, ultimately, truly, most absolutely… a pointless struggle?

What truth was revealed?

Truthless’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, but only for a heartbeat. Then, with a practiced motion he smoothed his expression back into something flat. Neutral. Untouchable.

“So I see…”

“My mistake then. But this is not your concern. If I am too much of a torment to you, then I will leave. In fact, I should.”

“No—no, no. Truthless I—“ his voice faltered, then steadied with effort. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I apologize for my outburst. It was… unbecoming of me. But, do not think I believe you a torment. I was only—worried. Frustrated. I will not take back what I said about your recklessness, because it was reckless, foolish even. But still, Truthless Recluse… it is my concern.”

He pressed on.

“It is my concern because you are here. Because you’re hurting and because helping others was the task the witches gave me.”

Truthless’s gaze hardened, suspicion flickering in the low light. His fingers twitched against the staff, a small, involuntary response he couldn’t quite stop. 

The Fount hesitated, then his voice dipped, quiet as if confessing something dangerous.

“…But also,” he murmured, “…because I care.”

Truthless froze. His grip on the staff tightened until his knuckles paled. Something in his chest flinched—not quite pain, not quite relief, but something sharp that cut without leaving jam.

Care.

That word. From him.

His face betrayed nothing, the mask quick to settle back in place, but inside he burned. He wanted to spit, to scoff, to tell him he was lying, that it was only duty speaking, obligation draped in tender colors. He wanted to believe that. Needed to.

And yet… he couldn’t.

Not fully.

His gaze darted once toward the Fount, then away again. He whispered, quieter than the breath it rode on:

“Don’t.”

The Fount tilted his head, stars pulsing faint at the motion, confusion tightening his features. “Don’t?”

Truthless swallowed hard, forcing the words out as though they were shards of glass.

“Don’t say things you’ll regret.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t waste your time on this.”

“I will—but not waste it.”

Their hands still linked at the wrist.

“…Why do you so stubbornly refuse my help?”

Truthless faltered. “…That’s none of your concern.”

Another wall.

“You are stubborn indeed.”

“You could just let me be, then.”

“Not yet. No.”

“Suit yourself.”

His eyes softened. “On another note. Regarding our previous conversation… when you spoke of Deceit before… I’d rather not repeat that argument again.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then perhaps we avoid the topic altogether.”

A faint scoff. “…And here I thought you ‘liked’ debates.”

“I do.”

“Then?”

The Fount gave a small, dry smile. “‘That is none of your concern.’”

Truthless blinked, his frown twitching deeper.

“I jest,” the Fount said, a thin attempt at levity that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But, to return to the main topic—you are from the future. I have never heard of such a case… I will have to consult the witch—” He cut himself short, catching the word mid-breath. His gaze flicked away, then back. “—I will research more on the matter and let you know.”

“As of now, I must ask you one thing…” The Fount hesitated, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “…Am I responsible for what happened to you?”

There it was. The question. The great, inevitable one that had already been before yet for some reason needed to be asked again.

But Truthless didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Quick glimpses of frills and laughter surfaced—ghostly, bitter, unbidden—before he shoved them back down. Silence followed. Silence that roared louder than any accusation.

The Fount’s lips parted slightly, as though the answer might materialize if he only waited. But nothing came.

“…I see.” His voice was soft, but disappointment laced through it like hairline cracks in porcelain.

And then—he shifted. That restless gleam broke free, eyes alight with a hunger he could no longer restrain.

“Time itself. To leap across it, to survive within it, to carry memory forward…” His words spilled faster, brighter, betraying the fascination he tried so hard to keep in check. “How many years separate us? How different is the world you knew? Tell me, Truthless Recluse—do you remember the moment it happened? What did it feel like? Where were you? With whom?”

The questions fell one after another, sharper, closer, hungrier, as though he could devour the answers.

Truthless clenched his jaw, the weight of Pandora’s box settling over him. He’d opened it. And the Fount would never stop asking.

And still, beneath the flood of words, the thought coiled and lingered: he almost said witches but did not.

At last, Truthless realized his fingers were still wrapped around the Fount’s wrist. He released it instinctively, and in the same breath the Fount seemed to notice too. Both looked away at once, as though the silence might erase what had just happened.

~~~

Even after all the tensions between them, their conversation, for once, seemed to flow almost easily. The Fount’s questions turned toward what some might call trifles—food, games, kingdoms long since fallen. Yet for the cookie of knowledge, such glimpses of what was still to come were anything but trivial. They were exhilarating. A gift beyond measure, though marred by rot.

Minutes passed. Soon, hours.

And it became very evident that Truthless was growing exhausted, though Truthless owed him at least some answers. His voice thinned with each answer, pauses stretching longer as if he had to reach further back into himself to pull the words out. The Fount noticed—how could he not?—but made no move to relent. If anything, his eagerness only pressed sharper, his quill-scratch mind unwilling to waste a moment of such rare fortune.

At last, Truthless let out a breath that quivered more than he wished it to. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bed as if he could escape from the Fount for a mere second.

The Fount stilled. His lips parted as though another inquiry was ready, yet he caught it, swallowed it, and in its place let silence fall. For a long moment, he only regarded the recluse, his gaze unsettled by what he saw. Then, with a faint shift in his tone, he spoke.

“…I apologize,” he said at last. “I have been… overwhelming. It was not my intent.”

His hand slipped toward the staff propped by the door. A flick of his fingers, a muttered word under his breath, and light coiled into being. The glow curled like ribbon through the air before solidifying into a small tray: bread, broth, fruit. He made the conjuring flourish a little too dramatically, as if to impress, but the gesture landed somewhere between theatrical and awkward. The tray settled at the bedside with a soft thud.

“I recommend you stay in bed for the day,” the Fount said, his voice resuming its usual cadence. “Minimum movement. Rest will be… beneficial.”

Truthless cracked an eye open at him, incredulous, but the warm smell tugged at his restraint. He reached for the food, chewing slowly at first—then with more hunger than he expected. The broth spread warmth through his chest, a comfort he hadn’t realized how much he missed. For the first time that day, his shoulders loosened, his body easing just enough to breathe.

The Fount watched in silence. Only when Truthless set the spoon down did he speak again.

“There is, however, a certain dilemma I have wrestled with for some time.”

Truthless tilted his head slightly, wary. “That is?”

“The Soul Jam.”

Truthless’s hand twitched where it rested in his lap. “So you knew.”

“Naturally.” The Fount’s tone was almost matter-of-fact, yet his gaze gleamed with something weightier, more dangerous. “There is no way I would fail to recognize half of myself.”

Truthless’s breath stilled, sharp in his chest. “…Since when?”

”Since the moment I first laid my eyes on you.”

The Soul Jam throbbed.

~~~

The faint flicker of the Fount’s magic dissolved behind him as he stepped into the hall. Each portal he passed shimmered briefly in his gaze, a point of potential, a fragment of knowledge yet to be reconciled with the world around him.  A flicker of the exchange played behind his eyes, each glance and falter of Truthless’s gaze pressing against his thoughts. He wondered if he had been too harsh, too distant—if his own composure had not been sufficient. Yet, a part of him was convinced it was. Truly, Truthless did deserve some of those harsh words, but he prayed that he didn’t take anything personally. To be hated would be a terrible thing, even if the conversation did in fact flow well afterward… in his eyes. 

Floating over stone, staff tucked beneath his arm, he left the confines of Truthless Recluse’s room and resumed his duties.

Things had been… ‘positive,’ all things considered. Beyond the recent danger Truthless had faced, the Fount—who, coincidentally, had passed by—had witnessed it all at its climax. Another mystery had been settled, another answer added to the ledger of understanding. And, as always, in its place, a new question emerged, quietly demanding his attention. Somewhere in the midst of his floating, his Soul Jam pulsed faintly, tremors echoing along his staff.

He continued with his duties, answering questions only when necessary, adjusting scrolls, testing locks—all motions of his usual composure. Yet beneath each gesture ran an undercurrent of fatigue he refused to admit even to himself. Night deepened outside, and finally, the Fount decided to return to his quarters. With a soft sigh, he released his floating magic. The sudden weight of gravity pulled him down, and he landed on his bed without remorse, face first into a nest of pillows and sheets. A groan escaped before he could stop it.

For a long moment, he turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, letting the soft rhythm of the room and the faint luminescence of the moon seep into him. The moonlight pooled across the floorboards, touching the edge of a shelf where his own magical traces lingered. His eyes drifted over them, catching the shimmer of  the knowledge suspended, alive in the quiet.

Eventually, though, he rose, leaving the Staff where it rested, and drifted to the balcony. A shimmer twisted in the courtyard below, almost imperceptible, but tugging at his attention. Even in stillness, the world remained stubbornly awake.

The night air was cool, the moon low and radiant, and the Fount leaned against the cold stone railing, letting his hands rest on its surface. Beyond, the world stretched in infinite white, silent and undisturbed. No stars dared join her tonight; only the soft rustle of leaves whispered against the stillness. It was peaceful—or at least it pretended to be.

From the future…

The thought lingered stubbornly in his mind. Half of his Soul Jam resided there now, distant and unknowable. What had happened to him to split it in two? How had he become a guest within his own essence, a spectator to knowledge that was meant to be his? The possibility unsettled him more than he cared to admit. To no longer wield all the knowledge, to have it divided… it was as though some essential piece of himself had been excised, leaving only a faint tremor of power behind.

He shivered, though the night was not cold enough to warrant it. Of absence. Of incompleteness. He wanted to ask. Truly, wholeheartedly, in that fleeting moment back in Truthless’s room, he had wanted to ask. But some instinct—sharp, quiet, unrelenting—had held him back. Perhaps that had been his mistake.

The memory of Truthless’s eyes flitted before him, brief and arresting. Just a second, and yet it had pressed against the edges of his resolve. Why had he not spoken? His entire purpose, his being, revolved around attaining and distributing knowledge—and yet here he had faltered.

The faint pulse of his Soul Jam echoed through him, subtle but insistent. Each tremor along his staff reminded him of the questions left unanswered, the mysteries half-solved, the truths he had glimpsed but not grasped. He let his gaze drift down to the courtyard, noting the shimmer of light on the frost-covered stones, the way shadows pooled in corners where no magic dared linger. It was as though the world waited with him, silent but watchful.

And still, the thought returned: the future. What had become of him there? What was lost, what broken, what left undone? The answers were not his to hold, at least not tonight. For now, all he could do was breathe in the cold air, feel the stone beneath his fingers, and acknowledge the quiet ache of uncertainty that had nestled deep in his chest.

He leaned further over the railing, letting the faint wind tease strands of his hair, watching the horizon blur between snow and sky. One day, he would seek the answers. But tonight, he simply existed in the liminal space between knowledge and mystery, between fear and the faint hope that even a fragmented Soul Jam might still guide him home.

And then, movement—a soft rustle among the bushes. Truthless Recluse wandered through the gardens, in what appeared to be an aimless walk. The Fount remained on the balcony, leaning weakly against the railing. He was too exhausted to move, too weary even to call out, but his gaze followed Truthless, a brief glimpse of curiosity forming in his eyes, and perhaps annoyance.

A part of him wanted to scold him for being out of bed so soonbut it faltered in his throat. The effort was too much. He could only watch, torn between concern and frustration, heart tugged toward the recluse even as his body begged rest.

Truthless drifted further into the shadows, cloak brushing against frost-kissed leaves, his golden hair glimmering thanks to the light of the moon. The Fount’s chest tightened. He wanted to intervene, to demand that Truthless come back, yet he could not.

And then, as quickly as he had appeared, Truthless vanished into the darkness, leaving only the whisper of leaves and the faint echo of his presence.

Even from here, even broken and tired, he couldn’t stop worrying. What a day, indeed.

Notes:

This chapter was a fun chapter for me to write. Hope y’all like it!
Theres more to come from that quickly cut out Soul Jam convo :3

Chapter 15: Explode, oh my Dear Pupil!

Notes:

Oh yeah, if it isnt very clear by now, I kinda imagine the cookies as humans sometimes and other times as cookies. So they can be eating normal food but have dough, jam, etc lmao

“So, allow me to get this straight. In the future, the Honey Kingdom no longer exists, you’ve never heard of a flower species called berrybelle, and there is no such thing as the Yearly Cross-Kingdom Jelly Eating Tournament?”

“As I already told you before, no.”

This was the third time he’d asked.

“Fascinating…”

Two days after his spell, Truthless sat at breakfast. He pressed his fingers against the dew of steam clinging to the rim of his cup, warmth seeping through as the morning chill nipped at his skin. He barely felt it.

Before him lay another table worthy of a breakfast, though the Fount had dialed down the festivities, opting for eggs, toast, fruit, and of course, tea.

“What could possibly have happened for the kingdom to meet its ending?” The Fount pondered, hand half-buried in the breadbasket. “Of course it is an eventuality for all, but as it stands now… they are beyond prospering!”

The word drifted from his mouth. ”Well…”

”Wait, wait. Allow me to make an educated guess.”

Truthless took a sip of his tea, his gaze catching on the steam. Mild curiosity tugged faintly at him, dulled by exhaustion.

“What are the main causes for a Kingdom to fall… corruption, a rebellion, war? Pestilence…” He tapped a finger against his chin, eyes narrowing as if tracing invisible threads in the air. 

“Perhaps a collapse of trade?” he mused, tilting his head, “Or some failure of succession—ah, yes, a weak heir. That can ruin a dynasty faster than fire.”

He leaned forward, elbows against the table. “But the Honey Kingdom is industrious. Surely they had resilience built into their hives. I simply can’t imagine it.”

He plucked a grape, rolling it between his fingers, his expression caught somewhere between fascination and unease. “No… no, it doesn’t add up. One doesn’t just misplace an entire kingdom.”

”Or perhaps,” the Fount added thoughtfully, “the cookies and the jelly bees decided to unionize and vote themselves into oblivion. One never knows.”

Truthless’s brow lifted slightly. “It just faded.”

“Faded… that’s quite… well, I suppose that too is a possibility. A rare one, though a possibility no less. A+ to you for… well, I’m not actually sure,” the Fount mumbled, taking a gleeful bite of an apple—just enough to savor the flavor without muffling his speech. “Oh, I wonder what the Herald of Change would—”

He froze, mid-sentence, mouth half-open. The silence stretched before he muttered to himself, reaching for the butter and spreading it carefully across a slice of bread. “Perhaps not,” he said finally, shrugging as if the thought had never been worth speaking.

“Hm?”

“But what of magic?” he asked instead, brightening abruptly.

“There’ve been… some advances.”

“And of transportation?”

“I believe that too.”

“So how long into the future are you?”

“From long.”

“No date?”

“No date.”

Truthless’s eyes rested somewhere between the table and the air above it. He didn’t look at the Fount, though he felt the pressure of those eager eyes. The breakfast, the chatter, the warmth of tea—it all blurred together into something he endured without struggle, without care. He wanted it to end, though even that want felt far away.

A memory of buzzing bees flickered at the edge of his mind—Honey Kingdom, gone. He didn’t even know if the flowers still bloomed, or if the sun fell the same way. And yet here he sat, drinking tea like nothing had changed, even though not so long ago, so much had been shattered.

Soon enough, his wish became a reality—though not by his own hand. The Fount suggested a change, and before Truthless fully registered the words, their seats were empty, the breakfast vanished with a snap of fingers. Now they were walking. A morning stroll.

He hadn’t agreed. He hadn’t disagreed.

The Fount walked eagerly beside him, occasionally glancing over as if checking that he was still there. The castle corridors blurred past—tapestries, windows, the soft echo of their footsteps against stone.

“Fresh air,” the Fount said, as much to himself as to Truthless. “That's what we both need.”

The words floated between them, requiring no response. Naturally, Truthless gave none.

The transition from corridor to garden was seamless—one moment stone walls, the next an expanse of cultivated beauty. 

It was another garden—yet different. This one bloomed with light-blue and white flowers, each exuding a faint glow, their petals carrying a breath of luminescence even beneath the morning sun. They were arranged in perfect rows of circles, a geometry too precise to be wild.

At the center, one ring curved into a familiar outline. The shape of their Soul Jams.

Truthless’s gaze lingered on it, though his mind did not follow. The pattern pressed faint recognition against him, but he gave it no answer. Not even with the cracked Soul Jam by his side. At least not at this moment.

The Fount, on the other hand, lit up at the sight. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Truthless said nothing.

“Oh,” the Fount suddenly said, looking at the Soul-Jam shape. “As for your Soul Jam… I’ll investigate more on it too.”

Okay.

They walked a little longer, the morning air brushing against them in slow, indifferent currents. Truthless’s eyes wandered past the castle walls, to the horizon beyond, to the familiar sea of white. A thought tugged faintly at him—he could leave. He could keep walking, past the gates, past the gardens, out into the stretch of whatever waited beyond.

But the thought arrived as softly as it left, dissolving before it could take root. His feet stayed where they were.

They continued along the path, gravel crunching softly underfoot. The Fount hummed—a tuneless thing that somehow managed to be pleasant. Truthless found his attention drifting again, caught between the rhythm of their steps and the pull of that distant horizon.

The Fount's humming stopped abruptly. When Truthless glanced over, he found those knowing eyes studying him with something that might have been concern.

“You seem… far away,” he remarked, tilting his head, as if trying to catch Truthless’s gaze. “Perhaps…” His eyes lit with sudden inspiration, he floated until his face was right in front of Truthless’s. “Perhaps you would like to sit in on one of my lessons today?”

Truthless neither agreed nor refused, but the Fount, already floating toward the path, seemed to take his silence for consent.

“Wonderful,” the Fount said at once, already making the choice on his behalf. With a snap of his fingers, the garden folded away, the path bending toward another place.

Truthless followed.

The classroom was brighter than he expected.

Rows of benches curved in a wide half-circle, the stone steps polished smooth by years of shuffling feet. An arched window took up nearly an entire wall, large board in its middle forming a cross shape, spilling early day light across the floor until it gleamed like glass on the seats and tables within the classroom. Large educational posters hung around the walls, near the chalk board and in between pillars, some a faint blue, others red, purple, pink. But all being related to magic.

Children filled the space with a restless energy—robes swishing as they found their places, cone-shaped hats tilting precariously as they leaned across desks to gossip and laugh. The sound of books being opened, quills tapping, the occasional stifled giggle. For them, this was ordinary. For him, it felt like intruding into someone else’s memory. Though at the same time, it was a very familiar scene.

Truthless lingered in the shadow of the doorway, uncertain to enter. His hand tightened against the doorframe. He knew that he did not belong in a room built for beginnings, yet had come all the same for reasons beyond him. Yet, for a moment, his body knew the room better than his mind did. His feet remembered the stone steps, his hands the feel of chalk dust. The sensation was gone before he could name it. A light tap on his back. The Fount slid past him with a faint smile, before lightly guiding Truthless into the classroom.

Or in other words, before pushing him into the spotlight.

And Truthless totally loved the spotlight.

A few eyes turned, then more, until it felt like the entire room had fastened on him. Children’s stares were never kind; they picked apart his staff, his hat, his sour expression, as though each was a flaw worth tallying. Whispers rippled across the benches—snickers, half-hidden words—none clear enough to catch, but all sharpened just enough to sting, if Truthless actually bothered to be affected by it.

“He looks emo…”

“Spooky…”

“Why is he here?” one whispered, though the voice seemed to echo louder than it should. The Fount noticed this, and appeared from behind Truthless, making the student shudder.

“This is Truthless Recluse. He’ll be observing the class today—so be on your best behavior, or I’ll have to dock points on your next quiz.”

A wave of “No fair!” and “No!” followed. The Fount of Knowledge smiled and floated to the front as though he had always been there, robes catching the light like water poured from a crystal jug. The chatter softened at once. A few of the younger students straightened in their seats, eyes wide with the kind of awe children could never hide. When he smiled, the entire room seemed to tilt toward him, drawn without resistance.

A few students waved at Truthless, who just stared at them. 

Truthless moved at last, taking a place on the far bench near the window, where the light didn’t quite reach. From there, he could see everything without being seen.

The lesson began in the most ordinary way imaginable.

“Roll call,” the Fount announced, voice light but firm. “Apple Pie Cookie?”

“Here!”

“Butter Cookie?”

“Present.”

“Thyme Cookie?”

No one responded. The shuffling of the students took over, alongside whispers too soft enough to decode. The Fount lifted his eyes from his list, scanned around the room, and sighed. 

“Absent again?” 

“Mr. Fount of Knowledge, sir, I haven’t seen him since last week.”

“I see... I’ll investigate after class, thank you for letting me know. For now, let’s continue.”

One by one, names were called, answered with sleepy “here”s and the occasional loud, over-eager shout that made the others snicker. The Fount smiled at this, jotting down each reply with a quill that moved almost too smoothly for how fast he spoke. 

After the list was checked, and the Fount seemed satisfied enough, the Fount closed his book and floated to the chalk board.

“Page twenty-three, Fundamentals of Nature Magic,” he said next, and the sound of shuffling parchment filled the room. Chairs scraped, elbows knocked, and a handful of groans rose from those who’d clearly forgotten their books.

For a moment, it could have been any classroom anywhere. Ordinary, unremarkable.

But then the Fount began to speak.

His voice carried with a rhythm that made the words more than words—they were threads being woven together into a melodious orderly symphony, drawing even the noisiest child into listening. He strolled between the rows of desks, leaning just enough to see the open pages, to nudge one child’s book right-side up with a teasing grin, to quiet another with nothing more than a look of gentle encouragement.

Within minutes, the restless energy had shifted. The roll call and shuffling had been only prelude. Now the classroom itself seemed brighter, alive with a quiet expectancy for learning.

Truthless, seated in the back, almost resented it—how easily the Fount could take something so simple, so dry, and make it radiant.

Truthless drifted in and out of focus, his mind a ship unmoored in a too-familiar harbor. His gaze slid from the Fount’s animated form to the doorway, where a cookie was being scolded by a teacher for tardiness, then to the window, where a lone bird circled against the pale sky. The drone of the lecture became a distant hum.

As the Fount’s voice carried over the children, something else stirred at the edges of Truthless’s vision.

He turned his head. White Lily Cookie was seated beside him, leaning her chin on her hands, a small, knowing smile on her face. She looked just as she had in their academy days—young, bright, untouched by the bitterness to come.

She shouldn’t have been here. And yet—she was.

“Still stuck on page one?” she whispered. “Or pretending not to hear me?”

Truthless’s fingers tightened around his staff. He fixed his eyes on the open book before him.

“How long will you keep running circles in someone else’s dream?”

His throat ached. He said nothing.

The children laughed at some joke the Fount had made. The phantom did not fade.

“I remember how every class you would eagerly sit at the front, only to doze off since you always would wake up too early to tend the sheep, no? Teachers sure didn’t like that.”

“Is there a point to this?” He said, his eyes looking anywhere but at her.

“Oh Pure Vanilla. Is an old friend not allowed to reminiscence with hers?”

A grumble. “But you are not truly White Lily Cookie, are you?”

He knew her far too well to know she never talked like that.

“You hurt me, old friend. What makes you say that?”

Truthless narrowed his eyes.

“So I must ask you then, how much do you know yourself?”

Truthless looked at his side. White Lily had disappeared, instead appearing next to the Fount who didn’t seem to be able to see her.

“And how much do you truly know him, hm?” She snickered.

Whispers prickled the air. “Is he talking to himself?”

“Creepy…”

She disappeared. 

The lesson continued. The Fount clapped his hands together. “Now, for the practical portion! Let’s see those potions in action. Remember the three principles: clarity, intent, and control!”

The classroom erupted into a low buzz of concentration. Spells flickered to life above desks—small, shaky orbs of light, sputtering sparks, the occasional successful shimmer of cohesive magic. Truthless’s eyes, against his will, were drawn to the student beside him.

The young cookie was struggling, his face pinched in frustration. His desk was an utter mess, with all of the potion ingredients scattered in a disharmonious arrangement worthy of a disaster. For all Truthless could have assumed, it appeared that the cookie had not a single idea of what he was doing. 

Truthless knew that potion. He had failed it many times, back when his teachers sighed at him with disappointment. The memory pressed against him: the sting of chalk dust, the faint smell of sheep clinging to his robes, the way his hands had trembled when asked to demonstrate. An easy potion, once the rhythm was found. One he could do effortlessly now.

“You never could stand to watch someone else struggle.”

Truthless’s hand twitched.

White Lily was perched casually on the desk of the student, idly swinging her legs like a student waiting for her turn. She leaned close, her smile unkind. “Always quick to step in. Do you remember? Even when they didn’t want your help.”

The student’s hands trembled as the potion soured again, the once-bright mixture curdling into a dull, swampy color. His eyes darted around the room, searching—first to the Fount, too far away and busy with another child, then to his book, then to the clock on the wall as if time itself might offer mercy.

Finally, his gaze landed on Truthless.

They were wide, unguarded eyes, brimming with the panic of a child who wanted nothing more than not to fail. The boy’s lips parted, closed, then parted again, but no words came. He didn’t need them. The plea was already written across his face—eyes shining, as real and pleading as a cornered animal, as vulnerable as a pup staring up at the one creature who might help.

He exhaled through his nose, a sound barely audible, and leaned the slightest bit closer. His hand hovered for a moment, the memory of constant failure sharp in his mind. “You’re mixing that wrong,” he muttered, his voice low enough that only the student could hear. “You need to add the jellies after the water, not before.”

The student blinked, then tried again, adjusting his mixing. The cookie’s face split into a grin of pure relief, and he shot Truthless a look of immense gratitude.

Truthless quickly averted his gaze, but not before catching the Fount’s eye. The teacher was watching him from the front of the room, a strange, playful smile ghosting on his lips. As if a long-held suspicion had just been confirmed. Truthless’s stomach twisted, and he focused intently on a knot in the wooden desk in front of him.

The Fount’s voice picked up again, explaining a complex nuance of magical theory, a concept that involved understanding the innate nature of magic within cookies. It was advanced, esoteric.

The lesson deepened. The Fount spoke of the innate nature of magic, not as an external force but as something bound into a cookie’s very dough—woven into every fiber of their being. Magic, he said, was not simply learned.

Truthless wasn’t listening. Or at least he thought he wasn’t, until the words tumbled from his mouth in a low murmur:

“The nature of dough determines the shape of its spell. A flame in one will be smoke in another. The jam merely bends what was always there…”

The words hung in the air. His own voice startled him—it hadn’t felt like his. He blinked, heart lurching once in his chest. The students around him glanced up, confused. One even whispered, “Did he just—?”

Truthless’s lips pressed into a thin line. He shook his head sharply, dismissing the thought. No. Just something he must’ve read once. Nothing more.

White Lily wasn’t beside him this time. But her absence felt like a smile.

The practical portion dragged on. Truthless forced his gaze to stay ahead, but it inevitably slid sideways—to the boy next to him. The child was still struggling, only now his mess had escalated into something dangerous. Ingredients clattered, sparks of uncontrolled energy fizzed across the desk, the liquid in his cauldron rising with a low, ominous boil.

Truthless’s stomach sank. He knew that look, that smell—the potion was unstable, primed to blow.

“Stop. Wait—don’t add that—” he hissed, reaching instinctively across the bench.

Too late.

The mixture erupted. A geyser of water exploded from the cauldron, soaking half the classroom in a sudden wave. Screams, gasps, laughter—all at once. Truthless staggered back, dripping. His hat sagged over his eyes, his robes plastered to his frame, water running in streams down the staff clenched in his hands. He spat out a mouthful of liquid.

The child stared in horror, then promptly burst into tears.

Truthless glared at him, sharp enough to make the boy flinch harder. His eyes burning with a harshness too severe for the scene. Then, as quickly as it came, his expression fell back into neutrality. A blank wall.

At the front of the room, the Fount froze. His jaw had gone slack, his quill hovering in midair. He looked from the drenched benches, to the sobbing student, to Truthless dripping at the back.

“…Lemon Tart Cookie,” he finally managed, his voice thin with disbelief, “what… what did you do?”

He floated over, hands half-raised as though approaching a wild animal, then simply sighed, shoulders falling in defeat.

The room dissolved into chaos—gust spells whipped through the air as students tried to dry themselves, some laughing, some shivering. The child at fault was ushered forward, still sniffling, while the Fount crouched down beside him with patient words and gentle correction.

A blur of time passed.

The class had not yet recovered from the flood when the Fount clapped his hands once, light ringing through the room. “Order, order,” he said with a practiced brightness. “Remember children, magic is like pie—sweet, sticky, and occasionally explosive. And most importantly, accidents are lessons too. And what better way to end than with a demonstration?”

“Since we have… excess water at our disposal, who will demonstrate a controlled water spell for the class?”

The children perked up, whispers darting between them. A demonstration was rare.

“Now then…” His eyes drifted, scanning the room with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Who shall it be?”

Dozens of hands shot up at once. “Me!” “Pick me!” “I can do it, I swear this time!”

The Fount’s gaze skipped past them all, landing squarely on the back row. On Truthless.

“No,” Truthless said flatly, already knowing.

“Yes,” the Fount answered with a smile.

Before he could protest again, the Fount had already floated back to him, hands lightly brushing his wrist as though coaxing him to stand. It was barely contact, but Truthless stiffened like a board.

“The students would benefit from a true example,” the Fount murmured low enough that only he heard. “And I am curious. Given how you’re still hurt, I won’t ask for much.”

The pressure of his touch lingered until Truthless relented, rising with slow reluctance. The chatter of children swelled—half awe, half ridicule.

Reluctantly, he stepped to the front, staff raised. The basin of leftover water from the geyser gleamed in the sunlight, rippling softly.

The room fell quiet, eyes wide, some holding their breath.

With a small twist of his wrist and a whisper of words that slipped from his lips before he realized, the water lifted. Slowly, then confidently, it coalesced into a slender spiral, twisting upward before splitting into a dozen tiny streams, each hovering in perfect symmetry above the basin.

A few droplets hovered in midair, reflecting light like miniature suns. For a moment, he allowed himself the smallest flicker of pride—control, precision, and grace—all earned through countless silent lessons of the past. Pride was fleeting, something he rarely claimed. And yet, here, in the simplest of gestures, it surged like sunlight over frost. 

The children gasped.

The Fount’s hand squeezed Truthless’s shoulder once, almost imperceptibly. “Beautiful. Precision and grace. Just as I imagined.”

“Satisfied?”

“Very.”

Truthless frowned and went back to his seat.

“Now students, let me explain,” the Fount continued.

By the time the lesson ended, the air was still damp, carrying the faint smell of chalk. Children filtered out, their chatter bouncing down the halls, leaving the benches empty. A stray gust spell lingered, circling lazily through the room to lift stray droplets from the floor.

Truthless remained seated at the back, robes still clinging to him, hair dripping into his face. His staff rested across his knees.

The Fount approached at last, sighing, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Are you alright?”

Truthless lifted his gaze; the Fount paused at the sharpness. Then he laughed, a dry, ironic puff.

“Very well then. Nothing a little drying spell can’t fix.” The Fount flicked his hand, and the nearest gust shifted toward Truthless, warm air wrapping around him.

Truthless lifted his staff, dispelling it with a sharp twist. The air stilled at once.

“I can do it myself,” he muttered, the words flat, final.

He raised his hand, whispered something under his breath—and this time, the gust bent to him. His robes fluttered, the dampness fading, until he was dry once more.

Notes:

A fun chapter to write
On another note, I have officially finalized the outline! So yayayay!

Seeing the magnitude of chapters, Im going to try to pump them out quicker :’)

Chapter 16: Fount, Answer Us

Notes:

The more I write the more im going insane oh my lord oh oh ohohohoohohohohoh AAA

I thinkkk I may have repeated something in both chapter 15 and chapter 9 and like whoops, its kinda because I was shuffling so much the chapters uhhh yeah. :D
That shouldnt be happening now, at least not unintentionally

IM ON A ROLL THOOOO WOHOOOO

I may be unhinged enough to post chap 17, we will see

“Oh, great Fount of Knowledge, will the skies weep upon us this day?”

“The patterns of wind and cloud speak otherwise.”

“Greatest Fount of Knowledge, will my fields bear fruit until the next turning of the season?”

“The earth is patient. With care, your harvest will come, though not without toil.”

“Fount of Knowledge, please bless my child. Will she walk in health beneath your watchful gaze?”

“The threads of life are strong, yet fragile. Guard them well, and they will endure.”

“Bless us, Fount of Knowledge, and share this evening’s bread with our hearth.”

“I appreciate the offer, but today my presence is here. Eat, and let wisdom and truth accompany you.”

 

The Fount of Knowledge knew better than to lie.

Many questions followed. Many questions were soon answered. Such was the daily routine of the Fount.

Day and night, when he wasn’t with Truthless Recluse or attending to other matters, he became the source of all knowledge: question after question, answer after answer—the monotony of rhythm, the consistency of flow. Hour by hour, until the sun could no longer join in song.

Yet there was a quiet satisfaction in it, in shaping knowledge and tending to curiosity alike. It made the Fount feel needed. It made him feel warm.

He liked feeling warm.

“Fount of Knowledge, greatest Fountain of all, my deity, my beloved, what is math?”

“Math,” the Fount began, “is the study of quantity, structure, and change. It is counting, measuring, comparing, and predicting. But it is more than mere numbers on a page. Through math, we see patterns in the world: the rise and fall of rivers, the turn of seasons, the rhythm of life itself. It is logic made tangible, and truth made visible.”

A nod of gratitude, and the next cookie stepped forward.

“Fount of Knowledge, is it folly to hope for peace in troubled times?”

“Not at all,” the Fount replied, “Hope is a delicate tether, yet stronger than any chain of despair. Through it, you may press onward, so never give it up.”

The questioner departed, and the stillness returned for a mere second, only to be filled once more with the soft cadence of inquiries and answers. Hour by hour, question by question, the Fount tended to the world with unwavering constancy—and with a warmth that was wholly his own.

But even warmth fades; its presence is never permanent.

A familiar cookie approached from the crowd, hooded so that his eyes were hidden, letting only the faint lines of his lips show—bitter, resentful, unlike the others waiting for answers. A villager from the nearby village, and a messenger of the Chief.

It seemed the time had come to revisit that matter.

“Fount of Knowledge, the Chief is requesting your presence regarding the blight. It has returned.”

“So I see,” the Fount muttered, his voice low, almost to himself, before turning to the crowd. “That will be all for now. I have other matters to attend to.”

A chorus of protests rose immediately.

“But Fount of Knowledge, you must answer my question!”

“Not before me! No! Please, answer mine first!”

“No! Mine first!”

“Stop shuffling! I was here first! Please Fount me first!”

“No! No!”

The hubbub swelled, a tide of voices each tugging at him from a different direction. The Fount raised a hand, yet the noise pressed closer, each plea a wave of desire, fear, or impatience. He inhaled slowly, centering himself, and then, in a voice both soft and immovable:

“Enough.”

The single word, soft yet final, cut through the noise without much force.

The crowd stilled. The protests died in their throats, leaving only soft mutters amongst themselves. Dozens of eyes stared back at him, wide with a mixture of shock, fear, and lingering want. They were so used to the endless well of answers that the sight of it refusing them was a small, quiet earthquake in their world.

The Fount did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The authority in that one word was absolute, woven from the same threads of knowledge that he gifted them. He held their gaze for a moment longer, ensuring the stillness held, before turning his back on them.

“Let us go.”

He opened a portal behind him, until stone pillar became trunks of trees and the arched roof became the light of day.

The walk to the village chief's quarters was a silent procession through the remains of the day. The Fount floated a half-step behind the messenger, his mind already turning over the problem of the blight. Calculations of soil composition, rainfall patterns, magical contamination—a dozen theories and their counterarguments began to spin in his head, a silent, frantic lecture to an audience of one. He had yet to find the solution, but his mind tried to continue searching.

He barely noticed the path they took, his surroundings blurring into a smear of stone and sky. Part of him was already there, in the rotting fields, fingers pressed into the sick earth.

The chief’s dwelling was a spacious, sturdy building at the heart of the village, but inside, the pressure of stress, worry and the faint scent of old woodsmoke welcomed him. The village chief, a stout cookie with flour dust permanently ground into the lines of his hands, stood over a large table strewn with maps and reports. His advisors—a few older cookies with grim faces—clustered around him.

They all looked up as the Fount entered. The hope in their eyes was a physical weight.

“Fount of Knowledge,” the chief began, bypassing any greeting. “Thank you for coming. It’s… it’s getting worse.”

He gestured to the maps, to the angry red marks scrawled over the northern fields. “It’s spreading faster than we predicted. The counter-measures we implemented… they’ve done nothing. Less than nothing.”

One of the advisors, a woman with a sharp face and sharper eyes, spoke up. “The yield is down seventy percent. What hasn’t rotted on the stalk is stunted, bitter. Useless.”

The chief squeezed his hands, a gesture of helplessness that seemed too large for his sturdy frame. “We’ve done everything you advised. The rotations, the enchanted fertilizers, the prayer sigils… It’s not just a blight. It feels like… a curse.”

The Fount stepped forward, leaning over the maps. His fingers traced the outlined fields. “The soil samples?” he asked.

“Here.” The sharp-faced advisor slid a folio toward him. “The magic is leeched away. It’s not just infertile; it’s… dead. Actively dying.”

The Fount’s brow furrowed. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him, waiting for the answer. The solution. The magic word that would fix it all.

He ran through the possibilities again. A parasite? A magical imbalance from a nearby ley line? A toxin they hadn’t considered? His mind, usually a boundless library of solutions, offered only more questions, each branch of logic ending in a frustrating tangle.

“The prayers to the witches,” the chief pressed, his voice edged with a desperation he was trying hard to mask. “Perhaps if you led them yourself? At the site? Your direct presence, your magic…”

The Fount looked up from the maps. He saw the fear in their faces, the unspoken accusation: You are the Fount of Knowledge. Why don’t you know this?

He straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling with a frustration he dared not show.

“I have reviewed all the data you’ve provided,” he said, his voice returning to that practiced, calming cadence, though it felt hollow to his own ears. “The situation is intricate, far beyond initial estimates.”

It was such a non-answer. A scholar’s answer. He saw the hope in the chief’s eyes flicker and dim.

“Intricate,” the chief repeated, the word tasting like ash.

“I will need to investigate the fields myself again. Directly. There are… nuances that reports cannot capture.” He was stalling, and he knew it. Buying time for his genius to finally spark, for the answer to reveal itself as it always did.

The sharp-faced advisor looked unconvinced. “And until then? What do we tell the farmers? What do we do?”

The Fount met her stare. “Tell them to continue their rotations. To maintain hope. I will have an answer. Soon.”

The words felt like a lie. Hope is a delicate tether, he had said just moments ago. Now, he was asking them to spin thread from nothing.

He wondered if centuries of knowledge had blinded him. Was there a limit to even the Fount of Knowledge? For all his calculations and theories, a simple, corrupting force had outsmarted him. For now, of course. Always just a ‘for now.’

He left the chief’s dwelling with their anxieties clinging to his robes like a bad scent. He had promised them an answer. He, the Fount of Knowledge, had nothing to give but a postponement... again.

As he walked back through the now-quiet village, the earlier warmth of being needed was completely gone. Replaced by the cold, gnawing dread of failure.

His feet carried him, but his mind was elsewhere. It drifted away from the dead fields, away from the chemical equations of decay. It sought a different warmth. A simpler puzzle.

Almost without conscious thought, his hand rose. He murmured a few words under his breath, a simple scrying spell. A window of light, an eye invisible to anyone else, shimmered into existence before him.

And there he was. Truthless Recluse.

In the alcove, half-propped up on the bench, a book open but unread on his lap. He was staring at the wall, his expression the same flat, empty slate it had been all week. But he was safe. He was still. A problem that, for now, was contained.

The Fount’s breath caught. The tightness in his chest loosened, just a fraction.

Truthless shifted slightly, as if sensing the invisible gaze, a faint frown line appearing between his brows before he turned away.

The Fount quickly dissolved the spell, a faint heat of guilt pricking at his cheeks. It was an intrusion. Truthless would not like it. He was a private creature, walls built high around him.

But the image lingered: a portrait of quiet solitude. A problem that didn't demand answers, only presence.

He would find an answer for the blight. He would.

But first, he needed a moment away from the questions.

~~~

The walk to the blighted field was a silent, grim march. The Fount’s mind, usually a symphony of interconnected theories, was a single, deafening note of failure. He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him from behind shuttered windows, their hope becoming a form of suffocation greater than the demands of questions.

He arrived at the edge of the northern field, only to be greeted by the odor of rot and traces of dead magic. The once verdant soil was a cracked, grayish expanse, and the few plants that struggled through were twisted and leeched of color, their leaves spotted with weeping black lesions.

The Fount stopped floating and knelt, ignoring the way the brittle earth crunched under his knees. He pressed his palms flat against the ground. He could feel it—a deep, resonant sickness, a hollowing out from within. It wasn't just a pest or a nutrient deficiency. It was a consumption.

“A curse,” the chief had said. The superstitious word now felt terrifyingly accurate.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the dying world. He reached for his magic. The deep, foundational power that let him shape reality.  Nature magic, or perhaps even Dark Moon magic if necessary. He began to speak in his mind. It was a spell of renewal, of realignment—a complex weave of magic designed to purge corruption and coax life back to the soil.

Light, the pale blue of a winter sky, spilled from his hands and seeped into the cracks. For a glorious moment, it worked. The gray soil darkened. The black lesions on the nearest plant receded, fading to a healthy emerald. A faint, normal scent of earth momentarily overpowered the rot.

A ragged sigh of relief went up from the small cluster of villagers who had dared to follow him at a distance.

The Fount allowed himself a sliver of hope. He pushed more power into the spell, the light intensifying.

And then the field fought back.

The healthy green of the plant he’d just healed blackened again in an instant, faster than before. The dark lesions surged back, not just reoccupying their old territory but spreading, crawling up the stalk like vicious ink. The soil around his hands turned a toxic, purplish-black and began to smoke faintly.

The spell wasn't just failing; it was being consumed, used as fuel for the blight.

The Fount recoiled, snatching his hands back as if burned. The light at his fingertips sputtered and died. The field was worse than before. His attempt had accelerated the decay.

Silence. Then, a single, heart-wrenching sob from a farmer's wife.

The Fount stood, his robes dusted with the ash of his failure. He turned to face the chief and his advisors, their faces a mosaic of crushed hope and dawning anger.

“You said you had an answer,” the chief said, his voice dangerously quiet.

“I… miscalculated the reactive nature of the corruption,” the Fount replied, his own voice sounding thin, academic, and utterly pathetic to his own ears. “It appears to feed on active magic. A fascinating, if devastating, adaptation—”

“Fascinating?” the sharp-faced advisor cut him off, her voice a whip-crack. “My stores are empty! My family will starve through the winter because you find our starvation fascinating?”

“That is not what I meant—” the Fount began, but the dam had broken.

“You promised!” another villager shouted.

“Where were you when this started?”

“You spend all your time in that castle with your books and that… that stranger while our land dies!”

The accusations flew, each one a stone striking true. They weren’t just angry about the blight; they were angry at him. The distant, perfect Fount who had failed them.

The chief didn’t yell. He just looked at the Fount, his expression hollowed out by a disappointment that was worse than any shout. “We put our faith in you. We need more than… more than theories, Fount.”

The Fount had no answer. For the first time in centuries, the Fount of Knowledge was utterly speechless. He had no wisdom, no comfort, no solution. He had only made it worse.

He stood there, taking it as he deserved. The weight of their fear, their anger, their desperation—it was a physical force pressing down on him, and he had nothing left to hold it back with.

Let it come.

“I will find the answer and return.”

After a long, terrible minute, he simply turned and walked away. He didn’t float. He walked, his steps heavy on the path back to the castle. No one tried to stop him.

~~~

He felt… meh. A vast, empty, resonating meh. Not angry, not sad. Just utterly, completely depleted. The warmth of knowledge had gone out for the moment. And in that emptiness, his mind didn’t turn to scrolls or spells. It turned, instinctively, toward the one place that was quiet. The one problem that didn’t scream… often.

He needed to see Truthless Recluse.

He did not pause to breathe, but his body betrayed him all the same—shoulders hunched, pace uneven, a faint tremor in the hand that brushed the carved doors open. He wanted solitude.

But the castle had other plans.

He had barely crossed the threshold when they descended. A flustered scholar, robes askew and trailing three floating scrolls, practically materialized in his path. "Fount! Thank the witches. The third axiom in the dimensional layering theorem—it contradicts the primary resonance principle in a way I cannot reconcile. What is the answer to this problem?" The scrolls quivered urgently in the air.

Before he could even open his mouth, a cook, her apron dusted with flour and a smudge of anxiety on her cheek, rushed up from a side corridor. "Fount, a machine seems to be broken in the kitchen! The one that whips the cream? It's just... shuddering and smoking. We've a banquet in three hours!" She wrung her hands, her eyes wide with impending disaster.

He felt a tug on his robe. He looked down. A small cookie, no higher than his knee, stared up at him with enormous, solemn eyes. "Fount," the child whispered, "why do we die?"

The air left his lungs. The question hung there, simple and utterly unanswerable. He could give the philosophical answer, the magical theory of soul-return, the natural cycle of sugar and spice. But looking into those wide, trusting eyes, all those words turned to nothing. He took a deep breath. 

It was just the usual day. The usual activities. He could handle it.

Another figure, an elderly cookie with a telescope tucked under his arm, stepped forward with a polite cough. "A simple one, my Fount, for a mind such as yours. My granddaughter asked me last night, and I realized I'd forgotten the old stories. What are the things that hang from the sky at night?"

This, at least, was a fact. A single, solid piece of data in the swirling chaos. "Stars," the Fount said, the word automatic, pulled from the deepest, most rote part of his memory. It was a lifeline.

But the lifeline was immediately cut. A young page, his face pale and earnest, had been waiting his turn. He stepped forward now, his voice barely a tremble. "Fount... will I ever truly be happy?"

“Of course. If you can find what makes you happy.”

~~~

Truthless Recluse heard the commotion long before he saw its source.

Voices, overlapping, desperate—rising and tangling together until they blurred into a single pressure in the air. Familiar, too familiar, like background noise the castle never managed to shake. He paid it no mind, turning a page in the book he’d pulled half-randomly from a shelf in the alcove. It was a dense, philosophical text on the nature of reality, a subject that felt both ironically appropriate and utterly meaningless.

The questions never reached him. Not really. They washed up against his focus like waves that broke and went nowhere. But he heard the silence that followed. A sudden, vacant quiet that was more alarming than the noise. It was the sound of an answer failing to land, of a conversation dying mid-breath.

Or maybe he only imagined it. Maybe silence was just silence, and the dread was his alone.

Then, the sound of retreating footsteps—firm, quick, and decidedly not floating.

Truthless didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the same paragraph he’d read three times, not absorbing a word. He listened to the approach.

The library doors sighed open. He didn’t look. The air shifted—Fount was here.

Frustrated. Weary.

He heard the rustle of robes moving with uncharacteristic haste, the soft thud of a book being pulled from a shelf too forcefully, the impatient flutter of pages being turned.

He was searching for something. Not with his usual methodical grace, but with the frantic energy of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts.

Truthless remained still, a shadow in the alcove. He watched through the gap in the tapestry.

The Fount stood by a large table, one hand braced on its surface, the other holding a book open. His head was bowed, his usual perfect posture slumped. He looked… ordinary. Diminished. For a fleeting second, he looked like a student who had failed an exam, desperately cramming for a retake he knew would never come. Trying to find the necessary answers to his failures.

He wasn’t reading. He was just staring at the pages, seeing nothing.

Then, as if sensing a gaze upon him, the Fount’s head snapped up. His gaze swept the room and landed, unerringly, on Truthless’s hiding spot. The alcove wasn’t as secret as he’d hoped. Their eyes met.

The Fount’s expression flickered through a rapid series of emotions—surprise, embarrassment, a flash of his usual performative warmth, before settling on a kind of exhausted acknowledgement. He looked caught.

He made a feeble attempt to straighten up. He closed the book with a soft thump that echoed in the quiet. Then, he did something utterly bizarre.

He waved.

It was a small, awkward gesture. A brief, stiff flick of the fingers, accompanied by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It was the most unconvincing performance of normalcy Truthless had ever seen.

Before Truthless could even think to react—to nod, to scowl, to look away—the Fount turned on his heel. He abandoned the book on the table and walked quickly out of the library, his retreat just as hurried and silent as his entrance.

The doors closed behind him, leaving Truthless alone once more.

He looked down at the book in his own hands. The words were still a blur. The encounter had lasted less than a minute, but it had told a more complete story than any of the Fount’s grand speeches ever could.

The unshakable Fount of Knowledge was shaken. The endless well of answers had run dry.

And for reasons Truthless couldn't begin to name, the sight of it left a cold, sharp stone sitting in the pit of his stomach.

~~~

The Fount’s quarters welcomed him with a silence so profound it felt like a physical relief. The failed spell, the villagers’ accusations, the hollow answers, the frantic, fruitless search in the library, sloughed off him the moment the door clicked shut.

He didn't bother with light. Following the same ritual, he crossed the room and let himself fall forward onto the bed, not even bothering to remove his robes or get comfy. He lay there, face buried in the silken covers, for a long time, not thinking, not feeling. Just existing in the void of his own exhaustion.

The image of Truthless’s eyes, watching him from the alcove, flashed behind his lids. That cool, unnerving assessment. There had been no pity there, no judgment. It should have felt like a violation. Instead, in the strange logic of his weariness, it had felt like a reprieve.

Eventually, he pushed himself up. The urge to be under the open sky again, to feel the vastness of the night and remember his own small place within it, was a pull too strong to ignore. He drifted onto the balcony, the cool night air a balm on his dough.

He leaned against the railing, tilting his face up to the moon. She was quiet tonight, her light a soft silver wash over the world below. He tried to let his mind empty, to just be a vessel for the moonlight.

And then he saw him.

Truthless Recluse.

Again.

In the dark.

Moving through the moonlit gardens below. Wandering about.

The Fount watched, the day’s tensions momentarily forgotten. He saw Truthless pause by a bed of milkcrowns, their white petals glowing in the dark. He expected him to pass by, as he always did.

But he didn’t.

Truthless stopped. He reached out, not to pick one, but to gently, almost reverently, cradle the blossom of a flower that had been bent, its stem nearly broken. His fingers, usually so stiff and guarded, were careful. Delicate.

A soft, golden light—faint but unmistakable—bloomed at his fingertips. It was healing magic. Small. Simple. The most fundamental kind. The bent stem straightened. The bruised petal smoothed, regaining its perfect, milky luminescence.

It was over in a second. Truthless dropped his hand as if burned, quickly scanning the empty gardens as if ashamed of being caught in an act of tenderness. He shoved his hands into the sleeves of his robe and walked on, his pace quicker now, until he was gone.

On the balcony, the Fount of Knowledge stood perfectly still, his breath caught in his throat.

All the grand spells, the complex equations, the endless, draining questions—they all faded into noise. This… this was quiet. This was real. An act of healing done for no audience, expecting no reward, born from an impulse so pure it had to be hidden.

Truly, what was Truthless Recluse doing? He was such an enigma for the Fount, even more now that he knew where he came from. It was… captivating.

The cold, sharp stone of failure in his gut began to soften, replaced by a warmth so fierce and sudden it was dizzying. It was more than curiosity now. It was a profound, aching fascination.

He wasn't just watching a mysterious guest or a broken soul.

He was watching a living, breathing contradiction. A cookie who built walls of bitterness but whose hands instinctively reached out to mend what was broken.

The Fount stayed on the balcony long after Truthless had vanished back into the shadows of the castle. All  his focus settled on the single flower now glowing in the moonlight.

Even the grandest problems seemed smaller now. Even the loudest questions faded. The smallest mysteries were suddenly more compelling than anything he had known.

Whoever Truthless Recluse truly was, whatever the Fount had become, he now wished to truly find out.

Notes:

Fount chap fount chap get ready for some fount chaps

I hope yall can see why I avoided posting fount chapters until now cause yall are about to live what he lives. Feel his emotionssss

Chapter 17: Flowers and Meanings

Notes:

UPDATE: I am going to chapter 14 (and others) to trim it a bit since I think it was a biiiit too repetitive in some areas. Wont affect the overall narrative. I’m just adjusting pacing.

GUYS
GUYS
I FORGOT ABOUT TRUTHLESS’S HAT BAHAHAHHAHAHAH I NEVER MENTIONED THAT HE RECOVERED IT LMAOOO
So uhm, lets just imagine he somehow got it back, uh…..
LOL
I WAS REREADING THE FIC TO FIX STUFF AND REACHED THAT PART AND MAN IM SO SORRY LOL

 

This is what happens when Im in a part of the story I wanna be, man. I wont post 18 for my sanity and for the pace but like yayayayayayyayay
Ive got many chapters drafted so ive been going crazy with the editing :D
Someone control me before I post 18

They stood in a place only found in a dream.

The meadow was silver, grass gleaming like threads pulled from a loom of stars. Sheep wandered across it, their wool pale clouds adrift on earth instead of sky. Their play was soundless—hooves barely touched the ground, laughter rang without mouths. In their multitude, each played its own trifling little game, as though the day itself were waiting to end.

But on the horizon, something waited.

A wolf, dark as the space between constellations, its fur glinting with subtle navy and its eyes a shade of aquamarine and turquoise. Amid the argent strands, it lingered—set apart, though it longed not to be.

It did not prowl; it only watched.

Among the flock, one sheep raised its head. Its eyes shone a deep, golden light, too knowing, too human. The two regarded one another in stillness, as though the meadow itself had narrowed to the span of their gaze.

“Pure Vanilla Cookie?”

And then came the fire.

Flame bloomed suddenly, shaped like roses. The grass kindled without smoke, flowing like liquid fire. Sheep scattered, dissolving into ash before their bleats could leave their throats. The golden-eyed one turned to cinder, the wolf to shadow. The meadow’s silver burned away, leaving only a sky without ground.

And in that falling silence—two souls awoke.

Truthless Recluse, alone in his corner of the dark.

The Fount of Knowledge, elsewhere, eyes opening to the same remembered blaze—yet neither spoke of the dream.

~~~

 

“You are healing incredibly well,” the Fount observed, easing Truthless’s arm out straight. “You’ll be un-mummified before long.”

“Right.”

Truthless Recluse was more than capable of tending to himself. He was no damsel in distress—never was, never would be. Yet the Fount behaved as though he believed otherwise. More than that, he was adamant about it. He had insisted, over and over, that Truthless not even touch his own bandages.

“I can heal myself,” Truthless huffed, though he let the Fount continue as though his arm were some fragile experiment. The Fount’s touch was meticulous, almost scientific.

“That I know you can do~”

The Fount smirked, releasing his arm at last, the bandages neatly tied.

…What was that supposed to mean?

No elaboration was given. The Fount closed his medical kit with a click, before putting it aside. He did not immediately move away, instead opting for a stare down.

Truthless flexed his newly freed arm. The dough beneath the bandages was smooth, the ache almost a memory. He had been healing himself, in small moments, though his healing was not proving all that effective. It was a habit as natural as breathing for him, a remnant of a self-reliance beaten into him over centuries. 

He looked down at the new wrappings with a reluctant sort of reverence. Impeccable. Every fold, every knot, every line precise. Perfect in a way that unsettled him. For the briefest instant, he wondered—Shadow Milk Cookie… had he once been so careful, too?

The thought did not linger.

The Fount’s gaze changed. It was no longer the gentle one he’d worn while retying bandages, nor the teasing spark of a healer playing at bedside games. Something in it sharpened, calculating.

Truthless felt the shift before the words ever came.

“So,” the Fount sang out, drawing the word into a lilting thread. “So, so, so~”

Someone was awfully in a good mood.

Truthless’s gut tightened. He knew, with sudden certainty, that he wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

“Tell me more about the future,” the Fount chimed, eyes alight with mischief. “Or—oh!—about my… your? Soul Jam.”

The Light of Truth.

Now ever so silent.

The Virtue of Knowledge.

Now ever so annoying.

 

Truthless sighed. “What more is there for me to say?”

Truly, what more was there?

He had already said everything. From gastronomy to culture, from magic to geography. And when it came to his Soul Jam… he had already said everything that he wanted to say.

It was the Light of Truth. The Fount had asked what had happened to the other half, and Truthless had refused to answer. There was no need for that truth. The same with the Fount’s fate—much as he would have loved to finally strike something against him. Better to keep him as the Fount than to risk awakening Shadow Milk once more.

The Fount pressed his index finger on his lips. Then lifted it into the air. “Perhaps you could tell me what happened with the other half of my Soul Jam?”

“No.”

Denied.

“Or….” He continued, “you could tell me what happened to me in the future.”

“No.”

Denied again.

The Fount’s smile didn’t falter, but it tightened at the edges. The cheerful facade was thinning, revealing the relentless engine of inquiry beneath.

“A shame,” he murmured, though his eyes glittered with anything but disappointment. They were alight with the challenge. “Two perfectly good truths, left unspoken. It feels… wasteful, don’t you think?”

Truthless said nothing. 

“Very well,” the Fount conceded, with a sigh that felt more theatrical than genuine. He leaned back, tapping a finger against his chin. “If you will not give me a truth, perhaps you will play a game with one. I wish to finally confirm things once and for all.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I will make a statement. You need not confirm or deny. You simply… listen. And I will learn from whatever you do not say. How does that sound?”

It sounded like a trap. Every word out of the Fount’s mouth was a carefully laid snare, decorated with courtesy and a smile. Truthless remained motionless, a statue in the face of a hurricane of calculated charm.

The Fount took his silence as permission.

“Statement one,” he began, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. “You are not merely from a, ‘the’,  future. You are from my future.”

The air in the room seemed to still. Truthless’s gaze, which had been fixed on a point somewhere beyond the Fount’s shoulder, flicked back to his face. It was a minute tell, but in the absolute quiet, it was as good as a flinch.

The Fount’s lips quirked. He’d seen it.

“Statement two,” he pressed on, a hunter closing in. “The ‘deceit’ you spoke of with such bitterness… it is not a mere concept to you. It is a person. A cookie. And you believe I will become them.”

“You said not to talk about deceit.”

“Shu-shush. I’m the one talking.”

This time, Truthless couldn’t suppress the reaction. His jaw clenched, a sharp, minute tic. The Light of Truth at his side gave a feeble, almost imperceptible pulse, a dying ember stirred by a gust of dread.

The Fount’s eyes dropped to the Soul Jam for a fraction of a second, then returned to Truthless’s face, his expression one of rapt, terrifying fascination, though also a bit of worry. He was conducting an experiment, and Truthless was his fascinating, volatile subject.

“And statement three…” the Fount said, his voice barely above a whisper now. He leaned forward slightly, and the morning light caught the strange heterochromia of his eyes, making them seem like twin pools into different, equally deep worlds.

“You are afraid that by telling me the truth… you will make it come to pass.”

The final statement hung in the air like a devastating conclusion. It was the most intimate guess yet, and it struck with the precision of a needle slipped between his fingers.

It laid bare the terrible paradox at the heart of Truthless’s existence here: his fear that speaking the catastrophe would cause it. That he was not just a prisoner of the past, but its potential architect.

The Fount fell silent, his earlier playfulness completely gone, replaced by a look of intense, unsettling concentration. He was watching Truthless, reading the landscape of his silence, learning everything he wasn’t saying.

He had gotten his answers after all.

The Virtue of Knowledge leaned back, the intensity in his gaze receding like a tide, replaced by a look of serene, almost paternal, satisfaction. He had dissected a mystery and found the answers pleasing, though again… worrying. Or so Truthless assumed.

"Don't look so grim," the Fount said, his voice returning to its usual melodic lilt, though it now sounded hollow to Truthless's ears. "Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. Knowing a probable future is the first step in avoiding it, no?"

A foolish way of thinking. Awfully optimistic.

Truthless said nothing. He could only stare at the dimly pulsing Light of Truth in his lap. The Fount’s words were logical, reasonable, even hopeful. But they were born of an intellect that had never been truly scorched by the consequences of its own curiosity. He spoke of avoiding a future as if it were a simple puzzle to be solved, not a damnation to be outrun.

This had been a catastrophic mistake. Every withheld word, every flinch, every guarded silence had been a piece of ‘data’ fed into the Fount’s impeccable logic engine. He hadn't needed confirmation; he’d needed reaction. And Truthless, for all his days of isolation and self-reliance, had given him everything he required.

No point on worrying about what had already happened.

“Alas, It’s my day off,” he announced, as if this were a profound and novel concept. “A rare occurrence, I assure you. Typically, the questions never cease. But today… I’m finally free.”

Truthless made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. He knew all about holding one’s breath.

For someone supposedly not so free, he was surprised by the amount of times the Fount would visit him.

“I thought,” the Fount continued, undeterred, “that perhaps we could… I don’t know. Do something.”

“Something.” Truthless repeated the word flatly, turning to look at him. The Fount’s face was its usual mask of benign curiosity, but there was a new tension around his eyes—a faint shadow that hadn’t been there before the blight, before the failure. The dream had left its mark on him, too, whether he would admit it or not.

“Yes! Something. Anything.” The Fount gestured vaguely, his robes swirling with the motion. “You’ve been cooped up in this room for days when I’m not around. It can’t be good for your constitution. Even knowledge needs fresh air to avoid going stale.”

Truthless almost smiled. It was a bitter, thin thing that died before it reached his lips. The irony was too thick. The Fount of Knowledge, worried about going stale. And most importantly, how did he know he had stayed in his room?

Was he… stalking him?

Yikes.

But unsurprising.

“What would you suggest?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. He would not give him the satisfaction of enthusiasm. But he would not refuse outright. Not yet. The memory of the dream—the wolf’s lonely, watching eyes—held him in place.

The Fount’s expression brightened, a little too quickly, a little too forced. “I have several suggestions! We could review the astrological alignments for the next century—fascinating stuff, really. Or perhaps a stroll through the eastern gallery? The portraits there are known to… shift their perspectives based on the viewer’s mood. Quite entertaining.”

Truthless just stared at him.

“...Or,” the Fount amended, catching his look, “we could go to the gardens. The ones we… well. The ones with the Soul Jam shaped formation. They’re… calming. Tend them perhaps.”

Truthless considered the options. Reviewing astrological charts sounded unappealing at the moment. Sentient portraits felt like an invitation for more psychological probing. The gardens, however… the gardens were familiar and simple. 

“The gardens,” Truthless said.

The Fount’s smile was a little too bright, a little too quick. “A superb choice! A little sunlight, a little nature… excellent for convalescence.”

The walk to the garden was a silent negotiation. Truthless moved in a way that belied his injuries, a stiffness in his gait that was more about guarding his space than his wounds. The Fount glided beside him, a study in contrived nonchalance, his hands clasped behind his back while holding his staff. He pointed out insignificant architectural features and hummed snippets of tunes, filling the air with a nervous energy that grated on Truthless’s nerves.

They arrived at the garden. It was, as promised, calming. The geometric patterns of light and flora were less an imposition of order and more an invitation to it. The Fount produced two sets of tools from a discreet cabinet woven into the hedge itself—small, silver trowels and pruning shears that looked more like surgical instruments. He handed a set to Truthless without a word.

For a long time, they worked in silence. Truthless, despite himself, fell into the rhythm of it. There was a simple, honest truth in tending to something, in clearing away the dead growth to make way for the new. It was a language he understood far better than the Fount’s dizzying intellectualism. It was calming. He found himself carefully untangling a vine choked by weeds, his touch gentler than it had been in a while.

The Fount watched him from the corner of his eye, his own movements efficient and precise. He was, Truthless noted, surprisingly competent. This was not theoretical knowledge; it was practiced.

“You’re good at this,” the Fount observed, his voice quiet, lacking its usual performative edge.

Truthless grunted, not looking up from his work. “It’s not complicated. You cut what’s dead. You support what’s living.”

“A rather elegant summation of existence,” the Fount mused. He snipped a wilted leaf from a glowing bush. “I often find the simple things are the hardest to grasp. They resist over-analysis.”

Truthless made another noncommittal sound, but it was less hostile this time.

Encouraged, the Fount tried again. “So. Truthless Recluse. Do you have a favorite color?”

The question was so absurdly mundane, so utterly out of place, that Truthless actually paused. He looked up, expecting to see mockery on the Fount’s face. He saw only genuine, awkward curiosity.

“...What?”

“A favorite color,” the Fount repeated, as if it were the most natural question in the world. “I’ve been cataloging aesthetic preferences. It’s a fascinating window into the soul. Mine is the color of a quasar’s light—a specific frequency of blue-shifted ultraviolet, but it translates poorly. Do you have one?”

Truthless stared at him for a long moment, then returned to his vine. “No.”

“Not one? Surely you must have a preference. A hue that brings you a modicum of… quiet?”

Truthless thought of silver grass burning. Of a wolf dark as the void. Of golden eyes turning to cinder. “Quiet isn’t a color.”

The Fount nodded, filing the answer away. “A fair point.” He was silent for a few more minutes, the only sound the snip of their shears and the rustle of leaves. “Hm… do you have another name, besides Truthless Recluse? A… cookie name?”

Truthless’s hands stilled.

“None worth mentioning,” Truthless said finally, the lie coming easily, coated in disuse. He turned the question back, a deflection. “And you? Do you have another name? Besides the Fount of Knowledge?”

He knew of Shadow Milk, but surely he had a name before…

The Fount looked genuinely perplexed. He stopped his work entirely, tilting his head. “Another name? Why would I have that? I am what I am. The Fount is the title, and Knowledge is the function. A name would be… redundant. A label for a container that is already clearly marked.” He said it with the absolute certainty of someone who had never needed to be anything else, who had never had to hide or reinvent himself. “Though for the other cookies, I understand if they do, as there is great meaning to that, if you recall our previous conversation. However, I cannot say I am quite a ‘normal’ cookie,” he laughed almost too casually. 

The simplicity of the answer, the sheer otherness of it, struck Truthless. This cookie was not like others. He was a concept given form. The Virtues had been created for only one purpose, unlike him—first born, then granted the Soul Jam. Had the Fount never experienced a normal moment? No childhood, no parents—had he been doing this, all of this, since the beginning of his existence?

“I’m sorry,” the words escaped his mouth. He widened his eyes, and the Fount’s gaze changed as well.

The Fount’s head tilted further, a gesture of pure, unfeigned bewilderment. The casual ease with which he’d just dismissed the concept of a personal name evaporated, replaced by a deep, probing curiosity. The silver shears in his hand stilled completely.

“For what?” he repeated, his voice softer now, devoid of its earlier theatricality. “What could you possibly have to apologize for?”

Truthless looked away, focusing intently on a perfectly healthy leaf, suddenly finding it in desperate need of his attention. He had spoken without thinking, a surge of unexpected pity—no, not pity, understanding—overtaking his usual guarded cynicism. The Fount’s existence sounded profoundly… lonely. A being defined solely by function, a container forever marked, never just… a person.

“It’s nothing,” Truthless muttered, the words gruff. “Forget I said anything.”

But the Fount of Knowledge did not forget things, at least not when he truly wished for an answer, or so Truthless believed. It was antithetical to his very nature. He took a step closer, the hem of his robes brushing against the neatly trimmed grass. Eye met eye with no space to look away. “An apology implies a transgression, a fault, or an expression of sympathy for another’s misfortune. You have committed no transgression against me that I am aware of. And as for misfortune…” He spread his hands, indicating the magnificent, impossible garden around them. “I lack for nothing. I am the Fount. This is my purpose. It is not a misfortune; it is my state.”

He said it with such absolute, unwavering conviction. But Truthless heard the echo in the words. It was the sound of a cookie who had never known anything else to compare it to. He looked down, defeated by the other’s “perfection.”

“Never mind.”

They worked quietly for a while, but it was different now. Softer. The sun warmed Truthless’s back, and the scent of damp earth and blooming, flowers filled his senses. For a fleeting moment, the constant hum of dread in his soul quieted. This was… not unpleasant.

“It’s quiet,” Truthless said simply.

“Indeed.” The Fount was silent for a moment, watching Truthless’s hands work the soil. The intensity from before was gone, replaced by a calm, observational curiosity. He seemed to be making a conscious effort to be… casual.

“I have another question,” the Fount announced, though his voice was softer now, less of a demand and more of an offering.

Truthless sighed inwardly. “What is it?”

“Do you,” the Fount began, with the gravity of someone asking about the nature of the cosmos, “have a preferred meteorological phenomenon?”

Truthless paused, a clump of rich, dark soil in his hand. He looked at the Fount. The cookie was utterly serious.

“My… what?”

“Meteorological phenomenon. Weather,” the Fount clarified, as if speaking to a child. “I find most cookies have a preference. Some favor the catharsis of a thunderstorm. Others the clarity of a cloudless day. The Sugar of Happiness is inexplicably fond of humidity, which I find entirely baffling.” He leaned closer, conspiratorially. “I believe it has to do with the effect on her garden.”

Truthless almost, very nearly, laughed. It was a strange, foreign sensation that got stuck in his throat. He shook his head, returning to the plant. “No.”

“No preference? Or no, you will not say?”

“No preference.”

That cookie was quite something.

“I see.” The Fount seemed to digest this. “I am partial to a particular quality of sunlight myself,” he offered, unprompted. “The kind that occurs just after a light rain, when the atmosphere is still heavy with moisture. The light becomes tangible, each ray distinct and visible, as if one could climb them to the sky. It’s… orderly and peaceful.”

Of course he would like the most analyzable, particle-visible weather possible.

They lapsed back into silence, but it was comfortable this time. The Fount didn’t press. He simply watched the somnolent sprig, then reached out and gently adjusted a leaf with a precise finger.

“Thank you,” the Fount said, so quietly Truthless almost missed it.

“For what? Not having a favorite weather?”

“For joining me today.”

Truthless looked to his side. There was nothing meaningful about it, there was no need to thank him. Nothing at all.

After some time, he finished with the vine and stood, brushing the soil from his hands. He looked over the garden, at the order they had carved from the gentle chaos. His eyes scanned the periphery, across the manicured hedges and to the garden’s entrance.

And there, he saw her.

A flash of pure white, a cascade of lily-adorned hair. She stood just at the edge of the path, half-hidden by a flowering archway. She was looking their way, and on her face was a smile of such profound warmth and affection that it seemed to radiate its own light. It was a smile of pride, of deep, unshakable love.

It was aimed directly at the Fount, who was still blissfully unaware, humming as he examined a peculiar leaf.

But for a single, heart-stopping second, Truthless Recluse met White Lily Cookie’s gaze.

And in that moment, he was not a bitter exile from a ruined future. He was not a prisoner of the past. He was simply a cookie, standing in a beautiful garden, seen by a memory whose smile felt like a blessing.

Then she was gone, melting back into the shadows of the path as silently as she had appeared.

The world snapped back into place. The dread returned, but it was now intertwined with a piercing sorrow. He looked back at the Fount, who was now looking at him with a curious, almost soft expression.

“Is everything alright?” the Fount asked.

Truthless could only shake his head, the ghost of White Lily’s smile burning behind his eyes, a final, beautiful truth before the inevitable fire.

 

Notes:

Fount, what are those questions, my dude

Chapter 18: You Must Answer, Fount

Notes:

ESIT: NO CHAPTER 19 THIS WEEKEND CAUSE IM FEELING SICK

 

CONTENT WARNING: Body horror (if you want to avoid it, avoid the indented part of the text not counting the intro)
Sorry y’all i may have gotten a bittttt inspired :p

Final chap until friday-sunday cause uhm yeah. I KINDA just wanted to get through all of these until I’m in chap 20, ha, ha, ha…
Y’all have no idea how many chapters are planned….
Man.
Man o man. Im def gonna start trying to post more than 2 chaps a week.

“Fount of Knowledge, why did my wife leave me?”

“Have you asked her if you’ve done something wrong?”

“…No.”

”Try that.”

The cookie left, his question seemingly answered.

“Fount of Knowledge, will I see my dead relatives after I die?”

“…That is a truth beyond even my reach, for the cradle of death lays outside my expertise.”

“But you were supposed to know everything!”

The cookie departed, no wiser than before.

“Greatest Fount of All Knowledge, what is the meaning of life?”

“It is what you make it.”

“Fount of Knowledge, why should I pursue an education?”

“The answer is simple: to build a wider room for your mind to live in. Without it, your thoughts echo in a tiny, dark chamber, and you would mistake those echoes for the sounds of the world. The world is far louder, and infinitely more fascinating, than an echo.”

The cookie frowned, not quite grasping the metaphor, and left feeling more confused than inspired.

“Fount of Knowledge, what is the truth?”

“…Truth, truth is…”

The Fount halted. For a split second, the endless certainty he wore  like a crown faltered. He steadied himself within the best of his abilities, then answered with a confidence worth a thousand lectures:

“Truth is the thread that binds all things. It is absolute. Many people will have their own version of the truth. But ultimately, within that sea of perspectives, only one is reality.”

”And how do we know what this ‘absolute truth’ is?”

"That is the question, isn't it? The most important one. You don't know it, not in the way you know the sky is blue or that sugar is sweet. You pursue it. You gather threads from books, from observation, from the words of others. You test them. One false strand can weaken the cloth, and when the wind comes—a sharp question, a sudden crisis—it may all unravel.

You are near truth when the tapestry holds fast. When it withstands scrutiny. It does not yield to your desires; you must yield to it. Uncomfortable, yes. Rarely simple. But it is the only thing that endures.”

“Uhm…. In simpler terms?”

A rare flicker of irritation sparked in the Fount. Was the weave of the universe not simple enough? He took a slow, slow breath, the model of patience. "In simpler terms... do not believe a thing simply because you wish it to be so. Seek evidence. Test it. The truth is what remains. Truth is knowledge.”

“Ah! I see! Thank you!”

Perhaps he should have toned down the metaphors.

The crowd murmured. Some left satisfied, some puzzled. The Fount exhaled quietly, as though he had convinced himself more than them the words spoken not too long ago.

At last, the petitioners were gone. The Fount of Knowledge reclined on his seat, feeling the ache  finally settle in—the fatigue of sharing truths that never seemed to land, of being a well that gave endlessly, while no one lingered to see its depth. Not truly.

Just as he was about to retreat into the quiet solace of his archives, a figure approached with a slow, searching pace.

The cookie was different. Or well, that’s what the Fount felt. For outside he was ordinary in every way shape and dough.

His hair was the color of wheat field at harvest. The robes were nothing special, travel-worn robes, mauve, yet somehow he still looked dignified enough to be on par with the graceful robes of the Fount.

But it was his eyes that gave the Fount a pause.

Behind the sorrow lingered a warmth, unsettling in how familiar it felt. The sensation brushed against him like rough déjà vu.

“Great Fount,” the stranger began. “I… I do not have a question of philosophy or fate. I have lost something. A request. A very dear possession, and I cannot find it anywhere.”

The Fount almost dismissed him out of hand. He had much to do, and a lost item? The Fount was open to aiding seekers, but this…

“I am more an ‘answering questions individual’ than a ‘finding things one.’ Perhaps the castle stewards can assist you?”

The golden-haired cookie’s shoulders slumped, yet he stayed.

He looked down at his hands. “It is a scarf. It is not valuable to anyone but me. It was… a gift. From someone I may never see again. Without it, I feel…” He struggled for the word, a flicker of profound loss crossing his features. “…unmoored.”

The Fount watched him. The logical thing was to turn him away. And yet, the compulsion he felt was illogical, a pull in his dough that defied his nature. This wasn’t quite curiosity; it was a need. A silent, desperate plea that echoed something deep within himself that he couldn’t name.

He found himself standing. “Describe it,” he heard himself say.

The cookie’s face lit with a fragile hope. “It is blue. The color of the sky just before twilight. And it is embroidered with tiny, silver vanilla blossoms.”

”Very well,” the Fount said, descending from his dais. “The public halls are vast, but lost items have a tendency to find their way to quiet corners. We will retrace your steps.”

It became a miniature quest. Something ultimately pointless in the Fount’s long life.

The Fount, who typically saw the castle as a map of knowledge and in a way controlled chaos, now viewed it through the lens of loss. He led the way, his eyes scanning alcoves and beneath benches. They checked the busting main throughfares, the quiet scriptoriums, and the sun-dappled atriums.

The Fount asked questions about mundane details. “Were you reading here? Did you stop to admire the tapestry?” It was a different kind of inquiry, a collaborative puzzle, if he may call it that.

He found himself… enjoying it. Quite a lot. The simplicity of the goal. The concept of a shared goal.

Finally, in a secluded corner of a lesser-used garden—as the castle had too many for reasons even the Fount now did not know—,where the hedge walls were woven with glowing jasmine, the Fount spotted a flash of cobalt blue caught on a thorny branch. He floated over and gently disentangled it.

It was indeed a scarf, soft and well-worn, the silver embroidery of vanilla blossoms glinting in the light. He felt a strange tenderness as he handled it.

He brought it back to the waiting cookie. “Is this it?”

The cookie’s breath hitched. His hand shook a little when it brushed the cloth. The look in his eyes—so full of thanks—made it hard to look away.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Thank you. Thank you, Fount of Knowledge. You have… you have given me back a piece of my heart.”

He carefully, reverently, tied the scarf around his neck. The blue looked right against his golden hair. Complete.

“I am glad I could assist,” the Fount said, rather satisfied with the results.

The cookie smiled, a warm, genuine thing that seemed to light up the entire garden. “I hope our paths cross again.”

And with a final, graceful bow, he turned and left, the lost thing now found, leaving the Fount of Knowledge standing alone, watching him go.

The Fount watched the golden-haired cookie until he disappeared around a distant hedge, the faint, comforting blue of the scarf the last thing to vanish. A peculiar emptiness lingered in the otherwise silent garden. The encounter had been a splash of vibrant color on the monochrome canvas of his endless duty.

He turned and made his way back to the castle. The questions of the day—of wives and death and meaning—seemed like childish scribbles compared to the gratitude in the stranger’s eyes.

~~~

Another night.

The Fount arrived at his personal quarters. It was perfect, orderly, and utterly lifeless unlike his study.

Tonight, it felt a tad more suffocating.

With a wave of his hand, he heated water from a jar in the corner. From a small, plain tin—an old gift from the master of the Ivory Pagoda, won in a bet over charades—he selected a pinch of dried leaves. He was still proud of that win, though the tin had sat barely used for decades. He poured the hot water over the leaves, steeping them patiently. Only when the warm, earthy scent filled the air did he add a handful of blueberries from his side and enough sugar to give a child a dozen cavities.

Cup in hand, he stood on the balcony, watching the moon paint the courtyard in silver and blue again.

The tea was too sweet. He’d let his mind wander again while preparing it. The overpowering sweetness should have been sickening, but instead it reminded him of something he couldn't place. A memory just out of reach, like the golden-haired cookie's familiar eyes.

And again, for the who knows how many times, his thoughts fixed on a single, puzzling point: Truthless Recluse.

The enigmatic, bitter cookie from the future was yet another problem to be solved, a locked chest of fascinating secrets that had slowly revealed information he knew was important. But the frustration of their earlier interactions had been momentarily overshadowed by… something else. The memory of Truthless, alone in the garden, gently tending to a broken bloom with a magic familiar to him, surfaced in his mind.

Where was he now? Was he still sulking in his room, nursing his bitterness? The Fount had claimed Truthless wasn't bitter, but he had to admit—if only to himself—that the evidence suggested at least a little.

A pinch. A molecule.

Or was he, perhaps, somewhere waddling around the bushes in the garden again? 

A probable outcome.

The compulsion that had driven him to help the golden-haired cookie returned, this time sharper, more personal. The same inexplicable pull, but focused on a different mystery entirely.

Setting the half-finished tea aside—he decided to check. But he would not approach directly. He wanted to observe without bothering Truthless too much, even if part of him wanted to poke at that sharp, guarded gaze. 

Without a thought, he dissolved into the air, becoming little more than a shimmer ray in the moonlight, a subtle warping of space that would be invisible to any but those with the most magically attuned eye. So long as he was within his domain he had no issue doing this, and the chances of Truthless finding him out were close to null.

He drifted down into the courtyard.

There he was.

Truthless Recluse moved through the gardens again. His movements were slow, weary from the hurt of his wounds most likely, as if each step cost him a great effort. He was not admiring the beauty; he was cataloging it, his keen eyes missing nothing. He would pause by a cluster of starlight-bells, his fingers—usually clenched into fists of defiance—gently tracing the delicate, glowing petals, again.

The Fount’s unseen form stilled. He watched, fascinated, as Truthless stopped before a luminous, spiral-flowered plant whose central stem was snapped, causing its head to droop pathetically towards the earth. It was the same plant he had been healing days before. It must have been damaged again.

Truthless knelt. He did not look around furtively this time. Perhaps he believed himself truly alone.

If only he knew the truth.

He simply bent to his task. His hands, usually hidden in the folds of his robes, emerged. They were slender, elegant, but scarred on the fingers.

He cupped the broken stem.

A soft golden light flickered from his palms—weak, faltering, but unmistakably a healer’s gift.

Truthless’s brow was furrowed in concentration, a sheen of sweat on his temple despite the cool night air. The light sputtered, and the stem knit together only partially before the magic faded, leaving the flower still wounded, though less so than before. Truthless sagged, a look of profound frustration and exhaustion on his face. He whispered something to the flower, too low for even the Fount to hear, a quiet apology perhaps.

Why hide this? Why possess such a gift and only use it in secret, on flowers, when he could…?

The questions died in his mind as he continued to watch. Truthless did not give up. He stayed there, on his knees, and tried again. And again. Each attempt was a little weaker, the light a little more faint, until he finally sat back on his heels, utterly spent, staring at the partially healed flower with an expression of such deep, weary defeat that it struck the Fount with the force of a physical blow.

In that moment, spying from the shadows, the Fount of Knowledge understood something fundamental. Truthless Recluse wasn't just hiding from him. He was hiding from himself. And the Fount, the seeker of all truths, had just stumbled upon one he wasn't sure he was meant to see.

After a long moment of staring at his own failure, Truthless pushed himself up from the ground with a quiet, weary sigh. The frustration seemed to drain from him, replaced by a numb acceptance. He turned from the imperfect flower and began a slow, aimless walk deeper into the garden, toward the soft chorus of croaking from a clear pond.

The Fount, still a shimmer in the air, followed, his own thoughts a turbulent whirl. The image of those scarred hands cradling light was burned onto his mind.

Truthless reached the pond’s edge and simply… dropped. He didn't sit gracefully; his legs seemed to give out from under him, and he landed in a patch of soft, moon-silvered grass with a quiet thump. He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and became still. His eyes drifted to the water, where a dozen frogs sat on lily pads, throats pushing with their quiet chorus.

He wasn’t smiling, but the harsh lines of his face had softened; something within him eased, if only slightly.

A moment of respite stolen from a world of pain, the Fount assumed.

The Fount watched, and something in the scene tugged at a thread deep within his own soul. The stillness. The quiet observation. The way Truthless seemed to simply be, without the need to analyze, question, or perform. It was so unlike his own existence, a constant, roaring cataract of information and demand. For a fleeting second, the Fount felt a pang of… envy.

And then it happened.

The way Truthless tilted his head, the specific angle of his profile against the moonlight, the absolute stillness of his form as he watched life play out before him—it was a key sliding into a lock the Fount never knew he had.

The garden vanished.

He stood in a meadow.

An endless, rolling plain of silver grass rolled beneath a sky of myriad, unfamiliar, polychromatic stars. Small. Vulnerable. He looked down and saw not hands, but hooves. Soft, white wool with buttermilk undertones. He was one of countless sheep, their bleating a soundless, panicked rhythm thrumming through the air. A mindless flock, playing its trifling games, utterly unaware.

On the horizon, something waited.

A wolf.

Its fur was the void between stars, streaked with subtle navy. Its eyes glowed—aquamarine and turquoise—piercing, seeing everything. It did not prowl; It only watched. And he, the sheep, knew it was watching him.

Then silence erupted.

A bloom of pure, white fire. It consumed the grass, the sky, the sheep—they dissolved into ash without a single scream or cry. The wolf’s gaze never left his. It began to move then, with the inevitable stride of a fate it too could not control.

He tried to run. His hooves sank. Solid earth became living tar.

The wolf descended, and it was not just teeth that struck him—it was a devouring force, invisible yet intimate, unraveling him from within, longing to tear him apart. His dough shivered, crawling along his muscles like a swarm of tiny, desperate insects, peeling, folding, and sliding as if testing the boundaries of his form. Flesh tore in ways that should have been impossible, layers slipping slick and malleable.

Underneath, the deeper parts of him followed. Sinews writhed like ropes being twisted until they frayed, each pop and dry crunch echoing in his candy skull. Muscles knotted, then tore themselves ragged. His organs shuddered in their hollows—some sagging like rotten fruit, others twitching, frantic to escape their cages of candy bone. And the marrow—witches, the marrow—spilled hot and thick, searing through his veins like molten metal. Jam crawled along his nerves, and every spark lit him from the inside.

The world shrank to those twin pools of aquamarine and turquoise, but the colors themselves seemed to bite, twist, and grind him apart. They grounded against him, tore without touch. His limbs convulsed—a grotesque puppet with strings snapping, joints groaning and shredding as they came unraveled.

There was no pain. Only a simple, jarring, excruciatingly sickening intimacy of a dissolution he did not wish for. Every atom, every string of tissue, plucked, kneaded, devoured—or simply erased from existence. Creation had become nullified. He was unmade. Each fragment writhing, slick, repulsive, drawn inexorably into the void, into the wolf’s unblinking, merciless gaze.

And as the last vestiges slithered away, the world remained indifferent, leaving only the echo of something that had once been alive, grotesquely, intimately undone.

The vision shattered.

The Fount of Knowledge gasped, his form solidifying as he stumbled forward. He was on his hands and knees on the cool grass, his breath coming sporadically. The tranquil pond, the croaking frogs, it all rushed back in a dizzying wave. He could still smell the phantom scent of burning grass.

What was that…

His body answered before his mind could, stomach lurching in a dry heave. He pressed his forehead against the cool, mercifully solid earth, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The contrast was unbearable: the dewy grass against his skin was real, but the memory of it turning to living tar was more real.

Never, ever in his thousands of years of life had he experienced a dream so… visceral and real. He could still feel the fibers of his being twisting, the unbearable intimacy of his own anatomy betraying him. He clutched at the grass, anchoring himself in the now, in the wholeness of his form.

A shudder wracked his frame. He felt… contaminated.

A shadow fell over him.

He looked up, his heterochromatic eyes wide and unseeing for a moment, still trapped in the terror of the dream.

Truthless Recluse was standing over him, having moved with a silence that contradicted his usual weary demeanor. He was leaning down slightly with sharp, analytical curiosity, hiding even the slightest hints of concerns. His eyes, usually so guarded, were narrowed, scanning the Fount’s face as if he were a fascinating, malfunctioning artifact.

The intensity of that gaze—so similar, yet so different from the wolf’s—jolted the Fount back to himself. He couldn't explain this. He couldn't analyze this. It was a flaw in his own perfect system, a crack in the foundation.

So, he did the only thing he could.

He laughed—high, horrid, and utterly unlike himself, devoid of any real amusement. He pushed himself up, brushing imaginary dirt from his pristine robes with hands that trembled slightly.

“Ah! The night air!” he declared, his voice too loud for the quiet garden. “It plays such tricks on the mind, does it not? One moment you are contemplating amphibious choruses, the next you are quite literally swept off your feet by a… a sudden dizzy spell! The atmospheric pressure, no doubt. A fascinating, if inconvenient, phenomenon.”

He was babbling. He, the Fount of Knowledge, was babbling again. He forced another laugh, hoping it sounded more casual than crazed.

Truthless straightened up, his curious expression hardening back into its familiar mask of bored cynicism. He said nothing. He simply watched the Fount’s buffoonery while still, his head tilted in that same way that had triggered the vision. He didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t ask if the Fount was alright. His silence no more than a loud condemnation of it all.

Ouch.

Finally, the Fount’s nervous laughter died in his throat.

Truthless’s gaze remained averted, now fixed on some distant point in the pond, but the Fount could see that Truthless surely had at least one question for him. Surely, at least one. In fact, he hoped, he wished he did. That, he wanted to answer.

It was… awkward to say the least.

The Fount’s own heart was still hammering against his chest.  He had to break the tension. He had to reassert control, to prove that he was still the ‘unflappable’ Fount of Knowledge, not some creature brought to its knees by a… a dizzy spell… or a vision? An illusion? A craze?

“Well!” the Fount chirped, his voice still an octave too high. He clapped his hands together, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. “No matter! All is well! See?” He executed a little twirl in the air, floating a few inches off the ground in a show of effortless levity that made physics seem like a lie. “Perfectly balanced!”

His eyes landed on Truthless, who was still resolutely not looking at him. A mischievous, nervous impulse seized him. If he couldn’t explain his own behavior, he could at least disrupt Truthless’s infuriating calm.

With a flick of his wrist and a murmured phrase, he cast a spell. Not a complex one—a simple levitation charm.

Truthless, a brooding weight on the grass, suddenly yelped in surprise as he was lifted a foot into the air. He flailed for a moment, his legs dangling comically, his robe fluttering. The look of utter, bewildered shock on his face was so human, so far from his usual cynical mask, that the Fount couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, a genuine, if slightly hysterical, sound this time.

“The look on your face!” the Fount giggled, clutching his staff. “Oh, you should see it! Priceless!”

But the laughter died in his throat as he saw Truthless’s expression shift from shock to something colder, more guarded, perhaps even terror. He was not amused.

The Fount’s little joke suddenly felt cruel.

“Ah. Right. Yes.” The Fount cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing with a warmth that had nothing to do with magic. He gently lowered Truthless back to the ground. “Apologies. A… momentary lapse in judgment.”

Truthless landed gracefully, his feet meeting the earth with a soft thud. He didn’t say a word. He simply brushed off his robes with sharp, precise motions, as if dusting away the Fount’s foolishness along with the grass. “I was doing nothing,” he said flatly, finally meeting the Fount’s gaze. His eyes were shuttered again, all traces of the vulnerable healer gone. “Now, if you’re quite finished…?”

The dismissal was clear. But the Fount, unnerved by the vision and strangely desperate to not be alone with the memory of it, found he couldn’t leave. The quiet by the pond, which had seemed so peaceful moments before, now felt charged and strange.

“It’s a nice spot,” the Fount said lamely, floating over to where Truthless had been sitting and settling onto the grass beside him. He folded his legs beneath him, trying to mimic Truthless’s earlier posture. “For… contemplation.”

Truthless eyed him warily but, after a long moment, sat back down. Not close, but not leaving either. They lapsed into a strained silence, side-by-side, watching the frogs croak on their lily pads.

The fragile peace lasted perhaps three minutes.

It was broken by a guttural snarl that ripped through the garden’s calm.

 

Notes:

Decided to split this chapter just to let the moments breathe. No one is safe, man.
When in doubt, always blame Truthless

Notes:

—Weekly uploads (honestly, either on Friday, Saturday or Sunday on normal weeks)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of ShadowVanilla Fics for the Soul