Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s strangely easy to forget the concept of time when it gets reduced into nothingness. 

Empty, hollow construct. A construct that is calculated with a bar of action-point on a blue floating screen.

There is a clock, yes, everywhere he might gaze at. In the middle of the glamorous curve of the pavilion hallway, on the glass table framed with books and notes, above the flickering fire that burns in tune with the gentle breathing of his lungs. But it never changes, the needle frozen into an immovable force that always shows the exact same time - 11:59.

Gliocas scribbles at the side of the textbook, right next to the paragraph and under the delicate handwriting that looks way too neat to be real, He could write in a different notebook to keep track and stay clear from being mixed up with the old notes, but such action of respecting holds no meaning in this context. Mere waste of effort. And the young man has learned to hate waste as soon as he started learning about being smartly effective with own time and skills.

Eventually, he moves on to the next textbook, this one with blue covers and a messier mark that poorly resembles the name of someone. On the side of his left hands, the number on the purplish blue screen drops from 5 to 4.

The world moves on, until the number drops down to 0.

And then there is none.

And then he wakes up.

There is no correct way to begin this story. 

No recalling of one’s life, no telling of one’s childhood. Because to start something, you must be equipped with at least bare minimum knowledge about the end of something. In order to describe a childhood, one must know the way it ends - with age, with experience, with a memory or some kind of weird realization about the ugliness that comes in the term of teenage hormone. 

So let’s begin the story in a way that all NRC students and student-soon-to-be can understand. Let’s start with the Gate, and with that, the entrance ceremony.

All the carriage have arrived at the correct time while the Dorm Leader from each house gets informed to sum up the preparation for the ceremony as soon as possible. The Mirror Chamber is once again stockpiled with floating black coffins, coated in an eerie light that is illuminated by the sizzling green candles. Everything almost feels lazy, with the eurythmic rocking of each coffin, if not for the brimming magic in each gothic carving and right inside the Gate itself, nervously anticipating.

Riddle Roseheart is the first one to arrive. Certainly not the only one and no one really pays attention to that, but that doesn't permit the lateness when the time has been given clearly - a serious duty. 

The Headmaster doesn't seem to hold such rule to the same regard despite - Riddle bites down on his irritation because students are not supposed to bad talk about their superior no matter how annoyed that person is - as he arrives exactly 7 minutes late, a boyish smile blooms radically on his face.

A glance to his side shows that lall the Dorm Leaders clearly share the feelings. 

None of them vocalize that, of course. Not even Kalim can reach that level of foolishness and carelessness.

The candles flicker, brighten until the chamber is lit up more properly. Riddle can make out the edges of black coffins around him clearer now. And he can hear Kalim's excitement despite being two stances, Vil and Azul, away from the boy. At least someone finds this exciting.

"Alright, Dorm Leader. You may start to 'open up the Gate'." Crowley cries out, his hands open in an exaggerated motion. The Heartslabyul Dorm Leader's pen appears in his hand right after that as the group scatters around, lifting lids after lids.

Soon, the chamber is flooded with noises and people.

"Get into the line, the Mirror will sort you to your proper house soon." He orders sharply when a blue-haired youth steps out of his 'gate', looking a little dizzy from the magical effect of the carriage. The boy's back snaps straight, and a glimpse of satisfaction blooms in Riddle when he immediately obeys. 

It is certainly better than the gingerhead that Vil escorted just a minute ago. The snickering on his face is… troublesome.

"More humans… Everywhere is human. I don't have required COM-stat to deal with this, why can't this be a side quest…"

Riddle ignores the murmuring of the floating tablet. He will have words with the Ignihyde Dorm Leader later on about the importance of actually being present at the orientation as well as keeping one's words. But that is for later, for it's irresponsible for him to let personal grudge interrupt his duty.

A quick glance at his back tells Riddle that the headmaster has vanished, sneaking off to maintain something that only the man fully understands. Azul sighs and shakes his head with a few sweet-covered words while the head of Savanaclaw merely growls out something incomprehensive. None of them bothers to ask; such frazzled behavior is no strange thing to them at this moment.

The Heartslabyul Dorm Leader turns to the last coffin on his side and-

Black pitch eye stares back at him, unblinking.

( Ding

[Key Factor - Visual: Acquired.

Identifying: Ceremonial Robes line.]

Gliocas pauses. So the screen is not just a… study system.

Understandable)

It takes Riddle a few seconds to react, an embarrassment that he is ashamed to confess. And yet, the newcomer doesn't react against his startle as he merely stands still in front of his coffin (when was the lid opened?). Riddle can not fully make out the facial features of him as they are hidden under the hooded robe with the addition of a long bang that covers about the entire right side of his face - completely - though he is sure that this student is quite tall; at least as tall as Vil in his heels (ugh).

"All new students to this school are required to wait for the Dorm Leaders and professors, not going out by themselves." He chides the boy sharply, the surprise quickly gets replaced with irritation.

[Key Factor - Voice: Acquired]

The first-year blinks, owlishly, as he cranes his neck down a little bit. 

"Ah." The voice is gentle, almost melodic and indescribably soft like fairy leaves curling into a circle - a shiver runs down his spine . "I didn't know."

"You don't even bother to read the rules in your enrolment?"

"I won't bother feigning regret or shame. You could blame it for the overwhelming joy ." The student tilts his head to one side, slightly glancing over to his left hand. Before Riddle's pale skin starts turning red, he hums. "It's a mistake I don't intend to make. And for future reference, senior, a brief introduction is much welcomed."

"Riddle Rosehearts, Dorm Leader of Heartslabyul." 

"Gliocas Winterre." The newcomer glances at his side again, almost like looking at something in the empty air. 

(Ding

[Key Factor - Name: Acquired. 

Direct Unlocking Requirement: Satisfied.

"Ceremonial Robe" - Riddle Rosehearts: Directly Unlocked.]

Gliocas doesn't react to the sudden pop-up message nor the flash of something that looks like a metal card hovering above the screen. So it really is a kind of game system.

Hopefully it helps instead of the other way.)

"Thank you in advance, Dorm Leader Roseheart." The sudden politeness catches Riddle off guard. "I won't bother you anymore. My utmost gratitude for putting up with this below self."

Puzzled, but a little sooth with the changed attitude, Riddle exchanges a quick nod and some short guidance. He watches as the boy slowly but surely makes his way towards the waiting lines, next to a broad freshman with mint green hair, and feels something weird churning inside his stomach. He quickly brushes it off to look around, scanning for any student who may not follow the instructions. Fortunately for his blood pressure, all of them have been neatly organized by all the Dorm Leaders.

Or mayne, not all of them, because there are only six of them when there are supposed to be seven, if the table can be counted as a person.

Riddle says nothing. That's a bush of rose that even he does not dare to touch.

"It seems like the headmaster is stuck in some complex situation." Azul smoothly voices out the thought, a finger tapping his chin. 

"Whatever. It's not the first time that man does something like this." Leona yawns, ears flickering under his hood. 

The chamber quietens when the Mirror lights up, the candle around its flourishing into a shade of warm orange. They can all hear the loud gulp coming from the first student when the mask's empty eyes stare at him, and with that, the ceremony officially begin

To his exasperation, the ginger head and dark blue-haired boys all get sorted into Heartslabyul.

(Gliocas glances at the screen when some familiar names pop up. There is no notification like before. 

Hm.)

Slowly, the students are all divided into their houses until there are barely a handful of faces at the end of the lines. And among those nervous looks, Winterre's stoic expression stands out the most.

For a brief moment, Riddle finds himself wondering whether the boy is truly stoic or is just the hair covering his face that makes it hard to observe. 

As the green-haired boy moves straight towards the Diasomnia group with the most passionate look on his face, the attention of the room falls on the last person right in front of the Mirror. To his credit, Winterre barely flinches from all the stares as he starts moving forward.

"State… thy name." The Mirror blinks . 

Why does it sound like it's hesitating?

"Gliocas Winterre." The boy speaks, his soft voice sounds strangely clear against the hushed whispering of the whole chamber. He gazes up at the Mirror, and a part of his hood falls down to reveal long hair that is actually closer to a dark evergreen than completely black, yet so dark in hue it's nearly indistinguishable. Vil narrows his eyes in spiking attention to the sharp features on the visible side of face; a feast to the eyes.

"The shape of your soul…" It's clear that Riddle is not hallucinating; the Mirror's voice is slower and more reluctant compared to its normal somber tune. It stops, suddenly, like one might do in front of something beyond their understanding. 

“The shape of your soul… I dare not to view .” The change of language doesn’t go unnoticed, as a bewildered silence soon casts through the whole room. Among Diasomnia, a pair of magenta eyes widen.

Winterre tilts his head. “Oh?”

“ Soul dark like the night, burns like the flame and flows like the brush of the Epic’s finger… I dare not to view. ” The Mirror almost seems like it’s trembling in some kind of twisted emotion, but Winterre almost looks bored. 

(The screen flashes to life, then darkens into a glimmering blue light. On the screen, Gliocas can make out seven mirrors featuring seven cartoonish faces. Some women, some men, and a lion.

As he flicks through the mirror, using his eyes and mind, faces appear again. A crooked smile and heterochromia eyes, hair as red as rose, smile as fake as plastic, fire as blue as hell-

Aesthetically pleasing green eyes.)

The Great Hall’s door snaps open, making more than one student jump out of their skin due to the intensity of the inexplicable scene right now, revealing a smiling Crowley, holding one particular fire cat in his hand, and followed by a timid boy who looks like he has woken up on the wrong side.

“I’m back!”

“The choice is up for you to make, oh Beloved Child of The Night.”

Crowley’s head immediately snaps towards the Mirror at the Old Trade, the smile wiped away from his lips as fast as the wind.

“ What your heart desires, shall be yours. ”

(“Take their hand.” Said the scribbled words in the violet box.)

As Gliocas lifts his head, pale lips part slowly for the choice to come out, a strange feeling suddenly overcomes every person in the Great Hall. 

One by one shivers as something creeps down their spines. A black cat crossing their lives, a flick of the calendar on Friday 13th, the sharp gleam of broken mirror shards.

Invisible, yet unfathomably dangerous.

(A feeling of inevitable doom.)

Chapter Text

Gliocas stands at the corner of the room, the perfect epitome of mundane, while the other two’s worldview completely falls apart behind him. 

“Are you completely sure that you come from Japan? You’re not lying to me?”

“Of course I’m not. Why would I lie to you about this kind of thing?” Yuuya stammers, sounding as lost and panicked as a newborn fawn. 

Gliocas runs his fingers over the spine of some random book, pausing at the sight of English written in delicate curves that makes him remember how Crowley has squeaked (like a puffed up bird) and invited him over to study the fact that he knows Old Trade. And then Yuuya happens. And now Gliocas has been here for ten minutes while his dormmates have already followed the lead of their Vice Housewarden, because the one in charge is not invited due to unseenable reasons.

His eyes linger a little more on the still blue box, which had framed the name ‘Lilia Vanrouge’ with a little icon just like some other names. And avatars, of course, all the blurred avatars that look so horribly distorted it almost successfully shocks Gliocas to the core.

That, and the card following up after he had made his decision.

“I only have my phone with me.” Stress-whispered the boy, whose soft brown eyes widen in a mixed plea as he hands over his smartphone to the headmaster. The man gracefully picks it up, especially if you consider his golden talons, and takes a quick look through the information.

Gliocas continues to examine the part where the title [Card] is located. Aside from the card, featuring a horned boy with green-tinted black thorns and Riddle’s face, both scribbled and illuminated in a cartoonish style, other cards are either black out or distorted like a children’s horror art. He gently pokes it, with the bare tip of his little finger, and watches as the card glows up before darkening into the shape of dripping liquidness. A name starts forming, that something resembles a horn, curling and curling until it looks real enough to cast a faint shadow on the dark floor. Stretching and stretching and-

Gliocas smudges his fingers together. The card obediently retreats, curling inward like a sleeping dragon, and the name fades away like smoke.

Hm. I nky.

“You must have come from another world!”

“Another… world?”

The boy tilts his head, the bang that covers half of his face slides down to reveal an eerily glowing yellow eye. Like a man on a mission, or perhaps a child obsessive over its new toy, he keeps poking all over the screen and observes the way the ink gently clings to his fingertip before retreating back to the card. Gliocas wonders what would happen if he just let all the ink materialize, and then a soft choked noise behind him reminds him that he is not alone. 

Before Yuuya quietly chides himself for losing grip on his emotion - he is not a child anymore, freaking out in a place where he doesn’t belong never helps - a gloved hand pops up at the corner of his sight and takes his attention. Puzzled, and almost relieved from the distraction, the boy looks up and finds himself staring at a pair of heterochromia eyes.

“You’re distressed.” Spoke Gliocas with his soft, airy voice. Behind them, Crowley suddenly halts from his dramatic show and becomes very still, golden eyes staring intensely at the side of the child’s face (his fae blood is singing like tomorrow would never come).

“I- I’m sorry.” Yuuya babbles, shuddering a little when a sudden chill runs up his spine. “I didn’t mean to ignore you- ah, but sir, about staying here…”

Gliocas stops the boy again by holding out his hand again. This time, there is a small sugarcube right in the middle of his palm, sitting innocently and strangely delicious-looking.

“Sugar helps,” He continues, stopping for a while and blinking very slowly. It’s supposed to, according to the very neat handwritten notes in the book that he has studied before the countdown in that place drops down to 0. “with anxiety. Maybe.”

Maybe it’s because the sugarcube looks really delicious under the soft light of the office, or maybe it’s because of Gliocas's stoic yet so tender face, Yuuya eventually accepts with a bow and a hesitant smile. It grows a little more genuine when the sweetness blooms on his tongue, and the poor boy finds himself relaxing with the help of such gentle kindness.

( Does he know about fae’s milk and flowers and droplets of honey? Whispered the Voice, whispered the Wind, whispered the Earth and whispered the Fire. Does he taste the sweetness of our Queen Bee and shivers? Does he know? Does he know how heavy the love of our Child weighs?

The wind outside halts, gently pushing through the gaps between window glasses before letting out a weary sigh. Crowley’s talons twitch, but he doesn’t move before the wind leaves.

Oh, but it’s already too late, isn’t it. )

“Thank you. I’m sorry, I freak out and waste your time right…”

“I have all the time in the world,” Gliocas murmurs, then remembering all the waffles and candies in [Storage] “and all the sweets too.”

Yuuya giggles.

Crowley doesn’t smile. Even when he turns around and pulls Yuuya towards the building where he is going to stay, the bold curve on his lips is as fake as the promise hung on his tongue. The newly-sorted Diasomnia wants to believe that his own smile is a better one, yet he has seen that cold, sharp upturn of thin lips in the mirror too many times to pretend. So Gliocas simply waves at the boy, attempting to ignore how the headmaster keeps staring at him even when the door is closed, and returns to look at the [Card].

He ponders, and then he doesn’t.

Let’s save it for another day.

Now…

Where is Diasomnia supposed to locate anyway?

As the mirror ripples and kisses the shoulder of Sleigh Beggey with one more prayer, the night of the valley opens its wide mouth and waits with an aching pulse under every step that Gliocas takes. 

Elegantly and inevitably, Gliocas crosses the distance between him and the gate in just a few quick steps. 

Then, the card inside his [Card] rings out a soft, lonely tune.

“I don’t recognize you.” Said someone in the shadow. Gliocas doesn’t bother to turn, but as the card wiggles again, he thinks he already knows who is behind him.

Still, before the voice can vocalize their frustration (or maybe curiosity) at his sheer audacity, the boy tilts his head in a soft greeting.

(I have your name smudged under my hands)

“Greetings, do you know the way to the fresh years' room?”

A pause, gently startled, as bright green eyes stare at the straight back of someone he doesn’t know yet recognize with his very soul, the soft cacophony his magic brings to this land. Eyes meet eyes, and the pull deep inside him seems to grow to the point of irresistibility.

He takes one step forward. Gliocas stays still and tilts his head like an owl.

Behind them, the ancient walls of Diasomnia holds its breath at the sight of the knot of fate.

“I do,” Said Malleus, slightly baffled yet already looking charmed for no reason. “Are you the new student that Lilia has spoken of?”

“I think I am,” hummed Gliocas. “or maybe I’m not. This one can be both and neither. Anyway, do you mind leading the way?”

(I have your name carved in ink)

Starved of companion, the fae turns to look at the child whose existence already fuels and pushes at the boundary of his kind’s nature. Demanding of love, with full honey to give. Tempted, the dragon heart of his sings and preens, giving in to the greed inside. 

Inside him lives a heart so tender, the soft curve of the Sleigh Beggy’s features seems almost unbearably light on the weightness of his name.

(Lilia has prayed that his prince would not get to meet the Child of Night. That the child he has raised and loved would not get his heart tangled in the velvet web stringed by the mortal-yet-not stealthy lies. Because all man does is lie, all Bee does is wait, and all Fae does is fall. 

The ancient faes, beings who live and fade away when Lilia hasn’t even existed, have passed down stories and stories of the Slay Vega. Of how they wither to bring them love, of how they crave the taste of the Child’s magic until they abandon their own kind to follow, and how they bow to every lie and every promise.

Malleus is brave, Malleus is strong.

But Malleus is young, terribly young (years of love crushed under the weight of True Iron). So young, so emptied of love that Lilia could not fill no matter how hard he has sworn and how much he has prayed under the name of Meleanor and Revan. 

Someone like Malleus can not escape the forming bond bloomed just from the sight of that Slay Vega, and the sheer power of that attachment alone could spell doom to them all.

Nothing good comes with a Beloved Child.

He has attempted to lure Malleus away, to wring a little disappointment inside his heart and let him throw his tantrum in the solitary that his room can offer. He has tried, and then he has prayed.

He should have known that fate has never been kind to him.)

Malleus makes a final step, letting the moonlight illuminating the shrouded cloak of the strange human, and smiles.

“Of course. Follow my lead, Child of Night.”

(Inside [Card], the card shivers and trembles until the curve of a genuine smile cuts its way through the face of the avatar.

A fae’s love would always be eternal.)

Chapter Text

The clock remains the same as the days before everything - the needle still points close to the number 12, but never manages to truly reach it.

Gliocas takes his time, mainly because curiosity is something the boy has always tended after like a cat following the little bird with unholy glee in its mind. He lets his eyes wander, from the bunch of notebooks scattered on the table to the wall carved with decorative shapes that radiate an elegance ripping out from the line of old history to crawl all over this place. He stands up, the chair groans loudly against the dusty floor, and goes straight towards the stair to observe its aching bend when Gliocas puts his foot down on the wooden steps. There are various shapes of stains that smell rottenly sweet - blood and old corpses, he supposes, but overall, the place still looks functionable.

That, and it looks vastly different compared to the room he has been given in Diasomnia.

Gliocas hums and walks back, crossing his legs until his sitting posture returns to its proper and prim stage. He also ignores the way his chair slightly bends - as long as it holds, this little trouble is trivial.

The notebook in front of him begins to flip, page to page. At the corner of his eyes, the number begins to drop again. 

Ding dong dong.

The school holds a talk about schedules and rules among the classrooms on the next day, featuring mainly the freshmen and some other older students as an additional guidance alongside the staff. 

Malleus has informed Gliocas about the gathering when he finds the boy sitting in the garden outside of Diasomnia. Gliocas runs his fingers through the rough bark, feeling the rough cherry tree leaning down and sweetly offer him their gentle shadow under thousands of fresh green leaves. 

“It is an important meeting.” The dragon fae says, no accusation in his voice as he stands, pointed finger against well-defined jaw. 

“Not that important,” Gliocas mumbles, remembering the little scribbles from a notebook under the possession of someone whose first name starts with I - or he thinks so. “It is what it is. If I don’t find it, I will wander. Not all those wander are lost.”

Malleus nods sagely in agreement with his words. Gliocas looks up, calmly as if the looming figure of the other is not intimidating at all. Something tickles on his shoulder, sweetness of hawthorn, and it is a fact that he temporarily ignores.

He is a Sleigh Beggy - spirits and faes are not the worst things he has encountered. In fact, the boy has long learned the lesson of soothing them with honey and milk. 

When the dragon fae keeps standing there without showing intention of leaving. Gliocas pats the empty place next to him. The boy’s face blooms into a bright smile, painting his royal cheekbones a soft rosy hue and softening the sharp edge into something lovingly childish. 

Dragon is very eager to sing when someone is willing to listen, Gliocas remembers. When Malleus starts telling him about the gargoyles, he thinks that person is quite correct.

“It is not similar to the Victiorian-style gargoyle back in the Ramshackle dorm,” Mumbled Malleus as he caresses the stony wings of the statue. “A tragedy, I would say. But understandable, because those are so rare that it surprises me greatly when I come across it - an absolute beauty under moonlight night.”

“I would love to see.” He tells him, stroking the Hawthorn Spirit that has moved from his shoulder down to his lap. 

Malleus looks so happy he could burst. He stares at the gleaming green eyes for a second, then hands the boy a little candy stick in his pocket - lime green and shaped like a little seahorse. If it’s possible, the other’s smile becomes even brighter.

He must be very lonely.

( He is, he is. Whispered the Wind. 

He is, he is. Whispered the trees. Little dragon, share fire with none and fly with none. )

He used to be lonely too, though Gliocas. A long, long time ago, but that bitter taste still lingers on his memory, like fungus. So, when Malleus turns around, the boy finds his lips curled up softly in a poor upturn that looks more mocking than comforting. Gliocas hands him another candy.

As both of them sit there on the field of grass like it’s a throne, Gliocas thinks back to the pocket filled with seeds that is specifically meant for a Sleigh Beggy like him, groomed to absorb and blooms into a crystal-like flower that all the fae craves after. It has been a while since he grew a new batch, but all one needs is a reason.

Hours later, when the dorm is filled up with people again, Gliocas feels eyes on his back. Heavy looks, filled with grim feelings and a presence not particularly pleasant. It’s not something unfamiliar to him, and not very unnerving compared to his past experience, but Gliocas does turn around a little bit to meet those eyes. 

Smoldering scarlet. Auroral lilac. Feverish, striking green. 

The shortest among them, chopped bangs and a somber expression that is not a frown yet so firm and grim it feels exactly like one.

The tallest, with gritted teeth, almost stomps over. A mark of anger pulses atop of his forehead, but the silver one holds him tightly and forces him to stay still. 

Gliocas turns around. He spares them none second though as the clock strikes its telltale sound in time with the rising sun of lunch. He is not hungry, but flavor is something he loves to put on his tongue.

“That human- who is he, approaching waka-sama like that-”

“Sebek, do not make a scene." Silver states, even if his fingers curl tight enough to draw blood. "Attacking someone without reason would bring nothing good, and we could risk upsetting our prince.”

“Silver is right, Sebek,” Lilia gravely states. “It’s best that we keep our eyes from far away.”

It’s such a frightening feeling, the moment Lilia spots those two walking side by side into the dorm. He has never seen Malleus like that before - at least since the moment his draconic prince starts growing up forty years ago. People would waste time trying to get close to the prince, and yet this Slay Vega only needs barely a day to get Malleus smiling so brightly at his words.

An unsettling emotion starts taking place inside his heart, rotten and then grows feverishly until it chokes him breathless.

The boy’s solemn gray eye meets Lilia, and he couldn’t help but smile his sharpest grin - all teeth and no happiness. And despite baring no fangs, the upturn curve of the boy’s thin lips glim sharper than any daggers he has faced.

This is a fight he doesn’t know how to win, a war he knows no way to conquer.

The forest is lovely and dark, even before the sun sets its food at the horizon line.

It’s supposed to be off limits, but the beckon thrill of the spirits and those who fly without feathers sounds too sweet and longing in Gliocas’s ears for him to reject. 

( Yes, yes, yes. Begged the horse that walks on water, begged the shadow that lurks in the makeshift grave, begged the forgotten ones who have never let go. Let us have you, let us know your name and know ours in response.

Is this world having a problem with talking patronizingly over absolutely everything and nothing , thought Gliocas unapologetically despite being the epitome of cryptid himself.)

Still, he takes advantage of the forest’s solitariness to poke and examine the blue screen that Gliocas has decided to call [Game] , because it has the system and looks exactly like something designed to raise thirst and cause addiction. 

Then he stops, and stares at the card.

The face of Malleus has changed - certainly, the avatar didn’t smile like that when he first obtained it from the [Game] .

How… interesting.

And then, a scream at the other side of the forest cuts through the air.

( Mourning . The Hawthorne bristles, shuffling on top of his head and shaking their lovely red fruits. Mourning, mourning, mourning. )

When Gliocas arrives, he is greeted by the scene of a cat standing on its hind legs. Screaming. And three boys. Also screaming. With pieces of broken cauldron spreading on the floor, glistening with sharp edges. Screaming again. Some blood on their faces. Stones. Has he mentioned screaming?

So he waits, politely, until the shortest among them with a face he somehow recognizes puts his hands up and manages to silence them all.

“Hello,” Gliocas says, gently without spreading his arms like a fake cheery man. Ah, screaming. “Please stop screaming, you will wake things up.”

“Who the hell are you?!”

“What are you doing here?!”

“Gliocas, why are you here?”

Seven minutes and sixteen seconds later, Gliocas trails after the bunch of fresh years while listening to Yuuya’s soft murmuring in a quick attempt to summarize everything. Being a janitor, cleaning the statues, meeting the boys, meeting the cat - Grim, burn the statue of queen, punishment, fighting, avoidance of punishment, break the chandelier, punishment and expulsion.

“There is a lot of breaking and burning stuff,” Gliocas nods when Yuuya finishes, his voice so soft it could be mistaken for the airy breeze ruffling the branches above them - wait, since when was this place turned windy? “So you have decided to join hands in finding this magestone to avoid expulsion?”

“Yes.”

“Not join hands?! What the hell man, you make it sound so gross.”

“I’m definitely not holding this dude’s hands!”

“Nyaaa!”

Yuuya burries his face in his hands. Gliocas hands him another sugarcube.

“You will manage.”

“So, you’re that dude who knows Old Trade that everyone has been talking about?” 

“I suppose I am,” He blinks and speaks, sugar-sweet honey dripping from his words. “May I have your name?”

The gingerhead jumps, a look of wariness crosses his face. Interestingly, the children of this world are very well guarded against old age. Or perhaps they are just not familiar with strangers being so straightforward. 

Opposite to Gliocas, something tucks at Ace’s heart as he peers deep in the strange boy’s stormy eye. With that hairstyle, the boy is supposed to look like some edgy lord that screams at the world’s unfairness and swears vengeance on things out of his control. Yet somehow, he holds himself with such audacity and shines in a way glass and apple do; with fake delicateness and ripening sweetness that promises an ungodly death on the very first bite.

Gliocas hums when the card with the ‘Ace of Heart’ gleams softly with his question, then the box where the name of card locates  immediately darkens with his next words.

“What should I call you then?”

“He is Ace Trappola,” Yuuya pipes in, willing to help and unconsciously eager to pay back the kindness that Gliocas has shown him the day before. “The blue-haired is Deuce Spade, and the monster calls himself Grim.”

“I’m The Great Grim, and don’t you forget that human!”

“Gliocas Winterre,” He answers. Then,“Should I ask for the name of that shadow at the end of the road too?”

“NYAAAAAA!”

“ACE! QUICK, QUICK!”

Hawthorne giggles loudly. On the biggest branch, someone splits out a cackle so sharp it might deafen everyone. Of course, only if they could hear it.

Gliocas slides backward to the nearest tree and hums when the glass-looking monster scrambling over with its unholy screaming. The ink inside sloshes around, threatening to spill, but he is not sure if that thing has anything left inside to pour down on the world’s greedy demand. 

Standing this close, the screech sounds more like a banshee’s howl than a crow’s war cry.

The ground shakes in response, and perhaps the mourned souls are still waiting.

The fire from the final combined move does look beautiful, Gliocas will say. Fickle and instead, just like magic. He wants to put it in his mouth and feels it melt down to a crumbling candle. 

Someone else cackles. The Will-O-Wisp certainly appreciates a show of blue fire.

Like a woman on a mission, with a glistening crown lying on top of his scarlet hair and an endless amount of rage burns in his eyes, Riddle Roseheart cuts through the students’ loud cheering and closes his guillotine around their skinny throats. Gliocas leans a little forward, and is somehow disappointed that there is no blood.

It must be more on the magical side than physical, then.

He watches as the Housewarden, alongside a green-haired boy and an orange one, takes the ‘criminals’ back to Heartslabyul. 

( Would he taste like the rose, Gliocas asks the Hawthorne.

Rotten rose tastes foul, Hawthorne replies with wild giddiness.

I have his name in my hands, he chirps and feels the forest sighs in fond nostalgia. The card quivers.)

“Take this back to the headmaster,” Gliocas steps out when Yuuya steals a nervous look at the open mouth of the pitch black mine, holding a glistening stone in his palm.

“Nyaa? Where do you get that?!”

“Gliocas- Oh!”

 “This one’s light is not the brightest, but it would be enough to light your way,” He murmurs, placing the magestone in Yuuya’s hand. The sharp edge presses against humane skin, but remains a comforting coldness that doesn’t cut - it wouldn’t dare to. “You should return, the forest doesn’t have that much patience. There is more than one hungry thing in this place.”

Grim nods at that, shouting about how he is hungry too, but Yuuya has a feeling that Gliocas is not directly talking about that kind of hunger.

Wisely, the boy doesn't ask anymore question and let himself being gently pushed by a very firm hand on his shoulder.

Is human supposed to be so cold?

When the boy and the cat have disappeared into the safe path, the groaning behind Gliocas intensifies.

Mere stones and ground can not contain a rotten soul that has forgotten its way to salvation.

“Are you frothing at the taste of divinity, when your own Lord has forsaken you?” Gliocas clips out, purely curious, as the monster rises and claws its way out of the pile of rocks that Ace and Deuce have tried to trap it under. 

The thing groans and sobs. There is ink dropping on the ground, but it doesn’t come from the monster’s aching heart - placed on top of its head, that’s why it could not think. Because the heart is not designed for thinking, it’s for love. And love will fuel rage.

The scream that the monster unleashes is filled with despair. A kind of unholy, raw terror that rattles one deep to their core, changing them forever, but not because it wants to live. Maybe it’s the opposite. But the same kind of desperation that one might carry to commit the worst crime of humanity- simply because they want to .

Gliocas hums and smudges his fingers together. Ink spills more and more. In front of him, the card begins to shine. Behind him, the forest begins to sing.

Shadow pours. Ink morphs and splatters the ground, tainting it until the night looks dull pale compared to whatever it’s surrounding Gliocas. Then it changes. It twists and it crumbles, as the card disappears fully. Shapes of thorn. Shape of horn.

The shape of a being, who has sung Gliocas the tale of ancient gargoyles which were dedicated solely to being the guard of the holy one.

It fits , thought the boy, as Malleus Draconia - just not the one he has talked to but still the very being himself - takes form in front of him and grins with rage in his toxic eyes. And when the man (the soul doesn’t lie, even when his flesh smells rottenly sweet of ink) tears the beast apart with a single wave of his hand, Gliocas smudges his fingers again and watches his face melt like black candle with a softer final smile towards him.

(So this is why the card demands Gliocas to have someone’s name, with two exceptions that must be a pride from the holy God to lure him into being addicted like every mortal has fallen, because the card is very unholy.)

Gliocas looks at the sky. And then at the card. The one with Malleus’s face has faded into a dull green, like it needs time to charge, but the other card of Riddle’s infamous scowl is still fresh and bright like crayon marks.

Curiosity kills the cat, and satisfaction will bring it back, after all.