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Chapter Text

Prologue

Snezhnaya — The Ninth Depth Research Sector

The glass had not yet thawed.

Frost clung to the sarcophagus like it was afraid of what slept inside — thin crystalline veins webbed across the curve of the capsule, framing the silhouette within like a reliquary. Light from the hastily placed control panels flickered in the dark, cold chamber, reflecting a dim blue sheen off metal, ice, and the mask of the man who stood before it.

The Capitain had not moved in twenty-one minutes.

Not since most others had finally left for the day—the researchers, the technicians, the low-ranked diplomats who whispered as if afraid the woman stuck behind the frost might hear them. Even they had begun to realize that this wasn’t just another excavation. This was something older. Intentionally buried. Something that stared back.

Pantalone stayed the longest.

He moved with calm, deliberate elegance — fingers laced behind his back, the fur lining of his coat gliding softly across the frozen floor. His breath fogged against the glass of the flowing capsule as he leaned close, studying your form with the thinly-veiled hunger of a man appraising a priceless artifact at an auction. Not a word escaped him for a long while.

Then, as if speaking to no one in particular, he began.

“How long did you know she was here?” he asked, voice quiet and composed. “Was it before you joined the Harbingers? Or after?”

Capitano gave no reply. Not even a shift of his stance.

His colleague exhaled softly, eyes still fixed on the frost that clung to your collarbone. “You know, most men simply lie or avoid the question when they’re hiding something. You… simply say nothing at all.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Impressive. Maddening, but impressive.”

Before Capitano could respond — not that he intended to — the metallic doors hissed open again.

Dottore entered like a gust of wind laced with rot.

His coat trailed behind him in violent folds, the air itself seeming to recoil at his arrival. His boots clicked across the floor, deliberate and sharp, echoing too loudly in the chamber. The moment he saw the ancient capsule, he stilled — and for once, his silence felt… reverent.

Then came the grin. Crooked. Bright. Deranged. The captain couldn't help but scoff.

“Well, well,” he murmured, stepping closer with the giddy focus of a child in a toy shop, ignoring the blatant scoff at his arrival. “They said it was a female body, but this…”

He touched the capsule—bare fingertips pressed to the ice—and let out a laugh, soft and breathless.

“She’s exquisite. Preserved perfectly. Look at the skin integrity. Not even Khaenri’ah’s strongest descendants could manage this level of stasis. Fascinating.” His head tilted towards the first of the harbingers in a mocking gesture. Capitano remained silent, though his jaw locked beneath the mask.

“She’ll be useful,” Dottore mused, more to himself than to anyone else. “If the memory centers are intact, I may even get a complete neurological map. Perhaps she remembers the fall. The gods. The gates… I wonder what the shades would do where they to find out someone escaped punishment..” He trailed off, eyes flicking over to Capitano. “Tell me, Captain. Did you seal her yourself?”

Capitano still didn’t answer.

Unbothered, Dottore tapped impatiently on the glass — once, twice — as if the exsessive knocking would stir you from your ancient sleep.

“She’s too beautiful to dissect outright, of course,” he added almost absentmindedly. “Would be a shame to ruin such artistry before I can replicate it.”

Pantalone’s voice came quiet behind Capitano — closer now, almost gentle.

“Strange, isn’t it?” he murmured. “You, of all people… withholding information.”

He didn’t wait for a reply — he never needed one. The way he spoke now was less accusation, more… autopsy. “Not just omissions, either. Active misdirection. Fabricated terrain logs. Doctored leyline feedback. You led us in circles for days.” He smiled faintly, almost apologetically. “I had to authorize a second audit just to keep the board quiet. They think you’re compromised, you know.”

He stepped around slowly, until his eyes met the frost-covered capsule.

“She’s not in any known database. No combat record. No alias. Not even a footnote in our found Khaenri’ahn archives. Which begs the question…” He turned his gaze back to Capitano, voice softening further. “Why did you remember her?”

The silence stretched for just a few seconds.

“I’ve watched you for years. You don’t make careless choices. So whatever she was to you… it had to matter.” He let the silence draw long, as if in mourning. “Was it personal, then? Some forgotten vow? Or just guilt, tucked away like all your other ghosts?”

Another pause.

“Tell me, Capitano. Did you bury her to protect her from the heavens…” A step closer. “Or from something else?”

The silence trembled—like iron under heat. The stillness of a man who had spent centuries suppressing a scream. Dottore, now crouching slightly to peer into the capsule’s lower panel, chuckled.

“She won’t remember him, you know,” he said idly. “People never do after cryogenic entombment. The brain turns to honey without anchor points. She’ll be a blank slate. I’ll enjoy carving something new into her.”

Capitano’s hand shifted—barely—a fractional tightening at his side.

No one noticed.

Not when Dottore was already lost in feverish muttering about spinal nerve preservation, and Pantalone was back to circling the chamber, murmuring projections and risk assessments to himself.

He hadn’t meant to feel anything.

Not after all this time. Not after all these centuries of duty, of burying the name he once had, the voice he once spoke with, the man he once was. And yet—

There he was again. Putting you in a grander danger than you could possibly imagine for the second time.

Your face.

Eyes closed. Skin flawless and untouched by time. Hair frozen over, unmoving yet looking effortlessly soft still like strands of woven silk. 

You hadn’t changed. Not at all.

And that was the worst part.

Because he had.

He had changed. 

Maybe ‘change’ wasn't even the right word for it anymore. 

He had made the choice to seal you — not to save Khaenri’ah, not in service of the gods, but for something far less noble.

Something unbearably human.

Selfish. Fragile. Weak.

You had been too brilliant, too rare — a living flame in a city already dimming. You weren’t meant to be swallowed by the tide of oblivion that consumed the rest of them. And so, in the end, he did the only thing he could: he preserved you. Hid you from the heavenly principles themselves. Buried you beneath a glacier where time would forget your name, where no one would ever reach you.

“It’s better you sleep than suffer,” he’d whispered then, as the skies tore open and monsters poured down in misplaced judgment.

“You were never meant to carry this curse of immortality.”

But even as he sealed the chamber, even as the frost crept over your skin and your breath stilled, he had already begun to doubt himself.

And now that doubt was all that remained.

He never should’ve mentioned you.

It had been just 2 weeks ago, during a rare moment of stillness — one of those long, suffocating strategy briefings where even the most disciplined minds grew weary. A colleague had made some throwaway remark about ancient ley line pulses near the uncharted glacial rifts. Capitano, tired and unguarded, had muttered something beneath his breath.

A name. A warning. A place he hadn’t spoken of in centuries.

It was barely a whisper. He hadn’t even realized he’d said it aloud.

But that cursed Doctor heard.

Curiosity sparked. Dottore latched on like a predator scenting blood. Pantalone quietly diverted funds to an expedition. What should have remained sealed — sacred — was turned into a project.

He hadn’t meant for them to find you. Tried desperately and rather crudely to derail them to anything else that wasn't you.

But he and he alone had led them there anyway.

With nothing but a careless word and a name he wasn’t supposed to remember.

Now here you were. Surrounded by monsters wearing human faces.

Capitano had sealed you away to save you from a world on fire.

Now he had handed you to the ones who lit the match.

A sudden hiss of hydraulics sliced through the stillness.

The capsule stirred.

Capitano’s hand moved to his sword by instinct — not for fear, but for control. It was habit. Reflex. And somewhere deep in his chest, where even the cold couldn’t reach, something old and nameless twisted sharply.

The light inside the sarcophagus shifted.

Your fingers twitched.

Then — barely — your eyes fluttered open.

And you looked at him.

Straight through the visor.

Straight through the armor.

Straight through the centuries of silence.

Like you knew.

Like you remembered.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t even if he tried.

Because how could he speak, when the most sought-after woman of a dead nation had just come back to life…

…and she was looking only at him?

Chapter Text

The sky here was always brushed in gold before dusk.

Not the cold brilliance of metal, but a gentler kind—soft as the petals of inteyvats, as fleeting as a memory once beloved and now misplaced. It never deepened into night.

Instead, it hovered, endlessly caught in the hush between yesterday and something just beyond remembering.

There was a time you had noticed the wrongness—the way the horizon never tipped into darkness, the way the hours stretched too thin to name.

But that was before forgetting became easier than questioning.

Now, it simply was.

The garden unfurled around the palace—the one etched into your memory like a birthright. Or perhaps you had stumbled upon it once, and never left. You could no longer tell.

But it was beautiful. It was always beautiful.

The marble under your feet softened into velvet moss whenever you walked barefoot, its weave threaded with faint patterns—runes you could not understand anymore but still recognized. White flowers bloomed at your passing, their hues shifting like the glint of an opal blade, strange and iridescent. They bent toward you without a breeze, petals trembling as if in prayer.

You wandered.

Through courtyards where pools of water held twin reflections of foreign constellations. Through baths carved from basalt and springstone, where the mist wound through pale, silver-leafed trees whose branches chimed when brushed. Through mirror-halls where the floors rippled like ink and the ceilings spun slow mosaics of star-charts you could not name.

In the libraries, the books called to you—heavy volumes stitched in deep blue leather, their spines etched with your name in a script both familiar and foreign. When your attention drifted, the titles shifted, rearranging themselves beneath your fingertips as if the stories had never been fixed at all. It was a bit odd at times, especially when you were reading an interesting book and suddenly the pages went white, leaving you to wonder how the stories ended. 

You found your way back to the terrace, humming something that lived deep inside your ribs—an old hymn, perhaps. Your robes trailed behind you, light as morning mist. Ivy coiled up the marble columns as you brushed past. The scent of rain clung to the air, though the stones underfoot remained dry and warm.

At the edge of the alcove, a tea set waited. Porcelain so thin it rang like crystal at your touch, fragile as they are beautiful. Steam curled from the cups in perfect, spiraling threads. You never remembered asking for it. You never needed to.

Your maid was already there.

She wore the colors of a house you had once belonged to—or maybe one that had belonged to you. Her face blurred at the edges, smoothed by your time here, but her voice reached you clearly: warm, reverent, and achingly familiar.

"Oh, my Lady," she murmured, brushing unseen dust from your sleeve. "The cold deepens. You must not go outside so lightly dressed."

You tilted your head, smiling, albeit a bit confused. She was never worried about the temperature before, so why now?

"I'm not cold," you answered.

Even when frost hung heavy in the trees. Even when the air grew sharp and brittle as spun glass. The cold never touched you here. You sat and lifted the teacup, feeling the phantom warmth bloom against your palms.

Down the long, sunlit corridor, you saw them—figures moving like slow banners in a ceremonial wind. Their robes were heavy with sigils and intricate plates of darkened metal, their heads bowed low as they passed.

You never recognised their faces.

Only the shimmer of cloth, the silent dip of reverence, the echo of something long lost.

You laughed softly, as you always did.

"No need for such formalities," you said, voice like a sigh. "We can never grow close this way."

Still, they bowed lower, deep enough that their robes touched the floor. As if your very breath was sacred. As if your name was stitched into the roots of this place, binding it to you. Yet sometimes, when you spoke—when you tried to share in their laughter, their music, their delicate ceremonies—you felt the faintest hollow catch in the air. A slight delay, a silence that clung too long before their smiles returned. As if your words passed through them, too heavy to be caught. As if you were a note from a song they had long forgotten how to sing.

It never lasted. You never let it matter. Even if you want to.

And in the quietest moments, when the gardens slept and the mirrored halls grew still, you would feel him.

The one who never bowed.

The one who never spoke.

He never drew close, and yet you felt him, undeniably—threaded through the silk veils, pooling in the corners of corridors, braided into the cool breath of the grass after rain.

A weight in the gold-washed air.

You waited for him. You always did.

..You did not know why.

When he neared, the warmth of the world grew thinner. Your skin prickled, your breath thickened; cold—an old, half-remembered cold—stirred across your skin. But it was not the chill that unsettled you most.

It was the heaviness.

In his presence, your body seemed unfamiliar—too heavy, too slow, as if you had forgotten the burden of existing. Each step dragged, each breath pulled taut like a thread straining to snap.

And somewhere deep within, a dull ache bloomed behind your eyes.

You reached for your tea again. But your hand paused.

Your breath had fogged the air.

You blinked.

That wasn't right.

The sky above the terrace still glowed gold—but the warmth was gone. You looked down. The moss between the marble had turned grey, edges rimmed in white. The porcelain cup in your hand had stopped steaming.

You frowned. The maid beside you didn’t move.

“…You're right, it's.. cold” You said softly, but your voice sounded distant now. Fainter.

Your maid didn’t speak again. Not even when you reached out to touch her. Not even when you asked her. Not even when her outline began to dissolve—slowly, like snow melting in reverse, edges fraying into particles of light.

“It’s cold,” you whispered again, as if saying it would fix something in your dazed state. But the alcove around you had gone silent. Her figure flickered at the edges—just for a moment—as though someone had drawn her with a brush and was now trying to erase her.

The wind shifted.

A single leaf lifted from the terrace stones.

It curled mid-air, trembling, then froze—suspended in place, crystallized into a sliver of ice that caught the dying gold light.

The hair at your nape rose.

You stepped back from the alcove.

The ivy, once pliant and green, cracked beneath your fingertips like brittle glass.

The walls—the endless, living halls—had fallen silent. No song from unseen instruments, no distant steps, no birds.

The air itself pulled taut, as if something heavy had settled beneath the surface of your world, warping it from within.

You crossed into the courtyard, ignoring the way your body felt sluggish.

And the sky..

For the first time…

It darkened.

  …..

What?

You blinked hard, trying to clear the distortion creeping across your vision, but the haze only thickened. Reality shifted in ripples, bleeding the gold from the sky until frost-blue shadows pooled in its wake. Ice sheets fully covered the garden now—devouring the trees, creeping like veins beneath their bark, cracking and snapping branches with brittle, quiet cruelty.

A strange scent coiled around you, sharp and acrid—no longer jasmine but something burned, metallic, and inherently wrong. It clawed at the back of your throat, an invisible bitterness that tightened your chest.

Your pulse quickened as your head spun, dizzy with something more than confusion—a nauseating blend of wonder and unease, an ache of half-remembered sensations that your mind refused to name as all your senses seemed to triple.

And then true cold struck, sudden and vicious, slicing straight through your bare soles.

You flinched violently, gasping as the marble terrace beneath your feet fractured with a sound like splintering glass. Instinctively, you staggered backward, heart jolting into your throat, but the floor had already betrayed you. The tiles splintered apart, webbed with frost, slick and merciless beneath your skin as they slid you unbalanced forward. You fell sharply, your hip and shoulder slamming against the icy stone, sending a shockwave of pain jolting through your body—real pain, clear and unforgiving, forcing air from your lungs in a ragged exhale.

For a long, stunned moment you lay still, eyes wide, staring at cracks spiraling outward, fracturing endlessly across your vision. Your breath fogged visibly, drifting in thin, trembling plumes toward a sky that now seemed impossibly distant.

Slowly, cautiously, you moved your hand, fingertips brushing ice so cold it burned, so tangible it hurt. Your skin tingled with the rawness of sensation, every nerve reawakening in tiny bursts of clarity, unfamiliar and overwhelming.

You swallowed oddly, throwing you into a coughing fit, body trembling with an awareness that felt both new and indescribably ancient, profound and so terrifyingly fragile.

You raised your head—

—and saw him.

The blurry man with the long black hair, distant yet immense, standing beyond the frozen sky, motionless against the fractured atmosphere. A shadow cut from the bones of the heavens themselves.

He had never appeared this obvious and clear before.

You turned—slowly now, as your brain pretty much turned to autopilot. The garden that once curved so gently into the horizon had flattened as the cracks fractured the air itself.

You stumbled back—still only confused, not afraid. How could you be afraid in your own beautiful garden? When was the last time you even felt afraid?

And yet—your bare feet, once cushioned by moss, now met cold ice. This cold was the kind that bit. That ached. That hurt.

You gasped—

Wait.

Gasped?

You finally realised something.

Your own breath—real. Ragged.

How long had you been holding it? Had you even known you were breathing before now? How are you supposed to breathe air in the first place?

Another sharp wind tore across the garden, rising from nowhere like a brewing storm overseas.

It sliced through your silk robes like paper, caught your hair and snapped it across your face—wild, stinging, blocking your sight clumsily. You reached up to catch it, fingers fumbling—

But they wouldn’t move.

Stiff. Frozen. Not from fear. From cold.

A crashing sound split the air behind you.

Low. Mechanical. Like a great machine exhaling something it shouldn’t.

The ground pulsed beneath your feet.

Not like magic. Not like memory.

Like metal. Like something real.

And in that moment—

The world—your world, shattered completely.

Ice.

Thick, unrelenting walls of it.

Fractured light shining through frost. The cold pouring into your lungs, your joints, your very soul. It crawled across your skin, into your nerves, into the place where you once kept dreams.

And in the ceiling of ice he still stood there. More prominent than ever before. That same silhouette now hidden behind thick layers of ancient ice.

The one you’d only ever glimpsed in reflections. In half-open doors. In the shadows you couldn’t chase fast enough.

Always distant. Always out of reach.

Now, behind the walls of ice, as machinery groaned and the heat of an unusual flame spilled into the cold, he was the only thing that didn’t completely blur.

Still. Tall. Watching.

The ice cracked like thunder. A groan of shattering cracks followed. Cold air surged in from above, sharp as a blade drawn in reverence. And then—light. Blinding. White. It slammed into your retinas like punishment you didn't know you deserved, blinding you completely. You recoiled without knowing how, breath catching in a throat not used in centuries.

You collapsed forward as the world cracked apart beneath you, limbs stiff, too heavy to catch yourself.

Your knees struck something hard and a shock of impact rattled up your spine.

Under your palms, something wet splashed—a slick, too-warm liquid that clung to your skin. Frost. Blood. Something else. You couldn’t tell. Your head swam.

The air was a poison on your tongue—sharp, metallic, burning.

You gagged on the taste of copper and fumes, the stench of scorched alchemy.

"Stabilize the base!"

A voice, cutting through the haze—sharp, thrilled, furious.

"Do you want her spine to snap, you incompetent little—GET OUT!"

You tried to recoil when a hand brushed your shoulder—a simple contact, but it felt like fire lancing through your nerves, unbearable and alien. Your skin flinched without your permission, body jerking instinctively away from the foreign sensation.

The touch vanished almost immediately, followed by a sharp slap and another barked command:

"Don't touch her unless I say so! You're unearthing living history—Mmh, look at this preservation—"

Shapes blurred around you, then one crystallized into focus.

A man approached, his steps so deliberate they barely disturbed the brittle air.

He wore a long white coat, sharp and pristine, layered over a deep blue shirt and a dark cravat that fluttered faintly with his movements. Draped across his shoulders was a raven-like mantle, feathers black and stitched with threads that caught the cold light in flickers of electric blue.

Small ornaments glowed softly at his chest and along the cord slung from his shoulder—each pulse of light reflecting off the intricate goldfastenings of his belt and armor. Black gloves sheathed his hands, the palms lined with faint blue, and his boots and loose dark pants gave him the silhouette of a figure armored for something far crueler than battle.

His face was only half-hidden.

A pointed, beak-shaped black mask veiled his eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaving the lower half of his face bare to show a deranged smile.

Wide, bright, too sharp around the edges—like a boy grinning at a cruel secret, or a scholar on the brink of dissection.

It was wrong. Terrifying in its sincerity.

Silver-blue hair spilled messily from beneath the mask, like frost beneath a dead sun.

He didn’t walk so much as glide forward, an elegant, predatory momentum radiating from every movement—as if gravity bent to him, not the other way around.

When he crouched beside you, it was with the awful grace of something patient, practiced, and disturbingly eager—like a hand reaching into the shell of a half-formed thing, curious to see if it still remembered how to breathe. His gaze raked across you, slow and reverent.

You felt the weight of his attention as surely as if he had placed his hands directly on your skin. It pressed against your ribs, your throat, thick and suffocating.

Inside your mind, fragmented thoughts sputtered to life—sluggish, disoriented, struggling for coherence as your brain still figured out how to breathe normally.

Where am I—?

What is happening—?

..

Why does everything hurt—?

Why—why—why—

Your body answered before your mind could with shudders, with the blind instinct to recoil, to run—except your limbs no longer remembered how.

“I want her prepped for relocation immediately. Oxygen chamber sealed, cerebral interface ready. If I see one more assistant touching her without gloves I’ll have their hands—”

A pause.

“Actually… I might let you keep them as mementos.”

You wanted to speak. To ask where you were. What this was. Who they were and why you even existed. 

But your voice cracked in your throat like old stone. No sound came. Only air. Dry and shallow. And then you felt it—an instinct more than anything. That cold, grounding sense of a presence you've been trying to pinpoint.

You turned your head—painfully, slowly—and saw him. Finally.

The one figure who hadn’t moved.

The only thing that hadn’t changed, except for the clearness.

You could finally see him.

Tall. Unflinching. Armor dark as basalt. His mask unfamiliar—but his hair… that hair—

Your heart seized as one word came to mind. 

Commander… 

… 

His name danced around your chest like a war drum. Your fingers scraped the floor weakly leaving bloody trails in their wake as you tried to move toward him, to finally reach him—to maybe beg for something you didn’t yet understand. But another figure was moving now. 

Silk. Velvet. Rings.

Another man with quiet menace folded into every inch of him.

He moved like a secret too elegant to confess—deliberate, graceful, and cold. Midnight blues shimmered beneath the fur-lined mantle draped over his shoulders, a glint of gem-cut glass and enameled metal winking at his collar like an accusation. His gloves were dark and immaculate, his fingers adorned with ornate rings that caught the light like baring teeth.

He didn’t look at you the way the creepy scholar did. No, this one didn’t gawk. Didn’t leer.

He looked like he already owned you.

Like he had read your name in a ledger long before you'd ever drawn breath. And had been waiting patiently to collect.

His hair—black, falling in rich, deliberate waves over his shoulder—shimmered faintly in the sterile light. A few strands curled at his temple, framing sharp eyes behind delicate wire glasses. Eyes that looked oddly kind.

“Now this,” he said smoothly, approaching, “is a complication.”

His voice was soft and smooth like a silk blade, almost fond in its curiosity. He shot a sharp look at the silver–blue haired male and crouched just enough to reach your level, the fabric of his coat pooling around him like shadows.

“You’re more alert than I expected. Curious.”

His gaze dragged over your face, slow and thorough, as though committing it to memory—and inventory. 

“Can you understand me?”

You just stared at him.

He frowned. “Mm. Not quite awake yet, are we?”

You tried to look past him, not even thinking about giving the stranger any awknoligement and tried to look around the man with the velvet voice and the quiet smile. But he shifted, just slightly—enough to block your line of sight again. 

His gloved fingers rose, one hand resting lightly near your temple—pretending to check your orientation, your awareness. In truth, it kept you still. Kept your attention on him.

“Mmh,” he murmured, studying the tremor of your breath with too much interest. “That’s better.”

You didn’t know this man. But his voice was like glass stirred through honey—clever, soft, and sharp in ways you didn’t understand. He was inviting, the heat coming off his hands a welcome change.

Still, your eyes flicked to the side as you tilted your head again to look past the one before you.

Drawn back to him.

The only silhouette that didn’t move with either panic, hunger or haste. The one you knew. And the man in velvet saw it. His gaze didn’t follow yours.

“Huh,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So it was him, after all.”

He turned his head—casually, lazily—toward the armored figure in the back of the room.

“You always did have a gift for silence. But even I didn’t think you could keep this beauty buried for years on end.” A beat. “It’s impressive.” He clicked his tongue, moving his finger in front of your eye as you follow it without thought.

Then, more softly: “Though it annoys me much more.”

You blinked slowly, still dazed, still frozen in your own limbs.

Velvet’s voice dropped just a fraction.

“I suppose you remember him,” he said, watching your expression closely as he offered you a warm smile. “Some old history between you, perhaps?" His fingers brushed your chin before softly trailing your right cheek. "An old lover? I'm not too sure, my dearest colleague has never been fond of sharing his secrets.”

You didn’t answer. Not like you could anyway. But you gave up on trying to look at the man and closed your eyes, enjoying the warmth pooling out of the males fingers.

“I guess that doesn't matter anymore.” 

His smile closed and widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. Behind you, metal clattered—equipment being readied by the Doctor’s agitated aides. They’d started preparing things, messing with bulky machines you didn't understand, muttering about bio-readouts and memory integrity.

“Bring her forward. I want full neuro-mapping before she passes out,” the Doctor snapped. “Her nervous system is still adjusting—we don’t have long until she's unstable–”

The velvet man’s hand rose again, stalling them without a word.

A single gloved gesture.

Then, with practiced ease, he stood. And stepped aside. Not far. Just enough. Because behind him, the armored figure was already moving.

You hadn’t seen it—how he’d drifted closer with every breath. How he’d begun to position himself between you and the others without drawing attention. No words. No claims.

But when the two men locked eyes, there was an understanding.

Or challenge, you weren't sure.

“I’ll take her,” the armored man said at last—his voice low, solid as stone dragged across steel. Something about his voice stirred an ancient memory awake, yet nothing tangible came to mind. “You’ll damage her in this state, let her sleep before the tests. She needs someone she recognizes.”

“Ah,” Velvet said again, voice like satin draped in knives. “Is that so..? I suppose since you're the one who did this, we'll take your word that she'll be okay for now.”

Velvet’s eyes flicked between the two. He stepped closer again, not to argue—but to lean near your ear, his breath even warmer than the sensation of his skin.

“Is that what you want, my lady, familiarity?” he whispered, smooth and subtle. “The quiet one who let you rot in ice?”

Then he pulled back and turned—graceful, conceding. The sentence repeated in your mind, though with everything going on you barely understood a word.

“Very well,” he said to the room. “Let the Captain carry her.” He smiled like a man who had already calculated every angle, as his eyes focused on the man you've been wanting to meet for lifetimes now. “She’ll be moved to my estate,” he added. “I've prepared a suite for her. Fitted to her era. Her taste. And, of course, her importance.” He briefly looked back at you before settling on his quiet colleague again. "Familiarity is the best choice for her right now as you've said yourself."

Your limbs wouldn’t stop shaking—not from fear, not entirely. The warmth the velvet man left behind on your skin was already vanishing, drawn out by the open air like breath stolen from a mirror. You tried to follow the motion around you, but the lights were too sharp once you moved your head towards it, the voices too fast, the world too heavy. There was no rhythm here. No cadence. Just steel and breath and decisions made without you.

Your vision blurred again—blinking was effort now. Every beat of your heart felt delayed. You felt so tired.

Metal shifted.

A colder silhouette entered your field of vision, his silhouette.

He knelt beside you, the armor groaning softly as he did. And for the first time in centuries he actually touched you.

His hand.

Gloved, cold. So much colder than the velvet man’s warmth. A jarring contrast that made you flinch on instinct. But it wasn’t cruel. 

It was restrained.

You turned your head the little your body allowed—just enough to see the lush strokes of his raven hair

Something sharp cracked in your throat. A soundless name.

"Thrain?"

You didn’t know you’d even actually spoken it aloud until the world around you stilled.

Just for a moment.

He reacted.

Only slightly. The smallest shift—barely there. He had stilled his movements. But it was there.

He slid one arm beneath your shoulders, the other beneath your knees, lifting you with impossible ease.

And gods—he was colder than the floor.

Colder than the air. Colder than everything.

But you leaned into it regardless.

Because it was real.

Because it was him.

Your head lolled against the cold curve of his chestplate, eyes fluttering shut even. The cold that bit was suddenly the most real feeling you'd every felt in your life.

And just before your consciousness slipped entirely—right before the dark swept in like ink over a map—his hand adjusted at the dip in your back, a motion so smooth it felt memorized.

As if he remembered every inch of you just like you tried to remember him.

And somewhere inside that moment, you felt it again—

But before you could give the feeling a name your consciousness gave in, and this time, you didn't dream anymore.

Chapter Text

You returned in fragments.

First came sound; a low, mechanical murmur rising from somewhere next to you. Then touch. Warmth against your back. Something soft pressed against your skin—smooth, expensive. Not the silk you're used to, not exactly, but something pretending to be. You never felt this material before. The fabric stuck to your body like memory: gentle, unfamiliar, cloying.

Then breath. It took a second to realise it was yours. Shallow. Hesitant. The first thing you could call real. It startled you. Has your breathing always been this loud?

Your eyes opened slowly. Light spilled in from somewhere, diffused and grey, casting long, blurred shadows across a ceiling that seemed almost comforting—arched blackstone traced in silver, arranged in patterns that teased familiarity. Royal blue designs stretched across the walls. It looked like someone tried their best to mimic Khaenri’ahn design without understanding how. Strange.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets.

Heavy. Unpracticed. It was like trying to remember a language you hadn’t spoken in centuries—every movement slightly off, like your bones were echoing a life they no longer belonged to.

You didn’t sit up. Not yet. The weight of your body didn’t feel right.

As if gravity had changed while you were asleep. How long had you been asleep anyway?

You lifted your hand.

It moved.

Slow. Wrong. What is happening?

Your fingers trembled, curling like they hadn’t done so in centuries. They moved like they didn’t trust you to command them yet, each joint resisting, each knuckle stiff from disuse. When your nails scraped the bedding you flinched slightly at the sound.

You tried to breathe deeper and coughed instead, your lungs rattling against your ribs like hollow brass. Something tugged at your arm when you moved.

You turned your head slowly.

A needle..?

Set cleanly in the crook of your elbow, feeding pale blue fluid into your veins. The line was connected to a glass reservoir beside the bed, labeled with script you could almost—but not quite—read. Not Khaenri’ahn, not exactly. But it echoed the forms. Mocked them. A mimicry carved by unfamiliar hands.

You reached for the needle, fingers shaky.

And pulled.

It slid free without too much resistance. Blood beaded at your skin, but you barely felt it. Only watched, strangely detached, as the clear liquid in the tube reversed direction and a high-pitched beep pierced the air. So loud.

A moment later, the hum deepened.

Somewhere next to you odd mechanisms stirred.

But you weren’t focusing on that. You were sitting up now—slow, unbalanced, like a puppet in the hands of a drunken puppeteer. Your legs trembled beneath the blanket. When you flexed your feet, you were surprised they still obeyed, your joints slightly painful as you twisted them.

The room around you was… wrong.

Your bed rested on a raised marble dais, the floor inlaid with geometric patterns reminiscent of your youth—high design, preserved artistry. A hearth glowed across the room, firelight reflecting in metal fixtures that bore your nation’s sigil. The walls were smooth, obsidian-veined, and covered in dark banners stitched with familiar constellations.

A heavy window curtain, drawn slightly aside, let in the cold light.

You pushed yourself upright, your balance tilted, your body trembling under its own weight. Like it had never done this before. Like gravity was new. Since when was it difficult to stand up straight?

You stepped forward.

The floor was freezing. You winced—bare feet on cold stone—and crossed the room slowly, gripping the bedframe once to keep upright. Every movement felt over-calculated. Like you had to earn the right to move again. It took you a bit before you reached the window, pushed the curtain further aside—

And stared outside in utter confusion.

White.

A vast ocean of it. Not a city. Not your palace. Not the golden sky. Just… white.

Endless and untouched. The sky outside was slate grey, heavy with weather you didn’t know the name for at this moment. The mountains in the distance looked like teeth. There was no sun.

It filled your vision until your breath stuttered again, your hands clutching the window frame to stay upright.

This wasn’t Khaenri’ah. This wasn’t home.

But it had pieces of it in the room.

Mocking pieces.

As if someone had rebuilt it from stories. From broken references. Your name tried to rise in your chest, but it caught. Stuck behind your ribs like something you weren’t supposed to say anymore. What was your name..? That's not something to forget. How can you not remember it?

Your eyes stung.

You didn’t cry.

Your voice wasn’t the first thing to return. It came behind the cold, behind the aching weight in your limbs—sluggish, unused. But when you opened your mouth, the air felt strange in your throat. Like it didn’t belong to you.

You tried anyway.

“…ahh…”

The first sound rasped out like a cough dragged over gravel.

You flinched.

Again.

“…nn…eh—”

Still wrong.

You pressed your fingers to your throat, as if the gesture might coax your voice into something living.

The pads met warm skin. Too warm. Not the chill you’d expected. Not the cold you still remembered from the ice. 

Wait.. Ice?

You blinked slowly, your brows drawing together. You suddenly remembered parts of what you thought was a dream, where walls of ice had surrounded you—or.. was that even a dream? Your mind feels like it has been stuffed with cotton balls, unable to remove them no matter how hard you dug, as they just kept filling your brain with useless fluff.

“Whe—Where am I…?”

The words rasped from your mouth like parchment torn in half. Cracked, unfamiliar. The syllables carried the weight of your mother tongue—Khaenri’ahn dialect, formal and precise—yet they felt foreign in your throat. Stale. Like echoes in a house no one lived in anymore.

The question lingered in the air, unanswered.

You kept your hand braced against the glass, needing the support. The world still tilted at odd angles. Light bent in the wrong places. Your limbs moved like they remembered being human, but hadn’t quite reacquainted themselves with you.

Then the door hissed.

You turned—way too quickly. Your bare heel slid against the polished floor, the motion smooth but traitorous. Balance betrayed you halfway through the turn, your center of gravity still written in a language your body had forgotten how to speak.

You staggered once, reached out—

And fell.

Pretty damn hard.

The impact knocked the breath from your lungs—a dry, startled gasp scraping up your throat. Cold stone met your shoulder, your hip. You felt the grind of polished tile against bone, the jolt of something metallic beneath your palm as you caught yourself too late. Pain echoed up your spine, dull and delayed.

You didn’t rise. Not immediately. Not when a deep, patronising chuckle resounded through the room.

A man you'd swore you've seen before stepped into the chamber like a shadow stretched from dusk—unhurried, assured, and entirely soundless.

Midnight blue draped over his shoulders like a coronation mantle. The fur at his collar swallowed the light like a moon eclipse transforming the dark into a pitch black night. His coat swayed as he moved, approaching not with urgency, but with the casual gravity of someone who already owned everything in the room. His hair was dark and raven colored, and immediately caught your attention without initially realising why.

You tried to sit up.

Too slow.

He was before you in three strides. And then—his gloved hand closed around your arm. Firm. Cold. Anchored in a strength you hadn’t expected when looking at him at first glance.

You flinched on instinct, but he didn’t let go. He pulled you to your feet in a single, practiced motion—graceful enough to seem polite, forceful enough to leave no room for refusal. His other hand steadied your waist, and for a second, your bodies were far too close. Your legs barely found their balance before his eyes were on you again. He didn't remove his hand from your waist.

And by the dragons—

He was looking at you.

Really looking.

His gaze swept over you in slow increments—assessing, cataloging, lingering. From your parted lips to the still-stiff angle of your posture. From the flutter of your throat to the way your fingers curled slightly against the air like they didn’t know where to rest. But his eyes didn’t stop there. They just kept dipping lower and lower.

And that’s when you, to your utter horror, suddenly started to realise why you felt his hand so clearly on your waist. The thin shift of white fabric clinging to your skin was no gown of state. It wasn’t even proper court linen. It was something far more delicate—silk-like and a bit sheer, barely opaque, clinging damply to the outline of your body—and breast. Your nipples pressed clearly through the fabric, framed by the loose strands of your hair and the bruised flush at your collarbone.

Heat flooded your face—sharp and sudden, incredibly humiliating.

You stumbled backward, wrenching yourself from his grasp with more panic than grace, and scurried toward the bed like a child caught out of place. Your bare feet slapped softly against the floor, and you nearly tripped on the trailing edge of your own nightgown before catching the bedpost and collapsing half onto the mattress.

He didn’t follow, he stayed put trailing your clumsy movements with a bemused smile. Like a man enjoying the first page of a highly anticipated book.

“Awake already,” he finally voiced, as if observing an amusing deviation from a plan. “I must say… you’re rather tenacious.”

The warmth in his tone didn’t reach the air between you. It felt like silk spun just tight enough to strangle.

He approached a step towards the bed, careful, unhurried.

“You removed the IV,” he continued, almost conversational, as he titled his head towards the machinery next to your bed. “A bold choice. That particular fluid was stabilizing your synaptic re-entry. Don't worry, I won’t tell on you, I would rather not have my colleagues spoil my fun, but I imagine your head feels like it's holding several conflicting timelines.”

You didn’t understand half of what he said. But the cadence, the way he said it—it was too calm. Too pleased. And way too condescending.

You crawled backwards on the bed, throwing your body under the covers as he just wouldn't stop staring at your breasts.

“You’re not one of mine,” you said slowly, words clipped by habit. “You wear no crest. No rank insignia. And your tailoring…” your eyes narrowed, dragging across the folds of midnight silk and fur-lined opulence, “is like nothing I've ever seen from the Western houses. Or the Southern courts.”

It wasn’t a question. And not quite an accusation.

He smiled. Lazily. Like you had just played a favored opening move in a game he’d already finished.

“No,” he replied, the syllable dipped in amusement. “Not a servant. Not a knight. Not even a physician. But I do have a certain… fondness for royalty.” His gaze dipped briefly to your throat before returning to your eyes. “Which is why I made sure I was the first face you’d see.”

You blinked.

That made no sense. None of this did.

Not the cut of the room. Not the pattern of the stones. Not the walls that wanted to resemble home but bent in all the wrong places. It felt wrong. A replica without soul.

You inhaled through your nose, steadying yourself as the pressure built behind your temple.

“What is this place?” you demanded, voice rough but unmistakably noble—like marble cracked but still load-bearing. “A triage chamber? No—there are no casters. No accurate banner-bearers. No scent of copper in the air. A stronghold, then? No. No command lines. No sanctum. No hearthlines carved into the foundation—”

Your words slowed.

Then stilled entirely. 

“…The snow.”

That was the word you were searching for earlier. It rarely ever snows. You turned, head snapping toward the window once more. Beyond the frost-glazed pane, the world outside drifted white and silent. The ivory specks spiraled in perfect patterns—slow, eternal, like a lullaby set to the wrong key.

You stared at it, and something inside your ribs twisted.

“It shouldn’t be snowing,” you said softly—no longer to him. Not to anyone. Just to the memory that slipped through your grasp like melted ice. “It was warm, pleasant.” Then quieter still, barely more than a breath. “I remember the sun…”

The snow gave no answer.

Neither did the man.

He simply watched you—his head tilted slightly, the way one might regard a child speaking utter gibberish. No surprise, just a calm, parasitic interest.

“You’re remarkably lucid,” he said at last, voice wrapped in velvet and laced with frost, “considering the circumstances.”

That slow, measured tone unsettled you more than silence. Like he was reading from a ledger only he could see.

“You’re avoiding my questions,” you snapped, too rude, too sharp. Your voice cracked mid-sentence but kept going, pushed by instinct older than reason. “What is this place? Who governs it? Why was I—why am I here? What even are the circumstances you claim to know?”

You stumbled over the last part, words crashing together in a way you hadn’t intended. They sounded frantic in your own ears. Unbecoming.

You hated that.

The man merely chuckled. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, inclining his head with court-perfect grace. “You’re overwhelmed. I expected as much. Any true resurrection is bound to come with a touch of confusion.”

Resurrection?

Your breath caught, but you masked it with a glare.

“…Who are you?”

He took a step closer, measured and smooth.

The light glanced off the gold trim of his mantle as he bowed—not deeply. Just enough to make a mockery of the gesture.

“Master Pantalone,” he said with the kind of calm cunningness that expected the world to bend to it. “Though if protocol comforts you, I wouldn’t mind if you simply called me Master.”

The word sat wrong in your ears. Familiar in structure. Alien in intent.

You frowned. “You wear no crest. No royal seal.”

“None that you would recognize,” he replied lightly, eyes gleaming behind the thin wire of his glasses. “Though I assure you, my reach is long enough to matter.”

Pantalone took another step towards the bed, and you couldn't help but nervously glance down at your covered body, inching slightly towards the other side of the bed.

“You were internally injured when we found you,” he continued, slipping his hands behind his back, walking slowly now—half-circling you like a man admiring a relic rather than addressing a person. “Encased in… extraordinary stasis. Your pulse barely registered. Your neural pathways were locked in collapse. And yet—”

He stopped at the edge of the bedside you had scooted over to. Close enough that you could feel the breath of his words when he dipped his head.

“—somehow… intact. We’re still trying to find out how exactly this has been possible, but our… colleague has been withholding important information from us.”

Your spine stiffened.

Your breath slowed.

None of it made sense. You remembered—

You remembered…

…

Nothing surfaced. 

Your hand drifted toward your temple, trying to pin the shape of a memory, any memory.

But there was nothing tangible there.

Only a smear of memory—shadowed edges and the shape of long, raven hair just beyond reach.

Your gaze snagged on him again.

That hair.

Almost the same texture, the same long lenght. The same depth of black as the one you kept seeing behind the ice.

Was it him?

It couldn’t be. Could it?

Pantalone—if that truly was his name, as it seemed a little foreign in your vocabulary—didn’t pause to let you catch up. He moved on with the ease of someone who already knew your rhythm, who had rehearsed this moment in his mind a hundred times before the world ever granted it to him.

“I authorized your recovery,” he lied smoothly, almost tenderly. “No one else had your interests at heart, I assure you. There were other… suggestions. Less elegant ones. Cruder. I argued for your preservation. For your safety.”

A beat.

“You were nearly discarded, left to suffer in purgatory, not even the release of death would've been able to touch you.”

The words landed like silk-wrapped blades.

Your heart thrummed once—twice—slow and dragging in your chest. Your mouth tasted like rust. “I… I don’t remember you,” you murmured, brows furrowed. “Or maybe I do—your voice, your—hair, I—”

Your fingers curled around the bedspread.

“You look like someone,” you added, breath shivering in your lungs. “But not you. I don't think it's you. Someone else.”

His smile curved—not wider, just deeper. “Memory is a strange and unreliable instrument,” he said, voice calm. “You’ve been sealed in stasis longer than any known specimen has survived. I wouldn’t trust anything that rises first from the fog.”

“I—what do you mean ‘sealed’?”

He moved closer again, a languid shift of weight as the bed started to dip with his added weight. Your breath caught again, but you didn’t recoil this time.

“You’ve been asleep,” he said. “For centuries.”

You froze. A silence fell over the room like snow over a grave.

“…Centuries?” you echoed, barely audible.

Pantalone nodded once, eyes soft—almost reverent, as if bestowing the word like a sacred rite. “Time has been cruel to your kind,” he said. “But it left you untouched. And for that, I am… grateful.”

To my kind? Does he mean Khaenri’ahns? How many centuries has it been!? 

His hand lifted—not to touch, but to gesture vaguely toward the wall, as if the truth of his statement hung there like an oil painting. “Everything you once knew has fallen to history. This world does not remember you. But I do.”

Your mouth parted in horror. “My court,” you whispered. “My retainers. My seal-bearers. The council—are they…?" You paused, shifting your weight back towards the other end of the bed again. "Who governs now? What banner flies above the crest halls? Has the citadel collapsed? What about the northern gate? The last census? The treasury? My name—who has claimed it? Who dared mark my family's seal on this room?!”

Your voice cracked—sharp, regal, frayed.

Pantalone didn’t flinch. If anything, he only looked amused.

“Oh, you are delightful,” he murmured, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. “I’d forgotten how elegant panic could be when properly pronounced. I really did not expect you to remember so much, this'll be a fruitful project~”

“I’m not panicking,” you hissed.

“Oh? You clearly are,” he said, voice tipping from velvet into something more dangerous. “But that's only logical. Please understand you’re not ready for answers.”

You stared at him. “Don’t tell me what I’m—”

“Quiet.”

The word wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

It slid between your ribs like a blade forged for that very gap. His smile remained, a curvature of a man who had just decided something—for you.

“You’ll injure yourself trying to reorder a world that no longer belongs to you,” he said calmly. “Let your mind recover. Or I’ll make that decision for you.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t even blink. Something in your spine remembered how to obey. Or how to survive. You slowly nodded your head.

“Good,” he whispered, voice low. “That’s better.”

Then he moved his body completely up onto the bed.

You blinked—slowly, disbelieving—as the mattress fully dipped beneath his weight.

One knee. 

Then the other.

And then he straddled you.

Not aggressively. Not quickly. With patience. Like he had all the time in the world to decide how best to unravel you. 

You went deathly still. Your breath froze in your throat as your eyes widened at this blatant disregard for your personal space. He leaned down slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

That hair.

It was the same. The same darkness. The same glint of silver-blue in the strands when the light struck it just right. He smelled like civet oil and paper and some faintly spiced wine.

Was he the man behind the ice?

No—no, something was wrong. His presence felt too calculated, too controlled. The other one had been—

Had been—

Your thoughts tangled again.

“You see it, don’t you?” he murmured, studying your face as if reading each flicker of doubt like a page in a favorite novel. “That little fracture in your memory. That hesitation. That… longing.”

His hand lifted toward your jaw. His hands trailed the skin there, until you grabbed his wrist—forcing his hand away from your face without a word.

“I could help you remember,” he said softly. “If you’d let me.”

Your fingers dug into the skin slightly. “No. This–this is—please stop.”

“But don't you want to understand what it means to feel human again,” he questioned, smiling now like a man about to place the final piece on a gameboard. Like a predator ready to pounce. “Your body betrays you. You're blushing.”

You didn’t realize you’d stopped your breathing completely until his nose brushed yours—barely, like a whisper drawn across skin.

The closeness shattered your composure, and he easily slid his wrist free of your grip, only to twirl a strand of hair between his fingers. 

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, his breath brushing your lips. “Let me help you feel at home.”

A violent burst of air tore through the chamber like a spell miscast, snapping through the tension like a whip across glass. The door didn’t open—it exploded.

Pantalone didn’t move, the only shift in demeanor was how his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

He simply sighed. A slow, indulgent thing. Like someone mildly inconvenienced by a fly hovering close to a fruit bowl.

You jolted instinctively beneath him, twisting away, heart hammering as your eyes shot toward the doorway—but he blocked your view entirely, his weight still ghosting over your legs, one gloved hand braced on the blanket covering your hips as the other moved to your chest to pin you down, back into place.

“Ah,” came a voice from the threshold—smooth and cold and wrong, like the sound of surgical steel dragged across tile. “How quaint. I miss one cue, and you take liberties. Again.”

Pantalone’s head tilted lazily, as though observing a change in the weather. “You took your time,” he said. “I had to improvise.”

You shifted again, craning your neck in an effort to see the speaker, but the Regrator didn’t budge. His poise remained unbroken, his silhouette framed in shadow. But the presence approaching was unmistakable—sharp, scentless, methodical. “How strange that I didn't hear any message about her waking up from you, then.” Footsteps cut across the floor with haste.

“You were supposed to wait and notify me,” the voice said again—closer now. The sound of something dangerous stalking through unfamiliar fields. “I made it clear that her mental calibration required exact sequencing. But no, of course you couldn’t resist meddling.”

“You’re always so dramatic,” Pantalone murmured. “I simply greeted my guest, Dottore.”

“You compromised her conditioning.”

A figure breached the lamplight at the side of the bed—tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in white leather and sharper lines. The man’s—Dottore, as you now knew—face came into view for the first time, furious and glinting with a sharp-boned intensity that made your skin crawl. He wore a strange mask that covered the upper half of his face, revealing just enough of his sneer to unnerve you.

Before you could react, his hand lashed out.

He seized Pantalone by the collar and yanked—hard—ripping the man off of you in one violent pull that nearly upturned the mattress. Fabric strained. Buttons clinked against marble.

You gasped, catching yourself against the headboard, breath ragged.

Pantalone landed lightly on his feet beside the bed, expression unchanged. He straightened his collar with a flick of his wrist and let out an annoyed sigh, as though Dottore had just disrupted the final act of a favorite opera.

“She wasn’t damaged,” he said. “In fact, she’s adapting beautifully.”

“She’s not a doll to play house with,” Dottore snapped, his fingers still curled like claws. “I spent three weeks preparing her neural resuscitation protocols. Do you even know how many data strands I had to stitch back together? I've been preparing her endlessly and you ruin it immediately.”

“She needed a gentle touch,” Pantalone said silkily, stepping back just enough to place himself between you and the other male. “Not your obsessive butchery.”

“She is under my jurisdiction,” he spat, his grip on Pantalone’s coat still firm. “I spent weeks calibrating her cognition so she wouldn’t wake up screaming or catatonic—and you think you can just waltz in and contaminate my experiment with whatever this little fetish is?”

You blinked hard.

Experiment?

“I’m afraid your bedside manner lacks finesse,” Pantalone replied coolly, not bothering to remove Dottore’s hand. “She awoke relatively calm. Curious, even. I consider that a personal success.”

“Your definition of success,” Dottore growled, “is a compromise, you have no right of speaking. She should not have seen anyone before me.”

“She saw the snow before she saw me,” Pantalone said with a soft smile, tilting his chin, his eyes closing in a belittling manner. “Should I hold the weather accountable next?”

The glare Dottore gave him could’ve broken glass. “You’re lucky her Highness appointed your manor as base of operations for this project, but that doesn't mean—”

“And you’re lucky I still find your theatrics entertaining at times, because lately you've been growing much too casual around my estate.”

Their standoff vibrated in the air like a string pulled too taut.

You had no idea who these men truly were—only that they both spoke like you belonged to them.

You edged off the far side of the bed while they argued, your movements slow, as silent as possible. The blanket slipped around your ankles. You scanned the room in flickers—door, desk, loads of medical instruments. Another door beyond the hearth. Possibly a corridor? You weren't hopeful, but at least it would put more distance between you and them. You should probably try to somehow get to the door where the both of them had entered from, but they were standing too close to it.

“I was trying to guide her awakening with surgical precision,” Dottore hissed. “Now she’s polluted by you.”

Just a few more steps.

“She is not an artifact,” Pantalone replied. “She’s a woman. A very capable one, judging by her attempts to escape while you are busy monologuing.”

Both men turned to you at once.

You froze. Their eyes pinned you like insects.

But you smiled faintly—tight, diplomatic. “I’d… like to take a little walk by myself,” you said, voice low. “Both of you have made it rather difficult for me to collect my thoughts.”

Pantalone stepped aside first, one gloved hand extending as if to offer you the path of your escape. It seemed it didn't bother him at all, and rather invited you to do so.

Dottore did not move. He only tilted his head, lips thinning into an emotion you couldn't decipher. “Don’t bother,” he muttered. “Your vitals aren’t stable, and your memory’s still fragmented. It'd be best if you stayed put instead of collapsing some place out of sight.”

“She seems perfectly capable to me,” Pantalone said lightly.

You didn't wait to hear more, quickly circling around them—trying to ignore them staring at your body in this damned thin nightgown—and bolted straight through the door they had both emerged from.

You ran through the doorway, pressed flat to the frame for a moment as the two predators behind you snarled—Pantalone’s amused sigh drifting after you, Dottore’s clipped curse chasing it.

Beyond the chamber, the corridor stretched away in muted grays and silvers, lit by frosted sconces that cast the walls into a rippling mosaic. The air smelled faintly of resin and metal. Your mind raced. You needed ground. Familiar walls. A place to think and hopefully to get away from whatever the fuck just happened to you.

Pressing your hand to the cold banister, you peered down a flight of narrow stairs, carved in the same obsidian-veined stone that accented your chamber. No banners fluttered there; no stiff-clad figures lined the rail. Only silence—heavy as snow.

A plan formed, halting and fragile: you would descend, find the lower quarters or a washing room, and slip into a uniform. At the very least you might trade this ridiculous nightgown for something less revealing.

You started down the steps, gait cautious, mind still spinning with the memory of Pantalone’s insane indecency and the odd weight of your body. Each tread groaned underfoot, as if complaining at being disturbed. At the bottom, a low hallway branched left and right. Soft shuffles of movement echoed somewhere down the left passage—maybe a servant on her way to tidy the kitchens?

You edged toward the left, every sense alert. The sconces here burned a dimmer light, smoke curling into the vaulted ceiling overhead. The walls revealed signs of ownership—reliefs carved into their surface with clinical precision. You slowed, gaze trailing across the marks.

The first emblem you passed resembled a mechanical insignia—an abstract crest that combined precision and weight. Its form was strange: a heavy, hammerlike structure at the top, wings flared to either side, and a central downward spike that resembled both an anchor and a blade. There was something militant in its symmetry. Something imperial. You had never seen its like before.

You stepped further. Another sigil emerged beside a corridor arch: circular, intricate, balanced like a flower pressed flat against the stone. Four pointed leaf-blades stretched out from the center, each encircling a hollow disc, their tips curved inward like claws or thorns dressed in finery. You've never seen these house crests, rousing no recollection in you except an uneasy sense of “these are not mine.”

Ahead, a slender figure in charcoal-gray moved into view—head bowed, face hidden beneath a deep mask. She wore simple tunic and breeches, the insignia on her breastplate that four-pointed flower. Fear fluttered in your chest: each footstep echoed too loudly, drawn attention. She paused, then hurried on without glancing your way.

You exhaled and scuttled after her, keeping to the wall’s shadow. At every footprint you froze—waiting for her to turn, to speak, to discover you. But she vanished around a corner without even a flicker of recognition.

Your chest heaved. You must be a lower servant. Think like they do. Blend in. Remain unseen. And force your damn muscles to move.

You sensed another pair of footsteps approaching—ringing boots that tapped out a harsh, measured tempo. A duo of masked men—dark cloaks, each cloak embroidered with a blood-red emblem that looked as threatening as barbed steel. They passed without pause, speaking in low tones you could not catch.

You slipped behind a pillar and let them pass, heart pounding so fiercely it threatened to betray you. Then you darted forward and rounded the corner into a wide landing, at the far end of which a heavy oaken door stood slightly ajar. A sign plaque visible on it: Servants’ Quarters.

Hope surged. You crept forward, pressed a trembling hand to the iron handle—and peeked inside.

A row of narrow beds lined the walls, neatly made with plain blankets and chipped lanterns on corner tables. A basin of water sat on a stool, and folded uniforms lay on a bench: charcoal tunics, capped hoods, sturdy leather gaiters. Perfect.

You hesitated only a heartbeat, then slipped inside. One mask‑clad maid glanced up from brushing a bunk—jaw dropping below her veil as you crossed the threshold. You forced a polite curtsy, voice brittle: “Pardon—”

She froze, slender gloved fingers tightening on her brush. She said nothing. Definitely ordered not to speak to you.

“Uh—service request?” you tried, mind grasping at scraps of protocol half‑remembered.

Her masked head tilted. She shook it, mouthed something you couldn’t hear, then turned away and scurried out of the room without another sound.

You took it as permission.

You crossed swiftly to the wooden closet, half-hidden beneath a swath of discarded linens. A neatly folded set of dark garments lay waiting—crimson-lined, tight-stitched, foreign in cut and heavy with intent. You reached for the outer layer first: a long charcoal coat of crisp wool-blend, tailored for utility but cut with a militant aesthetic. Its shoulder seams bore stiff black ridges, and across the breast, etched in pale silver, was that same petaled crest you’d seen in the halls.

You didn't think a second too long about changing out of the thin dress. The fabric of the new clothes rasped across your arms as you pulled it on—structured, lined, and far too warm for someone still slicked in sweat and shivering, but that was only a plus side when you were planning on escaping anyways. Next came the hood—thick, red-lined, and weighted with internal wiring to hold its shape. You drew it up, fumbling for the hidden ties beneath your jaw. Your fingers brushed something else: a soft leather mask tucked into the inner lining. Triangular. Featureless. Opaque white.

You didn't hesitate, fastening it over your upper face.

The transformation was immediate. With your eyes hidden, your breath slowed. You looked down—no longer yourself, not quite. Just another faceless silhouette in a house full of unfamiliar shadows.

There were boots too—soft-soled, buckled tight to hug the calf. You stepped into them quickly, adjusting the fit with practiced hands you didn’t remember teaching. A set of gloves followed—black, fingertip-fitted, embroidered with thread that shimmered ever so faintly under the low wall sconces.

A final accessory caught your eye: a narrow metal pin, bearing that industrial emblem—the hammer, the wings, the anchor-line—that you’d seen engraved by the doors. You slid it into the slit above the coat’s left breast. A mark of allegiance. A lie of belonging. With every layer fastened, you vanished a little more.

A ghost draped in another ghost’s skin.

You glanced back. The maid hadn't returned yet with back-up but you were sure that you didn't have long before she would. The added weight of the clothes slowed you down tremendously, and before you could continue your journey, you had to pause to catch your breath. Your muscles ached already from the small trip you'd taken, and you weren't so sure about the escape the longer you tried to push yourself, but you pushed through the door regardless.

The corridor beyond exhibited a cluster of small doors—storage, linen cupboards, staff washrooms. You crept past them, scanning for a stairwell or exit to the courtyard. At the far end lay a brass plaque: Lower Courtyard & Kitchens.

Your heart surged again. You would reach the fresh air—though frigid—rather than suffocate in this staged palace filled with people you weren't keen on staying with.

You slipped through the door into a wide vaulted space: iron rafters overhead, flags of deep cobalt and steel grey lining the walls, and dozens of masked figures passing in and out of archways—some carrying trays, others leading mules laden with supplies. A low hearth burned at one side, around which chefs in charcoal tunics stirred steaming pots.

You blended into the shadows, shoulders hunched, hood splayed low. A line of murmured orders drifted past you: “Three more barrels of salted meat to the north storeroom, then send another runner.” “Check on the frostcrystals—The Doctor said he wants fresh samples by dusk.”

You edged forward until a cluster of low crates blocked easy sight. Behind them, a narrow spiral staircase wound upward in a cage of wrought iron. Likely the way to the upper servants hallway—and a possible way out. You slipped into the stairwell, counting muted footfalls descending into deeper shadows.

Stair after stair, the temperature dropped perceptibly. A fine grit of ice dust lay on the steps, scuffed by soles. Finally, you emerged onto an underground landing flickering with torchlight. A long corridor led off into darkness on both sides; a sign pointed Servants’ Commons & Quarters to the east, Servants’ Mess Hall to the west.

East, surely: you desperately needed some water and perhaps a place to hide. You crept that way.

Through a squat oaken door and into a large hall furnished with rough benches and tables. A handful of masked workers sat over wooden mugs, speaking in low voices—some laughter in the air, though muted. A couple of empty bowls sat at one end of the room.

You risked a glance at the nearest table—a faded crested plate with chipped edges. A design of twin glacial peaks over a swirling storm. Nothing you recognized. But if you stole one of those bowls, perhaps you could fill it with water, wash the blood from your elbow, collect your thoughts.

You crossed, hood low, and sat at the far table. No one paid you any attention. You found an empty mug and stood, carrying it to a battered wooden door under an arched lintel marked WASHROOM.

Inside, a trough of running water at a low spout awaited. You didn't waste time and quickly gulped down a large sum of water. After removing your mask, you cupped your hands beneath it, the water stinging as it washed over your palms, then splashed your face. The cold drove away some of the swirling fog in your mind. You scrubbed at your cheek, at the dried flecks of blood on your elbow, at the sweat that clung to your brow.

Your reflection in a cracked mirror—an unmasked glimpse—revealed pale skin, hair clinging damp and tangled, and eyes blossoming wide with fear and wonder. You touched your hair, then your collarbone, then the embroidered crest on your tunic. 

You needed direction. A clue. Someone to trust, somewhere to hide, something that would give you more clues on how you could get back to your hometown, to Khaneri’ah.

You turned back to the commons after you had slipped the convenient mask back into place. Several other masked figures stood glancing at some clipboards and whispering. One stout woman in a simple tunic dipped her head and swept the floor; another man hefted a crate of linen from the storeroom and stacked it near the door. Relief trickled through you: none of them even glanced your way.

Now, to find a path to the outer walls—and ideally, the servants’ gate.

You slipped from the mess hall and back into that shadowed corridor, following signs scrawled on doors. Hopefully you could find a lesser door, less guarded perhaps. You moved silently past the doors until you reached a stout iron door stamped SERVICE ENTRANCE.

You pressed your palm to the cold metal. You tested the latch—it gave only a harsh rattle. 

Locked.

You pressed your palm harder to the door, fingers trembling faintly against the cold iron. Nothing gave. The latch clanked again—louder this time, sharp enough to echo down the corridor like a bell toll.

You froze.

Footsteps. Measured. Heavy. Growing closer from the opposite hall.

No time.

You turned from the door and hunched your shoulders, feigning purpose, feigning haste. You couldn’t be caught loitering. Not now. Not so close.

“Oi.”

The voice sliced the air behind you—harsh, barking, trained to command. It stopped you in your tracks before you even thought to obey.

“You there. Newblood.” Another step. Boots echoed against the stone. “What’re you doing skulking near restricted access?”

You turned slowly—mask firmly in place, chin dipped, posture subservient.

“I—Sir. I was told to take inventory—”

“Inventory?” the man repeated, a sneer audible behind his tone. “Near the outer gate, at this hour?”

The figure that stepped into full view was massive. Broad-shouldered, armored in fur-lined black. His mask differed—half-plated and stylized with jagged crimson etching like old war medals. A sergeant, likely. Or something close.

He loomed.

“Speak up,” he snapped, stepping closer. “Who assigned you?”

You fumbled. “It was… a woman from logistics. She—she didn’t give a name.”

A pause.

Too long. He was too suspicious of you, and you didn't know enough about this place to bluff your way out of it. Damn it.

The man’s head tilted. “Which division?”

You had no answer.

He took a step forward. Then another. Close enough to see the faint shimmer of sweat clinging to your neck where your hood met your collar. Close enough that your instincts screamed.

“You’re not one of mine,” he muttered, voice lowering. “That’s not regulation protocol. And that mask—”

His gloved hand snapped forward before you could retreat.

You tried to dodge, but it was too late.

The man seized your jaw with one hand, the other yanking the mask from your face in a single, rough pull. The leather scraped across your cheek, catching on the edge of your ear before falling away. “Let’s see who’s hiding under—” 

He stopped mid-sentence.

You blinked up at him, startled, your breath tight and shallow. His fingers didn’t loosen. If anything, they dug deeper, the grip bruising, possessive.

He was staring into your eyes.

No, through them.

His breath hitched. You saw it. The moment realization dawned.

His gaze locked, dilated.

“Stars,” he whispered—almost reverently. “You’ve got the damn stars in your eyes.”

You didn’t answer.

His expression twisted.

Recognition soured into something worse.

“Of course,” he muttered, almost laughing to himself. “The one fucking thing they said to watch for. A woman with pupils like that—report immediately. To a Harbinger. To the Regrator.”

His thumb dragged across your cheek slowly.

Then his grip turned cruel.

“But you weren’t on your way to report in, were you?” he murmured, his tone lower now, tinged with a dark kind of glee. “You were trying to slip out. Escape.”

You tried to pull back, but he shoved you roughly against the wall. The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, the stone cold against your back.

His hand caught your throat—not hard enough to choke, but firm enough to remind you he could.

“You’re not just anyone,” he murmured, leaning in close. “You’re that woman aren't you. The one they sealed. The starlit corpse.”

His lips hovered by your ear, breath hot.

“I wonder what else is still intact.”

You recoiled, but he pressed forward—pinning you in place with the weight of his body, drinking in your fear like wine. His other hand slid down your arm, slow, deliberate.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he hissed. “And no one’s here. We’re far from the patrol routes. I could—”

“Let me go,” you spat, finally finding your voice.

He smiled, unbothered.

“Oh, I will,” he said. “Right after I make sure you’ll never forget me.”

His hand slipped toward your belt—and you bluffed a loud demand. “If you dare touch me Master Pantalone will kill you.” 

He paused for a moment, and then grabbed your arm and yanked you down the hallway, dragging you like contraband caught in the act.

You stumbled beside him, half-running to keep upright.

You didn’t dare speak anything else. You only seethed. Every footstep a mark of fury.

The hallway narrowed, then widened again as familiar architecture crept back into place. Gleaming marble floors. Carved obsidian sconces. 

The sergeant rapped twice on the heavy doors.

They opened immediately.

And there he was.

Pantalone stood by the hearth, a glass of dark wine in hand. His coat shimmered faintly in the low light, the wolf-fur trim soaking in shadow. He turned lazily at the sound—then stopped.

A slow smile curled his lips.

The sergeant shoved you forward.

“Trespasser, sir,” he barked. “Caught near the service exit. Stolen uniform. No credentials. She resisted questioning. But then I saw…”

He trailed off.

Pantalone’s gaze dropped to your face, then to your new clothing. His brow lifted.

“Ah,” he said softly. “It's barely been twenty minutes, I see you've been busy.”

The sergeant cleared his throat. “I remembered your instruction. About the pupils. I thought you should be the one to see her.”

Pantalone laughed. It was low. Pleased. Something like delight filtered through crystal. He completely ignored the man that had brought you here.

“Oh…” He sipped his wine, stalking toward you with feline grace. “This is rich. Stolen uniform and all. You really are full of surprises.”

The sergeant hesitated. “Shall I escort her to confinement? I recommend interrogation—”

“No.” Pantalone waved him off with a flick of his fingers. “Get out.”

“…But.. Sir?”

Pantalone’s eyes snapped towards the man, his eyes turning as harsh and angry as jagged glass. The sergeant lingered just long enough for a final glance at your face. He didn't linger, quickly turning and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

His gaze returned to you, eyes immediately softening as that damned smile curled back into place. Eyes dipped down to the uniform, and the metal pin glinting against your chest.

“You even wore the pin,” he murmured. “That’s dedication. I really must commend your ingenuity,” he said, voice like silk drawn tight.

His voice was mild, nearly impressed—but behind it, something coiled. A current beneath still water. You stood awkwardly, caught in the center of the chamber like prey brought back to its master’s feet. The fabric of the stolen uniform itched against your skin, suddenly too tight, too foreign, as though your body rejected it now that your deception had failed.

“Tell me,” he said, almost idly, circling you now like before—his steps deliberate, his gaze raking over you with that same infuriating calm. “Were you hoping for freedom? Did you truly believe you could go outside in the state that you are?”

You flinched as he stopped at your side. His fingers reached for the metal pin at your chest and brushed it—not unpinning it, not stealing it back. Just touching it. As if to make a point. “This symbol,” he murmured, his gloved fingers brushing the pin with mock reverence, “carries more weight than you realize. It isn’t just an accessory. It’s a statement. A vow. You wore it through my halls without understanding what it meant.” His tone turned softer then—almost indulgent. “And you still chose to wear it.”

You met his gaze with quiet defiance. “I didn’t choose anything,” you said, voice tight. “I only want to know how far I’ve drifted from home.”

He blinked once.

Then let out a slow, measured chuckle—no joy in it. Just amusement, like watching a lovely painting try to speak.

“Home?” he echoed, tilting his head with a patronizing smile. “Oh, my precious girl. You still think in distances. As though you’ve merely wandered too far.”

His hand dropped from your collar and came to rest lightly—dangerously—at the center of your chest, over the glinting crest.

“Tell me,” he said. “Do you remember the stars howling?”

You stared at him.

“No?” His smile deepened. “Huh, interesting. That means you were spared the worst of it.”

He continued to circle you slowly, voice dropping further as he stopped behind you, his hands trailing your shoulders as he brought his face to your ear. “There was a night—long ago—when the heavens cracked open like a broken mirror. When the ground turned on its masters. When the skies themselves clawed at the cities below with divine fire and salt and madness.”

His breath brushed your ear from behind.

“You weren’t asleep during a war, little star. You slept through a purging.”

Your body went still. Cold rushed up your spine.

“The gods didn’t just punish Khaenri’ah,” he whispered, “they erased it. Its name, its maps, its legacy. All of it, torn from the world like a page burned too black to salvage.”

You shook your head once, violently.

“What,” you said, barely audible.

He stepped in front of you again. There was no warmth left in his smile now. Only finality. Something like pity curled at the edges of his mouth.

“Khaenri’ah,” he said gently, “is not far away.”

He reached out one last time, caressing your neck in the way a lover would.

“It is nowhere.”

Then, just above a whisper:

“Khaenri’ah is gone.”

Chapter Text

It had been three days.

Three days since you learned the truth. Three days since the name Khaenri’ah had turned to dust in your mouth.

The estate was vast, much larger than you'd realized on that first frantic run. A maze of polished corridors and locked doors, all ruled with a chilling precision you now understood to be calculated. Nothing was accidental here. Not the watchful masks. Not the architecture. Not even the kindness, rare as it was.

And certainly not the clothing.

You’d made a single, firm request right after your detainment, back in Pantalones study—that you be allowed something less humiliating to wear.

“I will behave,” you had said coldly, “if you give me clothes that don't make me look like your newest bedslave.”

The words were meant to cut. But they only made him smile.

He reclined leisurely in that same chair by the fire, fingers curled around a crystal glass, the wine inside catching the light like garnet. His expression didn’t falter—not even when he looked you over again, slowly, like you were a page he hadn’t finished reading.

“Of course,” he said, velvety as ever. “But only if you ask properly.”

Your stomach dropped. “...What?”

He gestured absently with his glass. “You may have your modesty, darling. I’m not unreasonable. But there’s a cost to every concession. You want something from me. In this house, that means you offer something in return.”

“I’m not bartering for fabric.”

“Oh, but you are. Everything here is currency. Words. Obedience. Even silence. And frankly,” he murmured, eyes glittering behind his spectacles, “you’ve been rather expensive.”

Your hands curled into fists. “What do you want.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Well, for starters, address me as Master Pantalone. From now on. Every time. No exceptions.”

You stared at him, throat tightening. There was no mockery in his voice this time—no teasing drawl or exaggerated flair. Just quiet, definitive authority. Like a closing contract.

“Absolutely not.”

He raised a brow, slow and indulgent. “Then I suppose you’ll be keeping the sheer gown.”

You froze.

The silence that followed cracked like frost underfoot—thin, sharp, dangerous. The fire behind him hissed quietly, casting his silhouette in warped gold. He didn’t press. Not immediately. Just studied you the way one might consider the temperament of a disobedient animal.

“I see,” he said at last, rising with unhurried grace. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous precision, as if bored. “If your pride outweighs your comfort, I’ll have the tailor draft something more appropriate to your behaviour. Something nice and tight. With a lovely short end that parades your ass around for all manor personnel to see. You’re not exactly difficult to dress.”

Your mouth snapped shut, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He stepped toward the hearth, voice still light, but his words curved like a blade drawn beneath velvet. “You want to be respected?” he asked softly. “Then behave like something worth respecting.”

It scraped. That calmness. That certainty. Like a parent indulging the tantrum of a very spoiled child.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Properly, this time.”

You didn’t move.

He glanced at you over his shoulder, that glint in his eye sharp as broken crystal. “Or don’t,” he added, “and I’ll have the staff resume their duties exactly as they did before. Every guard, every courier, every masked wretch in these halls—let them all see you like a whore. Isn’t that what you wanted? To be seen?”

It was blackmail wrapped in silk.

“...Master Pantalone,” you ground out.

He stilled. Then turned fully, slow as a clock hand, the smile blooming on his face like something poisonous unfurling.

“Again,” he said, voice low, lilting. “This time without sounding like you’re seconds from flinging yourself off a balcony.”

Your skin crawled. “Master Pantalone.”

“Very good,” he purred. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

You flinched when he moved toward you again, boots soundless on the marble, but you didn’t step back. Fear had its own gravity—and his orbit was inescapable. He stopped in front of you, gaze gliding over your stolen uniform like it was something obscene.

“This is quite the degrading look already,” he murmured, fingers lifting to brush along your collar where the fabric sat a little too high for his liking. “Stolen valor doesn't suit you. But I admit…” His hand slipped lower, pinching the silver insignia pinned at your chest between two fingers, “—you wear desperation well.”

He unfastened the pin slowly. Not yanking. Not tearing. An intimate feel to it as he did so, and you tried your very best to behave. He was really starting to get on your nerves, and you realized this could never be the man from your memories. No matter how beautifully he lied that he was.

The cold glint of the metal caught in the firelight as he held it up, inspecting it like a rare jewel. Then, without warning, he caught your wrist and pressed it into your palm.

His fingers curled over yours—tight, possessive.

“You’ll wear this,” he said, voice velvet around something cruel. “On every outfit I allow you to have. Clearly displayed. And should I ever find you without it…”

His thumb stroked your knuckles, deceptively gentle.

“…you’ll learn just how inventive I can be with punishment.”

You tried to pull your hand back. He didn’t let you.

“This symbol,” he said, eyes darkening slightly, “is not just a badge. It’s mine. A mark of ownership. Allegiance. Of belonging. And make no mistake—if you’re going to walk through my estate, breathing my air, dressed in my colors, I expect you to wear my name.”

He leaned in, brushing aside the edge of your cloak, fingers ghosting over your hip where the coat had cinched awkwardly to your form. “This uniform,” he murmured, “it wasn’t made for you. And yet you wore it anyway. Bold, reckless, and incredibly improper.”

You shuddered as he slipped a finger under the belt at your waist—not to remove it, but to let the gesture linger just long enough to make you feel it. Then he released you, stepping back with a pleased sigh.

“I’ll have something better sent to your quarters,” he said. “Modest, yes. Tailored for you. But not too modest. That would be a disservice to your figure.” His smile curled, slow and calculating. “Something warm. Refined. But marked—with my pin, always. You may wear dignity… but only through my generosity.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“Now, now.” His voice dipped as he circled you. “There’s no shame in being prized. You should feel honored. Do you understand how many women in Snezhnaya would die to be standing where you are?”

He stopped behind you, his breath brushing your ear.

“To be chosen. Tamed. Adorned. To be made perfect and placed beside me, not just beneath me~”

His hand touched your shoulder again, and this time it didn’t adjust anything. It simply stayed there. Heavy. Cold. Claiming.

“I want the world to see you,” he whispered. “And know you’re mine. A rare creature, plucked from a ruined age and made beautiful again under my care. Don’t waste this chance.”

He stepped away at last, as if satisfied—for now.

“You’ll find cooperation is rewarded,” he said lightly, returning to his chair. “Disobedience, though… that earns attention you won’t enjoy. And I do hate to repeat myself.”

He gestured toward the door.

“Go on then, my little trespasser. Wear the pin. Obey your Master. And let’s see how well you fare with earning that dignity you begged for.”

And now, here you were.

Dressed in something far more extravagant than you’d anticipated—tight, baroque, and unmistakably chosen by him.

The gown was a masterpiece of vanity: dark, velvety obsidian blue, embroidered with pale silver florals that shimmered faintly whenever you shifted. It cinched high at the waist with unforgiving precision, shaping your form into something decorative and bound. The bodice was laced intricately down the center, tight enough to restrict movement, adorned with beaded chains and a single ornate brooch nestled just above your sternum—gleaming, ostentatious, impossible to ignore.

Sheer puffed sleeves swelled over your upper arms, connected to a lace bolero that kissed your collarbones, fastened with a silver clasp at the throat. The neckline, though not scandalous, was deliberately sculpted to draw the eye.

Below, the skirt flowed just below knee-length silk overlaid with shimmering floral embroidery, weighted at the hem to sway with grace rather than speed. It moved beautifully. It also made moving a tad harder.

Your hands were wrapped in long black gloves, webbed in lace and tightened by a line of crisscrossed ribbon. Everything about the garment spoke of opulence. 

The pin sat untouched on your bedside table.

You stared at it for a long while.

Then turned your back on it and walked out the door.

The halls had been strangely quiet, save for the occasional masked servant gliding by like a ghost with no interest in speaking to you. You passed them without a word. You weren’t sure if it was your presence they avoided—or the man who owned you now by decree.

The library was vast. Dimly lit sconces and velvet-draped alcoves cast shadows between the towering shelves. You’d been given limited access to the historical wing after a polite, almost mocking approval from Pantalone. “Knowledge is power,” he’d said, “but don’t expect to find much about familiar ghosts. Khaenri’ah doesn’t exist on these shelves anymore.”

You didn’t believe him.

There had to be something.

You were standing on the third rung of an antique ladder now, gloved fingers trailing the spines of dusty tomes. You scanned titles. Languages you half-remembered flickered at the edge of recognition. Nothing on Khaenri’ah. Nothing of value.

Your eyes narrowed. You leaned forward for a slim, leather-bound journal wedged behind a stack of regional economic reports.

You didn’t hear him enter.

Didn’t feel the shift in air.

Didn’t know you were being watched until a voice curled up from below like a slow serpent around your ankle.

“My, my. Such dedication to scholarship.”

You startled, breath catching, foot slipping just enough to jolt you two steps down the ladder. You barely caught yourself.

“Careful,” Pantalone said, ever so mildly amused. “I’d hate to see you break something important.”

You turned sharply, eyes wide, heart thudding with adrenaline. He stood directly beneath the ladder, one hand resting on the carved mahogany rung, head tilted ever so slightly. His glasses caught the light. So did his smile.

“You’ve taken to the wardrobe rather well,” he added, voice low. “Though I must say, the tailoring flatters you more than the bookshelves do.”

You blinked—then realized the implication. Heat prickled up your neck.

He’d been standing directly beneath the ladder, looking up into your dress.

Of course he had.

You moved to step down, but he lifted a hand—palm open, almost chiding.

“No need to rush. I’m simply admiring the view.” His voice was calm, but that glint in his eye betrayed too much pleasure. “Though…”

His gaze dropped.

Not to your face. Not to your eyes.

To your chest.

“…Something seems to be missing.”

You froze halfway down the ladder. You knew what he meant. You also knew you weren’t going to answer that ridiculous request.

“Hm.” A small, deliberate sound. He stepped back, hands clasped loosely behind his back, giving you just enough space to descend. “I gave you a very clear instruction. One accessory. One pin. Worn visibly.”

You gripped the edge of the ladder harder as you lied through your teeth, not even wanting to amuse the thought. “Hmmm.. I don't think I recall?”

“Silver,” he continued smoothly. “Sharp. Rather symbolic, wouldn’t you say?”

You landed the final step with a practiced grace and turned to face him fully, keeping your chin high.

“It didn’t suit the dress,” you said coldly. “And it certainly doesn’t suit me.”

His brows lifted slightly, intrigued. “Ah. So it’s a matter of fashion, then? That's even more strange, as it goes perfectly well with what you're wearing.”

You ignored the jab. “I wore crowns heavier than that trinket. Don’t think me afraid of ornaments. But I don’t wear symbols I don’t believe in.”

Pantalone’s expression didn’t shift. But something colder settled behind his eyes. “Is that what you think it is? A mere symbol?” He stepped closer—casual, predatory. “Darling, that pin is not a suggestion. It is a boundary. A leash I was kind enough to let you fasten yourself.”

“And if I refuse?” you asked, voice sharpened now. “What then? Will you punish me for dressing with dignity? For refusing to parade your false ownership?”

He smiled lazily, and you started to slowly put more distance between the two of you. Something about his demeanor changed drastically just now, and you moved yourself behind an old desk. He simply followed, step by step, while you scanned your surroundings with feverish intent for a way out.

You had to get away from this man right now.

“No. I’ll punish you for forgetting your place. If you refuse to wear the mark I've given you, I'll simply give you a mark you can't remove.”

He closed the distance before you could even blink. In less than a second, his hands were on your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. Suddenly, you're thrown onto the cold, hard surface of one of the library's antique desks. The impact jolts the air from your lungs, the books and scrolls scattered around the room fluttering in the sudden disturbance. "My patience is quickly running out, I thought we had agreed on the fact that you aren't a disobedient whore?" Pantalone softly said, his voice a deep rumble that echoes through your bones, that god awful smile still curled onto his lips.

Your eyes went wide, never having experienced anything even close to this. "Wh–What are you doing? Let me go!"

“Let you go?” he snarled, voice laced with venom as he leaned in close—far too close. “Go where, exactly? To the graveyard of your kingdom? To the ashes of your precious lineage, scattered and forgotten beneath sand and ruin?”

His words struck like whips, and you recoiled instinctively—but his grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened.

You struggled beneath him, hands pushing weakly at his chest as your breath hitched, trembling. “I’m not your property!” you gasped. “Even if—if that’s true, even if—”

The rest cracked apart. A sob tore from your throat, raw and choking, splintering your voice mid-sentence. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Panic throttled your chest, and all you could do was shake beneath the weight of it.

"You are what I say you are," he murmured, his breath hot against your cheek. His right hand moved flat on top of your mouth, holding you in place whilst shutting you up as his left hand wrapped around your throat. He didn't squeeze—not yet—but the threat was unmistakable. "You live under my roof, breathe my air, eat my food."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, panic rising and rising and you weren't sure you were breathing properly. You tried to aggressively shake your head, hands now hammering against his chest. But Pantalone's grip tightened, his hand sliding from your mouth to the column of your throat, his thumb pressing into the pulse point, his eyes dark and hungry.

"I will let you go," he murmured, "once I've taught you today's lesson."

And then, without another word, his mouth was on the crook of your neck. You felt the heat of his breath first, the wetness of his lips, the sharpness of his teeth. He kissed you there, a bruising kiss, his mouth sucking down hard enough to leave a mark. You gasped, trying to struggle, but his hold was unbreakable.

"You're mine," he growled again, the words vibrating against your skin. "Mine to dress. Mine to command. Don't you dare forget I was the one that gave you a second chance to live."

You felt the pressure of his teeth, the promise of pain, and your body tensed, ready to fight. But his left hand was like a vice around your throat, cutting off your air. You tried to bite back a whimper, but it slipped out, a pathetic sound that seemed to only excite him.

"Good," he whispered.

And then, as if you weren't already struggling for breath, his teeth clamped down on your neck, biting down hard. You felt his tongue trace the outline of your pulse before his teeth sank in once again and again and again. You yelped, the sound muffled by the lack of air, your nails digging into the desk as he claimed you in the most primal way he could.

You tried to kick him, to fight back, but his leg was between yours, pinning you down. You could feel his erection pressing against your thigh through his trousers, and panic only set in more. And he reveled in it.

"Please," you choked out, desperate. "Please stop."

But he didn't. He just groaned, the sound deep and animalistic, his hand tightening around your throat as he sucked harder, leaving dark purple imprints scattered across it. You could feel the beginnings of the bruises forming, a stark contrast against your alabaster skin.

You didn’t know what to do, your mind racing as you squirmed and thrashed. You weren’t okay with this. You would never be okay with this.

"Master Pantalone," you rasped, trying to keep the fear from your voice. "This isn’t right. You can't just—"

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark with lust and something else, something feral. "Call me that again," he ordered, his voice a harsh whisper, "and I'll make you scream it."

You felt a spark of defiance flare up in your chest, a refusal to be cowed by this monster in a gentleman's guise. You tried to claw his hand away, but he just squeezed harder, cutting off your airway.

"Let m–mh go," you managed to get out, your voice strangled. He didn't seem to care. He just leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "I'll stop when you learn to obey," he said, his voice a promise and a threat all rolled into one.Your vision was starting to swim, your lungs burning for air. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, his mouth released your neck and he moved back slightly, allowing some more air into your lungs. You gasped, forcing breaths back into your airways, your entire body shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline and fear.

You couldn't focus on anything else but the black dots in your vision and the gulps of air you could finally force into your lungs, panting and powerless, your muscles still very weak from centuries of disuse.

You felt his breath hitch as he stared down at you, his eyes raking over your exposed neck, the marks already beginning to blossom into bruises. There was something in his gaze—a hunger so fierce it was almost painful to witness. He muttered something under his breath, a curse or a prayer, you couldn't tell which. His hand trembled slightly as he reached up to brush your hair aside, revealing the fresh wounds he’d left behind.

Pantalone’s self-control was unraveling before your eyes, each thread snapping taut with the tension coiled within him. He leaned closer as he took in the sight of your trembling body laid out beneath him like a feast.

“Look what you’ve done,” he murmured, voice thick with a desire he couldn’t quite hide. “Look how you provoke me. How you make me want to devour you whole—right here, right now, on this ugly, cold, dusty desk surrounded by the words of dead men who couldn’t even hold a candle to your beauty.”

His hands slid up the length of your thighs, the fabric of your dress whispering against your skin as he pushed it higher. You could see the war in his gaze—his need battling his decorum—until his eyes fell upon your panties. They were a soft, innocent shade of white lace, a stark contrast to the raw hunger in his expression.

“You should be grateful, really,” he said, voice low and tight, like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “Do you have any clue how many girls would throw themselves at me for just a chance of what you have?”

Your eyes widened in shock and horror as he bent closer, his breath hot and ragged against your inner thigh. You tried to squirm away, but his grip was like iron.

“This is what you bring upon yourself,” he whispered, the words a dark caress against your ear. “Every time you resist me. Every time you refuse to acknowledge your place here—as mine—you make it harder for me to be civilized. To be kind. To be patient. Do you understand?”

The fabric of your dress was bunched around your waist, and his hand hovered just above the lace of your underwear, fingers trembling as if fighting an internal battle. He was close—so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the coarse brush of his breath against your sensitive flesh.

And then he slid his hand over your panties, his palm cupping your sex with a gentle yet firm pressure that sent a bolt of surprise through your body. You bit down hard on your lip, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to hold onto what little dignity you had left in this damned house of horrors.

“It’s your fault,” he hissed, the words a dark mantra that seemed to fuel his actions. “I've told you before I don't like repeating myself, haven't I?” You could feel the tension in the air thicken as his fingers danced along the edge of your panties, his finger hooking into it as he slid it slightly down—

BANG.

The sudden intrusion of the library’s silence was like a thunderclap—The library doors exploded open with a bang like a cannon shot—wood splintering, hinges groaning in protest, the sound of boots hitting marble, the harsh rush of air, and a roar of rage that seemed to shake the very spines of the books themselves. You blinked through your tears, vision swimming with fear and disbelief, as the scene before you morphed from a nightmare to a battleground.

A figure surged through the smoke and silence: tall, broad-shouldered, and carved in fury. He moved with the violent precision of a blade unsheathed—his presence alone enough to rupture the room’s stillness. His boots struck the marble like thunder, and when his masked gaze landed on Pantalone, it was a bolt of living lightning.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t give warning.

In one motion, the male crossed the chamber, seized Pantalone by the collar, and ripped him from over your body like tearing rot from a wound. The force launched the man backward into the shelves—books erupted from the impact like feathers in a hurricane, leather spines snapping, glass fixtures crashing from above.

The entire side of the library caved inward under the blow.

“How fucking DARE you!” he roared, the walls trembling with it. “What the FUCK is wrong with you?!”

Pantalone staggered from the wreckage, blood trailing from his lip, dust clinging to his velvet sleeves. His eyes, momentarily wide with shock, narrowed to slits.

“Well,” he rasped, laughing faintly, “Il Capitano. Back so soon? How was Inazuma?”

The Captain didn’t dignify it. His response was a blow to the ribs—followed by another, and another. Each strike landed with bone-jarring force, Pantalone grunting as he was driven backward—over a table, into another shelf that collapsed beneath them both in a shower of ink and shattered wood.

This wasn’t a fight.

It was a reckoning. And you couldn't stop staring at the man you clearly knew. The Captain. The man from your dreams.

Books tore like parchment in a storm, shelves cracked from their hinges, chandeliers above rattled with each thunderous collision. Pages flurried through the air like ash from a dying city.

Pantalone fought back—but his elegance was useless against sheer brutality. Where the Captain moved with honed violence, Pantalone’s gestures were all theater—deflective, too slow, too clean.

You tried to move, to stand, to do anything that might give you control over your shaking limbs. But you were spent, weak from the fear and the fight for air, and your throat betrayed you. You trembled and coughed, leaving you a crumpled mess on the desk, panting between gasps of air and desperate to be anywhere but here.

Pantalone staggered backward, brushing dust from the shoulders of his coat with a calculated calm. Blood beaded at the corner of his mouth, but he wiped it away without fanfare—no hiss of pain, no broken pride. Only that damnable composure.

He looked up at the towering figure across from him, eyes glittering like frost under glass.

“Well,” he drawled, breath a touch uneven but posture unshaken, “you weren’t due back for another month. How in Teyvat have you managed to return so soon.”

Il Capitano said nothing.

His presence filled the ruined library like a storm too still to trust. The air between them thrummed with weight, like the echo of a war drum. His fists remained clenched, gauntlets creaking faintly under the pressure, but his stance didn’t shift. He was still as stone—and twice as threatening.

Pantalone’s smile returned, slow and smug. “Did your little conquest wrap up before it had started, or were you simply too bored without an audience to terrify?”

Still no reply. But the Captain’s silence was louder than any threat.

Pantalone’s gaze flicked—just once—toward the desk behind Il Capitano. Toward you.

It lingered.

Il Capitano moved then—only a step. But the floor cracked under his boot as if the marble had been holding its breath.

“I warned you,” the Captain said, voice low and razor-edged. “I told you what would happen if you touched her.”

Pantalone didn’t flinch. He straightened his sleeves with infuriating calm. “Touched?” he echoed, voice light, mocking. “You speak as if she’s yours, and I barely touched her.”

Another step. This time closer.

Il Capitano’s mask didn’t shift, but the tension rolling off him was no longer restrained—it was seething. “Say that again,” he said, almost gently. “See what’s left of your tongue.”

Pantalone exhaled slowly, tilting his head with the indulgence of a man still convinced he was the smartest person in the room.

“I merely helped her understand the value of obedience,” he said. “But you always did struggle to see the bigger picture. A relic of a soldier pretending to be a guardian. She doesn’t need your protection, Capitain—she needs guidance.”

The silence that followed was brief.

It ended with the Captain’s fist slamming into Pantalone’s ribcage one more time.

The sound was sickening—bone, cloth, wood all snapping in one collision. Pantalone doubled over, coughing once, the edge of a laugh catching in his throat before another brutal blow sent him crashing into the shattered remnants of a bookcase. Pages scattered like feathers around him as he crumpled to the ground.

And yet—

Even there, blood at his lip, one hand braced on broken shelves, Pantalone chuckled. “Overreactive,” he wheezed. “A brute with torn pride. Just like always.”

Il Capitano turned his head slightly, voice a cold, precise growl. “You’re breathing because the Tsaritsa wills it. Not because I lack the strength to end you. Remember that.”

Then, without another word, he turned—shoulders rising and falling with measured rage—as he crossed to you, leaving Pantalone amidst the wreckage like the carcass of a storm’s eye.

He knelt beside you, the metal of his armor cold against your skin, but his movements careful—every motion a studied defiance of violence. The fury that had just torn through shelves and shattered centuries of knowledge seemed a world away now, coiled behind the armor like a chained wolf.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse. “You still with me?”

Your throat tightened around a breath you didn’t know you had, as every bone in your body recognized him. You nodded—barely—and that was enough.

He slid his arms beneath you, lifting you into his hold with terrifying ease. Your body folded into the curve of his chest, instinctual, seeking shelter before you even realized it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and certain.

Behind you, Pantalone exhaled a rasping chuckle. “What a knight.”

Il Capitano didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

“Don’t say another word,” he said, quiet enough to freeze the blood in your veins. “And don't test me again.”

And then he walked.

Each step through the rubble sang with finality. The shattered books, the torn curtains, the splintered shelves—it all parted before him as he carried you from the wreckage of the library like a man dragging something sacred out of a desecrated temple.