Chapter Text
Moonlight splits into even bars through the wrought iron slats of a window—the only opening peering into the orphanage archives. A cavern crammed with parchments of crumbling history, the faint white glow of the night barely reaches the floor. Yet, a cavern sealed, a tomb only to be guarded, never exhumed.
Bask stands close to the archive window, squinting, his eyes adjusting to the dark. That is, if he really could—ghosthood does not grant him better vision (as if the Vigil Quest didn’t teach him anything), but he sure can waltz in unbothered. And if he gets first to whatever Durnhardt is searching for here? It’s his chance at leverage against—it better be.
His hands reach as he moves forward, groping for the grit on the shelves. Nothing registers in his touch anymore. Why is everything still so frustratingly limited? Just when he thought he got the hang of purgatory by now.
The archives, a mausoleum of fragmented, forgotten history. Somehow, a cavern stiller, quieter than death. As Bask wades deeper in the darkness, a part of him wishes he knew where he was buried. But war only allowed the dead to burn, scattered as ashes in the wind. Scripture rings true—to dust they shall return, settling eventually in the crooks of a memorial etched in a different name.
The burn marks on the walls and shelves strain against the faded light, charring deeper into the room. A fire once put out in time—he wishes his remains were left salvaged too.
With just a few unimpeded strides, the ghost ends up at the furthest corner—a wall of drawers. Some shut tight, others haphazardly opened. Pieces of paper jut out, gasping for mildewed air. And he pauses—which among these drawers did Durnhardt ruffle through again? Each one of them screams a clone of the neighbor. Unhelpfully so, as if they have banded together to guard their secrets.
Is this how memory, when deemed unimportant, powders into the other? Suppose, eventually, there will come a day his very name grinds into dust, blown against the boots of a man claiming his place next to Diene’s side?
His mouth twists, his gaze unfocused. What if he doesn’t find whatever Durnhardt is searching for tonight, and the latter still gets to it first? And what if it damns the Lord Commander? He’ll surely bury, very much burn it. History written in ash will become meaningless and will become the ground he shall continue standing on. The same ground that might bury her alive.
No. Bask cannot let that happen. He will never let that happen. He needs to focus harder—which burnt drawer is he looking for again?
Burnt.
He recalls Durnhardt pulling halfway through a burnt drawer.
His eyes race to the lowest row, and with certainty. Somehow, his arms are drawn somewhere specific—needles to a compass pointing north. The ghost tries yanking the handles one by one, but most pass through—
—until his hand snags.
While the roughness of wood is air to him, his fingers get tangled with a knob, resting. And without thinking, he gives it one hard tow.
The drawer heaves and slides, creaking three-quarters open, the rising dust glittering in the moonlight.
Bask holds his breath, staring at the half-burnt object finally woken from its slumber.
A…ledger.
Bound in leather, charred enough to crack, but whole enough to open. Frankly, just like him—sufficiently whole to crack a few things open.
With one hand, he flips the ledger open, its cover hitting the wood with a dull thud. But the darkness makes it impossible to properly read the entries. Is he to spend the entire night poring through numbers? And if he does, will any of these make a damning, conclusive sense to him? Let alone literally drag this thing to court.
Never has he felt so determined, yet so utterly lost.
He turns several pages more, irreverent. He is never much one to care for numbers; he begins losing his grip as well on the words at its margins. Until then, a page flips heavier, revealing two wax seals—pressed, crusty. One is a three-pronged deer—rougher lines, as if hewn, not stamped. His teeth grit. A crest too striking—the same in the forged letter.
House Roskarov. Of course.
But the other seal? Lighter, vague, familiar—from a red letter, perhaps? But the red letters are too many to even individually recall.
Bask’s finger grazes the mysterious crest, attempting to recall the animal on it. A unique creature—not from the deer, swans, or hounds nesting on the seals of marriage proposals. Quite literally, he can’t seem to put a finger on it. The animal’s name inconveniently escapes him, of all times—a ferret? A stoat? A weasel?
He remembers the shape—a small beast, curled. But the more he tries to name it, the faster it slips from his mind—the way his hands slip through walls.
And then he lifts his hand.
The crest vanishes, as if it never existed. The page is left with a hole.
He blinks, as if the darkness instead has been playing tricks on his eyes.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. And the hole remains gaping, mocking him. Nothing changes.
Where the fuck did that seal go?
Frantic, he ruffles through the ledger, not giving a damn if the pages rip. But any more traces of the seal are gone.
His pulse rises and throbs all the way to his head, drumming as if it echoes in the entire cavern.
The Roskarovs will surely be damned. But Durnhardt? He can’t prove anything anymore—all the more he’s botched the only evidence he could’ve had. He’s ruined it—absolutely fucking ruined it. Just like how he has been ruining everything for Diene even before he came back. Now, with his carelessness, he might just ruin an entire kingdom too.
Still useless.
Bask can only stumble back and crash on the floor, crumpling, burying his face in his hands.
He’ll never get to do anything right for her ever again. This is his fault—entirely his fault—for leaving her defenseless, for leaving her desperate, reaching for another man who might be her biggest downfall. But he just can’t prove it—how is he going to protect her then?
Still too late.
He lets out one big, frustrated exhale, ruffling the jutted papers peeking from the shelves; the only audience for his pathetic, crumbling, ghastly state.
Then he unleashes his loudest, yet the most silent, ghostly scream rattling into the night.
“Fuck!”
Tonight’s moon hangs a waning crescent, wisps of mist drifting into a sea of twinkling stars. The night breeze also swirls into a still, the way dried, crumbling leaves spiral on parched, dusty ground, all before settling into nests. Diene’s boot crunches on some, the crisp echoing with the trailing chorus of cicadas.
She slightly skips in step, the scrape of her feet against gravel entertaining her. The tavern shrinks further in the horizon. The orange warmth of song and dance melts, dissolving into the deep blue of the night, like how the setting sun sinks into the sea.
Once more, she finds herself alone, isolated—she simply has to be. For someone who has spent the last five years surrounded by most who insist on having her seen over heard, in the end, she is no more but surrounded by solitude. Walls of her own architecture, built by her own subconscious. If she laid her castle brick by brick, it would’ve had more battlements over rooms—visible, domineering, unforgivably sprawling. She might as well forget to add a throne.
All she can do right now is walk as far away as possible, as if distance is the water that can cool the heat in her palms, wash the flush from her cheeks, or slosh into calm the roaring waves of her heart. But like the leaves spinning in the breeze, her mind whirlpools. The battlements in her mind crumble into tides.
The tavern dance had her twirling too much in front of Gideon—too light, too free. The next thing she registered was the firm warmth of his arms pulling her closer, almost an embrace. His forehead almost leaned on hers, as if needing her steadiness. She almost felt his breath against hers—sour with the roast of ale. And somehow, she caught the faintest whiff of pine—almost a figment of her imagination. She would go insane if it were, and she had inevitably reproached herself for actually seeking it.
That moment was the literal closest to him. Duty had long been gone, just purely out of their own choice. And for the second of a heartbeat, her eyes flicked to the curve of his parted lips. Simply there, hanging, waiting for her—
Diene shakes her head, as if the lingering memory will fling itself into the wind if she tries hard enough. Distance is indeed water—something that will flush Gideon sober. Or maybe she does need it more—quite literally—the mead must have crept too much into her.
The biting scent of cheap lye stops her in her tracks. Her steps have brought her far enough to what seems a trespass into clotheslines. Light, tattered sheets of linen billow in the returning breeze, her robes and sleeves rippling along. After a glance over her shoulder, she removes her spectacles and hangs them on her collar. Her nose bridge is relieved of imposter weight.
Her hand snatches the veil on her head, her hair finally blowing free in the gale—the only fulfilled promise of such a challenging, torturous summer day. She inhales deep, her diaphragm swelling with the greed of cool nighttime air.
For a moment, she imagines she is no queen; only breath and skin and wind.
Freedom, sovereignty—things that seem within her grasp, but simply are illusions as impermanent as candle smoke. Slightly tangible when she is in her lonesome. Perhaps it is better that way.
Many would burn themselves to stand in her place—to be in his arms. But now, she fully understands why she pulled away. He is not the flame—she is. She is more than a flame; she is the fire ignited on a branch, thrown over the corpses of war buried in hay.
Time ticked still the day the flame consumed flesh and bone into ash. She was forced to watch under the weight of a crown, unknowing, purposefully, which among them had been Bask. Time remained still after; the smolders from the fire, untouched, were as true as the words she entombed upon herself: If being left here all alone is the price for that choice, I have no choice but to pay for it for the rest of my life.
It will never be something the Lord Commander should ever know, let alone comprehend. Even she herself gets lost within her own castle of battlements; she forgets the throne she’s supposed to sit upon.
The wind picks up—so does the sound of careful, deliberate steps behind her. Diene’s pulse quickens; her fingers fumble dragging the veil back over her head, as if armor could be donned fast enough.
The footsteps halt.
She turns on instinct—then freezes.
A tall silhouette stands framed by the clotheslines, barely identifiable, moonlight slicing it into halves.
“Your Majesty.”
The deep, familiar voice rests on the pause.
She takes a hesitant step forward, eyes adjusting. She shouldn’t—distance is safety—but familiarity doesn’t breed contempt. It breeds vulnerability.
When the man comes closer into full view, her lungs unclench.
“Lord Commander Durnhardt,” she straightens. “I just needed air.”
“Don’t worry,” Gideon says softly. “I only…wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
In retrospect, she let herself wander too far, too fast—giving little thought to dangers other than his gaze. Distance never felt like danger. But he could never resist following, the way Bask once persisted.
Closeness is danger.
“Well,” Diene again pulls off her habit, resigned. “Are you?”
As she tucks the cloth underneath her arm, a gust of wind sends her hair whipping against her face; she vigorously shakes her head then blinks. Gideon lets the pause drift between them, lips suspended in a wistful smile, curved like the crescent moon.
He mumbles, “More than.”
One had too much to drink.
And yet, those two words hold as much weight as his gaze studying her.
The wind dies again; strands of her hair land like scattered hay, some poking upward in disarray. She would always tie her hair in a neat, tight ponytail. Tonight ended up an exception, however—keeping the veil on has been impossible to bear. And an exception—of all people, he has witnessed her this…unqueenly.
Her hand quickly pats down her hair. Since when did she care so much for her appearance—and right in front of him?
“I…” she stammers, still distracted from finger-combing. “Give me a minute to fix my habit, and we’ll head—”
His gloved hand snaps to her. Firm, yet gentle. Diene jolts, heart in her throat.
A stop.
Heat radiates from his palm just as much as it did back in the tavern, but letting it stay any longer might burn through her this time.
He whispers, “You never needed to.”
She tries to pull back, but his grip grows firmer—pleading. Somewhere in her, a memory twitches—warmth that ended in smoke.
His wistful stare bores deeper, as if in a trance. “You’re…beautiful.”
And his other hand brushes off strands from her forehead, tucking them behind her ear. “Just…like this.”
The trails where his fingers grazed her skin lace fire, the burn spreading across her face. And somehow, Gideon continues caressing her cheek, getting lost in this. She had never been held like this—and somehow, she’s savoring the stings from the burns, but she lingers.
She’s letting herself linger.
Her heart drops.
Diene pushes his hands down with the force of levers. “You can…save that much later for court.”
Goddess forbid, she let herself linger.
He steps back, stupefied, as if woken up after hypnosis. “You don’t…believe me?”
There is a flicker of sadness in his shocked eyes—guilt gnaws at her insides. All he did was try so hard to reassure her. But she keeps grappling for the right way to say sorry.
“You’re…not the first either,” she braces for his reaction, but he remains motionless. And her eyes shift, nervous. “They were…just as sincere.”
All other kinds of words—even hurtful ones—come out of her but sorry. That one word that matters the most. That one sorry to shut all doors and keep one window open to the farce.
“I was just trying to be honest,” he sighs, tone disheartened. But he nods, as if conjuring an idea. “But I know what will make you believe.”
“Try me.”
Yet, after everything, all the windows remain open; she cannot find it in herself to shut the door itself, and only for him. Why?
He rubs his chin. “When I was riding from Taranor to the ball, I was…terrified.”
Terrified—as if this man’s boots have not walked through cinders and blood.
“I’ve heard about you so many damn times over,” he continues. “But I realized—I didn’t even know what you looked like.”
Fair enough. She has been made known through literature and song. And her looks? Barely memorable. Surely she’s not the only fair-haired, green-eyed maiden in Ritania—only a title sets her apart.
“Wow,” Gideon seems amused with his own narration. “I can’t believe I’m this…shallow.”
Diene chuckles. Men are indeed creatures who never fail to be otherwise. But she was no better, panicking when Krau first brokered Durnhardt to her. “And here I was, praying Krau would not send a man who could…pass for my father!”
“And I thought you were disappointed with my suit.”
The two share a laugh bursting from their cheeks, a certain ease briefly cooling the heat of his caress. Another breeze passes through them, stronger, making the linens around them ripple. The air lets them catch the breaths they seem to keep losing.
The waning crescent of the moon seems to smile at them—a god taking interest in the mundanity of a knight and a nun’s midnight banter. How long has it been since she smiled back? She does not remember drawing her curtains from her window come evening, let alone peeking through it. She stopped wanting to for the longest time.
“And then I laid my eyes on you,” the Lord Commander takes a deep breath. “I was more terrified…if I couldn’t.”
Her breath also snags. A quiet agreement, for she too had gone anxious the hours he busied himself in the orphanage.
He rambles. “When you ran from your throne. When you ran in the clinic. Even now, when you went out for air. I…don’t know. Even when I was away, it’s been hard.”
She hates telling herself the week was also hard without him. There were times she passed by the training yard, hoping for another glimpse of him patting squires, only to be greeted by an empty hall.
Why did she keep seeking him then?
There were times in her parlor she quietly hoped the servant would pour into two teacups, as if they knew in advance of his return, but she had only one. And her saucer of scones left untouched.
Why did she keep thinking of him then?
Gideon gives her a reassuring smile. “I kept thinking of you.”
Why does she keep thinking of him now?
Why does she allow herself such foolishness, when she exiled herself to her own castle of battlements—a vow she deemed infallible? How could he storm in her fortress without a sword, yet capture the missing throne? How could he still stand in a castle burning from within, after its own queen has set fire to herself? If this is still pretend, does he also pretend her flames do not scorch him?
“Gideon, I…” she flounders, hands clamping her skirt. “It’s been…hard for me too. It’s hard to…feign interest when the other isn’t around.” A deflect. “We do not need to be too convincing.”
She’s done it again, too naturally. When will she ever stop?
“I didn’t need to feign. I never had to.” He’s done it again, too naturally as well. When will he ever stop?
The look in his eyes—conviction. She had them before, the moment she readied herself to admit something to Bask.
The moon glows, stripping their emotions bare.
“It doesn’t matter who—how many—stand before us, between us. Diene…I—forget everyone else. I don’t see everyone else—”
The linens conceal the world around them. Even the air holds a bated breath.
“All I see is you.”
A single, unexplainable tear rolls from her right eye. And she does not wipe it.
All I see is you.
After all he’s seen from her—the crown, the veil—for the first time, Gideon is seeing her, talking to her, simply as…Diene. Here they are in the middle of nowhere, standing underneath a moon that casts shadows behind them.
Emotions have formed under its faint glow—something that has always been shapeless in their shadows.
Duselnorc’s full moon was the last she remembers—the night she gave her rosary to Bask. While she could never fault him for being completely dense about it, she could never lie to herself about not getting heartbroken beyond. Perhaps this must be the very reason why she missed five years’ worth of moons.
And if she weren’t one and one-half a coward—she would’ve spelled out her feelings more plainly instead. Regret has never felt more humiliating since then.
“Ugh. Goddess,” Gideon covers his eyes with his palm. “I said too much.”
And her eyes dart to his parted lips.
This very minute—which weighs more—the regret of something unspoken, or the regret of something plainly spoken?
She steps closer to him, and pulls his hand away. Then she cups his face with her hands, gazes into the deep grey of his eyes, before settling on his mouth. A choice—one that was once stolen by war, but now, might be hers again.
Diene has already given her rosary away. But what she gives Gideon now, he will never misconstrue. And something she might not regret.
Her thumbs rest along his jaw; for a heartbeat, neither of them moves. The air hums, taut. Even the moon peeks from the clouds, holding still, just to see what she’ll do.
Now or never.
Finally closing the distance, she shuts her eyes and leans in—then presses her lips to his.
And the world vanishes into dark.
Nothing, but the wetness of his lips, the warmth of his breath, and the sourness of the ale—lingering, also becoming hers.
The world crawls to a standstill. No wind stirs, no pulse ticks. Her lips stay frozen, as if peeling them away would peel her skin altogether. Nothing else matters.
That’s when Gideon puckers back, cushioning the blow—warmer, gentler. An answer: you are not alone.
Something clicks in her head; a cog pried loose. It groans, then shifts—a second later, time has begun moving forward again.
But her breaths are cutting short.
Her mouth retreats; her eyes flutter open into the intensity of his stare. Their noses almost touch each other, even their breathlessness are in sync. Her hands still cup his face—a thumb strokes his cheek, trying to feel, as if everything—this quiet kiss—has been nothing more than a dream.
Perhaps it’s best left as one—something she would never tell him. Something she would forget the morning after.
His eyes flick back to her lips—gauging—while biting his own.
This is something he too should also forget—nothing more than a part of his duty.
But why does it seem…he’s asking for more?
Gideon’s hand snaps to Diene’s waist, another to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. Her heart skips a beat, her mouth remains parted, quivering. Anticipating.
They should have been done with this.
He then pulls her head closer—and his lips crash onto hers. Deeper.
Maybe she doesn’t want to be done, either.
She shuts her eyes once more, letting the world go dark.
In the dark of the night, in the press of closed eyes, the sweet wetness of mead registers first on Gideon’s lips—a sea engulfing him in its depths. He willingly drowns, bracing for cold.
If the sea burns, then it scorches from the crooks of Diene’s responsive mouth. The tantalizing burns flood his face, flushing his stomach, searing all the way to his palms. Her lips are soft, tender, enticing—all he’s long dared to imagine, but all no better than this reality. And he’s not one to plunge and just stretch. He presses repeatedly—two, three more—each one deeper, more desperate. With the strangest dream—the hands on his face tow him closer.
She responds with puckers—shy, uninitiated, a queen restraining to feed herself—such guarded kisses define her. And he goes for his fifth—her breath has become his own. Boiling water—quenching the thirst he has never known until this moment.
By the sixth, Gideon grips her hair a little tighter, the hand on her waist becoming the arm wrapping it. Tasting stops being satisfying in the name of hunger. Diene’s hands on his cheeks crawl downward, the graze of her fingers tingling his neck, teasing, before settling on his shoulders. Not yet satisfied either. He clamps firmer, not wanting to let go.
He might never let go.
The clotheslines of the world snap and flutter to the ground—they shouldn’t be. But for once, they fall not where they’re supposed to belong; they fall where it’s simply…theirs. And she falls…settling into the depth of his embrace. Her warm, frail body rests snug in his arms, the missing puzzle piece sinking perfectly in place.
One more kiss—no, another. Never enough—each beg louder, telling her how much she doesn’t only glue him together. He’s once the broken plate, now burnished anew—
Palms on his chest push him away.
And their mouths rip apart.
The two gasp for their own breaths, and he opens his eyes. And those green eyes before him reflect wide, horrified. His heart cracks like glass.
They both have committed a crime. And both are the perpetrators and victims of their own making.
Diene’s lips tremble, her teeth chatter. “Don’t.”
Don’t.
His grip loosens.
Don’t do it again.
She staggers backward, hastily donning her veil. But her fingers fumble—some strands still peek from the cloth.
Don’t.
She slams the spectacles back on her nose, lopsided.
Don’t follow me.
Then she turns on her heel, almost teetering.
Don’t.
The queen marches her way back to the tavern, the darkness the sea she would rather row.
Don’t remember this happened.
The darkness engulfs her figure, and engulfs the flame of what they just had. Then the world rushes back in, the breeze too loud, the horizon too empty.
Gideon’s arms remain halfway suspended, as if leaving them open would siphon her back. Her taste lingers—warmth, mead, and something he cannot fully name: confession. He licks his lips, but the sensation has faded. Perhaps it’s only a dream.
But why did it feel so real?
He has crossed every line he swore he wouldn’t. Yet, the only thing worse than crossing it was how right it had felt. Like her breath was the only thing that could fill his lungs, and the gaping hole in his heart he long stopped bothering to patch. Just when he first thought she needed him—no. He needs her to come back. He needs her more than air—
A cold chill slithers. The hairs on the knight’s nape rise.
Someone’s here.
His hand flicks to the hilt of his sword. He scans the vicinity.
Nothing.
It’s no breeze either—the linens on the clotheslines hang unbothered, resigned.
Was someone…watching them?
Even the wind stands silent.
Goddess forbid someone witnessed their crime.
But Diene, defenseless—he still can’t leave her fleeing by herself. Especially not after what happened.
Not wasting any more time, he also marches in the direction he came from. Hopefully, by the time he reaches her, she has forgotten. If not, she will eventually forget. And things will return to how it is between them, like clotheslines winding themselves back on their poles.
He wants to believe this as a beginning, but the closer the tavern looms, the more it feels like an end she has already decided. He has been kissed like a man she can love—and dismissed like one she cannot keep.
Diene can forget. She, just like the waning moon sinking in the sky, will forget. But Gideon, just like how the moon always knows where to sit in the depths of the night, will never forget.
And just like the glow of fading moonlight—intangible, yet reaching—one has seen everything, and wishes he could forget.