Chalk Pursues Gold

by mdys

Summary:

Sliced open, her touch had him eviscerated, guts messily spilling to the ground. Phantom hands wrenched him apart until he was nothing more than a hollow crevice. Void. Empty for the taking. Golden eyes, golden hair—drenched in muck and blood—make home in his cavities.

She was everything in between—the ichor that now flows in his veins, the momentary taste of something inexplicably divine—curling around his neck in a suffocating noose. With one look, the dam bursts, engulfing all that stands in its wake—whether it be the flowers, the birds, or the world itself.

(No, the poets had never mentioned this.)

In a four-act play orchestrated by Fate, Dainsleif finds gold in a sea of grays.

Notes:

Set in a world where Khaenri'ahns were cursed to see only in grayscale. That is, until Dainslumi.

Contrary to popular belief, the world is not as convoluted as the scholars like to claim—even the most twisted and tangled Ley Lines can be easily unraveled by the common folk. For in this simple world, only three things exist—

Light.

Darkness.

And everything in between.

The world shall spin, spin, and spin. Incessant. Yet this one universal truth will remain irrefutable, unmovable, as long as land has shape, the seas continue to sway, and the skies reign high above all.

They say, in the blessed Kingdom of Khaenri’ah, this principle goes beyond the mindless reflections of a jaded philosopher. In the prosperous nation of Dahri , where success is measured according to one’s ability to transcend mortal limitations, this was reality. And perhaps it was the ingrainment of such a straightforward mindset that gave them an edge above the rest, free from the constraints set by the divine.

Light. Darkness. And everything in between. In exchange for their empire’s longevity, the nation was stripped away of its divine protection, and the gods had taken all things vibrant— color —in their departure. Blinded by mortal greed, they would soon come to learn that the rejection of divinity is the rejection of life itself.

Alas, it does not stop the kingdom’s citizens from dreaming (is that not what they do best? Dream, dream, and dream? ), ceaselessly questioning whether these eyes were cursed to witness merely half, if not less, of whatever greatness Khaenri’ah can achieve. As long as blasphemy runs through their veins, gazing upon the full extent of what creation entails is nothing but a pipe dream.

Fourteen Winters Before the Purgatory

“Color—what a wondrous thing! ”Mother would muse, more to herself than to the attentive child perched on her lap, who looked at her as if she hung the stars. It wasn’t far off. Apparently, colors were just as bright and vibrant, more than he could ever imagine. They were just as unreachable, too, if the tales from distant lands were anything to go by.

Weary from sword practice, Dainsleif could only muster up a curt nod; a short Mother leaves his lips on instinct, lest he gets chastised for his lackluster acknowledgment. Unbefitting for someone of your noble lineage, scolds Father, offering Dainsleif nothing more than a critical eye under his monocle. Distinctly, he remembers the embarrassment, his cheeks heating up at the reprimanding tone. Tension pressed down on his core, a slow, sinking feeling that untethered him from the present.

At the young age of thirteen, nothing meant more for Dainsleif than polishing his blade, sharpening his abilities, and exercising utmost decorum. At thirteen, each strike—may it be from the swings of his sword instructor or the heavy hits of Father’s hand—felt like toeing the line of death. Yet there was a nostalgic simplicity in all of it (in a half-millennium, he would muse—but not, never, at thirteen) which couldn’t possibly be unearthed by a boy his age. Like the tilts of a fulcrum—there could only be two choices. He does well. Or he does not. The results matter little, when there are fixed consequences—reward or punishment.

Light. Darkness. And everything in between.

Everything in between, that’s what his kin would call it. Yet it was inevitable for stories to float and reach depths and crevices unknown. The outlanders would call it gray , the muddled middle separating white and black . His sword—Dainsleif eyes it, memorizes the sheen gleaming off the scratched surface—must be what they call gray. He’s noticed that all training swords like his shine the same way; they must be gray—something a part of that everything in between .

But Khaenri’ahns, from what Dainsleif has observed, were anything but people who would settle for everything in between. They would go beyond Light and Darkness, too. There are boundless possibilities out there—boundless potential , Father would say, as words of encouragement, Dainsleif presumes. He can’t help but wonder whether they were meant to drive him to fight better—be better—or were they musings for the big picture he could not comprehend. He was just a boy, after all. And Father was a dreamer. 

They all were.

He hums noncommittally, sheathing his sword and turning to his Mother, who has opted to comb her hands between the silky locks of his sister, lulling her to a deep sleep. Gentle, slender fingers move on autopilot as if they were built like sturdy machines—the pride and joy of their beloved Motherland. Her eyes do not adoringly gaze at her daughter, though, like one may expect a mother to behave. Mind consumed with dreams of color, they stare off to the far distance. A reflection looks back at her, star-like pupils that only serve to taunt her. To taunt all of them.

“And why dream of something you never had? Something we’ll never have ,” Dainsleif asks. If he came a little closer, perhaps he, too, would find the same stars peering back at him. He stays rooted to his spot.

“Is life not a state of perpetual yearning? ”Mother whispers. She does not look at him. Her fingers continue to comb and comb.

“You sleep because your body wishes to curb fatigue,” she continues after a fraction of thought. She swivels to face Dainsleif, a twitch in her neck as if it physically pained her to cast her sight away from the far, far distance. His peers would not have noticed. But Dainsleif saw—it would only be right, especially for someone of his lineage.

“You splurge because it is what your heart desires.”

Dainsleif furrows his brows and resists the urge to scoff at the absurdity his Mother is insinuating. “You sleep because you have depleted the energy needed to perform bodily functions.”

Mother laughs. His response seemed to please her, or perhaps she thought it too ridiculous to warrant a serious reaction. It might be a bit of both. Mother posed herself as the weight to create equilibrium in their family, to balance the stern teachings of his Father. She would tell him to smile and to relax. A true noble will know when to portray stoicism or dish out a charming smile. 

“I think it's wonderful that color not only allows you to see the world in a different light; it allows you to discover true love as well.”

“True love? ”Dainsleif was not an expert on love, much less what is considered true and below that. Still, he doubts his Mother had much experience in this regard as well. Pure Khaenri’ahn aristocrats were few and far between. Dainsleif knew he was born out of noble duty. He may not be the breadwinner of this family—that is a burden shouldered by the eldest, Vedrfolnir—but that does not mean he was free to shirk his responsibilities. If he must follow his parents’ footsteps, then so be it. There was no need to make everything so convoluted. 

“Yes. Is it not a marvelous joy to find your lover amid this dull, monotonous world? Shrouded in their own color, a gem of their own? ”

Mother was a romantic— is a romantic . The manor they reside in is dreary, infinitely large (it is, when Dainsleif’s body was still lanky in stature), and so, so dull. Despite this, she persistently aids the servants in their menial chores, regardless of their vehement yet polite refusals. She dedicates every Day of the Sun— Sunnudagr —to having heartwarming meals prepared all by herself. She chooses to ignore how it does not matter whether the food is prepared by professional chefs or by her blistered, tired hands. Father was often away in business meetings; Vedrfolnir was too occupied with the arduous tasks of a future head; and Lagertha—the youngest, his sister—was naturally caught up in her own world, whatever it is that a five-year-old can conjure. Still, she enjoys this play-pretend, thrilled in living out the daydream of a perfect and loving family. Mother likes to imagine. He wasn’t surprised to find her so enraptured with colors. They were described as vibrant and lively—it was all she could ever ask for.

Dainsleif almost pities her; he was no better than his Father or siblings. He was raised to be a filial son, but he was nurtured out of duty rather than affection. He was tidy and clean, for it would bring disgrace to the family name if he were an unkempt child. He was given a proper education, for it would be dishonorable if he were to become an incompetent fool. Dainsleif will carry out his obligations—to give back what he was given—as Mother does with hers, albeit with the unnecessary flair. All is simple—like Light, Darkness, and everything in between. Dainsleif does not need anything more. He does not need colors.

Dainsleif was not a dreamer. He was content with a polished sword. He has no qualms about remaining in gray. 

The world will spin, spin, and spin. Today, it is Sunnudagr. Dainsleif meets his Mother’s gaze and allows himself to get caught in her star-like stare. They shone brilliantly, brimming with unspoken wishes.

“Mother, do you need help with serving dinner? ”

Eight Winters Before the Purgatory

Rain.

Like most things in Khaenri’ah, it was dull and gray. At best, the skies would flash Light , followed by thunder that shook walls built from the hardest of stones. At worst, their lands would mimic the fabled seas from beyond, yet he doubts they were shrouded in Darkness , where secrets lie untold beneath inky depths. 

The people fear the floods.

Tonight, the rain made Khaenri’ah darker, void of light. In nooks and crannies forgotten, inevitably, sinister ideas fester. They fester, then die in ashen smolder, but the scent of smoke refuses to leave his person. Perhaps, it never will. It will cling—parasitic—and occupy all his waking thoughts. 

Thoughts, as fleeting as they may be, can prove dangerous when nurtured. So he stops—quells them. Dainsleif blinks, and a stray raindrop clings to his lashes, descending to kiss down his cheeks. His umbrella bears down his head, sagging against the weight of rainwater. Wind-swept, the handle threatened to escape his grasp. It was heavy. He loosens his grip and tightens it again, fists white from his own numbing, cold grip.

The umbrella’s ribbed tips run a gravelly sound against the flint walls, and he pulls to push through the cramped ginnel. The walls were suffocating. A shortness of breath, his hands grow cold and clammy. It drowns him, walking these narrow streets, down the twists and turns of alleyways that seemed to steadily close in with each stride. Umbrellas bump and shoulders collide. It’s an underdeveloped settlement, Dainsleif observes; the battered houses are barely hanging on weak wood—their frailty spurred by the gusts of wind. Whistle-like creaks echo in the air, earnestly competing with the ongoing storm. It was a futile effort. The rain was relentless.

(Should the downpour continue, an inevitable deluge will consume these homes.)

Muddy puddles ripple with each careful step he takes. No amount of caution can prevent the grime staining—from seeping into the fabrics he dons. Dirty. Rain was corrosive. It was a concept that rose to popularity since the ascension of the Eclipse Dynasty, where engineering took center stage among all disciplines. From rusted metals to rotten wood, rain did more damage than good. It was a stark difference with the rain revered in the alchemical process—to cleanse the body of any impurities, if memory stands correct.

Dainsleif would like to control the rain, if possible. Condition it to his liking inside an alchemical laboratory. A light drizzle would be perfect. Not too warm, nor would it be too cold—mesially situated. If rain could be controlled, rust and rot could be avoided. It would be unlike tonight’s torrential downpour, where humans are at the hands of nature. Rendered powerless in the face of a flood. The water would rise, rise, and rise—until they emerged rusted and rotten by the onset of dawn. Weak, too, like the dilapidated settlements that weep whistle-like creaks.

Unfortunately, their dull, gray reality begs to differ. No matter how many contraptions the Artificer contrives or how much filth the Alchemist purifies, it means little without control. Rain can be revered or reviled, but such contrasts mean nothing to the Heavens above. At Their hands, they would rust—corroded and impure. In the end, one misstep and all would be swallowed whole.

(These differences have long since emerged afloat—atop puddles and petty splashes. Now, how long will it take for them to notice the flood?)

Rain pelted down cobblestone streets, and Dainsleif mulls of alchemical purification and the machines’ cogs and knobs that will rust by morning. It douses every flickering streetlight and drenches the panels of his umbrella, where it drips down to the points of his shoes. He thinks of control in each measured step he takes toward a destination he would rather not be in. 

He felt rather powerless.

The mind was in constant search—for something or nothing at all. Thinking, thinking, and thinking. It made him feel strange at times. Out of depth. Like wading through their dark floods, and at any moment, they’ll pull him under.

(“Been so long since we had a good run, it’s no surprise they’re all itching for a drink.”  

Dainsleif spares him a glance. Hidden beneath the shadows of an umbrella, he couldn’t see the creases folding in Halfdan’s eyes, but it was certainly there, given the large grin he was sporting.  

Absent-mindedly, he hums an affirmative, tonguing his cheek for a response. The pavement was slippery under his feet, and he slowed to slide them against the smooth stone.  

“I doubt a drink would suffice.”)

Dainsleif thinks—drunkenly—that it must be a pain to see color.

He staggers. If Father saw him now, Dainsleif was certain the sight of his foolish son bumbling down the streets would’ve sent him to an early grave. Ruefully, the image evokes a laugh to spill from his lips—sticky from the varying kinds of sweet liquor he’d nursed down earlier. 

A sliver of sound reasoning incessantly knocks against the back of his mind, pulsing in the thunderous rhythm of a kettledrum. It pounds at his skull, urging him to stop, stop, stop—ah, a breather—he needs a breather. Palms planted on a nearby lamppost, he heaves, a vain attempt to gain any semblance of sobriety. His head hurts, temples aching to determine where the pavement meets the road. 

Spinning. Spinning. Spinning. 

In a wild moment of idiocy, Dainsleif slams against the post. His forehead hits the pole with a resounding bang, and he crumples to the ground. A pathetic heap of a man. Father must be proud.

(It was near midnight when they finished, and if it were up to Dainsleif, he would—without a moment of hesitation—bid his farewells and retire for the night. The tavern—as much as he enjoyed the occasional leisurely drink—would be the last place he’d find himself in tonight.  

Yet here he is. The bright, fluorescent sign mocks him. It flickers crudely. In misplaced anger, he sends it a heated scowl.  

The downpour continues its onslaught, but the pitter-patter can barely rise against the rambunctious chatter of adrenaline-fueled officers, eager to unwind the knots littering their bodies following a short field operation. 

If it weren’t for the nagging voice of his Mother, a stern tone that was especially punctuated in the bold calligraphy of her letters, he would choose to be anywhere than the company of soldiers raring to contract liver damage in the first tavern they lay eyes on. 

Strategic networking, she would say, were she ever privy to his complaints. Make some friends.)

The world spun.

Perhaps he was a planet, spinning on his axis—then, orbiting around the Sun. The streetlight glowed above him. It looked down distastefully. It offered nothing but a blinding glare—like the Sun. He squinted at it, stupidly challenged. The lamp shines back—in judgment, perhaps. An immovable force meets an unstoppable object. Bile threatened to rise in his throat. 

He retches.

If Dainsleif saw color, he would have long since spilled his guts on the floor—on these streets, in particular, underneath the sickeningly radiant lamp at nighttide. He took pride in his ability to make impartial judgments. Clearly, the decision that led him to this plastered state—where nonsensical thoughts ran as rampant as the urge to pick fights with inanimate entities—was certainly not one of them. Was he, too, lured by the tempting offer of free alcohol? Dainsleif balks at the possibility. He was not that easy. His ancestors must be writhing beneath their deathbeds at this very moment.

How humiliating. 

(An excessively loud holler resounds at his right. He grimaces. Friends, in particular, were the many nobles in attendance. A count belonging to the Queen’s clan. A margrave with ties to House Alberich. Father was on the cusp of passing an important bill—one that will propel them to even greater heights, he claimed. He didn’t know the details. But he won’t ask questions. 

Dainsleif was raised to obey, and obey he shall.)

Yet, what difference did it make to a collared dog? Bite on command, they said. And bite he shall—sink his fang-like blade into prey, immobilized in his clutches. Often, he struck hard—like lightning that accompanied inclement weather. He was born from the way of the sword. It was as if he were skill personified; his instructors had exclaimed—envious and astonished, likening him to the culmination of geniuses spanning histories older than time.

Sometimes, situations call for a different approach—to reap the merits sowed from playing the waiting game. On rare occasions, his incisors would dig bone-deep, yet death lingered like a slow-acting poison. The means justify the end. There was no use in dwelling within the grays and in-betweens; what matters is the command to be fulfilled.

The strategically placed touch—a hand on the shoulder—is an act of camaraderie. The carefully woven words—structured in the subtleties of flattery and ulterior motives. The amicably offered drinks, to lower inhibitions—all of which are saccharinely, sickeningly sweet. Dainsleif had done it all, buried the seeds of deceit for a future harvest. It left a foul taste in his mouth, one that he knew—undeniably so—was not caused by alcohol intoxication. It was dishonor that burned at his skin, not an inebriated flush. Chivalry—to go above trickery and backhanded methods—Dainsleif laughs at the irony of spending his entire childhood dedicated to embodying the ideal, only to resort to its very opposition the moment he reached knighthood.

Hah , perhaps the means did justify the end.

He inhales and breathes in the crisp air for a fresh start. A blank canvas, clear of mess and clutter. He exhales, breathing out the uncertainties for the wind to carry.

Again, the world spun.

Dainsleif doesn’t know how long he’s been sprawled across the stone pavement, where at one point, he’s shifted to rest his body atop the freshly cut grass. A balance of earthy and sweet notes—during warm, bright summers, he’d imagine it would smell as such. Tonight, regrettably, autumn bit back with unconcealed vengeance. The damp tufts pricked and poked at exposed flesh. Scratched, itched—and every word that is synonymous with the aforementioned—called to his attention with avid persistence. Uncomfortable. It made him restless. However, Dainsleif supposes he enjoyed the chill it offered, courtesy of the torrential rain hours ago. Or days, perhaps? It was hard to tell the time. All Dainsleif knew was the pitch-dark firmament, and light shone in the glare of an artificial, fluorescent bulb. 

Ah , but there, too, was the comforting twinkle of the stars. 

Dainsleif, in a moment of childlike naivety, makes a wish. It shall be a rare privilege he will allow in all his drunken glory. Wishing. Wishing. Wishing. May this equilibrium remain unbroken.

(The stars stay silent.)

He liked it. Light and Darkness. To remain in the everything in between. Dainsleif yearned for nothing more, nothing less.

“Heavens above—you're blitzed .” Pungent perfume assaults his nose. He scrunches his nose in evident dismay. Blitzkrieg? 

Dainsleif sneezes. A witch-like shriek follows. How grating.

“My sincerest apologies.”

The lamp glowers down at him again. Except now, she’s framed in long, somber curls. Interesting. It was his first time hallucinating. She wore a pinched expression, scowling from above him. She wore her anger brightly, features alight in strident vexation, a stark contrast to the illumination beaming from behind her frame. Her hands, fisted on her sides, tighten in suppressed irritation. It was a rather convincing hallucination. 

“What a waste of that pretty face,” said the Lamp.

“Thank you.” She, too, was quite lovely.

Lovely, with curly waves as dark as the sun that shines above their heads. Halfdan would like her, he imagines. Dark as ink, with depth that holds countless stories , the former would rave when sleep escaped him, and Dainsleif was forced to bear the brunt of his midnight ramblings. At times, when his spirit felt light and airy, he would humor him. 

(“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he would reply, feeling the hint of a smile gracing his features. He’s grateful for the darkness that envelops their sleeping quarters, lest Halfdan gets any more material for his incessant teasing. 

“A lighter shade would be much more beautiful, no? There would be no greater sight than a radiant shine gleaming off her form.”

The words stay jumbled at the tip of his tongue. A vivid imagination was not within his arsenal, unfortunately. Dainsleif licks his lips, tunes out Halfdan’s fiery retorts from the top bunk, and takes the time to visualize the loveliest woman—the lady of his dreams. Except Dainsleif was no dreamer. He was no romantic. The image in his mind was murky—blurred—but he did make out a few things. Light hair, with shining eyes— 

“Like a star,” Dainsleif concludes. 

“Light hair...” Halfdan tsked, but it was void of malice; instead, the syllables were slurred with fatigue. “Well, aren’t you the narcissistic type.”)

“Hey,” Manicured fingers snap at him impatiently. “Are you listening? ”

Dainsleif sits up. His head pounded in retaliation, demanding him to recline atop the grass once more. Unfortunately, there were far more pressing matters to be addressed. Like the lamp-turned-woman. “Who are you? ”

“It doesn’t matter.” She waves a dismissive hand. With quick scrutiny, the woman makes a wordless decision, crouching down to sit beside him. Involuntarily, he shifts to make space for her. “I have a mountain of woes to be unearthed—and if I do not do so at this very moment, I will die.”

She spoke poetically. Dainsleif deems it fit to not dignify such dramatics with a response.

“I’m heartbroken.” At his prolonged silence, the woman takes it upon herself to elaborate further. “My husband had eloped with another.” 

She glares at him, awaiting a reply. Dainsleif, with all the etiquette lessons hammered inside his head, blinked owlishly. 

“Hm. I suppose this is much better than receiving unsolicited pity.” Contemplative, an earnest gaze meets him. “Then, dear stranger, what must I do in these tumultuous times? ”

Dainsleif tongues his cheek in thought. Truly, he did not know. He was nineteen and ignorant—that he is aware of. He followed his superiors, regiments, and orders without question. It was never the other way around. Her question was troubling, really. Cowardly, he settles for a vague answer, one that can be interpreted in a thousand ( million) ways, and executed in a thousand ( million) more ways. There were endless possibilities with free will.

Lamely, the half-hearted advice is muttered under his breath. “The unfaithful will be punished accordingly.”

“Ah, by God? ”

By God? Dainsleif never once believed in the divine. “No.” The rejection comes hush—small. His eyes linger on the pendant resting between the contours of her collar. A feathered diamond attached to a chain, lyre-like thin. The pendant has seen better days, he assumes. Well-worn and loved—the owner has kept it close to her heart for a long time. He did not know her name, nor her disloyal husband, yet it was clear that she held reverence for the Windborne God.

She’d come from foreign lands; he does not fault her for her ignorance. Unlike the lands ruled by Barbatos, the winds were harsh in Khaenri’ah. Unforgiving. Each gust blows a warning— hold tight, less you lose your footing . Heed not, and you will be punished. Rules. Oaths. Vows. They were created to be followed. 

(Until Death do us part.)

“Every action has its own consequences.” Her husband would pay the price.

When you swing your sword, naturally, the opponent will swing back. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. In a nation where mortal limits are continuously challenged, it was one of the few principles that each citizen knew and understood. Lex talionis —exact retaliation. Its physical manifestation—as seen in their King’s one-eyed gaze—proves that all pursuits (the rights, the wrongs, or the grays in between) create reverberations in reality.

“Then, shall I seek revenge? ”

The suggestion comes unexpectedly, his eyes widening in turn. “I do not know,” Dainsleif admits, with surprising honesty. How was he supposed to know? Her questions were difficult—open-ended—harder than those he faced in the Academy, in any of the exams he’s ever taken. “Perhaps, Fate will run its course.”

“You hail from Khaenri’ah, yet you speak of Fate—place faith on Fate,” An amused simper leaves her lips, as if his response incited great mirth. It was a controversial take, a paradox of sorts for the likes of him. He was a soldier molded to defy the predetermined , after all. She knew that, too, when her eyes glinted in recognition of the epaulet lining his shoulders. 

The eight-pointed star . 

“Fate favored him too.”

“Favored who? ”

“My husband.” There was a distant look in her eyes, soft in quiet resignation. “They were soulmates, he said. It was a fairytale case of love at first sight.”

“Do you believe in such things? ” asked Dainsleif.

“Soulmates? ”Is love carried like the gentle breeze, reminiscent of the tales told in Mondstadt? Fickle, yes, but it was natural. Or is it all pre-written, set in the stones buried immeasurably deep, and in the stars that reign high above?

“I do.” She laughs. “Spell-bound, I have considered it—but his eyes were so, so clear.”

“He was a stranger, then and there.” Her tone takes a breathless note. “I was an outsider looking into the eyes of someone else’s lover.”

“I think,” another pause, they grew more frequent by the minute. “I had the same look too, all those years ago—his mere presence stirred ardor within me. A contagious kind of vibrancy.” 

She took great time articulating her words. Dainsleif doubts she was any less eloquent, and recognizes the intricate thought put into constructing each statement. He makes no comment about the lulls, the inconsistent gaps spent fiddling with her locks, or at picking the skin near her nails in thought. She was the wick of a candle, jerry-built , where every puff of wind threatens to snuff the fire.

For the first time that night, he faces her and soaks up what may be the remnants of a dying flame.

“There was color in every embrace, every kiss—in each word that left his lips.” 

Embers, they stare back at him.

“He was my soulmate.”

Soulmates, she said. His lips quirked up, recounting slow afternoons spent hearing Mother regale them with stories of old—where soul strings held tight and strong, turning weathered and forgotten in time. He had tuned them out, time and again. There were more interesting things, like Vedrfolnir’s astute predictions for the thriller novels they’ve purchased. Those were interesting. Ancient, dubious relics went from one ear to another, unfortunately. 

Tonight, however, he shall make an exception. These small hours whispered for rare indulgence—the starlit sky, for instance, which is scarcely seen in the heart of the city. Would a celestial shower come raining down upon them? It would be magnificent to be dusted and enveloped in seldom stellars. There was a breeze, too, and petrichor brushed against his skin in a gentle embrace. How strange—they must be lost, took a wrong turn that led them to this subterranean realm. 

Rarities. Rarities. 

He shall allow them, where the firmament lies his sole witness. And the woman—a no-name woman and her woes. He lets her collect her thoughts, lets her grieve for soul-bound, clear eyes. She will be among these rarities too—so rare, they are drunken, never-happens .

Like a dream.

Sighing, she flits her gaze away from his, smoothing down her skirt to weave her legs in a more comfortable position. A topic change—it signaled. He pried no further. “I know you Khaenri’ahns can’t see them—colors, I mean. A shame, really—but have some imagination. Colors go beyond visuals. Some can even hear it. Smell, taste—there’s endless possibilities.”

Dainsleif quirks a perplexed eyebrow, earning him an exaggerated grumble, “I am not insane.” She continues, in a futile effort to convince him. No one of sound mind will approach a drunken fool who collapsed on the streets. A naive, good samaritan, perhaps, yet one look at the woman beside him tells Dainsleif—his intoxication, notwithstanding—she’s no altruist. “It’s even scientifically proven! Synesthesia—it’s a medical condition.” Quite credible, he lauds her attempts.

“Synesthesia is rare—one in a million, maybe. It’s rather similar to the phenomenon of soulmates. They eclipse your senses. In an overwhelmingly indulgent way, mind you.” Her hands wave and flap with an air of desperation. At his indifference, she heaves a long-suffering sigh. “It’s complicated.”

After a beat of silence, she tries again. “ Oh , think about it—wouldn't it feel more magical for your people? ”

Would it? Dainsleif wasn’t sure. He feels a knot twist in his stomach. He hears a whisper of the answer he seeks. It perseveres to stay afloat, despite his attempts to ignore it. Rivals the tenacity of each blade of grass that stabs his skin. Vies with the bitter truths he could not bear to swallow, voiding any traces of cloying alcohol. They push to enter, wrecking havoc within this dream-like bubble. 

Wouldn’t it feel more magical for your people? For some—the wide-eyed children and the innocent youth—yes, it might feel magical. 

For most, however, Dainsleif couldn’t pinpoint a word for it. It was at the back of his mind, at the tip of his tongue—yet it refused to leave his lips. Colors would be strange, but it would not be unwelcome. He imagines the number of researchers scrambling to their laboratories to investigate the bizarre phenomenon. Because, in the end, no matter how many eccentrics Khaenri’ah is home to, each one of them is part of the relentless pursuit of knowledge. Color, too, would be considered knowledge. It was an unexplored field that intrigued them for centuries—since the dawn of time.

Dainsleif knew, with unadulterated conviction, that it would be the crux of naivety to think that color would be deemed as merely magical . It might be something akin to raw sustenance, meant to be devoured and consumed. After all, the Motherland, at its core (underneath the layers of cogs and gears), operated under the indulgent cycle of Gluttony and Greed.

For most, it was a curse—to be forcibly stuck within the confines of their Three Truths. For Dainsleif—call him cowardly, fine— but he shan’t dream of what color could catalyze against the very fabric of their reality.

“It would be much better if one did not know color at all.”

“You’re so cynical. Not a single romantic bone in that body.” Exasperation wrought wrinkles between her brows, expression pinched. “Still, I suppose I will take my chances.” 

It was the most ridiculous thing she’s ever said this evening, Dainsleif thinks. Hadn’t her husband brought her enough misery? “A lifetime spent pursuing what may be a fleeting moment? Or none at all? ”

“If you truly are soul-bound, you would. The body only moves at the whims of the soul.”

He would be a stranger in his own body. And his soul—the innermost consciousness—was a slave to Destiny. His mind—where would his mind fall into all this? Intellect over the Heart, Dainsleif , Father would remind him, a clockwork mantra. Yet out of all three, his mind would be the one played like a fiddle.

“How awful.”

“Well, what did I say? You are not yourself.” She shrugs; there’s a slight upturn on her lips, as if the unbearable turmoil amused her. “Soulmates intertwine to write the best romances and the worst tragedies. The poets must be ecstatic.”

“There are things better left unveiled. It’s not worth a lifetime of pain.”

“Yet in the end, it’s all human nature, no? ” 

Human nature . He bites down a snort—was it all so simple to chalk it up as something so inherent, unchangeable? It could mean a lot of things. It was human nature to grow, to possess intellect and reason, amongst others. Dainsleif doesn’t ask, doesn’t probe for an elaboration. He leaves it at that. These were the moments where he was content to stay ignorant, to remain in his bubble, as opposed to what many of his kin strive for. 

He turns his eyes back to the stars. They seem to twinkle, as if recognizing their kind trapped and enclosed inside the cage of his irises. Dreamers, they all were—is that it? Inconsolable, his mind breaches the topic again.

Thinking, thinking, thinking. 

Is it human nature to yearn? Was her husband’s disloyalty the result of such intrinsic needs? To yearn for more, more, more . Hunger—where you’d sooner burst than sate your appetite. The thought unsettled him. If so, then the independent choices they all claim to make—the ones that deny any form of divine intervention—those, too, proved nothing but futility. It would be greed ( the inescapable itch to know, know, know ) that shall lead them back to becoming the Heavens’ silly, stringed puppets.

Thoughts, as fleeting as they may be, can prove dangerous when nurtured. To quell them was to wrap a flimsy tourniquet around a severed limb.

The woman stands. Dark curls fall loosely over her face. He has to crane his neck to look at her—fox-like features size him up—and there, illuminated by the lighting their damp pavement offers, he truly sees her. She was indescribable, in a sense. He settles for something vague, like most of the responses he had unfortunately given her. Gray, and a mix of everything. A strange woman and her strange words. It was unbefitting of her sly eyes and sharp contours. 

Her expression contorts, smile expectant. Does she want him to clap? Regale her with a standing ovation?

He levels her with the most disappointed stare he could muster. Bravo. She rolls her eyes.

“One day, you’ll eat your words, and you’ll think of me— ah, Gisela was right. ” 

Gisela. 

She does not seem to notice her slip-up. Gisela, lamp-turned-woman. The light beams behind her, casting dark shadows across prominent cheeks. A woman who bears the name signifying pledge , abandoned by a husband who broke his marital vows. Fate must detest her. She does not seem to mind—made peace with it, even. She understood him, despite how miserable he made her. Strange. Nineteen and naïve, Dainsleif could not possibly comprehend it. Haughtily, she puts a hand on her hip and wags a knowing finger in front of him. “And I shall have the last laugh.”

Four Winters Before the Purgatory

The door closes with a resounding click .

When he turns to face him, Dainsleif would’ve expected to find a man buried underneath stacks of varying scholarly pursuits—academic journals, research papers, and whatever critical paraphernalia the Universitas Magistrorum has entrusted in his capable hands, amongst others. It was easy to imagine tousled hair (from the times spent combing through them in thoughtful frustration), sloping glasses (as a result of hours buried in heavy books—a weight that testifies to the complex knowledge consumed by an equally complex mind), and frantic scribbling (mind over matter; his body could barely compete with the speed of his intellectual processes). 

Dainsleif expected to find a scholar nestled right at home—surrounded by an abundance of projects and paperwork galore. To say that his brother was busy would be the understatement of the century. From Ostara to Yule , his recurrent absences have reached a point where it, too, could be considered a tradition, to the resigned dismay of Mother. Without fail, each invitation is promptly followed by a handwritten excuse letter delivered to their doorstep. Without fail, each response was written in the neat cursive of his secretary. A cordial greeting accompanied by an onslaught of apologies, ending with a sweetly-worded promise of joining in the next festivities. 

He never does. But Mother continues to hope. 

She sends Dainsleif a barrage of letters, where enclosed he finds maternal aggravation and his brother’s routine rejections (it was absolutely unbearable to see a stranger posing as her son, Mother would complain). He suggests burning them, which earns him nothing more than her scandalized ire. Hence, when Dainsleif wakes to the news of a message addressed to him, he thinks nothing of it. From his Mother, perhaps, or new assignments brought by his recent promotion—it was most certainly not from his brother.

And yet it was. He notes that the handwriting is strikingly similar to that of his secretary, but he pens his Ys in a more stately fashion. It is crisp and concise. A meeting at undorn, on Mánadagr , then an address. Sincerely , it signs off (ironic, really, to use sincerity of all things)—

Vedrfolnir.

A chuckle resounds at his side, and Dainsleif lowers the letter in haste. Why, exactly, when there is nothing to be guilty about? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Halfdan jokes. It wasn’t far off. Rather, a ghost wrote to him. This might just be the first letter Vedrfolnir ever wrote to him. In a moment of absurdity, he thinks to send it to his Mother, a gift of sorts. Get it laminated and framed, if she so desires. 

Dainsleif knew that Vedrfolnir was booked for months . It was a miracle akin to curing the blind if one manages the ridiculously difficult endeavor of sliding into his schedule. Thus, when Dainsleif comes vis-à-vis before the scrutiny of his brother’s gaze ( scrutiny —an evaluation, assessment—Vedrfolnir was not one to merely look ), he falters. His breath hitches. His brother may not be a soldier, but with an eye that’s pored over thousands (if not more) of obscure texts, he wonders if he caught his slip of composure.

“My word, are you relaxed—is the world ending? ”greets Dainsleif.

For all his academic clarity, Vedrfolnir possessed a consistent cloud over all his expressions. He smiles; it was void of mirth, void of things it wasn’t supposed to be void with.

“Perhaps. It could be any day.”

Uncharacteristically, the desk was clear of activity. Pens inside a caddy, untouched stationery, and a thin pamphlet—a newspaper, he suspects—some light reading his brother endeavored to do prior to Dainsleif’s arrival. There were no pictures hung, flora displayed, nor any semblance of individuality ( personality was more of an accurate term, but he shan’t be so brusque). Instead, the walls were lined with certificates—varying accolades of his expertise in astrology, etiology, and alchemy. Some were written in foreign languages, attesting to an adeptness in the field of linguistics. To the unknowing bystander, it was a scholarly mosaic only made possible through the congregation of numerous geniuses. To Dainsleif, who has the esteemed privilege of having an hour of Vedrfolnir’s time in his hands, they were all ornaments exhibited out of cordial necessity. 

Surprisingly, the cabinets were not bursting off the hinges, considering his alleged quantities of workload. There were customary sofas accompanied by a quaint coffee table. A kitchenette was installed in a desolate corner, barren—save for the porcelain teaware and dry crackers to fend off starvation. Curtains were drawn tightly shut. Whether it be to prevent light from seeping in, or from secrets leaking out—Dainsleif doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. The room was illuminated by a fluorescent chandelier. It’s simple, chosen out of functionality. It dangles above their heads, casting shadows across the floorboards.

It was an extraordinarily normal office, belonging to an extraordinary man of abnormal interests .

Vedrfolnir stands. There’s a certain gauntness to his features, hinting at sleepless nights and uneaten meals. Nevertheless, there was power in his stance. The large expanse of his desk nor the slack garments he dons did little to envelop his frame. Conversely, it did the opposite. It was as if space bent at his whims, cowering before raw erudition itself. With a loose hand, he gestures toward the cushioned seats.

“Mother sent me tea. The finest brand she could find in Fontaine.” A teapot and two steaming cups were set on the coffee table. Dainty and heavily ornate—gifts from Mother, he presumes. 

“I see.”

A moment was spent to survey the other. A moment too long for his tastes. Dainsleif sighs, conceding. “Was there any particular reason you called for me today? ”

“Must I have a reason to see my own brother? ”

“Vedrfolnir.” It was odd to speak his name aloud, without the many titles that often adorn it. Professor. Researcher. Visionary . It was never just Vedrfolnir . “You never call without reason.”

“It’s truly regretful you think so lowly of me, Dainsleif.” With fake longingness, his brother laments. It was far from regretful—a fact they both undoubtedly understand. Drop the pleasantries , he glared in response. 

Vedrfolnir merely smiles. “I was invited to partake in an academic initiative at Sumeru.” Dainsleif narrows his eyes. “Yes, I shan’t bore you with the details.”

“More importantly, I brought something home, a souvenir of sorts.” Vedrfolnir stands once again and retrieves a small, sealed box from his many cabinets. He hands it to Dainsleif without a word. It feels light in his hands. He turns it over, fingers dancing across the adhesive that fastened it shut. Rough around the edges—Vedrfolnir must’ve already opened it. An unfamiliar name greets his periphery, penned in rushed calligraphy. Pierro , it read.

“A royal mage—prickly man, but he owed me a favor,” answers Vedrfolnir, upon noticing his pointed inspection. “Of all cryptonyms, he’s rather fond of that one.”

“I had to pull a few strings, clearly,” he continued indifferently, as if extortion were but a leisurely pastime. “I’d be frowned upon if I were caught handling such things.”

“Have you finally committed a crime? ” asks Dainsleif. With Vedrfolnir, it was truly a matter of when and not if.

The jab is returned with an amused chuckle. “Nonsense. I am merely an expert in toeing the lines of legality.”

Anticlimactically, the box held no questionable implements nor astounding revelations. Within its measly confines are organized stacks of cards, each one possessing a unique visual. He assumes there must be meaning meticulously illustrated among the varying images. Vedrfolnir lets him sift through them; yet no matter which angle he peers through, the cards shed no light on what significance they ought to possess beyond aesthetic purposes. A stubborn part of him refuses to ask his brother. Certainly, Dainsleif’s competence extended above swordsmanship.

Ever-perceptive, Vedrfolnir cuts in the haze of confusion. “They’re tarot cards. Cartomancy has grown to become a thriving industry in Sumeru.”

“ Divination ? ”He drops the box on the table, as if it burned, and sends his brother an incredulous look. Dainsleif was almost appalled at the risk his brother was taking, all to satisfy some fleeting curiosity. 

It could risk his career—his reputation. He’s heard of the unorthodox pet projects Vedrfolnir has taken up recently, putting him under the radar of scholarly administrations. Tarot cards seemed awfully innocent, but he’s certain the sages could spin a story that would taint his brother’s image. 

However, ostracization was unlikely, really—he has a mind that could rival nations. Dainsleif huffs, the realization settling in. Vedrfolnir knew too much, and he could know so much more . He was unexpendable. It was a fact that everyone knew—a fact that uneased the sages, inspired the students, and left Dainsleif in muted indifference. It was like—the world will spin; as the Sun rises in the East, it shall soon set in the West. The world will spin, and his brother possessed a genius that could build (or destroy) worlds.

“Precisely. The sages would faint if they ever caught wind of me dabbling in these dubious arts. It took me some time to grasp the fundamentals, but the endeavor was well worth the effort.”

Dainsleif could care less, really. With an exasperated sigh, he tilts his head in impatient question. “Then, would you care to enlighten me on the point of this meeting? ”

“Let me give you a tarot reading.”

“No.”

Undeterred, Vedrfolnir pressed on. “Won’t you indulge your brother just this once? ”

“I’d rather not.”

“I could let you in on a secret.”

The insinuation was appalling. “I’m not so easily bribed.”

“It would be quite the revelation—could stir up a storm if it ever gets leaked to the public.”

“What makes you think I won’t go around tattling?” asks Dainsleif.

“You won’t,” replies Vedrfolnir, an absolute certainty lacing his calm tone. He appears undistressed, despite Dainsleif’s vehement refusals. Silence stretches over them. It was both comfortable and cumbersome, a little bit of everything in between. There emerges the familiar intolerance that seemed to come as a package deal whenever Dainsleif was in the presence of his brother.

Vedrfolnir thinks—whatever it is that intellectuals of his league pondered over, but Dainsleif knew he was thinking . He’d spent years loathing the times those features (similar features that he shared, unfortunately) would twist in contemplation—something that passes by too quickly, really, for Vedrfolnir has always been on the uptake. Answers are effortlessly seized, and perhaps he’s deserted the dull present to start seeking more from the unknown future. 

A visionary.

Dainsleif could only wonder why he hadn't stood up. He should. He wonders how Vedrfolnir will force an agreement to leave his lips. So he waits.

“Rumors of treason have been circulating among the ranks, that, I am sure you are aware of. Few are privy to the truth, but I know.”

Sincerely, Vedrfolnir —memories of the letter flash before him. A taunting mantra echoes in his head. Sincere. Sincere. Sincere!

For once, Vedrfolnir was sincere. For a second, Dainsleif deemed it uncanny, worse than his contemplative looks—the narrowed eyes that seemed to dissect people into parts, reassembled to his whims. It was unsettling to see his brother look so human.

He knew liars—the way their eyes roam in avoidance, the strain that spills into their words, and the excessive, almost desperate, gestures. They come in droves, in those soirées where attendance is mandatory. To keep up appearances, so that their prestigious name stays relevant among a sea of faces. The aristocratic circle was sparse, yet he finds it difficult to visualize a nobleman’s face. Ostentatious and gaudy, certainly, but they were terribly dull at the same time. 

Liars made up the majority of grays, lost among the sea of everything in betweens.

Vedrfolnir was—has always been— gray . However, there are many, millions, of grays out there. He wasn’t gray like the steel Dainsleif is familiar with handling, expertly so. He wasn’t gray like the nobles who shamelessly ingratiate themselves with whoever possessed the most wealth within a mile radius. He was gray like a distant, unknown fog. He reminded Dainsleif of the fickle future. 

Vedrfolnir was a murky shade of gray. It was unsightly and unnerving. His bright-eyed sincerity—paired with the word treason— it’s a loathsome, despicable thing, too, Dainsleif learns.

“You’re offering all this—for an opportunity to do tarot reading ? ”

“I’d like to see if my studies bore fruit,” Vedrfolnir smiles, shrugging. “Or they were all for naught.”

Hook, line, and sinker . A sense of resignation washes over him, bleeding into a familiar ache in his temples. A recurrent pain that persists whenever he’s in the presence of his brother. Treason, he says . As Knight Captain of the Royal Guards, would it, too, be considered treason if he chose to leave this be? But what were titles at the face of an all-knowing visionary? The moment he stepped in the office— no , the moment he read that letter, when he sliced the envelope open and sealed his fate—the trap had been laid.

He takes the bait, sliding his head straight into the guillotine. With his own hands, he wraps the noose around his neck. “Do I need to familiarize myself with any rules? ”

Slender fingers drum in thinly-veiled excitement, as if they were eagerly fiddling with a typewriter. Dainsleif notes that the victorious grin that graced his brother’s features might just be the realest thing this office has ever seen.

“No. I believe it would be more authentic if your choices were driven by intuition.” Seventy-eight tarot cards are rapidly gathered and organized with dexterity. Their names flash briefly, mockingly— The Fool , one read. How fitting. 

“You’re tense.” Astute observation , as expected of the Great Vedrfolnir. How laudable.

Dainsleif resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Relax,” said Vedrfolnir. “You’re derailing my concentration.”

Candles were lit. The obnoxiously artificial scent of lavender was hard to miss. Upon seeing his clear displeasure, Vedrfolnir regales him with nothing but laughter. To set the mood , he said. The room was dimmed too. An amenable change, the shadows drape over his brother’s frame—like a translucent cloak. The degree of tolerance he had for his brother rose with every passing minute, the less he could distinguish those familiar star-like pupils. Cards were deftly shuffled, split, and stacked with the proficiency of a dealer. Perhaps, it was a kind of dexterity mastered through years of handling scholarly archives.

The minutes tick by in surreal-like slow motion. It felt more like a gamble, rather than a simple tarot reading.

“Pick a card.”

You choose a card based on intuition. His hand hovers above them, Dainsleif notes their collective design—stars on a night sky—and pulls. 

Death , it read.

Morbidly, Vedrfolnir claps his hands in enthusiastic curiosity. “Interesting. Pick two more.”

Seven of Wands. The Magician. 

A pensive silence stretches over the office, drawn to a decisive taut. Naively, he’d thought that he’d feel lighter now that the activity was over—now that he was closer to answers, and Vedrfolnir was too preoccupied with scrutinizing the cards he’d carelessly drawn. He’d thought the tables could be turned, albeit slightly. Even for a passing moment, he’ll have the advantage to prepare—prepare for anything.  

But—Dainsleif narrows his eyes, tense—it was taking long. His brother was taking too long. It was unnerving. Anxiety coiled in his guts, wrapping around each stunted breath he took—uneven. Vedrfolnir never took his time, especially when it came to matters of personal intellect. He was averse to the proverbial saying of learning at one’s pace, for it came easy— all by itself—to grasp and comprehend the most intricate of concepts. Vedrfolnir needs no time. Contrariwise, the latter needs him. Every second spent in idle rumination is a second that could’ve been afforded for more productive endeavors. 

Another minute passes. 

Dainsleif almost wishes that Vedrfolnir directs his clinical attention back to him, to finish with his nonsensical readings, and start elaborating on the very reason he’d managed to placate Dainsleif in this sterile office.

“Truly, I have little interest in determining the fortunes that lie within your future.” His brother does not look up to address him. “But, as you know, meetings always begin with a round of pleasantries. I’m a stickler for customs, you see.”

Dainsleif deems the brazen lie unworthy of a proper, verbal response. In lieu of replying, he shifts his gaze toward the now lukewarm tea. Steam has dissipated to reveal the fragrant brew. A cool-off, first and foremost, before getting into the main event. 

Vedrfolnir was never one for niceties—both of them, really. Impatience ran in the bloodline, but they knew how to wait.

He brings the teacup to his lips and sips. Sweet, with citrusy undertones—lemon, most likely—there’s hints of garlic too. It would’ve been a delight to savor in a different setting, under better circumstances with better company. Dainsleif sets it down, with a little more force than necessary.

Vedrfolnir thumbs a card among the spread, one that depicts a frantic man surrounded by a clamor of wooden branches. It oozed claustrophobic chaos. The man assumes a defensive position, territorial of the hill he stands on. Sweat littered his face, furrowed brows paired with a deep frown. It suggested turmoil—in a rather exaggerated and excessive manner that makes Dainsleif cringe. Seven of Wands enlightened him with nothing but meager deductions. Not even a sliver of interest tickles his person.

“The near future holds many challenges,” Vedrfolnir starts. The distracted lilt in his voice does not go unnoticed, as if he were reciting a passage written from a standard textbook. “You must stay unwavering with your values.”

Dainsleif clicks his tongue. “We’ve established that tarot reading is certainly not the purpose of this meeting.”

“Why, yes? ”Faux confusion gave his brother’s brows an inquisitive raise, as if Dainsleif had just confirmed a fact that even a toddler would know.

Vedrfolnir innocently smiles at his thinning patience. “You’re quiet, but I’m well aware that you’re not blind, especially with the push and pull of powers.”

He’d shifted the subject. The response is one laced with caution. “Do you intend to take a stand?”

“We tread a delicate balance in politics.” Masterfully, Vedrfolnir evades the question.

“Tensions have skyrocketed ever since the King is presently...” A finger placed below his lips, Vedrfolnir mulls over the word with considerable thought. “ Indisposed . Fuelled by the information leak concerning the arrival of The Stars, it is no understatement that the backrooms have descended into mayhem.”

Dainsleif wasn’t surprised. The Palace walls possess exceptional ears. No whisper can truly go unheard. In pursuit of absolute control, muddy puddles have brimmed over the playing board, and every daunting ripple threatens to change the tides. It was a fight against time, too; he’d seen the urgency—an almost desperation—among the main factions. Driven by fear and every word in-between, for dark waters waited for no one.

(The Alchemist and the Artificer. The Revered and the Reviled.

Despite their stark differences, everyone fears the floods.)

“There’s no telling when flint will strike steel to spark the fire that will ravage us all.”

“Hence, some have started taking precautions,” Vedrfolnir continues. “I merely wish to know where you stand among all this.”

The answer leaves Dainsleif’s lips with practiced poise. “As Captain of the Royal Guards, I will raise my sword against anyone who goes against the monarchy.”

“Duty-bound, then? And what of filial piety, in the instance that our House strays from the King’s ideals?”

What right did he have to doubt Dainsleif’s allegiances, when he’s the same man who pledges to none but the capabilities of his own mind? Verbose Vedrfolnir , he scoffs, but fealty is not—nor will it ever be—part of his vocabulary.

“Are you questioning my line of priorities? ”Dainsleif challenges. “ My loyalties? ”

Unperturbed, Vedrfolnir taps the edges of the card on the table, and Dainsleif’s gaze traitorously falls back on the man of Seven Wands. They surround him like a barbed fence (cornered, cornered, cornered is the man ). He sets it down, casually, scattered among the pile. “One day, you may find yourself protecting nothing but a crumbling hill. I’d hate to see my brother caught up in a landslide.”

It was laughable, really. Vedrfolnir seldom referred to him as “brother”. Whenever the opportunity arises, however, it is always drawled in sarcastic formality. The title was constricting, as if their blood connection could guarantee anything . He felt like a chess piece, limited to a role and a designated movement at the whims of the omniscient Grandmaster.

“Your concern is unnecessary,” said Dainsleif. “I am more than capable of assessing those who I associate myself with.”

“Naturally. I do not doubt it.” 

His lips pursed in frustration. The conversation yielded few answers and only more questions. He’d known of the King’s turbulent condition. Although he was not privy to the details, the pressure within the Imperial Court was palpable, so thick—not even the sharpest of swords would be able to cut through it.

The Stars, on the other hand, are a topic of their own. With a secret of that scale, no stone wall can truly house its magnitude; odds and ends will slowly leak out of unseen cracks, and it lies on the people to piece things together.

(“ – the Summoning, a success –”

“ – surely, there would be no delay, the Universitas Magistrorum would never –”

“ – not know, this unforeseen anomaly will only bring –”)

Rather than a minuscule leak, confidential information gushed out in waves. He’d thought that the visiting scholars—or, really, scholars in general—would exert more caution with their findings in the Palace’s premises, above all, where every word can be used as fatal ammunition if one is devious enough to try.

Their carelessness underestimated—it took merely two nights to discover the truth behind a rumor of nationwide debate. Two patrol shifts. Two minutes of conversation among careless, careless scholars. Two seconds to formulate a ground-breaking conclusion.

They should have never summoned The Stars.

Vedrfolnir called his name, urging him back to the present. The usual commanding tone fell short. It was distant, blending among the chitter of crickets and cicadas nestled in the shrubs surrounding the Palace. Instead of smooth tiles, his feet touched limestone slates, leading a distinguishable path toward the East Wing, where guests usually resided.

They were whispering, but Dainsleif had keen ears, trained to hear the barest scuttle of enemies. In hushed, quiet tones, they whispered, whispered, and whispered. They spoke of things— forbidden —and yet, he had eavesdropped, craning his neck to hear, his body betraying any rational thought to stop . He wonders if the Heavens could hear them too. They seemed so, so loud —

“Dainsleif.”

For a moment, he stood atop a hill. Havoc ran amok beneath his feet. Each push and shove sent tremors to the ground, and desperation anchored him, unable to flee.

The telltale crease that marked condescending curiosity. The curious tilt of his head. Vedrfolnir wore that loathsome scrutiny once again. Dainsleif looks away. In an effort to gain composure, he presses two fingers between his brows, hard enough to feel the firm indents of bone. Tension unravels. Undid every complicated knot and twist, like ribbons in a corset. 

He breathes.

“The Universitas Magistrorum is harboring a secret.” It was a statement, not a question. Certainty flowed through his bloodstream, akin to a surge of adrenaline. “What is it? ”

If Vedrfolnir felt any surprise with the extent of his knowledge, or irritation at his accusative words, the former did not show it. Instead, he laughs. “The most dreadful of assumptions. Surely, you jest.”

“The Universitas Magistrorum endures to allow all pursuers of knowledge an unparalleled avenue to improve in their respective disciplines. There is no such thing as a secret . Undiscovered, unexplored— yes —all that matters is that it exists .”

He extends a card between his index and middle fingers— The Magician . Upright, the robed figure faces Dainsleif.

“As above—”

A deft flick of the thumb, the visual spins in a mix of grays and shades. Reversed.

“—so below.”

One, absolute reality.

Vedrfolnir brings the card to his face, inspecting it with offhanded disinterest. “Dust you are, and dust you shall return.” He turns to him, all smiles and crescent eyes. “Only a fool would believe such lies.”

“And you? ”Dainsleif asks. “What do you believe in? ”

The answer was instantaneous.

“I believe we are meant for so much more .”

More. More. More!

Perhaps, all things came down to an innate thirst. Greed. To learn more. To know more. Something bigger than him. Bigger than life itself. Vedrfolnir could riddle him a million—billion—times more, but he was no different from the rest of them. The realization dawns upon Dainsleif without any flourish or grandeur. It sounded like a soft click , where the last puzzle piece falls into place after years of incompletion. It made his nerves settle, to grasp the notion that his brother was so, oh , painfully human. As he is. As is everyone else. Indisputably, they share the same blood. They are brothers who stood between and amid the complexities of this world.

Prodigies in their chosen fields— yes —but they were no more than ants beneath the lofty heights where the Heavens reside. And, and —

Vedrfolnir scorns. Unbridled dissatisfaction spilled, spilled, and spilled—when he had uttered the plea for more . 

Dainsleif had caught onto it—keen-eared and attentive—the falter and waver at the end of his words. Despite possessing a mind worth worlds, his brother continues to yearn. It broke through all of Dainsleif’s preconceptions of the untouchable man who seemed to live lifetimes ahead of everyone else. 

There was a manic look in his brother’s eyes, those brilliant star-like pupils shining their true colors. “The Eclipse thinks so, too, but glory has worn them soft. Shameless and silly, the Heavens have taken action. Have they not sent The Stars? ”

An incredulous laugh escapes Dainsleif’s lips. “Do you plan to betray the Motherland, Brother? The very nation that clothed and fed you? ”

He continues. “Is this the treason you speak of? ”Vedrfolnir remains collected, but he spies the dwindling focus behind his spectacles, replaced by that wild glint. The sight was electrifying. A quiet ebullition confined to this box-room space. Dainsleif waits for an implosion, the inevitable collapse under the weight of his brother’s fractured stolidity.

It does not come, but these cracks could only hold for so long.

“In a country brimming with bright, curious minds, stasis is not—and never will be—an option.” 

Vedrfolnir wasn’t oblivious. He’s aware of the reciprocated eagerness, taking it in stride with an unconscious lean forward. “Your uncertain grays and in-betweens are but complacent dawdling for the inevitable.”

He had worded it to sound belittling—insulting. Yet it struck Dainsleif with exhilarating clarity. The remark was meant to humiliate, humble him down from the pedestal people had placed him on, those awed by his prodigious swordsmanship. It did the opposite, however. It did the opposite, unfortunately .

His brother existed to remain unanswered. He was a puzzle that followed Dainsleif the very moment he opened his eyes. He was a puzzle that grew more convoluted as the years went by. Vedrfolnir stood as an ever-imminent question, with his sphinx-like stare and riddling words. He was obscured, like the fog that engulfs the future. And yet, it took cards and a conversation to tear down a belief that built Dainsleif’s many foundations, unconscious pillars that shaped his very person. The implications should disturb him, move him to leave this office instantly. 

Stand , his mind commands. Defiant, his body stays seated.

He remembers their King’s one-eyed, austere gaze, known to leave his subjects prickling under the mechanical dissection. Before his ascension to the throne, in his younger years, he embodied the essence of a true scholar, having sacrificed, sacrificed, and sacrificed to quench his thirst for knowledge.

It teetered toward madness , when such pursuits remained unchanging as decades flew by. If his governance was not for the people, then what purpose did it serve?

Now, he sits before his own brother, and understands how men are cut from the same cloth. 

Yet for the first time, they stood toe-to-toe on this lifeline, a wordless understanding that, surely, his brother had predicted and premeditated flawlessly. Dainsleif finds it difficult to care. Vedrfolnir may have him calculated—every step, every word, and every breath. In exchange, he’s shown his cards—a simple glimpse that had Dainsleif aching to get another look. 

Perhaps, with time, he’ll come to understand it all. He would see the script his brother obsessively follows, and he would read faster and further, paces ahead of the rest. He would bid his time and curb the throes of impatience. Dainsleif knew how to wait.

(Five hundred years, and more. It was long, excruciatingly so, but it was time.)

Vedrfolnir pulls out a watch from his pocket.

“I have three minutes before my next meeting.” The clock ticks, a touch louder than normal, sounding in urgent agreement. “I trust that you can see yourself out.”

It echoed like a cue, a stage direction that demanded the actors’ immediate exits. Dainsleif knows he’s exhausted the chances to probe for more. Even if time stretched to allow him the opportunity, Vedrfolnir would not budge. They have reached an unspoken consensus. The cards lay discarded, blending into the background. Half-empty teacups lay forgotten on the table. With these elaborate props, he’d expected—prepared for, even—a tension-filled conclusion. 

In reality, it was none of the sort. The cacophony comes to a stuttered halt. Muted, as faint as the soft rustle of his brother standing, perfectly poised, hinting no signs of treachery. He dusts his robes with the flick of a wrist, as if it would remove the traces of his dastard schemes. 

A small part of Dainsleif revels in the permanent stains. 

“Ah, one more thing. Do send Mother my regards.” With exaggerated politeness, Vedrfolnir opens the door, lazily gesturing for his immediate departure. “I eagerly await my invitation to Samhain.”

“In the meantime, your secretary could stand to learn your signature, given the number of letters she’s fabricated for you.” The taunt lacked its usual bite, but Vedrfolnir chortled nonetheless. From his periphery, he finds the secretary in question, her mortification settling in like a bucket of freezing water.

Minutes ago, he’d thought that he would mirror a similar expression. Horrified, basking in shame. Treason, oh, treason he said! Would Dainsleif be able to drive his sword into his own brother’s chest? Would he be able to take a life so closely linked to his own? Glass panes come into view, and his reflection—from the straight slope of his nose to the high rise of his cheekbones—had never looked more identical to—

“Tides rise before they change, Dainsleif. A sensible man will find stable ground, lest they drown in the flood.” Vedrfolnir slips a card to rest atop his palm. His fingers were cold, and it seeped through Dainsleif’s glove. He turns it over.

Death .

“A souvenir. Take good care of it.”

The door closes with a resounding click .

One Winter Before the Purgatory

Time (years, decades, centuries—and more ) may fly by, but Dainsleif thinks he would never forget the sight of those flowers weaved into her hair.

Inteyvats, trademarked by five, iridescent petals. Dainsleif was no stranger to them, despite their notoriety for being short-lived perennials. They were sparsely seen in the city, their numbers having dwindled over the years, exacerbated by the continuous urbanization. Near the outskirts of the city, however, they prospered indiscriminately. Flowerbeds blanket the vast fields, a landscape he’s grown accustomed to through annual family visits. It stretched endlessly, and he’d gazed down upon them from atop the hills, saddled inside the stuffy carriage that took them to the homes of distant relatives.

Their names have long since slipped Dainsleif’s mind. At twenty-seven, the memories of his distant youth were as faded as they were forgotten. He fails to recall the specific gray that colored the peeling paint in his guest room. He could not—for the life of him—picture the frilly dresses that enveloped his younger cousins in an excess of ribbons and lace. He finds it ridiculously impossible to remember a single meal eaten in the mess hall, where lavish feasts were held to celebrate Midsummer festivities. Over the years, Dainsleif spent little time basking in the fraying threads of nostalgia, when the details have long since evaded him like sand fisted in his palm.

However, incomprehensibly and inscrutably so, Dainsleif could perfectly recount—from stem to stamen—the blooming beds that overlook the countryside. Impressionable, as all children were, yet he never would’ve thought a sea of flowers would leave such a lasting mark on his person. The floristry courses taken by the women of their family had never appealed to Dainsleif. It sounded tedious , for lack of a better term, to remain seated the entire day with one’s nose buried in a book, reading and reading about thousands of flowering species. Besides, only a select few can truly bloom in a subterranean realm, and most lessons were spent learning how to alchemize flowers immaculately.

Fundamentally, it was bedazzled fraudulence. The idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could stomach the sight of the most violent bloodsheds without batting an eye, but there was something about flawless, flawless flowers that left him feeling incongruous. 

Still, among all the wonders he was privileged enough to see, Dainsleif has, quite ironically, kept a specific scenery near and dear to his heart. He’d lived a life of luxury, enveloped in the most extravagant robes, where he regressed to a mere speck among the sequins and sparkles (the clothes wore him ). Lavishness lingered in his wake, as though born from his presence. He was seldom left awestruck, but those plain flowers had him positively dazzled.

He remembers it as if it had merely occurred yesterday—peering through the modest window their carriage offers and relishing in the minute-long blur of inteyvats . Perhaps, it was because everything is natural—uncontrollable, to an extent. They weren’t crafted and confined within vases and vessels. They weren’t conditioned in impeccable settings, adjusted according to the most minuscule changes. Instead, the blooms span infinitely (a childish dream, really, for all things come to an end), stretching beyond human comprehension, or rather, the limited understanding of a boy in his pre-teens. Time and again, with every summertime visit, he was enraptured . 

For a minute—those short sixty seconds—it would be all bearable. A reprieve of sorts, where he hears nothing but the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the creaking protests of wooden wheels. Father would insist on a more modest choice for transportation, lest they attract unwanted attention. He’d made do with the narrow space, pressed his cheek against the glass, body craned to get a better look. Warm skin would meet chilled panes, as if it would shed any light on where the flowers started—and where, where, where did it all end ?

Then, Mother would chide him to sit properly, lest an untimely pothole send him toppling and tumbling. Followed by the crackling rustle of paper, courtesy of Vedrfolnir’s attentive reading. Devoured , to be precise, his brother consumed pages upon pages with ardent zeal. Father’s knee would bump against his, legs wired and tense from the long hours spent cramped within a tiny room. A second or two would pass—and rocky mountains would come into view, replacing the bloomscape with lumps of granite. 

The interruption always made him restless. 

Although they rode the same carriage back home and took the same rough, alpine path, he never saw them again. He would have to wait for another year. The flowers could almost be mistaken for figments of his imagination, yet they emerged as the clearest memory that defined his childhood summers. What else could it possibly be, if not the truth?

Clearly, time did not dim away their brilliance.

Dainsleif had wondered. He’d been plagued by it, really. In the small hours of the night, he’d thought of infinite flowerbeds as he stared at the peeling paint in his guest room. He’d thought of how similar his cousins’ ruffled skirts were to the luminescent petals, but not quite so. He’d thought of how inteyvats would’ve looked vased and perched atop the dining tables; replace the alchemized flowerettes with something—

Real.

In a garden brimming with falsities, Dainsleif finds the strangest of novelties.

Candor —crouched and cloaked.

Nestled into her hair were inteyvats , intricately braided between pale strands, as if they were meant to bloom alongside her. It was the first thing Dainsleif noticed— those flowers and her hair. It was haphazardly cut at the back, with light locks extending at the front and cascading atop her shoulders. Frost-kissed blossoms seemed to vine toward her, eager to take her hands into their cradle. Lithe, flushed fingers dance a smooth trail among the abundant shrubbery, a scene plucked straight out of a primaveral daydream. Trance-like, they thumb and twist through Mondstadt’s cecilias, then, Sumeru’s padisarahs. 

He felt like an intruder, as if he had stumbled upon something he was never meant to see.

The white-capped pavement did little in waking her from her bloomscape reverie, despite the winds’ fierce attempts to whisk away her cloak. It fought a pitiful struggle to stay clasped on her bodice, where he spied the thin linen of her skirt and sandals half-buried in the snow. In the dos and don'ts of proper winter garments, she served as an excellent example of what not to wear, lest one be so happily inclined to catch a severe case of hypothermia. She appeared undisturbed, though—peaceful, even—consumed by her finger waltz amid the flowers.

The night, eldritch-like in its pitch-darkness, emerges as nothing more than a passing thought. At the center of it all, illuminated by the meager glow of a silvery lantern by her feet, she was spring immortalized .

Unabashedly, he stared at her, until her fluid arm moved to pull the cloak’s hood over her head. For a moment, guilt stirred in his gut, for he must have been caught—heat overcame his frozen cheeks, effectively thawing them—googly-eyed and gawking, an embarrassing interruption to her state of tranquility.

When he ambled forward, the thick snow crunched beneath his boots.

“Princess .”

He’s answered by a noncommittal hum, barely audible against the noisy gales.

“I’ve been instructed to escort you back to your room,” continues Dainsleif. It was a far cry from reality, a sugar-coated lie. Rather, the guards were urgently sent to scour the palace from top to bottom—a panicked search for the Princess, who’s gone missing from her bed chambers long past curfew hours.

“Is that so? ”The Princess in question, unknowing of the castle-wide emergency she caused, or perhaps uncaring of it all, remains crouched near his feet. Her hands come to a pause. “I would like to stay a little longer.”

Undeterred by her protest, Dainsleif watches a puff of air leave his lips. “Khaenri’ahn winters are especially harsh, Your Highness.”

“Don’t worry.” She shifts on her feet but makes no move to stand. “I’m made of sterner stuff.”

“The Imperial Court is not too keen on any tests of resilience.”

The reminder is brooded over with much regard. The Princess, too, understood that the courts were not to be trifled with. A defeated sigh leaves her lips. Hesitant, her fingers—currently embraced in ivy vines—take their ill-timed departure. Dainsleif could almost imagine how the plant would immediately droop, withering in sadness, if sentient. The greatest of impossibilities—the stone benches possessed more life than any flower in this entire garden combined .

“Then, would you allow me half an hour, Sir Knight? ”

It was a laughable attempt at a compromise. If he spent another minute battling this freezing weather, Dainsleif would soon find icicles hanging from the tips of his lashes, leaving ghastly punctures atop his cheeks. A firm no was just a breath away, strung between an amicable rejection that left no room for arguments. He was not afforded an opportunity to object, however, when she stands—dusting the accumulated snow on her lap—and takes her lantern in a stroll further down the garden.

With brisk steps and the phantom protests of his numbing muscles, Dainsleif rushes to catch up. The cold trailed after him, persistent—swift, arrow-straight—flying past the dip of his jaw in a heady rush. He’d turned to chase after her, unable to see the castle silhouette—its towering, towering shadows—blur into the snow-laden background.

Surprisingly, she slowed to a halt, letting the lantern hastily drop next to her, where the ball of fire flickered unsteadily. It was as if the thought that he would forcibly drag her back to the castle never crossed her mind. He’d considered it, naturally, as all do when confronted by a delirium-inducing cold. When he pointedly stops a step behind, stubborn in resolve, she dips her head in acknowledgment—faceless and obscured by the shadows. “You’re free to go. I’ll be safe as long as I stay within the Palace walls.”

He sucks in a shuddered breath. Hah . 

Gladly, Dainsleif would leave her once Hell freezes over. At best, a demotion awaits him if he leaves an esteemed member of the Royal Family alone in a blizzard at night. At worst, the morning dew will bear an unfortunate witness to his head skewered through a pike. Neither one seemed to offer a promising future. He tells her none of this, naturally, and holds his tongue from reciting the many reasons he ought to stay with her. So, with all the chivalrous grace he could muster amid these horrible temperatures, Dainsleif offers her his arm.

“The path can get slippery, Your Highness.” The leaves respond with a crackling noise. He hears the distant howls of untamed wildlife—miles from their location, he hopes. 

There's a beat of silence, a grand number of seconds spent considering his outstretched palm, before she, with evident resignation, takes his arm. The Princess clung onto him limply, as if she were ready to pull away and escape any minute. He takes note of her glove-free hands, and spots hardened bumps between the thumb and index finger—a swordsman’s calluses—before they curl above his elbow. He makes no mention of it. Dainsleif gestures to carry her lantern, which she stretches away from his clutches. 

Well, if she so insists.

The Princess toured the gardens with a kind of confidence that could only be found in the gardener, who had planted and cared for every floral arrangement in the maze-like vicinity. She knew it as if it were the back of her hand. Curiously, her sandalled steps betrayed an eagerness unique to first-time experiences. It was impossible, however, for every assured step to be fuelled by mere luck. A hundred visits would barely suffice in achieving the absurd endeavor of memorizing the garden layout, yet the Princess indicated no difficulty in hauling him like useless baggage, pointing and naming each plant paces before they reach the erected signs containing their introductions.

“Among all my travels, this must be the largest and most extravagant garden I’ve ever seen.” Her hold had grown a touch firmer with every stride, shedding any traces of prior reluctance. “Tell me about these flowers, Sir Knight.”

Dainsleif was certain her knowledge far exceeded that of his own, despite the paradoxical combination of her ridiculously impressive command of plant names, coupled with the slips of an unknown accent when pronouncing terms originating from complex, botanical nomenclature. Still, her chatter proved unexpectedly pleasant to hear. The Princess did not speak in overly posh verbosity, and she crafted her eager explanations with the creativity of a skilled polyglot. He felt slightly overwhelmed, to be requested for conversation that could possibly stir a linguist like her.

“I’m afraid floriculture is not within my expertise.”

Her response shifts to express animated appallment. “Then, would you rather we walk in absolute silence? ” 

His answering retort lodges at the back of his throat, when the Princess halts, pulling him back with surprising strength. He swallowed hard, eyes drifting toward her figure, unmoving and silent.

“Do you hear that? ” 

Dainsleif did not. Or rather, whatever suspicious noise was sufficiently muffled by the violent snowstorm, its uncontainable rage growing fiercer by the minute. His voice comes hushed, a bare whisper as the world holds its breath. “What is it? ”

She puts a hand near her ear, in a comically exaggerated fashion of straining her hearing. There was severity in her tone, one that had him unlinking their arms in favor of securing a firm grip around her wrist. A foot forward, his body craning in the all familiar stance of a hunter prepared to strike. His fingers made their way above the handle of his sword, hovering and ready for unsheathing. 

Attentive, he stops in his tracks, waiting for a signal.

"Mm—ah, yes. The winds are whispering.” It was a commendable display of dramatic fanfare. From the corner of his eye, she places a hand over her ear, cupping it as one would in the stage plays that demanded excessive theatrics. Alas, it was a difficult endeavor to garner his amusement. “Leave the knight. Let him head back to the palace and report his own incompetence for losing the Princess.”

Dainsleif frowns. 

Her palm meets his. It’s warm, a stark contrast to his own. Wrapped around the cold, metal hilt, she pushes the blade down, back in its scabbard—linking arms as if nothing happened. “Some thought-provoking replies will do wonders in blocking such ideas.”

“The weather is awful,” said Dainsleif. He raises his head toward the heavens, lest he act on the urge to recite a lot more awful things, like the Princess’ ill-placed joke that would top the list. Whatever palpable tension he’d surrounded themselves in dissipates like mist in the morning light. The winds— whispering , she said—released a shrill scream, as if to mock him further.

The lantern, its metal handle clasped in a firm grip, appears before his periphery. The Princess holds it up between them, illuminating the pavilion ahead, abundant in blooming shrubberies. “And yet, the flowers are not wilting. Why is that? ”

His eyes follow the line of light. Embraced in ice and frost, he’d thought that the flowers would’ve lost most of their allure. Alas, it was a mistake to underestimate the Palace’s pursuit of perfection . “The garden is reserved for rarities. Flowers are alchemized and strenuously conditioned as an exclusive, year-long display.”

“Outrageously grand,” she adds, nudging him forward in an unspoken command to get moving . They resume their stroll, to his dismay. “Although I’ve never seen inteyvats planted among these vast fields. Is it not Khaenri’ah’s national flower? ”

“The area reserved for them may be barren for months on end,” said Dainsleif. “Inteyvats are ephemeral, but the city outskirts accommodate copious amounts of them. Many consider them a common sight, nothing to write home about.”

Brick-bordered foliage lined the snowy trail, where the paving cobblestone was barely distinguishable beneath the thick layers of frost. It stood out like a sore thumb, with plain edges that are sorely lacking in the garden’s determination to exhibit excessive opulence. Still, he was aware that the Palace’s hired gardeners were the best the nation could offer. He doubts they would simply leave this be.

The Princess led him here under no sheer coincidence, when she set down the lantern—balanced atop smooth slabs—fingers brushing across the hail-battered sign. They trailed between the scratched etchings, gentle as a lover would. The tenderness of her actions seemed out of place amidst the cold, and Dainsleif wondered if he’d mimicked a similar kind of longing in his blissful youth.

(Bronze-plated— inteyvats , it read.)

“The gardener will be bringing in a fresh set of blooms by dawn.” The words come out hurried, breathless, as if he’d run a mile. It was impulsive—he knew not of the gardeners’ identities, let alone the comprehensive schedule they abide by. His cheeks flushed—and for the first time tonight, it had not been from the chill. It hung in the air—the weight of his uncertainty (the slips of composure brought about by sleeplessness, most certainly)—and, in a humiliating twist of fate, had the Princess chuckling to retrieve the lantern by her feet.

Dainsleif clears his throat. “We are past visiting hours.”

“I would.” She’d turned away from him, not that Dainsleif would be able to catch a glimpse of the expression the Princess was wearing, given her tenacity in preventing the winds from blowing her hood off. Huh . Forgive him for blatantly staring— studying— when her tone had made him the most curious he’s ever been, questions upon questions burning to be answered.

“Inteyvats, I mean.” He needed no clarification. Somehow, Dainsleif simply knew.

(What value could the flowers of a forgotten land carry for a being who has borne witness to the birth of worlds?)

“I would write home about them.” Home—a warm hearth, and the solace brought by the cradle of flames—Dainsleif could almost feel it. He knew home meant differently for the Princess, where peace was found in a place much colder and much larger—a void rather than a space enclosed within marbled stone. The thought should dread him, but there was comfort in knowing that she would consider something so inconsequential —those fragile petals that could barely survive a month— deserving of a chance at forever.

His mortal shell may return to the ashes, but his greatest memory could be written among the stars.

“The endless flowerbeds—gleaming all shades of whites, blues, and more—overlooking sky-high mountains, it was quite unforgettable.” Dainsleif knew, now, did he not? Hadn’t that minute been an irrevocable truth among the thousands spent dreaming them into reality? Those mere sixty seconds stood out among millions upon millions. It passed by in a blur—contained within the limited view offered by the carriage window—but Dainsleif remembers it as if it were his own name.

“You see it, then? ”He asks. “The colors .”

“Yes.” A nod, or perhaps, the rustle of her cloak caused by the wind, lithe fingers clasp at the edge of her hood to prevent it from dropping. “Do you wish for me to describe them? ” 

Does he? Dainsleif had been on the receiving end of such stories since time immemorial. His mother had always been fond of the novels belonging to foreign lands, albeit her incredibly sparse collection of such unpopular goods. The outlanders that come and go, eager to start a godless life, had regaled him with such tales too. When they spoke of rose-tinted romances, likening it to the red hues of flustered cheeks caused by the sweetest of confessions, it left little to the imagination. 

Whether it be love or grief, they were all gray. 

“There is no need, Your Highness,” Dainsleif answers. “It’s difficult to feel impressed with the vibrancy others claim to see when most things look the same.”

“Won’t you spare a few minutes for the stories of an interstellar traveler? ”A challenge; he could spot it from a mile away. A honeyed mixture of condescension and amusement, it clung with no intention of accepting a rejection. “I have seen sights unlike any other . Sights that far eclipse grays and color—I'll have you hanging from every word.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

(A twinge of envy flickers at the pit of his stomach, blinking into existence. He pushes, pushes it down.)

“Everyone says that.” She chuckles lightheartedly. “Gray is all you’ve ever known, after all.”

She wasn’t wrong. As a matter of fact, she was spot-on. Bullseye. The statement was indisputable, a fundamental truth that had shaped his world since the beginning of time. The world will spin. As the Sun rises in the East, it shall soon set in the West. The world will spin, and those of Khaenri’ahn blood are forever cursed to see the world in monochromes. It was why Dainsleif never truly understood the prevalence of social classes. Everyone—the bourgeoisie, the proletariat, and everything jammed between—bled the same gray hues.

Nevertheless, she had touched a nerve he never knew existed. Irk blossomed, taking the foul-looking form of something that clearly did not belong in the picture-perfect scenery. Quietly, he’d conceded, yet it does not stop the ill feelings from budding. They turned the next aisle in relative silence, one that the Princess hadn’t bothered breaking despite her prior request for better conversation. Releasing her hold on him, she bids him a wordless goodbye through the small wave of glove-free, calloused fingers. It was brisk, unhindered by formality and finality, as if this were but a temporary pause.

Dainsleif hadn’t returned it, rooted to the ground in a rare display of stupor. He watches her sandalled feet silently climb toward the palace entrance, her cloaked silhouette growing smaller and smaller, until the midnight shadows claim her as their own. Her presence was nearly soundless, besides the billowing of her clothes. He realizes that he never caught a glimpse of the face that lies beneath her hood. 

The Princess was, oddly enough, determined to remain veiled. She resembled a bride—those who played into the follies of superstition, adamant to stay hidden lest they attract the attention of malignant spirits.

Dainsleif would be lying were he to claim that her persistence did not spark his curiosity. No gust of wind throughout their flowery frolicking could remove the hood from her head. And, without a doubt, their stroll lasted for more than half an hour, contrary to the proposed compromise. Thirty minutes had turned into forty, fifty, and sixty —all estimates; he’d long since given up on tracking the time. 

At this point, he could be easily mistaken for frozen poultry, turning marrow to frost and bones to ice. It was only right, as dictated by this world’s laws. He held no silly ambition to defy such things. Yet, there was no chill licking at his skin. Heat engulfed his side, and there was a particular sear just above his elbow. A snowflake descends—intricate lace spun by winter’s wheel—and kisses his open palm, where he watches it fizzle to a watery bead.

Against all reason, Dainsleif finds himself the warmest he’s been in years.

Truly, it was the strangest of novelties. A surreal combination of guilt and unbridled interest, the feeling was all kinds of wrong. To be fair, there were many wrongs—the flowers, for one—and how he had gone on a casual stroll—arms linked—with the impossible . Unthinkable. Something akin to the collision of parallel lines destined to travel separately until the end of time. Bestowed with the eternal fate of being chained to the ground, Dainsleif could never fathom what lies beyond the infinite cosmos. 

The cosmos—a pitch-dark firmament, Dainsleif thinks, reminisces of a dream-like night filled with drunken, unanswered wishes. She was a part of it too, at some point.

He never thought it would lead him here, illuminated by the touch of a Star . 

ミ★

Fate had run its course.

When it did, the world spun its usual revolutions, continuing its orbit with the glaring absence of fanfare. There were no cathartic revelations, as one would often expect accompanying a momentous occasion. It was quiet—near anticlimactic. There were no elegant arches embezzled in the finest draperies, barren of sparklers and signages. It had been gray , as all things were. The air lacked the pierce of a whistle or the blow of a horn, the kind of signals that catalyzed the beginning of—

Something . 

From highly anticipated decathlons to nationally celebrated military parades, inevitably, heads turn, rapt with attention, when the signal sounds the start of something, something historic . Fate, he imagined, worked in a similar manner. He can see how crowds upon crowds will gather to pick apart the threads of fate, as many were drawn to the mystery—Who would win? Who would lose? The future, brimming with what-ifs and what-nots—How did it look? How did it sound? How did it feel? How did it all start?

Normally, he was not omniscient to such things, as that was the appeal of it all, wasn’t it? His kin had always been fascinated with the unknown. For once, however (and once only, he doesn’t think he would ever experience something that can eclipse this ), Dainsleif had the spindle at the palm of his hand.

The night had obscured most of his vision, and it was difficult to tell who emerged as the victor and the loser. The winds whirled a cacophonous choir of sopranos and altos, and it grated on him endlessly. Dainsleif can never seem to tune it out completely. His lips, gossamer-thin from the cold, stretched to mouth the words—stinging from the chapped cracks, lined with blood. The threads twist—soft and delicate—until the spool beneath gradually fills.

“Your Highness, if the offer still stands,” said Dainsleif, gloved fingers brushing against her hand—bared to the cold, again—twirled around the petals of a flower he couldn't care less to name. All formal pleasantries were left forgotten within the Palace halls, where the Sun bathed light upon her crown and his sword. 

“Would you tell me more of these otherworldly sights you speak of? ” 

In lieu of well-deserved slumbers, every night was spent accompanying the Princess in her late garden outings. He must have expended enough coincidental meetings to last him this lifetime and the next, whenever he chanced upon her twiddling with different flowers in the same, snow-laden garden. 

Every night, she would treat him to a feast of novelties—of tall forests built on life-sized chessboards, of tea parties that float sky-high, of clocks that tick forward and backward at the same time, amongst others. She would tell him of splendid, otherworldly stories whilst basking among the flowers, with that eager, vibrant tone—not too shrill, nor was it too low—as if she’d lived through such dream-like realities. 

And, really, she'd experienced all of them—the wild and unfathomable. She spoke with so much truth, it was impossible not to believe her.

At some point, instinct would take over and dictate his movements; for time and again , his legs would lead him back to the arbitrary blooms—back to her. One more time, and his feet would start moving on their own. He would like to hear more of her not-so-fairy tales.

Dainsleif knew he’d find her there. Candor—crouched and cloaked.

Her back would be facing him, thin cotton hems brushing against her exposed ankles. And he would stare— burn holes at her frame , she’d said, as if the sight of her posed a dilemma that haunted his days (it did, oh, she did!). Like clockwork, he would follow with a wry reply, harmless wit that had her shoulders bouncing with glee—and she would remain unknowing of how he’d wondered if she were a figment of his imagination, a dream born from springtime memories.

Again, again, and again—he had watched her pull her cloak’s hood over her head, ridding him a glimpse of the inteyvats that made home in her hair.

They walk different routes. It was a large garden, after all. She takes him to new twists and turns, preventing him from growing complacent in routine. On the first night, she showed him rows of cecilias, guiding him toward bushes filled with padisarahs. On the second, they stayed close to the glow of dandelions, ending their stroll among the patches of dendrobium. When sleet showered from above, they had taken shelter below the sakura trees, where the frozen ground—rain-slicked—turned them into marionettes with tangled strings, toppled over rose hedges.

(“If you’d grip my arm much firmer, Your Highness, this wouldn’t—  

A chuckle, descending into a fit of uncontrollable giggles—she’s laughing. Here she was, having the time of her life, as if her hands weren’t pricked with needle-sharp thorns. It had Dainsleif quieting down, rendered silent. The words of sharp chastise die down, caught in his throat. 

Heavens above, she moved without care, driving him forward to take her arms within his grasp, lest she wake to find blisters littering her skin.  

Scarred—Dainsleif could not bear the thought of it.)

By the seventh day—or was it the eighth? Ninth? He didn’t know when it started, but the sunrises and sunsets had started bleeding into one indistinguishable gray; dusk grew longer, stronger (and brighter, as if it dared to contend against the Sun). By the eighth day (the seventh, Dainsleif remembers, was spent collecting quenepa berries in the garden), Dainsleif was under no strict obligation to continue accompanying the Princess, once the Palace realized every attempt to put a stop on her midnight strolls would only bring futility. She told him of this when, for once, she handed him the lantern to shake off the snow in her sandals. 

Casually, she let slip that he was—and he still is—free to let her roam unattended. She’d pushed that he take the opportunity to get some rest, yet Dainsleif had only half-listened, lantern in hand, wondering how yesterday’s berries clung to the material of his gloves, had stubbornly lingered despite multiple rinses, and whether such sickly sweetness made permanent home at the pads of her fingers.

(“You were so eager to rid yourself of me.” Flimsy sandals—now snow-free—are delicately fixed back to her feet. Jaw clenched, he does not bother hiding his disdain against the ill-fitting footwear—even his muffler was made of thicker material. “What happened?”

“The quenepa berries, I cannot get rid of the stains.” Dainsleif deflects the question. “Is Your Highness equipped with any otherworldly knowledge to resolve this? ”

She huffs. “I quite enjoy it, actually.” Her next words spring with a jesting lilt. “You’ll simply have to deal with it.”

Pivoting, he allows himself a glance—perhaps, this time, he’ll be able to see the traces of a proud smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, stretched across saccharine lips. “I suppose I have no choice.”

And if his mouth curled into a pleased grin, hidden behind gloved fingers, Dainsleif ignores it all the same.)

As long as she retires back to her chambers before sunrise, the Imperial Court will stay quiet. They knew she was capable. They all do. Besides, Dainsleif would be by her side, his sole presence equivalent to the security that entire platoons could provide. The Palace has larger concerns to worry about. He’d assured them, bearing a languid smile. No harm would befall the Princess when she’s around the Captain of the Royal Guards.

Their Royal Highness is in good, capable hands.

(The letter arrives. A crisp, neat envelope—bound not by haste but by the artistry of hand—lies in the middle of his table.

“Won’t you look at that! Captain’s finally got a lover,” Halfdan shoots him a smug look, all cocky grins and teasing quips. “Explains all the nightly disappearances, yeah? ”

“More than you’ll ever get.”

Short, curt, and free of looping Ys—the sender was most certainly uninterested in discussing romantic prospects. It was a simple command, and that was all Dainsleif needed. He read no further, uncaring of the sincerity sign-offs that were anything but.

Sincerity, Dainsleif learns, may lose itself indistinguishable in letters sealed with practiced fold—its edges sharp with cunning purpose. Nevertheless, it is quick to find its way back—well-traveled, carrying the most impossible promises.

Keep her busy.)

“The Palace is hosting a ball to celebrate the arrival of spring.”

Dainsleif hums in acknowledgment. “So I’ve heard.”

“I’ve been invited.” 

Under normal circumstances, He would respond with a curt affirmative, something that goes along the lines of “wishing them a splendid time” and every polite alternative under the Sun. It was only proper. The Princess, however, insisted he take a different approach, encouraging his unconventional snark that would have his etiquette teachers losing their minds. 

And so, the words fall freely from his lips, unhindered by false pretenses (she liked him better without them, apparently). “We can’t have the masses thinking we’re ostracizing their beloved Princess.” He’s answered by an amused snicker.  “Will this be your first? ”

“In this world? Yes.” She paused, thoughtful. “Say, do these balls have dances too? ”

Dainsleif replies. “With an event of that scale, you’ll be dancing before the King.”

“Before the King,” the words are murmured under her breath, contemplative. Assuming that he is fit to attend the event, then yes, the Princess will be waltzing before the King, as custom dictates. “Is it because you cannot turn your back to the throne? ”She asks.

“Yes, to put it simply.” His hands reach for the muffler around his neck, adjusting it. “You’re quite the expert on this.” 

“Only in theory. In practice, sadly, I’m quick to trip over my feet.” He narrows his eyes; somehow, Dainsleif does not believe it.

Their pace loses its brisk cadence. When he slows down to match her leisure steps, Dainslef finds himself coming to a halt. Inquisitive, he turns toward her still form. “What’s wrong?” Instead, he’s met with her steeled grip, barring him from unlinking their arms. And he wouldn't, not when he’d always been the one to offer his hand in their garden strolls. The path can get slippery, after all.

“Waltz me all the way to the gazebo.”

Stunned, Dainsleif blinks. It was, quite possibly, the most shocking request the Princess has ever made, far more than her persistent appeals to remain unescorted in her (their) nightly outings. Truly, she demanded of him the most impossible things. “It would be improper to do so, Your Highness. I am not your dance partner.”

“The Princess has issued a royal decree.” She seemed to have expected his immediate refusal, armed with a quick, steadfast retort. “And she will tolerate no bouts of insubordination.”

“If someone sees...” The protest is weak, even to his ears, for what more can he do when she’s already hauling him forward, to wherever and however she pleases? 

“That their princess is diligently practicing for the ball? They’re blessed to have such a hardworking ruler.” Her hand had strayed away from his elbow, lowering to take hold of his wrist. The all familiar lantern—the sole, unfortunate witness of all their moonlit follies—clinks against the ground, placed carelessly where he’s sure they’ll be spinning in circles trying to find it once this charade is over and done with. Its steady, miniscule glow fades into the background when she leads him toward a twinkling path, where lighting fixtures shine liberally alongside clusters of indulgent fireflies. 

She tugs at him gently, his left hand on her right—and instinctively, Dainsleif raises his arm to twirl her. Feet steady on the ground, she turns—her cloak brushing against his figure—reminiscent of the spinning dolls inside exquisite, jewelry boxes. “Now, how does one masterfully waltz in Khaenri’ah? ”

He sighs, a touch exasperated. “You lie about your incoordination. I do not see the need to practice, nor for me to teach you anything.”

“Consider me in need of a memory refresh. You don’t want me embarrassing myself before the country now, do you? ”She was as graceful as she was wily, and he rolled his eyes at the blatant lie.

“Remain on the left and leave the right to me.” Dainsleif wonders if the mistake was made on purpose, a vain attempt at proving her non-existent incompetence. “It’s easy to shift position during turning figures.” 

A murmur of understanding, and the Princess is quick to find her footing. 

“Dainsleif.”

Somehow, she’d figured out his name—it was no difficult task; merely a few questions here and there were all it took to know the person behind the distinguished title of Captain of the Royal Guards. Dainsleif—she'd used it sparingly, endowed with an attentive eye that noted his momentary rigidity whenever she would utter his name. It had been the only signal (a warning, perhaps), with the clear intention of leaving him dumbstruck, before the Princess was pulling him off-course—away from the stone-paved trail toward the gazebo and amidst a field of wild, uncut flowers.

A near-grumble escapes him, upon feeling the blades of grass prick the skin of his calves. “Must we really dance in a field of flowers—of all places? ”

Undeterred, the Princess boldly claims, “I enjoy a challenge.”

It felt utterly traitorous how they had so easily found a rhythm, despite the lack of music. Traitorous, when she came close—her head dipped and hidden, as always—settling into the near-embrace expected of a waltz. Traitorous, that her frame—small-boned but in possession of sizable strength—fit him like a glove, like his favorite pair, the one forever stained with sweet berries, and it was all her fault.

And if he could, he would write to his brother at this very moment, and he would admit to him that Dainsleif had horrendously failed—the Princess had turned the tables, expertly so, and she’d kept him terribly, regrettably busy.

( Distracted was a more accurate term to describe it, but he refused to dwell on such needless semantics.)

Unbeknownst to his turmoil, she starts humming a light tune— of course, she does . Naturally, she possessed the inconceivable ability of managing to make tuneless slips sound pleasing to the ears—as if it sounded just right. Her voice, having accompanied him for nights on end, Dainsleif is certain he’d be able to identify it within a crowd. He does not need to know the creases near her eyes (deep-seated due to her frequent fits of laughter), nor the frowns that pursed her lips tight (evident in the irritated huffs of attempting to keep her hood in place). He would still be able to hear her, loud and clear.

And still, against all reason (it had always been unreasonable when it came to her), Dainsleif felt a twinge cheated. She knew his face, his voice, and his name. She knew the pattern of his steps and had called out to him long before he’d made his presence known. She had spent nights clung around his arm, forcing him to memorize the warmth of her side. She had held his hand, embracing him in a kind of heat implausible amidst the cold. 

Tonight, they were chest against chest, breath against breath, submerged in the intimacy of a waltz. By now, she knew him like the Palace Gardens, where every nook and cranny was thoroughly explored to her heart’s content. Yet Dainsleif did not even know her name. She was the Princess—an impersonal title—cold and unbefitting of the star-like brilliance she’d blinded him with the past weeks. Greed—he understands why people succumb so easily to it. Who wouldn’t when it tastes so sweet? Dainsleif would let her keep her cloak—all those secrets—to herself. But he won’t let her take more from him.

(An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. In a nation where mortal limits are continuously challenged, it was one of the few principles that each citizen knew and understood. Lex talionis—exact retaliation. 

Truly, he was deserving of more.)

“Your name,” his breath hitches. Conflicted, he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, deliberating the question ringing in his head. It was a rather simple one, but he was, quite hopelessly, tongue-tied. “May you at least tell me your name? ”

“My, are you finally taking interest in me? ”

Dainsleif scoffs. “You flatter yourself.” Is she avoiding the question, then? Do stars even have names of their own, when they all seem to twinkle the same, bright glow? 

“Aren’t you a few nights late to ask for my name? ”

“Do excuse such impolite behavior , Your Highness; I am but an ignorant fool.”

She laughs. It rings pleasantly in his ears. “A transgression deserving of the guillotine! ”Dainsleif spins her once, twice, and thrice—just so she’d continue her fits of giggles, and he’d relish in the fact that he could give her such simple, sweet joys. “How silly. I have plenty and plenty of names. I’m a Princess in this world, aren't I? ”

“A title is different from a name.”

“Well, if you must know,” warmth blossomed; she was warm all over, flowing through their intertwined fingers. “You may call me Lumine.”

“Lumine,” Dainsleif whispers to the winds, and the world is silent, unknowing of the secret they share—encased in a waltz among the flowers.

“Do try your best to remember it. My name is a rare privilege I bestow upon others.”

“An honor,” he lazily drawls, slipping into their designated roles, the Knight and the Princess. “Words cannot describe my eternal gratitude.” 

No one would know how he steadied his hand on her waist, and how she rested her own atop his shoulder. No one would know how he took her first dance for her first ball, an honor men from across the nation would go to war for. Tonight, he had her in his arms without the burden of a nation. She’d allowed him in her orbit, and Dainsleif—alongside the stars reigning above and the flowers at their feet—witnessed her as Lumine .

“Lumine,” again, he murmurs her name under his breath. He’s answered by a noncommittal hum, reminiscent of their first encounter. This time, however, Dainsleif hears her loud and clear (and for five hundred years, she will continue to echo in his head)—the melody thrumming in the air between them, filtering in and out with the ebb and flow of idle conversation. All of it feels unreal—her name on his lips, and the way her head was buried in his chest, singing sweet croons to his very heart. Songbird —she sang of simple joys, of the kind of bliss unique to tonight’s embrace. It left him silent, listening. He had nothing to say, rather. She was more than enough.

And perhaps, it was the quiet that made Dainsleif all the more susceptible to noise. From a grove of yews, with ancient boughs and branches stretching skyward and beyond, a flock of birds cawed in a frenzy. Cacophonous, their shrieks were quick to overpower her pleasant humming, rousing him from his reverie. Magpies, he recognizes, when his eyes meet their striking plumage of light and dark. 

How strange. It was too early for avian migration. 

He watches, transfixed, as they fly northbound.

Lumine turned, following his gaze. “Is it that time already? ”

Dainsleif hadn’t had the time to respond. It was laughably unfortunate that he just had to react a touch too slowly, mere seconds late—when he was born for this very moment.

It had started agonizingly slow. The earth rumbled beneath his feet, as if it were forced to carry the universe on its shoulders. It groaned indescribable pains. Heavy, heavy tremors and the ache resonated within him all the same. An invisible, weightless tension courses through his body, dragging the hair on his nape to stand upright, limbs drawn taut in attention. 

Earthquakes. What else could it be? Earthquakes were often felt in the depths of Khaenri’ah, and the nation has long since developed mechanisms to ensure public safety during such inevitable calamities. They have prospered underground for countless centuries, having reached the heights of possessing complete command over the unsteady terrain that surrounds them. Yes, earthquakes were ordinary—predictable in their unpredictability—and there was no need to worry over anything .

By tomorrow morning, he’ll see it plastered across all news outlets—a front-page advisory warning citizens’ of potential aftershocks. The daily paper would be rolled up under his sleeve—tucked away for light reading during the idle hours of patrolling. Dainsleif would go about his day, saddled with training, meetings, or the rest of his responsibilities (and yester-everythings, rightfully left at the back of his mind). Mother ought to start sending out her invitations for Yule festivities, too, and he’d receive his amid a long, dreary afternoon.

Another winter has passed, and the nation awaits a new beginning. She’d always harbored a penchant for sentimentalities, and her letters often started with grandiose introductions. It would be lengthy, naturally, and he’d pen back a short note confirming his attendance, paired with the gentle reminder that Dainsleif would not be bringing home any marital prospects (and that she should soon resign herself to the loss of giving birth to a son forever stuck in bachelorhood). 

Above all else, when the sun sets to shroud them all, he would teach Lumine the waltz, knowing she was more than proficient in the art. But as long as she let him twirl her with all the charm he could muster, Dainsleif would not utter a word. When her warmth thaws his guarded lips, he would ask her what she thought of Yule— of hope arising after long, harsh winters. Whatever her reply is, perhaps, it would grant him the gift of seeing a world beyond gray hues—and at last, Dainsleif would understand why color is such a wondrous thing.

But— that was no earthquake, was it now? How often did these lands shudder so helplessly? How often did such tremors seem to reverberate for an eternity (when it had only been a minute, a minute )? How often did instinct set his blood alight, screaming for Dainsleif to move—

Now.  

The world shook again, and Dainsleif didn’t think he could ever get used to it. Petrified in fear, trembling in trepidation—as a pained animal would in the face of an overwhelming threat. It hammered an all-encompassing dread within him, knowing the world felt as vulnerable as he does, and there would be no escape from the hunter’s relentless pursuit.

They were helpless. Prowess be damned, when they were up against a foe older than time itself. If she had remained in the skies, the cosmos would have been able to hide her. Were she not summoned , Lumine would have been safe. She wouldn’t be here, stumbling into his arms—warm-blooded, pulse unsteady, and so irrevocably human . The rising crescendo reaches its peak, and it registers that they had danced to no heartfelt waltz, once the final notes of the elegy rang (and rang, and rang) in their ears.

The ground opens up, swallowing him in a freefall. Caught—as prey rendered immobile within the trap of a yawning abyss. In that instant, it is as if the world has stopped spinning, as though some higher entity had commanded a full stop, forcing everything to freeze . 

The very axis of existence grinds to a halt. The birds, suspended mid-flight, flicker their beady eyes—the sole sign of life in their statue-like pause. The flowers, every petal and leaf, remain unmoving. The clouds, thick and dark, cease their endless march across the sky. The air drops, licking fiery gasoline at his bones. The stars dim in fearful retreat. The thread loosens. The spindle falls, snapping in half, when the realization hits—

The winds have never been silent in Khaenri’ah.

Or perhaps, it was her sharp inhale—one that threatened to steal the very breath from his lungs—when their star-like irises collide.

And— oh —was he electrified.

The first thing Dainsleif sees is—well, he could not possibly describe it, for the life of him; he had never been gifted in the art of prose. His bloodied hands are meant to triumph over enemies; never were they used to pen the most artful poems. But, for once, he wouldn’t mind staining the parchment if it meant that he’d be able to immortalize this fragile moment. 

Within those bright pools, he sees both everything he’s ever known and everything he’s ever questioned. In those eyes, Dainsleif learns infinity in a matter of seconds. It was tantamount to staring Death in the face, where life flashes before his very eyes. There, he recognizes the sparks that fly after swords clash. There, he recognizes the twinkle found among numerous, flickering street lights. From mystical tarot cards to the firmament that hangs above all – she was there.

Yet, in truth, it was not quite so; they were not— never— enough. These mortal treasures could only contain mere fragments of the real thing. For she, in all her glory, is far grander than anything this world could ever offer.

One day, Dainsleif would learn its name, as he did with Lumine. It would take time, as he did with her, but he’s certain that he’ll soon be able to call it for what it is—

Gold. 

Those bright, bright irises—they were a lovely shade of gold.

(For five hundred years, he will search for a worthy contender. 

For centuries, he will scour the lands for anything that holds a candle to the gold of her eyes, knowing that he will never truly find anything like it.)

He hadn’t meant for it to happen, really. Those familiar, dainty fingers clasped around his collar, pulling him in, as her other hand dug crescents into his shoulder. It was the perfect waltz dip, when his arm encircled her waist, steadying her. Perfect. It could have been perfect— had her hood not fallen, inopportune. How it cursedly slid off to reveal her , as a groom would besottedly unveil his bride. How, traitorously, his heart quivered at the look she gave him— regret .

Regret! Regret!

Does she know how long he’d spent yearning for the minute-long glimpses of raw iridescence— those cursed flowers —and now, before him, stands everything he’s ever dreamed of? 

Does she even realize the power she holds over him?

His gaze drops to the ground in haste. The blades of grass crowd him, drenched in hues he’s never seen , coiling and climbing around his feet. They shackled him to the earth, daring him to run. Wrench free (free, free!)—it should be easy, were he not shouldering everything she had forcibly thrust into his unwilling hands. The nerve of her! She dares look at him with those eyes, crawling in choked-up guilt, as if he had been the one to turn her world upside down. Bright orbs shining in unshed tears, she looks at him as if he had been the one to relinquish everything she’s known her entire life.

It was both a blessing and a curse to see her beyond gray.

If he spared another glimpse at her form—her face— no , Dainsleif would not be able to survive it. He would come face to face with a world he wishes he had never known.

Once seen, once felt—it would never leave his reality, fusing into his very soul. Her hands were scorching him, searing a heated trail at his flesh, in a frantic attempt to bring him back to his senses. It hurt. She was hurting him. Flayed, bared, and exposed to arrows raining down from above, to swords piercing every shred of unguarded skin, to spears collectively reaching for his head. Beneath her gaze, beneath this new world , Dainsleif is the weakest of men. His legs threatened to give way, on the brink of a crumbling collapse. He heaves a ragged breath, but the puffs of air fall short and shaken. His eyes refused to shut, as if all his power turned to concentrating on keeping them wide open. And they burned , salty tears lining their bloodshot rims. 

(Oh, you fool—mortal men do not dare look directly at the Sun.)

Greedy— it was always more, more, and more—is he but a vessel for his kin’s wishes? Seeing all these sickening, vibrant sights, is this why they all share the same star-like eyes? In atonement—for the crime of mutiny, the sins of greed and curiosity —is he to endure eternal punishment?

“Dainsleif? Dainsleif?! ” Ironic, how his name—Dainsleif—was derived from myths narrating a sword expended, exhausted , in an unending battle. She cries for the name of a weapon used in ceaseless massacres, sanctified as it fell from her mouth. Sacred. As if it were a prayer, she repeats it (over and over), cupping his face in worry. Rather than reverence, however, Lumine calls for him in regret. Her tone teetered the desperation of a sinner in heavy repentance, and he could almost see the sterling rosaries wrapped around her fingers. She prays, prays, and prays—ah, but what good would it do? She’s wasting her breath . No divine gaze will cast upon this godless land. The Heavens have long since left them to rot.

How had she overlooked it? Had it not crossed her mind? What exactly are the crimes this nation has committed, warranting the deprivation of the very heart of life itself? She had been too generous with her warmth, unknowing that she had been feeding it to a bottomless pit.

Hah— have the roles reversed, then? Ridiculous. He, a sinner turned saint, was continuously assaulted by the bright shades surrounding his vision. A baptism to send him to Elysium. They poke pinpricks—millions upon millions—burrowing a kind of pain that claws at his core. It hurts, oh, it hurts. Inescapable. Inescapable! Trapped, they force him to see the world, condemning him to a Hell that refuses to let him go blind.

He cannot shut it out, cannot turn away from the blistering truth that now defines his existence. Oh, how he misses his grays—those simple truths that shaped a simple life. But even the shadows, once a refuge, have turned on him, betraying him with the distorted images they cast. Is the crime of treason deserving of such agony? He was but a mere accomplice . Do they want an apology, on his knees, for overstepping his authority— his limits ? Do they want him bruised in guilt, he, a disobedient, collared dog? Purgatory. This must be purgatory, the fiery inferno consuming and cleansing him, all for a chance to reside in the Heavens. 

How senseless. 

Laughter tears from his throat, laced in acrid venom, and he hopes the world hears how he mocks them all for their naivety. These futile, futile attempts are all for naught. They would have to wring the dirty blood out of him, wither him to mere bones! Let them immolate his flesh and everything he stood for. Go on—gouge his eyes out; for as long as these star-like pupils exist, Dainsleif will continue to sin.

Strapped to a stake, limbs immobilized with coarse rope, they smear him of tar and grease. 

Incarcerated, they set his soul ablaze.

“ Please ,” raw and gritty, the plea dragged gravel in his ears. Scraping, scraping, and scraping. Dainsleif would not be able to recognize it as his own voice, had the word not clawed its way from his throat, resounding an unspoken beseech for something, anything to take his mind off the pain. 

He craved for numbness, the cry emitting from his very core. To create distance from reality, when everything seemed to demand his immediate attention. He could feel it, all of it—his lashes clumping in wetness, iron and salt descending a trail of kisses on his cheeks, her hand wiping the blood off his nose with a shaking tenderness unbefitting of this crumbling world. 

Despair, it seeped like blood from a loosely bandaged wound. 

Lumine— oh, Lumine— whispers him apologies upon apologies, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. Choked gasps leave her lips, bitten raw in distress. Forgiveness, she begs, for the letters that will go undelivered, the festivities that will remain uncelebrated, and the waltzes that will stay undanced. He does not fight her, push her, or unsheathe his sword. How could he? How could he not? When she had seized him of his strength—of his unlived future? Dainsleif lets her—against all odds, against all reason . He lets her trembling hands lift his gaze from the ground. He lets her gentle touch lay him bare upon the gallows.

When she held him so tenderly, how could he ever dream to refuse?

Dainty hands that are meant to hold flowers, clutch his own; as if together, they held a lifeline. As if he would stray far from reach if she dares loosen her grip. As if he would fall apart. She was pulling, and pulling, and pulling—blissfully ignorant to how she was the one orchestrating his rupture, pulling at his strings. Carnivorous. It did not merely pierce through him—a quick and swift kill. It gnawed at his flesh, licking his bones, until it reaches the crevices of his core– 

Pulling, and pulling, and pulling. 

Sliced open, her touch had him eviscerated, guts messily spilling to the ground. Phantom hands wrenched him apart until he was nothing more than a hollow crevice. Void. Empty for the taking. Golden eyes, golden hair—drenched in muck and blood—make home in his cavities. She was everything in between —the ichor that now flows in his veins, the momentary taste of something inexplicably divine—curling around his neck in a suffocating noose. With one look, the dam bursts, engulfing all that stands in its wake—whether it be the flowers, the birds, or the world itself.

In a careless, cruel surrender of inhibition, Dainsleif recalls a wish made upon the stars (and he hadn’t yearned for more over the years, no, lest the stars forget the one he’d made that drunken night). Let there be equilibrium , he’d whispered to the wind, clutching his grays close to his heart. Dainsleif shan’t need the sight of colors and soulmates and the true love that lies between. He was content, oh, was he happy! Let the tales of vibrancies remain as nothing more than tales.

Because the poets had never mentioned this .

It would have been easier to forget the sight of the illustrious palace falling—the heart of the kingdom, the very symbol of power—crumbling into dust. Gray , the all familiar gray, rewrites itself to symbolize the ashes of a perished empire. It would have been easier to forget the sight of the once-brilliant rivers, sullied in debris and dead men. Blue , Dainsleif learns, upon seeing the vast bodies of pristine water that stretch infinitely in foreign lands. 

The spears that rained down from above, each shaft large enough to annihilate cities, he shall see them worshiped— paraded, even— in the devoted Land of Geo. Yellow , like prized mora and the ignition preceding an explosion. The lightning that rampaged ceaselessly into the night, screams muffled under the weight of ruthless thunder, he shall see it carved in every corner of the Nation of Eternity. Purple , the thunderbolt—engraved in the swords of the most esteemed samurais—will be revered rather than reviled.

Above all, he would remember Red . Dainsleif would remember it so well, it shall follow him in his dreams (five hundred years dreaming of red, red, red! ) Blood—fresh and wet in their linked hands. Blood—dried, encrusting the corpses of his fellow soldiers. He would learn of all its shades, in rose-tinted cheeks and vermillion lips, Dainsleif would find love in red. When the rays of sunlight cast upon her face, he would see the way her dazzling, amber-gold eyes turned wicked red. Of all things, of all colors— he would detest red the most.

It mattered little when Lumine had him drowning in her colors. Ruined! Oh, she had ruined him beyond repair, a wreck adrift in the current of her making. Submerged, he will push and push, straining to reach the surface. But there will be no salvation above—only those skies , weeping for the fate of foolish men. Perhaps the tales did hold some truth, after all. Colors were beautiful. Blindingly, sickeningly beautiful.

(Heavens, Heavens above! When shall he emerge from this flood?)

Underneath the bloody empyrean, Khaenri’ah bears witness to its final winter, awaiting a spring that will never come.

Notes:

Beta-read by the wonderful Aesari.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Excerpts from Beyond