Chapter Text
You were walking through the forest, picking berries. The woods were quiet, only the wind whispering in the branches. Through a light mist, you noticed a small house. Curiosity overpowered caution — and you came closer.
The door was slightly ajar. You hesitated only for a moment… and entered.
Inside, it smelled of dry herbs and old wood. By the window stood a girl. There was something strange about her, something disturbing. You didn’t know why, but it was as if an invisible force was drawing you toward her.
The girl turned around. Her gaze — calm, deep — pierced right through you.
“Greetings, wanderer.”
You barely had time to blink a couple of times.
“May I ask your name?”
“Y/N.”
“A beautiful name.”
You ask what her name is. For a moment she holds her gaze on the window, as if listening to something beyond your hearing.
“Hmm… My name… I don’t have one, but you can simply call me the Storyteller. By the way, are you ready to hear the story of the royal family, of the blind child, of his monster brother and his ‘demon’ sister?”
You answered “yes”. Why — you didn’t know yourself.
She smiled faintly.
“Then listen… And if you like, sit down — it’s easier to read that way.”
Many years ago, in this world, there lived HUMANS and MONSTERS. And between them… no, no, war did not break out. A conflict happened. After that, the monsters began to live separately, in another territory. They formed their own kingdom.
But even though the two peoples had a huge conflict, they still cooperated. Both sides could move to other kingdoms. They even managed to sign a peace treaty.
A monster has no right to attack a human, just as a human has no right to attack a monster. Moreover, monsters cannot absorb human souls — even if the human died a natural death.
Humans also have a rule — not to absorb monster souls. But that has never happened in history. Logically, this rule is useless: monster souls are much weaker than human ones and shatter into tiny pieces upon death.
— However, there are also boss monsters. Their souls can last about a minute after death. But such monsters are very few… As far as I remember, only three remain — the Dreemurr royal family.
— Then again… maybe there are others somewhere. Who knows. What do you think?
You just shrugged.
The Storyteller continued:
— But this family isn’t only monsters. Asgor and Toriel adopted children. The eldest daughter — Chara, almost the same age as Azriel. The middle one — Kris. And the youngest of them — Frisk.
— Oh, I completely forgot to tell you about the punishment. Well, it’s obvious for assault and murder. But for soul absorption… you’ll get a punishment so severe that you’ll wish for death.
A tense pause fell between you.
— If you’re human — you aren’t executed right away. No, that would be too merciful. First, they break your nails — all of them, slowly, with pliers, until you start screaming. Then thin needles are driven under the skin on your back and arms — one by one, with intervals, so you can feel each one. Then your hair is torn out — by the roots, in whole clumps. Then one eye is gouged out — not both, just one, so you can see how they continue torturing you. Then a metal table is heated red-hot, you’re laid on it and held until your skin begins to melt. And after all that, you are thrown into the Forest of Suffering.
The Storyteller paused, and her face became almost lifeless.
— Monsters are “luckier”. They aren’t tortured by hand. With ancient magic, they are made to feel unbearable pain — the kind that makes the world shatter into shards, each shard piercing the soul. The monster starts screaming. Their body deforms: the monster seems to grow organs — bones bend without breaking, muscles pulsate as if alive, foam comes from the mouth. Then bracelets are put on the wrists, blocking all magic forever. The monster becomes helpless.
— Then — the same for everyone. The guilty one is thrown into the Forest of Suffering.
The Forest of Suffering is not just a forest. It is a living place. The trees there remember every scream, every blade of grass is soaked in pain. When you get there, you begin to see your deepest fears. They don’t just come to your mind — they become real. You hear the voices of the dead, feel hands reaching for your throat, see faces you wished to forget. Your head hurts as if in a vise. You scream. You writhe on the ground, in the mud, in leaves that are actually someone’s long‑rotted tears. A week passes. You don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t sleep — you only fear. On the seventh day, you die. Your face freezes in a grimace of terror, and then the forest simply absorbs you — you become part of it, only echoes of your fear remain in the forest.
The Storyteller let out a long breath.
— The forest is ruled by a creature. No one knows if it’s a monster or a human. Just a black silhouette — tall, thin, its body covered in black slime. They say it is nothing but slime, and the only thing that glows is a single blue eye. They say it never lies, and you can often hear it speak in a whisper.
She paused, and then her voice warmed slightly.
— But there is another side — the Forest of Joy. Those who have broken the treaty less severely, or those sent for rehabilitation, end up there. There you see your most cherished desires. Everything you ever dreamed of. A home where you are loved. A person who will never betray you. A monster who will never hurt you. And these visions are so vivid, so right, that you don’t want to leave. You sit on grass that sings, drink from a stream that smells of honey, and think: “This is it. This is my happiness. Why would I go anywhere?”
The Storyteller leaned closer to you.
— But it is all an illusion. From the first step to the last breath. If you don’t leave in time — and you have exactly three days — you will stay there forever. Your body will turn into another tree that feeds other people’s dreams. And you will no longer be able to scream, or cry, or remember that you were once alive.
She leaned back in her chair.
— The Forest of Joy is ruled by Dream. Nightmare’s brother. He is bright — literally: his body is made of soft golden light, and he is always smiling. Dream tries to pull people out of his forest. He warns them, says: “This is not real, leave.” But they barely hear him — because his own voice becomes part of the illusion. The irony of fate: the kindest guardian is doomed to lose his victims precisely because he is pure positivity.
— Anyway, you get it. Better not break the treaty.
The Storyteller cleared her throat.
— Ahem… Where did we stop?
You say that she stopped at the point where Asgor and Toriel have adopted children: Chara, Kris, and Frisk.
— Ah, right. Thanks for reminding me.
So. They are a very happy family. But each of these children has their own problems.
— And let me add… All of them had terrible pasts. Especially Chara.
Kris is a quiet, insecure boy who prefers to hide his emotions. He had a difficult past.
Chara is a true manipulator and a masochistic‑sadist who hates humans. Tears are weakness for her. But she sincerely loves her family and is ready to tear anyone apart for them.
Frisk is a kind kid who often takes on too much. His face is not very emotional — sometimes it seems he doesn’t care about anyone. But like Kris, he likes to flirt. The difference is that Frisk flirts with everyone.
But there is one big problem. Frisk is blind.
— And moreover… he has never seen since birth. But he copes well. He is not bad at grammar, if you can say that: he reads special books — a human invention. Still, he asks to be read aloud. He likes to “listen”. He is also good at diplomacy and politics, and a good fighter — basically like all of them. Except Azzi. Azriel is not a fighter, but he is good at magic. Azriel even says jokingly that when he sits on the throne, he will take Frisk as an advisor, knight Chara, and make Kris his personal guard.
At such moments, his laughter sounded childishly light — and hearing him, Frisk would smile back, even though he could not see his brother. Chara would just snort, but then could not wipe a strange, almost tender smile off her face for a long time. Kris silently nodded, hiding his eyes — but that night, none of them slept. Each thought about the throne, about the future, about whether they could truly stay together.
Frisk had a rather strange dream. Usually his dreams are just noise — fragments of sounds and voices, rarely forming anything coherent. But this time everything was different.
He didn’t see in the usual sense — he knew. As if some force was implanting images into his consciousness, images he had never had. Frisk didn’t understand how he could even perceive souls, but he could. And it shocked him.
Before him floated four souls. Three of them he somehow immediately recognised as Souls of Determination. And the fourth was a monster’s soul — he recognised it by its shape, described in an old book: an inverted heart, pure white, made of love, hope and magic.
The first soul glowed very brightly. Frisk had never seen light, but in the dream he felt it as an intense, almost burning warmth. This soul seemed whole, strong, unshakable. Clearly a very powerful soul.
The second also glowed brightly — but it had cracks, and a liquid oozed from them. Frisk guessed it was black. He had read about such things in books: black is the colour of hatred, darkness, coal. The treatises mentioned that if black oozes from the cracks of a soul, that soul feels hatred on a constant basis. Not just anger, but constant hatred. Frisk did not recall any other colours for such a state — so he decided this was probably the only option.
The third soul was dimmer. It barely gave off heat, barely smouldered. And Frisk remembered: for Souls of Determination, a dim light means the person is sunk in melancholy. Exhaustion, loss of hope, inner emptiness.
The fourth soul — the monster’s soul — was pure white and glowed very brightly, but its warmth was different: not burning, but soft, gentle. Frisk recalled something he had read once: for a monster, such light means they are full of hope and love.
Frisk was shocked. How does he know all this? How did he recognise those as Souls of Determination when he has never even seen them? And why is this dream — not just noise?
Then he woke up. And for a long time he sat on the bed, feeling his hands tremble.
— And then… — her voice grows quieter. — Then, unfortunately, the author ran out of strength.
She falls silent for a second, and then — unexpectedly — laughs softly, almost affectionately.
— Oh, that author… — she shakes her head. — Always with him, I mean her, inspiration comes and goes. Rewrites a chapter five times.
She turns to you, the corners of her lips slightly raised.
She straightens an invisible sleeve and looks back at the window.
— I will be waiting for you, Y/N, with impatience. Let me warn you right away: chapters may take a long time to write. Because our author is an idiot who couldn’t even finish one fanfic before starting another. So chapters may take a long time to come out.
— Come back when you are ready to read on — and when the chapter is out.