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Nod-Krai greeted visitors with teeth.
The northernmost isle of the Snezhnayan archipelago functioned less as a landscape and more as a trial of endurance—a jagged geological wound of slate, permafrost, and iron-grey stone jutting violently from the churning belly of the sea. In the summer, the region offered a bleak vista of grey skies and biting winds.
Tonight, in the heart of winter, the island seemed determined to remind every breathing thing that survival remained a privilege.
The storm descended with the crushing weight of a collapsing mountain.
The wind acted as a physical antagonist, a wall of freezing pressure screaming through the skeletal trees of the lower taiga and whipping the freezing rain into horizontal shards of ice. It battered against your hood, stinging your cheeks and numbing your lips, forcing you to walk with your head bowed, chin tucked deep into your scarf.
Every step became a negotiation with gravity. The path, usually a hard-packed trail used by the occasional brave supply runner, had dissolved into a slick, treacherous ribbon of freezing mud that sucked greedily at your boots.
Your lungs burned with the cold. The muscles in your legs screamed in protest. Every survival instinct you possessed—the primal part of your brain that feared the dark and the cold—begged you to turn back. Those instincts whispered that the village inn offered warmth, a roaring hearth, and sensible company currently drinking spiced wine behind bolted doors.
But you abandoned sensibility miles ago.
You reached up, your gloved hand trembling from the exertion, and adjusted the strap of the heavy leather bag slung across your shoulder. Inside, wrapped in layers of oilcloth and silk to protect it from the damp, sat a small box. You pressed your arm against the bag, reassuring yourself of its presence, and forced one foot in front of the other.
Just a little further.
The trees finally broke, giving way to the exposed plateau of the cliff’s edge. The wind hit you here with renewed fury, threatening to shove you backward into the treeline. You braced yourself, squinting through the sheets of gray sleet.
And there it stood.
The Final Night Lighthouse.
It dominated the precipice of the world, a monolith of black basalt and iron spearing the stormy sky. Far removed from the charming, whitewashed beacons of Mondstadt or the golden shores of Liyue, this fortress of solitude stood built to withstand the end of the world. It loomed against the dark clouds, battered by waves that crashed against the cliffs below with enough force to shake the bedrock.
From its peak, the light pulsed.
A piercing, spectral azure—a blue so deep and intense it felt less like light and more like a concentrated memory of the ocean’s deepest trench—swept across the black water.
Sweep. Pause. Sweep.
To the superstitious locals in the village below, it represented the watchful eye of the "Ghost of the North," a monster who communed with the dead and guarded the cemetery where the soil remained too frozen to dig.
To you, it signaled a heartbeat.
You watched the beam sweep over the plateau, casting your shadow long and sharp against the wet stones. The light washed over you, cold and bright, and you felt a sudden, chest-tightening warmth that defied the freezing temperature.
He’s here.
You stumbled toward the heavy iron door, mud sliding beneath your soles. The final stretch proved the hardest; the wind channeled around the tower, creating a vortex that tried to rip the hood from your head. You reached the shelter of the stone entryway, breathless and aching, soaked through your heavy wool cloak to the skin.
You leaned against the cold stone frame for a moment, catching your breath, listening to the roar of the ocean below. You reached up, your hand shaking violently from the chill, to grab the heavy iron knocker shaped like a weeping gargoyle.
Your fingers never touched the metal.
The heavy door swung inward.
Silent hinges turned smoothly, without a groan of wood or stone. The door opened with a terrifying, fluid grace, as if the building itself inhaled to welcome you. A rush of air escaped the interior, hitting you with a wave of warmth scented with old parchment and the faint, dry crackle of static electricity. Standing in the threshold, framed by the flickering shadows of the interior, stood the Lightkeeper.
Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins was a figure cut from the very darkness he guarded.
He appeared impossibly tall, his silhouette elongated by the high, structured collar of his coat that obscured his neck and jaw. The coat itself was a masterpiece of Gothic tailoring—heavy black fabric adorned with silver chains that chimed softly in the draft, the hem tattered and torn, suggesting centuries spent walking through brambles of razor wire. His trousers were tucked into heavy, buckle-laden boots that looked ready for war, yet his posture remained relaxed, hands clasped loosely behind his back as if viewing a painting in a gallery rather than a storm.
But his face commanded absolute attention.
His skin held the color of moonlight on fresh snow—unnaturally, deathly pale. His hair was a chaotic storm of dark blue, chopped short and messy around his face, implying he sheared it himself with a knife, yet a long, thin section trailed down his back like the tail of a comet. The light blue tips of his hair glowed with a faint, bioluminescent pulse, matching the rhythm of the beacon above.
And his eyes.
Yellow, pupil-less, and ringed with the bruised shadows of eternal exhaustion, they stared out from deep sockets. They were the eyes of a predator, of something that had seen empires rise and fall and found them generally tedious.
He looked terrifying. He looked like the spectre every mother in the village used to frighten their children into behaving.
He looked at you, and his expression—a mask of stony, courtly indifference—did not flicker.
"Lyubaya," he breathed.
The single word cut through the roar of the wind, carrying a gravity that anchored you instantly.
He moved then. One moment he stood as a statue in the center of the doorway; the next, he became a blur of dark fabric and blue light. He stepped past the threshold, out into the freezing rain, his body angling perfectly to shield you from the wind. He ignored the sleet hitting his pale face. He didn't blink.
"A rational creature would have remained by a hearth in the village," he murmured. The low, smooth baritone wrapped around you like velvet, vibrating against the cold air. "You, however, decided to engage in a brawl with a hurricane."
"I wanted to see you," you managed to gasp, shivering as a gust of wind slammed against his back, unable to reach you.
"A desire that defies logic," Flins replied, his tone dry but his eyes softening into liquid gold. "Do enter, unless you intend to stand there and erode. I am sure the gargoyles are lonely, but you make for a poor statue."
You stepped across the threshold with an amused huff. Flins followed, closing the heavy door behind you with a solid, definitive thud that instantly severed the connection to the hostile world outside. The silence that followed felt heavy and instant, ringing in your ears.
You stood on the mat, dripping water onto the floor. Flins circled you slowly, assessing the state of your arrival.
"You possess a catastrophic lack of self-preservation," he noted, stopping in front of you.
He reached out. His gloved hands were steady as they took hold of the clasp of your sodden cloak. He undid the wet metal latch with a single, deft flick of his thumb. He peeled the heavy, wet wool from your shoulders, the weight of it falling away instantly.
"The wind is particularly rude tonight," he muttered, folding the wet cloak over his arm. He hung it on a heavy iron hook near the door.
Then, his gaze sharpened on the leather bag still slung across your chest.
"And this," he said, his voice dropping. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing the damp leather strap. "You shielded this with your body while your own limbs froze. I assume the cargo is precious?"
You nodded, a soft smile gracing your face. "It is," you whispered.
Flins nodded once, solemn as a guard accepting a royal decree. He gently lifted the strap over your head, taking the weight of the bag from you. He didn’t hang it on the hook with the wet cloak. Instead, he cradled it against his chest, shielding it from any stray drips.
"The entryway is subject to thermal fluctuations," Flins stated, turning to walk toward a high, dry shelf in the shadows of the library. He placed the bag there with reverent care, ensuring it sat on a stack of dry papers, far from the damp floor. "It shall remain here. Dry. Safe."
He turned back to you, smoothing his hands down the front of his coat.
"Come. The fire is hungry, and you are freezing."
He placed a hand on the small of your back—a touch so light it barely registered physically, yet you felt the static charge of it through your damp clothes—and guided you into the main living quarters.
The circular room was a chaotic masterpiece of intellect and solitude. Books were stacked in precarious towers on the floor, on the desk, and even on the chairs—tomes on celestial navigation, ancient history, and engineering. Strange brass instruments clicked and whirred on the shelves, measuring things you couldn't name.
In the center of the room, the massive stone fireplace roared. It consumed chunks of strange, dark ore, burning with a contained, magical blue fire that crackled and popped, radiating a dry, intense heat that instantly began to chase the chill from the air.
"Sit," Flins instructed, gesturing to a velvet armchair he had clearly dragged closer to the hearth before your arrival.
You sank into the chair, sighing as the heat washed over you. You reached down to tug at your muddy boots, your fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold.
"Stop."
Flins was there in an instant. The Lightkeeper of Nod-Krai dropped to one knee on the stone floor at your feet.
The sight of him—this tall, elegant, powerful man who commanded the spirits of the dead—kneeling on the stone floor with such unhesitating submission sent a jolt of heat through you that had nothing to do with the fire. His long coat pooled around him like ink, the chains at his hip clinking softly against the stone.
"Flins, you don't have to—"
"I am aware of what I do not have to do," he interrupted smoothly, those mesmerizing pools of gold meeting your surprised gaze. "Allow me this utility. Your hands are shaking so violently you resemble a leaf in a gale."
He took your foot in his hands before you could protest again. His leather gloves felt cool, but his grip remained firm and steady. He worked the muddy buckles with deft, practiced movements, his head bowed. You found yourself staring at the nape of his neck, where that long lock of dark blue hair rested against his collar.
"I suspect these are currently more mud than leather," he observed, sliding the first boot off and setting it aside. "I shall have to treat them with oil later. Unless you prefer the 'swamp creature' aesthetic? I hear it is very fashionable in the Abyss this season."
"You're very chatty tonight, Flins," you teased softly, watching his nimble fingers work on the second boot.
"I have been reading," he replied, sliding the second boot off. "Grand Master Varka sent a collection of novels. Apparently, the brooding, silent protagonist is 'out of style.' I am attempting to diversify my portfolio."
He reached to the side, producing a pair of thick, fur-lined slippers he must have had warming on the hearthstone. He slid them onto your feet, his hands lingering on your ankles for a moment.
"Better?" he asked, looking up.
"Much better," you smiled.
But Flins did not smile back. He remained kneeling, his hands resting on your knees. His eyes narrowed as they scanned your face. He looked at your lips, which were still pale. He looked at your hands, resting on the arms of the chair, seeing the faint blue tinge to your fingernails that the fire had not yet chased away.
A frown creased his brow—a look of genuine dissatisfaction.
"Insufficient," he muttered.
He stood up abruptly, the movement sharp. He stripped off his gloves, tucking them into his belt, and reached out to press the back of his bare hand against your cheek. His skin was cool, shocking against your face, but it allowed him to gauge your temperature with precision.
"You are still freezing," he stated, his voice tight. "The fire is active, but your core temperature remains suboptimal. It seems I miscalculated the recovery time."
"I'm fine, Flins," you said, reaching for his hand. "Really."
He pulled his hand back gently, refusing to accept the assurance.
"You are shivering," he countered. "And your circulation is sluggish. Stay here. I must retrieve the heating linens from the dryer-kiln in the lower storeroom."
"Flins, I don't need—"
"You need warmth," he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I will return momentarily."
With a swirl of his coat, he turned and strode toward the dark archway that led to the tower's lower levels. He vanished into the gloom, his footsteps fading into silence.
You were alone.
The absence of him was immediate and heavy. Without Flins standing there, filling the space with his strange, static presence, the lighthouse felt enormous. The stone walls seemed to stretch upward endlessly into the shadows. The blue fire crackled, casting long, dancing shapes that looked like specters on the curved shelves.
The storm outside suddenly sounded louder. The wind slammed against the thick glass of the lantern room far above, a distant, mournful wail. The ocean crashed against the cliffs below, a rhythmic thud that vibrated through the floorboards. It was a fortress, yes, but it was a lonely one. It was a place built for a creature who didn't need sleep, who didn't feel the cold, who watched the world end night after night.
You shivered, pulling your knees up to your chest in the chair. You realized then just how much he was the source of the warmth here. The fire was just magic; Flins was the hearth.
A soft chiming sound broke the silence—the chains on his coat.
A shadow detached itself from the gloom of the archway. Flins returned.
He moved with a silence that was absolute, crossing the room in long strides. In his arms, he carried a stack of thick, white towels and a heavy, woolen blanket. Steam rose from the towels in curling wisps; he had evidently heated them with a concentrated burst of magic.
Flins didn’t look like a monster now. He looked more like a guardian. His expression was focused, his yellow eyes soft as they landed on you.
"The cavalry has arrived," he murmured, the dry humor returning now that he had a solution in hand.
He moved behind your chair, his presence instantly acting as a shield against the drafts of the room. The loneliness of the tower vanished, pushed back by the sheer force of his devotion.
"Lean back," he murmured. The command was soft, intimate, vibrating against the shell of your ear. You obeyed, resting your head against the high back of the chair.
Flins draped the first towel over your shoulders, tucking the ends securely around your neck to catch the cold droplets falling from your hair. The heat of the fabric was instant and intoxicating, smelling of dried lavender and the crisp, metallic scent of the storm that clung to him like cologne.
He draped the second, smaller towel over your head. His hands, clad in those smooth black leather gloves again, began to work.
He didn't rub vigorously. He pressed the towel against your scalp, absorbing the moisture with a slow, rhythmic pressure. It was less like drying hair and more like a benediction. He treated you with a terrifying gentleness, as if he believed you were made of something rare and brittle, something that would shatter if he applied the strength he truly possessed.
"The storm has bruised you," he noted quietly, his thumbs tracing the tension along the base of your skull through the towel. "You are carrying the cold in your shoulders."
"It was a hard climb," you whispered, your eyes drifting shut. "But I'm warming up. You're good at this."
"I have steady hands," he replied simply. "A requirement of my profession. Lenses are fragile things, and so are humans."
He pulled the towel back, draping it over his arm, and began to work through the damp strands with his fingers. He detangled the knots wind-whipped into your hair with infinite patience.
"You've developed quite the sharp wit," you murmured, relaxing into his touch with a happy sigh. "I suspect Grand Master Varka has been a bad influence on you."
Flins paused. His hands stilled in your hair for a fraction of a second, prompting you to open your eyes. You tilted your head back to look at him upside down.
He was looking down at you, his face framed by the wild halo of his dark blue hair. The corner of his mouth quirked upward—a small, distinct smile that softened the harsh, ancient lines of his face. It was a look of suppressed mischief that made him look younger, less like a tomb keeper and more like a man.
"He has been an educational influence," Flins corrected, his tone shifting into a lower, teasing register that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. "He informed me that if I wish to converse with humans without frightening them into an early grave, I must learn to 'lighten up.' He suggested jokes. I told him a joke about a skeleton. He called it morbid. I thought it was factually accurate."
You laughed, the sound bright and sudden in the quiet room. Flins watched you, his yellow eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly pleased with himself.
"I like the new material," you said. "Keep it up."
"I shall endeavor to expand my repertoire," he promised, smoothing your hair back one last time. "Dry. And acceptable."
He stepped back, the loss of his touch leaving the air around you feeling suddenly cooler. He moved to the small table beside the chair, where the porcelain teapot sat waiting.
"The tea," he announced, lifting the pot. "It has steeped to an optimal potency. Snezhnayan Fire-Water leaves are quite aggressive. I advise sipping slowly."
He poured the dark amber liquid into the silver cup. The steam curled up, carrying the scent of bergamot, smoke, and strong black tea. He handed it to you, his gloved fingers brushing yours.
"Drink," he commanded gently.
You took a sip. The tea was strong, bitter, and incredibly hot, burning a pleasant path down your throat. It tasted like warmth distilled into liquid form. Flins watched you drink, his hands clasped behind his back, looking satisfied as the color began to return to your cheeks.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much," you sighed, cradling the cup.
You watched him as he moved to his desk to set aside the towels.
He was a creature of stasis—a Lightkeeper who did not age, who did not eat, who watched the world turn from his stone tower while remaining separate from it. To the rest of Nod-Krai, he was a story to scare children, a shadow on the hill.
And yet, here he was, heating towels for you and learning jokes to make you smile.
There was a profound dissonance between the monster the world saw and the man who stood before you. He was terrifyingly powerful, yes. He held the power of the Abyss and the Elements in his hands. But he used that power to keep your tea hot. He used it to light a path for you in the dark.
He didn't treat you like a riddle he needed to solve or a specimen he needed to catalog. He treated you like a miracle he was terrified of breaking. He wanted to witness you, to be the wall that stood between you and the storm, so you could burn as brightly as you pleased without ever flickering out.
"You are staring," Flins noted, turning back to you. His expression was neutral, but his ears—poking through his blue hair—were tinged with a faint violet flush.
"I'm admiring the view," you countered boldly.
Flins cleared his throat, adjusting his cuffs. "The architecture is indeed Snezhnayan Gothic, though I believe the dust adds a certain rustic charm."
"I meant you, Flins."
He froze. He looked at you, his yellow eyes wide, blinking once, slowly. The flush on his ears deepened, spreading to his high cheekbones. He looked away, focusing intently on a stack of books on his desk.
"That is... noted," he murmured, his voice sounding slightly strangled. "And... reciprocated."
He gestured vaguely toward the bookshelves, desperate to shift the focus before he combusted.
"You mentioned the collection earlier," he said quickly. "While you finish your tea... perhaps you would care to inspect the new acquisitions? The tower exhales things from the archives occasionally. I found some items I believe would align with your interests."
You stood up, setting the empty tea cup on the table, the warmth now fully settled in your bones. You walked over to him, and he fell into step beside you. He didn't lead; he shadowed you, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that you could feel the static charge of his energy.
You walked along the curved wall of shelves. The library was a museum of things the world had forgotten. It was filled with debris—shards of white driftwood, polished sea glass, the rusted hilt of a sword from a war no one remembered.
You stopped in front of a shelf dedicated to nautical debris. There was a large, spiraled horn resting on a velvet cloth.
"A narwhal tusk?" you asked, running a finger near the ivory.
"A juvenile," Flins confirmed, his voice regaining its steady, scholarly cadence. "It washed up on the jagged rocks below during the solstice. The gulls were picking at it. It seemed... undignified. I retrieved it."
"And this?" You pointed to a strange, rusted iron compass that was cracked down the middle.
"A failure of navigation," Flins said quietly. "It belonged to a captain who ignored the light. He believed he knew the waters better than the beacon. The sea corrected him."
He reached past you, his arm brushing your shoulder, to adjust a small glass jar filled with glowing blue sand.
"I keep the remnants," he explained, looking at the jar. "Not as trophies, but as reminders. The sea takes, Lyubaya. It is gluttonous. I simply preserve what it spits back out."
"You save the things no one else wants," you observed softly.
Flins stiffened. He looked down at you, his gaze intense.
"I suppose I do," he whispered. "Perhaps I find their company relatable."
He turned fully toward you, leaning his hip against the heavy oak desk. The blue firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, casting half of him in shadow.
"It is a lonely business," he admitted, his voice low. "Watching. The storms break. The waves crush the stone. The people in the village below live their vibrant, frantic lives, burning brightly and fading quickly. Through it all, I remain. The lighthouse remains."
He looked at his gloved hands, flexing the fingers.
"Sometimes," he continued, "I worry that I am becoming like the stone. Cold, static. Incapable of understanding the warmth required to sustain a living thing."
He lifted his gaze to yours, and the vulnerability there was devastating.
"That is why I feared for you tonight," he confessed. "Not just the storm outside, but bringing you here, into this tomb of ice and memory. I feared... I feared my proximity would chill you."
You stepped closer to him. You reached out and took both of his hands. You felt him tense up, surprised by the contact, before he settled, his grip tightening around yours with desperate strength.
"You're not cold, Flins," you said firmly. "You're the one keeping the fire lit. You're the one saving the birds. You're the one who learned jokes just to make me laugh."
You raised one of his gloved hands, pressing it against your chest, right over your heart.
"Does that feel cold to you?"
His eyes widened. He could feel the steady, thumping rhythm of your heart through the leather of his glove and the fabric of your tunic. He stared at his own hand, then at your face, mesmerized.
"No," he whispered. "It feels... thunderous."
He stayed there for a long moment, anchored by your heartbeat. Then, slowly, reverently, he pulled his hand away, though he didn't step back.
"The tea," he said suddenly, his voice thick. "It has done its work. You are warm."
"I am."
"Then," he cleared his throat, straightening his posture and pulling the "Courtly Gentleman" persona back around himself like a cloak. "The meal. The stew waits for no one—not even the guest of honor. And if we delay any longer, the bread will lose its warmth, which would be a tragic waste of grain."
He offered you his arm. “Shall we?"
You took his arm with an amused grin. The wool of his coat was rough under your fingers, but the arm beneath it was solid and warm. He led you away from the shelves of bones and books, toward the small dining alcove carved into the eastern wall.
As you walked past his heavy oak desk, something caught your eye: a small, unassuming book with a cracked spine, lying open near his inkwell.
You slowed your pace, glancing at the page. It was a collection of poetry from Liyue. One line was underlined in charcoal, the graphite smudge fresh:
The moon does not ask the darkness for permission to shine; it simply is.
You looked up at Flins. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw set, pretending he hadn't seen you look. But the tips of his ears, poking through the dark blue hair, were burning a distinct shade of red.
He hadn't just been reading novels to learn jokes. He had been reading poetry to understand how to tell you he loved you.
You squeezed his arm, biting back a smile. "I'm starving," you said, offering him a mercy distraction.
"Good," Flins replied, his voice a little tight but relieved. He guided you toward the table where a soft blue light waited. "Because I have prepared a feast—or at least, a very earnest attempt at one."
Usually, this alcove served as a chaotic workspace, buried under sextants, tide logs, and half-finished maps of the ocean floor. Tonight, the Lightkeeper had transformed it into something unrecognizable. A crisp white tablecloth—slightly yellowed with age but pressed to a military standard of perfection—draped over the wood, smoothing away the rough edges of his daily life. The silverware gleamed, aligned with mathematical precision, and the stone walls seemed to hold the warmth of the room close, creating a pocket of intimacy against the storm.
Flins moved to the high-backed wooden chair opposite his own. He pulled it out for you, his movements possessing that fluid, liquid grace that made him seem less like a man of flesh and bone and more like a shadow detached from the wall. He waited until you were seated before pushing the chair in. His gloved hands lingered on the wood of the chair back for a beat longer than necessary, hovering near your shoulders as if he wanted to touch you but restrained himself.
"I trust the illumination is acceptable?" he asked, moving to take his own seat opposite you.
He gestured to the center of the table. Replacing the traditional candles sat a small iron lantern. Inside its glass housing, a sphere of calm, azure fire pulsed gently. It didn't flicker like a flame fighting for oxygen; it breathed, expanding and contracting in a slow rhythm, casting a soft, dreamlike twilight over the table.
"The manuals suggest candlelight is mandatory for romantic ambiance," Flins explained, his voice low. "But open flames in a library full of centuries-old parchment are a tactical error I refuse to commit. I hoped the lantern would serve."
"It's beautiful, Flins," you laughed, watching the blue light dance in the reflection of your spoon. "It feels like we're dining inside a star."
"A star," he repeated, testing the word. He looked pleased, his yellow eyes catching the azure reflection. "I suppose, in a way, we are. The fuel source is identical. Deep sea ore and celestial dust share a surprising number of properties."
Between you sat a heavy cast-iron pot. Flins removed the lid, and a cloud of steam rolled out, carrying the rich, savory scent of roasted root vegetables, thyme, and slow-cooked meat. It smelled incredible—earthy, grounding, and undeniably human.
He picked up the ladle. His movements were deliberate and elegant, treating the serving of stew with the gravity of a sacred rite. He filled your bowl, careful not to spill a single drop on his pristine tablecloth.
"Hunter’s Stew," he explained, setting the ladle down. "A Snezhnayan recipe designed to restore vitality after exposure to the cold. I cannot vouch for its absolute authenticity, as I was forced to substitute Fire-Water with a local brandy, but the chemical reaction appeared stable."
He sat back, folding his gloved hands on the table. He didn't serve himself. His bowl remained empty, a stark white void on the dark cloth.
He was waiting.
You picked up your spoon, acutely aware of the weight of his gaze. He watched you with unblinking, rapt attention, his chin tilted slightly. He looked for all the world like a scientist waiting for a volatile experiment to conclude, terrified of the result.
You took a bite.
The flavor exploded on your tongue—rich, salty, and deeply warming. The meat fell apart instantly, and the broth carried a subtle, smoky heat from the brandy that chased the last lingering chill from your chest. It was more than just “adequate.” It was delicious.
"Flins," you sighed, closing your eyes for a moment to savor the warmth. "This is amazing! You actually cooked this?"
Across the table, the tension drained out of the Lightkeeper’s shoulders. A faint, violet flush dusted his high cheekbones, softening the sharp, terrifying angles of his face into something boyish and relieved.
"I attempted to," he corrected, his voice dropping to a modest murmur. "Alchemy and cooking share suspiciously similar principles. One wrong herb, and I feared I might accidentally preserve you rather than nourish you. I am gratified to know I have not poisoned my favorite human."
"You have a talent for it," you teased, taking another bite. "If the lighthouse thing doesn't work out, you could open a tavern."
Flins let out a short, dry laugh—a rusty sound, but genuine. "A tavern run by the Ghost of Nod-Krai? I imagine the clientele would be rather... niche. The ghosts would enjoy it, certainly, but they tip poorly."
He reached for the basket of warm, dark rye bread. He broke off a small piece, his long fingers handling the crust with surprising delicacy.
"However," he continued, his tone shifting, becoming softer and more reverent. "I am glad you enjoy it. It... pleases me to provide this utility."
He unlatched the small glass door of the lantern sitting between you.
"But you aren't eating," you noted, watching him.
"You know my nature, Lyubaya," he said gently. "Biological consumption holds no joy for me. It is merely fuel. Tasteless matter."
He held the piece of bread up to the opening of the lantern. The blue fire pulsed, sensing the offering.
"But," he added, his eyes locking onto yours, "that does not mean I cannot share the meal."
He dropped the bread into the flame.
The moment the bread touched the azure heart of the fire, the flame flared, though it didn't burn with smoke or char. The blue light deepened, swirling with streaks of warm lavender and gold. A soft, melodic chime—like a crystal glass struck by a silver spoon—resonated from the lantern, filling the small alcove with a sound of pure satisfaction.
"The flame consumes the intent," Flins explained, latching the door shut. The lavender hue lingered, casting a warmer glow over his pale features. "Since you are enjoying the meal, and I prepared it with specific regard for you, the flame finds the offering delightful. I can 'taste' your satisfaction through the light."
He leaned back, crossing his legs, looking utterly content.
"It tastes like contentment," he whispered.
You felt heat rush to your own cheeks. The way he described it—sharing your feeling through the fire—felt more intimate than if he had simply eaten from your plate.
"So," you said, trying to steady your voice, "if I hated it, would the fire turn green?"
"Black," Flins deadpanned, though his eyes crinkled at the corners. "And it would likely emit a sound similar to a dying cat. I am very grateful we avoided that scenario."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to brighten the room. Flins watched you, his expression softening into that open devotion that he reserved solely for you.
For a while, the only sounds were the scrape of your spoon and the distant fury of the storm outside. But as the meal continued, Flins grew quiet. He wasn't looking at the food anymore; he was looking at your hands. He watched the way you broke the bread, the way your fingers moved—human, dexterous, and fragile.
"Tell me," he said suddenly, his voice quieter than before. "Does it feel... heavy?"
You looked up, pausing with your spoon halfway to your mouth. "Does what feel heavy?"
"Time," he answered.
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his chin on his gloved hand. His yellow eyes were searching your face, looking for something invisible.
"This ritual," he gestured to the room, the lantern, the meal. "The celebration of a birth. It marks the passage of another year. To me, a year is a blink. I have stood in this tower while entire forests grew and died in the valley below. I lose track of centuries the way you might lose track of minutes."
He reached out, his finger tracing a pattern on the tablecloth, not quite touching your hand yet.
"But for you... a year is significant. It is a percentage of your existence." His voice took on a somber, melancholy quality. "I watch the village from here. I watch the lights flicker on and off. I watch the generations turn over like soil. It is... rapid. Violent, even."
He looked up, locking eyes with you.
"Does it frighten you?" he asked softly. "To burn so quickly?"
You set your spoon down carefully. The question hung in the air, heavy and ancient.
"Sometimes," you admitted. "But it makes things matter more. Because they don't last forever."
Flins looked stricken. He pulled his hand back slightly, curling his fingers into a loose fist on the table.
"That is the disconnect," he whispered. "I am static. I am stone and ice and light. I do not change. But you..." He looked at you with a mixture of awe and terror. "You are a candle burning at both ends. You are vibrant and warm and fleeting. And every time you return to this tower, you are a little different. A little older. A little further along the path."
He looked toward the dark window, where the storm raged against the glass.
"I worry," he confessed, his voice barely audible. "That one day I will blink, and I will open my eyes, and you will be gone. And I will still be here, watching the sea, with nothing but a cold stone tower and a memory of warmth."
The raw honesty of it broke your heart. To him, loving a human must have felt like falling in love with a lightning bolt—bright, beautiful, and gone in a second.
"Flins," you said firmly.
You reached across the table. You didn't grab his hand; you laid your palm open on the white cloth, a silent invitation.
He looked at your hand. Then, slowly, he reached out. His gloved fingers curled around yours, holding you with a grip that was firm but desperate, as if you were the only solid thing in a world of water.
"I'm right here," you told him. "I'm not going anywhere. Don't look at the clock, Flins. Look at me."
He lifted his gaze to yours. The pupil-less yellow eyes swam with emotion.
"I can do nothing else," he murmured. "You are the only thing I wish to see."
He squeezed your hand, grounding himself in the reality of your touch. He took a deep breath, visibly pulling himself out of the spiral of his own immortality. He was a guardian, after all. It was his job to protect the light, not to mourn it before it went out.
He cleared his throat, straightening his posture.
"But I dominate the conversation with my brooding," he chided himself, though he didn't let go of your hand. "And that is a poor birthday gift. We have not yet concluded the proceedings, and I believe a celebration requires a crescendo."
He stood up, moving with silent efficiency to clear your empty bowl, though he kept his movements slow, reluctant to break the mood.
He walked to the heavy oak sideboard where a covered silver platter sat waiting. He hovered over it, his back to you. You saw him adjust his cuffs. Then he smoothed his hair. Then he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling sharply.
He turned back to you, lifting the platter with both hands.
"I must offer a disclaimer," he said, his tone serious, stepping back into the role of the tactician to mask his heart. He walked back to the table and set the platter down in front of you. "Baking is a chaotic art form. The structural integrity of the frosting proved... uncooperative. I attempted to replicate a design I saw in a window in Fontaine. The result is... abstract."
"Flins," you smiled, leaning your chin on your hand, watching the way he fretted. "Stop apologizing. Show me."
"Very well."
He reached for the handle of the cover. His hand trembled, just once.
"For you," he whispered before lifting the lid.
The movement was slow, almost reluctant, as if he were unveiling a volatile chemical compound rather than a dessert. He held the cover suspended in the air for a moment, his knuckles white beneath the black leather of his gloves, before setting it aside on the table with a soft, metallic clink.
Sitting on the platter was the culmination of the Lightkeeper’s anxiety.
It was a small, round cake. Visibly dense, it was a rich, dark chocolate confection that possessed an alarming list to the left, possessing a distinct architectural lean. The frosting was a pale, icy blue—a pigment clearly achieved through alchemical experimentation with Wolfhook berries rather than traditional baking methods. It had been applied with an enthusiasm that bordered on aggressive, resulting in a topography of lumps and swirls that defied gravity.
And on the top, written in shaky, squiggly white icing that looked more like ancient arcane runes of binding than Common script, were the words: For My Light.
Flins stood frozen. He looked at the cake, then at you, his yellow, pupil-less eyes wide and unblinking. This man—this powerful, ancient entity who fights Abyss monsters and talks to ghosts spent hours in a kitchen fighting a piping bag for you, and he worried the final result would not meet your standards.
"I attempted to write 'Happy Birthday,'" he admitted, his voice low and thick with a charming, devastating embarrassment. He gestured vaguely at the white scribbles. "However, the piping bag suffered a catastrophic structural failure halfway through the 'H.' I was forced to improvise. And I fear the density of the sponge is sufficient to be used as ballast for a heavy frigate."
He slumped slightly, his confident posture cracking under the weight of his confectionary insecurity.
"It is quite crude," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the tablecloth, refusing to meet your eyes. "I should have commissioned a baker from the city. I allowed my arrogance to convince me that confectionary science was within my purview. It was a miscalculation."
"Flins," you said, reaching out to touch his arm. The wool of his coat was soft under your fingers. "Look at me."
He hesitated. He took a breath that rattled slightly in his chest, then slowly lifted his gaze. The vulnerability in those eyes—usually so cold and distant—was a physical force.
"It's perfect," you told him, and you meant it. You felt a swell of affection so strong it threatened to spill over. "You made this. You. With your own hands. I don't want a perfect cake from a city baker. I want the one that leans to the left because you were too busy worrying about the frosting."
He stared at you, searching your face for any sign of deception or pity. Finding only sincerity, a slow, bewildered softness broke across his expression.
"You are easily pleased," he whispered, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, relaxing the tension in his jaw. "A dangerous quality in a world of opportunists. But... I am grateful for it."
He straightened up, smoothing the front of his coat, regaining a measure of his composure.
"Then we shall proceed," he announced, his voice stronger now. "However, I seem to have overlooked one final component. I lack a candle."
He patted his coat pockets, finding nothing but the chain of his silver pocket watch and a small notebook. He sighed, a short exhale of frustration at his own logistical oversight.
"I have fire," he muttered, frowning at the cake, "but no wick."
"Then improvise," you challenged softly, resting your chin on your hand.
Flins looked at you, his eyebrow arching. "Improvise?"
He looked back at the cake. He held up his right hand, hovering his fingers over the center of the frosting. He didn't recite a spell; he simply willed it with a snap of his fingers.
There was no spark of flint or smell of sulfur. Instead, the air buzzed with a sudden static charge. A small, concentrated wisp of azure energy materialized above the center of the cake. It hovered there, a tiny, dancing star of Electro and raw magical essence. It didn't burn the frosting; it simply existed, defying the laws of physics, casting a soft, ethereal glow that illuminated the shaky white lettering and cast deep shadows across Flins’s pale features.
"Make a wish," Flins said softly, his voice dropping to a hush that vibrated in the quiet alcove. "Though I should warn you... if you wish for a warmer climate, my jurisdiction is quite limited."
You looked at the hovering blue light, pulsing with the same rhythm as the beacon outside. Then you looked up at the man who had conjured it. You looked at the sharp angles of his face, softened by the glow. You looked at the way he watched you—as if you were the only fixed point in a spinning, chaotic universe.
You didn't close your eyes. You kept them locked on his.
"I wish," you whispered, "to be right here next year, the following year, and the year after that."
Flins inhaled sharply. The blue flame flared brighter for a second, reacting to the sudden spike in his heart rate, turning a brilliant, blinding violet before settling back into a steady azure rhythm.
"A redundant wish," he murmured, his voice rough. "You could have asked for diamonds, or a ship, or a kingdom."
"I already have what I want."
He stared at you for a long, heavy moment, the air between you thick with unsaid vows. Then, he closed his hand, extinguishing the magical flame. The smoke that rose from his fingers didn't smell of burning wick; it smelled of ozone and rain.
"Then I shall endeavor to grant it," he said solemnly. "Every year, until the stars above burn out."
He picked up the silver knife to cut the cake. The slice he served you was heavy and rich, the dark chocolate bitter and complex, balanced perfectly by the sweet, berry-infused frosting. He then fed a small crumb to the lantern. The blue fire chimed happily, a sound like a tiny bell, accepting the offering of joy.
"Now," he said, wiping a smudge of blue icing from his thumb with a napkin. "Before we retire to the fire... there is the matter of the satchel."
He nodded toward the high shelf in the shadows where he had placed your bag for safekeeping. "You guarded it with the ferocity of a dragon guarding a hoard," he noted, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "I assume it contains something more important than a change of socks."
"It’s a gift," you said, standing up.
You hurried to the shelf, retrieving the bag. It was dry and warm, just as he had promised. You pulled out the wrapped box and returned to the table, biting your cheek to stop the smile that threatened to come out.
"My dear," Flins sighed, shaking his head. "The custom is for the celebrant to receive gifts, not dispense them. You are defying protocol."
"Oh hush,” you said with a dismissive wave, sliding the box across the tablecloth toward him. “Open it.”
Flins took the box. His large, gloved hands handled it with extreme care, as if he expected it to be fragile or dangerous. He undid the ribbon with a single pull, peeling back the paper to reveal a simple wooden box.
He opened the lid. Inside, folded neatly, was a scarf.
It was hand-knit from the finest, softest wool you could find in the harbor, dyed a deep, midnight blue that matched his hair. Woven through the dark wool were delicate silver threads that caught the lantern light like trapped stars. It was thick, warm, and made with hours of labor.
Flins stared at it. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He stared at the wool as if it were an alien artifact he couldn't comprehend.
"I know you don't feel the cold," you said, suddenly feeling shy under his silence. "I know your coat is enchanted and you don't need it. But... I wanted you to have something warm. Something that wasn't part of the uniform."
Flins reached in. He lifted the scarf, the wool spilling over his leather gloves. He brought it up, not to his neck, but to his face.
He pressed his cheek against the soft fabric, closing his eyes. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of the wool and the faint trace of your perfume that clung to the fibers.
"It is not about the temperature," he whispered, his voice muffled by the scarf.
He lowered it slowly, looking at you with an expression of shattered wonder.
"I have spent centuries armoring myself against this place," he said quietly. "Layers of leather, iron, and magic. I dress for survival." He ran his thumb over the silver threading, marveling at the softness. "But you… you give me comfort."
Flins stood up, the chair scraping softly against the stone. He draped the scarf around his neck, looping it once. The dark blue wool contrasted beautifully with his pale skin, softening the severe, military lines of his coat.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I shall wear it until it unravels. And then I shall learn to knit so I may repair it."
He stepped around the table, closing the distance between you. He stopped inches away, his height looming over you, but his presence entirely wrapping around you.
"I, too, have a contribution," he murmured.
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, near his heart, and produced a small, black velvet pouch. He opened it, tipping the contents into his palm.
It was a necklace. The chain was made of delicate, blackened silver, strong but fine. Suspended from it was a pendant that stole the light from the room.
It was a shard of Deep Sea Ore—the same rare, magical crystal that fueled his lighthouse beacon. But this piece had been cut and polished into a perfect teardrop. It was encased in a tiny, intricate cage of silver filigree that mimicked the structure of the lighthouse lantern. The crystal pulsed with a faint, rhythmic azure heartbeat, warm to the touch.
"A piece of the abyss," Flins explained softly, holding it up so it spun in the light. "That learned to shine. I carved the setting myself. The ore resonates with the beacon. It is entangled."
He looked at you, his yellow eyes intense.
"No matter where you are, Lyubaya, no matter how dark the night becomes, this light will never go out. And if you hold it..."
He hesitated, looking almost shy.
"If you hold it, I will know. I will feel it. It is a distress signal, and a promise, all in one."
You stared at the pendant, at a loss for words. It wasn't just a piece of jewelry; it was a piece of him. Flins had taken the very source of his power, the thing that defined his existence as a Lightkeeper, and carved it into a shape you could carry.
He was giving you a piece of his soul.
You reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the cool crystal. It hummed against your skin, a low, steady thrum that matched the beat of the blue fire.
"It's... Flins, it's breathtaking," you whispered, tearing your eyes away from the stone to look at him. "You're trusting me with this? With your light?"
"I trust you with everything," he answered simply.
You turned around, lifting your heavy hair off your neck so he could fasten it.
"Put it on me, please."
Flins moved behind you. You felt the cold brush of the silver chain against your neck, followed by the warmth of his gloved fingers as he worked the tiny clasp. His breath hitched slightly against your ear as he secured it. The pendant settled against your collarbone, humming with a gentle, soothing energy that seemed to sync with your own pulse.
He didn't step away.
He rested his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the column of your neck. He lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your arms.
"You carry my heart now," he whispered. "Do try not to drop it. It is rather fragile."
A shiver chased down your spine—not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of his proximity. You turned in his arms, facing him. The scarf you had given him was soft against your cheek. The necklace he had given you pulsed against your skin. You reached up, your hand closing over the crystal pendant, holding it tight.
"I've got it," you promised, a grateful smile gracing your lips. "I've got you."
Flins let out a long, shuddering exhale, as if he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until that very moment. He covered your hand with his own gloved palm, pressing your fingers—and the pendant beneath them—against your chest. He held you there for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, finding only steady devotion. The tension that had held his shoulders in a military line all evening finally broke, leaving him looking softer, younger.
He glanced around the dining alcove—at the pristine tablecloth, the silver cutlery, the distance created by the furniture. It suddenly felt like a wall between you that he no longer had the patience to maintain.
“The fire," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, his gaze darkening with affection. "The table is too formal. I wish to retire."
He didn't wait for an answer. He took your hand and led you back to the main room, to the velvet armchair in front of the roaring blue hearth.
Instead of sitting in the chair, Flins sat on the thick rug before the fire, his back resting against the chair's legs, and pulled you down with him. You settled between his legs, your back against his chest, the heavy wool of his coat wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck where the scarf met your skin.
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, letting out a long, contented sigh. You could feel the solid wall of his chest behind you, the slow, powerful beat of his heart against your spine.
Outside, the storm had reached a fever pitch, screaming against the stone walls. But here, wrapped in the arms of the monster on the hill, it was silent. Safe.
"You are warm," he murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating through your back.
"You're not so cold yourself," you countered teasingly, resting your hands over his arms.
He chuckled, a dark, low sound. "That is because I am leaching your thermal energy. It is entirely parasitic."
"I don't mind. Take all you need."
Flins fell silent for a long time, just holding you, his breathing synchronizing with yours. His hand moved from your waist to trace the line of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips.
"It is strange," he admitted into the quiet.
You tilted your head back to look at him. His yellow eyes were half-lidded, gazing down at you with a look of profound, bewildered peace.
"What is?" you whispered.
"The silence," he answered softly. "I have lived in this tower for longer than the village has stood. I know every creak of the stone, every moan of the wind. Usually, the solitude is loud. It presses in on me. It demands to be noticed."
He ran his hand down your arm, interlocking his fingers with yours again, squeezing gently.
"But tonight," he murmured, "the tower is quiet. The ghosts are silent. The storm is irrelevant." He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck. "You have displaced the emptiness, Lyubaya. You occupy the space where the loneliness usually lives."
You shifted in his arms, turning so you could straddle his lap. He adjusted instantly, his hands settling on your hips to steady you, his gaze locked on yours. You framed his face with your hands, feeling the sharp grandeur of his cheekbones beneath your palms. You ran your thumbs under his eyes, tracing the dark circles of his eternal vigil.
"Then I'll stay," you said softly, leaning your forehead against his. "I'll fill up all the quiet spots."
Flins stared at you, his expression softening into something devastatingly open and vulnerable. He looked at you as if you were the only sunrise he had ever seen.
Without another word, he leaned up to trap your lips in a kiss.
His lips were cool, firm, and demanding. He kissed you with a slow, deliberate intensity, exploring the shape of your mouth as if he were memorizing it for the archives. You sighed into the kiss, your hands sliding up from his face to tangle in the thick, choppy hair at the nape of his neck. The strands were soft, contrasting with the rough wool of his coat.
Flins groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure, consuming want, and one of his hands moved from your hip to the back of your head, tilting you to deepen the angle. He pressed you firmly against his chest, crushing the distance between you until you couldn't tell where your heartbeat ended and his began.
The kiss tasted of dark chocolate and devotion.
You pulled him closer, humming your approval against his lips, your fingers tightening in his hair. You felt him shudder under your touch, his composure cracking, the polite gentleman act vanishing entirely to be replaced by the man—the hunger, the need, the love.
When he finally pulled back, he was breathless, his pale skin flushed high on his cheeks, his lips swollen and red. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged.
"My light," he breathed, the words a prayer against your skin. "My anchor."
Flins opened his eyes, the yellow gaze hazy with affection. He reached up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your lower lip, tracing the redness he had left there.
"Let the storm rage," he whispered. "Let the world turn."
He kissed you again, softer this time, a lingering promise sealed in silence.
"As long as you are here," he vowed, "I am home."
Flins pulled you back down against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He wrapped his arms around you so tightly it felt as if he were trying to merge your atoms with his. You could feel the rumble of his voice deep in his chest before you heard the words.
"Happy Birthday, Lyubaya," he murmured into your hair.
You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, powerful beat of his heart. You thought about the cake with the lumpy frosting. You thought about the warm towels. You thought about the poetry book hidden on his desk and the blue crystal pulsing against your collarbone.
"Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. You tightened your arms around his waist, breathing in his intoxicating scent. "For the cake. For the necklace. For... everything.”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him.
"I love you, Flins."
Flins went perfectly still. The steady calm he wore like armor fractured as the weight of your words settled over him, leaving his expression stripped of all defense. He looked at you with a mixture of wonder and ruin, as if he couldn't quite believe that a creature of the dark was allowed to keep something so bright.
"And I," he choked out, his voice rough, "am entirely yours."
You didn't need to say anything else. The absolute certainty in his voice was a physical weight, settling over you like a warm blanket. You simply buried your face against his chest, listening to the thunderous, frantic rhythm of his heart slowly calming into a steady, powerful beat.
Time seemed to dissolve in the warmth of the alcove. The storm outside continued to scream, battering the stone walls in a jealous rage, but it felt distant now—a nightmare happening to someone else. Here, there was only the dry heat of the blue fire, the heavy, comforting scent of ozone and old books, and the solid, unshakeable presence of the man holding you.
You shifted slightly, getting comfortable, and Flins adjusted instantly. One of his large hands rested on your waist, his thumb rubbing a slow, soothing circle against the fabric of your tunic. The other hand moved to your back, holding you flush against him. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, a hypnotic rhythm that began to pull at your eyelids.
The adrenaline of the trek, the cold of the cliffs, and the emotional rush of the evening finally caught up to you. Your limbs felt heavy and loose. The steady thrum-thrum-thrum of the blue crystal pendant against your skin matched the beat of Flins’s heart, creating a lullaby that was impossible to resist.
"Sleep," he murmured, sensing your heaviness. His voice was a low rumble in his chest, vibrating against your body. "I have the watch."
You didn't argue. You let out a long, soft sigh, your body going lax in his arms, and let the darkness take you.
Flins felt the precise moment you drifted off.
He felt the change in your breathing—the way it shifted from the shallow rhythm of wakefulness to the deep, even cadence of sleep. He felt the tension leave your frame, your weight settling fully against him, trusting him to hold you up.
He went very still, afraid that even the movement of his lungs might disturb you.
Slowly, with agonizing care, he looked down.
Your face was pressed against the lapel of his coat, your expression slack and peaceful. A few strands of hair had fallen across your cheek. Flins reached up, his gloved fingers hovering for a second before he remembered the texture of the leather. He carefully stripped the glove from his right hand, dropping it silently onto the rug.
He reached out with his bare hand, his pale fingers brushing the stray lock of hair away from your face. He tucked it behind your ear, his skin grazing your temple. You were warm. You were soft. You were so terrifyingly fragile that it made his chest ache.
He stared at you, his eyes tracing the line of your lashes, the curve of your jaw, the slow pulse at your throat where his necklace lay.
Earlier, he had told you he was terrified of how fast you burned. He had feared the passage of time. But looking at you now, defenseless and asleep in the fortress of his arms, that fear evaporated, replaced by a determined sense of purpose.
Let the years pass. Let the cliffs erode. Let the stars spin in their courses until they burn out. It didn't matter.
Flins was a Lightkeeper. It was his nature to endure. He would stand between you and the dark. He would be the stone that broke the wind. He would be the fire that chased the cold.
And when you woke—whether it was tomorrow morning or ten thousand mornings from now—he would be the first thing you saw.
He leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead, sealing the vow.
"Rest now, my light," he whispered into the quiet tower. "I am not going anywhere."