Archive of Our Own

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Illuga had not intended to wander this far.

He had meant to pass through the market quickly. Find something, anything, and leave.

Because he was already late. Flins was waiting.

The thought lingered at the edge of everything he did, quiet but insistent. It followed him through each narrow path, through each turn that led him deeper instead of out. The market had a way of unfolding in soft invitations, one stall blending into the next, pathways curving just enough to hide what lay ahead.

He should have left minutes ago.

He continued walking anyway.

Perhaps it was the filtered light, softened through layers of hanging fabric, that turned everything into something gentler than it really was. Or the air, thick with scents that did not belong to one place alone—aged wood, oxidized metal, spices that clung stubbornly to memory.

Or perhaps it was something else.

Something quieter. Something that had nothing to do with the market at all.

Flins.

The name surfaced without permission, and with it came that familiar tightness in his chest. Illuga exhaled slowly, as if that might steady it. It did not.

He should have found something already.

He had told himself it did not need to be perfect. Just something small. Something thoughtful. Something that would not feel like an afterthought when he handed it over.

Something that would not feel like a mistake.

He slowed near a modest display tucked between two larger stalls, one cluttered with antique trinkets, the other lined with faded scrolls. This one was quieter. Almost overlooked. A collection of gemstones rested on dark velvet, their surfaces polished to a shine that caught the dim light in fleeting glimmers.

Illuga crouched slightly, his gaze narrowing.

They were beautiful, in the way crafted things often were. Smooth. Refined. Predictable. Each facet cut with intention, each edge shaped by deliberate hands.

Empty.

His fingers hovered over a deep blue stone, its color rich enough to mimic the depth of a twilight sky. For a moment, it almost held his attention. Almost.

Then his hand withdrew.

No. The thought came sharply, without hesitation. Flins would notice immediately.

Not because he would say it—he wouldn’t. That was precisely the problem. Flins was not the kind of person who would ever reject something given to him. He would accept it with that same quiet warmth, that same small smile that never quite reached for more than it was offered. Gratitude, gentle and unquestioning.

And that made it worse.

Illuga straightened slowly, exhaling under his breath. The air felt heavier now, as though something unseen had settled across his shoulders.

If it meant nothing… then it should not be given at all.

The thought lingered, heavier than before.

Because if this, if all of this, was the best he could offer… then what did that say about him?

His jaw tightened, gaze drifting back to the gemstones as though forcing meaning into them might somehow change their nature. But they remained what they were: polished imitations of something that once had a story.

Flins deserved more than that.

He deserved something that had lived.

Something that carried time within it. Something that would not simply shine, but endure. Something that would sit among his collection, not as an addition, but as something that belonged.

Something that would make him pause, even briefly.

Something that would make him smile, not out of politeness, but because it reached him.

He was running out of time.

Flins would already be there by now. Waiting, perhaps, with that same composed patience that made it impossible to tell whether he minded at all.

He probably didn’t.

That thought settled more heavily than anything else.

“…Illuga?”

The voice cut cleanly through the market's noise, threading through the dull hum of conversations and distant bartering with startling clarity.

Illuga turned, sharper than intended.

A short distance away stood Lumine, her presence calm as ever, her gaze already searching his face with quiet awareness. Beside her, Paimon hovered with unrestrained curiosity, eyes bright and already narrowing as though she had caught something worth investigating.

“You two,” Illuga said, steadying his tone with practiced ease. “This is… unexpected.”

Paimon drifted closer without hesitation, circling him slightly as if trying to inspect him from every angle.

“You look like you’re thinking way too hard about something,” she said bluntly. “What are you even doing here? And why do you look so serious? Are you buying something?”

Illuga looked away.

For a moment, the familiar instinct surfaced, to dismiss, to deflect, to leave. It would be easy. Say it was nothing. Offer a vague answer. 

He had done it before—many times.

But then,  he thought of Flins again.

The memory rose unbidden: the quiet way his voice would shift when speaking about ancient coins, about gemstones shaped not by hands but by time itself. The way his eyes would catch light, not brightly, not loudly, but with a steady, unmistakable warmth. The way he spoke of history as though it were something alive, something worth listening to.

The way Illuga had always stood close enough to hear.

He deserves something meaningful.

“…I need help,” Illuga said at last, the words quieter than intended.

Paimon blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Whoa. That serious?”

Lumine’s expression softened almost immediately, a gentle understanding settling in her gaze. “What kind of help?”

Illuga exhaled slowly, as though steadying something within himself.

“I need to find a gift.”

There was a pause.

Paimon tilted her head. “…That’s it?”

Illuga’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s not just any gift.”

Something in his tone shifted, subtle, but unmistakable. Enough that Lumine’s smile deepened, touched with something knowing.

“For someone important?” she asked.

Silence answered her.

Illuga crossed his arms, gaze drifting away again, as though the answer might somehow disappear if left unspoken. The hesitation was brief, but real.

And telling.

“Flins?” Lumine said gently.

Illuga froze. Not visibly, not to anyone who didn’t know what to look for. But the stillness was there, sharp and immediate.

Paimon’s eyes widened, and then lit up. “Wait—Flins?!”

Illuga said nothing. He didn’t need to.

Paimon’s expression shifted into a wide, unmistakably teasing grin. “Ohooo… so that’s what this is about.”

Illuga turned away sharply, tension threading through his posture. “If you’re going to make fun of me, I’ll leave.”

There was no bite in his voice, only a quiet warning.

“We’re not making fun of you,” Lumine said calmly. Though the faint curve of her lips suggested she understood far more than she let on. “We’ll help.”

Paimon nodded quickly, all teasing momentarily set aside. “Yeah, yeah! This is important now!”

Illuga hesitated again, glancing briefly down the path he had come from.

He could still leave. He could meet Flins empty-handed and pretend it did not matter.

But it did.

“…Fine,” Illuga said at last, giving a small, reluctant nod.

“Sir Flins likes ancient coins and gemstones,” Illuga said, his tone steadier now. “Not for their value. For their history.”

His gaze flickered, briefly, back toward the polished stones he had already dismissed.

“They carry time. Stories. He talks about them like they’re still alive.”

Paimon hovered closer to the display he had just abandoned, her small figure reflected in the glittering surfaces as she leaned in, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding slowly. “And they also carry really big prices.”

There was no humor in Illuga’s response. His jaw tightened slightly, the muscle there shifting with restrained tension.

Not enough. The thought came unbidden, sharp and immediate. 

“He wouldn’t care about the price,” Lumine said gently, her voice calm in a way that seemed to soften the edges of the moment.

Illuga shook his head, almost before she finished.

“That’s not the point,” he said, quieter now. “I care.”

And that was the end of it. Lumine didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. Whatever she saw in his expression was enough.

They continued walking.

The market stretched endlessly before them, a labyrinth of color and sound and movement. Stalls crowded together beneath hanging fabrics that swayed gently overhead, casting shifting shadows across the ground. Trinkets gleamed from every direction, carved figures, embroidered cloths, fragments of forgotten craftsmanship displayed as though they still held purpose.

But none of it felt right.

Each step carried a growing sense of urgency. Time pressed closer, tightening around his thoughts. He imagined Flins waiting, imagined the quiet stillness he would carry, imagined arriving with nothing to offer.

The idea sat wrong in his chest.

Why is this so difficult? It should have been simple.

Find something he would like. That was all.

And yet, every time his thoughts tried to settle on something, he found himself imagining the moment it would be given. The way Flins would accept it. The quiet curve of his smile. The gentle gratitude.

And each time, it felt wrong. Hollow.

Insufficient in a way that Illuga could not quite put into words.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation creeping in, not at the market, not at the items, but at himself.

Paimon suddenly stopped midair with a small gasp.

“Wait! What about that one?”

Her voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, bright and insistent. She pointed ahead, toward a stall that seemed almost deliberately hidden between two larger, more crowded ones.

It lacked the polished appeal of the others. Its wooden frame was worn, the edges dulled by time. A thin layer of dust clung to its surfaces, as though it had been overlooked more often than not.

Illuga frowned slightly. Still, he followed.

Something about it felt… different.

The stallkeeper barely acknowledged their approach, his attention fixed on something unseen beyond them.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, his tone flat, uninterested.

Illuga didn’t answer immediately. His eyes moved across the display.

These were not the carefully curated trinkets of the other stalls. These were remnants—objects that seemed to carry weight even in stillness. Old relics, worn edges, materials dulled not by neglect but by time itself.

There was something here. Something closer. And then, he saw it.

An antique mirror, resting slightly apart from the others.

Its frame was crafted from darkened metal, worn smooth in places, intricate patterns curling along its edges like vines frozen mid-growth. The surface itself was not perfectly clear, clouded faintly, as though touched by years it refused to fully reveal.

Illuga stepped closer without realizing he had moved.

The world around him seemed to quiet, not completely, but enough that the hum of the market faded into something distant and indistinct.

“…This one,” he said.

Paimon tilted her head, drifting closer to inspect it. “A mirror?”

“It’s old,” Illuga murmured, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. His gaze traced the patterns along its frame, lingering in a way that suggested he was seeing more than what lay on the surface.

“I’m sure… if it were Sir Flins who found this,” he added, quieter still, “he would have told me a story about it.”

Not necessarily a true one. But one that felt true.

Lumine stepped beside him, studying the mirror with a more measured gaze.

 “It does look antique,” she said.

The stallkeeper finally lifted his head.

“A relic from a forgotten ruin in the Sumeru desert,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of practiced intrigue. “Said to have belonged to King Deshret himself.”

Lumine’s brows furrowed slightly, skepticism flickering across her expression as she examined it more closely.

Illuga noticed.

Of course, she would question it. She had seen more of the world than most. For a brief moment, doubt brushed against his thoughts.

Then, Flins again.

His stories.

Not of Sumeru, but of ancient civilizations buried beneath Snezhnaya’s frost. Of relics half-lost to time, of histories pieced together through fragments and imagination alike. 

Illuga’s gaze returned to the mirror.

If it truly came from Sumeru… then perhaps Lumine would know something of it. Something real. Something he could carry back.

And for once, he would be the one telling the story.

The thought settled quietly, but firmly. His chest tightened.

Perfect.

“How much?” Illuga asked.

“500,000 Mora.”

The number fell heavily into the space between them.

Illuga’s expression stilled.

Paimon recoiled immediately, her voice rising in disbelief. “What?! That’s way too much for a mirror!”

Illuga didn’t respond right away.

His fingers curled slightly at his side, tension threading through the small movement.

“…I don’t have enough,” he admitted.

The words were quiet, but they carried weight. For a moment, it seemed as though he might step back, might abandon it like all the others.

But before he could—

“I’ll help.”

Illuga turned sharply, his gaze landing on Lumine.

“You don’t need to,” he said immediately.

“I know,” she replied, her tone simple, unwavering. “But I want to.”

Paimon nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Think of it as… helping your situation.”

Illuga frowned slightly at that, though he didn’t question it.

“…I will repay you,” he said instead, the promise firm, unquestionable.

Lumine paused briefly, just long enough to consider, before nodding. “Alright. Whenever you can.”

The exchange was quick after that.

Mora passed hands. The stallkeeper accepted it without hesitation, as though the transaction had always been inevitable.

And then, the mirror was his. Illuga took it carefully. It was heavier than he expected.

Not just in weight, but in presence.

His grip adjusted slightly, cautious, almost reverent.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

It was unclear who he meant.

“Of course,” Lumine replied.

They stepped away from the stall, the market’s noise slowly folding back into the background. Paimon, unusually, said nothing. She floated beside Lumine, who remained thoughtful, her gaze occasionally flickering toward the mirror in Illuga’s hands.

Illuga himself said nothing at all.

His attention was fixed on the object he carried. The surface of the mirror caught the light strangely.

Not brightly. But… unevenly.

As though the reflection lagged behind the movement of the world around it.

He slowed. His eyes narrowed slightly.

His reflection stared back at him, but something about it felt… off.

Delayed. Not entirely aligned with him.

“…Did you see that?” he murmured.

Paimon drifted closer, squinting. “See wha—”

The mirror pulsed. A sudden, violent tremor of light burst from its surface. It was sharp and blinding, swallowing detail, swallowing color—

Swallowing everything.

Illuga’s breath caught. The world twisted.

Sound fractured. Light consumed him whole.

There was no ground beneath him.

No sky stretched above him. No horizon existed to give shape to distance. There was no wind, no air, no sense of direction or weight or time. Even silence did not feel accurate, because silence implied the absence of sound, and here, there had never been sound to begin with.

Illuga stood suspended in something that could not be called a world.

An endless expanse surrounded him, vast to the point of suffocation. It extended in every direction, folding into itself in impossible geometry. The space was made entirely of reflective surfaces. Glass, perhaps, though it felt older than anything so simple. Smooth planes overlapped and fractured endlessly, intersecting at angles that should not exist. They caught and bent a dim, sourceless light, scattering it into faint glimmers that never fully illuminated anything.

And in every surface, there was him.

Not one reflection. Not a handful.

Countless.

Illuga stood surrounded by himself.

Each reflection was perfect. There was no distortion, no warping, no flaw in their shape or detail. Every line, every shadow, every subtle shift in posture was mirrored with exact precision.

That precision made them unbearable to look at.

Because their eyes were wrong.

They were too still. Too focused. Too aware.

They were not passive reflections. They did not simply exist.

They watched. They studied. They judged.

The realization settled into him slowly, like cold seeping through stone.

He tried to move.

The command formed clearly in his mind, sharp and deliberate. But when it reached his body, it faltered. His limbs did not respond the way they should. It was not resistance in the physical sense. It felt as though something between intention and action had been severed, as though the signal itself had been weakened or diverted.

His fingers twitched, barely.

That was all.

Then the pressure began.

At first, it was subtle. A faint weight pressing at the edges of his awareness. Then it grew. It pressed inward from every direction, surrounding him completely. At the same time, it rose from within him, filling the hollow spaces inside his chest and mind.

It coiled tighter with each passing moment. 

He tried to breathe. His chest lifted. Nothing came. No air entered his lungs. No release followed.

The instinct to breathe remained, but the act itself was meaningless here.

There was no air. There was only the pressure. Then the sound came.

A crack.

Sharp and sudden, it cut through everything.

Illuga’s gaze snapped instinctively toward the nearest surface.

The glass remained intact. Unbroken. The crack came again. And he realized, it was not coming from the world around him.

It was coming from within him.

The sensation that followed could not be called pain in any ordinary sense. It did not burn or stab or tear through flesh. It reached deeper than that. It moved through his thoughts, his awareness, his sense of self.

It unraveled him.

Something unseen pressed into his mind and began to pull it apart.

His thoughts, once layered and intertwined, were being separated. Each piece was peeled back, exposed, isolated in a way that felt deeply wrong. These were not fragments meant to exist on their own.

And yet they were being forced to. He felt it happen.

Every shift. Every separation. Every fracture.

He could not stop it. One of the reflections moved.

Where the others remained still, this one stepped forward. Its form sharpened, its presence becoming more defined than the rest. 

Its hair marked it immediately. White at the top and lower strands are red like his own, but they burned a deeper, more violent red, almost pulsing. The color bled upward, stronger than it should have been, as if it were trying to consume the rest. The faint, ambient light caught in its eyes deepened into something far more intense.

A polearm formed in its hand. 

That’s mine! The thought came immediately. Not confusion. Recognition. Which made it worse. 

The motion was sharp. Natural. Familiar in the worst way.

“You think wanting him is enough?” it spat. Illuga’s breath hitched. That voice! It sounded like him. It was him. Just stripped of hesitation. Of restraint. 

“You stand there doing nothing while everything slips through your hands.”

No. I—!

It lunged.

Illuga’s body refused him.

The spear shot forward and stopped just short of his chest. Close enough that he could feel it. Not pain. Not yet. Just the promise of it.

“You couldn’t protect them,” the reflection continued, its grip tightening. 

Illuga’s thoughts faltered.

Don’t—

“Not your parents.”

A flicker. A memory he didn’t want.

Gone before he could even see it clearly.

“Not the others.”

Stop.

His jaw tightened, but he still couldn’t speak.

“And you think you’ll protect Flins?”

The name hit harder than the weapon. Something in his chest twisted hard enough that for a second, he thought he might actually feel pain.

I can. The thought came fast. Defensive. Desperate. I will.

“You’re useless,” it said, pushing the spear forward just enough to make him flinch. “And when it matters, you’ll fail him too.”

No!  The word was louder in his head this time.

Before the blade could go further, another reflection stepped in. Illuga’s gaze snapped toward it.

Its hair was different. Still white at the crown, but the lower half shimmered in a soft gold, like light caught at sunset. It pushed the red-haired reflection aside, not with force, but with urgency.

“To hell with that,” it said, breath uneven. “Why are you pretending this is enough?”

It faced Illuga fully, eyes searching, intense. Illuga felt something in his chest tighten again.

Different this time. Not pressure. Something closer to being seen.

“You don’t just want him safe. You don’t just want him happy.”

…I know that.

The thought came slower. Quieter. 

It stepped closer.

“You want him to choose you.” The words came out unsteady, but certain. 

Illuga’s breath stuttered.

Don’t say it like that.

“You want him to look at you the way you look at him.”

His gaze dropped slightly, unfocused.

I don’t—

The denial didn’t finish. Because it wasn’t true.

Its hand lifted slightly, fingers curling as if trying to grasp something invisible.

“You want him to be yours.”

The words settled heavily. Illuga’s fingers twitched faintly.

That’s not—

It was, and he knew it.

“But you won’t say it,” the gold-haired reflection continued. “You won’t fight for it. You’ll just stand there and smile, pretending friendship is enough while someone else takes your place.”

Its expression faltered, something pained breaking through. Something cold slipped into his chest.

A thought he never let fully form before.

Someone else.

He hated how easily it appeared now.

“And when that happens, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

A third reflection moved between them. Its presence was quieter.

Its hair faded into a soft magenta at the ends, the color gentle, almost warm. It did not rush or shove. It simply stepped forward and held its place.

“That’s not true,” it said. Its voice was steady. Not loud, not forceful. Just certain in a different way. “You’ve never needed him to be yours.”

It looked at Illuga, not through him, not into him. Just at him. The words felt… gentler.

But they still reached him.

…haven’t I?

The doubt came quietly. Uncertain.

“You stayed,” it continued. “Not because you had to. Not because you expected anything back.”

A faint smile formed on the reflection's face.

“You stayed because you care.” Its hand lifted slightly, stopping before it reached him. “And that’s enough.” 

He wanted to believe that. He really did.

If I can just stay…

“As long as you can stand beside him, as long as he lets you stay… that’s what matters.”

That should be enough.

The thought formed carefully. Like something fragile he didn’t want to break.

For a moment, the pressure loosened. Just a little.

Just enough to feel the space around him again.

“No.”

The fourth voice broke through. It was weak. Unsteady.

The reflection that emerged could barely hold its shape. Its hair was almost entirely white, the lower strands drained of color, as if even the faint tint had been stripped away.

“No, it’s not enough,” it whispered.

Its eyes were wide, unfocused, filled with something fragile and breaking.

“What if he leaves?” The question landed immediately. No resistance.

…he won’t. But the thought came slower this time. Less certain.

“What if you lose him… like you lost everyone else?”

The space tightened again. Illuga felt something sink in his chest.

“You remember,” it continued, voice shaking. “You remember what it felt like.”

Not images. Not fully. Just the absence that followed.

“They disappeared. One by one. The Wild Hunt didn’t leave you anything.”

Stop.

Its form flickered.

“And what if it happens again?”

Illuga’s chest tightened. It took a small step forward.

“What if it’s not death this time?”

Its voice trembled more.

“What if he just stops choosing you?”

That—

That felt worse.

His fingers twitched again.

“What if he finds someone better?”

No.

“Someone stronger.”

The red-haired reflection shifted slightly.

“Someone who doesn’t hesitate.”

I can change that.

The thought came fast. Too fast.

“What if he already knows?” the pale reflection continued.

Illuga froze. The words did not strike him all at once. They slipped in quietly, finding space between his thoughts before he could push them away.

The idea felt wrong the moment it formed. Not impossible. Just something he had refused to look at too closely.

“What if he knows how you feel… and he doesn’t feel the same?”

Something in his chest gave way. Not a clean break. Not sudden. A slow sinking.

Everything inside him went still.

Not his body. That had already betrayed him. This was deeper than that.

His thoughts stopped moving. Like they had nowhere safe to go.

He wouldn’t—

The denial barely formed before it collapsed under its own weight.

Wouldn’t what?

Wouldn’t notice?

Wouldn’t understand?

Wouldn’t choose someone else?

He had no answer.

“What if he’s just tolerating you?” the reflection whispered.

Each word was soft. Careful.

Cruel in a way the others weren’t.

“Because you’re useful. Because you’re the boss’ son.”

That’s not true. He’s not like that. He wouldn’t—

But the certainty wasn’t there. Not completely.

Not anymore.

He tried to hold onto something solid. A memory. A look. A moment that meant more.

But everything he reached for felt… uncertain.

Blurred.

“What if the only reason he’s still there…”

The pale reflection’s voice trembled. Not louder. Just more fragile.

“…is because he doesn’t know how to leave you?”

That one didn’t hit. It settled.

Slowly. Like something heavy being placed inside his chest with no intention of ever taking it back.

Illuga’s breath caught, even though there was nothing to breathe.

No. The word came out weaker this time. No, that’s not—

But it didn’t matter. Because now the thought existed.

And he couldn’t make it disappear. The space around him shifted.

Then all at once, every reflection moved.

The red-haired one lifted its polearm again, eyes burning with certainty. The gold-haired one reached toward him, desperate now, like it was running out of time. The magenta-haired one hesitated, torn, its expression pained. The pale one shook where it stood, barely holding itself together.

Then the voices came. Not one at a time. All at once. Too close and too loud.

“You’ll fail him.”

“Make him choose you.”

“Stay by his side.”

“He’s going to leave.”

“You’re not enough.”

“You love him.”

“You’ll lose him.”

“You already have.”

Illuga tried to think. He needed to think. To choose something. To hold onto something real.

But every thought he reached for slipped. Nothing stayed long enough to believe in.

Which one is right?

The question felt desperate. Small against everything else. And somewhere deep down, something in him already knew the answer.

All of them.

The cracks spread faster. They tore through the glass beneath his feet, across the endless surfaces surrounding him. Through every reflection staring back at him.

Through him.

He felt it. Not pain. Something worse.

Like something inside him was being split open just to see what was there.

The red-haired reflection moved first. The spear drove forward. The others followed. Not away from him. Toward him.

Hands reached out from every direction. Too many to count. Too many to stop.

Illuga tried to move.

The first touch landed on his chest. Right above his heart. Then another. And another.

Cold. Warm. Shaking. Steady.

Each reflection pressed their hand against the same place, layering over one another until he couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.

It didn’t hurt. But it felt like they were reaching through him. Into something he couldn’t protect.

His thoughts fractured completely.

Stop—!

He couldn’t finish it. Because they were already there. All of them.

Every version of him. Every voice. Every fear. Every want. Every truth he didn’t want to name.

Their fingers pressed in unison.

And for one brief moment, everything went completely still.

Then the space exploded into light. Blinding.

All-consuming.

It swallowed the reflections.

The cracks. The voices. Everything.

Illuga couldn’t see the glass anymore. Couldn’t feel the pressure. Couldn’t even feel himself.

There was only light.

And in that light, one image. Clearer than anything else had ever been. Flins was standing there, within reach. Relief hit first.

He’s here—

Then Flins turned. Not toward him. Away.

Illuga’s chest tightened violently.

Wait—

No sound came. Flins took a step. Then another. He's leaving. Just leaving. No hesitation. No glance back. Like there was nothing there worth staying for.

Illuga reached for him. Or tried to.

His body still wouldn’t move.

Don’t go!

The words screamed inside him, breaking apart before they could exist anywhere else.

Please, don't leave—

Flins kept walking. Further. Fading into the light.

Until there was nothing left. And Illuga was alone.

✨✨✨

Light exploded outward.

It was blinding, violent, and sudden enough to tear through the stillness of the market like a shockwave. Lumine staggered back, her footing breaking as the force pushed against her. Paimon cried out, thrown off balance as she flailed to steady herself in the air.

“ILLUGA!”

Paimon’s voice broke as she shouted his name. But there was nothing to answer her.

No figure remained where he had stood. No shadow. No trace.  Only light.

Four distinct bursts erupted from the mirror. They shot outward in different directions, each one blazing with unstable energy.

Red.

Yellow.

Magenta.

White.

Each light pulsed erratically, flickering as though it could collapse at any moment. Then, one by one, they accelerated, streaking across the sky and vanishing into the distance.

Gone.

The force dissipated as suddenly as it had come.

Silence followed. 

The mirror fell from where it had hovered in the chaos. It struck the ground with a dull crack, the sound hollow and final. Its surface, once clouded with age, had gone completely dark.

Paimon hovered in place, frozen. Her hands trembled slightly as she stared at where Illuga was just standing.

“…What… what just happened?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

Lumine did not answer immediately.

Her eyes followed the paths the lights had taken, tracking each direction as if committing them to memory. Her expression tightened, not with confusion, but with understanding that came too quickly to be comforting.

She looked at the mirror and leaned down to pick it up. Then she glanced back to where Illuga had been.

“…He’s not gone,” she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. “He’s been split.”

Paimon turned to her, panic rising. “S-Split? Into those lights?!”

Lumine nodded once.

Her thoughts were already moving ahead, piecing together what little she knew. The mirror was no ordinary relic. It carried something deeper. Something tied to memory, identity, perhaps even the soul itself.

This was not an accident.

And it was not something they could solve alone. Her expression shifted, resolve settling in.

“…We need help.”

Paimon swallowed. “From who?”

This time, Lumine did not hesitate at all.

“Flins.”

The name carried weight, not just because of Illuga, but because of what Lumine knew. Flins might know what happened or what kind of mirror they have bought. 

If anyone could help them bring Illuga back together, it would be him.

Lumine turned without another word and started forward.

“Come on,” she said.

Paimon nodded quickly, still shaken but determined. “R-Right. We’ll find him. We have to.”

Lumine’s pace did not slow.

Illuga had been torn into different pieces.

And somehow, she knew this would not be something strength alone could fix.

They needed Flins.

🦋🦋🦋

Flins stood beside the lamppost as though it had personally offended him.

He did not touch it. He did not so much as reach toward it.

His hands remained neatly folded behind his back, posture composed with deliberate elegance, as though he were attending a formal gathering instead of standing beside an open, half-disassembled street fixture. There was intention in the stillness—refusal, more than hesitation. The lamppost itself stood open, its outer casing removed and set aside with practical indifference. Inside, its delicate workings were exposed—wires, joints, and iron fittings laid bare in a way that felt… inelegant. But his attention was elsewhere entirely.

Not on the exposed wiring. Not on Aino. Not even on the faint, uneven flicker of light above.

His gaze had drifted, just slightly, just enough to betray him, to the empty stretch of road beyond.

Illuga was late.

It was a small thing. It should have been a small thing. But he had not arrived.

And Flins, who prided himself on detachment, found the absence… noticeable.

Annoyingly so.

Aino, meanwhile, was very visibly trying not to lose her patience.

“You’re supposed to be watching,” she said, her voice tight, but not quite steady.  “You’re not even looking.”

That drew his attention back—slowly, reluctantly, like something being pulled from a distance.

“I am,” he said mildly.

He was not.

Aino stomped lightly, already losing patience. “No, you’re not! You’ve been standing there doing nothing!”

She stomped her foot again before stepping forward, clearly annoyed but determined to continue anyway. Her small hands moved quickly, confidently, slipping into the open lamppost without hesitation. Despite her size and despite the way her expression kept threatening to crumple into a pout, her movements were precise. Practiced. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“This part,” she said, tapping a connection a bit harder than necessary, “is the most common failure point. It gets loose. And then everything flickers, and people would complain, and then I have to fix it again.”

Flins leaned ever so slightly closer. Not to assist, but merely to observe. Or, at least, to appear as though he were observing.

In truth, his thoughts slipped again, uncooperative.

Illuga should have been here by now.

She paused, glancing back at him. “Which means you fix it properly the first time.”

Flins still nodded faintly, as though he had heard every word.

“And by ‘properly,’” he said mildly, “you mean persuading it to behave.”

Aino frowned. “It’s not persuasion. It’s fixing.”

She turned back, making a few quick adjustments, and the light steadied.  She straightened, brushing her hands together with a small, satisfied huff.

“See? Easy.”

Then she turned to him, pointing.

“Now you do it.”

Flins looked at the lamppost. Then at her. Then, briefly, past her. Still no sign of him. Then back at the lamppost, as though reconsidering several decisions that had led him here. 

“With my hands?” he asked, voice soft with polite disbelief.

“Yes,” Aino said flatly.

Flins sighed quietly, the sound delicate and long-suffering. “How unfortunate.”

He stepped forward anyway. Very carefully.

As though approaching something vaguely dangerous.

He reached in, two fingers only, and touched one of the components with visible reluctance.

The light flickered. Then dimmed. Flins withdrew his hand immediately, brushing his fingers together as if to rid himself of the sensation.

“…It appears to dislike me,” he observed.

Aino stared at the lamppost. Then at him. Then back at the lamppost.

“You did it wrong.”

“Did I?”

“Yes!” She marched forward again, a bit more forceful this time, pushing his hand out of the way with a small huff. “I literally just showed you!”

“I followed your example.”

“No, you didn’t!” she snapped. “You, you did something weird! You're not paying attention!”

Flins said nothing. Because he had, in fact, not been paying attention.

Because part of him was still waiting, for footsteps, for a voice, for that familiar, lovely brightness to cut through everything else.

It did not come.

She quickly fixed the connection again, movements just as precise, but now slightly sharper, fueled by frustration.

“I said stabilize it,” she continued, “not make it worse!”

“I was exploring alternative approaches.”

“You’re not supposed to explore!” she shot back. “You’re supposed to listen!”

She stepped back again, crossing her arms, but only for a second before uncrossing them, because she clearly still intended to keep teaching.

“Again,” she said, pointing at the lamppost. “Do it again. Properly this time.”

Flins inclined his head slightly. “As you wish.”

Flins stepped forward once more. This time, he adjusted the correct component.

Then, almost delicately, he shifted something else.

The lamppost flickered violently. The light dropped lower than before, struggling to remain lit.

Flins withdrew his hand again, expression thoughtful.

“…Fascinating.”

Aino’s jaw dropped. “You did that on purpose!”

He looked at her, calm and almost innocently. “Purpose is such a strong word.”

“You are messing it up on purpose!” she insisted, stomping her foot again. “You are!”

“I am engaging creatively.”

“You are not supposed to be creative!”

She spun back to the lamppost, fixing it again—faster this time, clearly annoyed but not giving up.

“You’re wasting time!” she added.

Flins smiled faintly—just a little. 

“You have already missed multiple sessions for the Lightkeepers,” Aino continued, her voice tightening. “Sessions designed so you would not be standing here doing this.”

“I recall them,” Flins said gently. “They conflicted with my… schedule.”

“You always have an excuse ready,” Aino said, placing her hands on her hips. “And treats to distract me!”

“And you—” her gaze narrowed, “you have a habit of dragging other people away with you!”

That, at least, drew a faint reaction. Not visible in his posture—but present in the brief stillness that followed.

“You mean the young master,” Flins said.

“Yes, Illuga!” Aino said immediately. “Who else?! You two are always disappearing!” 

The faint amusement in his expression softened into something warmer, quieter.

“Ah,” he said, almost fondly. “Illuga.”

The name lingered in his tone.

“He did not require convincing,” Flins added gently. “He simply made a better choice.”

“That’s not better!” Aino argued. “That’s skipping!” 

Ineffa stepped forward then. Her posture was perfectly straight, her movements precise and deliberate. Her expression remained neutral,  unnervingly composed. When she spoke, her tone carried a measured, mechanical clarity.

“Statement,” Ineffa said. “Repeated absence from Lightkeeper instructional sessions constitutes a procedural violation.”

Flins glanced at her, polite interest returning. “How grave.”

“Additional statement,” Ineffa continued. “Encouraging a second participant to abandon assigned duties increases severity classification.”

Flins’ expression softened again, just slightly.

“Illuga makes his own decisions,” he said, and there was a quiet note of approval beneath the words.

“Recommendation for Aino,” Ineffa said, “report both individuals to the Starshyna for disciplinary review.”

Aino exhaled sharply. “Ineffa—”

“Clarification,” Ineffa added, “this is not a threat. It is an appropriate procedural response.”

“It certainly sounds like one,” Jahoda remarked from nearby.

She had been leaning against a low structure, watching the entire exchange with quiet amusement.

“I find the situation hilarious,” she added with a soft laugh. “There’s something funny about two grown men refusing to sit still for lessons taught by a child.”

Aino closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again.

“Flins,” she said, more firmly now, “you are going to learn this.”

“I am attempting to.”

“You’re not!”

“I am,” he said calmly. “Just not successfully.”

“That’s worse!”

But before she could continue—

“FLINS!”

The shout shattered the moment. All of them turned.

Lumine was running toward them, urgency clear in every step. Paimon hovered beside her, speaking so quickly her words tangled together.

“You have to come right now, something really bad happened, and Illuga just—there was a mirror and then everything—!”

The moment Illuga’s name was spoken, Flins stilled. Something in him tightened. sharp and immediate, like a thread pulled too hard.

The ease in his posture vanished. The distance he usually kept, carefully measured, deliberately maintained, collapsed into focus.

“Paimon.”

Lumine reached out and caught her midair. Paimon kept going.

“There was a mirror,” she said, voice shaking. “Illuga touched it—and then it pulled him in! And then—then—!”

Flins stepped forward without realizing it.

“Paimon,” Lumine said again, more firmly. She pulled her into a brief embrace. “Breathe.”

Paimon froze, her voice cutting off. She hovered there, trembling slightly, trying to steady herself.

She inhaled. Then exhaled.

Flins’ gaze remained fixed on Lumine now.

The lamppost, the iron, the irritation—it all faded from his attention as though it had never mattered.

“…What has happened to him?” he asked.

The softness in his voice was gone. What remained was intent.

Lumine released Paimon and stepped forward.

“We found an artifact,” she said. “A mirror.”

She did not explain why.

“It reacted when Illuga touched it,” she continued. “And then it pulled in him.”

Flins’ expression sharpened.

“…Into the mirror?”

“And then it… broke him apart.”

“…Explain.”

“There was light,” Lumine continued. “Four distinct lights. Red, yellow, magenta, and white.”

Paimon nodded quickly. “They split off from him!”

Lumine’s voice lowered slightly.

“I don’t think they were random,” she said. “Each light felt… different. Not just pieces—but aspects. Personalities, maybe. Parts of him separated and given form.”

Aino’s expression shifted, her earlier irritation replaced by concern. Ineffa’s posture adjusted subtly, her focus sharpening as if recalculating the situation. Even Jahoda’s relaxed demeanor faded into a more attentive one.

For a brief moment, something unguarded crossed Flins’ expression. Concern. Real, immediate. Then it settled into focus.

“And we don’t know what condition they’re in,” Lumine added. “One—or all—of them could be in trouble.”

Something in Flins tightened sharply.

Not one Illuga. Several.

Scattered. Vulnerable. Alone.

“The mirror,” he said. “May I see it?”

Lumine handed it to him.

Flins accepted it carefully, his fingers barely lingering against the metal frame. The iron drew a faint tension through him, but he ignored it.

His attention was elsewhere. On Illuga. On what had happened to him. His gaze traced the intricate patterns, searching for familiarity.

Memories stirred. But did not settle.

“…It is not one I recognize,” he said quietly. “Though it bears echoes of older craftsmanship.”

“Conclusion,” Ineffa said, “artifact remains unidentified. Risk level: high.”

“Then we don’t rely on it,” Lumine said as she stepped forward. “We find him first.”

Flins looked up.

“The lights didn’t scatter randomly,” Lumine continued. “One went to Ashveil Peak. Another to the Final Night Cemetery. A third to Piramida. And the last to the Pillar of Embla.”

The names settled heavily into the air. Each location carried its own weight. Its own danger. Flins’ grip on the mirror tightened slightly.

“We split up,” she said. There was no hesitation in her voice. “Paimon and I will go to Ashveil Peak. We’ve worked there with Illuga and his team before.”

Paimon nodded quickly. “Right! We can handle that one!”

“Jahoda, please go to Piramida. Tell the situation to The Starshyna.”

Jahoda pushed off the wall with an easy motion, nodding. “Alright.”

“Ineffa, scout the Pillar of Embla.”

“Assignment accepted,” Ineffa said. "I will go as soon as I bring Aino home."

Aino shook her head. "No, I'm coming with you!"

Ineffa nodded, "Alright. Just stay behind me." 

Then Lumine turned to Flins.

“You take the Final Night Cemetery.”

Flins frowned slightly.

“I would suggest otherwise,” he said, tone still gentle but firmer now. “Ashveil Peak and the Pillar of Embla present greater danger. I should be assigned to one of those locations.”

“No,” Lumine said. Her tone was calm, but firm.

“You know the cemetery better than any of us.” Flins did not respond right away. Lumine held his gaze.

“You’ll be able to navigate it faster. Safer,” she continued. “And if one of Illuga’s fragments is there, you’ll be the most likely to reach him without delay.”

She paused briefly before adding, “And we will come to the cemetery instead. We’ll have the fragments stay in one place, then we’ll figure out how to merge them back together later.”

Flins exhaled quietly, his grip tightening slightly around the darkened mirror before lowering it.

“…Understood,” he said. He handed the mirror back to Lumine. 

Lumine nodded once. “Then we move now.”

Aino tugged lightly at his sleeve before he could turn.

“Hey.”

He glanced down.

Her frustration was still there, written plainly in the tight set of her mouth and the faint puff of her cheeks, but it had softened, edged now with something far less certain. Worry.

“When this is over,” she said, quieter this time, “you two are going to fix this lamppost.” A small pause. “…Properly.”

For a moment, Flins did not answer.

His gaze rested on her, but not quite on her. It drifted, unfocused, as though caught somewhere just beyond the present. 

Illuga.

The name did not arrive gently. It settled deep and sharp, pulling at something he had spent a very long time shaping into something manageable. What he usually allowed himself to feel could be dismissed as mild amusement or quiet indulgence. This was neither. It pressed closer to the surface, insistent and difficult to ignore.

He thought of him then, of the way Illuga never stayed where he was meant to. Illuga moved toward risk as if it were natural, as if nothing in the world could truly harm him. There was a kind of brightness to it, something reckless and alive.

And yet some moments did not fit that pattern.

Moments where Illuga chose him.

Not by accident. Not because it was convenient. He chose him with a kind of easy certainty, as though it required no thought at all. He would arrive at the lighthouse with flimsy excuses, carrying supplies that were never truly needed. He would linger without reason, speaking more than necessary, filling quiet spaces Flins had long since grown used to keeping empty.

He would stay.

And in staying, Illuga would draw him into something Flins had no intention of allowing. Into warmth. Into presence. Into a familiarity that felt far too close to something permanent.

Illuga returned again and again, as though the lighthouse mattered. As though Flins did.

Whether Illuga understood the weight of that did not matter. Flins did.

And he gave his name. Casually, at first. Carelessly, almost.

“Don’t call me that,” he would say, with a frown that never quite held. “Just call me Illuga.”

As though it were nothing. As though names were light things, easily passed between hands.

He would repeat it when Flins ignored him. Insist on it, sometimes with quiet irritation, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with a stubbornness that refused to fade.

Again and again. Flins had never yielded.

“Young master,” he would reply, every time, smooth and unshaken.

A boundary. A distance. A necessary refusal.

Because Illuga did not understand what he was offering.

Among his kind, names were not so easily given. They were not repeated so freely, not pressed into another’s keeping with such unguarded trust. A name held weight. It invited closeness. It implied recognition, acceptance, something perilously close to belonging.

To take it, to truly take it, was to accept more than a word.

It was to step closer than Flins could allow. So he had refused.

Again and again, he had refused.

And yet he had listened.

He had let the name settle somewhere quiet within him, unspoken but not forgotten. He had carried it, carefully, as though it were something fragile. Something not meant to be held by him at all. Illuga had kept offering it anyway.

Flins swallowed, the motion subtle and controlled, but it did nothing to ease the tension settling beneath his ribs.

He had allowed it.

Worse, he had encouraged it.

Never openly. Always with care, with restraint, with enough distance to deny it if necessary. A guiding word here. A suggestion there. Just enough to make the lighthouse a place Illuga would continue to choose.

A better choice, he had said.

Safer. Contained. Temporary.

Because that was all it could ever be.

Illuga was mortal.

Bright in the way mortals always were, burning fast and without pause, unaware of how little time they truly had. Every laugh, every reckless decision, every careless step forward would not last.

It would end.

Flins knew that.

He also knew what it meant to remain after everything else was gone. He understood what attachment demanded and what it left behind. He knew better than to reach for something that would inevitably be taken from him.

And yet he had let Illuga stay.

He had let him return, let him fill the lighthouse with a kind of life it had not held in a long time. He had let himself grow used to it, slowly and without admitting it even to himself.

And now, Illuga was gone.

Not in the distant way Flins had prepared for. Not as something inevitable that could be endured with time and distance.

But suddenly.

Split into something unrecognizable, scattered into fragments of light across places that mattered. Places Illuga had walked through, chosen, left pieces of himself in.

I should have been there.

The thought came without hesitation.

If Illuga had come to the lighthouse, if Flins had asked him to stay, if he had not let him leave so easily under the pretense that it did not matter, then perhaps this would not have happened.

Perhaps Illuga would still be there, whole and unbroken, filling the quiet with unnecessary words and stubborn presence.

Aino shifted, as if about to say something else, but Flins moved first.

He looked back at her, and the smile he offered was softer than before.

“As you wish,” he said.

His voice held steady, though only because he willed it to. Then he turned. The moment he stepped away, composure settled over him again like armor. Precise. Controlled. Untouchable. But it no longer fit as easily as it once had. There was urgency in him now, threading through every movement and sharpening his focus until everything else fell away.

Find him.

Every fragment. Every piece. Every flicker of light that had once been whole.

Flins did not linger. He did not look back. If he allowed himself even a moment longer, he might be forced to admit what he had spent so long refusing to name.

This was no longer indulgence.

It was no longer something harmless.

It was not something he could simply abandon when the time came.

It was want. It was longing. It was something dangerously close to love, given to someone he was never meant to keep.

And the thought of losing Illuga now, not someday but in this moment, felt like something being taken before he had ever truly allowed himself to hold it.

So he walked faster.

Because he had several versions of his young master to find.

And this time, he would not let him slip away.

🤖🦆🤖

Aino had decided, very firmly, that being on the ground was inefficient.

From atop Ineffa’s shoulders, she had a clear, uninterrupted view of everything that mattered. The elevation helped. The stability helped more. Ineffa moved with exact precision, each step calculated, each shift of balance deliberate enough that Aino barely had to think about staying steady.

Now, perched securely on Ineffa’s shoulders, she could see everything.

Or at least, everything that mattered.

The Pillar of Embla stretched upward in quiet defiance of the sky, its ancient structure carved with lines that felt too deliberate to be decoration. The stone held a dull, pale sheen, like something that had once been brighter but had long since forgotten how to reflect light properly. The air around it felt… wrong.

She narrowed her eyes, scanning slowly.

“I don’t like it here,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Ineffa’s voice came from below, even and composed. “Clarification. Specify parameters of discomfort.”

Aino crossed her arms. “It feels like something’s watching. And not in a polite way.”

“Observation. Reflective surfaces may create a perceived surveillance effect.”

“…Still rude,” Aino concluded.

They advanced carefully. Ineffa’s steps avoided loose stone and uneven ground without hesitation, while Aino leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp and searching. Then she saw it.

A figure stood ahead, partially obscured by the structure. Still. Upright. Positioned with intent.

Aino leaned forward more, focusing.

“That’s him,” she said.

Illuga.

She knew it immediately. Not just by appearance, but by the way he held himself. Balanced. Aware. Like someone responsible for more than just himself.

But something was wrong.

Her gaze shifted upward.

“…His hair,” she murmured.

The white at the crown was the same. That much hadn’t changed. But the lower strands…

Magenta. Not red.

Not even close. Aino’s eyes narrowed further.

“That’s definitely not normal.”

“Agreement,” Ineffa said. “Visual discrepancy confirmed.”

Aino didn’t hesitate. “Hey!” she called out, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Illuga!”

The figure reacted instantly.

Not startled. Not confused. Responsive.

He turned sharply, already orienting himself toward the source of the voice. His posture adjusted in one smooth motion, feet shifting into a more grounded stance, gaze sweeping once across the area before settling on them. Awareness first, recognition second.

Then he relaxed slightly.

“Miss Aino. Miss Ineffa.”

His voice was steady. Familiar. That alone told Aino enough.

He stepped toward them with measured intent, scanning their surroundings as he moved. Every step deliberate, like he was already accounting for possible threats in the area.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, tone calm but firm. “This area is unsafe.”

Aino studied him closely as he approached.

“You’re late,” she said automatically. Then paused, frowning. “…Wait, no, wrong situation.”

“I wasn’t aware I was expected,” he replied.

“You were,” Aino said firmly. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

A small pause. Then Illuga’s expression softened, just a little more than before.

“My apologies,” he said. “If I missed one of your lessons.”

Aino blinked. Then narrowed her eyes again.

“…You remember that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.  He paused briefly, expression thoughtful. “I was not… consistent in attendance.”

Aino crossed her arms.

“That’s one way to say it. More like you keep skipping.”

Good, Aino thought. He knows us.

Illuga’s attention shifted again, scanning the area briefly before returning to them.

“I am currently on patrol,” he continued. “I will escort you out.”

Aino was about to respond, then she stopped. Her gaze dropped immediately to his hands.

Empty. Her expression sharpened.

“Wait.” Illuga paused. “You forgot something.”

He glanced at his hands, then back at her. “Did I?”

“Yes,” Aino said, pointing directly at him. “Your lantern.”

A brief silence followed.

“You always have it,” she added. “The one with Aedon?”

Recognition flickered across his face, slower this time. Not absent. Just delayed.

“…Aedon,” he repeated quietly. 

Aino watched closely.

His gaze lowered slightly, as if tracing the thought inward. His fingers moved faintly, like he was expecting to feel something that wasn’t there.

“I…” he began, then stopped. A faint crease formed between his brows. 

“I must have left it,” he said slowly. “At home.”

“Do you remember anything before your patrol?” she asked.

Illuga stilled again. This time, the pause lasted longer. His gaze shifted slightly, unfocused for a moment as he searched through memory.

“Yes.”  Aino leaned forward. “I went to see Flins.”

His expression warmed in a way that had nothing to do with politeness or duty. It was quieter than a smile, but more real than one. 

Aino blinked. Then squinted at him.

“…You look weird when you say his name.”

Illuga blinked, caught slightly off guard. “I… do?”

“Yes,” Aino said. “Your face changes.”

A brief pause followed.

“…Is that a problem?” he asked carefully.

Aino considered that.

“…Not really,” she said finally. “Just noticeable.” 

Below her, Ineffa spoke quietly, voice lowered just enough for Aino alone. “Advisory. He exhibits memory irregularities. Recommend limited disclosure.”

Aino didn’t look down, but gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Prioritize relocation,” Ineffa added.

“…Yeah,” Aino murmured. Then she looked back at Illuga. “Are you sure you left your lantern at home?”

He hesitated. “…I believe so.”

“That means you’re not sure,” Aino said immediately.

A small pause. “…Maybe.”

Aino pointed at him again. “You probably left it at the lighthouse.”

Illuga blinked. “The lighthouse?”

“Yes,” Aino said, nodding. “You said you went to see Flins.”

“…I did.”

“Then it makes more sense that you left it there,” Aino continued. “You always put things down when you’re distracted.”

“I do not—” he started. Then stopped. 

Aino raised an eyebrow. “…You do.”

Another pause. Then Illuga exhaled softly. “…Okay, I do. I probably left it there.”

“Exactly,” Aino said. “So we’re going there.”

Illuga’s gaze shifted toward the surrounding area again, posture tightening slightly as he reassessed.

Aino leaned forward, resting her chin on Ineffa's head.

“You said you’d escort us out.”

“I did.”

“Good,” she said. “Then escort us to the lighthouse.”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t understand, but because he was recalculating, and Aino could see it. Then he looked back at them.

Really looked. At Aino. At Ineffa.

Recognition. Trust. Responsibility. All still there.

“…Alright,” he said at last. “I do need my lantern to do a proper patrol.”

Aino straightened immediately. “Good.”

She tapped Ineffa lightly. “Let’s go.”

“Affirmative,” Ineffa replied.

Illuga moved ahead of them this time, naturally taking point. His pace adjusted to match theirs, his attention constantly shifting between the path ahead and the environment around them. Every movement carried that same quiet authority, the kind that didn’t need to be stated to be followed.

Aino watched him carefully as they walked.

Still him. Still their Illuga.

Just…

Not all of him.

🐈🐈🐈

Piramida had never felt like a place that welcomed stillness.

The old castle beneath everything held a kind of quiet tension, as it remembered too much to ever truly rest. And above it, the city clung and shifted and endured, metal layered over stone, scrap welded into shelter, everything temporary and stubbornly alive.

Jahoda moved through it quickly, her boots ringing against the metal walkways, each step echoing faintly downward into the hollow spaces below.

One of them is here.

Not Illuga. Not fully.

A piece of him.

That thought alone sat wrong in her chest. She had seen strange things before. Nod-Krai was practically a central hub of weirdness. But this? Someone being split into parts that could walk around as if nothing had happened?

She exhaled through her nose. Her eyes scanned ahead as she stepped onto a narrower walkway that curved along the outer edge of the upper structures.

And then she saw him. He was walking towards his house.

Too fast. Too focused.

“…Found you,” she muttered.

For a brief second, relief came first.

Good. He really is here. That makes this easier. I just need to bring him back to the cemetery and—

Then she looked closer. The way he moved. Too sharp. Every step was placed harder than necessary.

And his hair. The red wasn’t right. It burned deeper than usual, catching the light like something alive.

The relief faded just as quickly as it came.

Yeah. That’s not normal.

“Hey!” she called, quickening her pace. “Illuga, wait—”

He didn’t even slow down. The door to his scrap-built house creaked as he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Then it started to close.

“Are you seri—”

Jahoda broke into a short sprint and caught the door just before it shut. Metal rattled under her grip.

“Seriously?” she said, pushing it open and slipping inside without waiting. “You’re just ignoring people now?”

The door shut behind her with a hollow clang.

Illuga turned.

For a moment, everything lined up. Same face. Same posture. The same presence she had known for years.

Then his eyes met hers.

And something in her chest tightened. There was heat there. Not the usual irritation. Not the quiet, controlled annoyance he carried when something bothered him.

This was raw. Unfiltered.

Like something had been building and building and finally ran out of room.

“…Jahoda,” he said.

Her name sounded normal. His tone didn’t.

Still, she forced a small grin, like nothing was wrong.

“Yeah, that’s me,” she said lightly. “I’ve been looking for you, actually.”

He didn’t ask why. Didn’t even pretend to care.

He turned away immediately and started going through his things again.

Drawers opened. Metal scraped. Something clattered to the floor. Jahoda watched him for a second.

“Right,” she muttered. “Good to see you too.”

Then she cleared her throat. “…You look busy.”

“Looking for something.”

“What something?”

“My lantern.” He didn’t even look at her. “I need it. I have patrol.”

Jahoda blinked.

Patrol? Now?

Something about that felt off.

“Hold on,” she said, stepping further in. “Forget patrol for a second. I was looking for you because Sir Flins is trying to find you.”

That got him to stop. Just for a second.

His hand stilled over a drawer. Then he kept going.

“I don’t have time for that.”

The words landed wrong. Jahoda stared at him.

“…You don’t have time?”

“I said I don’t have time,” he repeated, sharper now. “I need to go.”

“To patrol?” she asked, disbelief creeping in. “When your Sir Flins is literally looking for you?”

“I know.”

That made her pause. He didn't even react to her teasing.

“Then why are you—”

“Because I need to be stronger,” he snapped, turning to her.

The words came fast. Too fast. Like they had been sitting there waiting.

“I can’t just stand around while things happen. I need to be able to save Fl—”

He stopped. Something flickered across his face.

Then he forced the correction, tighter—

“—save people I care about.”

Jahoda didn’t move.

…You almost said his name. 

She didn’t call him out on it. But she noticed.

He turned away again, jaw tight, moving faster now, more frantic.

“They keep treating me like I can’t handle anything,” he muttered. “Like I’m supposed to just sit back and wait.”

Jahoda felt something in her chest shift. Annoyance. Familiar. Rising.

“Or,” she said slowly, “they’re trying to tell you something’s wrong.”

“I don’t need that.”

Jahoda sighed and looked around the room. “Alright. When did you last have your lantern?”

He didn’t answer right away. He moved to another surface, rummaging through it with growing frustration.

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s fine,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Where did you last put it?”

“If I knew where my lantern was,” he snapped, “I wouldn’t be wasting time looking for it and having this conversation!”

The sharpness of it hit clean.

Jahoda froze for half a second. Illuga didn’t talk to her like that.

Not like this.

That was new. That wasn’t irritation. That was anger.

“…Wow,” she said quietly.

He moved past her.

Straight to the door to his room. He opened it.

“I don’t have time for you. Leave.”

That stung more than it should have.

“For me?” she echoed. “I just told you Flins is—”

“I heard you.”

“Then act like it! Stop acting like a—”

The door slammed in her face.

Silence. Jahoda stared at it.

For a second, she didn’t move.

He did not just—

Her jaw tightened.

“…Ohoho, oh no. We are so not done.”

She slammed the door open hard enough that it rattled against the frame.

“What is wrong with you?!” she snapped, storming back in.

Illuga turned sharply, irritation flashing immediately. “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” she shot back. “You snap at me, shut the door in my face, and you’re asking that?”

“I told you to leave.”

“And I told you to stop acting like a jerk!”

The tension snapped into place instantly.

Thick. Sharp.

“You think running off on patrol is going to fix anything?” she demanded.

“At least I’d be doing something!” he shot back. “Instead of standing around being treated like I’m still a kid!”

Jahoda’s eyes narrowed.

“That again,” she said.

“Because it’s true!”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is!” he snapped. “Every time I try to do anything, someone steps in like I’m going to mess it up!”

“Maybe because you do reckless things like this!”

“I’m not reckless!”

“You are right now!”

“So what? I just wait? Let other people handle it? Hope everything works out?”

“That’s not what I said!” She shoved him. The motion came before she fully thought about it.

Not hard, but enough. He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t push back.

He just stood there.

Looking down at her hand. Then back at her.

“…Don’t.”

Something about that—

About the way he just stood there—

Made her irritation spike. She shoved him again. Harder.

“Or what?” she challenged. “You’ll do something?”

Nothing.

He just took it. Held back.

Jahoda frowned.

Are you serious right now?

She shoved him again.

Still nothing.

“Oh, come on,” she snapped. “What is this? You won’t even fight back?”

“Jahoda—”

“No, don’t ‘Jahoda’ me!” she snapped. She shoved him again, both hands this time. “You’re standing there like I’m going to break if you touch me!”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!”

The anger hit properly now.

“Fight back!”

“I’m not going to hit you,” he said, tension tight in his voice.

That made something in her chest twist.

“Wow,” she said, voice dropping. “So I’m what? Too fragile for you now?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you doing?” she demanded. “Standing there like a wuss?”

The word hung there. Jahoda saw his expression darken—something buried and sharp had slipped forward.

“Say that again,” he said quietly.

Jahoda didn’t hesitate. “Wuss.”

The punch hit like a whip. His knuckles cracked against her cheek with enough force to snap her head sideways, jolting her spine. Pain shot through her skull and down her neck, hot and burning, leaving her momentarily dizzy.

Her ears rang. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to red and sharp edges. Then she stumbled, catching herself against the metal floor with a grunt.

Slowly, painfully, she raised her hand to her face. Heat spread, throbbing like wildfire under her skin. Her eyes flicked up to him.

There you are.

Not the controlled Illuga. Not the one who held himself back.

This one was pure anger. Raw. Hungry.

“…Finally,” she whispered, voice tight with something she hadn’t admitted—relief, fear, excitement, all tangled.

She moved.

Jahoda lunged forward, her shoulder slamming into his chest with brutal force. The wall behind him shook as he stumbled, the metal floor groaning under the impact. Something fell with a deafening crash. He caught himself just in time, hands shooting out to grab her arms, trying to steady both their weights.

“Are you done?” he snapped, his voice sharp and dangerous.

“Not even close.”

She twisted violently, yanking her arms free and swinging at his head. He blocked, the dull thud of forearm against forearm echoing off the metal walls. Her momentum carried them into a mess of grappling and shoving, fists brushing, boots scraping, neither giving an inch.

“You want to act like you’re not a kid?” she yelled, shoving him with every ounce of strength she could summon. “Then stop throwing a tantrum!

“I’m not—” he started.

“You are!” She slammed into him again, hard enough to force him back two steps. His jaw clenched as he shoved back, matching her strength. Their bodies collided, ribs knocking together, breaths ragged and short.

“You’re mad because people care about you!” she shouted, voice raw.

“I’m mad because they don’t trust me!” he roared, shoving her against the wall. The metal floor beneath their boots trembled, loose objects skittering across the room.

“They do!” she shot back, slamming her shoulder into his chest.

“Not enough!”

“That's because you keep proving them right!”

Each shove, each collision, felt like more than anger. It was pain and frustration. Every movement was a conversation neither knew how to speak in words.

She yanked him toward the table, slamming him into it. Metal clanged, drawers rattled, and something crashed to the floor. He groaned, shifting his weight to push back, and for a moment, neither of them moved—just breathless, chest heaving, fists clenched.

Her heart thumped hard against her ribs. This wasn’t just a fight. It was everything Illuga hadn’t said out loud. All the fear, all the frustration, all the things he didn’t know how to admit. And Jahoda was there to ground him.

“And you,” she continued, wiping at her cheek, “you’re really going to ignore Flins just to prove a point?”

That hit. She saw the hesitation, even if it was for a second.

“I’m not ignoring him,” he said, but the edge in his voice faltered.

“You just said you didn’t have time!”

“I need to be stronger!”

“For what?!” The question hit harder than any shove. She pushed him back on the table. “So you can ‘save people you care about’?”

His jaw tightened.

“You think that’s how this works?” she pressed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You run off alone, get stronger overnight, and suddenly everything’s fine?”

“At least I’d be doing something to change!” he yelled. “Instead of letting people around me treat me like I’m still a kid!”

“You were a kid!” she spat back, stepping close, voice breaking. “When Nikita took you in, you were a kid! And he still cares enough to treat you like one when it matters!”

“Don’t bring him into this!”

“He loves you!” she shouted, almost losing herself in the words. “And you’re acting like that’s a problem!”

The air between them was charged, every word slicing deeper than any punch. He froze. His jaw tightened, fists trembling slightly.

“…You just want to prove to everyone you can protect them,” she said, softer now, calmer only in tone, “just like they protected you.”

His eyes flicked to hers.

“I understand that,” she whispered, taking a step closer. “But you’re running away from the one person who cared about you more than you knew.”

“I’m taking you to Flins,” she said firmly, her hands gripping his shoulders. “Even if I have to drag you unconscious.”

He stared at her, jaw tight, then clicked his tongue. “…Fine.”

Before he could recover, she swung a punch to his stomach. He doubled over, the air rushing out of him with a grunt. He shot her a glare through clenched teeth.

“You really are a pain sometimes,” he muttered, breath ragged.

“And you’re stubborn,” she said, fists relaxing but still tight.

For a second, they just stood there. Chests heaving, bodies bruised and scraped, eyes locked. The fight was over, not because either had won, but because something had shifted. 

“Come on,” Jahoda said finally, voice low, but firm. “Let’s go.”

He straightened, still tense, but the edge had softened slightly. They turned together, heading for the door, leaving the mess of metal and scattered objects behind them, the echoes of the fight lingering in the air like a storm that had finally passed.

✨✨✨

The wind at Kipumaki Cliff carried memory. The air felt heavier than it should.

Lumine slowed as the path narrowed, her heels scraping lightly against pale stone worn smooth by time and weather. The cliff stretched outward in jagged layers, broken ledges cutting into one another at uneven angles. Below, the drop vanished into a muted haze, depth swallowed by distance.

Paimon hovered closer than usual, her small hands drawn in toward her chest as she glanced around, unease written plainly across her face.

“…Paimon doesn’t like this place,” she muttered. “It feels the same as last time. It's still scary.”

Lumine didn’t respond immediately.

She remembered.

The last time they had stood on this cliffside, the air had not been this quiet.

It had been filled with movement. With shadows that didn’t belong. With enemies that didn’t stay down.

This place was a hotspot for Wild Hunt.

Her gaze lifted toward the path ahead, narrowing slightly.

“Stay alert,” she said softly.

Paimon nodded quickly. “Yeah… yeah, of course.”

They moved forward.

The terrain shifted subtly as they advanced, the stone underfoot giving way to fractured ground where cracks spread like veins through the cliffside. Scattered remnants of old combat still lingered if you knew where to look. Shallow gouges in the rock. Blackened edges where something unnatural had burned too cold.

Signs of a fight.

Signs of something that had not been easily won.

Voices reached them then.

Low at first, carried unevenly through the narrow passage ahead.

“…Captain, we’ve done this before.”

Lumine stopped instantly.

Paimon froze midair. “That’s—”

“I know,” Lumine said quietly.

They moved forward again, more carefully now, slipping through the narrowing rock corridor until the space opened into a wider ledge.

And there they were.

Two Lightkeepers stood near the edge, their silhouettes clear against the pale horizon.

Anleifr stood solid and unmoving, his broad frame grounded like the cliff itself. Beside him, Rollon carried a sharper presence, his posture angled, watchful, always ready.

And in front of them was Illuga.

Lumine’s breath stilled for half a second. Because something was wrong.

His hair was all white. Not the familiar contrast. Not the quiet balance of white and red that defined him.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he stood. Between them and the path ahead. Blocking it.

“You’re not going further,” Illuga said. His voice was controlled. But only barely.

Anleifr exhaled slowly, patient in the way of someone who had already had this conversation more than once.

“Captain,” he said, steady and respectful, “this is our patrol route.”

“No,” Illuga replied immediately. Lumine’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“It’s not happening,” Illuga continued, his tone tightening. “Not today.”

Rollon shifted his weight slightly, glancing toward the path beyond Illuga before looking back at him.

“…We both know this area isn’t safe,” he said. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”

There was no defiance in his tone. Just a fact.

Lumine felt it settle between them. Because it was true. Everyone here knew it. 

Kipumaki Cliff was not safe. Not after the Wild Hunt had carved its way through this place, leaving behind something that still lingered.

And that was exactly why the Lightkeepers patrolled it.

Illuga shook his head.

“No,” he said again, quieter now but no less firm. “You’re not going out there.”

Anleifr’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture softened slightly.

“We’ve handled this before,” he said. “You were there, remember?”

That landed. Not as an argument, but as a reminder.

Illuga’s fingers curled faintly at his sides. “That’s exactly why I’m saying this,” he replied.

Silence followed. Heavy. Because they all knew what “before” meant.

Anleifr spoke it aloud, quiet but steady. “We lost Bjorn here,” he said.

The air shifted. Illuga’s breath caught. Just slightly. Rollon’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, jaw tightening.

They had all been there.

They had all seen it.

Lumine’s chest tightened faintly at the memory. Because she remembered that too.

Illuga didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his voice was lower.

Tighter.

“And I’m not losing anyone else,” he said.

There it was. Not a strategy. Not caution. Fear. Raw and unguarded in a way Lumine had never seen from him before.

Anleifr stepped forward slightly, his voice gentler now.

“You won’t,” he said.

Illuga’s head snapped up. “You don’t know that.”

“We do,” Anleifr replied. “Because we’re not walking in blind.”

Rollon nodded once, his tone quieter but firm.

“We know what this place is,” he added. “We’ve fought here before. We know how to handle it.”

Illuga shook his head again, more urgently now.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Things change. You don’t know what’s out there now.”

“That’s why we check,” Rollon replied. “That’s why we’re Lightkeepers.”

Illuga’s expression tightened.

“You don’t need to prove anything,” he said.

Anleifr frowned slightly. “This isn’t about proving anything.”

“Then what is it about?” Illuga demanded, the control in his voice slipping.

“For us to do our job,” Rollon said simply.

Silence again. Illuga didn’t move. Didn’t step aside. His body remained planted between them and the path ahead.

“…Captain,” Anleifr said quietly, “Did something happen?”

Rollon’s gaze shifted.

He spotted Lumine and Paimon immediately.

“…We’ve got company,” he said.

Illuga stiffened. Anleifr turned.

Lumine stepped forward without hesitation, Paimon hovering close beside her.

“It’s us,” Paimon said quickly, trying to ease the tension. “Don’t panic!”

Rollon huffed faintly. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Lumine’s attention, however, was already on Illuga.

Up close, it was even clearer.

The difference. His expression. His eyes. There was something fragile there. Something stretched too thin.

“Lumine, Paimon,” Illuga said, clearly caught off guard. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re, uhm—” Paimon glanced at Lumine.

His gaze flickered, uncertainty passing through it. Before he could press further, Anleifr spoke again.

“They are just in time,” he said. “Maybe you can help convince him.”

Illuga’s expression tightened immediately. “There’s nothing to convince.”

Rollon sighed under his breath, then stepped closer to Lumine and Paimon, lowering his voice.

“…Alright,” he muttered. “What’s going on?”

Paimon blinked. “Wha?”

Rollon tilted his head slightly toward Illuga.

“That,” he said quietly. “Since when does the captain look like he hasn’t slept in a week and decide we’re made of glass?”

His gaze sharpened. “…And since when is his hair like that? …Did something happen?”

Paimon hesitated. Lumine glanced toward Illuga. He was still focused on Anleifr, speaking more quietly now.

“…just wait,” he was saying. “We can reassess later. There’s no reason to rush this.”

Anleifr placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“We’re not going anywhere right this second,” he said calmly.

Illuga stilled slightly at that. But the tension didn’t leave him.

“…You promise?” he asked.

The question was quiet. Too quiet.

Anleifr nodded. “We promise.”

Lumine turned back to Rollon.

“We found an ancient mirror earlier,” she said softly. “Illuga was with us.” 

Rollon frowned. “And?”

“It reacted to Illuga,” she continued. “Pulled him in.”

His expression sharpened immediately. “…Pulled him in?”

Paimon nodded quickly. “And then it split him into fragments!”

Rollon blinked.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“Four fragments,” Lumine said. “Different aspects of him.”

“…You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

His gaze shifted back to Illuga. To the white hair. To the way he stood too rigid, too afraid.

“…This is one of them,” he said quietly.

Lumine nodded. Rollon exhaled slowly.

“…That explains everything,” he murmured. His eyes stayed on Illuga.

Lumine followed his gaze. Illuga stood there, still trying to hold them back. Still trying to keep them safe.

Rollon’s voice dropped further.

“…He thinks if he lets us go,” he said, “we won’t come back.”

This version of Illuga wasn’t thinking like a captain. He was thinking like someone who had already lost too much. And couldn’t bear to lose again.

Lumine watched Illuga carefully, her gaze tracing every small movement he didn’t realize he was making. The tension in his shoulders had not eased. If anything, it had settled deeper, coiled beneath the surface like something waiting to snap.

She exhaled quietly, then leaned slightly toward Paimon.

“Don’t say anything,” she whispered, just low enough that it wouldn’t carry.

Paimon blinked, startled. “…Huh?”

Lumine didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t need to. “Just trust me.”

There was something in her tone that made Paimon straighten immediately, small hands lifting as she nodded quickly. “O-Okay.”

Lumine stepped forward.

“Illuga,” she called.

He turned sharply, like he had been waiting for something to interrupt, for anything to break the loop of thoughts he was trapped in.

“What is it?” he asked.

His voice was steady. But his hands weren’t. They had curled slightly at his sides, fingers tightening and loosening in uneven rhythm, like he was trying to hold onto control and failing in small, quiet ways.

Lumine held his gaze.

“We weren’t just passing through,” she said.

A flicker of suspicion crossed his expression. “Then why are you here?”

She didn’t soften it. “Flins sent us.”

Illuga froze. His breath caught so sharply that Lumine heard it even over the wind.

“What?” The word slipped out before he could steady it. His eyes widened, just slightly, but enough.

“Sir Flins?” he said again, already stepping forward without realizing it. “What happened?”

The questions followed one after another, faster now, breaking through whatever restraint he had left.

“Where is he?”

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“Is he—”

He stopped. But his body didn’t.

His shoulders had already tensed higher. His breathing had shifted, shallow now, uneven. His fingers twitched again, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“…Is he hurt?” he asked more quietly.

There it was. The fear. Raw and unfiltered.

Lumine didn’t hesitate.

“He’s at the lighthouse,” she said calmly. “He’s alive.”

Illuga’s eyes closed for the briefest moment, relieved. But it didn’t last.

“He was injured,” Lumine continued, steady and controlled. “But he’s already been treated. It’s not life-threatening.”

Illuga’s shoulders dropped slightly. Then tightened again.

“How bad?” he asked. The question came out strained, like he was forcing it through something caught in his chest.

“Was he conscious?”

“Who treated him?”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”

Each question overlapped the last. He wasn’t thinking in order anymore.

“He’s stable,” she said firmly. “And he asked for you.”

Illuga went still again. But this time, it wasn’t shock. It was something heavier.

“…He asked for me?” he repeated, softer. Almost uncertain.

Lumine nodded. “Yes.”

She saw it then. The way his expression shifted, not outwardly dramatic, but in the smallest details. The way his gaze unfocused for half a second. The way his breathing hitched again, quieter this time.

Anleifr’s voice cut in, tense.

“What?” he said. “Sir Flins is injured?”

Concern grounded his tone, but it was nothing compared to what Lumine was watching in front of her.

Illuga barely seemed to hear him. He had already started pacing a half-step, then stopped himself abruptly, like he didn’t trust his own movement.

Lumine didn’t answer that. Instead, her gaze shifted to Rollon. It was subtle. A look that said everything it needed to without a single word.

This is a lie. Play along. Let him go.

Rollon caught it instantly. His expression didn’t change. But something in his posture did.

He turned his attention back to Illuga, who was already moving, already thinking ahead, already unraveling.

“I need to go,” he said under his breath. His hand lifted slightly, then dropped again, like he had intended to reach for something that wasn’t there. “If he’s hurt—”

“You should,” Rollon cut in smoothly. Illuga stopped, looking at him. There was no resistance now. No argument. Just urgency.

“We’ll head back to Cliffwatch Camp,” he said, gesturing briefly to Anleifr. “No patrol today.”

Anleifr frowned. “But—”

“It’s fine,” Rollon added quickly, cutting him off with a glance that carried more meaning than the words themselves.

Anleifr paused. He looked at Illuga instead. In the way his captain stood now. Not steady. Not composed. Shaking in ways he would never allow himself to show under normal circumstances.

Understanding came slower to him, but it came.

“…Right,” he said at last, nodding once. “We’ll return to camp.”

Illuga hesitated.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

The question came out tight. Not because he doubted them. Because he didn’t want to leave them.

Not again. Not like before.

Anleifr nodded firmly. “We’re not going anywhere dangerous without you.”

That helped. Illuga exhaled, some of the tightness easing from his posture, though the urgency remained.

“…Alright,” he said. “Go back. Stay there. I'll be back.”

His gaze lingered on them for a second longer, as if committing the sight of them standing safely to memory.

Then he turned back to Lumine.

“We need to move,” he said. “Now.”

Paimon startled slightly at the sudden shift, then quickly floated up beside Lumine.

“R-Right! Yeah!” she said, a little too quickly. She glanced at Lumine, then back at Illuga, clearly trying to keep up. “It’s… uh… still a long way to Final Night Cemetery, right? So we shouldn’t waste time!”

The words came out slightly jumbled.

Illuga didn’t question it.

“Then let’s not,” he said, already turning. Lumine stepped alongside him without another word.

Behind them, Anleifr exhaled slowly, tension still lingering in his posture.

“…The captain is not alright,” he muttered quietly. Rollon watched Illuga go, his expression unreadable.

“No,” he said under his breath. Then, softer, “But he will be.”

🦋🦋🦋

The cemetery welcomed him the way it always did, without warmth, but with a kind of quiet recognition.

The path toward the lighthouse stretched ahead, familiar in every uneven stone and iron post. The lanterns flickered faintly in the dim, their glow softened by the ever-present haze that clung low to the ground. Nothing had changed.

Flins moved with purpose, each step measured but faster than usual. 

“…I’m telling you, he does it on purpose.”

Flins stopped. It was Illuga’s voice.  For a brief moment, something in him stilled completely. Not hesitation. Not doubt. Relief.

He followed the sound without pause.

Just ahead, on the metal bench, a familiar figure sat with one leg slightly drawn up, posture relaxed in a way that did not belong in a place like this.

Illuga.

“…like, he’ll say something that sounds completely normal, and then later you realize—no, wait, that wasn’t normal at all,” Illuga continued, his tone light, threaded with quiet amusement. “It was intentional. He just doesn’t admit it.”

Perched delicately on his hands was a small bird, Aedon, its feathers fluttering as it tilted its head, listening in that way it always did, as though it understood more than it should.

Flins slowed. Something was… different.

He could see it even from here, though his mind did not immediately name it.

“…And he flatters everyone,” Illuga went on, softer now, almost thoughtful. “Not in an obvious way. Just enough that you don’t notice until it’s already worked.”

Aedon gave a small chirp.

Illuga huffed quietly. “No, I’m serious. It’s not fair. He—”

He stopped. Because he had seen him.

Illuga’s entire expression shifted in an instant, like light catching on glass.

“Flins!” The name came easily. Brightly. He waved him over without hesitation, smile widening in a way that felt… unguarded. Open.

Cheerful in a way Flins had not seen before. Flins approached, slower now. And then he saw it clearly.

Illuga’s hair.

White at the crown, as it had always been—but the lower strands no longer carried that familiar red. Instead, they shimmered faintly gold, with a warmth that felt almost unnatural against the cemetery’s muted tones.

Aedon fluttered its wings again and lifted from Illuga’s hands as Flins drew close, circling once before settling neatly back into the lantern at its owner’s side, as though making space.

As though it knew.

Illuga stood the moment Flins was within reach. And then, he closed the distance completely.

Arms wrapped around him without hesitation, pulling him in with a closeness that lacked all restraint.

“Where were you?” Illuga asked, voice softer now, but no less bright. “I’ve been waiting.”

Flins stilled for half a second. Then his hand lifted, settling lightly against Illuga’s back, not pushing him away. Not quite holding him there, either.

“I had something to settle,” he said gently. It was not untrue. It was simply not all of it.

Illuga pulled back just enough to look at him, though his hands did not leave their place.

“You’re late,” he added, though there was no real accusation in it. Only a faint curve of amusement.

“And yet,” Flins replied softly, “you waited.”

“I always do,” Illuga said easily. 

The words landed without weight on him. But Flins felt them. He let the silence linger just a moment longer than necessary before his gaze shifted, subtly, toward Illuga’s hair.

“…Have you dyed it?” he asked.

Illuga blinked. “Hm?”

Flins lifted his hand slightly, fingers brushing, lightly, carefully, against the golden strands near the ends. The motion was unhurried. Almost absent-minded. But intentional.

“It appears different,” he added.

Illuga stilled. Then, quieter, “Oh. That.”

His fingers curled faintly where they still rested against Flins.

“Do you… like it?” he asked.

There was something beneath the question. Not uncertainty. But not quite confident either.

Flins’ gaze lingered on the gold, warmer than it should have been, brighter than anything in this place had a right to be. Then his eyes returned to Illuga.

“It suits you,” he said. A pause. “After all… You do have a tendency to shine.”

It was said lightly. Softly. As though it were nothing more than observation.

Illuga froze. And then, he laughed. Not loudly. Not sharply. Just a quiet, breathy sound that slipped out before he could stop it.

“That’s exactly what I meant!” he said, half-laughing, half-accusing. “You do that. You just say things like that like it’s normal.”

Flins tilted his head slightly, amused. “Is it not?”

“No!” Illuga said, though his voice had already softened.

There was color rising faintly at the edges of his expression. He did not let go.

Not even a little. Flins allowed it.

They sat soon after, the metal bench cool beneath them. Or it should have been.

Illuga sat close enough that there was no space between them at all, one arm still loosely looped around Flins as though he had simply decided that distance was no longer necessary.

Flins made no move to correct it.

“You’re unusually affectionate today,” he observed.

Illuga huffed quietly, glancing away. “Maybe I just feel like it.”

“Mm.” A pause. “…Should I object?”

Illuga immediately tightened his hold, just slightly. “You won’t.”

Flins’ lips curved faintly. “No,” he agreed. “I won’t.”

Silence settled between them then, but not the empty kind. Aedon shifted softly within the lantern, its faint movements the only sound for a moment.

Illuga leaned just a little closer.

“You know,” he said, quieter now, “I was just telling Aedon about you.”

“I gathered as much.”

“You’re impossible,” Illuga added.

“And yet,” Flins murmured, “you continue to seek me out.”

Illuga smiled at that, softer this time. “Maybe I like impossible things.”

Flins did not respond immediately.

His gaze drifted—taking in the closeness, the warmth, the way Illuga’s presence filled the space beside him without hesitation.

This one. This fragment. Bold. Unrestrained. Dangerously honest.

He could feel it. In the way, Illuga did not pull away. In the way he stayed. In the way his fingers tightened slightly, unconsciously, as if ensuring Flins would not vanish.

“…Then I would advise caution,” Flins said softly at last.

Illuga glanced at him. “Why?”

Flins’ voice lowered, just slightly.

“Because some things,” he said, “are not meant to be kept.”

The words lingered. But Illuga only smiled—small, certain, and entirely unbothered. “Then I’ll just have to keep them anyway.”

Illuga leaned in, just a little closer, resting his head lightly against his shoulder as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Flins stilled. Then his hand lifted once more, settling gently, this time without hesitation, against Illuga’s arm.

The quiet did not last long. Not with this version of Illuga.

He shifted slightly, where he leaned against Flins, just enough to look up at him again, closer now, closer than before, as though proximity itself was something he had decided to test.

“You’re thinking too much,” Illuga murmured.

Flins did not look at him immediately. “Am I?”

“Yes.” A beat. “…About me, hopefully?” Illuga added, softer, but not hesitant.

That drew his gaze down. Flins regarded him for a moment, as though weighing the question rather than answering it.

“Would that trouble you?” he asked.

“It would depend,” Illuga replied, just as quickly.

“On?”

“On what you’re thinking.”

Flins felt it then, more clearly than before—this fragment did not circle around things. It stepped directly into them. He let his expression soften just slightly.

“Something favorable, I assure you.”

Illuga’s breath caught, barely noticeable, but there.

“…You’re doing it again,” he said, quieter now.

Illuga shifted again, turning just enough so he was no longer leaning passively, but facing him more fully. One hand slid from where it had rested loosely at Flins’ arm, moving slowly until it found his sleeve, fingers curling lightly into the fabric.

“Maybe I don’t mind,” Illuga said.

Flins’ gaze flickered briefly to the hand, then back to his face.

“No?” he murmured.

“No.”

The answer came more easily this time. Stronger. Flins tilted his head slightly, studying him with quiet interest.

“Then perhaps,” he said softly, “I should be less restrained.”

Illuga’s eyes widened—just a fraction.

“Less—?”

Flins moved then. Not abruptly. His hand lifted, brushing once more through those golden strands, but this time slower, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary near the nape of Illuga’s neck before withdrawing.

A test. A boundary, lightly pressed.

“Would that be preferable?” he asked.

Illuga froze. Color rose faster this time, unmistakable now, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t deflect.

Instead—

“…Yeah,” he said, breathing a little uneven. “It would.”

That was not the response Flins had expected.

For a brief moment, something in him faltered. Not outwardly.

But beneath it, something shifted sharply. A flicker of heat, sudden and unwelcome, stirred beneath his composure. He forced it down immediately, before it could surface.

Illuga leaned in. Just slightly. Closing the space Flins had created when he withdrew his hand.

“You think I don’t notice?” Illuga added, voice quieter now. “The way you say things. The way you look at me, like, like you’re already deciding how much you’ll allow.”

Flins’ expression did not change. But his attention did.

“And what do you believe I have decided?” he asked.

Illuga held his gaze.

“For now?” he said softly. “That you’ll let me stay.”

The certainty in it was disarming. Flins let out a quiet breath—something almost like a laugh, though softer, more restrained.

“You are very confident today.”

Illuga’s lips curved faintly. “I think I always was.”

“Mm. Merely better concealed.”

“Maybe,” Illuga admitted. Then, after a small pause, more quietly— “I've been waiting.”

That word lingered. Flins leaned just slightly closer now, his voice lowering, not enough to be secretive, but enough to feel like it belonged only to the space between them.

“For what?”

Illuga didn’t look away.

“For you,” he said.

The honesty in it was almost reckless. Flins held his gaze for a long moment.

“You may be disappointed,” he murmured.

Illuga smiled faintly. “I don’t think so.”

“You are very certain.”

“You’re still here,” Illuga said simply.

Flins exhaled softly. “You place a great deal of meaning in very small things.”

“Maybe,” Illuga said. Then, softer— “Or maybe they’re not small to me.”

That—

That was not something easily dismissed.

Flins let the silence settle again, but it felt different now. Tighter. Warmer.

Illuga shifted once more, this time without pretense, his arm sliding more securely around Flins’ arm, holding it—not loosely now, but with quiet insistence.

He wasn’t asking anymore. He was choosing.

Flins glanced down briefly at the contact. “You are quite determined.”

Illuga huffed softly. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“On the contrary,” Flins said, voice smooth again, though quieter now. “It is… intriguing.”

Illuga’s fingers tightened slightly. “Good.”

Flins looked at him again, something faintly amused returning to his expression.

“Tell me,” he said, “if I were to pull away now—would you let me?”

Illuga stilled. Just for a second. “No.”

The answer was quiet. But absolute. Flins’ brows lifted, just slightly.

“No?” he repeated.

Illuga shook his head, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“I’d follow you.” A pause. “…And then I’d make you stay.”

There was no threat in it. Only honesty. Flins studied him carefully.

Then, “And if I refused?”

Illuga leaned closer. Close enough now that the distance between them felt… negligible.

“You won’t,” he said.

Flins’ breath stilled, just slightly.

“And you are certain of that as well?”

Illuga’s expression softened. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just… sure.

“Yeah.” A small pause.

“Because if you really wanted to leave,” he added quietly, “you would’ve already.”

The words landed cleanly. No room to deflect. No easy way to dismiss them.

Flins said nothing for a moment.

Then his hand lifted again, this time not to test, not to provoke, but simply to rest lightly against Illuga’s shoulder, steady and present.

The quiet between them deepened, settling into something softer but far more fragile than before. It no longer felt like simple comfort. It felt like something waiting to tip, held in place only because neither of them had fully broken it yet.

Illuga stayed close.

Not loosely. Not casually. He leaned into Flins as though he had already decided this was where he belonged, as though the space beside him had long since been claimed and he was only now allowing himself to act on it. Flins could feel every small shift. The warmth at his side. The steady weight of Illuga’s presence. The way his fingers still held onto his sleeve, not tightly enough to be forceful, but enough to make it clear he had no intention of letting go.

It should have been enough to make him step away.

It wasn’t.

“You’re very quiet,” Illuga murmured.

Flins’ gaze remained forward, though his attention was entirely on him. “You have been speaking quite a lot.”

“That’s because you keep saying things that make it hard not to.”

There was a faint trace of a smile in Flins’ expression, subtle and controlled. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Illuga said, softer this time.

There was a small pause. A moment where something shifted in Illuga’s expression, like he had reached a decision and no longer intended to circle around it.

Then he moved.

It was quick enough that it might have been mistaken for impulse, but there was intention in it. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against Flins’ cheek. It was brief, barely more than a second, but it carried weight far beyond its simplicity.

Flins went completely still. The warmth lingered far longer than it should have.

Illuga pulled back almost immediately, as though the act itself had startled him after it was done. His face flushed instantly, color rising fast, and he turned away just enough to hide it. Instead of retreating, he shifted closer, burying his face against Flins’ arm, holding onto him as though grounding himself there.

“You really don’t make this easy,” Illuga muttered, his voice slightly muffled.

Flins did not move. Something beneath his calm surface tightened sharply. His hand, which had rested loosely before, shifted and settled more firmly against Illuga’s shoulder. Not pushing him away. Not stopping him. Just holding him there with a quiet, steady presence.

Illuga did not pull back. If anything, he seemed to settle more into the contact, his fingers tightening slightly where they held onto Flins’ sleeve.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he continued, quieter now.

Flins lowered his gaze slightly. “I assumed as much.”

“No,” Illuga said, lifting his head just enough to look at him again. There was no teasing left now. Only something steady and unguarded. “I mean all of it.”

Flins said nothing, so Illuga kept going.

“I like being with you,” he said. “I like listening to you talk about things no one else even notices. The way you explain things like they matter.”

His voice softened further.

“I like the lighthouse. I like bringing you things you didn’t ask for.” A faint, almost embarrassed breath escaped him. “I like staying longer than I should.”

Flins’ fingers tightened just slightly against his shoulder.

“And I love you.” The words came quietly, but with absolute clarity. “I’ve loved you for a while.”

That was the moment everything stilled. Not just the space around them, but something deeper.

Flins did not react outwardly, but inside, something flared. Heat rose sharply through him, sudden and bright, like a flame catching dry air. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t restrained. It burned with a fierce, instinctive joy that he had not allowed himself to feel in a very long time.

It answered.

Not in words, not in thought, but in something deeper.

The flame that made up what he truly was flickered violently against the confines of his form, pressing outward, pushing against the shape he held together so carefully. It wanted to rise. To spill through. To respond in kind, bright and uncontained.

Mine.

The thought came unbidden, instinctive and dangerous.

It startled him. Not because it was unfamiliar. But because of how easily it formed.

Flins closed his eyes briefly.

Just a second. And forced it back.

The warmth did not disappear. It coiled tighter instead, contained through sheer will, pressed down into something manageable, something hidden beneath layers of practiced composure.

When he opened his eyes again, nothing showed.

The silence stretched, and this time, Illuga felt it. He saw the stillness in Flins’ expression, the lack of immediate response, and something in his own softened in response to it.

“I know you’re not like me,” Illuga said, his voice gentler now. “You don’t act like anyone else. You don’t react the way people do. And the things you say sometimes…”

He hesitated briefly, searching for the right words.

“You talk like you’ve been here longer than you should have.”

Flins’ gaze flickered, almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know what you are,” Illuga admitted. “But I know you’re not human.”

A small pause followed.

“I don’t care.” The words were simple, but they carried more weight than anything before them. “I still love you.”

Illuga watched the silence. And misunderstood it.

His expression softened, not with hurt, but with quiet acceptance.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he said gently.

Flins’ eyes opened again, his gaze settling on him.

“I didn’t say it so you would.” His voice remained steady, even if something beneath it had shifted. “I just wanted you to know.”

The words should have made it easier. They didn’t. Because the flame inside him surged again, restless, pressing harder against the restraint he forced upon it.

It wanted to answer. It wanted to reach. It wanted to take what had been offered so freely and hold it without hesitation.

But Flins did none of those things.

He remained still.

“I’m not expecting anything.”

Flins remained silent. Illuga glanced down briefly before looking back at him, a faint, softer smile forming.

“All I’m asking is… let me stay.”

Flins’ breath stilled slightly. Illuga’s grip on his arm tightened just a little.

“Let things stay the way they are,” he continued. “I’ll still come by. I’ll still bring you things you don’t need.”

A quiet, almost shy breath of amusement followed. “I’ll still listen to your stories. Even the long ones.”

His voice softened further.

“We can still work on reports together. You can still pretend you don’t rely on me with those.”

Flins’ fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve.

“I won’t ask for more than that.”

That was the part that lingered the most. Flins studied him in silence. The warmth in his expression. The quiet hope that remained, even now. The way he still held on, but gently, leaving space for refusal. The flame within him burned brighter. Not fading. Not weakening. But held. Contained. Dangerously alive.

Flins’ hand shifted slightly, brushing lightly against Illuga’s sleeve.

“You should reconsider,” he said quietly.

Illuga shook his head immediately. “No.”

“There are things you do not understand.”

“I understand enough.”

Flins’ gaze sharpened slightly. “You believe that now.”

“I believe it because it’s true.” A pause. “You think I’ll change my mind later?”

Flins did not answer. Illuga’s expression softened again, not stubborn, not forceful. Just certain.

“Then I’ll deal with that later,” he said. “I’m not walking away from something I already know I want.”

Flins’ breath caught faintly. “You speak as though this is simple.”

“For me, it is.” A small pause. “I want you.”

Flins looked away, just slightly. Holding his gaze any longer would have been too much. Because something in him was already giving in ways he had spent a very long time preventing.

And he could not allow that fully. Not when he knew how fragile this was. Not when he knew what time would eventually take.

Still, he did not pull away.

Illuga seemed to take that as enough. He leaned in again, more carefully this time, resting lightly against Flins’ shoulder. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just staying.

“I meant it,” Illuga murmured softly. “I don’t need you to love me back.”

 “I just want to be with you.” Flins’ fingers tightened slightly. “That’s enough for me.”

Flins closed his eyes briefly again. It was not enough. Not truly. It was not enough for Flins. 

Flins had already made the decision.

It had not arrived all at once. It never did, not for him. It came in quiet allowances. In the moments when he did not step away. In the seconds where he let warmth linger instead of cutting it short. In the space he permitted Illuga to occupy without correction.

Each one had been small. Contained. Reasonable.

But together, they had led him here.

Illuga’s words still rested between them, unchanged.

I love you.

There had been no hesitation in it. No calculation. No fear. It had been given freely, as though the act itself required nothing in return.

That was what made it dangerous.

Flins had spent a very long time ensuring that nothing could reach him so easily. Nothing that could take hold without his consent. Nothing that could grow into something he could not control.

And yet, this had.

And worse, he had allowed it.

His hand remained at Illuga’s shoulder, but the contact was no longer distant. His fingers rested there with intention now. Not restraining. Not guiding. Simply present.

He turned slightly toward him.

Illuga was still close. Too close by any standard that Flins had once upheld. Leaning into him as though it had already been decided that this was where he belonged. As though distance was no longer something worth maintaining.

“…You are asking for very little,” Flins said quietly.

Illuga let out a soft breath against him. “I told you. I don’t need more.”

That answer settled heavily in Flins’ chest. Because it was not enough. His gaze lowered, settling fully on him now. Not with analysis. Not with distance. He allowed himself to see him as he was. The quiet certainty. The warmth that did not hesitate. The way he stayed.

The way he trusted him.

“…You should,” Flins murmured.

Illuga shifted just enough to look up at him. “Should what?”

“Ask for more.”

The words came softer than intended, but they did not falter.

Illuga blinked, caught off guard. Not by the words alone, but by what sat beneath them. By the shift he could feel but not yet name. Flins exhaled slowly.

There had always been a line. He had stood at its edge for longer than he would ever admit. Careful. Deliberate. Always aware of what crossing it would mean.

Now he stepped forward.

His hand moved from Illuga’s shoulder, lifting slightly before settling at the side of his neck. The contact was gentle, but it carried weight. It was no longer distant. No longer safe.

Illuga stilled under his touch.

“…Flins?” he asked softly.

Flins did not answer right away. Because something within him answered first.

The flame that defined him stirred, no longer suppressed into stillness. It did not burst outward, but it rose. Warm. Steady. Alive in a way he had not allowed in a very long time.

It recognized what had been given.

And for the first time, he did not force it back.

“…You misunderstand,” Flins said at last, his voice low.

Illuga’s breath caught.

“I am not incapable of returning what you feel.”

The words settled between them, heavy with meaning.

Illuga’s fingers tightened slightly in his sleeve. His gaze searched Flins’ face, as though trying to determine if this was real or simply another measured response.

“…Then—”

“Over here!”

The voice cut through everything. Flins stilled. The moment fractured instantly. Illuga blinked, the shift immediate as both of them turned toward the path.

Paimon hovered ahead, waving her arms to catch their attention.

Behind her, Lumine approached with her usual steady composure. Aino and Ineffa followed close behind.

And then there was Jahoda.

Flins’ gaze lingered on her. The bruising was clear even from this distance. The tension in her posture spoke of a fight that had not been clean.

But it was not she who held his focus.

Behind them, three figures moved into view.

Illuga. Three more.

Each one distinct, marked by different strands of color, but unmistakably him. 

The moment they saw Flins, they broke into a run. No hesitation. No restraint. Their focus locked entirely onto him.

Flins did not move. The Illuga beside him did.

In an instant, he stepped forward, placing himself between Flins and the approaching figures. His arm lifted slightly, not touching him, but clearly blocking access.

“Stop.”

His voice was sharp, firm in a way that had not been there before.

The others slowed, but only just. The tension did not ease. It sharpened.

“You don’t get to touch him,” he said, quieter now but no less certain.

“What are you doing?” one of them snapped.

“Move,” another demanded.

“No,” he answered.

There was no hesitation in it.

“He’s—”

“Mine.”

The tension snapped. They lunged at once. The impact came fast. Too fast to interrupt. Bodies collided with force, the sound of it echoing against stone and iron. Hands grabbed, shoved, struck. There was no coordination. No restraint.

Only conflict.

“Hey—HEY!” Paimon yelped, darting upward. “Stop fighting! That’s not helping anything!”

It did nothing. One of them broke free—only to be intercepted immediately.

Jahoda.

Despite the bruises, despite the strain evident in every movement, she moved fast, grabbing hold of the one she had fought earlier and locking him back with a sharp twist.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she snapped through clenched teeth. “We are not doing round two properly this time.”

He struggled, but she held him firmly. The others continued, crashing into one another, boots scraping against the ground, the metal bench rattling under the force.

“Paimon’s done with this!” she shouted. She raised the mirror.

Then, without hesitation, she brought it down.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Four times in quick succession. The sound of glass striking echoed sharply.

“STOP IT!”

Everything froze. Just for a second.

It was enough.

The mirror flared with light. The surface twisted, pulling at them with sudden force. One by one, the Illugas were dragged inward, their forms unraveling into streaks of light before vanishing completely.

Silence followed.

Paimon hovered there, breathing hard, still holding the mirror up.

“…Okay. That worked.”

The mirror shimmered again.

Then released. A single Illuga emerged.

He stumbled immediately, disoriented, his balance failing as the world seemed to catch up with him all at once.

Flins moved without thinking.

His hand caught him, steadying him before he could fall.

Illuga blinked rapidly, trying to focus. His breath was uneven. His hand lifted slightly, as though grasping for something that no longer existed.

“…What—”

Illuga’s breath came unevenly as the last of the memories settled into place.

Flins felt it before he fully saw it—the shift in him. The way his body stilled, then tensed, as if something vast had just been pressed back into a space too small to hold it all at once. Confusion flickered across his face first. Then recognition. Then something heavier.

“…Jahoda,” Illuga said.

His voice carried a quiet weight now. Not the sharpness from before, not the unguarded warmth of the fragment that had been sitting beside him, but something whole. Something aware.

Jahoda was already turning away.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she muttered, lifting a hand without looking back. “You’re sorry. We’ll deal with it later.”

Her tone was casual, but the way she moved gave her away. A little slower than usual. Ineffa stepped in beside her without a word, steadying her as Aino climbed onto her shoulders, glancing back only once before they continued.

Lumine didn’t linger either. She had already taken hold of Paimon, the mirror secure in her grasp.

“We’ll report this to Nefer,” she said, her gaze steady, measured. “There’s more to understand here.”

Paimon nodded quickly, still clutching the mirror like it might misbehave again if she loosened her grip.

“Y-Yeah! And make sure it won't do this again!”

Then they were gone too.

Flins watched them leave, his gaze following the retreating figures as they disappeared into the haze of the cemetery. It was… deliberate. The way they left. Quiet. Unspoken.

Space. They had given it to them.

He stepped forward instinctively, unsteady but determined, his voice rising just enough to reach her.

“Jahoda, I’m sorry!”

She didn’t turn, but she did lift her hand again in acknowledgment before disappearing completely from view.

Illuga exhaled, something in his shoulders loosening just slightly, though the tension did not leave him entirely.

Then he turned. To Flins.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

There was something different now. Not just in Illuga, but in the space between them. Everything that had been said—everything that had been felt—still lingered there, unbroken by the interruption.

Illuga’s gaze flickered, uncertainty slipping in where certainty had once been.

“…Flins,” he started, quieter now.

His hand lifted slightly, then hesitated, as if unsure whether he had the right to reach out.

“About earlier,” he continued, his voice tightening just a fraction, “what my… other self said—”

Flins did not let him finish.

He stepped forward.

Closed the distance in a single, deliberate motion and pulled Illuga in.

The kiss was not tentative.

It was not careful.

It was everything Flins had held back, everything he had forced into silence, everything he had refused to allow himself to feel. It broke through in a single moment, fierce and unrestrained.

Illuga froze for half a second.

Then he responded.

His hands found Flins immediately, gripping onto him with sudden urgency, as if afraid this might vanish if he didn’t hold on tightly enough. He leaned into the kiss without hesitation, returning it with equal intensity, warmth rising fast and unguarded between them.

It was not brief.

It lingered, deepened, until Illuga’s breath finally gave out.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, his chest rising and falling quickly, his face flushed, eyes wide with something bright and disbelieving.

Flins did not let him go.

“…Illuga,” he said softly. “I love you too.”

The words settled between them, clear and certain.

Illuga stared at him.

For a moment, he didn’t move at all. Then the meaning caught up all at once, and something in his expression broke open completely.

“Flins—”

He didn’t finish. He just pulled him into a tight embrace, arms wrapping around him with no restraint, no hesitation, holding him like he had wanted to for far longer than he had ever admitted.

“Ah—!” Illuga flinched.

The motion was small, but sharp enough that Flins noticed immediately. His grip loosened just slightly as he looked down at him.

“…You’re hurt.”

Illuga let out a quiet, embarrassed breath, one hand instinctively shifting toward his side.

“…Jahoda hits hard,” he admitted, wincing faintly. “I… deserved that.”

Flins’ expression softened, something gentler settling in now, though the warmth from moments before had not faded.

“Come,” he said quietly. “You’re staying the night.”

Illuga blinked, caught off guard for a second. “…I am?”

Flins’ hand lifted, brushing lightly against his arm, careful this time.

“I’ll patch you up,” he said. Then, softer, “And ensure you are properly taken care of.”

Illuga’s expression shifted again, something warm and soft replacing the lingering tension. He let out a small breath, then nodded.

“…Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

Flins’ lips curved faintly. “Good.”

There was a pause. A quiet moment where neither of them moved away.

Then Illuga leaned in again, slower this time. Flins met him halfway. The second kiss was softer. No less meaningful, but steadier, like something that no longer needed to prove itself. It lingered just as warmly before they finally pulled apart, still close, still holding onto each other.

And this time, neither of them let go.