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Chapter Text

The halls of the fortress swallowed her footsteps, but Mystic Flour did not slow. Her snow-white hair streamed behind her, loose from its usual bindings, catching the faint glow of oil lamps like pale fire. Guards turned their heads as she passed, uncertain whether to bow or to bar her path, yet none dared step forward.

Her hands, usually folded in quiet composure, were curled tight at her sides. Each step echoed with something the castle had not yet seen from her—will.

The air was cold, carrying the faint scent of smoke from iron braziers set at the corridor’s corners, but heat rose in her chest, sharp and consuming. Every stone she passed seemed to press in upon her, reminders of months endured in silence. But tonight, silence had shattered.

Paper lanterns lined the walls, their light trembling with each draft of winter wind that seeped through the seams of the stone. For a moment her reflection flickered across their lacquered surfaces—hollow eyes, pale skin, snow white hair flowing wild around her shoulders—yet no longer a ghost.

Two guards flanked the massive doors to the throne room. They stiffened at her approach, halberds lowering in instinct.

“Your Majesty,” one began carefully, “the king—”

“—will see me,” Mystic Flour cut in, her voice low but edged like steel.

The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. She had been the quiet queen for only a handful of months; more ornament than partner. But the woman who now stood before them bore no trace of silence.

Her eyes narrowed, glacial but burning.

“Open the doors.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, as if compelled, the guards obeyed.

The heavy doors groaned as they swung wide, spilling the throne room’s pale glow into the hall. Mystic Flour stepped forward, her robes dragging against the stone like the stirrings of a storm, and for the first time since her arrival, she walked into the throne room not as a shadow—but as a wife who demanded to be seen.

The throne room yawned before her, vast and austere. Painted beams stretched overhead, their lacquered reds and blacks dulled by shadow, while carved dragons curled along the rafters, their eyes gleaming faintly in the lantern light. Every line of the chamber spoke of order, discipline, and unyielding stone.

The floor was polished granite, cold enough that her steps echoed like strikes against a drum. Low braziers glowed along the walls, their coals breathing out faint ribbons of smoke. The light was not warm—it clung to the room in a steady, pitiless glow, as though fire itself had been trained to obey the king’s will.

Tall latticed windows broke the walls, covered in mulberry paper that diffused the winter moonlight into pale sheets. No stars shone through, only that cold, unbroken silver, lending the room the feel of a tomb rather than a hall of rule.

At the far end, upon a dais of three carved steps, stood the throne. Its frame was dark wood, inlaid with patterns of clouds and mountains, yet its presence was more severe than splendid. There were no jewels, no gilded carvings, no silken drapes to soften it. The throne instilled reverence and awe even without elaborate ornaments or luxurious embellishments. It was not built to dazzle, but to endure—like the king himself.

To those who entered, it was more than a seat of power; it was a barrier, the last line of defense for Head Icon, the king whose resolution to protect his land was absolute. To stand before it was to be reminded that mercy was never promised here, only judgment.

And upon it sat Dark Cacao.

The king did not rise. His figure was cut from stone, broad shoulders draped in heavy robes, his crown set firm upon hair black as a raven’s wing. His hands rested against the arms of the throne, still as if carved into place. Only his eyes moved, lifting to meet her as the doors closed behind her with a hollow thud.

For months she had seen him only in ceremonies, across long tables where silence was her shield. But here—now—she came not as ornament, not as shadow, but as his wife.

But they were not alone.

Along the hall’s edges stood nobles and high officials, their silk robes whispering as they shifted, their jeweled hats glinting faintly in the firelight. Whispers trickled first, then sharpened like knives.

“She dares intrude unbidden.”

“Look how pale she is—like a spirit dragged from the snow.”

“A queen? No. An ornament misplaced.”

Laughter swelled, a cruel ripple that echoed in the cavernous hall.

Mystic Flour stopped at the center of the chamber, her white hair gleaming under the lantern light like threads of frost. She lifted her chin, her eyes sweeping across the hall—not hurried, not desperate, but with the still, cutting calm of someone who knew she need not shout to command silence.

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the air like a whip. The mocking died instantly.

She let the silence linger, then spoke again, her voice firm, unyielding:

“This chamber is not a marketplace for gossip. It is the heart of the kingdom. And I am its queen. If you cannot remember your place, then you have no place here at all.”

Her words struck with the weight of law. Ministers stiffened, some paling, others glancing toward the throne in nervous search of the king’s approval.

But she did not falter.

“Leave us.”

This time it was not a request—it was a decree.

The nobles bowed, robes rustling as they retreated in haste, the echo of their steps fleeing down the stone hall. Within moments, the vast chamber emptied. The only sound left was the steady hum of lantern flames.

Mystic Flour turned back toward the throne. Her hands did not tremble. Her pale gaze locked on Dark Cacao without wavering, her voice clear, sharp, and unafraid.

“My lord husband,” she said, her tone steady, burning through the cold.

“We must speak.”

For the first time, Dark Cacao’s eyes shifted—not in cold dismissal, but in acknowledgment. His gaze, heavy as stone, lingered on her longer than it had in months. His hand, resting on the carved arm of the throne, flexed slightly, as though her words had stirred something beneath the armor of habit and command.

“You come unbidden,” he said at last, his tone deep but measured, carrying no anger. “And yet you stand without trembling.”

It was not mockery. It was observation—surprise, veiled in formality.

She met his stare without faltering.

“I will not be silent while those sworn to your hall tear me apart with their tongues. If you will not defend me, then I will defend myself.”

Dark Cacao’s brow furrowed—not in displeasure, but in thought. Slowly, he leaned forward upon the throne, the lantern light carving shadows across the sharp planes of his face.

“Then speak,” he said, his voice low, steady, and unexpectedly attentive.

“I would hear what it is you demand of me, Mystic Flour.”

The chamber, once filled with ridicule, had become a space held by only two—the king who commanded legions, and the queen who, for the first time, commanded him to listen.

Mystic Flour’s footsteps echoed sharply against the stone floor as she approached the throne. Her snow-white hair caught the lantern glow, pale against the somber gray of the hall. She did not bow.

“Where is she?” her voice rang, cool yet edged with something rarely heard from her—impatience.

Dark Cacao’s eyes narrowed slightly, his tone as steady as a drawn blade. “You speak in riddles, wife. Of whom do you ask?”

Mystic Flour’s lips tightened.

“The girl who dared to speak when none else would,” she pressed. “The servant who stood in this very hall and bore shame upon her own back to shield mine. Where is she?”

Dark Cacao’s brow furrowed. For a moment, silence lingered, the weight of his discipline holding him still. Then, with the same unbending gravity, he replied

“A servant…? I do not know the name of every handmaid in this fortress.”

Mystic Flour’s composure cracked. Her voice, low but searing, struck across the chamber

“Cacao Butter.”

The name hung in the air like a thrown blade. Soldiers startled at the venom in her tone, so rare from the queen who so often cloaked herself in silence.

Dark Cacao finally shifted, his gaze hard upon her. Recognition dawned—not of the girl herself, but of the defiance she had shown. His voice remained flat, though the dismissal in it was clear:

“Ah. That one. The maid who spoke out of turn.”

He leaned back against the throne, its presence amplifying his judgment.

“She was sent away. Insolence cannot be tolerated within these walls, not even for your sake.”

Mystic Flour’s breath caught as though his words had struck her across the face. Sent away. The calm veneer she had carried for months shattered like porcelain dashed upon stone.

Her voice rose, trembling not with weakness but with fury.

“Sent away? For what crime? For speaking the truth your court is too afraid to utter?”

Mystic Flour’s snow-white hair swayed as she stepped forward, her eyes blazing, no longer the silent queen consigned to shadows.

“She was a child. Loyal. Honest. More noble in heart than those who bow and scrape before you. And because she spoke, because she dared to defend me—you cast her aside as though she were nothing”

Her hand clenched at her chest, silk whispering against her trembling fingers. The sound carried louder than it should have in the heavy silence.

“She was not nothing. She was the first soul in this place to treat me as more than an ornament chained to your throne.”

Dark Cacao’s eyes narrowed, his stern mask unshaken—but beneath it, surprise flickered. He had never heard her voice like this: unbridled, sharp, cutting through the hall like steel against stone.

At the vast throne room. Only husband and wife remained, the silence between them vibrating with a new, raw weight.

Mystic Flour stood tall, though her chest heaved, her snow-white hair wild in the lamplight. Her voice, now low but unshaken, cut through the stillness

“I will not forgive you for this. Not as king. Not as a husband.”

For a long moment, Dark Cacao did not move. The silence of the throne room pressed down, heavy as the mountains that walled their kingdom. He sat unmoving on the throne, broad shoulders squared, his expression as carved and unyielding as the stone beneath him.

But though his face remained still, something flickered in his eyes—something almost human. Surprise. Perhaps even… shame.

“You raise your voice at me,” he said at last, his tone deep and steady, though quieter than before. Not rebuke, but recognition.

Mystic Flour’s chest rose and fell sharply. “I raise it because you have not listened. Because you cannot even recall her name.” Her voice broke on the word, and she forced it back into steel. “Cacao Butter. That was her name. And she gave me what no crown, no title, no silence in this cold place ever did—dignity.”

Dark Cacao’s gaze dropped briefly, his brow furrowing. He remembered then. The maid who had dared to meet his eye, who had spoken too boldly of freedom and queenship. A child with more fire than restraint. He had dismissed her with a word, believing it a mercy compared to harsher punishment. To him, she was forgettable. To his queen, unforgettable.

His voice carried low, yet firm. “I did what I believed was necessary. Order cannot bend to sentiment. Discipline cannot make exceptions—not for servants. Not even for you.”

Mystic Flour’s jaw tightened. Her eyes glistened, not with weakness but with a fury that burned through resignation.

“Then you are a king with no heart. And I—” her voice caught, raw, breaking through years of silence— “I am a wife with nothing left to lose.”

The words hung between them, sharp as a blade drawn in the dark.

Dark Cacao leaned forward, muscles tense beneath his robes, his voice finally shifting—lower, quieter, almost strained.

“You think me as heartless?”

She did not answer. She only met his gaze, unflinching, her snow-white hair catching the lamplight like fire on ice.

For the first time in months, the king’s discipline wavered—not broken, but unsettled.

The hall was still. Only the lamps flickered, their glow painting harsh light over stone and silence. Dark Cacao’s gaze did not waver, though the weight of his wife’s words lingered between them.

At last, he drew a slow breath, deep as a mountain’s rumble.

“You ask for much, Mystic Flour,” he said, voice firm, edged with steel. “To demand the return of one who dared to raise her voice in my hall, to my face.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “I ask because she is not like the others. She has courage where your court has venom. She is the first in this castle who has shown me loyalty—not to the crown, but to me.”

His jaw tightened. For a long moment, his gaze dropped to the carved arms of his throne. When he spoke again, it was with the slow, deliberate weight of a man conceding, but not without condition.

“She may return. But hear me, wife—this will not be without terms.” His voice hardened, echoing against the chamber walls. “If you wish her at your side, she will serve under my command as well as yours. Her duties will be watched, her tongue tempered. And you…” His eyes narrowed, cutting through her pale stillness. “…you will not defy me again on her account. Not before the court. Not before my men.”

Mystic Flour’s breath caught, fury rising to meet his restraint. “You would leash me, as you would her?”

“I would remind you that my kingdom is not held by softness,” Dark Cacao said, the finality in his tone leaving little room for argument. “You wish to keep her, then you take my terms. If she serves, she serves both of us—and she will not shield you from the weight of being queen. That burden, you carry still.”

The words cut deep, yet for the first time in months, there was a spark of choice—fragile, dangerous, but real. He had not denied her outright. He had listened, measured, and offered a path.

It was not freedom. It was not kindness. But it was something—and Mystic Flour, who had long been given nothing, felt her pulse rise sharp in her throat.

Mystic Flour stood very still, her snow-white hair glinting in the lamplight like frost against stone. For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow. Then, at last, she inclined her head.

“Very well,” she said. Her voice was level, quiet, but it carried a weight that even the courtiers nearby could not mistake. “I accept your conditions.”

Dark Cacao’s gaze lingered on her, searching for weakness, for hesitation. He found none. With a curt nod, he leaned back against his throne, the matter—at least to him—settled.

But within her chest, something shifted.

She had lived these months wrapped in apathy, in silence, convincing herself that endurance was enough. That if she bore every slight and insult without protest, if she dulled herself to every wound, she could not be harmed further.

Yet Cacao Butter’s absence had torn through that shield. For the first time, she felt the truth like ice pressed to her skin: apathy did not protect—it only left others exposed in her place.

If she wished to keep the girl safe, if she wished to hold on to the fragile thread of loyalty that had been offered to her, then silence would no longer suffice.

Mystic Flour lowered her gaze, but not in defeat. Her hands tightened over the folds of her robe, and in the privacy of her own thoughts, a vow began to take shape.

If he who must bind me, then let its chains not reach the ones I would protect.

And for the first time in a long while, the queen felt something stir inside her chest—anger tempered into resolve, quiet but unyielding.

Mystic Flour lowered herself into a bow, her voice even and obedient.

“Thank you, my king,” she said. The words were smooth, courtly, the exact tone expected of a dutiful wife. “Your mercy is not forgotten.”

Dark Cacao inclined his head in acknowledgment, his stern expression softening only slightly. To him, her composure was a sign of respect. To the courtiers watching, it was the image of harmony.

But her lips concealed a truth he could not see. Behind them, sharp teeth pressed together hard enough to nick her tongue. A faint metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, swallowed down with her false gratitude.

Mercy, she thought bitterly. Mercy, when he had erased a child with a glance? Mercy, when her loyalty was expected, her silence demanded, her thanks compelled?

Her nails bit crescents into her palms, but her face never faltered. She looked serene, pale as snow, lips still curved with practiced composure. Only she knew that her fangs ached, itching to pierce flesh, to break the illusion of obedience with something raw and violent.

Instead, she raised her head, eyes cold, serene, unreadable. Her mask held perfectly. But within, she burned with hatred—so sharp, so quiet—that even her own teeth tasted of it.

This will be the last time, she promised herself. The last time I bow for his mercy.

.

.

.

The morning air in the courtyard was sharp with the scent of pine and cold stone. Flags along the walls stirred faintly in the breeze, and the soldiers at their posts stood stiff, their armor gleaming in pale daylight. Mystic Flour descended the steps with her usual measured calm, her snow-white hair catching the light like frost.

Yet beneath her composed steps, the chill gnawed. Even through her shoes, the stone seemed to bleed cold into her body, and every breath stung like needles drawn from the winter air. She despised it—this endless cold that clung to Dark Cacao’s kingdom, a reminder that no matter how still she stood, she was never at ease here.

She had not expected anyone waiting for her.

“Your Majesty!”

The cry tore across the courtyard, startling even the guards. Cacao Butter rushed forward from between the pillars, skirts snagging against the stone, her breath ragged from running. She collapsed at Mystic Flour’s feet, arms wrapping around her like a child who feared to be lost again. Tears streaked her face, unchecked and raw.

“I’m so sorry!” she gasped, clinging tightly. “I should not have spoken against him; I should not have drawn his anger—I only wished to protect you—please forgive me!”

The queen stood frozen, her sharp fangs pressing lightly into her lip, holding back the storm she would not show. Slowly, with a grace that silenced even the whispers from the courtyard walls, she bent and placed a hand on the girl’s trembling shoulder.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Mystic Flour said, her tone flat but steady. Outwardly, she was the picture of composure, but her hand lingered, grounding the girl who dared cry for her in a place where no one else ever had.

The courtyard shifted.

Dark Cacao had stepped closer, his presence filling the space like shadow and stone. The soldiers straightened as his boots rang against the flagstones. He came to stand beside his wife, his face impassive, gaze lingering briefly on Cacao Butter before settling on Mystic Flour.

He did not speak aloud.

Instead, he leaned down, the cold of his breath brushing her ear, his voice a low whisper only for her

“Remember our bargain, wife. She stays under your wing because you agreed to my terms. Break them—” his eyes flicked briefly to her fangs, “—and she will not see another dawn.”

Then, without waiting for her reply, Dark Cacao straightened and turned away. His cape swept across the stones as he strode from the courtyard, every line of his body rigid with command.

The guards exchanged wary glances, unsure if they had imagined the faint tension between king and queen. But their surprise was greater still when their queen—who was always a figure of distance and frost—did not push the girl away. Instead, Mystic Flour drew Cacao Butter close, cradling her against her side, as though shielding her from the cold world around them.

For many it was the first time many of them had ever seen her display tenderness.

Mystic Flour did not release Cacao Butter. She kept the girl in her arms, her expression calm and composed, though her chest burned with a fire none could see.

“Welcome back,” she said softly.

The words fell like snow in the still air, startling in their gentleness.

And for the first time, the queen’s cold exterior cracked—not for the king, nor the court, but for the trembling girl who wept in her arms.