Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 1874

Stolas was in a foul mood.

The carriage rocked gently beneath her, creaking with each subtle shift in the muddy road. Outside, the night stretched deep and cold beneath a bright moon. A full moon, too full, casting everything in silver, sharpening every branch and bush to something ghostlike. The road back to the palace was not a long one, but at this hour and in this cold, it felt unending.

Phoebe, her lady-in-waiting, sat across from her, ever the picture of patient discretion, though her lips twitched now and then with the obvious desire to fill the silence. She had already tried twice: once to remark the admirable decorations at supper and most recently, to compliment Stolas' choice of cloak.

It was a fine cloak. Ivory wool lined with rabbit-fur, clasped with a polished brooch. One of the few things she had chosen for herself tonight. Perhaps the only thing that had gone unchallenged. Beneath it she wore her winter travel dress: deep plum and high-necked. Her gloves were leather, as were her boots. Her hat sat untouched on the seat beside her; she couldn't bear its pressure on her head.

Stolas exhaled softly through her nose and let her gaze drop down to the leather satchel nestled beside her thigh. Inside lay the grimoire. Her grimoire. The only thing her mother had left behind. Stolas had grown up with it, spent the days as a young girl perched in the window seats of the library, poring over diagrams and notations, trying to piece together a language half-lost. Loving it. Understanding it. Holding it like a part of herself.

Until it was taken from her. The grimoire had passed into her husband's possession on the day they were wed.

"A symbol of our unity," he had said.

Stolas had quickly learned how many pretty phrases could be fashioned to conceal theft.

She rarely saw it now. It emerged only when Stellan wished to parade it before others or brandish it during negotiations. Tonight had been such an occasion, but Stellan had unexpectedly fallen ill. Nothing threatening, just enough to excuse himself from the journey. And so, Stolas had been sent in his stead, the satchel containing her grimoire placed in her arms with a smile that was more warning than warmth.

Stellan had held her cheek when he said: "Do not misplace it, darling."

Stolas had merely nodded with a practiced smile.

Now, Phoebe stirred and gently said, "You did very well tonight, I thought. Everyone seemed most impressed."

Stolas made no reply.

Phoebe faltered. "Perhaps next time His Highness will entrust you with—"

"I have no interest in his trust," Stolas murmured, cutting her off.

Silence fell again.

Then, quite suddenly, the whole carriage lurched hard to the left. Stolas' hand flew out to brace herself against the wooden wall.

Phoebe gasped, gripping the seat beneath her.

"What in the—"

Another jolt came, sharper this time. The horses shrieked, a sound so high and strange it split the air. Above them, the coachman shouted something Stolas couldn't make out.

She had only just looked to Phoebe when chaos struck.

The carriage tipped. Violently. Wood groaned and splintered as they were flung into the wall. Stolas heard her own cry, felt the jarring impact of her shoulder, her head. Phoebe crashed into the opposite bench with a thud and slumped still.

It was quiet for a moment, except for the deafening ringing in Stolas' ears.

She blinked rapidly, vision spinning, her body folded awkwardly against the side of the carriage. Something warm trickled down her cheek. She reached up and felt the sticky drag of blood.

Outside, the coachman screamed, no longer yelling commands, but making raw, panicked noises. The horses shrieked again and then, thundering hooves. Stolas could hear them bolt, the clatter of the harness breaking loose, leather snapping. Then the coachman again, this time farther off, running, abandoning the wreck behind him.

Phoebe was limp, but breathing. Stolas tried to reach for her, but her arms felt slow and distant, her limbs trembling with the aftershock.

She was alone.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Approaching the carriage, crunching softly over moist earth. Measured. Not running.

Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded.

God, save me.

The door above her creaked open.

A face appeared, backlit by the moon.

Sculpted cheekbones, damp dark curls clinging to her temples, one side of her face marked by jagged scarring. Her expression was hard, entirely unreadable.

A stranger—and yet, Stolas recognized her instantly.

"Blitzø?" she gasped.

It was her, she could tell. A memory surged up like tidewater. One day. One single day, many years ago, when they had both been just girls, sharing laughter like secrets.

But before Stolas could dip in deeper, Blitzø spoke up. "You weren't supposed to be in here."

"What?" Stolas said, but Blitzø didn't clarify. She only stared.

The way she looked down on Stolas felt strange. It wasn't the kind of gaze Stolas was used to. There was something beneath it she couldn't put a name to, something that made her skin crawl.

"Can you get up?" Blitzø asked.

Stolas tried, pushing weakly at the wall of the carriage. Pain sparked through her body. She winced and collapsed back onto her elbow.

"No."

Blitzø clearly hesitated for a moment.

But then she moved, ducking halfway into the carriage and reaching toward Stolas. She wore a long overcoat, worn but sturdy, and beneath it, trousers and gloves stained by dirt.

Her hands met Stolas'.

With one fluid movement, Blitzø pulled her up and out of the carriage. Stolas nearly fell, knees buckling, but Blitzø caught her swiftly, her arm wrapping around Stolas' back, her other hand rising to her cheek.

"Look at me," she said.

Stolas did.

Blitzø's face was even more striking up close. All sharp lines and shadowed planes. Her scars made her look fierce, but no less lovely. Her lips were slightly parted, breath visible in the chill. Her dark eyes roamed over Stolas' face like she was searching for something.

Blitzø shifted again. Before Stolas could ask what she was doing, she felt herself being lifted, arms scooping beneath her legs and back.

She made a soft sound of surprise, her hands clutching instinctively at Blitzo's coat. Her strength was astounding. Stolas tried to remember if she had seen her carry something heavy back at the circus.

Blitzø turned to walk, but Stolas twisted slightly in her arms. "Wait," she said. "My satchel."

Blitzø paused. Still holding Stolas with one arm, she reached into the carriage with the other and pulled the satchel free.

Only once she had it secured did she start down the road, carrying Stolas as though she weighed nothing at all.

Stolas let her head fall on Blitzø's shoulder. Her thoughts felt distant, soft around the edges. She should have been panicking, she knew. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and yet, somehow, she felt… safe.

She melted into the warmth of Blitzø's coat, the scent of smoke clinging to her, the steady sound of her boots on the path. And, perhaps more than anything else, the comfort of being held by someone who had once been her favorite and only friend.

So, she let her eyes close and trusted the night to carry her forward.

Stolas awoke to the sound of water.

It came in soft waves, a trickling rhythm that made her eyes flutter open all too gently. The first thing she noticed was the weight across her chest: not her cloak, but a blanket, coarse but warm. Her gloves and boots were gone. Her stockinged feet pressed against cool stone.

She exhaled, turning her head with care. The room was narrow, the light low, dimmed by a small oil lamp perched on a wooden shelf. A plain washroom, modestly kept. It wasn't luxury by any means, but it wasn't squalor either. The walls were plain and bare. A single towel hung from a hook. The floor looked as if it had been scrubbed fairly recently.

Blitzø stood beside an iron tub, sleeves rolled up to the elbows of a white blouse. Her red waistcoat clung snug to her back as she leaned forward, carefully pouring steaming water from a dented pot into the tub. Her gloves were off now, revealing patches of deep scars twisted across her knuckles and fingers, similar to the ones on her face. Her hair was still tied up, a few loose wisps curling around her neck. In the quiet, honeyed light, she looked… warm. Comfortable.

Beautiful. Absurdly so.

As if summoned by the thought, Blitzø turned. Something flickered across her face, too fleeting to name.

She set down the pot and closed the short distance between them. When she crouched before her, Stolas saw, again, how dark her eyes were. How bizarre.

"How are you feeling?" Blitzø asked.

Stolas hesitated, voice catching on her tongue before she gave the simplest answer: "Alive."

Blitzø gave a short nod, something between a smile and a grimace playing on her lips. "Let's keep it that way, then."

She reached up and for a foolish moment, Stolas thought she meant to brush a strand of hair from her face. Instead, Blitzø's fingers grazed her cheek with a featherlight touch.

"I cleaned your cut already. You should take a bath before you stiffen up too badly."

Stolas nodded. She sat up slowly, pushing the blanket aside, and reached for the wall to steady herself. The dizziness that had clouded her earlier seemed lighter now, but Blitzø extended a hand anyway, and Stolas took it.

Blitzø's palm was warm and steady. The spots of scar tissue brushed roughly against Stolas' softer skin. It wasn't an elegant hand, but it was real and alive. There was something grounding in that. Stolas found herself reluctant to let go.

Blitzø did, gently.

"I'll be right back," she said, then slipped out of the room without another word.

Alone, Stolas looked down at herself. Her travel dress had been loosened, just enough to slip free with little effort. She unfastened it and let it fall, folding it as best she could. Her corset, however, proved more stubborn. She fumbled at the laces, helplessly.

A small startled gasp escaped her when a set of fingers grazed her own. She hadn't even heard Blitzø return.

"Let me," Blitzø said quietly.

Stolas closed her eyes as Blitzø worked. She was used to Phoebe's efficient hands at her back. Blitzø's fingers were more tentative, each tug thoughtful. Stolas also remembered, unwelcome and sudden, the occasional nights Stellan would open her corset, rushed, impatient, driven by hunger. Blitzø's touch was different, and Stolas' skin burned beneath it.

When the final lace came loose, Blitzø stepped back at once. Stolas turned to thank her, but Blitzø's gaze was evasive, never quite settling on a spot.

"I put out a nightgown for you. Just there," she said, gesturing awkwardly. Her voice was hurried and thin. She exited the room before Stolas could say anything more.

Stolas frowned, then finished disrobing in solitude, removing chemise, drawers, stockings, until only her bare skin remained. She stepped into the tub, slowly, easing down into the water one aching muscle at a time.

The heat stole her breath at first. Then it soothed. Plain soap floated near her elbow, the scent simple and calming. As she sank deeper, her thoughts drifted. This place must be Blitzø's home. Stolas had never admitted it to anyone but the private pages of her diaries, but she had often wondered what had become of Blitzø after that one unforgettable day.

It must have been ten years ago, or perhaps eleven, when her family had visited the traveling circus, and Stolas had found herself captivated by one of the clowns: Blitzo. She had performed with a wild spirit. Her jokes and antics had made no one laugh quite like Stolas. After the show, Stolas had sought her out immediately, praising her marvelous talents.

She had felt a pang of sadness when it was time to leave, but it was short-lived. Back at the palace, a surprise had awaited her: Blitzo had been there, sent to spend the rest of the day by her side! It hadn't taken long for Stolas to learn that she actually preferred to be called Blitzø. The "Blitzo" persona had been part of the performance, a flourish her father had insisted on, along with presenting her as a boy. Stolas had found it absurd, but adjusted at once, delighted by the glimpse of the real girl behind the act.

Together they had run and laughed, told stories and played games, a secret world between two girls from very different lives. Blitzø had been completely unlike anyone Stolas had ever met, and she liked her very much. So much so, she had even shown Blitzø her grimoire and spoken softly about some of the wonders it could do.

That day was one of the dearest in Stolas' memory, but unfortunately, she had never seen Blitzø again after. The circus had moved on and so had their lives.

Stolas wondered if Blitzø remembered that day at all, if she remembered Stolas at all. Blitzø had saved her tonight, but she had shown no signs of recognition.

What had she even been doing all alone in the night, in the cold? And what had she meant with those chilling words: You weren't supposed to be in here? Stellan had been the one meant to be in the carriage, but how could Blitzø have known? And why did it matter that it had been Stolas instead of him?

Many questions swirled in her mind, but beneath the confusion lingered a warm curiosity. Stolas was determined to get answers, not only about this strange night, but about everything. Blitzø's story, where she had been all these years, and what chain of fate had brought them together again, now.

Finished with her bath, she pulled Blitzø's nightgown over her damp skin. It was rougher than what she was used to, but strangely comforting. The sleeves rode a little high on her arms and the bodice felt a touch too snug, her chest pressing gently against the fabric in a way that made her cheeks warm.

She searched for a mirror, eager to see her reflection, but the room was bare of one.

Odd.

Exiting the washroom, she stepped into a room that served, by the look of it, multiple purposes: a living space that was also a bedroom, with a simple iron bed pushed against the far wall, an old shelf tucked beside it, and a trunk at its foot. A small stove crackled faintly in the adjoining kitchen space, separated only by a slight change in flooring rather than any walls. There were two other doors, one she assumed to be the entrance, the other perhaps leading to a closet or another room entirely.

Blitzø stood by the stove, back turned, pouring hot water into a mug. The scent of chamomile hung in the air, earthy and familiar. When the washroom door clicked shut, she turned and her eyes found Stolas immediately, lingering for a beat too long. Then she gestured, a little awkwardly, toward the bed.

"You can sit, if you'd like."

Stolas inclined her head and did so, perching gently on the edge of the mattress. Blitzø followed a moment later, crossing the room with careful steps. She handed her the warm mug and then, without comment, picked up a folded blanket from the trunk and draped it softly around Stolas' shoulders.

Stolas looked up, touched by the kind gesture. "Thank you," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

Blitzø rubbed the back of her neck, then settled down beside her, leaving a respectful distance. "You're looking better. Not as pale anymore."

Stolas smiled faintly. "I feel better. I have your bath to thank for that."

"Glad to hear it," Blitzø huffed.

Stolas took a small sip of her tea, letting the warmth settle inside her. All her questions still thumped in her mind, but they tangled together now, impossible to separate. She didn't know where to begin.

She looked over, keeping her voice gentle. "Do you… know who I am?"

Blitzø blinked, a small furrow forming between her eyebrows. Then her lips twitched. "You?" she said. "Of course I know you, Princess Stolas of the Ars Goetia."

Stolas cringed, mortified. "Oh, no, I didn't mean it like... I was not trying to sound arrogant, I promise. I just wasn't sure if... well, it has been a long time, and I wasn't expecting you to—"

She cursed herself inwardly for rambling. It was the kind of thing her tutors had tried to train out of her, with limited success.

Mercifully, Blitzø held up a hand to interrupt her. "I know what you meant," she said, chuckling. "And yes. I remember you."

Stolas blinked. "You do?"

"Of course," Blitzø said.

"Oh." Stolas smiled nervously. She looked down into the mug, gathering herself, then asked, "Are you.. still with the circus then?"

Blitzø let out a snort and straightened up. "Oh, no. I kill people now."

Stolas nearly choked on her next sip. "Oh."

The alarm in her voice was small, but genuine. She shifted slightly on the bed, the blanket rustling around her shoulders. Her thoughts wandered briefly.

It seemed Blitzø had expected Stellan to be in the carriage. Had she meant to kill him?

"Should I be afraid?"

Blitzø tilted her head, mock-considering. "Well, seeing as I just saved you, l'd say not particularly."

That made Stolas laugh. A quiet, melodic sound she hadn't expected of herself. Blitzø seemed to take note, the glint in her eyes turning a shade warmer.

"I do alright," she added after a moment. "I have my own practice now."

Stolas tilted her head. "Practice?"

Blitzø made a vague gesture. "Business. Operation. Call it what you want."

Stolas smiled again, eyebrows lifting in awe. "That is quite impressive."

Blitzø gave a small shrug, as if trying to seem indifferent. "It brings bread on the table."

Stolas meant to ask something about the strange new life Blitzø lived, about her work and the people she... well, killed. But before the words could come, her gaze flickered to the shelf and froze.

Peeking out from behind a horse figurine was a cloth doll. Hand-stitched with button eyes and fraying yarn hair. It was the kind of thing that only a child could love, fiercely and without reason.

Stolas' breath caught.

"Do you have a child?"

Blitzø followed her gaze. Her expression shifted briefly, turning guarded, then rather tender. "Yes. I have a… daughter."

"A daughter," Stolas echoed.

Blitzø gave a small nod. "Her name's Loona."

"Like the moon," Stolas said softly.

The idea struck her like lightning. Blitzø with a daughter. Her own family. She must have a husband too, though Stolas didn't see a ring on her finger.

She hesitated, her voice coming out a little strained when she asked, "Did you choose the name, or her… father?"

Blitzø blinked at her. "Her father, I guess."

Something strange pooled low in Stolas' gut at the thought of Blitzø standing beside someone else, someone who shared her life, her home, her child. She didn't understand why.

"It is a beautiful name," she offered quietly, but honestly.

Blitzø snorted. "I'll let him know if I ever see him."

Stolas' heart dropped. Oh no, she thought. How awful. The father had abandoned Blitzø. She had been left to raise a child all on her own. Stolas couldn't imagine the weight she must carry with herself!

Upon seeing the concerned expression on Stolas' face, Blitzø suddenly laughed, loudly. "Stolas, I don't know the father. Or the mother, for what it's worth. Loona was here when I moved in a year ago. No one came back for her. So I kept her."

Stolas blushed, struck silent for a moment.

"That must be… difficult," she finally said. "Raising a child who has been left behind. To become her world, when no one else did."

Blitzø shrugged again. "We get along. Most of the time. And I got a kid without going through birth. That would have been exhausting."

She leaned back slightly, giving Stolas a sly grin. "Speaking of, when's your bundle of joy coming? You've been married, what, three years now? Isn't it about time?"

The question hit Stolas harder than she liked. Most people tiptoed around the subject, too polite or too afraid to ask. The only one who could match Blitzø's outspokenness was Stellan, which only made sense, because he was Stolas' husband.

She faltered. "Oh, I… well, it's, uh, it is not as easy as it… often seems." She laughed, too high, too quickly. "Which… I am not blaming my husband! He is not a fault. He is perfectly healthy and virile and capable in, uh, bed…"

Blitzø's eyebrows lifted. Stolas winced.

"The fault is mine. My physician said as much," she said. "But surely it will happen soon."

Blitzø looked at her for a long moment, head slightly tilted. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Stolas said quickly. "Everything is wonderful. My husband is… lovely. He is polite and attentive. He… always compliments me before guests, he ensures I am seated properly at the table, he never raises his voice in public unless absolutely necessary. Tonight he even entrusted me with—"

She stopped herself.

The grimoire.

Stellan's smile.

Do not misplace it, darling.

"My satchel," she gasped. "Where is it?"

Blitzø's face was pinched with concern. She rose almost at once and disappeared briefly across the room. Stolas sat very still until she returned with the satchel in hand. "Right here."

Stolas reached for it without delay, setting her mug down on the floor. Her fingers trembled slightly as she undid the clasp and opened the flap. Inside, nestled between the folds, was the grimoire, unharmed.

A breath escaped her in relief. Her shoulders sank. She hadn't even realized how rigid they had become.

"I cleaned it a little," Blitzø said. "The satchel. And your cloak, too. Got most of the dirt out. They were a mess."

Stolas blinked up at her. Blitzø stood close, her posture casual, but something in the way she said it tugged at her. Not boastful. Just... practical.

Stolas' hands remained clenched around the satchel's edges. "You... you did not have to do all that."

Blitzø only shrugged like it was nothing. Like any person would have done the same.

But no one had ever done such a thing for Stolas before.

She stared at Blitzø, lips parting. She couldn't quite find the words.

The girl she had once held dear—her friend, if only for a day—stood before her now. A stranger and yet not. A woman grown. And still... still marvelous, somehow. She had saved her from the wreckage. Taken her in. Offered warm water. Clothes. Tea. A place to sit. A place to rest. She had even cleaned her belongings.

"Thank you," Stolas said. "Thank you for everything. I don't... I don't know what I would have done if you had not—"

Her voice caught. Her vision blurred.

"Oh, dear," she murmured, raising a hand to her cheek in a futile attempt to stop the tears. But the motion only reopened the cut on her face and she winced as the sting returned, bright and sharp.

She pulled her hand away to find a smear of blood at her fingertips, warm and mixed with salt.

Blitzø swiftly disappeared, and Stolas froze. Had she upset her? Angered her? Had she finally made a complete fool of herself?

But just a moment later, Blitzø returned, a damp cloth in her hand now. She sat back down beside Stolas, closer this time, and took Stolas' stained hand in hers. She carefully dabbed at the blood, stiff but gentle. Her expression had shifted into something guarded once more.

When she was finished, she didn't let go.

She sat there, still holding Stolas' hand, not meeting her gaze. Then, slowly, she lifted Stolas' hand higher and higher, until her lips brushed the center of Stolas' palm.

Stolas froze.

The gesture was so strangely intimate, it knocked the air from her lungs. Stolas had been kissed on the hand more times than she could count, but never there, never like that. Certainly not by another woman.

Blitzø's lips were warm and soft against her skin, and for a brief, dizzy second, Stolas wondered how they might feel against her own. Like Stell—

Stop it.

She caught the thought like a flame in the wind, tried to cup it shut before it could take hold.

Her heartbeat thundered in her throat.

Blitzø lowered her hand, eyes finally lifting to meet hers. Something uncertain passed between them, something careful. Waiting.

What was happening?

Stolas ought to say something, right? Say something, do something, do something—

Without really thinking about it, she leaned closer at the same time Blitzø did, and their mouths met in a hush of heat. A kiss that wasn't exactly sure of itself, but still enough to tip Stolas' world off its axis.

Oh God.

Stolas broke away, eyes wide. "We can't—" she stammered. "You… I'm married."

"You don't sound very happy about it," Blitzø said plainly.

Shame struck Stolas like a slap.

"I shouldn't have—" She fumbled for the satchel in her lap, her fingers clumsy. She made a half-hearted motion to rise, the blanket slipping from her shoulders in the process, but she didn't stand. She couldn't. Where would she even go?

"I have said too much."

Blitzø shook her head. Her eyebrows were furrowed tightly. "You haven't said enough. I'm not an idiot, Stolas."

Stolas stared, unmoving.

She felt so bare.

Even more so than when she had stood entirely disrobed in Blitzø's washroom. This was worse, or perhaps simply more. Because it wasn't her body on display now. It was her.

She shook her head quickly. Her voice tumbled over itself. "They must be looking for me. My—my husband, he must be worried sick. He must be. He cares. In his own way. He—"

The tears came back faster than she could will them away. They spilled free, tracing the same path as before, stinging her cut anew. Blood mingled with them and began to drip in dark beads onto the sheets between them.

When Stolas noticed, she let out a quiet gasp. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I'm making a mess—"

"Hey." Blitzø reached for both of Stolas' hands, folding them gently between her own. "Look at me."

Stolas tried, but her vision swam.

"You're alright," Blitzø said. "You're alright."

She reached up to cradle Stolas' unscarred cheek, thumb tracing back and forth. She said nothing more, just held her. Let her cry. Let her break.

It didn't last very long, but it felt like a forever Stolas hadn't known she needed. Soon enough, sobs faded to shivers. Stolas blinked up at Blitzø with swollen, puffy eyes.

"Why?" she whispered.

Blitzø tilted her head. "Why what?"

"Why did you kiss me?"

Blitzø looked at her for a long moment, then said, "Because I wanted to."

Stolas inhaled sharply, sat with the simplicity of it.

Because she wanted to.

It felt impossible. To want something. To act on it. To do something for no other reason but your own heart.

Stolas had never been allowed such a thing. Her desires were things to be choked back. When they surfaced at all, she hid them away, buried them like she buried her face in Stellan's neck, drowning out the visions of hands she had never felt and mouths she had never kissed, of softness she wasn't supposed to crave.

Tonight had been a cascade of exceptions.

A fall through cracks.

Perhaps… she could allow herself one more. Allow her own desires to take charge.

Just for this night.

Stolas looked at Blitzø, her lashes still wet.

"I want you to kiss me again."

Blitzø's mouth curled around the edges. She leaned in once more, and this time, Stolas met her halfway.

She had never kissed like this before.

Her lips moved carefully at first, tentative, as though she might ruin it if she pushed too much or leaned the wrong way. Her breath caught with every shift of Blitzø's mouth against hers and she nearly pulled back again out of sheer nervousness.

But Blitzø didn't falter. She kissed like she knew exactly what she did, and in that steadiness, Stolas found a kind of courage. She trembled still, but her hands moved, shy but yearning, finding Blitzø's face, cradling it gently. Her lips parted with growing confidence, kissing her firmer.

Blitzø gave a soft, pleased sound. Her hands moved, tracing Stolas' jaw, then sliding to her neck. Her fingers splayed across the delicate column of Stolas' throat and just… rested there for a moment. The gesture was odd, but before Stolas could dwell on it, Blitzø's hands moved again, this time down to the buttons of Stolas' borrowed nightgown.

Stolas didn't even register her popping them open, one by one, until she felt the cool air brushing against her collarbone.

Blitzø's fingers were slow, reading her body's every flutter. By the time the last button was opened, Stolas was no longer thinking clearly. She had never been touched like this, not with so much indulgence.

The nightgown slipped loosely off her shoulders and it was Stolas who took the next step, taking the chance to be bold: she slid the sleeves down her arms and bared her chest.

Blitzø pulled back slightly, just far enough to see. And then she stared.

And stared.

And stared.

The silence stretched long enough for doubts to creep in Stolas' mind. Her stomach twisted. Of course. She had overstepped. She had misread. She had ruined it. Of course—

Very suddenly, Blitzø shuffled farther onto the bed, tugging Stolas along and pulling her in, up and over, directly into her lap.

Somehow, the nightgown was left behind in the shift of positions. Stolas let out a startled breath, her knees bracketing Blitzø's thigh, her bare skin brushing against clothing.

She was naked. Completely and utterly naked, straddling Blitzø like—

Like a horse.

Stolas almost laughed, almost said her joke aloud, but Blitzø's hands were on her again, steadying her hips, roaming her back, and Stolas liked it.

She knew she ought to feel ashamed, but she couldn't. Not with the way her skin burned from Blitzø's touch. She felt good like this. Upright. Seen. Stellan never allowed her to be in such a position.

Blitzø's hands moved up and cupped Stolas' breasts.

And oh, did Stolas like that. A soft gasp escaped her.

Blitzø's fingers were gentle, her palms warm. She bent forward and pressed her lips to Stolas' chest. She left several unhurried, open-mouthed kisses over her breasts, her breath hot on Stolas' skin.

Stolas looked down at her, dazed, her mouth parted. She could feel the ache blooming between her legs, could feel the wetness and—

God.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't believe this was happening, this was actually happening.

Blitzø's hands rested on her hips again, holding tightly. She guided Stolas down, down, down, until—

"Oh!"

The pressure between her legs met Blitzø's clothed thigh and her whole body responded. Her hands flew to Blitzø's shoulders, needing something to hold onto, something to brace against. Blitzø moved her again. Down. And down again.

There.

There it was again.

Stolas made a sound, a moan, and slapped a hand over her mouth, cheeks burning. Blitzø immediately reached up and eased her hand away.

"Don't do that," she whispered. "I want to hear you."

Stolas' lips parted around a breath. Then another moan slipped free, unburdened this time, as she ground down by herself. Her hips moved carefully at first, then with increasing confidence. She chased that friction, that blessed rhythm, grinding along Blitzø's thigh in purposeful, searching circles.

"It feels good," she gasped. "Oh, it feels really good, Blitzø—"

Blitzø kissed her again, and Stolas kissed back with abandon, wrapping her arms tight around Blitzø's neck. Her hips moved forward again and again. Each movement was a little more desperate, but also a little more certain.

"Oh my," Stolas gasped, rocking down hard, "fuck—"

The word tumbled out unbidden, but she didn't care right now. She didn't care at all.

She ground down faster, the pressure singing through her core. Blitzø continued kissing her, hands roaming everywhere, cupping her breasts, brushing her thumbs over her nipples, making Stolas whimper. Her hips stuttered but kept going, rocking and grinding, desperate to chase the unbearable, building need inside her.

Blitzø leaned forward and buried her face in Stolas' neck, kissing it, breathing it in.

It made Stolas dizzy.

Blitzø's mouth lingered right at her pulse point, hot and soft. Her thigh flexed beneath Stolas, helping her find her rhythm again. Every movement fed the heat coiling deep in her belly, pulling tighter, tighter, until—

Something snapped.

Pleasure hit her like a wave, staggering and hot and all-consuming. She cried out, voice ragged, her entire body trembling. Her hands scrambled for Blitzø, clutching tight. Her breath came in heaves. Somewhere in the blur of sensation, she felt the faintest graze of something sharp at her throat, but it barely registered.

She was too far gone.

She did notice the way her own body gave out afterward.

Limbs soft, breath shallow, she slumped against Blitzø, burying her face in the crook of her shoulder.

They stayed like that, tangled, heartbeats slowly settling into one rhythm.

Blitzø's hands never stopped moving, stroking her back, her thighs. When Stolas finally lifted her head again, she was still flushed to the collarbones, but there was fierce determination in her eyes. "Let me do you now," she said. "I want... please, let me—"

Blitzø smiled gently. "You don't have to, Stolas."

"No, I want to," Stolas insisted, leaning in to kiss her once. "You have done so much for me. I cannot just take without giving back—"

This time, Blitzø kissed her, long and slow. Then she whispered against her lips, "You did give me something."

Stolas frowned. "But—"

"You let go," Blitzø said. "You trusted me. That's enough."

Stolas' mouth parted, but no words came. Her mind tripped on the echo of old experiences: nights spent beneath her husband's weight, always performing, always enduring. She had learned to be still, to open her legs, to stifle sounds and needs of her own. That was what sex had meant. Not this. Not being given something without owing something back.

Her heart knocked hard against her ribs.

Blitzø eased her off her lap and gently coaxed her down onto the bed. "You're dead on your feet. Or, well, knees," she added with a crooked grin. "Lie down and rest."

Stolas wanted to argue. Wanted to protest. But the softness in Blitzø's voice and the tenderness in her touch disarmed her. And now that she was lying back, sore and still pulsing with pleasure, she could feel the weight of exhaustion creeping in, pulling her down.

Blitzø reached for the blanket and draped it gently over her. Then she lifted Stolas' hand again, pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

"It's alright," she murmured. "I promise."

Stolas exhaled slowly, her chest rising and falling with measured effort. Her eyes fell shut.

She stirred to the touch of fingers brushing her cheek.

"Stolas," came a voice, gentle and warm. "Stolas, wake up."

Her eyes opened, the world returning slowly. Blitzø's face hovered just above her own, soft in the dimness. Behind her, the window revealed the sky was still dark, mottled faintly by the silver glow of the full moon.

"We should get you home," Blitzø murmured, tucking a strand of Stolas' hair behind her ear. "They're already looking for you."

Stolas opened her mouth to ask how she knew, but Blitzø was already gone, her silhouette vanishing into the washroom with quiet swiftness.

Stolas sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. The cool air kissed her bare skin, raising bumps along her arms and legs. Her body, flushed from rest and intimacy, felt heavier than usual, but not unpleasantly so.

Her eyes found the nightgown still crumpled on the edge of the bed. Slowly, she rose to her feet and pulled it back over her body. The fabric fell in quiet folds, pooling at her ankles.

Blitzø was standing in the doorway now, arms full of Stolas' clothing, but she wasn't looking at what she carried. She was looking at Stolas. Staring. Unabashedly. Her cheeks bloomed with color when it became clear Stolas didn't intend to dress in her own things.

Not all of them, at least.

She stepped into her boots and reached for the cloak Blitzø had so kindly cleaned. She pulled it around her shoulders with a soft sigh. Then came the satchel, the gentle weight settling against her side. Blitzø had already begun dressing as well. When she was done, she extended a hand toward Stolas, and they went outside.

Blitzø's home appeared to sit at the edge of everything, just where the city gave out and the countryside began. The street was flanked by buildings long since emptied, windows dark and broken, doors boarded shut. Cobblestones faded into dirt paths. Trees loomed in the near distance and the fields beyond them were bathed in light shadow.

Stolas looked around with wide eyes. She had never seen this part of the city.

"It's so quiet," she whispered.

Blitzø looped their arms. "Best part of the day."

Stolas let herself be led down the sloping road. After a moment, she tilted her head and asked, "Do you know the way?"

"I do."

Stolas nearly asked more, but didn't. She simply let Blitzø steer them off the path and into the open dark, through the tall grasses and toward the edge of the woods.

Another question still sat heavy in her chest.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

Stolas gave a quiet laugh. "A proper question," she said. "Why did you expect my husband to be in the carriage? And what were you doing all alone on that road?"

Blitzø didn't answer right away.

Her grip tightened just slightly. She looked straight ahead, jaw set, the tip of her tongue pressing against her cheek.

"I wanted the book," she said eventually.

Stolas blinked. "The grimoire?"

Blitzø nodded. Stolas frowned, watching her face closely now. "What would you need it for?"

Blitzø's mouth twisted, like she was trying to decide how much to say. Her voice was careful when she replied, "I could use it for my work. It would… make things easier."

Stolas stayed quiet, turning her gaze toward the path ahead. The fields around them rippled with soft wind. A pair of owls called in the trees above.

Blitzø had told her she killed for a living. Assassination, done quietly, for coin. Why would she need her grimoire for that? A book bound in spells and ancient rites, pages inked in languages the Church had tried and failed to stamp out. A book of power.

"Who exactly do you… kill for, Blitzø?" Stolas asked gently.

Blitzø didn't respond to her question.

"I remembered it," she said, voice low. "The book. From when we were kids. That whole day… it was pretty hard to forget."

That made something warm twist inside Stolas. She shared the sentiment, of course. Even so, she couldn't help the flicker of frustration at the avoidance.

She wouldn't press further though, not tonight. But she would get to the truth eventually. She had to. There was no real surprise in the realization that Stolas didn't actually want their story to end with this night. She wanted to see Blitzø again. Desperately.

Just like the day they had shared over a decade ago, she was sure this night would linger in her memory for the rest of her life. Blitzø had cared for her, held her, touched her with such gentleness, without expectation or demand. Stolas liked her. Perhaps even more than she had back then. And now that Blitzø was back in her life, she didn't want to let go of her again.

As the terrain sloped closer to the palace outskirts, Blitzø grew more alert. She guided them away from the main roads, ducking into treelines, through low hedges and under brush. It wasn't the easiest path, but it kept them hidden, and soon enough, they began to hear distant voices. Guards calling out for Stolas.

Blitzø cut a sharper turn, pulling her closer, whispering directions.

They came at last to a service path, the palace rising in the near distance. The light of a torch flickered at a side entrance.

Stolas let go of Blitzø's arm.

She silently looked up at the stone walls of her home. The weight of it all began to settle on her shoulders again, of the world she was reentering.

It felt strange now. Distant.

She turned back to Blitzø.

"Will I see you again?"

Blitzø didn't say anything, but her face twisted. It was response enough to make Stolas' pulse race, her heart twinging.

She didn't want to lose Blitzø. Not again. Not after this dazzling night they had shared.

Her gaze lifted to the sky. The full moon hung bright above them, bold and round and watching.

And then it came to her.

Slowly, Stolas reached for the strap of her satchel and pulled it off her shoulder. Nerves twisted hard in her stomach as she draped it across Blitzø's frame.

Blitzø's eyes widened.

"Use it however you need," Stolas said. "I only ask you to bring it back to me… every full moon."

Blitzø stared at her like she had grown another set of eyes.

Then, without a word, she took Stolas' hand and lifted it to her lips once more.

Stolas barely remembered to glance around. She was too busy looking down at Blitzø, her heart singing now.

Reluctantly, she pulled away and turned to the door.

The latch opened with a soft click. Stolas slipped inside the palace, trading one darkness for another.

Chapter Text

"Blitzø, what the fuck."

Moxxie stood rigid by his kitchen desk, his eyes fixed on the grimoire Blitzø had just laid before him with the kind of caution one might reserve for a live grenade.

"You told me you wouldn't take it from her," he said, his hands splayed out at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them. He didn't even try to reach for the grimoire.

"I didn't take it," Blitzø retorted. "She gave it to me."

Moxxie blinked at her. "She… why would she do that?"

Well, that was the big question, wasn't it?

Blitzø's eyes drifted down to the grimoire.

She had been asking herself the same question since the moment Stolas had draped the satchel over her shoulders—so gently, like placing a crown. She had all but sprinted away then, half-afraid Stolas would call her back, demand the book returned, realize what a mistake her gesture had been.

But she hadn't. So, yes, why the fuck had she given it to her?

Blitzø hadn't lied to Stolas. She had planned to steal the book. She had outright confessed to attempted theft from royalty. An executable offense. And still, Stolas had given it to her. Willingly. With only one condition: return it to her every full moon.

Blitzø could guess what this was about: some kind of safeguard. A way for the princess to ensure her precious book wouldn't be lost to the gutters. Or maybe…

Maybe Stolas truly wanted to see Blitzø again.

Blitzø's jaw clenched. Truth was, she wanted to see Stolas again.

When she had sabotaged the carriage, she had expected to face Prince Stellan—not his quiet, kind, breathtaking wife.

She hadn't seen Stolas in person since they were girls, all limbs and laughter. Stolas had been pretty then, but now… she was something else entirely. After that one day, Blitzø had only ever seen her in portraits, and once, a photograph printed in some column. None of them could have prepared her for reality. Not for the curve of Stolas' mouth, the delicate glow of her eyes, the swell of her voice: poised at first, then stammering, stammering and moaning, writhering in Blitzø's lap.

God.

A flush crawled up Blitzø's neck at the memory.

Stolas had taken quite literal pleasure in their reunion. Perhaps that was all it was. Lust and lonliness. An ache for connection in the quiet of an obviously miserable marriage.

Moxxie gasped suddenly, snapping Blitzø out of her thoughts. "Oh my God," he said, scandalized. "Did you… bed her?"

Blitzø didn't respond, but something in her face must have shifted, because Moxxie's eyes bulged.

"Oh my God! You did! Was that the noise I heard? Blitzø, you nearly woke Loona!" He dragged his hands over his face. "Ugh! Are you out of your mind? She's married! She's a princess! How stupid—"

"Would you stop scolding me?" Blitzø muttered. "You're not my father."

"No," Moxxie said, flopping down dramatically into his chair and burying his face into his arms. "But clearly someone should be."

Blitzø slowly exhaled through her nose.

It was stupid, she knew that, but in her defense, she hadn't meant for any of it to happen the way it did. When she realized who she had injured, she hadn't exactly had a plan. She had just… acted. Told Moxxie to take Loona up to his apartment and brought the princess in.

At first, she had truly meant to do nothing more than tend to the damage she had inflicted. Basic decency (yes, she had some). But Stolas had made it… difficult. With her polite words and fumbling hands. With her laughs and tremors. Her blatant solitariness. Blitzø had seen it, recognized it. It had pulled at something inside her.

"It doesn't matter," Blitzø said. "We have the book now. We can use it. I just need to bring it back to her every full moon."

Moxxie looked up at her. "Every full moon? Why?"

"I don't know," Blitzø shrugged. "She's… odd."

Moxxie stared at her. Then, with a reluctant breath, he leaned forward and touched the grimoire for the first time, brushing the cover.

"Don't you think," he said quietly, "she might get in trouble for this?"

Blitzø hesitated, thinking back to how Stolas' voice had wavered when she spoke of Prince Stellan. How she had panicked when she thought she might have lost the grimoire.

A low creak interrupted Blitzø's thoughts. She turned and spotted Moxxie's bedroom door swinging open just a little.

Loona stood in the threshold, small and bleary-eyed, her silver hair sticking up in every direction. She rubbed at one eye with the back of her hand.

Blitzø's heart stuttered.

She had found Loona not unlike this. After the fire, Blitzø had fled from the ashes of the circus with blood in her mouth and grief like iron in her belly. This corner of the city had been her last refuge. Forgotten and abandoned. Just like little Loona.

Loona hadn't told her how long she had been alone, but she didn't have to. Blitzø saw it in her shivering. They had both been shoved into the abyss, and—much to her own suprise—Blitzø had cared. She had figured her heart might have changed after dying. Grown colder, emptier. But it hadn't. If anything, she had learned she could feel even more than before. She had felt so achingly sorry for Loona that night, and she still did.

There were rough patches sometimes. Days when Loona wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't even look at her. But none of it mattered. Blitzø loved her as if they shared blood, and taking care of Loona gave her something to fight for, at least. A reason not to walk out into daylight and burn again. Without return this time.

Loona padded over on bare feet, and Blitzø lowered herself into the nearest chair, arms open.

"Hey, pup. Why are you up?" she whispered as Loona climbed into her lap.

Loona just yawned and buried her face in Blitzø's shoulder. No reply. That was all right.

Blitzø rested her chin against the crown of Loona's head and rubbed her back in slow, absent circles. She stayed like that a long moment, watching the rise and fall of her breath.

Then she glanced over at Moxxie. "Start reading," she whispered. "Find the right spell."

It was the third night Moxxie spent hunched over the grimoire, his shoulders curled into themselves like the weight of the pages might finally fold him in half. Blitzø paced the length of her kitchen for what had to be the fiftieth time, boots clicking against the worn floorboards. She could hear the faint scratch of Moxxie's pen, and it grated on her nerves. She couldn't help him read or take notes, so all it did was remind her of her uselessness.

Her hands itched for something to do.

She crossed to the icebox in the corner, lifted the lid, and retrieved one of the small, thick glass bottles she kept stored there. The chill bit into her fingertips. She uncorked it and took a long, slow sip, letting the cold bloom in her chest, the taste heavy and metallic on her tongue.

It wasn't fresh. Wackford—the only mortician she could trust not to ask any questions—never gave her anything that recent, not unless she specifically requested it. Still, it was enough.

She leaned against the counter, staring out the kitchen window. Her own shape was absent in the glass. As always. The night beyond stretched open and endless, a deep dark tapestry stitched with fog.

She took another sip. The blood was strangely sweet tonight. Or maybe it was just her thoughts already starting to slip.

To Stolas.

The cut on her cheek had gleamed like gemstone—a shining thing waiting to be touched. Blitzø's instincts had all but screamed at her. Hunger had raked up her throat the moment the scent hit the air. Iron. Warmth. Softness. It had been there for the taking, served to Blitzø on a silver platter.

But Blitzø had a rule. Her only one, really: no drinking straight from the body. She clung to it like a sinner to scripture.

Stolas had been the first to make that discipline waver in the entire year since Blitzø had turned. Somehow, she had resisted, but it had been hard. It wasn't just the blood that had tempted her, it was Stolas herself. She had been glad to find that Stolas was still as sweet as she had been as a girl. She was curious and clever. Generous and gentle. A little strange, in a way that Blitzø liked.

Stolas was good, and it made Blitzø's stomach twist to think of her being punished for it.

Would her husband hurt her for misplacing a book? One that was hers to begin with?

Blitzø thought back to how Stolas had spoken of Prince Stellan: the smile that hadn't quite reached her eyes, the way her voice had trembled with her carefully chosen words. She hadn't painted him as cruel directly, but she hadn't needed to. Blitzø had put the pieces together by herself.

She knew the truth, didn't she?

Yes. He would hurt her.

She finished the bottle in a final pull and set it down harder than she meant to, the glass clinking sharp against the counter. She hissed through her teeth, mindful of Loona asleep in the next room.

Stolas wasn't expecting her for weeks. The next full moon was still nearly a month away, but the thought of waiting that long, unaware of the consequences Stolas might have suffered, made her heart twinge.

When she slipped into her coat, Moxxie looked up from the book, eyebrows furrowed. "What are you—"

She was already out the door.

The path to the palace was second nature by now, memorized bone-deep. She had walked it many times, night after night, learning it in silence. Planning the theft had required obsession. She had charted Prince Stellan's schedule with precision to calculate the right moment to strike. She had learned where he walked and when. His carriage routes. His dining hours. His place of rest.

She climbed the wall to the bedchambers and pulled herself onto the balcony rail. The first room was dim. Prince Stellan was slumped in a wide chair, one hand draped over the armrest, a glass barely hanging from his fingers. His head lolled to the side, jaw slack in sleep.

Blitzø scowled and turned away.

She moved on, her feet ghosting across stone, searching window by window until a faint golden hue caught her eye.

There she was.

The princess sat at a vanity. Blitzø couldn't see her face, only the angle of her neck, the sweep of her loosened gray hair. The sleeves of her nightgown fell away from her shoulders in soft folds. A bowl of rosewater glinted faintly beside her.

There was something unspeakably intimate about the scene. Nearly too peaceful to intrude.

But Blitzø's hand moved before she even thought about it.

She knocked gently against the glass.

Stolas looked up, but in the mirror, her eyes met only the outline of the balcony. No reflection. Of course. Blitzø winced as a frown settled on Stolas' face. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Stolas turned, slowly, toward the source of the knock—and her face lit up like sunrise.

She rose at once, no hint of hesitation in her limbs, and after a few short steps, the balcony door opened with a soft click.

"Blitzø!" she said. "Oh, please, come in. Are you cold? Would you like some tea? Or something sweet? There is honey cake left from supper, I think…"

Her voice, bright and bubbling, blurred into the background. Blitzø wasn't listening, not really. Not when her attention was fixed on something else entirely.

The bruise bloomed like dusk across Stolas' cheekbone, an ugly violet thing barely beginning to fade. The cut was still there too, faint and healing, but the skin around it was puffed and tender-looking now.

Blitzø's stomach turned.

"Your face…" she said.

Stolas' cheer faltered, the light in her voice dimming just a little. "Ah, yes. Stellan was not particularly pleased to learn I had… lost the grimoire."

Blitzø's hands balled at her sides.

She wanted the book. She really did. She needed it to unlock something bigger, something beyond what she had now.

But if this was the cost? Stolas bleeding for it?

Stolas hadn't fucking lost the book. She had given it away. To a thief.

Somehow, it wasn't just Blitzø holding the knife. It was both of them.

She could give it back. She should give it back. Bury the plan, pretend none of it had ever taken root in her mind.

The idea made her chest twist.

She didn't know what to do.

Stolas seemed to sense her inner turmoil—of course, she did—and slipped her hand into Blitzø's.

"Come," she said, gently tugging. "Sit with me."

They crossed the room, and Blitzø followed her down onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath them, softer than anything Blitzø had lain on… ever, really.

Stolas' thumb brushed lightly along her knuckles. "It is not the first time this has happened," she said, and though her voice was steady, there was something frayed at the edge of it. "And it won't be the last. But I do not want this to get to you. Stellan is careless with the grimoire. He does not understand it. If someone else must hold it, I want it to be you."

Blitzø stared. The words didn't fit together in her head. "…Why?"

Stolas remained quiet for a moment, then said, "Because you are my friend."

But he's your husband.

Blitzø's mind reeled. Why take the pain? Why not demand the book back, send Blitzø to the gallows and life go back to polished, golden normal?

Why choose the bruise?

She didn't get it.

Once again, Stolas seemed to find the words when Blitzø couldn't.

"These are my private chambers," she said, glancing around the room. "When he is truly angry with me, he does not wish to speak with me. Or even see me. So he sends me here until he is composed again. He frames it as punishment, but I think of it more as a small mercy. I like the peace and quiet I get from him here."

She laughed softly, and Blitzø's fury dulled just slightly at the sound of it. Her resilience felt absurd. How did she manage to sound so light?

Their hands were still loosely intertwined. Blitzø tightened her hold with purpose now.

Stolas deserved to know. At the very least, she deserved to understand what Blitzø meant to do with her book.

"I kill people," she said plainly.

Stolas tilted her head. "You have said so already."

"Yes, but…" Blitzø inhaled sharply. "Right now… it's just here. In this world. Me and my friend, we've been running jobs for a few months now, enough to scrape by, keep food in the pantry, but it's… small. Local. Limited."

She hesitated, then pressed on, "There's a spell in your book. One that opens doors. I want to use it. There's an entire world below ours, full of people who can't let go, who are furious with people in our realm. They are desperate for justice. Practically lining up to pay someone like me to settle their scores."

She paused to take a deep breath. Her thoughts were racing.

"If I could get my foot in there? Build something on that? We'd be set. The kind of business that could actually last."

"Blitzø," Stolas said softly. "Are you talking about… Hell?"

Blitzø nodded, suddenly conscious of how tight her grip on Stolas' hand had become. She didn't let go.

The silence that followed was long. Not cold, just… still. Stolas' eyebrows drew together.

"How did you think of that?"

Blitzø blinked. "I… uh. My friend, Moxxie, he's dealt with the dead before. He's got a… wild past. He told me all about it. And then, one day, I remembered your book, and it just… clicked."

Stolas was quiet again, but she was watching Blitzø with a strange softness. Then she smiled.

"You are quite creative."

Blitzø flushed immediately, eyes darting away. "I… well. I guess, maybe. But only because I met you. Back then. You opened my head up to things I never would've thought about. You—"

She faltered, blinking. Then, with a soft huff of disbelief: "You are weirdly calm about this."

"Should I be panicking?"

"I mean, I just told you I want to contact Hell," Blitzø said. "That's a bit… unusual."

Stolas chuckled. "I suppose I have just… always been surrounded by unusual things. The grimoire was in my possession before I could even read. I once held a funeral for one of my dolls and used chants from it."

"A full ritual, huh?" Blitzø snorted.

"Yes," Stolas said firmly. "She died heroically in battle and was laid to rest with honor."

"You're so odd," Blitzø laughed, startled and real. Something loosened inside her, a hinge rusted open by the absurdity of Stolas' softness. She wondered if she could just… say it. All of it. Tell Stolas what she was, truly. If anyone would understand, wouldn't it be her?

She was handling all of this like it was nothing. Stolas was odd and calm and bright and unafraid, and Blitzø, for just a second, let herself believe it could be easy.

But what if it wasn't?

The question slithered through her like cold smoke.

What if it wasn't? What if the laugh faded? What if the calm cracked? What if Blitzø said one wrong word and all of this turned to ash?

She couldn't bear it.

So she swallowed the thought back down.

Stolas was smiling bigger now, leaning just a little closer.

"I am glad you are here," she said. "Truly. I have thought about that day we spent together a lot over the years. It is one of my most cherished memories."

Blitzø's heart jumped painfully against her ribs. "Same," she managed. "Yes. Same."

"I never really fit with the other girls at court," Stolas went on. "They thought me too dull, or too curious, or too strange. I did not like them either, but... I suppose I let them get to me. After a while, I started to believe the things they said. I started to dislike myself."

She paused and looked down at their hands. "I never feel that way with you. Not back then, not now. You make me feel like I can just… be me. I do not have to hide from you."

I'm hiding from you.

"Good," Blitzø said, before she could spiral. "That's good. You should get to be yourself. Say what you want to. Feel what you feel."

Stolas opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

"Blitzø," she said, breath catching slightly, "may I kiss you again?"

Blitzø swallowed and nodded, probably too fast.

Stolas leaned in and pressed their mouths together, soft at first, then deeper. Her hands framed Blitzø's face, thumbs brushing along her jaw. Blitzø melted into the kiss, hands rising to catch Stolas' wrists.

Her pulse fluttered beneath Blitzø's fingers. Warm, alive, and calling. Blitzø's whole body responded. Singing.

It would be easy to slide down, press her lips to that elegant neck, kiss it innocently like she had before—and then stay there. Tighten her hold. Just a little. Sink in. Let go, let go, let go—

No.

Blitzø jerked back. Too abrupt. Stolas pulled back, eyes wide with worry.

"Did I… do something wrong?" she asked.

Blitzø shook her head. No, she wanted to say. I did.

She forced another shake of her head and took Stolas' hands in her own again. She kissed her, slow and soft and far more chaste this time.

When they parted, she whispered, "No. You're good. This—this feels really nice."

But even as she said it, her fingertips still pulsed with phantom echoes of Stolas' heartbeat.

Chapter Text

October 1874

Stolas lay perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the slow, steady rise of Stellan's chest. The fire in the hearth had long since dimmed to embers, and their faint flicker mingled with the full moon's light. She watched her husband sleep as if studying a wild creature, uncertain whether it might wake or strike.

It had been thirty minutes now. Likely more. Long enough, surely.

Carefully, slowly, Stolas slid out from beneath the covers. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet.

She didn't light a candle for the way. She didn't dare. The glow of the embers and moonlight would have to suffice.

Even now, in the hush of midnight, her body moved with the deference of someone accustomed to shrinking. By the time she reached her private chambers and closed the door behind her, she let out a long, heavy exhale.

She moved quickly. She had done this in her mind a dozen times. Her nightgown slipped from her shoulders and pooled soundlessly to the floor.

The riding outfit was still laid out precisely where she had left it earlier: a white blouse, a burgundy bodice jacket, and folded at the bottom, a pair of dark woolen trousers.

She paused.

Stolas had worn trousers before, when she was very young. Long after midnight, long before marriage. But this was different.

This time, someone would see her.

Her fingers brushed the fabric. They were neatly tailored, not scandalous by any means. Still, she hesitated.

What if she was making a fool of herself?

Stolas had felt rather clever when the idea first came to her: horseback riding. Just the two of them—well, and the horse. A way to show Blitzø she had listened, that she remembered, that she cared.

She thought back to that day, all those years ago, when the two of them had crouched side by side at the paddock fence. Blitzø had clung to the rails, eyes shining, naming each horse as it trotted past. Not their real names, but ones of her own invention: Needle, Biscuit Queen, Kaboom, and many more. She had made up little stories for them too, imagining secret love stories and rivalries. Stolas had listened with rapt attention, though she hadn't understood half of it.

Nontheless, she had stored the memory like a pressed flower, but as Blitzø's arrival approached, it wilted under doubt. What if Blitzø had outgrown this love? What if she thought it was childish? What if she looked at Stolas—dressed like this—and laughed?

No, she thought, swallowing hard. Blitzø is not like that. Even if the gesture fell flat, she wouldn't be cruel.

She buttoned the trousers, fastened her jacket. Then she stepped before the tall mirror, her hands clasped at her waist.

The figure staring back at her looked oddly… sharp. Striking. The lines of the jacket made her shoulders seem stronger, and the trousers gave her the legs of a soldier. Her hair was down, falling past her shoulders in soft, silvery waves. Her face was bare, free of powder or paint.

She looked less like porcelain.

She liked it.

So much so, in fact, that she didn't hear the balcony door creak open behind her.

"Stolas?"

She startled. Her eyes flicked to the mirror.

There was no one.

It was the second time this had happened: Blitzø's voice with no reflection to match. Stolas' eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

She turned around, and there she was.

Blitzø stood framed in moonlight like something half-wild. Her coat was dark, her trousers plain, boots worn but clean. Her hair was pinned up and slightly tousled, giving her that odd charm.

Her eyes were locked onto Stolas' trousers like a dog's on a bone. She blinked once, then again. Her gaze lingered there, shameless and stunned, before finally drifting upward to meet Stolas' face.

A slow grin curled at her mouth. She pointed to her own trousers. "We match."

Stolas laughed, a little flustered. Her hands fidgeted against one another, thumb rubbing the edge of her knuckles. "So we do."

Blitzø smiled wider and stepped forward. Her boots didn't make a sound. "To what do I owe the honor of this vision?"

Stolas took a deep breath. She stepped closer too, chin lifted, though her heart thundered beneath her blouse.

"Well, you have done so many kind things for me," she said. "It felt only fair to return the gesture."

Blitzø tilted her head, eyes gleaming with amusement now. "So your pretty figure in those snug pants is my reward?"

Stolas' cheeks heated up, but she laughed. "It is part of it."

Then she held out her hand.

"Do you trust me?"

Blitzø looked at her for a long moment, her expression melting into something quieter, before taking her hand, firm and warm.

"I do."

Stolas tugged Blitzø along as they exited her chambers and moved through the halls. With cautious steps, she led them down a small staircase hidden behind a curtain, one rarely used except by servants.

When they slipped through the narrow door that led out onto the grounds, the sudden expanse of moonlight made her blink. A soft breeze brushed their cheeks as they walked between hedgerows and rose arches, the stable rising in the near distance.

A guard sat slumped against the outer wall, rifle laid lazily across his lap, mouth open in sleep. Stolas held her breath and raised her hand to pause Blitzø.

They waited.

Nothing.

He remained asleep.

Satisfied, Stolas pressed on, Blitzø following light-footed. Just as Stolas reached for the stable door, a low whinny echoed from within. The sound was louder than it had any right to be.

Both women froze.

The guard stirred, smacked his lips, shifted in his seat. Then settled.

Stolas exhaled, elated, and opened the door fully. She motioned for Blitzø to follow. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of hay and leather.

Her heart thumped as she shut the door. Her plan was working. So far.

She turned and found Blitzø already halfway down the row, standing before one of the larger mares. Her expression was lit from within—something almost childlike had overtaken her: eyes wide, mouth parted slightly, fingers hovering just over the stall door.

Stolas' nerves faded like fog in the morning sun.

"I take it," she said, stepping closer, "you still like horses?"

Blitzø's head whipped around. Her expression was all question marks.

"I only ask because… I remember," Stolas said softly. "Back then, you were so animated, clinging to the paddock fence. You named all the horses as they passed and made up little stories for them, too. And at the circus, you had that same look when you were performing with them. I suppose I hoped your love for them had not changed."

Blitzø huffed a quiet laugh, a blush blooming across her face. "Yes. That does sound like me."

She turned back to the horse, reached out, palm open and steady. The animal sniffed, then nudged its nose into Blitzø's hand. "I don't really miss the circus," she said. "But the horses… they were incredible."

Stolas' curiosity stirred. How could she not miss the circus, when she had seemed so vibrant within it? But before she could ask, the horse nudged Blitzø's arm with a soft nibble, and Blitzø laughed, bright and surprised. Stolas laughed too, her hand rising unconsciously to her mouth as she watched her.

The question could wait.

"So," she began gently. "I thought perhaps we could go for a ride. You and I."

Blitzø turned sharply, her eyes widening impossibly further. "Are you serious?"

Stolas nodded. "If you would like to."

Blitzø let out something between a scoff and a squeal. "Abso—fucking—lutely," she said, turning back to the horse. "I'm taking this one! Look at those legs. And that mane. She's a beauty!"

She looked back over her shoulder. "What about you? Which one's yours?"

Stolas hesitated. "This one as well."

Blitzø tilted her head.

"I, uh…" Stolas cleared her throat. "I do not actually know how to ride. I—"

"What?"

The interruption startled Stolas a little.

Blitzø's face was a blend of disbelief and delight. "You don't… but you're a princess!"

"I am," Stolas said dryly.

"Isn't it, like… mandatory?"

"Well, they suggested I learn," Stolas admitted. "But I was never particularly interested. I preferred my books, or watching the stars, or helping in the gardens."

"Ah," Blitzø said. "So you're using me for your first lesson?"

Stolas opened her mouth at once, heart skipping. "Oh, no. I didn't mean—"

But Blitzø was already laughing. "Calm down, Stols. I'm joking."

Stolas closed her mouth again, relief surging within her. Blitzø opened the stall gate and began fastening the bridle, her movements confident and practiced. Stolas joined her, copying where she could, adjusting the saddle with slightly unsure fingers. Blitzø offered her quiet guidance and the occasional teasing remark, but never made her feel foolish.

Soon, they were leading the horse outside, the door creaking just enough to make them both flinch, but the guard remained blissfully unaware.

Once they were far enough from the stables, Blitzø stopped and patted the saddle. "Alright. Up you go, Princess."

Stolas gave her a flat look.

Blitzø grinned from ear to ear. "Step here," she said, pointing to the stirrup. "I'll help you."

Stolas obeyed, gripping the saddle as she swung her leg over. Blitzø's hands were firm at her waist, and in one unexpectedly fluid motion, she was seated.

"Hold on," Blitzø said, then she mounted behind her. Her arms came around briefly, adjusting Stolas' hands on the reins. Her voice was close to her ear. "Sit straight. Legs close to the sides. You're doing great."

Stolas glanced back and found Blitzø already looking at her.

Their faces were closer than she had expected. Their bodies even more so. Warmth radiated from behind her, and she was acutely aware of Blitzø's legs pressed alongside her own, her hands still near her waist.

Blitzø smiled, and it made Stolas smile back.

Then, together, they nudged the horse forward and disappeared into the night.

"So, uh, are we still on princess property?" Blitzø asked.

They were trotting slowly through a quiet grove. Leaves rustled gently overhead, and in the hush of it all, Stolas could hear the distant gurgle of a stream. She was warm with Blitzø sat snug behind her, steady and real. Stolas could feel the curve of Blitzø's arm braced lightly near her hip, the occasional press of a knee or a gentle release of breath. It was not a closeness she had ever known, but she did not shrink away from it.

Stolas chuckled. "I'm not entirely sure, actually."

"Do you sneak off like this often?"

"No," Stolas said. "Not this far."

A dramatic hiss sounded right by her ear. "Shit, I'm a bad influence."

Stolas laughed again, shaking her head. "How could you be a bad influence… when you make me feel so free?"

She leaned back a little more. It was a soft shift, barely perceptible, but she felt it when Blitzø tensed. Only for a heartbeat. But then came the press of a kiss, featherlight against her shoulder, and a soft sigh followed.

Stolas closed her eyes for a moment.

"Three years ago or so," Blitzo said eventually, "I was helping set up some tents, when Fizz—my, uh, friend—came running, gushing about the beautiful wedding of Princess Stolas and Prince Stellan."

Stolas gulped. Her skin prickled at the mention of her husband.

"Soon enough, everyone was talking about it. They said it was a grand love story. That you were made for each other," Blitzø continued. "Was it… ever true?"

Stolas' throat closed around the truth.

She had heard people say those things too, of course. Many of them had said them straight to her face, as if to make sure they really stuck with her. Their words had always rung hallow. Just noise. Just lies. She had learned to tune them out.

Her eyes remained on the path ahead when she said, "I remember the day I was promised to him. It was summer morning. August. Warm and clear. I had just finished breakfast when they sat me down and said they had found a match. A confident young boy. A marquis' heir."

She swallowed. The memory was somehow hazy and sharp at once.

"I had always known it would happen someday, but I had dreaded every day. They showed me his portraits, told me stories. And… I didn't like any of it. I didn't want it. But I was in no position to refuse. And, unfortunately, the wild tales about him turned out to be rather accurate."

Blitzø remained silent, but she lightly settled her chin on Stolas' shoulder.

"He is… very charming in public. He knows how to present himself. But behind closed doors, that charm vanishes. He—" Her voice faltered. She tried again. "He is not kind or patient. He lies, he isolates. He makes you feel like you're at fault, even when you're not. Especially when you're not."

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"But that's just how it is."

Silence fell upon them, thick and heavy like snow.

Stolas cleared her throat and tried to smile. "You see, I cried so much that day they told me, they took me to see the circus in town. An attempt to cheer me up."

She glanced back at Blitzø. "Which it did."

Blitzø's face was difficult to read. Her eyebrows were drawn, lips parted as if to speak. Something shimmered in her eyes. Stolas watched her for a moment and eventually settled on calling the expression what it was: sad.

They rounded a small bend, and through the thinning trees, a glimmer of water appeared.

"There," Stolas said softly, pointing. "Shall we stop for a moment?"

Blitzø nodded and brought the horse to a halt. She dismounted first, then offered her hands to help Stolas down.

Once she was steady on the ground, Blitzø tied the reins loosely to a nearby tree. The horse began to graze.

Stolas hovered awkwardly a few steps away, arms crossed over her middle. The night air was cooler now that they were no longer moving and close, and her mind was louder too. Had she said too much? She had peeled herself open so carelessly, handed Blitzø pieces of her past without pausing to ask if she wanted to carry them.

"The circus burned down," Blitzø said suddenly.

Stolas' gaze snapped up. "…What?"

"Last year. It burned down."

"Oh," Stolas said. "Blitzø, I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

Blitzø didn't meet her eyes, looking out over the lake instead. Her profile was sharp in the moonlight, beautiful in that haunted sort of way.

"It was really bad. There were a lot of… casualties. I've kind of been on my own since. Well, I've got Loona and Moxxie, of course. But my family…" She trailed off. "I haven't spoken to them since, and I doubt I ever will again."

She finally looked to Stolas, her eyes glinting. "On the other hand, I didn't think I would ever talk to you again either. And here we are."

Stolas released a harsh breath. "God, Blitzø. I'm really sorry. I cannot imagine your pain."

Blitzø smiled faintly. "And I can't imagine yours. The point is… I do understand that disappointment. That ache when things don't look like they were supposed to."

Stolas didn't know what to say. She, who lived by books and language, suddenly had no words at all.

She turned away when a familiar ache gathered behind her eyes. Her lips drew into a soft pout. It was awful, what Blitzø had endured. But it was also… strangely precious to share this space. This grief of what could have been.

Love. A family.

Her gaze settled on the lake. The moonlight caught in ripples on its surface, casting pale, silvery ribbons that swayed with the water's gentle movements. Somewhere in the reeds, a frog croaked once, then went still again.

A stone shifted beneath her foot. She looked down to find a small scatter of them nestled at the edge of the shore. She nudged one gently with the tip of her boot. It teetered once, twice, then dropped with a muted plop into the water.

Behind her, the horse snorted at the same time.

Stolas turned and found Blitzø watching it too, her head tilted. The mare was tugging her reins taut, reaching down, lips twitching around a small patch of stones near the tree where she had been tied.

"No," Stolas said softly. "You cannot eat those."

The horse, quite unbothered, continued trying.

"I said no," Stolas insisted, more sternly this time, "that is not food."

The horse's ears flattened in annoyance.

Blitzø let out a strange noise, half-laugh, half-snort. When Stolas glanced her way, she was shaking her head, barely containing herself.

"What?" Stolas asked.

"It's just… you're really arguing with a horse?"

"I'm not—" Stolas began. She frowned. "I'm trying to help."

"Well, she clearly isn't listening," Blitzø said, grinning. "You should have stuck your nose out of those books and into the stable once in a while. Might've learned how reality works."

Stolas gave a scandalized little gasp. "I am very well acquainted with reality, thank you."

"Are you?" Blitzø said, taking a few steps closer. "Let's test that."

She reached out and poked Stolas in the side.

Stolas startled back, eyes wide. "Blitzø!"

Blitzø's grin sharpened. She poked Stolas again.

"Stop it!"

Poke.

"I said stop!"

The protest broke on a laugh. Blitzø's fingers danced expertly at Stolas' waist and ribs in more of a tickle now. It wasn't fair how fast Stolas' body betrayed her. Her legs nearly gave out with the effort of squirming away.

"Come on, Princess," Blitzø challenged. "If you're so clever, surely you can make me stop."

Stolas twisted, still laughing, trying desperately to bat her hands away. Her voice was high with breathless indignation, her cheeks flushed. "This is undignified!"

She didn't notice how close they had edged toward the lake until her heel caught on a wet patch of grass.

And suddenly, she was falling.

The lake wasn't so deep, but it was hellish dark and cold. Her hair clung to her face, her soaked clothes dragged heavy against her skin as she surfaced with a broken gasp.

Blitzø was frozen in place, lips still curled from the laughter. "Are you good?"

Stolas blinked up at her, blinking water from her lashes.

Then a spark lit in her eyes.

"I can't—," she sputtered. "I can't swim. I—"

The look on Blitzø's face changed instantly. Her coat hit the ground in a heartbeat. "Fuck, hold on!"

Blitzø dove in, slicing into the lake with a clean motion. Stolas only had a second to admire the form of it before Blitzø reached her.

With a wicked grin, Stolas seized her by the shoulders and shoved her under.

Blitzø surfaced just a moment later, coughing loudly. "You little brat!" she yelled, but her smile gave her amusement away.

"Did you really think I couldn't swim?" Stolas laughed.

"You can't ride a horse!" Blitzø shot back. "Why would I trust you with swimming?!"

And then she pounced.

Water flew in all directions. Stolas shrieked as Blitzø grabbed at her again, and the two of them dissolved into another chaotic flurry of limbs and splashes. They wrestled and slipped beneath the surface, came up coughing and laughing, flung water and lakeweed with equal enthusiasm. The sound of it, their joy, their recklessness, echoed through the air.

At some point, Stolas turned to escape, but Blitzø was faster.

She caught her by the waist and pulled her in close. Stolas let her.

Their bodies pressed together now. Stolas' arms looped around Blitzø's neck without much thought.

Their laughter faded, bit by bit, and the world seemed to tilt in the shared silence between them.

They moved at the same time.

The kiss was anything but chaste. It was hungry and open-mouthed, all teeth and desperation. Stolas gripped Blitzø's shoulders, pulling her closer still, while Blitzø groaned softly and kissed her back like her life depended on it.

Heat swelled inside Stolas, humming, intense, low in her belly. A thousand stars lit up behind her eyes. She couldn't hold back a soft, muffled moan.

It was dizzying, how easily they fit like this.

Fingers skimmed the small of her back, her ribs, her waist. Stolas arched into it, chasing the contact, her breath catching as Blitzø's hands settled back on her hips.

Something inside her thrilled, a shiver that had little to do with temperature.

But then another shiver followed, this one much different.

She ignored it, too swept up in the moment, too drunk on the taste of Blitzø's kisses, but the cold found her again. It crept up her spine like Blitzø's fingers had moments ago. Her wet clothes clung impossibly tight, leeching warmth, dragging her down from the haze of heat.

And when Blitzø pulled back slightly, her mouth drifting lower to press kisses against Stolas' neck, the absence of her face against Stolas' made the cold harder to disregard.

She shivered hard.

Blitzø paused. "You're cold."

Stolas shook her head. She didn't want this to end. "I'm fine."

Blitzø drew back to look at her. "You're shaking."

It was true. Stolas' whole body trembled by now, and it definitely wasn't just because of Blitzø's touch.

"Come on," Blitzo said, squeezing her hip. "Let's get out."

Stolas wanted to protest, but the truth pressed too tightly against her skin. She nodded and they began swimming toward the edge.

Blitzø climbed out first, water dripping from her frame. She extended her hands toward Stolas.

"Careful," she said.

Stolas took her hands and hoisted herself up. Or… tried to.

Her boot caught beneath the surface. She twisted her leg, and in the motion, her thigh scraped sharply against something in the water. A hiss tore from her throat before she could surpress it.

She stumbled ashore, her trousers slashed open across the side. The skin beneath was red and angry, the cut shallow but already welling with blood.

"Ah," she said, inspecting the damage. "That is not pretty."

She looked up and paused.

Blitzø had gone still.

Dead still.

Her eyes were fixed on the gash, wide and strangely hollow. Stolas felt her pulse stall.

"Blitzø?" she asked quietly.

Nothing.

The moment stretched uncomfortably. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath.

Then, like a candle flaring to life, Blitzø blinked.

She turned away, stooping to retrieve her coat where it lay crumpled in the grass. From the inner pocket, she pulled a strip of dark fabric. She returned to Stolas and knelt without a word, hands steady now.

She dabbed gently at the cut, cleaning away the blood. Her jaw was clenched, her eyebrows drawn in faint concentration. It reminded Stolas of when she had cleaned her stained hands the night they first reunited. When the bleeding slowed, Blitzø wrapped the fabric around Stolas' thigh and tied it with a knot that sat snug against the skin.

"There," Blitzø said.

"Thank you." Stolas tried to smile, but something in the atmosphere between them had shifted.

"Here, you wear the coat," Blitzo said, pressing it into Stolas' hands.

"What? No. Blitzø, you should wear it. You'll freeze to death."

"I'm fine."

"You are soaked too."

"I'm fine," she repeated. Her voice was still gentle, but more insistent now.

Stolas pressed her lips into a thin line, swallowing further protest. She didn't wish to anger Blitzø.

She slipped the coat over her shoulders.

They began the slow walk back to the palace, the horse ambling beside them, reins loose in Blitzø's hands.

Neither of them spoke. The silence was not exactly strained, merely unusual. As if something, once effortless, now required a little more care.

Stolas didn't understand. The night had been quite lovely. The shared laughter, the baring of truths, the way their bodies had found each other so easily in the water. And yet, since the moment she had scraped her leg, something had shifted. And, notably, it wasn't the first time Blitzø had acted like this in the presence of blood.

Perhaps she was simply squeamish. That might explain it. But not everything.

Not the way her eyes sometimes seemed to drink in more than they should. Not the way she barely made a sound when she moved, nor how she cast no reflection in the mirror. Not even the lake's cold had seemed to touch her.

Stolas didn't understand.

But what was worse, she didn't really mind.

A peculiar gravity lived within Blitzø, and Stolas couldn't help but be pulled in again and again.