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Chapter Text

“The People serves the King and the King serves his People, however only the Queen can make the King serve her.”

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It was the kind of mourning made for dreamers, freshly rained, the air was warm and crisp, a steady shushing sound of a waterfall, like a thousand whispers in her ear, was all that could be heard as the water fell, the soft shafts of light from the sun on her skin, and the sound of chirping birds branching over the trees outside her temple.

These kinds of mourning are one of the few things Mystic Flour still finds joy in, it’s plausible she even looks forward to it. Something about seeing the world like this feels fresher in this state, like how fruits shines after it is washed and how the trees and leaves appear healthier and more vibrant of its colors

The peach blossom trees are in season and bearing fruit, their big and plump peaches where ready to be picked and be eaten, and if you’re lucky you might even see the animals coming out of their homes to go and look for food.

Animals are simple creatures, they don’t ask much and they only take what they need to survive. Untouched by Greed.

Her temple, the Ivory Pagoda, had long pass their prime, people who used to have hundreds if not thousands waiting in line for hours until end, just to see her—No, she corrected herself. They were waiting not because of her or her ideology, but to have their selfish wishes granted.

And yet, all was left was deafening silence that remains, despite that she was content with it, she finds peace here.

She was okay  with this kind of life. Away from civilizations, away from people, away from their Greed.

Except she is not in her temple.

“Your majesty, you look radiant in that dress.” a maid servant commented.

Far from the Beast-Yeast and far from the temple she resides as her home is a Kingdom built around the snow and the freezing cold, what was once the land of the twin dragons, now stand his Kingdom. A Kingdom that shouldn’t have existed, a Kingdom of Resolution, a Kingdom that will soon be her own.

Dark Cacao Kingdom.

Maids and servants rushed through the halls, weaving back and forth in frantic patterns as they attended to her needs and made final preparations for the ceremony yet to come. Their shouts and hurried footsteps filled the air, a ceaseless clamor that, for a moment, dulled the weight pressing on her chest. The chaos reminded her of another time—once a source of joy, now a memory steeped only in sorrow.

Mystic Flour stood before a tall, slender mirror, her feet rooted to the floor as though some unseen hand had fastened her to the ground.

Her prominent, powder-white eyelashes slowly open revealing two vertical and sharp white pupils with gray sclerae.

There she saw a beautiful, slim, pale woman of average height, draped in a traditional Cacaoian wedding dress of white silk and brocade, embroidered with delicate golden patterns. Her  snow white hair was braided with meticulous care, coiled in a circular knot high above her neck, crowned by a white-and-gold. A golden hair stick pierced through the bun, gleaming with practiced perfection.

Her face was equally striking—shaped like a delicate diamond, her skin pale and flawless as glass. Her eyes, sharp yet softened by their round edges, glimmered beneath powder-white lashes; her nose was small and refined, her lips glossy with a faint cherry tint. Makeup had only been used sparingly—there was little need to disguise or enhance what nature had already crafted with precision.

But among her features, one stood out most. From beneath the veil of braids, her ears emerged—long and finely tapered, ending in sharp, pointed tips. They lent her an otherworldly air, fragile yet dangerous, like a blade wrapped in silk.

Is this…Her?

She finds it hard to believe this beautiful yet pitiful woman is her own reflection.

Mystic Flour pressed her fingertips against the cold mirror, as if willing warmth to seep through the glass. She wanted—needed—to believe the woman staring back was not her, but some fragile phantom imprisoned within the reflection.

That this pale, pitiful bride was an illusion.

That she wasn’t real.

That she wasn’t standing here, bound in silk and gold, about to be chained for life.

Married.

Married to him.

No—NOT BY HIM!

“His majesty is very lucky to have you to be his Queen.” She again commented

The air shifted, losing the chaotic energy that had filled it just moments before.

Their voices, once shouts, broke into raw screams. The sound of panic swelled, and a thin stream of blood slid down the maid’s face.

Without much thinking, Mystic Flour hurled a porcelain vase—still heavy with water and flowers—at her skull, shattering it as shards flew in every direction.

“Your Majesty, have I spoken out of turn? Have I offended you? Please, forgive me!” The servant’s blood still staining her hands and face, bowed low until her head touched wooden floor at her feet.

The girl—barely sixteen, perhaps seventeen—quivered beneath her, pleading desperately for forgiveness of a crime that is nonexistent. The crowd lingered at a safe distance, watching in silence, each too afraid to draw near, fearing they would be next.

“Please, I beg you… forgive me!” Her cry rose, breaking into a scream as tears spilled in torrents down her cheeks.

“Leave.” Her words were scarcely more than a whisper.

“Your Majesty…?”

“All of you. Please—leave me.” Her words came soft as breath at first, yet it later carried the weight of command.

Wordless, the maids and servants withdrew one by one. The door shut softly, and Mystic Flour was left in silence, alone.

She had never wanted this; she was brought here against her will.

After her defeat, he stripped away both of her Soul Jams, razed the Ivory Pagoda, and took Cloud Haetae from her, claiming it was too dangerous for them to remain together.

She fought, she cried—she begged him to return him to her. But all she received was his cold stare and turned back, as he used her Soul Jam to resurrect his warriors. He dragged her to his Kingdom and locked her in a windowless cell beneath the castle, a pit that reeked of stagnant water, feces, and decay. Time lost all meaning as she sat slumped by the iron bars, doing nothing. Hunger never came, nor sleep—after all, their creators had never designed them to die, with or without their Soul Jam.

She had no right to die; death had been stolen from her the moment she was made. Even wanting it meant nothing.

Then one day, he returned. His words were not mercy but chains: he would grant her redemption, he claimed—if she would marry him.

She does not remember why she agreed nor does she want to.

Perhaps it was nothing more than desperation—desperation to escape these walls and seek Cloud Haetae.

He was nothing more than a pure soul, caught in the clash between fire and frost, torn in a struggle that was never his to fight. His loyalty had been unwavering, his light untainted, and yet he was taken from her as though he were nothing more than a pawn. She could still see him in her mind’s eye—gentle, steadfast—his absence gnawed at her more cruelly than any chain ever could.

As for the reason behind the sudden proposal, she could only guess. Yet the truth seemed clear: his desire to marry his former aggressor was nothing more than a scheme to use her as a pawn, a political tool to tighten his hold over the other Beasts.

Did he think marriage would grant him a seat of hearing among the Beasts?

It seemed so. He moved through the rituals with precision, as though the motions themselves carried weight. Perhaps he believed silk and vows could alter what he was. Perhaps he believed her presence would lend him legitimacy.

A shield to his Kingdom in hopes to negotiate with them through her voice, as if her unwilling hand in his could take their hunger.

But the Beasts would not care. They never had. His crown was not theirs to recognize, no matter what ceremonies he performed.

She noted the irony without amusement. He wanted acknowledgment, but all he had done was bind himself to her, and her to him. Nothing more.

The throne remained as it was. The Beasts remained as they were. And she remained here, silent.

A thought crossed her mind—have they even noticed she was gone?

Mystic Flour pulled the golden hair stick free, her hair unraveling in pale strands. Without hesitation, she flung it into the fireplace, watching the flames devour its gleam.

The metal hissed as the heat consumed it, its polished surface warping and blackening. Gold softened, sagging in on itself, dripping like molten tears into the ash below. What had once been a symbol of beauty and duty was reduced to a twisted remnant; its brilliance smothered in fire.

Mystic Flour watched, her expression unshaken, as the hairpin glimmered in the firelight. It had been given to her by Dark Cacao only moments before the ceremony, pressed into her hands as if it carried meaning. The maids had whispered that such a gift was tradition—that in Cacaoian custom, a hairpin from the groom symbolized love, devotion, and fidelity. She felt none of it. To her, it was not a token of love but a chain disguised as ornament, a silken thread in the web he believed he had spun around her.

What a strange, almost laughable word he chose to describe himself.

Love? For a Beast? A fable best left untold.

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The drums outside thundered, slow and deliberate, echoing through the cold stone walls. Each beat was neither celebratory nor musical—it was a metronome marking inevitability, a tolling bell for a freedom she no longer possessed. The ceremony was beginning, yet to her, it felt like the motions of an empty ritual, a play in which she was both protagonist and prisoner.

Mystic Flour rose from her seat with measured indifference. Her pale hair fell loosely over her shoulders, silver strands brushing her face like cobwebs, catching in the faint glow of the hearth. The fire behind her spat and hissed as the last of the golden hair stick melted into molten metal and blackened ash. The gift he had forced upon her—his token of ownership, of affection, of control—was gone. She felt no triumph, no sorrow. Only a hollow acknowledgment that it had vanished, as meaningless as his vows. She did not turn to watch the fire, nor the mirror, nor at the reflection she had once feared. She simply moved, her limbs carrying her forward by instinct, not intent.

A timid knock rattled the door.

“Your Majesty… it is time.”

She did not respond. Her feet carried her forward, heavy as stone, dragging her deeper into the snare he had constructed. Each step echoed on the cold wooden floor, hollow and distant in her ears. The corridor, lined with torches, seemed to stretch endlessly, yet she moved with the slow inevitability of one who had surrendered all urgency to the weight of circumstance.

The great hall of Dark Cacao’s fortress gleamed in overwhelming splendor. Banners of black and lilac draped along the rafters; golden braziers burned against the frost that clung to the walls. Nobles in jeweled masks filled the chamber, their eyes glinting with calculation beneath gilded façades. Every laugh, every clink of glasses, every whispered exchange of power rolled over her like waves she no longer sought to navigate. They did not see her as a person, nor as a queen. She was a prize, a pawn, a symbol of conquest—another decoration to enhance their king’s glory.

At the center of it all, Dark Cacao stood, a mountain of black and lilac silk embroidered with dragons. His eyes, of dark purple and unreadable, swept over her with the precision of a predator marking its prey. Every line of him was carved from ice and shadow, a man forged for control, not tenderness. She met his gaze briefly—not with fear, nor hate, nor hope—but with apathy, a quiet detachment that mirrored the hollowness in her chest. There was no trembling, no pleading, no spark of rebellion. She was a body, a vessel, a witness to a spectacle she no longer engaged with.

Mystic Flour lowered her gaze, as tradition demanded. But inside, nothing stirred. No pulse of anger, no flicker of despair, no trace of longing. She was a vessel of stillness. Did he truly think silk vows, perfumed incense, and this farce of ceremony would grant him respect from the other Beasts? That the theatrics of stolen rituals could confer power? How utterly foolish. She let the thought pass without emotion.

The rites began. Silk sashes bound her hands, embroidered with dragons and blossoms, heavy in her grip. The air was thick with incense, its sweetness cloying, suffocating, like the fumes of venom. The officiant’s voice rose, reciting words of unity, fidelity, and love. They drifted over her ears like smoke, tangible yet meaningless, words stripped of any substance. She lifted the marriage cup with automatic precision, the bitter liquid sliding down her throat like water—neither poison nor comfort. She did not flinch, did not taste betrayal, did not feel delight. She drank.

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Goblets clinked, laughter rolled, and nobles toasted, spilling wine over silk sleeves, dripped honeyed fruit from jeweled hands, whispering alliances, deals, and favors. Mystic Flour observed none of it. She was present in body only, absent in mind. The heat of the braziers, the flicker of golden light on lacquered floors, the jewel-encrusted masks of her spectators—all of it was background noise, irrelevant and distant. She was a queen in name, a ghost in truth, an unwilling witness to a pageant of greed.

Even Dark Cacao, standing beside her, exuded command and icy control. His hand brushed hers only as tradition demanded, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. He did not offer warmth, nor desire, nor cruelty. His restraint was a wall, isolating her further from the bright, scheming crowd, yet it also shielded her from exposure. She did not care for his presence. She did not seek comfort, nor challenge it. She was untouched by sentiment, a vessel floating through ceremony without grip on anything beyond herself.

Her hands rested in her lap, stiff and pale, her fingers pressing into silk without thought. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, even breaths. Every smile, every bow, every raised glass in the hall was irrelevant, meaningless—her mind had grown numb, a void within the spectacle. Every cheer, every calculated laugh, every gleaming jewel reminded her only that she had no agency here, that she was no one’s bride, that she belonged to no one but herself in thought.

The music played, lilting and ornate, designed to charm and enthrall, but it was background noise to her. The smells of perfumed candles and burning incense, the glare of polished armor and gold, the weight of the silk draping her body—all of it pressed upon her, yet she did not yield. She was a shell moving through the motions of tradition, a figurehead for an audience that saw power, not life.

Even as Dark Cacao’s eyes occasionally flicked to her, measuring her presence, gauging her reaction, she did not react. There was no defiance, no fear, no recognition of him as a person. Only observation. Only survival. Only the quiet, brittle apathy that shielded her from despair.

She was present, yet absent. She was a queen, yet a captive. A bride, yet a stranger to the ceremony performed in her name. The room teemed with life, plotting, and celebration—and she remained still, untouched by anything but the faintest hum of her own pulse beneath the silk.

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Their wedding night passed with the same muted inevitability as the day itself.

The fire snapped and hissed in the hearth, flames twisting in restless patterns across the chamber’s cold stone walls. The scent of smoke and cedar lingered, faint and irrelevant. Mystic Flour sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders slack, her silver hair falling in loose, unruly strands over her chest. Her fingers absentmindedly twisted at the fabric of her wedding robes, knuckles pale, but she did not care enough to smooth them. Her breaths were shallow, uneven, but the rhythm was more habit than distress. Tears might have come if she allowed them, but she did not.

The door opened with a quiet scrape. Dark Cacao entered, his black-and-lilac robes brushing the floor with a whisper of silk. He did not speak immediately. His gaze swept over her, sharp, cold, and indifferent. He saw her, but her own attention had long since ceased to focus on him.

“This is duty,” he said flatly, deep and unyielding. “Nothing more.”

She did not respond. Words had no purpose; resistance felt pointless. Her throat tightened, not with fear, but with the faint habit of habit itself.

“I… I don’t want—” she began, and then stopped. There was no energy left to argue, no fire in her defiance. Only blank acknowledgment.

When he stepped closer, she turned her face away, letting her hair drift across her cheeks.

“Don’t…” she whispered, the sound hollow, lacking conviction.

He paused. His hands rested on her shoulders, steady and deliberate, but not warm, not cruel—simply there.

“I told you—I will be gentle,” he said. “But tradition binds us both. Hate me if you must, but endure.”

Her robes fell. She felt the chill of exposure, a tactile acknowledgment of vulnerability, yet she was unmoved. She pressed her eyes shut, not to fight, not to brace, but because closing them required no energy.

He moved with measured precision, each action dictated by duty rather than desire. And her body reacted—not with panic or rage, not with shame or pleasure—but with the neutral inevitability of muscle and nerve responding to stimuli. Heat pooled where it should not, shivers moved through her spine, but she regarded it as one would note the rise and fall of a candle’s flame: observable, inescapable, irrelevant.

Teeth grazed her skin; lips pressed briefly against it. She felt the pressure, the warmth, the sting where flesh met bite. Reflex shivered through her spine, but it carried no meaning—no pleasure, no fear. Only the body responding, nothing more.

Another sound slipped past her lips, unintentional, unshaped. She did not dwell on it. The bite, the kiss, the weight of him behind her—each was only another entry in the sequence of events her mind noted in silence, like tally marks on stone.

She tried to stifle a sound. A low, stifled whimper escaped anyway, and she did not mind. She did not panic. She did not hate it. She simply existed.

Dark Cacao’s expression remained unreadable, his hand steady at her waist. He could feel her tremble; hear the faint sounds she could not control—but she did not care if he noticed. She did not care for him, nor for her own reactions. His duty-bound actions pressed against her with the inevitability of the law, not the intimacy of desire.

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The fire had burned low, leaving embers glowing faintly against the cold stone of the chamber. Mystic Flour lay on her side, sheets tangled around her legs, hair sprawled across the pillow. Her skin felt warm, flushed in places, yet it registered only as a physical fact—neither pleasure nor pain, only sensation cataloged without comment.

Dark Cacao sat on the edge of the bed, robes half-arranged, the space between them measured, controlled. He did not touch her, did not speak. His presence pressed in as always, though she felt only the certainty of it. He had performed his duty. She had performed hers. The ritual was complete.

“You despise me,” he said. “Good. I do not need your love. Only obedience.”

She turned her face toward the wall, staring at nothing, counting the embers in the hearth like they were stars. Her mind moved through events in a flat, sequential way: the silk had slipped, the heat had risen, the noises had come. She noted it all as one might note the passing of clouds. No judgment, no shame—just observation.

“I want my own room,” she said at last, her voice flat, unbroken. “Away from you.”

“Done,” Dark Cacao replied.

The word fell without weight, without hesitation. Nothing more was said. Nothing more was needed.

When he finally rose, his movements deliberate, careful, she did not look at him. He fastened his robes, straightened his posture, and paused for a moment at the door. Their eyes met briefly, and she did not flinch, did not recoil, did not acknowledge him. She did not care. He did not speak; she did not respond.

The door closed softly, leaving her alone in the faint glow of the dying fire. She lay there, counting the rising and falling of her own chest, noticing the warmth that still lingered in her body. It was irrelevant. It did not belong to her or to him, not really.

Mystic Flour curled slightly, not out of distress but for the sake of comfort in form. Her body ached, but the sensation was cataloged, noted, not felt. She pressed her fists against her mouth as a ritual gesture, stifling the traces of sound she had produced, but it mattered little. Her body had acted independently; her mind observed without judgment.

There was no shame here, no humiliation, no fury. Only the faint recognition of the costs of duty, the mechanical reality of obedience, and the quiet, endless neutrality of existence. In the cold room, amid silk and ash, she understood—indifference was her shield, apathy her refuge, and the world outside her control continued, irrelevant and distant.

Sleep came slowly. Not rest, not peace—only the absence of motion, the quiet filling the spaces where thought might have otherwise intruded. She did not cry, did not rage, did not tremble. She simply existed, cataloging sensation and memory alike, each a neutral fact.

In the morning, the sheets would be straightened. The hearth would be cleaned. The chamber would stand ready for ceremony again. A faint blood-colored stain marked the linens, a trace left behind without sentiment, without weight. It would be laundered away as if it had never been there, just another task for unseen hands.

And she would remain, a pale, unmoving figure in a world that demanded obedience, marking time without engagement, without hope, without care.

Her lips parted once in the dark, voice no louder than a breath.

“I want to go home,” she whispered—not in longing, but in recognition of something forever denied. The words sank into the silence and dissolved, leaving nothing behind.

Chapter Text

“Don’t be afraid. Our King may look frightening, but he is quite caring.” a maid whispered as she guided Mystic Flour through the long, torchlit halls.

“I am not afraid of him.”

Her reply was flat, hollow, as though the words had been plucked from some empty shelf. Her gaze did not shift, her steps fell in a slow, mechanical pattern, heels clicking softly against the wooden floor in an even rhythm.

“Oh—my apologies,” the maid said quickly, bowing her head. “Of course. It only makes sense… he is your husband now. You must have grown used to his demeanor long before the vows.”

Mystic Flour did not answer. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, tracing the endless corridor that stretched like a tunnel of silence. The air smelled faintly of oil and old wood, the walls lined with banners meant to impress, though none of it touched her.

The maid glanced at her, waiting for a sign of agreement, or perhaps denial. But Mystic Flour gave nothing. Her silence was not sharp, not defiant—merely void.

At last, they reached a heavy door. The maid hesitated, then bowed and murmured, “This will be your new chamber, my lady.”

Mystic Flour stopped. She let the moment pass without acknowledgment, her face unreadable. The corridor behind her seemed to stretch on forever, but forward was only the door.

Her hand did not tremble when it reached for the handle.

The door groaned as it opened, and the air inside carried the faint chill of stone left untouched. Mystic Flour stepped through without hesitation, though her eyes drifted over the space with quiet, mechanical precision.

It was not a queen’s chamber. The bed was narrow, plain wood with thin bedding folded neatly at the edges. A small table sat beside it, bare save for a pitcher of water and a chipped cup. The walls were stripped of adornment, no tapestries to soften the cold gray stone. Only a single window cut into the far wall, narrow and high, offering no view but a square of muted sky.

In the corner stood a dresser with a mirror, its surface scarred and dulled from years of use. The glass was spotted, warped in places, showing her reflection as though she were half a ghost, half a stranger. No gilded frame, no polished surface—only a servant’s mirror, one meant to confirm existence, not beauty.

It was the kind of room a servant might be given—sufficient, functional, without comfort.

The maid shifted nervously behind her. “The King said you would… prefer solitude.” Her voice trailed off, as if the apology was already understood.

Mystic Flour’s eyes lingered on the bed, then the chair, then the emptiness in between. She registered them the way one notes weather: the bed was there, the chair was there, the emptiness was there. Facts, nothing more.

“I see,” she said at last, her voice even, colorless.

She set her hands at her sides and did not move further into the room. To anyone watching, it might have seemed she was deciding whether to accept or reject it. But there was no decision. The room was given; therefore, it was hers.

Behind her, the maid bowed again, waiting for dismissal. Mystic Flour did not turn, did not gesture. She simply stood in silence until the woman understood and retreated, the door shutting with a hollow thud.

Now alone, Mystic Flour let her gaze rest on the plain bed again. No canopy, no velvet, no warmth. A servant’s space disguised as solitude.

She lowered herself onto it with slow, deliberate movement. The mattress gave beneath her weight, thin and uneven. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, eyes on the wall, as if waiting for nothing at all.

So, this is his idea of a game?

A queen draped in silk, yet tucked away in a servant’s cell. A crown of gold, yet a bed of straw. It was almost amusing, the way he dressed cruelty as kindness, as though lowering the bars of a cage made it any less a prison.

Did he expect gratitude? That she would marvel at the generosity of walls without chains, at the brilliance of a window too narrow to climb through? Perhaps he believed her silence was submission. Perhaps he mistook endurance for loyalty.

She pressed her palm into the thin blanket, feeling the rough fibers scratch her skin. How clever of him, she thought, to give me freedom in increments. A step above the dungeon, yet a step below his side. A leash invisible, but a leash nonetheless.

Her lips curved, though not into a smile. It was too faint, too empty to be called that.

So, this was his game: mercy as mockery, duty as devotion, chains disguised as gifts.

Fine, she would play along.

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For the past four months, Mystic Flour had refused him. Refused his summons, his carefully phrased orders, his messengers at her door. She had not seen him since the wedding night, nor spoken his name aloud.

The gifts had come regularly at first—robes stitched from Cacaoian looms, jeweled pins of obsidian and ivory, trays of delicacies brought across snowbound passes. They arrived neatly wrapped, as though ceremony itself could make her yield. But she never touched them. They remained unopened until, one by one, they disappeared.

Perhaps the maids had taken them, fingers slick with greed, hiding silks in baskets or jewels beneath their sleeves. She did not care. Let them feed their wants. Hunger was natural. She had no use for clothes that stank of his will, nor ornaments meant to gild a chain.

Instead, she wore the silks she had carried with her from the Ivory Pagoda—robes pale as moonlight, threaded with silver, softened by age. She rotated between them, each fold of cloth a reminder that there had once been a place that belonged to her. They smelled faintly of cedar still, as though the trunks from her homeland clung to her even here. In truth, she owned little else: three sets she wore daily, four if one counted the wedding dress folded at the bottom of her chest. She never did.

Her chamber reflected her indifference. It was neither queenly nor base, neither comfort nor torment. A narrow bed, a small hearth that smoked as much as it warmed, a mirror stripped of ornament. The stone walls pressed close, shutting out all but a thin slice of light through a narrow window, where the view was nothing but another tower’s gray face.

It was not a prison, but neither was its freedom. A middling space, empty of grandeur, empty of cruelty. She could live here. She could fade here. Either would be the same.

When the summons came—delivered by servants whose voices stuttered as though they feared the silence that followed—she ignored it. When his gifts appeared, she left them untouched. Her refusal was quiet, but persistent. A steady erosion rather than a single break.

Her silence was her answer. Her absence, her rebellion.

It was during the third month that a new face appeared among the servants: a girl no older than sixteen, hired fresh from one of the mountain villages. She was small, round-cheeked despite the thinness of her frame, her hair pulled too tightly into a twin bun that made her look younger still. She moved quickly but without the carelessness of the others, her hands precise, her eyes steady.

It did not take long before she revealed herself to be… different.

One evening, a box of gifts had arrived from the King’s court—brocaded robes in crimson silk, a tray of candied chestnuts from the southern groves, and a golden comb inlaid with onyx. The items lay untouched at the corner of the chamber, as all the others had before. Mystic Flour had not spared them a glance.

But the older maids hovered. They whispered among themselves, casting glances toward their mistress’s unseeing figure. When her back was turned, their hands began to drift—quick fingers slipping jewels into sleeves, delicacies into aprons.

“Stop,” the new girl said suddenly, her voice sharp in the silence.

The others froze.

“What are you doing?” one of the older women hissed. “She never touches them. She doesn’t care. No one will notice.”

The young maid planted herself between them and the unopened box, her thin arms spread as though her body alone might be a barricade. “They are not yours. They were sent for her. Whether she keeps them or not is her choice, not yours.”

The older women scoffed, muttering curses under their breath. One reached for the tray anyway, only to have the girl slap her hand away with surprising force.

“You’ll get yourself dismissed,” another warned. “Do you think she will protect you? She doesn’t even speak to us.”

Mystic Flour had heard every word. She had not turned. She had not intervened. She simply sat by the hearth; her eyes fixed on the faint light licking the wood.

When at last the others withdrew, muttering in bitter defeat, the girl stooped to gather the scattered gifts and set them neatly back into the box. She brushed the silk as though it might tear beneath her touch, then placed it carefully against the wall where it would remain untouched.

She turned then, kneeling before her mistress. “Your Majesty,” she said softly, her voice trembling at the edges, “I will make sure no one touches your things without your leave.”

Mystic Flour blinked once, slow and unhurried. The words did not stir gratitude or warmth. They were only words—sound against the stillness. She regarded the girl’s bowed head as she might regard a candle guttering in the draft.

“Do as you like,” Mystic Flour murmured at last, her tone flat, detached.

The maid’s shoulders eased, as though even such indifference was a gift.

Mystic Flour turned her gaze back to the fire, her mind already moving past the moment. The gifts remained where they were. The young maid remained vigilant. The world went on unchanged.

For a long time, there was only silence. The fire had burned low, shadows bending and stretching against the walls. Mystic Flour sat still, her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable.

At last, she spoke.

“Child.”

The young maid straightened at once, nearly dropping the folded linens in her arms.

“Yes, Your Majesty? Is there something I can do for you?”

“Why didn’t you take them?”

The girl blinked, confused. “My apologies… I don’t think I understand.”

Mystic Flour turned her gaze to her, pale and steady. “I overheard your quarrel with the other maids over the king’s gifts. Why did you not claim any of them?”

The girl faltered, clutching the fabric tighter. “I—I’m so sorry. Was I supposed to? I didn’t mean to cause conflict. It’s just… when I saw them taking what His Highness had sent for you, I felt disgusted and—”

“I am not interested in the full tale.” Her voice cut through, cool and measured. “What I asked was why you did not steal, when you, more than anyone, might have use for the coin.”

The maid lowered her eyes, her words soft but steady. “Because, Your Majesty… my family is not a lineage of thieves. And yes, it’s true—most nights I go hungry. But hunger is bearable. Guilt is not. If I can sleep knowing I did nothing unjust, then I rest well enough.”

Mystic Flour regarded her without reaction. Then, almost idly, she asked,

“What if I ordered you to steal from me?”

The girl swallowed, but her voice did not falter.

“Then I would still refuse. Even with Your Majesty’s command, I could not bring myself to do it.”

Silence stretched again. The hearth crackled faintly, filling the void her voice had left.

Finally, Mystic Flour asked, “What is your name, child?”

“My name is Cacao Butter.”

Mystic Flour gave no sign of approval or dismissal. She only turned her gaze back to the fire; her tone emptied of meaning.

“Very well.”

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Days bled into weeks. The rhythm of service became a quiet thread stitched into Mystic Flour’s life.

Each morning, Cacao Butter would come to her chambers before the bells rang. The girl’s hands were small but careful, fastening clasps, smoothing silk, combing hair with the patience of someone who did not hurry. Mystic Flour never thanked her, never complained. She only stood still, watching her own reflection in the tall mirror while the girl moved like a shadow behind her.

At first, silence reigned. The crackle of the fire, the rustle of silk, the faint clink of jewelry—these were the only sounds between them. Mystic Flour’s face remained empty, her gaze fixed on the mirror’s glass.

But over time, small words slipped through.

“The pins will hold better this way,” Cacao Butter would murmur, adjusting her veil.

Or, “This seam has worn thin. I’ll mend it tonight.”

Mystic Flour rarely replied. At most, a glance in the mirror. A tilt of her head. Yet Cacao Butter continued, her voice respectful but warmer than duty demanded.

One morning, as she laced the back of a gown, the maid let out a quiet laugh—so soft it almost startled the silence.

“I beg pardon, Your Majesty. It’s just… these laces remind me of tying bundles at home. Only silk instead of straw.”

For a moment, Mystic Flour’s lips parted, though no sound came. She did not laugh, did not smile. But she did not silence the girl either.

The next day, when Cacao Butter hesitated with a necklace clasp, Mystic Flour finally spoke—not coldly, but evenly, like naming a fact.

“You have clumsy fingers.”

The girl froze, unsure if she had offended. But then Mystic Flour added, “Still, they work.”

It was not kindness, not affection. But it was something.

And so, their mornings continued: silk rustling, pins clicking, the young maid speaking in hushed tones while her mistress listened, unreactive yet no longer rejecting the sound. A fragile familiarity settled between them—one that belonged not to queens and servants, but to two women sharing the same air, day after day.

.

.

It was a gray morning, the kind where the mist clung heavy outside the windows and the hearth did little to banish the chill. Mystic Flour sat before the mirror, her expression as still and pale as the glass itself, while Cacao Butter worked behind her, fingers weaving through strands of long white hair.

The girl was quieter than usual, as though the cold itself pressed against her lips. Yet Mystic Flour noticed the hesitation in her movements—the small pauses, the way her breath held before she spoke.

Finally, Cacao Butter broke the silence.

“Your Majesty… may I ask you something?”

Mystic Flour’s eyes remained on the mirror. “You may ask. Whether I answer is another matter.”

The maid swallowed, continuing her task with careful precision. “Do you… ever grow tired of all this silk? These jewels, these gowns. They look heavy.”

Mystic Flour tilted her head just enough for the girl to secure a pin, her tone flat, but not dismissive.

“Cloth is cloth. Whether silk or rags, it weighs the same when worn long enough.”

Cacao Butter’s lips curved faintly, though she kept her gaze lowered. “I suppose so. At home, I used to dream of silks. I thought wearing one might make me feel… more than what I was.” She tied off the braid neatly, securing it with a clasp. “But watching you wear them, Your Majesty, I think I was wrong. They seem like chains, only softer.”

For the first time, Mystic Flour’s gaze shifted from her reflection to the girl in the mirror behind her. Their eyes met—hers cool and unreadable, the maid’s steady though cautious.

“You are not wrong,” Mystic Flour said at last. Her voice carried no bitterness, no warmth. Simply fact. “Silk binds tighter than iron, when it is given instead of chosen.”

The girl bowed her head, murmuring, “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken so boldly.”

“You spoke honestly,” Mystic Flour corrected. “That is rarer than gold in this place. Keep it.”

And with that, silence returned—but not the old silence of strangers. This one carried a different weight, a fragile thread between them. Cacao Butter’s hands no longer shook as she worked. Mystic Flour did not look away from the mirror, yet she no longer felt entirely alone within it.

.

.

The fire had burned low by the time Cacao Butter finished fastening the last clasp of her gown. She lingered, smoothing out the folds of silk as though the fabric itself might reveal something unspoken. Mystic Flour sat motionless, her gaze on the far window, where fog pressed like a hand against the glass.

“Your Majesty,” the maid said softly, “forgive me if I speak out of place again… but sometimes you look as though you are not here at all. As though your mind is somewhere far away.”

Mystic Flour did not turn. Her voice came evenly, without rise or fall.

“Perhaps it is. I find the memory of stone walls easier to endure than silk ones.”

Cacao Butter hesitated, uncertain if she had heard correctly. “Stone walls…?”

“A cell,” Mystic Flour said, as if reciting from a ledger. “Beneath this very castle. Cold. Damp. No light, save the torch when guards remembered to bring one. Days without food. Weeks without sound. That was before your king placed me in silk and called me his wife.”

The maid’s breath caught, though she tried not to show it. Her fingers stilled on the hem of the gown. “I… I had no idea, Your Majesty.”

“Few do. Fewer care.” Mystic Flour finally turned her head, her snow-white hair catching faint light like frost burning at dawn. Her eyes fell on Cacao Butter, cool but steady. “Do not mistake this room for kindness. It is only another prison—better furnished, that is all.”

The girl lowered her head, but her voice remained steady. “Still… I would rather see you in silk than in chains. If that counts for anything.”

Mystic Flour regarded her in silence for a long moment. Then, with the faintest flicker of something unreadable, she said

“You are a strange one, Cacao Butter. Most servants would not waste their thoughts on such matters.”

“Then perhaps that is why you let me stay,” the maid replied, not boldly, but with a quiet firmness that surprised even herself.

Mystic Flour looked back toward the window, her expression unreadable.

“Perhaps.”

The silence that followed was different again—no longer the silence of loneliness, nor of habit. It was the silence of two people sharing a truth neither could entirely name, but both understood.

.

.

Days bled into weeks. The castle moved in its rigid rhythms—bells, meals, ceremonies, the endless echo of duty. Yet within the narrow walls of Mystic Flour’s chamber, a different rhythm formed.

Each morning, Cacao Butter arrived quietly, arms full of folded silk. At first, she moved with the stiff precision of a servant, dressing her queen in silence. But silence soon softened.

“Your Majesty, this clasp is always troublesome,” she murmured one morning, fumbling with the intricate knot at the back of a hanbok sash. “I think the tailor designed it for torment, not beauty.”

Mystic Flour gave no smile, but her head tilted faintly, as if she had heard something unexpected.

“Perhaps torment was the intent. Beauty is only the excuse.”

Another day, as Cacao Butter arranged the queen’s veil, she whispered

“I do not think white suits you. You seem more… silver. Something colder, sharper.”

“You speak as though I am a blade,” Mystic Flour replied, her voice flat, though not unkind.

“A blade does not need silk to command respect,” the girl said, carefully pinning the veil into place.

Conversations like these—brief, fleeting—became their habit. Respect still framed every word, but there was something softer now, an almost casual honesty Cacao Butter could not help but offer.

One evening, as Mystic Flour sat before the mirror, she asked suddenly

“Child, do you fear me?”

The maid paused, a comb frozen mid-stroke through pale strands. “At first, yes. But not now.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you are lonelier than I am hungry,” Cacao Butter answered, her tone unflinching, though her hands trembled.

For a long moment, Mystic Flour’s reflection stared back at her, unreadable. Then she lowered her eyes, as if the matter no longer required thought.

“Strange words. Yet not untrue.”

So it went: quiet mornings, hushed evenings, and a bond that formed not through laughter or joy, but through the steady weight of honesty shared in fragments. To the rest of the castle, Mystic Flour remained the pale, untouchable queen. But to one girl—young, stubborn, unfaltering—she was something else: a woman allowed, for a moment, to be seen.

.

.

It happened in the great hall.

The queen had been summoned for a feast she did not desire, her place at Dark Cacao’s side a throne of stone more than honor. Nobles murmured and smiled with their jeweled lips, but their words dripped with poison.

“She grows paler by the season,” one whispered.

“Like a ghost stitched into silk,” another chuckled, lifting his goblet.

“She has no voice, no heirs, no crown of her own—what is she but a shadow tethered to the king’s arm?” a woman added, her laugh sharp as glass.

“A pity,” someone else muttered, just loud enough for a ripple of amusement. “Perhaps the Beasts would find her more use than we ever shall.”

Laughter spread down the table, quiet but cruel, polished to sound like jest yet heavy with contempt.

Mystic Flour, as always, bore it with silence. But the words lingered in the air, heavy as frost, everyone a nail pressing against her composure.

It was then a sharper sound broke through—silverware clattering as a serving tray struck the floor.

Cacao Butter.

The young maid had dropped her burden at the foot of the dais, fists clenched against her apron. Her voice rang out, clear and unshaken

“Her Majesty is no ghost. She endures what none of you could bear for even a day. To speak of her with such contempt is shameful.”

The hall went still. Nobles stared in shock, guards shifted uneasily. A maid had spoken where silence was law.

Dark Cacao’s gaze felt heavy upon her, colder than steel.

“You forget your place, child.”

But Cacao Butter did not kneel.

“My place is at her side,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “If that is a crime, then punish me. But I will not let you—or anyone—diminish her.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even Mystic Flour’s breath caught. Never before had anyone raised their voice, not in her defense, not so openly, not against the king himself.

Dark Cacao’s eyes narrowed. Yet before he could speak further, Mystic Flour raised her hand ever so slightly. It was not permission—it was protection. A signal that, for the first time, she did not wish to see this girl broken for her defiance.

That night, when they returned to her chambers, Mystic Flour sat long in silence, her expression unreadable.

Finally, she said, softly but with weight:

“You are reckless, child.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Cacao Butter answered, bowing low. “But my loyalty is not.”

Mystic Flour’s gaze lingered, sharp and searching. For the first time, her lips almost—almost—curved into something like a smile.

The next morning, the castle hummed with whispers. Servants moved in hushed tones, nobles lingered longer than usual in corridors, their glances sharp and curious. Everyone had heard what happened in the great hall.

By rights, Cacao Butter should have been gone—dismissed, flogged, or worse. Yet she remained. That was the greater scandal. A maid had defied nobles, even spoken against the king, and still walked the halls unbroken.

Mystic Flour noticed it at once. Her chamber was quieter, too quiet, as though the entire castle was waiting for her response, for her fall. Yet Cacao Butter entered as she always did—carrying folded silks, eyes lowered, movements careful but not cowed.

“You should not be here,” Mystic Flour said at last, her tone level, almost detached.

“I should not,” Cacao Butter replied, setting the garments down with deliberate precision. “But I am.”

Mystic Flour turned her gaze from the mirror to the girl. “Do you know what they will do to you now?”

“They already tried,” the maid answered, lifting her chin slightly. “Three of the nobles summoned me last night. They said I had disgraced myself and demanded I beg forgiveness.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

Mystic Flour’s eyes narrowed. “Then what?”

“I told them I would not beg for telling the truth.” Cacao Butter’s hands tightened on the silk she held, her voice steady though her face was pale. “They struck me. Called me insolent. Threatened to drag me from the castle themselves. But I am still here. The king said nothing. He let me walk away.”

Mystic Flour regarded her in silence, long and cold. She searched for weakness in the girl’s words, for hesitation. She found only bruised determination.

Finally, she spoke, her voice softer than the air between them:

“Child… you are either very brave or very foolish.”

Cacao Butter’s lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile. “Perhaps both. But I would rather stand beside you in truth than crawl before them in lies.”

Something shifted then—barely visible, a flicker behind the queen’s unreadable expression. Not warmth, not yet. But something like the faintest crack in the ice.

For the rest of the day, Mystic Flour did not dismiss her maid.

And in the halls beyond, the nobles’ whispers grew sharper, colder. The king had let it pass—for now. But no one believed such defiance would be forgotten.

.

.

However, the castle never forgot boldness. Whispers trailed after Cacao Butter like smoke, curling through corridors, weaving through noble tongues. A maid who stood too close to the queen. A servant who spoke too freely. A child who mistook loyalty for privilege

One night, while lantern burned low in the hallways, Cacao Butter made the mistake of speaking directly to the King.

“She is not a prisoner,” the girl had said, voice trembling but firm. “If you wished her to be your queen, then treat her as one. The gifts you send rot in unopened boxes, not because she is ungrateful—but because she has no need of trinkets, only freedom.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting. Dark Cacao did not lift his voice, nor his hand. He simply regarded her with the same cold stillness he gave his enemies before the killing blow.

By morning, Cacao Butter was gone. No word, no farewell—only her absence, as sudden and complete as if the castle had swallowed her whole.

When the door opened the next day, Mystic Flour expected to see familiar arms balancing folded silks, a careful voice murmuring about knots and sashes. Instead, another maid entered—a stranger with downcast eyes and perfect obedience. She bowed low, offering the practiced greetings of one who would never speak out of turn.

For the first time in months, something shifted.

When the new maid withdrew, leaving her alone before the mirror, Mystic Flour’s hands curled into fists over the folds of her robe. Her reflection stared back—pale, composed, and unchanging—yet beneath the surface, heat stirred where only apathy had lived.

Gone. The girl was simply gone.

Not dismissed for incompetence, nor transferred for duty. No, she had been silenced—erased—because she had spoken too boldly, because she had dared to defend her. A child with nothing but honesty, crushed under the weight of a king’s will.

Her chest tightened. Rage—it was foreign to her now, long buried under resignation. Yet it rose, sharp and raw, scraping against her ribs until she felt she might choke on it.

Her voice cut through the chamber, low but trembling with force

“Enough.”

The word startled even her.

She rose, the heavy silk of her robes dragging against the floor like a storm behind her, and flung open the chamber door. The guards outside stiffened, caught off guard by a queen who rarely moved, rarely spoke, rarely demanded.

“Take me to him,” she ordered.

They hesitated, exchanging wary glances.

“I said—take me to my husband.”

A command, for the first time, carried not apathy but venom. It was not the voice of a prisoner, nor a passive queen bound by ritual. It was something else entirely—anger, sharpened by loss.

And for the first time in a long while, Mystic Flour wanted to face Dark Cacao. Not to beg. Not to endure. But to demand.

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.

Chapter Text

Dark Cacao is… unpredictable, Mystic Flour thought, her vertical white pupils narrowing as she studied him. One moment rigid and implacable, the next… something softer, something unbidden.

Unreadable—like a book whose pages were all visible, yet none could be fully understood.

For three weeks straight, the summons came without fail.

The first had been to his chamber, late in the evening. He stood by a table lined with folded garments, foreign silks and heavy brocades, urging her to choose which pleased her most. She had run her hand across the fabrics, not out of desire but because his dark gaze demanded it. In the end, she chose nothing, and still he sent them all to her chamber.

The second came at midday, when he dismissed the court early to walk with her through the royal gardens. The spoke of the frost-resistant herbs, of the pine trees that thrived in the mountains, his tone clipped and factual. She remembered only the bite of the cold wind against her skin, her body shivering beneath layers that did not shield her enough.

The third summons came at night, when the halls were empty save for the guards. He had asked her to meet him in a small, enclosed courtyard, where lanterns hung along the walls, casting a warm, golden glow over the frost-tipped stone. A single bench waited beneath a flowering plum tree, petals brushing against the snow-dusted ground.

He spoke little, only asking if the night air felt sharp against her skin, or if she wished for his cloak to ward off the cold. His hands, strong and steady, brushed hers briefly as he offered it, a gesture that carried care she could not ignore. Though his expression remained stoic, there was an eagerness in the way he watched her, a silent hope for a reaction she refused to give.

And so, it continued—summons after summons, each one private, each one meant to show care in ways he did not know how to express. Choosing fabrics. Quietly watching the blossoms bloom. Walking frost-tipped gardens. Sharing stolen, unspoken moments beneath lantern light, where closeness was measured, restrained, and yet charged with something neither dared name aloud.

Yet each time, she returned to her narrow bed more hollow, more tired. His attempts at kindness did not soften her heart—they only pressed against her weary bones, asking her to bear his presence when she longed most for solitude.

Three weeks, and still the summons came.

Cacao Butter sat cross-legged on the floor, peeling chestnuts with her nimble fingers. The small brazier between them offered little warmth, but the flickering glow softened the shadows of the queen’s plain chamber. Mystic Flour sat on the narrow bed, her posture as flawless as a blade balanced on its edge, snow-white hair falling loose around her shoulders.

“Your Majesty,” Cacao Butter said carefully, not looking up, “the king has summoned you almost every day these past weeks. Even at night, sometimes. Does it… trouble you?”

Mystic Flour’s lips pressed into the thinnest line. Her fangs grazed against her lower lip, enough to make the skin pale.

“Trouble me?” she echoed, her voice flat. “It wearies me. He drags me from silence to parade beside him in gardens, to look at dresses I do not need, to taste food I cannot stomach. He acts as though this attention should soften me.”

Cacao Butter stilled, watching the faint, dangerous shift in her queen’s gaze. Mystic Flour’s irises narrowed, her pupils’ thin white slits that cut like a blade’s edge. For a heartbeat, the whites of her eyes dulled gray, a storm cloud bleeding into them.

“He has never cared for my comfort before,” Mystic Flour continued, softer now, but edged with venom. “Why now? Why pretend tenderness? He watches me too closely—always waiting. As if expecting gratitude.”

Her voice faltered just slightly, and she drew her hand across her lap, still as stone again.

Cacao Butter’s chest tightened at the sight. She bowed her head, speaking gently

“Perhaps… he is learning, my queen. Perhaps he regrets, in his way. Some hearts are slow, and colder than others, but that doesn’t mean they cannot thaw.”

Mystic Flour gave a sound that might have been a laugh, if not for the sharpness in it. She turned her face toward the tall mirror on her dresser, her reflection catching her narrowed, inhuman eyes.

“Thaw?” she murmured. “I do not thaw, child. And I will not wait for him to, either.”

Her sclera lightened again, the storm retreating, leaving only her steady gaze and the mask of apathy sliding back into place.

Cacao Butter rose, setting the chestnuts aside, and knelt beside her. She placed her small hand over Mystic Flour’s cold fingers.

“Even so… you are not alone in this. If you must endure his summons, then endure them knowing I will always wait for your return.”

For the first time, Mystic Flour’s shoulders slackened, if only slightly. Her gaze lingered on Cacao Butter’s hand atop her own. When she finally spoke, it was quiet enough that even the brazier’s crackle nearly drowned it out

“You speak of endurance as if it were easy.”

“No,” Cacao Butter whispered, “but I will share the weight with you.”

.

.

.

The morning sun had not yet burned the chill from the stones when Mystic Flour was summoned once again. A maid laid out the garments the king had ordered for her — a Cacaoian of white and silver, its embroidery intricate with mountain and wave motifs, a design both solemn and regal. She wore it without protest, though her pale fingers lingered on the stiff fabric longer than necessary.

The queen despised the cold, and though the inner layers shielded her skin, the chill clung to her bones.

She was led through the palace corridors to the royal garden, where the frost-tipped pines whispered against the wind. At the center, under the shadow of a great pavilion roof, Dark Cacao sat before a low stone table. Upon it, a board of polished wood was set, the black and white stones arranged neatly in their bowls.

He was waiting.

Mystic Flour moved toward him, her steps deliberate, her snow-white hair trailing down her back like a veil of ice. The heavy embroidery shimmered faintly in the pale light, though she wore it as if it were armor, not finery.

“You summoned me,” she said evenly, though her thin pupils betrayed the strain of her restraint.

Dark Cacao’s stern gaze lifted to her. His posture was perfect, broad shoulders squared, hands resting firmly on his knees. He gave a small nod toward the seat opposite him. “Sit.”

She lowered herself across from him, her robes folding neatly around her. The silence of the garden pressed in, broken only by the faint tap of pine needles against stone.

He studied her, dark purple eyes scanning from the hem of her robes to the tip of her hair. “Your hair… down like this,” he said quietly, voice low, “it suits you. Better than I expected.”

Mystic Flour stiffened, a faint noise of discomfort escaping her throat. Her thin pupils constricted, and the edges of her gray sclera darkened slightly. “I… see,” she murmured, voice flat, keeping her posture rigid.

Mystic Flour’s gaze drifted outward, away from him, toward the frozen garden. Snow muted its colors but could not erase its order: the lines of the terraces, the careful stonework of the paths, the bridges arched with quiet symmetry. Even under frost, it bore the marks of a steady hand.

Her pupils narrowed faintly. “The work is fine,” she remarked, tone flat, almost clinical. “The arrangement of stone to tree, the balance between empty space and fullness. Even under snow, it holds its form. Who sees to it?”

Dark Cacao followed her gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, his voice rumbled low, measured. “Peach Blossom. He was once yours, was he not? A helper in your service. A gardener.”

Mystic Flour blinked slowly, her face impassive, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Was he?” she asked, as if the memory was no more than a passing name, a half-forgotten note. Her voice betrayed no flicker of recognition, only the barest interest.

“When you… first arrived,” Dark Cacao continued, unfazed by her indifference, “he came here. I gave him this garden, and he gave order to it. Each tree, each stone, each season—it is his design.”

Her gaze lingered on the neat rows of pine, on the frozen waterways, on the stillness sculpted into the land. She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “Mm. His craft remains… precise.”

For a fleeting moment, the image of the Ivory Pagoda brushed her thoughts—the soft terraces of white stone, lanterns swaying in warm breezes, peach blossoms scattering in pink drifts. Home…

Then she turned back to the table, her voice hollow of any further thought, her attention already retreating inward.

Dark Cacao studied her, silent, as if waiting for something more. But Mystic Flour’s face betrayed nothing—no sorrow, no yearning, no warmth. Only apathy, polished into steel.

Yet when he spoke again, it was not with command, but with something quieter. “The pond freezes quicker now. Peach Blossom says the stones around it hold too much shade.”

Mystic Flour’s thin pupils shifted back toward him, her expression still cool. “Then he should prune the branches. Allow lighter.”

Dark Cacao inclined his head, a faint hum escaping him. “Perhaps. Though I told him to wait until spring. The frost makes the bark fragile.”

She considered this for a moment, then gave the smallest shrug. “Then leave it. If the tree dies, another will grow.”

To her surprise, he gave a short exhale, not quite a laugh, but softer than his usual tone. “Practical as always.”

Her lips pressed into a line, neither smile nor frown. “Practicality is the only constant in a world that changes without care.”

He leaned back slightly, watching her with a steadiness that carried no edge this time, only a strange, restrained calm. “Still… I would rather see these trees live.”

For a moment, the quite lingered—heavy, unbroken—his gaze resting on her as if weighed by something unsaid, something he would not give voice to.

Then the air shifted again, the brief illusion fading as swiftly as it had come.

Dark Cacao exhaled through his nose, shifting his shoulders slightly, before giving a short cough into his fist—controlled, deliberate, a signal more than a reflex.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, steady. “Enough of gardens. Sit properly—you’ll strain your back like that.”

Dark Cacao gave no further explanation, only a brief, measured glance before resting his hands on the table. “Go,” he said, gesturing to the board.

“I wasn’t aware you know how to play,” Mystic Flour said flatly, her tone carrying no curiosity—only observation.

“I only know a little,” he said, his voice steady, almost careful. “When I passed through Beast-Yeast, I encountered some of the steamed dumpling immortals who dwell in the high cliffs. We sat together over the board. Their play was… sharp, difficult to read. I lost to them more often than I care to admit.”

At the mention of Beast-Yeast, Mystic Flour’s breath caught ever so slightly, though she masked it with practiced composure. The memory of that distant, chaotic place stirred a flicker of unease in her chest—a reminder of the life she forces to leave behind—but outwardly, she remained the picture of calm.

Her pale hand hovered above the stones, her thin vertical white pupils narrowing faintly, gray shading creeping at the edges. “You drag me from my chamber,” she murmured, the words a quiet blade slicing through the stillness, “so that I may wear your colors and play your games.”

His dark purple eyes held hers without flinching. “You are my queen,” he replied firmly. “I would see you adorned as such. And I would know your mind—on the board, if not in words.”

Her lips parted, fangs just visible as she let out the faintest exhale, halfway between a sigh and a laugh. She set her first stone on the board with a sharp, deliberate click.

“If you wished to test my mind, husband” she said, “you should know — I do not lose easily.”

A flicker of something rare crossed Dark Cacao’s face. Not warmth, but interest. Perhaps even respect. He placed his own stone in reply, the sound echoing softly through the still garden.

For a moment, the two sat across from one another — king and queen, husband and wife, adversary and partner — the cold air tight between them, the board their only battlefield.

The stones clicked against the wooden board, each placement deliberate, each glance measured. Mystic Flour’s hands were steady, but her mind churned with cold fire. The chill in the garden gnawed at her, sharp as the resentment that had been building over months of forced compliance, of silks chosen for her, of summons at all hours.

“You play cautiously,” Dark Cacao observed, his tone neutral, but his dark purple eyes sharpened, scanning her face. “Do you always measure everything before you act?”

She placed a stone, her sharp fangs pressing lightly into her lip. Her vertical white pupils narrowed, a streak of black encroaching at the edge. “I measure only what must be measured. Not everything is worthy of my effort,” she replied, voice low, controlled, carrying the ice she felt inside.

He leaned slightly forward, resting a forearm on the table. “And me?” His words were casual, almost deceptively so, but the weight behind them struck her. “Am I worthy of your effort?”

Mystic Flour’s jaw tightened. She glanced at him, gray sclera brushing the edge of her irises. “You are… a constant irritation,” she said flatly, letting the words sting more than any sword could. “A man who summons me at whim, dresses me as you please, and expects my compliance as if I am no more than a doll in your palace.”

Dark Cacao’s expression did not change. He placed his next stone carefully, eyes still on her. “Yet you are here. You have come. And still, your hands move on this board.”

Her lips curved faintly, sharp and bitter. “Compliance is not love. Obedience is not trust. You confuse proximity for loyalty.”

For the first time, he leaned back, silent. The winter sunlight caught the lines of his strong features, the muscles of his forearms flexing as he rested his hands over his knees. “Tell me then,” he said finally, his voice lower, quieter — almost a whisper against the stone and wind, “what do you feel for me, Mystic Flour?”

The question lingered, heavy as frost. Her pupils constricted; gray shaded into black along the edges. She picked up a stone, turning it in her fingers before placing it with deliberate force. The snap echoed across the courtyard.

“Hatred,” she said, soft but piercing, her words carrying all the venom she felt toward the man who would call her his queen. “Resentment. Disgust. And yet…” Her lips pressed tightly together, fangs hidden but threatening. “And yet I endure you because I must, not because I choose to.”

Dark Cacao regarded her silently, as if weighing every syllable, every shift in her stance, every flicker of emotion across her sharp, controlled face. The board lay between them like a battlefield of quiet truths.

“I see,” he said at last, voice measured. “Hatred, and endurance. Not loyalty, not affection. That is… honest.”

Her gaze sharpened, gray sclera deepening in anger. “Honesty is all I owe you,” she said, voice trembling slightly but still firm, “and even that… is earned, not given freely.”

For a moment, the wind stirred, carrying the scent of pine and frost. They were alone in the garden, yet both encased in their own walls — hers of fire and disdain, his of silence and observation. The game continued, but the board was no longer just stones. It was words, glances, suppressed fury, and a fragile measure of truth neither dared discard.

The garden fell into a fragile silence after her words. “Hatred, and endurance,” Dark Cacao repeated, almost to himself. His jaw tightened, subtle—but enough for the queen’s sharp eyes to catch it.

He did not flinch, did not speak further, but the weight of her venom hung in the air like a frozen blade. For the first time in weeks, he felt the sting of her truth. Not anger, not defiance, but sheer, unflinching hate directed at him. He did not show it; he would never show it openly. Pride forbade it. But beneath the surface, it pressed against him, a quiet ache he did not know how to soothe.

The stones continued to click against the board, each move deliberate. Mystic Flour’s focus never wavered. Her fingers hovered over the pieces, her vertical white pupils narrowed with precision, and a streak of gray traced the corners of her eyes as she considered every placement.

Finally, she set the last stone. The board was complete.

Dark Cacao studied the arrangement carefully, lips pressing into a straight line. He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing—not in annoyance, but in acknowledgment. The victory was hers.

“You’ve won,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly. His voice carried no mockery, no attempt to soften the admission. Only respect. A rare thing, for him, earned but unspoken until this moment.

Mystic Flour’s expression remained unreadable. She leaned back, hands folded in her lap, giving nothing away. No satisfaction, no triumph, only the quiet clarity of someone who had done what was necessary—and nothing more.

He reached forward, lifting a single black stone from the board and holding it loosely between his fingers. “Your strategy… precise, unwavering,” he murmured. A flicker of admiration passed over his features, subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable. “Even in hatred, you command skill. Even in disdain, you do not falter.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but the gray shading at the edges of her eyes deepened slightly—not with joy, but with acknowledgment. She did not thank him. She did not speak. She simply allowed him to witness her composure, sharp and deliberate.

Dark Cacao returned the stone to the board and straightened, standing tall. The winter air pressed against them, biting and cold, yet he did not move. He did not smile. He did not show relief. But inside, a part of him—small, disciplined, carefully guarded—felt something he had not allowed himself to feel in months: a grudging, quiet admiration for the woman before him, who hated him so fiercely yet did not break under his gaze.

For now, the garden held only the echo of their shared silence, the faint scent of pine in the cold morning air, and the subtle acknowledgment that in their world of discipline, dominance, and defiance, respect—however grudging—had been quietly earned.

He rose, stepping closer to the edge of the table. “Rest tonight,” he said, his tone measured. “I will summon you again tomorrow.”

A subtle command, wrapped in authority, yet tempered with restraint. Mystic Flour inclined her head slightly, acknowledging him without a word.

“Dismissed,” he added, his dark purple eyes lingering on her only briefly before turning away.

She rose, letting the folds of her silk fabric fall around her with deliberate grace, snow-white hair catching the morning light like frost. Each step through the frost-tinged garden was measured, controlled, as though even her passage left a faint trace of cold in the air.

Dark Cacao remained where he was, silent and still, the game’s quiet echo lingering between them.

.

.

.

The next day dawned cold and clear, frost still clinging stubbornly to the courtyard stones. Mystic Flour moved through the halls with her usual measured grace, noting, with mild curiosity, that she had not been summoned. The silence of the morning felt unusual—almost disquieting—but she dismissed it. She had more pressing matters than to speculate over the king’s whims.

He never did.

A day had passed, and she began to forget the oddity of the missed summon. That is, until the evening, when a servant quietly approached her chamber.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing low, “King Dark Cacao requests your presence in the royal dining hall.”

Her gaze sharpened. A summons at dinner was rare—formal, deliberate, not casual. She rose, her pale fingers brushing over the intricate embroidery of her dress, the fabric catching the light as she moved. Her long, snow-white hair had been drawn up into a high, elegant bun, a few stray strands framing her sharp features, accentuating the cold precision of her gaze. Without a word, she followed.

The dining hall was vast; its walls lined with polished dark wood and banners bearing the Cacaoian crest. Firelight flickered along the polished surface of a long low table, catching the gleam of silverware set with meticulous care. Yet despite its grandeur, the space felt hollow—silent, emptied of life. No servants lingered at the edges; no guards stood at the doors. It was only them.

The table itself, though prepared for two, bore a spread meant for a feast. Steaming bowls of seasoned rice, roasted meats carved with care, skewers of glazed root vegetables, and steaming broths scented faintly with ginger and mountain herbs lay neatly arranged. Plates of preserved fruits, sugared nuts, and soft, delicate dumplings filled the gaps, while a pair of crystal goblets reflected the firelight in muted glimmers of red wine.

Still, despite the abundance, every dish was placed with precision, as though the excess was not indulgence but an assertion of control—another form of discipline hidden beneath the guise of generosity.

At the head of the table, Dark Cacao sat tall, shoulders squared, posture unyielding. His dark purple eyes lifted as she entered, and for a brief moment, the usual shadow of command pressed heavy into the silence, as though even the hall itself obeyed his presence.

Her steps echoed lightly against the wooden floor, each one measured, deliberate, until she reached the table’s side. The emptiness of the hall wrapped around them both like a cloak, making every movement, every glance, feel amplified—inescapable.

“Sit,” he ordered, his tone firm and unmistakable, leaving no room for hesitation.

Mystic Flour complied, her steps soft yet clear against the polished wooden floor, each one echoing faintly in the still chamber. She crossed the space with calm precision, the long hem of her embroidered silk dress trailing behind her like a muted ripple.

Reaching the low table, she sank gracefully onto the waiting floor cushion, her movements measured, deliberate. The embroidered silk gathered in a neat pool around her, the faint shimmer of its threads catching the firelight as she composed herself with poised stillness.

She chose a place beside him—not pressed close, yet not far enough to be mistaken for avoidance. The space between them was narrow, deliberate, just enough for formality to be maintained and tension to breathe.

Her pale gaze lowered briefly to the table, catching the steady, deliberate motions of his hand. He carved the meat, poured the wine, reached for the bowls—always with his left. Her pupils narrowed.

“I wasn’t aware,” she said softly, almost as though remarking on the weather. “That you were left-handed.”

Dark Cacao did not pause, the blade of his knife sliding cleanly through roasted flesh. He set it down with precision before answering, his tone clipped, cool. “Does it bother you?”

Mystic Flour’s lips pressed into the faintest curve, neither smile nor frown. “No,” she replied simply, her voice flat, stripped of any weight.

In Cacaoian tradition, the left hand was an omen—misfortune bound to flesh, a mark of imbalance and ill favor. It was a hand said to carry curses, to draw shadows, to invite bad luck.

And yet here he sat, wielding it with calm mastery, unbothered by the weight of his own culture’s judgment.

“You were absent yesterday,” she began, her voice calm but edged with curiosity. “I wondered if something had…”

He cut her off with a slight lift of his hand, sharp and commanding. “There was no need for speculation,” he said, his voice measured, authoritative. “I summoned you when it was necessary. You are here now. That is all that matters.”

She inclined her head slightly, accepting the words on the surface, though the cold suspicion lingered beneath.

“Dinner is not merely sustenance,” he continued, voice low, commanding attention. “It is… an opportunity to speak. To observe. To understand. And I intend to use it as such.”

Her thin, vertical pupils narrowed faintly, gray shading creeping along the edges as she met his gaze evenly. Despite her outward calm, a low coil of tension twisted in her chest. She hated the cold, she hated the control, and she hated being expected to navigate the dangerous balance between obedience and autonomy.

Yet she sat, poised and composed, as Dark Cacao continued to set the tone of the evening with his presence alone: commanding, exacting, unwavering. The room echoed with the subtle weight of authority, and for the first time in weeks, Mystic Flour felt the cold of both the hall and the man at its center pressing closer than ever before.

She felt him approach before she turned—his footsteps measured, steady, carrying the weight of a presence that needed no announcement. Dark Cacao came to her side, lowering himself with deliberate grace until he knelt beside her cushion.

Without a word, he set a portion of food before her on the low table, the polished silverware catching the faint glow of firelight. For a moment, his dark purple eyes lifted to hers, unwavering, unreadable, holding her in the quiet command of his gaze.

“Eat,” he commanded, his tone flat, absolute—leaving no room for refusal.

Mystic Flour’s thin, vertical pupils narrowed. She leaned back slightly, her sharp fangs pressing lightly into her lip. “I’m not hungry,” she said, her voice calm but carrying a faint edge of defiance.

He did not flinch. His gaze remained locked on hers, unyielding, almost a challenge. “You will eat,” he said, the word clipped, deliberate. “Not out of desire, but because I said so.”

A quiet frost seemed to settle between them. Mystic Flour’s fingers twitched, hovering near the plate, but her composure remained intact. Still, beneath her calm, a coil of irritation—and something sharper, fiercer—twisted like ice around her chest.

She did not immediately obey. Her gray-tinged sclera edged at the corners of her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the garden-like calm of her usual mask cracked under the weight of his command. Yet, outwardly, she sat poised, a picture of controlled defiance.

Dark Cacao leaned back slightly, studying her, his expression unreadable but the authority in his posture undeniable. “I will not repeat myself,” he said quietly, a subtle threat wrapped in restraint. “Eat.”

Reluctantly, with careful precision, Mystic Flour picked up her utensils. Her movements were deliberate, calculated, each bite measured—an outward act of compliance, while the fire of her private resentment simmered beneath, coiling tighter with every silent chew.

The taste of the food did not reach her. Each morsel, carefully prepared and artfully presented, passed her lips without effect—neither nourishment nor pleasure touched her. She did not need to eat; her body did not crave sustenance, and yet here she was, performing the ritual of dinner under his scrutiny.

Her sharp fangs pressed lightly into her lower lip as she mechanically chewed, the faint metallic tang of her own blood from the pinch reminding her she was alive, but alive only in the way she allowed herself to be. The warmth of the hall and the scent of roasting meats were foreign, unwelcome intrusions into the controlled coldness she preferred.

Dark Cacao watched her steadily, his dark purple eyes unblinking, noting the rhythm of her movements, the tension in her shoulders, the faint twitch of a finger as she adjusted the silverware. He said nothing, but his presence was a weight pressing against her autonomy, reminding her silently that nothing in this room—this life—was hers to command alone.

“You chew with precision,” he finally remarked, voice low, smooth, almost neutral, though the undertone of assessment was unmistakable. “Even when the act is… unnecessary.”

Mystic Flour’s pupils narrowed. She gave a small tilt of her head, gray shading creeping along the edges, a hint of the storm beneath her calm. “Precision is not the same as obedience,” she said quietly, the words carrying the cold edge of steel. “Even in acts that are meaningless to me, I do not waste effort without cause.”

Dark Cacao’s gaze lingered, sharp and calculating. A subtle crease formed at the corner of his brow, almost imperceptible. “And yet you sit here,” he said, the faintest trace of exasperation in his tone. “You follow through, even when it is unnecessary. Even when it displeases you.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Outwardly, she was still the composed queen, elegant and poised, a picture of icy detachment. Inwardly, however, the coil of her resentment tightened further. She hated the cold hall, the cold food, the cold expectation of compliance—but most of all, she hated the quiet authority of the man across from her, who could command obedience with mere presence.

The meal continued in its tense rhythm, the silence between them heavy and measured. Dark Cacao reached across the table, his hand moving with deliberate slowness. His fingers brushed lightly at the back of her neck, a feather-touch that lingered longer than necessary.

Mystic Flour’s vertical white pupils narrowed slightly, but she did not pull away. She had endured countless invasions of space, countless unspoken assertions of control—but this was… different. The cold, precise edge of her apathy remained, but a faint ripple of awareness passed through her.

He lowered his head, brushing his lips against the nape of her neck, a quiet gesture trespass wrapped in softness.

The contact jolted her like a strike of lightning. Mystic Flour shot upright from the cushion, a sharp gasp tearing past her lips. The plate in front of her tipped in the sudden movement, food scattering across the polished floor with a clatter that echoed harshly in the silence.

Her hands flew to the back of her neck, fingers pressing hard against the place his lips had grazed, as though she could scrub the sensation away. Her chest rose and fell, ragged, her voice trembling between fury and disbelief.

“What—what is this?!” she burst out, her tone cracking. “Why—why would you—”

Dark Cacao stood slowly, following her rise, his broad frame looming over her but still. He gave no answer. His dark purple eyes held hers, steady yet unreadable, until something in them faltered. For the briefest instant, the shadow of command slipped, and a glint of sorrow—raw, unguarded—broke through, like a memory pressing too close to the surface before vanishing again.

Then, with a voice quiet but commanding, he broke the fragile pause. “Kiss me,” he said. No further explanation. No temper, no softness. Only the weight of authority, and the strange, unrelenting pull that had always defined him.

Mystic Flour’s pupils constricted, gray bleeding into black at the edges. Her fangs pressed lightly into her lower lip as she wrestled with the shock and anger swirling in her chest. Her hands remained at the back of her neck, trembling faintly—not with fear, but with disbelief, frustration, and something she refused to name.

Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “You… would lower yourself to this?” The words slipped out in disbelief, jagged as broken glass.

He said nothing, letting the command hang between them, heavy as winter air. The silence was absolute, filled only by the sharp, rhythmic sound of her own breathing, the faint rustle of her hanbok against the polished wood of the dining chair.

“Kiss me,” he repeated, this time with a firmer edge, an almost physical pressure in his tone, leaving no room for argument. The simple words carried weight—authority, expectation, and the silent reminder that defiance here was neither welcome nor without consequence.

Her disbelief shattered into words, raw and venomous. “Insane,” she spat, her voice low but shaking with restrained fury. “You are insane, Dark Cacao. To think you can command such a thing, as if I were one of your warriors to be ordered at will”

The dining hall felt colder, the firelight waning beneath the weight of her rage. She rose halfway from her chair, her sharp fangs glinting as she leaned forward. “You ask for a kiss as though it were a decree. Do you even hear yourself? Do you know what madness drips from your tongue?”

For the first time, his composure wavered—not broken, but shifted. His gaze narrowed, his jaw tightening, as though her words had struck deeper than intended. Yet his authority did not falter; he remained unyielding, the command still between them like a blade left hanging in the air.

“Mystic Flour,” he said, her name weighted like iron, “you will obey.”

Her pupils narrowed to slits, the gray of her sclera deepening into near black. She stared at him, chest rising and falling with quiet, furious breaths. Then, slowly, she straightened to her full height, the hem of her embroidered dress brushing the cold floor.

“No.”

She leaned forward, her hand flat against her chest, her vertical white pupils narrowing until they were like slivers of ice, her sclera darkening with a creeping shade of gray.

“You are insane if you think I will ever kiss you. Insane to believe your authority can twist duty into desire. You want obedience? You have it. You want my silence? You have it. But my lips, my heart, my will—”

The words died in her throat.

A thunderous scrape of steel split the silence as Dark Cacao drew his sword. The black blade, massive and weathered with countless battles, crashed against the dark polished wooden floor as he leveled its edge at her throat. The purple gem embedded near its hilt — her Soul Jam, glowing faintly — pulsed with an ominous light, as though answering his will.

Mystic Flour froze. Her pupils narrowed to slivers, her sclera storming into a deeper gray. The cold kiss of steel at her neck was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of what that weapon meant. He was not just holding a sword to her — he was holding her existence.

Dark Cacao leaned forward, his towering form casting her into shadow. His voice was low, sharp, and absolute.

“Kiss me.”

No pretense. No sorrow. No room left for rebellion. Just command — and the unyielding power of a king who would not be denied.

Mystic Flour’s breath caught, her throat tight against the edge of the great black sword. The faint glow of her Soul Jam pulsed like a trapped heartbeat, a cruel reminder of his dominion.

“You are vile,” she hissed, her white pupils narrowing to slits.

She leaned in, rigid, offering him the barest brush of lips. But Dark Cacao was not satisfied.

His hand seized the back of her head, fingers digging harshly into her bun. With a sharp tug, he crushed his mouth to hers.

It was no mere kiss. His lips pressed rough, unyielding, and then his tongue forced its way past hers, demanding space she refused to give. Mystic Flour’s eyes widened, her pupils contracting to slivers as she let out a muffled sound, part fury, part shock.

Her hands shot up against his chest, pushing, resisting, her nails biting faint crescents into the fabric. Yet his grip held her fast, the sword’s presence making resistance perilous. Each second stretched, the kiss deepening, relentless. His tongue swept against hers, forceful, insistent, stealing her air.

Her lungs burned. She twisted, gasping through her nose, her body shuddering with the effort to find breath, but he pressed harder, as though daring her to break.

Bitter…

Finally, when the edge of her struggle became desperate, he tore his mouth from hers—not with gentleness, but with the rough scrape of teeth against her lip, leaving it stung and raw. A thin trail of saliva stretched between them before breaking, glistening faintly in the dim light.

Mystic Flour’s sharp fangs had grazed him in her resistance, and as he drew back, a dark line of blood welled at the corner of his mouth. It trickled slowly, stark against the severity of his jaw, the crimson catching faintly in the firelight. Yet Dark Cacao did not flinch. He lifted his hand, wiped the blood with the back of his thumb, and stared at it briefly as though weighing what it meant.

She staggered back, nearly stumbling as the edge of the low table scraped against her hip, dishes rattling from the sudden movement. Her chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, each breath sharp and burning as if her lungs were rejecting the very air he had stolen from her. Cold sweat clung to her pale skin, trickling down the curve of her neck. Her thin pupils contracted further, the edges of her sclera clouding into gray, and for a moment, hatred and disgust burned in her gaze, cutting sharper than her fangs ever could.

Her tongue flicked against her lips, and only then did she realize she had drawn blood. The faint trace of him lingered on her mouth—dark, metallic, disturbingly rich. For an instant, it sat almost delicious on her tongue, a warmth that should not have been there.

Dark Cacao only looked at her, blood still fresh on his lip, his expression unreadable—caught somewhere between pride, defiance, and something far more difficult to name.

Her hand flew to her lips, trembling as though the touch could erase what he had done—but it lingered there, pressed too hard, as though she might crush the memory if she pressed hard enough. The taste of him still burned on her tongue, bitter, invasive, a violation that churned her stomach.

“You… I hate you,” she hissed, wiping her lips with the back of her trembling hand, pupils still tight in disbelief. Her voice cracked, a mixture of venom and humiliation.

“You, will never Thaw.”

Dark Cacao lowered the sword with a slow, deliberate motion, its weight echoing as the tip struck the polished wooden floor. His dark purple eyes stayed locked on her, unreadable, heavy with authority, as if her fury meant nothing.

Mystic Flour didn’t wait for another word. The weight of his stare, the sting of his kiss still burning on her lips, and the bitter humiliation choking her throat — it was too much. She turned sharply, silks flaring as she bolted from the dining hall, her footsteps cracking against the floor like breaking glass.

Her steps echoed frantically, a sharp rhythm of silk against wood as she clutched her chest. Why… why did I let him— Her thoughts snarled, unraveling in a storm. Thief. Tyrant. Fool! I should have resisted—should have— But the memory of his tongue, of his grip on her, invaded again, forcing bile to rise.

Memories surged like a tide she could not hold back. His weight pinning her on their wedding night. The iron grip that pressed her wrists into the bedding. The heat of his breath at her neck. The wet, invasive press of his tongue, forcing its way past her as her voice gave out light moans to him. Her body shuddered violently; bile burned her throat.

“No—” The word tore from her lips, raw, breathless. She stumbled, crashing against the stone wall, her palms flat against the cold surface as if she could sink into it, escape into its solidity.

Her thin white pupils shrank to pinpoints, gray bleeding into black as she staggered into the shadows of an empty passage. She pressed her hand to the wall, her body shaking. The burn of humiliation crawled across her skin, shame and fury twisting in her gut until it became unbearable.

Then, she bent forward.

The sound of retching filled the empty corridor, sharp and raw. She heaved until her body ached, expelling the phantom taste, the vile reminder of his rough kiss. Her breath came ragged, throat burning, strands of hair slipping loose from her bun to cling against her damp face.

“—khhhk—ghhhk!” The sound tore out of her, retching violently. Her body convulsed, shoulders heaving, before a wet splatter struck the polished floorboards.

“Ghhhkk—hrrrk—hhhuuurk!” Each gag wrenched her thin frame, the sound raw and jagged, echoing down the quiet hall. Spit clung to her lips, stringing as she coughed and gasped, spitting again and again as though she could purge his taste, his touch, his breath from her tongue.

When the sickness passed, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, her whole frame trembling. She leaned against the wall, sliding against it to her knees, her expression dark, hollow.

Her fingers brushed against the back of her neck — the place he had kissed first — the place he had once bitten when he claimed her—and a violent shudder wracked her body.

“…Insane,” she whispered, voice hoarse with loathing. “He’s… insane.”

Yet beneath the disgust, beneath the hatred, something twisted deeper in her chest, something she despised even more than the kiss itself — the fact that she could still feel the heat of his lips against hers, no matter how much she fought it.

Chapter Text

Several days passed, and the castle had grown quieter than usual. The rhythm of summons that once dictated Mystic Flour’s every step had faltered into silence. No late-night calls to his chamber, no strolls through the gardens, no carefully arranged meals where she was forced to sit by his side.

She welcomed the stillness—at least outwardly. Her pale hands folded neatly as she moved through the halls, her expression an unbroken mask of composure. Yet in the corners of her mind, the memory lingered: the press of his lips, the taste of iron, the weight of his authority turned personal. Each thought coiled tight like thorns around her chest, a presence she could not shake no matter how she tried.

Dark Cacao, too, kept his distance. The king busied himself with council meetings, drills with his watchers, matters of state that required no queen at his side. When their paths did cross, by accident or design, his eyes slid past her with the same precision as a blade sheathed before striking. Not dismissive, not indulgent—simply avoiding.

The palace itself seemed to hold its breath, as if even the stone corridors and frosted windows sensed the rift that hung between them. What had been tense silence before had hardened now into something brittle, fragile, threatening to crack at the faintest touch.

Mystic Flour did not speak of that night. Not to the attendants who passed her in silence, not to the guards who bowed their heads as she walked, No one would know.

Not even Cacao Butter— her loyal shadow and confidant.

It was not restraint out of fear but out of choice. To voice it would be to give it form; to admit it had touched her at all. She would not allow it. Her silence was her denial, her refusal to let the moment linger beyond what it already had.

That kiss—the heat of it, the sting of blood, the fleeting taste that had nearly unsettled her—she buried deep. It was hers alone, a secret locked within her mind, a shadow she would neither name nor share.

Yet in the stillness of her chamber, with no eyes to witness, the thought returned, persistent, gnawing at the edges of her composure.

Why?

Why had he demanded it so fiercely, as though the world itself hinged on the press of her lips? Why had he needed it—not asked, not coaxed, but commanded as though it were his right, his due?

Her fingers tightened faintly around the porcelain cup. It made no sense. A kiss was nothing, a trifle, a moment easily discarded. Yet the weight he placed upon it, the force behind his voice, lingered like a scar she could not see.

Her breath stilled, her pale gaze fixed upon the muted grain of the wooden shutter. What was it you wanted, Dark Cacao? A kiss… or something far more binding?

And still, she buried it, deeper and deeper, refusing to let the question rise beyond her own mind.

The chamber was still, save for the faint whisper of wind against the shutters. Mystic Flour sat upon a low cushion, the soft rustle of her silk robes the only sound as she lifted the porcelain cup to her lips. Steam curled upward, fragrant and pale, dissolving into the quiet air. The tea was hot, bitter, grounding—its taste sharp against her tongue, anchoring her to the present.

Cacao Butter was not here. Dark Cacao had borrowed her for the day, and so the silence of the room wrapped itself around Mystic Flour like a second veil. Alone, there was no one to measure her breath, no eyes to seek the truth behind her stillness.

It was not restraint out of fear but out of choice. To voice it would be to give it form; to admit it had touched her at all. She would not allow it. Her silence was her denial, her refusal to let the moment linger beyond what it already had.

The porcelain clicked softly against the lacquered tray as she set the cup down, the faintest tremor in her fingers quickly stilled before any could notice. A muted ache coiled low in her body, sharp and insistent, but she held herself perfectly composed, her posture straight, her breath unbroken.

Her gaze drifted to the bare stone wall before her, tracing the faint grooves and veins of its surface as though they held some secret meaning. A wave of discomfort rippled through her, but her expression remained serene, untouched by its shadow.

The memory stirred again—heat, teeth, blood—but she buried it with practiced precision, submerging it beneath the calm mask she wore. Her hand folded neatly into her lap, tightening for just a moment before relaxing again, as if nothing at all had passed through her.

She exhaled slowly, the sound measured, her eyes empty of warmth, her lips carrying only the faint bitterness of tea.

She needs to clear her mind.

Her gaze drifted toward the corner of the chamber, where beneath a folded cloth of pale silk lay the guzheng—one of the few treasures she had salvaged from the ruins of the Ivory Pagoda. Its lacquered wood gleamed faintly even in shadow, the strings waiting, silent yet taut, like breath held too long.

She rose, the long hem of her robes whispering across the polished floor, and crossed the room with the same measured grace she carried through every motion. Kneeling before the instrument, she drew back the silk covering with careful fingers, almost reverent despite herself.

The sight of it struck something deep. Memories pressed at the edges of her mind—warm terraces, drifting blossoms, evenings when she had played her guzheng for the other Beasts in the soft glow of sunset, their laughter ringing across the courtyard as they lounged beneath the peach blossom tree. She remembered the quiet nights after, huddled together in the gentle shade, bodies warm against the chill of the stone beneath them, sharing dreams in silence. For a fleeting moment, she could almost smell the sweet scent of the blossoms again, hear the wind whispering over the white stone steps, feel the gentle resonance of her music carrying through the air.

But the thought cut quickly, sharply, and she forced it away.

Her pale hands hovered over the strings, delicate yet sure. She plucked the first note. The sound rang clear, bright, and steady, spreading into the silence of the chamber like water rippling across still glass.

Yes. This was better. The music could drown what words never would.

.

.

Mystic Flour set the guzheng before her on the terrace, the lacquered wood glinting faintly in the pale light. She rested her fingers on the strings, poised but unhurried, as though she weighed the worth of letting the sound leave her at all.

Then, softly, the first note bloomed.

It was not just any song—it was one she had carried with her from the Ivory Pagoda, an ancient piece whispered to have been composed by the temple’s first oracle. Its notes were rarely heard beyond those hallowed halls, meant only for moonlit courtyards and ivory pillars. Yet here, upon cold stone beneath a harsher sky, Mystic Flour gave it breath once more.

The music unfurled like silk: clear, delicate strands that rippled outward in waves. The melody was bittersweet—its opening bright and crystalline, like morning bells echoing across marble steps, only to fall into shadows, low and mournful, as though the weight of memory bent every note.

Her fingers danced, swift and sharp, tugging at the strings until they trembled. Some notes quivered like petals caught in sudden wind, while others rang deep and solemn, resonant as temple gongs. The guzheng sang of distance, of yearning, of an ache that could not be confessed in words.

The sound stretched across the terrace, seeping into the corridors. Servants halted mid-step; guards at the doorway straightened, their heads subtly inclined toward the music. None spoke, none dared to move. They knew instinctively they were hearing something sacred, a fragment of her that belonged to another life—a past never meant to be shared.

Mystic Flour’s face remained unyielding, her eyes pale and still, her lips unsmiling. She revealed nothing, even as her hands spilled out the secrets of the Ivory Pagoda. The beauty and sorrow lived only in the strings, as though the guzheng itself carried the burden of a voice she refused to give.

At last, her hands slowed. The melody dwindled, tapering into a single trembling note that lingered, then dissolved into silence. Fingers lingered over the strings a moment longer, catching the faint glint of her golden ring as it reflected the soft light. A subtle weight, a reminder of bonds and promises, rested against her skin even as the music faded.

And in that silence, the palace seemed to bow its head—not to her, but to the memory she had summoned from across time and distance.

From beyond the doorway, the hush broke—not with reverence, but with the slow, deliberate sound of clapping. Each strike of palm against palm echoed like a ripple through still water, soft yet sharp enough to cut through her music.

The servants flinched, exchanging wary glances, while the guards stiffened, their hands brushing instinctively against their weapons before lowering again. None dared to speak, but their eyes betrayed recognition, unease sharpening the air.

Mystic Flour’s hands stilled upon the guzheng’s strings, the final note trembling into silence. She did not turn immediately, her back straight, her gaze fixed on the darkened horizon beyond the terrace. Her stillness was deliberate, a refusal to grant the intruder her haste.

A figure drifted into the frame of the doorway—slender, assured, as though the hall itself bent to his rhythm. His skin was deep brown, his eyes a piercing white with slit pupils glinting like blades in the half-light. A braid hung at his side, tied in violet, swaying with each step. His small, pointed smile seemed to bend the room, confident and uninvited.

“My, my…” His voice was smooth, threaded with amusement. “I had not thought to hear music of such grace in these old halls. A hidden jewel, it seems.”

The servants bowed low, their silence edged with discomfort. Mystic Flour, however, did not move at once. Her hands hovered lightly over the strings, her long veil brushing against her back in the cold breeze. Finally, she spoke—her tone flat, stripped of warmth.

“And you are?”

The stranger stepped further into the terrace light, slender frame poised, every motion practiced. His white, slit-pupiled eyes caught the flicker of dusk like polished glass, and his smile curled in sharp confidence.

“Affogato,” he said, inclining his head with a grace that felt more performance than respect. “Royal Advisor to His Majesty, Dark Cacao.” His lashes lowered faintly, feigning humility, before he let his smile return, smaller, sharper.

“And you must be…” His eyes traced her like a study, his words drawn out as if savoring them. “…the foreign bride His Majesty brought back. The whisper of the Ivory Pagoda, now seated beneath these austere roofs.”

The servants stilled further, the air between them thick with unsaid tension.

Mystic Flour’s fingers pressed lightly against the strings, though no sound came. She did not lift her gaze, nor shift her posture—only let the silence answer for her, cool and impenetrable.

Fingers brushed the final string, leaving a low, trembling note to fade into the terrace air. Without turning, her voice broke the silence—flat, uncolored, uncaring.

“Why is His Majesty’s Royal Advisor here?” she asked, her tone steady as stone. “Do you need something of me… or did Dark Cacao send you?”

The words fell like frost, polite only in form, barren of warmth.

Affogato’s smile curved, unbothered by the edge of her dismissal. “Ah—neither, I assure you.” He lifted his hand in a languid gesture, as though waving away the thought itself. “No orders, no summons. I was simply walking past the hall when I heard…” His eyes flicked toward the guzheng, then back to her, gleaming faintly. “…that lovely music. I could not help but follow it here.”

The servants and guards shifted uneasily in the doorway, caught between awe of their lady’s playing and unease at the Advisor’s sudden intrusion.

Mystic Flour remained seated, her back still turned, her gaze set firmly on the distant peaks beyond the terrace. Her silence lingered long enough to feel like dismissal, yet she allowed the question to hang unchallenged, her indifference sharper than words.

Her fingers lingered on the guzheng strings, one nail grazing a note that shimmered and faded into silence. She did not look at him, nor acknowledge the flourish in his words.

“I see,” she said at last, her tone flat, her gaze fixed outward at the pale horizon. “Then you have wasted your time.”

Affogato only smiled, as though her indifference amused him rather than stung.

Within, Mystic Flour’s thoughts sharpened like a blade hidden beneath silk.

That smile… that voice. Greed clings to him like a second skin. I can smell it, thick and sweet, as if it drips from every word.

She drew a slow breath, steadying the faint ripple of disdain before it reached her face. Outwardly, she was unmoved, still as ice.

Affogato tilted his head slightly, the violet shadow at his eyes deepening as his smile widened. “They whisper much in the court, you know,” he began smoothly, voice like honey poured too thick. “Tales of the foreign bride His Majesty brought back from the ashes of the Ivory Pagoda. Whispers of beauty, of mystery, of an untouchable grace.”

He took a measured step closer, his tone lowering as though confiding a secret. “And yet…” His pale eyes flicked over her profile, the curve of her veil, the stillness of her hands poised above the guzheng. “Those rumors pale beside the truth. No words, no tale, could compare to seeing you here, in the flesh.”

The compliment dripped from his lips with practiced ease, as if he had rehearsed it a hundred times before.

Mystic Flour’s gaze did not shift from the frozen garden beyond. Her expression remained untouched, her fingers brushing lightly over the strings as if she hadn’t heard him at all.

Inside, her thoughts curled cold and sharp

So, he seeks favor with me. Greed and ambition—thick as incense, suffocating the air.

Mystic Flour’s fingers pressed once more to the guzheng, a low, resonant note humming into the air. Her voice, when it came, was flat, stripped of interest.

“Save your breath. Empty words do not move me.”

Affogato chuckled softly, unbothered, as though her dismissal were part of some elaborate dance he had already prepared for. He clasped his hands neatly before him, his shoulders bowing in a shallow, graceful tilt.

“Ah, but I am not so arrogant as to believe I could move you with mere words. No—your presence humbles me, Lady Mystic Flour. Even indifference becomes elegance upon your lips.”

He took a step nearer, his slippers whispering against the polished wood. The faint incense of his robes carried with him, mingling with the sharper chill of the air.

“Do forgive me if I linger,” he added, voice smooth as cream, his pale eyes sliding toward hers with deliberate care. “A man in my station sees much that is ugly—greed, war, decay. To witness beauty… rare, fleeting beauty…” His smile curved higher, sly but soft. “It tempts even one such as I to linger a moment longer.”

Mystic Flour did not look at him. Her gaze stayed on the strings beneath her hands, her silence deliberates. But inwardly, her thought was colder, sharper than the winter air

Yes. Temptation. Greed. It stinks from you.

Mystic Flour’s fingers plucked a final chord, the sound trailing into silence like a thread cut clean. She lifted her hand, dismissing him with the smallest flick of her wrist.

“Go. I’ve no use for empty chatter.”

Her tone carried no bite, only apathy, as though even her dismissal was too insignificant to grant him real weight.

Affogato did not retreat. Instead, he gave a subtle wave of his hand, a signal quick and practiced. At once, the servants and guards who lingered at the threshold bowed and withdrew, their steps fading into the corridor until only he and Mystic Flour remained within the hush of the terrace.

“Ah,” he breathed, his voice lowering as though confiding in her alone. “Now we may speak without so many ears. Do not mistake me, my lady—I am not here on his behalf.” His smile softened, but the glint in his eyes betrayed something more serpentine. “I come as myself. And though I stand as His Majesty’s advisor, I do not forget what it is to be bound by duty against one’s will.”

He eased a step nearer, hands folded neatly within his sleeves, his tone silken, coaxing.

“To be brought here, taken from the home you knew… it is not triumph, it is loss. A sorrow dressed in finery. Saddening, at best.”

His head inclined ever so slightly, his voice a shade gentler. “And if such sorrow weighs too heavily, know this—I stand on your side, Lady Mystic Flour. Even in this kingdom of ice, not all hearts beat in his shadow.”

Mystic Flour did not move, her face as still and polished as porcelain. The faint night breeze stirred the veil at her shoulders, but her eyes, sharp and pale, gave him nothing.

Affogato leaned closer, lowering his voice as if every syllable were a gift wrapped only for her.

“You are wise not to trust easily,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth curling. “And yet… wisdom is often starved without knowledge.”

He paused, letting the silence hang before continuing, his tone almost conspiratorial.

“His Majesty tells you little, does he not? Always the stoic king, ever silent, keeping his court in shadows. But I… I am not so silent. I hear more than I ought.”

His hand brushed idly along the edge of the low table as he drew closer still.

“Take for instance the council. Those esteemed lords whisper of you—how you are but a pawn, an ornament dragged from the ruins of your temple. They say you are fragile, voiceless… unfit to sit beside him.” His eyes glinted, savoring the weight of his words. “But I do not agree.”

He straightened slightly, a feigned dignity rising in his posture.

“No, I see you as more than their slander. And should you wish to know their schemes, their mutters, their alliances—I could tell you. I could make sure their whispers never reach to wound you.”

He tilted his head, that single braid swaying against his cheek, and his smile sharpened.

“Only say the word, Lady Mystic Flour, and I will bring you truths His Majesty would rather you never know.”

Mystic Flour’s hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture unbent, her voice flat as a blade dulled by disuse.

“Idle words,” she said, her pupils narrowing ever so slightly. “You offer me whispers I already know. The lords’ disdain, the court’s malice, the weight of being a foreign bride—these are not revelations, they are common noise. I have no need of you, nor of your attempts to wrap me in your little shenanigans.”

Her gaze cut across him, sharp and void of warmth. “Take your flattery elsewhere. I am not so easily swayed.”

For a moment, silence stretched, heavy with rejection. But Affogato’s smile only widened, sly and unbroken, as if he had been waiting for this exact dismissal. He leaned in just a fraction, his voice lowering to a purr.

“Perhaps. Yet tell me, Lady Mystic Flour… would you say the same if I told you I know the whereabouts of Cloud Haetae?”

Her breath stilled. Her gaze, until now untouched by anything but indifference, flickered—subtle, but undeniable. Her eyes sharpened, white pupils contracting to narrow slits, the first crack in her apathy since he had approached.

Affogato caught it instantly. His grin curled higher, triumphant, though tempered with feigned sympathy.

“Ah… so the name still stirs you. I thought as much.”

Mystic Flour’s tone, though kept cool, could not quite conceal the edge of urgency that slid beneath it.

“...Cloud Haetae,” she repeated softly, as though testing the weight of the name on her tongue. Her eyes narrowed on him. “What do you know of his whereabouts?”

Affogato tilted his head, braid swaying against his cheek as his grin lingered. The pale violet shadow on his lids caught the terrace light when he half-lidded his eyes.

“So direct at last,” he murmured with satisfaction. “It suits you, my lady.”

He took another step nearer, careful and deliberate, until he stood close enough that the faint sweetness of his perfume—spiced cacao tinged with smoke—hung between them. His hands folded behind his back, posture elegant, voice silken.

“There is no need for coyness. I have no trouble telling you—because unlike the others, I would build trust with you, not walls.”

Mystic Flour’s expression did not soften, yet her silence betrayed that she was listening.

He drifted a step closer, the air between them touched with the faint spice of roasted cacao. His voice slipped low, silken, as if threading a secret only for her

“Cloud Haetae is not dead, nor wandering the snows as some would claim. He is alive… imprisoned beneath these very walls.”

The words slithered like smoke. He folded his hands behind his back, savoring the weight of her silence.

“Few know this truth. Fewer still dare speak it. But I—” his white eyes gleamed with sly satisfaction “—I would have you know. Not as the King’s advisor, but as one who sees how cruel it is to wrench both mistress from her loyal guardian apart.”

He leaned just enough to let his whisper graze her ear.

“Your protector languishes in chains while you endure this… gilded captivity. A sorrow, is it not? And I share it with you, my lady. I am on your side.”

Mystic Flour’s gaze lingered on him, cold and unreadable, yet her silence stretched long enough to betray thought behind it. She could smell the greed dripping from every word he spoke, a hunger that clung to him like leeches. He was a serpent—every flourish, every bow, every smile laced with poison.

And yet… he knew where Cloud Haetae was.

Her fangs pressed faintly against her lip as she lowered her eyes to the guzheng, fingers idly brushing against the strings without sound. To spurn him outright would be foolish, to dismiss his words reckless. Cloud Haetae was not merely her guardian—he was the tether to a past life stolen from her, a bond the King’s walls could not break.

No matter how distasteful, no matter how vile the source, information was a weapon she could not afford to discard.

Finally, she lifted her gaze, unflinching.

“So be it,” she murmured, voice soft but honed to an edge. “Greed rots your every breath, and yet… even a creature like you may prove useful. If what you say is true, Affogato, then I will hear it.”

Affogato’s smile curved wider, sharp and triumphant, as if her words were a victory he had already anticipated. His white eyes gleamed, narrow pupils glinting with amusement as he dipped his head in a shallow bow that felt more mocking than reverent.

“I knew you were wise enough not to waste what lies before you,” he purred, his voice as smooth as honey steeped in venom. “Even the purest blossom must root itself in soil, no matter how foul, if it wishes to endure. And I—” his smirk deepened “—am the soil you must take.”

He straightened, taking a slow step closer, hands folded neatly behind his back like a man who knew the board had shifted in his favor. “Do not mistake me, Lady Mystic Flour. I ask for nothing now. Only that you remember who it was that came to you with truth when all others offered silence.”

The air between them seemed heavier, the faint tremor of the guzheng string still echoing beneath the silence.

Mystic Flour’s fingers tightened against her lap. She loathed the satisfaction shining in his face. She loathed him. And yet—her path to Cloud Haetae lay through this man, through his greed and his games.

Affogato inclined his head slightly, deferential, almost humble. “I remain at your service, Your Majesty. Every move, every secret I hold—consider it yours.”

The words were calm, courteous, yet they cut through the stillness like a quiet promise. Mystic Flour’s pale eyes, veiled and unreadable, flicked to him for a heartbeat—acknowledgment, not trust. Then she looked away, letting the silence reclaim the room.

Outside, the wind whispered through the terrace, and the faint shimmer of sunlight on stone seemed to mark a line she would cross alone. The Go board was set, the smooth black and white stones gleaming faintly in their bowls, and the first move was hers.

.

.

.

“Don’t you think Her Majesty has been acting a little… odd lately?” a young maid murmured as she wrung out a cloth, her hands raw from the soap and cold water.

The older maid beside her paused, brow furrowing as she spread linens across the line. “Now that you mention it… yeah. She’s been different.”

A guard polishing his spear nearby glanced up, his tone quiet but certain. “Last week, I came back from an expedition—cut up from head to toe. Before I could even report, she stopped me in the corridor. Laid her hand on my arm.” He looked at them as if replaying it in his mind. “The wounds closed right before my eyes. It was like warmth sinking straight through the skin. When she let go, the wound was gone.”

The maids froze, staring at him. “You’re joking.”

“I swear on my post,” the guard said firmly, his expression serious. “I didn’t even know the Queen was a healer.”

another young maid gasped softly. “The Queen herself did that?”

The guard gave a short nod, almost uneasy. “And she thanked me. Thanked me for guarding the borders.”

Another servant, balancing a tray of fruit, leaned in with lowered voice. “I heard from Cacao Nibs—she works in the laundries—that when she told Her Majesty about her newborn she recently had, the Queen gave her a pair of earrings. Her own earrings. Told her to sell them for the child’s sake.”

The older maid clucked her tongue, shaking her head in disbelief. “A Queen giving away her jewels to a maid? Hah. What are we supposed to make of that?”

The guard shifted, eyes narrowing as though the thought itself unsettled him. “I don’t know what to make of it. She was never cruel, but never… like this. Gentle. Kind.”

The young maid lowered her gaze, fiddling with the hem of her apron. “It doesn’t feel bad. Just… odd. Like she’s someone else.”

Their words trailed off into the rhythm of their duties—the scrape of buckets across stone, the rustle of fabric, the low clink of steel as the guard returned to polishing his weapon. But even as they worked, the whispers lingered like smoke, passed from ear to ear.

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.

The gardens stretched wide and serene, their winding paths still glistening faintly with the morning’s dew. Mystic Flour moved with unhurried steps, her silken robes brushing lightly against the trimmed grass. A veil of pale fabric softened the edges of her face; her downturned gaze fixed on the spray of white and yellow blossoms blooming against the cold.

She paused before a cluster of winter jasmine, their delicate petals reaching out from the frosted hedge as though daring to bloom against the chill. Her hand hovered briefly, then descended, pale fingers plucking one stem with deliberate care. She lifted it close, studying the fragile bloom in silence, its faint scent brushing past her like a memory.

Behind her, a small cluster of maids followed at a respectful distance. Their baskets were empty, carried only for her use should she decide to gather more. Now and then one of them shifted, heads bowed, waiting quietly for her word or gesture. But Mystic Flour gave none—her composure unbroken, her silence heavy yet graceful.

Inside her thoughts, however, Affogato’s voice lingered, winding like a thread she could not shake.

“To save Cloud Haetae, you must first create allies within the castle. A Queen alone is no Queen at all. Even if you tear open the cellars and free him with your own hands, what then? If you stand with no one, you will simply join him in the dark.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the jasmine stem, its green stalk bending under her grip. She let her eyes wander across the garden, but the words pressed on, echoing beneath every breath she took.

Allies.

Strength hidden in smiles.

Power secured not in solitude, but in the hands that choose to stand beside her.

Mystic Flour’s fingers lingered against the cool petals before she drew her hand back into her sleeve, the blossom hidden away. Then she continued forward, her steps calm, steady, her veil concealing the storm of resolve sharpening in her mind.

Behind her, the maids trailed on, murmuring softly to each other about her quiet beauty, her gentler air. But to Mystic Flour, their words hardly reached. Every breath she drew in the winter garden was already weighed against the single truth Affogato had placed in her hands.

If she wished to save Cloud Haetae, she could no longer be merely the Beast-Queen feared in whispers. She would need to be something far more dangerous—beloved.

Ahead, a figure stepped into view, tall and familiar, his hands folded neatly before him. Peach Blossom. His hair, pale as drifting petals, caught the sun in soft gleams, and the faint pink hue of his attire seemed to carry the fragrance of orchards long past.

Mystic Flour slowed, her veil shifting faintly with the breeze as their gazes met. For the briefest of moments, something flickered in her eyes—old recognition, sharper than memory. Then her voice, calm and velvet-soft, slipped through the veil.

“…It has been some time, Peach Blossom.”

Her words carried an empathetic warmth, carefully crafted, each syllable touched with gentleness for the ears of the maids behind her. She let her hand fall to her side, composed, serene.

Peach Blossom bowed with practiced grace, his eyes lingering just a moment longer than courtesy demanded. “Indeed, my lady. Too long.” His voice was light, patient, yet beneath it stirred a depth only she would notice. Then, after a pause, his lips curved faintly. “Allow me to offer my congratulations once more, belated as they are… on your marriage.”

The words were kind, formal, but they struck sharper than any blade. Beneath her veil, Mystic Flour bit the inside of her cheek, a flash of bitterness burning behind her poised facade. The maids behind her stilled, listening, no doubt eager for their queen’s gracious reply.

Mystic Flour’s hands folded neatly before her, concealing the subtle tremor of tension. “You are… thoughtful,” she said at last, her tone still smooth, still kind, her mask unbroken.

Peach Blossom inclined his head. To the maids, he appeared only respectful, unfaltering in his politeness. But his eyes—his eyes told another story. He had seen through her act the instant their gazes crossed. He had served her too long, too closely, to be fooled by a veil of empathy. Yet, for her sake, he let it remain unspoken.

“Your Majesty,” he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth for the listening ears of the maids. “Even the coldest season yields to your presence. Allow me.”

The maids gasped softly behind her, their hands lifting to their lips, touched by the gesture. Mystic Flour hesitated for a heartbeat, her pale eyes narrowing ever so slightly behind the veil. She loathed being cornered into this display, loathed the expectation that she plays the role of a softhearted queen.

Yet Affogato’s warning echoed in her mind like a chain tightening around her throat

To save Cloud Haetae, you must make allies—or else join him in the cellar.

So, she reached out, her hand as delicate as falling snow, and took the blossom from his fingers. “How thoughtful of you, Peach Blossom,” she said, her tone honeyed and soft enough to make the maids exchange smiles. She tucked the jasmine carefully into the folds of her sash, a picture of gentle gratitude.

The maids murmured among themselves as they followed, their whispers bright with approval. “Her Majesty is so gracious…” one whispered. “So gentle…”

Peach Blossom bowed once more, his expression as composed and steady as ever. When his gaze lifted briefly to hers through the thin veil, there was no reproach nor pity, only quiet acknowledgment. A look that said he understood more than his words would ever reveal, and yet, he chose silence.

Mystic Flour inclined her head slightly, dismissing him with all the grace of a queen, and continued her walk through the garden. Behind her, the winter jasmine pressed cold against her sash, its fragrance cloying, almost suffocating.

The maids saw a benevolent queen touched by kindness. Peach Blossom saw the storm beneath the veil.

.

The walk ended at the far end of the garden, where the path curved into a quiet alcove shaded by bare branches. The maids lingered at a respectful distance, waiting should she call, their chatter soft and oblivious.

Mystic Flour lowered herself onto the stone bench, the silk of her gown folding neatly beneath her. Her hands remained folded, her posture flawless—until she knew their eyes were turned elsewhere. Then, slowly, she reached into her sash and drew out the winter jasmine.

Its petals were delicate, pale as morning frost, its fragrance sweet and cloying. The sort of thing that once, long ago, she might have admired without thought. But now it was a reminder—of masks, of false kindness, of the cage she had wrapped around herself.

Her pale fingers tightened, crushing the blossom in her palm. The stem snapped with a faint crack, and a drop of sap bled across her skin. She watched it for a long moment, her face still hidden beneath the veil, though her lips curved in the faintest grimace.

So, this is what it takes, she thought bitterly. Allies. Masks. Smiles I do not mean. Lies I must live.

Her grip loosened, and the ruined flower slipped from her hand, tumbling soundlessly onto the stone at her feet. For a moment, she only stared at it, the pale petals scattered like broken snowflakes.

Then, smoothing the folds of her gown, she rose with the same quiet grace she had shown before. The queen’s mask slid neatly back into place as she turned to face her attendants.

“Come,” she said softly, her tone calm and composed, as though nothing at all had transpired.

The maids hurried to follow, their arms full of baskets and winter jasmines, their eyes full of admiration. None of them noticed the crushed blossom left behind on the bench—save for the faint scent of jasmine that lingered in the cold air, cloying, suffocating—Bittersweet.

Chapter Text

“It hurts…” The voice was faint, rough with fever. A young boy lay bundled in soft blankets; his hair plastered to his brow with sweat. His breath came shallow, each cough rattling in blood his thin frame.

His body was a landscape of torment. Stitches, crude and uneven, carved jagged paths across pale flesh, some taut as though ready to tear, others slack and dangling like grotesque ornaments of suffering. Each thread dug into raw, bruised skin, pulling and tugging with every shallow breath he drew.

Across his chest, arms, and stomach, the knots rose like black thorns, biting into him with invisible claws. The skin between them was a patchwork of bruises, mottled purple and red, and a sharp, metallic tang of blood mingled with the acrid scent of healing flesh.

Even the smallest movement became a symphony of agony: a shudder of pain wracked his torso when he shifted, each inhale a hissed plea, each cough a stifled, rasping scream that clawed at his throat. The very act of existing pressed on him like a weight, relentless, merciless, unyielding.

Flour of Volition was at his side at once, kneeling so the steam from the broth drifted between them. She brushed his hair back, her hand trembling almost imperceptibly, and steadied the spoon near his lips. “Easy… sip, -------. Just a little.” Her voice was calm, but behind it lingered a strain she could not mask.

He obeyed, swallowing weakly before sinking deeper into the blankets.

“Is he going to be alright?” The youngest boy’s voice cracked, his wide eyes full of fear before staring in silence.

The youngest girl clutched her blanket tighter, whispering, “He looks worse than yesterday…”

The eldest boy sat stiff by the hearth, guilt written across his face. “If I were stronger, I could’ve brought more herbs. The medicine’s too weak—it’s my fault.”

Flour of Volition lingered at his side, watching the weak rise and fall of -------’s chest. Behind her, the others pressed close, unwilling to leave. Their wide eyes, full of fear, fixed on their sick brother as though they might hold him together by staring long enough.

“Big Sister… can we stay with him?” the youngest girl whispered, clutching at the edge of her blanket.

Flour of Volition set the bowl down and smoothed her hand over the child’s pink hair. Her voice was gentle, but there was a firmness to it, an authority they could not question. “No. He needs quiet now. If you crowd him, he won’t be able to rest.”

The eldest boy opened his mouth as if to argue, but her sharp white eyes turned to him—softened by warmth, but unyielding. “Take your sister and brother to the fire. Keep it strong for me.”

They hesitated, torn between worry and obedience. But one by one, they obeyed, shuffling toward the hearth, their whispers trailing behind them until only the crackle of flames and the shallow breaths of the -------filled the room.

Flour of Volition waited until the door creaked shut. Only then did she return her gaze to her younger brother, brushing the damp strands of hair from his brow with slow, careful fingers.

Leaning closer, she lowered her voice to a soft murmur, almost inaudible, and began to hum. The melody was simple, a lullaby she had played over and over again—notes trembling on her lips, careful not to startle him. Her hands remained gentle on his forehead, brushing away the damp strands of hair, tracing the line of his scars as if memorizing every contour of his suffering.

The hum wavered, uneven with the weight of her own anguish, but she persisted. Each note was a fragile thread, an attempt to stitch some small comfort into his fractured body. Slowly, she felt his breathing ease, each labored exhale becoming marginally steadier. The faintest twitch of his eyelids suggested he had noticed, though his consciousness remained trapped in the fog of pain.

For a moment, he seemed asleep. Then his lips moved, and a whisper rasped through the air—weak, trembling, yet edged with burning anger.

“Big Sister… This is your fault…”

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.

Flames licked softly at the logs, casting a wavering glow across iron pots and the weathered stone walls of the kitchen. The air was heavy with the scent of simmering broth and crushed herbs, the sharpness of ginseng blending with the gentler sweetness of winter pear. Seated at a wooden counter, Mystic Flour moved with quiet precision, her pale hands slicing roots into even slivers before dropping them into the pot with a muted splash.

She was not dressed as a queen that morning. She had borrowed the plain garb of a cook—an apron tied neatly at her waist, sleeves rolled high, her long hair bound tightly into a bun. Yet even so, there was no disguising her grace. The simple attire traced the curve of her figure, the fullness of her form lending her an air of quiet maturity. The apron pulled close against her waist, accentuating the softness of her chest and the gentle lines of her silhouette, making her seem at once maternal and regal. The plain cloth only served to heighten her poise, each movement measured and refined, as though silk still clung to her skin.

Her pale features glowed softly in the firelight, the sharp lines of her face tempered by the warmth of steam curling around her. Even in borrowed garb, she was elegant—beautiful in a way that unsettled and soothed, like a queen who had chosen to step into the hearth, yet lost none of her crown. For years, her flowing silk robes had concealed the shape of her form, guarding her figure beneath layers of courtly dignity. Now, freed from that careful draping, her presence struck with a different kind of force—less distant, more human, yet no less commanding.

Behind her, Cacao Butter tended to the fire, coaxing the flames higher with steady patience, her young face smudged with ash. The rhythmic scrape of wood against iron echoed through the chamber, grounding the unusual scene in a kind of domestic calm.

The servants did not see calm, however.

“Your Majesty, please—this work is not suited for you,” one maid whispered, wringing her hands as she approached, her bow deep but hesitant. “It is our duty to cook and serve, not yours.”

Another cook, older and more weathered, spoke up as well, his voice lined with concern. “If His Majesty hears—if the King were to hear you bent over a pot, dressed so plain—”

Their words came not with scorn but with a strange blend of respect and fear. For a queen to take knife and ladle in hand was an inversion of order; to them, it unsettled as much as it humbled.

Mystic Flour only stirred the pot, the faint steam rising against her pale face. When she turned, her gaze softened behind the veil of steam, her voice a low murmur—warm, almost maternal.

“The cold has been cruelling this season. If a bowl of soup can bring strength back to the sick, why should it matter whose hand prepares it?”

The words disarmed them, not because they rang entirely true, but because she wore them with such flawless gentleness. She even reached forward to brush a stray lock of hair from a maid’s face, a gesture so unexpected that the girl’s breath caught.

Cacao Butter’s dark eyes flicked toward her mistress for a brief moment before returning to the fire. She worked silently, feeding the flames, her movements precise and unhurried. Nothing in her posture betrayed thought beyond the task at hand, yet a faint shadow lingered in the way her gaze lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Mystic Flour ladled a taste into a small clay bowl, her sleeve sliding back just enough to reveal the faint trace of pale veins under her skin. She lifted the spoon, blowing lightly before pressing it into the hands of the oldest cook.

“Tell me,” She said softly, “does it warm you?”

The man hesitated, then drank. His eyes widened—not just at the taste, rich and balanced, but at the fact that it was she who had prepared it. He bowed deeply, his voice rough with surprise.

“It… it does, Your Majesty.”

A murmur rippled through the kitchen, a mixture of shock and quiet admiration. She stood there, not in silks but in plain cloth, elegant as a mother tending to her children. And in that moment, they saw not the cold, distant queen they had whispered about, but something else—something they could follow.

Mystic Flour lifted the ladle, tasting the broth with measured grace before setting it back down. Her pale eyes lingered on the pot, then she spoke, her voice low but firm, carrying the ease of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

“Cacao Butter,” she said gently, her gaze softening as it turned toward the young girl. “Bring out the bowls. Serve the staff first. They work hard, and the cold spares no one.”

The girl’s face brightened, her soot-smeared cheeks lifting into a smile as she nodded quickly. “Yes, my lady!” Cacao Butter moved at once, fetching bowls from the shelves with light, eager steps, her small frame almost buzzing with purpose.

Mystic Flour remained by the hearth, stirring slowly, her hands graceful even in such a humble task. Steam curled around her figure, catching in the lamplight, softening her sharp features into something radiant. She looked less like a queen commanding servants and more like a mother offering comfort to her weary household.

The kitchen filled with the soft clatter of bowls, the steam rising in gentle swirls as Cacao Butter carefully served each portion. The staff hesitated at first, unsure whether they should accept such an offering, yet the queen’s gaze—patient, unwavering—left them little room to refuse.

The first taste broke the silence. A young maid lifted her spoon and froze mid-sip, her eyes widening. The broth was rich yet delicate, the sweetness of winter pear melding seamlessly with the earthy sharpness of ginseng, while hints of wild ginger and pepper leaves lingered faintly at the edges. It warmed her throat and spread deep into her chest, banishing the chill of winter with a comfort that felt almost… maternal.

Another servant, a broad-shouldered guard nursing a stiff shoulder from the cold, scooped a spoonful and let out a low hum of approval. “This isn’t just medicine,” he muttered, rough voice softened by surprise. “It’s… good. Really good.”

More followed, hesitant at first, then eager as the flavor settled into their bones. It wasn’t the fine delicacy of royal feasts, nor the heavy stews they often knew. It was something humbler, warmer—food that reminded them of home, of being cared for.

Mystic Flour only stirred the pot again, her pale lashes lowered, her expression unreadable beneath the gentle mask. The steam curled upward, brushing against her cheeks, carrying the mingled scents of herbs and broth. She let it veil her face, her movements calm, deliberate, as though she had been born to this place among firelight and simmering pots.

There was no hesitation in her hands, no falter in her smile—only a quiet grace, so seamless it left no space for question. To the eyes of the watching servants, she seemed less a queen humbled than a mother tending her children, her every motion cloaked in patient, practiced care.

Across the room, the older cook, a man with silver streaks in his hair and decades of experience in his hands, set down his bowl slowly. He bowed his head just enough to show reverence, though his voice carried steady respect.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ve spent my life feeding this castle. But I’ve never tasted soup like this. Not from a queen’s hand, nor even my own.”

Mystic Flour inclined her head ever so slightly, accepting the praise without vanity. Her voice, low and smooth, carried the faintest touch of warmth.

“You honor me too greatly,” she said, stirring the pot one last time before lowering the ladle. This is but soup, nothing more. What matters is that it gives strength—and that you take it.”

Her eyes drifted across the gathered faces, their exhaustion visible beneath the candlelight. Then, after a pause, she added gently.

“Cacao Butter, when you’ve finished here, prepare another tray. See that it reaches the soldiers and guards on duty outside the walls. They bear the brunt of this bitter season more than any of us, and they too must be warmed.”

Cacao Butter’s lips curved into a bright smile as she bowed slightly. “Yes, Your Majesty.” She set herself immediately to the task, moving with quick, practiced steps.

The room stirred again, softer this time. A young maid whispered under her breath, though not so low that Mystic Flour could not hear

“She even thinks of the guards...”

But behind her serene mask, her pale eyes—sharp, vertical pupils glinting like slivers of ice—watched every movement, every bowed head, every softened gaze. She knew what she was planting here, in the warmth of the kitchen and the taste of her hand.

And as the soup was ladled out, she let the silence hold, knowing it would do her work for her.

Mystic Flour did not turn, her face unreadable as the steam curled around her like a veil. Yet in that silence, a subtle shift took root.

perhaps their queen was not so distant after all.

For the past few weeks, Mystic Flour had been moving quietly but deliberately through the castle, seeking to earn the trust and loyalty of the maids, guards, and even some higher officials. Each greeting was measured, each smile carefully placed—not for show, but to plant the seeds of goodwill and cautious respect. Those who had once regarded her with distant suspicion now offered nods and small bows, their attitudes softening under her steady presence.

By the time the winter sun began to fade behind the ramparts, she had become a familiar figure in the corridors—still distant, still untouchable, but no longer feared. Servants had grown used to her gentle inquiries about their families, or the way she would pause by the training yard to offer a word of encouragement to tired soldiers.

Today was no different. Mystic Flour moved through the inner courtyard where the guards were gathered for a brief respite, their laughter puffing into clouds of breath in the cold air. She stopped near a group huddled around a small brazier. “The cold has been relentless this week,” she said, her tone light but dignified. “Make sure you keep yourselves warm. The kingdom needs its guards healthy.”

The men and women straightened immediately, offering stiff nods that softened into grateful smiles as she placed a folded wool scarf into one guard’s gloved hands. “A gift from the weaving hall,” she said mildly. “They had extras.”

Further down the hall, she visited the servants’ quarters, where the maids gathered after their duties. The air was filled with soft chatter and the faint scent of tea. Mystic Flour listened, occasionally laughing—light, restrained, but genuine enough to make them forget their unease. When one maid shyly mentioned her daughter’s upcoming birthday, Mystic Flour reached for her wrist, slipping off a small silver bracelet. “Then she shall have this,” she said simply, “so she remembers her mother’s kindness.”

Her gestures spread quietly throughout the castle. A scribe who had once flinched at her passing now approached her in the library, asking softly if she would like to see the newest records from the western provinces. A cook brought her an extra cup of spiced broth during dinner, murmuring that it would help with sore throat.

By the week’s end, even the higher officials had taken notice. They watched her from across the long council table—how she spoke little, but when she did, her words carried weight. How the servants moved differently around her now, less tense, more willing.

To anyone watching, it might have seemed as though the queen had simply grown gentler, more compassionate. But within Mystic Flour’s stillness lay purpose. Each act of kindness, each moment of grace, was a stone placed carefully in the foundation of her growing influence.

For now, her mask was warm. Her tone was kind. But beneath it all, she never forgot Affogato’s warning

“Even if you tear open the cellars and free him with your own hands, —If you stand with no one, you will simply join him in the dark.”

And so, she smiled again, faintly, as she walked the halls surrounded by warmth not entirely her own—knowing full well that every soft hand that reached for hers was another thread in the web she was weaving.

.

.

.

Mystic Flour sat upright on a wooden chair in front of the dresser, the polished surface reflecting the soft morning light that filtered through the windows. Her snow-white hair, now cascading freely over her shoulders, shimmered faintly, catching every thread of light. In her hands, she held a length of fine fabric, sewing slowly, each stitch deliberates, yet her movements were almost automatic, as though her mind had wandered far from the task at hand.

This would make a fine gift, she thought quietly, her fingers steady as they guided the thread through the silk. Simple, thoughtful… yet it will leave its mark. Perhaps it will earn them some small loyalty, or at least quiet the suspicion for a moment. The thought brought a faint tightening of her lips, almost imperceptible beneath the serene mask she wore.

Behind her, Cacao Butter stood with a small, ornate brush, carefully combing through Mystic Flour’s hair. Each stroke was gentle, rhythmic, a quiet cadence that seemed to fill the still room. The scent of freshly laundered silk mingled with the faint warmth of candle wax, creating an atmosphere of domestic serenity. Yet, beneath the calm, an unspoken tension lingered, like a taut string ready to hum at the slightest touch.

After a few moments, Cacao Butter’s voice broke the silence, soft but deliberate. “Your Majesty… you’ve been acting… different lately.” She hesitated, unsure how to voice her concern without overstepping. “It’s… not something I’m used to seeing. Has… something happened?”

Mystic Flour’s needle faltered, hovering over the fabric. Slowly, she lifted a pale, delicate finger to her lips, pressing it lightly as though to stop herself from speaking. Her veil shadowed her expression, and though Cacao Butter’s brush continued its work, she could feel the subtle pause, the tiny quiver of withheld emotion beneath the surface.

Cacao Butter’s hands moved with care, brushing out a knot and tucking stray curls behind Mystic Flour’s ears, her voice softer now. “Your Majesty… if something troubles you, you can—”

Mystic Flour shook her head almost imperceptibly, her eyes flicking to the dresser’s reflection, focusing on the empty space between them rather than meeting Cacao Butter’s gaze. Her lips parted in a faint, near-whisper. “No. Nothing had happened.”

Cacao Butter’s brush hesitated, a strand of snow-white hair lingering between her fingers. “Are you certain, Your Majesty?” she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.

Mystic Flour’s pale fingers smoothed a fold in the fabric of her sewing. She drew in a slow, controlled breath, then lifted her gaze to the mirror, letting her reflection carry the calm she wished to project. Her voice remained quiet, steady, and composed. “I am certain. There is nothing to worry about.”

Cacao Butter’s hands paused, the brush hovering just above Mystic Flour’s hair. “It’s just… there are whispers circulating around the castle,” she murmured, her tone careful. “Some speak kindly of you, others… not so much. I cannot help but worry.”

Mystic Flour’s fingers stilled over the thread, the needle caught midair. Her reflection in the dresser mirror did not move—only the faintest flicker of curiosity passed through her eyes, hidden beneath the veil of composure she always wore.

“Whispers?” she repeated, her voice calm but quieter now, as though testing the word’s weight. After a moment, she set the scarf gently across her lap and looked toward the mirror again. “Tell me, Cacao Butter… what sort of rumors?”

Cacao Butter shifted behind her, uncertain. “I shouldn’t say, Your Majesty. It’s not my place.”

“You’re the only one I trust to speak plainly,” Mystic Flour replied, her tone soft but edged with insistence. “If there are things being said, I should at least know what shadows follow me.”

The younger woman hesitated, fingers curling against the handle of the brush. “…Some say you’ve changed too suddenly. That your kindness is… strange to them.” Her voice faltered before continuing, quieter. “Others think you’re trying to win favor for reasons they cannot name. And a few—” she swallowed “—say you use spells to charm those who serve you. That your touch can twist a man’s loyalty.”

For a long moment, Mystic Flour said nothing. Her expression remained serene, her hands folded neatly atop the red scarf. But in the reflection, her eyes darkened just slightly—like frost forming over glass.

“I see,” she said at last, her tone neither wounded nor surprised. “So even kindness breeds suspicion.”

Cacao Butter’s lips parted, guilt flickering in her eyes. “Forgive me, Your Majesty—I didn’t mean to—”

Mystic Flour lifted a hand slightly, silencing her with a graceful motion. “No, you did well to tell me.” She leaned back faintly in her chair, the faint shimmer of her veil catching the last amber light. “Better to know the shape of the blade before it’s drawn.”

Cacao Butter gave a small sigh, lowering the brush to her side but keeping her hands close, as if hesitant to fully step away. “I suppose… also, I just miss these moments with you,” she confessed softly, her gaze meeting Mystic Flour’s in the mirror for a brief instant. “These one-to-one talks… before the maids and guards began suddenly wanting to serve you, to flatter you… I find myself a little… jealous, I suppose.”

Mystic Flour’s lips curved in the faintest, almost imperceptible smile, a flicker of warmth that did not reach her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, letting a few curls drift back into place. “I understand,” she said quietly. “And yet… even amidst the noise, we can still find a moment.”

Cacao Butter’s hands relaxed, returning the brush to its stand, though she lingered nearby, her eyes soft but watchful. “Just… promise me you’ll take care,” she said, voice gentle, almost pleading. “Even if the castle speaks, even if the maids and guards… I want to know that you are safe.”

Mystic Flour’s gaze softened imperceptibly in the mirror, the faintest warmth behind her veil. “I am aware,” she murmured, “and I will remain careful. That is my assurance to you.”

A quiet stillness settled over them, the rustle of silk and the faint scent of hair oil filling the space. Between them, a subtle understanding lingered—words were few, but trust, though fragile, was not entirely absent.

The silence lingered for a few moments more, filled only by the faint crackle of the brazier nearby and the whisper of the evening wind slipping through the open window. Mystic Flour set her needle and thread down beside the folded cloth, her gaze still fixed upon her reflection in the dresser mirror.

“Tell me, Cacao Butter,” she began, her tone light yet deliberate, as though asking about something trivial. “What do you know of His Majesty’s royal advisor… Affogato?”

Cacao Butter blinked, caught a little off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Affogato?” she echoed, adjusting her stance slightly before picking up the brush once more, running it gently through the queen’s long, silken hair. “Not much, Your Majesty. I’ve only served here a few months, so I’ve seen him only from afar.”

Her voice softened, careful but honest. “He doesn’t often speak to the staff, but… I’ve heard plenty of talk. They say he’s clever—too clever, maybe. Always smiling, but his eyes never do.”

Mystic Flour’s expression remained unreadable, though the slow movement of her hands stilled. “And his reputation among the court?” she asked faintly.

Cacao Butter hesitated for a moment before continuing, her voice lowering slightly, as though reluctant to gossip but unable to help it. “He’s… respected, mostly. Especially after the recent attack on the Licorice Sea. The soldiers say he was the one who devised the defense plan—something about a diversion that saved the eastern gate. His Majesty commended him personally, I heard. Since then, many call him the savior of the castle.”

Mystic Flour’s gaze did not waver. Only the faintest motion—a slow exhale, the subtle shift of her fingers against the dresser—betrayed that she was listening intently. “I see,” she murmured, the words soft, barely more than a breath.

Cacao Butter, sensing the conversation nearing its end, continued brushing carefully, the rhythm gentle, almost soothing. “They say he’s ambitious,” she added after a pause, “but perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, for someone who serves beside the King.”

Mystic Flour’s reflection tilted her head slightly, a ghost of a smile forming beneath her calm mask. “Ambition,” she echoed quietly, her voice neither approving nor condemning. “It can build… or destroy.”

The brush stilled once more, and silence fell again—gentle, yet edged with thought. The firelight flickered faintly across Mystic Flour’s pale features, tracing the quiet storm that never quite reached her eyes.

Mystic Flour’s gaze lingered on her reflection a moment longer before softening. She lifted a hand, brushing her fingers lightly against Cacao Butter’s wrist in a quiet, dismissive gesture.

“Thank you, Cacao Butter,” she said softly. “You’ve done enough for today. Go rest for a while—the evening air grows colder.”

Cacao Butter hesitated, her fingers still loosely entangled in a strand of the queen’s white hair. “As you wish, Your Majesty,” she murmured, bowing her head. Yet before stepping away, her eyes flicked once more to Mystic Flour’s reflection—serene, distant, her pale features gilded by the faint orange light seeping through the latticed windows.

When the door closed gently behind her, the room settled into quiet.

Mystic Flour let out a small breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her hands returned to the fabric resting on her lap—a half-finished scarf of soft wool, its threads a crimson with delicate red woven through. She brushed her fingers along the edge, feeling the uneven texture of her stitches. It was not flawless, yet there was a strange warmth in it—something human amid all the stillness.

Her eyes lowered, the faintest crease forming between her brows. The scarf was meant for someone, though she hadn’t yet decided if it would ever reach their hands anymore.

For a moment, the stillness of the chamber pressed close around her. The faint crackle of the brazier. The distant hum of the castle’s life beyond her doors—guards shifting their spears, the muffled chatter of servants ending their shifts. It was all so ordinary, so fragile, it almost felt borrowed.

What am I doing?

The thought slid through her mind like the tip of a cold blade. Every smile she gave, every act of generosity, every gentle word—each had been measured, deliberate, constructed with purpose. She was building something intangible—trust, perhaps, or illusion—but she could no longer tell where sincerity ended and strategy began.

She had believed, once, that kindness was strength. That by softening hearts, she could shape loyalty. But the deeper she reached, the clearer it became: goodwill alone could not erase fear. To them, she was still the Beast. A monster wrapped in silk and grace.

Her reflection in the polished surface of the dresser looked back at her—veil glinting faintly, the golden light from the brazier tracing the line of her jaw. Her eyes, cool and distant, did not belong to a woman of compassion but to one who had learned to pretend to be compassionate.

No. Small gestures won’t be enough anymore. If she wished to survive this court—if she wished to protect Cloud Haetae—she needed strength, not the kind earned through kindness, but the kind bound by influence and authority.

Someone who can vouch her goodwill to dictate suspicion, yet highly respected by others in court.

Her thoughts drifted to Affogato. The royal advisor—sharp, articulate, silver-tongued. A man whose words could shift the court like wind through glass. He had already given her advice once, freely, and she knew that alone was no small gesture. He understood the rhythm of politics in the Dark Cacao Kingdom better than anyone. But befriending him too quickly would draw eyes. The maids already whispered about her warmth, the guards her sudden kindness. If she appeared too close to Affogato, it would smell of conspiracy.

Then there was Peach Blossom. Once her confidant, now a quiet shadow of the past—he had been a trusted companion, someone who saw her before the crown and the rumors. But time and silence had dulled that bond, and now she could not tell whether he still served her… or simply pitied her.

She had heard whispers, of course. Whispers traveled faster than truth in this castle. Peach Blossom had become rather popular among the castle’s young women—especially the maids and the daughters of visiting high officials. They would seek him out during garden walks or linger in the corridors at the hour of his patrols, their laughter soft and eager as they spoke to him.

One of the influential daughters, the child of a powerful councilor, had even gone so far as to ask for his hand in marriage, causing a quiet stir among the court.

Her gaze flicked toward the scarf again—the crimson threads gleamed like blood.

Dark Cacao.

The thought of him made her stomach tighten. Of all the souls within these cold halls, only he possessed the authority to erase doubt with a single command. His word could still the whispers, make the walls bow in her favor.

But the idea of leaning on him—of fawning, smiling, pretending affection after all that passed between them—made her feel ill. To reach for him now would not be alliance. It would be surrender.

She set the scarf aside with a careful motion, the wool folding softly upon itself. The red threads seemed almost to bleed in the dim light, a quiet echo of everything she refused to say aloud.

Her reflection caught her again in the mirror. The flicker of the brazier lent a ghost of warmth to her pale features.

Her gaze lingered on that faint warmth, though she felt none of it. The flicker in the mirror almost mocked her stillness—its soft glow against her veil, its faint illusion of life where there was only restraint.

If not him… then who?

Her thoughts began to turn, slow and deliberate, like a needle threading through silk. Each name, each face that surfaced in her mind was weighed, measured, and swiftly dismissed.

The maids, sweet and loyal as they were, lacked any real influence. Their words might carry through corridors, but not into the council chambers where decisions were made and reputations sealed. The guards, though many had softened toward her in recent days, were bound by duty, not devotion—they followed orders, not hearts. Even the officials she had won over with small courtesies and quiet understanding could only whisper in her defense, not shield her from the storm should one rise again.

No, she needed something more. Someone more. A voice strong enough to sway the court, one that could stand beside hers without the weight of scandal pressing against it.

But who, in this frozen kingdom, would dare to stand with her?

Mystic Flour drew in a slow breath, letting her hands rest upon her lap. Her fingers were still faintly stained with crimson thread, her nails catching the soft firelight as she rubbed them together, deep in thought. The castle’s silence pressed close—broken only by the distant hum of life beyond her door. Somewhere far down the corridor, a page’s hurried footsteps echoed briefly, then faded again into the cold.

Her gaze flicked to the scarf once more. It lay folded neatly upon the dresser—red upon white—like a quiet testament to her uncertainty.

Then came the knock.

A sharp, respectful sound against the heavy door, firm enough to break her reverie.

Mystic Flour’s head lifted slightly, her expression smoothing back into serenity, though her pulse quickened beneath the calm.

“Yes?” she called softly, her voice steady but low.

The door opened only a crack, the soft creak echoing faintly in the room. A young servant bowed deeply, his breath visible in the chill air of the corridor.

“Your Majesty,” he said, his tone careful, almost apologetic. “His Majesty, the King, requests your presence… in his study.”

The silence that followed was brief, but it carried weight.

Mystic Flour’s eyes flicked toward the mirror once more, toward the reflection of herself surrounded by the faint red glow of the scarf. The very man she had been trying not to think of now summoned her—as if the fates themselves found amusement in her struggle.

“...Very well,” she replied at last, rising from her chair with practiced grace.

The servant hesitated, lowering his gaze before closing the door.

Alone again, Mystic Flour smoothed the front of her gown, adjusting the veil over her shoulders. Her movements were careful, deliberate, as if she could control her thoughts through the elegance of her actions.

She turned once toward the dresser—the mirror, the scarf, the faint light flickering against the cold stone walls.

“Dark Cacao,” she murmured under her breath, voice barely more than a whisper. “You always summon me when the night begins to fall.”

And with that, she stepped toward the door, her footsteps silent but sure, the echo of red still burning faintly in her thoughts.

.

.

.

The servant’s footsteps echoed softly ahead of her—measured, reverent, and far too loud in the stillness that consumed the corridor. Mystic Flour followed in silence, the wooden floor creaking faintly beneath her step, each sound sharp as a breath held too long. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of candle wax and winter—clean, sharp, and almost metallic against her tongue.

Lanterns hung in even intervals, their golden light trembling along the dark beams above, shadows swaying whenever a draft whispered through the seams of the old stone. The glow caught in the soft folds of her gown, kissed the silver threads of embroidery, and glimmered faintly through the thin veil that draped across her face. For every flicker of light, her shadow lengthened and bent behind her—distorted, as if it too struggled to keep its shape.

And beneath that mask of serenity, her thoughts twisted like a knife in silk.

Why now?

What does he want of me?

Has he finally decided I’ve gone too far?

Her heart thudded once—loud enough that she feared the servant might hear it. The memory of that night returned, unwelcome and sharp. The taste of smoke. The shatter of restraint in his voice. The silence that followed, so taut it had felt like the edge of a blade pressed to her throat.

Mystic Flour’s steps faltered for the briefest heartbeat before she recovered her rhythm. She lifted a bare hand, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. Her skin felt cool against her fingertips—too cold, as if the warmth had fled her long ago. Her hands had always betrayed her, pale and trembling when she least wanted them to. Now, she folded them neatly before her, the picture of grace, even as her pulse beat frantically beneath her sleeve.

Each stride forward became an act of will. When guards bowed, she inclined her head in return, voice soft and unbroken as she offered her greetings. A queen acknowledging loyalty. Not a woman fearing the weight of judgment waiting beyond the next door.

The maids along the corridor curtsied as she passed. Their eyes followed her—wide, uncertain, reverent. Mystic Flour smiled faintly, her tone honeyed but distant, the way one does when they no longer trust the warmth they give away.

A queen must never tremble. Not even when the blade glints within reach.

The wooden floor stretched on beneath her like a narrow bridge suspended over a dark, unseen depth. Every step she took was another she could not take back. The air grew warmer near the end of the hall—warmer, and heavier.

The King’s study loomed ahead, its tall door carved from blackened oak, sigils glinting faintly under the lantern light. A thin golden line of firelight glowed beneath it, quivering against the polished floorboards.

Mystic Flour stopped a pace behind the servant. Her fingers pressed against one another, the skin whitening under the pressure before she forced them to relax again.

The servant bowed, voice low and formal.

“Your Majesty,” he said through the door, “the Queen has arrived.”

Silence.

The fire crackled faintly from within, a single log shifting. No voice answered.

Mystic Flour stood very still, her chin lifted, veil soft against her cheek. The pause stretched, heavy enough to smother breath itself. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat—each pulse a warning.

If he has decided it ends here…

She closed her eyes briefly, forcing the thought down. Fear had no place on her tongue, no right to live on her face.

When she opened them again, her expression was calm—impossibly calm. Her voice, when it came, would be soft, graceful, and unyielding.

If this was to be the end, she would meet it as a queen.

“Let her in,” came the deep voice from within—measured, low, and steady as a drawn blade.

The servant bowed quickly, sliding the door open.

Mystic Flour stepped forward, her heels clicking softly against the polished wood, the sound too loud in the thick quiet of the hall. The scent of ink and cold air hit her first, followed by the faint metallic tang of the brazier burning in the corner. The office was dimly lit, lanterns casting long shadows across the shelves of scrolls and the broad, low table before the king.

Dark Cacao sat cross-legged behind it, his broad shoulders framed by the glow of the fire. A fortress of parchment and reports surrounded him; sealed letters scattered beside his inkstone. His brush moved in slow, deliberate strokes, each sound of ink scratching across parchment sharp enough to mark the silence.

Yet amid the austerity of the room, something stood out—a small vase set carefully at the edge of the low table, holding a cluster of fresh white lilies. Their petals were pristine, untouched by dust or time, the faint sheen of dew still clinging to their edges. They filled the air with a soft, clean fragrance that did not belong in a room so steeped in steel and parchment.

Mystic Flour’s gaze lingered on them, her thoughts pausing. Lilies? she mused silently, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. He takes care of them…

The notion unsettled her—this quiet gentleness, hidden beneath the armor and stone. She looked away swiftly, her expression smoothing once more behind the veil, but the thought remained.

I didn’t think him the type to tend to something so delicate.

He did not look up when she entered.

Mystic Flour bowed slightly, her voice cool and careful. “Your Majesty.”

No response. Only the turning of a page, the faint rasp of calloused fingers against paper.

She lowered herself to kneel at a respectful distance, her every movement fluid, almost too controlled. The floorboards creaked beneath her, betraying the faint tremor in her step that she refused to acknowledge. Her veil shimmered faintly in the lanternlight as she lowered her hands to her lap.

The silence pressed in, alive with unspoken tension. The crackle of the brazier sounded louder than it should have. The faint chill of the room crept through her sleeves and into her skin. She could feel his presence across the low table—unmoving, unreadable, heavy as stone.

She tried not to look at him, but her eyes betrayed her, flicking upward just enough to catch the faint light brushing his profile—the hard line of his jaw, the faint shadow under his eyes.

And then she saw it.

That scar, thin but unmistakable, carved into his lower lip. The firelight caught on it briefly, making it gleam like a ghost of a wound long healed but never forgotten.

Her breath hitched, silent but sharp. The memory slammed into her with the force of a cold wave—the clash of words, the flash of anger, the moment his blood had touched her lips. It was a scar she knew too well.

He shifted slightly, setting aside the brush beside the inkstone. The faint scrape of wood against lacquer broke the silence—a small, ordinary sound, yet it felt almost violent in the still air.

For a moment, he remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the parchment before him as though gathering the words he would choose—if he would speak at all. Then, slowly, Dark Cacao’s head lifted.

Their eyes met.

The world seemed to narrow to that single instant. His dark-purple eyes, once a color she had found commanding, now sent a chill racing through her veins. There was a gravity in them, a storm held tightly beneath a surface of restraint. The faint shimmer of the brazier’s flame caught in his gaze, turning the purple into something almost alive—something watching, measuring.

Mystic Flour felt the air leave her lungs. The cold that slid down her spine was not from fear alone, but from the memory that surged with it—the same eyes that had burned with fury that night, the same gaze that had cornered her, demanded obedience, left her trembling in the dark.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The brazier popped softly, the scent of smoke and ink folding together around them.

Then, at last, his voice came—low, even, too calm.

“You look well.”

The words were simple, but they struck with the precision of a blade honed by regret.

Mystic Flour lowered her gaze slightly, veiling the flicker of emotion that threatened to surface. Her fingers tightened on her lap; knuckles pale against the silk.

“Your Majesty is… kind,” she managed, her tone composed, but her pulse thrummed at her throat.

Yet his eyes lingered, unblinking, as though searching for something beyond her careful mask—something buried beneath the calm she had spent weeks perfecting.

Dark Cacao’s gaze held hers a moment longer, heavy and unreadable, before he looked away. The faint rasp of parchment being shifted filled the silence as he drew a sealed letter from the neat pile on his desk. The wax bore a delicate sigil—a pale cross crowned with a familiar shaped Soul Jam pressed on it.

“Pure Vanilla,” he began, his tone measured, steady as stone. “He has sent word.” He set the letter down, its edge catching the light. “He invites us to the Vanilla Kingdom.”

Mystic Flour’s breath stilled. The Vanilla Kingdom—the heart of warmth, of light, of purity. The very antithesis of these frozen walls.

If she remembers correctly… she thought, a flicker of unease stirring beneath her calm exterior. Pure Vanilla is Shadow Milk’s other half, bound by the Soul Jam of Knowledge.

Dark Cacao continued, his gaze lowered to the scrolls before him, as if the news were merely another duty to relay. “We will leave in two days’ time.”

The silence stretched, save for the low crackle of the brazier. Mystic Flour’s lashes lowered, her expression composed, though something inside her stirred—a faint ripple beneath still water.

Pure Vanilla… one of the Ancient Heroes, the one whose light reached even the coldest corners of Earth-bread. A man who stood beside Dark Cacao in the age of legends.

Her thoughts turned quickly, deliberately. A visit meant a stage—a new court, new eyes, new ears to listen. If she played her part well, if she could win even a measure of favor from one such as Pure Vanilla… the whispers, the doubt, the suspicion clinging to her name might finally lose their weight.

Yet despite that, Pure Vanilla was still his ally—perhaps even one of the few Dark Cacao trusted without question. That truth sat uneasily within her, cold and heavy. No matter how polished her words or careful her smiles, she would always stand in his shadow beneath the light of another man’s friendship.

Would Pure Vanilla see her as she wished to be seen—or only through Dark Cacao’s eyes?

Her fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve, feeling the faint tremor beneath the fabric. No. She could not afford doubt, not now. The visit was a gift disguised as an ordeal. A chance to step beyond these icy walls and breathe among those who did not yet know her sins.

Mystic Flour straightened her posture, steadying her breath. She would wear grace like armor, charm like silk. If the Vanilla Kingdom was to be her stage, she would not falter beneath its warmth.

Still, as she turned her gaze toward Dark Cacao, who sat unmoving behind the low table, the thought pricked her mind like a thorn—

Would he warn Pure Vanilla about her? Would he speak of that night, that fracture between them that had never truly mended?

The thought alone made her chest tighten.

Cloud Haetae...

Her fingers brushed lightly against the fabric of her sleeve, grounding herself in its familiar texture as she drew a slow, deliberate breath. The air in the room felt taut, as though even the flicker of the lantern flames dared not intrude upon the space between them.

Her lips parted, hesitant at first—but the silence had dragged long enough, heavy enough, that to remain quiet would feel like surrender.

“Your Majesty…” she began, her voice soft, almost fragile against the steady crackle of the brazier. “If I may ask…”

Dark Cacao’s hand, poised above the parchment, stilled. The faintest tilt of his head acknowledged her—permission, or perhaps mere patience.

Mystic Flour swallowed, her pulse quickening. “Who is Pure Vanilla to you?”

The question hung in the air like drifting ash. Too bold, perhaps. Too personal. But she couldn’t stop now—the words had already escaped her lips.

She met his gaze at last, and immediately regretted it. His dark violet eyes, calm yet sharp, held hers in a silence that made her throat feel tight. There was something in that look—a warning, or maybe a memory—that made her wish she could take the question back.

Still, she did not avert her eyes.

Not this time.

Dark Cacao’s dark eyes flicked to her, just long enough to notice the tremor in her hands, the faint tightening of her shoulders. The distance between them remained, the low table a silent barrier, yet his voice cut through the tension—calm, measured, and unexpectedly reassuring.

“He is a friend,” he said simply, voice low but steady. “Pure Vanilla. You need not worry about him coming for your head. He is not the violent type.”

Mystic Flour’s chest tightened at his words, relief threatening to ripple across her composed mask. She forced herself to inhale slowly, grounding her trembling hands in her lap, though her fingers betrayed her, tightening ever so slightly around the edge of her sleeve.

Dark Cacao’s gaze softened just enough to catch the subtle shake of her form. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at his lips. “Curious,” he muttered under his breath, “that you would tremble over the softest person I know on all of Earth-Bread.”

The comment, though lightly said, pricked sharply at her composure. Mystic Flour’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly beneath her veil, but she did not speak. She would not correct him. Not now. She would suppress the irritation curling in her chest, though the heat of offense mingled with the lingering traces of fear and anticipation.

Dark Cacao’s smirk lingered for a heartbeat—cold, unreadable—before fading into stillness. He leaned back slightly, the floor's faint creak breaking the silence. The brazier’s dim glow threw long shadows across his face, deepening the lines carved by years of battle and restraint. His eyes—dark purple and sharp as a blade in half-light—fell once more to the parchment before him. Each stroke of his quill was deliberate, methodical, as though the world beyond his ink and paper no longer existed.

“You may go,” he said at last, voice low and composed, carrying no hint of warmth—only the chill authority of command. “There is nothing more to discuss.”

The words cut through the air with the precision of a sword drawn and sheathed in the same breath.

Mystic Flour bowed her head in silence, her veil brushing against her cheek like the whisper of frost. The motion was graceful—measured—but her chest felt tight, her pulse echoing faintly in her ears. Beneath the stillness, she could feel it: the invisible weight that always settled between them, heavy and cold.

She took a step back, her shoes soundless against the wooden floor, and turned toward the door. The air in the chamber had grown denser, pressing against her lungs with every movement. Each breath came slow, deliberate. Each step was an act of control.

The flame flicker once behind her—soft, but enough to remind her he was still there, still watching even when his gaze did not meet hers.

Her hand hovered over the door’s handle, fingers trembling just slightly before she steadied them. The wood was cool beneath her touch, grounding. She exhaled quietly, as though preparing to leave a battlefield rather than a conversation.

Then—

“Wait—”

His voice cut through the silence. Deep, restrained, but enough to still her completely.

Mystic Flour froze mid-motion, her hand tightening around the handle. The silence stretched again, taut as a drawn bow. She didn’t turn—couldn’t—but her pulse betrayed her composure, quickening in the quiet.

Behind her, the sound of parchment ceased. The fire’s crackle filled the void where words should have been.

“I…” Dark Cacao began, but even that single word faltered, his tone caught between command and hesitation. The pause that followed felt endless, as though even he could not decide whether to bridge the chasm between them—or keep it as it was.

Finally, his voice came again, lower now. “Good night.”

Two words, steady but distant—like a door closing that had never truly been open.

Mystic Flour’s breath caught. The faintest movement rippled through her shoulders, the veil shifting as though stirred by a passing wind. For a moment, she almost turned. Almost. But pride—or perhaps fear—anchored her still.

Without a word, she pushed the door open. The faint scrape of wood echoed in the chamber like a whisper of something broken long ago.

She stepped out, the lantern-lit hall swallowing her figure in pale gold and shadow.

For a moment, the chamber felt emptier, colder, though he remained where he was, dark purple eyes following the slight movement of the veil that had vanished from sight. Outside, Mystic Flour’s steps carried her away, each one measured, steady, as she navigated the quiet halls. Yet behind the veil, a storm churned—confusion, lingering fear, and the faint, unwanted pull of unspoken words.

She did not glance back. She did not speak. She left, closing the door on him, on the scar, and on the weight of what had passed between them—at least for now.

Her hand rose instinctively to her lips, her fingertips brushing against them in silence. The ghost of that night still lingered there—a memory she could neither cleanse nor forget.

Her touch stilled, trembling faintly, before she drew her hand away, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing her eyes as she continued down the corridor without looking back.