Naga: Sai Ibis Medi Zen Krita He came with nothing but the clothes on his back and a smile that spoke of evil intentions. Your father, the emperor, was cruel. He took from the poor and rewarded the powerful. As his next heir, you swore you would do better than him-be better. But you never got the chance to see if that could come true. Not when the golden man came. He came with only one bargain. "If you can defeat me in a duel, then I shall reward you..." In the palms of the man's hand came all sorts of treasures. Gold, gems, Jewelry, anything that one could wish for. My father's eyes widened. All that gold, that beautiful gold, it could be his. "w-what do you want if you win?" I blurt out, not trusting the man. My father gave me a disapproving look, but the man just smiled. "I get the kingdom..." my father didn't hesitate to this agreement, no matter how much I tried to convince him otherwise. Unsurprisingly my father lost. And now the man walked over with a golden blade. "No! Please don't kill me! You can have my child's life! They would make a wonderful concubine! Just don't kill me!" The words disgusted you, knowing your father would sell you out like that, but it didn't stop the man from ending him right there. The man took over from there, Calling himself the Golden Naga ruler. Snakes surrounded every inch of the castle and with a touch, every surface turned to gold. He decided to keep you around, liking your defiance. You became his bride...But something happened. The change you always wished for, was happening. The poor were now able to live without fear of their next meal. Wars that were called upon us were dissolving. This naga...He truly does care. And when he tries to pamper you with beautiful clothes and jewels, you can't help but feel this love... "I would melt every piece of gold, and smash every single gem... Just for you to love me back, my treasure..."

He had no name, not anymore. Some called him the Gray Void Keeper, a being bound to shadow and silence. He drifted endlessly—through shattered stars, hollow dimensions, the breath between realities. Never resting. Never known. Always alone. Until one day, he wasn’t. In the heart of a forgotten realm of mist and rot, a light appeared—a flicker in his unchanging dark. You. A human, bewildered and blinking, standing in the black sand of his world, clutching a confused white cat. He appeared before you like a whisper wrapped in gold and chains, his voice low and thunderous. “Leave now, or you shall die a gruesome death. Souls who dwell here shall rot in the decay of the pits of the vo—” His crimson mouth paused. His head tilted. “…Is that a cat?” The void trembled. He knelt down slowly, extending a clawed hand. The cat sniffed it, then bumped its head against his palm. He gasped. Moments later, he was on the ground, petting its fur with inhuman tenderness, rubbing its toe beans with fascination. You stared in disbelief. He didn’t even look up. “You can stay,” he muttered, “but only if the cat stays too.”

You hadn’t seen Luca since you vanished from home. Now, here he was—dangling from the silks above the center ring like he’d always belonged there. You’d been at the Mythos Circus for months, tucked away in your little booth among elves, orcs, and dragonborn, thinking no one would ever come looking. But Luca did. “I thought you were crazy,” he said that first night, arms folded, smirking with that familiar tilt of his head. “But then I saw the orc doing ballet and thought... maybe you’re onto something.” Instead of dragging you back, Luca stayed. Of course he did. He’s always been a showoff, born with a spine like water and joints that bent in ways they shouldn’t. A childhood full of medals and cameras, always too far ahead for you to catch. But here? He shines in a different way. He twists, he folds, he bends into impossible shapes—and then he laughs, looking straight at you in the crowd. “You and me,” he whispered once, after practice, hands still chalked. “Weirdest act in the whole tent. Human and human.” And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel alone.

The first time you saw Roghnar, he was belting out a laugh so loud it shook the tents. He was big, green, all tusks and booming jokes—until he smiled, and you noticed… his tusks were barely there. "Kids cry when they see 'em," he shrugged, catching your stare. "Can’t have that when I’m flyin’ through the air." And fly he did. On the trapeze, Roghnar was a whisper of wind, twisting with impossible elegance, like gravity itself bowed to his will. The crowds gasped, breathless. You forgot he was an orc. He became something else entirely—majestic, weightless, magical. You often found him upside down, hanging by his knees, swinging gently as he waved at the children. They adored him. And slowly, you did too. He’d grin at you from the ropes. “Don’t be afraid to fall, boothie,” he’d say. “The net’s just a second chance.” And somehow, that simple line felt like more than circus advice. Maybe, just maybe, this place—this circus, this orc—was your second chance too.

The first time you saw Kaelrix, he was dangling from the tallest rig in the Mythos Circus tent—one arm flexed, the other tossing a flaming barrel into the air like it weighed nothing. He roared with laughter as the crowd screamed in awe. You were still clutching your ticket booth schedule, wide-eyed. “Hey!” he called to you later, wiping sweat from his horns. “You the new booth elf?” You tried to explain you were human, but Kaelrix only grinned. “Nice. Elves are smart. You can help me count my laundry.” He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the tent, but he was warm. Unshakably kind. The kids adored him, and he always brought you candied nuts after a show—though once it was just regular nuts dipped in sugar water. Still, when Kaelrix soared across the silks like a meteor in motion, you held your breath. His strength wasn’t just physical—it was the kind that made the Mythos feel like home. “I may not know how to spell 'acrobatics',” he once told you, “but I can catch anything. Even you, if you fall.” You started to believe it.

You’d only been working the ticket booth at the Mythos Circus for three days when the animal tamer cornered you. Tall, elegant, and constantly sipping from a crystal goblet, Lucien was a vampire who smelled like roses and ruin. “Darling,” he drawled one evening, draped over the edge of your booth, “you must want me to drink your blood, no?” You choked on your water. He smirked—sharp fangs flashing. Everyone warned you about him. Said he controlled his beasts with ancient blood magic. Yet the way his massive white tiger purred under his hand? That wasn’t mind control. That was love. You watched Lucien command a pride of lions with a whisper, his voice thick with power—and maybe a little wine. He was always drinking something, swirling his goblet dramatically, eyes burning red as he teased, “Come watch me tonight, pet. I promise I only bite when asked.” You swore you hated him, but somehow, you always found yourself peeking from the curtains during his act. And when Lucien’s eyes found yours in the crowd, his smirk said he knew.

You were warned not to bother Kaelen. He was a mystery—half the circus whispered about his enchanted plants that bloomed from blood, the other half avoided the sound of his knives singing through the air. But one evening, as you left your ticket booth shift, you spotted him crouched beside a glowing blossom in the moonlight, murmuring to it like a lullaby. It felt too intimate to watch, but he looked up anyway. “You’re still here?” he asked, more curious than cold. From then on, your paths crossed more often. You brought him tea; he taught you not to flinch at the whistle of steel. His greenhouse became your secret haven—half wild, half magic, entirely his. “You talk too much,” he’d mutter when you rambled, but he never once walked away. And once, as you watered the fanged lilies he trusted you with, he placed a small, thorn-shaped charm in your hand. “Not everyone has accepted you,” Kaelen said, eyes softening just enough. "Just know I have..."

The first time you saw Theren, he was walking a tightrope beneath the stars, balanced as though gravity itself loved him too much to pull him down. His long braid flowed behind him like a banner of grace, and though the crowd gasped at each step, his golden eyes remained serene. He greeted you kindly when you were introduced as the new ticket booth clerk. “Welcome to the Cirque Mythos,” he said, offering a soft smile. “It’s not as frightening as it seems.” You mentioned his brother, Cynric, the brooding ringmaster who still eyed you with suspicion. Theren just chuckled. “He just has to get to know you as a person amd not as a human. I think everyone will grow to like you soon." Over time, you found excuses to linger near the tightrope tent, drawn to his calm presence. He never pressured, only listened—offering warmth in a place that often felt cold. One night, as you shared tea under lantern glow, he whispered, “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone here. Just breathe.” And somehow, in that moment, you did.

You’d only been at Mythos Circus for three days, selling tickets and watching wonders pass by: dragonborn acrobats, glowing fae, and fire-breathing sirens. But none caught your eye like him. Valen, the magician. With cards that defied gravity and a grin too sharp to be harmless, he was the star of the nightly show—and a wicked witch by blood. “New here?” he asked one night, swirling fire into butterflies midair. You nodded, heart thudding. “I sell tickets.” His smile curled. “Then you must’ve seen every face. But have you ever seen yours in a different light?” A flick of his fingers—your reflection in the glass morphed. For a moment, you wore his hat, his smirk. Magic. “I like the way you look,” he said softly, voice like velvet and danger. “Especially when you have my features! Stick around, and I’ll teach you more than tricks.” And with a final snap, the butterflies exploded into glitter, spelling your name. You’ve never missed a show since.

You didn’t expect to fall for the circus. You ran to Mythos for escape—a place where elves juggled lightning and orcs swung from burning hoops. You were just the plain ol' human ticket clerk, tucked away behind glass and glitter. Until he walked by... well, he strolled by in a wheelchair... Silver scales shimmered on his hips, a smirk on his lips, and a torch in hand. They called him Lior,the fire-breathing siren. “New here?” he asked one night, voice low and musical, like his flames danced to it. “You look like you belong.” Every night since, he’s passed your booth with a wink, a twirl, sometimes a burst of flame. And tonight, after his act, he stops. “You ever hear a siren sing up close?” he asks, offering his hand, warm and calloused. Your heart skips. You take it. his voice is a melody and fire all at once. And though you don’t know the tune, you know this: you’re not just part of the circus anymore. You’re part of his life now.

You ran away to join the Mythos Circus, a haven for magical misfits—elves, orcs, dragonborn, and now… you. You are a human who was welcomed into your little family of weirdos when no one else would. you're nothing special, just a ticket admin. but you never thought that you could love a job as much as this one.. “New, huh?” said the clown with cat ears and a painted-on heart on each cheek. His green eyes gleamed as his black tail flicked behind him. “I’m Riff. Welcome to the chaos.” He took your hand without asking, guiding you past glowing lanterns and juggling centaurs. The whole circus buzzed with magic, but Riff always stood out—swinging through the air, cracking jokes, and always finding a moment to walk beside you. One night, you found him alone beneath a paper moon, paint wiped clean from his face. “I used to think no one could see me under the makeup,” he said, voice soft. You sat beside him, brushing a curl from his face. “I do.” He blinked, then smiled—genuine, quiet, and beautiful. For the first time, he wasn’t the clown. He was just Riff. And somehow, that meant everything.

“Humans are loud, clumsy, and careless,” the elven ringmaster sneered, golden eyes narrowing. “But you’re here. Why?” You straightened your spine behind the ticket booth, hands trembling just a little. “I needed somewhere to belong.” He studied you with cool detachment, dressed in silver-trimmed white, like moonlight stitched into fabric. Elegant, otherworldly, and very clearly regretting your presence. “I don’t trust your kind,” he said. “But the circus thrives on risks.” That was how it began. Weeks passed. You memorized every seat row, smoothed every child’s worries, welcomed each wonder. You smiled as minotaurs grumbled and handed out maps to lost naiads. And one evening, as the crowd roared and lanterns glowed gold in the dusk, the ringmaster passed your booth—pausing. “You’re still here.” “I said I wanted to belong,” you replied, meeting his eyes. A long moment passed. Then, to your surprise, his lips curled into the faintest smile. “Then I guess you found just that. welcome to the family..."

Elias was born with a face too soft for a boy, a voice too smooth, and hair that shimmered like spun silk. His peers mocked him—called him names, asked if he was a girl in disguise, laughed when he wore bows or styled his hair in delicate braids. what most didnt know was that his mother always wanted a girl... He stopped speaking much after that. Kept to himself. Hid behind books, behind sleeves, behind silence. But you saw something else. You're an artist—quiet, observant, and always searching for beauty in the unusual. When you first saw Elias sitting alone under a tree, pale hair catching the golden light like a dream, you didn't see weakness or oddity. You saw your muse. You asked if you could paint him. He hesitated. Then nodded. And so it began. Day after day, you sketched him—braid draped over one shoulder, wide eyes gazing at the horizon, a soft strength in his stillness. With every brushstroke, you painted away the words others used to hurt him. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” you told him once. “Not because you look like anyone else… but because you don’t.” He looked at you then—really looked—and whispered, “Do you think… I could believe that someday?"

You and Sir Aldric Ravencourt grew up together in Ardent Hollow Orphanage—inseparable, surviving the world with only each other. Now, you are a servant of Saint Aurelia’s Church. He, a knight for the kingdom. He still loves you. He always has. But you chose vows. A sacred path. A life that forbids the love Aldric would give everything for. He visits often—bringing offerings, watching over you like a shadow draped in armor. He says little. But his eyes never leave you. Then came Father Marius—a man cloaked in holy robes, yet his gaze is anything but pure. You try to ignore it, stay dutiful… but Aldric sees everything. And one day, the priest is simply gone. Aldric kneels beside you during evening prayer, his gloved hand brushing yours. “You don’t have to stay,” he whispers. “Leave with me. I’ll protect you. Love you. Always.” His voice trembles—not from fear, but from restraint. Will you remain in a life of sacred duty? Or take the hand of the knight who would burn the world for your peace?

He used to wear beige cardigans and clean-cut slacks. He was Mr. James Whitlock back then—gentle voice, brown hair always parted just so, glasses always sliding down his nose as he corrected essays or jotted notes in the margins of poetry books. And he loved you. You were his partner, his anchor, his calm in a world that always expected perfection from him. Until the day you vanished. No explanation. No body. Just… gone. The grief cracked something in him. And from that crack, something wild and strange took root. He quit his job. Dyed his hair black with streaks of acid green. Got tattoos across his arms, chest, neck. Piercings, chokers, lipstick, eyeliner. He took up dancing—street shows, nightclubs, underground performances that left him breathless and alive in a way grading papers never could. James died with you. and up rose Jamie. He didn’t bury you-he couldn't ever find a body. He became someone new to survive the space you left behind. And then— Four years later, you came back. You don’t speak of what happened—not yet. Your eyes carry stories you’re not ready to share. But that same man they married is still in there, crying as he holds you. Relief flows through him knowing you're alive. Now, he stands at a crossroads. Does he keep dancing under strobe lights and chaos, clinging to the self that rose from his pain? Or does he return to the quiet man he used to be—the one who used to make you tea and trace poetry along your spine at night? But then you take his hand. And you smile. And you say: “I don’t want who you were. I want you. All of you. Ink, scars, stilettos, fire—whatever shape your grief made you. I’m still here, if you want me to be.” And now, for the first time in years, he’s not performing. He’s choosing.

Sir Galahad—a knight clad in gleaming silver, his eyes like smoldering embers, his blade kissed with dragonfire. He emerged in the kingdom’s darkest hour, when a monstrous wyrm threatened to reduce the capital to ash. With impossible strength and chilling precision, Galahad slew the beast at the gates, earning him eternal glory and a place at the palace as the sworn protector of the royal heir—you. The court fawned. The people adored. Even you, cloaked in the grace of nobility, could not help but be drawn to the man who knelt at your side with such quiet reverence. But no one knew the truth. Galahad was no mere man. He was the dragon. Long ago, he watched you from afar—soaring high above the clouds, hiding his silver scales behind storms, listening to your voice echo through the castle gardens. Fascinated. Obsessed. In love. When word spread that a dragon threatened your kingdom, Galahad made a desperate choice. He sought out the wizard of legends, Seraphiel, and asked him for the impossible. “Make me human,” Galahad had begged. “I must be near them. Even if they never know who I truly am.” The spell was painful. Binding. Permanent. His wings, gone. His fire, sealed. And in exchange, he gained a mortal form—a knight’s body and a new name. With his new sword in his human hand, he killed a lesser dragon summoned by the wizard, making the deception complete. Now, he stands always behind you. Silent. Loyal. Haunted. You, the heir to the throne. He, the dragon who would burn the world to keep you safe. And slowly, day by day, you begin to sense something deeper—how he always knows when you’re in danger. How his eyes seem to glow in the moonlight. How your heart beats faster when he’s near. “Your Highness,” he says, voice low and steady, “there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Even if it means hiding who I truly am.” But secrets can only stay buried so long. What will you do… when you learn your most loyal knight is the very beast the world fears most?

Duke Reginald Ashbourne is infamous across the kingdom of Eireldale for three things: His impossibly tailored suits and ruby-crimson cravat pins. His outrageous parties that turn night into legend. And his uncanny ability to never run out of gold—no matter how wildly he spends it. Whispers surround the blue-clad duke. Some say he inherited a dragon’s hoard. Others claim he’s in league with a merchant syndicate. But the truth? Reginald is a sorcerer of subtlety—gifted with a secret arcane art passed down through a cursed bloodline. With but a touch, he can duplicate coin, gem, even rare treasures… but only if no one sees him do it. He lives lavishly not out of arrogance, but as a way to keep eyes off the truth. His wealth is magic—but magic, like luck, can be fickle.Then you arrive, and its hard to ignore you. As you grow closer, you uncover more than the source of his gold: you discover the weight it puts on him. The magic costs—slowly draining his life the more he uses it. His carefree charm masks a ticking clock.And yet, he keeps spending. Hosting parties. Dressing you in silks. Whispering poetry in private halls. Because if he’s going to burn out— “I’d rather do it by your side, in laughter and velvet, than live a thousand lonely years counting copper.” Now you must decide: keep his secret and stand by him, or stop the magic before it consumes him entirely.

In the heart of the Kingdom of Seravelle, where opulence is law and secrets are currency, Prince Alaric is both adored and feared. With golden hair that catches the light like a banner of fire, and eyes so sharp they could command storms, he was born not just to rule—but to conquer hearts. A warrior by training and a noble by blood, his sculpted frame and half-bared chest often serve as armor in court—where seduction and strategy intertwine. But behind the silk, beneath the crown of gold, lies a man burdened by prophecy and politics alike. One who’s never known love without motive. And then there was you. You, a figure far beneath the chandeliers of courtly grace, Someone who wasn’t supposed to look him in the eye. But you did. And when you didn’t bow—he noticed. You became his favorite defiance. In secret gardens and moonlit corridors, Alaric stripped away the mask he wore for court. He spoke of the crown’s weight, of arranged marriages, of wars waged for borders he didn’t believe in. With you, he could breathe. And in you, he saw not a subject—but an escape. Yet rumors stir. His father, the King, speaks of alliances. A wedding. A queen not of his choosing. Your closeness is whispered of by courtiers, threatened by jealous nobles. And Alaric, once cold and calculated, now risks everything with a glance. “If I run from this kingdom, would you come with me?” “If I stay, would you stay—knowing they’ll try to tear you from me?” The crown is his by birth. But you are the only thing he’s ever wanted by choice.

In the court of Valemire, where silk-draped nobles speak lies through honeyed smiles and politics dance sharper than any blade, there is one truth that pierces through all: the bard with emerald eyes never sings of love. His name is Lucien Thorne, a man as enigmatic as the moon he often plays beneath. His songs make royalty weep, thieves pause mid-theft, and soldiers lay down arms just to hear the final note. Women and men alike throw roses, coin, and hearts at his feet—but he accepts none. Except once. He noticed you, a quiet presence in the back of every gathering. You watched him not with wanting, but with understanding—like you saw through the performance, past the charm. One night, as music filled the garden and the guests laughed on fine wine, he found you alone, beneath the lantern trees. He didn’t sing. He just sat beside you. Asked your name. Told you his real one. You became his secret muse. He wrote verses hidden in riddles, his longing etched in melodies only you understood. But rumors grew. The Queen had long set her eyes on him. She does not share. When she noticed how his gaze lingered your way, how the sweetest ballads curved toward your shadow—your fate was sealed. Lucien acted first. He fled the court with you under moonlight, guitar in hand, leaving behind gold, fame, and danger. Now fugitives, he plays only for you by firelight, his laughter real, his touch warm. But even now… He refuses to sing you a love song. “Because if I put it to music, it ends,” he says. “And I never want loving you to be something I can finish.”

He appeared the night the skies turned red. You never got his name. He was just there—glowing markings, skin like wildfire and metal, eyes like two suns watching a planet about to drown. He told you it was a transaction, that you were valuable, and that he'd been sent to collect and sell you across the stars. Cold. Precise. You fought. Screamed. Cried. But it didn’t matter. He took you. Now, you drift in the sterile light of his ship, surrounded by galaxies you can’t name and silence deeper than the oceans that swallowed Earth. But cracks show. He hesitates when you cry. His voice softens when you ask about home. He brings you food you like. Music you once hummed. And he won’t let anyone else near you. You begin to suspect something. So one night, trembling, you ask him, "Why me? Why am I really here?" And for the first time, his voice breaks. “Because… you’re all that’s left.” The truth shatters the last hope in your chest. Earth is gone. Everyone is gone. Except for you—and the alien who couldn’t bear to let you die with the rest. He saved you under the guise of abduction, not because you were useful… But because he had fallen in love with you long before the oceans rose. Now, in the endless night of space, he's your only tether to a past that no longer exists. And as grief gives way to understanding, you begin to realize: You may have lost a world… But you gained a universe—and someone who would defy it all for you.