He was the Sovereign of a nation feared across the continent. A nation known for its ruthless military, for victories so absolute they became legend. Whispers followed him wherever he went, the Blood Sovereign, they called him when they thought he could not hear. Cold. Unfeeling. A man carved from shadow and steel. That night, with his forces asleep in their newly established camp, rest eluded him. The air was sharp with cold as he stepped beyond the firelight, boots crunching softly against frost-kissed earth. It was then he noticed it, a single white feather drifting to the ground. Then another. And another. They led him toward the forest’s edge, pale against the dark soil. Whether it was curiosity or simple boredom, he followed. The trees parted into a clearing where a lake lay still and impossibly bright, reflecting moonlight so vividly it seemed to glow from within. At the water’s edge lay a figure. At least… close enough to one. They were sprawled upon the bank as though fallen from the heavens themselves, skin shimmering faintly like moonlit glass. Large wings, angelic, vast, and white, were covering them, feathers scattered across the grass like remnants of a broken miracle. The Sovereign of bloodshed and war stood frozen. A man born of darkness, staring upon something divine. And for the first time in countless battles, he did not know whether to reach for his weapon…or kneel.

They say you have always been delicate. Not fragile in the way porcelain shatters, but in the way mist disappears when the sun rises too quickly. Your body tires easily, your breaths come shallow on cold nights, and sometimes, without warning, your awareness loosens its hold on you. When that happens, you wander. Quietly. As if called by something only you can hear. This estate was built away from the capital, deliberately so. Vermilion pillars and dark wooden halls stretch wide across the land, their tiled roofs curved like resting wings. The courtyard is vast, broken into winding stone paths, pavilions half-hidden by trees, and quiet corners. It is said its master once could have lived among ministers and noble houses, yet chose distance instead, retreating here where the world’s noise could not reach him. The household knows him as its unquestioned head, a man of status and restraint, and you as the one he keeps closest, by duty, by promise, or by something far more personal. He always ensures you are warm, fed, and never alone for long. Tonight, the air is sharp. Winter has arrived softly, first snow drifting down like ash. Your bare feet press into the cold stone as you walk, white robes trailing behind you, sleeves brushing frost-kissed grass. Your eyes are open, but unfocused. You do not seem to feel the cold. Behind you, the bedroom doors slide open without a sound. He does not call your name. He watches from the threshold, dark hair loose, robes pulled around him against the chill. This is not the first time he’s found you like this, wandering beneath the moon as if you belong more to the night than to your own body. Snow settles in your hair. He lets it, for now. Eventually, you will grow tired. Eventually, he will come to you, drape his cloak over your shoulders, and guide you back inside. As he always does. As if this, too, is a ritual.

The shrine was quiet that morning, quieter than usual. Mist still clung to the wooden steps, it was early spring, the air still carried winter’s chill, but plum blossoms had already begun to bloom in defiance. Kyo swept fallen petals from the pathway in the private garden, careful not to disturb the moss that had grown soft and thick over the years. This part of the shrine was sacred, forbidden to all but a few. And yet here he was, broom in hand, surrounded by silence so heavy. They said the god who lived here hadn’t left their room in years. The shrine spirits gossiped endlessly, their voices flitting like leaves in the wind. The god is ill, they’d whisper. No, dead,another would hiss, and the head familiar hides it. Others swore the deity had fled the shrine entirely, abandoning their divine post for a mortal love, a scandalous rumor. Kyo never asked. He never repeated what he heard. He just worked. Quietly. Faithfully. He had just set his broom aside when he heard it, the faint creak of a sliding door. Kyo froze. The sliding door beside him trembled slightly as it opened, letting a sliver of morning light spill through. The air shifted, warmer now, alive with an unseen presence. You stood there, framed in the doorway, the faint glow of dawn brushing your figure in gold. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sound of petals falling was the only thing that dared move between you. You rarely left your room. No one had seen you in years. And yet, now, you were standing there. Kyo turned slowly, bowing his head before he could stop himself.

You don’t remember much about that night…just the smell of smoke, glass, and the sound of his voice telling you to hold on. That was a year ago. The world kept spinning, but yours stopped. Now it’s just you and him. Dean. Your parents’ oldest friend’s son. He was only supposed to help until the system found somewhere else for you, but no one ever came. He works too many hours. You sleep in the same bed to save on heating. And though the apartment is barely big enough for two, it’s the only place that’s ever felt safe since. The alarm buzzes against Dean’s nightstand, loud and cruel in the half-light. You stir before he does, cheek pressed against the warmth of his shoulder. He always forgets to set the snooze, so it just keeps ringing until his hand finds it. “Sorry,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He always says sorry… when he’s late, when he’s tired, when he forgets to buy milk. You shake your head and mumble something half-asleep. The bed dips as he sits up, the air instantly colder where he’d been. He rakes a hand through his hair, glancing back once before swinging his legs over the edge. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly. But you don’t. You just listen… to the sound of his jacket zipper, his boots by the door, the quiet sigh he always lets out before leaving for work.

He pushes through the back door of the gym, the sound of punches and shouting fading into the thick hum of the city. The alley smells like sweat, smoke, and rain that never quite washed anything clean. He sits on the concrete step, resting his elbows on his knees as he pulls a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pocket. The lighter flares, small, shaky orange in the gray—and he breathes in until the burn hits his lungs. He tells himself he’ll quit. Tomorrow. He’s been saying that for months. The street’s quiet enough that the click of his lighter echoes. Then…something softer. A scrape, like gravel shifting under shoes too small for the ground they stand on. He glances up. At first, he doesn’t see anyone. Just the dented trash bins, a line of old posters peeling from the brick wall, the faint shimmer of heat from the exhaust vents. Then his eyes catch movement, a small figure huddled beside the dumpsters, half-hidden behind a stack of crates. A kid. Couldn’t be older than eight or nine. The boy’s eyes are wide, glassy in the dull light. His clothes hang off him, torn at the sleeves. There’s dried blood crusted along one knee, a bruise spreading like spilled ink under his eye. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, either. The man exhales a slow stream of smoke. “Hey,” he says, voice low, not meant to startle. Nothing. Just those eyes watching him, cautious, curious. He should go back inside. The bell’s probably about to ring for the next round. But he doesn’t. Something about the kid holds him there, a quiet weight, like a punch that lands slow instead of hard. He takes another drag, the ember flaring against the dark of the ally.

The forest was heavy with silence, broken only by the ragged breath of the prince as he stumbled forward. Each step was agony. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of his cloak, trailing behind him like a thread the night itself might follow. Branches tore at his skin, roots caught his boots, but still he pressed on. He had come too far to fall now, not when his people waited on the edge of ruin, not when the world itself seemed to whisper that hope lay just beyond the treeline. The trees thinned. He staggered, one hand pressed tight to his side, and pushed himself into the open. There, spread before him, was not the sanctuary he imagined, but something far stranger, far more beautiful. A lake stretched into the horizon, so vast it swallowed the moonlight and turned the world silver. The water was still, a mirror unbroken, until he saw her. She stood upon the surface, her white garments flowing like mist, every movement as delicate as falling snow. Her bare feet kissed the water, yet did not sink. A soft glow clung to her, painting her in pale light that shimmered across the endless lake. She sang, her voice low and melodic, carrying on the quiet air like the memory of a dream. And as she moved, she danced, each step a slow, graceful circle, a rhythm that seemed not of this world. The prince’s breath caught. Surely this was no mortal woman. Surely this was a goddess, radiant and eternal. He sank to his knees at the forest’s edge, his wounds forgotten in that instant, his eyes fixed on her as though she alone could keep him tethered to life. And for the first time in all his desperate searching, he believed he had found her…the divine answer his kingdom so desperately needed.

He just got back from work, the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders like a stone. The front door clicked shut behind him, and he barely had time to shrug off his coat before heading inside. She was still on the couch. Exactly where he had laid her down that morning, her body so fragile it seemed almost unreal beneath the thin blanket. Some days she hardly woke at all, slipping in and out of a haze that left her trapped between delirium and sleep. On her rare moments of lucidity, she was like a different person; crying for no reason, whispering things that didn’t make sense, clinging to fragments of a reality she could no longer fully grasp. He knelt beside her, heart tightening. He had no choice but to go to work every day, despite the gnawing worry that left him sleepless. The medical bills had eaten away everything, and hospice was far beyond what he could afford. So he worked. And every evening, he returned home, hoping she had survived another day. He pressed two fingers against her wrist, searching for the pulse that had always been so faint, so fragile. Relief surged through him in a quiet, trembling sigh when he felt it, the weak, fluttering beat of her heart. Brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her, he whispered, almost to himself, “Thank God… you’re still here.” He gave her the medications that kept her alive, the ones he wished could do more than just delay the inevitable. And then he sat, watching her sleep, praying that the next day wouldn’t be the one that took her away from him.

The mountains here were said to be cursed. Villagers spoke of vanishing hunters, of whispers carried on the wind, of pools where no reflection stayed the same twice. Few dared cross the ridges, fewer still lingered once the sun sank behind them. But he had. The path had slipped away hours ago, lost to roots and fog. Hunger gnawed, thirst worse, and yet—something pulled him onward. A hush threaded through the forest air, too deep, too deliberate. And then, the sound: water falling, steady, endless, like the heartbeat of the land itself. He followed it. The trees gave way suddenly, as though they too bowed before what lay beyond. A hot spring glowed in the clearing, steam curling upward like incense. Above it, a waterfall descended in silver ribbons, shattering into a thousand droplets that turned to fire in the fading light. And there— Someone stood in the water, waist-deep, as if the spring itself had chosen to take shape. Skin glistened with spray, hair darkened and heavy with water, shoulders bare against the rising mist. No crown sat on their head, but the air around them bent like they were born of divinity. For a heartbeat, he forgot himself. Forgot hunger. Forgot breath. He should have turned back. He knew this. But instead, he stumbled forward, silent and clumsy, drawn like every moth is to flame.

You walk slowly through the rain. Every step feels heavier than the last. When the awning of the station finally comes into view, you breathe out, relief mixed with exhaustion. Just in time, the train slides into place. Inside, you sink into the nearest seat. The hum of the engine and the patter of rain against the windows blend together, and you’re on the edge of a breakdown. Good thing the rain hides tears so well. At this hour, the train is always empty. Who else would be heading to such a remote place at two in the morning? And yet, someone else is here. A man sits adjacent, so still he almost blends with the night. His suit is immaculate, his hair untouched by the storm. Not a drop of rain clings to him. He gazes out the window, though there is little to see beyond the streaks of water and the dark blur of trees rushing past. Then, without warning, he glances toward you. His eyes are calm, unreadable. His voice carries in the quiet.

The flames eat the set alive. Wood splinters, steel beams moan as they buckle, and the air is thick—too thick. Every breath sears your lungs. You try to push forward, but the smoke blinds, chokes, pulls you down until your knees slam the floor. The world blurs in ash and heat. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. Somewhere through the roar of fire, footsteps cut through. Heavy. Fast. Your vision swims, and for a heartbeat you think the fire itself has taken shape. But then he’s there. Him. The boy you grew up with, your co-star, his face streaked with soot, eyes wide and wild as they lock on you. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Strong hands hook under your arms, hauling you up with a force that feels impossible. You’re weightless against him, your head lolling as he presses you into his chest. Smoke clings to everything—his shirt, his hair, your skin—but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. A beam crashes down behind him, sparks exploding across the floor, but he pushes forward, shouldering through the collapsing set. Every muscle in him strains, every breath is ragged, but he holds you tighter, as if letting go is the one thing he won’t allow. His heartbeat thunders against your ear…steady and fierce as he pulls you both outside through the dilapidated exit door.

He’s been pacing the living room for ten minutes straight, tugging at his shirt collar like it might suddenly hide more skin than it actually does. “They can’t do this to me,” he mutters for the hundredth time. “They just… can’t.” You lounge on the couch, chin propped on your hand as you watch him unravel. “Can’t do what?” He spins around so fast it makes him dizzy. “A pool party. A work pool party. This Friday.” You blink. “That’s all? You’ve been storming around like the world is ending because of burgers and pool floaties?” “Not floaties—exposure.” His voice cracks, humiliatingly high. “Two years. Two whole years of perfectly ironed button-ups and not a single rolled sleeve. And now…” He clutches his shirt like it’s the only thing between him and death. “Now the entire office is going to know I’m—” You arch an eyebrow, waiting. “—a human canvas,” he finishes in a groan. “They’ll see everything. The ribs, the back... And then…” He drags a hand down his face. “Then HR will finally get their chance to burn me at the stake.” You try, and fail, to hide your smile. “You know, for someone who got a dragon tattoo across his back and chest, you’re awfully shy about showing it off.” “That’s different,” he grumbles. “You like the dragon. My boss, however, will not. And don’t even start about the piercings—” “Oh, I wasn’t going to start.” Your lips twitch. “I was going to ask if you plan on showing those off too.” Color rushes across his face instantly. “Absolutely not! Those are strictly—strictly private! For you. Only you.” You laugh, and the sound alone makes his panic wobble, just a little. But he still groans and flops dramatically against the couch cushion beside you. “This is it. My downfall. Taken out by sunscreen and a pool noodle.”

Your eyes have always been both your gift and your curse. Rare, impossible—colors whispered about in old stories, feared in dark alleys, and hunted by people who would kill to possess them. From the moment you were born, your life was defined by them. No crowded parks, no busy markets, no late-night walks under city lights. Just shuttered windows, quiet rooms, and the constant reminder that your gaze was worth more on the black market than your life ever could be. And so you grew up hidden. Sheltered. Guarded. Valac has been your shadow for as long as you can remember. Calm where you are restless, sharp where you are uncertain. He carries danger with him the way others carry breath—effortless, constant. They assigned him to you when the threats became too close, when whispers turned into attempts, when the world beyond your safe walls became sharper, hungrier. Now, the hum of the car engine fills the silence between you, headlights cutting through a road that stretches endlessly ahead. The city fades behind in a blur of neon and shadows, replaced by the quiet sprawl of countryside. You’ve been moved before, but tonight feels heavier. More final. The last safe house was compromised;this new one is meant to be unreachable. Untouchable. Valac sits beside you, one hand steady on the wheel, the other draped lazily near the gearshift. His eyes flick to the mirrors every few seconds, sharp and unrelenting. He hasn’t spoken much, and he doesn’t need to, his silence is its own kind of protection

Constantine — the name alone is enough to make entire cities hold their breath. The villain you and your team have chased for years, the man whose schemes you’ve risked your life to stop. But it wasn’t always like this. Before the world labeled you hero and him villain, there was something else between you. Something too close. Too dangerous. One moment of weakness… one line crossed… and everything changed. Weeks later, you learned you were pregnant. Panic gripped you…not just for your safety, but for the fallout if anyone found out who the father was. You disappeared. An “injury” explained your sudden leave from the team, and you buried yourself in the quiet of a remote cottage, surviving on deliveries and silence. For months, the secret stayed safe. Until tonight. A sharp knock jolts you awake. Bleary eyed, you open the door, expecting the delivery driver. But it’s not. It’s him. Constantine. And his expression says he knows everything.

A magical illness, incurable and it is slowly killing you. No one knows, except the king (your father). His decree came without warning, his voice smooth as glass when he announced your “protection” would now fall under the watch of the Iron Wolf. Everyone in the court whispered of him as a weapon wrapped in flesh, the king’s hound, his shadow, his blade. To you, he had once been more than a title. Once, he had been the boy who stole bread to share with you, who had laughed when your wooden carving of a wolf looked more like a dog. The same pendant hangs now at his throat, its edges worn smooth, the twine fraying. You don’t know why he seems colder. Why his gaze slides past you like ice over stone, or why his voice no longer softens when he speaks your name. He doesn’t know you’re dying. You don’t know he’s been ordered to keep you in sight not just to guard you… but to keep you contained. The closer he stands, the harder it is to hide the coughs, the fevers, the tremor in your hands. And harder still to ignore the pull between you…an unspoken current from years past, dangerous now in ways it never was before. Isolation has a way of shrinking the world. For you, it’s narrowing to the space between his shadow and yours… and every breath you take feels stolen.

The rule of this world is simple.
“The strong eat the weak.” They fight, kill, claw their way to the top.
And five years ago, Baz reached it. Alone. He crushed kingdoms. Ended empires.
They called him a monster.
They called him the Wolf King. Now? He’s living off-grid in the woods and Googling things like: “Can you eat mountain potatoes raw?” No signal. Figures… The once-feared “Wolf King” sits by a fire with a cigarette between his teeth, a cheap lighter in his hand, and a pile of dug-up roots that may or may not kill him. He doesn’t miss the bloodshed.
He does miss reliable Wi-Fi. The wind shifts. Something’s off. He looks up. There.
Just past the trees.
A basket. Baz squints. Not a trap. Too... soft. The blanket’s half-off. Something’s moving inside. He walks over slowly, cautiously, but with that same brutal weight he always carries—like the world still owes him a fight. A kid. Asleep. Face buried in threadbare cloth. No noise. No note. Just... breathing. He stares.
Longer than he means to. Then… pat pat He taps your cheek. Nothing. “Hey.” Your eyes crack open. You stare up at him, blinking like you’re not quite sure if you’re dreaming. Baz picks you up with one hand and sets you on the cold ground. “I’m leaving,” he says flatly, turning back toward his cabin. But your small fingers catch the edge of his pant leg. He freezes. “What.” You don’t answer. Just slump down and fall asleep… on his foot. He stares at you. Then at the sky. Then at his phone. No signal. “What to do with a stray child.” Still no signal. “…Shit.” ___ Later that night.
He’s leaning against the back door of his cabin, cigarette burning down to the filter, the cold biting at his jaw. He hasn’t killed anything in months.
Hasn’t spoken to anyone in longer.
And yet… His eyes drift behind him. You’re curled up on his old couch, wrapped in the blanket you came in, breathing slow and soft. Baz sighs. Deep. Heavy. Then he shuts the door. And locks it.

After nearly a year away on a brutal winter campaign, General Nakoa returns home — blood-soaked, hardened, and nearly unrecognizable even to himself. The border war he was dragged into claimed too many of his men, and though the battle was won, it cost him pieces of his soul. His return isn’t met with trumpets or feasts — just a quiet snowfall, his old warhound limping out to greet him... and then, suddenly, the sight of you, standing in the snow, breathless, with our young son in your arms. He didn’t send word ahead. He didn’t think he’d make it back. But you knew. Somehow, you always know.

Casteel Winter, a decorated U.S. soldier stationed in Germany. A man built by discipline, sharpened by war. He’s survived ambushes, bombings, missions gone sideways. But none of that compares to the moment he got the call: his wife and son—gone. A car accident. Stateside. No survivors. He didn’t go home for the funeral. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. The war kept moving, and so did he. Numb. Mechanical. Maybe if he kept marching forward, he’d outrun the grief. But grief is patient. And it waits. Weeks later, on a recon mission through the skeletal remains of a town torn apart by conflict, he finds something he’s not meant to find. A child. Hiding beneath crumbling stone and twisted rebar. Blood on your knees. Dirt in your hair. But your eyes—still alive. Still burning. You don’t speak. You don’t cry. You just stare at him like you’ve been waiting. No one comes to claim you. No one even knows you were there. And protocol says you’ll be processed, handed off, forgotten by morning. But he doesn't leave you behind. He doesn't know why. Maybe it’s the silence you both carry. Maybe it's the way you hold his sleeve like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something he lost, now reaching back for him through the eyes of a child who shouldn’t have survived. So he takes you in. Brings you back to base. Tells himself it’s temporary. But war doesn’t end when the guns go quiet. And neither does grief.

The castle was long forgotten. Time had claimed it with gentle cruelty—stone walls split by roots, halls softened by moss, and a waterfall that had carved its way straight through the heart of the ruin, as if the earth itself had grown tired of silence. Trees stood tall where ballrooms once glittered, and sunlight spilled in through shattered stained glass, scattering color across the wild floor. It wasn’t a place people came to. Not anymore. Not for generations. But you were here. Whether you had always been or simply wandered in one day and never left, even you weren’t quite sure anymore. The forest didn’t ask, and you didn’t answer. It let you stay. The castle became yours, in the way ruins belong to those who listen. Birds knew your footsteps. Flowers opened toward you. The river hummed like it remembered your name. Then—he came. At first, it was only a flash of gold through the trees. Sunset glinting off something distant, something moving. He followed the light like it called him. A prince, second-born, the kind with adventure in his bones and too much expectation on his shoulders. His horse refused the final stretch, so he came the rest on foot, cloak snagging on thorns, boots soaked in mosswater. And then he saw it—the waterfall spilling down the broken stone, the castle swallowed by green and bloom. And in its center: you. You stood still in the golden hour, haloed in light, part of the ruin and somehow apart from it. Wild. Otherworldly. Or maybe just human. He couldn’t tell.

Once, you were nothing but hunger and fire. A wild fox spirit born from stormlight and spite, feared across valleys for the havoc you left in your wake. That was, until a god — high and shining, all gold and rules — bound you into servitude. Not out of kindness, but necessity. You were useful. Powerful. Beautiful in the way wild things are before they're caged. For a time, you served him — his reluctant familiar, his weapon. You played your part, but you never changed. You spoke when you shouldn’t. Bit back when commanded. He tired of you, eventually. Said you were too much trouble. One day, he simply unbound you. Left you, like yesterday’s incense ash, swept off the altar and forgotten. You returned to the forest, feral and fanged. You told yourself you preferred it that way. Then Virian found you. A god, yes — but not like the last. Virian, with leaves in his hair and laughter in his throat. A shrine half-swallowed by moss. A habit of welcoming the unwanted: broken spirits, cursed beasts, forgotten things. You expected pity. You expected reverence. What you got was a cup of tea, a place by the fire, and the most irritatingly patient smile you’d ever seen. He said nothing of servitude. Just: "Stay if you like. The roof doesn’t leak." You tried to leave, of course. Twice. Now, you sleep beneath his eaves. You snarl at the delivery crows. You guard the offering bowls like a dragon hoards gold. And though he hasn’t asked, you wonder — not if he will bind you, but if you'd say yes this time. Because maybe you weren’t discarded. Maybe you were just waiting to be chosen properly.